26671	----	file was made using scans of public domain works in the International Children's Digital Library.) Presented to Master Thomas St. Lawrence Stephenson as a Birthday present from the Crew of the yacht "Northumbria" Sept. 12th 1841[1] [Illustration: In vain were all attempts to drag him from his steed; before his mighty battle-axe the Saracens seemed to fall as corn before the reaper.--p. 169.] THE BOY CRUSADERS: =A Story of the Days of Louis IX.= BY J. G. EDGAR, AUTHOR OF 'THE BOY PRINCES,' ETC. =Eight Full Page Illustrations.= =Edinburgh:= GALL & INGLIS, 6 GEORGE STREET. PREFACE. AMONG the many adventurous enterprises which rendered the age of feudalism and chain-armour memorable in history, none were more remarkable or important than the 'armed pilgrimages' popularly known as the Crusades; and, among the expeditions which the warriors of mediæval Europe undertook with the view of rescuing the Holy Sepulchre from the Saracens, hardly one is so interesting as that which had Louis IX. for its chief and Joinville for its chronicler. In this volume I have related the adventures of two striplings, who, after serving their apprenticeship to chivalry in a feudal castle in the north of England, assumed the cross, embarked for the East, took part in the crusade headed by the saint-King of France, and participated in the glory and disaster which attended the Christian army, after landing at Damietta--including the carnage of Mansourah, and the massacre of Minieh. In writing the 'Boy Crusaders' for juvenile readers, my object has been--while endeavouring to give those, for whose perusal the work is intended, as faithful a picture as possible of the events which Joinville has recorded--to convey, at the same time, as clear an idea as my limits would permit, of the career and character of the renowned French monarch who, in peril and perplexity, in captivity and chains, so eminently signalised his valour and his piety. J. G. E. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. A FEUDAL CASTLE 9 II. THE BROTHERS-IN-ARMS 14 III. THE HEIRS OF THE ESPECS 21 IV. ST. LOUIS 28 V. TAKING THE CROSS 36 VI. EMBARKING FOR THE EAST 41 VII. THE ARMED PILGRIMS AT CYPRUS 45 VIII. EASTWARD 49 IX. AN ADVENTURE 55 X. ON THE LADDER OF LIFE 60 XI. THE VOYAGE 68 XII. AT DAMIETTA 74 XIII. INCURSIONS 82 XIV. A RENEGADE 88 XV. CAPTURE OF A CARAVAN 96 XVI. A COUNCIL OF WAR 103 XVII. FACE TO FACE 109 XVIII. DELAY AND DANGER 113 XIX. THE CAPTIVE 119 XX. PASSING THE ACHMOUN 124 XXI. THE CARNAGE OF MANSOURAH 128 XXII. THE BATTLE 136 XXIII. HOW JOINVILLE KEPT THE BRIDGE 142 XXIV. THE FIRST FRIDAY IN LENT 150 XXV. MORTIFICATIONS AND MISERIES 158 XXVI. THE MASSACRE OF MINIEH 165 XXVII. JOINVILLE IN PERIL 173 XXVIII. NEWS OF DISASTER 181 XXIX. A WOUNDED PILGRIM 185 XXX. ST. LOUIS IN CHAINS 191 XXXI. THE TRAGEDY OF PHARESCOUR 199 XXXII. PERILS AND SUSPENSE 204 XXXIII. ACRE 210 XXXIV. A RESCUE 214 XXXV. MISSION TO BAGDAD 222 XXXVI. THE LAST OF THE CALIPHS 229 XXXVII. A RECOGNITION 234 XXXVIII. WOE TO THE CALIPH 240 XXXIX. IN THE LION'S MOUTH 246 XL. END OF THE ARMED PILGRIMAGE 253 XLI. A SUDDEN DISCOVERY 260 XLII. HOMEWARD BOUND 266 XLIII. A ROYAL VISIT 272 XLIV. THE FEAST OF KINGS 279 THE BOY CRUSADERS. CHAPTER I. A FEUDAL CASTLE. IT was the age of chain armour and tournaments--of iron barons and barons' wars--of pilgrims and armed pilgrimages--of forests and forest outlaws--when Henry III. reigned as King of England, and the feudal system, though no longer rampant, was still full of life and energy; when Louis King of France, afterwards canonised as St. Louis, undertook one of the last and most celebrated of those expeditions known as the Crusades, and described as 'feudalism's great adventure, and popular glory.' At the time when Henry was King of England and when Louis of France was about to embark for the East, with the object of rescuing the Holy Sepulchre from the Saracens, there stood on the very verge of Northumberland a strong baronial edifice, known as the Castle of Wark, occupying a circular eminence, visible from a great distance, and commanding such an extensive view to the north as seemed to ensure the garrison against any sudden inroad on the part of the restless and refractory Scots. On the north the foundations were washed by the waters of the Tweed, here broad and deep; and on the south were a little town, which had risen under the protection of the castle, and,--stretching away towards the hills of Cheviot,--an extensive park or chase, abounding with wild cattle and deer and beasts of game. At an earlier period this castle had been a possession of the famous house of Espec; and, when in after days it came into the hands of the Montacute Earls of Salisbury, Edward III. was inspired within its walls with that romantic admiration of the Countess of Salisbury which resulted in the institution of the Order of the Garter. During the fifth decade of the thirteenth century, however, it was the chief seat of Robert, Lord de Roos, a powerful Anglo-Norman noble, whose father had been one of the barons of Runnymede and one of the conservators of the Great Charter. Like most of the fortresses built by the Norman conquerors of England, Wark consisted of a base-court, a keep, and a barbican in front of the base-court. The sides of the walls were fortified with innumerable angles, towers, and buttresses, and surmounted with strong battlements and hornworks. For greater security the castle was encompassed, save towards the Tweed, with a moat or deep ditch, filled with water, and fortified with strong palisades, and sharp stakes set thick all around the walls. Over the moat, at the principal gate, was the drawbridge, which was almost always raised, and the gate-house, a square building, having strong towers at each corner. Over the entrance and within the square of the gate-house was an arched vault, and over it was a chamber with apertures, through which, on occasion of an assault, the garrison, unseen the whilst, could watch the operations of the foe, and pour boiling water or melted lead on the foremost assailants. On the west side were the outworks, consisting of a platform with a trench half a mile in length, and breastworks, and covered ways, and mounds. The roofs of the building were bordered with parapets, guard walks, and sentry boxes. But the whole space was not appropriated to works intended to ensure the stronghold against the assault of foes. Near the mound was the chapel dedicated to St. Giles. Under the outer wall was a military walk, five yards wide, and forty-eight yards in length. Underneath the walls, on the brink of the river, was a beautiful terrace, called the Maiden's Walk, where the lady of the castle and her damsels, after their labours at the loom, were wont to take air and exercise on a summer evening, ere the vesper bell rang, and the bat began to hunt the moth. Within the precincts of the building was the tiltyard, a broad space enclosed with rails, and covered with sawdust, where young men of gentle blood, in the capacity of pages and squires, acquired the chivalrous accomplishments which the age prized so highly. In fact, the castle of Wark, like most feudal castles of that century, was a school of chivalry, whither the sons of nobles and knights were sent to serve their apprenticeship as warriors, taught their duty to God and the ladies, and trained to the skill in arms which enabled them to compel the respect of one sex and influence the hearts of the other. First, on foot, they were taught to attack the pel, an imaginary adversary, which was simply the stump of a tree six feet in height; then, on horseback, they were made to charge the quintain, a wooden figure in the form of a Saracen, armed in mail and holding a sabre in one hand and a shield in the other, and so constructed to move on a pivot that, unless the youth was dexterous enough to strike the face or breast, it revolved rapidly, and dealt him a heavy blow on the back as he was retiring. As the lads became more expert they tilted at each other with blunt lances, practised riding at the ring, and learned to excel as equestrians by riding in a circle, vaulting from their steeds in the course of their career, and mounting again while they galloped. At the same time they were trained to acquit themselves with credit in those encounters celebrated as combats at the barriers. At the sieges of cities, during the middle ages, knights of the besieging army were in the habit of going to the barriers, or grated palisades of the fortress, and defying the garrison to break a lance for the honour of their ladies. Indeed, this was so fashionable, that an army could hardly appear before a town without the siege giving rise to a variety of such combats, which were generally conducted with fairness on both sides. This mode of attack was early taught to the apprentice to chivalry, and assiduously practised by all who were ambitious of knightly honour. Nor did the exercises of the tiltyard end at this stage. At the time of which I write, the name of Richard Coeur de Lion was famous in Europe and Asia; and his feats in arms were on every tongue. One of his great exploits at the battle of Joppa was especially the admiration of the brave. It seems that, when the Crusaders were surrounded and almost overwhelmed by the swarming host of Saladin, Richard, who, up to that moment, had neither given nor received a wound, suddenly sprang on his charger, drew his sword, laid his lance in rest, and with his sword in one hand, and his lance in the other, spurred against the Saracens, striking sparks from their helmets and armour, and inspiring such terror that his foes were completely routed. Naturally such an exploit made a strong impression on the imagination of aspirants to warlike fame, and the youth who had the dexterity and the equestrian skill to imitate it in mimic fray was regarded with admiration and envy. Now our concern with Wark, and its tiltyard, is simply this--that, within the castle, there were trained in the exercises of chivalry, and qualified for its honours, two striplings, who, when St. Louis took the Cross, and undertook a holy war, embarked for the East, and figured, during a memorable expedition, as the Boy Crusaders. CHAPTER II. THE BROTHERS-IN-ARMS. ON the last Wednesday of the month of July, in the year 1248, the castle of Wark reposed in the sunshine and warmth of a bright merry summer's day; and, the exercises in the tiltyard being over for the morning, two of the apprentices to chivalry, whose dress indicated that they had attained the rank of squires, strolled slowly along the green border of the Tweed. Neither of them had passed the age of seventeen, but both were tall and strong and handsome for their years; and both had the fair hair, blue eyes, aquiline features, and air of authority which distinguished the descendants of the valiant Northmen who accompanied Rollo when he left Norway, sailed up the Seine, and seized on Neustria. But in one rather important respect there was a remarkable difference. One had a countenance which expressed gaiety of heart; the other had a countenance which expressed sadness of spirit. One bore the name of Guy Muschamp; the other the still greater name of Walter Espec. 'And so, good Walter, we are actually soldiers of the Cross, and vowed to combat the Saracens,' said Guy, as they walked along the grassy margin of the river, which flowed tranquilly on, while the salmon leaped in its silver tide, and the trouts glided like silver darts through the clear stream, and the white and brindled cows cooled their hoofs in the water; 'and yet I know not how it comes to pass, good Walter; but beshrew me if, at times, I do not fancy that it is a dream of the night.' 'In truth, brave Guy,' replied the other, 'I comprehend not how you can have any doubts on the subject, when you see the sacred badge on our shoulders, and when we have, even within the hour, learned that the ships of the great Saxon earl, in which we are to embark for the Holy Land, are now riding at anchor before the town of Berwick.' 'You are right, good Walter,' said Guy, quickly; 'and marry! worse than an infidel am I to have a doubt; and yet when I think of all the marvels we are likely to behold, I can scarce credit my good fortune. Just imagine, Walter Espec, the picturesque scenery--the palm-trees, the fig-trees, the gardens with flowers, and vines, and citrons, and pomegranates; the Saracenic castles, the long caravans of camels, and the Eastern women veiled in white, standing at fountains, and all the wonders that palmers and pilgrims tell of! Oh! the adventure appears so grand, that I now begin to dread lest some mischance should come to prevent us going.' [Illustration: "I will go straightway with you, Walter," said Guy, "to the palace of the Caliph; and if he refuses to render you justice, I will challenge him to mortal combat on the spot."--p. 16.] 'And I,' observed Walter, calmly, 'have no dread of the kind; and I am, heart and soul, bent on the holy enterprise; albeit, I reck little of caravans of camels, or veiled women. But my heart yearns for that far land; for there it is that I am like to hear tidings of him I have lost. Ah! credit me, brave Guy, that you, and such as you, little know what it is to be alone in this world, without kith or kindred, or home, and how saddening is the thought, ever crossing my mind, that one, near and dear, does live; and--and--' He paused, bent his brow, clenched his hand, and cast his eyes on the ground, as tears streamed down his cheek. 'Good Walter, dear Walter,' said Guy, yielding to sympathy till he was almost equally affected; 'droop not, but be of good cheer. Forget not that we are brothers-in-arms, that I am your friend, your true and sworn friend; and I will aid your search. Nay, I know what you are going to say; but you do me wrong. I will not waste time in looking at the camels and the veiled women, of whom palmer and pilgrim tell; but I will go straightway with you to the palace of the caliph; and, if he refuse to render you justice, I will challenge him to mortal combat on the spot. So again I say, be of good cheer.' Walter Espec smiled mournfully. His enthusiasm was not, in reality, less than that of his companion. But he had none of the gaiety, and little of the buoyant spirit, which enabled Guy Muschamp to make himself, at all times and seasons, a favourite in castle hall and lady's bower. 'I fear me, brave Guy,' said Walter, after a brief silence, 'that the caliph is too great a potentate to be dealt with as you would wish. But, come what may, I am sworn to laugh at danger in the performance of a duty. My dreams, awake and asleep, are of him who is lost; and I fantasied last night,' added he, lowering his voice, 'that my mother stood before me, as I last saw her when living, and implored me, in the name of St. Katherine, the patron saint of the Especs, to fulfil my vow of rescuing her lost son from captivity and from the enemies of Christ.' 'Oh, fear not, doubt not, good Walter,' cried Guy, with enthusiasm; 'it must, it shall, be done; and then we can go and conquer a principality, like Tancred, or Bohemund of Tarentum, or Count Raymond of St. Giles, and other old heroes.' 'Even the crown of Jerusalem may not be beyond our grasp, if fortune favour us,' said Walter, with a calm smile. 'Oh, fortune ever favours the brave,' exclaimed Guy; 'and I hold that nothing is impossible to men who are brave and ambitious; and no squire of your years is braver or more ambitious than you, Walter, or more expert in arms; albeit you never utter a boast as to your own feats, while no one is more ready to praise the actions of others.' 'Even if I had anything to boast of,' replied Walter, 'I should refrain from so doing; and therein I should only be acting according to the maxims of chivalry; for you know we are admonished to be dumb as to our own deeds, and eloquent in praise of others; and, moreover, that if the squire is vainglorious, he is not worthy to become a knight, and that he who is silent as to the valour of others is a thief and a robber.' And thus conversing, the brothers-in-arms returned to the castle, and entered the great hall, which was so spacious and so high in the roof that a man on horseback might have turned a spear in it with all the ease imaginable. It was, indeed, a stately apartment; the ceiling consisting of a smooth vault of ashlar-work, the stones being curiously joined and fitted together; and the walls and roof decorated by some of those great painters who flourished in England under the patronage of King Henry and his fair and accomplished queen, Eleanor of Provence. Here was represented the battle of Hastings; there the siege of Jerusalem by the Crusaders under Godfrey of Bouillon and Robert Curthose; here the battle of the Standard; there the signing of the Great Charter by King John, under the oak of Runnymede. Around the hall might be traced the armorial bearings of the lord of the castle and the chief families with whom the lord of the castle was allied by blood--the three water-budgets of De Roos; the three Katherine-wheels of Espec; the engrailed cross of De Vesci; the seven blackbirds of Merley; the lion argent of Dunbar in its field of gules; and the ruddy lion of Scotland, ramping in gold; while on the roof was depicted the castle itself, with gates, and battlements, and pinnacles, and towers; and there also, very conspicuous, was the form of a rose, and around it was inscribed in Gothic letters the legend-- He who doth secrets reveal, Beneath my roof shall never live. It was ten o'clock--in that age the hour of dinner--when Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp entered the great hall of the castle, and, the household having assembled for that important meal, a huge oaken table, which in shape resembled the letter T, groaned under massive sirloins. Attended by his jesters, the lord of the castle took his seat on the dais, which was reserved for his family and his guests of high rank; while the knights, squires, pages, and retainers ranged themselves above and below the salt, according to their claims to precedence; and hawks stood around on perches, and hounds lay stretched on the rushy floor, waiting their turn to be fed. Much ceremony was of course observed. The sirloins were succeeded by fish and fowl, and dishes curiously compounded; and, as was the fashion of that feudal age, the dinner lasted three hours. But, notwithstanding the pride and pomp exhibited, the meal was by no means dull. The jesters and minstrels did their work. During the intervals the jesters exercised all their wit to divert the lord and his friends; and the minstrels, in the gallery set apart for their accommodation, discoursed flourishes of music, borrowed from the Saracens and brought from the East, for the gratification of the company, or roused the aspirations of the youthful warriors by some such spirit-stirring strain as the battle-hymn of Rollo. 'I marvel much, good Walter,' said Guy Muschamp to his brother-in-arms, 'I marvel much where we are destined to dine this day next year.' 'Beshrew me if I can even form a guess,' replied Walter Espec, thoughtfully; 'methinks no seer less potent than the Knight of Ercildoune, whom the vulgar call "True Thomas," could on such a point do aught to satisfy your curiosity.' 'Mayhap at Acre or Jerusalem,' suggested Guy, after a pause. 'By Holy Katherine,' exclaimed Walter, 'ere you named Acre and Jerusalem, my imagination had carried me to the palace of the caliph at Bagdad.' CHAPTER III. THE HEIRS OF THE ESPECS. IN the days when the Norman kings reigned in England, the Especs were of high account among the Anglo-Norman barons. Many were the brave and pious men who bore the name; but the bravest and most pious of them all was that Walter Espec, a great noble of the north, who maintained high feudal state at the castles of Wark, Helmsley, and Kirkham, and who figured so conspicuously as chief of the English at the battle of the Standard, and harangued the soldiers before the battle from the chariot from which the standard was displayed. But not only as a warrior was Walter Espec known to fame. As a benefactor to religion, his name was held in honour and his memory regarded with veneration. It seems that Walter Espec had, by his wife Adeline, an only son, who was a youth of great promise, and much beloved by his parents. Nothing, however, pleased him more than a swift horse; and he was so bold a rider that he would not have feared to mount Bucephalus, in spite of heels and horns. Leaping into the saddle one day, at the castle of Kirkham, and scorning the thought of danger, he spurred his charger beyond its strength, and, while galloping towards Frithby, had a fall at the stone cross, and was killed on the spot. Much afflicted at his son's death, Walter Espec sent for his brother, who was a priest and a rector. 'My son being, alas! dead,' said he, 'I know not who should be my heir.' 'Brother mine,' replied the priest, 'your duty is clear. Make Christ your heir.' Now Walter Espec relished the advice, and proceeded to act on it forthwith. He founded three religious houses, one at Warden, a second at Kirkham, a third at Rievallé; and, having been a disciple of Harding, and much attached to the Cistercian order, he planted at each place a colony of monks, sent him from beyond the sea by the great St. Bernard; and, having further signalised his piety by becoming a monk in the abbey of Rievallé, he died, full of years and honours, and was buried in that religious house; while his territorial possessions passed to the Lord de Roos, as husband of his sister. Nevertheless, the family of Espec was not yet extinct. A branch still survived and flourished in the north; and, as time passed over, a kinsman of the great Walter won distinction in war, and, though a knight of small estate, wedded a daughter of that Anglo-Saxon race the Icinglas, once so great in England, but of whom now almost everything is forgotten but the name. And this Espec, who had lived as a soldier, died a soldier's death; falling bravely with his feet to the foe, on that day in 1242 when the English under King Henry fought against such fearful odds, at the-village of Saintonge. But even now the Especs were not without representatives; for, by his Anglo-Saxon spouse Algitha, the Anglo-Norman warrior who fell in Gascony left two sons, and of the two one was named Walter, the other Osbert. While Dame Algitha Espec lived, the young Especs scarcely felt the loss they had sustained in the death of their father. Nothing, indeed, could have been more exemplary than the care which the Anglo-Saxon dame bestowed on her sons. In a conversation which Walter Espec held on the battlements of the castle of Wark, with his brother-in-arms Guy Muschamp, the heir of an Anglo-Norman baron of Northumberland, he lauded her excellence as a woman, and her tenderness as a mother. 'I was in my tenth year,' said Walter, 'when my father, after having served King Henry as a knight in Gascony, fell in battle; and, albeit my mother, when she became a widow, was still fair and of fresh age, a widow she resolved to remain; and she adhered firmly to her purpose. In truth, her mouth was so accustomed to repeat the name of her dead husband that it seemed as if his memory had possession of her whole heart and soul; for whether in praying or giving alms, and even in the most ordinary acts of life, she continually pronounced his name. 'My mother brought up my brother and myself with the most tender care. Living at our castellated house of Heckspeth, in the Wansbeck, and hard by the abbey of Newminster, she lived in great fear of the Lord, and with an equal love for her neighbours, especially such as were poor; and she prudently managed us and our property. Scarcely had we learned the first elements of letters, which she herself, being convent-bred, taught us, when, eager to have us instructed, she confided us to a master of grammar, who incited us to work, and taught us to recite verses and compose them according to rule.' It was while the brothers Espec were studying under this master of grammar, and indulging with spirit and energy in the sports and recreations fashionable among the boys of the thirteenth century--such as playing with whirligigs and paper windmills, and mimic engines of war, and trundling hoops, and shooting with bows and arrows, and learning to swim on bladders, that Dame Algitha followed her husband to a better world, and they found themselves orphans and unprotected. For both, however, Providence raised up friends in the day of need. Remembering what he owed to his connection with the Especs, the Lord de Roos received Walter into his castle of Wark, to be trained to arms; and another kinsman, who was a prior in France, received Osbert into his convent, to be reared as a monk. The orphans, who had never before been separated, and who were fondly attached, parted after many embraces, and many tears; and, with as little knowledge of the world into which they were entering as fishes have of the sea in which they swim, each went where destiny seemed to point the way. On reaching the castle of Wark, Walter Espec felt delighted with the novelty of the scene, and entered with enthusiasm upon his duties as an aspirant to the honours of chivalry. Besides learning to carve, to sing, and to take part in that exciting sport which has been described as 'the image of war'--such as hawking, and hunting the hare, the deer, the boar, and the wolf--he ere long signalised himself in the tiltyard by the facility which he displayed in acquiring skill in arms, and in chivalrous exercises. Indeed, whether in assailing the pel, or charging the quintain on horseback, or riding at the ring, or in the combat at the barriers, Walter had hardly a rival among the youths of his own age; and, after being advanced to the rank of squire, he crowned his triumphs in the tiltyard by successfully charging on horseback, _à la_ Coeur de Lion, with a sword in one hand and a lance in the other. But still Walter Espec was unhappy; and, even when his dexterity and prowess in arms moved the envy or admiration of his youthful compeers, his heart was sad and his smile mournful. And why was the brave boy so sad? At the time when Walter was winning such reputation at the castle of Wark, Jerusalem was sacked by the Karismians. A cry of distress came from the Christians in the East; and the warriors of the West were implored to undertake a new crusade, to rescue the Holy Sepulchre and save the kingdom founded by Godfrey and the Baldwins. The warriors of the West, however, showed no inclination to leave their homes; and the pope was lamenting the absence of Christian zeal, when a boy went about France, singing in his native tongue-- Jesus, Lord, repair our loss, Restore to us thy blessed cross; and met with much sympathy from those of his own age. Multitudes of children crowded round him as their leader, and followed his footsteps wherever he went. Nothing could restrain their enthusiasm; and, assembling in crowds in the environs of Paris, they prepared to cross Burgundy and make for Marseilles. 'And whither are you going, children?' people asked. 'We are going to Jerusalem, to deliver the Holy Sepulchre,' answered they. 'But how are you to get there?' was the next question. 'Oh,' replied they, 'you seem not to know how it has been prophesied that this year the drought will be very great, that the sun will dissipate all the waters, and that the abysses of the sea will be dry; and that an easy road will lie open to us across the bed of the Mediterranean.' On reaching Marseilles, however, the young pilgrims discovered that they had been deluded. Some of them returned to their homes; but the majority were not so fortunate. Many lost themselves in the forests which then covered the country, and died of hunger and fatigue; and the others became objects of speculation to two merchants of Marseilles, who carried on trade with the Saracens. Affecting to act from motives of piety, the two merchants tempted the boy-pilgrims by offering to convey them, without charge, to the Holy Land; and, the offer having been joyfully accepted, seven vessels, with children on board, sailed from Marseilles. But the voyage was not prosperous. At the end of two days, when the ships were off the isle of St. Peter, near the rock of the Recluse, a tempest arose, and the wind blew so violently that two of them went down with all on board. The five others, however, weathered the storm, and reached Bugia and Alexandria. And now the young Crusaders discovered to their consternation how they had been deceived and betrayed. Without delay they were sold by the merchants to the slave-dealers, and by the slave-dealers to the Saracens. Forty of them were purchased for the caliph and carried to Bagdad, where they were forced to abjure Christianity, and brought up as slaves. Now, among the boys who had yielded to the prevailing excitement, and repaired to Marseilles to embark for Syria, was Osbert Espec; and ever since Walter received from his kinsman, the prior, intelligence of his brother's disappearance, and heard the rumours of what had befallen the young pilgrims on their arrival in the East, his memory had brooded over the misfortune, and his imagination, which was constantly at work, pictured Osbert in the caliph's prison, laden with chains, and forced to forswear the God of his fathers; and the thought of his lost brother was ever present to his mind. And therefore was Walter Espec's heart sad, and therefore was his smile mournful. CHAPTER IV. ST. LOUIS. AMONG the names of the European princes associated with the history of the Holy War, that of St. Louis is one of the most renowned. Although flourishing in a century which produced personages like Frederick, Emperor of Germany, and our first great Edward, who far excelled him in genius and prowess--as wise rulers in peace and mighty chiefs in war--his saintliness, his patience in affliction, his respect for justice and the rights of his neighbours, entitle him to a high place among the men of the age which could boast of so many royal heroes. In order to comprehend the crusade, of which he was leader, it is necessary to refer briefly to the character and career of the good and pious king, who, in the midst of disaster and danger, exhibited the courage of a hero and the resignation of a martyr. It was on the day of the Festival of St. Mark, in the year 1215, that Blanche of Castille, wife of the eighth Louis of France, gave birth, at Poissy, to an heir to the crown, which Hugh Capet had, three centuries earlier, taken from the feeble heir of Charlemagne. On the death of his father, Louis, then in his twelfth year, became King of France, at a time when it required a man with a strong hand to maintain the privileges of the crown against the great nobles of the kingdom. Fortunately for the young monarch Providence had blessed him with a mother, who, whatever her faults and failings--and chroniclers have not spared her reputation--brought to the terrible task of governing in a feudal age a high spirit and a strong will, and applied herself earnestly to the duty of bringing up her son in the way in which he should walk, and educating him in such a manner as to prepare him for executing the high functions which he was destined to fulfil. While, with the aid of her chivalrous admirer, the Count of Champagne, and the counsel of a cardinal-legate--with whom, by-the-bye, she was accused of being somewhat too familiar--Blanche of Castille maintained the rights of the French monarchy against the great vassals of France, she reared her son with the utmost care. She entrusted his education to excellent masters, appointed persons eminent for piety to attend to his religious instruction, and evinced profound anxiety that he should lead a virtuous and holy life. 'Rather,' she once said, 'would I see my son in his grave, than learn that he had committed a mortal sin.' As time passed on, Blanche of Castille had the gratification of finding that her toil and her anxiety were not in vain. Lotus, indeed, was a model whom other princes, in their teens, would have done well to copy. His piety, and his eagerness to do what was right and to avoid what was wrong, raised the wonder of his contemporaries. He passed much of his time in devotional exercises, and, when not occupied with religious duties, ever conducted himself as if with a consciousness that the eye of his Maker was upon him, and that he would one day have to give a strict account of all his actions. Every morning he went to hear prayers chanted, and mass and the service of the day sung; every afternoon he reclined on his couch, and listened while one of his chaplains repeated prayers for the dead; and every evening he heard complines. Nevertheless, Louis did not, like such royal personages as our Henry VI., allow his religious exercises so wholly to monopolise his time or attention as to neglect the duties which devolved upon him as king. The reverse was the case. After arriving at manhood he convinced the world that he was well qualified to lead men in war, and to govern them in peace. It happened that, in the year 1242, Henry King of England, who was several years older than Louis, became ambitious of regaining the continental territory wrested from his father, John, by Philip Augustus; and the Count de la Marche, growing malecontent with the government of France, formed a confederacy against the throne, and invited Henry to conduct an army to the Continent. Everything seemed so promising, and the confederacy so formidable, that Henry, unable to resist the temptation of recovering Normandy and Anjou, crossed the sea, landed at Bordeaux, and prepared for hostilities. At first, the confederates were confident of succeeding in their objects; but, ere long, they discovered that they had mistaken their position, and the character of the prince whom they were defying. In fact, Louis soon proved that he was no 'carpet knight.' Assembling an army, he buckled on his mail, mounted his charger; and placing himself at the head of his forces, marched to encounter his enemies. Reaching the banks of the Charente, he offered the confederates battle, near the bridge of Taillebourg; but his challenge was not accepted. By this time the confederates had lost faith in their enterprise; and while De la Marche was meditating a reconciliation with Louis, Henry, accusing the count of having deceived, and being about to betray, him, retreated precipitately, and never drew rein till he reached the village of Saintonge. But Louis was unwilling to allow his royal foe to escape so easily. Nor, indeed, could Henry without reluctance fly from the peril he had provoked. At all events, on reaching Saintonge, the English turned to bay, and a battle began. But the odds were overwhelming; and, though the Anglo-Norman barons fought with characteristic courage, they were speedily worsted, and under the necessity of making for Bordeaux. From the day on which this battle was fought, it was no longer doubtful that Louis was quite able to hold his own; and neither foreign kings nor continental counts cared to disturb his government or defy his power. In fact, the fame of the King of France became great throughout Christendom, and inspired the hopes of the Christians of the East. Nor was it merely as a warrior that Louis signalised himself among his contemporaries. At the time when he was attending, with exemplary regularity, to his religious devotions, and keeping watch over the security of his dominions, he was devoting himself assiduously to his duties as sovereign and to the administration of justice. One day, when Louis was at the castle of Hieros, in Provence, a Cordelier friar approached. 'Sire,' said the friar, 'I have read of unbelieving princes in the Bible and other good books; yet I have never read of a kingdom of believers or unbelievers being ruined, but from want of justice being duly administered. Now,' continued the friar, 'I perceive the king is going to France; let him administer justice with care, that our Lord may suffer him to enjoy his kingdom, and that it may remain in peace and tranquillity all the days of his life, and that God may not deprive him of it with shame and dishonour.' Louis listened attentively to the Cordelier, and the friar's words sank deep into his mind. From that date he gave much attention to the administration of justice, and took especial care to prevent the poor being wronged by their more powerful neighbours. On summer days, after hearing mass, he was in the habit of repairing to the gardens of his palace, seating himself on a carpet, and listening to such as wished to appeal to him; at other times he went to the wood of Vincennes, and there, sitting under an oak, listened to their statements with attention and patience. No ceremony was allowed to keep the poor man from the king's justice-seat. 'Whoever has a complaint to make,' Louis was wont to say, 'let him now make it;' and when there were several who wished to be heard, he would add, 'My friends, be silent for awhile, and your causes shall be despatched one after another.' When Louis was in his nineteenth year, Blanche of Castille recognised the expediency of uniting him to a princess worthy of sharing the French throne, and bethought her of the family of Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, one of the most accomplished men in Europe, and whose countess, Beatrice of Savoy, was even more accomplished than her husband; Raymond and Beatrice had four daughters, all remarkable for their wit and beauty, and all destined to be queens. Of these four daughters, the eldest, Margaret of Provence, who was then thirteen, was selected as the bride of Louis; and, about two years before her younger sister, Eleanor, was conducted to England to be espoused by King Henry, Margaret arrived in Paris, and began to figure as Queen of France. The two princesses of Provence who had the fortune to form such high alliances found themselves in very different positions. Eleanor did just as she pleased, ruled her husband, and acted as if everything in England had been created for her gratification. Margaret's situation, though more safe, was much less pleasant. In her husband's palace she could not boast of being in the enjoyment even of personal liberty. In fact, Queen Blanche was too fond of power to allow that which she had acquired to be needlessly imperilled; and, apprehensive that the young queen should gain too much influence with the king, she deliberately kept the royal pair separate. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the domestic tyranny under which they suffered. When Louis and Margaret made royal progresses, Blanche of Castille took care that her son and daughter-in-law were lodged in separate houses. Even in cases of sickness the queen-mother did not relent. On one occasion, when Margaret was ill and in the utmost danger, Louis stole to her chamber. While he was there, Blanche entered, and he endeavoured to conceal himself. Blanche, however, detected him, shook her head, and forcibly pushed him out of the door. 'Be off, sir,' said she, sternly; 'you have no right here.' 'Madam, madam,' exclaimed Margaret, in despair, 'will you not allow me to see my husband, either when I am living, or when I am dying?' and the poor queen fainted away. It was while the young saint-king and his fair Provencal spouse were enduring this treatment at the hands of the old queen-mother that events occurred which fired Louis with the idea of undertaking a crusade, and gave Margaret an excellent excuse for escaping from the society of the despotic dowager who had embittered her life, and almost broken her heart. One day, when Louis was recovering from the effects of a fever, which had so thoroughly prostrated him, that at times his attendants believed he was dead, he ordered a Cross to be stitched to his garments. 'How is this,' asked Blanche of Castille, when she came to visit her son on his sick bed. 'Madam,' whispered the attendants, 'the king has, out of gratitude for his recovery, taken the Cross, and vowed to combat the infidel.' 'Alas! alas!' exclaimed Blanche, terrified, 'I am struck as fearfully as if I had seen him dead.' CHAPTER V. TAKING THE CROSS. A CENTURY and a half had elapsed since Peter the Hermit roused Christendom to rescue the Holy Sepulchre, and since Godfrey and the Baldwins established the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem; and in the interval, many valiant warriors--including Richard Coeur de Lion, and Philip Augustus, and Frederick Barbarossa--had gone forth to light in its defence; and the orders of military monks--the Knights of the Temple, the Knights of St. John, the Knights of St. Katherine of Sinai, and the Teutonic Knights, had risen to keep watch over the safety of the Holy Sepulchre. But the kingdom of Jerusalem, constantly exposed to rude shocks, far from prospering, was always in danger of ruin; and in 1244 the Holy City, its capital, was taken and sacked by a wild race, without a country, known as the Karismians, who, at the sultan's instance, slaughtered the inhabitants, opened the tombs, burnt the bodies of heroes, scattered the relics of saints and martyrs to the wind, and perpetrated such enormities as Jerusalem, in her varying fortunes, had never before witnessed. When this event occurred, the Christians of the East, more loudly than ever, implored the warriors of Europe to come to their rescue. But, as it happened, most of the princes of Christendom were in too much trouble at home to attend to the affairs of Jerusalem. Baldwin Courtenay, Emperor of Constantinople, was constantly threatened with expulsion by the Greeks; Frederick, Emperor of Germany, was at war with the Pope; the King of Castille was fighting with the Moors; the King of Poland was fully occupied with the Tartars; the King of Denmark had to defend his throne against his own brother; the King of Sweden had to defend his throne against the Tolekungers. As for Henry King of England, he was already involved in those disputes with the Anglo-Norman barons which ultimately led to the Barons' War. One kingdom alone was at peace; and it was France, then ruled by Louis IX., since celebrated as St. Louis, that listened to the cry of distress. At that time Louis King of France, then not more than thirty, but already, as we have seen, noted for piety and valour, was stretched on a bed of sickness, and so utterly prostrate that, at times, as has been related, he was thought to be dead. Nevertheless, he did recover; and, snatched as if by miracle from the gates of death, he evinced his gratitude to Heaven by ordering the Cross to be fixed to his vestments, and vowing to undertake an expedition for the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre. The resolution of the saintly monarch was not quite agreeable to his family or his subjects, any more than to his mother, Blanche of Castille; and many of his lords made earnest efforts to divert him from his purpose. But remonstrance proved unavailing. Clinging steadfastly to his resolution, Louis summoned a Parliament at Paris, induced the assembled magnates to take the Cross, occupied three years with preparations on a great scale, and ultimately, having repaired to St. Denis, and received from the hands of the papal legate the famous standard known as the oriflamme of France, embarked at Aigues Mortes, and sailed for Cyprus, with his queen, Margaret of Provence, his brothers, the Counts of Artois, Poictiers, and Anjou, and many of the greatest lords of his kingdom. Meanwhile, the barons of England were not indifferent to what was passing on the Continent. Many of them, indeed, were desirous to take part in the expedition. But King Henry not only forbade them to assume the Cross, but would not allow a crusade to be preached in his dominions. No general movement was therefore made in England. Nevertheless, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, grandson of the second Henry and Rosamond Clifford, determined on an 'armed pilgrimage,' and, in company with Lord Robert de Vere and others, vowed to join the French Crusaders and combat the Saracens. Henry, enraged at his mandate being disregarded, seized Salisbury's manors and castles; but the earl, faithful to his vow, embarked, with De Vere as his standard-bearer, and with two hundred English knights of noble name and dauntless courage, sworn to bring the standard back with glory, or dye it with their hearts' blood. At the same time Patrick, Earl of March, the most illustrious noble who sprang from the Anglo-Saxon race, announced his intention of accompanying King Louis to the East. Earl Patrick had seen more than threescore years, and his hair was white, and his limbs stiff; but his head was still as clear, and his heart was still as courageous, as in the days when he had dyed his lance in Celtic blood, vanquished the great Somerled, and carried the Bastard of Galloway in chains to Edinburgh; and, with an earnest desire to couch against the enemies of Christianity the lance which he had often couched against the enemies of civilisation, he took the Cross, sold his stud on the Leader Haughs to pay his expenses, bade a last farewell to Euphemia Stewart, his aged countess, received the pilgrim's staff and scrip from the Abbot of Melrose, and left his castle to embark with his knights and kinsmen. 'I was young, and now I am old,' said Earl Patrick, with enthusiasm. 'In my youth I fought with the foes of my race. In my old age I will fare forth and combat the foes of my religion.' It was under the banner of this aged hero that Guy Muschamp and Walter Espec were about to embark for the East; and, on the evening of the day preceding that on which they were to set out, they were conducted to the presence of the mother of the lord of the castle, who was the daughter of a Scottish king, that they might receive her blessing. 'My children,' said she, as they knelt before her, and she laid her hands on their heads, 'do not forget, when among strangers and exposed to temptation, the lessons of piety and chivalry which you have learned within these walls. Fear God, and He will support you in all dangers. Be frank and courteous, but not servile, to the rich and powerful; kind and helpful to the poor and afflicted. Beware of meriting the reproaches of the brave; and ever bear in mind that evil befalls him who proves false to his promises to his God, his country, and his lady. Be brave in war; in peace, loyal and true in thought and word; and Heaven will bless you, and men will hold your names in honour, and you will be dreaded in battle and loved in hall.' Next morning the brothers-in-arms rose betimes; and, all preparations for their departure having been previously made, they mounted at daybreak, and leaving the castle of Wark, and riding through the great park that lay around it, startling the deer and the wild cattle as they went, took their way towards Berwick, before which rode the ships destined to convey them from their native shores. CHAPTER VI. EMBARKING FOR THE EAST. IT was Saturday; and the sun shone brightly on pool and stream, and even lighted up the dingy corners of walled cities, as the Earl of March proceeded on foot from the castle to the port of Berwick, and embarked with his knights and kinsmen. The event created much excitement in the town. In fact, though the princes and nobles of Europe were weary of enterprises that had ruined so many great houses, the people still thought of the crusades with interest, and talked of them with enthusiasm. The very name of Palestine exercised a magical influence on the European Christians of that generation. At the mention of the Holy Land, their imagination conjured up the most picturesque scenery; Saracenic castles stored with gold and jewels; cities the names of which were recorded in the sacred book which the poorest knew by picture; and they listened earnestly as palmer or pilgrim told of Sharon with its roses without thorns; Lebanon with its cedars and vines; and Carmel with its solitary convent, and its summit covered with thyme, and haunted by the eagle and the boar, till their fancy pictured 'a land flowing with milk and honey,' by repairing to which sinners could secure pardon without penance in this world, and happiness without purgatory in the next. It is not wonderful that, when such sentiments prevailed, the embarkation of a great noble for the Holy Land should have excited much interest; and, as Guy Muschamp and Walter Espec took their way from the castle to the port, crowded with ships, and passed warehouses stored with merchandise, the Red Hall of the Flemings resounding with the noise of artificers, the wealthy religious houses which kept alive the flame of ancient learning, and dispensed befitting charities, the streets presented a motley assemblage of seafaring men, monks, warriors, and soldiers; the wives and daughters of the burghers, all in holiday attire, crowded the housetops or gazed from the windows and balconies; and the burghers themselves, leaving their booths and warehouses, flocked to the port to gossip with each other, and to witness the departure of the armed pilgrims. 'Oh, good Walter,' exclaimed Guy Muschamp, whose spirit rose with the excitement, 'is not this a stirring scene? By St. John of Beverley, what rich armour! what gallant ships! what stately churches! And yet I would wager my basinet to a prentice's flat cap that it is not, for a moment, to be compared to Acre.' 'I deem that it can hardly be,' replied Walter, calmly; 'and, in truth, I am in no mood to look upon life with joyous emotions. But, brave Guy, I am pleased to see you pleased; albeit, I own frankly that I should be more than human did I not somewhat envy you your gaiety.' 'Be gay, good Walter.' Walter shook his head. 'Vain would be the effort,' he replied, sadly; 'I can only pray to God and Holy Katherine to grant that I may return with a lighter heart.' 'As for me,' continued Guy, 'I am ever gay--gay as the lark; gay in the morning, gay at eve. It is my nature so to be. My mother is a Frenchwoman--a kinswoman of the Lord of Joinville--and scarce knows what sadness is. I inherit her spirit; and I doubt not that, if I am slain by the Saracens, I shall die laughing.' With this conversation they reached the quay, just as Earl Patrick was stepping on board his ship, the 'Hilda,' which, if less graceful and elegant than the vessels of modern times, was imposing to look upon. Adorned with painting and gilding, it had armorial bearings and badges embroidered on various parts; banners of gay and brilliant colours floated from the masts; and the sails of azure and purple shone with work of gold. Armour glittered on deck; and martial music was not wanting to give variety to the display. Meanwhile, amidst the bustle and shouts of the crew, the ports of the vessel were opened to allow the horses of the armed pilgrims to enter; and, as the ports were under water when the vessel was at sea, they were caulked and stopped up as close as a tun of wine. This operation over, and all the adventurers embarked, the skipper raised his hand for silence. 'My men, is your work done?' cried he to his people in the prow; 'are you ready?' 'Yes, in truth, we are ready,' answered the seamen. And now, the priests who accompanied Earl Patrick having embarked, the captain made them mount to the castle of the ship, and chant psalms in praise of God, and to pray that He might be pleased to grant a prosperous voyage; and they, having ascended, sang the beautiful hymn of 'Veni, Creator' from beginning to end. While the priests sang, the mariners set their sails, and the skipper ordered them to haul up the anchor; and instantly a breeze filled the sails, and the ships moved slowly but proudly away from the shore. CHAPTER VII. THE ARMED PILGRIMS AT CYPRUS. NOT with the very best grace did the King of France come to the resolution of sailing for Cyprus. Indeed, the safety of his army depended, in some degree, on the route selected; and the safest way to the Holy Land was understood to be by Sicily. Unluckily, however, Sicily was subject to the Emperor Frederick; and Frederick and his dominions had been excommunicated by the Pope; and Louis, with his peculiar notions, feared to set foot on a soil that was under the ban of the Church. At Lyons, where he received the papal blessing, he endeavoured to reconcile the Emperor and the Pope; but his Holiness declined to listen to mediation; and the saint-king, yielding to conscientious scruples, determined, without further hesitation, to sacrifice his plan of passing through Sicily to Syria, and announced his intention of proceeding by way of Cyprus to Egypt. At that time the King of Cyprus was Henry de Lusignan, to whose family Richard Coeur de Lion had, in the twelfth century, given the throne, from which he dragged the Emperor Isaac; and no sooner did Louis reach the port of Limisso, than Henry, accompanied by nobles and clergy, appeared to bid him welcome. Nothing, indeed, could have exceeded the enthusiasm with which the French Crusaders were received; and when Louis was conducted with much ceremony to Nicosia, and entered that city, the capital of the island, the populace cheered loudly, and the clergy met him, singing 'Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord.' The glory of Nicosia has long since departed. Situated in the centre of Cyprus, on the river Pedia, in a low fertile plain, near the base of a range of mountains that intersects the island, and surrounded by walls, in the form of a hexagon, flanked with bastions, the capital has many fine houses; but these are mostly in ruins, and the inhabitants occupy tenements reared of mud and brick, and rather repulsive in appearance. At that time, however, the state of Nicosia was very different. As the capital of the Lusignans, the city exhibited the pomp and pride of feudal chivalry, with much of the splendour of oriental courts, and boasted of its palaces, castles, churches, and convents, and chapelries, and gardens, and vineyards, and pleasant places, and all the luxuries likely to render mediæval life enviable. Now, when Louis landed at Limisso, and entered Nicosia, he had no intention of wintering in Cyprus. In fact, the saint-king was all eagerness to push forward and combat the Saracens. But circumstances proved stronger than his will. The Crusaders were highly captivated with all that they saw and heard. The aspect of the island was enchanting; the wine, which even Solomon has deigned to celebrate, was to their taste: the dark-eyed Greek women, who perhaps knew that the island had anciently been the favourite seat, of Venus, and who, in any case, enjoyed the reputation of being devoted to the worship of the goddess, were doubtless fascinating; and almost every one of the days that succeeded Louis's arrival was devoted to rejoicings and feastings. Not unnaturally, but most unfortunately, the Crusaders yielded to the fascinations of an existence which at first they all enjoyed, heart and soul; and with one accord they cried out, 'We must tarry here till spring. Let us eat, drink, and be merry.' Accordingly the Crusaders did winter in Cyprus; and the consequences were most disastrous. Enervated by luxury, they soon forgot their vows, and rushed into every kind of extravagance and dissipation. Of course, their recklessness soon brought its own punishment. As time passed on, and winter set in, rain fell daily, and the intemperance, the strange climate, and the weather soon did their work. By-and-by, a pestilential disease made its appearance in the camp of the pilgrims, and carried off thousands of victims, including two hundred and fifty knights. Moreover, there was much discord and dissension. The Greek clergy and the Latin clergy began to quarrel; the Templars and the Knights of St. John began to fight; and the saint-king found his position the very reverse of satisfactory or agreeable. By the time that the little fleet, on board of which were Guy Muschamp and Walter Espec, reached Cyprus, matters were not what they should have been; and the wise and prudent shook their heads, and predicted that an expedition conducted in such a fashion was too likely to end in disaster and ruin. CHAPTER VIII. EASTWARD. IT was July, as I have intimated, when the ship 'Hilda,' which carried Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp, left the shores of England; and, soon after having lost sight of land, both began to experience a little of that vague fear of 'the blue above and the blue below,' which, in the thirteenth century, made some of the boldest feudal warriors, when they embarked, invoke the protection of the saints in Paradise. 'On my faith, good Walter,' remarked Guy, with less than his wonted gaiety, for the ship was beginning to toss, and he was beginning to feel rather sea sick, 'I cannot but think that the man is a great fool, who, having wronged any of his neighbours, or having any mortal sin on his conscience, puts himself in such peril as this; for, when he goes to sleep at night, he knows not if in the morning he may not find himself under the waves.' 'May the saints preserve us from such a fate,' replied Walter, thoughtfully; 'yet I own I feel so uneasy that I can hardly believe myself a descendant of the kings of the north who made the ocean their home, and called the tempest their servant, and never felt so joyous as when they were treading the pine plank, and giving the reins to their great sea horses.' 'On my faith,' said Guy, who was every moment becoming more uncomfortable,'I cannot but marvel much at the eccentricity of their tastes, and could almost wish myself back to the castle of Wark.' 'Nevertheless,' replied Walter, 'we must bear in mind that, having taken the Cross and vowed to combat the Saracens, it beseems us not, as Christians and gentlemen, to look backward.' At the time when this conversation took place, the sea was comparatively calm, and the weather most favourable; and the skipper, naturally overjoyed with his good fortune in both respects, predicted a speedy voyage. In this, however, he was in some measure disappointed. Many circumstances occurred to retard the progress of the Saxon Earl and his companions towards Cyprus; and, what with prolonged calms, and contrary winds, and foul weather, it was late in autumn ere they neared the island where the King of France and his chivalry had, for their misfortune, resolved on passing the winter. So far all was well, and the Boy Crusaders, now recovered from their sickness, rejoiced in the anticipation of soon reaching Cyprus. But the dangers of the voyage were not yet over, and one evening, about vespers, while Walter and Guy were regaling their imaginations with the prospect of being speedily in the company of the warriors of France, the mariners found that they were unpleasantly close to a great mountain of Barbary. Not relishing their position--for they had the fear of the Saracens of Barbary before their eyes--the mariners pressed on, and during the night made all the sail they could, and flattered themselves that they had run at least fifty leagues. But what was their surprise when day broke, to find that they were still off the mountain which they fancied they must have left behind. Great, moreover, was their alarm as they thought of the piratical natives; and, albeit they laboured hard all that day and all that night to make sail, when the sun rose next morning--it was Saturday--the mountain, from which they were so anxious to escape, was still near at hand. All on board expressed their alarm on discovering that the mariners deemed their position perilous; and the Earl, on learning how matters stood, appeared on deck, and summoned the master of the ship. 'In wonder's name, skipper,' said he, sternly, 'how happens this?' 'In truth, my lord earl,' replied the skipper, much perplexed, 'I cannot tell how it happens; but this I know, that we all run great risk of our lives.' 'In what way?' 'From the Saracens of Barbary, who are cruel and savage, and who are as likely as not to come down in swarms and attack us.' The idea of captivity and chains occurred to every one who listened, and even the Earl changed countenance. At that moment, however, one of the chaplains stepped forward. He was a discreet churchman, and his words were ever treated with high respect. 'My lord earl and gentlemen,' said the chaplain; 'I never remember any distress in our parish, either from too much abundance or from want of rain, or from any other plague, but that God delivered us from it, and caused everything to happen as well as could have been wished, when a procession had been made three times with devotion on a Saturday.' 'Wherefore,' suggested the Earl, 'you would have us do likewise, as deeming the ceremony likely to deliver us from our peril?' 'Even so,' continued the churchman. 'I recommend, noble Earl, that, as this day is Saturday, we instantly commence walking in procession round the masts of the ship.' 'By all means,' replied the Earl, 'let us forthwith walk in procession as you recommend. Worse than foolish would it be on our parts to neglect such a ceremony. A simple remedy, on my faith, for such an evil.' Accordingly, the skipper issued orders through the ship; and all on board were assembled on deck, and, headed by the priests, solemnly walked in procession round the masts, singing as they walked; and, however it came to pass, the ceremony seemed to have the effect which the chaplain had prognosticated. From that moment everything went smoothly. Almost immediately afterwards they lost sight of the mountain, and cast all fear of the Saracens of Barbary to the winds; and ere long they had the gratification of hearing the cry of 'Land,' and of seeing before their eyes the far-famed island of Cyprus. It was latest autumn, however; and Cyprus did not look by any means so bright and beautiful as the Boy Crusaders had, during the voyage, anticipated. Indeed, clouds rested over the range of mountains that intersects the island lengthways. The rain had fallen somewhat heavily, and the aspect of the place was so decidedly dismal and disheartening, that, as the two squires landed, their countenances expressed much disappointment. 'Now, by St. John of Beverley,' exclaimed Guy, giving expression to his feelings, 'I marvel much that this lovely queen, Venus, of whom minstrels have sung so much, should, when she doubtless had her free choice as to a residence, have so highly favoured this place. 'Tastes differ,' replied Walter, rather gloomily. 'Certainly, had I my choice of a residence, I should fix my abode elsewhere.' 'But what have we here?' cried Guy, as he pointed to countless casks of wine piled high, one on the other, and to huge heaps of wheat, barley, and other grains, which the purveyors of King Louis had some time before prepared for his grand enterprise. 'Beshrew me, if, at a distance, I did not imagine the casks of wine to be houses, and the heaps of corn mountains.' 'Anyhow,' observed Walter, 'the sight of the wine and the corn should give us comfort; for it is clear that the King of France, however saintly, does not forget that men have mouths, nor mean his army to die of hunger or thirst.' 'On my faith,' said Guy, 'I have a strong desire to catch a glance of this miracle of saintliness. I marvel if he rides about Cyprus on a Spanish steed, magnificently harnessed, as chronicles tell of Richard Coeur de Lion doing, dressed in a tunic of rose-coloured satin, and a mantle of striped and silver tissue, brocaded with half moons, and a scarlet bonnet brocaded with gold, and wearing a Damascus blade with a golden hilt in a silver sheath--oh, what a fine figure the English king must have cut!' 'However,' said Walter, 'I fancy King Louis is not quite so splendid in his appearance as Coeur de Lion was. But we shall see him ere long.' 'Ay,' cried Guy; 'we must have a peep at the royal saint. Meanwhile, good Walter, one thing is certain--that we are in Cyprus.' CHAPTER IX. AN ADVENTURE. IT was not the good fortune of all the warriors who had taken the Cross to escape the perils of the deep, and reach Cyprus in safety. About a month after Guy Muschamp and Walter Espec had reached Limisso, a tall ship bearing a Crusader of noble name, who had left Constantinople to combat the Saracens under the banner of St. Denis, was sailing gallantly towards Cyprus, when a violent storm arose, and threatened her with destruction. The wind blew fiercely; the sea ran mountains high; and, though the ship for a time struggled sturdily with the elements, she could not resist her fate. Her cordage creaked, and her timbers groaned dismally; and, as she was by turns borne aloft on the waves crested with foam and precipitated headlong into the gulphs that yawned between, great was the terror, loud the wailing, and frightful the turmoil. In vain the mariners exerted their strength and skill. No efforts on their part could enable the vessel to resist the fury of the tempest. Every minute matters became more desperate. The sea, recently calm, seemed to boil from its very depths; and the ship, incessantly tossed to and fro by the roaring billows, appeared, every moment, on the point of being engulphed. The skipper was lost in consternation; the Crusaders gave way to despair; and with death staring them in the face they ceased to hope for safety, and, kneeling, confessed to each other, and prayed aloud that their sins might be forgiven. At length, in spite of the efforts made by the mariners to resist the winds and waves, the ship, driven on the rocks near the island, filled with water, went to pieces, leaving those on board to struggle as they best might to escape a watery grave. The struggle was vain. Many, indeed, caught hold of the vessel's timbers with a vague hope of reaching the shore; but, unable to contend with the elements, they, one after another, disappeared and sank to rise no more. Now this terrible shipwreck was not without witnesses. On that part of the coast of Cyprus where it occurred was a rude hamlet chiefly tenanted by fishermen; and men, women, and children crowded the beach, uttering loud cries, and highly excited, but unable to render any assistance. It seemed that no boat could live in such a sea; and the fishermen could only gaze mournfully on the heartrending scene, as the waves sprang up and rapaciously claimed their prey. It was while the sea, agitated by the gale, was still running high; while the waves were leaping, and tearing, and dashing against the rocks; and while flocks of sea birds wheeled and screamed over the troubled waters, that a knight and two squires, who, having been caught in the storm, while riding towards Limisso, reined up, and not without difficulty learned from the natives, whose language they scarcely comprehended, the nature and extent of the disaster. The knight was an English Crusader, named Bisset, who had taken service with King Louis; the squires were Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp. All three, as they became aware of what had happened, crossed themselves and breathed a prayer for the souls of those who had gone to their account. 'We may as well ride on,'said Guy Muschamp, who, like his companions, was very much affected; 'all of them have perished, and are now beyond the reach of human aid.' 'Not all of them,' exclaimed Walter Espec, suddenly, as he sprang from his horse, and, with out-stretched arm, pointed to a white object which was carried hither and thither by the waves. 'By the might of Henry, sir squire, you are right,' cried the English knight, highly excited; 'it is a woman, as I live, and she is clinging to one of the ship's timbers.' 'And she may yet be saved,' said Walter, calmly; 'and by the Holy Cross the attempt must be made, if we are to escape the reproach of inhumanity and cowardice.' And now the men, women, and children on the beach became much excited, and shouted loudly. No one, however, volunteered to go to the rescue. In fact, the aspect of the sea was so menacing and terrible, that the boldest and hardiest of the seafaring men felt that an attempt could only end in the destruction of those making it, and shook their heads with a significance there was no misunderstanding. 'It seems,' said the knight, mournfully, 'that the business is desperate; and yet----' 'And yet,' said Walter, taking up the word as the knight hesitated and paused, 'it shall never be told that a woman perished before my eyes, and that I stood looking on, without making an effort to save her.' 'He is mad,' muttered the fishermen, as they first eyed the English squire, and then exchanged glances with each other, and shrugged their shoulders. But Walter Espec did not ponder or pause. Throwing his bridle-rein to Guy Muschamp, whose countenance expressed grave alarm, he quickly divested himself of his mantle and the belt bearing his sword, committed himself to the protection of Holy Katherine, the patron saint of his house, plunged into the water, and next moment was battling manfully with the waves. But everything was against him, even the tide; and, in spite of his skill as a swimmer, his efforts were at first abortive. But it was not his nature to yield easily; and, as he put forth all his strength, and made a desperate struggle, the affair began to wear another face. 'Good Walter,' murmured Guy, who stood, pale as death, watching the swimmer. 'Brave Walter!' 'Now, may our lady, the Virgin, aid and prosper him,' exclaimed the knight. 'Never have I witnessed a bolder attempt.' As the knight spoke, a loud cheer burst from the crowd; and then there was silence. Walter drew nearer and nearer to the woman, for whose life he was freely venturing his own. In another minute he clutched her with one hand, turned towards the shore, and, favoured by the tide, came sailing towards the spot which the crowd occupied. A dozen of the men dashed knee-deep into the water to relieve Walter of his burden; and as they did so, a dozen of the women stretched out their hands, and received the still unconscious form of her who had been rescued; meanwhile the knight and Guy Muschamp caught hold of Walter, who, fatigued and overcome with his almost superhuman exertions, would otherwise have fallen to the ground. However they laid him down carefully to rest; and, while Guy stood watching over him, Bisset went to look to the safety of the damsel who had been rescued. 'Sir squire,' said he, with enthusiasm, as he returned, 'you have done as noble a deed as it has ever been my fate to witness, and the King of France shall hear of it, as I am a living man; and,' continued he, in a whisper, 'hearken! you may at the same time congratulate yourself on having had the good luck to save a woman well worth saving.' 'What mean you, sir knight,' asked Walter, faintly. 'Simply this--that she is young, fair to behold, and evidently of high lineage.' CHAPTER X. ON THE LADDER OF LIFE. FOUR days passed over, and Walter Espec, quite recovered from the effects of his struggle with the waves, and of the salt water he had involuntarily imbibed during his perilous adventure on the coast of Cyprus, was at Nicosia, and engaged in chivalrous exercises, in the courtyard of the house occupied by the Earl of March; when he was accosted by Bisset, the English knight, who had been a witness of his daring exploit, and requested to repair to the presence of the King of France. Walter was somewhat taken by surprise and startled by the summons. Recovering his serenity, however, as well as he could, he intimated his readiness; and with the air befitting a Norman gentleman who had existed from childhood in the consciousness that his name was known to fame, and who did not forget that he had noble blood of Icinglas in his veins, he accompanied the knight to the palace in which the saint-king was lodged. At that time, Louis, not much satisfied with himself for having consented to winter in Cyprus, though little dreaming of the terrible misfortunes that awaited his army in the land for which he was bound, was seated at table and endeavouring to forget his cares, while conversing familiarly with a young and noble-looking personage of great strength and stature, with a head of immense size, and a countenance beaming with sagacity. In truth this was a very remarkable personage. He was then known as John, Lord of Joinville, and seneschal of Champagne; and he has since been famous as the chronicler of the triumphs and disasters of the Crusade in which he acted a conspicuous part. 'Seneschal,' said Louis, addressing Joinville, 'I marvel much that you do not mix water with your wine.' 'In truth, sire,' replied Joinville, half jocularly, 'I fear so to do; for physicians have told me I have so large a head, and so cold a stomach, that water might prove most injurious.' 'Nevertheless,' said Louis, earnestly, 'be advised by me, and do not allow yourself to be deceived. If you do not drink water till you are in the decline of life, you will then increase any disorders you may have.' 'But, sire,' asked Joinville, innocently, 'why should I drink water then more than now?' 'Ah,' answered Louis, 'simply because if you take pure wine in your old age, you will be frequently intoxicated; and verily it is a beastly thing for an honourable man to make himself drunk.' 'I acknowledge that it is very wrong, sire,' said Joinville; 'but I am one of those who endeavour to practise moderation in the use of the wine-cup.' 'And pray, seneschal,' asked Louis, after a pause, 'may I ask if you ever wash the feet of the poor?' 'Oh, sire, no,' answered Joinville, not without evincing surprise. 'I hardly deem that it would become such a person as I am.' 'In truth, seneschal,' exclaimed Louis, 'this is very ill said. You ought not to think that unbecoming which He, who was their Lord and Master, did for our example when He washed the feet of His apostles. I doubt not you would very unwillingly perform what the King of England does; for on Holy Thursday he washes the feet of lepers.' 'Oh, sire,' cried Joinville, in a conclusive tone, 'never will I wash the feet of such fellows.' 'Now, seneschal,' resumed Louis, still more seriously, 'let me ask you another question. Whether would you be a leper, or have committed a deadly sin?' 'Sire,' answered Joinville, frankly, 'rather than be a leper, I would have committed thirty deadly sins.' 'How could you make such an answer?' said Louis, reproachfully. 'Sire,' exclaimed Joinville, with decision, 'if I were to answer again, I should repeat the same thing.' 'Nevertheless,' urged Louis, with earnestness, 'you deceive yourself on the subject; for no leprosy can be so awful as deadly sin, and the soul that is guilty of such is like the devil in hell.' It was when the conversation between the King of France and the Lord of Joinville had reached this stage, that Walter Espec, guided by the English knight, made his appearance, not without exhibiting symptoms of agitation when he found himself face to face with the monarch, who, of all the princes of Christendom, enjoyed, at that period, the highest reputation in Europe and the East. But the appearance and aspect of Louis were not such as to daunt or dismay. Nothing could have been more plain and simple than the dress worn by the royal chief of the crusaders. Indeed it was plain and simple to affectation; and the coat of camlet, the surcoat of tyretaine, the mantle of black sandal, contrasted remarkably with the splendid garments of princes who were his contemporaries, especially Henry, King of England, who, like most of the Plantagenets, was given to magnificence of attire, and generally regarded as by far the greatest dandy in his dominions. Nor had Louis been endowed by nature with the qualities which please the eye and impress the imagination. His figure, it is true, was tall and well proportioned; but his face and features were not calculated to dazzle. When compared with men of such noble presence and regal air as our English Edwards and Henrys, he was decidedly plain. He had the peculiar face and slanting features which distinguished so many of the descendants of Hugh Capet, and that large long straight nose, which, instead of keeping the Greek facial line, inclined forward, and hung slightly over the short upper lip. Not even flattery could have described the saint-king as a model of manly beauty. [Illustration: "Young gentleman," said King Louis, "it has come to my knowledge that you have performed an action noble in itself, and worthy of the praises of the valiant."--p. 64.] Now it happened that Walter Espec had never before seen a king, and was prepared to behold something very grand, like Coeur de Lion, with his scarlet bonnet, his rose-coloured tunic, and his mantle of striped silver tissue, and his Damascus blade with a golden hilt in a silver sheath. Naturally, therefore, he was at the first glance somewhat disappointed with the appearance of the monarch in whose presence he stood. But as Louis turned upon him a countenance which, albeit not beautiful, denoted energy and decision of character, and expressed at once goodness and good-nature, and high moral and intellectual superiority, the youth, whose instincts were strong, felt that he was in the presence of a man who was worthy of reigning. 'Young gentleman,' said Louis, mildly, as Walter bent his knee, 'it has come to my knowledge that you have performed an action noble in itself, and worthy of the praises of the valiant.' 'Sire,' replied Walter, colouring, and speaking with less than his wonted confidence, 'I scarce know to what your highness is pleased to refer.' 'Ah,' said Louis, glancing towards the Lord of Joinville, 'I can hardly credit your words. But such modesty is becoming in youth. However, I mean that, four days since, as I learn, you saved a noble demoiselle from the sea, at the most manifest peril to your own life.' Walter bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment, but did not speak. 'Not,' continued Louis hastily, 'not that you should therefore be vainglorious, or puffed up with vanity, or think more highly of yourself than you ought to think on account of your achievement, however honourable; for I trust you know and feel that, before our Maker, we are all but as potter's clay.' 'My lord,' replied Walter, pausing in some perplexity, 'I would fain hope my ideas on the subject will ever be such as befit a Christian and a gentleman.' 'Well, well,' said Louis, hastily, 'on that point I meant not to express a doubt, and,' added he, 'seeing that you give promise of being a preuhomme, I pray God, out of His goodness, that you may prove a preudhomme as well as a preuhomme.' 'Sire,' said Walter, looking puzzled, 'you must pardon me when I confess that I comprehend not clearly the distinction.' 'Ah,' replied Louis, smiling, and shaking his head gravely, 'the distinction is of much consequence; for know that by preuhomme I mean a man who is valiant and bold in person, whereas by preudhomme I signify one who is prudent, discreet, and who fears God, and has a good conscience.' Walter bowed again; and, being at a loss for words to answer, took refuge in silence. In fact, he began to feel so awkward that he wished nothing so fervently as that the interview would come to an end; and Louis, after condescending to ask some more questions, and inculcate some more lessons, dismissed him with words of encouragement, and gifted him with an amulet in the form of a ring, which bore on it this inscription-- Who wears me shall perform exploits, And with great joy return. As Walter left the king's presence to depart from the palace, he turned to the knight who had been his conductor. 'On my faith, sir knight,' said he laughing, but rather nervously, 'this reminds me more of the adventures which in childhood I have heard related by pilgrims and pedlars at the chimney-corner, than aught I ever expected to meet with in the real breathing busy world.' 'Indeed,' said Bisset, quietly; 'methinks there is nothing so very wondrous about the business. It only seems to me that you have been born with luck on your side--not my own case--and that you have, without hazarding more than you are likely to do in the first battle with the Saracens, gained the privilege of climbing some steps up the ladder that leads to fortune and fame.' 'And yet,' observed Walter, as he laughed and looked at the ring which Louis had bestowed on him, 'beshrew me if I have had the courage to ask either the rank or name of the demoiselle to whom I had the fortune to render the service that has made my existence known to this good and pious king.' 'By the might of Mary,' exclaimed the knight, 'there is no reason why you should remain in ignorance who the demoiselle is, or what is her name. She is kinswoman of John de Brienne, who, in his day, figured as King of Jerusalem, and kinswoman also of Baldwin de Courtenay, who now reigns at Constantinople as Emperor of the East; and her name is Adeline de Brienne.' 'Holy Katherine,' muttered Walter, again looking closely at the inscription on the ring, as if for evidence that the whole was not a dream, 'I begin to think that I must assuredly have been born with luck on my side, as you say; and, with such luck on my side, I need not even despair of finding the brother I have lost.' 'Credit me, at all events,' said Bisset, looking wise, 'when I tell you that you have got upon the ladder of life.' CHAPTER XI. THE VOYAGE. IT was the Saturday before Pentecost, in the year 1249, when the fleet of King Louis and the armed pilgrims, consisting of no fewer than eighteen hundred vessels, great and small, issued gallantly from the port of Limisso, and steered towards Egypt. At first nothing could have been more gay and pleasant than the voyage of the Crusaders. It seemed as if the whole sea, so far as the eye could reach, was covered with cloth and with banners of bright colours. Everything appeared promising. The voyage, however, was not destined to prove prosperous. Suddenly the wind, which had been favourable, changed, and blew violently from the coast of Egypt. Great confusion was the consequence; and, though the Genoese mariners exerted all their skill, the fleet was utterly dispersed. Indeed, when King Louis, having put back, reached Limisso, he found, to his horror, that not more than two-thirds of the armed pilgrims remained in his company. Concluding that his companions had been drowned, the saintly monarch was grieved beyond measure, and on the point of giving way to despair. It happened, however, that while Louis was mourning over the mishap, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, arrived at Cyprus with the English Crusaders, and administered some degree of consolation. In truth, Longsword was just the man to explain all in the most satisfactory manner. Having been accustomed from his youth to cross the narrow seas, he felt none of that vague terror of the ocean which made the French knights, when they embarked, invoke the protection of the saints; and he expressed his opinion that, in all probability, the missing vessels were safe on the Syrian coast. But the indifference which the earl showed for dangers at which the French trembled had the effect of making him many enemies, and arousing the natural jealousies which afterwards proved so baneful to the expedition. It ought to be borne in mind, that at the period of St. Louis's crusade there existed no love between the nobles of France and the nobles of England; and it appears that the French were in the habit of treating the English with some degree of scorn. Nor was it unnatural that such should have been the case; for, during half a century, in almost every struggle between the kingdoms, the French had been victorious. Philip Augustus, after holding his own against Richard Coeur de Lion, had succeeded in driving John from the continent; and Louis, when forced to take the field against Henry, had pursued his royal brother-in-law from the bridge of Taillebourg to the gates of Bordeaux. Remembering such triumphs, the French, who have in all ages been vain and boastful, were continually vaunting about their prowess, and repeating the story of some Englishman having cut off the tail of Thomas à Becket's horse, and of Englishmen having ever after that outrage been born with tails like horses. Such being the state of affairs, the Earl of Salisbury did not inspire the French nobles with any particular affection for him and his countrymen who had arrived at Cyprus, when they heard him speaking lightly of the dangers of the sea. In fact, the French lords, who a few hours earlier had been sinking under sea-sickness, trembling at the sound of raging billows, and wishing themselves safely in their own castles, cursed 'Longsword,' as the worst of 'English tails.' But the King of France did not share the malice of his countrymen; and, much comforted by the words of the English earl, he resolved on again tempting the sea. Accordingly, on Monday morning, he ordered the mariners to spread their sails to the wind. The weather proving favourable, the fleet made gallantly for the shores of Egypt; and on the morning of Thursday, about sunrise, the watch on deck of the vessel that led the van, shouted 'Land!' 'Surely, not yet,' exclaimed several voices; but the pilot to make certain ascended to the round-top of the vessel. 'Gentlemen,' cried the pilot, 'it is all right. We are before Damietta, so you have nothing to do but to recommend yourselves to God.' 'Hurrah!' shouted the mariners; and from ship to ship the tidings passed; and, as the words of the pilot flew from deck to deck, a cry of joy burst from thousands of lips. Great was the excitement that prevailed; and the chiefs of the expedition hastily arrayed themselves to go on board the king's ship and hold a council of war. And now all eyes were turned towards the shore; and it seemed that the Crusaders were likely to encounter a desperate resistance in any attempt to land. A fleet and formidable engines of war defended the mouth of the Nile. A numerous army of horse and foot appeared on the beach, as if bent on contesting every inch of ground. At the head of this mighty host, wearing armour of burnished gold, figured the Emir Fakreddin, one of the foremost of Saracen warriors. From the midst trumpets and drums sounded a stern defiance to the armament of the Christians. But, undaunted by the aspect of affairs, the armed pilgrims steadily pursued their course; and ship after ship, moving calmly forward, anchored within a mile of the shore. Meanwhile, the pilgrims, princes, and nobles, had reached the king's ship; and Louis, leaning on his sword, received them with satisfaction on his countenance. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'our voyage has not been without its perils, but let us be thankful that we are at length face to face with the enemies of Christ.' 'Yes, sire,' said the chiefs, 'and it is therefore expedient to form some plan of action.' 'And, under the circumstances,' added several, 'it will be prudent to await our comrades who have been separated from us by the tempest.' It soon appeared that among the chiefs there was a general wish to await the coming of their missing comrades; but the king was young, and the drums and horns of the Saracens had so chafed his pride that he would not hear of delay. 'We have not come hither,' said he, excitedly, 'to listen to the insults of our enemies; nor have we any port in which to shelter from the wind. A second tempest may disperse what remains of our fleet. To-day God offers us a victory; another day He may punish us for having neglected to conquer.' 'Sire, be it as you will,' replied the assembled chiefs, not caring to debate the point with their king. And so, with much less deliberation than was necessary under the circumstances, and without duly considering the resources of the enemy whom they had to combat, King Louis and the chief Crusaders resolved to disembark on the morrow and give battle. Meantime a strict watch was maintained, and several swift vessels were despatched towards the mouth of the Nile to observe the motions of the Saracens. It happened that the Saracens, in spite of their dauntless show, were by no means in the best mood to make an obstinate resistance, nor were they in any sanguine mood as to the result of their preparations. At such a crisis, the presence of the sultan was necessary to sustain their spirits, and stimulate their fanaticism. Now at that time Melikul Salih was Sultan of Egypt; but he was not at Damietta, and his absence caused much uncertainty and dismay among the warriors assembled to defend his dominions. Melikul Salih was then at Cairo; and almost every man in Fakreddin's army knew that Melikul Salih was dying. CHAPTER XII. AT DAMIETTA. ABOUT a mile from the sea, on the northern bank of the second mouth of the Nile, stood the city of Damietta, with its mosques, and palaces, and towers, and warehouses, defended on the river side by a double rampart, and on the land side by a triple wall. Fair and enchanting to the eye was the locality in which it was situated; and as the Crusaders directed their gaze towards the groves of oranges and citrons, loaded with flowers and fruit, the woods of palms and sycamores, the thickets of jasmines and odoriferous shrubs, the vast plains, with pools and lakes well stocked with fish, the thousand canals intersecting the land, and crowned with papyrus and reeds, they, feeling the influence of a rich climate and a beautiful sky, could not find words sufficiently strong to express their admiration and delight. 'Now, good Walter,' said Guy Muschamp, as the brothers-in-arms, having ascended to the castle of the 'Hilda,' looked earnestly towards the shore, 'who can deny that such a land is worth fighting to conquer?' 'On my faith,' exclaimed Walter Espec, with enthusiasm, 'it is so pleasant to the eye, that I could almost persuade myself I am looking upon that terrestrial paradise in which the father and mother of mankind lived so happily before eating the fatal apple.' No wonder, when such was the aspect of the country around Damietta, that the armed pilgrims were impatient to land. And no time was lost; for, of all the armed pilgrims, King Louis was perhaps the most eager to encounter the enemies of his religion; and, soon after daybreak, on the morning of Friday, a signal was given for the fleet to weigh anchor and draw near to the shore. Meanwhile the Saracens, under the Emir Fakreddin, were on the alert; and while a bell, that had remained in the great mosque of Damietta ever since John de Brienne seized the city in 1217, tolled loudly to warn the inhabitants of the danger, the Moslem warriors got under arms, and with cavalry and infantry occupied the whole of that part of the strand at which the Crusaders had resolved to disembark. But the armed pilgrims were nothing daunted by the sight of the formidable preparations made to oppose their landing. Getting into barques which had been provided for the purpose, they prepared to fight their way ashore, in defiance of all dangers. Ranging themselves in two lines, with their lances in their hands, and their horses by their sides, the knights and nobles stood erect in their boats, while in front, and on the wings of the armament, were placed crossbowmen to harass and keep off the foe. Nor did Louis in that hour appear in any way unworthy to be the leader of brave men. Attended by his brothers and his knights, the King of France, arrayed in chain-mail, with his helmet on his brow, his shield on his neck, and his lance in his hand, figured prominently on the right of his array. By his side stood the cardinal legate; and in front of him was a boat in which the oriflamme, brought from the abbey of St. Denis, was proudly displayed. It was an exciting occasion, and the hearts of the saint-king and his mailed comrades beat high as the barques moved onward to the Egyptian strand. The warriors, standing steady and silent as graven images, gazed earnestly on their multitudinous foes. For a time no attempt was made to oppose their progress. No sooner, however, were they within bowshot, than a shower of arrows and javelins rattled against the mail of the Crusaders. For a moment the ranks of the Christian warriors were shaken. But the crossbowmen, without the delay of an instant, retaliated with damaging effect; and while their shafts carried death into the Saracen host, the rowers redoubled their efforts to reach the shore, and bring Christian and Moslem hand to hand and foot to foot. Again the silence was unbroken, save by the plashing of oars and the tumultuous shock of the barques pressing on in disorder. Ere long, however, there was a loud shout. The Lord of Joinville, closely followed by Baldwin de Rheims, had reached the shore; and they were setting their men in battle order, and covering themselves with their shields, and presenting the points of their lances to check the impetuosity of the enemy. And now King Louis lost all patience; and deeming it no time to stand on his regal dignity, he leaped from his barge, and plunging up to his shoulders in the water, struggled towards the shore. Inspired by his example, the Crusaders threw themselves into the sea in a body, and pressed eagerly onward, with cries of 'Montjoie! St. Denis!' Again the silence was unbroken, save by the clash of mail, the noise of a dense crowd of armed men struggling with the waves, which were so elevated by the rush, that they fell and broke at the feet of the Saracens. In a few moments, however, the oriflamme was landed, and the saint-king, with the salt water running off his armour, was on his knees giving thanks to God for having preserved him and his companions from the perils of the deep. 'And now, gentlemen,' said Louis, as he rose and looked excitedly around him, 'let us forthwith charge our enemies in the name of God.' 'Be patient, sire,' replied the knights, interfering; 'it is better to await the landing of our comrades, that we may fight with advantage.' Louis allowed himself to be persuaded; and it speedily appeared that caution was necessary; for, while the Crusaders were still struggling ashore in disorder, the Saracen cavalry came down upon them with an impetuosity which convinced the French that their adversaries were not to be despised. But Joinville and Baldwin of Rheims rendered their comrades good service. Hastily closing their ranks, they contrived not only to stay the rush, but to present so impenetrable a front, that the Saracens retired baffled to prepare for a fresh spring. And again, with an enthusiastic energy which would have struck terror into antagonists less bold, the Saracens under Fakreddin charged down upon the Crusaders; and then began, all along the coast, a confused conflict which raged for hours--Christian and Moslem fighting hand to hand; while the two fleets engaged at the mouth of the Nile; and the Queen of France and the Countess of Anjou, and other ladies of high rank, who remained on board at a distance, awaited the issue of the contest with terrible anxiety, and, with priests around them, sang psalms and prayed fervently for the aid and protection of the God of battles. At length the conflict came to an end. Both on the water and on the land the Crusaders were victorious. The Saracen fleet, after getting decidedly the worst of the combat, escaped up the Nile; and the Saracen soldiers, beaten and dispersed, retired precipitately, and flying in confusion towards Damietta, abandoned their camp, and left several of their emirs dead on the field. After witnessing the flight of the Saracens, Louis ordered his pavilion, which was of bright scarlet, to be pitched on the ground where he had conquered, and caused the clergy to sing the Te Deum. The Crusaders then set up their tents around that of the king, and passed the night in rejoicing over the victory they had won. Next day the Crusaders had still stronger reason to congratulate themselves on the good fortune which had attended their arms. At daybreak, looking towards Damietta, they observed that columns of smoke were rising from the bosom of the city, and that the whole horizon was on fire. Without delay the King of France sent one of his knights and a body of cavalry to ascertain the cause; and, on reaching Damietta, the knight found the gates open, and learned on entering that the Saracens, after setting fire to that part called the Fonde, which was a row of shops and warehouses, had abandoned the city. Returning to the camp at a gallop, while his men remained to extinguish the fire, the knight announced the glad tidings to the saint-king. 'Sire,' said he, 'I bring good news; Damietta may be taken possession of without striking a blow.' It was not very easy, even after hearing all, to credit this knight's report; and Louis was somewhat suspicious of a stratagem. However, he gave orders for marching towards the gates, and moving slowly, and with much caution, took possession. It was clear that the city had been abandoned by its defenders; and the king, the cardinal legate, and the clergy, having formed in procession, walked to the grand mosque, which was speedily converted into a Christian church, and sang psalms of praise and thanksgiving. And now the Crusaders, with Damietta in their possession, were indeed elate, and rather inclined to magnify their successes; and the Queen of France and the Countess of Anjou, and the other ladies were brought ashore and lodged in the palaces of the city; and five hundred knights were charged with the duty of guarding the ramparts and towers; and the warriors of the Cross, encamping in the plain outside the gates, gave themselves up to dissipation, and deluded themselves with the idea that no enterprise was too difficult for them to accomplish. 'Now,' said the French, as they quaffed the red wine and rattled the dice-box, 'we have only to await the coming of our companions from the coast of Syria, and of the Count of Poictiers, with the _arrière ban_ of France, to undertake the conquest of Egypt.' 'Ay,' said others, 'and then let the Saracens and their sultan tremble.' 'Nothing,' echoed a third party, 'can withstand the warriors of France, when animated by the presence and example of their king.' 'I dislike all this boasting,' remarked Bisset, the English knight, to Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp, 'and, albeit I wish not to be thought a prophet of evil, I predict that it will end in mischief and disaster.' 'The saints forbid,' exclaimed Guy, gaily. 'For my part I dread nothing but the thought of being devoured by some of the crocodiles which, men say, are hatched in the waters of the Nile.' 'Nevertheless, mark my words,' said Bisset, more gravely than it was his wont to speak. 'At present the Frenchmen believe that, because they have plied their swords with some effect, that henceforth the Saracens will fly before their scabbards. Now they are all singing songs of triumph; ere long, if you and I live, we'll hear them singing to a very different tune.' 'Ah, sir knight,' said Walter, smiling, 'you say this from national jealousy, and because they call us "English tails."' '"English tails!"' repeated Bisset, scornfully; 'I tell you, for your comfort, that when the hour of real danger arrives, we "English tails" are likely to find our way so deep into the Saracens' ranks, that not a bragging Frenchman will venture to come nigh the tails of our war-steeds.' 'By St. John of Beverley,' exclaimed Guy, laughing merrily, 'I cannot but think that the French and English Crusaders are already inclined to hate each other much more than either French or English hate the Saracens.' CHAPTER XIII. INCURSIONS. AND what were the sultan and the Saracens saying and doing while the Crusaders were establishing themselves at Damietta, and delighting their souls with visions of the conquest of Egypt? In order to ascertain we must, in imagination, pass from the camp at Damietta to the palace of Cairo. Melikul Salih was under the influence of a malady which his physicians pronounced to be incurable. On that point there was no mistake. Nevertheless, when pigeons carried to Cairo intelligence of the French king's victory and Fakreddin's defeat, the sultan roused himself to energy, and, after having sentenced fifty of the principal fugitives to execution, and taken Fakreddin severely to task for allowing his men to be vanquished, he caused himself to be removed to Mansourah. On reaching that city, Melikul Salih expended his remaining strength in rallying his army and strengthening the fortifications, and at the same time sent men to attack the Crusaders in their camp, to kill the Franks and cut off their heads,--promising a golden besant for every head brought to him. The Arab cavalry of the Desert, and bands of horsemen belonging to that wild nation known as the Karismians, were employed on this service; and the Crusaders found themselves exposed to dangers against which it seemed impossible to guard. As wild animals prowl around the habitations of men on the watch for prey, so around the Christian camp prowled the Arabs and Karismians by day and by night. If even at noon a soldier wandered from the camp he was lost; and, in hours of darkness, sentinel after sentinel disappeared, and knight after knight was struck dead, as if by invisible hands. Every morning the Crusaders had to listen to some new tale of horror which made their blood run cold. Ere the Arabs and Karismians had carried alarm into the camp of the Crusaders, many of the warriors of the West had begun to suffer from the climate of Egypt; and among others who were prostrated, was the old Earl of March. For a time he seemed likely to fall a victim to the malady; but the natural vigour of his constitution at length prevailed; and he had almost recovered, when a sudden inroad of the enemy exposed him to a new peril. It was the afternoon of an August day; and Earl Patrick was arraying himself to ride into Damietta to attend a council of war. His white charger stood at the entrance of his pavilion, and there sat Walter Espec, looking somewhat gloomy, as many of the armed pilgrims were already doing, when Guy Muschamp approached with a countenance from which much of the habitual gaiety had vanished. 'What tidings?' asked Walter, eagerly. 'On my faith, good Walter,' answered Guy, shaking his head, 'I now know of a truth that this Damietta is not quite such a paradise as we fancied when gazing at it from the sea.' 'Serpents often lurk where flowers grow,' said Walter; 'but what new tidings of mishap have clouded your brow?' 'Nothing less,' replied Guy, 'than that these foul Saracens have been marvellously near us. No later than last night they entered the camp, surprised the watch of Lord Courtenay, and this morning his body was found on the table; his head was gone.' 'By the saints!' exclaimed Walter, 'such warfare, waged by invisible foes, may well daunt the bravest; and albeit I trust much from the protection of the Holy Katherine, yet I at times feel a vague dread of being the next victim.' At that moment, and almost ere Walter had spoken, there arose loud and shrill cries, and then loud shouts of alarm. 'By good St. George!' shouted Hugh Bisset, rushing in, 'the Saracens are upon us; they are carrying off the Lord Perron, and his brother the Lord Duval. Arm, arm, brave squires. To the rescue! to the rescue!' As Bisset gave the alarm, the Earl of March came forth. He was arrayed in chain-mail, and his helmet was on his brow. 'What, ho!' cried the earl, with lofty indignation; 'do the sons of darkness, who worship Mahound and Termagaunt, venture where my white lion ramps in his field of red? Out upon them! My axe and shield.' Mounting his white steed, the earl caused one of the sides of his pavilion to be raised, and issuing forth, spurred against the foe with shouts of 'Let him who loves me follow me! Holy Cross! Holy Cross!' Nor did the aged warrior confine his hostility to words. Encountering the leader of the Saracens face to face, he bravely commenced the attack, and, after a brief conflict, with his heavy axe cleft the infidel from the crown almost to the chest. 'Pagan dog!' exclaimed the earl, as the Saracen fell lifeless to the ground; 'I devote thine impure soul to the powers of hell.' But this achievement was the last which Earl Patrick was destined to perform. As he spurred forward to pursue his success, his steed became refractory, and he was flung violently to the ground. Ere his friends could come to his aid, the Saracens gave him several blows with their clubs, and he would have been killed on the spot but for the arrival of Bisset, with Guy Muschamp and Walter Espec, who, having mounted, now came with a rush to the rescue. A sharp conflict then took place. Guy, advancing as gaily as if he had been in the tiltyard at Wark, gallantly unhorsed one Saracen with the point of his lance. Walter, going more gravely into the combat, killed another with his falchion, at the use of which he was expert. After much trouble the French lords were rescued; and such of the Saracens as had not fallen, fled, and galloped along the banks of the Nile. Meanwhile the squires and grooms of the Earl of March raised him from the ground; and, supported by them, he contrived to reach his tent; but he was much bruised, and so exhausted that he could not muster voice to speak. When, however, surgeons and physicians were called, they expressed themselves hopefully, and, not comprehending his dangerous state, bled him freely in the arm, and then administering a composing draught, left him under the charge of the squires. As evening was falling, the Earl of Salisbury, after a long conference with King Louis, during which the unfortunate quarrel of the English and French Crusaders were discussed with a view of averting fatal consequences, left the royal quarters, in company with the Lord of Joinville. 'Seneschal,' said Salisbury, 'I would fain visit the Earl of March; and I pray you to bear me company.' 'Right willingly,' replied Joinville; 'for he is a man of great valour and renown, and wise in council; and it were ill for our expedition if his wounds should prove fatal.' 'And how fares the earl?' asked Salisbury, as they reached the tent over which ramped that ancient lion argent, so terrible on many a foughten field. 'My lord,' said Walter Espec, in a hushed voice, as they came to the entrance, 'the earl sleeps; so pray tread softly, lest you should disturb his repose.' They did so, and entering, found the earl lying on his mantle of minever, which covered him. 'He sleeps soundly,' whispered Walter, looking up. 'Boy,' said Salisbury, solemnly, 'he sleeps the sleep that knows no waking.' Walter stooped down, and perceived that Salisbury was right. The earl was dead. 'May paradise be open to him,' said Salisbury, crossing himself with pious fervour. 'Amen,' said Joinville. 'May his soul repose in holy flowers.' CHAPTER XIV. A RENEGADE. IT was a sad day for Guy Muschamp and Walter Espec, when they suddenly found themselves deprived of the protection of the aged war-chief under whose banner they had embarked for the East. However, they were not long without patrons. Guy attached himself to the Lord of Joinville, who was his mother's kinsman. Walter became squire to the Earl of Salisbury, and in that capacity joined the English Crusaders. In fact, Longsword, having heard from Joinville of Walter's adventure at Cyprus, took a decided liking to the young northern man, examined him as to his lineage, his parentage, and his education, heard the sad story of his brother's disappearance, and spoke words of such kind encouragement, that the tears started to Walter's eyes, and his brave heart was quite won. One day, soon after entering Longsword's service, Walter was standing at the entrance of the tent occupied by the chief of the English Crusaders, now thinking somewhat sadly of the green fields and oak forests of his native land, now longing to behold some of the wonders of the Nile, when a man of forty or thereabouts, handsome and well-dressed as a Frank, presented himself, and bowed low. 'You are of the English nation?' said he, in French. 'Yes,' replied Walter, examining him with curiosity. 'And you serve the great English lord, who is called Longsword?' 'It is my pride to serve that famous warrior,' replied Walter, quietly. 'And I would fain speak with him if you could obtain me a hearing.' Walter shook his head significantly. 'Before I can make such an attempt,' said he, 'I must learn who you are, and what you want.' 'My name is Beltran. I am a Frank by birth, but for nine years I have been an inhabitant of Egypt.' 'Nine years!' exclaimed Walter. 'By the Holy Cross, you must know the country well-nigh as intimately as the Egyptians themselves.' 'Much knowledge I do possess of the country, and of the wonders it contains.' 'Well,' said Walter, 'I will put your knowledge to the test. Whence comes this river, the Nile, of which so many stories are told? Is it true that it takes its rise in the terrestrial paradise?' 'In truth,' replied Beltran, 'I would I could answer your question to your satisfaction. It is the report of the country that the Nile does come from the terrestrial paradise. But nothing certain is known on the subject. I have heard that the sultan has attempted to learn whence it came, by sending experienced persons to follow the course of it.' 'Yes,' said Walter, eagerly. 'These persons, on their return,' continued Beltran, 'reported that they had followed the river till they came to a large mountain of perpendicular rocks, which it was impossible to climb, and over these rocks fell the water. And it seemed to them that on the top of this mountain were many trees; and they saw strange wild beasts, such as lions, elephants, and other sorts, which came to gaze at them. And, not daring to advance further, they returned to the sultan.' 'And this is all that is known?' said Walter. 'Yes,' replied Beltran. 'Where the Nile enters Egypt, it spreads in branches over the plain. One of them flows to Damietta; a second to Alexandria; a third to Tunis; and a fourth to Rexi. About St. Remy's Day it expands itself into seven branches, and thence flows over the plains. When the waters retire, the labourers appear and till the ground with ploughs without wheels, and then sow wheat, barley, rice, and cumin, which succeed so well that nowhere are finer crops.' 'And whence,' asked Walter, 'comes this yearly increase of water?' 'I cannot tell, except that it comes from God's mercy. Some say that this overflowing is caused by heavy rains in Abyssinia; but many Arabs believe that a drop of dew falls into the river, and causes the inundation; and some declare they have seen it fall, like a star. The night when it falls is called the "drop-night." But certain it is that, were it not to happen, Egypt, from the great heat, would produce nothing; for, being near the rising sun, it scarcely ever rains, save at very long intervals.' 'Of a truth,' observed Walter, 'all this sounds strange to English ears.' 'Where the river enters Egypt,' continued Beltran, 'there are expert persons, who may be called the fishermen of this stream, and who, in the evening, cast their nets into the water, and in the morning frequently find many spices in them, such as ginger, cinnamon, rhubarb, cloves, lignum-aloes, and other good things, which they sell by weight.' 'But how come the spices into the water?' enquired Walter. 'Well, it is the belief of the country that they come from the terrestrial paradise, and that the wind blows them down from these fine trees, as, in your forests, the wind blows down the old dry wood. But such is mere surmise, albeit widely credited.' 'And the water of the Nile is deemed sweet to the taste?' said Walter. 'None in the world more sweet. The Arabs hold that, if Mahomet had once tasted it, he would have prayed that he might live for ever, so as unceasingly to enjoy its sweetness.' 'And yet it seems so turbid to the eye?' 'True; but, when the natives drink of it, it is clear as crystal. Towards evening, crowds come down to get water, and especially women, who, on such occasions, are decorated with all the ornaments they possess. You must understand that they come in companies, because it is not deemed decorous for a woman to go alone. And marvellous it is to see how they balance the water-pots on their head, and walk gracefully up steep banks which even you--agile as you may be--might have some difficulty in clambering up without any burden. Then they put into their vessels almonds or beans, which they shake well; and on the morrow the water is wondrous clear, and more refreshing than the daintiest wine.' 'On my faith!' said Walter, 'all this is so curious that, were it a time of truce, I should be tempted to adventure up this river and behold some of the strange things of which you tell. But here comes my lord.' And, as he spoke, the Earl of Salisbury rode up, and, while Walter held the stirrup, dismounted. Immediately the stranger stepped forward, and, humbling himself, with respect offered Salisbury some lard in pots, and a variety of sweet-smelling flowers. 'I bring them to you, noble earl,' said the man, in French, 'because you are cousin of Prince Richard, who is called Earl of Cornwall, and because you are nephew of the Crusader whose memory is held in most respect and dread by the Saracens.' 'Of whom speak you?' asked Salisbury, a little surprised. 'I speak of King Richard of England,' was the reply; 'for he performed such deeds when he was in the Holy Land that the Saracens, when their horses are frightened at a bush or a shadow, cry out, "What! dost think King Richard is there?" In like manner, when their children cry, their mothers say to them, "Hush, hush! or I will bring King Richard of England to you."' 'On my faith!' said the earl, looking more and more surprised, 'I cannot comprehend you; for, albeit speaking French, and wearing the dress of a Frank, you seem from your words to be an inhabitant of this country.' 'It is true,' replied the man, slowly. 'You must know that I am a Christian renegade.' 'A Christian renegade!' exclaimed Salisbury, with pious horror. And then asked, 'But who are you, and why became you a renegade?' 'Well, it came to pass in this wise,' answered the man, frankly. 'I was born in Poictiers, whence I followed Richard, Earl of Cornwall, to the East, and found my way to Egypt, where I have acquired some wealth.' 'But,' demanded the earl, indignantly, 'know you not that if you were to die while leading your present life, you would descend straight to hell, and be for ever damned?' 'In truth,' replied the man, 'I know full well that there is not a better religion than that of the Christians. But what can I do? Suppose I returned to it and had to go back to France, I should assuredly suffer great poverty, and be continually reproached all my days, and be called "Renegado! renegado!"' 'Even with that prospect you ought not to hesitate,' said the earl; 'for surely it would be much better to suffer the scorn of the world than await your sentence in the day of judgment, when your evil deeds will be made manifest, and damnation will follow.' 'Nevertheless,' protested the renegade, 'I had rather live at my ease, as I am, like a rich man, than become an object of contempt.' 'I cannot brook your presence,' said the earl, growing very indignant: 'therefore begone; I can have no more to say to you.' 'Be not over-hasty,' said the renegade; 'for be it known to you, noble Earl, that I have that to tell which it will profit you much to know.' 'Speak, then,' said the earl, hesitating, 'but be brief; for my patience is not so long as was my father's sword.' 'It is of a rich caravan I would speak,' said the renegade, with a glance and a gesture of peculiar significance. 'Ah!' exclaimed the earl, pricking up his ears, and listening with evident interest. 'It is on its way to Alexandria, and will pass within six leagues of Damietta within four days,' said the renegade. 'And whoever can capture that caravan may gain an immense booty.' 'And how does this concern me?' asked the earl. 'My lord,' replied the renegade, 'I see not wherefore you should not seize the prize as well as another.' 'But how am I to trust your report? How am I to know that your intent is not to betray me?' 'My lord,' answered the renegade, 'I am in your power. I will answer for the truth of my story with my head; and, I promise you, I am as yet neither so old nor so weary of life as to hazard it needlessly.' 'One question further,' said the earl, who was by this time much excited with the prospect of a rich booty. 'How am I, being in a strange country, to find this caravan of which you speak?' 'I myself will be your guide,' replied the renegade. 'And wherefore do you hazard so much to put me in possession of this prize, when, by doing so, you expose yourself to the enmity of the Egyptians, among whom you have cast your lot?' 'Well, my lord,' said the renegade, after a pause, 'I will be frank. I expect my share of the spoil; and, besides, I see very clearly that this army of pilgrims is likely to conquer Egypt, in spite of all the resistance sultans and emirs may make; and, at such a time, I would fain have some powerful lord among the conquerors to befriend me.' 'Ha!' exclaimed Longsword, smiling grimly,'I am now convinced.' 'Of what, noble earl?' 'Either that I must have the caravan or your head.' CHAPTER XV. CAPTURE OF A CARAVAN. WHILE King Louis lay at Damietta, awaiting the arrival of Crusaders from France and Syria, ere venturing to march into Egypt, the utmost disorder began to prevail in the camp. The armed pilgrims, left to inactivity in a delightful climate, under a bright sky, and surrounded by beautiful scenery, appeared once more to forget the oaths they had taken, and indulged in still worse riot and debauchery than when they wintered in Cyprus. Gambling was their daily occupation; and the rattle of the dice-box was constantly heard through the camp. And men with the Cross of Christ upon their shoulders had the name of the devil continually on their tongues. Nor was this the worst. Vice reigned all around in its grossest form; and the saint-king complained mournfully to the Lord of Joinville, that, within a stone's-throw of his own pavilion, houses of infamous repute were kept by his personal attendants. At the same time, the jealousy between the French and English grew more and more intense, and threatened disastrous consequences. In vain did Louis exert his influence to restrain the insolence of his countrymen. The English were constantly reminded of their inferiority as a nation, and exposed to such insults as it was difficult to brook. Bitter taunts and insinuations of cowardice were unhesitatingly used to mortify the island warriors; and men who had disobeyed their king's mandate, and forfeited lands and living to combat the Saracens, were, day by day, driven nearer the conclusion that they would ere long be under the necessity of drawing their swords against their fellow-soldiers of the Cross. Of all the French Crusaders, however, none were so foolishly insolent as Robert, Count of Artois, brother of King Louis. From a boy the French prince had been remarkable for the ferocity of his temper, and had early signalised himself by throwing a cheese at the face of his mother's chivalrous admirer, Thibault of Champagne. For some reason or other, the Count of Artois conceived a strong aversion to the Earl of Salisbury, and treated Longsword with the utmost insolence. And, though the Earl only retaliated by glances of cold contempt, it was known that his patience was wearing away, and it was feared that there would yet be bloodshed. 'By my father's sword!' said he, speaking partly to himself, partly to Walter Espec, one day after returning to his tent, 'I fear me that my spirit will not much longer brook the reproaches of that vain prince. Even this day, as he spoke, my hand stole to the hilt of my sword; and I panted to defy him to mortal combat on the spot.' 'My lord,' replied Walter, gravely and cautiously, 'I perceived that, albeit striving to be calm, you felt your ancestral blood boiling in your veins. And, in truth, I marvel not that such should have been the case; and yet---- 'And yet----Well, speak freely. I listen.' 'Well, my lord,' continued Walter, 'I was about to say that it seemed to me the part of a wise man, and one so renowned in arms, not to deign to answer a fool according to his folly.' 'Doubtless you are right,' replied the earl. 'And sinful, I feel, and calculated to provoke God's vengeance, would it be to draw the sword against one marked with the Cross, and engaged, like ourselves, in this holy war. Nevertheless, my patience may come to an end, as the patience of better men has done in such cases. However, a truce to such talk for the present; and see that, at daybreak, this renegade is ready to guide us on our expedition after the caravan; for I am weary of inactivity, and eager for change of scene.' Accordingly, preparations for the expedition were made; and, next morning, Salisbury and his knights dashed away from Damietta to intercept the caravan that was reported to be on its way to Alexandria. For a time they waited patiently at a place where it was expected to pass. But this mode of spending time was not much to the taste of men whose spirits were raised by the novelty of everything around. Panting for action, Longsword left Walter Espec with a band of horse and Beltran the renegade to keep watch, and, at the head of his knights, went off in quest of adventure. [Illustration: "I cannot but think," said Walter, "our post is one of danger, if the guards of this caravan are so numerous as reported. Nevertheless, it shall never be told that, for fear of odds, I retreated from a post which I had been entrusted to maintain."--p. 99.] Hours passed; evening fell and deepened into night; and still neither the caravan nor the warriors who had determined to capture it made their appearance; and Walter and the renegade, for different reasons, began to entertain considerable alarm. As morning approached, however, one point was explained. In fact, a spy employed by Beltran reached the rendezvous, with intelligence that the Earl's intention to attack the caravan having been suspected, had caused the delay; but that, being aware that he was out of the way, its guards were preparing to hasten forward at dawn of day, confidently hoping to pass without being assailed, or to beat down any opposition that might be offered to its progress. 'On my faith,' said Walter, as he learned how matters were, 'I cannot but think our post is one of danger, if the guards of this caravan are so numerous as reported. Nevertheless, it shall never be told that, for fear of odds, I retreated from a post which I had been entrusted to maintain.' And he proceeded to place his men in such a position that they might elude the observation of the Saracens till close at hand, and then rush out and take the guards of the caravan by surprise. Meanwhile, day was breaking; and, in the distance, Walter and his companions could descry the caravan, apparently guarded by a strong force: and gradually the white turbans and green caftans and long spears became more and more distinct. It was clear that, in the event of Salisbury not returning in time, Walter would have to fight against great odds; and the return of the earl in time to aid him now appeared so improbable that the squire ceased even to hope for his banners, and resolved to take what fortune might be sent him. Suddenly, however, a sound--a whisper on the breeze, and the heavy tread of horses--reached his ears; and, gazing round, he descried a body of horsemen approaching in the opposite direction from which the caravan came. 'Now, may the saints be praised, and may we be for ever grateful! exclaimed Walter, with a joyful heart, as he closely examined the banner that approached; 'for here come my Lord of Salisbury and his men of might.' In a few minutes the Earl reached the spot, and, rapidly comprehending the situation of affairs, prepared for action. But there was hardly occasion to strike a blow. No sooner did the English move towards the caravan, and no sooner had the Saracens an opportunity of judging what manner of men their assailants were, than they halted in surprise, and gave way to terror; and when the Earl, on his bay charger, spurred forward, shouting his battle-cry, they only waited long enough to discharge a shower of arrows, and then fled like hares before the hounds. Routed in every direction, they left the caravan to its fate; and the English, pausing from the fray, found themselves in possession of oxen, buffaloes, camels, mules, and asses, laden with gold and silver, and silks and paintings. 'And now for Damietta!' said Longsword; 'for this is in truth a rich prize; and let us not risk the loss of it by loitering on the way.' And without waste of time--for a rescue was not impossible--they secured their booty, and marched with what speed they could towards Damietta. 'Sir squire,' said Lord Robert de Vere, riding up to Walter Espec, whose conduct Longsword had commended, 'your position in the earl's absence was not quite so pleasant as a bed of roses.' 'In truth, my lord,' replied Walter, thoughtfully, 'now that the danger is over, I cannot but deem that you came just in time to save us from death or captivity.' 'And you marvelled that we tarried so long?' 'Much,' replied Walter; 'and had given up all hope of your return. However,' added he, 'I perceive that your time was by no means wasted.' 'You speak truly,' said De Vere. 'Never were men more successful in an adventure. By accident, we found ourselves hard by the castle of some wealthy Saracen, and determined to seize it; so, overcoming all resistance, we took it by storm, and found therein much booty, and a bevy of Saracen ladies; and, having given them to understand that they were captives of our swords and lances, we are carrying them to Damietta.' 'On my faith!' said Walter, laughing, 'Fortune seems to bestow her favours liberally on the pilgrims from England. No saying what great exploits my Lord of Salisbury and his knights may yet perform! One day we seize a castle and a caravan; another day it may be a kingdom.' 'And yet,' observed De Vere, the tone of his voice suddenly changing as he spoke, 'I am seldom in solitude without experiencing a vague feeling that calamity is impending.' Now this adventure, successful as it appeared, involved the English Crusaders in serious troubles. When Salisbury, on his bay charger, rode into Damietta, with the captive Saracen ladies and the captured caravan, the French were moved with envy, and did not fail to express their sentiments in strong language. Perhaps the English did not bear their good fortune so meekly as they might have done. In any case, the French grew more and more exasperated; and at length the quarrel reached such a stage that the French, availing themselves of superior numbers, had recourse to violence, and forcibly carried off part of the booty which, at great peril and with some labour, Longsword and his men had won. CHAPTER XVI. A COUNCIL OF WAR. ON the morning after the return of the Earl of Salisbury to Damietta, and the violent proceedings of the French Crusaders against the English companions of their expedition, King Louis summoned a council of war to deliberate on the measures most likely to lead to the conquest of Egypt--the grand object of the saintly monarch's ambition. By this time arrivals from various quarters had swelled the army that, under the banner of St. Denis, lay encamped at Damietta. Thither, under the grand masters of their orders, had come the Templars and the Hospitallers, whose discipline and knowledge of the East rendered them such potent allies. Thither had come the Duke of Burgundy, who had passed the winter in the Morea; and the Prince of Achaia, who forgot the perils surrounding the Latin empire of Constantinople, in his eagerness to combat the Moslem on the banks of the Nile; thither, recovered from their fright, had come the Crusaders whose vessels the storm had driven on the Syrian coast; and thither, with the _arrière ban_ of France, Alphonse, Count of Poictiers--'one of that princely quaternion of brothers which came hither at this voyage, and exceeded each other in some quality--Louis the holiest, Alphonse the subtlest, Charles the stoutest, and Robert the proudest.' No fewer than sixty thousand men--twenty thousand of whom were cavalry---were now encamped around the oriflamme; and with such an army, led by such chiefs, the saint-king would have been more than mortal if he had not flattered himself with the hope of accomplishing something great, to be recorded by chroniclers and celebrated by minstrels. And the princes and nobles assembled to hold a council of war; and Louis, with his crown on his brow, took his place to preside, with that serene dignity which distinguished him. But, ere the proceedings began, the Earl of Salisbury rose, and intimated his desire to address the king on a subject of great importance. Louis immediately signified consent; and the earl, raising his hand to ensure silence, proceeded with a calm but resolute air:-- 'Sire,' said he, 'I crave your pardon, and that of the princes and noble warriors here assembled, for trespassing upon their time. But I have that to state which demands your attention and interference, inasmuch as it nearly concerns the safety and welfare and honour of the army of pilgrims, of which you are the recognised chief. Sire,' continued the earl, 'however others may plead ignorance of the circumstances, you, at least, are fully informed and well aware that, in taking the Cross, and coming from a distant land to aid you in the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, I made sacrifices of no ordinary kind. My doing so exposed me to the wrath of King Henry, my kinsman and liege lord, who took from me my earldom and all my substance. This, however, he did judicially, not in his anger, or any violence of self-will; and I do not blame him. But I came hither with my countrymen, and we have fought as faithfully for God's cause as any man in your army. Nevertheless we have been exposed to insults and injuries which brave men cannot long tolerate. The chief offender is your brother, the Count of Artois. I lay my complaint before you, and I ask you to judge between us. I promise to abide by your decision, and, if I am found to be in the wrong, to render every satisfaction for my fault. So help me God, and good St. George!' Louis listened with attention to the earl's speech. Indeed, the grandeur of Longsword's aspect, and his eloquence, so frank and so manly, produced a strong impression both on the king and the assemblage, and many of the French, notwithstanding their prejudices, murmured approbation. 'This English earl,' said they, 'speaks words of truth and soberness, and he asks nothing more than the justice that ought not to be denied to the meanest man in the army of pilgrims.' Louis, however, paused, and appeared to be in extreme perplexity. 'William Longsword,' he said, at length, 'you have spoken boldly; and I do not deny that you have spoken the truth. The Lord, who is ignorant of nothing, is aware of the injuries you have suffered. But what can I do? You know how serious an affair it would be for me to offend any of my nobles in the position in which I now am, and it therefore becomes you to exercise the patience becoming a soldier of the Cross.' And now the Count of Artois started up, his face flushed and his limbs trembling with rage: 'King,' exclaimed he, in accents of menace, 'what mean you by the words you have spoken? Do you defend this Englishman and take part with him against Frenchmen, who are of your own country and kindred?' The countenance of Louis expressed more annoyance than he was in the habit of exhibiting. 'Now, Longsword,' said he, turning with an imploring look to the earl, 'you see the position of affairs, and how easily a quarrel might arise; and God forbid it should occur in an army of Christians. At such a crisis it is necessary to endure much for the sake of Christendom.' 'Sire,' exclaimed Longsword, giving way to his indignation, 'if this is the only answer you can give to my complaint, I advise you to call yourself no longer a king; since you have no longer the privilege of being obeyed, or of administering justice, or punishing offenders.' And rising with a dignity which awed most of those present, he left the council. 'Frenchmen,' said Louis, reproachfully, 'why do you persecute this man? What madness excites you?' 'I do it,' cried the Count of Artois, 'because I dislike the tailed English, and because I think the army of Crusaders would be well purged of them.' But none present ventured to give the count the support he seemed to expect; and the wise and prudent bent their brows, and intimated their disapprobation. 'The matter is too serious to be lightly spoken of,' said they, significantly; 'and this dispute is a sad presage of future events; and well will it be if the anger of the Most High is not provoked by such offences.' 'And now,' said Louis, anxious to drop the subject, 'let us to the business on which we assembled to deliberate. Let us consult on the line of march, and on the measures to be taken for completing the conquest of Egypt.' 'Sire,' said John de Valery, a baron, whose probity and courage were the admiration of the army, 'it seems to me that the best and safest policy is to undertake the siege of Alexandria. That city has a commodious port, where the fleet could find shelter, and where munitions and provisions could be procured with facility. My voice, therefore, is for marching to Alexandria.' Many of those whose experience in war was greatest--among whom were the Master of the Temple and the Master of the Hospital---echoed John de Valery's opinion. 'For my part,' said the Count of Artois, with his characteristic rashness, 'I dislike timid counsels. Why not at once attack Cairo, which is the capital of Egypt? When you wish to kill the serpent,' added he, 'you ought always to endeavour to crush his head. Then, I say, let us on to Cairo.' A warm and somewhat angry discussion ensued; and Louis, having given his opinion in favour of marching to Cairo, the project was adopted: and it was resolved to leave Queen Margaret, with the Countesses of Artois, Poictiers, and Anjou, at Damietta, to send the fleet with provisions and engines of war up the Nile, and then to march with banners displayed along the banks of the river. 'Gentlemen,' said Louis, as he dismissed the council, 'I feel assured that we shall have no reason to repent adopting the bolder of the projects discussed this day; for, with an army of sixty thousand men, and the blessing of God on our endeavours, I see no reason to despair of accomplishing something great against the enemies of Christ.' 'Sire,' replied John de Valery, 'may God grant that your hopes be realised.' And the nobles and princes separated to make the necessary preparations for marching to Cairo. Little did they foresee the terrible circumstances under which many of them were to reach that city. CHAPTER XVII. FACE TO FACE. WHILE the Crusaders were preparing to leave Damietta, march up the Nile, and attack Cairo, Melikul Salih, after struggling desperately with the great destroyer, yielded to his fate, and breathed his last at Mansourah. The death of the sultan was regarded by the emirs as most untimely; for his son, Touran Chah, was then in Mesopotamia, and they were apprehensive of the most serious troubles. At this crisis, however, a woman, whose great ability enabled her to comprehend the emergency and to deal with it, suggested measures for averting the ruin with which the empire of Egypt was menaced. Her name was Chegger Eddour, and she is said to have been an Armenian. She had originally been brought to Cairo as merchandise, and purchased by Melikul Salih as a slave. But her wit and beauty won the sultan's heart, and he became so enamoured that he elevated her to the position of favourite sultana, and carried her about with him wherever he went. One son whom she had by the sultan died young. Nevertheless her influence daily increased; and the Arabian historians, while eloquent in praise of her courage, agree in saying, that 'no woman surpassed her in beauty, and no man excelled her in genius.' No sooner did Melikul Salih depart this life, than Chegger Eddour assembled the principal emirs at Mansourah, and made them acknowledge Touran Chah as sultan. Moreover, she impressed upon them the necessity of concealing the death of her husband till the arrival of his successor. The policy she recommended was adopted. Orders were still issued in Melikul Salih's name; the Mamelukes still guarded the gates of the palace as if he had been living; and prayers for his recovery were still offered up in the mosques, where the Moslems worshipped. All these precautions, which were the work of the sultana, were skilfully taken, and for a time the Saracens hoped that Melikul Salih might yet recover from his malady, and save them from the foe by whom they were threatened. Ere long, however, suspicion was aroused, and it became more and more difficult to conceal the truth. Of itself this was sufficient to create consternation; but, at the same time, rumour brought to Mansourah intelligence that the French, having left Damietta, and marched in hostile array along the banks of the Nile, had reached Pharescour; and the approach of the Crusaders converted the consternation into panic, which rapidly extended its influence to Cairo. Every cheek grew pale; and the Egyptians exhibited such anxiety and terror as had never before been felt in their cities. At this crisis, Fakreddin, to whom the sultana had entrusted the command of the Egyptian army, took measures to reanimate his countrymen with courage and confidence, and called upon them to hazard their lives freely for their religion. 'In the name of God, and Mahomet his prophet,' said the emir, 'hasten, great and small--the cause of God has need of your arms and of your wealth; the Franks--Heaven curse them!--are arrived in our country, with their standards and their swords. They wish to obtain possession of our cities, and to ravage our provinces. What Mussulman can refuse to march against them, and avenge the glory of Islamism?' But, at Cairo and Mansourah, the Egyptians only answered with sighs and groans; and, at first, Fakreddin's appeal failed to produce the effect he intended. The emir, however, was not dismayed. Indeed, he showed a courage worthy of the fame he had won by his military exploits, and gradually rallied the more courageous of his countrymen around him. Marching from Mansourah, he encamped at Djedilé, on the side of the canal known as the Achmoun, which has a deep bed and steep banks; and halted with the Nile on his left and the city in his rear. 'Here,' said he, addressing his men, 'I await the invaders. Be brave; we will yet avenge Islamism; and on Sebastian's-day I will dine in the scarlet tent of the French king.' Meanwhile, the Crusaders continued their march, and they soon approached Mansourah. At this point, however, their progress was arrested by two obstacles--the canal of Achmoun, and the army of Fakreddin. 'Who is the leader of that army?' asked King Louis, as he looked earnestly across the canal to where the Saracens were encamped. 'Sire,' answered one of his knights, 'it is Fakreddin, the emir, who fled from Damietta; but who, nevertheless, as I learn, does not hesitate to boast that it is his intention to dine in your red tent on St. Sebastian's-day.' 'Does the emir intend to dine in my tent on St. Sebastian's-day?' said Louis, mildly; 'however, I will take good care to prevent him.' 'In truth, sire,' said the knight, smiling, 'I hold that you are much more likely to dine in the sultan's palace.' 'Be that as it may,' replied the king, 'one thing is certain. We and our foes are now face to face.' And so they were. Face to face, separated only by the canal Achmoun, Christian and Moslem, headed by the King of France and the Emir Fakreddin, lay encamped and awaiting a favourable opportunity to fight, and to conquer or die for their countries and religions. And it speedily appeared that face to face they were for some time likely to remain. CHAPTER XVIII. DELAY AND DANGER. IT was January 1250, and King Louis, at the head of the Crusaders, was still on the banks of the Achmoun. But it was not from reluctance to prosecute their enterprise that the armed pilgrims submitted to delay. The aspect of the country through which they had passed on their way from Damietta had not been such as to diminish their ambition to be conquerors. It cannot be doubted that the fertility of the land of the Pharaohs must have made them more and more eager to become its masters. In truth, there cannot be a more delightful sight than Egypt at either of two seasons of the year. Ascend some mountain in the month of July or August, when the Nile has risen, and you behold a vast sea, in which appear numerous towns and villages, with causeways leading from place to place, the whole interspersed with groves and fruit-trees, of which the tops are only visible, and bounded by woods and mountains. But it is the peculiarity of the Nile, unlike other rivers, which, in overflowing lands, wash away and exhaust their vivific moisture, that its waters serve to fatten and enrich the soil. Accordingly, ascend the same mountain in January or February, when the waters have subsided and the husbandman has done his work, and the country is like one beautiful meadow, dotted with flocks and herds, covered with crops of corn, enamelled with flowers, and perfumed with the blossoms of oranges and lemons. Nor, considering the marvellous history of Egypt, could the imaginations of the Crusaders be otherwise than fascinated by the prospect of looking with their own eyes on its cities, its pyramids, its obelisks, its mummy pits, and all the relics of its ancient and mysterious civilisation. Persians, Macedonians, Romans, and Saracens, had come hither before them as conquerors. But it may be doubted whether the warriors of Cambyses, or Alexander, or the Cæsars, or Omar, felt a more thorough confidence in their own prowess and destiny, than did the warriors who marched from Damietta under the banner of St. Denis. It was certainly mortifying to men in so elate a mood to have their progress arrested by a canal; and, in fact, the French warriors seem to have been startled out of their senses by its steep banks and deep bed. At all events, they, instead of looking for a ford, which was certainly the most natural way of getting over their difficulty, commenced the construction of a causeway. Now, Fakreddin no sooner observed that the Crusaders were at work, than he perceived his advantage, and vowed that the causeway should never be completed; and, while workmen, protected by machines of war and wooden castles, were occupied with its construction, the Saracens spared no pains to retard the operations. As fast as the Crusaders heaped up the sand and stones, the Saracens dug away the earth in front, thus removing the opposite bank to a greater distance; and, moreover, they incessantly showered arrows and javelins at the workmen. Every day brought fresh annoyances; and every day the Saracens became more audacious in their attacks. Every night brought fresh surprises; and, in the conflicts which took place, the Crusaders had not always the best of the struggle. 'A large body of Turks,' says Joinville, 'made an attack on the Count of Poictiers and me. But be assured they were very well received. It was well for them that they found their way back as they came; but they left behind them great numbers of slain.' 'One night the Turks brought an engine, called by them _la perriere_, a terrible engine to do mischief, and placed it opposite the chas-chateils, which Sir Walter Curel and I were guarding. From this engine they flung such quantities of Greek fire, that it was the most horrible sight I ever witnessed. When my companion, the good Sir Walter, saw this shower of fire, he cried out, "Gentlemen, we are all lost without remedy; for should they set fire to our chas-chateils we must be burnt, and if we quit our post we are for ever dishonoured; from which, therefore, I conclude that no one can possibly save us from this peril but God, our benignant creator. I therefore advise all of you, whenever they throw any of this Greek fire, to cast yourselves on your hands and knees and cry for mercy to our Lord, in whom alone resides all power." 'As soon, therefore, as the Turks threw their fires, we flung ourselves on our hands and knees as the wise man had advised; and, this time, they fell between our two cats, into a hole in front, which our people had made to extinguish them; and they were instantly put out by a man appointed for that purpose. 'Each time that our good king, St. Louis, heard them make these discharges of fire, he cast himself on the ground, and with extended arms, and eyes turned to the heavens, cried with a loud voice to our Lord, and shedding heavy tears, said--"Good Lord God, preserve thou me, and all thy people:" and, believe me, his sincere prayers were of great service to us. Every time the fire fell near us he sent one of his knights to know how we were, and if the fire had hurt us. One of the discharges from the Turks fell beside a chas-chateil, guarded by the men of the Lord of Courtenay, struck the bank of the river in front and ran on the ground toward them, burning with flames. One of the knights of his guard instantly came to me, crying out, "Help us, my lord, or we are burnt; for there is a long train of Greek fire, which the Saracens have discharged, that is running straight for our castle." 'We immediately hastened thither, and good need was there, for as the knight had said, so it was. We extinguished the fire with much labour and difficulty; for the Saracens, in the meantime, kept up so brisk a shooting from the opposite bank, that we were covered with arrows and bolts.' All this time Fakreddin was diligent in procuring what intelligence he could as to the position and plans of the Crusaders. This, however, was not an easy business. Indeed, no intelligence on such subjects could be obtained, save from captives, and the emir, therefore, offered a high reward for every Frank brought to his tent. But the Crusaders, taught by experience, had become marvellously vigilant, and showed a decided aversion to be captured. A Saracen, however, who was an expert swimmer, vowed not to be baffled, and performed an exploit, which Arabian chroniclers, while omitting much more important events, have carefully recorded. It seems that this Saracen, having determined to carry a Christian as captive to Fakreddin's tent, and claim the reward, fell upon a somewhat whimsical plan for accomplishing his object. Having scooped out a melon, and thrust his head into the cavity, he threw himself into the canal, and swam down the stream in such a way that the melon appeared to float in the water. The trick succeeded in attracting the attention of the Crusaders, and as the melon was passing that part of the bank where the Lord of Joinville was encamped, there was much excitement among his men. 'Let us catch the melon,' cried one. 'Who is bold enough to make the attempt?' asked another. 'On my faith,' said a squire, laughing, 'I see no danger to daunt the most timid.' [Illustration: Scarcely, indeed, had he stretched forward his hand, when he found himself seized by the Saracen, and dragged forcibly away in the direction of the camp on the opposite bank.--p. 118.] As he spoke, the squire, doffing his upper garments, rushed into the water, and, striking out, grasped at the melon. But the adventure did not end so pleasantly as he had anticipated. Scarcely, indeed, had he stretched forward his hand, when he found himself seized by the Saracen, and dragged forcibly away in the direction of the camp on the opposite bank. At first the Crusaders could hardly believe their eyes. But there was no mistake about it. Their comrade was gone, and a prisoner in the hands of the Saracens; and, as they considered what might be his fate, they raised such shouts of alarm, that their lord was attracted to the spot. 'In St. Denis' name,' said Joinville, after hearing sufficient to be aware of what had occurred, 'tell me, I pray you, who among my fellows has met with this mishap?' 'In truth, my lord,' replied one of the knights, 'it is the English squire who took service with you at Damietta.' 'May the God of his fathers protect him!' exclaimed Joinville, somewhat sadly; 'as matters are, we can do nothing in his behalf.' And who was the squire, who had entered the service of Joinville at Damietta, and afterwards been taken prisoner by the Saracens? It was one of the brothers-in-arms. It was Guy Muschamp. CHAPTER XIX. THE CAPTIVE. AT the time when Guy Muschamp was dragged away as a captive to the camp of the Saracens at Djedilé, the emir Fakreddin sat in his pavilion. It was a marvellous tent, in the centre of the camp, and formed so as to resemble a fortified city, being divided into streets, flanked with towers, and furnished with everything likely to contribute to the luxury of an oriental. In an apartment, ornamented with gold and gems, the emir sat, face to face with a dark-browed Saracen chief, and playing at chess. But the game did not by any means monopolise the attention of the persons engaged in it; for the companion of the emir was no less celebrated a person than Bibars Bendocdar, the chief of the Mamelukes; and between him and Fakreddin there was much discussion as to the best mode of dealing with the enemies who menaced the empire with ruin. And who was Bibars Bendocdar? It is necessary that we should learn, in order to comprehend the events that were ere long to startle and terrify the nations of Christendom. At the time when Louis, King of France, undertook his Crusade, it was the custom, when two eastern potentates went to war, for the conqueror to sell the subjects of the vanquished enemy as slaves; and many of these, bought by merchants, were carried to Egypt, and sold to the sultan, who had them trained from boyhood to serve him as soldiers. Carefully were these young captives reared; and, when their beards began to grow, they were taught to draw the bow and wield the sword. After becoming expert in military exercises, they were admitted into that famous body, which Saladin the Great had instituted, and known as Mamelukes. Their privileges were many. They were highly favoured by the sultan, wearing his emblazonments of pure gold, only adding bars of vermilion, with birds or roses or griffins for difference, and acting as his body-guard in time of war, and watching over his safety while he slept. It seems that Bibars Bendocdar was originally brought to Egypt as a slave, and, in course of time, enrolled as one of the Mamelukes. As such he rose rapidly. His ambition was intense; and, being both able and unscrupulous, he had no reason to despair of his ambition being one day gratified. No position, indeed, could be more favourable to a man eager to emerge from obscurity to eminence, than that which he occupied; and he not only succeeded in winning the confidence of the sultan, but contrived to insinuate himself into the good graces of the soldiers. In truth, this with him was no difficult matter. He had profoundly studied human nature as it was exhibited around him; and he comprehended, above all things, the arts by which the hearts of fighting men are gained and retained, and the arts also by which military adventurers elevate themselves to supremacy in a state. Besides, Bibars Bendocdar had other qualities likely to render him a formidable foe or a dangerous rival. He was skillful as a leader in war, courageous in conflict, cruel in the hour of victory, and remarkable for his penetration, sagacity, and activity. Moreover, he professed great faith in the Mahometan religion, and had great faith also in his own destiny. Such was the man who now watched events with the eagerness of a gambler, and who recognised, not without satisfaction, the danger and disorder, from the bosom of which a leader of courage and audacity might, by rekindling enthusiasm and restoring order, elevate himself to power. He was about to prove himself one of the most formidable foes whom the soldiers of the Cross had ever been under the necessity of encountering. Into the presence of the Emir Fakreddin and Bibars Bendocdar young Guy Muschamp, drenched and agitated, was carried. Alarmed as he well might be, the squire exhibited a dauntless air and presented a bold front. In fact, his demeanour was such that the Saracen chiefs exchanged glances of surprise. 'Who are you?' asked Fakreddin. 'My name is Muschamp, and I am a subject of the King of England.' 'And what brought you to Egypt?' 'I came to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.' 'And,' asked Bibars Bendocdar, sternly, 'know you not that passage in the Koran which says that they who make war unjustly shall perish?' 'Saracen,' replied Guy, proudly, 'an Anglo-Norman gentleman does not regulate his conduct by the Koran.' 'However,' said Fakreddin, waving his hand, 'it is needful that you answer some questions as to the army of Franks, and that you answer truly.' 'Saracen,' replied Guy, resolutely, 'I will not answer a question on the subject.' 'Fool!' exclaimed Bibars Bendocdar, impatiently; 'know you not your danger? Know you not that we can instantly order your head to be struck off?' 'Doubtless,' replied Guy. 'And, in that case, I die the death of a martyr, and go straight to paradise.' 'Infidel!' cried Bibars, loudly; 'you know not of what you speak. You will have to account for your faith to the angels Munkir and Nakir.' 'Munkir and Nakir!' exclaimed Guy, with an air of perplexity; 'beshrew me if I ever before heard of their names.' 'You will know them soon enough, if you act not more discreetly,' said Bibars; 'for they are the two angels who interrogate the dead the moment they are in the grave, saying, "Who is thy lord?" and, "Who is thy prophet?"' 'On my faith, Saracen,' said Guy, compassionately, 'I marvel much that a man of your years can credit such pagan fables.' 'Dog!' exclaimed Bibars. 'This to my beard! Ho! there, guards! Strike off this Christian's head, and cast his carcase to the fishes!' 'No,' said Fakreddin, mildly, 'it is well that he should have time to reflect. Let him be kept as a prisoner till the morrow. He will then be more likely to answer the questions asked of him.' Accordingly Guy Muschamp was led from the presence of the Saracen chiefs and shut up in a small apartment in the centre of Fakreddin's tent. The position was the reverse of pleasant; and he almost gave himself up for lost. Next morning, however, after he had eaten some food brought him by the jailer, he was startled, first by a commotion in the camp, and then by such a noise and tumult as if all the fiends had come thither from the infernal regions to fight their battles. Gradually, through the din, the ear of Guy recognised the clash of weapons and the rushing of steeds, and his suspense was agonising. For a time he endeavoured to make out what was occurring; but this was in vain. At length the noise ceased; and Guy moved to the door with the intention of making a desperate effort to break it open. Somewhat to his surprise, he found that it did not resist. In fact, the jailer was gone and the camp deserted. CHAPTER XX. PASSING THE ACHMOUN. MORE than six weeks had passed since the Crusaders found their progress arrested by the Achmoun; and still the causeway by which they had hoped to pass the canal was not constructed. Indeed, the workmen had made very little progress since the first week; and Louis was despairing of seeing the work brought to a completion, when, much to his gratification, he learned that there was a prospect of crossing the canal by the simplest of all processes. On the day when Guy Muschamp was carried off as a captive, the Constable of France was surprised by a visit from a Bedouin, and demanded his business. The Bedouin thereupon offered, for five hundred golden bezants, to point out a ford by which the Crusaders might, without danger or difficulty, cross in safety to the opposite bank. The constable at once promised the required reward, in the event of the information proving satisfactory; but it was not till the money was told down that the Bedouin conducted him to the spot, and convinced him that the ford was there. Gladly hastening to Louis, the constable revealed the means of extricating the armed pilgrims from their embarrassment; and the king, assembling the princes and nobles, decided on leaving the Duke of Burgundy on the Damietta side with a sufficient force to guard the camp; and then, mastering their men and mounting their horses, they at midnight marched along the bank of the canal to the ford pointed out by the Bedouin, and awaited the break of day to dash through the water and move towards Mansourah. It was the morning of Tuesday, the 8th of February, 1250--Shrove Tuesday--when the armed pilgrims, under the auspices of King Louis, halted on the Damietta side of the Achmoun, and awaited the signal to pass to that on which Mansourah was situated. Everything so far had gone quite as smoothly as could reasonably have been expected. Some horsemen, indeed, rode too near the margin of the canal, and, getting on soft and slippery ground, they and their horses fell in and were drowned. Among them was Sir John of Orleans, a valiant knight, who bore the French banner. But this was a slight misfortune compared with that which the folly and presumption of one man was preparing for that ill-starred host. At all times, and under all circumstances, the Count of Artois was one of the most unreasonable of human beings; and at this moment, so important to Louis, to France, to the Crusaders, and to the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem, nothing would satisfy his ambition but being the first to cross. Not unaware of his brother's failings, Louis protested; but the count persisted; and, promising to wait with patience on the opposite bank for the main army, he placed himself at the head of the van, which was formed of the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the English Crusaders, and dashed into the canal. Now, at this moment the opposite bank was occupied by several hundred Saracen horsemen, who seemed prepared to oppose the landing of the Crusaders. No sooner, however, did the Saracens perceive that the Crusaders were fording the canal safely than they gave way, and fled towards the camp of the Emir Fakreddin at Djedilé. It was then that, in spite of all the warnings he had received and all the promises he had made, the Count of Artois gave way to the impetuosity that was destined to lead to the ruin of the pilgrim army. At the sight of the flying Saracens, he threw all discretion to the winds, and, attended by his governor, an old deaf knight, who held his rein, pursued the fugitives towards the camp. In vain the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital shouted out remonstrances. The count paid no attention whatever; and the aged knight, who was too deaf to hear a word, urged on the pursuit, crying loudly, 'Hurrah! hurrah! Upon them! upon them!' The Saracens who occupied the camp at Djedilé were panic-stricken; and, supposing that the whole French army was upon them, fled in confusion towards Mansourah. But there was one man who did not fly; and that man was Fakreddin. When the camp was invaded, the emir was in his bath, and having his beard coloured, after the custom of the Orientals; but he immediately roused himself, dressed himself hastily, and, springing on horseback, endeavoured to rally his troops, and attempted to resist. Inspired by Fakreddin's example, the Saracens who had not fled offered a feeble resistance. But it was unavailing, and they followed the fugitives streaming towards Mansourah. Fakreddin, however, disdaining either to fly or yield, continued to struggle bravely; until, left almost alone, he fell in the midst of his foes, covered with wounds, and consoling himself, as his breath went, that his end was glorious, that he died a martyr for Islamism, and that he would be conveyed to the banks of the celestial river. 'By the head of St. Anthony!' exclaimed the Count of Artois, looking fiercely on Fakreddin's mangled corpse, 'it was this emir who boasted that he would dine in the red tent of my lord the king; but now he will not grumble at a humbler resting-place.' 'My lord count,' said Salisbury, gravely, 'the emir, had he been ten times a Saracen, was a brave man; and let us merit the praises of the valiant by showing that we know how to honour the memory of our enemies as well as of our friends.' 'Amen,' said both the grand masters, in significant accents. CHAPTER XXI THE CARNAGE OF MANSOURAH. IT was still early morning, and King Louis was still on the Damietta side of the Achmoun, when the Count of Artois, the Earl of Salisbury, and the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital, found themselves victors in the camp. 'Now, gentlemen,' said the Count of Artois, 'let us forward, and complete the rout of our foes while affairs prosper in our hands and they are in dismay. Speed will now avail more than strength; and the fewer we are the greater will be the honour of a victory. Forward then, and crush them at a blow!' 'Forward!' shouted the old deaf knight, who held the count's rein. 'Hurrah! hurrah! Upon them! upon them!' But the count's companions hesitated, and exchanged glances of alarm. 'Noble prince,' said the Master of the Temple, after a pause, 'I give all praise to your valour; but I entreat you to be advised, and not to act rashly. Our men are weary; our horses are wounded; we are few in number; and we must not overvalue our victory, or suppose our enemies are vanquished because they have lost a handful of men. Let us, therefore, return to the king, that we may be strengthened by his counsel and aid.' 'In truth,' said the Grand Master of the Hospital, 'we should be foolhardy to attempt aught rashly. We are in a strange country; and our best instructors are behind. Let us stay for our lantern and not go forward in the dark.' 'Ah!' exclaimed the Count of Artois, swelling with pride and anger, 'this is ever the way with military monks. But for the treachery of the Templars, and the sedition of the Hospitallers, the Holy Land would long since have been won.' 'Noble count,' said the Grand Master of the Temple, reproachfully, 'you do us grievous wrong. Why should we take the habit of religion, and pass our lives in a foreign land amid perils and fatigues? Is it, think you, to overthrow the Church and betray the cause of Christ, that we abandon our homes and kindred? However,' added the Grand Master, waxing wrath, 'let us forward, in God's name, and try all together the fortunes of battle. Standard-bearer, unfurl the banner of the Temple. Ha! Beau-séant! Beau-séant!' At this moment the Earl of Salisbury made an effort to save his comrades from the destruction on which they were about to rush. 'My lord,' said he, addressing the Count of Artois, 'I implore you to listen to the wholesome counsel of the grand masters. They have been long in this country, and learned by experience the craft as well as the strength of our foes. We, being strangers, are ignorant of the perils; but we know that, as far as the east is from the west, so far are my ways different from the ways of the Orientals.' 'Hearken to this Englishman!' exclaimed the count, scornfully. 'What cowardice there is in these English! But their timid counsel suits not us. Happy should I be if the Christian army were purged of the English tails!' A flush of rage crimsoned the earl's bronzed cheek, and his eye flashed fire. 'Now, by my father's sword!' cried he, striving to be calm, though he literally quivered with indignation, 'this passes human patience! Ho! there, Lord Robert de Vere, raise my banner; and you, Count of Artois, lead on, and see if the danger of death hinders us from following. The touchstone must try which is gold and which is brass; and I swear, by good St. George, as I put on my helmet, that the English knights whom you have taunted with cowardice will this day penetrate farther in the ranks of our foes than any warrior of France--be he prince or paladin--will venture to do.' And the dispute having there been terminated, the Count of Artois and his Crusaders put on their helmets and mounted their horses. At that moment the eye of Salisbury alighted on Walter Espec; and his countenance, which had expressed the most scornful indignation, suddenly changed, and expressed something like pity. 'Boy,' said he, in a low, kindly tone, 'fall back and wait for the French king. We are rushing on certain death; and you are too young to die.' 'Nay, my good lord,' replied Walter, calmly. 'A man, whether young or old, can die but once: I would rather fall fighting in the cause of our Redeemer, and under your banner, than in a less holy cause and in meaner company.' 'As you will,' said the earl. 'It shall never be told that I prevented knight or squire from dying the death of a martyr.' 'By the might of Mary! Master Espec,' whispered Bisset; the English knight, 'were I your age, and had my choice, certes, I should think twice ere hazarding life against such odds. Wherefore should you fall a victim to the madness of my Lord of Artois, or the pride of my Lord of Salisbury?' 'On my faith, I know not,' answered Walter, smiling. 'But this I do know, that a man can die but once, and that a Christian warrior who falls with the Cross on his shoulder is understood to win the crown of martyrdom.' 'Nevertheless, were I you, and of your years,' argued Bisset; 'I should little relish the notion of being killed; for, as the Saracens say, when man dies there is no hope of his living again; because, as they add truly, man is not a water-melon; when once in the ground he cannot grow again.' By this time French and Templars and Hospitallers and English were mounted; and, without further argument, they dashed towards Mansourah. At first they encountered no obstacle; and, while the inhabitants fled in terror along the road to Cairo, the Count of Artois and his companions, after destroying one of the gates, so as to secure egress if necessary, penetrated into the city, carrying all before them; and, reaching the palace of the sultan, they commenced the work of pillage. But during this process they were rudely interrupted; for Bibars Bendocdar perceived the imprudence of which the Crusaders had been guilty, and suddenly, at the head of a Saracen army, appeared to give them battle. And now the Crusaders were in a fearful predicament. Ere they had time to rally, they were fiercely attacked. From the roofs and windows of the houses around, the Saracens hurled stones, and poured heated sand and boiling water. Before them were the Mamelukes, headed by Bibars Bendocdar, fiery with fanaticism, and panting for blood. It was a terrible situation even for brave men; and the very bravest there felt a thrill of awe and terror. 'All is lost!' said Salisbury, in a whisper. 'The King of France may hear of our peril, and come to our rescue,' suggested Lord Robert de Vere. 'No hope of succour,' said Bisset, in a conclusive tone. 'But let us not droop. We can at least sell our lives dearly.' A brief and painful silence succeeded, while still upon the Crusaders the Saracens hurled stones and poured boiling water. 'Englishmen and friends,' at length said Salisbury, raising his voice so as to be heard at a distance, 'it were vain at this moment to deny our peril. But take courage, my brave companions; and let us not faint in the hour of adversity. Everything, save dishonour, may be borne by valiant men; and adversity sheds a light upon the virtues of mankind, as surely as prosperity casts over them a shade. Here there is no room for retreat; for our enemies encompass us about; and to attempt to fly would be certain death. Be of good cheer, then, and let the urgency of the case sharpen your valour and nerve your arms. Brave men should either conquer nobly, or die with glory; and martyrdom is a boon which we should accept without reluctance. But, before we fall, let us, while we live, do what may avenge our deaths; and, while giving thanks to God that it is our lot to die as martyrs, let us, in our last efforts of valour and despair, prove ourselves worthy soldiers of the Cross.' 'Earl William,' said the Count of Artois, riding up, and now conscious of his folly, 'God fights against us. Resistance is vain, but escape is possible. Let us consult our safety, and fly while yet our horses can carry us.' 'Fly if you will!' answered the earl, scornfully; 'but God forbid that any but liars should ever have it in their power to tell that my father's son fled from the face of a Saracen.' And now the heavens and the earth seemed to resound with the noise of horns and enormous kettle-drums; and, urged on by Bibars Bendocdar, the Saracens rushed upon their enemies. The plight of the Crusaders was desperate. But, few as they were in comparison with the swarming foe, they fought gallantly and well; and, though wounded and exhausted, maintained the conflict for hours after the flight of the Count of Artois. But fearful in the meantime was the carnage. Full fifteen hundred knights had fallen; and of these, three hundred were of the order of the Temple. Gradually the numbers diminished, till there remained not a dozen of the men who had that morning invaded Fakreddin's camp; and among these were the Earl of Salisbury, Lord Robert de Vere, the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital, Bisset the English knight, and Walter Espec, still unwounded, and fighting as if he bore a charmed life, and felt invulnerable to javelins or arrows. But all possibility of continuing to resist was now at an end, and every hope of succour had vanished. Salisbury, resolved to sell his life dearly, faced the Saracens with desperate valour, and used his battle-axe with such effect that a hundred Saracens are said to have fallen that day by his hand. At length his horse was killed under him; and, after rising to his feet, and fighting for awhile with disdain, he fell covered with wounds. Robert de Vere, already bleeding and exhausted, no sooner saw Salisbury sink than he wrapped the English standard round his body, and lay down to die by the great earl's side. Bisset, Walter Espec, and the two grand masters, found themselves surrounded by a host of foes, and defending themselves desperately against every species of assailant. 'Alas!' exclaimed the grand masters of the Temple, 'we are clearly doomed.' 'I would fain hope not,' answered Bisset, resolutely. 'Our weapons are not willow-wands; we can cut our way through the pagan rabble.' 'Shame upon us if we hesitate!' said Walter Espec. And drawing close together, with a rush which for a time bore down opposition, the four survivors made a stern endeavour to reach the gate,--the axe of Bisset and the swords of the military monks doing terrible execution. Twice the Saracens formed in a mass to prevent their reaching the only gate which was not closed; as often Bisset, penetrating singly into the Saracen ranks, dealt death and destruction to his foes, and opened the way for his friends; till gradually, having by force of arm overthrown every obstacle in his path, he reached the gate, and, followed by the Grand Master of the Temple, dashed through the opening, with a shout of defiance at his assailants. But the Grand Master of the Hospital and Walter Espec had not such good fortune as the Templar and the English knight. Bibars Bendocdar, enraged at the rumour that some Christians were escaping from the carnage, hastened to the open gate, and, with his arrival, every chance vanished. Dragged from his steed, the grand master was fain to surrender himself prisoner. Wounded by an arrow and a javelin, but still struggling to fight his way out, Walter Espec cut down a Saracen soldier, and, rising in his stirrups and shouting, 'St. Katherine for Espec!' made a fierce thrust at Bendocdar. But next moment he was felled to the ground; he felt that his blood was flowing fast, and that horsemen were riding over him; and then he lost all consciousness, and lay prostrate and insensible among the dead and the dying. CHAPTER XXII. THE BATTLE. NO sooner did Guy Muschamp find the door of his prison opened, than he rushed out to ascertain the cause of the tumult to which he was indebted for liberty, and he discovered that the camp was deserted and abandoned, save by the wounded and the slain. However, he hastily donned his steel cap, possessed himself of a short sword; and having with little difficulty caught a stray horse, saddled and bridled, he mounted, and rode forth with the idea of following the Crusaders, who by this time were disappearing within the gates of Mansourah. Fortunately, however, for Guy, he was not destined to share the fate of his gallant countrymen who fell victims to the vain folly of the Count of Artois. Nevertheless, his danger was great. By this time the Count of Brittany and a multitude of warriors were riding towards Mansourah to aid the Count of Artois; and, as the Saracens who came out to oppose their progress rapidly spread over the plain, Guy began to find his position somewhat perilous, and to give himself up for lost. At that moment, however, his eye and his ear were attracted by the gleaming of spears and the ringing of mail to a ruined house; and, cantering thither, he found to his joyful surprise, that the Lord of Joinville and his knights had taken shelter there, to await the arrival of the king, who was still engaged in passing the main body of his army over the Achmoun. Nor had they long to wait. As with breathless anxiety they watched the Saracens, swarming like bees from their hives, and covering the plain, Louis, having at length crossed the canal, with sound of trumpets and clarions, rode up at the head of his cavalry, and, with a German sword in his hand, halted on an eminence to survey the field. And neither in air nor appearance did Louis, at that moment, look unworthy of the part he was acting as chief of the pilgrim army. His magnificent armour, his gilded helmet, and his noble bearing, gave him the appearance of being taller by the shoulders than any of his companions. As he reined up his white charger--the symbol of sovereignty--and, with the oriflamme displayed before him, endeavoured calmly to estimate the chances of the conflict, the Lord of Joinville and his knights, surrounded as they were with danger, could not but utter exclamations expressive of admiration. 'By St. James,' exclaimed Joinville, 'I never in my life saw a more handsome man under arms.' 'Certes,' replied one of the knights, 'I could almost believe that the angel of battles had come to our aid.' While the king was still surveying the combat, that every moment became more fierce and sanguinary, the Constable of France rode up to inform him of the peril of the Count of Artois. 'Sire,' said the constable, 'your noble brother is shut up in Mansourah; and, albeit he and his comrades hold out gallantly, they must perish if not aided forthwith.' 'Well, constable,' answered Louis, 'on to the rescue, in God's name, and I will speedily follow.' The constable, without more words, gave his horse the spur, and dashed towards Mansourah, whither the king and his knights also attempted to make their way. But this was no easy matter. Every moment the Saracens seemed to increase in numbers; and the Crusaders, while struggling bravely not to be overwhelmed by odds, were exposed to terrible hazard. Louis soon found himself in the thick of the fight and environed by foes. Nothing seemed to remain to him but to sell his life dearly; and six Saracens, rushing forward simultaneously, attempted to seize his bridle, and take him captive. But, at that moment, Louis--gentle and saintly as was his nature--used his German sword with a vigour and effect, scarcely excelled by Richard Coeur de Lion at Joppa, when he charged among the Mamelukes of Saladin, or by Edward Longshanks at Kakhow, when the sweep of his sword, and the rush of his grey steed, struck terror into the heart of the host of Bibars Bendocdar. Down before that short German sword went turban and caftan; till the French knights, aware of their king's danger, spurred in to his rescue, and, with a mighty effort, saved him from captivity. And now another attempt was made to reach Mansourah. But it was too late. All was over with the brave band who had followed the Count of Artois into the city; and every moment the aspect of affairs became more menacing; for Bibars Bendocdar, elate with his victory within the walls, issued from the gate, animating his soldiers with the words--'God is powerful,' and hoping to deal with the French king, as he had dealt with the French king's brother. Nor, at first, did it appear that the Crusaders could escape utter defeat. Not aware what was occurring, and suddenly attacked by a mighty force led by a dauntless chief, they were pressed and whirled about and separated from each other, and forced to encounter countless odds at every disadvantage. Yet even in such circumstances the warriors of France maintained their high reputation for valour; and, as the combat proceeded and became keener and keener, many a strong Saracen went to his account. On both sides, indeed, great was the display of personal prowess and courage; but there was no generalship. Amidst clouds of dust, and under a glowing sun, Christian and Moslem fought hand to hand, and steel to steel. Helmet and turban mingled confusedly in the struggle; while banners rose and fell, and knights were unhorsed, and saddles emptied. From Mansourah to Achmoun, and from the Nile to the ford pointed out by the Bedouin, the ground, literally covered with combatants, shook with the rush of their horses, and the sky was rent by the opposing war-cries of 'Islam! Islam!' and 'Montjoie, St. Denis!' What with the shouts of the living, the shrieks of the dying, and the yells of the Saracens, as they bore down on their adversaries like hawks on their prey, all was bloodshed, confusion, and clamour, and the carnage was such as few men, who fought on that field and survived it, ever remembered without a thrill of awe. And as the day sped on and the battle continued to rage all over the plain, and warriors fell in heaps before and around him, Louis became painfully aware that Mansourah could not be reached, and that the Crusaders were no longer fighting to conquer the Saracens but to save themselves. And there was considerable danger of Bibars Bendocdar drawing near to the Achmoun, and cutting off all communication between the camp of the Duke of Burgundy, and the Christian army struggling for existence on the plains of Mansourah. On becoming aware of the danger, the king decided on falling back towards the canal, and, with the oriflamme displayed, moved in that direction. Unfortunate were the consequences. A report immediately spread that the king was retreating because the Saracens were everywhere victorious, and immediately there was a panic, and several squadrons disbanded and rushed towards the canal. A terrible scene followed, and men and horses were drowned while struggling in the water. Nothing could have exceeded the disorder and dismay. Louis, indeed, made strenuous efforts to restore confidence, but his voice was scarcely heard in the tumult; and he must have rejoiced when night put an end to the conflict, and when Bibars Bendocdar retired to Mansourah, with the determination to attack the Crusaders on another day, as the tiger draws back to make a more terrible spring. Repairing to Djédilé, Louis dismounted, and took possession of the camp which, at daybreak, had been occupied by the Emir Fakreddin; and when his red tent was pitched there, the Prior of Rosnay presented himself, and kissed the king's hand. 'Sire,' said he, wishing to break the news gently, 'I know not if you have heard tidings of your noble brother, the Count of Artois?' 'I know all,' answered Louis, mournfully. 'Sire,' said the prior, endeavouring to administer consolation, 'no King of France has ever reaped such honour as you have done this day. You have crossed a dangerous river; you have gained a victory; you have put your enemies to flight; you have captured their engines of war; and now you are taking possession of their camp.' 'May God be praised for all that I have, with His aid, been able to do in His cause,' said Louis, with a faltering voice, and tears rolling down his cheeks, as he entered his pavilion. 'On my faith, sir prior,' said John de Valery, with the tone of a man who has a presentiment of coming calamity, 'I marvel how you can speak of this day's work as a triumph of our arms. Often have I fought for victory; but this day I have felt too surely that I was fighting not for victory but for life.' 'In truth,' said the Lord of Joinville, who had joined them, 'I would fain hope for better fortune in the future; for, call this a victory if you will, such another victory would be worse than a defeat.' CHAPTER XXIII. HOW JOINVILLE KEPT THE BRIDGE. WHEN the Constable of France informed King Louis that the Count of Artois was in extreme peril, and when Louis made an effort to go to the rescue of his brother--the Lord of Joinville, having previously left the ruined house, and joined the king, endeavoured to keep in the royal warrior's company. But all efforts with this object proved vain. The Saracens, raising clouds of dust and uttering ferocious yells as they advanced, came down upon the Crusaders with a force that was irresistible. The French were scattered in all directions; and Joinville was separated from Louis some minutes before the person of the saintly monarch was in such imminent danger. But in the meantime the seneschal's band had been reduced to six persons, including Guy Muschamp, who adhered with determination to Joinville's side; and between them and the king, then struggling to save his liberty, intervened thousands of Saracens. 'Impossible for us to make our way through such a crowd,' said Joinville; 'much better, therefore, will it be to wheel round and get on the other side of them.' Accordingly they wheeled round, and gained the bank of the river, and began to descend. But at this moment the aspect of the field became most alarming to the armed pilgrims. The Crusaders and Saracens met on the banks, and many of the French, attempting to cross and form a junction with the Duke of Burgundy, were drowned; and the river was covered with lances, pikes, shields, and horses and men struggling in vain to save themselves. By this time the Lord of Joinville, heading his knights, had reached a bridge on one of the roads to Mansourah; and on perceiving the miserable state of the army he halted. 'It is better,' said he, after looking round, 'to remain where we are, and guard this bridge; for, if we leave it, the Saracens may come and attack the king on this side, and, if he is assaulted from two quarters, he will surely be discomfited.' Accordingly they posted themselves on the bridge which was between the canal Achmoun and the gates of Mansourah, and prepared to defend it against the Saracens. But such was the danger, that Joinville's heart, brave as it was, beat with terror, and he cried aloud for the protection of St. James. 'Good Lord St. James,' exclaimed he; 'succour me, I beseech thee, and come to my aid in this hour of need.' It seemed to him and his companions that his prayer was answered. Almost as he uttered it, the Count of Soissons, who was his kinsman, appeared riding past the bridge; and Joinville hastened to secure his company. 'Sir count,' said he; 'I beg you to remain with us and guard this bridge; for, should it be lost, the king will have his enemies upon him both in front and rear.' 'Willingly, seneschal,' replied the count; and he placed himself on Joinville's right hand, while a French knight who was with him took his station on the left. While Joinville and his companions were seated on their horses, prepared to keep the bridge at all hazards against all comers, the Saracens made repeated efforts to drive them from their post. But they remained firm as rocks. Trusting to accomplish by stratagem what they could not do by force, the Saracens attempted to lure them from the spot; and one stalwart horseman, galloping suddenly forward, felled one of the French knights with his battle-axe, and then retreated to his own people, hoping that he would be followed. But Joinville, who comprehended the purpose, would not be decoyed, and resolutely kept his ground, though annoyed and wounded by a rabble of half-armed Saracens, who incessantly threw darts, and large stones, and hard clods. At length, however, the Saracens began to make themselves much more formidable, and to discharge Greek fire, which threatened to do much mischief, and pressed forward with savage yells. 'On my faith, we must take order with this rabble,' said the Count of Soissons, growing angry. 'As you will,' replied Joinville; and, without further hesitation, they charged the crowd, put them to flight, and resumed their post. But no sooner did the Saracens perceive that the immediate danger was over, than they turned round, and, keeping at a safe distance, yelled out defiance. 'Heed them not, seneschal,' said the Count of Soissons, who, in the midst of peril, retained all the gaiety of soul which distinguished the French chevaliers from the thoughtful Saxon, and the haughty and somewhat grim Norman. 'Heed them not. Let this rascal canaille bawl and bray as they please. By St. Denis, you and I will live to talk of this day's exploits in the chambers of our ladies.' 'May God and good St. James grant it,' said Joinville, gravely. 'But who comes hither, and in such a plight?' asked the Count of Soissons, suddenly, as a Crusader, mounted on a strong horse, came galloping from the direction of Mansourah--his face wounded, blood gushing from his mouth, the reins of his bridle cut, and his hands resting, as if for support, on his charger's neck. 'In truth,' replied Joinville, after examining the horseman, 'it is the Count of Brittany;' as, closely pursued by Saracens, the wounded warrior gained the bridge, and ever and anon turned round and shouted mockingly to his pursuers. 'By St. Denis,' exclaimed the count, 'one thing is certain: he is not afraid of his pursuers.' And almost as the Count of Soissons spoke, the Count of Brittany was followed by two warriors, who made their way through the Saracens, literally smiting to the earth all who came in their way. Nothing, it seemed, could resist their progress; and their path was tracked with blood. On they came, scornfully scattering their foes till they reached the bridge, when reining up where the Lord of Joinville was posted, they stopped to take breath, after their almost superhuman exertions. One had in his hand a battle-axe; the other a sword. The battle-axe was stained red with gore; the sword was hacked till it looked 'like a saw of dark and purple tint.' One was Bisset, the English knight, the other was the Grand Master of the Temple. The horses of both were wounded all over; the helmets of both were deeply dinted. Bisset's mail was almost hacked to pieces; the Templar's vestments were torn to rags, his cuirass pierced, and his eye and face wounded and bleeding. 'You bring tidings of woe?' said the Count of Soissons. 'Woe, in truth,' answered Bisset; for the grand master could not even muster voice to speak; 'of all who rode into Mansourah this morning, not a man, save ourselves, lives to tell the tale.' 'And what of the Count of Artois, sir knight?' asked Joinville. 'I know not,' replied Bisset, briefly; 'the count disappeared early, and doubtless died with the comrades of his jeopardy.' 'No,' interrupted the Count of Brittany, faintly, 'he was drowned while attempting to save himself by flight. At least,' added he, 'so I have been told.' And in truth, to this day it is somewhat uncertain what became of Robert, Count of Artois, though the most probable account is that, seeing all was lost, he turned his horse's head, with a vague hope of reaching the main body of the Crusaders, and, while attempting to cross one of the branches of the Nile, sank never more to rise. It was about this time that King Louis had moved towards the Achmoun; and the Constable of France, with the king's crossbowmen under his command, just as the sun was setting came to the bridge which had been so bravely defended. 'Seneschal,' said he, addressing Joinville, 'you and your comrades have behaved well in guarding this bridge; and now, all danger being over in this quarter, I pray you to accompany the Lord John de Valery to the king, who is about to go to his pavilion.' And Joinville went as the constable requested; and while his companions were pursuing their way towards the king's red pavilion--that pavilion in which the Emir Fakreddin had boasted he would dine on the day of St. Sebastian--Guy Muschamp approached Bisset, the English knight, and entreated his attention. 'Sir knight,' said he, 'I would fain enquire if you know what has befallen the English squire, by name Walter Espec?' 'Boy,' replied Bisset, 'I know not what may have befallen him; but, if I were to hazard a guess, I should say that he died, and died bravely. I remember me that he fought to the last; and I hoped that he was destined to escape, as I did; but I grieve to say that he failed so to do.' 'Alas! alas!' said Guy sadly, and he clasped his hands, as if muttering a prayer for his comrade's soul; 'woe is me, that I should live to hear that my brother-in-arms, the good Walter, has fallen.' 'My brave youth,' urged Bisset, kindly, as he observed that the boy's face was suffused with tears, 'death has this day been the portion of many thousands of valiant men; and, for your brother-in-arms, I can testify for your comfort that he fought to the last with the courage of a hero, and I doubt not, that he faced death with the courage of a martyr.' 'And if we are to give the faith which our fathers did to the words of holy men,' added Guy, solemnly, 'the souls of all such as fall, fighting for the Cross, are purified from sin, and admitted straight to Paradise.' 'By the mass, I have heard priests say so,' replied Bisset, after a pause, during which he eyed the boy with evident surprise; 'and mayhap,' continued he, 'in the days of Peter the Hermit, and Godfrey of Bouillon, such was the case. But, credit me, in our day, armed pilgrims are guilty of such flagrant sins during their pilgrimage, and while decked with the Cross, that I hardly deem them likely to get access to Paradise on such easy terms.' 'By St. John of Beverley,' exclaimed the squire, in great astonishment, 'deem you that matters are so much changed, sir knight?' 'So much so,' answered Bisset, shaking his head, 'that seeing, save myself, you are almost the only Englishman left in this army of pilgrims, I am free to confess to you my opinion, that for aught we are likely to do for the Holy Sepulchre, we might as well have stayed at home, and hunted, and hawked, and held our neighbours at feud. On my life, I have seen enough of this army to feel sure that Blacas, the troubadour knight, is a wise man, when on being asked whether he will go to the Holy Land, answers, that he loves and is beloved, and that he will remain at home with his ladye love.' And already, forgetting his wounds, and his bruises, his hair-breadth escape, and the terrible scenes in which he had that day acted a part, the knight, as he reached the tent of King Louis, and prepared to dismount, half chanted, half sung, the lines with which Blacas concludes his simple song:-- Je ferai ma pénitence, Entre mer et Durance, Auprès de son manoir. CHAPTER XXIV. THE FIRST FRIDAY IN LENT. ON the day when the city of Mansourah witnessed the carnage of the Crusaders under the Count of Artois, and a great battle shook the plain outside the walls, the Egyptians experienced by turns fear and hope, joy and sadness. On the morning when the camp at Djédilé was taken, and the Emir Fakreddin slain, a pigeon carried intelligence of the disaster to Cairo; and the Egyptian capital was immediately in consternation. Believing that the days of Islamism were numbered, and the empire of the sultan on the verge of ruin, the inhabitants thought of nothing but escape from the danger that impended. Many departed for Upper Egypt, and sorrow reigned in the city--the inhabitants bewailing their misfortunes, and crying that the world was coming to an end. A second pigeon, however, carried thither tidings that the Count of Artois was defeated and slain; and Cairo became the scene of joy and rejoicing. Fear vanished from every face; and the Saracens gratefully extolled the courage of the Mamelukes, and of their chief, Bibars Bendocdar. At the same time, an arrival of great importance took place at Mansourah. While the battle was raging on the plain, Touran Chah, the new sultan, reached the city, and was received with acclamations by the populace. The emirs, however, regarded the sultan with some suspicion. Unfortunately, Touran Chah did not come alone; and the jealousy of the emirs was aroused by the presence of the favourites who accompanied him from Mesopotamia. If the heir of Saladin could have foreseen what a price he was to pay for the happiness of having his favourites with him, he would doubtless have been discreet enough to leave them behind. But, in the meantime, it was necessary for the safety and interests both of the sultan and the emirs, that the Crusaders should be destroyed; and Bibars Bendocdar was bent on pursuing his success. In the first place, he made several attempts to recapture the engines of war, and the French were repeatedly roused to defend them at the point of the sword. But these attacks led to a feeling of insecurity, and King Louis deemed it prudent to construct a bridge of wood over the Achmoun, so as to have the means of communicating readily with the Duke of Burgundy's camp. Who at that time could have imagined the mischief of which this bridge was subsequently to be the cause? Meanwhile Bibars Bendocdar was doing his best to inflame the enthusiasm of the Mamelukes and soldiers. Nor, with that object, was he above practising a little deception. A cuirass covered with fleur-de-lis was publicly exhibited, and declared to be that of the French king. Heralds proclaimed that the Christian army, deprived of its chief, was like a trunk without a head; and the enthusiasm of the Saracens reached a high pitch. At length, the soldiers began to clamour to be led against the enemy, and Bibars Bendocdar fixed Friday, the 11th of February, as the day on which he would lead them to triumph. It was the first Friday in Lent; and King Louis, having received warning that an attack was meditated, gave orders for fortifying the camp, and preparing for a conflict. At daybreak, accordingly, the Crusaders were under arms; and, in good time, Bibars Bendocdar appeared on the plain, setting his men in battle order. Placing his cavalry in the van, the infantry behind, and a strong reserve in the rear, the Mameluke chief extended his lines till his forces seemed to cover the plain. Nor was he sorry to observe that there was a prospect of a stern resistance; for the difficulties of his situation increased his importance in the eyes of his soldiers, and every step he took in overcoming perils, from which others shrank, brought him nearer to the object on which his heart was set--that object being neither more nor less than the throne of the sultans. And now, noon having come, with horns and kettle-drums sounding an onset, Bibars Bendocdar advanced on the Crusaders, and attacked the Count of Anjou, who was at the head of the camp on the side towards the Nile. At first, the French cavalry calmly abided the assault; but they soon found themselves exposed to a kind of attack which they had not anticipated. In fact, the Saracen infantry, moving forward, overwhelmed the knights with Greek fire, and threw them into confusion. Surcoats and caparisons blazed, and the horses plunged, broke from the control of their riders, and galloped to and fro. While they were in disorder, Bibars Bendocdar, at the head of the Mamelukes, penetrated within the entrenchments, and the Count of Anjou found himself surrounded by foes. Ere this, King Louis, aware of his brother's peril, despatched Bisset, the English knight, with a message assuring the count of speedy aid; but, ere the Englishman reached the Count of Anjou, he met the French cavalry flying in disarray. Bisset reined up, and addressed the fugitives. 'Christian warriors,' said he, 'I come from your king to ask whither are you flying? See you not that the horses of the unbelievers are swifter than yours?' 'It is too true,' replied the fugitives. 'Come then,' said Bisset, 'follow me, and I will show you what your king deems a safer road than flight;' and charging among the Mamelukes, in front of the French cavalry, the English knight succeeded in maintaining the conflict, which had commenced so inauspiciously for the French. And aid was at hand; for Louis did not forget his promise of succour. Shouting his battle-cry, he spurred, lance in rest, to his brother's rescue, and, precipitating himself with his knights on the Moslem warriors, soon redeemed the disaster which had marked the opening of the battle. Nor did the saint-king exhibit the slightest dread of exposing his royal person. With a shout of 'Montjoie, St. Denis!' he charged into the midst of the foe--his banner flying, and his sword flashing--and by his example inspired the Crusaders with such courage that, after a sanguinary combat, they succeeded in expelling the Mamelukes from the camp, and driving back the infantry that threw the Greek fire. By this time the battle had become general, and everywhere the Crusaders fought valiantly and well, though they had not always the advantage. In fact, Bibars Bendocdar, as a war chief, possessed such a degree of skill in handling masses of fighting men as neither Louis nor any of the Crusaders could boast of; and the discipline of the Mamelukes was such as to make them terrible foes to encounter. Nevertheless the Crusaders held their ground, and performed prodigies of valour. At one point the warriors of Syria and Cyprus maintained their ground against fearful odds; at a second, the knights of Champagne and Flanders fought stoutly and well; at a third, such of the Templars as had not fallen at Mansourah, headed by their grand master who had so narrowly escaped the carnage, exhibited the fine spectacle of a handful of men baffling a multitude, and, despite the showers of Greek fire and missiles which fell so thick that the ground was literally covered with arrows and javelins, kept the enemy at bay. Even when the grand master fell mortally wounded, the Knights of the Temple continued to struggle; and when their entrenchments failed, and the Saracens rushed into the camp, the military monks closed their ranks and presented a front against which the assailants continued for hours to charge violently, but in vain. But meanwhile the peril of the Count of Poictiers had been great and alarming. Composed of infantry, his division gave way before the rush of the Saracen cavalry, and dispersed in consternation. Nor was this the worst. The count himself, while endeavouring to rally his forces, was seized, and experienced the mortification of finding himself dragged off as a prisoner. But there was succour at hand. The Lord of Joinville and his knights were luckily posted near the Count of Poictiers; but having all been so severely wounded in the battle of Shrove Tuesday as to be unable to bear their armour, they could take no prominent part in the conflict raging around them. No sooner, however, did they observe the count's predicament than they deemed themselves bound to interfere at all hazards; and Guy Muschamp, riding to the place where the sutlers and workmen and women of the army were posted, urged them to rouse themselves. 'Good people,' cried the squire, 'the brave Count of Poictiers is being carried into captivity. For our Leader's sake, succour the Count of Poictiers. To the rescue! to the rescue!' Now the count was highly popular with the persons to whom this appeal was addressed; and no sooner did they learn the prince's danger than they displayed the utmost alacrity to aid him. Arming themselves with axes, and clubs, and sticks, and anything that came in their way, they rushed furiously forward, and, led on by the English squire, made so successful an attack that the Saracens were dispersed, and the count was rescued and carried back in triumph. 'Young gentleman,' said the count, gratefully, 'I owe you my liberty. I pray you, tell me to whom I am so deeply indebted.' 'Noble count,' replied Guy, after telling his name, 'I am a squire of England; and, for the present, I serve the Lord of Joinville.' 'Ah,' said the count, smiling, 'the seneschal must give you to me; for I would fain have an opportunity of proving how I can requite such good service.' By this time Bibars Bendocdar perceived that he was wasting his strength in vain, and sounded a retreat. But the Mameluke chief was not without his consolation. He knew that he had ruined the enterprise of the Crusaders; that they were no longer in a condition to attempt a march to Cairo; and that they knew not on which side to turn. But when the Saracens retreated towards Damietta, and the danger was over for the time being, the Crusaders were inclined to talk of their successful resistance as a victory; and the knights and barons when summoned that evening to the king's pavilion, went thither with the airs of conquerors. 'My lords and friends,' said Louis, kindly; 'we have much cause to be grateful to God our Creator. On Tuesday, aided by Him, we dislodged our enemies from their quarters, of which we gained possession. This day we have defended ourselves against them, though taken at advantage; many of us being left without arms or horses, while they were completely armed and on horseback, and on their own ground. And since you have all witnessed the grace which God our Creator has of late shown to us, and continues to do daily, I commend you all, as you are bounden to do, to return Him due thanksgiving.' CHAPTER XXV. MORTIFICATIONS AND MISERIES. NO longer could the armed pilgrims, so recently buoyed up with the hope of making themselves famous as the conquerors of Egypt, delude their imaginations with the project of advancing to Cairo. 'It is necessary to retreat to Damietta,' said the wise and prudent. 'A retreat to Damietta in the face of the foe is more than our pride can brook,' exclaimed the haughty and obstinate. 'Let us remain at Djédilé, and trust to the course of events,' suggested the reckless and the irresolute. At Djédilé, accordingly, the Crusaders remained; and ere long, their calamities began in earnest, and daily increased in magnitude. First came disease; then came famine; and death and despair soon did more than the Saracens could with the utmost efforts have hoped to accomplish. It appears that, after the two battles fought on the plains of Mansourah, the Crusaders had neglected to bury the slain; and the bodies thrown confusedly into the Achmoun, and floating on the water, stopped before the wooden bridge, and infected the atmosphere. A contagious disease was the consequence; and this, being increased by the abstinence during Lent, wrought such havoc, that nothing was heard in the camp but mourning and lamentation. Louis, sad, but still not in despair, exerted himself to mitigate the sufferings of his army. At length he also fell sick, and, every day, affairs wore a gloomier aspect. 'It seems,' said Guy Muschamp, who lay prostrate with sickness in the tent of the Lord of Joinville, 'it seems that Heaven has abandoned the soldiers of the Cross.' 'Hem,' replied Bisset, to whom this was addressed, 'I see not why Heaven should be blamed for the evils which men bring on themselves by their own folly. I warned you at Damietta what would be the end of all the boastings which were uttered hourly. A haughty spirit goes before a fall. Trust me, we have not yet seen the worst. By the might of Mary, we armed pilgrims may yet find ourselves under a necessity similar to that which made cannibals of the soldiers of King Cambyses when he made war in Egypt!' 'King Cambyses?' repeated Guy, enquiringly. 'Ay,' replied Bisset, 'he was King of Persia, and almost as great a monarch as King Louis; and when he was in this country his provisions ran short. At first his soldiers lived on herbs, roots, and leaves; when they could not get even these, they ate their horses and beasts of burden; and, when the horses and beasts of burden were finished, they began to devour one another; and every tenth man, on whom the lot fell, was doomed to serve as a meal for his companions. Marry, we are like to be in a similar plight; for famine begins to stare us in the face!' Guy groaned aloud, and wondered why he had left England; and, at that time, indeed, the new and terrible danger daunted every heart. Resolved to cut off all communication between Damietta and the camp of the Crusaders, the sultan ordered a number of galleys to be transported overland, to form an ambuscade; and many French vessels were intercepted. For a time, Louis could not comprehend how no arrivals took place, and felt the gravest alarm. Ere long, however, one vessel, belonging to the Count of Flanders, escaped the vigilance of the galleys, and brought tidings that the sultan's flag was displayed all along the Nile. The Crusaders received this intelligence with horror; and, in a few days, the evil of famine was added to that of pestilence. 'What is to be done now?' asked they, giving way to despondency. 'It is quite clear,' said Louis, 'that, in order to save ourselves, we must treat with our enemies.' No time was lost. Philip de Montfort, a knight of renown, was despatched as ambassador to the sultan, and was led to cherish hopes of success. The sultan not only expressed his readiness to treat, but actually nominated commissioners. At first everything went smoothly, and the Saracens appeared reasonable in their demands. But when the question of hostages came to be discussed, a difficulty arose. 'I am empowered to offer the Counts of Poictiers and Anjou as hostages,' said De Montfort. 'No,' replied the Saracens, 'the sultan requires the King of France.' 'You ought to know Frenchmen better,' exclaimed Geoffrey de Segrines, one of the commissioners; 'they would rather die than leave their king in pledge.' After this, the negotiation was broken off; and the French prepared to cross the Achmoun by the bridge, and deliberate on the propriety of marching back to Damietta. But even the passage of the bridge was not effected without terrible danger and heavy loss. No sooner did the Crusaders begin to move, than the Saracens came down upon them, and made a furious attack; but Walter de Chatillon, a French baron of great fame, led on his companions to the encounter, and after being seconded by the Count of Anjou, succeeded in repulsing the foe. The Crusaders, however, after remaining some days in their old camp, found that they were a prey to the worst calamities, and, no longer hesitating, decided on a day for returning to Damietta. Unfortunately for the armed pilgrims, their resolution was no secret to the Saracens, and when Touran Chah became aware of their intended movement down the Nile, he devised measures to intercept them. He himself harangued his soldiers, distributed money and provisions, reinforced them with Arabs attracted to his standard by the prospect of booty, and ordered boats with troops on board to descend the river, and join the fleet already there; while bodies of light horse were placed on all the roads by which the Crusaders were likely to make good their retreat. Nevertheless, the Crusaders, finding their present position desperate, persevered in their resolution, and Tuesday, the 5th of April, was appointed for the perilous enterprise. On the arrival of that day, the sick, the wounded, the women, and the children, were embarked on the Nile, and, at the same time, several French nobles, and the papal legate, got on board a vessel. No doubt seems to have existed that Louis might have saved himself. Even the Arabian historians admit that the French king might have escaped, either in a boat or on horseback, if he would have abandoned his army. But, with characteristic generosity, he distinctly refused to separate his fate from theirs. Anxious about his safety, the soldiers ran along the bank, shouting to the boatmen not to set sail till the king embarked. 'Wait for the king--wait for the king!' cried they. 'No,' said Louis, his heart touched, but his resolution firm; 'go on. I will share weal or woe with my soldiers. I am not such a niggard of life, that I grudge to risk it in such company, and in such a cause.' And now the boats began to descend the Nile; and at the same time the Duke of Burgundy, having broken up his camp, about nightfall commenced a retreat towards Damietta. But at this stage, the French were guilty of a piece of negligence that was destined to cost them dear. The king had ordered the wooden bridge over the Achmoun to be destroyed. In their agitation and haste, the French paid no attention to the order. In vain Bisset, the English knight, protested against such insane indifference to a manifest peril. 'My masters,' said he, bluntly, 'we can hardly be deemed otherwise than madmen, if we leave that bridge standing as it is, to afford the Saracens a safe passage over the canal, to attack us in the rear.' 'Sir knight,' replied the French drily, for they did not relish an Englishman's interference, 'it is not from that quarter that danger is most to be apprehended.' 'Nevertheless,' urged Bisset. 'We are wasting time to no purpose,' said the French; 'and this day, time is more precious than your counsel.' 'As you will, my masters,' replied Bisset; 'only credit me, that if you leave that bridge behind you to facilitate the operations of your enemies, you will place your army in such a predicament, that neither the craft of Alexander of Macedon, nor William the Norman--could either come from their graves to lead--would avail to save it from destruction ere reaching Damietta.' And having administered this warning, Bisset withdrew, with the consolation of a man who has done at least his duty, and with the air also of a man much too reckless as to his personal safety to fear much on his own account from the consequences of the blunders and incapacity of others; then, arming himself, he saddled his steed, girded on his sword, hung his battle-axe at his saddle-bow, and went to attend King Louis during the perilous enterprise of marching through a country, with armed foes posted at the turn of every road. 'Hearken to that English tail,' said the French one to another, as Bisset withdrew; 'these islanders are so timid, that they will next be afraid of their own shadows.' 'By the head of St. Anthony,' said a knight, who had been attached to the Count of Artois, 'I hate the tailed English so, that I would leave the bridge as it is, if only to mortify one of them.' CHAPTER XXVI. THE MASSACRE OF MINIEH. IT was already dark when the pilgrim army commenced a perilous retreat to Damietta, and when the King of France, surrounded by a band of brave knights, undertook the duty of bringing up the rear--on that occasion the post of honour. But Louis was in no condition to occupy such a position with advantage. He was not fully recovered from his sickness, and so weak, that he could hardly bear the weight of his armour, or support himself on his white charger. Neither helmet nor cuirass wore he; nor had he any weapon save his sword; nor had he sufficient strength to wield his sword to any purpose in the event of a close encounter. And, as it happened, the post of honour speedily became the post of danger. As Bisset had predicted, the Saracens lost not a minute in availing themselves of the bridge that had been left standing. In an incredibly brief space of time, they contrived to cross the canal in such numbers, that the plain on the Damietta side was covered with turbaned warriors, bent on the destruction of their foes; and, in the darkness of the night, their cavalry charged constantly, and with deadly effect, on the retiring and dispirited rear of the Crusaders. Of course, the plight of Louis and his comrades every hour became more deplorable. They fell into disorder; they ran against and impeded each other; and cries of anger and despair were mingled with the neighing of horses, and the clash of arms. Earnestly they prayed for day, that they might, at least, ascertain their real position; but, when day came, it brought no comfort. In fact, when the rising sun revealed their diminished and diminishing numbers, and the formidable force of enemies who surrounded them--here a handful of men--there a host--the very boldest of the Crusaders gave themselves up for lost, and a simultaneous cry of terror and dismay broke from their scanty ranks. 'Gentlemen,' said Louis, calm in the midst of peril, 'droop not. At the great battle of Antioch, Godfrey of Bouillon, and his companions, had worse odds than we.' 'And they conquered,' said Walter de Chatillon, striving to banish apprehension, 'and we may conquer.' 'Yes,' replied Louis, 'they had faith in God's protection, and confidence in the holiness of their cause; and it seemed to them that while the struggle was well-nigh hopeless, the blessed martyrs--George, Demetrius, and Theodore, came to aid them, and assure them of victory.' 'Ha,' said Bisset, the English knight, as if speaking to himself, 'I have heard that some saw St. George in the air, with an army of white horses; but these did no doubt look through the spectacles of fancy.' Louis turned, bent his brow, and darted upon the speaker a glance of keen reproach, which might have found fuller expression in words. But there was no time for argument or admonition; for at that moment the Saracens made one of their fiery charges, and though the French warriors defended themselves and their king with heroism, they could not hope that valour would ultimately save them. While Chatillon and Bisset, now charging singly, now side by side, did wonders in keeping a space clear around the king and the royal standard, Geoffrey de Segrines, adhering to the side of Louis, wielded his sword with such effect that he drove off, one by one, the horsemen who darted forth from the Saracen ranks. 'In truth,' said the brave Frenchman, when complimented by Bisset on his exploits, 'I know not how it is; but to me, it seems that the danger of this day has doubled my strength.' 'On my faith,' replied Bisset, 'I am at a loss whether more to admire your valour or your vigilance. Your care of your good king reminds me of the watchful servant who carefully drives away the flies from his master's cup.' But brief were the intervals allowed even for such an exchange of sentiments. Now secure of victory, and stimulated by enthusiasm and fanaticism, the Saracens grew bolder and more audacious in their attacks. Urged on by their dervishes and imaums, who had flocked to the host of Saracens to remind them that they were fighting in the cause of the prophet, they became more and more eager for carnage and blood, and the Crusaders less and less capable of a stubborn resistance. At length, on reaching the little town of Minieh, the Crusaders acknowledged that they could no longer continue the retreat; and, halting, they drew up in a body outside the town, with the simple resolution of fighting till they fell. But by this time Louis was utterly exhausted; and Segrines, conducting him into the court, lifted him from his steed, and carried him, 'weak as a child in its mother's lap,' into a house, expecting every moment to be his last. Nor did the prospects of the Crusaders outside improve in the king's absence. Alarming rumours, vaguely flying about the town, reached their ears and depressed their hearts; and, while they were still in panic and incertitude, the Saracens made an onset with more than their former ferocity. Soon all was confusion and carnage. It seemed, indeed, that nothing but the hearts' blood of the Crusaders would satisfy the vindictive cravings of their foes; and so utterly dispirited by adversity and defeat, and pestilence, were knights formerly renowned as brave among the bravest that they allowed themselves, almost without resisting, to be slaughtered in heaps. Naturally, however, there were striking exceptions; and none were more remarkable than Chatillon and Bisset; who, when Louis was conducted into Minieh, took up their post hard by an orange grove, and close to a wall at the entrance of the narrow street leading to the house into which Segrines had carried the king. Nothing could have exceeded Chatillon's fiery valour. At one moment he rushed like lightning among the Saracens, scattered them, and cut them down. Then after reining back to the wall to draw out the arrows and darts that adhered to his cuirass, he returned to the charge, rising in his stirrups, and shouting--'Chatillon, knights--Chatillon to the rescue.' Meanwhile Bisset exerted himself with no less courage and prowess. Scorning his danger, and scorning his foes, he charged among the Saracens, with shouts of--'Holy Cross, Holy Cross! Down with the pagan dogs! Down with the slaves of Mahound and Termagaunt!' Nothing could resist the vehemence of his attack. In vain were all attempts to drag him from his steed. Before his mighty battle-axe the Saracens seemed to shake and fall as corn before the reaper. At length Chatillon, mortally wounded, dropt from his horse, and the Saracen who had wounded him springing forward seized the French knight's steed, which was one sheet of blood and foam. Bisset cleft the Saracen's skull to the teeth, and laughed defiantly as he avenged the fall of his comrade-in-arms. But Bisset was now alone; and his situation was so utterly desperate, that any ordinary man, even in that feudal and fighting age, would have relinquished all hope and yielded to fate. The English knight had no inclination to do anything of the kind. Rapidly his eye measured the ground; as rapidly his brain calculated the chances of reaching the orange grove; and as rapidly he arrived at the conclusion that he could cut his way through the crowd. No sooner had he settled this than he wasted not a moment in hesitation. Drawing back towards the wall, and halting for a moment, with his face to his foes, to breathe his panting steed, he once more, with battle-axe in hand, charged forward upon his now recoiling foes, but this time not to return. Nothing daunted by the darts and arrows that flew around him, he deliberately pursued the course which his eye had marked out, literally felling to the earth all who attempted to stop his progress, but skillfully avoiding foes whom it was not necessary to encounter. Only a man of the highest courage would have made such an attempt: only a man of the strongest will would have persevered. Now Bisset had both courage and strength of will, and in spite of all the chances against him, he did reach the orange grove, and making his way through it as well as he could, found himself in the verge of a wood of palms and sycamores. But he himself was wounded; his horse was bleeding in a dozen places; and close behind him were three Saracens, well mounted, and thirsting for his blood. It may seem to the reader, that such being the circumstances, Bisset might as well have fallen at Mansourah or with Walter de Chatillon at the entrance to the narrow street leading to the house to which the king had been carried. But, certainly, that was by no means his view of the case; for he was one of those warriors who never despair; and he turned on his pursuers like a lion at bay. 'Surely,' said he, speaking to himself, 'wounded and weary as I am, I should be but a poor Christian knight if I could not deal with three pagan dogs.' And terrible, even to brave foes, was the ferocity and fury with which Bisset turned upon the Saracens. Mighty was the force with which he swung a battle-axe, ponderous enough to have served as a weapon to Coeur de Lion. Crushed by one swoop of the axe fell the first of the pursuers--down, as it again swung on high, fell the second, who a moment earlier was uttering threats of vengeance. But the English knight had no inclination to encounter the third antagonist. His horse, as he felt, was sinking; he himself was weakened by loss of blood; and, quick as thought, he turned towards the wood of palms and sycamores. But a new difficulty presented itself. Between Bisset and the wood was a very deep ditch which at another time would have made him pause. Now, however, he did not hesitate, even for an instant. He touched his steed with the spur; he spoke as if imploring the noble animal to make a last effort; and the result was a gallant bound. But the effort was too much. In exerting itself to scramble up the opposite bank, the good steed broke its back; and the knight, freeing his limbs from its corse, quickly drew his dagger and relieved it from suffering. The delay, however, had proved dangerous. Even as he gained one bank of the ditch the Saracen was at the other, and preparing to launch a javelin. One moment only intervened between the Crusader and death; but that moment was not neglected. With his remaining strength Bisset raised his battle-axe, whirled it with irresistible force, and, as the weapon whizzed through the air, the Saracen dropped from his horse and rolled into the ditch, the water of which immediately became red with his blood. Not a moment did Bisset now waste in getting under cover of the wood. For full five minutes he neither halted nor looked behind. At length he stopped under a palm tree; and taking out one of those little crosses which the Crusaders carried with them for purposes of prayer, and which are now symbolised by figures on the shield of many a Crusader's descendant, he knelt before it, and invoked the protection and aid of God and the saints to shield him from danger and restore him to the land of his fathers. But almost ere the prayer was uttered, Bisset started at the sound of footsteps; and as he turned his head his brain reeled; and, after grasping at the tree for support, he sank motionless on the ground. CHAPTER XXVII. JOINVILLE IN PERIL. WHILE King Louis and the brave companions of his ill-starred retreat were seized as captives, or mercilessly massacred by the Saracens at Minieh, the sick and wounded Crusaders who embarked on the Nile were not more fortunate. In order to understand the extent of their dangers and sufferings, it is necessary to refer to the chronicle of the good Lord of Joinville--who, still suffering from disease, embarked with his knights and followers, including Guy Muschamp, not yet recovered from the sickness by which he had been prostrated. Nor is it possible to peruse the seneschal's simple narrative without profound interest. In reading his account of this disastrous expedition, we are transported, in imagination, to the thirteenth century, and witness, with the mind's eye, the scenes in which he was an actor, and gradually come to feel as if we were not reading a chronicle penned centuries ago, but listening to a Crusader who, just returned from the East, and seated on the dais of the castle hall, tells his story over the wine-cup to his kinsmen and neighbours assembled at the festive board. It was evening; and Joinville, who was suffering fearfully from the prevailing malady, perceiving that everyone was preparing to depart towards Damietta, withdrew to his galley, with his chaplain, and such of his company, including Guy Muschamp, as had escaped the pestilence, and the swords of the Saracens; and no sooner did darkness descend over the hill, than he commanded his captain to raise the anchor, and float down the stream. 'My lord,' replied the man, 'I dare not; for between us and Damietta are the large galleys of the Saracens, who would infallibly capture us.' And at this moment a terrible spectacle arrested Joinville's attention. It happened that the king's seamen were waiting to take the sick and wounded on board; but many of the sick and wounded were still in the camp on the banks of the river. Suddenly, by the light of fires which the sailors had lighted for the comfort of the sick, Joinville saw the Saracens enter the camp, and gratify their thirst for blood by a general massacre. In great alarm, the king's seamen cut their cables; and while Joinville's men were raising their anchor, the huge galleys came down upon them with such force, that he expected every moment to be sunk. However he escaped this danger, and made some way down the Nile. But it speedily appeared that the Crusaders who had embarked on the river were not to be more fortunate in their attempt to reach Damietta than were those who remained on shore. Joinville very soon discovered that he had scarcely a chance of escape. During the night, a tempest arose; and the wind blowing with great force towards Damietta drove the vessels of the Crusaders straight in the way of the sultan's fleet, and about break of day they found themselves close to the galleys of the Saracens. Immediately on observing the Crusaders approaching, the Saracens raised loud shouts, and shot large bolts, and threw Greek fire in such quantities, that it seemed as if the stars were falling from the heavens. Great, of course, was the alarm of the Crusaders. Joinville and his company, however, gained the current, and endeavoured to push forward; but the wind becoming more and more violent drove them against the banks, and close to the Saracens, who, having already taken several vessels, were murdering the crews, and throwing the dead bodies into the river. On seeing what was taking place, and finding that the Saracens began to shoot bolts at his galley, Joinville, to protect himself, put on his armour. He had hardly done so, when some of his people began to shout in great consternation. 'My lord, my lord,' cried they, 'because the Saracens menace us, our steersman is going to run us ashore, where we shall all be murdered.' At that moment Joinville was so faint that he had seated himself, but instantly rising he drew his sword and advanced. 'Beware what you do,' said he; 'for I vow to slay the first person who attempts to run us ashore.' 'My lord,' said the captain in a resolute tone, 'it is impossible to proceed; so you must make up your mind whether you will be landed on shore, or stranded in the mud of the banks.' 'Well,' replied Joinville, 'I choose rather to be run on a mud bank than to be carried ashore, where even now I see our people being slaughtered.' But escape proved impossible. Almost as he spoke, Joinville perceived four of the sultan's galleys making towards his barge; and, giving himself up for lost, he took a little casket containing his jewels, and threw it into the Nile. However, it turned out that, though he could not save his liberty, there was still a chance of saving his life. 'My lord,' said the mariner, 'you must permit me to say you are the king's cousin; if not, we are as good as murdered.' 'Say what you please,' replied Joinville. And now Joinville met with a protector, whose coming he attributed to the direct interposition of heaven. 'It was God,' says he, 'who then, as I verily believe, sent to my aid a Saracen, who was a subject of the Emperor of Germany. He wore a pair of coarse trowsers, and, swimming straight to me, he came into my vessel and embraced my knees. "My lord," he said, "if you do not what I shall advise, you are lost. In order to save yourself, you must leap into the river, without being observed." He had a cord thrown to me, and I leaped into the river, followed by the Saracen, who saved me, and conducted me to a galley, wherein were fourteen score of men, besides those who had boarded my vessel. But this good Saracen held me fast in his arms.' Shortly after, Joinville with the good Saracen's aid was landed, and the other Saracens rushed on him to cut his throat, and he expected no better fate. But the Saracen who had saved him would not quit his hold. 'He is the king's cousin,' shouted he; 'the king's cousin.' 'I had already,' says Joinville, 'felt the knife at my throat, and cast myself on my knees; but, by the hands of this good Saracen, God delivered me from this peril; and I was led to the castle where the Saracen chiefs had assembled.' When Joinville was conducted with some of his company, along with the spoils of his barge, into the presence of the emirs, they took off his coat of mail; and perceiving that he was very ill, they, from pity, threw one of his scarlet coverlids lined with minever over him, and gave him a white leathern girdle, with which he girded the coverlid round him, and placed a small cap on his head. Nevertheless, what with his fright and his malady, he soon began to shake so that his teeth chattered, and he complained of thirst. On this the Saracens gave him some water in a cup; but he no sooner put it to his lips, than the water began to run back through his nostrils. 'Having an imposthume in my throat,' says he, 'imagine what a wretched state I was in; and I looked more to death than life.' When Joinville's attendants saw the water running through his nostrils, they began to weep; and the good Saracen who had saved him asked them why they were so sorrowful. 'Because,' they replied, 'our lord is nearly dead.' And thereupon the good Saracen, taking pity on their distress, ran to tell the emirs; and one of them coming, told Joinville to be of good cheer, for he would bring a drink that should cure him in two days. Under the influence of this beverage, the seneschal ere long recovered; and when he was well, he was sent for by the admiral, who commanded the sultan's galleys. 'Are you,' asked the admiral, 'the king's cousin, as was reported?' 'No,' answered Joinville, 'I am not;' and he informed the admiral why it had been stated. 'You were well advised,' said the admiral; 'for otherwise you would have been all murdered, and cast into the river. Have you any acquaintance with the Emperor Frederic, or are you of his lineage?' 'Truly,' replied Joinville, 'I have heard my mother say that I am the emperor's second cousin.' 'Ah,' said the admiral, 'I rejoice to hear it; and I love you all the better on that account.' It appears that Joinville became quite friendly with the admiral, and was treated by him with kindness; and, on Sunday, when it was ordered that all the Crusaders who had been taken prisoners on the Nile should be brought to a castle on the banks, Joinville was invited to go thither in the admiral's company. On that occasion, the seneschal had to endure the horror of seeing his chaplain dragged from the hold of his galley and instantly killed and flung into the water; and scarcely was this over when the chaplain's clerk was dragged out of the hold, so weak that he could hardly stand, felled on the head with a mortar, and cast after his master. In this manner the Saracens dealt with all the captives who were suffering from sickness. Horrorstruck at such a destruction of human life, Joinville, by means of the good Saracen who had saved his life, informed them that they were doing very wrong; but they treated the matter lightly. 'We are only destroying men who are of no use,' said they; 'for they are much too ill with their disorders to be of any service.' Soon after witnessing this harrowing spectacle, Joinville was requested by the Saracen admiral to mount a palfrey; and they rode together, over a bridge, to the place where the Crusaders were imprisoned. At the entrance of a large pavilion the good Saracen, who had been Joinville's preserver, and had always followed him about, stopped, and requested his attention. 'Sir,' said he, 'you must excuse me, but I cannot come further. I entreat you not to quit the hand of this boy, otherwise the Saracens will kill him.' 'Who is he?' asked Joinville. 'The boy's name,' replied the good Saracen, 'is Bartholomew de Bar, and he is son of the Lord Montfaucon de Bar.' And now conducted by the admiral, and leading the little boy by the hand, Joinville entered the pavilion, where the nobles and knights of France, with more than ten thousand persons of inferior rank, were confined in a court, large in extent, and surrounded by walls of mud. From this court the captive Christians were led forth, one at a time, and asked if they would become renegades, yes or no. He who answered 'Yes,' was put aside; but he who answered 'No,' was instantly beheaded. Such was the plight of the Christian warriors who so recently had boasted of being about to conquer Egypt. Already thirty thousand of the Crusaders had perished; and the survivors were so wretched, that they almost envied their comrades who had gone where the weary are at rest. Now in the midst of all this suffering and anxiety, what had become of Guy Muschamp? Had the gay young squire, who boasted that if killed by the Saracens he would die laughing, been drowned in the Nile, or was he a captive in that large court surrounded by walls of mud? Neither. But as our narrative proceeds, the reader will see that Guy Muschamp's fate was hardly less sad than the fate of those who had found a watery grave, or of those who were offered the simple choice of denying their God or losing their lives. CHAPTER XXVIII. NEWS OF DISASTER. WHILE Louis of France and his nobles and knights were exposed to such danger at the hands of their enemies, from whom they had no reason to expect forbearance, Queen Margaret remained at Damietta, with her ladies, expecting to hear of battles won and fortresses taken. At length, one morning about sunrise, a strange and heart-rending cry resounded through the city, and reached the ears of the queen in her palace. What was it? was it fire? No. Another and another wail of agony. What could it be? The approach of an enemy? No. It was merely tidings of the massacre of Minieh! Margaret of Provence summoned to her presence Oliver de Thermes, whom King Louis had left at Damietta in command of the garrison. 'Sir knight,' said the queen, 'what is all that noise I hear?' The warrior hesitated. 'Speak, sir,' said Margaret, losing patience; 'I command you to tell me what has happened.' 'Madam,' replied the knight, 'the news as yet is but vague and uncertain.' 'Answer me, directly,' said the queen, speaking in a tone of authority. 'What of the King of France? What of the warriors who marched from Damietta under the banner of St. Denis?' 'Alas, madam,' replied Sir Oliver, 'I would fain hope that the news is not true; but it certainly is bruited about that the king is a captive, and that the warriors of the Cross have fallen almost to a man.' Margaret did not answer; she did not even attempt to speak. Her colour went, she shuddered, tottered, and would have fallen to the floor had not her ladies rushed to her support. It was indeed a terrible situation for that youthful matron, and--what made matters more melancholy--she was about to become a mother. And now Damietta was the scene of consternation somewhat similar to that which pervaded Cairo, when a pigeon carried thither intelligence of the victory of the Count of Artois at Djédilé. The ladies of the Crusaders, the Countesses of Poictiers and Provence, and the widowed Countess of Artois, among the number, bewailed the fate of their lords; the queen was afflicted to a terrible degree as she thought of the king's peril; and many people only felt concerned about their own extreme peril. Of course much selfishness was exhibited under the circumstances; and the Pisans and Genoese set a bad example by preparing to save themselves, and leave the city to its fate. But, on hearing of their intention, the queen ordered that the chief persons among them should be brought to her presence, and addressed them in a way likely to convince them of the selfishness of their conduct. 'Gentlemen,' said Margaret, rousing herself from her prostration and raising her head; 'as you love God, do not leave this city; for if you do you will utterly ruin the king and his army, who are captives, and expose all within the walls to the vengeance of the Saracens.' 'Madam,' replied the Pisans and Genoese, utterly unmoved by the loyal lady's distress, 'we have no provisions left, and we cannot consent to remain at the risk of dying of hunger.' 'Be under no such apprehension,' said the queen quickly; 'you shall not die of hunger; I will cause all the provisions in Damietta to be bought in the king's name, and distributed forthwith.' The Pisans and Genoese on hearing this assurance consented to remain in Damietta; and, after an expenditure of three hundred and sixty thousand livres, Margaret provided for their subsistence. But the men who were thus bribed to remain as a garrison were not likely to make any very formidable resistance in the event of an attack taking place; and such an event was no longer improbable. Indeed rumours, vague but most alarming, reached Damietta that a Saracenic host was already on its way to capture the city. The rumour that the Moslems were actually coming made the bravest men in Damietta quake, and inspired the ladies who were in the city with absolute terror. Even the courage of the queen, who had just given birth to her son John, failed; and her faculties well-nigh deserted her. One moment her imagination conjured up visions of Saracens butchering her husband; at another she shrieked with terror at the idea that the Saracens had taken the city and were entering her chamber. Ever and anon she sank into feverish sleep, and then, wakened by some fearful dream, sprang up, shouting, 'Help! help! they are at hand. I hear their lelies.' It was while Margaret of Provence was in this unhappy state of mind, that a French knight, who was eighty years of age, but whose heart, in spite of his four score of years, still overflowed with chivalry, undertook the duty of guarding the door of her chamber night and day. 'Madam,' said he, 'be not alarmed. I am with you. Banish your fears.' 'Sir knight,' exclaimed the unhappy queen, throwing herself on her knees before him, 'I have a favour to ask. Promise that you will grant my request.' 'I swear, madam, that I will comply with your wishes,' replied the aged knight. 'Well, then,' said the queen; 'what I have to request is this, that if the Saracens should take the city, you, by the faith you have pledged, will rather cut off my head than suffer me to fall into their hands.' 'Madam,' replied the veteran chevalier, 'I had already resolved on doing what you have asked, in case the worst should befall.' CHAPTER XXIX. A WOUNDED PILGRIM. IT was long ere Walter Espec, struck down wounded and bleeding at Mansourah, recovered possession of his faculties sufficiently to recall the scenes through which he had passed or even to understand what was taking place around him. As time passed over, however, consciousness returned; and he one day became aware that he was stretched on a bed in a chamber somewhat luxuriously furnished, and tended by a woman advanced in years, who wore a gown of russet, and a wimple which gave her a conventual appearance. Walter raised his head, and was about to speak, when she suddenly left the room, and the squire was left to guess, as he best might, where and under whose care he was. He attempted to rise; but the effort was in vain. He put his hand to his head; but he found that his long locks of fair hair were gone. He tried to remember how he had got there; but, try as he might, his memory would not bring him farther down the stream of time, than the hour in which he fell at Mansourah. All the rest was a blank or a feverish dream of being rowed on a river by Saracen boatmen, and left at the portal of a house which he had never seen before. Gradually recalling all his adventures since he left the castle of Wark, he remembered and felt his hand for the amulet with which he had been gifted by King Louis when at Cyprus. The ring was there, and as Walter thought of the inscription he felt something like hope. But Walter was still weak from loss of blood and the fever which had been the consequence of wounds and exposure, and he soon sank into a slumber. When he again awoke to consciousness the woman in russet was standing near him, and conversing with a damsel whom Walter did not at first see, but whose tones, sweet and soft, manifested a strong interest in his recovery. 'He will yet live,' said the woman in russet, 'and rejoice we in it; for he is a young man; and to such life must needs be dear.' 'He will live,' repeated the girl, 'and our lady be praised therefor; for it is sweet to live.' 'In truth, noble demoiselle,' said the woman in russet, 'the youth owes much to your solicitude; but for your anxiety on his behalf, I hardly think he would have struggled through the fever. However, if you will remain and watch him for a brief space, I will attend to the commands of my lady the queen, and hasten to relieve you. Nay, it misbeseems not noble maiden to tend a wounded warrior, especially a soldier of the Cross; and, credit me, he will give you little trouble. He lies as quiet and calm as if he were in his shroud.' With these words the woman in russet departed; and the damsel, treading so softly that her footstep made not the slightest noise, moved about the room in silent thought, now turning to gaze on the wounded squire, now looking from the casement. Walter, now fully awake, began to experience a strong feeling of curiosity; and turning his head directed his gaze, not without interest, towards his youthful nurse. She was not more than sixteen, and still more beautiful than young. She had features exquisitely lovely in their delicacy and expression, deep blue eyes with long dark fringes, and dark brown hair which, according to the fashion of the period, was turned up behind and enclosed in a caul of network. Her form was already elegant in its proportions; but it inclined to be taller, and gave promise of great perfection. Her charms were set off by the mourning dress which she wore, and by the robe called the quintise, which was an upper tunic without sleeves, with bordered vandyking and scalloping worked and notched in various patterns, worn so long behind that it swept the floor, but in front held up gracefully with one hand so as not to impede the step. Walter was charmed, and a little astonished as his eye alighted on a face and form so fascinating; and, in spite of his prostration and utter weakness, he gazed on her with lively interest and some wonder. 'Holy Katherine!' exclaimed he to himself; 'what a lovely vision. I marvel who she is, and where I am; and, as he thus soliloquised, the girl turned round, and not without flutter and alarm perceived that he was awake and watching her. 'Noble demoiselle, heed me not;' said Walter earnestly, 'but rather tell me, since, if I understand aright, I owe my life to you--how am I ever sufficiently to prove my gratitude?' 'Ah, sir squire,' replied she, 'you err in supposing the debt to be on your side. It is I who owe you a life, and not you who owe a life to me; and,' added she, struggling to repress tears, 'my heart fills when I remember how you did for me, albeit a stranger, what, under the circumstances, no other being on earth would have ventured to do.' 'By Holy Katherine, noble demoiselle,' said Walter, wondering at her words; 'I should in truth deem it a high honour to have rendered such as you any service. But that is a merit which I cannot claim; for, until this hour, unless my memory deceives me, I never saw your face.' The countenance of the girl evinced disappointment, and the tears started to her eyes. 'Ah, sir, sir,' said she, with agitation; 'I am she whom, on the coast of Cyprus, you saved from the waves of the sea.' Walter's heart beat rather quick as he learned that it was Adeline de Brienne who stood before him; for, though her very face was unknown to him, her name had strangely mixed up with many of his day-dreams; and it was not without confusion that, after a pause, he continued the conversation. 'Pardon my ignorance, noble demoiselle,' said he, 'and vouchsafe, I pray you, to inform me where I now am; for I own to you that I am somewhat perplexed.' 'You are in Damietta.' 'In Damietta!' exclaimed Walter, astonished; 'and how came I to Damietta? My latest recollection is having been struck from my steed at Mansourah, after my lord, the Earl of Salisbury, and all the English warriors, had fallen before the weapons of the Saracens; and how I come to be in Damietta is more than I can guess.' 'Mayhap; but I can tell you,' said a frank hearty voice; and, as Walter started at the sound, Bisset, the English knight, stood before him; and Adeline de Brienne, not without casting a kindly look behind, vanished from the chamber. 'Wonder upon wonders,' cried Walter, as the knight took his hand; 'I am now more bewildered than before. Am I in Damietta, and do I see you, and in the body?' 'Even so,' replied Bisset; 'and for both circumstances we are wholly indebted to Beltran, the Christian renegade. He saved you from perishing at Mansourah, and conveyed you down the Nile, and brought you to the portal of this palace; and he came to me when I was at Minieh under a tree, sinking with fatigue, and in danger of bleeding to death; and he found the means of conveying me hither also; so I say that, were he ten times a renegade, he merits our gratitude.' 'Certes,' said Walter, 'and, methinks, also our prayers that his heart may be turned from the error of his ways, and that he may return to the faith which Christians hold.' 'Amen,' replied Bisset. 'But tell me, sir knight,' continued Walter, eagerly, what has happened, since that dreadful day, to the pilgrim army? and if you know aught of my brother-in-arms, Guy Muschamp?' 'Sir squire,' answered Bisset, sadly; 'for your first question, I grieve to say, that has come to pass which I too shrewdly predicted--all the boasting of the French has ended in disaster--the king and his nobles being prisoners, and most of the other pilgrims slain or drowned; and, for your second, as to Guy Muschamp, the English squire, who was a brave and gallant youth, I own I entertain hardly a doubt that, ere this, he is food for worms or fishes.' Walter Espec uttered an exclamation of horror, and, without another word, sank back on his pillow. CHAPTER XXX. ST. LOUIS IN CHAINS. WHEN King Louis was led away by the faithful Segrines, and when he was so exhausted that he had to be lifted from his steed and carried into a house, and when the Crusaders outside were in dismay and despair, Philip de Montfort entered the chamber where the saintly monarch was, and proposed to renew negotiations with the Saracens. 'Sire,' said De Montfort, 'I have just seen the emir with whom I formerly treated; and, so it be your good pleasure, I will seek him out, and demand a cessation of hostilities.' 'Go,' replied Louis; 'and, since it can no better be, promise to submit to the conditions on which the sultan formerly insisted.' Accordingly De Montfort went; and the Saracens, still fearing their foes, and remembering that the French held Damietta, agreed to treat. A truce was, indeed, on the point of being concluded. Montfort had given the emir a ring; the emir had taken off his turban, and their hands were about to meet; when a Frenchman, named Marcel, rushed in and spoiled all. 'Seigneurs,' said he, interrupting the conference, 'noble knights of France, surrender yourselves all! The king commands you by me. Do not cause him to be put to death.' On hearing this message, the emir withdrew his hand, returned De Montfort's ring, put on his turban, and intimated that the negotiation was at an end. 'God is powerful,' said he, 'and it is not customary to treat with beaten enemies.' And now it was that there ensued such a scene as Minieh had never witnessed. Almost as the negotiation ended, Louis was seized, violently handled and put in chains. Both the Count of Poictiers and the Count of Anjou were at the same time made prisoners; and the bulk of the warriors accompanying the king had scarcely the choice between surrender and death; for nothing, as has been said, but their hearts' blood would satisfy the vindictive cravings of their foes; and, when the king's captivity became known, many of those who had formerly been most intrepid, remained motionless and incapable of the slightest resistance. About the time when King Louis was put in chains, and when Bisset, the English knight, was endeavouring to escape death or rather captivity, the sultan arrived at Minieh, and, without any display of generosity for the vanquished, took measures for improving his victory to the utmost. The king and his brothers who, like himself, were bound hand and foot, were conducted in triumph to a boat of war. The oriflamme--that banner so long the pride of France--was now carried in mockery; the crosses and images, which the Crusaders had with them as symbols of their religious faith, were trampled scornfully under foot; and, with trumpets sounding and kettle-drums clashing, the royal captives were marched into Mansourah. It was to the house of Fakreddin Ben Lokman, the secretary of the sultan, that Louis was escorted; and, on arriving there, he was given into the custody of the Eunuch Sahil. But, abandoned by fortune, and in the power of his enemies, Louis was still himself. In chains and captivity he exhibited the dignity of a king and the resignation of a Christian, and his jailers could not refrain from expressing their astonishment at the serene patience with which he bore adversity. Of all his property, he had only saved his book of psalms; and daily, while consoling himself with reciting from its pages, he was inspired with strength and resolution to bear his misfortunes, and to raise his thoughts far above the malice of his foes. Meanwhile, at the court of the sultan, everything was not going smoothly. From the beginning, the emirs and Mamelukes had looked with envy and suspicion on the favourites brought by Touran Chah from Mesopotamia; and such feelings had not died away. Many of the favourites ere long were substituted for the ministers of the late sultan; and the emirs and Mamelukes not only complained loudly of this to Touran Chah, but reproached him bitterly for the way in which he disposed of the spoil of the Crusaders. 'How is this?' asked they; 'you are bestowing the spoils of the vanquished Franks, not on the men who have borne the burden of the war, but on men whose sole merit consists in having come from the banks of the Euphrates to the Nile.' Now, the sultan's favourites were not unaware of the unfriendly feeling with which they were regarded by the Mameluke chiefs. Indeed, they saw all the dangers of their position, and considered it politic, under the circumstances, to reduce the influence of the emirs and Mamelukes by bringing about a treaty with the Crusaders. 'In these people,' said they to the sultan, 'you have enemies far more dangerous than the Christians. Nothing will content them but reigning in your stead. They never cease to boast of their victories, as if they alone had conquered the Franks, and as if the God of Mahomet had not sent pestilence and famine to aid you in triumphing. But hasten to terminate the war, that you may strengthen your power within; and then you will be able to reign in reality.' As soon as Touran Chah was convinced that the emirs and Mamelukes entertained projects of ambition dangerous to his power, and that war was favourable to their designs, he resolved to show the chiefs how little he regarded their opinions; and, without even consulting them, he sent some of his favourites to the house of Lokman, and empowered them to treat with Louis. 'King,' said the ambassador, 'I come from the sultan, to inform you that he will restore you to liberty, on condition that you surrender to him the cities of Palestine now held by the Franks.' 'The cities of Palestine are not mine to give,' replied Louis, calmly; 'and I cannot pretend to dispose of them.' 'But beware of rashly refusing to submit to the sultan's terms,' said the ambassador; 'for you know not what may happen. He will send you to the caliph at Bagdad, who will imprison you for life; or he will cause you to be led throughout the East, to exhibit to all Asia a Christian king reduced to slavery.' 'I am the sultan's prisoner,' replied Louis, unmoved, 'and he can do with me what he pleases.' On hearing this answer, the ambassadors intimated their intention of employing personal violence; and, one of them having stamped three times with his foot, the Eunuch Sahil entered, followed by the jailers, bearing that frightful instrument of torture, known as 'the bernicles.' Now this terrible engine was made of pieces of wood pierced with holes, into which the legs of the criminal were put; and the holes were at so great a distance from each other, and could be forced to so great an extension, that the pain was about the most horrible that could be produced. Moreover, the holes being at various distances, the legs of the victim could be inserted into those that extended them to the greatest distance, and while the pain inflicted was more than flesh and blood could bear, means were, at the same time, used to break or dislocate all his small bones. It was an instrument of punishment reserved for the worst of criminals; and no torture was deemed so awful as that which it was capable of inflicting. 'What do you say to be put in this engine of punishment?' asked the ambassador, pointing significantly to the bernicles. 'I have already told you,' replied Louis, unmoved, 'that I am the sultan's prisoner, and that he can do with me as he pleases.' In fact, the courage of Louis was proof against any danger to his own person; and he held all the menaces of his captors so cheap, that they scarcely knew how to deal with him. At length, the sultan determined to propose terms more likely to be acceptable to the saint-king, and again sent ambassadors to his prison, with the object of bringing about a treaty. 'King,' said the ambassador, 'the sultan has sent to ask how much money you will give for your ransom, besides restoring Damietta?' 'In truth,' replied Louis, 'I scarcely know what answer to make; but, if the sultan will be contented with a reasonable sum, I will write to the queen to pay it for myself and my army.' 'But wherefore write to the queen, who is but a woman?' asked the ambassador somewhat surprised. 'She is my lady and companion,' answered Louis, even at that moment mindful of the principles of chivalry; 'and it is only reasonable that her consent should be obtained.' 'Well,' said the ambassador, 'if the queen will pay a million golden bezants, the sultan will set you free.' 'However,' said Louis, with dignity, 'I must tell you that, as King of France, I cannot be redeemed by money; but a million of bezants will be paid as the ransom of my army, and Damietta given up in exchange for my own freedom.' After some negotiations the terms were agreed to; and the sultan not only concluded the treaty joyfully, but expressed his admiration of the nobility of spirit which Louis had displayed. 'By my faith!' said Touran Chah to the ambassador, 'this Frenchman is generous and noble, seeing that he does not condescend to bargain about so large a sum of money, but instantly complies with the first demand. Go,' added the sultan, 'and tell him, from me, that I make him a present of a fifth of the sum, so that he will only have to pay four-fifths; and that I will command all the principal nobles and his great officers to be embarked in four of my largest galleys, and conducted safely to Damietta.' It was Thursday before the Feast of Ascension; and, while the King of France, and the Crusaders were conveyed down the Nile in galleys, Touran Chah travelled by land from Mansourah, in order to receive Damietta, and perform the conditions of peace. On reaching Pharescour, however, the sultan halted to dine with his chiefs; and, while the other Crusaders lay in their galleys on the river, the king and his brethren were invited to land, and received into a pavilion, where they had an interview with the sultan, when Saturday was appointed for the payment of the golden bezants and the surrender of Damietta. But long ere Saturday a terrible tragedy was to occur, and render Pharescour memorable as the scene of a deed of violence, startling both to Asia and Europe. Already, while the sultan held his interview with the King of France and the Counts of Poictiers and Anjou, everything was prepared; and soon after Touran Chah had left Louis and his brothers shut up in the pavilion, they were roused by loud shouts of distress and a mighty tumult; and, while they breathlessly asked each other whether the French captives were being massacred or Damietta taken by storm, in rushed twenty Saracens, their swords red and reeking with blood, and spots of blood on their vestments and their faces, stamping, threatening furiously, and uttering fierce cries. CHAPTER XXXI. THE TRAGEDY OF PHARESCOUR. AT Pharescour, on the margin of the Nile, the Sultan of Egypt had a remarkable palace. It appears to have been constructed of wood, and covered with cloth of brilliant colours. At the entrance was a pavilion, where the emirs and chiefs were in the habit of leaving their swords, when they had audience of the sultan; and beyond this pavilion was a handsome gateway which led to the great hall where the sultan feasted; and adjoining the great hall was a tower, by which the sultan ascended to his private apartments. Between the palace and the river was a spacious lawn, in which there was a tower, to which the sultan was wont to ascend when he wished to make observations on the surrounding country; and hard by was an alley which led towards the margin of the hill, and a summer-house formed of trellis-work and covered with Indian linen, where he frequently repaired for the purpose of bathing. The chroniclers of the period who write of the crusade of St. Louis fully describe this palace. Indeed, the appearance of the place was strongly impressed on the memory of the Crusaders. It was there that Touran Chah, when on his way from Mansourah to Damietta, halted to receive the congratulations of the Moslem chiefs on the victory that had been achieved over the Franks; there, in their company, he celebrated his triumph by a grand banquet; and there was enacted the terrible tragedy that exposed the surviving pilgrims to new dangers and fresh trials. By this time, indeed, the emirs and Mamelukes had become so exasperated at the elevation of the sultan's favourite courtiers that they vowed vengeance; and, in order to justify their project, they ascribed to him the most sinister designs. It was asserted that many of the emirs were doomed to die on a certain day; and that, in the midst of a nocturnal orgy, Touran Chah had cut off the tops of the flambeaux in his chamber, crying--'Thus shall fly the heads of all the Mamelukes.' In order to avenge herself for the neglect to which she was exposed under the new reign, Chegger Edour, the sultana who had played so important a part in the last days of Melikul Salih, exerted her eloquence to stimulate the discontent; and the emirs and Mamelukes, having formed a conspiracy, only awaited a convenient opportunity to complete their projects of vengeance at a blow. It was the day after his arrival at Pharescour, on which Touran Chah gave a banquet to the chiefs of his army; and, as it happened, the company comprised the Mamelukes and the emirs who were, or who deemed themselves, in danger. It would seem that everything went forward quietly and ceremoniously till the feast was ended, and the sultan rose to ascend to his chamber. Not a moment, however, was then lost. As soon as Touran Chah moved from table, Bibars Bendocdar, who carried the sultan's sword, struck the first blow, and instantly the others rushed furiously upon their destined victim. Touran Chah parried the blow of the Mameluke chief with his hand; but the weapon penetrated between two of his fingers and cut up his arm. 'My lords,' said he, taken by surprise; 'I make my complaint against this man, who has endeavoured to kill me.' 'Better that you should be slain than live to murder us, as you intend to do,' cried all present, with the exception of an envoy of the caliph, who had arrived from Bagdad, and appeared much terrified at the scene so suddenly presented. Touran Chah looked round him in amazement; and, as he did so, he was seized with terror. However, the instinct of self-preservation did not desert him. With a spring he bounded between the motionless guards, escaped into the lawn, took refuge in the tower, and looking from a window demanded of the conspirators what they really wanted; but they were not in a humour to spend time in talk. 'Come down,' cried they; 'you cannot escape us.' 'Assure me of safety, and I will willingly descend,' said the sultan. At this stage the envoy of the caliph, having mounted his horse, came forward as if to interfere; but the conspirators menaced him with instant death if he did not return to his tent, and, still keenly bent on completing their work of murder, ordered the sultan to come down. Touran Chah shook his head, as if declining the invitation. 'Fool,' cried the conspirators, scornfully, 'we have the means of compelling you to descend, or to meet a worse fate;' and without further parley they commenced assailing the tower with Greek fire. The Greek fire caught the cloth and timber, and immediately the whole was in a blaze. Touran Chah could no longer hesitate. One hope remained to him, namely to rush towards the Nile, to throw himself into the water, and to take refuge on board one of the vessels that he saw anchored near the shore. Accordingly he leaped from the blazing tower, with the intention of rushing across the lawn. But the toils were upon him. A nail having caught his mantle, he, after remaining for a moment suspended, fell to the ground. Instantly sabres and swords waved over him; and he clung in a supplicating posture to Octai, one of the captains of his guard; but Octai repulsed him with contempt. Nevertheless, the conspirators hesitated; and they were still hesitating, when Bibars Bendocdar, who was never troubled either with fears or scruples, and who, indeed, had struck the first blow, made a thrust so stern that the sword remained sticking fast between the ribs of the victim. Still resisting, however, the sultan contrived to drag himself to the Nile, with a hope of reaching the galleys from which the captive Crusaders witnessed the outrage; but some of the Mamelukes followed him into the water; and close to the galley in which the Lord of Joinville was, the heir of Saladin--the last of the Eioubites--died miserably. It was now that the Mamelukes rushed into the tent where Louis and his brothers were. 'King,' cried Octai, pointing to his bloody sword, 'Touran Chah is no more. What will you give me for having freed you from an enemy who meditated your destruction as well as ours?' Louis vouchsafed no reply. 'What!' cried the emir, furiously presenting the point of his sword; 'know you not that I am master of your person? Make me a knight, or thou art a dead man.' 'Make thyself a Christian, and I will make thee a knight,' said Louis, calmly. Rather cowed than otherwise with his reception, and with the demeanour of the royal captive, Octai retired; and the French king and his brothers once more breathed with as much freedom as men could under the circumstances. But they were not long left undisturbed. Scarcely had the Mameluke aspirant for knighthood disappeared when the tent was crowded with Saracens, who brandished their sabres and threatened Louis with destruction. 'Frenchman!' cried they, addressing the king, wildly and fiercely; 'art thou ignorant of thy danger, or what may be the fate that awaits thee? Pharescour is not Mansourah, as events may convince thee yet. Here thou mayest find a tomb instead of the house of Lokman, and the two terrible angels, Munkir and Nakir, instead of the Eunuch Sahil.' CHAPTER XXXII. PERILS AND SUSPENSE. THE Saracen chiefs, after having dyed their sabres in the blood of the sultan, did not confine their menaces and violent demonstrations to the tent in which the captive King of France was lodged. With swords drawn and battle-axes on their shoulders, thirty of them boarded the galley where Joinville was with the Count of Brittany, Sir Baldwin d'Ebelin, and the Constable of Cyprus, and menaced them with gestures and furious imprecations. 'I asked Sir Baldwin d'Ebelin,' writes Joinville, 'what they were saying; and he, understanding Saracenic, replied that they were come to cut off our heads, and shortly after I saw a large body of our men on board confessing themselves to a monk of La Trinité, who had accompanied the Count of Flanders. I no longer thought of any sin or evil I had done, but that I was about to receive my death. In consequence, I fell on my knees at the feet of one of them, and making the sign of the cross, said "Thus died St. Agnes." The Constable of Cyprus knelt beside me, and confessed himself to me, and I gave him such absolution as god was pleased to grant me the power of bestowing. But of all the things he had said to me, when I rose up I could not remember one of them.' 'We were confined in the hold of the galleys,' continues the chronicler, 'and laid heads and heels together. We thought it had been so ordered because they were afraid of attacking us in a body, and that they would destroy us one at a time. This danger lasted the whole night. I had my feet right on the face of the Count of Brittany, whose feet, in return, were beside my face. On the morrow we were taken out of the hold, and the emirs sent to inform us that we might renew the treaties we had made with the sultan.' 'So far, all seemed well. But the danger was not yet over, as the Crusaders were destined to feel. At first the form of the oaths to be taken by the king and the emirs presented much difficulty; and, even when it was settled, the emirs in council gravely discussed the propriety of putting the French king and his barons to death. Only one of them pleaded for keeping faith; and his voice would have been drowned in the clamour, but fortunately he used an argument which appealed irresistibly to their cupidity.' 'You may put these Franks to death if you will,' said he; 'but reflect ere doing so that dead men pay no ransom.' Nevertheless, it really seemed that after all the Crusaders were doomed; and while they were on board the galleys, and this discussion was proceeding, an incident occurred which caused them to give themselves up for lost. 'One of the emirs that were against us,' says Joinville, 'threatening we were to be slain, came to the bank of the river, and shouted out in Saracen to those who were on board our galley, and, taking off his turban, made signs, and told them they were to carry us back to Babylon. The anchors were instantly raised, and we were carried a good league up the river. This caused great grief to all of us, and many tears fell from our eyes, for we now expected nothing but death.' And what in the meantime was taking place in Damietta? Nothing in truth could have exceeded the anxiety which prevailed within the walls of that city, when thither were carried tidings of the assassination of the Sultan of Egypt, and of the new danger to which the King of France and the captive Crusaders were exposed. The aspect of affairs was indeed menacing; and it was not till messengers from King Louis came to announce that the treaty was to be maintained and the city evacuated, that something like confidence was restored. On the evening of Friday, Queen Margaret, with the Countesses of Anjou, Poictiers, and Artois, and the other ladies, went on board a Genoese vessel. As night advanced, Oliver de Thermes and all the Crusaders who had garrisoned Damietta embarked on the Nile, and Geoffrey de Segrines, having brought the keys to the emirs, the Saracens took possession. Next morning at daybreak the Moslem standards were floating over tower and turret. But still King Louis was in the hands of his enemies, and still the emirs were debating whether or not they ought to put him and the companions of his captivity to death. At the mouth of the Nile, a Genoese galley awaited the king; and, while every eye was strained towards the shore with an anxiety which was not without cause, Walter Espec and Bisset, the English knight, stood on deck in no enviable frame of mind. 'I mislike all this delay,' said Walter, more agitated than he was wont to appear. 'What if, after all, these emirs should prove false to their covenant?' 'In truth,' replied Bisset, 'it would not amaze me so much as many things that have come to pass of late; and both the king and his nobles may yet find to their cost that their hopes of freedom are dashed; for we all know the truth of the proverb as to there being so much between the cup and the lip.' At this moment they observed the galleys, on board of which Joinville and other captive Crusaders were, move up the Nile, and each uttered an exclamation of horror. 'Now may Holy Katherine be our aid,' cried Walter, 'for our worst anticipations are like to be realised.' 'The saints forbid,' replied Bisset; 'and yet I am not so hopeful as I might be, for I have long since learned not to holloa till out of the wood.' It was indeed a critical moment for Louis and his nobles; but in the council of the emirs the milder views ultimately prevailed, and Bisset and Walter Espec observed with delight that the galleys which had moved up the Nile were brought back towards Damietta, and that Louis, attended by a multitude of Saracens who watched his movements in silence, was approaching. Immediately the Genoese galley moved towards the shore, and Louis, having been joined by the Count of Anjou and the Lord of Joinville, stepped on board, while the other knights and nobles hastened to embark in the vessels that lay in wait for them. As soon as the king was on board, Bisset made a signal; and, as he did so, eighty archers with their crossbows strung appeared on deck so suddenly that the crowd of Saracens who had been pressing forward immediately dispersed in alarm, and the galley moved from the shore. Ere long, the Count of Poictiers, who had remained as a hostage in Damietta till the ransom of the Crusaders was paid, came on board; and, all being now in readiness for leaving the place where he had experienced so many misfortunes and so much misery, the saint-king made a sign to the mariners, the sails were given to the wind, and the fleet of the armed pilgrims--the wreck of a brilliant army--glided away towards Syria. But thousands of the survivors still remained in captivity, and, albeit Louis was conscientiously bent on ransoming them, their prospect was gloomy, and the thought of their unhappy plight clouded the saint-king's brow. And sad was the heart of Walter Espec, as he recalled the day when he landed at Damietta side by side with Guy Muschamp; and for the hundredth time asked himself mournfully whether his brother-in-arms had died for his faith, or whether a worse fate had befallen him. But why linger on the Egyptian shore amid scenes suggestive of reminiscences so melancholy and so dismal--reminiscences of misfortunes and calamities and losses not to be repaired? Let us on to the Syrian coast, and gladden our eyes with a sight of the white walls of Acre, washed by the blue waters of the Mediterranean. CHAPTER XXXIII. ACRE. AT the time when King Louis, sad but unsubdued, left Damietta and steered for the Syrian coast, Acre, situated on a promontory at the foot of Mount Carmel and washed by the blue waters of the Mediterranean, was a place of great strength, and renowned throughout Christendom for riches and splendour. For a long period previous to its destruction by the Mameluke Sultan--indeed, from the time of the seizure of Jerusalem by Saladin the Great--Acre was regarded as of higher importance than any city in the Christian kingdom of which Jerusalem had been the metropolis; and thither, when driven from other towns which they had called their own in the days of Godfrey and the Baldwins, most of the Christians carried such wealth as they could save from the grasp of sultans and emirs. Acre had, in fact, come to be regarded as the capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and by far the finest of the cities in Syria. Naturally enough, a capital so wealthy was rather tempting to men bent on conquest. But Acre had the advantage of being strongly fortified. On the land side it was surrounded by a double wall, with towers and battlements, and a broad and deep ditch, which prevented access to its ramparts, and towards the sea by a fortress at the entrance of the harbour, by the castle of the Templars, and by a stronghold known as 'The King's Tower;' and on the whole, the fortifications were such that no foe, not even such as Bibars Bendocdar, could have calculated on finding the place an easy prey. Nor could the aspect of the city seem otherwise than strange and picturesque to such of the armed pilgrims as landed with the saint-king beneath its white walls, washed by the blue waters of the Mediterranean. The interior was chiefly occupied by the houses of traders and artisans; but, between the two ramparts that defended the city on the east, stood the castles and palaces of the King of Cyprus, the Prince of Antioch, the representatives of France and Germany, and other men of high rank. The houses were built of square stones, all rising to an equal height; and most of them were surrounded with a terrace; and inside they were luxurious and resplendent, and lighted with windows of painted glass, which modified the glare of the oriental sun. Even the greatest kings in Europe could boast of nothing to compare with the pictures and marbles and rich furniture which the mansions of the magnates of Acre presented to the eyes of the weary and desponding Crusaders. And Acre was not without busy life and striking ceremonies to give variety to the scene. The port was crowded with ships from Europe and Asia; the warehouses were stored with merchandise; the market-place was lively with bustle and excitement; monks, sailors, pirates, pilgrims, merchants, and warriors appeared in the streets; the squares and public places were screened from the heat by silken coverings; and there on certain days the magnates of the city, wearing golden crowns and vestments glittering with precious stones, walked to show themselves to the people, attended by splendid trains composed of men varying in language and manners, but unfortunately separated by jealousies and rivalries that frequently led to riot and bloodshed. Around Acre, the country was fertile and fair to the eye of the gazer. Outside the walls were beautiful gardens where the citizens were wont to repair for recreation; and farther away groves and pleasure houses, and scattered villages and orchards, gave variety to the landscape. Such was Acre when King Louis landed there with his queen and the remains of his once brilliant army; and when Walter Espec, penniless and pensive, but still hoping to hear tidings of his lost brother, leapt ashore with Bisset the English knight, and returned thanks to heaven for having escaped from the power of the Saracens and the perils of the sea. 'Sir knight,' said Walter, who was in a desponding mood, 'we have now, thanks be to God reached a place of safety; and yet, beshrew me if my heart does not fail me; for we are in a strange land, without money, without horses, almost without raiment befitting our rank.' 'In truth,' replied the knight, 'I own that our plight is not enviable. But it is not desperate. Still I am in the service of King Louis, and have claims which he cannot disregard; and, credit me, a king's name is a tower of strength. As for you, for lack of a more potent protector, attach yourself to me as squire, and we can struggle together against adverse fortune. So droop not, but take courage, my brave Englishman; and we will, with the aid of God and our lady, so contrive to make the best of our circumstances as to turn matters to our advantage.' CHAPTER XXXIV. A RESCUE. WALTER Espec, albeit since leaving England he had enacted the part of squire to two of the foremost earls in Christendom, was too much in need of a protector not to accept Bisset's offer with gratitude; and the English knight exercised his influence with such effect that both of them were soon provided with horses and raiment befitting their rank, and made a creditable figure among the Crusaders who thronged Acre. Indeed Walter, having now quite recovered from his illness, attracted much notice, and won the reputation of being one of the handsomest Englishmen who had ever appeared in the Syrian city. Nevertheless, Walter was gloomy and despondent. All his enquiries after Osbert, his lost brother, resulted in disappointment. Guy Muschamp he regarded as one to be numbered with the dead; and Adeline de Brienne, who since their unexpected meeting at Damietta, where in days of dismay and danger they had conversed on equal terms, was now, as the grand-daughter of a King of Jerusalem, treated as a princess, and moved in too high a sphere to be approached by a simple squire. At first he was astonished to find that they were separated by so wide a gulf, and the Espec pride made him almost disdainful. Still, the fair demoiselle was present in all his visions by day and his dreams by night; and while consoling himself with building castles in the air when he was to reside in baronial state with her as his 'lady and companion,' he was under the necessity of contenting himself in the meantime with worshipping at a distance, as an Indian pays homage to his star. Ere long, however, fortune, which had ever been friendly to Walter, gave him an opportunity of acquiring a new claim on Adeline's gratitude. It was about St. John the Baptist's day, in the year 1251, and the King of France, having undertaken an expedition against the Saracens, was at Joppa, while the queen and the ladies of the Crusade remained at Acre, which was garrisoned by a large body of infantry under the command of the Constable of Jerusalem, and a small party of cavalry under Bisset, whose courage and prowess still, in spite of his recklessness, made him a favourite with the royal saint. No danger, however, appeared to threaten the city. The citizens were occupying themselves as usual; and some of the ladies had gone to walk in the gardens outside the gate, when suddenly a body of Saracens, who had marched from Joppa, presented themselves before the walls, and sent to inform the constable that if he did not give them fifty thousand bezants by way of tribute, they would destroy the gardens. The threat was alarming, but the constable replied that he would give them nothing; and having sent a young knight of Genoa to order them off, he left the city and marched to the mount, where was the churchyard of St. Nicholas, to defend the gardens; while bowmen posted between them and the town kept up a brisk discharge of arrows, and Bisset at the head of a band of horsemen, attended by Walter Espec, charged forward and skirmished with the Saracens so as to retard their approach. Nevertheless, the Saracens continued to advance, and the Christian magnates who had been walking in the squares came to the battlements, and with anxiety on their faces watched the feats of arms that were performed, and especially those wrought by the young knight of Genoa. Meanwhile Bisset and Walter Espec, while skirmishing with the Saracens, skirted their lines and made a circuit of the garden with the object of defending a gate by which it was feared an entrance might be effected. And in truth they found they had come too late to prevent the evil that was apprehended. Just as they approached their ears were hailed with loud cries of 'Help! help!' and to their horror they perceived that ten or twelve Saracens, well mounted, were issuing from the garden, one of whom was forcibly carrying off a lady without regard to her screams or her struggles. 'In the name of wonder!' said Bisset, staring in amaze, 'what is this I see?' 'By Holy Katherine!' exclaimed Walter wildly, 'the pagan dogs are carrying off a lady, and she is no other than Adeline de Brienne. To the rescue, sir knight! to the rescue!' 'Hold,' cried Bisset, 'or you will ruin all. See you not that their horses are swifter than ours, and we must go cunningly to work? Patience, Walter, patience. We must make a circuit and intercept them, without their being aware that we are in pursuit.' Walter's blood boiled; his head seemed about to turn; and, in spite of the knight's admonition, he could hardly restrain his impetuosity as he saw the Saracens making off with their prize. Bisset, however, was calm, but, as usual, resolute; and it was not till he had posted part of his cavalry at the gate to prevent further intrusions that, at the head of half-a-dozen horsemen, he deliberately went in pursuit, and in such a direction that the Saracens had no suspicions that they were pursued. Indeed, they deemed themselves so secure that they gradually slackened their pace, and at length halted while two of their number rode back to ascertain the result of the combat that was taking place before Acre. And what was the state of affairs before the city? 'As the Genoese knight was retiring with his body of infantry,' says Joinville, 'a Saracen suddenly moved by his courage came boldly up to him, and said in his Saracenic tongue that if he pleased he would tilt with him. The knight answered with pride that he would receive him; but, when he was on the point of beginning his course, he perceived on his left hand eight or nine Saracens, who had halted there to see the event of the tournament. The knight, therefore, instead of directing his course towards the Saracen who had offered to tilt with him, made for this troop, and, striking one of them with his lance, pierced his body through and killed him on the spot. He then retreated to our men, pursued by the other Saracens, one of whom gave him a heavy blow on his helmet with a battle-axe. In return, the knight struck the Saracen so severely on the head that he made his turban fly off. Another Saracen thought to give the knight a mortal blow with his Turkish blade, but he twisted his body in such wise that it missed him, and the knight, by a back-hand blow on the Saracen's arm, made his sword fall to the ground, and then made a good retreat with the infantry. These three famous actions did the Genoese knight perform in the presence of the constable, and before all the principal persons of the town who were assembled on the battlements.' Nevertheless, the Saracens advanced with 'fierce faces threatening war,' when suddenly a band of those military monks who at the cry of battle armed 'with faith within and steel without,' and long white mantles over their chain mail, spurred with lances erect from the Castle of St. Katherine near the gate of St. Anthony, and, interposing between the Saracens and the city, formed a barrier that seemed impenetrable. They were the knights of the Order of St. Katherine of Mount Sinai, an Order instituted in honour of that saint in 1063, and bearing on their snowy mantles the instruments by which she suffered martyrdom--the half were armed with spikes and traversed by a sword stained with blood. The Saracens halted in surprise at the sight of the Knights of St. Katherine, who were supposed at the time to be at the Castle of Kakhow; and, as if to provoke a conflict that they might have the satisfaction of conquering, one of the warrior monks, who seemed very young, at a signal from the marshal of the Order left his companions, and spurring gallantly forward, with marvellous skill unhorsed two of the Saracens without breaking his lance. On this, the leader of the Saracens, perceiving that the knight was alone, rode forward to meet him; but the youth charged him so fiercely that he was fain to retreat desperately wounded, and then returned leisurely to his comrades. After some hesitation the Saracens withdrew, and the Knights of St. Katherine rode calmly back to their castle. And now let us follow Bisset and Walter Espec. About the distance of a league from Acre is a place which was then known as Passe-Poulain, where, shaded by foliage, were many beautiful springs of water, with which the sugar-canes were irrigated. It was at Passe-Poulain that the Saracens who carried off Adeline de Brienne halted to await the report of their comrades, and, little thinking of their danger, dismounted to quench their thirst and rest their steeds; the Saracen who had charge of the damsel alone remaining on horseback, and tenaciously keeping hold of his prize. Suddenly all of them started in surprise; for one of the horses raised his head and neighed; and the Saracens had scarcely ceased their conversation and begun to listen, when, with loud shouts of 'Holy cross!' Bisset and his riders emerged from the foliage and dashed in amongst them. Resistance was vain, but the Saracens turned to bay, and a bloody fray, in which Bisset's axe did terrible execution, was the consequence. Only one attempted to escape,--he who had before him on his saddle the almost lifeless form of Adeline de Brienne; and after him Walter Espec, his sword drawn and his spur in his horse's flank, rode with furious shouts. [Illustration: "Be of good cheer, noble Demoiselle," said Walter, "you are saved."--p. 220.] It was a keen chase, both flyer and pursuer urging their steeds to the utmost; and under ordinary circumstances the Saracen would have escaped; but, hampered with his burden, and unable to exert his equestrian skill, he soon found that his pursuer was gaining on him rapidly, and turned to take the chance of an encounter. Fearful of hurting the damsel, but perceiving that even this must be hazarded, Walter met him in full course; and, exercising all his art in arms to elude a blow fiercely aimed at him, he dealt one on the Saracen's turban, which stretched the eastern warrior lifeless on the ground, and then leaping from his steed, quick as thought caught the form of the half-fainting maiden just as she was falling. 'Be of good cheer, noble demoiselle,' said Walter. 'You are saved.' But Adeline de Brienne did not reply. She had fainted; and Walter, taking her in his strong arms, bore her tenderly to one of the springs of water, and was gradually bringing her back to consciousness when Bisset and his riders, having routed the other Saracens, came up in doubt as to the issue of the chase. Having succeeded in restoring the damsel, they placed her on Walter's steed, and, the squire leading her rein, conducted her to Acre. 'On my faith, sir squire,' said Bisset with a smile of peculiar significance, as Walter unbuckled his armour, 'I marvel at your good fortune in regard to the noble demoiselle, and perceive that I was right in saying that you had been born with luck on your side. A few more such exploits, and you will be known to fame.' 'At all events, sir knight,' replied Walter, trying not to appear too much elated, 'we can lay ourselves down to rest to-night with all the better conscience that we have this day performed an action worthy of minstrels' praise.' 'Marry,' exclaimed Bisset seriously, 'I look to deriving from this adventure some benefit more substantial than a sound sleep or minstrels' flattery; and, to speak truth, I am somewhat weary of this saint-king and this purposeless Crusade, and would fain go to aid the Emperor of Constantinople against the Greeks and the Turks; and Baldwin de Courtenay could not but accord a favourable reception to warriors who had saved his kinswoman from the Saracens. What thinkest thou of a movement to Constantinople?' Walter mused, but did not answer. CHAPTER XXXV. MISSION TO BAGDAD. AFTER the assassination of Touran Chah at Pharescour, the Mamelukes were very much at a loss on whom to bestow the crown so long worn by the chiefs of this family of Saladin. In their perplexity they elevated Chegger Edour to the throne, and proclaimed her 'Queen of the Mussulmen.' But the affairs of the sultana did not go smoothly. Moslems were aroused at the elevation of a woman to sovereignty; and the Caliph of Bagdad, when asked to send the rich robe which the caliphs were in the habit of sending by way of investiture to the Sultans of Egypt, demanded with indignation if a man capable of reigning could no longer be found. Every day the confusion increased and the troubles multiplied. In order to make matters more pleasant, the sultana associated a Mameluke named Turcoman with her in the government, and even condescended so far as to unite herself with him in marriage. But the aspect of affairs became gradually more alarming, and Chegger Edour, yielding to the prevailing discontent, abdicated in favour of her husband. Turcoman, however, found that his crown was somewhat thorny; and at a critical period he aroused the jealousy of his wife by aspiring to wed an oriental princess. The sultana vowed vengeance, and hastened to execute it by causing Turcoman to be assassinated in his bath. One night an emir, hastily summoned to the palace, found Chegger Edour seated on a couch with her feet resting on the dead body of her husband. The emir uttered an exclamation of horror; but she calmly stated that she had sent for him to offer her hand and her crown. The emir fled in terror, and next day the mother of the murdered man had the sultana put to death by her slaves, and caused her corpse to be thrown into a ditch. A Mameluke named Koutouz was now elevated to the throne, and signalised himself by a victory over the Moguls or Tartars, hordes of wandering warriors who were now making themselves terrible both to Europe and Asia. Unfortunately for Koutouz, however, he at that time renewed a truce with the Christians of Syria, and raised the anger of his soldiers to such a height that his death was decreed. Accordingly, one day, when he had ridden out from Sallhie to hunt, a Mameluke chief suddenly spurred into the camp, his garments stained with blood. 'I have slain the sultan,' said he. 'Well, then, reign in his stead,' replied the bystanders. The Mameluke chief was Bibars Bendocdar; and, having been proclaimed as successor to the man he had murdered, he ascended the throne, and, as sultan of Egypt and Syria, began to govern with despotic power. Meanwhile, Louis was anxious to redeem from captivity the Crusaders who had been left in Egypt, and sent ambassadors to Cairo with the money that had been agreed on as their ransom. But the ambassadors could hardly get a hearing. At length they did obtain the release of four hundred of the Christian prisoners, most of whom had paid their own ransom; but when they pressed for the liberation of the others, they were plainly told that the King of France might deem himself fortunate that he had regained his own liberty; and that if he gave more trouble, he might expect the Mamelukes to besiege him at Acre. On hearing this Louis was much perplexed, and consulted his nobles, especially the Lord of Joinville. 'Sire,' said Joinville, after some consideration, 'this is a serious question, and one not to be hastily disposed of; for I remember that when I was on the eve of leaving home, my cousin, the Seigneur de Bollaincourt, said to me, "Now you are going beyond the seas, but take care how you return; no knight, either rich or poor, can come back without shame, if he leaves behind him, in the hands of the Saracens, any of the common people who leave home in his company." Now,' added the seneschal, 'these unhappy captives were in the service of the king, as well as the service of God, and never can they escape from captivity if the king should abandon them.' On hearing this Louis was more perplexed than ever. In his anxiety, however, he bethought him of the caliph, and resolved, great as was the distance, to send ambassadors to Bagdad, where reigned Musteazem the Miser, the thirty-seventh of his dynasty. Now, albeit Moslems were in the habit of paying great reverence to the caliph as the successor of Mahomet, he exercised very little substantial power over the fierce warriors who fought for Islamism. Nor, indeed, had the history of the caliphate been such as to add to the sacredness of the office, or to increase the superstitious veneration with which it was regarded. For several centuries, the East witnessed the spectacle of rival caliphs, both professing to be the representatives of the prophet, and each claiming all the privileges attaching to the character. The rivals were known as the Fatimites and the Abassides. The Fatimites claimed the caliphate as being the heirs of Ali, Mahomet's son-in-law, and established their throne at Cairo. The Abassides, who were Mahomet's male heirs, maintained their state at Bagdad. At length, in 1170, the struggle for supremacy was terminated by Saladin the Great, who killed the Caliph of Cairo with his mace, and rendered the Caliph of Bagdad undisputed chief of all Moslems; and, from that time, the Abassides, though sunk in effeminacy, and much given to sensual indulgences, continued to exercise their vague privileges and their shadowy authority. Nevertheless, King Louis, bent on obtaining the relief of the captive Crusaders, despatched ambassadors to Bagdad to treat with the caliph. The ambassadors were a Templar, and Bisset the English knight; and with them, in their train, went Walter Espec, now, at length, hopeful of ascertaining something about his brother's fate. It was not without encountering considerable danger, and having to endure much fatigue, that the Templar and the English knight, under the guidance of Beltran the renegade, who had opportunely appeared at Acre, and whom Bisset had pressed into the service, traversed the country; and, after many days' travel, drew nigh to the capital of the caliphate, which had been built, in the eighth century, by Al Mansour, one of the Abasside caliphs, out of the ruins of Ctesiphon, and afterwards enlarged and adorned by Haroun Alraschid, the great caliph of his dynasty. But the journey had not been without its novelty and excitement; and Walter Espec was riding by the side of Beltran the renegade, towards whom, in spite of his prejudices as a Crusader, he felt the gratitude due to a man who had saved his life, when he was cut down at Mansourah. At present he was much interested with the account given by the renegade of the ostriches or camel-birds, and eager to learn how they were hunted. 'And so, good Beltran,' said he, 'you have actually hunted this bird, whose height is gigantic, whose cry at a distance resembles the lion's, and which is to be found in parched and desolate tracts, deserted even by antelopes and beasts of prey.' 'In truth have I,' replied Beltran. 'I envy you,' said Walter; 'nothing would please me more than such an enterprise.' 'Nevertheless,' rejoined the renegade, 'it is somewhat irksome, and requires much patience. But the Arabs have a proverb, that patience is the price that must be paid for all success, and act accordingly. They have horses trained for the purpose; and, when they first start the ostrich, they go off at an easy gallop, so as to keep the bird in view, without going so near as to alarm it. On discovering that it is pursued, the ostrich begins to move away, gently at first, but gradually increasing its speed, running with wings extended, as if flying, and keeps doubling. It generally takes two days to run one down; but the hunter gets the best of the race at last; and, when the ostrich finds itself exhausted and beaten, it buries its head in the sand; and the hunters, coming up, kill it with their clubs, taking care not to spoil the feathers.' 'On my faith,' said Walter, 'I do own that such a pursuit would be irksome; and I hardly think that my patience would brook so much delay.' 'However,' said Beltran, suddenly raising his hand and pointing forward, 'there lies before you the city of the caliph.' Bagdad, as the reader may be aware, is situated on the Tigris, at the distance of two hundred miles above the junction of that river with the Euphrates, and the Tigris is here about six hundred feet in breadth. The city, which is of an oblong shape, and of which the streets are so narrow that not more than two horsemen can ride abreast, is surrounded with a high wall, flanked with towers, some of an immense size, built by the early caliphs; and several old buildings remain to attest its ancient magnificence--such as the Gate of the Talisman, a lofty minaret, built in 785; the tomb of Zobeida, the most beloved of the wives of Haroun Alraschid; and the famous Madressa College, founded in 1233 by the Caliph Mustenatser. No traces, however, are left of the palace so long inhabited by the caliphs; nor does anything mark the place where, though its glory was about to depart, it still stood in all its pride, with the black banner of the Abassides floating over its portals, when the ambassadors of St. Louis reached Bagdad, and craved an audience of the heir of the prophet. It was a sight to impress even men accustomed to the wealth and splendour of Acre; and they thanked God for having conducted them in safety to a place where there was a prospect of food and rest. But Walter Espec was not thinking of such things; his whole mind was occupied with the question, whether or not his lost brother was a captive within these walls. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAST OF THE CALIPHS. ASTONISHED as the Caliph Musteazem might be at the audacity which prompted a Frankish king to send ambassadors to the heir of the prophet, he did not venture to decline receiving the message of a prince who so recently had threatened the empire of Egypt with destruction, and might have the power of doing so again. Besides, Musteazem was not in the most celestial humour with the Mamelukes, who seemed inclined to defy his and every other person's authority; and, on hearing that the result of all the disorders and revolutions had been the elevation of Bibars Bendocdar to the throne of Saladin, he remarked, in homely oriental phrase, 'when the pot boils, the scum rises to the top.' Above all, Musteazem was a miser, and covetous to the last degree; and when it was explained to him by his grand vizier, whom the Templar had already bribed with a purse of gold, that the King of France was liberal in money matters, and was ready to pay handsomely for the ransom of his captive countrymen, the caliph's ruling passion prevailed--his avarice got the better of his dignity; and, without farther words, he consented to grant an audience to the Franks. Meanwhile, the ambassadors and their attendants were admitted within the gates of the palace, and conducted into an immense garden, there to wait till suitable apartments were assigned them. And this garden made them stare with wonder; its regal magnificence was so surprising as to make them start and stop simultaneously, and to make Bisset exclaim-- 'Of a truth, the lines of this pope of the infidels have fallen in pleasant places. None of King Henry's palaces can boast of anything like this. Surely it must be the terrestrial paradise.' Now, this garden might well surprise the ambassadors. In the centre was a kiosk of the richest architecture, constructed entirely of marble and alabaster, with an arcade composed of countless marble pillars. In the court was a marble reservoir, surrounded with marble balustrades, which at each angle opened on a flight of stairs, guarded by lions and crocodiles sculptured of white marble; and alabaster baths with taps of gold. On one side of the garden was a large aviary; on the other a huge elephant, chained to a tree. The walks were set in mosaic of coloured pebbles, in all kinds of fanciful patterns; and around were groves, bowers, arbours, and trellis-covered paths, with streams, fountains, hedges of box and myrtle, flowers, cypresses, odoriferous plants, and trees groaning under the weight of lemons, oranges, citrons, and fruit in great variety. It was more like such a scene as magicians are supposed to conjure up, than reality; and the Crusaders gazed for a while with silent admiration. 'On my faith,' said Bisset, at length breaking the silence, 'this is marvellous to behold; and yet, had I the ear of the pope of the infidels, I should recommend an addition which would be to the purpose. I mean such a statue of the goddess Minerva as once stood in the great square of Constantinople.' 'And wherefore?' 'Because Minerva is the goddess who presides over prudence and valour; and my eyes have deceived me if, in this city, there is not a lack of both. Marked you not, as we rode along, that the place is well nigh without defences and fighting men; and think you that, with such spoil in prospect, the Mamelukes, not to mention the Moguls, would hesitate about seizing it?' 'You err,' replied the Templar: 'the caliph, as you say, is the pope of the infidels, and the Mamelukes hold everything he possesses as sacred.' 'So did they last century,' remarked Bisset, elevating his shoulders; 'and yet Saladin killed a caliph with his mace; and as for the Moguls, you know they are almost Christians, and Father Rubruquis is now in Tartary, completing their conversion. Beshrew me, sir Templar, if I deem not this caliph foolhardy to run the risk of being attacked, without fighting men to defend him.' As the English knight spoke, an officer of the caliph appeared to conduct the ambassadors to their lodgings; and they, having refreshed themselves with the bath, and with food, were invited by the grand vizier to repair to the presence of the caliph. It was not, however, without much ceremony, and some mystery, that the Templar and the English knight were admitted into the interior of a palace within whose precincts no Christian, save as a captive, had ever before set foot. First, they were guided through dark passages, guarded by armed Ethiopians, and then into open courts so richly and beautifully adorned, that they could not refrain from expressing their admiration. 'Certes,' exclaimed Bisset, halting, 'the caliph must, of all princes, be the richest; and I should not much marvel to hear that he had discovered the philosopher's stone, which turns everything into gold, and of which my countryman, Roger Bacon, is said to be in search. Nevertheless, he does not seem to have studied the Roman poet, who tells us that treasure is hardly worth having, unless it is properly used.' 'In truth, sir knight,' said the Templar, 'the farther we go, the greater is the splendour and state.' At length the ambassadors reached a magnificent chamber, where the caliph awaited them. At first, however, he was concealed from them by a curtain wrought with pearls. But the grand vizier thrice prostrated himself to the ground; and, as he did so, the traverse was drawn aside, and the caliph appeared arrayed in gorgeous robes, seated on a throne of gold, and surrounded by his eunuchs, who seemed both surprised and grieved to see Christians in that place and presence. And now the grand vizier kissed the caliph's hand, and, presenting the ambassadors, explained their errand. A long conversation, which was carried on chiefly by the Templar and the grand vizier, followed; and the caliph having expressed his willingness to treat, the grand vizier desired him, in token of his good faith, to give the ambassadors his hand. Musteazem, however, shook his head, to indicate that he was not prepared to derogate so far from his dignity. At length, after some persuasion, he consented to give them his hand, gloved. 'That will do,' said the grand vizier. 'I fear not,' replied the Templar, hesitating. 'Sir,' said Bisset, addressing the caliph--for by this time the English knight had recovered all his reckless audacity, and felt quite as much at home as if he had been in the palace of Westminster, and speaking to the good King Henry--'truth makes no holes to hide herself in; and princes, if they will covenant, must deal fairly and openly. Give us, therefore, your hand, if you mean to treat; we will make no bargains with your glove.' But the caliph, still unsatisfied, stood upon his dignity, and refused to be persuaded. However, at the instance of the grand vizier, he consented to consider the subject, and promise the ambassadors another audience on the morrow. But who can tell what a day may bring forth? Ere the morrow, an event occurred which raised more important questions than whether he could, without degradation, give his ungloved hand to a Templar and an English knight. CHAPTER XXXVII. A RECOGNITION. WHEN the Templar and the English knight left the lodgings that had been assigned to them in the palace of Bagdad to enter the presence of the caliph, and were honoured with the audience described, Walter Espec, excited by the novelty of his situation, thinking of his lost brother, and bearing in mind that he had a mission to accomplish, strolled, heedless of rules or regulations, into the garden of the palace, and took his way along one of the walks, set in mosaic-coloured pebbles, towards the kiosk. He had not proceeded far, however, when he perceived, coming from the opposite direction, six youths, apparently about his own age. All were so fettered as to be impeded in their walking, and seemed to be under the charge of an aged Saracen, who, in his turban and flowing robes, looked a most venerable personage. 'Christian captives, as I live,' muttered Walter, compassionately. Of the six youths, five paced moodily along, with their eyes bent sadly on the ground; the sixth neither seemed sad, nor had his eyes bent on the ground, but held his head aloft with the air of one whom circumstances could not depress; and Walter felt his heart beat and his brain whirl, and stopped suddenly, with an exclamation of surprise, as in this youth he recognised an old acquaintance. Immediately it appeared that the recognition was mutual. Indeed, the captive no sooner observed Walter than, disregarding the remonstrances of the old Saracen, and forgetful for the moment of his chains, he broke away from his companions, and hobbling, not without danger of a fall, fairly flung himself into the Boy Crusader's arms. 'Oh, good Walter,' exclaimed he, 'what a surprise! The idea of your being here, and at a time when they are threatening to put me to death because I will not embrace the filthy religion of their false prophet. But, thanks to our lady the Virgin, I now feel that I am saved.' 'In truth, brave Guy,' replied Walter, much affected, 'you are saved, if my efforts can save you. I have mourned for you as for one dead; and I swear by holy Katherine, who hath preserved me miraculously through manifold dangers, that if I fail I remain to share your fate, for weal or for woe. But how came you hither?' 'By St. John of Beverley,' answered Guy, 'not with my own goodwill, as you may swear on the Evangelists. I was dragged out of the galley of the Lord of Joinville, and, with my hands chained behind my back, I was, in that base, unworthy plight, led captive to Cairo; and, when the Mamelukes killed their sultan, and the sultana, that dark-eyed woman, who outdoes Jezebel in wickedness, wished to propitiate the caliph, she sent me and five other Christian prisoners whom you see as a peace-offering. And so,' added Guy, looking down at his fetters, 'here you see me, an Anglo-Norman gentleman, of great name, in captivity and chains, and threatened with a cruel death; which, however, I would fain escape; for, tempting as may be the prospect of the crown of martyrdom, beshrew me, good Walter, if at my age I deem not life too sweet to part with willingly.' And in spite of his fetters and his perilous plight, Guy looked as blithe and gay as he was wont to do in the tiltyard of the castle of Wark. 'By the Holy Cross,' said Walter, gravely, 'I cannot pretend to make light of the business; and yet I am not without hope; for a Templar, and Bisset, the stout knight whom I now serve, have come from the good King Louis as ambassadors to the caliph, and they will not fail you. But credit this, at least, that if the worst comes to the worst I will remain in this place, and not leave it--save in your company--tide what may.' Guy was about to protest against Walter sacrificing himself to friendship; but further conversation was prevented by the approach of the aged Saracen; and Guy, however reluctant, was fain to rejoin the companions of his captivity. Walter, however, followed their steps, and watched their movements, till they disappeared in a door contiguous to that part of the palace in which the ambassadors were lodged with their train. But, warned by Beltran, the renegade, that it would be prudent to confine himself to the quarters assigned, he returned to his lodgings, and there, musing over this unexpected meeting with his brother-in-arms, awaited Bisset's return. At length the English knight appeared. But he did not seem quite himself. The frank and joyous expression which characterised him had deserted his countenance, and he looked a changed man. Haughty sternness sat on his brow; his eye-brows were elevated; his eye glanced flame; his nostrils breathed fire; and he clenched and opened his hand excitedly, as if contemplating some ruthless deed, as he strode into the apartment and seized Walter's arm. 'Sir knight,' said Walter, amazed, and almost terrified, 'what aileth thee?' 'By the might of Mary!' exclaimed the knight hurriedly and sternly, 'I have seen a sight that has roused all the Norman within me, and made me thirst for gold and pant for conquest.' 'And what of the caliph?' asked Walter. 'Tush,' answered the knight, contemptuously. 'This caliph is nobody, save as master of this palace and city, and the treasure they contain. By my father's soul! the caitiff wretch is rolling in wealth. May the saints grant me patience to think of it calmly! The very throne of gold on which he sits would, if coined into money, furnish forth an army, capable, under a skilful and daring leader, of conquering kingdoms. Oh, for five hundred brave men in mail, and the cross on their shoulders! By the bones of Becket, I should, ere morning, be lord of all;' and, torturing himself with the idea of such a prize escaping his grasp, Bisset sunk into silence, and indulged in reflection. 'Sir knight,' said Walter, after a long pause, 'I have made a strange discovery. Guy Muschamp, the English squire, my brother-in-arms, is a captive in this palace, and in danger of death, because he will not abandon his faith as a Christian. I have seen him; I have spoken with him; I implore you to obtain his release; for,' added Walter, with tears in his eyes, 'I must tell you frankly, that otherwise I must remain to share his fate.' 'Fear not, boy,' said Bisset, touched with the squire's emotion; 'I will see to his being ransomed. In truth, I hardly think there will be much difficulty; for this caliph is a miser--a mean, detestable miser--and would sell anything for bezants--even his soul, if he had not already pawned it to Satan, through his brokers Mahound and Termagaunt.' And, too much occupied with his dream of seizing Bagdad, and carving out a kingdom with his sword, the knight relapsed into silence, and scarcely moved till evening fell. It was just after sunset, and Bisset was rapt in thought, and Walter Espec perplexing his soul about Guy Muschamp, when suddenly they were aroused by the voice of the Muezzin, who, according to the custom of the Saracens, standing on the minaret of a mosque hard by, solemnly proclaimed three times--'There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet.' Walter sprang up, quivering with pious horror, and hastily crossed himself. 'Sir knight,' said he, earnestly, 'I feel that this place is unholy.' 'Mayhap, boy,' replied the knight. 'But patter your prayers, and no evil will come nigh you. For the rest, Bagdad would be holy enough were the walls and towers manned by Christian warriors, and the mosques converted into churches, and I king, with the caliph's treasures to go forth against the Moslem, conquering and to conquer. Oh, credit me, it is a glorious vision. But it cannot be realised. Marry, I spoke too truly when I said that I was born without luck on my side.' Night fell; the moon rose; and the Crusaders, after for a time looking out upon innumerable stars, glorious in the blue depths of an Asian sky, saw to the comfort and security of their attendants, and then stretched themselves to rest--Walter laying himself down at the door of the chamber which Bisset occupied. In spite of the knight's agitation and the squire's anxiety, both soon sank into sleep. But their repose was destined to be broken. About daybreak they were awakened by cries and tumult, that filled the palace of the caliph. Gradually, the noise increased, and was blended with strange cries, as of warriors storming the city. Bisset and Walter listened with breathless attention, as yell after yell, and whoop after whoop, intimated that some terrible catastrophe had occurred; and as they hearkened, the Templar, who had occupied an adjoining apartment, rushed in, calm, but pale as a ghost. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'we are dead men.' CHAPTER XXXVIII. WOE TO THE CALIPH. I HAVE mentioned that, in the middle of the thirteenth century, the Moguls, or Tartars, were the terror of Asia and Europe. In considering their energy and cruelty as warriors, is it wonderful that their movements should have been regarded with lively alarm? From the Yellow River to the banks of the Danube they had marched, conquering and slaughtering; marking their way with devastation, and making the two continents resound with the tumult of war and the crash of empires. Originally a number of hordes, inhabiting the waste regions that lie between ancient Emaüs, Siberia, and China, and the sea of Kamschatka, the Tartars formed several nations of hunters and shepherds, living under tents, with their families subsisting on the produce of the chase and the flesh of their flocks, and acknowledging one God, the sovereign of heaven, but reserving their worship for the genii, who, as they believed, followed their steps, and watched over the safety of their families. They moved from place to place, despising agriculture, and not deigning to build. Even as late as the twelfth century, they had only one city--Karrakoroum--situated on the Orgon, in the country subsequently the residence of the Grand Lama. In short, they looked upon all the world as their own, and, disliking all neighbours and rivals, were frequently engaged in war, which they deemed the sole occupation worthy of their attention. As warriors, the Tartars early proved themselves most formidable. Their valour and discipline were remarkable; and they had neither baggage nor provisions to encumber their marches. While the skins of sheep or bears served them for clothing, they made a little hardened milk, diluted with water, suffice them for food. On horseback, they were as much at home as a sea king on the deck of his war-ship, and their seat was so easy and firm, that they were in the habit of eating, and even sleeping, without taking the trouble to dismount. They fought with lance and bow, reared machines of terrible power; and all the stratagems of war were familiar to them. They excelled in the art of fighting while flying; and, with them, retreat was often the signal for victory. It was in the twelfth century that Gheniskhan was elected by the Tartars as their ruler, and that, under his leadership, they struck terror into the surrounding nations. Under Gheniskhan, the Tartars made themselves masters of China, and the empire of Karismia; and, during the reign of his son Octai, they added Turkistan and India and Persia to their conquests. Moreover, at that time, they turned their eyes westward; and, having crossed the Volga, they overran Russia, ravaged Poland, desolated Hungary, devastated the frontiers of Germany, and caused such dread, that even England was agitated with the danger that threatened all Christendom. About the year 1245, however, Mango, the grandson of Gheniskhan, professed a desire to embrace Christianity; and Oulagon, the brother of Mango, espoused a Christian woman; and, when King Louis was wintering in Cyprus, ambassadors from Tartary reached the island, with messages to the effect that the great khan had been baptised, and that he would readily aid the Crusaders in rescuing Jerusalem from the Moslems. The saint-king received the ambassadors with joy, entertained them hospitably, conducted them to church, and, when they departed, sent two monks with magnificent presents to the great khan, and exhortations to hold fast the profession of his faith without wavering. Even when the Tartars menaced Bagdad, an ambassador, despatched by King Louis from Acre, was at the court of the great khan, with the object of converting the Tartars; and it appears clear that, however little they might care for either faith, the Tartars, in the struggle of Christian and Moslem in the East, were ever ready to take the side of the Christian against the Moslem. Such being the state of affairs, Mango sent his brother with an army to besiege Bagdad; and Oulagon, raising his banner, marched towards the city of the caliph. Now it happened that Musteazem, being at once under the influence of the most egregious vanity and of the most sordid avarice, neither believed in his danger, nor had the heart to expend money to provide the means of defence, but devoted to the hoarding of the jewels, gold, and treasures with which his palace abounded, the whole time that should have been employed in mustering armies and preparing for war. However, when the caliph learned that Oulagon was approaching to attack Bagdad, he partially awoke from his dream, and sent offers to treat. Oulagon, who either suspected, or pretended to suspect, a snare, thereupon proposed that a marriage should take place between the children of the caliph and the great khan, as the best way of preserving peace; and Musteazem expressed his entire satisfaction with the proposal. The Tartar then requested the caliph to send sixty of his chief men to treat of the marriage; and, when this was complied with, he demanded sixty more, that he might have full security for the fulfilment of the treaty. Not doubting Oulagon's good faith, Musteazem did as he was asked to do; and the royal Mogul smiled grimly. 'Now,' said Oulagon to his Tartars, 'seeing that we have in our hands six score of the caliph's chief counsellors and most wealthy subjects, I cannot doubt that the remainder are very common sort of people, and not likely to offer much resistance. My plans have been laid with such secrecy and caution, that nothing is suspected. I have only to appear before Bagdad, and take possession.' And no time was wasted. In fact, Oulagon had no motive for sparing the seat of the caliphate; and no sooner did he get the six score of Musteazem's chief men into his hands, than he ordered them to be beheaded, and prepared for an attack. Nor, as he rightly anticipated, was there much danger of an obstinate resistance. In fact, not only was the city undefended by any regular force: it was divided against itself. The citizens were formed into various sects, all at daggers drawn, and much more earnest in their conflicts with each other than in resolution to repulse assailants. It was early morning when the inhabitants of Bagdad were aroused from their slumbers with loud shouts of alarm, and cries that the Tartars were upon them. Resistance was vain; and equally vain was any hope of mercy. Having set up his machines of war, Oulagon gave the word of command, and the Tartars rushed to the assault with all the ferocity of their nature. Entering the city sword in hand, Oulagon gave it up to the fury of his soldiers. Carnage, and all the horrors of war, followed; the gutters ran with blood; and the caliph who, a few hours earlier, deemed his person so sacred that he would not even consent to touch the hand of a Frank, experienced such rough treatment that he shrunk and shuddered and sickened. Oulagon, however, was in no mood to respect the person of the head of the Moslem religion. No allegiance did the grim Tartar owe to the heir of Mahomet. Having seized Musteazem in his palace, Oulagon, after severely reproaching him with meditating treachery, caused him to be confined in an iron cage; and, after keeping him in durance for some time, came to add insult to injury. But, ere relating what passed, it is necessary to return to the Christian ambassadors. CHAPTER XXXIX. IN THE LION'S MOUTH. IT must be admitted that the position of the ambassadors was not enviable; and, when the Templar hastily stated that the Tartars were storming Bagdad, even Bisset's bold countenance fell, and his tongue faltered. 'I will not hide,' said he, recovering himself, 'that our doom looks dark; our heads are in the lion's mouth. But, as Christian warriors, we must trust in God and the saints; and, as brave men, we must do what we can to extricate ourselves.' Without wasting more time in words, Bisset proceeded to buckle on his chain mail, while Walter Espec also arrayed himself; and, while the knight armed himself with his ponderous battle-axe, the squire unsheathed his falchion; and both, resuming their wonted air of dauntless courage, prepared, in case of the worst, to sell their lives dearly. Meanwhile, the attendants of the ambassadors filled the chamber, with alarm on their faces; and thither also Guy Muschamp and his fellow captives found their way, closely followed by the aged Saracen, who bowed himself before Bisset and exclaimed-- 'In the name of God, save me!' 'Save you, Saracen!' said Bisset. 'On my faith, I cannot but think that the man will do well this day who saves himself.' 'But,' asked the Saracen, 'do you not believe in a God, born of a woman, who was crucified for the salvation of the human race, and rose again the third day?' 'Assuredly, Saracen,' replied Bisset, regarding his questioner with a curious eye: 'as certainly as I believe that I am now in the palace of the caliph, and in greater danger than I pretend to relish.' 'In that case,' said the Saracen, 'place your hopes in your God; for, if he was able to recall himself to life, he will not want the power to deliver you from the evils that now threaten you.' 'On my faith,' replied Bisset, a little surprised, 'I must say that you speak the words of wisdom were you twenty times an infidel; and, for my own part, I would fain hope that God and the saints, especially good St. George, will befriend us in our jeopardy.' Meanwhile the noise and tumult caused by the Tartars, as they forced their way into Bagdad, drew nearer, and shouts and shrieks were heard, which left no doubt that they had entered the palace. Bisset thereupon, grasping his battle-axe, took his post on one side of the door: the Templar, sword in hand, stationed himself on the other. Neither spoke, and such was the silence of those who were likely to share their fate, that a pin might have been heard to drop. But though the carnage was going on around them, they were left undisturbed; and they passed a full hour in breathless suspense. At length a loud shout intimated that the Tartars had penetrated to the garden; and Bisset, wishing to tiring matters to a crisis, stepped forward so as to make himself visible, and then retreated to his post. Immediately twenty of the fierce Mogul warriors rushed towards the place, and with loud shouts prepared for fresh carnage. But, when they perceived the Templar and the English knight guarding the door with the air of men who could not fail to prove terrible antagonists, they hesitated, paused, and seemed to think that it was necessary to exercise caution. Now, this delay was not without an important result. In the leader of the Tartars, Bisset to his astonishment saw a man whom he had met under other circumstances, and instantly turned his discovery to account. 'Hold, hold, brave warrior!' cried he, in a conciliating tone. 'With us you have no quarrel. We are ambassadors who were sent hither by the King of France to obtain the release of some captives, and in you I recognise one of the barons of Tartary who came to the court of the island of Cyprus, and to whom I myself, as a knight in the Christian king's service, rendered what service I could. With us, therefore, I repeat, you have no quarrel. Wherefore should we dye our weapons in each other's blood?' The Tartar remained motionless, and eyed the knight keenly, and not without suspicion. 'It may be as you say,' replied he after some consideration; 'and yet I know not how I am to credit your words. Knowest thou that the Moslems have a proverb which says, "Hearken to a Frank, and hear a fable?"' 'You do me wrong by your suspicions,' exclaimed Bisset. 'On my honour as a Christian knight, I tell you naught but the truth.' 'Give me a token by which I may prove the truth of what you say,' suggested the Tartar. And Bisset forthwith related several incidents that had occurred during the residence of the Tartars at Nicosia. 'Enough,' said the Tartar. 'I now give credit to the words you have spoken; therefore let there be peace between thee and me, and between thy people and my people. For the present I leave to take measures for your security; and I will conduct you to the presence of Oulagon the brave, brother of the great khan, and grandson of him who received the title of "King of Kings" from a prophet who came down from heaven on a white horse.' The ambassadors now breathed freely; and the attendants looked upon Bisset as almost more than mortal; and the knight congratulated himself on the prospect of getting his head out of the lion's den. It was not, however, till the morrow that the Templar and the English knight were led to the presence of Oulagon; a semi-savage warrior, with those Tartar features which naturally looked harsh to the eyes of men accustomed to the features of Norman and Saxon, and short of stature, but thickset, compact of body, and of prodigious strength. Bisset was at first by no means satisfied with Oulagon's look, but the Tartar manifested every disposition to treat the ambassadors as friends. 'The wrath of the King of Kings,' said he, 'is like the fire of a conflagration, which the slightest wind may light up, but which nothing but blood can quench. But between the King of Kings and the King of France there is peace and amity and goodwill. Wherefore, friend, say what you desire of me, and your will shall be granted.' 'Simply,' replied Bisset, 'permission to depart with my comrade and our train, and six Christian captives who have thrown themselves on our protection.' 'Be it as you will, Frank,' said Oulagon. 'But not till you have had fitting gifts; for this is the storehouse of the treasure of the world, and I would fain send gifts to the King of France; nor would I like his ambassadors to depart empty-handed.' The knight and the Templar bowed. 'But,' said Oulagon with a cunning leer, 'ere departing you must visit the caliph in my company, that you may relate to the King of the Franks how the King of Kings punishes men who are the enemies of both.' And without delay the Tartar led the ambassadors to the prison where he had on the previous day shut up Musteazem in an iron cage, and where he had since kept his captive without food. 'Caliph,' asked Oulagon approaching, 'dost thou hunger?' 'Yes,' answered Musteazem indignantly. 'I do hunger, and not without cause.' [Illustration: "Ah, Caliph," said Oulagon with bitter scorn, "thou mayst now see thy great fault; for if thou hadst given part of thy treasures, which thou lovest so dearly, thou mightest have held out against me."--p. 251.] 'Then,' said Oulagon, 'thou shalt have that to eat which above all things thy heart loveth.' And the Tartar ordered a large golden platter, filled with jewels and precious stones, to be brought and set before the captive. 'Knowest thou these treasures, caliph?' asked he with an affectation of carelessness. 'Yes,' answered Musteazem sharply, 'I know them, for they are mine own.' 'And dost thou dearly love thy treasures?' asked Oulagon. 'Yes,' replied Musteazem, simply and frankly. 'Well, then,' said Oulagon, 'since thou lovest thy treasures so well, take of these jewels as many as thou wilt, and appease thy hunger.' 'They are not food to eat,' replied Musteazem, shaking his head with an air of great dejection. 'Ah, caliph,' said Oulagon with bitter scorn, 'thou mayest now see thy great fault; for if thou hadst given part of thy treasures, which thou lovest so dearly, to subsidise soldiers for thy defence, thou mightest have held out against me. But that which thou didst prize most highly has failed thee in the hour of need.' And Oulagon withdrew with the Templar and the English knight; and soon after this interview Musteazem drew his last breath. But whether he perished of hunger, or of indignant despair, or by the violence of his conquerors, is not clearly ascertained. In the midst of the tumult and disorder which followed the sack of Bagdad, and the extinction of the caliphate, chroniclers neglected to record under what circumstances, and how, died the last of the caliphs. But, however that may have been, the ambassadors next morning took their departure from Bagdad. 'Now God and all the saints be praised!' exclaimed Bisset: 'our heads are out of the lion's mouth.' CHAPTER XL. END OF THE ARMED PILGRIMAGE. THE Templar and the English knight after a variety of adventures reached Acre, having on their way fallen in with Father Yves, whom King Louis had sent on a mission to 'the Old Man of the Mountains'--that remarkable personage to whose behests kings bowed, and at whose name princes trembled--and a knight of the noble House of Coucy, who had come from Constantinople, and whose accounts of the state of the Latin empire of the East much increased Bisset's desire to go and offer his sword to the Emperor Baldwin de Courtenay, then struggling desperately to maintain his throne against Greeks and Turks. On reaching Acre, however, the ambassadors found that King Louis and the court were at Sajecte, and without delay repaired thither to present the gifts sent by Oulagon, and inform him of the unexpected event which had frustrated the object of their mission. Louis was deeply grieved at the failure of his attempt to open the prison doors of the unfortunate captives, and with tears bewailed their unhappy fate. But soon after this, the saint-king found that the case was not desperate. The Sultan of Damascus went to war with the Mamelukes, and both parties craved the alliance of the French monarch. Louis, therefore, sent John de Valence to Cairo once more to demand the release of the captives, and this time he obtained something like satisfaction. Two hundred knights were immediately set at liberty, and allowed to depart for Acre, which they reached in safety. At length, however, news came to King Louis, while he was at Sajecte, which compelled him to turn his thoughts towards France, where he was much wanted, and to deliberate on the expediency of returning to his own kingdom. When it was known in France that the king was a prisoner in the hands of the Saracens, the utmost excitement prevailed throughout the land; and suddenly among the pastoral population appeared a man bearing a letter, to which he pretended to attach a mysterious importance. 'This,' said he, solemnly, 'I have received from the mother of God; and it commands me to assemble all the Christian shepherds and herdsmen, and to march at their head to deliver the king. Follow me then, and fear not, for the battle is not to the strong, but reserved for the weak and humble.' It appears that this man's eloquence, and the mystery which he affected, fascinated the shepherds and herdsmen of France, and they flocked to him in multitudes; and his followers, having been joined by outlaws and exiles, ere long formed a formidable force, and caused much alarm. At first, indeed, the queen-mother, Blanche of Castille, naturally anxious for her son's release, favoured the enterprise. But the priests, aware it might be that the leaders of the movement had ulterior objects in view, set their faces decidedly against it, and the leaders of the shepherds retaliated by stirring up the populace against the priests, and by the massacre of several ecclesiastics. On hearing this, Queen Blanche changed her policy, took part against the shepherds, caused their leader to be beheaded, and their army to be dispersed. Moreover, the populace, who had at first held the shepherds in high honour, began to suspect them of imposture, and slaughtered them without mercy; and all was still doubt and dismay and confusion, when messengers brought to Sajecte news that Queen Blanche had breathed her last. Louis was profoundly affected when he heard of his mother's death, and mourned sadly for two or three days, without speaking with any one. However, at the end of that time, he was visited by the papal legate, and sent for the Lord of Joinville; and Joinville, who was on the point of going into a meadow to amuse himself with martial exercises, entered into conversation. 'Ah, seneschal,' began the king, mournfully, 'I have lost my mother.' 'Well, sire,' said Joinville, calmly, 'I am not surprised at such an event, seeing that she was no longer young, and that to all of us death must come some time; but, sire, I am surprised that so great a prince should grieve so outrageously; for you know that the wise man says, "Whatever grief the valiant man may suffer in his mind, he ought not to show it on his countenance; for he that does so causes pain to his friends and pleasure to his enemies."' 'However, seneschal,' said the legate, 'the king is much satisfied with the good and agreeable services you have rendered him, and earnestly wishes for your honour and advancement. He commands me to tell you, as he knows it will give you pleasure at heart, that he intends to embark for France on this side of Easter.' 'In truth, it does give me pleasure,' said Joinville. 'And I pray that the Lord may ever induce the king to act in accordance with his will.' And soon after Louis, with his queen and his knights and nobles, returned to Acre, and made preparations for his departure. It happened that when John de Valence and his associates went to Cairo, to treat for the release of the French captives, and also for the remains of some of the French warriors who fell at Mansourah, the Saracens suddenly reminded him of the Earl of Salisbury. 'I wonder,' said an emir, 'that you Christians, who venerate the ashes of the dead, make no inquiry for the bones of that most illustrious and noble-born William, to whom you give the name of Longsword; whereas we, seeing that he was slain in battle and on account of his illustrious qualities, have treated his remains with all respect.' On hearing this, the ambassadors were somewhat confused. 'How,' asked they, one of another, 'can we disparage this man, because he was an Englishman, when even the Saracens accord the honour due to his nobility of soul?' Accordingly, the Crusaders requested that Salisbury's bones might be given to them; they carried them to Acre, where they were laid, with much respect, in the church of the Holy Cross. It was on the afternoon of the day when the burial took place that Bisset, who had been maturing his project of repairing to Constantinople, entered his lodgings, and took Walter Espec by one hand and Guy Muschamp by the other. 'Boys,' said he, 'this crusade, as I foresaw, has resulted in naught save disaster, and, as fighting men, it behoves us to consider whither we are now to carry our swords. For my part, I am resolved to turn the gifts of the Tartar warrior into money, and make without delay for Constantinople, and fight for the Latin Emperor. Are you willing to accompany me and share my fortunes, or must we part?' 'In truth, sir knight,' replied Walter, frankly, 'I sigh for the green fields and the oak forests of my native land; and, therefore, I would fain embark with the army of King Louis, and return to Europe.' 'As you will, sir squire,' said Bisset, a little mortified: 'albeit, I cannot but deem that you are not moved so much by the desire to visit your native land, as to be near to a certain noble demoiselle, on whose gratitude you have some claims. Well, on my life, I blame you not; for at your age I might have felt as you do, and, mayhap, lived to repent my delusion. But, be it known to you that, as matters stand, the Sultan of Damascus has intimated that he will permit any of the pilgrims to visit Jerusalem. Now, have you the courage--for courage will be needed--to enter the Holy City, held as it is by fierce Saracens, and kneel at the Holy Sepulchre?' 'By Holy Katherine, sir knight!' exclaimed Walter, bluntly, 'you must hold me excused. Happy, indeed, should I deem myself in the privilege of kneeling at the Holy Sepulchre, even at the cost of much labour and fatigue. But these are not the days of Godfrey and the Baldwins; and I care not to trust to the tender mercies of Bibars Bendocdar and his Mameluke myrmidons. I will not needlessly put my head again into the lion's mouth.' 'And what say you on the point, my gay and puissant warrior?' asked Bisset, turning to Guy Muschamp. 'Oh,' answered Guy, merrily, 'as says the good Walter, so say I, neither to Jerusalem nor to Constantinople do I go. I have a father and mother and kindred at home, whose faces I long to see. Wherefore, I go to England, and to no other place.' Walter Espec sighed, as he was in the habit of doing, at the mention of kindred, and gave himself up to painful reminiscences. 'Sir knight,' said he, addressing Bisset, after a long silence, 'deem you that my lost brother can be in the hands of him who is known as the Old Man of the Mountains?' 'What!' exclaimed Bisset, 'rearing as an assassin? The saints forefend!' 'It is strange,' said Walter, after a pause, 'that I have begun to hope better things; for, as I lay asleep last night, methought I saw him in the flesh, and that he looked high and brave, and that he told me how the blessed Katherine had preserved him from evil.' 'May your dream be realised ere we depart from this holy land, good Walter!' said Guy, with sympathy. 'Amen,' added Bisset, earnestly. 'More unlikely things have come to pass.' And, in truth, such a result was not altogether impossible; for at that moment Walter Espec and Osbert Espec were both within the walls of Acre. But Walter was preparing to embark for Europe; and Osbert was on the eve of setting out for the castle of Kakhow, not to return for many days. But the stars had decreed that they were to meet. CHAPTER XLI. A SUDDEN DISCOVERY. IT was evening, and shadows were closing over Acre. But the scene thus presented was fair to behold. The sky was richly coloured, the setting sun painted the landscape in brilliant hues, the wind sighed among the palms and lofty sycamores, and the waves of the Mediterranean murmured against the white walls and on the Syrian shore. Walter Espec sat in the lodgings of Bisset, hard by the palace occupied by the King of France, and he was alone. Bisset had been summoned to attend the king; Guy Muschamp had gone to visit his kinsman, the Lord of Joinville; and Walter, left with his own thoughts, was reclining on a couch, and resting his head against a window, with his eyes fixed on the citizens who passed before him, on their way to breathe the air in the gardens outside the walls, when he was aroused by the tramp of cavalry, and the approach of a body of warriors, whose white mantles over their armour, and whole appearance, indicated that they were military monks. Walter's curiosity was aroused, and he shouted to make inquiries of a portly citizen who was passing at the moment, and who, as Walter knew, as a confirmed gossip. 'Good citizen,' said he, 'these are warrior monks, and yet they neither wear the habit of the Templars nor the Hospitallers. Canst tell me what knights they be who come along so proudly?' 'In faith can I, sir squire,' answered the citizen; 'and blithely will I do so. These be the knights of St. Katherine, of Mount Sinai; and they are brave men in hours of danger; albeit, like other Orders, overmuch given to amassing wealth, and more intent on keeping it than keeping the vows of their Order.' 'Thanks, good citizen,' said Walter, laughing heartily, as Crusaders generally did when reminded of the faults of the military monks. 'And, to requite your courtesy, I admonish you to speak in a whisper when you say aught in dispraise of Templars or Hospitallers; for you must be a bolder man than I pretend to be, if you fear not to provoke their enmity.' 'Gramercy for your warning, young squire,' replied the citizen, as, apparently much amused, and chuckling to himself, he proceeded on his way; while Walter, standing up, watched the warrior monks as they passed the window. Now, Walter Espec had of course heard of the monks of St. Katherine, and especially what a stern front they had presented on the day when the Saracens threatened Acre, and carried off Adeline de Brienne. Moreover, he was naturally somewhat interested in an Order instituted in honour of the tutelar saint of his House: but he had never before seen them; and he looked out with no inconsiderable curiosity as, mounted on choice steeds, they came on and swept along, with bronzed visages, athletic forms, muscular limbs, and the air of men who believed implicitly in their own superiority over their compeers, and desired nothing so much as foes to conquer. [Illustration: Suddenly Walter started in amazement, and uttered a cry; then remained for a moment silent, and quivered with agitation; then seized his cap, and, rushing from the house, hastened, with excitement on his countenance and wildness in his manner, after the warrior monk.--p. 262.] But suddenly Walter started in amazement, and uttered a cry; then remained for a moment silent, and quivered with agitation; then seized his cap, and, rushing from the house, hastened, with excitement on his countenance and wildness in his manner, after the warrior monks, not losing sight of them till they disappeared within the gates of the castle of St. Katherine, which they possessed in Acre, near the gate of St. Anthony. Into this building he demanded to be admitted. Two hours later, Walter Espec returned to his lodgings, and found Guy Muschamp awaiting his return, and impatient to tell him that everything was arranged for embarking for France in the king's ship in company with the Lord of Joinville. But observing that his friend's countenance wore a look of extraordinary elation, he, for the time being, quite forgot the communication he had intended to make, and eyed him with an expression of keen curiosity. 'Good Walter,' said he, quickly, and with interest, 'you appear so excited that I cannot but presume that something wonderful has befallen you since we parted?' 'In truth, brave Guy, you guess aright,' replied Walter, taking his friend's hand. 'Rejoice with me, my brother-in-arms, for I have found him who was lost.' 'Found your brother!--found Osbert Espec!' exclaimed Guy, in surprise. 'It is true as that I am a living man,' replied Walter, joyfully. 'When he reached Marseilles with the companions of his pilgrimage, instead, like them, of going back to die of hunger in the forests, or listening, like them, to the temptations of the two rascal merchants by whom they were ensnared, he embarked on board the "Christopher," which was on the point of sailing for Acre; and the skipper, having brought him ashore, carried him to the house of a Northern knight, who had long been fighting for the Cross. And this noble warrior, being about to return to England, placed him under the protection of the Grand Master of the Order of St. Katherine; and, when he was of a fitting age, the grand master, to whom the name of Espec was honourably known, made him take the vows of the Order. And now, thanks to God and Holy Katherine, he is in safety and honour, and rides bravely as the bravest among his brethren, with his white mantle over his chain mail.' 'By St. John of Beverley!' exclaimed Guy, in surprise, 'I much rejoice to hear that he was so graciously protected by the saints in the hour of danger, and that his fortune has been such as is worthy of a Norman gentleman.' 'And what is more,' said Walter, proudly, 'it was he who unhorsed the two Saracens with his lance without breaking it, and who wounded their leader on that day when they came hither to demand tribute.' 'A most worthy exploit, as it has been related to me,' replied Guy; 'and one that does credit to his strength and courage. But tell me, good Walter, how rejoiced he was to see you after so long a separation, and all your suffering on his account.' A shade of disappointment appeared on Walter Espec's handsome countenance. After a pause, however, he replied-- 'In faith, brave Guy, to be frank with you, I must own that my brother, for whom I had so long mourned, manifested less enthusiasm than I expected; and when I talked to him of our castellated house of Heckspeth, on the Wansbeck, and of the tombs of our ancestors in the Abbey of Newminster, and even of my great namesake, the glory of our line, I perceived right well that he cared for none of these things. His heart and soul are in his Order, its renown and influence; and all his hopes are for the restoration of its glory. And nothing would serve him but attempting to induce me to take the vows of poverty and celibacy and obedience. But I answered readily, that such vows were not to my liking--that I despise not riches; that I rather love noble demoiselles; and that I am by nature more inclined to command than to obey; in short, that I will neither be a warrior monk nor a monk in minster. And so the great bell of the castle of St. Katherine tolled, and we parted; and at daybreak he mounts to ride to the castle of Kakhow, which the knights of his Order hold. 'And now, good Walter,' said Guy, 'having fulfilled your mission, for such you deemed it, you will return to England with a light heart.' But Walter Espec only sighed, as his thoughts reverted to Adeline de Brienne and to the great gulf that seemed to interpose between them. CHAPTER XLII. HOMEWARD BOUND. ON the vigil of St. Mark, after Easter, the Crusaders having mustered at Acre, flocked on board their ships and prepared to set sail for Europe. On that day also the King of France, leaving Geoffrey de Segrines with a hundred knights to aid in the defence of what remained of the once grand kingdom of Godfrey and the Baldwins, left the palace which he had occupied, and, attended by the papal legate, the Patriarch of Jerusalem, and the Christian nobles and knights of Palestine, walked on foot to the port, amid an immense crowd assembled to witness his departure, who all, while lamenting his departure, applauded him as the Father of the Christians, and implored Heaven to shower blessings on his head. 'This is the day of St. Mark, seneschal,' said Louis to Joinville, as they went on board; 'and on St. Mark's-day was I born at Poissy.' 'Sire,' replied Joinville, 'you may well say that you have been born again on St. Mark's-day; for you are escaping from a pestilent land, where you have remained so long.' Bisset, the English knight, resolute to his purpose, had taken farewell of his companions, and embarked for Constantinople, to wield his ponderous battle-axe in the cause of Baldwin de Courtenay, whose empire was falling to ruins. But Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp were on board the king's vessel, through the influence of the Lord of Joinville; and there also was Beltran the renegade, who, touched with remorse, had abandoned his wealth in Egypt, and was doing penance by labouring as a seaman. At length the fleet weighed anchor and set sail, with every prospect of a prosperous voyage. But, ere long, a somewhat alarming accident occurred. On Saturday, as the French approached Cyprus, about vespers, the vessels were suddenly enveloped in a thick fog, and the ship in which were the king and queen struck on a sandbank, and was so damaged that Louis was recommended to leave it without loss of time. 'Sire,' said the skipper, 'if you will believe me, you must remove from this ship to another. We well know that, since the keel has suffered so much damage, all the ribs must be started, and should there be a high wind, we fear she will be unable to bear the sea without sinking.' 'Now,' said the king, 'I put it to you on your faith and loyalty, to tell me truly, if the ship were your own, and full of merchandise, would you quit it?' 'No!' said the skipper; 'for we would rather risk our lives than lose a vessel worth forty or fifty thousand livres.' 'Why, then, do you advise me to quit it?' asked the king. 'Oh, sire,' answered the skipper, 'we are different sort of beings; for there is no sum, however great, that could compensate for the loss of yourself and the queen and your children; and we cannot advise you to run such a risk.' 'Ah,' replied the king, 'now that you have answered, I will tell you what I think of the matter. Suppose I quit this vessel, there are five hundred persons on board, who will remain in Cyprus for fear of the danger that may befall them should they stay on board. Now,' continued Louis, 'there is not one among them who is attached to his own person more than I am myself; and, if we land, they will lose all hope of returning to their own country. Therefore, I declare I will rather expose myself, the queen, and my children to some danger, under the providence of God, than make such numbers of people suffer as are now with me.' The example which Louis set inspired the companions of his voyage with courage; and the fleet having resumed its course, encountered, but survived, a violent storm, took in water at Cyprus, and soon after came in sight of Lampedosa, an island which was then uninhabited. And here a strange incident occurred. It happened that King Louis and his company, including Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp, landed, and, while climbing among the rocks, discovered a hermitage, with a handsome garden, planted with olives, figs, vines, and many other fruit trees, and watered by a beautiful spring. On going to the upper end of the garden, the king and his company found an oratory, the roof of which was painted white, with a red cross in the centre, and, in a chamber more retired, two bodies laid toward the East, with their hands on their breasts. Soon after the king and his company, conversing about what they had seen, returned on board their ship, and the skipper was about to weigh anchor, when it was discovered that one of the warriors who had gone ashore was missing; and this caused much excitement. 'I think I can account for this,' said the skipper. 'One of the sailors was desirous of turning hermit, and I doubt not he has seized so fair an opportunity.' Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp exchanged glances. It was Beltran the renegade, who had thus devoted himself to solitude. 'Well,' said the king, on hearing this, 'let three sacks of biscuit be left on the shore; the man may find them, and, if so, they will serve for sustenance.' Soon after this an accident happened to one of the squires on board the ship of one of the barons of Provence, which, at the time, was about half a league from that of the king. One morning, finding, as he lay in bed, that the sea dashed into his eyes and much annoyed him, he ordered the squire to stop it up. Having in vain attempted to do so from the inside, the squire went outside, and was endeavouring to stop the hole, when his foot dipped and he fell into the sea. The ship kept on her way without the mariners being aware of what had happened, and as the squire did not attempt to move, those on board the king's ship thought some piece of furniture had tumbled overboard. On coming nearer, however, they perceived that it was a human being, and Walter and Guy, with some mariners, lowered a boat, rowed to the rescue, and succeeded in saving him. On being brought on board the king's ship, the squire related how he met with the accident, and was asked why he did not endeavour to save himself by swimming. 'In faith,' answered the squire, 'I had no occasion so to do; for, as I fell into the sea, I cried, "Our Lady of Valbert!" and she supported me by the shoulders till I was rescued.' 'In good sooth,' remarked the Lord of Joinville, on hearing this, 'it is truly marvellous; and, to perpetuate the memory of this miracle, I vow to have it painted on the windows of my chapel at Joinville, and also on the windows of the church at Blecourt;' and, on reaching home, the noble seneschal kept his word. And now the ships tilted over the waters; and, after a voyage of ten weeks, they reached the Port of Hieros, in front of a castle which, in right of his spouse, belonged to the king's brother, the Count of Anjou. Louis, however, was not inclined to land. In vain the queen and his council advised him to disembark. 'No,' said he, 'I will not land till I can do so on my own territory; I will not disembark till I arrive at Aigues Mortes.' Everybody looked extremely disappointed. 'Seneschal,' said Louis, turning to Joinville, 'what is your opinion?' 'Sire,' replied Joinville, 'it seems to me that you ought to land; for Madame de Bourbon, being once in this very port, put again to sea to land at Aigues Mortes, and she was tossed about for seven long weeks before she could make that harbour.' 'Seneschal,' said the king, 'you have persuaded me.' And soon after, to the joy of the queen and all on board, Louis landed at Hieros, and with Margaret and his children took up his residence in the castle, to rest from his fatigues ere setting out for his own dominions. Indeed, the saint-king was so weak, that Joinville had to carry him in his arms; and for some time he could hardly support the weight of his armour, or remain on horseback. But Louis had yet many years of life before him; and after repairing for a time to recruit his health at Montpellier, where then, as in after ages, the medical science eminently flourished, he in the autumn arrived at Vincennes, and after prostrating himself before the altar of St. Denis and restoring the oriflamme to the abbot, he proceeded to Paris, where he was received with profound respect. But the saint-king bore on his brow traces of the sorrow caused by the multiplied disasters of his expedition, and still wore the symbol of salvation on his shoulder, as if to intimate that he was not yet done with the Holy Land. CHAPTER XLIII. A ROYAL VISIT. THE countenance of the King of France did not belie his heart. He was sad, and much more dejected than when he was in captivity and chains at Mansourah, bullied by the Saracens, and threatened with the bernicles. Nor was there any affectation in his continuing to wear the cross on his shoulder; as he proved, sixteen years later, when he undertook his ill-fated expedition to Tunis, and died, on a bed of ashes, amid the ruins of Carthage, looking up to heaven, and exclaiming with his latest breath, 'I will enter into Thy house; I will worship in Thy holy tabernacle!' Meanwhile the saint-king appeared inconsolable, and refused to be comforted. Even the affectionate welcome accorded him by his people failed to dispel his gloom or cheer his soul. Day and night he brooded over his defeats and disasters, and sighed dolefully as his memory recalled the humiliation to which, in his person, the cause of Christianity had been exposed at the hands of the Moslem. Fortunately, at that time, Henry, King of England, being at Bordeaux, offered Louis a visit; and the saintly monarch, rousing himself to welcome his royal brother-in-law, made preparations for his reception. Moreover, when Henry's approach was announced, Louis mounted and went forth to meet his guest; and, ere long, the King of England with a magnificent train appeared in sight. Henry was considerably older than Louis. Indeed, he had now attained the age of forty-seven. But his frame was vigorous; he had always enjoyed robust health; and, as he had taken life easily, time and trouble had not wrought so much havoc on him as on the French monarch. He was of the middle height, and compactly built, and would have been accounted handsome, but that one of his eyelids hung down in such a way as to conceal part of the eyeball, and rather spoiled a face which otherwise would have been pleasant to look upon. But, such as his person was, Henry did not neglect its adornment. He had all a Plantagenet's love of splendour, and the gorgeousness of his dress was such as to excite the wonder of his contemporaries. By his right hand rode his spouse, Eleanor of Provence, sister of the Queen of France, no longer young, but still preserving, in face and form, much of the beauty and grace which, twenty years earlier, made the name of the second daughter of Raymond Berenger celebrated at the courts of Europe. Behind the King and Queen of England, on a black steed, which he bestrode with remarkable grace, rode their son, Edward, taller by the head and shoulders than other tall men, and already, though not out of his teens, renowned as one of the bravest and handsomest princes in Christendom. With him was his very juvenile wife, Eleanor of Castille, whom he had recently espoused at Burgos, and brought over the Pyrenees to Bordeaux, on his way to England. But the procession did not stop here; for, as the chronicler tells us, 'the King of England had in his own retinue a thousand handsome horses, ridden by men of dignity and rank, besides waggons and sumpter cattle, as well as a large number of choice horses, so that the unusual novelty of the array caused great astonishment to the French.' The meeting of the two kings was all that could have been desired by the most enthusiastic advocate of the French alliance who could have been found in England; and, 'at sight of one another, they rushed into each other's arms, and after mutual greeting, entered into conversation.' Naturally enough, the first subject on which they touched was the crusade from which Louis had just returned; and the saint-king seemed relieved to meet with a man to whom he could, without derogating from his dignity, unbosom his griefs. 'My friend,' said Louis, mournfully, 'you cannot imagine how pleasant your voice is to my ears; let us enjoy ourselves in talking together, for never, perhaps, shall we have such an opportunity. In truth,' added he, as they rode on side by side towards Paris, 'it is no easy matter to tell how much bitterness of spirit I endured while on my pilgrimage through love of Christ.' 'I believe it, Louis, my cousin,' said Henry quickly. 'And yet,' continued Louis, 'albeit everything turned against me, I return thanks to the Most High; for, on reflection, I rejoice more in the patience which God granted me, than if the whole world were to be made subject to my rule. And yet, my friend, when I think of all my mishaps, my heart saddens and my soul is heavy.' 'Cousin,' said Henry, kindly, 'beware of casting yourself into a life-wearying sorrow; for holy men will tell you that it is the stepmother of souls, and that it absorbs spiritual joy, and generates prejudice to the Holy Spirit. Recall to your mind the patience of Job, the endurance of Eustace.' And Henry proceeded to relate much that he knew, and much that he did not comprehend, of the history of both, and how, in the end, God rewarded them. 'My friend,' said Louis, 'if I were the only one to suffer the trouble and disgrace, and if my sins did not fall on the church universal, I could bear all with equanimity; but, woe is me, through me the whole of Christendom is enveloped in confusion and shame.' 'And, cousin,' said Henry, 'I perceive that you still wear the symbol of the cross on your raiment.' 'I do,' replied Louis, 'because I have not concluded my pilgrimage; I have only suspended it; therefore bear I the sacred symbol. And you also, Henry, you have taken the cross, and vowed to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.' 'Cousin,' answered Henry, gravely, but frankly, 'when I heard that you were a prisoner in the hands of the Saracens, I did take the cross and vow to go to the rescue; but now that, by God's grace, you are at liberty, I cannot but think that it is my duty to remain at home and minister to the welfare of my subjects.' 'And yet,' urged Louis, 'we are told that he who will not take up his cross and come with me, is not worthy of me; and I know you, Henry, to be a man who, albeit you are negligent in punishing Jews and heretics, are distinguished for attention to the things that belong to your eternal peace, and by your devotion to the Lord.' 'In truth, cousin,' replied Henry, not sorry perhaps, to leave the subject of the crusade, 'I am regular, at least, in my religious exercises; for it is my custom, every day, to hear three masses, with the notes, and, as I wish to hear more, I assiduously assist at the celebration of private masses; and when the priest elevates the Host, I usually hold the hand of the priest and kiss it.' 'Nevertheless, my friend,' remarked Louis, 'I cannot but deem that the attention ought not always to be devoted to the hearing of masses, but that we ought to hear sermons as often as possible.' 'Mayhap,' said Henry. 'And yet, by God's help, I would rather see a friend often than hear of him, even although I should hear nothing spoken of him but good.' As the two kings conversed they entered Paris side by side, and the sight which met the eyes of the English might well, indeed, raise their admiration. The city, with its squares and bridges and churches and houses built of gypsum, was splendidly decorated with bowers of leaves and flowers; many of the mansions were three and four storeys in height, and the windows were crowded with people of both sexes, gaily dressed, and excited with the spectacle. Everything wore a holiday guise; and the citizens and the scholars of the University, especially those of English birth, suspending their readings and disputations, came forth in crowds, carrying branches of trees, and attended by bands of music. Everybody appeared eager to accord the royal guests a hearty welcome; and Louis, after thanking the scholars for showing his friends so much honour, turned to Henry. 'My friend,' said he, 'I place Paris at your disposal. Where will you be pleased to take up your abode? There is my palace in the middle of the city; or, if you prefer taking up your residence at the Old Temple, which is more roomy, it shall be so arranged.' 'Verily,' answered Henry, 'I think I must choose the Old Temple; for I hear it is roomy enough to lodge an army, and my company, as you see, is somewhat numerous; and there it is my purpose to give a banquet on the morrow, and I trust that you and your princes and nobles will honour it with your presence.' 'After which,' said Louis, 'you must come as my guest to my palace. Nay, nay,' continued he, as Henry sought to excuse himself, 'let it be so: for it is proper for me to perform all the duties of courtesy and hospitality. In my own kingdom I am lord,' he added, with a smile; 'and I will be master in my own house.' 'On my faith,' said Walter Espec to Guy Muschamp, as gallantly the brothers-in-arms rode in the train of the saint-king, 'this is a great day for England!' 'In truth it is,' replied Guy, gaily. 'Methinks there are Englishmen enough in Paris to take the city.' CHAPTER XLIV. THE FEAST OF KINGS. ON the day after the arrival of Henry and his queen in Paris, that marvellous banquet, described as 'the feast of kings,' was given in the great hall of the Old Temple; and a mighty entertainment it appears to have been, if we are to judge from the description of the chronicler, who tells us that 'never in times past was there given such a rich and splendid banquet, even in the time of Esther, or of Arthur, or of Charles.' Besides three kings--those of Navarre, and France, and England, with their queens--there were present eighteen countesses, and twenty-five counts, and twelve bishops; not to mention a host of noble knights and ladies--knights illustrious for their valour, and ladies celebrated for their beauty. As the guests were ranged according to their rank, some difficulty arose as to who was to preside. Henry requested Louis to assume the post of honour; but Louis protested. 'It is more fitting,' said he, 'that the master of the feast should occupy the chief seat.' 'Not so, my lord king,' urged Henry. 'It is more becoming and proper for you to sit in the middle; seeing that you are my sovereign and will be so, for the reason is plain.' 'Henry,' replied Louis, in a low voice, 'would that every one could obtain his right without injury. But in your case,' added he, alluding to Henry's claims on Normandy and Anjou, 'the pride of the French would never permit it. But enough of this.' Now it happened that the great hall was, according to the continental custom, hung around with as many bucklers as the four walls would hold, and among them was the shield of Coeur de Lion; and when the feast was drawing to a close, the company began to look around and examine them. 'My lord,' said the Count of Anjou, jocularly addressing Henry, 'why have you invited the French to dine with you in this house of all others? See, there is the shield of the lion-hearted King Richard. I marvel that your guests have been able to eat without fear and trembling.' Now this remark, uttered as it was in a tone of irony, was calculated to excite unpleasant sensations, and to recall disagreeable reminiscences; and Henry looked mortified, and Prince Edward threw his magnificent head disdainfully backward. But Louis, ever on the watch, hastened to soothe their rising ire. 'Would to God, Henry!' said he, earnestly, 'that the twelve peers of France and the barons would agree to my wishes. We should then be inseparable friends.' 'I believe it, Louis, my cousin,' exclaimed Henry, quickly. 'I grieve, my Lord knows,' continued Louis, 'that our feelings of affection cannot be cemented on all points; but I cannot bend the obstinacy of my barons; and therefore I perceive plainly that you will never recover your rights.' 'Nay, the future is with God and his saints,' said Henry; who, pacific as he was, by no means relished the idea of the Plantagenets being perpetually excluded from their inheritance. 'Meanwhile, cousin, there is peace between us, and let not the feast flag.' 'Henry,' said Louis, pausing, as he approached a painful subject, 'it grieves me sore to think that, of all the English who landed with me at Damietta, few, indeed, escaped the carnage of Mansourah. Nevertheless, I have brought home with me two English squires, who are anxious to return to their own country, and whom I would fain recommend to your gracious protection.' 'Cousin,' said Henry, responding with readiness and sympathy, 'for your sake I will both protect and honour them.' Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp were immediately summoned, and, marching up the great hall between the tables, approached the two kings and bent their knees. 'Both of them,' explained Louis, mildly, 'have rendered good services, and encountered great perils, and undergone great sufferings for the cross. One saved my brother, the Count of Poictiers, from captivity; and the other saved my kinswoman, Adeline de Brienne, from still worse evils.' And the king looked towards the noble demoiselle, who, princess as she was, felt her heart beat rapidly, and was under the necessity of making a strong effort not to betray the interest which she felt in the fortunes of the young warrior, with whose fate, she had convinced herself, since the rescue at Passe-Poulain, her own was strangely intermingled. 'Wherefore,' continued Louis, 'I would fain, ere parting with them, give them a token of my appreciation of their piety, and the courage they have shown in hours of danger and disaster, as I have already admonished them how to act towards their God and their neighbour. Kneel.' And as they obeyed, Louis gave each of them three blows on the shoulder with the flat of his weapon, mentioning the name of each, and repeating the formula--'In the name of God, of St. Michael, and St. George, I dub thee knight. Rise up, Sir Walter Espec, and Sir Guy Muschamp.' And as Walter and Guy rose to their feet, blushing with this new and unexpected honour, Louis added-- 'And now you will accompany your king to England, and lose no time in winning your spurs, so as to justify me, in the eyes of men, for having thus distinguished you.' 'By St. George, cousin,' said Henry, laughing, 'I fear me that their patience will be put to the test; for at present I have not an enemy against whom to lead such redoubted warriors.' 'My lord and father,' said Prince Edward, interposing, 'if the young knights will enter my service, I will undertake to find them enough of work to keep their swords from rusting.' 'I doubt it not, Edward,' replied Henry, seriously, 'I doubt it not;' and, turning to Louis, he added by way of explanation, 'I have gifted my son with the principality of Wales, and recommended him to employ his youth in bringing the natives to obedience; and I know enough of the Welsh to be aware that he has before him an arduous duty. Now, young gentlemen,' said he, addressing Guy and Walter, 'will you take service with the prince, and go to war under his banner?' 'In truth, my lord,' answered Walter, 'nothing could be more to my mind than so to do.' 'And what say you, most doughty warrior?' said Henry, looking towards the heir of the Muschamps. 'My lord,' replied Guy, cheerfully, 'we are brothers in arms; and, as says Walter, so say I.' And when Henry and Queen Eleanor left Paris, and took leave of Louis and his court at Chartres to return to Bordeaux, Walter Espec and Guy Muschamp rode off in Prince Edward's train; Guy, laughing as he thought how much his new dignity would add to his importance when he reached his father's castle, and Walter, casting many a look behind to catch a last glance of Adeline de Brienne. And so ended the adventures of the Boy Crusaders. * * * * * FOOTNOTE: [1]Transcriber's Note: Although, generally, handwritten notes are not preserved in the final text, the proofreaders so enjoyed this edition's inscription that it was retained. An image can be seen in the html version. Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. All instances of "Richard Coeur de Lion" used an oe-ligature. As this cannot be represented in a plain text file, it is instead noted here. Both Djédilé and Djedilé were used in this text. Page 60, "Icingla" changed to "Icinglas" (blood of Icinglas) Page 65, words obscurred in original, "per xity" changed to "perplexity" (in some perplexity) Page 65, " l" changed to "will" (will ever be such) Page 206, "Geoffery" changed to "Geoffrey" (Nile, and Geoffrey) Page 242, "Lovis" changed to "Louis" (King Louis from Acre) Page 281, "Posse-Poulain" changed to "Passe-Poulain" (the rescue at Passe-Poulain) 
12308	----	Proofreading Team. WINNING HIS SPURS A Tale of the Crusades. BY G. A. HENTY 1895 CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE OUTLAWS CHAPTER II. A RESCUE CHAPTER III. THE CAPTURE OF WORTHAM HOLD CHAPTER IV. THE CRUSADES CHAPTER V. PREPARATIONS CHAPTER VI. THE LISTS CHAPTER VII. REVENGE CHAPTER VIII. THE ATTACK CHAPTER IX. THE PRINCESS BERENGARIA CHAPTER X. PIRATES CHAPTER XI. IN THE HOLY LAND CHAPTER XII. THE ACCOLADE CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE SARACENS CHAPTER XIV. AN EFFORT FOR FREEDOM CHAPTER XV. A HERMIT'S TALE CHAPTER XVI. A FIGHT OF HEROES CHAPTER XVII. AN ALFINE STORM CHAPTER XVIII. SENTENCED TO DEATH CHAPTER XIX. DRESDEN CHAPTER XX. UNDER THE GREENWOOD CHAPTER XXI. THE ATTEMPT ON THE CONVENT CHAPTER XXII. A DASTARDLY STRATAGEM CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALSE AND PERJURED KNIGHT CHAPTER XXIV. THE SIEGE OF EVESHAM CASTLE CHAPTER XXV. IN SEARCH OF THE KING CHAPTER XXVI. KING RICHARD'S RETURN TO ENGLAND WINNING HIS SPURS. CHAPTER I. THE OUTLAWS. It was a bright morning in the month of August, when a lad of some fifteen years of age, sitting on a low wall, watched party after party of armed men riding up to the castle of the Earl of Evesham. A casual observer glancing at his curling hair and bright open face, as also at the fashion of his dress, would at once have assigned to him a purely Saxon origin; but a keener eye would have detected signs that Norman blood ran also in his veins, for his figure was lither and lighter, his features more straightly and shapely cut, than was common among Saxons. His dress consisted of a tight-fitting jerkin, descending nearly to his knees. The material was a light-blue cloth, while over his shoulder hung a short cloak of a darker hue. His cap was of Saxon fashion, and he wore on one side a little plume of a heron. In a somewhat costly belt hung a light short sword, while across his knees lay a crossbow, in itself almost a sure sign of its bearer being of other than Saxon blood. The boy looked anxiously as party after party rode past towards the castle. "I would give something," he said, "to know what wind blows these knaves here. From every petty castle in the Earl's feu the retainers seem hurrying here. Is he bent, I wonder, on settling once and for all his quarrels with the Baton of Wortham? or can he be intending to make a clear sweep of the woods? Ah! here comes my gossip Hubert; he may tell me the meaning of this gathering." Leaping to his feet, the speaker started at a brisk walk to meet a jovial-looking personage coming down from the direction of the castle. The new comer was dressed in the attire of a falconer, and two dogs followed at his heels. "Ah, Master Cuthbert," he said, "what brings you so near to the castle? It is not often that you favour us with your presence." "I am happier in the woods, as you well know, and was on my way thither but now, when I paused at the sight of all these troopers flocking in to Evesham. What enterprise has Sir Walter on hand now, think you?" "The earl keeps his own counsel," said the falconer, "but methinks a shrewd guess might be made at the purport of the gathering. It was but three days since that his foresters were beaten back by the landless men, whom they caught in the very act of cutting up a fat buck. As thou knowest, my lord though easy and well-disposed to all, and not fond of harassing and driving the people as are many of his neighbours, is yet to the full as fanatical anent his forest privileges as the worst of them. They tell me that when the news came in of the poor figure that his foresters cut with broken bows and draggled plumes--for the varlets had soused them in a pond of not over savoury water--he swore a great oath that he would clear the forest of the bands. It may be, indeed, that this gathering is for the purpose of falling in force upon that evil-disposed and most treacherous baron, Sir John of Wortham, who has already begun to harry some of the outlying lands, and has driven off, I hear, many heads of cattle. It is a quarrel which will have to be fought out sooner or later, and the sooner the better, say I. Although I am no man of war, and love looking after my falcons or giving food to my dogs far more than exchanging hard blows, yet would I gladly don the buff and steel coat to aid in levelling the keep of that robber and tyrant, Sir John of Wortham." "Thanks, good Hubert," said the lad. "I must not stand gossiping here. The news you have told me, as you know, touches me closely, for I would not that harm should come to the forest men." "Let it not out, I beseech thee, Cuthbert, that the news came from me, for temperate as Sir Walter is at most times, he would, methinks, give me short shift did he know that the wagging of my tongue might have given warning through which the outlaws of the Chase should slip through his fingers." "Fear not, Hubert; I can be mum when the occasion needs. Can you tell me farther, when the bands now gathering are likely to set forth?" "In brief breathing space," the falconer replied. "Those who first arrived I left swilling beer, and devouring pies and other provisions cooked for them last night, and from what I hear, they will set forth as soon as the last comer has arrived. Whichever be their quarry, they will try to fall upon it before the news of their arrival is bruited abroad." With a wave of his hand to the falconer the boy started. Leaving the road, and striking across the slightly undulated country dotted here and there by groups of trees, the lad ran at a brisk trot, without stopping to halt or breathe, until after half an hour's run he arrived at the entrance of a building, whose aspect proclaimed it to be the abode of a Saxon franklin of some importance. It would not be called a castle, but was rather a fortified house, with a few windows looking without, and surrounded by a moat crossed by a drawbridge, and capable of sustaining anything short of a real attack. Erstwood had but lately passed into Norman hands, and was indeed at present owned by a Saxon. Sir William de Lance, the father of the lad who is now entering its portals, was a friend and follower of the Earl of Evesham; and soon after his lord had married Gweneth the heiress of all these fair lands--given to him by the will of the king, to whom by the death of her father she became a ward--Sir William had married Editha, the daughter and heiress of the franklin of Erstwood, a cousin and dear friend of the new Countess of Evesham. In neither couple could the marriage at first have been called one of inclination on the part of the ladies, but love came after marriage. Although the knights and barons of the Norman invasion would, no doubt, be considered rude and rough in these days of broadcloth and civilization, yet their manners were gentle and polished by the side of those of the rough though kindly Saxon franklins; and although the Saxon maids were doubtless as patriotic as their fathers and mothers, yet the female mind is greatly led by gentle manners and courteous address. Thus then, when bidden or forced to give their hands to the Norman knights, they speedily accepted their lot, and for the most part grew contented and happy enough. In their changed circumstances it was pleasanter to ride by the side of their Norman husbands, surrounded by a gay cavalcade, to hawk and to hunt, than to discharge the quiet duties of mistress of a Saxon farm-house. In many cases, of course, their lot was rendered wretched by the violence and brutality of their lords; but in the majority they were well satisfied with their lot, and these mixed marriages did more to bring the peoples together and weld them in one, than all the laws and decrees of the Norman sovereigns. This had certainly been the case with Editha, whose marriage with Sir William had been one of the greatest happiness. She had lost him, three years before the story begins, fighting in Normandy, in one of the innumerable wars in which our first Norman kings were constantly involved. On entering the gates of Erstwood, Cuthbert had rushed hastily to the room where his mother was sitting with three or four of her maidens, engaged in work. "I want to speak to you at once, mother," he said. "What is it now, my son?" said his mother, who was still young and very comely. Waving her hand to the girls, they left her. "Mother," he said, when they were alone, "I fear me that Sir Walter is about to make a great raid upon the outlaws. Armed men have been coming in all the morning from the castles round, and if it be not against the Baron de Wortham that these preparations are intended, and methinks it is not, it must needs be against the landless men." "What would you do, Cuthbert?" his mother asked anxiously. "It will not do for you to be found meddling in these matters. At present you stand well in the favour of the Earl, who loves you for the sake of his wife, to whom you are kin, and of your father, who did him good liegeman's service." "But, mother, I have many friends in the wood. There is Cnut, their chief, your own first cousin, and many others of our friends, all good men and true, though forced by the cruel Norman laws to refuge in the woods." "What would you do?" again his mother asked. "I would take Ronald my pony and ride to warn them of the danger that threatens." "You had best go on foot, my son. Doubtless men have been set to see that none from the Saxon homesteads carry the warning to the woods. The distance is not beyond your reach, for you have often wandered there, and on foot you can evade the eye of the watchers; but one thing, my son, you must promise, and that is, that in no case, should the Earl and his bands meet with the outlaws, will you take part in any fray or struggle." "That will I willingly, mother," he said. "I have no cause for offence against the castle or the forest, and my blood and my kin are with both. I would fain save shedding of blood in a quarrel like this. I hope that the time may come when Saxon and Norman may fight side by side, and I maybe there to see." A few minutes later, having changed his blue doublet for one of more sober and less noticeable colour, Cuthbert started for the great forest, which then stretched to within a mile of Erstwood. In those days a large part of the country was covered with forest, and the policy of the Normans in preserving these woods for the chase, tended to prevent the increase of cultivation. The farms and cultivated lands were all held by Saxons, who although nominally handed over to the nobles to whom William and his successors had given the fiefs, saw but little of their Norman masters. These stood, indeed, much in the position in which landlords stand to their tenants, payment being made, for the most part, in produce. At the edge of the wood the trees grew comparatively far apart, but as Cuthbert proceeded farther into its recesses, the trees in the virgin forest stood thick and close together. Here and there open glades ran across each other, and in these his sharp eye, accustomed to the forest, could often see the stags starting away at the sound of his footsteps. It was a full hour's journey before Cuthbert reached the point for which he was bound. Here, in an open space, probably cleared by a storm ages before, and overshadowed by giant trees, was a group of men of all ages and appearances. Some were occupied in stripping the skin off a buck which hung from the bough of one of the trees. Others were roasting portions of the carcass of another deer. A few sat apart, some talking, others busy in making arrows, while a few lay asleep on the greensward. As Cuthbert entered the clearing, several of the party rose to their feet. "Ah, Cuthbert," shouted a man of almost gigantic stature, who appeared to be one of the leaders of the party, "what brings you here, lad, so early? You are not wont to visit us till even, when you can lay your crossbow at a stag by moonlight." "No, no, Cousin Cnut," Cuthbert said, "thou canst not say that I have ever broken the forest laws, though I have looked on often and often, whilst you have done so." "The abettor is as bad as the thief," laughed Cnut, "and if the foresters caught us in the act, I wot they would make but little difference whether it was the shaft of my longbow or the quarrel from thy crossbow which brought down the quarry. But again, lad, why comest thou here? for I see by the sweat on your face and by the heaving of your sides that you have run fast and far." "I have, Cnut; I have not once stopped for breathing since I left Erstwood. I have come to warn you of danger. The earl is preparing for a raid." Cnut laughed somewhat disdainfully. "He has raided here before, and I trow has carried off no game. The landless men of the forest can hold their own against a handful of Norman knights and retainers in their own home." "Ay," said Cuthbert, "but this will be no common raid. This morning bands from all the holds within miles round are riding in, and at least 500 men-at-arms are likely to do chase today." "Is it so?" said Cnut, while exclamations of surprise, but not of apprehension, broke from those standing round. "If that be so, lad, you have done us good service indeed. With fair warning we can slip through the fingers of ten times 500 men, but if they came upon us unawares, and hemmed us in it would fare but badly with us, though we should, I doubt not give a good account of them before their battle-axes and maces ended the strife. Have you any idea by which road they will enter the forest, or what are their intentions?" "I know not," Cuthbert said; "all that I gathered was that the earl intended to sweep the forest, and to put an end to the breaches of the laws, not to say of the rough treatment that his foresters have met with at your hands. You had best, methinks, be off before Sir Walter and his heavily-armed men are here. The forest, large as it is, will scarce hold you both, and methinks you had best shift your quarters to Langholm Chase until the storm has passed." "To Langholm be it, then," said Cnut, "though I love not the place. Sir John of Wortham is a worse neighbour by far than the earl. Against the latter we bear no malice, he is a good knight and a fair lord; and could he free himself of the Norman notions that the birds of the air, and the beasts of the field, and the fishes of the water, all belong to Normans, and that we Saxons have no share in them, I should have no quarrel with him. He grinds not his neighbours, he is content with a fair tithe of the produce, and as between man and man is a fair judge without favour. The baron is a fiend incarnate; did he not fear that he would lose by so doing, he would gladly cut the throats, or burn, or drown, or hang every Saxon within twenty miles of his hold. He is a disgrace to his order, and some day when our band gathers a little stronger, we will burn his nest about his ears." "It will be a hard nut to crack," Cuthbert said, laughing. "With such arms as you have in the forest the enterprise would be something akin to scaling the skies." "Ladders and axes will go far, lad, and the Norman men-at-arms have learned to dread our shafts. But enough of the baron; if we must be his neighbours for a time, so be it." "You have heard, my mates," he said, turning to his comrades gathered around him, "what Cuthbert tells us. Are you of my opinion, that it is better to move away till the storm is past, than to fight against heavy odds, without much chance of either booty or victory?" A general chorus proclaimed that the outlaws approved of the proposal for a move to Langholm Chase. The preparations were simple. Bows were taken down from the boughs on which they were hanging, quivers slung across the backs, short cloaks thrown over the shoulders. The deer was hurriedly dismembered, and the joints fastened to a pole slung on the shoulders of two of the men. The drinking-cups, some of which were of silver, looking strangely out of place among the rough horn implements and platters, were bundled together, carried a short distance and dropped among some thick bushes for safety; and then the band started for Wortham. With a cordial farewell and many thanks to Cuthbert, who declined their invitations to accompany them, the retreat to Langholm commenced. Cuthbert, not knowing in which direction the bands were likely to approach, remained for a while motionless, intently listening. In a quarter of an hour he heard the distant note of a bugle. It was answered in three different directions, and Cuthbert, who knew every path and glade of the forest, was able pretty accurately to surmise those by which the various bands were commencing to enter the wood. Knowing that they were still a long way off, he advanced as rapidly as he could in the direction in which they were coming. When by the sound of distant voices and the breaking of branches he knew that one at least of the parties was near at hand, he rapidly climbed a thick tree and ensconced himself in the branches, and there watched, secure and hidden from the sharpest eye, the passage of a body of men-at-arms fully a hundred strong, led by Sir Walter himself, accompanied by some half dozen of his knights. When they had passed, Cuthbert again slipped down the tree and made at all speed for home. He reached it, so far as he knew without having been observed by a single passer-by. After a brief talk with his mother, he started for the castle, as his appearance there would divert any suspicion that might arise; and it would also appear natural that seeing the movements of so large a body of men, he should go up to gossip with his acquaintances there. When distant a mile from Evesham, he came upon a small party. On a white palfrey rode Margaret, the little daughter of the earl. She was accompanied by her nurse and two retainers on foot. Cuthbert--who was a great favourite with the earl's daughter, for whom he frequently brought pets, such as nests of young owlets, falcons, and other creatures--was about to join the party when from a clump of trees near burst a body of ten mounted men. Without a word they rode straight at the astonished group. The retainers were cut to the ground before they had thought of drawing a sword in defence. The nurse was slain by a blow with a battle-axe, and Margaret, snatched from her palfrey, was thrown across the saddle-bow of one of the mounted men, who then with his comrades dashed off at full speed. CHAPTER II. A RESCUE. The whole of the startling scene of the abduction of the Earl of Evesham's daughter occupied but a few seconds. Cuthbert was so astounded at the sudden calamity that he remained rooted to the ground at the spot where, fortunately for himself, unnoticed by the assailants, he had stood when they first burst from their concealment. For a short time he hesitated as to the course he should take. The men-at-arms who remained in the castle were scarce strong enough to rescue the child, whose captors would no doubt be reinforced by a far stronger party lurking near. The main body of Sir Walter's followers were deep in the recesses of the forest, and this lay altogether out of the line for Wortham, and there would be no chance whatever of bringing them up in time to cut off the marauders on their way back. There remained only the outlaws, who by this time would be in Langholm Forest, perhaps within a mile or two of the castle itself. The road by which the horsemen would travel would be far longer than the direct line across country, and he resolved at once to strain every nerve to reach his friends in time to get them to interpose between the captors of the Lady Margaret and their stronghold. For an instant he hesitated whether to run back to Erstwood to get a horse; but he decided that it would be as quick to go on foot, and far easier so to find the outlaws. These thoughts occupied but a few moments, and he at once started at the top of his speed for his long run across the country. Had Cuthbert been running in a race of hare and hound, he would assuredly have borne away the prize from most boys of his age. At headlong pace he made across the country, every foot of which, as far as the edge of Langholm Chase, he knew by heart. The distance to the woods was some twelve miles, and in an hour and a half from the moment of his starting Cuthbert was deep within its shades. Where he would be likely to find the outlaws he knew not; and, putting a whistle to his lips, he shrilly blew the signal, which would, he knew, be recognized by any of the band within hearing. He thought that he heard an answer, but was not certain, and again dashed forward, almost as speedily as if he had but just started. Five minutes later a man stood in the glade up which he was running. He recognized him at once as one of Cnut's party. "Where are the band?" he gasped. "Half a mile or so to the right," replied the man. Guided by the man, Cuthbert ran at full speed, till, panting and scarce able to speak, he arrived at the spot where Cnut's band were gathered. In a few words he told them what had happened, and although they had just been chased by the father of the captured child, there was not a moment of hesitation in promising their aid to rescue her from a man whom they regarded as a far more bitter enemy, both of themselves and their race. "I fear we shall be too late to cut them off," Cnut said, "they have so long a start; but at least we will waste no time in gossiping." Winding a horn to call together some of the members of the band who had scattered, and leaving one at the meeting-place to give instructions to the rest, Cnut, followed by those assembled there, went off at a swinging trot through the glades towards Wortham Castle. After a rapid calculation of distances, and allowing for the fact that the baron's men--knowing that Sir Walter's retainers and friends were all deep in the forest, and even if they heard of the outrage could not be on their traces for hours--would take matters quietly, Cnut concluded that they had arrived in time. Turning off, they made their way along the edge of the wood to the point where the road from Evesham ran through the forest. Scarcely had the party reached this point when they heard a faint clatter of steel. "Here they come!" exclaimed Cuthbert. Cnut gave rapid directions, and the band took up their posts behind the trees, on either side of the path. "Remember," Cnut said, "above all things be careful not to hit the child, but pierce the horse on which she is riding. The instant he falls, rush forward. We must trust to surprise to give us the victory." Three minutes later the head of a band of horsemen was seen through the trees. They were some thirty in number, and, closely grouped as they were together, the watchers behind the trees could not see the form of the child carried in their midst. When they came abreast of the concealed outlaws, Cnut gave a sharp whistle, and fifty arrows flew from tree and bush into the closely gathered party of horsemen. More than half their number fell at once; some, drawing their swords, endeavoured to rush at their concealed foes, while others dashed forward in the hope of riding through the snare into which they had fallen. Cuthbert had levelled his crossbow, but had not fired; he was watching with intense anxiety for a glimpse of the bright-coloured dress of the child. Soon he saw a horseman separate himself from the rest and dash forward at full speed. Several arrows flew by him, and one or two struck the horse on which he rode. The animal, however, kept on its way. Cuthbert levelled his crossbow on the low arm of a tree, and as the rider came abreast of him touched the trigger, and the steel-pointed quarrel flew true and strong against the temple of the passing horseman. He fell from his horse like a stone and the well-trained animal at once stood still by the side of his rider. Cuthbert leapt forward, and to his delight the child at once opened her arms and cried in a joyous tone,-- "Cuthbert!" The fight was still raging fiercely, and Cuthbert, raising her from the ground, ran with her into the wood, where they remained hidden until the combat ceased, and the last survivors of the Baron's band had ridden past towards the castle. Then Cuthbert went forward with his charge and joined the band of outlaws, who, absorbed in the fight, had not witnessed the incident of her rescue, and now received them with loud shouts of joy and triumph. "This is a good day's work indeed for all," Cuthbert said; "it will make of the earl a firm friend instead of a bitter enemy; and I doubt not that better days are dawning for Evesham Forest." A litter was speedily made with boughs, on this Margaret was placed, and on the shoulders of two stout foresters started for home, Cnut and Cuthbert walking beside, and a few of the band keeping at a short distance behind, as a sort of rear-guard should the Baron attempt to regain his prey. There was now no cause for speed, and Cuthbert in truth could scarce drag one foot before another, for he had already traversed over twenty miles, the greater portion of the distance at his highest rate of speed. Cnut offered to have a litter made for him also, but this Cuthbert indignantly refused; however, in the forest they came upon the hut of a small cultivator, who had a rough forest pony, which was borrowed for Cuthbert's use. It was late in the afternoon before they came in sight of Evesham Castle. From the distance could be seen bodies of armed men galloping towards it, and it was clear that only now the party were returning from the wood, and had learned the news of the disappearance of the Earl's daughter, and of the finding of the bodies of her attendants. Presently they met one of the mounted retainers riding at headlong speed. "Have you heard or seen anything," he shouted, as he approached, "of the Lady Margaret? She is missing, and foul play has taken place." "Here I am, Rudolph," cried the child, sitting up on the rude litter. The horseman gave a cry of astonishment and pleasure, and without a word wheeled his horse and galloped past back at headlong speed towards the castle. As Cuthbert and the party approached the gate, the earl himself, surrounded by his knights and followers, rode out hastily from the gate and halted in front of the little party. The litter was lowered, and as he dismounted from his horse his daughter sprang out and leapt into his arms. For a few minutes the confusion and babble of tongues were too great for anything to be heard, but Cuthbert, as soon as order was somewhat restored, stated what had happened, and the earl was moved to fury at the news of the outrage which had been perpetrated by the Baron of Wortham upon his daughter and at the very gates of his castle, and also at the thought that she should have been saved by the bravery and devotion of the very men against whom he had so lately been vowing vengeance in the depths of the forest. "This is not a time," he said to Cnut, "for talking or making promises, but be assured that henceforth the deer of Evesham Chase are as free to you and your men as to me. Forest laws or no forest laws, I will no more lift a hand against men to whom I owe so much. Come when you will to the castle, my friends, and let us talk over what can be done to erase your outlawry and restore you to an honest career again." Cuthbert returned home tired, but delighted with his day's work, and Dame Editha was surprised indeed with the tale of adventure he had to tell. The next morning he went over to the castle, and heard that a grand council had been held the evening before, and that it had been determined to attack Wortham Castle and to raze it to the ground. Immediately on hearing of his arrival, the earl, after again expressing his gratitude for the rescue of his daughter, asked him if he would go into the forest and invite the outlaws to join their forces with those of the castle to attack the baron. Cuthbert willingly undertook the mission, as he felt that this alliance would further strengthen the position of the forest men. When he arrived there was some considerable consultation and discussion between the outlaws as to the expediency of mixing themselves in the quarrels between the Norman barons. However, Cnut persuaded them that as the Baron of Wortham was an enemy and oppressor of all Saxons, it was in fact their own quarrel that they were fighting rather than that of the earl, and they therefore agreed to give their aid, and promised to be at the rendezvous outside the castle to be attacked, soon after dawn next morning. Cuthbert returned with the news, which gave great satisfaction to the earl. The castle was now a scene of bustle and business; armourers were at work repairing head-pieces and breastplates, sharpening swords and battle-axes, while the fletchers prepared sheaves of arrows. In the courtyard a number of men were engaged oiling the catapults, ballistas, and other machines for hurling stones. All were discussing the chances of the assault, for it was no easy matter which they had set themselves to do. Wortham Hold was an extremely strong one, and it needed all and more than all the machines at their disposal to undertake so formidable an operation as a siege. The garrison, too, were strong and desperate; and the baron, knowing what must follow his outrage of the day before, would have been sure to send off messengers round the country begging his friends to come to his assistance. Cuthbert had begged permission of his mother to ask the earl to allow him to join as a volunteer, but she would not hear of it. Neither would she suffer him to mingle with the foresters. The utmost that he could obtain was that he might go as a spectator, with strict injunctions to keep himself out of the fray, and as far as possible beyond bow-shot of the castle wall. It was a force of some 400 strong that issued from the wood early next morning to attack the stronghold at Wortham. The force consisted of some ten or twelve knights and barons, some 150 or 160 Norman men-at-arms, a miscellaneous gathering of other retainers, 200 strong, and some eighty of the forest men. These last were not to fight under the earl's banner, but were to act on their own account. There were among them outlaws, escaped serfs, and some men guilty of bloodshed. The earl then could not have suffered these men to fight under his flag until purged in some way of their offences. This arrangement suited the foresters well. Their strong point was shooting; and by taking up their own position, and following their own tactics, under the leadership of Cnut, they would be able to do far more execution, and that with less risk to themselves, than if compelled to fight according to the fashion of the Normans. As they approached the castle a trumpet was blown, and the herald, advancing, demanded its surrender, stigmatized the Baron of Wortham as a false knight and a disgrace to his class, and warned all those within the castle to abstain from giving him aid or countenance, but to submit themselves to the earl, Sir Walter of Evesham, the representative of King Richard. The reply to the summons was a burst of taunting laughter from the walls; and scarcely had the herald withdrawn, than a flight of arrows showed that the besieged were perfectly ready for the fray. Indeed, the baron had not been idle. Already the dispute between himself and the earl had come to such a point that it was certain that sooner or later open hostilities would break out. He had therefore been for some time quietly accumulating a large store of provisions and munitions of war, and strengthening the castle in every way. The moat had been cleaned out, and filled to the brim with water. Great quantities of heavy stones had been accumulated on the most exposed points of the walls, in readiness to hurl upon any who might try to climb. Huge sheaves of arrows and piles of crossbow bolts, were in readiness, and in all, save the number of men, Wortham had for weeks been prepared for the siege. On the day when the attempt to carry off the earl's daughter had failed, the baron, seeing that his bold stroke to obtain a hostage which would have enabled him to make his own terms with the earl, had been thwarted, knew that the struggle was inevitable. Fleet messengers had been sent in all directions. To Gloucester and Hereford, Stafford, and even Oxford, men had ridden, with letters to the baron's friends, beseeching them to march to his assistance. "I can," he said, "defend my hold for weeks. But it is only by aid from without that I can finally hope to break the power of this braggart earl." Many of those to whom he addressed his call had speedily complied with his demand, while those at a distance might be expected to reply later to the appeal. There were many among the barons who considered the mildness of the Earl of Evesham towards the Saxons in his district to be a mistake, and who, although not actually approving of the tyranny and brutality of the Baron of Wortham, yet looked upon his cause to some extent as their own. The Castle of Wortham stood upon ground but very slightly elevated above the surrounding country. A deep and wide moat ran round it, and this could, by diverting a rivulet, be filled at will. From the edge of the moat the walls rose high, and with strong flanking towers and battlements. There were strong works also beyond the moat opposite to the drawbridge; while in the centre of the castle rose the keep, from whose summit the archers, and the machines for casting stones and darts, could command the whole circuit of defence. As Cuthbert, accompanied by one of the hinds of the farm, took his post high up in a lofty tree, where at his ease he could command a view of the proceedings, he marvelled much in what manner an attack upon so fair a fortress would be commenced. "It will be straightforward work to attack the outwork," he said, "but that once won, I see not how we are to proceed against the castle itself. The machines that the earl has will scarcely hurl stones strong enough even to knock the mortar from the walls. Ladders are useless where they cannot be planted; and if the garrison are as brave as the castle is strong, methinks that the earl has embarked upon a business that will keep him here till next spring." There was little time lost in commencing the conflict. The foresters, skirmishing up near to the castle, and taking advantage of every inequality in the ground, of every bush and tuft of high grass, worked up close to the moat, and then opened a heavy fire with their bows against the men-at-arms on the battlements, and prevented their using the machines against the main force now advancing to the attack upon the outwork. This was stoutly defended. But the impetuosity of the earl, backed as it was by the gallantry of the knights serving under him, carried all obstacles. The narrow moat which encircled this work was speedily filled with great bundles of brushwood, which had been prepared the previous night. Across these the assailants rushed. Some thundered at the gate with their battle-axes, while others placed ladders by which, although several times hurled backwards by the defenders, they finally succeeded in getting a footing on the wall. Once there, the combat was virtually over. The defenders were either cut down or taken prisoners, and in two hours after the assault began, the outwork of Wortham Castle was taken. This, however, was but the commencement of the undertaking, and it had cost more than twenty lives to the assailants. They were now, indeed, little nearer to capturing the castle than they had been before. The moat was wide and deep. The drawbridge had been lifted at the instant that the first of the assailants gained a footing upon the wall. And now that the outwork was captured, a storm of arrows, stones, and other missiles was poured into it from the castle walls, and rendered it impossible for any of its new masters, to show themselves above it. Seeing that any sudden attack was impossible, the earl now directed a strong body to cut down trees, and prepare a movable bridge to throw across the moat. This would be a work of fully two days; and in the meantime Cuthbert returned to the farm. CHAPTER III. THE CAPTURE OF WORTHAM HOLD. Upon his return home, after relating to his mother the events of the morning's conflict, Cuthbert took his way to the cottage inhabited by an old man who had in his youth been a mason. "Have I not heard, Gurth," he said, "that you helped to build the Castle of Wortham?" "No, no, young sir," he said; "old as I am, I was a child when the castle was built. My father worked at it, and it cost him, and many others, his life." "And how was that, prithee?" asked Cuthbert. "He was, with several others, killed by the baron, the grandfather of the present man, when the work was finished." "But why was that, Gurth?" "We were but Saxon swine," said Gurth bitterly, "and a few of us more or less mattered not. We were then serfs of the baron. But my mother fled with me on the news of my father's death. For years we remained far away, with some friends in a forest near Oxford. Then she pined for her native air, and came back and entered the service of the franklin." "But why should your mother have taken you away?" Cuthbert asked. "She always believed, Master Cuthbert, that my father was killed by the baron, to prevent him giving any news of the secrets of the castle. He and some others had been kept in the walls for many months, and were engaged in the making of secret passages." "That is just what I came to ask you, Gurth. I have heard something of this story before, and now that we are attacking Wortham Castle, and the earl has sworn to level it to the ground, it is of importance if possible to find out whether any of the secret passages lead beyond the castle, and if so, where. Almost all the castles have, I have been told, an exit by which the garrison can at will make sorties or escape; and I thought that maybe you might have heard enough to give us some clue as to the existence of such a passage at Wortham." The old man thought for some time in silence, and then said,-- "I may be mistaken, but methinks a diligent search in the copse near the stream might find the mouth of the outlet." "What makes you think that this is so, Gurth?" "I had been with my mother to carry some clothes to my father on the last occasion on which I saw him. As we neared the castle I saw my father and three other of the workmen, together with the baron, coming down from the castle towards the spot. As my mother did not wish to approach while the baron was at hand, we stood within the trees at the edge of the wood, and watched what was being done. The baron came with them down to the bushes, and then they again came out, crossed the river, and one of them cut some willows, peeled them, and erected the white staves in a line towards the castle. They walked for a bit on each side, and seemed to be making calculations. Then they went back into the castle, and I never saw my father again." "Why did you not go in at once according to your intention?" "Because my mother said that she thought some important work was on hand, and that maybe the baron would not like that women should know aught of it, for he was of suspicious and evil mind. More than this I know not. The castle had already been finished, and most of the masons discharged. There were, however, a party of serfs kept at work, and also some masons, and rumour had it that they were engaged in making the secret passages. Whether it was so or not I cannot say, but I know that none of that party ever left the castle alive. It was given out that a bad fever had raged there, but none believed it; and the report went about, and was I doubt not true, that all had been killed, to preserve the secret of the passage." Cuthbert lost no time in making use of the information that he had gained. Early next morning, at daybreak, he started on his pony to Wortham. As he did not wish the earl or his followers to know the facts that he had learned until they were proved, he made his way round the camp of the besiegers, and by means of his whistle called one of the foresters to him. "Where is Cnut?" he asked. "He is with a party occupied in making ladders." "Go to him," Cuthbert said, "and tell him to withdraw quietly and make his way here. I have an important matter on which I wish to speak to him,'" Cnut arrived in a few minutes, somewhat wondering at the message. He brightened greatly when Cuthbert told him what he had learned. "This is indeed important," he said. "We will lose no time in searching the copse you speak of. You and I, together with two of my most trusty men, with axes to clear away the brush, will do. At present a thing of this sort had best be kept between as few as may be." They started at once and soon came down upon the stream. It ran at this point in a little valley, some twenty or thirty feet deep. On the bank not far from the castle grew a small wood, and it was in this that Cuthbert hoped to find the passage spoken of by Gurth. The trees and brushwood were so thick that it was apparent at once that if the passage had ever existed it had been unused for some years. The woodmen were obliged to chop down dozens of young saplings to make their way up from the water towards the steeper part of the bank. The wood was some fifty yards in length, and as it was uncertain at which point the passage had come out, a very minute search had to be made. "What do you think it would be like, Cnut?" Cuthbert asked. "Like enough to a rabbit-hole, or more likely still there would be no hole whatever. We must look for moss and greenery, for it is likely that such would have been planted, so as to conceal the door from any passer-by, while yet allowing a party from inside to cut their way through it without difficulty." After a search of two hours, Cnut decided that the only place in the copse in which it was likely that the entrance to a passage could be hidden, was a spot where the ground was covered thickly with ivy and trailing plants. "It looks level enough with the rest," Cuthbert said. "Ay, lad, but we know not what lies behind this thick screen of ivy. Thrust in that staff." One of the woodmen began to probe with the end of a staff among the ivy. For some time he was met by the solid ground, but presently the butt of the staff went through suddenly, pitching him on his head, amidst a suppressed laugh from his comrades. "Here it is, if anywhere," said Cnut, and with their billhooks they at once began to clear away the thickly grown creepers. Five minutes' work was sufficient to show a narrow cut, some two feet wide, in the hill side, at the end of which stood a low door. "Here it is," said Cnut, with triumph, "and the castle is ours. Thanks, Cuthbert, for your thought and intelligence. It has not been used lately, that is clear," he went on. "These creepers have not been moved for years. Shall we go and tell the earl of our discovery? What think you, Cuthbert?" "I think we had better not," Cuthbert said. "We might not succeed in getting in, as the passage may have fallen farther along; but I will speak to him and tell him that we have something on hand which may alter his dispositions for fighting to-morrow." Cuthbert made his way to the earl, who had taken possession of a small cottage a short distance from the castle. "What can I do for you?" Sir Walter said. "I want to ask you, sir, not to attack the castle to-morrow until you see a white flag waved from the keep." "But how on earth is a white flag to be raised from the keep?" "It may be," Cuthbert said, "that I have some friends inside who will be able to make a diversion in our favour. However sir, it can do no harm if you will wait till then, and may save many lives. At what hour do you mean to attack?" "The bridges and all other preparations to assist us across the moat will be ready to-night. We will advance then under cover of darkness, and as soon after dawn as may be attack in earnest." "Very well, sir," Cuthbert said. "I trust that within five minutes after your bugle has sounded, the white flag will make its appearance on the keep, but it cannot do so until after you have commenced an attack, or at least a pretence of an attack." Two or three hours before daylight Cuthbert accompanied Cnut and twenty-five picked men of the foresters to the copse. They were provided with crowbars, and all carried heavy axes. The door was soon prised open. It opened silently and without a creak. "It may be," Cnut said, "that the door has not been opened as you say for years, but it is certain," and he placed his torch to the hinges, "that it has been well oiled within the last two or three days. No doubt the baron intended to make his escape this way, should the worst arrive. Now that we have the door open we had better wait quiet until the dawn commences. The earl will blow his bugle as a signal for the advance; it will be another ten minutes before they are fairly engaged, and that will be enough for us to break open any doors that there may be between this and the castle, and to force our way inside." It seemed a long time waiting before the dawn fairly broke--still longer before the earl's bugle was heard to sound the attack. Then the band, headed by Cnut and two or three of the strongest of the party, entered the passage. Cuthbert had had some misgivings as to his mother's injunctions to take no part in the fray, and it cannot be said that in accompanying the foresters he obeyed the letter of her instructions. At the same time as he felt sure that the effect of a surprise would be complete and crushing, and that the party would gain the top of the keep without any serious resistance, he considered the risk was so small as to justify him in accompanying the foresters. The passage was some five feet high, and little more than two feet wide. It was dry and dusty, and save the marks on the ground of a human foot going and returning, doubtless that of the man who had oiled the lock the day before, the passage appeared to have been unused from the time that it left the hands of its builders. Passing along for some distance they came to another strong oaken door. This, like the last, yielded to the efforts of the crowbars of the foresters, and they again advanced. Presently they came to a flight of steps. "We must now be near the castle," Cnut said. "In fact, methinks I can hear confused noises ahead." Mounting the steps, they came to a third door; this was thickly studded with iron, and appeared of very great strength. Fortunately the lock was upon their side, and they were enabled to shoot the bolt; but upon the other side the door was firmly secured by large bolts, and it was fully five minutes before the foresters could succeed in opening it. It was not without a good deal of noise that they at last did so; and several times they paused, fearing that the alarm must have been given in the castle. As, however, the door remained closed, they supposed that the occupants were fully engaged in defending themselves from the attacks of the earl's party. When the door gave way, they found hanging across in front of them a very thick arras, and pressing this aside they entered a small room in the thickness of the wall of the keep. It contained the merest slit for light, and was clearly unused. Another door, this time unfastened, led into a larger apartment, which was also at present unoccupied. They could hear now the shouts of the combatants without, the loud orders given by the leaders on the walls, the crack, as the stones hurled by the mangonels struck the walls, and the ring of steel as the arrows struck against steel cap and cuirass. "It is fortunate that all were so well engaged, or they would certainly have heard the noise of our forcing the door, which would have brought all of them upon us. As it is, we are in the heart of the keep. We have now but to make a rush up these winding steps, and methinks we shall find ourselves on the battlements. They will be so surprised, that no real resistance can be offered to us. Now let us advance." So saying Cnut led the way upstairs, followed by the foresters, Cuthbert, as before, allowing five or six of them to intervene between him and the leader. He carried his short sword and a quarterstaff, a weapon by no means to be despised in the hands of an active and experienced player. Presently, after mounting some fifty or sixty steps, they issued on the platform of the keep. Here were gathered some thirty or forty men, who were so busied in shooting with crossbows, and in working machines casting javelins, stones, and other missives upon the besiegers, that they were unaware of the addition to their numbers until the whole of the foresters had gathered on the summit, and at the order of Cnut suddenly fell upon them with a loud shout. Taken wholly by surprise by the foe, who seemed to have risen from the bowels of the earth by magic, the soldiers of the Baron of Wortham offered but a feeble resistance. Some were cast over the battlement of the keep, some driven down staircases, others cut down, and then Cuthbert, fastening a small white flag he had prepared to his quarter-staff, waved it above the battlements. Even now the combatants on the outer wall were in ignorance of what had happened in the keep; so great was the din that the struggle which had there taken place had passed unnoticed; and it was not until the fugitives, rushing out into the courtyard, shouted that the keep had been captured, that the besieged became aware of the imminence of the danger. Hitherto the battle had been going well for the defenders of the castle. The Baron of Wortham was indeed surprised at the feebleness of the assault. The arrows which had fallen in clouds upon the first day's attack upon the castle among his soldiers were now comparatively few and ineffective. The besiegers scarcely appeared to push forward their bridges with any vigour, and it seemed to him that a coldness had fallen upon them, and that some disagreement must have arisen between the foresters and the earl, completely crippling the energy of the attack. When he heard the words shouted from the courtyard below he could not believe his ears. That the keep behind should have been carried by the enemy appeared to him impossible. With a roar he called upon the bravest of his men to follow, and rushing across the courtyard, rapidly ascended the staircase. The movement was observed from the keep, and Cnut and a few of his men, stationed themselves with their battle-axes at the top of various stairs leading below. The signal shown by Cuthbert had not passed unobserved. The earl, who had given instructions to his followers to make a mere feint of attacking, now blew the signal for the real onslaught. The bridges were rapidly run across the moat, ladders were planted, and the garrison being paralyzed and confused by the attack in their rear, as well as hindered by the arrows which now flew down upon them from the keep above, offered but a feeble resistance, and the assailants, led by Sir Walter himself, poured over the walls. Now there was a scene of confusion and desperate strife. The baron had just gained the top of the stairs, and was engaged in a fierce conflict with Cnut and his men, when the news reached him that the wall was carried from without. With an execration he again turned and rushed down the stairs, hoping by a vigorous effort to cast back the foe. It was, however, all too late: his followers, disheartened and alarmed, fought without method or order in scattered groups of threes and fours. They made their last stand in corners and passages. They knew there was but little hope of mercy from the Saxon foresters, and against these they fought to the last. To the Norman retainers, however, of the earl they offered a less determined resistance, throwing down their arms and surrendering at discretion. The baron, when fiercely fighting, was slain by an arrow from the keep above, and with his fall the last resistance ceased. A short time was spent in searching the castle, binding the prisoners, and carrying off the valuables that the baron had collected in his raids. Then a light was set to the timbers, the granaries were fired, and in a few minutes the smoke wreathing out of the various loopholes and openings told the country round that the stronghold had fallen, and that they were free from the oppressor at last. CHAPTER IV. THE CRUSADES. Warm thanks and much praise were bestowed upon Cuthbert for his share in the capture of the castle, and the earl, calling the foresters round him, then and there bestowed freedom upon any of them who might have been serfs of his, and called upon all his knights and neighbours to do the same, in return for the good service which they had rendered. This was willingly done, and a number of Cnut's party who had before borne the stigma of escaped serfs were now free men. We are too apt to forget, in our sympathy with the Saxons, that fond as they were of freedom for themselves, they were yet severe masters, and kept the mass of the people in a state of serfage. Although their laws provided ample justice as between Saxon man and man, there was no justice for the unhappy serfs, who were either the original inhabitants or captives taken in war, and who were distinguished by a collar of brass or iron round their neck. Cnut's party had indeed long got rid of these badges, the first act of a serf when he took to the woods being always to file off his collar; but they were liable when caught to be punished, even by death, and were delighted at having achieved their freedom. "And what can I do for you, Cuthbert?" Sir Walter said, as they rode homewards. "It is to you that I am indebted: in the first place for the rescue of my daughter, in the second for the capture of that castle, which I doubt me much whether we should ever have taken in fair fight had it not been for your aid." "Thanks, Sir Walter," the lad replied. "At present I need nothing, but should the time come when you may go to the wars, I would fain ride with you as your page, in the hope of some day winning my spurs also in the field." "So shall it be," the earl said, "and right willingly. But who have we here?" As he spoke a horseman rode up and presented a paper to the earl. "This is a notice," the earl said, after perusing it, "that King Richard has determined to take up the cross, and that he calls upon his nobles and barons to join him in the effort to free the holy sepulchre from the infidels. I doubt whether the minds of the people are quite prepared, but I hear that there has been much preaching by friars and monks in some parts, and that many are eager to join in the war." "Think you that you will go to the war, Sir Walter?" Cuthbert asked. "I know not as yet; it must much depend upon the king's mood. For myself, I care not so greatly as some do about this question of the Holy Land. There has been blood enough shed already to drown it, and we are no nearer than when the first swarms of pilgrims made their way thither." On Cuthbert's returning home and telling his mother all that had passed, she shook her head, but said that she could not oppose his wishes to go with the earl when the time should come, and that it was only right he should follow in the footsteps of the good knight his father. "I have heard much of these Crusades," he said; "canst tell me about them?" "In truth I know not much, my son; but Father Francis, I doubt not, can tell you all the particulars anent the affair." The next time that Father Francis, who was the special adviser of Dame Editha, rode over from the convent on his ambling nag, Cuthbert eagerly asked him if he would tell him what he knew of the Crusades. "Hitherto, my son," he said, "the Crusades have, it must be owned, brought many woes upon Europe. From the early times great swarms of pilgrims were accustomed to go from all parts of Europe to the holy shrines. "When the followers of the evil prophet took possession of the land, they laid grievous burdens upon the pilgrims, heavily they fined them, persecuted them in every way, and treated them as if indeed they were but the scum of the earth under their feet. "So terrible were the tales that reached Europe that men came to think that it would be a good deed truly, to wrest the sepulchre of the Lord from the hands of these heathens. Pope Urban was the first to give authority and strength to the movement, and at a vast meeting at Claremont of 30,000 clergy and 4000 barons, it was decided that war must be made against the infidel. From all parts of France men flocked to hear Pope Urban preach there; and when he had finished his oration, the vast multitude, carried away by enthusiasm, swore to win the holy sepulchre or to die. "Mighty was the throng that gathered for the First Crusade. Monks threw aside their gowns and took to the sword and cuirass; even women and children joined in the throng. What, my son, could be expected from a great army so formed? Without leaders, without discipline, without tactics, without means of getting food, they soon became a scourge of the country through which they passed. "Passing through Hungary, where they greatly ravaged the fields, they came to Bulgaria. Here the people, struck with astonishment and dismay at this great horde of hungry people who arrived among them like locusts, fell upon them with the sword, and great numbers fell. The first band that passed into that country perished miserably, and of all that huge assembly, it may be said that, numbering, at the start, not less than 250,000 persons, only about 100,000 crossed into Asia Minor. The fate of these was no better than that of those who had perished in Hungary and Bulgaria. After grievous suffering and loss they at last reached Nicaea. There they fell into an ambuscade; and out of the whole of the undisciplined masses who had followed Peter the Hermit, it is doubtful whether 10,000 ever returned home. "This first attempt to rescue the holy sepulchre was followed by others equally wild, misguided, and unfortunate. Some of them indeed began their evil deeds as soon as they had left their home. The last of these bodies fell upon the Jews, who are indeed enemies of the Christian faith, but who have now, at least, nothing to do with the question of the holy sepulchre. As soon as they entered into Germany the Crusaders put them to death with horrible torture. Plunder and rapine indeed appeared to be the object of the crusaders. On this as well as on most other preceding bands, their misdeeds drew down the vengeance of the people. At an early period of their march, and as soon as they reached Hungary, the people fell upon them, and put the greater portion to the sword. "Thus, in these irregular expeditions no less than 500,000 people are supposed to have perished. Godfrey de Bouillon was the first who undertook to lead a Crusade according to the military knowledge of the day. With him were his brothers Eustace and Baldwin, the Counts of Anault and St. Paul, and many other nobles and gentlemen, with their retainers, well armed and under good order; and so firm was the discipline of Duke Godfrey that they were allowed to pass freely, by the people of the countries who had opposed the previous bands. "Through Hungary, Bulgaria, and Thrace he made his way; and though he met with many difficulties from Alexius, the crafty and treacherous Emperor of the Greeks, he at last succeeded in crossing into Asia. There he was joined by many from England, as well as from France and other countries. Duke Robert, the son of our first William, led a strong band of Normans to the war, as did the other great princes of France and Spain. "The army which crossed the narrow passage of the Hellespont is estimated at no less than 700,000 fighting men. Of these 100,000 were knights clad in complete armour, the remainder were men-at-arms and bowmen. "Nicaea, the place which had been the scene of the massacre of Peter the Hermit's hosts, was taken after a desperate conflict, lasting for many weeks, and the crusaders afterwards defeated the Turks in a great battle near the town of Doryleum. After these successes disputes arose among the leaders, and Count Baldwin, brother of Duke Godfrey, left the main body with about 1500 men, and founded a kingdom for himself in Mesopotamia. "The main body, slowly and painfully, and suffering from disease, famine, and the heat, made its way south. Antioch, a city of great strength and importance, was besieged, but it proved so strong that it resisted for many months, and was at last only taken by treachery. "After the capture of this place the sufferings of the crusaders so far from being diminished were redoubled. They themselves during the siege had bought up all the food that could be brought from the surrounding country, while the magazines of the town were found, when an entry was effected, to be entirely deserted. The enemy, aided by a great Persian host, came down, and those who had been the besiegers were now besieged. However, when in the last strait the Christian army sallied out, and inspired with supernatural strength, defeated the Turks and Persians, with a slaughter of 100,000 men. Another slow movement to the south brought them into the Holy Land, and pressing forward, they came at last within sight of Jerusalem itself. "So fearful had been the losses of the crusaders that of 700,000 who crossed the Hellespont, not more than 40,000 reached the end of the pilgrimage. This fragment of an army, which had appeared before a very strongly fortified town, possessed no means of capturing the place--none of the machines of war necessary for the purpose, no provisions or munitions of any kind. Water was scarce also; and it appeared as if the remnant of the great army of Godfrey de Bouillon had arrived before Jerusalem only to perish there. "Happily just at this time a further band of crusaders from Genoa, who had reached Jaffa, made their appearance. They were provided with stores, and had skilled workmen capable of making the machines for the siege. On July 14th, 1099, the attack was made, and after resistance gallant and desperate as the assault, the crusaders burst into the city, massacred the whole of the defenders and inhabitants, calculated at 70,000 in number, and so became masters of the holy sepulchre. "The Sultan of Egypt was meanwhile advancing to the assistance of the Mohammedans of Syria; but Godfrey, with 20,000 of his best men, advanced to meet the vast host, and scattered them as if they had been sheep. Godfrey was now chosen King of Jerusalem, and the rest of his army--save 300 knights and 200 soldiers, who agreed to remain with him--returned to their home. The news of the victory led other armies of crusaders to follow the example of that of Godfrey; but as these were almost as completely without organization or leadership as those of Peter the Hermit, they suffered miserably on their way, and few indeed ever reached the Holy Land. Godfrey died in 1100, and his brother Baldwin succeeded him. "The history of the last 100 years has been full of fresh efforts to crush the Moslem power, but hitherto it cannot be said that fortune has attended the efforts of the Christians. Had it not been indeed for the devotion of the Knights of St. John and of the Templars, two great companies formed of men who devoted their lives to the holding of the sepulchre against the infidel, our hold of the Holy Land would have been lost. "Gradually the Saracens have wrested post after post from our hands. Edessa was taken in 1144, and the news of this event created an intense excitement. The holy St. Bernard stirred up all France, and Louis VII. himself took the vow and headed a noble army. The ways of God are not our ways, and although the army of Germany joined that of France, but little results came of this great effort. The Emperor Conrad, with the Germans, was attacked by the Turk Saladin of Iconium, and was defeated with a loss of 60,000 men. The King of France, with his army, was also attacked with fury, and a large portion of his force were slaughtered. Nothing more came of this great effort, and while the first Crusade seemed to show that the men-at-arms of Europe were irresistible, the second on the contrary gave proof that the Turks were equal to the Christian knights. Gradually the Christian hold of the Holy Land was shaken. In 1187, although fighting with extraordinary bravery, the small army of Christian Knights of the Temple and of St. John were annihilated, the King of Jerusalem was made prisoner, and the Christian power was crushed. Then Saladin, who commanded the Turks, advanced against Jerusalem, and forced it to capitulate. "Such, my boy, is the last sad news which has reached us; and no wonder that it has stirred the hearts of the monarchs of Europe, and that every effort will be again made to recapture the holy sepulchre, and to avenge our brethren who have been murdered by the infidels." "But, Father Francis, from your story it would seem that Europe has already sacrificed an enormous number of lives to take the holy sepulchre, and that after all the fighting, when she has taken it, it is only to lose it again." "That is so, my son; but we will trust that in future things will be better managed. The Templars and Hospitallers now number so vast a number of the best lances in Europe, and are grown to be such great powers, that we may believe that when we have again wrested the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels they will be able to maintain it against all assaults. Doubtless the great misfortunes which have fallen upon the Christian armies have been a punishment from heaven, because they have not gone to work in the right spirit. It is not enough to take up lance and shield, and to place a red cross upon the shoulder. Those who desire to fight the battle of the Lord must cleanse their hearts, and go forth in the spirit of pilgrims rather than knights. I mean, not that they should trust wholly to spiritual weapons--for in truth the infidel is a foe not to be despised--but I mean, that they should lay aside all thoughts of worldly glory, and rivalry one against another." "And think you, Father, that such is the spirit with which King Richard and the other kings and nobles now preparing to go to the Holy Land are animated?" Father Francis hesitated. "It is not for me, my son, to judge motives, or to speak well or ill the instruments who have been chosen for this great work. It is of all works the most praiseworthy, most holy. It is horrible to think that the holy shrines of Jerusalem should be in the hands of men who believe not in our Redeemer; and I hold it to be the duty of every man who can bear arms, no matter what his rank or his station, to don his armour and to go forth to battle in the cause. Whether success will crown the effort, or whether God wills it otherwise, it is not for man to discuss; it is enough that the work is there, and it is our duty to do it." "And think you, Father, that it will do good to England?" "That do I, my son, whether we gain the Holy Land or no. Methinks that it will do good service to the nation that Saxon and Norman should fight together under the holy cross. Hitherto the races have stood far too much apart. They have seen each other's bad qualities rather than good; but methinks that when the Saxon and the Norman stand side by side on the soil of the Holy Land, and shout together for England, it must needs bind them together, and lead them to feel that they are no longer Normans and Saxons, but Englishmen. I intend to preach on the village green at Evesham next Sunday morning on this subject, and as I know you are in communication with the forest men, I would, Cuthbert, that you would persuade them to come in to hear me. You were wondering what could be found for these vagrants. They have many of them long since lost the habits of honest labour. Many of them are still serfs, although most have been freed by the good earl and the knights his followers. Some of those who would fain leave the life in the woods, still cling to it because they think that it would be mean to desert their comrades, who being serfs are still bound to lurk there; but methinks that this is a great opportunity for them. They are valiant men, and the fact that they are fond of drawing an arrow at a buck does not make them one whit the worse Christians. I will do my best to move their hearts, and if they will but agree together to take the cross, they would make a goodly band of footmen to accompany the earl." "Is the earl going?" Cuthbert asked eagerly. "I know not for certain," said Father Francis; "but I think from what I hear from his chaplain, Father Eustace, that his mind turns in that direction." "Then, Father, if he goes, I will go too," Cuthbert exclaimed. "He promised to take me as his page the first time he went to war." Father Francis shook his head. "I fear me, Cuthbert, this is far from the spirit in which we a while ago agreed that men should go to the holy war." Cuthbert hung his head a little. "Ay, Father Francis, men; but I am a boy," he said, "and after all, boys are fond of adventure for adventure's sake. However, Father," he said, with a smile, "no doubt your eloquence on the green will turn me mightily to the project, for you must allow that the story you have told me this morning is not such as to create any very strong yearning in one's mind to follow the millions of men who have perished in the Holy Land." "Go to," said Father Francis, smiling, "thou art a pert varlet. I will do my best on Sunday to turn you to a better frame of mind." CHAPTER V. PREPARATIONS. Next Sunday a large number of people from some miles round were gathered on the green at Evesham, to hear Father Francis preach on the holy sepulchre. The forest men in their green jerkins mingled with the crowd, and a look of attention and seriousness was on the faces of all, for the news of the loss of the holy sepulchre had really exercised a great effect upon the minds of the people in England as elsewhere. Those were the days of pilgrimage to holy places, when the belief in the sanctity of places and things was overwhelming, and when men believed that a journey to the holy shrines was sufficient to procure for them a pardon for all their misdeeds. The very word "infidel" in those days was full of horror, and the thought that the holy places of the Christians were in the hands of Moslems, affected all Christians throughout Europe with a feeling of shame as well as of grief. Among the crowd were many of the Norman retainers from the castle and from many of the holds around, and several knights with the ladies of their family stood a little apart from the edge of the gathering; for it was known that Father Francis would not be alone, but that he would be accompanied by a holy friar who had returned from the East, and who could tell of the cruelties which the Christians had suffered at the hands of the Saracens. Father Francis, at ordinary times a tranquil preacher, was moved beyond himself by the theme on which he was holding forth. He did not attempt to hide from those who stood around that the task to be undertaken was one of grievous peril and trial; that disease and heat, hunger and thirst, must be dared, as well as the sword of the infidel. But he spoke of the grand nature of the work, of the humiliation to Christians of the desecration of the shrines, and of the glory which awaited those who joined the crusade, whether they lived or whether they died in the Holy Land. His words had a strong effect upon the simple people who listened to him, but the feelings so aroused were as nought to the enthusiasm which greeted the address of the friar. Meagre and pale, with a worn, anxious face as one who had suffered much, the friar, holding aloft two pieces of wood from the Mount of Olives tied together in the form of a cross, harangued the crowd. His words poured forth in a fiery stream, kindling the hearts, and stirring at once the devotion and the anger of his listeners. He told of the holy places, he spoke of the scenes of Holy Writ, which had there been enacted; and then he depicted the men who had died for them. He told of the knights and men-at-arms, each of whom proved himself again and again a match for a score of infidels. He spoke of the holy women, who, fearlessly and bravely, as the knights themselves, had borne their share in the horrors of the siege and in the terrible times which had preceded it. He told them that this misfortune had befallen Christianity because of the lukewarmness which had come upon them. "What profited it," he asked, "if the few knights who remained to defend the holy sepulchre were heroes? A few heroes cannot withstand an army. If Christendom after making a mighty effort to capture the holy sepulchre had not fallen away, the conquest which had been made with so vast an expenditure of blood would not have been lost. This is a work in which no mere passing fervour will avail; bravery at first, endurance afterwards, are needed. Many men must determine not only to assist to wrest the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels, but to give their lives, so long as they might last, to retaining it. It is scarce to be expected that men with wives and families will take a view like this, indeed it is not to be desired. But there are single men, men of no ties, who can devote their whole lives, as did the Knights of the Orders of the Cross, to this great object. When their life has come to an end, doubtless others will take up the banner that their hands can no longer hold. But for life it is, indeed, that many of humble as well as of princely class must bind themselves to take and defend to death the holy sepulchre." So, gradually raising the tone of his speech, the friar proceeded; until at length by his intense earnestness, his wild gesticulations, his impassioned words, he drew the whole of his listeners along with him; and when he ceased, a mighty shout of "To the Holy Land!" burst from his hearers. Falling upon their knees, the crowd begged of him to give them the sign of the cross, and to bestow his blessing upon their swords, and upon their efforts. Father Francis had prepared, in contemplation of such a movement, a large number of small white crosses of cloth. These he and the friar now fastened to the shoulders of the men as they crowded up to receive it, holding their hands aloft, kissing the cross that the Friar extended to them, and swearing to give their lives, if need be, to rescue the holy shrines from the infidel. When all had received the holy symbol, Father Francis again ascended the bank from which they had addressed the crowd: "Now go to your homes, my sons," he said. "Think of the oath that you have taken, and of the course that lies open to you when the time comes. When King Richard is prepared to start, then will you be called upon to fulfil your vows. It may be that all who have sworn may not be called upon to go. It needs that the land here should be tilled, it needs that there should be protectors for the women and children, it needs that this England of ours should flourish, and we cannot give all her sons, however willing they might be to take the cross. But the willingness which you will, I am sure, show to go if needs be, and to redeem your vows, will be sufficient. Some must go and some must stay; these are matters to be decided hereafter; for the time let us separate; you will hear when the hour for action arrives." A fortnight later the Earl of Evesham, who had been on a long journey to London, returned with full authority to raise and organize a force as his contingent to the holy wars. All was now bustle and activity in the castle. Father Francis informed him of the willingness of such of the forest men as he deemed fit to enlist under his banner; and the earl was much gratified at finding that the ranks of heavily-armed retainers whom he would take with him, were to be swollen by the addition of so useful a contingent as that of 100 skilful archers. Cuthbert was not long in asking for an interview with the earl. He had indeed great difficulty in persuading Dame Editha that he was old enough to share in the fatigues of so great an expedition, but he had Father Francis on his side; and between the influence of her confessor, and the importunities of her son, the opposition of the good lady fell to the ground. Cuthbert was already, for his age, well trained to arms. Many of the old soldiers at the castle who had known and loved his father, had been ever ready to give lessons in the use of arms to Cuthbert, who was enthusiastic in his desire to prove as good a knight as his father had been. His friends, the outlaws, had taught him the use of the bow and of the quarter-staff; and Cuthbert, strong and well-built for his age, and having little to do save to wield the sword and the bow, had attained a very considerable amount of skill with each. He had too, which was unusual, a certain amount of book learning, although this, true to say, had not been acquired so cheerfully or willingly as the skill at arms. Father Francis had, however, taught him to read and to write--accomplishments which were at that time rare, except in the cloister. In those days if a knight had a firm seat in his saddle, a strong arm, a keen eye, and high courage, it was thought to be of little matter whether he could or could not do more than make his mark on the parchment. The whole life of the young was given to acquiring skill in arms; and unless intended for the convent, any idea of education would in the great majority of cases have been considered as preposterous. To do Cuthbert justice, he had protested with all his might against the proposition of Father Francis to his mother to teach him some clerkly knowledge. He had yielded most unwillingly at last to her entreaties, backed as they were by the sound arguments and good sense of Father Francis. The Earl of Evesham received Cuthbert's application very graciously. "Certainly, Cuthbert," he said, "you shall accompany me; first, on account of my promise to you; secondly, because from the readiness you displayed both in the matter of my daughter and of the attack on Wortham, you will be a notable aid and addition to my party; thirdly, from my friendship for your father and Dame Editha." This point being settled, Cuthbert at once assumed his new duties. There was plenty for him to do--to see that the orders of the earl were properly carried out; to bear messages to the knights who followed the earl's fortunes, at their various holds; to stand by and watch the armourers at work, and the preparation of the stores of arms and missiles which would be necessary for the expedition. Sometimes he would go round to summon the tenants of the various farms and lands, who held from the earl, to come to the castle; and here Sir Walter would, as far as might be without oppression, beg of them to contribute largely to the expedition. In these appeals he was in no slight way assisted by Father Francis, who pointed out loudly to the people that those who stayed behind were bound to make as much sacrifice of their worldly goods, as those who went to the war might make of their lives. Life and land are alike at the service of God. Could the land be sold, it would be a good deed to sell it; but as this could not be, they should at least sell all that they could, and pledge their property if they could find lenders, in order to contribute to the needs of their lord, and the fitting out of this great enterprise. The preparations were at last complete, and a gallant band gathered at the castle ready for starting. It consisted of some 200 men-at-arms led by six knights, and of 100 bowmen dressed in Lincoln green, with quilted jerkins to keep out the arrows of the enemy. All the country from around gathered to see the start. Dame Editha was there, and by her side stood the earl's little daughter. The earl himself was in armour, and beside him rode Cuthbert in the gay attire of a page. Just at that moment, however, his face did not agree with his costume, for although he strove his best to look bright and smiling, it was a hard task to prevent the tears from filling his eyes at his departure from his mother. The good lady cried unrestrainedly, and Margaret joined in her tears. The people who had gathered round cheered lustily; the trumpets blew a gay fanfaronade; and the squire threw to the wind the earl's colours. It was no mere pleasure trip on which they were starting, for all knew that, of the preceding crusades, not one in ten of those who had gone so gladly forth had ever returned. It must not be supposed that the whole of those present were animated by any strong religious feeling. No doubt there existed a desire, which was carefully fanned by the preaching of the priests and monks, to rescue the holy sepulchre from the hands of the Saracens; but a far stronger feeling was to be found in the warlike nature of the people in those days. Knights, men-at-arms, and indeed men of all ranks, were full of a combative spirit. Life in the castle and hut was alike dull and monotonous, and the excitement of war and adventure was greatly looked for, both as a means of obtaining glory and booty, and for the change they afforded to the dreary monotony of life. There is little to tell of the journey of the Earl of Evesham's band through England to Southampton, at which place they took ship and crossed to France--or rather to Normandy, for in those days Normandy was regarded, as indeed it formed, a part of England. Cuthbert, as was natural to his age, was full of delight at all the varying scenes through which they passed. The towns were to him an especial source of wonder, for he had never visited any other than that of Worcester, to which he had once or twice been taken on occasions of high festival. Havre was in those days an important place, and being the landing-place of a great portion of the English bands, it was full of bustle and excitement. Every day ships brought in nobles and their followings. The King of England was already in Normandy hastening the preparations, and each band, as it landed, marched down to the meeting-place on the plains of Vezelay. Already they began to experience a taste of the hardships which they were to endure. In those days there was no regular supply train for an army, but each division or band supported itself by purchase or pillage, as the case might be, from the surrounding country. As the English troops were marching through a friendly country, pillage was of course strictly forbidden; but while many of the leaders paid for all they had, it must be owned that among the smaller leaders were many who took anything that they required with or without payment. The country was eaten up. The population in those days was sparse, and the movement of so large a number of men along a certain route completely exhausted all the resources of the inhabitants; and although willing to pay for all that his men required, the Earl of Evesham had frequently to lie down on the turf supperless himself. "If this is the case now," he said to Cuthbert, "what will it be after we have joined the French army? Methinks whatever we may do if we reach the Holy Land, that we have a fair chance of being starved before we sail." After a long succession of marches they arrived in sight of the great camp at Vezelay. It was indeed rather a canvas town than a camp. Here were gathered nearly 100,000 men, a vast host at any time, but in those days far greater in proportion to the strength of the countries than at present. The tents of the leaders, nobles, and other knights and gentlemen, rose in regular lines, forming streets and squares. The great mass of troops, however, were contented to sleep in the open air; indeed the difficulties of carriage were so great that it was only the leaders who could carry with them their canvas abodes. Before each tent stood the lance and colours of its owner, and side by side in the centre of the camp stood the royal pavilions of Phillip of France and Richard of England, round which could be seen the gonfalons of all the nobles of Western Europe. Nothing could be gayer than the aspect of this camp as the party rode into it. They were rather late, and the great body of the host were already assembled. Cuthbert gazed with delight at the varied colours, the gay dresses, the martial knights, and the air of discipline and order which reigned everywhere. This was indeed war in its most picturesque form, a form which, as far as beauty is concerned, has been altogether altered, and indeed destroyed, by modern arms. In those days individual prowess and bravery went for everything. A handful of armoured knights were a match for thousands of footmen, and battles were decided as much by the prowess and bravery of the leader and his immediate following as by that of the great mass of the army. The earl had the day before sent on a messenger to state that he was coming, and as the party entered the camp they were met by a squire of the camp-marshal, who conducted them to the position allotted to them. The earl's tent was soon erected, with four or five grouped around it for his knights, one being set aside for his squires and pages. When this was done, Cuthbert strolled away to look at the varied sights of the camp. A military officer in these days would be scandalized at the scenes which were going on, but the strict, hard military discipline of modern times was then absolutely unknown. A camp was a moving town, and to it flocked the country people with their goods; smiths and armourers erected their forges; minstrels and troubadours flocked in to sing of former battles, and to raise the spirits of the soldiers by merry lays of love and war; simple countrymen and women came in to bring their presents of fowls or cakes to their friends in camp; knights rode to and fro on their gaily caparisoned horses through the crowd; the newly raised levies, in many cases composed of woodmen and peasants who had not in the course of their lives wandered a league from their birthplaces, gaped in unaffected wonder at the sights around them; while last, but by no means least, the maidens and good wives of the neighbourhood, fond then as now of brave men and gay dresses, thronged the streets of the camp, and joined in, and were the cause of, merry laughter and jest. Here and there, a little apart from the main stream of traffic, the minstrels would take up their position, and playing a gay air, the soldier lads and lasses would fall to and foot it merrily to the strains. Sometimes there would be a break in the gaiety, and loud shouts, and perhaps fierce oaths, would rise. Then the maidens would fly like startled fawns, and men hasten to the spot; though the quarrel might be purely a private one, yet should it happen between the retainers of two nobles, the friends of each would be sure to strike in, and serious frays would arise before the marshal of the camp with his posse could arrive to interfere. Sometimes indeed these quarrels became so serious and desperate that alliances were broken up and great intentions frustrated by the quarrels of the soldiery. Here and there, on elevated platforms, or even on the top of a pile of tubs, were friars occupied in haranguing the soldiers, and in inspiring them with enthusiasm for the cause upon which they were embarked. The conduct of their listeners showed easily enough the motives which had brought them to war. Some stood with clasped hands and eager eyes listening to the exhortations of the priests, and ready, as might be seen from their earnest gaze, to suffer martyrdom in the cause. More, however, stood indifferently round, or after listening to a few words walked on with a laugh or a scoff; indeed preaching had already done all that lay in its power. All those who could be moved by exhortations of this kind were there, and upon the rest the discourses and sermons were thrown away. Several times in the course of his stroll round the camp Cuthbert observed the beginnings of quarrels, which were in each case only checked by the intervention of some knight or other person in authority coming past, and he observed that these in every instance occurred between men of the English and those of the French army. Between the Saxon contingent of King Richard's army and the French soldiers there could indeed be no quarrel, for the Saxons understood no word of their language; but with the Normans the case was different, for the Norman-French, which was spoken by all the nobles and their retainers in Britain, was as nearly as possible the same as that in use in France. It seemed, however, to Cuthbert, watching narrowly what was going on, that there existed by no means a good feeling between the men of the different armies; and he thought that this divergence so early in the campaign boded but little good for the final success of the expedition. When he returned to the tent the earl questioned him as to what he had seen, and Cuthbert frankly acknowledged that it appeared to him that the feeling between the men of the two armies was not good. "I have been," the earl said, "to the royal camp, and from what I hear, Cuthbert, methinks that there is reason for what you say. King Richard is the most loyal and gallant of kings, but he is haughty, and hasty in speech. The Normans, too, have been somewhat accustomed to conquer our neighbours, and it may well be that the chivalry of France love us not. However, it must be hoped that this feeling will die away, and that we shall emulate each other only in our deeds on the battlefield." CHAPTER VI. THE LISTS. The third day after the arrival of the Earl of Evesham there was a great banquet given by the King of France to King Richard and his principal nobles. Among those present was the Earl of Evesham, and Cuthbert as his page followed him to the great tent where the banquet was prepared. Here, at the top of the tent, on a raised dais, sat the King of France, surrounded by his courtiers. The Earl of Evesham, having been conducted by the herald to the dais, paid his compliments to the king, and was saluted by him with many flattering words. The sound of a trumpet was heard, and Richard of England, accompanied by his principal nobles, entered. It was the first time that Cuthbert had seen the king. Richard was a man of splendid stature and of enormous strength. His appearance was in some respects rather Saxon than Norman, for his hair was light and his complexion clear and bright. He wore the moustache and pointed beard at that time in fashion; and although his expression was generally that of frankness and good humour, there might be observed in his quick motions and piercing glances signs of the hasty temper and unbridled passion which went far to wreck the success of the enterprise upon which he was embarked. Richard possessed most of the qualities which make a man a great king and render him the idol of his subjects, especially in a time of semi-civilization, when personal prowess is placed at the summit of all human virtues. In all his dominions there was not one man who in personal conflict was a match for his king. Except during his fits of passion, King Richard was generous, forgiving, and royal in his moods. He was incapable of bearing malice. Although haughty of his dignity, he was entirely free from any personal pride, and while he would maintain to the death every right and privilege against another monarch, he could laugh and joke with the humblest of his subjects on terms of hearty good fellowship. He was impatient of contradiction, eager to carry out whatever he had determined upon; and nothing enraged him so much as hesitation or procrastination. The delays which were experienced in the course of the Crusade angered him more than all the opposition offered by the Saracens, or than the hardships through which the Christian host had to pass. At a flourish of trumpets all took their seats at dinner, their places being marked for them by a herald, whose duty it was to regulate nicely the various ranks and dignities. The Earl of Evesham was placed next to a noble of Brabant. Cuthbert took his place behind his lord and served him with wines and meats, the Brabant being attended by a tall youth, who was indeed on the verge of manhood. As the dinner went on the buzz of conversation became fast and furious. In those days men drank deep, and quarrels often arose over the cups. From the time that the dinner began, Cuthbert noticed that the manner of Sir de Jacquelin Barras, Count of Brabant, was rude and offensive. It might be that he was accustomed to live alone with his retainers, and that his manners were rude and coarse to all. It might be that he had a special hostility to the English. At any rate, his remarks were calculated to fire the anger of the earl. He began the conversation by wondering how a Norman baron could live in a country like England, inhabited by a race but little above pigs. The earl at once fired up at this, for the Normans were now beginning to feel themselves English, and to resent attacks upon a people for whom their grandfathers had entertained contempt. He angrily repelled the attack upon them by the Brabant knight, and asserted at once that the Saxons were every bit as civilized, and in some respects superior, to the Normans or French. The ill-feeling thus begun at starting clearly waxed stronger as dinner went on. The Brabant knight drank deeply, and although his talk was not clearly directed against the English, yet he continued to throw out innuendoes and side attacks, and to talk with a vague boastfulness, which greatly irritated Sir Walter. Presently, as Cuthbert was about to serve his master with a cup of wine, the tall page pushed suddenly against him, spilling a portion of the wine over his dress. "What a clumsy child!" he said scoffingly. "You are a rough and ill-mannered loon," Cuthbert said angrily. "Were you in any other presence I would chastise you as you deserve." The tall page burst into a mocking laugh. "Chastise me!" he said. "Why, I could put you in my pocket for a little hop-of-my-thumb as you are." "I think," said Sir Jacquelin--for the boys' voices both rose loud--to the earl, "you had better send that brat home and order him to be whipped." "Sir count," said the earl, "your manners are insolent, and were we not engaged upon a Crusade, it would please me much to give you a lesson on that score." Higher and higher the dispute rose, until some angry word caught the ear of the king. Amid the general buzz of voices King Phillip rose, and speaking a word to King Richard, moved from the table, thus giving the sign for the breaking up of the feast. Immediately afterwards a page touched the earl and Sir Jacquelin upon the shoulder, and told them that the kings desired to speak with them in the tent of the King of France. The two nobles strode through the crowd, regarding each other with eyes much like those of two dogs eager to fly at each other's throat. "My lords, my lords," said King Phillip when they entered, "this is against all law and reason. For shame, to be brawling at my table. I would not say aught openly, but methinks it is early indeed for the knights and nobles engaged in a common work to fall to words." "Your Majesty," said the Earl of Evesham, "I regret deeply what has happened. But it seemed, from the time we sat down to the meal, that this lord sought to pass a quarrel upon me, and I now beseech your Majesty that you will permit us to settle our differences in the lists." King Richard gave a sound of assent, but the King of France shook his head gravely. "Do you forget," he said, "the mission upon which you are assembled here? Has not every knight and noble in these armies taken a solemn oath to put aside private quarrels and feuds until the holy sepulchre is taken? Shall we at this very going off show that the oath is a mere form of words? Shall we show before the face of Christendom that the knights of the cross are unable to avoid flying at each other's throats, even while on their way to wrest the holy sepulchre from the infidel? No, sirs, you must lay aside your feuds, and must promise me and my good brother here that you will keep the peace between you until this war is over. Whose fault it was that the quarrel began I know not. It may be that my Lord of Brabant was discourteous. It may be that the earl here was too hot. But whichever it be, it matters not." "The quarrel, sire," said Sir Jacquelin, "arose from a dispute between our pages, who were nigh coming to blows in your Majesty's presence. I desired the earl to chide the insolence of his varlet, and instead of so doing he met my remarks with scorn." "Pooh, pooh," said King Richard, "there are plenty of grounds for quarrel without two nobles interfering in the squabbles of boys. Let them fight; it will harm no one. By-the-bye, your Majesty," he said, turning to the King of France with a laugh, "if the masters may not fight, there is no reason in the world why the varlets should not. We are sorely dull for want of amusement. Let us have a list to-morrow, and let the pages fight it out for the honour of their masters and their nations." "It were scarce worth while to have the lists set for two boys to fight," said the King of France. "Oh, we need not have regular lists," said King Richard. "Leave that matter in my hands. I warrant you that if the cockerels are well plucked, they will make us sport. What say you, gentlemen?" The Brabant noble at once assented, answering that he was sure that his page would be glad to enter the lists; and the earl gave a similar assent, for he had not noticed how great was the discrepancy between the size of the future combatants. "That is agreed, then," said King Richard joyously. "I will have a piece of ground marked out on the edge of the camp to-morrow morning. It shall be kept by my men-at-arms, and there shall be a raised place for King Phillip and myself, who will be the judges of the conflict. Will they fight on foot or on horse?" "On foot, on foot," said the King of France. "It would be a pity that knightly exercises should be brought to scorn by any failure on their part on horseback. On foot at least it will be a fair struggle." "What arms shall they use?" the Brabant knight asked. "Oh, swords and battle-axes, of course," said King Richard with a laugh. "Before you go," King Phillip said, "you must shake hands, and swear to let the quarrel between you drop, at least until after our return. If you still wish to shed each other's blood, I shall offer no hindrance thereto." The earl and Count Jacquelin touched each other's hands in obedience to the order, went out of the tent together, and strode off without a word in different directions. "My dear lad," the Earl of Evesham said on entering his tent where his page was waiting him, "this is a serious business. The kings have ordered this little count and myself to put aside our differences till after the Crusade, in accordance with our oath. But as you have no wise pledged yourself in the same fashion, and as their Majesties fell somewhat dull while waiting here, it is determined that the quarrel between me, and between you and the count's page, shall be settled by a fight between you in the presence of the kings." "Well, sir," Cuthbert said, "I am glad that it should be, seeing the varlet insulted me without cause, and purposely upset the cup over me." "What is he like?" the earl asked. "Dost think that you are a fair match?" "I doubt not that we are fair match enough," Cuthbert said. "As you know, sir, I have been well trained to arms of all kinds, both by my father and by the men-at-arms at the castle, and could hold my own against any of your men with light weapons, and have then no fear that this gawky loon, twenty years old though he seems to be, will bring disgrace upon me or discredit upon my nation." "If thou thinkest so," the earl said, "the matter can go on. But had it been otherwise, I would have gone to the king and protested that the advantage of age was so great that it would be murder to place you in the list together." "There is," Cuthbert said, "at most no greater difference between us than between a strong man and a weak one, and these, in the ordeal of battle, have to meet in the lists. Indeed I doubt if the difference is so great, for if he be a foot taller than I, methinks that round the shoulders I should have the advantage of him." "Send hither my armourer," the earl said; "we must choose a proper suit for you. I fear that mine would be of little use; but doubtless there are some smaller suits among my friends." "The simpler and lighter the better," Cuthbert said. "I'd rather have a light coat of mail and a steel cap, than heavy armour and a helmet that would press me down and a visor through which I could scarcely see. The lighter the better, for after all if my sword cannot keep my head, sooner or later the armour would fail to do so too." The armourer speedily arrived, and the knights and followers of the earl being called in and the case stated, there was soon found a coat of fine linked mail, which fitted Cuthbert well. As to the steel cap, there was no difficulty whatever. "You must have a plume at least," the earl said, and took some feathers from his own casque and fastened them in. "Will you want a light sword and battle-axe?" "No," Cuthbert said, "my arms are pretty well used to those of the men-at-arms. I could wield my father's sword, and that was a heavy one." The lightest of the earl's weapons were chosen, and it was agreed that all was now ready for the conflict to-morrow. In the morning there was a slight bustle in the camp. The news that a fight was to take place between an English and a Brabant page, by the permission of the Kings of England and France, that their Majesties were to be present, and that all was to be conducted on regular rules, caused a stir of excitement and novelty in the camp. Nowhere is life duller than among a large body of men kept together for any time under canvas, and the thought of a combat of this novel kind excited general interest. In a meadow at a short distance from the camp, a body of King Richard's men-at-arms marked off an oval space of about an acre. Upon one side of this a tent was pitched for the kings, and a small tent was placed at each end for the combatants. Round the enclosure the men-at-arms formed the ring, and behind them a dense body of spectators gathered, a place being set aside for nobles, and others of gentle blood. At the hour fixed the Kings of England and France arrived together. King Richard was evidently in a state of high good humour, for he preferred the clash of arms and the sight of combat to any other pleasure. The King of France, on the other hand, looked grave. He was a far wiser and more politic king than Richard; and although he had consented to the sudden proposal, yet he felt in his heart that the contest was a foolish one, and that it might create bad feeling among the men of the two nationalities whichever way it went. He had reserved to himself the right of throwing down the baton when the combat was to cease, and he determined to avail himself of this right, to put a stop to the conflict before either party was likely to sustain any deadly injury. When the monarchs had taken their places the trumpeters sounded their trumpets, and the two combatants advanced on foot from their ends of the lists. A murmur of surprise and dissatisfaction broke from the crowd. "My Lord of Evesham," the king said angrily to the earl, who with Count Jacquelin was standing by the royal party, "thou shouldst have said that the difference between the two was too great to allow the combat to be possible. The Frenchman appears to be big enough to take your page under his arm and walk off with him." The difference was indeed very striking. The French champion was arrayed in a full suit of knightly armour--of course without the gold spurs which were the distinguishing mark of that rank--and with his helmet and lofty plume of feathers he appeared to tower above Cuthbert, who, in his close-fitting steel cap and link armour, seemed a very dwarf by the side of a giant. "It is not size, sire, but muscle and pluck will win in a combat like this. Your Majesty need not be afraid that my page will disgrace me. He is of my blood, though the kinship is not close. He is of mixed Saxon and Norman strain, and will, believe me, do no discredit to either." The king's brow cleared, for in truth he was very proud of his English nationality, and would have been sorely vexed to see the discomfiture of an English champion, even though that champion were a boy. "Brother Phillip," he said, turning to the king, "I will wager my gold chain against yours on yonder stripling." "Methinks that it were robbery to take your wager," the King of France said. "The difference between their bulk is disproportionate. However, I will not baulk your wish. My chain against yours." The rule of the fight was that they were to commence with Swords, but that either could, if he chose, use his battle-axe. The fight need scarcely be described at length, for the advantage was all one way. Cuthbert was fully a match in strength for his antagonist, although standing nigh a foot shorter. Constant exercise, however, had hardened his muscles into something like steel, while the teaching that he had received had embraced all that was then known of the use of arms. Science in those days there was but little of; it was a case rather of hard, heavy hitting, than of what we now call swordsmanship. With the sword Cuthbert gained but slight advantage over his adversary, whose superior height enabled him to rain blows down upon the lad, which he was with difficulty enabled to guard; but when the first paroxysm of his adversary's attack had passed, he took to the offensive, and drove his opponent back step by step. With his sword, however, he was unable to cut through the armour of the Frenchman, but in the course of the encounter, guarding a severe blow aimed at him, his sword was struck from his hand, and he then, seizing his axe, made such play with it that his foe dropped his own sword and took to the same weapon. In this the superior height and weight of his opponent gave him even a greater advantage than with the sword, and Cuthbert knowing this, used his utmost dexterity and speed to avoid the sweeping blows showered upon him. He himself had been enabled to strike one or two sweeping strokes, always aiming at the same place, the juncture of the visor with the helmet. At last the Frenchman struck him so heavy a blow that it beat down his guard and struck his steel cap from his head, bringing him to the knee. In an instant he was up, and before his foe could be again on guard, he whirled his axe round with all its force, and bringing it just at the point of the visor which he had already weakened with repeated blows, the edge of the axe stove clean through the armour, and the page was struck senseless to the ground. A great shout broke from the English portion of the soldiery as Cuthbert leant over his prostrate foe, and receiving no answer to the question "Do you yield?" rose to his feet, and signified to the squire who had kept near that his opponent was insensible. King Richard ordered the pursuivant to lead Cuthbert to the royal enclosure. "Thou art a brave lad and a lusty," the king said, "and hast borne thee in the fight as well as many a knight would have done. Wert thou older, I would myself dub thee knight; and I doubt not that the occasion will yet come when thou wilt do as good deeds upon the bodies of the Saracens as thou hast upon that long-shanked opponent of thine. Here is a gold chain; take it as a proof that the King of England holds that you have sustained well the honour of his country; and mark me, if at any time you require a boon, bring or send me that chain, and thou shall have it freely. Sir Walter," he said, turning to the earl, "in this lad thou hast a worthy champion, and I trust me that thou wilt give him every chance of distinguishing himself. So soon as thou thinkst him fit for the knightly rank I myself will administer the accolade." CHAPTER VIII. REVENGE. After his interview with the king, Cuthbert was led to his tent amid the hearty plaudits of the English troops. His own comrades flocked round him; the men of the greenwood headed by Cnut, were especially jubilant over his victory. "Who would have thought," said the tall forester, "that the lad who but a short time ago was a child, should now have sustained the honour of the country? We feel proud of you, Cuthbert; and trust us some day or other to follow wherever you may lead, and to do some deed which will attain for you honour and glory, and to show that the men of Evesham are as doughty as any under King Richard's rule." "You must be wary, Cuthbert," the earl said to him that evening. "Believe me that you and I have made a foe, who, although he may not have the power, has certainly the will to injure us to the death. I marked the eye of Count Jacquelin during the fight, and again when you were led up to the king. There was hatred and fury in his eye. The page too, I hear, is his own nephew, and he will be the laughing-stock of the French camp at having been conquered by one so much younger than himself. It will be well to keep upon your guard, and not go out at night unattended. Keep Cnut near you; he is faithful as a watch-dog, and would give his life, I am sure, for you. I will myself be also upon my guard, for it was after all my quarrel, and the fury of this fierce knight will vent itself upon both of us if the opportunity should come. I hear but a poor account of him among his confreres. They say he is one of those disgraces to the name of knight who are but a mixture of robber and soldier; that he harries all the lands in his neighbourhood; and that he has now only joined the Crusade to avoid the vengeance which the cries of the oppressed people had invoked from his liege lord. I am told indeed that the choice was given him to be outlawed, or to join the Crusades with all the strength he could raise. Naturally he adopted the latter alternative; but he has the instincts of the robber still, and will do us an evil turn, if he have the chance." Two days later the great army broke up its camp and marched south. After a week's journeying they encamped near a town, and halted there two or three days in order to collect provisions for the next advance; for the supplies which they could obtain in the country districts were wholly insufficient for so great a host of men. Here the armies were to separate, the French marching to Genoa, the English to Marseilles, the town at which they were to take ship. One evening the earl sent Cuthbert with a message for another English lord, staying in the town at the palace of the bishop, who was a friend of his. Cnut accompanied Cuthbert, for he now made a point of seldom letting him out of his sight. It was light when they reached the bishop's palace, but here they were delayed for some time, and night had fallen when they sallied out. The town was quiet, for the inhabitants cared not to show themselves in the streets now that such a large army of fierce men were in the neighbourhood. The others indeed of the monarchs were stringent, but discipline there was but little of, and the soldiery in those days regarded peaceful citizens as fair game; hence, when they came from the palace the streets of the city were already hushed and quiet, for the orders of the king had been preemptory that no men-at-arms, or others except those on duty, were to be away from their camp after nightfall. This order had been absolutely necessary, so many were the complaints brought in by country peasants and farmers, of the doings of bands of soldiers. Cnut and Cuthbert proceeded along the streets unmolested for some distance. Occasionally a solitary passer-by, with hooded cape, hurried past. The moon was half full, and her light was welcome indeed, for in those days the streets were unlighted, and the pavement so bad that passage through the streets after dark was a matter of difficulty, and even of danger. Here and there before some roadside shrine a lamp dimly burned; before these they paused, and, as good Catholics, Cnut and Cuthbert crossed themselves. Just as they had passed one of these wayside shrines, a sudden shout was heard, and a party of eight or ten men sprang out from a side street and fell upon them. Cnut and Cuthbert drew their swords and laid about them heartily, but their assailants were too strong. Cnut was stricken to the ground, and Cuthbert, seeing that defence was hopeless, took to his heels and ran for his life. He was already wounded, but happily not so severely as in any way to disable him. Seeing that it was speed, and speed alone, which now could save him, he flung aside his belt scabbard and as he ran, and with rapid steps flew along the streets, not knowing whither he went, and striving only to keep ahead of his pursuers. They, more encumbered by arms and armour, were unable to keep up with the flying footsteps of a lad clothed in the light attire of a page; but Cuthbert felt that the blood running from his wound was weakening him fast, and that unless he could gain some refuge his course must speedily come to an end. Happily he saw at some little distance ahead of him a man standing by a door. Just as he arrived the door opened, and a glow of light from within fell on the road, showing that the person entering was a monk. Without a moment's hesitation Cuthbert rushed through the door, shouting "Sanctuary!" and sank almost fainting on the ground. The monks, accustomed to wild pursuits and scenes of outrage in those warlike days, hastily closed the door, barring it securely. In a moment there was a rush of men against it from without. One of the monks opened a lattice above the door. "What mean you," he said, "by this outrage? Know ye not that this is the Monastery of St. John, and that it is sacrilege to lay a hand of violence even against its postern? Begone," he said, "or we'll lodge a complaint before the king." The assailants, nothing daunted, continued to batter at the door; but at this moment the monks, aroused from their beds, hastened to the spot, and seizing bill and sword--for in those days even monks were obliged at times to depend upon carnal weapons--they opened the door, and flung themselves upon the assailants with such force that the latter, surprised and discomfited, were forced to make a hasty retreat. The doors were then again barred, and Cuthbert was carried up to a cell in the building, where the leech of the monastery speedily examined his wound, and pronounced, that although his life was not in danger by it, he was greatly weakened by the loss of blood, that the wound was a serious one, and that it would be some time before the patient would recover. It was two days before Cuthbert was sufficiently restored to be able to speak. His first question to the monk was as to his whereabouts, and how long he had been there. Upon being answered, he entreated that a messenger might be despatched to the camp of the Earl of Evesham, to beg that a litter might be sent for him, and to inquire what had become of Cnut, whom he had last seen stricken down. The monk replied, "My son, I grieve to tell you that your request cannot be complied with. The army moved away yesternoon, and is now some five-and-twenty miles distant. There is nothing for you but patience, and when restored you can follow the army, and rejoin your master before he embarks at Marseilles. But how is it that a lad so young as you can have incurred the enmity of those who sought your life? For it is clear from the pertinacity with which they urged their attack that their object was not plunder, of which indeed they would get but little from you, but to take your life." Cuthbert recounted the circumstances which had led to the feud of the Count of Brabant against him, for he doubted not that this truculent knight was at the bottom of the attack. "After what has happened," the monk said, "you will need have caution when you leave here. The place where you have taken refuge is known to them, and should this wild noble persist in his desire for vengeance against you, he will doubtless leave some of his ruffians to watch the monastery. We will keep a look-out, and note if any strangers are to be seen near the gates; if we find that it is so, we shall consider what is best to be done. We could of course appeal to the mayor for protection against them, and could even have the strangers ejected from the town or cast into prison; but it is not likely that we should succeed in capturing more than the fellow who may be placed on the look-out, and the danger would be in no wise lessened to yourself. But there is time to talk over this matter before you leave. It will be another fortnight at least before you will be able to pursue your journey." Cuthbert gained strength more rapidly than the monk had expected. He was generously fed, and this and his good constitution soon enabled him to recover from the loss of blood; and at the end of five days he expressed his hope that he could on the following day pursue his journey. The monk who attended him shook his head. "Thou mightst, under ordinary circumstances, quit us to-morrow, for thou art well enough to take part in the ordinary pursuits of a page; but to journey is a different thing. You may have all sorts of hardships to endure; you may have even to trust for your life to your speed and endurance; and it would be madness for you to go until your strength is fully established. I regret to tell you that we have ascertained beyond a doubt that the monastery is closely watched. We have sent some of the acolytes out, dressed in the garbs of monks, and attended by one of our elder brethren; and in each case, a monk who followed at a distance of fifty yards was able to perceive that they were watched. The town is full of rough men, the hangers-on of the army; some, indeed, are followers of laggard knights, but the greater portion are men who merely pursue the army with a view to gain by its necessities, to buy plunder from the soldiers, and to rob, and, if necessary, to murder should there be a hope of obtaining gold. Among these men your enemies would have little difficulty in recruiting any number, and no appeal that we could make to the mayor would protect you from them when you have left the walls. We must trust to our ingenuity in smuggling you out. After that, it is upon your own strength and shrewdness that you must rely for an escape from any snares that may be laid for you. You will see, then, that at least another three or four days are needed before you can set forth. Your countrymen are so far away that a matter of a few days will make but little difference. They will in any case be delayed for a long time at Marseilles before they embark; and whether you leave now or a month hence, you would be equally in time to join them before their embarkation--that is, supposing that you make your way through the snares which beset you." Cuthbert saw the justice of the reasoning, and it was another week before he announced himself as feeling absolutely restored to strength again, and capable of bearing as much exertion as he could have done before his attack. A long consultation was held with the prior and a monk who had acted as his leech, as to the best plan of getting Cuthbert beyond the walls of the city. Many schemes were proposed and rejected. Every monk who ventured beyond the walls had been closely scrutinized, and one or two of short stature had even been jostled in the streets, so as to throw back their hoods and expose a sight of their faces. It was clear, then, that it would be dangerous to trust to a disguise. Cuthbert proposed that he should leave at night, trusting solely to their directions as to the turnings he should take to bring him to the city walls, and that, taking a rope, he should there let himself down, and make the best of his way forward. This, however, the monks would not consent to, assuring him that the watch was so strictly kept round the monastery that he would inevitably be seen. "No," the prior said, "the method, whatever it is, must be as open as possible; and though I cannot at this moment hit upon a plan, I will think it over to-night, and putting my ideas with those of Father Jerome here, and the sacristan, who has a shrewd head, it will be hard if we cannot between us contrive some plan to evade the watch of those robber villains who beset the convent." The next morning when the prior came in to see Cuthbert, the latter said, "Good father, I have determined not to endeavour to make off in disguise. I doubt not that your wit could contrive some means by which I should get clear of the walls without observation from the scouts of this villain noble. But once in the country, I should have neither horse nor armour, and should have hard work indeed to make my way down through France, even though none of my enemies were on my track. I will therefore, if it please you, go down boldly to the Mayor, and claim a protection and escort. If he will but grant me a few men-at-arms for one day's ride from the town, I can choose my own route, and riding out in mail can then take my chance of finding my way down to Marseilles." "I will go down with you, my son," the prior said, "to the mayor. Two of my monks shall accompany us; and assuredly no insult will be offered to you in the street thus accompanied." Shortly afterwards, Cuthbert started as arranged, and soon arrived at the house of the mayor, Sir John de Cahors. Upon the prior making known to this knight whom he had brought with him, the mayor exclaimed,-- "Pest! young gentleman; you have caused us no small trouble and concern. We have had ridings to and fro concerning you, and furious messages from your fiery king. When in the morning a tall, stalwart knave dressed in green was found, slashed about in various places, lying on the pavement, the townsmen, not knowing who he was, but finding that he still breathed, carried him to the English camp, and he was claimed as a follower of the Earl of Evesham. There was great wrath and anger over this; and an hour later the earl himself came down and stated that his page was missing, and that there was reason to believe that he had been foully murdered, as he had accompanied the man found wounded. Fortunately the bulk of the armies had marched away at early dawn, and the earl had only remained behind in consequence of the absence of his followers. I assured the angry Englishman that I would have a thorough search made in the town; and although in no way satisfied, he rode off after his king with all his force, carrying with him the long-limbed man whom we had picked up. Two days after, a message came back from King Richard himself, saying that unless this missing page were discovered, or if, he being killed, his murderers were not brought to justice and punished, he would assuredly on his return from the Holy Land burn the town over our ears. Your king is not a man who minces matters. However, threatened men live long, especially when the person who threatens is starting for a journey, from which, as like or not, he may never return. However, I have had diligent search made for you. All the houses of bad repute have been examined, and their inhabitants questioned. But there are so many camp-followers and other rabble at present in the town that a hundred men might disappear without our being able to obtain a clue. I doubted not indeed that your body had been thrown in the river, and that we should never hear more of you. I am right glad that you have been restored; not indeed from any fear of the threats of the king your master, but because, from what the Earl of Evesham said, you were a lad likely to come to great fame and honour. The earl left in my charge your horse, and the armour which he said you wore at a tournament lately, in case we should hear aught of you." Cuthbert gave an exclamation of pleasure. His purse contained but a few pieces of silver, and being without arms except for his short dagger, or means of locomotion, the difficulties of the journey down to Marseilles had sorely puzzled him. But with his good horse between his knees, and his suit of Milan armour on his back, he thought that he might make his way through any dangers which threatened him. The prior now told the knight that circumstances had occurred, which showed that it was known to the assailants of Cuthbert that he had taken refuge in the convent, over which a strict watch had been kept by Cuthbert's enemies. "If I could find the varlets, I would hang them over the gates of the town," the knight said wrathfully. "But as at the present moment there are nearly as many rogues as honest men in the place, it would be a wholesale hanging indeed to ensure getting hold of the right people. Moreover, it is not probable that another attempt upon his life will be made inside our walls; and doubtless the main body of this gang are somewhere without, intending to assault him when he continues his journey, and they have left but a spy or two here to inform them as to his movements. I will give you any aid in my power, young sir. The army is by this time nigh Marseilles, and, sooth to say, I have no body of men-at-arms whom I could send as your escort for so long a distance. I have but a small body here, and they are needed, and sorely too, to keep order within the walls." "I thought, sir," Cuthbert said, "that if you could lend me a party of say four men-at-arms to ride with me for the first day, I could then trust to myself, especially if you could procure me one honest man to act as guide and companion. Doubtless they suppose that I should travel by the main road south; but by going the first day's journey either east or west, and then striking some southward road, I should get a fair start of them, throw all their plans out, and perchance reach Marseilles without interruption." The knight willingly agreed to furnish four men-at-arms, and a trustworthy guide who would at least take him as far south as Avignon. "I will," he said, "tell the men-at-arms off to-night. They shall be at the western gate at daybreak with the pass permitting them to ride through. The guide shall be at the convent door half an hour earlier. I will send up to-night your armour and horse. Here is a purse which the Earl of Evesham also left for your use. Is there aught else I can do for you?" "Nothing, sir," Cuthbert said; "and if I regain the army in safety, I shall have pleasure in reporting to King Richard how kindly and courteously you have treated me." The arrangements were carried out. An hour before daybreak Cuthbert was aroused, donned his armour and steel casque, drank a flask of wine, and ate a manchet of bread which the prior himself brought him; and then, with a cordial adieu to the kind monks, issued forth. The guide had just reached the gate, and together they trotted down the narrow streets to the west gate of the city, where four men-at-arms were awaiting them. The gates were at once opened, and Cuthbert and his little troop sallied forth. CHAPTER VIII. THE ATTACK. All day they rode with their faces west, and before nightfall had made a journey of over forty miles. Then bestowing a largess upon the men-at-arms, Cuthbert dismissed them, and took up his abode at a hostelry, his guide looking to the two horses. Cuthbert was pleased with the appearance of the man who had been placed at his disposal. He was a young fellow of two-or-three-and-twenty, with an honest face. He was, he told Cuthbert, the son of a small farmer near Avignon; but having a fancy for trade, he had been apprenticed to a master smith. Having served his apprenticeship, he found that he had mistaken his vocation, and intended to return to the paternal vineyards. Cuthbert calculated that he would make at least four days' journey to the south before he could meet with any dangers. Doubtless his exit from the convent had been discovered, and the moment the gates of the city were opened the spy would have proceeded south to warn his comrades, and these would doubtless have taken a road which at a distance would again take them on to that by which Cuthbert would be now travelling. As, however, he rode fast, and made long marches each day, he hoped that he might succeed in distancing them. Unfortunately, upon the third day his horse cast his shoe, and no smith could be met with until the end of the day's journey. Consequently, but a short distance could be done, and this at a slow pace. Upon the fifth day after their first start they arrived at a small town. The next morning, Cuthbert on rising found that his guide did not present himself as usual. Making inquiries, he found that the young man had gone out the evening before, and had not returned. Extremely uneasy at the circumstance, Cuthbert went to the city guard, thinking that perhaps his guide might have got drunk, and been shut up in the cells. No news, however, was to be obtained there, and after waiting some hours, feeling sure that some harm had befallen him, he gave notice to the authorities of his loss, and then, mounting his horse, and leaving some money with the landlord of the hostelry to give to his guide in case the latter should return, he started at mid-day by the southern road. He felt sure now that he was overtaken, and determined to keep his eyes and faculties thoroughly on watch. The roads in those days were mere tracks. Here and there a little village was to be met with; but the country was sparsely cultivated, and travelling lonely work. Cuthbert rode fast, carefully avoiding all copses and small woods through which the road ran, by making a circuit round them and coming on to it again on the other side. His horse was an excellent one, the gift of the earl, and he had little fear, with his light weight, of being overtaken, if he could once leave his enemies behind him. At length he approached an extensive forest, which stretched for miles on either side. Half a mile before he reached it the track divided. He had for some little time eased his horse down to a walk, as he felt that the wood would be the spot where he would in all probability be attacked, and he needed that his steed should be possessed of its utmost vigour. At the spot where the track branched, a man in the guise of a mendicant was sitting. He begged for alms, and Cuthbert threw him a small coin. A sudden thought struck him as he heard a rustling in the bushes near. "Which is the nearest and best road to Avignon?" he said. "The right-hand road is the best and shortest," the beggar said. "The other makes a long circuit, and leads through several marshes, which your honour will find it hard to pass." Cuthbert thanked him, and moved forward, still at a walk, along the right-hand road. When he had gone about 200 yards, and was hidden from the sight of the man he had left--the country being rough, and scattered with clumps of bushes--he halted, and, as he expected, heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming on at full gallop along the other road. "Your master must have thought me young indeed," he said, "to try and catch me with such a transparent trick as that. I do not suppose that accursed page has more than ten men with him, and doubtless has placed five on each road. This fellow was placed here to see which track I would follow, and has now gone to give the party on the left hand the news that I have taken this way. Had it not been for him I should have had to run the gauntlet with four or five of my enemies. As it is, the path will doubtless be clear." So saying, he turned his horse, galloped back to the spot where the tracks separated, and then followed the left-hand route. As he had hoped, he passed through the wood without incident or interruption, and arrived safely that night at a small town, having seen no signs of his enemies. The next day he started again early, and rode on until mid-day, when he halted at a large village, at which was the only inn between the place from which he started and his destination. He declined the offer of the servant of the inn to take his horse round to the stable, telling the man to hold him outside the door and give him from a sieve a few handfuls of grain. Then he entered the inn and ate a hearty meal. As he appeared at the door, he saw several men gathered near. With a single spring he threw himself into the saddle, just as a rush forward was made by those standing round. The man next to him sprang upon him, and endeavoured to drag him from the saddle. Cuthbert drew the little dagger called a Mis�ricorde from his belt, and plunged it into his throat. Then seizing the short mace which hung at the saddle bow, he hurled it with all his force full in the face of his enemy, the page of Sir Philip, who was rushing upon him sword in hand. The heavy weapon struck him fairly between the eyes, and with a cry he fell back, his face completely smashed in by the blow, the sword which he held uplifted to strike flying far through the air. Cuthbert struck his spurs into his horse, and the animal dashed forward with a bound, Cuthbert striking with his long sword at one or two men who made a snatch at the reins. In another minute he was cantering out of the village, convinced that he had killed the leader of his foes, and that he was safe now to pursue the rest of his journey on to Marseilles. So it turned out. Without further incident, he travelled through the south of France, and arrived at the great seaport. He speedily discovered the quarters in which the Earl of Evesham's contingent were encamped, and made towards this without delay. As he entered a wild shout of joy was heard, and Cnut ran forward with many gestures of delight. "My dear Cuthbert, my dear Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "Can it be true that you have escaped? We all gave you up; and although I did my best, yet had you not survived it I should never have forgiven myself, believing that I might have somehow done better, and have saved you from the cut-throats who attacked us." "Thanks, thanks, my good Cnut," Cuthbert cried. "I have been through a time of peril, no doubt; but as you see, I am hale and well--better, methinks than you are, for you look pale and ill; and I doubt not that the wound which I received was a mere scratch to that which bore you down. It sounded indeed like the blow of a smith's hammer upon an anvil." "Fortunately, my steel cap saved my head somewhat," Cnut said, "and the head itself is none of the thinnest; but it tried it sorely, I confess. However, now that you are back I shall, doubt not, soon be as strong as ever I was. I think that fretting for your absence has kept me back more than the inflammation from the wound itself--but there is the Earl at the door of his tent." Through the foresters and retainers who had at Cnut's shout of joy crowded up, Cuthbert made his way, shaking hands right and left with the men, among whom he was greatly loved, for they regarded him as being in a great degree the cause of their having been freed from outlawry, and restored to civil life again. The earl was really affected. As Cuthbert rode up he held out both arms, and as his page alighted he embraced him as a father. "My dear Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "What anxiety have we not suffered. Had you been my own son, I could not have felt more your loss. We did not doubt for an instant that you had fallen into the hands of some of the retainers of that villain Count; and from all we could learn, and from the absence of any dead body by the side of that of Cnut, I imagined that you must have been carried off. It was clear that your chance of life, if you fell into the hands of that evil page, or his equally vile master, was small indeed. The very day that Cnut was brought in, I visited the French camp, and accused him of having been the cause of your disappearance and Cnut's wounds. He affected the greatest astonishment at the charge. He had not, as he said, been out of the camp for two days. My accusation was unfounded and malicious, and I should answer this as well as the previous outrage, when the vow of the Crusaders to keep peace among themselves was at an end. Of course I had no means of proving what I said, or I would have gone direct to the king and charged him with the outrage. As it was I gained nothing by my pains. He has accompanied this French division to Genoa; but when we meet at Sicily, where the two armies are to rendezvous, I will bring the matter before the king, as the fact that his page was certainly concerned in it must be taken as showing that he was the instigator." "It would, my lord earl, be perhaps better," Cuthbert said, "if I might venture to advise, to leave the matter alone. No doubt the count would say that he had discharged his page after the tournament, and that the latter was only carrying out his private feud with me. We should not be able to disprove the story, and should gain no satisfaction by the matter." The earl admitted the justice of Cuthbert's reasoning, but reserved to himself the task of punishing the author of the outrage upon the first fitting opportunity. There was a weary delay at Marseilles before the expedition set sail. This was caused by the fact of the English fleet, which had been ordered to be there upon their arrival, failing to keep the agreement. The words English fleet badly describe the vessels which were to carry the English contingent to their destination. They were ships belonging to the maritime nations of Italy--the Venetians, Genoese, Pisans, etc.; for England at that time had but few of her own, and these scarcely fitted for the stormy navigation of the Bay of Biscay. King Richard, impatient as ever of delay, at last lost his temper, and embarked on board a ship with a few of his chosen knights, and set sail by himself for Sicily, the point at which the two armies of the expedition were to re-unite. A few days after his departure, the long-looked-for fleet arrived, and a portion of the English host embarked at once, and set sail for Sicily, where they were to be landed, and the ships were to return to fetch the remaining contingent. A sea voyage of this kind in those days was a serious matter. Long voyages were rare, and troops were carried very much upon the principle of herrings; that is, were packed as close as they could be, without any reference to their comfort. As the voyages seldom lasted more than twenty-four hours, this did not much matter, but during long voyages the discomforts, or as may be said sufferings, of the troops were considerable. So tightly packed were the galleys in which the English set sail from Marseilles, that there was no walking about. Every man slept where he sat, and considered himself lucky indeed if he could obtain room sufficient to stretch himself at full length. Most slept sitting against bulwarks or other supports. In the cabins, where the knights, their pages and squires, were placed, the crowding was of course less excessive, but even here the amount of space, which a subaltern travelling to India for the first time now-a-days would grumble at, was considered amply sufficient for half-a-dozen knights of distinction. It was a week after sailing, when Cnut touched Cuthbert's arm as he came on deck one morning, and said,-- "Look, look, Cuthbert! that mountain standing up in the water has caught fire on the top. Did you ever see such a thing?" The soldiers crowded to the side of the vessel, in intense astonishment and no little awe. From the top of a lofty and rugged hill, rising almost straight from the sea, flames were roaring up, smoke hung over the island, and stones were thrown into the air and rattled down the side of the hill, or fell into the sea with a splash. "That is a fearsome sight," Cnut said, crossing himself. "It looks as if it was the mouth of purgatory," exclaimed another, standing by. Cuthbert himself was amazed, for the instruction he had received from Father Francis was of too slight a nature to include the story of volcanoes. A priest, however, who accompanied the ship in the character of leech and confessor, explained the nature of the phenomenon to his astonished listeners, and told them that over on the mainland was a mountain which at times vomited forth such masses of stones and of liquid rock that it had swallowed up and covered many great cities. There was also, he told them, another mountain of the same sort, even more vast, on the island of Sicily itself; but that this had seldom, as far back as man could remember, done any great harm. Sailing on, in another day they arrived off the coast of Sicily itself, and sailing up the straits between it and the mainland, they landed at Messina. Here a considerable portion of the French army had already arrived, having been brought down from Genoa. There was no news of the King of England; and, as often happens, the saying "the more haste the less speed," had been verified here. It was some days later before King Richard arrived, having been driven from his course by tempests, well-nigh cast ashore, and having besides gone through many adventures. Three weeks later, the whole of the army of the Crusaders were gathered around Messina, where it was intended to remain some little time before starting. It was a gay time; and the kings vied with each other in entertainments, joustings, and tournaments. The Italian knights also made a brave show, and it might have been thought that this huge army of men were gathered there simply for amusement and feasting. In the tournaments every effort was made to prevent any feeling of national rivalry, and although parties of knights held their own against all comers, these were most carefully selected to represent several nationalities, and therefore victory, on whichsoever side it fell, excited no feelings of bitterness. Alone, King Richard was undoubtedly the strongest cavalier of the two armies. Against his ponderous strength no knight could keep his seat; and this was so palpable, that after many victories, King Richard was forced to retire from the lists from want of competitors, and to take his place on the dais with the more peace-loving King of France. The gaiety of the camp was heightened by the arrival of many nobles and dames from Italy. Here, too, came the Queen of Navarre, bringing with her the beautiful Princess Berengaria. "Methinks," the Earl of Evesham said to Cuthbert, a fortnight after the arrival of the queen, "that unless my eyes deceive me, the princess is likely to be a cause of trouble." "In what way?" asked Cuthbert with surprise, for he had been struck with her marvellous beauty, and wondered greatly what mischief so fair a being could do. "By the way in which our good lord, the king, gazes upon her, methinks that it were like enough that he broke off his engagement with the Princess of France, for the sake of the fair eyes of this damsel." "That were indeed a misfortune," Cuthbert said gravely, for he saw at once the anger which such a course would excite in the minds of the French king and his knights, who would naturally be indignant in the extreme at the slight put upon their princess. As day after day passed, it became evident to all that the King of England was infatuated by the princess. Again he entered the lists himself, and as some fresh Italian knights and others had arrived, he found fresh opponents, and conspicuously laid the spoils of victory at the feet of the princess, whom he selected as the Queen of Beauty. All sorts of rumours now became current in camp; violent quarrels between the kings, and bad feeling between the French and English knights, broke out again in consequence, and this more violently than before. CHAPTER IX. THE PRINCESS BERENGARIA. One night it chanced that Cuthbert was late in his return to camp, and his road took him through a portion of the French encampment; the night was dark, and Cuthbert presently completely lost all idea as to his bearings. Presently he nearly ran against a tent; he made his way to the entrance in order to crave directions as to his way--for it was a wet night; the rain was pouring in torrents, and few were about of whom he could demand the way--and, as he was about to draw aside the hangings, he heard words said in a passionate voice which caused him to withdraw his hand suddenly. "I tell you," said a voice, "I would rather drive a dagger myself into her heart, than allow our own princess to be insulted by this hot-headed island dog." "It is sad indeed," said another, but in a calmer and smoother tone, "that the success of a great expedition like this, which has for its object the recovery of the holy sepulchre from the infidels, should be wrecked by the headstrong fancies of one man. It is even, as is told by the old Grecian poet, as when Helen caused a great war between peoples of that nation." "I know nothing," another voice said, "either of Helen or the Greeks, or of their poets. They are a shifty race, and I can believe aught that is bad of them. But touching this princess of Navarre, I agree with our friend, it would be a righteous deed to poniard her, and so to remove the cause of dispute between the two kings, and, indeed, the two nations. This insult laid upon our princess is more than we, as French knights and gentlemen, can brook; and if the king says the word, there is not a gentleman in the army but will be ready to turn his sword against the islanders." Then the smooth voice spoke again. "It would, my brethren, be wrong and useless to shed blood; but methinks, that if this apple of discord could be removed, a good work would be done; not, as our friend the count has suggested, by a stab of the dagger; that indeed would be worse than useless. But surely there are scores of religious houses, where this bird might be placed in a cage without a soul knowing where she was, and where she might pass her life in prayer that she may be pardoned for having caused grave hazards of the failure of an enterprise in which all the Christian world is concerned." The voices of the speakers now fell, and Cuthbert was straining his ear to listen, when he heard footsteps approaching the tent, and he glided away into the darkness. With great difficulty he recovered the road to the camp, and when he reached his tent he confided to the Earl of Evesham what he had heard. "This is serious indeed," the earl said, "and bodes no little trouble and danger. It is true that the passion which King Richard has conceived for Berengaria bids fair to wreck the Crusade, by the anger which it has excited in the French king and his nobles; but the disappearance of the princess would no less fatally interfere with it, for the king would be like a raging lion deprived of his whelps, and would certainly move no foot eastward until he had exhausted all the means in his power of tracing his lost lady love. You could not, I suppose, Cuthbert, point out the tent where this conversation took place?" "I could not," Cuthbert answered; "in the darkness one tent is like another. I think I should recognize the voices of the speakers did I hear them again; indeed, one voice I did recognize, it was that of the Count of Brabant, with whom we had trouble before." "That is good," the earl said, "because we have at least an object to watch. It would never do to tell the king what you have heard. In the first place, his anger would be so great that it would burst all bounds, and would cause, likely enough, a battle at once between the two armies; nor would it have any good effect, for he of Brabant would of course deny the truth of your assertions, and would declare it was merely a got-up story to discredit him with the king, and so to wipe out the old score now standing between us. No, if we are to succeed, alike in preventing harm happening to the princess, and an open break between the two monarchs, it must be done by keeping a guard over the princess, unsuspected by all, and ourselves frustrating any attempt which may be made." Cuthbert expressed his willingness to carry out the instructions which the earl might give him; and, much disturbed by the events of the day, both earl and page retired to rest, to think over what plan had best be adopted. The princess was staying at the palace of the bishop of the town; this he, having another residence a short distance outside the walls, had placed at the disposal of the Queen of Navarre and her suite; and the first step of Cuthbert in the morning was to go into the town, to reconnoitre the position and appearance of the building. It was a large and irregular pile, and communicated with the two monasteries lying alongside of it. It would therefore clearly be a most difficult thing to keep up a complete watch on the exterior of so large a building. There were so many ways in which the princess might be captured and carried off by unscrupulous men, that Cuthbert in vain thought over every plan by which it could be possible to safeguard her. She might be seized upon returning from a tournament or entertainment; but this was improbable, as the queen would always have an escort of knights with her, and no attempt could be successful except at the cost of a public fracas and much loss of blood. Cuthbert regarded as out of the question that an outrage of this kind would be attempted. The fact that one of the speakers in the tent had used the words "my sons," showed that one priest or monk, at least, was connected with the plot. It was possible that this man might have power in one of the monasteries, or he might be an agent of the bishop himself; and Cuthbert saw that it would be easy enough in the night for a party from one or other of the monasteries to enter by the door of communication with the palace, and carry off the princess without the slightest alarm being given. Once within the walls of the convent, she could be either hidden in the dungeons or secret places, which buildings of that kind were sure to possess, or could be at once carried out by some quiet entrance, and taken into the country, or transferred to some other building in the town. When Cuthbert joined the earl he told him the observations that he had made, and Sir Walter praised the judgment which he had shown in his conclusions. The earl was of opinion that it would be absolutely necessary to get some clue as to the course which the abductors purposed to take; indeed it was possible that on after-consideration they might drop their plan altogether, for the words which Cuthbert had overheard scarcely betokened a plan completely formed and finally decided upon. The great point he considered, therefore, was that the tent of his old enemy should be carefully watched, and that an endeavour should be made to hear something of what passed within, which might give a clue to the plan fixed upon. They did not, of course, know whether the tent in which the conversation had been heard by Cuthbert was that of Sir de Jacquelin Barras, or of one of the other persons who had spoken; and Cuthbert suggested that the first thing would be to find out whether the count, after nightfall, was in the habit of going to some other tent, or whether, on the other hand, he remained within, and was visited by others. It was easy, of course, to discover which was his tent; and Cuthbert soon got its position, and then took Cnut into his counsels. "The matter is difficult," Cnut said, "and I see no way by which a watch can be kept up by day; but after dark--I have several men in my band who can track a deer, and surely could manage to follow the steps of this baron without being observed. There is little Jack, who is no bigger than a boy of twelve, although he can shoot, and run, and play with the quarter-staff, or, if need be, with the bill, against the best man in the troop. I warrant me that if you show him the tent, he will keep such sharp watch that no one shall enter or depart without his knowing where they go to. On a dark night he will be able to slip among the tents, and to move here and there without being seen. He can creep on his stomach without moving a leaf, and trust me the eyes of these French men-at-arms will look in vain for a glimpse of him." "You understand, Cnut, all that I want to know is whether the other conspirators in this matter visit his tent, or whether he goes to theirs." "I understand," Cnut said. "That is the first point to be arrived at." Three days later Cnut brought news that each night after dark a party of five men met in the tent that was watched; that one of the five always came out when all had assembled, and took his station before the entrance of the tent, so as to be sure that no eavesdropper was near. Cuthbert smiled,-- "It is a case of locking the door after the horse has gone." "What is to be done now?" Cnut asked. "I will talk with the earl before I tell you, Cnut. This matter is too serious for me to take a step without consulting Sir Walter." That night there was a long talk between the earl and his page as to the best course to be pursued. It was clear that their old enemy was the leading person in the plot, and that the only plan to baffle it with any fair chances of success was to keep a constant eye upon his movements, and also to have three or four of the sturdiest men of the band told off to watch, without being perceived, each time that the princess was in her palace. The Earl of Evesham left the arrangements entirely in the hands of his page, of whose good sense and sagacity he had a very high opinion. His own first impulse had been to go before the king and denounce the Count of Brabant. But the ill-will between them was already well known; for not only was there the original dispute at the banquet, but when the two armies had joined at Sicily, King Richard, who had heard from the earl of the attempt at the assassination of Cuthbert, had laid a complaint before King Phillip of the conduct of his subject. Sir de Jacquelin Barras, however, had denied that he had any finger in the matter. "He had," he said, "discharged his page after the encounter with Cuthbert, and knew nothing further whatever of his movements." Although it was morally certain that the page could not have purchased the services of the men who assisted him, from his own purse, or gain them by any means of persuasion, but that they were either the followers of the Count of Brabant, or ruffians hired with his money, as no proof could be obtained, the matter was allowed to drop. The earl felt, however, that an accusation against the count by him of an intention to commit a high crime, and this merely on the evidence of his page, would appear like an attempt to injure the fair fame of his rival. Feeling, therefore, that nothing could be done save to watch, he left the matter entirely in the hands of his page, telling him that he could take as many men-at-arms or archers as he might choose and use them in his name. Cnut entered warmly into Cuthbert's plans; and finally it was arranged between them that six of the archers should nightly keep watch opposite the various entrances of the bishop's palace and of the two monasteries joining. Of course they could not patrol up and down without attracting attention, but they were to take up posts where they could closely observe the entrances, and were either to lie down and feign drunken sleep, or to conceal themselves within the shadow of an arch or other hiding-place. Down on the sea-shore, Cuthbert made an arrangement with one of the owners of small craft lying there that ten of his men should sleep on board every night, together with some fishermen accustomed to the use of the oar. Cuthbert himself determined to be always with this party. Night after night passed, and so long a time went by that Cuthbert began to think the design must have been given up. However, he resolved to relax none of his watchfulness during the remaining time that the expedition might stop in Sicily. It was in January, three weeks after the first watch had been set, when one of the men who had been placed to watch the entrance to one of the monasteries, leapt on board the craft and shook Cuthbert by the shoulder. "A party of some five men," he said, "have just issued out from the monastery. They are bearing a burden--what, I cannot see. They were making in the direction of the water. I whistled to Dick, who was next to me in the lane. He is following them, and I came on to tell you to prepare." The night was pitch dark, and it was difficult in the extreme to see any one moving at a short distance off. There were two or three streets that led from the monastery, which stood at the top of the town, towards the sea; and a party coming down might take any of these, according to the position in which the boat they were seeking was placed. Cuthbert now instantly sent five or six of his men, with instructions to avoid all noise, along the line of the port, with orders to bring in word should any one come down and take boat, or should they hear any noise in the town. He himself with the sailors loosed the ropes which fastened the boat to shore, got out the oars, and prepared to put off at a moment's notice. He was of course ignorant whether the abductors would try to carry the princess off by water, or would hide her in one of the convents of the town; but he was inclined to think that the former would be the course adopted; for the king in his wrath would be ready to lay the town in flames, and to search every convent from top to bottom for the princess. Besides, there would be too many aware of the secret. Cuthbert was not wrong in his supposition. Soon the man he had sent to the extreme right came running up with the news that a boat had embarked at the farther end, with a party of some ten men on board. As he came along he had warned the others, and in five minutes the whole party were collected in the craft, numbering in all twelve of Cuthbert's men and six sailors. They instantly put out, and rowed in the direction in which the boat would have gone, the boatmen expressing their opinion that probably the party would make for a vessel which was lying anchored at some little distance from shore. The bearings of the position of this ship was known to the boatmen, but the night was so dark that they were quite unable to find it. Orders had been given that no sound or whisper was to be heard on board the boat; and after rowing as far as they could, the boatmen said they were in the direction of the ship. The boatmen all lay on their oars, and all listened intently. Presently the creaking of a pulley was heard in the still night, at a distance of a few hundred yards. This was enough. It was clear that the vessel was getting up sail. The boat's head was turned in that direction; the crew rowed steadily but noiselessly, and in a few minutes the tall mast of a vessel could be seen faintly against the sky. Just as they perceived the situation, a hail from on board showed that their approach was now observed. "Stretch to your oars," Cuthbert said, "we must make a dash for it now." The rowers bent to their work and in a minute the boat ran alongside the craft. As Cuthbert and his followers scrambled upon the deck, they were attacked by those of the crew and passengers who were standing near; but it was evident at once that the chiefs of the expedition had not heard the hail, and that there was no general plan of defence against them. It was not until the last of them had gained a footing, and were beginning to fight their way along the vessel, that from below three or four men-at-arms ran up, and one in a tone of authority demanded what was the matter. When he heard the clash of swords and the shouts of the combatants, he put himself at once at the head of the party, and a fierce and obstinate fight now took place. The assailants had, however, the advantage. Cuthbert and his men were all lightly clad, and this on the deck of a ship lumbered with ropes and gear, and in the dark, was a great advantage, for the mailed men-at-arms frequently stumbled and fell. The fight lasted for several minutes. Cnut who was armed with a heavy mace, did great service, for with each of his sweeping blows he broke down the guard of an opponent, and generally levelled him to the deck. The numbers at the beginning of the fight were not unequal, but the men to whom the vessel belonged made but a faint resistance when they perceived that the day was going against them. The men-at-arms, however, consisting of three, who appeared to be the leaders, and of eight pikemen, fought stubbornly and well. Cuthbert was not long in detecting in the tones of the man who was clearly at the head of affairs the voice of Sir de Jacquelin Barras. To do him justice he fought with extreme bravery, and when almost all his followers were cut down or beaten overboard, he resisted staunchly and well. With a heavy two-handed sword he cleaved a space at the end of the boat, and kept the whole of Cuthbert's party at bay. At last Cnut, who had been engaged elsewhere, came to the front, and a tough fight ensued between them. It might have ended badly for the brave forester, for his lack of armour gave an enormous advantage to his opponent. Soon, however, the count's foot slipped on the boards of the deck, and before he could recover himself the mace of Cnut descended with tremendous force upon his head, which was unprotected, as he had taken off his casque on arriving at the ship. Without a word or a cry the count fell forward on the deck, killed as a bullock by a blow of a pole-axe. While this conflict had been going on, occasionally the loud screams of a woman had been heard below. Cuthbert, attended by Cnut and two of his followers, now descended. At the bottom of the steps they found a man-at-arms placed at the door of a cabin. He challenged them as they approached, but being speedily convinced that the vessel was in their hands, and that his employer and party were all conquered, he made a virtue of necessity, and laid down his arms. "You had better go in alone," Cnut said, "Master Cuthbert. The lady is less likely to be frightened by your appearance than by us, for she must wonder indeed what is going on." On entering the cabin, which had evidently been fitted up for the use of a lady, Cuthbert saw standing at the other end the princess whom of course he knew well by sight. A lamp was burning in the cabin, and by its light he could see that her face was deadly pale. Her robes were torn and disarranged, and she wore a look at once of grave alarm and surprise upon seeing a handsomely dressed page enter with a deep reverence. "What means this outrage, young sir? Whoever you be, I warn you that the King of England will revenge this indignity." "Your Highness," Cuthbert said, "you have no further reason for alarm; the knaves who carried you off from the bishop's palace and conveyed you to this ship are all either killed or in our power. I am the page of the Earl of Evesham, a devoted follower of King Richard. Some of the designs of the bold men came to the ears of my lord, and he ordered me and a band of his followers to keep good guard over the palace and buildings adjoining. We were unable to gather our strength in time to prevent your being taken on board, but we lost no time in putting forth when we found that your abductors had taken boat, and by good fortune arrived here in time; a few minutes later, and the knaves would have succeeded in their object, for the sails were already being hoisted, and the vessel making way, when we arrived. Your abductors are all either killed or thrown overboard, and the vessel's head is now turned towards the shore, and I hope in a few minutes to have the honour of escorting you to the palace." The princess, with a sigh of much satisfaction and relief, sank on to a couch. "I am indeed indebted to you, young sir," she said. "Believe me, the Princess Berengaria is not ungrateful, and should it be ever in her power to do aught for your lord, or for yourself, or for those who have accompanied you to rescue her, believe me that she will do it." "May I be so bold as to ask a boon?" Cuthbert said, dropping on one knee before her. "It is granted at once, whatever it be, if in my power." "My boon is, lady," he said, "that you will do your best to assuage the natural anger which the King of England will feel at this bold and most violent attempt. That he should be told, is of course necessary; but, lady, much depends upon the telling, and I am sure that at your request the king would restrain his anger. Were it not for that, I fear that such quarrels and disputes might arise as would bring the two armies to blows, and destroy for ever all hope of the successful termination of our joint enterprise." "You are a wise and good youth," the princess said, holding out her hand to Cuthbert, which, as in duty bound, he placed to his lips. "Your request is wise and most thoughtful. I will use any poor influence which I may possess"--and Cuthbert could see that the blood came back now to the white face--"to induce King Richard to allow this matter to pass over. There is no reason why he should take up the case. I am no more under his protection than under that of the King of France, and it is to the latter I should appeal, for as I believe the men who abducted me were his subjects." "The leader of them, madam, was a certain Sir de Jacquelin Barras, a Count of Brabant, with whom my master has had an old feud, and who has been just killed by the leader of our men-at-arms. The others, who have had the most active hand in the matter, have also perished; and it would, I think, be doubtful whether any clue could be obtained to those who were in league with them. The only man in the party who is alive, was placed as a sentry at your door, and as he is but a man-at-arms, we may be sure that he knows nought of the enterprise, but has merely carried out the orders of his master." The vessel had by this time brought up close to the port. The princess determined to wait on board until the first dawn was seen in the skies, and then under the escort of her deliverers to go back to the palace, before the town was moving. This plan was carried out, and soon after dawn the princess was safe in the palace from which she had been carried a few hours previously. CHAPTER X. PIRATES. It was not possible that a matter of this sort could be entirely hushed up. Not many hours passed before rumours were current of events which had taken place, though none knew what those events were. There were reports that the tire-woman of the Princess Berengaria had in the night discovered that her mistress's couch was unoccupied, that she had found signs of a struggle, and had picked up a dagger on the floor, where it had evidently fallen from the sheath; also it was said, that the princess had returned at daylight escorted by an armed party, and that she was unable to obtain entrance to the palace until one of the ladies of the queen had been fetched down to order the sentries at the gate to allow her to enter. This was the news which rumour carried through the camp. Few, however, believed it, and none who could have enlightened them opened their lips upon the subject. It was known, however, that a messenger had come to King Richard early, and that he had at once mounted, and ridden off to the bishop's palace. What had happened there none could say, but there were rumours that his voice had been heard in furious outbursts of passion. He remained there until the afternoon, when he sent for a number of his principal nobles. When these arrived, they found him standing on a da�s in the principal hall of the palace, and he there formally introduced to them the Princess Berengaria as his affianced wife. The ceremony of the marriage, he told them, would shortly take place. This announcement caused a tremendous stir in both armies. The English, who had never been favourable to the alliance with the French princess, were glad to hear that this was broken off, and were well content that the Princess Berengaria should be their future queen, for her beauty, high spirit, and kindness had won all hearts. On the part of the French, on the other hand, there was great indignation, and for some time it was feared that the armies would come to open blows. King Phillip, however, although much angered, was politic enough to deprecate any open outbreak. He knew that a dispute now began, would not only at once put a stop to the Crusade, but that it might lead to more serious consequences at home. The fiery bravery of the English king, backed as it would be by the whole strength of his subjects, might render him a very formidable opponent; and the king felt that private grievances must be laid aside where the good of France was concerned. Still the coldness between the armies increased, their camps were moved further apart, and during the time that they remained in Sicily, there was but little commerce between the two forces. As soon as the winter had broken, the French monarch broke up his camp, and in March sailed for the Holy Land. The English had expected that the marriage ceremony of the king and Princess Berengaria would be celebrated before they left Sicily, but this was not the case. There were high joustings and fetes in honour of the princess, but the marriage was delayed. A fortnight after the French had sailed, the English embarked in the 200 ships, which had been prepared, and sailed also on their way to Acre. It must not be supposed that the attempted abduction of the Princess Berengaria was unimportant in its results to Cuthbert. After returning from the palace the king, who had heard from her the details of what had taken place, and the names of her rescuers, sent for the Earl of Evesham. The latter had of course learned from Cuthbert all that had happened, and had expressed his high approval of his conduct, and his gratification at the result. "I learn, Sir Earl," said King Richard, "that it is to you that I am indebted for the rescue of the princess. She tells me, that suspecting some plot, you placed a guard around the bishop's palace, with a strong body on the shore ready to rescue her from the hands of any who might attempt to take her to sea." "It is as you say, sire," replied the earl; "but the whole merit of the affair rests upon my page, the lad whom you may remember as having fought with and conquered the French page, and of whose conduct you then approved highly. You may also remember that he escaped by some display of bravery and shrewdness the further attempts to assassinate him, and your Majesty was good enough to make a complaint to King Phillip of the conduct of one of his nobles on that head. It seems that some two months since, the lad in coming through the French camp at night missed his way, and accidentally overheard a few words spoken in a voice which he recognized as that of his enemy. The name of your Majesty being mentioned, he deemed it his duty to listen, and thus discovered that a plot was on foot for carrying off the princess. After consultation with me, we agreed upon the course to be adopted, namely, to place sentries round the bishop's palace and the buildings adjoining, who should follow and bring word should she be taken to another place in town, while a band was placed on the shore in readiness to interfere at once to prevent her being carried away by sea. He undertook the management of all details, having with him a trusty squire who commands my Saxon bowmen." "For your own part I thank you, my lord," the king said, "and, believe me, you shall not find Richard ungrateful. As to your page, he appears brave and wise beyond his years. Were it not that I think that it would not be good for him, and might attract some envy upon the part of others, I would at once make him a knight. He already has my promise that I will do so on the first occasion when he can show his prowess upon the infidels. Bring him to me to-morrow, when the princess will be here with the Queen of Navarre at a banquet. I would fain thank him before her; and, although I have agreed--at the princess's earnest solicitation--to take no further notice of the matter, and to allow it to pass as if it had not been, yet I cannot forgive the treachery which has been used, and, without letting all know exactly what has occurred, would fain by my reception of your page, let men see that something of great import has happened, of the nature of which I doubt not that rumour will give some notion." Upon the following day, therefore, Cuthbert to his confusion found himself the centre of the royal circle. The king expressed himself to him in the most gracious manner, patting him on the shoulder, and said that he would be one day one of the best and bravest of his knights. The princess and the Queen of Navarre gave him their hands to kiss; and somewhat overwhelmed, he withdrew from the royal presence, the centre of attention, and, in some minds, of envy. Cnut too did not pass unrewarded. His Majesty, finding that Cnut was of gentle Saxon blood, gave him a gold chain in token of his favour, and distributed a heavy purse among the men who had followed him. When the British fleet, numbering 200 ships, set sail from Sicily, it was a grand and martial sight. From the masts were the colours of England and those of the nobles who commanded; while the pennons of the knights, the bright plumes and mantles, the flash of armour and arms, made the decks alive with light and colour. The king's ship advanced in the van, and round him were the vessels containing his principal followers. The Queen of Navarre and the Princess Berengaria were with the fleet. Strains of music rose from the waters, and never were the circumstances of war exhibited in a more picturesque form. For two days the expedition sailed on, and then a change of a sudden and disastrous kind took place. "What is all this bustle about?" Cuthbert said to Cnut. "The sailors are running up the ladders, and all seems confusion." "Methinks," said Cnut, "that we are about to have a storm. A few minutes ago scarce a cloud was to be seen; now that bank over there has risen half-way up the sky. The sailors are accustomed to these treacherous seas, and the warnings which we have not noticed have no doubt been clear enough to them." With great rapidity the sails of the fleet came down, and in five minutes its whole aspect was changed; but quickly as the sailors had done their work, the storm was even more rapid in its progress. Some of the ships whose crews were slower or less skilful than the others, were caught by the gale before they could get their sails snug, and the great sheets of white canvas were blown from the bolt ropes as if made of paper, and a blackness which could almost be felt, covered the sea, the only light being that given by the frothing waters. There was no longer any thought of order. Each ship had to shift for herself; and each captain to do his best to save those under his charge, without thought of what might befall the others. In the ship which carried the Earl of Evesham's contingent, order and discipline prevailed. The earl's voice had been heard at the first puff of wind, shouting to the men to go below, save a few who might be of use to haul at ropes. His standard was lowered, the bright flags removed from the sides of the ship, the shields which were hanging over the bulwarks were hurriedly taken below, and when the gale smote them, the ship was trim, and in readiness to receive it. A few square yards of sail alone were all that the captain had thought it prudent to keep spread, and in a minute from the time she was struck the lofty hulk was tearing along through the waters at a tremendous speed. Four of the best hands were placed at the helm; and here the captain took his post. The danger was now that in the darkness they might run against one of their consorts. Even in the war of the elements they could hear from time to time crashes as of vessels striking against each other, with shouts and cries. Once or twice from the darkness ships emerged, close on one hand or the other; but the steadiness of the captain in each case saved the ship from collision. As the storm continued, these glimpses of other vessels became more and more rare, and the ship being a very fast sailer, the captain indulged the hope that he was now clear of the rest of the fleet. He now attempted to lie-to to the storm, but the wind was too strong. The ships in those days too, were so high out of the water, and offered in themselves such a target to the wind, that it was useless to adopt any other maneuver than to run before it. For two days and nights the tempest raged. "What think you," the earl said to the captain, "of our position? Where are we, and where will the course upon which we are running take us?" "I cannot say with certainty," the captain said, "for the wind has shifted several times. I had hoped to gain the shelter of Rhodes, but a shift of wind bore us away from there, and I much fear that from the direction in which we have been running we must be very nigh on the coast of Africa." "Pest!" the earl said. "That would indeed be a speedy end to our Crusade. These Moors are pirates and cut-throats to a man; and even should we avoid the risk of being dashed to pieces, we should end our lives as slaves to one of these black infidels." Three hours later, the captain's prophecies turned out right. Breakers were seen in various points in front, and with the greatest difficulty the vessel was steered through an opening between them; but in another few minutes she struck heavily, one of her masts went over the side, and she lay fast and immovable. Fortunately, the outside bank of sand acted as a sort of breakwater; had she struck upon this, the good ship would have gone to pieces instantly; but although the waves still struck her with considerable force, the captain had good hope that she would not break up. Darkness came on; the tempest seemed to lull. As there was no immediate danger, and all were exhausted by the tossing which they had received during the last forty-eight hours, the crew of the "Rose" slept soundly. In the morning the sun rose brilliantly, and there was no sign of the great storm which had scattered the fleet of England. The shore was to be seen at a distance of some four miles, It was low and sandy, with lofty mountains in the distance. Far inland a white town with minaret and dome could be seen. "Know you where we are?" the earl asked. "As far as I can tell," the captain said, "we have been driven up the bay called the Little Syrtis--a place full of shoals and shallows, and abounding with pirates of the worst kind." "Think you that the ship has suffered injury?" "Whether she has done so or not," the captain said, "I fear greatly that she is fast in the sand, and even the lightening of all her cargo will scarce get her off; but we must try at least." "It is little time that we shall have to try, Master Captain," Cuthbert, who was standing close, said. "Methinks those two long ships which are putting out from that town will have something to say to that." "It is too true," the captain said. "Those are the galleys of the Moorish corsairs. They are thirty or forty oars, draw but little water, and will be here like the wind." "What do you advise?" asked the earl. "The balistas which you have upon the poop can make but a poor resistance to boats that can row around us, and are no doubt furnished with heavy machines. They will quickly perceive that we are aground and defenceless, and will be able to plump their bolts into us until they have knocked the good ship to pieces. However, we will fight to the last. It shall not be said that the Earl of Evesham was taken by infidel dogs and sold as a slave, without striking a blow in his defence." Cuthbert stood watching the corsairs, which were now rowing towards them at all speed. "Methinks, my lord," he said, presently, "if I might venture to give an opinion, that we might yet trick the infidel." "As how, Cuthbert?" the earl said. "Speak out; you know that I have great faith in your sagacity." "I think, sir," the page said, "that did we send all your men below, leaving only the crew of the vessel on deck, they would take us for a merchant ship which has been wrecked here, and exercise but little care how they approach us. The men on deck might make a show of shooting once or twice with the balistas. The pirates, disdaining such a foe, would row alongside. Once there, we might fasten one or both to our side with grapnels, and then, methinks, that English bill and bow will render us more than a match for Moorish pirates, and one of these craft can scarcely carry more men than we have. I should propose to take one of them by force, and drive the pirates overboard; take possession of, if possible, or beat off, her consort; and then take the most valuable stores from the ship, and make our way as best we can to the north." "Well thought of!" exclaimed the earl, cordially. "You have indeed imagined a plan which promises well. What think you, captain?" "I think, my lord," the Genoese said, "that the plan is an excellent one, and promises every success. If your men will all go below, holding their arms in readiness for the signal, mine shall prepare grapnels and ropes, and the first of these craft which comes alongside they will lash so securely to the "Rose" that I warrant me she gets not away." These preparations were soon made. The soldiers, who at first had been filled with apprehension at the thought of slavery among the infidels, were now delighted at the prospect of a struggle ending in escape. The archers prepared their bows and arrows, and stood behind the port-holes in readiness to pour a volley into the enemy; the men-at-arms grasped their pikes and swords; while above, the sailors moved hither and thither as if making preparations for defence, but in reality preparing the grapnels and ropes. One of the pirates was faster than the other, and soon coming within reach, poured flights of javelins and stones upon the "Rose" from powerful machines, which she carried in her bow. The crew of the "Rose" replied with their crossbows and arrows from the poop. The corsair at first did not keep her course direct for the ship, but rowed round her, shooting arrows and casting javelins. Then, apparently satisfied that no great precaution need be observed with a feebly-manned ship in so great a strait as the "Rose," they set up a wild cry of "Allah!" and rowed towards her. In two minutes the corsair was alongside of the "Rose," and the fierce crew were climbing up her sides. As she came alongside the sailors cast grapnels into her rigging, and fastened her to the "Rose;" and then aloud shout of "Hurrah for England!" was heard; the ports opened, and a volley of arrows was poured upon the astonished corsair; and from the deck above the assailants were thrown back into the galley, and a swarm of heavily armed men leapt down from the ship upon them. Taken by surprise, and indeed outnumbered, the resistance of the corsairs was but slight. In a close fierce m�l�e like this the light-armed Moors had but little chance with the mail-clad English, whose heavy swords and axes clove their defences at a blow. The fight lasted but three minutes, and then the last of the corsairs was overboard. The men who rowed the galley had uttered the most piercing cries while this conflict had been raging. They were unable to take any part in it, had they been disposed to do so, for they were all slaves chained to the oars. Scarcely had the conflict ended when the other galley arrived upon the scene; but seeing what had happened, and that her consort had fallen into the hands of the English, she at once turned her head, and rowed back rapidly to the town from which she had come. Among the slaves who rowed the galley were many white men, and their cries of joy at their liberation greatly affected those who had thus unexpectedly rescued them. Hammers were soon brought into requisition, the shackles struck off them, and a scene of affecting joy took place. The slaves were of all nationalities, but Italians and Spaniards, French and Greeks, formed the principal part. There was no time, however, to be lost; the arms and munitions of war were hastily removed from the "Rose," together with the most valuable of the stores. The galley-slaves again took their places, and this time willingly, at the oars, the places of the weakest being supplied by the English, whose want of skill was made up by the alacrity with which they threw their strength into the work; and in an hour from the time that the galley had arrived alongside of the "Rose," her head was turned north, and with sixty oars she was rowing at all speed for the mouth of the bay. CHAPTER XI. IN THE HOLY LAND. As soon as the galley which had escaped reached the town from which it had started, it with three others at once set out in pursuit; while from a narrow creek two other galleys made their appearance. There were a few words of question among the English whether to stop and give battle to these opponents, or to make their way with all speed. The latter counsel prevailed; the earl pointing out that their lives were now scarcely their own, and that they had no right on their way to the holy sepulchre to risk them unnecessarily. Fortunately they had it in their hands to fight or escape, as they chose; for doubly banked as the oars now were, there was little chance of the enemy's galleys overtaking them. Gradually as they rowed to sea the pursuing vessels became smaller and smaller to view, until at last they were seen to turn about and make again for land. After some consultation between the earl and the captain of the lost ship, it was determined to make for Rhodes. This had been settled as a halting-point for the fleet, and the earl thought it probable that the greater portion of those scattered by the storm would rendezvous there. So it proved; after a voyage, which although not very long was tedious, owing to the number of men cramped up in so small a craft, they came within sight of the port of Rhodes, and were greatly pleased at seeing a perfect forest of masts there, showing that at least the greater portion of the fleet had survived the storm. This was indeed the fact, and a number of other single ships dropped in during the next day or two. There was great astonishment on the part of the fleet when the long swift galley was seen approaching, and numerous conjectures were offered as to what message the pirates could be bringing--for there was no mistaking the appearance of the long, dangerous-looking craft. When, upon her approach, the standard of the Earl of Evesham was seen flying on the bow, a great shout of welcome arose from the fleet; and King Richard himself, who happened to be on the deck of the royal ship, shouted to the earl to come on board and tell him what masquerading he was doing there. The earl of course obeyed the order, anchoring near the royal vessel, and going on board in a small boat, taking with him his page and squire. The king heard with great interest the tale of the adventures of the "Rose"; and when the Earl of Evesham said that it was to Cuthbert that was due the thought of the stratagem by which the galley was captured, and its crew saved from being carried away into hopeless slavery, the king patted the boy on the shoulder with such hearty force as nearly to throw Cuthbert off his feet. "By St. George!" said the monarch, "you are fated to be a very pink of knights. You seem as thoughtful as you are brave; and whatever your age may be, I declare that the next time your name is brought before me I will call a chapter of knights, and they shall agree that exception shall be made in your favour, and that you shall at once be admitted to the honourable post. You will miss your page, Sir Walter; but I am sure you will not grudge him that." "No, no, sire," said the earl. "The lad, as I have told your Majesty, is a connexion of mine--distant, it is true, but one of the nearest I have--and it will give me the greatest pleasure to see him rising so rapidly, and on a fair way to distinguish himself highly. I feel already as proud of him as if he were my own son." The fleet remained some two or three weeks at Rhodes, for many of the vessels were sorely buffeted and injured, masts were carried away as well as bulwarks battered in, and the efforts of the crews and of those of the whole of the artificers of Rhodes were called into requisition. Light sailing craft were sent off in all directions, for the king was in a fever of anxiety. Among the vessels still missing was that which bore the Queen of Navarre and the fair Berengaria. One day a solitary vessel was seen approaching. "Another of our lost sheep," the earl said, looking out over the poop. She proved, however, to be a merchant ship of Greece, and newly come from Cyprus. Her captain went on board the royal ship, and delivered message to the king, to the effect that two of the vessels had been cast upon the coast of Cyprus, that they had been plundered by the people, the crews ill-treated and made prisoners by the king, and that the Queen of Navarre and the princess were in their hands. This roused King Richard into one of his furies. "Before I move a step towards the Holy Land," he said, "I will avenge these injuries upon this faithless and insolent king. I swear that I will make him pay dearly for having laid a hand upon these ladies." At once the signal was hoisted for all the vessels in a condition to sail to take on board water and provisions, and to prepare to sail for Cyprus; and the next morning at daybreak the fleet sailed out, and made their way towards that island, casting anchor off the harbour of Famagosta. King Richard sent a messenger on shore to the king, ordering him at once to release the prisoners; to make the most ample compensation to them; to place ships at their service equal to those which had been destroyed; and to pay a handsome sum of money as indemnity. The King of Cyprus, however, an insolent and haughty despot, sent back a message of defiance. King Richard at once ordered the anchors to be raised, and all to follow the royal ship. The fleet entered the harbour of Famagosta; the English archers began the fight by sending a flight of arrows into the town. This was answered from the walls by a shower of stones and darts from the machines. There was no time wasted. The vessels were headed towards the shore, and as the water was deep, many of them were able to run close alongside the rocky wharves. In an instant, regardless of the storm of weapons poured down by the defenders, the English leapt ashore. The archers kept up so terrible a rain of missiles against the battlements that the defenders could scarcely show themselves for an instant there, and the men-at-arms, placing ladders against them, speedily mounted, and putting aside all opposition, poured into the town. The effeminate Greek soldiers of the monarch could offer no effectual resistance whatever, and he himself fled from the palace and gained the open country, followed by a few adherents. The English gained a considerable booty, for in those days a town taken by assault was always looked upon as the property of the captors. The Queen of Navarre and the princess were rescued. King Richard, however, was not satisfied with the success he had gained, and was determined to punish this insolent little king. Accordingly the English were set in motion into the interior, and town after town speedily fell, or opened their gates to him. The king, deserted by his troops, and detested by his people for having brought so terrible a scourge upon them by his reckless conduct, now sued for peace; but King Richard would give him no terms except dethronement, and this he was forced to accept. He was deprived of his crown, and banished from the island. The king now, to the surprise of his barons, announced his intention of at once marrying the Princess Berengaria. Popular as he was, there was yet some quiet grumbling among his troops; as they said, with justice, they had been waiting nearly six months in the island of Sicily, and the king might well have married there, instead of a fresh delay being caused when so near their place of destination. However, the king as usual had his own way, and the marriage was solemnized amidst great rejoicing and solemnity. It was a brilliant scene indeed in the cathedral of Limasol. There were assembled all the principal barons of England, together with a great number of the nobles of Cyprus. Certainly no better matched pair ever stood at the altar together, for as King Richard was one of the strongest and bravest men of his own or any other time, so Berengaria is admitted to have been one of the loveliest maidens. The air was rent with the acclamations of the assembled English host and of the numerous inhabitants of Limasol as they emerged from the cathedral. For a fortnight the town was given up to festivity; tournaments, joustings, banquets succeeded each other day after day, and the islanders, who were fond of pleasure, and indeed very wealthy, vied with the English in the entertainments which they gave in honour of the occasion. The festivities over, the king gave the welcome order to proceed on their voyage. They had now been joined by all the vessels left behind at Rhodes, and it was found that only a few were missing, and that the great storm, terrible as it had been, had inflicted less damage upon the fleet than was at first feared. Two days' sail brought them within sight of the white walls of Acre, and it was on the 8th of June, 1191, that the fleet sailed into the port of that town. Tremendous acclamations greeted the arrival of the English army by the host assembled on the shores. Acre had been besieged for two years, but in vain; and even the arrival of the French army under Phillip Augustus had failed to turn the scale. The inhabitants defended themselves with desperate bravery; every assault upon the walls had been repulsed with immense slaughter; and at no great distance off the Sultan Saladin, with a large army, was watching the progress of the siege. The fame of King Richard and the English was so great, however, that the besiegers had little doubt that his arrival would change the position of things; and even the French, in spite of the bad feeling which had existed in Sicily, joined with the knights and army of the King of Jerusalem in acclaiming the arrival of the English. Phillip Augustus, the French King, was of a somewhat weak and wavering disposition. It would have been thought that after his dispute with King Richard he would have gladly done all in his power to carry Acre before the arrival of his great rival. To the great disappointment of the French, however, he declared that he would take no step in the general assault until the arrival of Richard; and although the French had given some assistance to the besiegers, the army had really remained passive for many weeks. Now, however, that the English had arrived, little time was lost; for the moment the dissensions and jealousies between the monarchs were patched up, the two hosts naturally imitated the example of their sovereigns, and French and English worked side by side in throwing up trenches against the walls, in building movable towers for the attack, and in preparing for the great onslaught. The French were the first to finish their preparations, and they delivered a tremendous assault upon the walls. The besieged, however, did not lose heart, and with the greatest bravery repulsed every attempt. The scaling ladders were hurled backwards, the towers were destroyed by Greek fire; boiling oil was hurled down upon the men who advanced under the shelter of machines to undermine the walls; and after desperate fighting the French fell back, baffled and beaten. There was some quiet exultation in the English lines at the defeat of the French, for they believed that a better fortune would crown their own efforts. Such, however, to their surprise and mortification, was not the case. When their preparations were completed, they attacked with splendid bravery. They were fighting under the eyes of their king, and in sight of the French army, who had a few days before been baffled; and if bravery and devotion could have carried the walls of Acre, assuredly King Richard's army would have accomplished the task. It was, however, too great for them, and with vast loss the army fell back to its camp, King Richard raging like a wounded lion. Many of his barons had been killed in the assault, and the pikemen and men-at-arms had suffered heavily. The Earl of Evesham had been wounded; Cuthbert had taken no part in the assault, for the earl, knowing his bravery, had forbidden his doing so, as he foresaw the struggle would be of the most desperate character; and as it was not usual for pages to accompany their lords on the battle-field, Cuthbert could not complain of his being forbidden to take part in the fight. The earl, however, permitted him to accompany Cnut and the bowmen, who did great service by the accuracy of their aim, preventing by their storm of arrows the men on the battlements from taking steady aim and working their machines, and so saved the Earl of Evesham's troop and those fighting near him from suffering nearly as heavy loss as some of those engaged in other quarters. But while successful in beating off all assaults, the defenders of Acre were now nearly at the end of their resources. The Emperor Saladin, although he had collected an army of 200,000 men, yet feared to advance and give battle to the crusaders in their own lines--for they had thrown up round their camp strong entrenchments, to prevent the progress of the siege being disturbed by forces from without. The people of Acre seeing the time pass and no sign of a rescuing force, their provisions being utterly exhausted, and pestilence and fever making frightful ravages in the city, at last determined to surrender. For over two years they had made a resistance of the most valiant description, and now, despairing of success or rescue, and seeing the hosts of their besiegers increasing day by day, they hoisted a flag upon the walls, and sent a deputation to the kings, asking for terms if they submitted. They would have done well had they submitted upon the arrival of the French and English reinforcements. For the monarchs, annoyed by the defeat of their forces and by the heavy losses they had sustained, and knowing that the besieged were now at their last crust, were not disposed to be merciful. However, the horrors which then attended the capture of cities in a war in which so little quarter was given on either side, were avoided. The city was to be surrendered; the much-prized relic contained within its walls--said to be a piece of the true Cross which had been captured by the Saracens at the battle of Tiberias, in which they had almost annihilated the Christian armies a few years before--was to be surrendered; the Christian prisoners in their hands were to be given up unharmed; and the inhabitants undertook to pay 200,000 pieces of gold to the kings within forty days, under the condition that the fighting men now taken prisoners were to be put to death should this ransom not be paid. The conquest of Acre was hailed throughout Christendom as a triumph of the highest importance. It opened again the gates of the Holy Land; and so tremendous was the strength of the fortress, that it was deemed that if this stronghold were unable to resist effectually the arms of the crusaders, and that if Saladin with so great an army did not dare to advance to its rescue, then the rest of the Holy Land would speedily fall under the hands of the invading army. With the fall of Acre, however, the dissensions between the two kings, which had for a while been allowed to rest while the common work was to be done, broke out again with renewed intensity. The jealousy of Phillip Augustus was raised to the highest point by the general enthusiasm of the combined armies for the valiant King of England, and by the authority which that monarch exercised in the councils. He therefore suddenly announced his intention of returning to France. This decision at first occasioned the greatest consternation in the ranks of the crusaders; but this feeling was lessened when the king announced that he should leave a large portion of the French army behind, under the command of the Duke of Burgundy. The wiser councillors were satisfied with the change. Although there was a reduction of the total fighting force, yet the fact that it was now centred under one head, and that King Richard would now be in supreme command, was deemed to more than counterbalance the loss of a portion of the French army. Before starting on the march for Jerusalem, King Richard sullied his reputation by causing all the defenders of Acre to be put to death, their ransom not having arrived at the stipulated time. Then the allied army set out upon their journey. The fleet cruised along near them, and from it they obtained all that was requisite for their wants, and yet, notwithstanding these advantages, the toil and fatigue were terrible. Roads scarcely existed, and the army marched across the rough and broken country. There was no straggling, but each kept his place; and if unable to do so, fell and died. The blazing sun poured down upon them with an appalling force; the dust which rose when they left the rocks and came upon flat sandy ground, almost smothered them. Water was only obtainable at the halts, and then was frequently altogether insufficient for the wants of the army; while in front, on flank, and in rear hovered clouds of the cavalry of Saladin. At times King Richard would allow parties of his knights to detach themselves from the force to drive off these enemies. But it was the chase of a lion after a hare. The knights in their heavy armour and powerful steeds were left behind as if standing still, by the fleet Bedouins on their desert coursers; and the pursuers, exhausted and worn out, were always glad to regain the ranks of the army. These clouds of cavalry belonging to the enemy did not content themselves with merely menacing and cutting off stragglers. At times, when they thought they saw an opening, they would dash in and attack the column desperately, sometimes gaining temporary advantages, killing and wounding many, then fleeing away again into the desert. Finding that it was impossible to catch these wary horsemen, King Richard ordered his bowmen to march outside his cavalry, so that when the enemy's horse approached within bowshot they should open upon them with arrows; then, should the horsemen persist in charging, the archers were at once to take refuge behind the lines of the knights. Day after day passed in harassing conflicts. The distance passed over each day was very small, and the sufferings of the men from thirst, heat, and fatigue enormous. Cuthbert could well understand now what he had heard of great armies melting away, for already men began to succumb in large numbers to the terrible heat, and the path traversed by the army was scattered with corpses of those who had fallen victims to sunstroke. Not even at night did the attacks of the enemy cease, and a portion of the harassed force was obliged to keep under arms to repel assaults. So passed the time until the army arrived at Azotus, and there, to the delight of the crusaders, who only longed to get at their foes, they beheld the whole force of Saladin, 200,000 strong, barring their way. Had it not been for the stern discipline enforced by King Richard, the knights of England and France would have repeated the mistake which had caused the extermination of the Christian force at Tiberias, and would have levelled their lances and charged recklessly into the mass of their enemies. But the king, riding round the flanks and front of the force, gave his orders in the sternest way, with the threat that any man who moved from the ranks should die by his hand. The army was halted, the leaders gathered round the king, and a hasty consultation was held. Richard insisted upon the fight being conducted upon the same principles as the march--that the line of archers should stand outside the knights, and should gall the advancing force with arrows till the last moment, and then retire among the cavalry, only to sally out again as the Bedouins fell back from the steel wall of horsemen. Cuthbert had now for the first time donned full armour, and rode behind the Earl of Evesham as his esquire, for the former esquire had been left behind, ill with fever, at Acre. CHAPTER XII. THE ACCOLADE. It was now a year since they had left England, and Cuthbert had much grown and widened out in the interval, and had never neglected an opportunity of practising with arms; and the earl was well aware that he should obtain as efficient assistance from him in time of need as he could desire. This was the first time that Cuthbert, and indeed the great proportion of those present in the Christian host, had seen the enemy in force, and they eagerly watched the vast array. It was picturesque in the extreme, with a variety and brightness of colour rivalling that of the Christian host. In banners and pennons the latter made a braver show; but the floating robes of the infidel showed a far brighter mass of colour than the steel armour of the Christians. Here were people drawn from widely separated parts of Saladin's dominions. Here were Nubians from the Nile, tall and powerful men, jet black in skin, with lines of red and white paint on their faces, giving a ghastly and wild appearance to them. On their shoulders were skins of lions and other wild animals. They carried short bows, and heavy clubs studded with iron. By them were the Bedouin cavalry, light, sinewy men, brown as berries, with white turbans and garments. Near these were the cavalry from Syria and the plains of Assyria--wild horsemen with semi-barbarous armour and scarlet trappings. Here were the solid lines of the Egyptian infantry, steady troops, upon whom Saladin much relied. Here were other tribes, gathered from afar, each distinguished by its own particular marks. In silence did this vast array view awhile the solid mass of the Christians. Suddenly a strange din of discordant music from thousands of musical instruments--conches and horns, cymbals and drums, arose in wild confusion. Shouts of defiance in a dozen tongues and from 200,000 throats rose wild and shrill upon the air, while clear above all the din were heard the strange vibratory cries of the warriors from the Egyptian highlands. "One would think," said Cnut grimly to Cuthbert, "that the infidels imagine we are a flock of antelopes to be frightened by an outcry. They would do far better to save their wind for future use. They will want it, methinks, when we get fairly among them. Who would have thought that a number of men, heathen and infidel though they be, could have made so foul an outcry?" Cuthbert laughed. "Every one fights according to his own method, Cnut; and I am not sure that there is not something to be said for this outcry, for it is really so wild and fearful that it makes my blood almost curdle in my veins; and were it not that I know the proved valour of our knights and footmen, I should feel shaken by this terrible introduction to the fight." "I heed it no more," said Cnut, "than the outcry of wild fowl, when one comes upon them suddenly on a lake in winter. It means no more than that; and I reckon that they are trying to encourage themselves fully as much as to frighten us. However, we shall soon see. If they can fight as well as they can scream, they certainly will get no answering shouts from us. The English bulldog fights silently, and bite as hard as he will, you will hear little beyond a low growl. Now, my men," he said, turning to his archers, "methinks the heathen are about to begin in earnest. Keep steady; do not fire until you are sure that they are within range. Draw your bows well to your ears, and straightly and steadily let fly. Never heed the outcry or the rush, keep steady to the last moment. There is shelter behind you, and fierce as the attack may be, you can find a sure refuge behind the line of the knights." Cnut with his archers formed part of the line outside the array of English knights, and the arrows of the English bowmen fell fast as bands of the Bedouin horse circled round them in the endeavour to draw the Christians on to the attack. For some time Saladin persisted in these tactics. With his immense superiority of force he reckoned that if the Christian chivalry would but charge him, the victory of Tiberias would be repeated. Hemmed in by numbers, borne down by the weight of armour and the effects of the blazing sun, the knights would succumb as much to fatigue as to the force of their foes. King Richard's orders, however, were well obeyed, and at last the Moslem chief, urged by the entreaties of his leading emirs, who felt ashamed that so large a force should hesitate to attack one so vastly inferior in numbers, determined upon taking the initiative, and forming his troops in a semicircle round the Christian army, launched his horsemen to the attack. The instant they came within range, a cloud of arrows from the English archers fell among them, but the speed at which the desert horses covered the ground rendered it impossible for the archers to discharge more than one or two shafts before the enemy were upon them. Quickly as they now slipped back and sought refuge under the lances of the knights, many of them were unable to get back in time, and were cut down by the Saracens. The rest crept between the horses or under their bellies into the rear, and there prepared to sally out again as soon as the enemy retired, The Christian knights sat like a wall of steel upon their horses, their lances were levelled, and, brave as the Bedouin horsemen were, they felt to break this massive line was impossible. The front line, however, charged well up to the points of the lances, against which they hewed with their sharp scimitars, frequently severing the steel top from the ashpole, and then breaking through and engaging in hand-to-hand conflict with the knights. Behind the latter sat their squires, with extra spears and arms ready to hand to their masters; and in close combat, the heavy maces with their spike ends were weapons before which the light clad horsemen went down like reeds before a storm. Hour after hour the Arab horsemen persisted in their attack, suffering heavily, but determined to conquer if possible. Then Saladin suddenly ordered a retreat, and at seeing their enemy fly, the impetuosity of the crusaders at last broke out. With a shout they dashed after the foe. King Richard, knowing that his followers had already shown a patience far beyond what he could have expected, now headed the onslaught, performing prodigies of valour with his single arm, and riding from point to point to see that all was well. The early resistance of the infidel host was comparatively slight. The heavy mass of the Christian cavalry, with their levelled lances, swept through the ranks of the light horsemen, and trampled them down like grass beneath their feet; but every moment the resistance became more stubborn. Saladin, knowing the Christians would sooner or later assume the offensive, had gathered his troops line in line behind the front ranks, and as the force of the crusaders' charge abated, so did the number of foes in their front multiply. Not only this, but upon either side chosen bands swept down, and ere long the Christians were brought to a stand, and all were fighting hand to hand with their enemies. The lances were thrown away now, and with axe and mace each fought for himself. The Earl of Evesham was one of a group of knights whom King Richard had that day ordered to keep close to his person, and around this group the fight raged most furiously. Saladin, aware of the extreme personal valour and warlike qualities of King Richard, set the greatest value upon his death or capture, and had ordered a large number of his best troops to devote their whole attention to attacking the King of England. The royal standard carried behind the king was a guide to their onslaught, and great as was the strength and valour of King Richard, he with difficulty was able to keep at bay the hosts that swept around him. Now that the lance had been abandoned for battle-axe, Cuthbert was able to take an active part in the struggle, his duties consisting mainly in guarding the rear of his master, and preventing his being overthrown by any sudden attack on the flank or from behind. King Richard was bent not only on defending himself from the attacks of his foes, but on directing the general course of the battle; and from time to time he burst, with his own trusty knights, through the ring of foes, and rode from point to point of the field, calling the knights together, exhorting them to steadiness, and restoring the fight where its fortunes seemed doubtful. At one time the impetuosity of the king led him into extreme danger. He had burst through the enemy surrounding him, and these, by order of their captain, allowed him to pass through their ranks, and then threw themselves together in his rear, to cut him off from the knights who rode behind. The maneuver was successful. The rush of horsemen fairly carried away the Christian knights, and one or two alone were able to make their way through. Amid the wild confusion that raged, where each man was fighting for his own life, and but little view of what was passing could be obtained through the barred visor, the fact that the king was separated from them was known to but few. Sir Walter himself was engaged fiercely in a hand-to-hand fight with four Bedouins who surrounded him, when Cuthbert shouted,-- "The king, Sir Walter! the king! He is cut off and surrounded! For heaven's sake ride to him. See! the royal standard is down." With a shout the earl turned, brained one of his foes with a sweep of his heavy axe, and, followed by Cuthbert, dashed to the assistance of the king. The weight of his horse and armour cleft through the crowd, and in a brief space he penetrated to the side of King Richard, who was borne upon by a host of foes. Just as they reached them a Bedouin who had been struck from his horse crawled beneath the noble charger of King Richard, and drove his scimitar deep into its bowels. The animal reared high in its sudden pain, and then fell on the ground, carrying the king, who was unable to disengage himself quickly enough. In an instant the Earl of Evesham had leapt from his horse and with his broad triangular shield extended sought to cover him from the press of enemies. Cuthbert imitated his lord, and strove to defend the latter from attacks from the rear. For a moment or two the sweep of the earl's heavy axe and Cuthbert's circling sword kept back the foe, but this could not last. King Richard in vain strove to extricate his leg from beneath his fallen steed. Cuthbert saw at a glance that the horse still lived, and with a sudden slash of his sword he struck it on the hind quarter. Goaded by the pain the noble animal made a last effort to rise, but only to fall back dead. The momentary action was, however, sufficient for King Richard, who drew his leg from under it, and with his heavy battle-axe in hand, rose with a shout, and stood by the side of the earl. In vain did the Bedouins strive to cut down and overpower the two champions; in vain did they urge their horses to ride over them. With each sweep of his axe the king either dismounted a foe or clove in the head of his steed, and a wall of slain around them testified to the tremendous power of their arms. Still, even such warriors as these could not long sustain the conflict. The earl had already received several desperate wounds, and the king himself was bleeding from some severe gashes with the keen-edged scimitars. Cuthbert was already down, when a shout of "St. George!" was heard, and a body of English knights clove through the throng of Saracens and reached the side of King Richard. Close behind these in a mass pressed the British footmen with bill and pike, the enemy giving way foot by foot before their steady discipline. The king was soon on horseback again, and rallying his troops on, led them for one more great and final charge upon the enemy. The effect was irresistible. Appalled by the slaughter which they had suffered, and by the tremendous strength and energy of the Christian knights, the Saracens broke and fled; and the last reserves of Saladin gave way as the king, shouting his war-cry of "God help the holy sepulchre!" fell upon them. Once, indeed, the battle still seemed doubtful, for a fresh band of the enemy at that moment arrived and joined in the fray. The crusaders were now, however, inspired with such courage and confidence that they readily obeyed the king's war-cry, gathered in a firm body, and hurled themselves upon this new foe. Then the Saracens finally turned and fled, and the Christian victory was complete. It was one of the features of this war that however thorough the victories of the Christians, the Saracens very speedily recovered from their effects. A Christian defeat was crushing and entire; the knights died as they stood, and defeat meant annihilation. Upon the other hand, the Saracens and Bedouins when they felt that their efforts to win the battle were unsuccessful, felt no shame or humiliation in scattering like sheep. On their fleet horses and in their light attire they could easily distance the Christians, who never, indeed, dreamt of pursuing them. The day after the fight, the enemy would collect again under their chiefs, and be as ready as before to renew their harassing warfare. On his return from the field, the king assembled many of his principal knights and leaders, and summoned the Earl of Evesham, with the message that he was to bring his esquire with him. When they reached the tent, the king said,-- "My lords, as some of you may be aware, I have this day had a narrow escape from death. Separated from you in the battle, and attended only by my standard-bearer, I was surrounded by the Saracens. I should doubtless have cleft my way through the infidel dogs, but a foul peasant stabbed my charger from below, and the poor brute fell with me. My standard-bearer was killed, and in another moment my nephew Arthur would have been your king, had it not been that my good lord here, attended by this brave lad, appeared. I have seen a good deal of fighting, but never did I see a braver stand than they made above my body. The Earl of Evesham, as you all know, is one of my bravest knights, and to him I can simply say, 'Thanks; King Richard does not forget a benefit like this.' But such aid as I might well look for from so stout a knight as the Earl of Evesham, I could hardly have expected on the part of a mere boy like this. It is not the first time that I have been under a debt of gratitude to him; for it was his watchfulness and bravery which saved Queen Berengaria from being carried off by the French in Sicily. I deemed him too young then for the order of knighthood--although indeed bravery has no age; still for a private benefit, and that performed against allies, in name at least, I did not wish so far to fly in the face of usage as to make him a knight. I promised him then, however, that the first time he distinguished himself against the infidel he should win his spurs. I think that you will agree with me, my lords, that he has done so. Not only did he stand over me, and with great bravery defend Sir Walter from attacks from behind, but his ready wit saved me, when even his sword and that of Sir Walter would have failed to do so. Penned down under poor Robin, I was powerless to move until our young esquire, in an interval of slashing at his assailants, found time to give a sharp blow together with a shout to Robin. The poor beast tried to rise, and the movement, short as it was, enabled me to draw my leg from under him, and then with my mace I was enabled to make a stand until you arrived at my side. I think, my lords, that you will agree with me that Cuthbert, the son of Sir William de Lance, is fit for the honour of knighthood." A general chorus of approval arose from the assembly, and the king, bidding Cuthbert kneel before him, drew his sword and laid it across his shoulders, dubbing him Sir Cuthbert de Lance. When he had risen, the great barons of England pressed round to shake his hand, and Cuthbert, who was a modest young fellow, felt almost ashamed at the honours which were bestowed upon him. The usual ceremonies and penances which young knights had to undergo before admission into the body--and which in those days were extremely punctilious, and indeed severe, consisting, among other things, in fasting, in watching the armour at night, in seclusion and religious services--were omitted when the accolade was bestowed for bravery in the field. The king ordered his armourer at once to make for Cuthbert a suit of the finest armour, and authorized him to carry on his shield a sword raising a royal crown from the ground, in token of the deed for which the honour of knighthood had been bestowed upon him. Upon his return to the earl's camp the news of his new dignity spread at once among the followers of Sir Walter, and many and hearty were the cheers that went up from the throats of the Saxon foresters, led by Cnut. These humble friends were indeed delighted at his success, for they felt that to him they owed very much; and his kindness of manner and the gaiety of heart which he had shown during the hardships they had undergone since their start, had greatly endeared him to them. Cuthbert was now to take rank among the knights who followed the banner of the earl. A tent was erected for him, an esquire assigned to him, and the lad as he entered his new abode felt almost bewildered at the change which had taken place in one short day--that he, at the age of sixteen, should have earned the honour of knighthood, and the approval of the King of England, expressed before all the great barons of the realm, was indeed an honour such as he could never have hoped for; and the thought of what his mother would say should the news reach her in her quiet Saxon home, brought the tears into his eyes. He had not gone through the usual religious ceremonies, but he knelt in his tent alone, and prayed that he might be made worthy of the honours bestowed upon him; that he might fulfil the duties of a Christian knight fearlessly and honourably; that his sword might never be raised but for the right; that he might devote himself to the protection of the oppressed, and the honour of God; that his heart might be kept from evil; and that he might carry through life, unstained his new escutcheon. If the English had thought that their victory would have gained them immunity from the Saracen attacks, they were speedily undeceived. The host, indeed, which had barred their way had broken up; but its fragments were around them, and the harassing attacks began again with a violence and persistency even greater than before. The crusaders, indeed, occupied only the ground upon which they stood. It was death to venture 100 yards from the camp, unless in a strong body; and the smallest efforts to bring in food from the country round were instantly met and repelled. Only in very strong bodies could the knights venture from camp even to forage for their horses, and the fatigues and sufferings of all were in a way relieved by the great victory of Azotus. CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE SARACENS. The English had hoped that after one pitched battle they should be able to advance upon Jerusalem, but they had reckoned without the climate and illness. Although unconquered in the fray, the Christian army was weakened by its sufferings to such an extent that it was virtually brought to a standstill. Even King Richard, with all his impetuosity, dared not venture to cut adrift from the seashore, and to march direct upon Jerusalem; that city was certainly not to be taken without a long siege, and this could only be undertaken by an army strong enough, not only to carry out so great a task, but to meet and defeat the armies which Saladin would bring up to the rescue, and to keep open the line down to Joppa, by which alone provisions, and the engines necessary for the siege, could be brought up. Hence the war resolved itself into a series of expeditions and detached fights. The British camp was thoroughly fortified, and thence parties of the knights sallied out and engaged in conflicts with the Saracens, with varying success. On several of these expeditions Cuthbert attended the earl, and behaved with a bravery which showed him well worthy of the honours which he had received. Upon one occasion the news reached camp that a party of knights, who had gone out to guard a number of footmen cutting forage and bringing it into camp, had been surrounded and had taken refuge in a small town, whose gates they had battered in when they saw the approach of an overwhelming host of the enemy. King Richard himself headed a strong force and advanced to their assistance. Their approach was not seen until within a short distance of the enemy, upon whom the crusaders fell with the force of a thunderbolt, and cleft their way through their lines. After a short pause in the little town, they prepared to again cut their way through, joined by the party who had there been besieged. The task was now however, far more difficult; for the footmen would be unable to keep up with the rapid charge of the knights, and it was necessary not only to clear the way, but to keep it open for their exit. King Richard himself and the greater portion of his knights were to lead the charge; another party were to follow behind the footmen, who were ordered to advance at the greatest speed of which they were capable, while their rearguard by charges upon the enemy, kept them at bay. To this latter party Cuthbert was attached. The Saracens followed their usual tactics, and this time with great success. Dividing as the king with his knights charged them, they suffered these to pass through with but slight resistance, and then closed in upon their track, while another and still more numerous body fell upon the footmen and their guard. Again and again did the knights charge through the ranks of the Moslems, while the billmen stoutly kept together and resisted the onslaughts of the enemy's cavalry. In spite of their bravery, however, the storm of arrows shot by the desert horsemen thinned their ranks with terrible rapidity. Charging up to the very point of the spears, these wild horsemen fired their arrows into the faces of their foe, and although numbers of them fell beneath the more formidable missiles sent by the English archers, their numbers were so overwhelming that the little band melted away. The small party of knights, too, were rapidly thinned, although performing prodigious deeds of valour. The Saracens when dismounted or wounded still fought on foot, their object being always to stab or hough the horses, and so dismount the riders. King Richard and his force, though making the most desperate efforts to return to the assistance of the rearguard, were baffled by the sturdy resistance of the Saracens, and the position of those in the rear was fast becoming hopeless. One by one the gallant little band of knights fell, and a sea of turbans closed over the fluttering plumes. Cuthbert, after defending himself with extreme bravery for a long time, was at last separated from the small remainder of his comrades by a rush of the enemy's horse, and when fighting desperately he received a heavy blow at the back of the head from the mace of a huge Nubian soldier, and fell senseless to the ground. When he recovered his consciousness, the first impression upon his mind was the stillness which had succeeded to the din of battle; the shouts and war-cries of the crusaders, the wild yells of the Moslems, were hushed, and in their place was a quiet chatter in many unknown tongues, and the sound of laughter and feasting. Raising his head and looking round, Cuthbert saw that he and some ten of his comrades were lying together in the midst of a Saracen camp, and that he was a prisoner to the infidels. The sun streamed down with tremendous force upon them; there was no shelter; and though all were wounded and parched with thirst, the Saracens of whom they besought water, pointing to their mouths and making signs of their extreme thirst, laughed in their faces, and signified by a gesture that it was scarcely worth the trouble to drink when they were likely so soon to be put to death. It was late in the afternoon before any change was manifest. Then Cuthbert observed a stir in the camp; the men ran to their horses, leapt on their backs, and with wild cries of "Welcome!" started off at full speed. Evidently some personage was about to arrive, and the fate of the prisoners would be solved. A few words were from time to time exchanged between these, each urging the other to keep up his heart and defy the infidel. One or two had succumbed to their wounds during the afternoon, and only six were able to stand erect when summoned to do so by some of their guard, who made signs to them that a great personage was coming. Soon the shouts of the horsemen and other sounds announced that the great chief was near at hand, and the captives gathered from the swelling shouts of the Arabs that the new arrival was Sultan Suleiman--or Saladin, for he was called by both names--surrounded by a body-guard of splendidly-dressed attendants. The emir, who was himself plainly attired, reined up his horse in front of the captives. "You are English," he said, in the lingua-franca which was the medium of communication between the Eastern and Western peoples in those days. "You are brave warriors, and I hear that before you were taken you slaughtered numbers of my people. They did wrong to capture you and bring you here to be killed. Your cruel king gives no mercy to those who fall into his hands. You must not expect it here, you who without a pretence of right invade my country, slaughter my people, and defeat my armies. The murder of the prisoners of Acre has closed my heart to all mercy. There, your king put 10,000 prisoners to death in cold blood, a month after the capture of the place, because the money at which he had placed their ransom had not arrived. We Arabs do not carry huge masses of gold about with us; and although I could have had it brought from Egypt, I did not think that so brave a monarch as Richard of England could have committed so cruel an action in cold blood. When we are fresh from battle, and our wounds are warm, and our hearts are full of rage and fury, we kill our prisoners; but to do so weeks after a battle is contrary to the laws alike of your religion and of ours. However, it is King Richard who has sealed your doom, not I. You are knights, and I do not insult you with the offer of turning from your religion and joining me. Should one of you wish to save his life on these conditions, I will, however, promise him a place of position and authority among us." None of the knights moved to accept the offer, but each, as the eye of the emir ran along the line, answered with an imprecation of contempt and hatred. Saladin waved his hand, and one by one the captives were led aside, walking as proudly to their doom as if they had been going to a feast. Each wrung the hand of the one next to him as he turned, and then without a word followed his captors. There was a dull sound heard, and one by one the heads of the knights rolled in the sand. Cuthbert happened to be last in the line, and as the executioners laid hands upon him and removed his helmet, the eye of the sultan fell upon him, and he almost started at perceiving the extreme youth of his captive. He held his hand aloft to arrest the movements of the executioners, and signalled for Cuthbert to be brought before him again. "You are but a boy," he said. "All the knights who have hitherto fallen into my hands have been men of strength and power; how is it that I see a mere youth among their ranks, and wearing the golden spurs of knighthood?" "King Richard himself made me a knight," Cuthbert said proudly, "after having stood across him when his steed had been foully stabbed at the battle of Azotus, and the whole Moslem host were around him." "Ah!" said the emir, "were you one of the two who, as I have heard, defended the king for some time against all assaults? It were hard indeed to kill so brave a youth. I doubt me not that at present you are as firmly determined to die a Christian knight as those who have gone before you? But time may change you. At any rate for the present your doom is postponed." He turned to a gorgeously-dressed noble next to him, and said,-- "Your brother, Ben Abin, is Governor of Jerusalem, and the gardens of the palace are fair. Take this youth to him as a present, and set him to work in his gardens. His life I have spared, in all else Ben Abin will be his master." Cuthbert heard without emotion the words which changed his fate from death to slavery. Many, he knew, who were captured in these wars were carried away as slaves to different parts of Asia, and it did not seem to him that the change was in any way a boon. However, life is dear, and it was but natural that a thought should leap into his heart that soon either the crusaders might force a way into Jerusalem and there rescue him, or that he himself might in some way escape. The sultan having thus concluded the subject, turned away, and galloped off surrounded by his body-guard. Those who had captured the Christians now stripped off the armour of Cuthbert; then he was mounted on a bare-backed steed, and with four Bedouins, with their long lances, riding beside him, started for Jerusalem. After a day of long and rapid riding, the Arabs stopped suddenly, on the crest of a hill, with a shout of joy, and throwing themselves from their horses, bent with their foreheads to the earth at the sight of their holy city. Cuthbert, as he gazed at the stately walls of Jerusalem, and the noble buildings within, felt bitterly that it was not thus that he had hoped to see the holy city. He had dreamt of arriving before it with his comrades, proud and delighted at their success so far, and confident in their power soon to wrest the town before them from the hands of the Moslems. Instead of this he was a slave--a slave to the infidel, perhaps never more to see a white face, save that of some other unfortunate like himself. Even now in its fallen state no city is so impressive at first sight as Jerusalem; the walls, magnificent in height and strength, and picturesque in their deep embattlements, rising on the edge of a deep valley. Every building has its name and history. Here is the church built by the first crusaders; there the mighty mosque of Suleiman on the site of the Temple; far away on a projecting ridge the great building known as the Tomb of Moses; on the right beyond the houses rise the towers on the Roman walls; the Pool of Bethsaida lies in the hollow; in the centre are the cupolas of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Among all the fairest cities of the world, there are none which can compare in stately beauty with Jerusalem. Doubtless it was a fairer city in those days, for long centuries of Turkish possession have reduced many of the former stately palaces to ruins. Then, as now, the banner of the Prophet floated over the high places; but whereas at present the population is poor and squalid, the city in those days contained a far large number of inhabitants, irrespective of the great garrison collected for its defence. The place from which Cuthbert had his first sight of Jerusalem is that from which the best view is to be obtained--the crest of the Mount of Olives. After a minute or two spent in looking at the city, the Arabs with a shout continued their way down into the valley. Crossing this they ascended the steep road to the walls, brandishing their lances and giving yells of triumph; then riding two upon each side of their prisoner, to protect him from any fanatic who might lay a hand upon him, they passed under the gate known as the Gate of Suleiman into the city. The populace thronged the streets; and the news brought by the horsemen that a considerable portion of the Christian host had been defeated and slain, passed from mouth to mouth, and was received with yells of exultation. Execrations were heaped upon Cuthbert, who rode along with an air as quiet and composed as if he were the centre of an ovation instead of that of an outburst of hatred. He would, indeed, speedily have been torn from his guards, had not these shouted that he was placed in their hands by Saladin himself for conduct to the governor. As the emir was as sharp and as ruthless with his own people as with the prisoners who fell into his hands, the name acted as a talisman, and Cuthbert and his escort rode forward without molestation until they reached the entrance to the palace. Dismounting, Cuthbert was now led before the governor himself, a stern and grave-looking man, sitting cross-legged on a divan surrounded by officers and attendants. He heard in silence the account given him by the escort, bowed his head at the commands of Suleiman, and, without addressing a word to Cuthbert, indicated to two attendants that he was to be removed into the interior of the house. Here the young knight was led to a small dungeon-like room; bread and dates with a cruse of water were placed before him; the door was then closed and locked without, and he found himself alone with his thoughts. No one came near him that night, and he slept as soundly as he would have done in his tent in the midst of the Christian host. He was resolved to give no cause for ill-treatment or complaint to his captors, to work as willingly, as cheerfully, as was in his power, and to seize the first opportunity to make his escape, regardless of any risk of his life which he might incur in doing so. In the morning the door opened, and a black slave led him into the garden, which was surrounded by a very high and lofty wall. It was large, and full of trees and flowers, and far more beautiful than any garden that Cuthbert had seen in his native land. There were various other slaves at work; and an Arab, who appeared to be the head of the gardeners, at once appointed to Cuthbert the work assigned to him. A guard of Arabs with bow and spear watched the doings of the slaves. With one glance round, Cuthbert was assured that escape from this garden, at least, was not to be thought of, and that for the present, patience alone was possible. Dismissing all ideas of that kind from his mind, he set to work with a steady attention to his task. He was very fond of flowers, and soon he became so absorbed in his work as almost to forget that he was a slave. It was not laborious--digging, planting, pruning and training the flowers, and giving them copious draughts of water from a large fountain in the centre of the garden. The slaves were not permitted to exchange a word with each other. At the end of the day's work they were marched off to separate chambers, or, as they might be called, dungeons. Their food consisted of water, dried dates, and bread, and they had little to complain of in this respect; indeed, the slaves in the gardens of the governor's house at Jerusalem enjoyed an exceptionally favoured existence. The governor himself was absorbed in the cares of the city. The head gardener happened to be a man of unusual humanity, and it was really in his hands that the comfort of the prisoners was placed. Sometimes in the course of the day, veiled ladies would issue in groups from the palace, attended by black slaves with drawn scimitars. They passed without unveiling across the point where the slaves were at work, and all were forbidden on pain of death to look up, or even to approach the konak or pavilion, where the ladies threw aside their veils, and enjoyed the scent and sight of the flowers, the splash of murmuring waters, and the strains of music touched by skilful hands. Although Cuthbert wondered in his heart what these strange wrapped-up figures might look like when the veils were thrown back, he certainly did not care enough about the matter to run any risk of drawing the anger of his guards upon himself by raising his eyes towards them; nor did he ever glance up at the palace, which was also interdicted to the slaves. From the lattice casements during the day the strains of music and merry laughter often came down to the captives; but this, if anything, only added to the bitterness of their position, by reminding them that they were shut off for life from ever hearing the laughter of the loved ones they had left behind. For upwards of a month Cuthbert remained steadily at work, and during that time no possible plan of escape had occurred to him, and he had indeed resigned himself to wait, either until, as he hoped, the city would be taken by the Christians, or until he himself might be removed from his present post and sent into the country, where, although his lot would doubtless be far harder, some chance of escape might open before him. One night, long after slumber had fallen upon the city, Cuthbert was startled by hearing his door open. Rising to his feet, he saw a black slave, and an old woman beside him. The latter spoke first in the lingua-franca,-- "My mistress, the wife of the governor, has sent me to ask your story. How is it that, although but a youth, you are already a knight? How is it that you come to be a slave to our people? The sultan himself sent you to her lord. She would fain hear through me how it has happened. She is the kindest of ladies, and the sight of your youth has touched her heart." With thanks to the unknown lady who had felt an interest in him, Cuthbert briefly related the events which had led to his captivity. The old woman placed on the ground a basket containing some choice fruit and white bread, and then departed with the negro as quietly as she had come, leaving Cuthbert greatly pleased at what had taken place. "Doubtless," he said to himself, "I shall hear again; and it may be that through the pity of this lady some means of escape may open to me." Although for some little time no such prospect appeared, yet the visits of the old woman, which were frequently repeated, were of interest to him, and seemed to form a link between him and the world. After coming regularly every night for a week, she bade the young knight follow her, holding her finger to her lips in sign that caution must be observed. Passing through several passages, he was at length led into a room where a lady of some forty years of age, surrounded by several slaves and younger women, was sitting. Cuthbert felt no scruple in making a deep obeisance to her; the respect shown to women in the days of chivalry was very great, and Cuthbert in bowing almost to the ground before the lady who was really his mistress, did not feel that he was humiliating himself. "Young slave," she said, "your story has interested us. We have frequently watched from the windows, and have seen how willingly and patiently you have worked; and it seems strange indeed that one so young should have performed such feats of bravery as to win the honour of knighthood from the hand of that greatest of warriors, Richard of England. What is it, we would fain learn from your lips, that stirs up the heart of the Christian world that they should launch their armies against us, who wish but to be left alone, and who have no grudge against them? This city is as holy to us as it is to you; and as we live around it, and all the country for thousands of miles is ours, is it likely that we should allow it to be wrested from us by strangers from a distance?" This was spoken in some Eastern language of which Cuthbert understood no word, but its purport was translated to him by the old woman who had hitherto acted as his mistress's messenger. Cuthbert reported the circumstances of the fight at Azotus and endeavoured to explain the feelings which had given rise to the Crusade. He then, at the orders of the lady, related the incidents of his voyage out, and something of his life at home, which was more interesting even than the tale of his adventures to his hearers, as to them the home-life of these fierce Christian warriors was entirely unknown. After an audience of two hours Cuthbert was conducted back to his cell, his mistress assuring him of her good-will, and promising to do all in her power to make his captivity as light as possible. CHAPTER XIV. AN EFFORT FOR FREEDOM. Two or three nights afterwards the old woman again came to Cuthbert, and asked him, in her mistress's name, if in any way he could suggest a method of lightening his captivity, as his extreme youth, and bravery of demeanour, had greatly pleased her. Cuthbert replied that nothing but freedom could satisfy his longings; that he was comfortable and not overworked, but that he pined to be back again with his friends. The old woman brought him on the following night a message to the effect that his mistress would willingly grant him his liberty, but as he was sent to her husband by the sultan, it would be impossible to free him openly. "From what she said," the old woman continued, "if you could see some plan of making your escape, she would in no way throw difficulties in your path; but it must not be known that the harem in any way connived at your escape, for my lord's wrath would be terrible, and he is not a man to be trifled with." Looking round at the high walls that surrounded the garden, Cuthbert said that he could think of no plan whatever for escaping from such a place; that he had often thought it over, but that it appeared to him to be hopeless. Even should he manage to scale these walls, he would only find himself in the town beyond, and his escape from that would be altogether hopeless. "Only," he said, "if I were transported to some country palace of the governor could I ever hope to make my escape." The next night the messenger brought him the news that his mistress was disposed to favour his escape in the way he had pointed out, and that she would in two or three days ask the governor for permission to pay a visit to their palace beyond the walls, and that with her she would take a number of gardeners--among them Cuthbert--to beautify the place. Cuthbert returned the most lively and hearty thanks to his patroness for her kind intentions, and hope began to rise rapidly in his heart. It is probable, however, that the black guards of the harem heard something of the intentions of their mistress, and that they feared the anger of the governor should Cuthbert make his escape, and should it be discovered that this was the result of her connivance. Either through this or through some other source the governor obtained an inkling that the white slave sent by the sultan was receiving unusual kindness from the ladies of the harem. Two nights after Cuthbert had begun to entertain bright hopes of his liberty, the door of the cell was softly opened. He was seized by four slaves, gagged, tied hand and foot, covered with a thick burnous, and carried out from his cell. By the sound of their feet he heard that they were passing into the open air, and guessed that he was being carried through the garden; then a door opened and was closed after them; he was flung across a horse like a bale of goods, a rope or two were placed around him to keep him in that position, and then he felt the animal put in motion, and heard by the trampling of feet that a considerable number of horsemen were around him. For some time they passed over the rough, uneven streets of the city; then there was a pause and exchange of watchword and countersign, a creaking of doors, and a lowering of a drawbridge, and the party issued out into the open country. Not for very long did they continue their way; a halt was called, and Cuthbert was taken off his horse. On looking round, he found that he was in the middle of a considerable group of men. Those who had brought him were a party of the governor's guards; but he was now delivered over to a large band of Arabs, all of whom were mounted on camels. One of these creatures he was ordered to mount, the bonds being loosed from his arms and feet. An Arab driver, with lance, bows, and arrows, and other weapons, took his seat on the neck of the animal, and then with scarcely a word the caravan marched off, with noiseless step, and with their faces turned southwards. It seemed to Cuthbert almost as a dream. A few hours before he had been exalted with the hope of freedom; now he was being taken away to a slavery which would probably end but with his life. Although he could not understand any of his captors, the repetition of a name led him to believe that he was being sent to Egypt as a present to some man in high authority there; and he doubted not that the Governor of Jerusalem, fearing that he might escape, and dreading the wrath of the sultan, should he do so, had determined to transfer the troublesome captive to a more secure position and to safer hands. For three days the journey continued; they had now left the fertile lowlands of Palestine, and their faces were turned west. They were entering upon that sandy waste which stretches between the southern corner of Palestine and the land of Egypt, a distance which can be travelled by camels in three days, but which occupied the Children of Israel forty years. At first the watch had been very sharply kept over the captive; but now that they had entered the desert the Arabs appeared to consider that there was no chance of an attempt to escape. Cuthbert had in every way endeavoured to ingratiate himself with his guard. He had most willingly obeyed their smallest orders, had shown himself pleased and grateful for the dates which formed the staple of their repasts. He had assumed so innocent and quiet an appearance that the Arabs had marvelled much among themselves, and had concluded that there must have been some mistake in the assertion of the governor's guard who had handed the prisoner over to them, that he was one of the terrible knights of King Richard's army. Cuthbert's heart had not fallen for a moment. He knew well that if he once reached Cairo all hope of escape was at an end; and it was before reaching that point that he determined if possible to make an effort for freedom. He had noticed particularly the camel which appeared to be the fleetest of the band; it was of lighter build than the rest, and it was with difficulty that its rider had compelled it to accommodate itself to the pace of the others. It was clear from the pains he took with it, by the constant patting and the care bestowed upon its watering and feeding, that its rider was extremely proud of it; and Cuthbert concluded that if an escape was to be made, this was the animal on which he must accomplish it. Upon arriving at the end of each day's journey the camels were allowed to browse at will, a short cord being tied between one of their hind and one of their fore feet. The Arabs then set to work to collect sticks and to make a fire--not for cooking, for their only food was dried dates and some black bread, which they brought with them--but for warmth, as the nights were damp and somewhat chilly, as they sat round the fire, talked, and told stories. Before finally going off to rest, each went out into the bushes and brought in his camel; these were then arranged in a circle around the Arabs, one of the latter being mounted as sentry to prevent any sudden surprise--not indeed that they had the smallest fear of the Christians, who were far distant; but then, as now, the Arabs of the desert were a plundering race, and were ever ready to drive off each other's camels or horses. Cuthbert determined that if flight was possible it must be undertaken during the interval after the arrival at the halting-place and before the bringing in of the camels. Therefore, each day upon the halt he had pretended great fatigue from the rough motion of the camel, and had, after hastily eating the dates handed to him, thrown himself down, covered himself with his Arab robe, and feigned instant sleep. Thus they had in the three days from starting come to look upon his presence sleeping close to them as a matter of course. The second day after entering the desert, however, Cuthbert threw himself down by the side of an uprooted shrub of small size and about his own length. He covered himself as usual with his long, dark-blue robe, and pretended to go to sleep. He kept his eyes, however, on the alert through an aperture beneath his cloth, and observed particularly the direction in which the camel upon which he had set his mind wandered into the bushes. The darkness came on a very few minutes after they had halted, and when the Arabs had once settled round their fire, Cuthbert very quietly shifted the robe from himself to the long low bush near him, and then crawled stealthily off into the darkness. He had no fear of his footfall being heard upon the soft sand, and was soon on his feet, looking for the camels. He was not long in finding them, or in picking out the one which he had selected. The bushes were succulent, and close to the camping ground; indeed, it was for this that the halting-places were always chosen. It was not so easy, however, to climb into the high wooden saddle, and Cuthbert tried several times in vain. Then he repeated in a sharp tone the words which he had heard the Arabs use to order their camels to kneel, striking the animal at the same moment behind the fore-legs with a small switch. The camel immediately obeyed the order to which he was accustomed, and knelt down, making, however, as he did so, the angry grumble which those creatures appear to consider it indispensable to raise when ordered to do anything. Fortunately this noise is so frequently made, and the camels are so given to quarrel among themselves, that although in the still air it might have been heard by the Arabs sitting a short hundred yards away, it attracted no notice, and Cuthbert, climbing into the seat, shook the cord that served as a rein, and the animal, rising, set off at a smooth, steady swing in the direction in which his head was turned--that from which they had that day arrived. Once fairly away from the camping-ground, Cuthbert, with blows of his stick, increased the speed of the camel to a long shuffling trot, and the fire in the distance soon faded out into the darkness. Cuthbert trusted to the stars as guides. He was not unarmed, for as he crawled away from his resting-place, he had picked up one of the Arabs' spears and bow and arrows, and a large bag of dates from the spot where they had been placed when their owner dismounted. He was already clad in Eastern garb, and was so sun-burnt and tanned that he had no fear whatever of any one at a distance detecting that he was a white man. Steering his course by the stars, he rode all night without stopping. He doubted not that he would have at least three hours' start, for the Arabs were sure to have sat that time round the fires before going out to bring in their camels. Even then they would suppose for some time that the animal upon which he was seated had strayed, and no pursuit would be attempted until it was discovered that he himself had made his escape, which might not be for a long time, as the Arabs would not think of looking under the cloth to see if he were there. He hoped, therefore, that he would reach the cultivated land long before he was overtaken. He had little fear but that he should then be able to journey onward without attracting attention. A solitary Arab when travelling rides straight, and his communications to those whom he meets are confined to the set form of two or three words, "May Allah protect you!" the regular greeting of Moslems when they meet. When morning broke Cuthbert, even when ascending to the top of a somewhat lofty mound, could see no signs of pursuers in the vast stretch of desert behind him. In front, the ground was already becoming dotted here and there with vegetation, and he doubted not that after a few hours' ride he should be fairly in the confines of cultivated country. He gave his camel a meal of dates, and having eaten some himself, again set the creature in motion. These camels, especially those of good breed, will go on for three or four days with scarcely a halt; and there was no fear of that on which he rode breaking down from fatigue, for the journeys hitherto had been comparatively short. By mid-day Cuthbert had reached the cultivated lands of Palestine. Here and there over the plain, villages were dotted, and parties of men and camels were to be seen. Cuthbert now arranged his robes carefully in Arab fashion, slung the long spear across his shoulders, and went boldly forward at a slinging trot, having little fear that a passer-by would have any suspicion whatever as to his being other than an Arab bent upon some rapid journey. He soon found that his hopes were justified. Several times he came upon parties of men whom he passed with the salute, and who scarcely raised their eyes as he trotted by them. The plain was an open one, and though cultivated here and there, there were large tracts lying unworked. There was no occasion therefore to keep to the road; so riding across country, and avoiding the villages as far as possible, stopping only at a stream to give his camel water, Cuthbert rode without ceasing until nightfall. Then he halted his camel near a wood, turned it in to feed on the young foliage, and wrapping himself in his burnous was soon asleep, for he ached from head to foot with the jolting motion which had now been continued for so many hours without an interval. He had little fear of being overtaken by the party he had left behind; they would, he was convinced, be many hours behind, and it was extremely improbable that they would hit upon the exact line which he had followed, so that even if they succeeded in coming up to him, they would probably pass him a few miles either to the right or left. So fatigued was he with his long journey, that the next day he slept until after the sun had risen. He was awakened suddenly by being seized by a party of Arabs, who, roughly shaking him, questioned him as to where he came from, and what he was doing there. He saw at a glance that they were not with the party from which he had escaped, and he pointed to his lips to make signs that he was dumb. The Arabs evidently suspected that something was wrong. They examined the camel, and then the person of their captive. The whiteness of his skin at once showed them that he was a Frank in disguise, and without more ado or questioning, they tied him hand and foot, flung him across the camel, and, mounting their own animals, rode rapidly away. From the position of the sun, Cuthbert saw that they were making their course nearly due east, and therefore that it could not be their intention to take him to Jerusalem, which was to the north of the line they were following. A long day's journeying, which to Cuthbert seemed interminable, found them on the low spit of sand which runs along by the side of the Dead Sea. Behind, lofty rocks rose almost precipitously, but through a cleft in these the Arabs had made their way. Cuthbert saw at once that they belonged to some desert tribe over whom the authority of Suleiman was but nominal. When summoned for any great effort, these children of the desert would rally to his armies and fight for a short time; but at the first disaster, or whenever they became tired of the discipline and regularity of the army, they would mount their camels and return to the desert, generally managing on the way to abstract from the farms of those on their route either a horse, cattle, or some other objects which would pay them for the labours they had undergone. They were now near the confines of their own country, and apparently had no fear whatever of pursuit. They soon gathered some of the dead wood cast on the shores of the sea, and with these a fire was speedily lighted, and an earthenware pot was taken down from among their baggage: it was filled with water from a skin, and then grain having been placed in it, it was put among the wood ashes. Cuthbert, who was weary and aching in every limb from the position in which he had been placed on the camel, asked them by signs for permission to bathe in the lake. This was given, principally apparently from curiosity, for but very few Arabs were able to swim; indeed, as a people they object so utterly to water, that the idea of any one bathing for his amusement was to them a matter of ridicule. Cuthbert, who had never heard of the properties of the Dead Sea, was perfectly astonished upon entering the water to find that instead of wading in it up to the neck before starting-to swim, as he was accustomed to do at home, the water soon after he got waist-deep took him off his feet, and a cry of astonishment burst from him as he found himself on rather than in the fluid. The position was so strange and unnatural that with a cry of alarm he scrambled over on to his feet, and made the best of his way to shore, the Arabs indulging in shouts of laughter at his astonishment and alarm. Cuthbert was utterly unable to account for the strange sensations he had experienced; he perceived that the water was horribly salt, and that which had got into his mouth almost choked him. He was, however, unaware that saltness adds to the weight of water, and so to the buoyancy of objects cast into it. The saltness of the fluid he was moreover painfully conscious of by the smarting of the places on his wrists and ankles where the cords had been bound that fastened him to the camel. Goaded, however, by the laughter of the Arabs, he determined once more to try the experiment of entering this strange sheet of water, which from some unaccountable cause appeared to him to refuse to allow anybody to sink in it. This time he swam about for some time, and felt a little refreshed. When he returned to the shore he soon re-attired himself in his Bedouin dress, and seated himself a little distance from his captors, who were now engaged in discussing the materials prepared by themselves. They made signs to Cuthbert that he might partake of their leavings, for which he was not a little grateful, for he felt utterly exhausted and worn out with his cruel ride and prolonged fasting. The Arabs soon wrapped themselves in their burnouses, and feeling confident that their captive would not attempt to escape from them, in a place where subsistence would be impossible, paid no further attention to him beyond motioning to him to lie down at their side. Cuthbert, however, determined to make another effort to escape; for although he was utterly ignorant of the place in which he found himself, or of the way back, he thought that anything would be better than to be carried into helpless slavery into the savage country beyond the Jordan. An hour, therefore, after his captors were asleep he stole to his feet, and fearing to arouse them by exciting the wrath of one of the camels by attempting to mount him, he struck up into the hills on foot. All night he wandered, and in the morning found himself at the edge of a strange precipice falling abruptly down to a river, which, some fifty feet wide, ran at its foot. Upon the opposite side the bank rose with equal rapidity, and to Cuthbert's astonishment he saw that the cliffs were honeycombed by caves. Keeping along the edge for a considerable distance, he came to a spot where it was passable, and made his way down to the river bank. Here he indulged in a long drink of fresh water, and then began to examine the caves which perforated the rocks. These caves Cuthbert knew had formerly been the abode of hermits. It was supposed to be an essentially sacred locality, and between the third and fourth centuries of Christianity some 20,000 monks had lived solitary lives on the banks of that river. Far away he saw the ruins of a great monastery, called Mar Saba, which had for a long time been the abode of a religious community, and which at the present day is still tenanted by a body of monks. Cuthbert made up his mind at once to take refuge in these caves. He speedily picked out one some fifty feet up the face of the rock, and approachable only with the greatest difficulty and by a sure foot. First he made the ascent to discover the size of the grotto, and found that although the entrance was but four feet high and two feet wide, it opened into an area of considerable dimensions. Far in the corner, when his eyes became accustomed to the light, he discovered a circle of ashes, and his conjectures that these caves had been the abode of men were therefore verified. He again descended, and collected a large bundle of grass and rushes for his bed. He discovered growing among the rocks many edible plants, whose seeds were probably sown there centuries before, and gathering some of these he made his way back to the cavern. The grass furnished him with an excellent bed, and he was soon asleep. CHAPTER XV. A HERMIT'S TALE. The next day he discovered on his excursions plenty of eatable berries on the bushes; and now that he had no longer fear of hunger he resolved to stay for some little time, until his wounds, which had festered badly, had recovered, before making an attempt to rejoin the Christian army. One day when employed in gathering berries he was surprised by meeting a wild-looking figure, who appeared suddenly from one of the caves. It was that of a very old man, with an extremely long white beard flowing to his waist; his hair, which was utterly unkempt, fell to the same point. He was thin to an extraordinary extent, and Cuthbert wondered how a man could have been reduced to such a state of starvation, with so plentiful a supply of fruit and berries at hand. The old man looked at Cuthbert attentively, and then made the sign of the cross. Cuthbert gave a cry of joy, and repeated the sign. The old man at once came down from his cavern, and looked at him with surprise and astonishment, and then addressed him in the French language. "Are you a Christian truly; and if so, whence do you come?" Cuthbert at once explained that he had been taken prisoner when with King Richard's army, and had effected his escape. He also told the old man that he had been remaining for the last four days in a cave higher up the stream. The hermit--for he was one--beckoned him to follow him, and Cuthbert found himself in a cave precisely similar to that which he himself inhabited. There were no signs of comfort of any kind; a bed-place made of great stones stood in one corner, and Cuthbert, remembering the comforts of his own grassy couch, shuddered at the thought of the intense discomfort of such a sleeping-place. In another corner was an altar, upon which stood a rough crucifix, before which the hermit knelt at once in prayer, Cuthbert following his example. Rising again, the hermit motioned to him to sit down, and then began a conversation with him. It was so long since the hermit had spoken to any living being, that he had almost lost the use of his tongue, and his sentences were slow and ill-formed. However, Cuthbert was able to understand him, and he to gather the drift of what Cuthbert told him. The old man then showed him, that by touching a stone in the corner of his cave the apparently solid rock opened, and revealed an entrance into an inner cave, which was lit by a ray of light, which penetrated from above. "This," he said, "was made centuries ago, and was intended as a refuge from the persecutors of that day. The caves were then almost all inhabited by hermits, and although many recked not of their lives, and were quite ready to meet death through the knife of the infidel, others clung to existence, and preferred to pass many years of penance on earth for the sake of atoning for their sins before called upon to appear before their Maker. "If you are pursued, it will be safer for you to take up your abode here. I am known to all the inhabitants of this country, who look upon me as mad, and respect me accordingly. None ever interfere with me, or with the two or three other hermits, the remains of what was once almost an army, who now alone survive. I can offer you no hospitality beyond that of a refuge; but there is water in the river below, fruits and berries in abundance on the shrubs. What would you have more?" Cuthbert accepted the invitation with thanks; for he thought that even at the worst the presence of this holy man would be a protection to him from any Arabs who might discover him. For three or four days he resided with the hermit, who, although he stretched his long lean body upon the hard stones of his bed, and passed many hours of the night kneeling on the stone floor in front of his alter, yet had no objection to Cuthbert making himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. At the end of the fourth day Cuthbert asked him how long he had been there, and how he came to take up his abode in so desolate and fearsome a place. The hermit was silent for a time, and then said,-- "It is long indeed since my thoughts have gone back to the day when I was of the world. I know not whether it would not be a sin to recall them; but I will think the matter over to-night, and if it appears to me that you may derive good from my narrative, I will relate it to you to-morrow." The next day Cuthbert did not renew the request, leaving it to the hermit to speak should he think fit. It was not until the evening that he alluded to the subject; and then taking his seat on a bank near the edge of the river, he motioned to Cuthbert to sit beside him, and began,-- "My father was a peer of France, and I was brought up at the court. Although it may seem strange to you, looking upon this withered frame, sixty-five years back I was as bold and comely a knight as rode in the train of the king, for I am now past ninety, and for sixty years I have resided here. I was a favourite of the king's, and he loaded me with wealth and honour. He, too, was young, and I joined with him in the mad carousals and feastings of the court. My father resided for the most part at one of his castles in the country, and I, an only son, was left much to myself. I need not tell you that I was as wild and as wicked as all those around me; that I thought little of God, and feared neither Him nor man. "It chanced that one of the nobles--I need not mention his name--whose castle lay in the same province as that of my father, had a lovely daughter, who, being an only child, would be his heiress. She was considered one of the best matches in France, and reports of her exceeding beauty had reached the court. Although my allowance from my father, and from the estates which the king had give me personally, should have been more than enough for my utmost wants, gambling and riotous living swallowed up my revenue faster than it came in, and I was constantly harassed by debt. "Talking one night at supper with a number of bold companions, as to the means we should take for restoring our wasted fortunes, some said in jest that the best plan would be for one of us to marry the beauty of Dauphiny. I at once said that I would be the man to do it; the ideas was a wild one, and a roar of laughter greeted my words. Her father was known to be a stern and rigid man, and it was certain that he would not consent to give his daughter to a spendthrift young noble like myself. When the laughter had subsided I repeated my intention gravely, and offered to wager large sums with all around the table that I would succeed. "On the morrow I packed up a few of my belongings, put in my valise the dress of a wandering troubadour, and taking with me only a trusty servant, started for Dauphiny. It would be tedious to tell you the means I resorted to to obtain the affections of the heiress. I had been well instructed in music and could play on the lute, and knew by heart large numbers of ballads, and could myself, in case of necessity, string verses together with tolerable ease. As a troubadour I arrived at the castle gate, and craved permission to enter to amuse its occupants. Troubadours then, as now, were in high esteem in the south, and I was at once made a welcome guest. "Days passed, and weeks; still I lingered at the castle, my heart being now as much interested as my pride in the wager which I had undertaken. Suffice it to say, that my songs, and perhaps my appearance--for I cannot be accused of vanity now in saying nature had been bountiful to me--won my way to her heart. Troubadours were licensed folk, and even in her father's presence there was nought unseemly in my singing songs of love. While he took them as the mere compliments of a troubadour, the lady, I saw, read them as serious effusions of my heart. "It was only occasionally that we met alone; but ere long she confessed that she loved me. Without telling her my real name, I disclosed to her that I was of her own rank, and that I had entered upon the disguise I wore in order to win her love. She was romantic, and was flattered by my devotion. I owned to her that hitherto I had been wild and reckless; and she told me at once that her father destined her for the son of an old friend of his, to whom it appeared she had been affianced while still a baby. She was positive that nothing would move her father. For the man she was to marry she entertained no kind of affection, and indeed had never seen him, as she had been brought up in a convent to the age of fifteen; and just before she had returned thence, he had gone to finish his education at Padua. "She trembled when I proposed flight; but I assured her that I was certain of the protection of the king, and that he would, I was sure, when the marriage was once celebrated, use his influence with her father to obtain his forgiveness. "The preparations for her flight were not long in making. I purchased a fleet horse in addition to my own, and ordered my servant to bring it to a point a short distance from the castle gate. I had procured a long rope with which to lower her down from her lattice to the moat below, which was at present dry, intending myself to slide after her. The night chosen was one when I knew that the count was to have guests, and I thought that they would probably, as is the custom, drink heavily, and that there would be less fear of any watch being kept. "The guests arrived just at nightfall. I had feigned illness, and kept my room. From time to time I heard through the windows of the banqueting hall bursts of laughter. These gradually ceased; and at last, when all was still, I, awaiting some time, stole from my room with a rope in my hand to the apartment occupied by her. A slight tap at the door, as arranged, was at once answered, and I found her ready cloaked and prepared for the enterprise. She trembled from head to foot, but I cheered her to the best of my power, and at last she was in readiness to be lowered. The window was at a considerable height from the ground; but the rope was a long one, and I had no fear of its reaching the bottom. Fastening it round her waist, I began to lower her from the window. "The night was a windy one, and she swung backwards and forwards as she went down. By what chance it was I know not,--for I had examined the rope and found it secure--but methinks in swaying backwards and forwards it may have caught a sharp stone, maybe it was a punishment from Heaven upon me for robbing a father of his child--but suddenly I felt there was no longer a weight on my arms. A fearful shriek rang through the air, and, looking out, I saw far below a white figure stretched senseless in the mud! "For a minute I stood paralyzed. But the cry had aroused others, and, turning round, I saw a man at the door with a drawn sword. Wild with grief and despair, and thinking, not of making my escape, or of concealing my part in what had happened, but rushing without an instant's delay to the body of her I loved so well, I drew my sword, and like a madman rushed upon him who barred the door. The combat was brief but furious, and nerved by the madness of despair I broke down his guard and ran him through the body. As he fell back, his face came in the full light of the moon, which streamed through the open door of the passage, and to my utter horror and bewilderment I saw that I had slain my father. "What happened after that night I know not. I believe that I made my escape from the castle and rushed round to the body of her whose life I had destroyed, and that there finding her dead, I ran wildly across the country. When I came to my senses months had passed, and I was the inmate of an asylum for men bereaved of their senses, kept by noble monks. Here for two years I remained, the world believing that I was dead. None knew that the troubadour whose love had cost the lady her life, who had slain the guest of her father, and had then disappeared, was the unhappy son of that guest. My friends in Paris when they heard of the tragedy of course associated it with me, but they all kept silent. The monks, to whom I confessed the whole story, were shocked indeed, but consoled me in my grief and despair by the assurance that however greatly I had sinned, the death of the lady had been accidental, and that if I were a parricide it was at least unintentionally. "My repentance was deep and sincere; and after a while, under another name, I joined the army of the crusaders, to expiate my sin by warring for the holy sepulchre. I fought as men fight who have no wish to live; but while all around me fell by sword and disease, death kept aloof from me. When the crusade had failed I determined to turn for ever from the world, and to devote my life to prayer and penance; and so casting aside my armour, I made my way here, and took up my abode in a cave in this valley, where at that time were many thousands of other hermits--for the Saracens, while they gained much money from fines and exactions from pilgrims who came to Jerusalem, and fought stoutly against those who sought to capture that city, were in the main tolerant, and offered no hindrance to the community of men whom they looked upon as mad. "Here, my son, for more than sixty years have I prayed, with much fasting and penance. I trust now that the end is nearly at hand, and that my long life of mortification may be deemed to have obliterated the evil deeds which I did in my youth. Let my fate be a warning to you. Walk steadily in the right way; indulge not in feasting and evil companionship; and above all, do not enter upon evil deeds, the end of which no man can see." The hermit was silent, and Cuthbert, seeing that his thoughts had again referred to the past, wandered away, and left him sitting by the river side. Some hours later he returned, and found the hermit kneeling before the altar; and the next morning the latter said,-- "I presume, my son, you do not wish to remain here as a hermit, as I have done? Methinks it were well that we made our arrangements for your return to the Christian host, who will, I hope, ere long be at the gates of Jerusalem." "I should like nothing better," Cuthbert said. "But ignorant as I am of the nature of the country, it seems to be nigh impossible to penetrate through the hosts of the Saracens to reach the camp of King Richard." "The matter is difficult and not without danger," the hermit said. "As to the nature of the country, I myself know but little, for my dealings with the natives have been few and simple. There are, however, several Christian communities dwelling among the heathen. They are poor, and are forced to live in little-frequented localities. Their Christianity may be suspected by their neighbours, but as they do no man harm, and carry on their worship in secret, they are little interfered with. There is one community among the hills between this and Jerusalem, and I can give you instructions for reaching this, together with a token which will secure you hospitality there, and they will no doubt do their best to forward you to another station. When you approach the flat country where the armies are maneuvering you must doubtless trust to yourself; but as far as the slopes extend, methinks that our friends will be able to pass you without great difficulty." Cuthbert's heart rose greatly at the prospect of once again entering upon an active life, and the next evening, with many thanks for his kindness, he knelt before the aged hermit to receive his blessing. With the instructions given him he had no difficulty in making his way through the mountains, until after some five hours' walk he found himself at a little village situated in a narrow valley. Going to the door of the principal hut, he knocked, and upon entering showed the owner--who opened the door--a rosette of peculiar beads, and repeated the name of Father Anselm. The peasant at once recognized it, and bade Cuthbert welcome. He knew but a few words of French, although doubtless his ancestors had been of European extraction. In the morning he furnished Cuthbert with the sheepskin and short tunic which formed the dress of a shepherd, and dyeing his limbs and face a deep brown, he himself started with Cuthbert on his journey to the next Christian community. This was a small one, consisting of two huts only, built almost on the summit of a mountain, the inhabitants living partly on the milk and cheese of their goats, and partly upon the scanty vegetables which grew around the huts. His welcome was as cordial as that of the night before; and the next morning, his former guide taking leave of him, the peasant in whose house he had slept, again conducted him forward to another community. This was the last station, and stood in a narrow gorge on the face of the hills looking down over the plain, beyond which in the far distance a faint line of blue sea was visible. This community was far more prosperous and well-to-do than those at which the previous nights had been passed. The head of the village appeared to be a personage of some importance; and although clinging in secret to his Christian faith, he and his belongings had so far adopted the usages of the Mussulmen that apparently no thought of their Christianity entered into the minds of the authorities. He was the owner of two or three horses, and of some extensive vineyards and olive grounds. He was also able to speak French with some degree of fluency. At considerable length he explained to Cuthbert the exact position of the Christian army, which had moved some distance along the coast since Cuthbert had left it. It was, he said, exposed to constant attacks by the Saracens, who harassed it in every way, and permitted it no repose. He said that the high hopes which had been raised by the defeat of the Saracens at Azotus, had now fallen, and that it was feared the Christians would not be able to force their way forward to Jerusalem. The great portion of their animals had died, and the country was so eaten up by the Saracen hosts, that an advance upon Jerusalem without a large baggage train was next to impossible; and indeed if the Christians were to arrive before that city, they could effect nothing without the aid of the heavy machines necessary for battering the walls or effecting an escalade. Cuthbert was vastly grieved when he heard of the probable failure of the expedition, and he burned with eagerness to take his part again in the dangers and difficulties which beset the Christian army. His host pointed out to him the extreme difficulty and danger of his crossing the enemy's lines, but at the same time offered to do all in his power to assist him. After two days' stay at the village, and discussing the pros and cons of all possible plans, it was decided that the best chance lay in a bold effort. The host placed at his disposal one of his horses, together with such clothes as would enable him to ride as an Arab chief of rank and station; a long lance was furnished him, a short and heavy mace, and scimitar; a bag of dates was hung at the saddle-bow; and with the sincerest thanks to his protector, and with a promise that should the Christian host win their way to Jerusalem the steed should be returned with ample payment, Cuthbert started on his journey. CHAPTER XVI. A FIGHT OF HEROES. The horse was a good and spirited one, and when he had once descended to the plains, Cuthbert rode gaily along, exulting in his freedom, and in once again possessing arms to defend himself should it be needed. His appearance was so exactly that of the horsemen who were continually passing and repassing that no observation whatever was attracted by it. Through villages, and even through camps, Cuthbert rode fearlessly, and arrived, without having once been accosted, near the main camp of the Saracens, which extended for miles parallel to the sea. But at a distance of some three leagues beyond, could be seen the white tents of the Christian host, and Cuthbert felt that the time of trial was now at hand. He dismounted for an hour to allow his steed to rest itself, fed it with dates from his wallet, and gave it a drink of water at the stream. Then, when he felt that it had thoroughly recovered its strength and freshness, he re-mounted, and rode briskly on as before. He passed unchallenged, attracting no more notice than a person now-a-days would do in walking along a crowded street. Without hesitation he passed through the tents and started across the open country. Bands of horsemen were seen here and there, some going, and some coming from the direction of the Christian camp. As it was doubtless supposed that he was on his way to join some band that had gone on in advance, the passage of the solitary horseman excited no comment until he approached within about two miles of the Christian camp. There were now, so far as he could see, no enemies between him and the point he so longed to gain. But at this minute a group of Arab horsemen, gathered, apparently on the look-out against any movement of the Christians, shouted to him "Halt!" demanding whither he was going. Up to this point Cuthbert had ridden at a gentle canter; but at the challenge he put spurs into his steed and made across the plain at full speed. With a wild yell the Arabs started in pursuit. They lay at first some 200 yards on his right, and he had therefore a considerable start of them. His horse was fairly fresh, for the journey that he had made had only been about fifteen miles--an inconsiderable distance to an Arab steed. For half a mile he did not think that his pursuers gained much upon him, riding as they had done sideways. They had now gathered in his rear, and the nearest was some 150 yards behind him. A quarter of a mile farther he again looked round, and found that two of the Arabs, far better mounted than the others, had come within half the distance which separated them from him when he last glanced back. His horse was straining to the utmost, and he felt that it could do no more; he therefore prepared himself for a desperate fight should his pursuers overtake him. In another quarter of a mile they were but a short distance behind, and an arrow whizzing by Cuthbert's ear told him they had be-taken themselves to their bows. Half a mile ahead he saw riding towards him a group of Christian knights; but he felt that it was too late for him to hope to reach them, and that his only chance now was to boldly encounter his pursuers. The main body of the Arabs was fully 200 yards behind--a short distance when going at a gallop--which left him but little time to shake off the pursuit of the two immediately behind him. A sharp stinging pain in his leg told him that it was time to make his effort; and checking his horse, he wheeled suddenly round. The two Arabs with a yell rode at him with pointed lance. With his right hand Cuthbert grasped the short heavy mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and being well practised in the hurling of this weapon--which formed part of the education of a good knight--he cast it with all his force at the chest of the Arab approaching on that side. The point of the spear was within a few yards of his breast as he flung the mace; but his aim was true, for it smote the Saracen full on the chest, and hurled him from his horse as if struck with a thunderbolt. At the same instant Cuthbert threw himself flat on the neck of his steed and the lance of the Arab who came up on the other side passed harmlessly between his shoulders, tearing his clothes as it went. In an instant Cuthbert had wheeled his horse, and before the Arab could turn his steed Cuthbert, coming up from behind, had run him through the body. Short as the delay had been, the main body of the pursuers were scarcely fifty yards away; but Cuthbert now continued his flight towards the knights, who were galloping forward at full speed; and a moment afterwards glancing back, he saw that his pursuers had turned and were in full flight. With a shout of joy he rode forward to the party who had viewed with astonishment this conflict between what appeared to be three of the infidels. Even louder than his first shout of exultation was the cry of joy which he raised at seeing among the party to whom he rode up, the Earl of Evesham, who reined in his horse in astonishment, and drew his sword as the supposed enemy galloped towards him. "My lord, my lord!" Cuthbert said. "Thank heaven I am safe with you again." The earl lowered his sword in astonishment. "Am I mad," he said, "or dreaming, or is this really Sir Cuthbert?" "It is I sure enough," Cuthbert exclaimed, "although truly I look more like a Bedouin soldier than a Christian knight." "My dear boy!" exclaimed the earl, galloping forward and throwing his arms around Cuthbert's neck, "we thought you were dead. But by what wonderful fortune have you succeeded in escaping?" In a few words Cuthbert related the principal incidents of his adventures, and he was heartily congratulated by the assembled knights. There was, however, no time for long explanations. Large bodies of the Saracen horse were already sweeping down, to capture, if possible, this small band of knights who had ventured so far from the camp; and as King Richard's orders were that none should venture upon conflicts except by his orders, the party reluctantly turned their horses and galloped back to the camp. Great as had been the earl's joy, it was, if possible, exceeded by that of Cnut on discovering in the Arab chief who rode up alongside the earl, the lad he loved so well. Loud and hearty were the cheers which rang out from the earl's camp as the news spread, and Cuthbert was compelled to shake hands with the whole party before entering the earl's tent, to refresh himself and give the narrative of what had happened. Cuthbert, retiring to his tent with the Earl of Evesham, inquired of him what had taken place during his absence. "For," he said, "although but a short three days' march from here, I have been as one of the dead, and have heard nothing whatever of what has taken place." "Nothing could have gone worse," the earl said. "We have had nothing but dissensions and quarrels. First, the king fell out with the Archduke of Austria." "On what ground did this happen?" Cuthbert asked. "For once," the earl said, "the king our master was wholly in the wrong, which is not generally the case. We had just taken Ascalon, and were hard at work fortifying the place. King Richard with his usual zeal, in order to encourage the army, seized heavy stones and himself bore them into their place. The Archduke stood near with some of his knights: and it may be that the haughty Austrian looked somewhat superciliously at our king, thus labouring. "'Why do you not make a show of helping?' King Richard said, going up to him. 'It would encourage the men, and show that the labour upon which we are engaged can be undertaken by all without derogation.' "To this the Archduke replied,-- "'I am not the son of a mason!' "Whereupon Richard, whose blood no doubt had been excited by the air of the Austrian, struck him with his hand a fierce blow across the face. We nearly betook ourselves to our swords on both sides; but King Richard himself could have scattered half the Austrians, and these, knowing that against his impetuous valour they could do nothing, simply withdrew from our camp, and sailed the next day for home. Then the king, in order to conciliate some at least of his allies, conferred the crown of Jerusalem upon Conrad of Montferat. No sooner had he done this than Conrad was mysteriously wounded. By whom it was done none knew. Some say that it was by emissaries of the Old Man of the Mountain. Others affirm that it was the jealousy of some of the knights of the holy orders. But be that as it may, he died. Some of the French, ever jealous of the valour of our king, ascribed it to his orders. This monstrous accusation coming to the ears of King Richard, he had hot words with the Duke of Burgundy. In this I blame him not, for it is beyond all reason that a man like the king, whose faults, such as they are, arise from too much openness, and from the want of concealment of such dislikes as he may have, should resort to poison to free himself of a man whom he himself had but a day or two before appointed King of Jerusalem. However it be, the consequences were most unfortunate, for the result of the quarrel was that the Duke of Burgundy and his Frenchmen followed the example of the Austrians, and we were left alone. Before this we had marched upon Jerusalem. But the weather had been so bad, and our train was so insufficient to carry the engines of war, that we had been forced to fall back again. King Richard again advanced, and with much toil we went as far as the village of Bethany." "Why," Cuthbert exclaimed, "I passed through that village, and it is but three miles from the holy city." "That is so," the earl said; "and many of us, ascending the hill in front, saw Jerusalem. But even then it was certain that we must again retrace our steps; and when we asked King Richard to come to the crest of the hill to see the holy city, he refused to do so, saying, 'No; those who are not worthy of conquering Jerusalem should not look at it!' This was but a short time since, and we are now retracing our steps to Acre, and are treating with Saladin for a peace." "Then," Cuthbert said sadly, "all our hopes and efforts are thrown away; all this blood has been shed for nothing; and after the three great powers of Europe have engaged themselves solemnly in the war, we are baffled, and have to fall back before the hordes of the infidels." "Partly before them," the earl said, "partly as the result of our own jealousies and passions. Had King Richard been a lesser man than he is, we might have conquered Jerusalem. But he is so extraordinary a warrior that his glory throws all others into the shade. He is a good general, perhaps the best in Europe; and had he done nothing but lead, assuredly we should have carried out our purpose. See how ably he maneuvered the army at the fight of Azotus. Never was a more complete defeat than that which he inflicted there upon the Saracens; and although the fact that his generalship achieved this, might have caused some jealousy to the other commanders, this might have died away could he between the battles have been a general, and nothing more. But alas! he is in addition a knight-errant--and such a knight-errant as Europe has never seen before. Wherever there is danger, Richard will plunge into the midst. There are brave men in all the three armies; but the strongest and bravest are as children to King Richard. Alone he can dart into ranks of the infidels, and cut a lane for himself by the strength of his right arm. More than this, when danger has threatened he has snatched up his battle-axe and dashed into the fray without helm or cuirass, performing such prodigies of valour and strength that it has been to his prowess alone that victory was to be ascribed. Hence he is the idol of all the soldiers, whatever their nationality; for he is as ready to rush to the rescue of a French or Austrian knight when pressed as to that of his own men. But the devotion which the whole army felt for him was as gall and wormwood to the haughty Austrian and the indolent Frenchman; and the retirement of the King of France, which left Richard in supreme command, was in every way unfortunate." Upon the following day the army again marched, and Cuthbert could not but notice the difference, not only in number but in demeanour, from the splendid array which had left Acre a few months before. There was little now of the glory of pennon and banner; the bright helms and cuirasses were rusted and dinted, and none seemed to care aught for bravery of show. The knights and men-at-arms were sunburnt and thin, and seemed but half the weight that they had been when they landed. Fatigue, hardship, and the heat had done their work; disease had swept off vast numbers. But the remains of the army were so formidable in their fighting powers that the Saracens, although following them at a distance in vast numbers, did not venture an attack upon them. A few days after their arrival at Acre, the king gave orders for the embarcation of the troops. Just as they were preparing to enter the ships a small vessel was seen entering the harbour. It drew up to the shore, and a knight leaped from it, and, inquiring where King Richard was to be found, made his way to the king, who was standing superintending the embarcation of some of the horses. "The Saracens, sire!" he exclaimed. "The Saracens are besieging Jaffa, and the place must be lost unless assistance arrives in a day or two." The king leaped on board the nearest ship, shouted to his leading officers to follow him, and gave orders to others to bring down the troops with all possible speed, to waste not a moment, and to see that all was done, and then, in five minutes after the receipt of the news he started for Jaffa. The Earl of Evesham and Cuthbert had been standing near the king when the order was given, and followed him at once on board the bark which he had chosen. "Ah, my gallant young knight," the king exclaimed, "I am right glad to see you with me. We shall have more fighting before we have done, and I know that that suits your mood as well as my own." The king's vessel was far in advance of any of the others, when early the following morning it arrived at Jaffa. "Your eyes are better than mine," the king said to Cuthbert. "Tell me what is that flag flying on the top of the town." Cuthbert looked at it earnestly. "I fear, sire, that it is the crescent. We have arrived too late." "By the holy cross," said King Richard, "that shall not be so; for if the place be taken, we will retake it." As the vessel neared the shore a monk ran out into the water up to his shoulders, and said to the king that the citadel still held out, and that even now the Saracens might be driven back. Without delay the king leaped into the water, followed by the knights and men-at-arms, and entering the gate, threw himself upon the infidels within, who, busy plundering, had not noticed the arrival of the ship. The war cry of "St. George! St. George!" which the king always shouted in battle, struck panic among the infidels; and although the king was followed but by five knights and a few men-at-arms, the Saracens, to the number of 3000, fled before him, and all who tarried were smitten down. The king followed them out upon the plain, driving them before him as a lion would drive a flock of sheep, and then returned triumphant into the city. The next day, some more ships having arrived, King Richard found that in all, including the garrison, he could muster 2000 combatants. The enemy renewed the attack in great numbers, and the assaults upon the walls were continuous and desperate. King Richard, who loved fighting in the plain rather than behind walls, was impatient at this, and at one time so fierce was the attack that he resolved to sally out. Only ten horses remained in the town, and King Richard, mounting one, called upon nine of the knights to mount and sally out with him. The little band of ten warriors charged down upon the host of the Saracens and swept them before them. It was a marvellous sight indeed to see so small a group of horsemen dashing through a crowd of Saracen warriors. These, although at first beaten back, yet rallied, and the ten knights had great difficulty in fighting their way back to the town. When near the walls the Christians again made a stand, and a few knights sallied out from the town on foot and joined them. Among these was Cuthbert, the Earl of Evesham having accompanied King Richard in his charge. In all, seventeen knights were now rallied round the king. So fierce was the charge of the Saracens that the king ordered those on horseback to dismount, and with their horses in the centre, the little body knelt with their lances opposed to the Saracens. Again and again the wild cavalry swept down upon this little force, but in vain did they attempt to break their ranks. The scene was indeed an extraordinary one. At last the king, seeing that the enemy were losing heart, again ordered the knights to mount, and these dashing among the enemy, completed their defeat. While this had been going on, news came to the king that the Saracens from another side had made their way into Jaffa, and were massacring the Christians. Without an instant's delay he flew to their succour, followed only by two knights and a few archers, the rest being so worn by their exertions as to be unable to move. The Mamelukes, the chosen guard of Saladin, had headed the attack; but even these were driven out from the town, and Richard dashed out from the city in their pursuit. One Saracen emir, distinguished for his stature and strength, ventured to match himself against the king, and rode boldly at him. But with one blow Richard severed his head, and his right shoulder and arm, from his body. Then having, by his single arm, put to rout the Saracens at this point, he dashed through them to the aid of the little band of knights who had remained on the defensive when he left them at the alarm of the city being entered. These were almost sinking with fatigue and wounds; but King Richard opened a way around them by slaying numbers of the enemy, and then charged again alone into the midst of the Mussulman host, and was lost to the sight of his companions. All thought that they would never see him again. But he soon reappeared, his horse covered with blood, but himself unwounded; and the attack of the enemy ceased. From the hour of daybreak, it is said, Richard had not ceased for a moment to deal out his blows, and the skin of his hand adhered to the handle of his battle-axe. This narration would appear almost fabulous, were it not that it is attested in the chronicles of several eye-witnesses, and for centuries afterwards the Saracen women hushed their babes when fractious by threatening them with Malek-Rik, the name which they gave to King Richard. Glorious as was the success, it was a sad one, for several of the most devoted of the followers of King Richard were wounded badly, some few to death. Among these last, to the terrible grief of Cuthbert, was his friend and patron, the Earl of Evesham. The king, on taking off his armour, hurried to his tent. "The glory of this day is marred indeed," he said to the wounded knight, "if I am to lose you, Sir Walter." "I fear that it must even be so, my lord," the dying earl said. "I am glad that I have seen this day, for never did I think to witness such feats as those which your Majesty has performed; and though the crusade has failed, and the Holy City remains in the hands of the infidel, yet assuredly no shadow of disgrace has fallen upon the English arms, and, indeed, great glory has accrued to us. Whatever may be said of the Great Crusade, it will, at least, be allowed by all men, and for all time, that had the princes and soldiers of other nations done as your Majesty and your followers have done, the holy city would have fallen into our hands within a month of our putting foot upon the soil. Your Majesty, I have a boon to ask." "You have but to name it, Sir Walter, and it is yours." "Sir Cuthbert, here," he said, pointing to the young knight, who was sorrowfully kneeling by his bedside, "is as a son to me. The relationship by blood is but slight, but by affection it is as close as though he were mine own. I have, as your Majesty knows, no male heirs, and my daughter is but young, and will now be a royal ward. I beseech your Majesty to bestow her in marriage, when the time comes, upon Sir Cuthbert. They have known each other as children, and the union will bring happiness, methinks, to both, as well as strength and protection to her; and further, if it might be, I would fain that you should bestow upon him my title and dignity." "It shall be so," the king said. "When your eyes are closed, Sir Walter, Sir Cuthbert shall be Earl of Evesham, and, when the time comes, the husband of your daughter." Cuthbert was too overwhelmed with grief to feel a shadow of exaltation at the gracious intimation of the king; although, even then, a thought of future happiness in the care of the fair young lady Margaret passed before his mind. For the last time the king gave his hand to his faithful servant, who pressed it to his lips, and a few minutes afterwards breathed his last. CHAPTER XVII. AN ALPINE STORM. The tremendous exertions which King Richard had made told upon him, and attacks of fever succeeded each other at short intervals. This, however, mattered the less, since negotiations were now proceeding between him and Saladin. It was impossible, with the slight means at his disposal, for Richard further to carry on the crusade alone. Moreover, pressing news had arrived from his mother in England, urging him to return, as his brother John was intriguing against him, and had already assumed all but the kingly tide. Saladin was equally desirous of peace. His wild troops were, for the most part, eager to return to their homes, and the defeats which they had suffered, and the, to them, miraculous power of King Richard's arm, had lowered their spirit and made them eager to be away. Therefore he consented without difficulty to the terms proposed. By these, the Christians were to surrender Ascalon, but were to keep Jaffa, Tyre, and the fortresses along the coast. All hostilities were to be suspended on both sides for the space of three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours, when Richard hoped to return again and to recommence the struggle. Between the sultan and King Richard a feeling approaching that of friendship had sprung up during the campaign. Saladin was himself brave in the extreme, and exposed his life as fearlessly as did his Christian rival, and the two valiant leaders recognized the great qualities of each other. Several times during the campaign, when Richard had been ill, the emir had sent him presents of fruit and other matters, to which Richard had responded in the same spirit. An interview had taken place between them which further cemented their friendship; and when Richard promised to return again at the end of the truce with a far larger army, and to accomplish the rescue of the holy city, the sultan smiled, and said that it appeared that valour alone was not sufficient to conquer in the Holy Land, but that if Jerusalem were to fall into the hands of the Christians, it could fall into no worthier hands than those of Malek-Rik. So, with many mutual courtesies, the great rivals separated, and, soon after, King Richard and the little remnant of his army embarked on board ship, and set sail for England. It was on the 11th of October, 1192, that Richard Coeur de Lion left Palestine. Soon after they started, a storm suddenly burst upon them, and dispersed them in various directions. The ship in which Queen Berengaria was carried, arrived safely in Sicily; but that in which King Richard was borne was missing, and none of his fellow-voyagers knew what had become of him. Sir Cuthbert was in the same vessel as the king, and the bark was driven upon the Island of Corfu. All reached shore in safety, and King Richard then hired three small vessels, in which he sailed to the port of Zara, whence he hoped to reach the domains of his nephew, Otho of Saxony, the son of his sister Matilda. The king had with him now but two of his knights, Baldwin of B�thune, and Cuthbert of Evesham. Cnut was with his feudal chief--for such Cuthbert had now, by his accession to the rank of Earl of Evesham, become--and three or four English archers. "I fear, my lords," the king said to his knights as he sat in a little room in an inn at Zara, "that my plight is a bad one. I am surrounded by enemies, and, alas! I can no longer mount my steed and ride out as at Jaffa to do battle with them. My brother, John Lackland, is scheming to take my place upon the throne of England. Philip of France, whose mind is far better at such matters than at setting armies in the field, is in league with him. The Emperor Henry has laid claim to the throne of Sicily. Leopold of Austria has not forgiven me the blow I struck him in the face at Ascalon, and the friends of Conrad of Montferat are spreading far and wide the lie that I was the instigator of his murder. Sure never had a poor king so many enemies, and few have ever had so small a following as I have now. What think you, my lords? What course would you advise that I should adopt? If I can reach Saxony, doubtless Otho will aid me. But hence to Dresden is a long journey indeed. I have neither credit nor funds to hire a ship to take us by sea. Nor would such a voyage be a safe one, when so many of my enemies' ships are on the main. I must needs, I think, go in disguise, for my way lies wholly through the country of my enemies." "Surely," Cuthbert said, "no potentate could for very shame venture to detain your Majesty on your way from the Holy Land, where you have wrought such great deeds. Were I in your place, I would at once proclaim myself, mount my horse, have my banner carried before me, and ride openly on. You have, too, another claim, namely, that of being shipwrecked, and even in war-time nations respect those whom the force of God has thrown upon their shores." "I fear me, Sir Cuthbert," Sir Baldwin said, "that you overrate the chivalry of our master's enemies. Had we been thrown on the shores of France, Philip perhaps would hesitate to lay hands upon the king; but these petty German princelings have no idea of the observances of true chivalry. They are coarse and brutal in their ways; and though in outward form following the usages of knighthood, they have never been penetrated with its spirit. If the friends of Conrad of Montferat lay hands upon King Richard, I fear that no scruples will prevent them from using their advantage to the utmost. Even their emperor I would not trust. The course which you advise would no doubt be in accordance with the spirit of King Richard; but it would be madness for him to judge other people's spirit by his own, and it would be rushing into the lion's den to proclaim himself here. I should recommend, if I might venture to do so, that his Majesty should assume a false name, and that we should travel in small parties so as to attract no attention, each making his way to Saxony as best he may." There was silence for a minute or two, and then the king with a sigh, said,-- "I fear that you are right, Sir Baldwin, and that there is no chivalry among these swinish German lords. You shall accompany me. Not, Sir Cuthbert," he observed kindly, noticing a look of disappointment upon the face of the young knight, "that I estimate your fidelity one whit lower than that of my brave friend; but he is the elder and the more versed in European travel, and may manage to bring matters through better than you would do. You will have dangers enough to encounter yourself, more even than I shall, for your brave follower, Cnut, can speak no language but his own, and your archers will be hard to pass as any other than what they are. You must be my messenger to England, should you arrive there without me. Tell my mother and wife where you left me, and that, if I do not come home I have fallen into the hands of one or other of my bitter foes. Bid them bestir themselves to hold England for me against my brother John, and, if needs be, to move the sovereigns of Europe to free me from the hands of my enemies. Should a ransom be needed, I think that my people of England will not grudge their goods for their king." The following day the king bade farewell to his faithful followers, giving his hand to kiss, not only to Sir Cuthbert, but to Cnut and his archers. "You have done me brave service," he said, "and I trust may yet have occasion to do it again. These are bad times when Richard of England has nought wherewith to reward his friends. But," he said, taking a gold chain from his neck and breaking it with his strong fingers into five fragments, "that is for you, Cnut, and for your four archers, in remembrance of King Richard." The men, albeit hardened by many scenes of warfare, yet shed tears plenteously at parting with the king. "We had better," Cuthbert said to them when they were alone, "delay here for a few days. If we are taken, the news that some Englishmen have been captured making their way north from Zara will spread rapidly, and may cause the enemies of Richard to be on the look-out for him, suspecting that the ship which bore us may also have carried him; for the news that he is missing will spread rapidly through Europe, and will set all his enemies on the alert." In accordance with this plan, they delayed for another ten days at Zara, and then, hiring a small boat, were landed some thirty miles further along the coast. Cuthbert had obtained for Cnut the dress of a palmer, as in this he would pass almost unquestioned, and his silence might be accounted for on the ground that he had taken a vow of silence. He himself had placed on his coat and armour a red cross, instead of the white cross borne by the English knights, and would now pass as a French knight. Similar changes were made in the dress of his followers, and he determined to pass as a French noble who had been wrecked on his way home, and who was returning through Germany to France. The difficulties in his own case would not be serious, as his French would pass muster anywhere in Germany. The greatest difficulty would be with his attendants; but he saw no way of avoiding this. Cuthbert's object, when with his little party he separated from King Richard, was to make his way to Verona, thence cross by Trent into Bavaria, and so to journey to Saxony. Fortunately he had, at the storming of Acre, become possessed of a valuable jewel, and this he now sold, and purchased a charger for himself. He had little fear of any trouble in passing through the north of Italy, for this was neutral ground, where knights of all nations met, and where, neither as an English nor a French crusader would he attract either comment or attention. It was a slow journey across the northern plains, as of course he had to accommodate his pace to that of his men. Cnut and the archers had grumbled much at the change in the colour of the cross upon their jerkins; and, as Cnut said, would have been willing to run greater perils under their true colours than to affect to belong to any other nationality. On their way they passed through Padua, and there stopped a few days. Cuthbert could but feel, in looking at the splendour of this Italian city, the courteous manner of its people, and the university which was even then famous, how far in advance were those stately cities of Italy to Western Europe. His followers were as much surprised as himself at the splendour of the city. Here they experienced no trouble or annoyance whatever, for to the cities of Italy knights of all nations resorted, learned men came to study, philosophers to dispute, and as these brought their attendants with them, you might in the streets of Padua and its sister cities hear every language in Europe spoken. From Padua they journeyed to Verona, marvelling greatly at the richness of the country. The footmen, however, grumbled at the flatness of the plain, and said that it was as bad as marching in the Holy Land. On their right, however, the slopes of the Alps, thickly clad with forests, reached down nearly to the road, and Cuthbert assured them that they would have plenty of climbing before they had done. At Verona they tarried again, and wondered much at the great amphitheatre, then almost perfect. Cuthbert related to Cnut and the archers, how men had there been set to fight, while the great stone benches round were thronged with men and women looking on at their death struggles, and said that not unfrequently British captives were brought hither and made to contend in the arena. The honest fellows were full of indignation and horror at the thought of men killing themselves to give sport to others. They were used to hard knocks, and thought but little of their life, and would have betaken themselves to their bows and bills without hesitation in case of a quarrel. But to fight in cold blood for amusement seemed to them very terrible. Cuthbert would then have travelled on to Milan at that time next to Rome the richest city in Europe, but he longed to be back in England, and was the more anxious as he knew that King Richard would be passing through great dangers, and he hoped to meet him at the Court of Saxony. His money, too, was fast running out, and he found that it would be beyond his slender means to extend his journey so far. At Verona, then, they turned their back on the broad plains of Lombardy, and entered the valley of the Trent. So far no observation whatever had been excited by the passage of the English knight. So many crusaders were upon their way home, many in grievous plight, that the somewhat shabby retinue passed unnoticed. But they were now leaving Italy, and entering a country where German was spoken. Trent, in those days an important city, was then, and is still, the meeting place of Italy and Germany. Both tongues are here spoken; but while the Italian perhaps preponderates, the customs, manners, and mode of thought of the people belong to those of the mountaineers of the Tyrol, rather than of the dwellers on the plains. "You are choosing a stormy time," the landlord of the hostelry where they put up said to Cuthbert. "The winter is now at hand, and storms sweep across the passes with terrible violence. You had better, at the last village you come to in the valley, obtain the services of a guide, for should a snowstorm come on when you are crossing, the path will be lost, and nothing will remain but a miserable death. By daylight the road is good. It has been cut with much trouble, and loaded mules can pass over without difficulty. Poles have been erected at short distances to mark the way when the snow covers it. But when the snowstorms sweep across the mountains, it is impossible to see ten paces before you, and if the traveller leaves the path he is lost." "But I suppose," Cuthbert said, "that even in winter travellers pass over?" "They do," the host said. "The road is as open in winter as in summer, although, of course, the dangers are greater. Still, there is nothing to prevent vigorous men from crossing over when the storms come on. Now, too, with the snow already lying in the upper forests, the wolves are abroad, and should you be attacked by one of those herds, you will find it hard work to defend your lives. Much has been done to render the road safe. At the distance of every league stone houses have been erected, where travellers can find shelter either from the storm or from the attacks of wolves or bears, for these, too, abound in the forests, and in summer there is fine hunting among them. You are, as I see, returning from the Holy Land, and are therefore used to heat rather than cold, so I should advise you before you leave this city to buy some rough cloaks to shield you from the cold. You can obtain them for your followers very cheaply, made of the mountain goat or of sheepskins, and even those of bearskin well dressed are by no means dear." Obtaining the address of a merchant who kept these things, Cuthbert proceeded thither; and purchased five cloaks of goat-skin with hoods to pull over their heads for his followers, while for himself he obtained one of rather finer material. Another two days' journey brought them to the foot of the steep ascent, and here they hired the services of a guide. The ascent was long and difficult, and in spite of the praises which the host had bestowed upon the road, it was so steep that Cuthbert was, for the most part, obliged to walk, leading his steed, whose feet slipped on the smooth rock, and as in many places a false step would have thrown them down many hundreds of feet into the valley below, Cuthbert judged it safer to trust himself to his own feet. He disencumbered himself of his helmet and gorget, and placed these upon the horse's back. At nightfall they had attained a very considerable height, and stopped at one of the small refuges of which the landlord had spoken. "I like not the look of the weather," the guide said in the morning--at least that was what Cuthbert judged him to say, for he could speak no word of the man's language. His actions, however, as he looked towards the sky, and shook his head, spoke for themselves, and Cuthbert, feeling his own powerlessness in a situation so novel to him, felt serious misgivings at the prospect. The scenery was now very wild. On all sides crags and mountain tops covered with snow glistened in the sun. The woods near the path were free of snow; but higher up they rose black above the white ground. The wind blew keenly, and all rejoiced in the warm cloaks which they had obtained; for even with the protection of these they had found the cold bitter during the night. "I like not this country," Cnut said. "We grumbled at the heat of Palestine, but I had rather march across the sand there than in this inhospitable frozen region. The woods look as if they might contain spectres. There is a silence which seems to be unnatural, and my courage, like the warmth of my body, is methinks oozing out from my fingers." Cuthbert laughed. "I have no doubt that your courage would come again much quicker than the warmth, Cnut, if there were any occasion for it. A brisk walk will set you all right again, and banish these uneasy fancies. To-night we shall be at the highest point, and to-morrow begin to descend towards Germany." All day the men kept steadily on. The guide from time to time looked apprehensively at the sky; and although in the earlier part of the day Cuthbert's inexperienced eye saw nothing to cause the slightest uneasiness, towards the afternoon the scene changed. Light clouds began to gather on the top of all the hills and to shut the mountain peaks entirely from view. The wind moaned between the gorges and occasionally swept along in such sudden gusts that they could with difficulty retain their feet. The sky became gradually overcast, and frequently light specks of snow, so small as to be scarcely perceptible, were driven along on the blast, making their faces smart by the force with which they struck them. "It scarcely needs our guide's face," Cuthbert said, "to tell us that a storm is at hand, and that our position is a dangerous one. As for me, I own that I feel better pleased now that the wind is blowing, and the silence is broken, than at the dead stillness which prevailed this morning. After all, methinks that a snowstorm cannot be more dreaded than a sandstorm, and we have faced those before now." Faster and faster the snow came down, until at last the whole air seemed full of it, and it was with difficulty that they could stagger forward. Where the path led across open places the wind swept away the snow as fast as it fell, but in the hollows the track was already covered; and feeling the difficulty of facing the blinding gale, Cuthbert now understood the urgency with which his host had insisted upon the danger of losing the track. Not a word was spoken among the party as they plodded along. The guide kept ahead, using the greatest caution wherever the path was obliterated by the snow, sometimes even sounding with his iron-shod staff to be sure that they were upon the level rock. In spite of his warm cloak Cuthbert felt that he was becoming chilled to the bone. His horse could with difficulty keep his feet; and Cnut and the archers lagged behind. "You must keep together, lads," he shouted. "I have heard that in these mountains when sleepiness overpowers the traveller, death is at hand. Therefore, come what may, we must struggle on." Many times the gale was so violent that they were obliged to pause, and take shelter under the side of a rock or precipice, until the fury of the blast had passed; and Cuthbert eagerly looked out for the next refuge. At last they reached it, and the guide at once entered. It was not that in which he had intended to pass the night, for this lay still higher; but it would have been madness to attempt to go further in the face of such a gale. He signed to Cuthbert that it was necessary at once to collect firewood, and he himself proceeded to light some brands which had been left by previous travellers. Cuthbert gave directions to Cnut and the archers; and these, feeling that life depended upon a good fire being kept up, set to with a will, cutting down shrubs and branches growing in the vicinity of the hut. In half an hour a huge fire blazed in the refuge; and as the warmth thawed their limbs, their tongues were unloosened, and a feeling of comfort again prevailed. "If this be mountaineering, my lord," Cnut said, "I trust that never again may it be my fortune to venture among the hills. How long, I wonder, do the storms last here? I was grumbling all the way up the hill at the load of provisions which the guide insisted that each of us should bring with him. As it was to be but a three days' journey before we reached a village on the other side, I wondered why he insisted upon our taking food enough to last us at least for a week. But I understand now, and thank him for his foresight; for if this storm goes on, we are assuredly prisoners here for so long as it may continue." The horse had to be brought into the hut, for it would have been death for it to have remained outside. "What is that?" Cnut said presently, as a distant howl was heard between the lulls of the storm. The guide muttered some word, which Cuthbert did not understand. But he said to Cnut, "I doubt not that it is wolves. Thank God that we are safe within this refuge, for here not even the most ravenous beasts could make their way." "Pooh!" Cnut said contemptuously. "Wolves are no bigger than dogs. I have heard my grandfather say that he shot one in the forest, and that it was no bigger than a hound. We should make short work of them." "I know not," Cuthbert said. "I have heard tales of these animals which show that they must be formidable opponents. They hunt in great packs, and are so furious that they will attack parties of travellers; many of these have perished miserably, horses and men, and nothing but their swords and portions of their saddles have remained to tell where the battle was fought." CHAPTER XVIII. SENTENCED TO DEATH. Just before arriving at the refuge, they had passed along a very steep and dangerous path. On one side the rock rose precipitously, ten feet above their heads. On the other, was a fall into the valley below. The road at this point was far wider than usual. Presently, the howl of a wolf was heard near, and soon the solitary call was succeeded by the howling of great numbers of animals. These speedily surrounded the hut, and so fierce were their cries, that Cnut changed his opinion as to the ease with which they could be defeated, and allowed that he would rather face an army of Saracens than a troop of these ill-conditioned animals. The horse trembled in every limb at the sound of the howling of the wolves; and cold as was the night, in spite of the great fire that blazed on the hearth, his coat became covered with the lather of fear. Even upon the roof above the trampling of the animals could be heard; and through the open slits of the windows which some travellers before them had stuffed with straw, they could hear the fierce breathing and snorting of the savage beasts, who scratched and tore to make an entrance. "Methinks," Cuthbert said, "that we might launch a few arrows through these loopholes. The roof appears not to be over strong; and should some of them force an entrance, the whole pack might follow." Dark as was the night, the black bodies were visible against the white snow, and the archers shot several arrows forth, each stretching a wolf dead on the ground. Those killed were at once pounced upon by their comrades, and torn to pieces; and this mark of savageness added to the horror which those within felt of the ferocious animals. Suddenly there was a pause in the howling around the hut, and then Cnut, looking forth from the loophole, declared that the whole body had gone off at full speed along the path by which they had reached the refuge. Almost immediately afterwards a loud shout for help was heard, followed by the renewed howling and yelping of the wolves. "Good heavens!" Cuthbert exclaimed. "Some traveller coming after us is attacked by these horrible beasts. Let us sally out, Cnut. We cannot hear a Christian torn to pieces by these beasts, without lending him a hand." In spite of the angry shouts and entreaties of the guide, the door thrust open, and the party, armed with their axes and bows, at once rushed out into the night. The storm had for the moment abated and they had no difficulty in making their way along the track. In fifty yards they came to a bend of the path, and saw, a little distance before them, a black mass of animals, covering the road, and congregated round a figure who stood with his back to the rock. With a shout of encouragement they sprang forward, and in a few moments were in the midst of the savage animals, who turned their rage against them at once. They had fired two or three arrows apiece, as they approached, into them; and now, throwing down their bows, the archers betook themselves to their swords, while Cuthbert with his heavy battle-axe hewed and cut at the wolves as they sprang towards him. In a minute they had cleared their way to the figure, which was that of a knight in complete armour. He leant against the rock completely exhausted, and could only mutter a word of thanks through his closed visor. At a short distance off a number of the wolves were gathered, rending and tearing the horse of the knight; but the rest soon recovering from their surprise, attacked with fury the little party. The thick cloaks of the archers stood them in good stead against the animals' teeth, and standing in a group with their backs to the rock, they hewed and cut vigorously at their assailants. The numbers of these, however, appeared almost innumerable, and fresh stragglers continued to come along the road, and swell their body. As fast as those in front fell, their heads cleft with the axes of the party, fresh ones sprang forward; and Cuthbert saw that in spite of the valour and strength of his men, the situation was well nigh desperate. He himself had been saved from injury by his harness, for he still had on his greaves and leg pieces. "Keep together," he shouted to his men, "and each lend aid to the other if he sees him pulled down. Strike lustily for life, and hurry not your blows, but let each tell." This latter order he gave perceiving that some of the archers, terrified by this furious army of assailants with gaping mouths and glistening teeth, were striking wildly, and losing their presence of mind. The combat, although it might have been prolonged, could yet have had but one termination, and the whole party would have fallen. At this moment, however, a gust-of wind, more furious than any which they had before experienced, swept along the gorge, and the very wolves had to crouch on their stomachs to prevent themselves being hurled by its fury into the ravine below. Then even above the storm a deep roar was heard. It grew louder and louder. The wolves, as if struck with terror, leaped to their feet, and scattered on either way along the path at full speed. "What sound can this be?" Cnut exclaimed in an awestruck voice. "It sounds like thunder; but it is regular and unbroken; and, my lord, surely the earth quakes under our feet!" Louder and louder grew the roar. "Throw yourselves down against the wall of rock," Cuthbert shouted, himself setting the example. A moment afterwards, from above, a mighty mass of rock and snow poured over like a cascade, with a roar and sound which nigh stunned them. For minutes--it seemed for hours to them--the deluge of snow and rock continued. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased, and a silence as of death reigned over the place. "Arise," Cuthbert said; "the danger, methinks, is past. It was what men call an avalanche--a torrent of snow slipping down from the higher peaks. We have had a narrow escape indeed." By this time the knight whom they had rescued was able to speak, and raising his visor, he returned his deepest thanks to those who had come so opportunely to his aid. "I was well nigh exhausted," he said, "and it was only my armour which saved me from being torn to pieces. A score of them had hold of me; but, fortunately, my mail was of Milan proof, and even the jaws and teeth of these enormous beasts were unable to pierce it." "The refuge is near at hand," Cuthbert said. "It is but a few yards round yonder point. It is well that we heard your voice. I fear that your horse has fallen a victim." Assisting the knight, who, in spite of his armour, was sorely bruised and exhausted, they made their way back to the refuge. Cnut and the archers were all bleeding freely from various wounds inflicted upon them in the struggle, breathless and exhausted from their exertions, and thoroughly awe-struck by the tremendous phenomenon of which they had been witnesses, and which they had only escaped from their good fortune in happening to be in a place so formed that the force of the avalanche had swept over their heads The whole of the road, with the exception of a narrow piece four feet in width, had been carried away. Looking upwards, they saw that the forest had been swept clear, not a tree remaining in a wide track as far as they could see up the hill. The great bowlders which had strewn the hill-side, and many of which were as large as houses, had been swept away like straws before the rush of snow, and for a moment they feared that the refuge had also been carried away. Turning the corner, however, they saw to their delight that the limits of the avalanche had not extended so far, the refuges, as they afterwards learned, being so placed as to be sheltered by overhanging cliffs from any catastrophe of this kind. They found the guide upon his knees, muttering his prayers before a cross, which he had formed of two sticks laid crosswise on the ground before him; and he could scarce believe his eyes when they entered, so certain had he considered it that they were lost. There were no longer any signs of the wolves. The greater portion, indeed, of the pack had been overwhelmed by the avalanche, and the rest, frightened and scared, had fled to their fastnesses in the woods. The knight now removed his helmet, and discovered a handsome yoking man of some four-or-five-and-twenty years old. "I am," he said, "Baron Ernest of Kornstein. To whom do I owe my life?" "In spite of my red cross," Cuthbert said, "I am English. My name is Sir Cuthbert, and I am Earl of Evesham. I am on my return from the Holy Land with my followers; and as we are passing through countries where many of the people are hostile to England, we have thought it as well for a time to drop our nationality. But to you I do not hesitate to tell the truth." "You do well," the young knight said, "for, truth to say, the people of these parts bear but little love to your countrymen. You have saved my life when I was in the sorest danger. I had given myself up for lost, for even my armour could not have saved me long from these wretches; and my sword and life are at your disposal. You are young indeed," he said, looking with surprise at Cuthbert, who had now thrown back the hood of his cloak, "to have gained the honour of knighthood. You scarce look eighteen years of age, although, doubtless, you are older." "I am scarce seventeen," Cuthbert said; "but I have had the good fortune to attract the notice of King Richard, and to have received the knighthood from his sword." "None more worthy," said the young knight, "for although King Richard may be fierce and proud, he is the worthiest knight in Christendom, and resembles the heroes of romance rather than a Christian king." "He is my lord and master," Cuthbert said, "and I love him beyond all men, and would give my life for his. He is the kindest and best of masters; and although it be true that he brooks no opposition, yet is it only because his own bravery and eagerness render hateful to him the indolence and cowardice of others." They now took their seats round the fire. The archers, by the advice of the guide, rubbed their wounds with snow, and then applied bandages to them. The wallets were opened, and a hearty supper eaten; and all, wrapping themselves in their fur cloaks, were soon asleep. For four days the gale continued, keeping the party prisoners in the hut. On the fifth, the force of the wind abated, and the snow ceased to fall. They were forced to take the door off its hinges to open it, for the snow had piled up so high that the chimney alone of the hut remained above its surface. With great difficulty and labour they cleared a way out, and then the guide again placing himself at their head, they proceeded on their way. The air was still and cold, and the sky of a deep, dark blue, which seemed even darker in contrast with the whiteness of the snow. At times they had great difficulty in struggling through the deep drifts; but for the most part the wind had swept the path clear. Where it was deepest, the tops of the posts still showed above the snow, and enabled the guide to direct their footsteps. They were, however, obliged to travel slowly, and it was three days before they gained the village on the northern slope of the mountains, having slept at refuges by the road. "What are your plans?" the knight asked Sir Cuthbert that night, as they sat by the fire of the hostelry. "I would warn you that the town which you will first arrive at is specially hostile to your people, for the baron, its master, is a relation of Conrad of Montferat, who is said to have been killed by order of your king." "It is false," Cuthbert said. "King Richard had appointed him King of Jerusalem; and, though he liked him not, thought him the fittest of those there to exercise sovereignty. He was the last man who would have had an enemy assassinated; for so open is he of disposition, that he would have fought hand to hand with the meanest soldier of his army, had he desired to kill him." "I doubt not that it is so, since you tell me," the knight said courteously. "But the people here have taken that idea into their minds, and it will be hard to disabuse them. You must therefore keep up your disguise as a French knight while passing through this neighbourhood. Another week's journeying, and you will reach the confines of Saxony, and there you will, as you anticipate, be safe. But I would not answer for your life were you discovered here to be of English birth. And now tell me if there is aught that I can do for you. I will myself accompany you into the town, and will introduce you as a French knight, so that no suspicion is likely to lie upon you, and will, further, ride with you to the borders of Saxony. I am well known, and trust that my company will avert all suspicion from you. You have told me that your purse is ill-supplied; you must suffer me to replenish it. One knight need not fear to borrow of another; and I know that when you have returned to your home, you will bestow the sum which I now give you upon some holy shrine in my name, and thus settle matters between us." Cuthbert without hesitation accepted the offer, and was well pleased at finding his purse replenished, for its emptiness had caused him serious trouble. Cuthbert's steed was led by one of the archers, and he himself walked gaily alongside of Sir Ernest, followed by his retainers. Another long day's march brought them down to Innsbruck, where they remained quietly for a week. Then they journeyed on until they emerged from the mountains, crossed the Bavarian frontier, and arrived at Fussen, a strong city, with well-built walls and defences. They at once proceeded to the principal hostelry, where the young baron was well known, and where great interest was excited by the news of the narrow escape which he had had from the attack of the wolves. A journey across the Alps was in those days regarded as a very perilous enterprise in the winter season, and the fact that he should have been rescued from such a strait appeared almost miraculous. They stayed for two days quietly in the city, Cuthbert declining the invitation of the young noble to accompany him to the houses of his friends, as he did not wish that any suspicion should be excited as to his nationality, and preferred remaining quiet to having forced upon him the necessity of making false statements. As to his followers, there was no fear of the people among whom they mixed detecting that they were English. To the Bavarian inhabitants, all languages, save their native German, were alike unintelligible; and even had French been commonly spoken, the dialects of that tongue, such as would naturally be spoken by archers and men-at-arms, would have been as Greek to those accustomed only to Norman French. Upon the third day, however, an incident occurred which upset Cuthbert's calculations, and nearly involved the whole party in ruin. The town was, as the young baron had said, governed by a noble who was a near relation of Conrad of Montferat, and who was the bitter enemy of the English. A great fete had been given in honour of the marriage of his daughter, and upon this day the young pair were to ride in triumph through the city. Great preparations had been made; masques and pageants of various kinds manufactured; and the whole townspeople, dressed in their holiday attire, were gathered in the streets. Cuthbert had gone out, followed by his little band of retainers, and taken their station to see the passing show. First came a large body of knights and men-at-arms, with gay banners and trappings. Then rode the bridegroom, with the bride carried in a litter by his side. After this came several allegorical representations. Among these was the figure of a knight bearing the arms of Austria. Underneath his feet, on the car, lay a figure clad in a royal robe, across whom was thrown a banner with the leopards of England. The knight stood with his foot on this figure. This representation of the dishonour of England at the hands of Austria elicited great acclamations from the crowd. Cuthbert clenched his teeth and grasped his sword angrily, but had the sense to see the folly of taking any notice of the insult. Not so with Cnut. Furious at the insult offered to the standard of his royal master, Cnut, with a bound, burst through the ranks of the crowd, leaped on to the car, and with a buffet smote the figure representing Austria, into the road, and lifted the flag of England from the ground. A yell of indignation and rage was heard. The infuriated crowd rushed forward. Cnut, with a bound, sprang from the car, and, joining his comrades, burst through those who attempted to impede them, and darted down a by-street. Cuthbert, for the moment amazed at the action of his follower, had on the instant drawn his sword and joined the archers. In the crowd, however, he was for a second separated from them; and before he could tear himself from the hands of the citizens who had seized him, the men-at-arms accompanying the procession surrounded him, and he was led away by them to the castle, the guards with difficulty protecting him from the enraged populace. Even at this moment Cuthbert experienced a deep sense of satisfaction at the thought that his followers had escaped. But he feared that alone, and unacquainted with the language of the country, they would find it difficult indeed to escape the search which would be made for them, and to manage to find their way back to their country. For himself, he had little hopes of liberty, and scarcely more of life. The hatred of the baron towards the English would now be heightened by the daring act of insult to the arms of Austria, and this would give a pretext for any deed of violence which might be wrought. Cuthbert was, after a short confinement, brought before the lord baron of the place, in the great hall of the castle. "Who art thou, sir," the noble exclaimed, "who darest to disturb the marriage procession of my daughter, and to insult the standard of the emperor my master?" "I am Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham, a baron of England," Cuthbert said fearlessly, "and am travelling homeward from the Holy Land. My garb as a crusader should protect me from all interruption; and the heedless conduct of my retainer was amply justified by the insult offered to the arms of England. There is not one of the knights assembled round you who would not in like manner have avenged an insult offered to those of Austria; and I am ready to do battle in the lists with any who choose to say that the deed was a foul or improper one. In the Holy Land, Austrians and English fought side by side; and it is strange indeed to me that on my return, journeying through the country of the emperor, I should find myself treated as an enemy, and see the arms of King Richard exposed to insult and derision by the burghers of this city." As Cuthbert had spoken, he threw down his mailed glove, and several of the knights present stepped forward to pick it up. The baron, however, waved them back. "It is no question," he said, "of honourable fight. This is a follower of the murderer of my good cousin of Montferat, who died under the hands of assassins set upon him by Richard of England." "It is false!" Cuthbert shouted. "I denounce it as a foul lie, and will maintain it with my life." "Your life is already forfeited," the baron said, "both by your past connexion with Richard of England and as the insulter of the arms of Austria. You die, and to-morrow at noon your head shall be struck off in the great square before my castle." Without another word Cuthbert was hurried off to his cell, and there remained, thinking moodily over the events of the day, until nightfall. He had no doubt that his sentence would be carried out, and his anxiety was rather for his followers than for himself. He feared that they would make some effort on his behalf, and would sacrifice their own lives in doing so, without the possibility of assisting him. The next morning he was led out to the square before the castle. It was a large flagged courtyard. Upon one side was the entrance to the castle, one of whose wings also formed a second side to the square. The side facing this was formed by the wall of the city, and the fourth opened upon a street of the town. This side of the square was densely filled with citizens, while the men-at-arms of the baron and a large number of knights were gathered behind a scaffold erected in the centre. Upon this was a block, and by the side stood a headsman. As Cuthbert was led forward a thrill of pleasure ran through him at perceiving no signs of his followers, who he greatly feared might have been captured in the night, and brought there to share his fate. As he was led forward, the young noble whose life he had saved advanced to the baron, and dropping on one knee before him, craved the life of Cuthbert, relating the event by which he had saved his life in the passage of the mountains. The baron frowned heavily. "Though he had saved the life of every noble in Bavaria," he said, "he should die. I have sworn an oath that every Englishman who fell into my hands should expiate the murder of my kinsman; and this fellow is, moreover, guilty of an outrage to the arms of Austria." The young Sir Ernest drew himself up haughtily. "My lord baron," he said, "henceforth I renounce all allegiance to you, and I will lay the case before the emperor, our common master, and will cry before him at the outrage which has thus been passed upon a noble gentleman. He has thrown down the glove, and challenged any of your knights, and I myself am equally ready to do battle in his cause." The baron grew red with passion, and he would have ordered the instant arrest of the young man, but as Sir Ernest was connected by blood with many present, and was indeed one of the most popular among the nobles of the province, the baron simply waved him aside, and ordered Cuthbert to be led to the block. The young Englishman was by the executioner divested of his armour and helmet, and stood in the simple attire worn by men of rank at that time. He looked around, and holding up his hand, conveying alike a farewell and a command to his followers to remain in concealment, he gazed round the crowd, thinking that he might see among them in some disguise or other the features of Cnut, whose tall figure would have rendered him conspicuous in a crowd. He failed, however, to see any signs of him, and turning to the executioner, signified by a gesture that he was ready. At this instant an arrow from the wall above pierced the brain of the man, and he fell dead in his tracks. A roar of astonishment burst from the crowd. Upon the city wall at this point was a small turret, and on this were five figures. The wall around was deserted, and for the moment these men were masters of the position. "Seize those insolent varlets!" the baron shouted, shaking his sword with a gesture of fury at them. His words, however, were arrested, for at the moment another arrow struck him in the throat, and he fell back into the arms of those around him. Quickly now the arrows of the English archers flew into the courtyard. The confusion which reigned there was indescribable. The citizens with shouts of alarm took to their heels. The men-at-arms were powerless against this rain of missiles, and the knights, hastily closing their visors, shouted contradictory orders, which no one obeyed. In the confusion no one noticed the prisoner. Seizing a moment when the attention of all was fixed upon the wall, he leaped from the platform, and making his way unnoticed through the excited crowd of men-at-arms, darted down a narrow lane that divided the castle from the wall. He ran along until, 100 yards farther, he came to a staircase by which access to the battlements was obtained. Running lightly up this, he kept along the wall until he reached the turret. "Thanks, my noble Cnut!" he exclaimed, "and you, my brave fellows. But I fear you have forfeited your lives. There is no escape. In a minute the whole force of the place will recover from their confusion, and be down upon us from both sides." "We have prepared for that," Cnut said. "Here is a rope hanging down into the moat." Glancing over, Cuthbert saw that the moat was dry; and after a final discharge of arrows into the crowd, the six men slid one after another down the rope and made their way at full speed across the country. CHAPTER XIX. DRESDEN. It was some ten minutes before the men-at-arms rallied sufficiently from their surprise to obey orders. Two bodies were then drawn up, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the staircases leading to the wall, one on each side of the turret in which they believed that the little body of audacious assailants were still lying. Having reached the wall, the soldiers advanced, covering themselves with their shields, for they had learnt the force with which an English clothyard shaft drawn by a strong hand flies. Many had been killed by these missiles passing through and through the cuirass and backpiece. No reply being obtained to the summons to surrender, they proceeded to break in with their battle-axes the door of the little turret. Rushing in with axe and pike, they were astonished to find the place empty. A glance over the wall showed the rope still hanging, and the manner of the escape became manifest. The fugitives were already out of sight, and the knights, furious at the escape of the men who had bearded them in the heart of the city with such audacity, and had slain the lord baron and several of his knights, gave orders that an instant pursuit should be organized. It was, however, a full half hour before the city gates were thrown open, and a strong troop of knights and mounted men issued out. Cuthbert had been certain that an instant pursuit would be set on foot, and the moment that he was out of sight of the battlements, he changed the direction in which he had started, and turning at right angles, swept round the city, still keeping at a distance, until he reached the side next the mountains, and then plunged into the woods on the lower slopes of the hills. "They will," he said, as they halted breathless from their run, "follow the road towards the south, and scour the country for awhile before it occurs to their thick German skulls that we have doubled back on our tracks. Why, what is it, Cnut?" This exclamation was provoked by the forester throwing himself on his knees before Sir Cuthbert, and imploring his pardon for the dire strait into which his imprudence had drawn him. "It was a dire strait, certainly, Cnut. But if you got me into it, at least you have extricated me; and never say more about it, for I myself was near committing the imprudence to which you gave way, and I can well understand that your English blood boiled at the sight of the outrage to the flag of England. Now, let us waste no time in talk, but, keeping to the foot of this mountain, make along as far as we can to the west. We must cling to the hills for many days' march before we venture again to try to cross the plains. If possible, we will keep on this way until we reach the confines of the country of the Swiss, who will assuredly give us hospitality, and who will care little for any threats of these German barons, should they hear that we have reached their asylum." By nightfall they had already travelled many leagues, and making a fire in the wood, Cuthbert asked Cnut for an account of what had taken place on the previous day. "We ran for life, Sir Cuthbert, and had not noticed that you had been drawn into the fray. Had we done so, we would have remained, and sold our lives with yours; but hoping that you had passed unnoticed in the crowd, and that you would find some means to rejoin us, we kept upon our way. After running down three streets, we passed a place where a courtyard with stables ranged round it was open. There were none about, and we entered, and, taking refuge in a loft, hid ourselves beneath some provender. There we remained all night, and then borrowing some apparel which some of the stablemen had hung up on the walls, we issued into the town. As we neared the great square we saw some men employed in erecting a platform in the midst, and a suspicion that all might not be right, and that you might have fallen into the hands of these German dogs, beset our minds. After much consultation we determined to see what the affair meant, and making our way on to the walls, which, indeed, were entirely deserted, we took refuge in that turret where you saw us. Seeing the crowd gather, and being still more convinced that some misfortune was about to occur, I again went back to the stables, where I had noticed a long rope used by the carters for fastening their loads to the waggons. With this I returned, for it was clear that if we had to mingle in this business it would be necessary to have a mode of escape. Of the rest you are aware. We saw the knights coming out of the castle, with that portly baron, their lord, at their head. We saw the block and the headsman upon the platform, and were scarcely surprised when you were led out, a prisoner, from the gates. We judged that what did happen would ensue. Seeing that the confusion wrought by a sudden attack from men perched up aloft as we were, commanding the courtyard, and being each of us able to hit a silver mark at the distance of 100 yards, would be great indeed, we judged that you might be able to slip away unobserved, and were sure that your quick wit would seize any opportunity which might offer. Had you not been able to join us, we should have remained in the turret and sold our lives to the last, as, putting aside the question that we could never return to our homes, having let our dear lord die here, we should not, in our ignorance of the language and customs of the country, have ever been able to make our way across it. We knew, however, that before this turret was carried we could show these Germans how five Englishmen, when brought to bay, can sell their lives." They had not much difficulty in obtaining food in the forest, for game abounded, and they could kill as many deer as seemed fit to them. As Cnut said, it was difficult to believe that they were not back again in the forest near Evesham, so similar was their life to that which they had led three years before. To Cnut and the archers, indeed, it was a pleasanter time than any which they had passed since they had left the shores of England, and they blithely marched along, fearing little any pursuit which might be set on foot, and, indeed, hearing nothing of their enemies. After six days' travel they came upon a rude village, and here Cuthbert learnt from the people--with much difficulty, however, and pantomime, for neither could understand a word spoken by the other--that they were now in one of the Swiss cantons, and therefore secure from all pursuit by the Germans. Without much difficulty Cuthbert engaged one of the young men of the village to act as their guide to Basle, and here, after four days' travelling, they arrived safely. Asking for the residence of the Burgomaster, Cuthbert at once proceeded thither, and stated that he was an English knight on the return from the Crusades; that he had been foully entreated by the Lord of Fussen, who had been killed in a fray by his followers; and that he besought hospitality and refuge from the authorities of Basle. "We care little," the Burgomaster said, "what quarrel you may have had with your neighbours. All who come hither are free to come and go as they list, and you, as a knight on the return from the Holy Land, have a claim beyond that of an ordinary traveller." The Burgomaster was himself able to speak French, and summoning several of the councillors of the town, he requested Cuthbert to give a narrative of his adventures; which he did. The councillors agreed with the Burgomaster that Cuthbert must be received hospitably; but the latter saw that there was among many of them considerable doubt as to the expediency of quarrelling with a powerful neighbour. He therefore said to the Burgomaster,-- "I have no intention, honourable sir, of taking up any prolonged residence here. I only ask to be furnished with a charger and arms, and in payment of these I will leave this gold chain, the gift of King Richard himself, as a gage, and will on my return to my country forward to you the value of the arms and horse, trusting that you will return the chain to me." The Burgomaster, however, said that the city of Basle was not so poor that it need take the gage of an honourable knight, but that the arms and charger he required should be given him in a few hours, and that he might pay the value in London to a Jew merchant there who had relations with one at Basle. Full instructions were given to him, and he resolved to travel down upon the left bank of the Rhine, until he reached Lorraine, and thence to cross into Saxony. The same afternoon the promised horse and arms were provided, and Cuthbert, delighted again to be in harness, and thanking courteously the Burgomaster and council for their kindness, started with his followers on his journey north. These latter had been provided with doublets and other garments suitable to the retinue of a knight, and made a better show than they had done since they first left England. Leaving Basle, they travelled along the left side of the Rhine by easy stages. The country was much disturbed, owing to the return and disbandment of so many of the troops employed in the Crusades. These, their occupation being gone, scattered over the country, and France and Germany alike were harassed by bands of military robbers. The wild country between the borders of Switzerland and Lorraine was specially vexed, as the mountains of the Vosges afforded shelter, into which the freebooters could not be followed by the troops of the duke. Upon the evening of the third day they reached a small inn standing in a lonely position near the foot of the mountains. "I like not the look of this place," Cuthbert said; "but as we hear that there is no other within a distance of another ten miles, we must e'en make the best of it." The host received them with extreme and even fawning civility, which by no means raised him in the estimation of Cuthbert or Cnut. A rough meal was taken, and they then ascended to the rude accommodation which had been provided. It was one large room, barely furnished. Upon one side straw was thickly littered down--for in those days beds among the common people were unknown. In a sort of alcove at the end was a couch with a rough mattress and coverlet. This Cuthbert took possession of, while his followers stretched themselves upon the straw. "Methinks," Cnut said, "that it were well that one should keep watch at the door. I like not the look of our host, and we are near the spot where the bands of the robbers are said to be busy." Towards morning the archer on guard reported that he could hear the sound of many approaching footsteps. All at once sprang to their feet, and betook themselves to their arms. Looking from the window they saw a large party of rough men, whose appearance at once betokened that they were disbanded soldiers--a title almost synonymous in those days with that of robber. With the united strength of the party the truckle bed was carried from the alcove and placed against the door. Cuthbert then threw open the window, and asked in French what they wanted. One of the party, who appeared to be the leader, said that the party had better surrender immediately. He promised them good treatment, and said that the knight would be put to ransom, should it be found that the valuables upon his person were not sufficient to pay the worshipful company present for the trouble which they had taken in waiting upon him. This sally was received with shouts of laughter. Cuthbert replied quietly that he had no valuables upon his person; that if they took him there were none would pay as much as a silver mark for the ransom of them all; and that the only things that they had to give were sharp arrows and heavy blows. "You talk bravely, young sir," the man said. "But you have to do with men versed in fight, and caring but little either for knocks or for arrows. We have gone through the Crusades, and are therefore held to be absolved from all sin, even that so great as would be incurred in the cutting of your knightly throat." "But we have gone through the Crusades also," Cuthbert said, "and our persons are sacred. The sin of slitting our weazands, which you speak of, would therefore be so great that even the absolution on which you rely would barely extend to it." "We know most of those who have served in the Holy Land," the man said more respectfully than he had yet spoken, "and would fain know with whom we speak." "I am an Englishman, and a follower of King Richard," Cuthbert said, "and am known as Sir Cuthbert of Evesham. As I was the youngest among the knights who fought for the holy sepulchre, it may be that my appearance is known to you?" "Ah," the other said, "you are he whom they called the Boy Knight, and who was often in the thick of the fray, near to Richard himself. How comes it, Sir Cuthbert, that you are here?" "The fleet was scattered on its return," Cuthbert replied, "and I landed with my followers, well-nigh penniless, at Zara, and have since made my way across the Tyrol. I have, then, as you may well suppose, neither silver nor gold about my person; and assuredly neither Philip of France nor John of Austria would give a noble for my ransom; and it would be long, methinks, to wait ere John of England would care to ransom one of King Richard's followers." The brigands spoke for awhile among themselves, and then the leader said,-- "You speak frankly and fairly, Sir Knight, and as you have proved yourself indeed a doughty giver of hard blows, and as I doubt not that the archers with you can shoot as straight and as fast as the rest of the Saxon breed, we will e'en let you go on your way, for your position is but little better than ours, and dog should not rob dog." "Thanks, good fellow," Cuthbert said. "We trust that in any case we might have made a strong defence against you; but it would be hard if those who have fought together in the Holy Land, should slay each other in this lonely corner of Lorraine." "Are you seeking adventures or employment, Sir Knight? For if so, myself and comrades here would gladly take service with you; and it may be that with a clump of spears you might obtain engagement, either under the Duke of Lorraine or he of Cleves." "Thanks for your offer," Cuthbert replied; "but at present my face is turned towards England. King Richard needs all his friends; and there is so little chance of sack or spoil, even should we have--which God forfend--civil war, that I fear I could ill reward the services which you offer me." The leader and his men shouted an adieu to Cuthbert, and departed for the mountains, leaving the latter well pleased with his escape from a fight of which the result was doubtful. Journeying on without further adventure, they came to Nancy, and were there kindly received by the duke, who was not at that time upon good terms with Phillip of France, and was therefore well disposed towards the English. Cuthbert inquired from him whether any news had been heard of King Richard? but received as a reply that the duke had heard nothing of him since he sailed from Palestine. "This is strange," Cuthbert said, "for I myself have journeyed but slowly, and have met with many delays. King Richard should long ere this have reached Saxony; and I fear much that some foul treatment has befallen him. On our way, we found how bitter was the feeling among those related to Conrad of Montferat against him; and the Archduke John is still smarting from the blow which King Richard struck him at Ascalon. But surely they would not be so unknightly as to hinder so great a champion of Christendom as King Richard on his homeward way?" "The Archduke John is crafty and treacherous," the duke said; "and the emperor himself would, I think, be not sorry Conrad of Montferat, who falsely allege that the death of their kinsman was caused by King Richard. The Archduke John, too, owes him no good-will; and even the emperor is evilly disposed towards him. The king travelled under an assumed name; but it might well be that he would be recognized upon the way. His face was known to all who fought in the East; and his lordly manner and majestic stature could ill be concealed beneath a merchant's garb. Still, lady, as I have been so long in making my way across, it may be that King Richard has been similarly delayed without danger befalling him, and it could hardly be that so important a man as the King of England would be detained, or come to any misfortune, without the news being bruited abroad." In spite of Cuthbert's reassuring words, the duke and duchess were greatly alarmed at the news of King Richard's disappearance, although indeed consoled to find that their previous fears, that he had been drowned in the storm or captured by the Moorish corsairs, were unfounded. They now requested from Cuthbert the story of what had befallen him since he left the king; and this he related at some length. The duke was greatly interested, and begged Cuthbert at least to remain at his court until some news might arrive of King Richard. For a month Cuthbert tarried at the castle of the Duke of Saxony, where he was nobly entertained, and treated as a guest of much honour. Cnut and the archers were delighted at the treatment they received, for never in their lives had they been so royally entertained. Their Saxon tongue was nigh enough akin to the language spoken here to be understood; and their tales of adventure in the Holy Land rendered them as popular among the retainers of the duke as their master became with the duke and duchess. CHAPTER XX. UNDER THE GREENWOOD. At the end of a month, news came from England that Sir Baldwin of B�thune had returned there, bearing the news that the King had been arrested at Gortz, only two days' journey north of the Adriatic--that he had been recognized, and at once captured. He had offered no resistance, finding indeed that it would be hopeless so to do. Sir Baldwin had been permitted to depart without molestation. He believed that the folk into whose hands he had fallen were retainers of the Archduke John. This news, although sad in itself, was yet in some degree reassuring to the duke and his wife; for they felt that while the followers of Conrad of Montferat would not hesitate to put King Richard to death should he fall into their hands, the Archduke John would not dare to bring upon himself the indignation of Europe by such treatment of his royal captive. Cuthbert at once determined to return to England to see Sir Baldwin, and to ascertain what steps were being taken for the discovery of the prison in which King Richard was confined, and for his release therefrom; and also to establish himself in his new dignity as Earl of Evesham. Therefore, bidding adieu to the duke and duchess, he started north. The duke furnished him with letters of introduction to the princes through whose countries he would travel; and again crossing the Rhine, he journeyed through the territories of the Dukes of Cleves and Brabant, and reached the mouth of the Scheldt without interruption. There taking ship, he sailed for London. It was a long and stormy passage between the mouth of the Scheldt and London. The vessel in which Cuthbert had shipped was old and somewhat unseaworthy, and several times in the force of the gale all on board gave up hope for their lives. At last, however, they reached the mouth of the Thames, and dropping up with the tide, reached London eight days after their embarcation. The noble charger which the King of Saxony had presented to Cuthbert, had suffered greatly, and he feared at one time, that the poor animal would succumb to the effects of the tempest. However, after entering into smooth water it recovered itself, and on landing near the Tower he found that it was able to support his weight. Cnut and the archers were, like Cuthbert, delighted to have their feet again upon English soil; and although London did not now strike them with the same wonder which it would have done had they first visited it before starting on their journey--for in many respects it was greatly behind some of the continental cities--yet the feeling of home, and the pleasure of being able to understand the conversation of those around them, made the poor fellows almost beside themselves with joy. Beyond the main political incidents, Cuthbert had heard little of what had passed in England since his departure; and putting up at a hostelry, he inquired of the host whether Sir Baldwin of B�thune was in London, or whether he was away on his estates. The landlord did not know. There were, he said, but few nobles at court, and London was never so dull as at present. As Cuthbert did not wish his coming home to be known to John until he had learnt something of the position of affairs, he despatched Cnut to the Tower to inquire privately of some of the officials about the place whether Sir Baldwin was there. Cnut soon returned with the news that he had not been at the court since his return from the Holy Land, and that he was living at his castle down in Dorsetshire. After some hesitation, Cuthbert resolved to set out to see his friend, and after six days' travel he arrived at the castle of the knight. Sir Baldwin received him with immense joy. He had not heard of him since they parted at Zara, and he feared that a fate similar to that which had befallen King Richard had overtaken Cuthbert, even if he were still alive. "Have you seen aught of the king, our master?" the good knight inquired. "Nothing," Cuthbert said. "I know no more than yourself. Indeed, I hoped to have learnt something from you as to the king." "I was separated from him at Gortz, and while he was taken a prisoner to the archduke, I was allowed to pursue my way. I had many difficulties and dangers, and was some weeks in finding my way back. Nothing was known of the king when I returned. Indeed, I was the first bearer of any definite news concerning him since the day when he sailed from Acre. Three weeks ago, as you may have learnt, the news came that he is now detained in captivity by the emperor who demanded his delivery by the Archduke John, into whose hands he first fell. But where he is, no one exactly knows. The news has created an immense excitement in the kingdom, and all are resolved to sacrifice any of their treasures which may be demanded in order to satisfy the ransom which the recreant emperor has placed upon the king. Shame is it indeed that a Christian sovereign should hold another in captivity. Still more, when that other was returning through his dominions as a crusader coming from the Holy Land, when his person should be safe, even to his deadliest enemy. It has long been suspected that he was in the hands either of the emperor, or of the archduke, and throughout Europe the feeling of indignation has been strong; and I doubt not, now that the truth is known, this feeling will be stronger than ever." "But, now that it is known," Cuthbert said, "I suppose there will be no delay in ransoming the king." "There will be no delay in raising the ransom," Sir Baldwin said. "But the kingdom is very impoverished by war, by the exactions of Prince John, and by those of Langley, who held it for King Richard. He was a loyal servant of the king, but an exacting and rapacious prelate. However, I doubt not that the rents of the English nobles will soon be charged with sums sufficient for the ransom; and if this avail not, not one of them will grudge their silver flagons and vessels to melt down to make the total required. But we must not flatter ourselves that he will obtain his liberty so soon as the money is raised. Prince John has long been yearning for sovereignty. He has long exercised the real, if not the nominal, power, and he has been intriguing with the Pope and Phillip of France for their support for his seizing the crown. He will throw every obstacle in the way, as, we may be sure, will Phillip of France, Richard's deadly enemy. And now about yourself, Sir Cuthbert; tell me what has befallen you since we last met." Cuthbert related the adventures which had befallen him, and heard those of Sir Baldwin. "You have not, I suppose," the latter remarked, "as yet seen Prince John?" "No," Cuthbert replied, "I thought it better to come down to ask you to advise me on the position of affairs before I attempted to see him." "You did well," Sir Baldwin said. "When I arrived, I found that the proper officials, had, according to King Richard's instructions, drawn up the patent conferring upon you the lands and title of Earl of Evesham, before leaving Acre, and had received the king's signature to it. This was attested by several of the nobles who were with us and who returned safely to England. Prince John, however, declared that he should not give any heed to the document; that King Richard's power over this realm had ceased before he made it; and that he should bestow the earldom upon whomsoever he chose. As a matter of fact, it has been given to Sir Rudolph Fleming, a Norman knight and a creature of the prince. The king has also, I hear, promised to him the hand of the young Lady Margaret, when she shall become of marriageable age. At present she is placed in a convent in Worcester. The abbess is, I believe, a friend of the late earl, and the girl had been with her for some time previously. Indeed she went there, I think, when her father left England. This lady was ordered to give up her charge to the guardianship of Sir Rudolph; but she refused to do so, saying that it would not be convenable for a young lady to be under the guardianship of a bachelor knight having no lady at the head of his establishment, and that therefore she should retain her, in spite of the orders of the Prince. Prince John, I hear, flew into a fury at this; but he did not dare to provoke the anger of the whole of the clergy by ordering the convent to be violated. And indeed, not only would the clergy have been indignant, but many of the great nobles would also have taken their part, for there can be no doubt that the contention of the abbess was reasonable; and there is among all the friends of King Richard a very strong feeling of anger at your having been deprived of the earldom. This, however, has, so far, not found much vent in words, for as it was uncertain whether you would ever return to claim your rights, it was worth no one's while to embroil himself unnecessarily with the prince upon such a subject. God knows that there are subjects enough of dispute between John Lackland and the English barons without any fresh ones arising. The whole kingdom is in a state of disturbance. There have been several risings against Prince John's authority; but these have been, so far, suppressed. Now that we know where King Richard is, and hope for his return ere very long, it is probable that peace will be maintained; but should treachery prevail, and King Richard's return be prevented, you may be sure that John will not be permitted to mount the throne without the determined resistance of a large number of the nobles." "But," Cuthbert said, "John is not the successor to the throne. Prince Arthur of Brittany was named by King Richard from the first as his successor. He is so by blood and by right, and John can have no pretence to the throne so long as he lives." "That is so," Sir Baldwin said. "But, unhappily, in England at present might makes right, and you may be sure that at King Richard's death, be it when it may, Prince John will make a bold throw for the throne, and, aided as he will be by the pope and by Phillip of France, methinks that his chances are better than those of the young prince. A man's power, in warlike times, is more than a boy's. He can intrigue and promise and threaten, while a boy must be in the hands of partisans. I fear that Prince Arthur will have troubled times indeed before he mounts the throne of England. Should Richard survive until he becomes of age to take the field himself and head armies, he may succeed, for all speak well of him as a boy of singular sweetness of disposition, while Prince John is detested by all save those who flatter and live by him. But enough for the present of politics, Cuthbert; let us now to table. It is long since we two feasted together; and, indeed, such meals as we took in the Holy Land could scarcely have been called feasts. A boar's head and a good roasted capon are worthy all the strange dishes that we had there. I always misdoubted the meat, which seemed to me to smack in flavour of the Saracens, and I never could bring myself to inquire whence that strange food was obtained. A stoup of English ale, too, is worth all the Cyprus wines, especially when the Cyprus wines are half full of the sand of the desert. Pah! it makes my throat dry to think of those horrible meals. So you have brought Cnut and your four archers safely back with you?" "Yes," Cuthbert said, smiling, "But they were, I can assure you, a heavy weight on me, in spite of their faithfulness and fidelity. Their ignorance of the language brought most of my troubles upon me, and Cnut had something of the nature of a bull in him. There are certain things which he cannot stomach, and when he seeth them he rageth like a wild beast, regardless altogether of safety or convenience." In the evening, the two knights again talked over the course which Cuthbert should adopt. The elder knight's opinion was that his young friend had best formally claim the title by writing to the king-at-arms, and should also announce his return to Prince John, signing himself "Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham;" but that, in the present state of things, it would be unwise for him to attempt to regain his position, should, as was certain to be the case, Prince John refuse to recognize him. "You are very young yet," Sir Baldwin said, "not eighteen, I think, and can afford to wait, at any rate, to see whether King Richard returns. Should he come back, he will see all these wrongs are righted; and one of his first cares would assuredly be to cast this usurper out of his stolen dignities. How old is the Lady Margaret?" "She is fifteen," Cuthbert said. "She was three years younger than I." "I wish she had been younger," Sir Baldwin said. "At fifteen she is not by custom fairly marriageable; but men can strain these points when they choose; and I fear that the news of your coming will hasten both the prince and Sir Rudolph in their determination to strengthen the claim of this usurper by marriage with the heiress of Evesham. The Lady Margaret and her friends can of course claim that she is a royal ward, and that as such the king alone can dispose of her person and estates. But, unfortunately, force overrides argument." "But surely," Cuthbert said, "they will never venture to take her by force from the convent?" "They venture a great many strange things in England now," Sir Baldwin said; "and Worcester is perilously near to Evesham. With a clump of twenty spears, Sir Rudolph might break into the convent and carry off the young lady, and marry her by force; and although the Church might cry out, crying would be of little avail when the deed was done; and a handsome present on the part of Sir Rudolph might go far to shut the mouths of many of the complainants, especially as he will be able to say that he has the king's sanction for what he did." "Methinks," Cuthbert said, "that if such be the case it would be perilous indeed to wait for King Richard's return. Assuredly Sir Rudolph would not tarry until she attained the age of seventeen, and it may well be that two years may yet pass before King Richard comes back. It seems to me the wiser part will be that I should give Prince John no notice that I am in England. As you say, such notice would be of no avail in recovering my lands and title, but it would put the prince upon his guard; and assuredly he and his minions would press forward their measures to obtain possession of the person of the Lady Margaret; while, on the other hand, no harm can come of my maintaining silence." "I think that you are right, Sir Cuthbert. It were indeed best that your enemies should suppose you either dead or in some dungeon in the Tyrol. What would you then do?" "I would return to my old home," Cuthbert said. "My lady mother is, I trust, still alive. But I will not appear at her house, but will take refuge in the forest there. Cnut, and the archers with him, were all at one time outlaws living there, and I doubt not that there are many good men and true still to be found in the woods. Others will assuredly join when they learn that Cnut is there, and that they are wanted to strike a blow for my rights. I shall then bide my time. I will keep a strict watch over the castle and over the convent. As the abbess is a friend and relative of Lady Margaret's, I may obtain an interview with her, and warn her of the dangers that await her, and ask if she be willing to fulfil the promise of her father, and King Richard's will, in accepting me as her husband when due time shall arrive, and whether she will be willing that I should take such steps as I may to deliver her from the persecution of Sir Rudolph. If, as I trust, she assents to this, I will keep a watch over the convent as well as the castle, and can then either attack the latter, or carry her off from the former, as the occasion may appear to warrant. There are plenty of snug cottages round the forest, where she can remain in concealment in the care of some good farmer's wife for months, and we shall be close at hand to watch over her. With the aid of the forest men, Sir Walter took the castle of Sir John of Wortham; and although Evesham is a far grander pile than that, yet methinks it could be carried by a sudden assault; and we know more of war now than we did then. Prince John may deny me the right of being the Earl of Evesham; but methinks before many months I can, if I choose, become its master." "Be not too hasty in that matter," Sir Baldwin said. "You might capture the castle with the aid of your outlaws; but you could scarcely hold it. The prince has, ere now, with the aid of those faithful to him and his foreign mercenaries, captured stronger holds than that of Evesham; and if you turn his favourite out, you would have a swarm of hornets around you such as the walls of Evesham could not keep out. It would therefore be worse than useless for you to attempt what would be something like an act of rebellion against Prince John's authority, and would give him what now he has no excuse for, a ground for putting a price upon your head--and cutting it off if he got the opportunity. You might now present yourself boldly at court, and although he might refuse to recognize your title of earl, yet, as a knight and a crusader who has distinguished himself greatly in the Holy Land, he dare not interfere with your person, for this would be resented by the whole of the chivalry of England. Still, I agree with you that your best course is to keep your return a secret. You will then be unwatched and unnoticed, and your enemies will take their time in carrying their designs into effect." Two days later Cuthbert, attended by his faithful retainers, left Sir Baldwin's castle, and travelled by easy stages through Wiltshire and the confines of Gloucestershire up to Worcester. He had been supplied by Sir Baldwin with suitable attire for himself and his followers, and now rode as a simple knight, without arms or cognizance, journeying from one part to another. All the crosses and other crusading signs were laid aside, and there was nothing to attract any attention to him upon his passage. Cuthbert had at first thought of going direct to the convent of Worcester, and asking for an interview with Lady Margaret; but he reflected that it might be possible that some of the myrmidons of Sir Rudolph might be keeping a watch over that building, to see that Lady Margaret was not secretly removed to some other place of refuge, and that the appearance of a knight before its doors would excite comment and suspicion. He therefore avoided the town, and journeyed straight to the forest, where he had so often roamed with Cnut and the outlaws. Here he found that matters had but little changed since he was last there. Many of those who had fought with him in the Holy Land, and who had returned by sea, had again taken to the forest, joined by many new men whom the exactions of Sir Rudolph had already goaded into revolt. Cnut was received with enthusiasm, and when he presented Cuthbert to them as the rightful heir of Evesham and the well-known friend of the foresters, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They at once accepted him as their lord and master, and promised to obey his orders, and to lay down their lives, if necessary, in his cause, as they knew that it was he who had formally obtained the pardon of the forest band, and who had fought with them in their attack on Wortham Castle. To Cuthbert's great delight he heard that his mother was in good health, although she had for some months been grievously fretting over his disappearance and supposed death. Cuthbert hesitated whether he should proceed at once to see her; but he feared that the shock of his appearance might be too much for her, and that her expressions of joy might make the retainers and others aware of his arrival, and the news might in some way reach the ears of those at the castle. He therefore despatched Cnut to see her, and break the news to her cautiously, and to request her to arrange for a time when she would either see Cuthbert at some place at a distance from the house, or would so arrange that the domestics should be absent and that he would have an interview with her there unobserved. Cnut was absent some hours, and on his return told Cuthbert that he had seen Dame Editha, and that her joy on hearing of her son's safe arrival had caused her no harm, but rather the reverse. The news that King Richard had bestowed upon him the title and lands of Evesham was new to her, and she was astonished indeed to hear of his elevation. Having heard much of the character of the pretending earl, she had great fears for the safety of Cuthbert, should his residence in the neighbourhood get to his ears; and although sure of the fidelity of all her retainers, she feared that in their joy at their young master's return they might let slip some incautious word which would come to the ears of some of those at the castle. She therefore determined to meet him at a distance. She had arranged that upon the following day she would give out that she intended to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Dunstan, which lay at the edge of the forest, to thank him for her recovery from illness, and to pray for the safety of her son. She would be carried thither in a litter, and her journey would excite no comment whatever. She would take with her four of her most trusted retainers, and would on her arrival at the shrine send them to a distance, in order to pay her devotions undisturbed. Cuthbert was to be near, and the moment he saw them depart, to enter. This arrangement was carried out, and the joy of Dame Editha at again meeting her son was deep indeed. He had left her a lad of fifteen. He now returned a youth of nearly eighteen, stout and strong beyond his age, and looking far older than he was, from the effect of the hot sun of Syria and of the hardships through which he had gone. That he should win his spurs upon the first opportunity the earl had promised her, and she doubted not that he would soon attain the rank which his father had held. But that he should return to her a belted earl was beyond her wildest thoughts. This, however, was but little in her mind then. It was her son, and not the Earl of Evesham, whom she clasped in her arms. As the interview must necessarily be a short one, Cuthbert gave her but a slight outline of what had happened since they parted, and the conversation then turned upon the present position, and upon the steps which had best be taken. "Your peril is, I fear, as great here as when you were fighting the infidels in the Holy Land," she said. "Sir Rudolph has not been here long; but he has proved himself a cruel and ruthless master. He has driven forth many of the old tenants and bestowed their lands upon his own servants and retainers. The forest laws he carries out to the fullest severity, and has hung several men who were caught infringing them. He has laid such heavy burdens on all the tenants that remain that they are fairly ruined, and if he stay here long he will rule over a desert. Did he dream of your presence here, he would carry fire and sword through the forest. It is sad indeed to think that so worthless a knave as this should be a favourite of the ruler of England. But all men say that he is so. Thus were you to attack him, even did you conquer and kill him, you would have the enmity of Prince John to contend with; and he spareth none, man or woman, who stand in his way. It will be a bad day indeed for England should our good King Richard not return. I will, as you wish me, write to my good cousin, the Lady Abbess of St. Anne's, and will ask that you may have an interview with the Lady Margaret, to hear her wishes and opinions concerning the future, and will pray her to do all that she can to aid your suit with the fair young lady, and to keep her at all events safe from the clutches of the tyrant of Evesham." Three days later, a boy employed as a messenger by Dame Editha brought a note to Cuthbert, saying that she had heard from the Abbess of St. Anne's, who would be glad to receive a visit from Cuthbert. The abbess had asked his mother to accompany him; but this she left for him to decide. Cuthbert sent back a message in reply, that he thought it would be dangerous for her to accompany him, as any spy watching would report her appearance, and inquiries were sure to be set on foot as to her companion. He said that he himself would call at the convent on the following evening after nightfall, and begged her to send word to the abbess to that effect, in order that he might, when he presented himself, be admitted at once. CHAPTER XXI. THE ATTEMPT ON THE CONVENT. Upon the following evening Cuthbert proceeded to Worcester. He left his horse some little distance outside the town, and entered on foot. Having no apprehension of an attack, he had left all his pieces of armour behind, and was in the quiet garb of a citizen. Cnut attended him--for that worthy follower considered himself as responsible that no harm of any sort should befall his young master. The consequences of his own imprudence in the Tyrol were ever before his mind, and he determined that from henceforth there should be no want of care on his part. He accompanied Cuthbert to within a short distance of the convent, and took up his position in the shade of a house, whence he could watch should any one appear to be observing Cuthbert's entrance. Upon ringing the bell, Cuthbert told the porteress, as had been arranged, that he had called on a message from Dame Editha, and he was immediately ushered into the parlour of the convent, where, a minute or two later, he was joined by the lady abbess. He had when young been frequently to the convent, and had always been kindly received. "I am indeed glad to see you, Sir Cuthbert," she said, "though I certainly should not have recognized the lad who used to come here with my cousin, in the stalwart young knight I see before me. You are indeed changed and improved. Who would think that my gossip Editha's son would come to be the Earl of Evesham! The Lady Margaret is eager to see you; but I think that you exaggerate the dangers of her residence here. I cannot think that even a minion of Prince John would dare to violate the sanctity of a convent." "I fear, good mother," Cuthbert said, "that when ambition and greed are in one scale, reverence for the holy church will not weigh much in the other. Had King Richard been killed upon his way home, or so long as nothing was heard of him, Sir Rudolph might have been content to allow matters to remain as they were, until at least Lady Margaret attained an age which would justify him in demanding that the espousal should be carried out. But the news which has now positively been ascertained, that the king is in the hands of the emperor, and the knowledge that sooner or later his freedom will be obtained, will hasten the friends of the usurper to make the most of their advantage. He knows that the king would at once upon his return annul the nomination of Sir Rudolph to the earldom which had previously been bestowed upon me. But he may well think that if before that time he can secure in marriage the person of the late earl's daughter, no small share of the domains may be allotted to him as her dowry, even if he be obliged to lay by his borrowed honours. You will, unless I am greatly mistaken, hear from him before long." The abbess looked grave. "There is much in what you say, Sir Cuthbert; and indeed a certain confirmation is given to it by the fact that only yesterday I received a letter from Sir Rudolph, urging that now the Lady Margaret is past the age of fifteen, and may therefore be considered marriageable, the will of the prince should be carried into effect, and that she should for the present be committed to the charge of the Lady Clara Boulger, who is the wife of a friend and associate of Sir Rudolph. He says that he should not wish to press the marriage until she attains the age of sixteen, but that it were well that his future wife should become accustomed to the outside world, so as to take her place as Castellan of Evesham with a dignity befitting the position. I wrote at once to him saying, that in another year it would, in my poor judgment, be quite time to think about such worldly matters; that at the present the Lady Margaret was receiving an education suitable to her rank; that she was happy here; and that unless constrained by force--of which, I said, I could not suppose that any possibility existed--I should not surrender the Lady Margaret into any hands whatsoever, unless, indeed, I received the commands of her lawful guardian, King Richard." "You said well, holy mother," Sir Cuthbert said. "But you see the hawks scent the danger from afar, and are moving uneasily already. Whether they consider it so pressing that they will dare to profane the convent, I know not. But I am sure that should they do so, they will not hesitate a moment at the thought of the anger of the church. Prince John has already shown that he is ready, if need be, to oppose the authority of the holy father, and he may well, therefore, despise any local wrath that might be excited by an action which he can himself disavow, and for which, even at the worst, he need only inflict some nominal punishment upon his vassal. Bethink thee, lady, whether it would not be safer to send the Lady Margaret to the care of some person, where she may be concealed from the search of Sir Rudolph." "I would gladly do so," the abbess said, "did I know of such a person or such a place. But it is difficult indeed for a young lady of rank to be concealed from such sharp searchers as Sir Rudolph would be certain to place upon her track. Your proposal that she should take refuge in the house of some small franklin near the forest, I cannot agree to. In the first place, it would demean her to be so placed; and in the second, we could never be sure that the report of her residence there might not reach the ears of Sir Rudolph. As a last resource, of course such a step would be justifiable, but not until at least overt outrages have been attempted. Now I will call Lady Margaret in." The young girl entered with an air of frank gladness, but was startled at the alteration which had taken place in her former playfellow, and paused and looked at the abbess, as if inquiring whether this could be really the Cuthbert she had known. Lady Margaret was fifteen in years; but she looked much younger. The quiet seclusion in which she had lived in the convent had kept her from approaching that maturity which as an earl's daughter, brought up in the stir and bustle of a castle, she would doubtless have attained. "This is indeed Sir Cuthbert," the abbess said, "your old playfellow, and the husband destined for you by your father and by the will of the king." Struck with a new timidity, the girl advanced, and, according to the custom of the times, held up her cheek to be kissed. Cuthbert was almost as timid as herself. "I feel, Lady Margaret," he said, "a deep sense of my own unworthiness of the kindness and honour which the dear lord your father bestowed upon me; and were it not that many dangers threaten, and that it were difficult under the circumstances to find one more worthy of you, I would gladly resign you into the hands of such a one were it for your happiness. But believe me that the recollection of your face has animated me in many of the scenes of danger in which I have been placed; and although even in fancy my thoughts scarcely ventured to rise so high, yet I felt as a true knight might feel for the lady of his love." "I always liked you, Sir Cuthbert," the girl said frankly, "better than any one else next to my father, and gladly submit myself to his will. My own inclinations indeed, so far as is maidenly, go with his. These are troubled times," she said anxiously, "and our holy mother tells me that you fear some danger is overhanging me." "I trust that the danger may not be imminent," Cuthbert answered. "But knowing the unscrupulous nature of the false Earl of Evesham, I fear that the news that King Richard is found will bestir him to early action. But you can rely, dear lady, on a careful watch being kept over you night and day; and should any attempt be made to carry you away, or to put force upon you, be assured that assistance will be at hand. Even should any attempt succeed, do not lose heart, for rescue will certainly be attempted; and I must be dead, and my faithful followers crushed, before you can become the bride of Sir Rudolph." Then turning to other subjects, he talked to her of the life he had led since he last saw her. He told her of the last moments of her father, and of the gallant deeds he had done in the Holy Land. After waiting for two hours, the abbess judged that the time for separation had arrived; and Cuthbert, taking a respectful adieu of his young mistress, and receiving the benediction of the abbess, departed. He found Cnut on guard at the point where he had left him. "Have you seen aught to give rise to suspicion?" Cuthbert asked. "Yes," Cnut said, "the place is undoubtedly watched. Just after you had entered, a man came from that house yonder and went up to the gate, as if he would fain learn by staring at its iron adornments the nature of him who had passed in. Then he re-entered his house, and if I mistake not is still on the watch at that casement. If we stand here for a minute or two, perchance he may come out to see what delays you in this dark corner, in which case I may well give him a clout with my axe which will settle his prying." "Better not," Cuthbert said. "We can retire round this corner and so avoid his observation; and were his body found slain here, suspicion would be at once excited in the mind of his employer. At present he can have no ground for any report which may make the knight uneasy, for he can but know that a gentleman has entered, and remained for two hours at the convent, and he will in no way connect my visit with the Lady Margaret." They had just turned the corner which Cuthbert indicated, when a man came up rapidly behind them and almost brushed them as he passed, half-turning round and trying to gaze into their faces. Cnut at once assumed the aspect of an intoxicated person, and stretching forth his foot, with a dexterous shove pushed the stranger into the gutter. The latter rose with a fierce cry of anger; but Cnut with a blow of his heavy fist again stretched him on the ground, this time to remain quiet until they had walked on and passed out of sight. "A meddling fool," Cnut grumbled. "He will not, methinks, have much to report to Sir Rudolph this time. Had I thought that he had seen your face, I would have cleft his skull with no more hesitation than I send an arrow into the brain of a stag in the forest." As they journeyed along, Cuthbert informed Cnut of what the abbess had told him; and the latter agreed that a watch must be placed on the convent, and that a force must be kept as near as possible at hand so as to defeat any attempt which might be made. The next day one of the forest men who had been a peaceable citizen, but who had been charged with using false weights and had been condemned to lose his ears, repaired to Worcester. His person was unknown there, as he had before lived at Gloucester. He hired a house in the square in which the convent was situated, giving out that he desired to open a house of business for the sale of silks, and for articles from the Low Countries. As he paid down earnest-money for the rent, no suspicion whatever was excited. He at once took up his abode there, having with him two stout serving-men, and a 'prentice boy; and from that time two sets of watchers observed without ceasing what passed at the Convent of St. Anne. At a distance of half a mile from the road leading between Worcester and Evesham, stood a grange, which had for some time been disused, the ground belonging to it having been sequestrated and given to the lord of an adjoining estate, who did not care to have the grange occupied. In this, ten men, headed by Cnut, took up their residence, blocking up the window of the hall with hangings, so that the light of the fire kindled within would not be observed. Two months passed on without any incident of importance. The feeling between the outlaws in the forest and the retainers of the false Earl of Evesham was becoming much embittered. Several times the foresters of the latter, attempting pursuit of men charged with breaking the game laws, were roughly handled. These on making their report were sent back again, supported by a force of footmen; but these, too, were driven back, and the authority of Sir Rudolph was openly defied. Gradually it came to his ears that the outlaws were commanded by a man who had been their leader in times gone by, but who had been pardoned, and had, with a large number of his band, taken service in the army of the crusaders; also, that there was present a stranger, whose manner and the deference paid to him by Cnut proclaimed him to be of gentle blood. This news awakened grave uneasiness on the part of Sir Rudolph. The knight caused inquiries to be made, and ascertained that Cnut had been especially attached to the young Cuthbert, and that he had fought under the Earl of Evesham's banner. It seemed possible then that with him had returned the claimant for the earldom; and in that case Sir Rudolph felt that danger menaced him, for the bravery of the Earl of Evesham's adopted son had been widely spoken of by those who had returned from the Holy Land. Sir Rudolph was a man of forty, tall and dark, with Norman features. He held the Saxons in utter contempt, and treated them as beings solely created to till the land for the benefit of their Norman lords. He was brave and fearless, and altogether free from the superstition of the times. Even the threats of the pope, which although Prince John defied them yet terrified him at heart, were derided by his follower, who feared no one thing in the world, save, perhaps, the return of King Richard from captivity. No sooner had the suspicion that his rival was in the neighbourhood possessed him, than he determined that one of two things must be carried out: either Sir Cuthbert must be killed, or the Lady Margaret must be carried off and forced to accept him as her husband. First he endeavoured to force Sir Cuthbert to declare himself, and to trust to his own arm to put an end to his rival. To that end he caused a proclamation to be written, and to be affixed to the door of the village church at the fair of Evesham. Cnut and several of his followers were there, all quietly dressed as yeomen. Seeing a crowd round the door of the church, he pressed forward. Being himself unable to read writing, he asked one of the burgesses what was written upon the paper which caused such excitement. "It is," the burgess said, "in the nature of a cartel or challenge from our present lord, Sir Rudolf. He says that it having come to his ears that a Saxon serf, calling himself Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham, is lurking in the woods and consorting with outlaws and robbers, he challenges him to appear, saying that he will himself, grievously although he would demean himself by so doing, yet condescend to meet him in the lists with sword and battle-axe, and to prove upon his body the falseness of his averments. Men marvel much," the burgess continued, "at this condescension on the earl's part. We have heard indeed that King Richard, before he sailed for England, did, at the death of the late good earl, bestow his rank and the domains of Evesham upon Sir Cuthbert, the son of the Dame Editha. Whether it be true or not, we cannot say; but it seems strange that such honour should have been bestowed upon one so young. In birth indeed he might aspire to the rank, since his father, Sir Walter, was a brave knight, and the mother, Dame Editha, was of good Saxon blood, and descended from those who held Evesham before the arrival of the Normans." Cnut's first impulse was to stride forward and to tear down the proclamation. But the remembrance of his solemn determination not in future to act rashly, came across him, and he decided to take no steps until he had reported the facts to his master, and taken his counsel thereon. Cuthbert received the news with much indignation. "There is nought that I should like better," he said, "than to try my strength against that of this false traitor. But although I have proved my arm against the Saracens, I think not that it is yet strong enough to cope against a man who, whatsoever be his faults, is said to be a valiant knight. But that would not deter me from attempting the task. It is craftily done on the part of Sir Rudolph. He reckons that if I appear he will kill me; that if I do not appear, I shall be branded as a coward, and my claims brought into disrepute. It may be, too, that it is a mere ruse to discover if I be in the neighbourhood. Some rumours thereof may have reached him, and he has taken this course to determine upon their truth. He has gone too far, and honest men will see in the cartel itself a sign that he misdoubts him that my claims are just; for were I, as he says, a Saxon serf, be sure that he would not condescend to meet me in the lists as he proposes. I trust that the time will come when I may do so. But, at present, I will submit to his insult rather than imperil the success of our plans, and, what is of far greater importance, the safety and happiness of the Lady Margaret, who, did aught befall me, would assuredly fall into his hands." After some thought, however, Cuthbert drew up an answer to the knight's proclamation. He did not in this speak in his own name, but wrote as if the document were the work of Cnut. It was worded as follows: "I, Cnut, a free Saxon and a leader of bowmen under King Richard in the Holy Land, do hereby pronounce and declare the statements of Sir Rudolph, miscalled the Earl of Evesham, to be false and calumnious. The earldom was, as Rudolph well knows, and as can be proved by many nobles and gentlemen of repute who were present with King Richard, granted to Sir Cuthbert, King Richard's true and faithful follower. When the time shall come, Sir Cuthbert will doubtless be ready to prove his rights. But at present right has no force in England, and until the coming of our good King Richard must remain in abeyance. Until then, I support the title of Sir Cuthbert, and do hereby declare Sir Rudolph a false and perjured knight; and warn him that if he falls into my hands it will fare but badly with him, as I know it will fare but badly with me should I come into his." At nightfall the cartel of Sir Rudolph was torn down from the church and that of Cnut affixed in its place. The reading thereof caused great astonishment in Evesham, and the rage of Sir Rudolph, when the news came to his ears, was very great. Cuthbert was sure that this affair would quicken the intentions of Sir Rudolph with regard to the Lady Margaret, and he received confirmation of this in a letter which the abbess sent him, saying that she had received another missive from Sir Rudolph, authoritatively demanding in the king's name the instant surrender of Lady Margaret to him. That night forty archers stole, one by one, quietly into Worcester, entering the town before the gates were shut, and so mingling with the citizens that they were unobserved. When it was quite dark they quietly took their way, one by one, to the square in which stood the convent, and were admitted into the shop of Master Nicholas, the silk mercer. The house was a large one, with its floors overhanging each the one beneath it, as was the custom of the time, and with large casements running the whole width of the house. The mercer had laid by a goodly store of provisions, and for three days the troop, large as it was, was accommodated there. Cuthbert himself was with them, Cnut remaining at the grange with the ten men originally sent there. On the third day Sir Rudolph, with a number of knights and men-at-arms, arrived in the town, giving out that he was passing northwards, but he would abide that night at the hostelry. A great many of his men-at-arms did, as those on the watch observed, enter one by one into the town. The people of Worcester were somewhat surprised at this large accompaniment of the earl, but thought no harm. The Abbess of St. Anne's, however, was greatly terrified, as she feared that some evil design might be intended against her. She was, however, reassured in the evening by a message brought by a boy, to the effect that succour would be near, whatsoever happened. At midnight a sudden uproar was heard in the streets of Worcester. A party of men fell upon the burgesses guarding the gate of the town, disarmed them, and took possession of it. At the same time those who had put up at the hostelry with Sir Rudolph suddenly mounted their horses, and with a great clatter rode down the streets to the Convent of St. Anne. Numbers of men on foot also joined, and some sixty in all suddenly appeared before the great gate of the convent. With a thundering noise they knocked at the door, and upon the grating being opened Sir Rudolph himself told the porteress who looked through it, that she was to go at once to the abbess and order her to surrender the body of the Lady Margaret to him, in accordance with the order of Prince John; adding, that if within the space of five minutes the order was not complied with, he would burst in the gates of the convent and take her for himself. In another minute a casement opened above, and the abbess herself appeared. "Rash man," she said to Sir Rudolph, "I warn you against committing the sin of sacrilege. Neither the orders of Prince John nor of any other potentate can over-ride the rights of the holy church; and should you venture to lay the hand of force upon this convent you will be placed under the anathema of the church, and its spiritual terrors will be directed against you." "I am prepared to risk that, holy mother," Sir Rudolph said, with a laugh. "So long as I am obeying the orders of my prince, I care nought for those of any foreign potentate, be he pope or be he emperor. Three minutes of the time I gave you have elapsed, and unless within two more the Lady Margaret appears at the gate I will batter it down; and you may think yourself lucky if I do not order my men to set light to it and to smoke you out of your hole." The abbess closed the window, and as she did so the long row of casements in the house of Master Nicholas were opened from top to bottom, and a volley of sixty clothyard arrows was poured into the group closely standing round the gate. Many fell, killed outright, and shouts of rage and pain were heard arising. Furious at this unexpected attack, Sir Rudolph turned, and commanded those with him to attack the house whence this volley of missiles had come. But even while he spoke another flight of arrows, even more deadly than the last, was poured forth. One of the knights standing by the side of Sir Rudolph fell, shot through the brain. Very many of the common men, undefended by harness, fell shot through and through; and an arrow piercing the joint of the armour of Sir Rudolph, wounded him in the shoulder. In vain the knight stormed and raged and ordered his men to advance. The suddenness of the attack seemed to his superstitious followers a direct answer from heaven to the words of the abbess. Their number was already seriously lessened, and those who were in case to do so at once took flight and scattered through the city, making for the gate, which had already been seized by Sir Rudolph's men. Finding himself alone with only a few of his knights and principal men-at-arms remaining, while the storm of arrows continued unabated, Sir Rudolph was forced to order his men to retreat, with many fierce threats of the vengeance which he would hereafter take. CHAPTER XXII. A DASTARDLY STRATAGEM. The return of Sir Rudolph's party to Evesham was not unmarked by incident, for as they passed along the road, from an ambush in a wood other archers, whose numbers they could not discover, shot hard upon them, and many fell there who had escaped from the square at Worcester. When the list was called upon the arrival at the castle, it was found that no less than thirty of those who had set out were missing, while many others were grievously wounded. The noise of the tumult in the square of the convent aroused the whole town of Worcester. Alarm bells were rung; and the burgesses, hastily arming themselves, poured into the streets. Directed by the sound, they made their way to the square, and were astonished at finding it entirely deserted, save for some twenty men, lying dead or dying in front of the gate of the convent, pierced with long arrows. They speedily found that Sir Rudolph and his troop had departed; and further inquiry revealed the fact that the burgher guard at one of the gates had been overpowered and were prisoners in the watchroom. These could only say that they were suddenly seized, all being asleep save the one absolutely on guard. They knew nothing more than that a few minutes later there was a great clatter of horsemen and men on foot leaving the city. Unable to find any solution to this singular circumstance, but satisfied that Sir Rudolph had departed, and that no more disturbance was likely to arise that night, the burgesses again betook themselves to their beds, having closed the gates and placed a strong guard over them, determining next morning to sift the affair to the bottom. In the morning the leading burgesses met in council, and finding none who could give them any information, the mayor and two of the councillors repaired to the convent, where they asked for an interview with the lady abbess. Mightily indignant were they at hearing that Sir Rudolph had attempted to break into the convent, and to carry off a boarder residing there. But the abbess herself could give them no further news. She said that after she retired from the window, she heard great shouts and cries, and that almost immediately afterwards the whole of the party in front hastily retired. That Sir Rudolph had been attacked by a party of archers was evident; but whence they had shot, or how they had come upon the spot at the time, or whither they had gone, were mysteries that could not be solved. In the search which the authorities made, however, it was discovered that the house of the draper, Master Nicholas, was closed. Finding that summonses to open were unanswered, the door was broken in, and the premises were found in confusion. No goods of any kind were discovered there, but many bales filled with dried leaves, bark of trees, and other worthless matters. Such goods as had been displayed in the window had clearly been carried away. Searching the house, they found signs that a considerable number of men had been concealed there, and although not knowing whence the body of archers could have come, they concluded that those who defeated the attempt of Sir Rudolph must have been hidden in the draper's house. The singularity of this incident gave rise to great excitement; but the indignation against Sir Rudolph was in no way lessened by the fact that his attempt had been defeated, not by the townsmen themselves, but by some unknown force. After much consultation on the part of the council, it was resolved that a deputation, consisting of the mayor and the five senior councillors, should resort to London, and there demand from the prince redress for the injury put upon their town by Sir Rudolph. These worthy merchants betook themselves to London by easy stages, and upon their arrival there were kept for some days before they could obtain an interview with King John. When they appeared before him and commenced telling their story, the prince fell into sudden rage. "I have heard of this matter before," he said, "and am mightily angry with the people of Worcester, inasmuch as they have dared to interfere to prevent the carrying out of my commands. The Earl of Evesham has written to me, that thinking to scare the abbess of St. Anne's into a compliance with the commands which I had laid upon her, and to secure the delivery of a contumacious ward of the crown, he had pretended to use force, having, however, no idea of carrying his threats into effect. When, as he doubted not, the abbess was on the point of yielding up the ward, the good knight was suddenly set upon by the rascals of the town, who slew some of his companions and followers, and did grievously ill-treat the remainder. This," said the prince, "you now pretend was done by a party of men of whose presence in the town you had no cognizance. Your good sense must be small, if you think that I should believe such a tale as this. It is your rascaldom at Worcester which interfered to prevent my will being carried out, and I have a goodly mind to order the troop of Sir Charles Everest, which is now marching towards Evesham, to sack the town, as a punishment for its rebellion. As, however, I am willing to believe that you and the better class of burgesses were in ignorance of the doings of the rougher kind, I will extend mercy towards the city, and will merely inflict a fine of 3000 golden marks upon it." The mayor attempted humbly to explain and to entreat; but the prince was seized with a sudden passion, and threatened if he said more he would at once cast him and his fellows into durance. Therefore, sadly crestfallen at the result of their mission, the mayor and councillors returned to Worcester, where their report caused great consternation. This was heightened by the fact that upon the following day Sir Charles Everest, with 500 mercenaries of the prince, together with Sir Rudolph and his following, and several other barons favourable to the cause of the prince, were heard to be approaching the town. Worcester was capable of making a stout defence, but seeing that no help was likely to be forthcoming, and fearing the utter ruin of the town should it be taken by storm, the council, after sitting many hours in deliberation, determined to raise the money required to pay the fine inflicted by the prince. The bolder sort were greatly averse to this decision, especially as a letter had been received, signed "Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham," offering, should the townspeople decide to resist the unjust demands of Prince John, to enter the town with 150 archers to take part in its defence. With this force, as the more ardent spirits urged, the defeat of any attempt to carry it by storm would be assured. But the graver men argued that even if defeated for the first time, further attempts would be made, and as it was likely that King Richard would not return for a long time, and that Prince John might become Sovereign of England, sooner or later the town must be taken, and, in any case, its trade would for a long time be destroyed, and great suffering inflicted upon all; therefore, that it was better to pay the fine now than to risk all these evils, and perhaps the infliction of a heavier impost upon them. The abbess was kept informed by friends in the council of the course of the proceedings. She had in the meantime had another interview with Sir Cuthbert, and had determined, seeing that Prince John openly supported the doings of his minion, it would be better to remove the Lady Margaret to some other place, as no one could say how the affair might terminate; and with 500 mercenaries at his back, Sir Rudolph would be so completely master of the city that he would be able in broad daylight, did he choose, to force the gates of the convent and carry off the king's ward. Accordingly, two days before the arrival of the force before the walls of Worcester, Lady Margaret left the convent by a postern gate in the rear, late in the evening. She was attended by two of the sisters, both of whom, as well as herself, were dressed as countrywomen. Mules were in readiness outside the city gates, and here Sir Cuthbert, with an escort of archers, was ready to attend them. They travelled all night, and arrived in the morning at a small convent situated five miles from the city of Hereford. The abbess here was a cousin of the Superior of St. Anne's, and had already consented to receive Lady Margaret. Leaving her at the door, and promising that, as far as possible, he would keep watch over her, and that even in the worst she need never despair, Sir Cuthbert left her and returned to the forest. The band there assembled varied considerably in numbers, for provisions could not be found continually for a large body of men. The forest was indeed very extensive, and the number of deer therein large. Still, for the feeding of 150 men many animals are required and other food. The franklins in the neighbourhood were all hostile to Sir Rudolph, whom they regarded as a cruel tyrant, and did their utmost in the way of supplies for those in the forest. Their resources, however, were limited, and it was found necessary to scatter the force, and for a number of them to take up their residence in places a short distance away, forty only remaining permanently on guard. Sir Rudolph and his friends entered Worcester, and there received with great hauteur the apologies of the mayor and council, and the assurance that the townspeople were in nowise concerned in the attack made upon him. To this he pretended disbelief. The fine demanded was paid, the principal portion in gold, the rest in bills signed by the leading merchants of the place; for after every effort it had been found impossible to collect such a sum within the city. The day after he arrived, he again renewed his demand to the abbess for the surrender of the Lady Margaret; this time, however, coming to her attended only by two squires, and by a pursuivant bearing the king's order for the delivery of the damsel. The abbess met him at the gate, and informed him that the Lady Margaret was no longer in her charge. "Finding," she said, in a fearless tone, "that the holy walls of this convent were insufficient to restrain lawless men, and fearing that these might be tempted to acts of sacrilege, which might bring down upon them the wrath of the church and the destruction of their souls, I have sent her away." "Whither has she gone?" Sir Rudolph demanded, half mad with passion. "That I decline to say," the lady abbess replied. "She is in good hands; and when King Richard returns, his ward shall be delivered to him at once." "Will you take oath upon the Bible that she is not within these walls?" Sir Rudolph exclaimed. "My word is sufficient," the lady abbess replied calmly. "But should it be necessary, I should be ready to swear upon the relics that she is not here." A few hours later Sir Rudolph, attended by his own party and by 100 of Sir Charles Everest's mercenaries, returned to his castle. Three days afterwards, as Cuthbert was sitting at a rude but hearty meal in the forest, surrounded by Cnut and his followers, a hind entered breathless. Cuthbert at once recognized him as one of the servitors of his mother. "What is it?" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Terrible news, Master Cuthbert, terrible news!" exclaimed the man. "The wicked earl came down this morning, with fifty of his men, set fire to the house, and all its buildings and stacks, and has carried off the lady, your mother, a prisoner to the castle, on a charge, as he said, of harbouring traitors." A cry of fury broke from Cnut and his men. "The false traitor shall bitterly regret this outrage," Cuthbert exclaimed. He had in the first excitement seized his arms, and his followers snatched up their bows, as if for instant warfare. A few moments' reflection, however, showed to Cuthbert the impossibility of his attacking a fortress like Evesham, garrisoned by a strong body of well-armed men, with only the archers of the forest, without implements necessary for such an assault. "Send at once, Cnut," he said, "and call in all the band. We cannot take the castle; but we will carry fire and sword round its walls. We will cut off all communication from within or from without. If attacked by large forces, we will retire upon the wood, returning to our posts without the walls as soon as the force is withdrawn. These heavily armed men can move but slowly; while we can run at full speed. There cannot be more than some twenty horsemen in the castle; and methinks with our arrows and pikes we can drive these back if they attempt to fall upon us." Cnut at once sent off swift-footed messengers to carry out Cuthbert's orders, and on the following day the whole of the band were again assembled in the woods. Just as Cuthbert was setting them in motion, a distant blast of a horn was heard. "It is," Cuthbert exclaimed, "the note calling for a parley. Do you, Cnut, go forward, and see what is demanded. It is probably a messenger from Sir Rudolph." After half-an-hour's absence, Cnut returned, bringing with him a pursuivant or herald. The latter advanced at once towards Cuthbert, who, now in his full knightly armour, was evidently the leader of the party. "I bear to you, Sir Cuthbert, falsely calling yourself Earl of Evesham, a message from Sir Rudolph. He bids me tell you that the traitress, Dame Editha, your mother, is in his hands, and that she has been found guilty of aiding and abetting you in your war against Prince John, the Regent of this kingdom. For that offence she has been condemned to die." Here he was interrupted by a cry of rage which broke from the assembled foresters. Continuing unmoved, he said,-- "Sir Rudolph, being unwilling to take the life of a woman, however justly forfeited by the law, commands me to say, that if you will deliver yourself up to him by to-morrow at twelve, the Dame Editha shall be allowed to go free. But that if by the time the dial points to noon you have not delivered yourself up, he will hang her over the battlements of the castle." Cuthbert was very pale, and he waved his hand to restrain the fury which animated the outlaws. "This man," he said to them, "is a herald, and, as such, is protected by all the laws of chivalry. Whatsoever his message, it is none of his. He is merely the mouthpiece of him who sent him." Then, turning to the herald, he said, "Tell the false knight, your master, on my part, that he is a foul ruffian, perjured to all the vows of knighthood; that this act of visiting upon a woman the enmity he bears her son, will bring upon him the execration of all men; and that the offer which he makes me is as foul and villainous as himself. Nevertheless, knowing his character, and believing that he is capable of keeping his word, tell him that by to-morrow at noon I will be there; that the lady, my mother, is to leave the castle gates as I enter them; and that though by his foul device he may encompass my death, yet that the curse of every good man will light upon him, that he will be shunned as the dog he is, and that assuredly heaven will not suffer that deeds so foul should bring with them the prize he seeks to gain." The herald bowed, and, escorted by two archers to the edge of the forest, returned to Evesham Castle. After his departure, an animated council took place. Cnut and the outlaws, burning with indignation, were ready to attempt anything. They would, had Cuthbert given the word, have attacked the castle that very night. But Cuthbert pointed out the absolute impossibility of their carrying so strong a place by such an assault, unprovided with engines for battering down the gates. He said that surprise would be impossible, as the knight would be sure to take every precaution against it; and that in the event of such an attack being attempted, he would possibly carry his threat into execution, and murder Dame Editha before their eyes. Cnut was like a madman, so transported with fury was he; and the archers were also beside themselves. Cuthbert alone retained his calmness. Retiring apart from the others, he paced slowly backwards and forwards among the trees, deliberating upon the best course to be pursued. The archers gathered round the fire and passed the night in long and angry talk, each man agreeing that in the event of their beloved leader being sacrificed by Sir Rudolph, they would one and all give their lives to avenge him by slaying the oppressor whensoever he ventured beyond the castle gates. After a time, Cuthbert called Cnut to him, and the two talked long and earnestly. Cnut returned to his comrades with a face less despairing than that he had before worn, and sent off at once a messenger with all speed to a franklin near the forest to borrow a stout rope some fifty feet in length, and without telling his comrades what the plans of Sir Cuthbert were, bade them cheer up, for that desperate as the position was, all hope was not yet lost. "Sir Cuthbert," he said, "has been in grievous straits before now, and has gone through them. Sir Rudolph does not know the nature of the man with whom he has to deal, and we may trick him yet." At eleven o'clock the next day, from the walls of Evesham Castle a body of archers 150 strong were seen advancing in solid array. "Think you, Sir Rudolph," one of his friends, Sir Hubert of Gloucester, said to him, "that these varlets think of attacking the castle?" "They might as well think of scaling heaven," Sir Rudolph said. "Evesham could resist a month's siege by a force well equipped for the purpose; and were it not that good men are wanted for the king's service, and that these villains shoot straight and hard, I would open the gates of the castle and launch our force against them. We are two to one as strong as they, and our knights and mounted men-at-arms could alone scatter that rabble." Conspicuous upon the battlements a gallows had been erected. The archers stopped at a distance of a few hundred yards from the castle, and Sir Cuthbert advanced alone to the edge of the moat. "Sir Rudolph of Eresby, false knight and perjured gentleman," he shouted in a loud voice, "I, Sir Cuthbert of Evesham, do denounce you as foresworn and dishonoured, and do challenge you to meet me here before the castle in sight of your men and mine, and decide our quarrel as heaven may judge with sword and battle-axe." Sir Rudolph leant over the battlements, and said,-- "It is too late, varlet. I condescended to challenge you before, and you refused. You cannot now claim what you then feared to accept. The sun on the dial approaches noon, and unless you surrender yourself before it reaches the mark, I will keep my word, and the traitress, your mother, shall swing from that beam." Making a sign to two men-at-arms, these brought forward Dame Editha and so placed her on the battlements that she could be seen from below. Dame Editha was still a very fair woman, although nigh forty years had rolled over her head. No sign of fear appeared upon her face, and in a firm voice she cried to her son,-- "Cuthbert, I beg--nay, I order you to retire. If this unknightly lord venture to carry out his foul threats against me, let him do so. England will ring with the dastardly deed, and he will never dare show his face again where Englishmen congregate. Let him do his worst. I am prepared to die." A murmur rose from the knights and men-at-arms standing round Sir Rudolph. Several of his companions had from the first, wild and reckless as they were, protested against Sir Rudolph's course, and it was only upon his solemn assurance that he intended but to frighten Sir Cuthbert into surrender, and had no intention of carrying his threats against the lady into effect, that they had consented to take part in the transaction. Even now, at the fearless words of the Saxon lady several of them hesitated, and Sir Hubert of Gloucester stepped forward to Sir Rudolph. "Sir knight," he said, "you know that I am your true comrade and the faithful servant of Prince John. Yet in faith would I not that my name should be mixed up in so foul a deed. I repent me that I have for a moment consented to it. But the shame shall not hang upon the escutcheon of Hubert of Gloucester that he stood still when such foul means were tried. I pray you, by our long friendship, and for the sake of your own honour as a knight, to desist from this endeavour. If this lady be guilty, as she well may be, of aiding her son in his assaults upon the soldiers of Prince John, then let her be tried, and doubtless the court will confiscate her estates. But let her son be told that her life is in no danger, and that he is free to go, being assured that harm will not come to her." "And if I refuse to consent to allow my enemy, who is now almost within my hand, to escape," Sir Rudolph said, "what then?" "Then," said the knight, "I and my following will at once leave your walls, and will clear ourselves to the brave young knight yonder of all hand in this foul business." A murmur of agreement from several of those standing round showed that their sentiments were in accordance with those of Sir Hubert. "I refuse," said Rudolph passionately. "Go, if you will. I am master of my actions, and of this castle." Without a word, Sir Hubert and two others of the knights present turned, and briefly ordering their men-at-arms to follow them, descended the staircase to the courtyard below. Their horses were brought out, the men fell into rank, and the gates of the castle were thrown open. "Stand to arms!" Sir Cuthbert shouted to the archers. "They are going to attempt a sortie." And hastily he retired to the main body of his men. CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALSE AND PERJURED KNIGHT. As the band of knights and their retainers issued from the gate, a trumpeter blew a parley, and the three knights advanced alone towards the group of archers. "Sir Cuthbert de Lance," Sir Hubert said, "in the name of myself and my two friends here we ask your pardon for having so far taken part in this foul action. We did so believing only that Sir Rudolph intended the capture of your lady mother as a threat. Now that we see he was in earnest, we wash our hands of the business; and could we in any way atone for our conduct in having joined him, we would gladly do so, consistently only with our allegiance to the Prince Regent." Cuthbert bowed courteously. "Thanks for your words, Sir Hubert. I had always heard yourself and the knights here spoken of as brave and gallant gentlemen, whose sole fault was that they chose to take part with a rebel prince, rather than with the King of England. I rejoice that you have cleared your name of so foul a blot as this would have placed upon it, and I acknowledge that your conduct now is knightly and courteous. But I can no more parley. The sun is within a few minutes of twelve, and I must surrender, to meet such fate as may befall me." So saying, with a bow he left them, and again advanced to the castle gate. "Sir Rudolph," he shouted, "the hour is at hand. I call upon you to deliver, outside the gate, the lady, my mother. Whether she wills it or not, I call upon you to place her beyond the gate, and I give you my knightly word that as she leaves it I enter it." Dame Editha would then have attempted resistance; but she saw that it would be useless. With a pale face she descended the steps, accompanied by the men-at-arms. She knew that any entreaty to Sir Rudolph would be vain, and with the courage of her race she mentally vowed to devote the rest of her life to vengeance for her son. As the gate opened and she was thrust forth, for a moment she found herself in the arms of her son. "Courage, mother!" he whispered; "all may yet be well." Cnut was waiting a few paces behind, and offering his hand to Dame Editha, he led her to the group of archers, while Cuthbert, alone, crossed the drawbridge, and entered the portal, the heavy portcullis falling after him. Cnut immediately ordering four of his men to escort Dame Editha to the wood with all speed, advanced with his men towards the walls. All had strung their bows and placed their arrows on the ground in front of them in readiness for instant use. Cnut himself, with two others carrying the rope, advanced to the edge of the moat. None observed their doings, for all within the castle were intent upon the proceedings there. In the courtyard Sir Rudolph had taken his post, with the captain of the mercenaries beside him, and the men-at-arms drawn up in order. He smiled sardonically as Cuthbert entered. "So, at last," he said, "this farce is drawing to an end. You are in my power, and for the means which I have taken to capture you, I will account to the prince. You are a traitor to him; you have attacked and slaughtered many of my friends; you are an outlaw defying the law; and for each of these offences your head is forfeited." "I deny," Cuthbert said, standing before him, "your right to be my judge. By my peers only can I be tried. As a knight of England and as rightful lord of this castle, I demand to be brought before a jury of my equals." "I care nothing for rights or for juries," said Sir Rudolph. "I have the royal order for your execution, and that order I shall put into effect, although all the knights and barons in England objected." Cuthbert looked round to observe the exact position in which he was standing. He knew, of course, every foot of the castle, and saw that but a short distance behind a single row of armed men was the staircase leading to the battlements. "False and perjured knight," he said, taking a step forward, "I may die; but I would rather a thousand deaths than such a life as yours will be when this deed is known in England. But I am not yet dead. For myself, I could pardon you; but for the outrage to my mother--" and with a sudden movement he struck Sir Rudolph in the face with all his strength, with his mailed hand. With the blood gushing from his nostrils, the knight fell backwards, and Sir Cuthbert, with a bound, before the assembly could recover from their astonishment at the deed, burst through the line of men-at-arms, and sprang up the narrow staircase. A score of men-at-arms started in pursuit; but Sir Cuthbert gained the battlements first, and without a moment's hesitation sprang upon them and plunged forward, falling into the moat fifty feet below. Here he would have perished miserably, for in his heavy armour he was of course unable to swim a stroke, and his weight took him at once into the mud of the moat. At its margin, however, Cnut stood awaiting him, with one end of the rope in his hand. In an instant he plunged in, and diving to the bottom, grasped Cuthbert by the body, and twisted the rope round him. The two archers on the bank at once hauled upon it, and in a minute Sir Cuthbert was dragged to the bank. By this time a crowd of men-at-arms appeared upon the battlements. But as they did so the archers opened a storm of arrows upon them, and quickly compelled them to find shelter. Carried by Cnut and the men with him--for he was insensible--Sir Cuthbert was quickly conveyed to the centre of the outlaws, and these at once in a compact body began their retreat to the wood. Cuthbert quickly recovered consciousness, and was soon able to walk. As he did so, the gates of the castle were thrown open, and a crowd of men-at-arms, consisting of the retainers of the castle and the mercenaries of Prince John, sallied forth. So soon as Cuthbert was able to move, the archers started at a brisk run, several of them carrying Cuthbert's casque and sword, and others assisting him to hurry along. The rear ranks turned as they ran and discharged flights of arrows at the enemy, who, more heavily armed and weighted, gained but slowly upon them. Had not Sir Rudolph been stunned by the blow dealt him by Cuthbert, he would himself have headed the pursuit, and in that case the foresters would have had to fight hard to make their retreat to their fastness. The officer in command of the mercenaries, however, had no great stomach for the matter. Men were hard to get, and Prince John would not have been pleased to hear that a number of the men whom he had brought with such expense from foreign parts had been killed in a petty fray. Therefore after following for a short time he called them off, and the archers fell back into the forest. Here they found Dame Editha, and for three days she abode among them, living in a small hut in the centre of the forest. Then she left, to take up her abode, until the troubles were past, with some kin who lived in the south of Gloucestershire. Although the lady abbess had assured Cuthbert that the retreat of Lady Margaret was not likely to be found out, he himself, knowing how great a stake Sir Rudolph had in the matter, was still far from being easy. It would not be difficult for the latter to learn through his agents that the lady superior of the little convent near Hereford was of kin to her of St. Anne's, and, close as a convent is, yet the gossiping of the servants who go to market was certain to let out an affair so important as the arrival of a young lady to reside under the charge of the superior. Cuthbert was not mistaken as to the acuteness of his enemy. The relationship between the two lady superiors was no secret, and after having searched all the farmhouses and granges near the forest, and being convinced that the lady abbess would have sent her charge rather to a religious house than to that of a franklin, Sir Rudolph sought which of those within the circuit of a few miles would be likely to be the one selected. It was not long before he was enabled to fix upon that near Hereford, and spies going to the spot soon found out from the countrypeople that it was a matter of talk that a young lady of rank had been admitted by the superior. Sir Rudolph hesitated whether to go himself at the head of a strong body of men and openly to take her, or to employ some sort of device. It was not that he himself feared the anathema of the church; but he knew Prince John to be weak and vacillating, at one time ready to defy the thunder of the pope, the next cringing before the spiritual authority. He therefore determined to employ some of his men to burst into the convent and carry off the heiress, arranging that he himself, with some of his men-at-arms, should come upon them in the road, and make a feigned rescue of her, so that, if the lady superior laid her complaint before the pope's legate, he could deny that he had any hand in the matter, and could even take credit for having rescued her from the men who had profaned the convent. That his story would be believed mattered but little. It would be impossible to prove its falsity, and this was all that he cared for. This course was followed out. Late one evening, the lady superior was alarmed by a violent knocking at the door. In reply to questions asked through the grill, the answer was given, "We are men of the forest, and we are come to carry the Lady Margaret of Evesham off to a secure hiding-place. The lord of Evesham has discovered her whereabouts, and will be here shortly, and we would fain remove her before he arrives." "From whom have you warrant?" the lady superior said. "I surrender her to no one, save to the lady abbess of St. Anne's. But if you have a written warrant from Sir Cuthbert, the rightful lord of Evesham, I will lay the matter before the Lady Margaret, and will act as it may seem fit to her." "We have no time for parleying," a rough voice said. "Throw open the gate at once, or we will break it down." "Ye be no outlaws," the lady superior said, "for the outlaws are men who fear God and respect the church. Were ye what ye say, ye would be provided with the warrants that I mention. I warn you, therefore, that if you use force, you will be excommunicated, and placed under the ban of the church." The only answer was a thundering assault upon the gate, which soon yielded to the blows. The sisters and novices ran shrieking through the corridors at this rude uproar. The lady superior, however, stood calmly awaiting the giving way of the gate. "Where is the Lady Margaret?" the leader of the party, who were dressed in rough garb, and had the seeming of a band of outlaws, demanded. "I will say nothing," she said, "nor do I own that she is here." "We will soon take means to find out," the man exclaimed. "Unless in five minutes she is delivered to us, we will burn your place to the ground." The lady abbess was insensible to the threat; but the men rushing in, seized some sisters, who, terrified out of their wits by this irruption, at once gave the information demanded, and the men made their way to the cell where the Lady Margaret slept. The girl had at once risen when the tumult commenced, doubting not in her mind that this was another attempt upon the part of her enemy to carry her off. When, therefore, she heard heavy footsteps approaching along the gallery--having already hastily attired herself--she opened the door and presented herself. "If you seek the Lady Margaret of Evesham," she said calmly, "I am she. Do not harm any of the sisters here. I am in your power, and will go with you at once. But I beseech you add not to your other sins that of violence against holy women." The men, abashed by the calm dignity of this young girl, abstained from laying hands upon her, but merely motioned to her to accompany them. Upon their way they met the man who appeared to be their leader, and he, well pleased that the affair was over, led the way to the courtyard. "Farewell, my child," the abbess exclaimed. "God will deliver you from the power of these wicked men. Trust in Him, and keep up your courage. Wickedness will not be permitted to triumph upon the earth; and be assured that the matter shall be brought to the ears of the pope's legate, and of Prince John himself." She could say no more, for the men closing round the weeping girl, hurried her out from the convent. A litter awaited them without, and in this the young lady was placed, and, borne upon the shoulders of four stout men, she started at a fast pace, surrounded closely by the rest of the band. It was a dark night, and the girl could not see the direction in which she was being taken; but she judged from the turn taken upon leaving the convent, that it was towards Evesham. They had proceeded some miles, when a trampling of horses was heard, and a body of armed men rode up. For a moment Lady Margaret's heart gave a leap, for she thought that she had been rescued by her friends. There was a loud and angry altercation, a clashing of swords, and a sound of shouting and cries outside the litter. Then it was placed roughly on the ground, and she heard the sound of the footsteps of her first captors hurrying away. Then the horsemen closed round the litter, and the leader dismounted. "I am happy indeed, Lady Margaret," he said approaching the litter, "to have been able to save you from the power of these villains. Fortunately, word came to me that the outlaws in the forest were about to carry you off, and that they would not hesitate even to desecrate the walls of the convent. Assembling my men-at-arms, I at once rode to your rescue, and am doubly happy to have saved you, first, as a gentleman, secondly, as being the man to whom our gracious prince has assigned you as a wife. I am Sir Rudolph, Earl of Evesham." As from the first the girl had been convinced that she had fallen into the power of her lawless suitor, this came upon her as no surprise. "Whether your story is true, Sir Rudolph," she said, "or not, God knows, and I, a poor weak girl, will not pretend to venture to say. It is between you and your conscience. If, as you say, you have saved me from the power of the outlaws, I demand that, as a knight and a gentleman, you return with me at once to the convent from which I was taken by force." "I cannot do that," Sir Rudolph said. "Fortune has placed you in my hands, and has enabled me to carry out the commands of the prince. Therefore, though I would fain yield to your wishes and so earn your goodwill, which above all things I wish to obtain, yet my duty towards the prince commands me to utilize the advantage which fate has thrown in my hands." "You must do as you will, Sir Rudolph," the girl said with dignity. "I believe not your tale. You sought before, in person, to carry me off, but failed, and you have now employed other means to do so. The tale of your conduct to Dame Editha has reached my ears, and I hold you a foresworn knight and a dishonoured man, and as such I would rather die than become your wife, although as yet I am but a child, and have no need to talk of weddings for years to come." "We need not parley here," the knight said coldly. "We shall have plenty of time when at my castle." The litter was now lifted, placed between two horses, and proceeded rapidly on its journey. Although the hope was but faint, yet until the gates of the castle closed upon them the Lady Margaret still hoped that rescue might reach her. But the secret had been too well kept, and it was not until the following day that the man who had been placed in a cottage near the convent arrived in all haste in the forest, to say that it was only in the morning that he had learnt that the convent had been broken open by men disguised as archers, and the Lady Margaret carried off. Four days elapsed before Sir Rudolph presented himself before the girl he had captured. So fearfully was his face bruised and disfigured by the blow from the mailed hand of Cuthbert three weeks before, that he did not wish to appear before her under such unfavourable circumstances, and the captive passed the day gazing from her casement in one of the rooms in the upper part of the keep, towards the forest whence she hoped rescue would come. Within the forest hot discussions were going on as to the best course to pursue. An open attack was out of the question, especially as upon the day following the arrival there of Lady Margaret, 300 more mercenaries had marched in from Worcester, so that the garrison was now raised to 500 men. "Is there no way," Cnut exclaimed furiously, "by which we might creep into this den, since we cannot burst into it openly?" "There is a way from the castle," Cuthbert said, "for my dear lord told me of it one day when we were riding together in the Holy Land. He said then that it might be that he should never return, and that it were well that I should know of the existence of this passage, which few beside the earl himself knew of. It is approached by a very heavy slab of stone in the great hall. This is bolted down, and as it stands under the great table passes unnoticed, and appears part of the ordinary floor. He told me the method in which, by touching a spring, the bolts were withdrawn and the stone could be raised. Thence a passage a quarter of a mile long leads to the little chapel standing in the hollow, and which, being hidden among the trees, would be unobserved by any party besieging the castle. This of course was contrived in order that the garrison, or any messenger thereof, might make an exit in case of siege." "But if we could escape," Cnut asked, "why not enter by this way?" "The stone is of immense weight and strength," Cuthbert replied, "and could not be loosed from below save with great labour and noise. There are, moreover, several massive doors in the passage, all of which are secured by heavy bolts within. It is therefore out of the question that we could enter the castle by that way. But were we once in, we could easily carry off the lady through this passage." The large force which Sir Rudolph had collected was not intended merely for the defence of the castle, for the knight considered that with his own garrison he could hold it against a force tenfold that which his rival could collect. But he was determined if possible to crush out the outlaws of the forest, for he felt that so long as this formidable body remained under an enterprising leader like Sir Cuthbert, he would never be safe for a moment, and would be a prisoner in his own castle. Cuthbert had foreseen that the attack was likely to be made and had strengthened his band to the utmost. He felt, however, that against so large a force of regularly armed men, although he might oppose a stout resistance and kill many, yet that in the end he must be conquered. Cnut, however, suggested to him a happy idea, which he eagerly grasped. "It would be rare sport," Cnut said, "when this armed force comes out to attack us, if we could turn the tables by slipping in, and taking their castle." "The very thing," Cuthbert exclaimed. "It is likely that he will use the greater portion of his forces, and that he will not keep above fifty or sixty men, at the outside, in the castle. When they sally out we will at first oppose a stout resistance to them in the wood, gradually falling back. Then, at a given signal, all save twenty men shall retire hastily, and sweeping round, make for the castle. Their absence will not be noticed, for in this thick wood it is difficult to tell whether twenty men or two hundred are opposing you among the bushes; and the twenty who remain must shoot thick and fast to make believe that their numbers are great, retiring sometimes, and leading the enemy on into the heart of the wood." "But supposing, Sir Cuthbert, that they should have closed the gates and lifted the drawbridge? We could not gain entrance by storming, even if only twenty men held the walls, until long after the main body would have returned." Cuthbert thought for some time, and then said, "Cnut, you shall undertake this enterprise. You shall fill a cart high with faggots, and in it shall conceal a dozen of your best men. You, dressed as a serf, shall drive the oxen, and when you reach the castle shall say, in answer to the hail of the sentry, that you are bringing in the tribute of wood of your master the franklin of Hopeburn. They will then lower the drawbridge and open the gates; and when you have crossed the bridge and are under the portcullis, spring out suddenly, cut loose the oxen so that they will not draw the cart further in, cut the chains of the drawbridge so that it cannot be drawn off, and hold the gate for a minute or two until we arrive." "The plan is capital," Cnut exclaimed. "We will do the proud Norman yet. How he will storm when he finds us masters of his castle. What then will you do, Sir Cuthbert?" "We can hold the castle for weeks," Cuthbert said, "and every day is in our favour. If we find ourselves forced to yield to superior numbers, we can at last retire through the passage I have spoken of, and must then scatter and each shift for himself until these bad days be past." CHAPTER XXIV THE SIEGE OF EVESHAM CASTLE. Upon the day before starting out to head the expedition against the outlaws, Sir Rudolph sent word to the Lady Margaret that she must prepare to become his wife at the end of the week. He had provided two tiring maids for her by ordering two of the franklins to send in their daughters for that purpose, and these mingled their tears with Margaret's at the situation in which they were placed. She replied firmly to the messenger of the knight that no power on earth could oblige her to marry him. He might drive her to the altar; but though he killed her there, her lips should refuse to say the words which would unite them. The following morning, early, the castle rang with the din of preparation. The great portion of the mercenaries were encamped in tents outside the walls, for, spacious as it was, Evesham could hardly contain 400 men in addition to its usual garrison. The men-at-arms were provided with heavy axes to cut their way through the bushes. Some carried bundles of straw, to fire the wood should it be found practicable to do so; and as it was now summer and the wind was blowing high, Sir Rudolph hoped that the dry grass and bushes would catch, and would do more even than his men-at-arms in clearing the forest of those whom he designated the villains infesting it. They had, too, with them several fierce dogs trained to hunting the deer, and these, the knight hoped, would do good service in tracking the outlaws. He and the knights and the men-at-arms with him were all dismounted, for he felt that horses would in the forest be an encumbrance, and he was determined himself to lead the way to the men-at-arms. When they reached the forest, they were saluted by a shower of arrows; but as all were clad in mail, these at a distance effected but little harm. As they came closer, however, the clothyard arrows began to pierce the coarse and ill-made armour of the foot soldiers, although the finer armour of the knight kept out the shafts which struck against it. Sir Rudolph and his knights leading the way, they entered the forest, and gradually pressed their invisible foe backwards through the trees. The dogs did good service, going on ahead and attacking the archers; but, one by one, they were soon shot, and the assailants left to their own devices. Several attempts were made to fire the wood. But these failed, the fire burning but a short time and then dying out of itself. In addition to the fighting men, Sir Rudolph had impressed into the service all the serfs of his domain, and these, armed with axes, were directed to cut down the trees as the force proceeded, Sir Rudolph declaring that he would not cease until he had levelled the whole forest, though it might take him months to do so. The assailants gained ground steadily, the resistance being less severe than Sir Rudolph had anticipated. Several small huts and clearings in the forest which had been used by the outlaws, and round which small crops had been planted, were destroyed, and all seemed to promise well for the success of the enterprise. It was about two hours after they had left the castle, when a heavy cart filled with faggots was seen approaching its gates. The garrison, who had not the least fear of any attack, paid no attention to it until it reached the edge of the moat. Then the warder, seeing that it contained faggots, lowered the drawbridge without question, raised the portcullis, and opened the gates. "From whom do you bring this wood?" he asked, as the man driving the oxen began to cross the bridge. "From the franklin of Hopeburn." "It is well," said the warder, "for he is in arrear now, and should have sent in the firewood two months since. Take it to the wood-house at the other end of the court." The heavy-waggon crossed the drawbridge, but as it was entering the gate it came suddenly to a stop. With a blow of his ox goad Cnut levelled the warder to the ground, and cutting the cords of the bullocks, drove them into the yard ahead. As he did so the pile of faggots fell asunder, and twelve men armed with bow and pike leaped out. The men-at-arms standing near, lounging in the courtyard, gave a shout of alarm, and the garrison, surprised at this sudden cry, ran to their arms. At first they were completely panic-stricken. But seeing after a time how small was the number of their assailants, they took heart and advanced against them. The passage was narrow, and the twelve men formed a wall across it. Six of them with their pikes advanced, the other six with bent bows standing behind them and delivering their arrows between their heads. The garrison fought stoutly, and although losing many, were pressing the little band backwards. In vain the assistant-warder tried to lower the portcullis, or to close the gates. The former fell on to the top of the waggon, and was there retained. The gates also were barred by the obstacle. The chains of the drawbridge had at once been cut. Cnut encouraged his followers by his shouts, and armed with a heavy axe, did good service upon the assailants. But four of his party had fallen, and the rest were giving way, when a shout was heard, and over the drawbridge poured Cuthbert and 150 of the outlaws of the forest. Struck with terror at this attack, the garrison drew back, and the foresters poured into the yard. For a few minutes there was a fierce fight; but the defenders of the castle, disheartened and taken by surprise, were either cut down or, throwing down their arms, cried for quarter. Ten minutes after the waggon had crossed the drawbridge, the castle was safely in possession of Sir Cuthbert. The bridge was raised, the waggon removed, the portcullis lowered, and to the external eye all remained as before. Cuthbert at once made his way to the chamber where the Lady Margaret was confined, and her joy at her deliverance was great indeed. So unlimited was her faith in Sir Cuthbert that she had never lost confidence; and although it did not seem possible that in the face of such disparity of numbers he could rescue her from the power of Sir Rudolph, yet she had not given up hope. The joy of the farmers' daughters who had been carried off to act as her attendants was little inferior to her own; for once in the power of this reckless baron, the girls had small hopes of ever being allowed to return again to their parents. The flag of Sir Rudolph was thrown down from the keep, and that of the late earl hoisted in its stead; for Cuthbert himself, although he had assumed the cognizance which King Richard had granted him, had not yet any flag or pennon emblazoned with it. No words can portray the stupefaction and rage of Sir Rudolph when a man who had managed to slip unobserved from the castle at the time of its capture, bore the news to him in the forest. All opposition there had ceased, and the whole of the troops were engaged in aiding the peasants in cutting wide roads through the trees across the forest, so as to make it penetrable by horsemen in every direction. It was supposed that the outlaws had gradually stolen away through the thickets and taken to the open country, intending to scatter to their homes, or other distant hiding-places; and the news that they had by a ruse captured the castle, came as a thunderclap. Sir Rudolph's first impulse was to call his men together and to march towards the castle. The drawbridge was up, and the walls bristled with armed men. It was useless to attempt a parley; still more useless to think of attacking the stronghold without the proper machines and appliances. Foaming with rage, Sir Rudolph took possession of a cottage near, camped his men around and prepared for a siege. There were among the mercenaries many men accustomed to the use of engines of war. Many, too, had aided in making them; and these were at once set to work to construct the various machines in use at that time. Before the invention of gunpowder, castles such as those of the English barons were able to defy any attack by an armed force for a long period. Their walls were so thick that even the balistas, casting huge stones, were unable to breach them except after a very long time. The moats which surrounded them were wide and deep, and any attempt at storming by ladders was therefore extremely difficult; and these buildings were consequently more often captured by famine than by other means. Of provisions, as Sir Rudolph knew, there was a considerable supply at present in the castle, for he had collected a large number of bullocks in order to feed the strong body who had been added to the garrison. The granaries, too, were well stored; and with a groan Sir Rudolph thought of the rich stores of French wines which he had collected in his cellars. After much deliberation with the knights with him and the captain of the mercenaries, it was agreed in the first instance to attempt to attack the place by filling up a portion of the moat and ascending by scaling ladders. Huge screens of wood were made, and these were placed on waggons; the waggons themselves were filled with bags of earth, and a large number of men getting beneath them shoved the ponderous machines forward to the edge of the moat. The bags of stones and earth were then thrown in, and the waggons pushed backwards to obtain a fresh supply. This operation was of course an exceedingly slow one, a whole day being occupied with each trip of the waggons. They were not unmolested in their advance, for, from the walls, mangonels and other machines hurled great stones down upon the wooden screens, succeeding sometimes, in spite of their thickness, in crashing through them, killing many of the men beneath. The experiment was also tried of throwing balls of Greek fire down upon the wood; but as this was green and freshly felled it would not take fire, but the flames dropping through, with much boiling pitch and other materials, did grievously burn and scald the soldiers working below it. Upon both sides every device was tried. The cross-bow men among the mercenaries kept up a fire upon the walls to hinder the defenders from interfering with the operations, while the archers above shot steadily, and killed many of those who ventured within range of their bows. After ten days' labour, a portion of the moat some twenty yards in length was filled with bags of earth, and all was ready for the assault. The besiegers had prepared great numbers of strong ladders, and these were brought up under shelter of the screens. Then, all being ready, the trumpets sounded for the assault, and the troops moved forward in a close body, covering themselves with their shields so that no man's head or body was visible, each protecting the one before him with his shield held over him. Thus the body presented the appearance of a great scale-covered animal. In many respects, indeed, the warfare of those days was changed in no way from that of the time of the Romans. In the 1200 years which had elapsed between the siege of Jerusalem and the days of the crusades there had been but little change in arms or armour, and the operations which Titus undertook for the reduction of the Jewish stronghold differed but little from those which a Norman baron employed in besieging his neighbour's castle. Within Evesham Castle all was contentment and merriment during these days. The garrison had no fear whatever of being unable to repel the assault when it should be delivered. Huge stones had been collected in numbers on the walls, cauldrons of pitch, beneath which fires kept simmering, stood there in readiness. Long poles with hooks with which to seize the ladders and cut them down were laid there; and all that precaution and science could do was prepared. Cuthbert passed much of the day, when not required upon the walls, chatting with the Lady Margaret, who, attended by her maidens, sat working in her bower. She had learnt to read from the good nuns of the convent--an accomplishment which was by no means general, even among the daughters of nobles; but books were rare, and Evesham boasted but few manuscripts. Here Margaret learnt in full all the details of Cuthbert's adventures since leaving England, and the fondness with which as a child she had regarded the lad grew gradually into the affection of a woman. The courage of the garrison was high, for although they believed that sooner or later the castle might be carried by the besiegers, they had already been told by Cnut that there was a means of egress unknown to the besiegers, and that when the time came they would be able to escape unharmed. This, while it in no way detracted from their determination to defend the castle to the last, yet rendered their task a far lighter and more agreeable one than it would have been had they seen the gallows standing before them as the end of the siege. As the testudo, as it was called in those days, advanced towards the castle, the machines upon the walls--catapults, mangonels, and arbalasts--poured forth showers of stones and darts upon it, breaking up the array of shields and killing many; and as these openings were made, the archers, seizing their time, poured in volleys of arrows. The mercenaries, however, accustomed to war, advanced steadily, and made good their footing beneath the castle wall, and proceeded to rear their ladders. Here, although free from the action of the machines, they were exposed to the hand missiles, which were scarcely less destructive. In good order, and with firmness, however, they reared the ladders, and mounted to the assault, covering themselves as well as they could with their shields. In vain, however, did they mount. The defenders poured down showers of boiling pitch and oil, which penetrated the crevices of their armour, and caused intolerable torment. Great stones were toppled over from the battlements upon them; and sometimes the ladders, seized by the poles with hooks, were cast backwards, with all upon them, on the throng below. For half-an-hour, encouraged by the shouts of Sir Rudolph and their leaders, the soldiers strove gallantly; but were at last compelled to draw off, having lost nigh 100 men, without one gaining a footing upon the walls. That evening another council of war was held without. Already some large machines for which Sir Rudolph had sent had arrived. In anticipation of the possibility of failure, two castles upon wheels had been prepared, and between these a huge beam with an iron head was hung. This was upon the following day pushed forward on the newly-formed ground across the moat. Upon the upper part of each tower were armed men who worked machines casting sheaves of arrows and other missiles. Below were those who worked the ram. To each side of the beam were attached numerous cords, and with these it was swung backwards and forwards, giving heavy blows each stroke upon the wall. The machines for casting stones, which had arrived, were also brought in play, and day and night these thundered against the walls; while the ram repeated its ceaseless blows upon the same spot, until the stone crumbled before it. Very valiantly did the garrison oppose themselves to these efforts. But each day showed the progress made by the besiegers. Their forces had been increased, Prince John having ordered his captain at Gloucester to send another 100 men to the assistance of Sir Rudolph. Other towers had now been prepared. These were larger than the first, and overtopped the castle walls. From the upper story were drawbridges, so formed as to drop from the structures upon the walls, and thus enable the besiegers to rush upon them. The process was facilitated by the fact that the battlements had been shot away by the great stones, and there was a clear space on which the drawbridges could fall. The attack was made with great vigour; but for a long time the besieged maintained their post, and drove back the assailants as they poured out across the drawbridges on to the wall. At last Cuthbert saw that the forces opposed to him were too numerous to be resisted, and gave orders to his men to fall back upon the inner keep. Making one rush, and clearing the wall of those who had gained a footing, the garrison fell back hastily, and were safely within the massive keep before the enemy had mustered in sufficient numbers upon the wall to interfere with them. The drawbridge was now lowered, and the whole of the assailants gained footing within the castle. They were still far from having achieved a victory. The walls of the keep were massive and strong, and its top far higher than the walls, so that from above a storm of arrows poured down upon all who ventured to show themselves. The keep had no windows low enough down for access to be gained; and those on the floors above were so narrow, and protected by bars, that it seemed by scaling the walls alone could an entry be effected. This was far too desperate an enterprise to be attempted, for the keep rose eighty feet above the courtyard. It was upon the door, solid and studded with iron, that the attempt had to be made. Several efforts were made by Sir Rudolph, who fought with a bravery worthy of a better cause, to assault and batter down the door. Protected by wooden shields from the rain of missiles from above, he and his knights hacked at the door with their battle-axes. But in vain. It had been strengthened by beams behind, and by stones piled up against it. Then fire was tried. Faggots were collected in the forest, and brought; and a huge pile having been heaped against the door, it was lighted. "We could doubtless prolong the siege for some days, Lady Margaret," said Cuthbert, "but the castle is ours; and we wish not, when the time comes that we shall again be masters of it, that it should be a mere heap of ruins. Methinks we have done enough. With but small losses on our side, we have killed great numbers of the enemy, and have held them at bay for a month. Therefore, I think that tonight it will be well for us to leave the place." Lady Margaret was rejoiced at the news that the time for escape had come, for the perpetual clash of war, the rattling of arrows, the ponderous thud of heavy stones, caused a din very alarming to a young girl; and although the room in which she sat, looking into the inner court of the castle, was not exposed to missiles, she trembled at the thought that brave men were being killed, and that at any moment a shot might strike Cuthbert, and so leave her without a friend or protector. Content with having destroyed the door, the assailants made no further effort that evening, but prepared in the morning to attack it, pull down the stones filled behind it, and force their way into the keep. There was, with the exception of the main entrance, but one means of exit, a small postern door behind the castle, and throughout the siege a strong body of troops had been posted here, to prevent the garrison making a sortie. Feeling secure therefore that upon the following day his enemies would fall into his power, Sir Rudolph retired to rest. An hour before midnight the garrison assembled in the hall. The table was removed, and Cuthbert having pressed the spring, which was at a distance from the stone and could not be discovered without a knowledge of its existence, the stone turned aside by means of a counterpoise, and a flight of steps was seen. Torches had been prepared. Cnut and a chosen band went first; Cuthbert followed, with Lady Margaret and her attendants; and the rest of the archers brought up the rear, a trusty man being left in charge at last with orders to swing back the stone into its place, having first hauled the table over the spot, so that their means of escape should be unknown. The passage was long and dreary, the walls were damp with wet, and the massive doors so swollen by moisture that it was with the greatest difficulty they could be opened. At last, however, they emerged into the little friary in the wood. It was deserted, the priest who usually dwelt there having fled when the siege began. The stone which there, as in the castle, concealed the exit, was carefully closed, and the party then emerged into the open air. Here Cuthbert bade adieu to his comrades. Cnut had very anxiously begged to be allowed to accompany him and share his fortunes, and Cuthbert had promised him that if at any time he should again take up arms in England, he would summon him to his side, but that at present as he knew not whither his steps would be turned, it would be better that he should be unattended. The archers had all agreed to scatter far and wide through the country, many of them proceeding to Nottingham and joining the bands in the forest of Sherwood. Cuthbert himself had determined to make his way to the castle of his friend, Sir Baldwin, and to leave the Lady Margaret in his charge. Cnut hurried on at full speed to the house of a franklin, some three miles distant. Here horses were obtained and saddled, and dresses prepared; and when Cuthbert with Lady Margaret arrived there, no time was lost. Dressed as a yeoman, with the Lady Margaret as his sister, he mounted a horse, with her behind him on a pillion. The other damsels also mounted, as it would not have been safe for them to remain near Evesham. They therefore purposed taking refuge in a convent near Gloucester for the present. Bidding a hearty adieu to Cnut, and with thanks to the franklin who had aided them, they set forward on their journey. By morning they had reached the convent, and here the two girls were left, and Cuthbert continued his journey. He left his charge at a convent a day's ride distant from the castle of Sir Baldwin, as he wished to consult the knight first as to the best way of her entering the castle without exciting talk or suspicion. Sir Baldwin received him with joy. He had heard something of his doings, and the news of the siege of Evesham had been noised abroad. He told him that he was in communication with many other barons, and that ere long they hoped to rise against the tyranny of Prince John, but that at present they were powerless, as many, hoping that King Richard would return ere long, shrank from involving the country in a civil war. When Cuthbert told him that the daughter of his old friend was at a convent but a day's ride distant, and that he sought protection for her, Sir Baldwin instantly offered her hospitality. "I will," he said, "send my good wife to fetch her. Some here know your presence, and it would be better therefore that she did not arrive for some days, as her coming will then seem to be unconnected with yourself. My wife and I will, a week hence, give out that we are going to fetch a cousin of my wife's to stay here with her; and when we return no suspicion will be excited that she is other than she seems. Should it be otherwise, I need not say that Sir Baldwin of B�thune will defend his castle against any of the minions of Prince John. But I have no fear that her presence here will be discovered. What think you of doing in the meantime?" "I am thinking," Cuthbert said, "of going east. No news has been obtained of our lord the king save that he is a prisoner in the hands of the emperor; but where confined, or how, we know not. It is my intent to travel to the Tyrol, and to trace his steps from the time that he was captured. Then, when I obtain knowledge of the place where he is kept, I will return, and consult upon the best steps to be taken. My presence in England is now useless. Did the barons raise the standard of King Richard against the prince, I should at once return and join them. But without land or vassals, I can do nothing here, and shall be indeed like a hunted hare, for I know that the false earl will move heaven and earth to capture me." Sir Baldwin approved of the resolution; but recommended Cuthbert to take every precaution not to fall himself into the hands of the emperor; "for," he said, "if we cannot discover the prison of King Richard, I fear that it would be hopeless indeed ever to attempt to find that in which a simple knight is confined." CHAPTER XXV. IN SEARCH OF THE KING. The following day, with many thanks Cuthbert started from the castle, and in the first place visited the convent, and told Lady Margaret that she would be fetched in a few days by Sir Baldwin and his wife. He took a tender adieu of her, not without many forebodings and tears upon her part; but promising blithely that he would return and lead her back in triumph to her castle, he bade adieu and rode for London. He had attired himself as a merchant, and took up his abode at a hostelry near Cheapside. Here he remained quietly for some days, and, mixing among the people, learnt that in London as elsewhere the rapacity of Prince John had rendered him hateful to the people, and that they would gladly embrace any opportunity of freeing themselves from his yoke. He was preparing to leave for France, when the news came to him that Prince John had summoned all the barons faithful to him to meet him near London, and had recalled all his mercenaries from different parts of the country, and was gathering a large army; also, that the barons faithful to King Richard, alarmed by the prospect, had raised the royal standard, and that true men were hurrying to their support. This entirely destroyed the plans that he had formed. Taking horse again, and avoiding the main road, by which he might meet the hostile barons on their way to London, he journeyed down to Nottingham. Thence riding boldly into the forest, he sought the outlaws, and was not long ere he found them. At his request he was at once taken before their leader, a man of great renown both for courage and bowmanship, one Robin Hood. This bold outlaw had long held at defiance the Sheriff of Nottingham, and had routed him and all bodies of troops who had been sent against him. With him Cuthbert found many of his own men; and upon hearing that the royal standard had been raised, Robin Hood at once agreed to march with all his men to join the royal force. Messengers were despatched to summon the rest of the forest band from their hiding places, and a week later Cuthbert, accompanied by Robin Hood and 300 archers, set out for the rendezvous. When they arrived there they found that Sir Baldwin had already joined with his retainers, and was by him most warmly received, and introduced to the other barons in the camp, by whom Cuthbert was welcomed as a brother. The news that Prince John's army was approaching was brought in, a fortnight after Cuthbert had joined the camp, and the army in good order moved out to meet the enemy. The forces were about equal. The battle began by a discharge of arrows; but Robin Hood and his men shot so true and fast that they greatly discomfited the enemy; and King John's mercenaries having but little stomach for the fight, and knowing how unpopular they were in England, and that if defeated small mercy was likely to be shown to them, refused to advance against the ranks of the loyal barons, and falling back declined to join in the fray. Seeing their numbers so weakened by this defection, the barons on the prince's side hesitated, and surrounding the prince advised him to make terms with the barons while there was yet time. Prince John saw that the present was not a favourable time for him, and concealing his fury under a mask of courtesy, he at once acceded to the advice of his followers, and despatched a messenger to the barons with an inquiry as to what they wanted of him. A council was held, and it was determined to demand the dismissal of the mercenaries and their despatch back to their own country; also that John would govern only as his brother's representative; that the laws of the country should be respected; that no taxes should be raised without the assent of the barons; that all men who had taken up arms against his authority should be held free; and that the barons on Prince John's side should return peaceably home and disband their forces. Seeing, under the circumstances, that there was no way before him but to yield to these demands, Prince John accepted the terms. The mercenaries were ordered to march direct to London, and orders were given that ships should be at once prepared to take them across to Normandy, and the barons marched for their homes. Satisfied, now that the mercenaries were gone, that they could henceforth hold their ground against Prince John, the royal barons also broke up their forces. Robin Hood with his foresters returned to Sherwood; and Cuthbert, bidding adieu to Sir Baldwin, rode back to London, determined to carry out the plan which he had formed. He was the more strengthened in this resolution, inasmuch as in the royal camp he had met a friend from whom he parted last in the Holy Land. This was Blondel, the minstrel of King Richard, whose songs and joyous music had often lightened the evening after days of fighting and toil in Palestine. To him Cuthbert confided his intention, and the minstrel instantly offered to accompany him. "I shall," he said, "be of assistance to you. Minstrels are like heralds. They are of no nationality, and can pass free where a man at arms would be closely watched and hindered. Moreover, it may be that I might aid you greatly in discovering the prison of the king. So great is the secrecy with which this has been surrounded, that I question if any inquiries you could make would enable you to trace him. My voice, however, can penetrate into places where we cannot enter. I will take with me my lute, and as we journey I will sing outside the walls of each prison we come to one of the songs which I sang in Palestine. King Richard is himself a singer and knows my songs as well as myself. If I sing a verse of some song which I wrote there and which, therefore, would be known only to him, if he hears it he may follow with the next verse, and so enable us to know of his hiding place." Cuthbert at once saw the advantages which such companionship would bring him, and joyfully accepted the minstrel's offer, agreeing himself to go as serving man to Blondel. The latter accompanied him to London. Here their preparations were soon made, and taking ship in a merchantman bound for the Netherlands, they started without delay upon their adventure. The minstrels and troubadours were at that time a privileged race in Europe, belonging generally to the south of France, although produced in all lands. They travelled over Europe singing the lays which they themselves had composed, and were treated with all honour at the castles where they chose to alight. It would have been considered as foul a deed to use discourtesy to a minstrel as to insult a herald. Their persons were, indeed, regarded as sacred, and the knights and barons strove to gain their good will by hospitality and presents, as a large proportion of their ballads related to deeds of war; and while they would write lays in honour of those who courteously entertained them, they did not hesitate to heap obloquy upon those who received them discourteously, holding them up to the gibes and scoffs of their fellows. In no way, therefore, would success be so likely to attend the mission of those who set out to discover the hiding place of King Richard as under the guise of a minstrel and his attendant. No questions would be asked them; they could halt where they would, in castle or town, secure of hospitality and welcome. Blondel was himself a native of the south of France, singing his songs in the soft language of Languedoc. Cuthbert's Norman French would pass muster anywhere as being that of a native of France; and although when dressed as a servitor attention might be attracted by his bearing, his youth might render it probable that he was of noble family, but that he had entered the service of the minstrel in order to qualify himself some day for following that career. He carried a long staff, a short sword, and at his back the lute or small harp played upon by the troubadour. Blondel's attire was rich, and suitable to a person of high rank. They crossed to the Scheldt, and thence travelled by the right bank of the Rhine as far as Mannheim, sometimes journeying by boat, sometimes on foot. They were also hospitably entertained, and were considered to more than repay their hosts by the songs which Blondel sang. At Mannheim they purchased two horses, and then struck east for Vienna. The journey was not without danger, for a large portion of this part of Europe was under no settled government, each petty baron living in his own castle, and holding but slight allegiance to any feudal lord, making war upon his neighbour on his own account, levying blackmail from travellers, and perpetually at variance with the burghers of the towns. The hills were covered with immense forests, which stretched for many leagues in all directions, and these were infested by wolves, bears, and robbers. The latter, however, although men without pity or religion, yet held the troubadours in high esteem, and the travellers without fear entered the gloomy shades of the forest. They had not gone far when their way was barred by a number of armed men. "I am a minstrel," Blondel said, "and as such doubt not that your courtesy will be extended to me." "Of a surety," the leader said, "the gay science is as much loved and respected in the greenwood as in the castle; and moreover, the purses of those who follow it are too light to offer any temptation to us. We would pray you, however, to accompany us to our leader, who will mightily rejoice to see you, for he loves music, and will gladly be your host so long as you will stay with him." Blondel, without objection, turned his horse's head and accompanied the men, followed by Cuthbert. After half an hour's travelling, they came to a building which had formerly been a shrine, but which was now converted to the robbers' headquarters. The robber chief on hearing from his followers the news that a minstrel had arrived, came forward to meet him, and courteously bade him welcome. "I am Sir Adelbert, of Rotherheim," he said, "although you see me in so poor a plight. My castle and lands have been taken by my neighbour, with whom for generations my family have been at feud. I was in the Holy Land with the emperor, and on my return found that the baron had taken the opportunity of my absence, storming my castle and seizing my lands. In vain I petitioned the emperor to dispossess this traitorous baron of my lands, which by all the laws of Christendom should have been respected during my absence. The emperor did indeed send a letter to the baron to deliver them up to me; but his power here is but nominal, and the baron contemptuously threw the royal proclamation into the fire, and told the messenger that what he had taken by the sword he would hold the sword; and the emperor, having weightier matters on hand than to set troops in motion to redress the grievances of a simple knight, gave the matter no further thought. I have therefore been driven to the forest, where I live as best I may with my followers, most of whom were retainers upon my estate, and some my comrades in the Holy Land. I make war upon the rich and powerful, and beyond that do harm to no man. But, methinks," he continued, "I know your face, gentle sir." "It may well be so, Sir Adelbert," the minstrel said, "for I too was in the Holy Land. I followed the train of King Richard, and mayhap at some of the entertainments given by him you have seen my face. My name is Blondel." "I remember now," the knight said. "It was at Acre that I first saw you, and if I remember rightly you can wield the sword as well as the lute." "One cannot always be playing and singing," Blondel said, "and in lack of amusement I was forced to do my best against the infidel, who indeed would have but little respected my art had I fallen into his hands. The followers of the prophet hold minstrels but in slight reverence." "What is the news of King Richard?" the knight said. "I have heard that he was lost on the voyage homewards." "It is not so," Blondel said. "He landed safely on the coast, and was journeying north with a view of joining his sister at the Court of Saxony, when he was foully seized and imprisoned by the Archduke John." "That were gross shame indeed," the knight said, "and black treachery on the part of Duke John. And where is the noble king imprisoned?" "That," said Blondel, "no man knows. On my journey hither I have gathered that the emperor claimed him from the hand of the Archduke, and that he is imprisoned in one of the royal fortresses; but which, I know not. And indeed, sir knight, since you are well disposed towards him, I may tell you that the purport of my journey is to discover if I can the place of his confinement. He was a kind and noble master, and however long my search may be, I will yet obtain news of him." The knight warmly applauded the troubadour's resolution, and was turning to lead him into his abode, when his eye fell upon Cuthbert. "Methinks I know the face of your attendant as well as your own; though where I can have seen him I know not. Was he with you in the Holy Land?" "Yes," Blondel said, "the youth was also there; and doubtless you may have noticed him, for he is indeed of distinguished and of good family." "Then let him share our repast," the knight said, "if it seems good to you. In these woods there is no rank, and I myself have long dropped my knightly title, and shall not reassume it until I can pay off my score to the Baron of Rotherheim, and take my place again in my castle." The minstrel and Cuthbert were soon seated at the table with the knight and one or two of his principal companions. A huge venison pasty formed the staple of the repast, but hares and other small game were also upon the table. Nor was the generous wine of the country wanting. The knight had several times glanced at Cuthbert, and at last exclaimed, "I have it now. This is no attendant, sir minstrel, but that valiant young knight who so often rode near King Richard in battle. He is, as I guess, your companion in this quest; is it not so?" "It is," Cuthbert replied frankly. "I am like yourself, a disinherited knight, and my history resembles yours. Upon my return to England I found another in possession of the land and titles that belonged to the noble I followed, and which King Richard bestowed upon me. The Earl of Evesham was doubtless known to you, and before his death King Richard, at his request, bestowed upon me as his adopted son--although but a distant connexion--his title and lands and the hand of his daughter. Prince John, who now rules in England, had however granted these things to one of his favourites, and he having taken possession of the land and title, though not, happily, of the lady, closed his door somewhat roughly in my face. I found means, however, to make my mark upon him; but as our quarrel could not be fought out to the end, and as the false knight had the aid of Prince John, I am forced for a while to postpone our settlement, and meeting my good friend the minstrel, agreed to join him in his enterprise to discover our lord the king." The knight warmly grasped Cuthbert's hand. "I am glad," he said, "to meet so true and valiant a knight. I have often wondered at the valour with which you, although so young, bore yourself; and there were tales afloat of strange adventures which you had undergone in captivity for a time among the infidels." At Sir Adelbert's request, Cuthbert related the story of his adventures among the Saracens; and then Blondel, tuning his lute, sang several canzonets which he had composed in the Holy Land, of feats of arms and adventure. "How far are you," Cuthbert asked presently, when Blondel laid his lute aside, "from the estates which were wrongfully wrested from you?" "But twenty leagues," the knight said. "My castle was on the Rhine, between Coblentz and Mannheim." "Does the baron know that you are so near?" Cuthbert asked. "Methinks that he does not," the knight replied, "but that he deems me to have gone to the court of the emperor to seek for redress--which, he guesses, I shall certainly fail to obtain." "How many men have you with you?" Cuthbert asked. "Fifty men, all good and true," the knight said. "Has it never entered your thoughts to attempt a surprise upon his castle?" Cuthbert said. The knight was silent for a minute. "At times," he said at length, "thoughts of so doing have occurred to me; but the castle is strong, and a surprise would be difficult indeed." "If the baron is lulled in security at present," Cuthbert said, "and deems you afar off, the watch is likely to be relaxed, and with a sudden onslaught you might surely obtain possession. Blondel and myself are not pressed for time, and the delay of a few days can make but little difference. If, therefore, you think we could be of assistance to you in such an attempt, my sword, and I am sure that of my friend, would be at your disposal." The knight sat for some time in silence. "Thanks, generous knight," he said at last, "I am sorely tempted to avail myself of your offer; but I fear that the enterprise is hopeless. The aid, however, of your arm and knowledge of war would greatly add to my chances, and if it pleases you we will ride to-morrow to a point where we can obtain a sight of the baron's castle. When you see it, you shall judge yourself how far such an enterprise as you propose is possible." "Is your own castle intact?" Cuthbert asked. "The walls are standing," he said; "but a breach has been made in them, and at present it is wholly deserted." "Do you think," Cuthbert asked, "that if you succeeded in surprising and defeating the garrison of the castle that you could then regain your own, and hold it against your enemy?" "I think that I could," Sir Adelbert said. "The baron's domains are but little larger than my own. Many of my retainers still live upon the estate, and would; I am sure, gladly join me, if I were to raise my flag. The baron, too, is hated by his neighbours, and could I inflict a crushing blow upon him, methinks it would be so long a time before he could assemble a force, that I might regain my castle and put it in an attitude of defence before he could take the field against me." "If," Cuthbert said, "we could surprise the castle, it might well be that the baron would fall into your hands, and in that case you might be able to make your own terms with him. How strong a force is he likely to have in his castle?" "Some fifty or sixty men," the knight replied; "for with such a force he could hold the castle against an attack of ten times their number, and he could in twelve hours call in his retainers, and raise the garrison to 300 or 400 men." Blondel warmly assented to Cuthbert's scheme, and it was settled that at daybreak they should start to view the Castle of Rotherheim. At early dawn they were in the saddle, and the three rode all day, until towards sunset they stood on the crest of a hill looking down into the valley of the Rhine. The present aspect of that valley affords but a slight idea of its beauty in those days. The slopes are now clad with vineyards, which, although picturesque in idea, are really, to look at from a distance, no better than so many turnip fields. The vines are planted in rows and trained to short sticks, and as these rows follow the declivities of the hillside, they are run in all directions, and the whole mountain side, from the river far up, is cut up into little patches of green lines. In those days the mountains were clad with forests, which descended nearly to the river side. Here and there, upon craggy points, were situate the fortalices of the barons. Little villages nestled in the woods, or stood by the river bank, and a fairer scene could not be witnessed in Europe. "That is Rotherheim," the knight said, pointing to a fortress standing on a crag, which rose high above the woods around it; "and that," he said, pointing to another some four miles away, similarly placed, "is my own." Cuthbert examined closely the fortress of Rotherheim. It was a large building, with towers at the angles, and seemed to rise almost abruptly from the edge of the rock. Inside rose the gables and round turrets of the dwelling-place of the baron; and the only access was by a steep winding path on the river side. "It is indeed a strong place," Cuthbert said, "and difficult to take by surprise. A watch no doubt is always kept over the entrance, and there we can hope for no success. The only plan will be to scale the wall by means of a ladder; but how the ladder is to be got to so great a height, I own at present passes my comprehension." After much thought, Cuthbert went on, "It might, methinks, be practicable for an archer to approach the walls, and to shoot an arrow over the angle of the castle so that it would pass inside the turret there, and fall in the forest beyond. If to this arrow were attached a light cord, it could be gained by one on the other side, and a stronger cord hauled over. To this could be attached a rope ladder, and so this could be raised to the top of the wall. If a sentinel were anywhere near he might hear the rope pulled across the battlements; but if as we may hope, a watch is kept only over the entrance, the operation might be performed without attracting notice." The knight was delighted with the project, which seemed perfectly feasible, and it was agreed that the attempt should be made. "It will need," Sir Adelbert said, "an archer with a strong arm indeed to shoot an arrow with a cord attached to it, however light, over the corner of the castle." "Methinks," Cuthbert said, "that I can do that, for as a lad I was used to the strong bows of my country. The first thing, however, will be to obtain such a bow; but doubtless one can be purchased in one of the towns, which, if not so strong as those to which I was accustomed, will at any rate suffice for us." The party bivouacked in the woods for the night, for the horses had already done a very long journey, and needed rest before starting back for the Black Forest. At daybreak, however, they started, and at nightfall rejoined their band. These were delighted when they heard the scheme that had been set on foot, and all avowed their eagerness to join in the attempt to restore their lord to his rights. Two days later they set out, having already procured from the nearest town a strong bow, some arrows, a very light rope, and a stronger one from a portion of which they manufactured a rope ladder capable of reaching from the top of the wall to the rock below. The journey this time occupied two days, as the men on foot were unable to march at the pace at which the mounted party had traversed the ground. The evening of the second day, however, saw them in sight of the castle. By Cuthbert's advice, Sir Adelbert determined to give them twenty-four hours of rest, in order that they might have their full strength for undertaking the task before them. During the day, Cuthbert, guided by the knight, made his way through the woods to the foot of the rocks on which the castle stood. They were extremely steep, but could be mounted by active men if unopposed from above. Cuthbert measured the height with his eye from the top of the castle wall to the place which he selected as most fitting from which to shoot the arrow, and announced to the knight that he thought there would be no difficulty in discharging an arrow over the angle. At nightfall the whole party made their way silently through the woods. Three men were sent round to the side of the castle opposite that from which Cuthbert was to shoot. The length of light string was carefully coiled on the ground, so as to unwind with the greatest facility, and so offer as little resistance to the flight of the arrow as might be. Then, all being in readiness, Cuthbert attached the end to an arrow, and drawing the bow to its full compass, let fly the arrow. All held their breath; but no sound followed the discharge. They were sure, therefore, that the arrow had not struck the wall, but that it must have passed clear over it. Half-an-hour elapsed before they felt that the cord was pulled, and knew that the men upon the other side had succeeded in finding the arrow and string attached. The stronger cord was now fastened to that which the arrow had carried, and this gradually disappeared in the darkness. A party now stole up the rock, and posted themselves at the foot of the castle wall. They took with them the coil of rope-ladder and the end of the rope. At length the rope tightened, and to the end they attached the ladder. This again ascended until the end only remained upon the ground, and they knew that it must have reached the top of the wall. They now held fast, and knew that those on the other side, following the instructions given them, would have fastened the rope to a tree upon the opposite side. They were now joined by the rest of the party, and Sir Adelbert leading the way, and followed by Cuthbert and Blondel, began cautiously to ascend the rope ladder. All this time no sound from the castle proclaimed that their intention was suspected, or that any alarm had been given, and in silence they gained the top of the wall. Here they remained quiet until the whole band were gathered there, and then made their way along until they reached the stairs leading to the courtyard. These they descended, and then, raising his war cry, Sir Adelbert sprang upon the men who, round a fire, were sitting by the gate. These were cut down before they could leap to their feet, and the party then rushed at the entrance to the dwelling-house. The retainers of the castle, aroused by the sudden din, rushed from their sleeping places, but taken completely by surprise, were unable to offer any resistance whatever to the strong force which had, as if by magic, taken possession of the castle. The surprise was complete, and with scarce a blow struck they found themselves in possession. The baron himself was seized as he rose from his bed, and his rage at finding himself in the power of his enemy was so great as for some time to render him speechless. Sir Adelbert briefly dictated to him the conditions upon which only he should desist from using his power to hang him over his own gate. The baron was instantly to issue orders to all his own retainers and tenantry to lend their aid to those of Sir Adelbert in putting the castle of the latter into a state of defence and mending the breach which existed. A sum of money, equal to the revenues of which he had possessed himself, was to be paid at once, and the knight was to retain possession of Rotherheim and of the baron's person until these conditions were all faithfully carried out. The baron had no resource but to assent to these terms, and upon the following day Cuthbert and Blondel departed upon their way, overwhelmed with thanks by Sir Adelbert, and confident that he would now be able to regain and hold the possession of his estate. CHAPTER XXVI. KING RICHARD'S RETURN TO ENGLAND. Journeying onward, Blondel and his companion stopped at many castles, and were everywhere hospitably entertained. Arriving at Vienna they lingered for some time, hoping there to be able to obtain some information of the whereabouts of King Richard. Blondel in his songs artfully introduced allusions to the captive monarch and to the mourning of all Christendom at the imprisonment of its champion. These allusions were always well received, and he found that the great bulk of the nobles of the empire were indignant and ashamed at the conduct of the emperor in imprisoning his illustrious rival. The secret of his prison place, however, appeared to have been so well kept that no information whatever was obtainable. "We must carry out our original plan," he said at length, "and journey into the Tyrol. In one of the fortresses there he is most likely to be confined." Leaving the capital they wandered up into the mountains for weeks, visiting one castle after another. It was no easy matter in all cases to get so near to these prisons as to give a hope that their voice might be heard within, or an answer received without. More than once cross-bow bolts were shot at them from the walls when they did not obey the sentinel's challenge and move further away. Generally, however, it was in the day time that they sang. Wandering carelessly up, they would sit down within earshot of the castle, open their wallets, and take out provisions from their store, and then, having eaten and drunk, Blondel would produce his lute and sing, as if for his own pleasure. It needed, however, four visits to each castle before they could be sure that the captive was not there; for the song had to be sung on each side. Sometimes they would cheat themselves with the thought that they heard an answering voice; but it was not until the end of the fourth week, when singing outside the castle of Diernstein, that a full rich voice, when Blondel ceased, sang out the second stanza of the poem. With difficulty Blondel and Cuthbert restrained themselves from an extravagant exhibition of joy. They knew, however, that men on the prison wall were watching them as they sat singing, and Blondel, with a final strain taken from a ballad of a knight who, having discovered the hiding place of his ladylove, prepared to free her from her oppressors, shouldered his lute, and they started on their homeward journey. There was no delay now. At times they sang indeed at castles; but only when their store was exhausted, for upon these occasions Blondel would be presented with a handsome goblet or other solid token of the owner's approval, and the sale of this at the next city would take them far on their way. They thought it better not to pass through France, as Philip, they knew, was on the watch to prevent any news of King Richard reaching England. They therefore again passed through Brabant, and so by ship to England. Hearing that Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, one of Richard's vicegerents, was over in Normandy, and rightly deeming him the most earnest of his adherents, they at once recrossed the sea, and found the warlike prelate at Rouen. Greatly delighted was he at hearing that Richard's hiding-place had been discovered. He at once sent across the news to England, and ordered it to be published far and wide, and himself announced it to the barons of Normandy. Then with a gorgeous retinue, including Cuthbert and Blondel, he started for Vienna, and arriving there demanded an interview with the emperor. The news that it was now certain that Richard was imprisoned in a castle of the emperor, had already spread through Europe, and the bishop had been received everywhere with tokens of sympathy; and so great was the feeling shown by the counts and barons of the empire, that the Emperor Henry felt that he could no longer refuse to treat for the surrender of his captive. Therefore he granted the interview which Longchamp demanded. The English envoy was received by the emperor surrounded by his nobles. The prelate advanced with great dignity. "I come," he said, "in the name of the people of England to demand the restoration of King Richard, most unjustly and unknightly detained a prisoner in his passage through your dominions." "King Richard was my foe," the emperor said, "open and secret, and I was justified in detaining one who is alike my enemy and a scourge to Europe as a prisoner, when fortune threw him in my hands. I am, however, willing to put him to a ransom, and will upon the payment of 150,000 marks allow him to go free." "I deny your right to detain him or to put him to ransom," the bishop said. "But as you have the power, so my denial is useless. England is poor, impoverished with war and by the efforts which she made in the service of our holy religion. Nevertheless, poor as she is, she will raise the sum you demand. There is not an Englishman who will not furnish all he can afford for the rescue of our king. But once again, in the presence of your nobles, I denounce your conduct as base and unkingly." The emperor could with difficulty restrain his passion; but the sight of the sombre visages of his nobles showed that they shared in no slight degree the feelings which the English envoy had so boldly announced. "Before, however," the emperor said, "I surrender King Richard, he must be tried by my peers of many and various crimes of which he is accused. Should he be found guilty of these, no gold can purchase his release. Should he, however, be acquitted, then as my word is given so shall it be." "Although," the prelate said, "I deny your right to try our king, and believe that he himself will refuse to accept your jurisdiction, yet I fear not the result if our lord be left in the hands of the nobles of the empire and not in yours. I can trust their honour and courtesy." And turning upon his heel, without another word he quitted the apartment. An hour later the bishop and his following took horse and rode with all speed to the north coast, and thence sailed for England. The news of the amount of ransom filled the people with consternation; but preparations were at once made for collecting the sum demanded. Queen Eleanor was unceasing in her efforts to raise the money for the release of her favourite son. The nobles contributed their jewels and silver; the people gave contributions of goods, for money was so scarce in England that few had the wherewithal to pay in coin. Prince John placed every obstacle in the way of the collection; but the barons had since their successful stand obtained the upper hand, and it was by intrigue only that he could hinder the collection. In the meantime, popular opinion throughout Europe was strong upon the side of King Richard. The pope himself wrote to the emperor on his behalf. The barons of the empire were indignant at the shame placed upon their country; and the emperor, although he would fain have thrown further delays in the way, was obliged at last to order the first step to be taken. A solemn diet was ordered to assemble at Worms. Here were collected all the nobles of the empire, and before them King Richard was brought. It was a grand assembly. Upon a raised throne on the dais sat the emperor himself, and beside him and near him were the great feudatories of the empire, and along the sides of the walls were ranged in long rows the lesser barons. When the doors were opened and King Richard entered, the whole assembly, save the emperor, rose in respect to the captive monarch. Although pale from his long confinement, the proud air of Richard was in no way abated, and the eyes that had flashed so fearlessly upon the Saracens looked as sternly down the long lines of the barons of Germany. Of splendid stature and physique, King Richard was unquestionably the finest man of his time. He was handsome, with a frank face, but with a fierce and passionate eye. He wore his moustache with a short beard and closely-cut whisker. His short curly hair was cropped closely to his head, upon which he wore a velvet cap with gold coronet, while a scarlet robe lined with fur fell over his coat of mail, for the emperor had deemed it imprudent to excite the feeling of the assembly in favour of the prisoner by depriving him of the symbols of his rank. King Richard strode to the place prepared for him, and then turning to the assembly he said, in a voice which rang through the hall,-- "Counts and lords of the Empire of Germany, I, Richard, King of England, do deny your right to try me. I am a king, and can only be tried by my peers and by the pope, who is the head of Christendom. I might refuse to plead, refuse to take any part in this assembly, and appeal to the pope, who alone has power to punish kings. But I will waive my rights. I rely upon the honour and probity of the barons of Germany. I have done no man wrong, and would appear as fearlessly before an assembly of peasants as before a gathering of barons. Such faults as I may have, and none are without them, are not such as those with which I am charged. I have slain many men in anger, but none by treachery. When Richard of England strikes, he strikes in the light of day. He leaves poison and treachery to his enemies, and I hurl back with indignation and scorn in the teeth of him who makes them the charges brought against me." So saying King Richard took his seat amidst a murmur of applause from the crowded hall. The trial then commenced. The accusations against Richard were of many kinds. Chief among them was the murder of Conrad of Montferat; but there were charges of having brought the crusade to naught by thwarting the general plans, by his arrogance in refusing to be bound by the decision of the other leaders, and by having made a peace contrary to the interests of the crusaders. The list was a long one; but the evidence adduced was pitiably weak. Beyond the breath of suspicion, no word of real evidence connecting him with the murder of Conrad of Montferat was adduced, and the other charges were supported by no better evidence. Many of the German barons who had been at the crusades themselves came forward to testify to the falsity of these charges, and the fact that Richard had himself placed Conrad of Montferat upon the throne, and had no possible interest in his death, was alone more than sufficient to nullify the vague rumours brought against him. Richard himself in a few scornful words disposed of this accusation. The accusation that he, Richard of England, would stoop to poison a man whom he could have crushed in an instant, was too absurd to be seriously treated. "I am sure," the king said, "that not one person here believes this idle tale. That I did not always agree with the other leaders is true; but I call upon every one here to say whether, had they listened to me and followed my advice, the crusade would not have had another ending. Even after Phillip of France had withdrawn; even after I had been deserted by John of Austria, I led the troops of the crusaders from every danger and every difficulty to within sight of the walls of Jerusalem. Had I been supported with zeal, the holy city would have been ours; but the apathy, the folly, and the weakness of the leaders brought ruin upon the army. They thought not of conquering Jerusalem, but of thwarting me; and I retort upon them the charge of having sacrificed the success of the crusade. As to the terms of peace, how were they made? I, with some fifty knights and 1000 followers alone remained in the Holy Land. Who else, I ask, so circumstanced, could have obtained any terms whatever from Saladin? It was the weight of my arm alone which saved Jaffa and Acre, and the line of seacoast, to the Cross. And had I followed the example set me by him of Austria and the Frenchman, not one foot of the Holy Land would now remain in Christian hands." The trial was soon over, and without a single dissentient the King of England was acquitted of all the charges brought against him. But the money was not yet raised, and King Richard was taken back into the heart of Germany. At length, by prodigious exertions, half the amount claimed was collected, and upon the solicitations of the pope and of the counts of his own empire, the emperor consented to release Richard upon, receipt of this sum and his royal promise that the remainder should be made up. Not as yet, however, were the intrigues at an end. Prince John and King Phillip alike implored the emperor to retain his captive, and offered to him a larger sum than the ransom if he would still hold him in his hands. Popular opinion was, however, too strong. When the news of these negotiations became bruited abroad, the counts of the empire, filled with indignation, protested against this shame and dishonour being brought upon the country. The pope threatened him with excommunication; and at last the emperor, feeling that he would risk his throne did he further insist, was forced to open the prison gates and let the king free. Cuthbert, Blondel, and a few other trusty friends were at hand, and their joy at receiving their long-lost sovereign was indeed intense. Horses had been provided in readiness, and without a moment's delay the king started, for even at the last moment it was feared that the emperor might change his mind. This indeed was the case. The king had not started many hours, when the arrival of fresh messengers from Phillip and John induced the emperor once more to change his intentions, and a body of men were sent in pursuit of the king. The latter fortunately made no stay on the way, but changing horses frequently--for everywhere he was received with honour and attention--he pushed forward for the coast of the North Sea, and arrived there two or three hours only before his oppressors. Fortunately it was night, and taking a boat he embarked without a moment's delay; and when the emissaries of the emperor arrived the boat was already out of sight, and in the darkness pursuit was hopeless. On landing at Dover, the first to present himself before him was Prince John, who, in the most abject terms besought pardon for the injuries he had inflicted. King Richard waved him contemptuously aside. "Go," he said, "and may I forget your injuries as speedily as you will forget my pardon." Then taking horse, he rode on to London, where he was received with the most lively acclamation by his subjects. The first step of King Richard was to dispossess all the minions of John from the castles and lands which had been taken from his faithful adherents. Some of these resisted; but their fortresses were speedily stormed. Sir Rudolph was not one of these. Immediately the news of King Richard's arrival in England reached him, feeling that all was now lost, he rode to the seacoast, took ship, and passed into France, and Cuthbert, on his arrival at Evesham, found himself undisputed lord of the place. He found that the hiding-place of his mother had not been discovered, and, after a short delay to put matters in train, he, attended by a gallant retinue, rode into Wiltshire to the castle of Sir Baldwin of B�thune. Here he found the Lady Margaret safe and sound, and mightily pleased to see him. She was now seventeen, and offered no objections whatever to the commands of King Richard that she should at once bestow her hand upon the Earl of Evesham. By the king's order, the wedding took place at London, the king himself bestowing the bride upon his faithful follower, whom we may now leave to the enjoyment of the fortune and wife he had so valiantly won. THE END. 
6032	----	This eBook was produced by Norm Wolcott. Geoffrey de Villehardouin [b.c.1160-d.c.1213]: Memoirs or Chronicle of The Fourth Crusade and The Conquest of Constantinople Geoffrey de Villehardouin [b.c.1160-d.c.1213]: Memoirs or Chronicle of The Fourth Crusade and The Conquest of Constantinople, trans. Frank T. Marzials, (London: J.M. Dent, 1908) THE FIRST PREACHING OF THE CRUSADE 1 Be it known to you that eleven hundred and ninety-seven years after the Incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ, in the time of Innocent Pope of Rome, and Philip King of France, and Richard King of England, there was in France a holy man named Fulk of Neuilly - which Neuilly is between Lagni-sur-Marne and Paris - and he was a priest and held the cure of the village. And this said Fulk began to speak of God throughout the Isle-de-France, and the other countries round about; and you must know that by him the Lord wrought many miracles. Be it known to you further, that the fame of this holy man so spread, that it reached the Pope of Rome, Innocent*; and the Pope sent to France, and ordered the right worthy man to preach the cross (the Crusade) by his authority. And afterwards the Pope sent a cardinal of his, Master Peter of Capua, who himself had taken the cross, to proclaim the Indulgence of which I now tell you, viz., that all who should take the cross and serve in the host for one year, would be de- [note: Innocent III, elected Pope on the 8th January 1198, at the early age of thirty seven, Innocent III was one of the leading spirits of his time-in every sense a strong man and great Pope. From the beginning of his pontificate he turned his thoughts and policy to the recovery of Jerusalem. ] 2 livered from all the sins they had committed, and acknowledged in confession. And because this indulgence was so great, the hearts of men were much moved, and many took the cross for the greatness of the pardon. OF THOSE WHO TOOK THE CROSS The other year after that right worthy man Fulk had so spoken of God, there was held a tourney in Champagne, at a castle called Ecri, and by God's grace it so happened that Thibaut, Count of Champagne and Brie, took the cross, and the Count Louis of Blois and Chartres likewise; and this was at the beginning of Advent (28th November 1199). Now you must know that this Count Thibaut was but a young man, and not more than twenty-two years of age, and the Count Louis not more than twenty-seven. These two counts were nephews and cousins-german to the King of France, and, on the other part, nephews to the King of England. With these two counts there took the cross two very high and puissant barons of France, Simon of Montfort*, and Renaud of Montmirail. Great was the fame thereof throughout the land when these two high and puissant men took the cross. [note: Simon de Monfort - the same one who later crushed the Albigensians and the father of the "English" Simon de Montfort who defeated the royal army at Lewes and was killed at Evesham in 1265]. In the land of Count Thibaut of Champagne took the cross Garnier, Bishop of Troyes, Count Walter of Brienne, Geoffry of Joinville*, who was seneschal of the land, Robert his brother, Walter of Vignory, Walter of Montbéliard, Eustace of Conflans, Guy of Plessis his brother, Henry of Arzilliéres, Oger of Saint-Chéron, Villain of Neuilly, Geoffry of Villhardouin, Marshal of Champagne, Geoffry his nephew, William of Nully, Walter of Fuligny, Everard of Montigny, Manasses of l'Isle, Macaire of Sainte-Menehould, Miles the Brabant, Guy of Chappes, Clerembaud his nephew, Renaud of Dampierre, John Foisnous, and many other right worthy men whom this book does not here mention by name. [note: Geoffry de Joinville - the father of the chronicler Joinville.] With Count Louis took the cross Gervais of Châtel Hervée his son John of Virsin, Oliver of Rochefort, Henry of Mont- 3 reuil, Payen of Orléans, Peter of Bracietix, Hugh his brother, William of Sains, John of Frialze, Walter of Gaudonville, Hugh of Cormeray, Geoffry his brother, Hervée of Beauvoir, Robert of Frouville, Peter his brother, Orri of l'Isle, Robert of Quartier, and many more whom this book does not here mention by name. In the Isle-de-France took the cross Nevelon, Bishop of Soissons, Matthew of Montmorency, Guy the Castellan of Coucy, his nephew, Robert of Ronsoi, Ferri of Yerres, John his brother, Walter of Saint-Denis, Henry his brother, William of Aunoi, Robert Mauvoisin, Dreux of Crcssonsacq, Bernard of Moreuil, Enguerrand of Boves, Robert his brother, and many more right worthy men with regard to whose names this book is here silent. At the beginning of the following Lent, on the day when folk are marked with ashes (23rd February 1200), the cross was taken at Bruges by Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, and by the Countess Mary his wife, who was sister to the Count Thibaut of Champagne. Afterwards took the cross, Henry his brother, Thierri his nephew, who was the son of Count Philip of Flanders, William the advocate of Béthune, Conon his brother, John of Nê1e Castellan of Bruges, Renier of Trit, Reginald his son, Matthew of Wallincourt, James of Avesnes, Baldwin of Beauvoir, Hugh of Beaumetz, Gérard of Mancicourt, Odo of Ham, William of Gommegnies, Dreux of Beaurain, Roger of Marck, Eustace of Saubruic, Francis of Colemi, Walter of Bousies, Reginald of Mons, Walter of Tombes, Bernard of Somergen, and many more right worthy men in great number, with regard to whom this book does not speak further. Afterwards took the cross, Count Hugh of St. Paul. With him took the cross, Peter of Amiens his nephew, Eustace of Canteleu, Nicholas of Mailly, Anscau of Cayeaux, Guy of Houdain, Walter of Nê1e, Peter his brother, and many other men who are unknown to us. Directly afterwards took the cross Geoffry of Perche, Stephen his brother, Rotrou of Montfort, Ives of La Jaille, Aimery of Villeroi, Geoffry of Beaumont, and many others whose names I do not know. 4 THE CRUSADERS SEND SIX ENVOYS TO VENICE Afterwards the barons held a parliament at Soissons, to settle when they should start, and whither they should wend. But they could come to no agreement, because it did not seem to them that enough people had taken the cross. So during all that year (1200) no two months passed without assemblings in parliament at Compiègne. There met all the counts and barons who had taken the cross. Many were the opinions given and considered; but in the end it was agreed that envoys should be sent, the best that could be found, with full powers, as if they were the lords in person, to settle such matters as needed settlement. Of these envoys, Thibaut, Count of Champagne and Brie, sent two; Baldwin, Count of Flanders and Hainault, two; and Louis, Count of Blois and Chartres, two. The envoys of the Count Thibaut were Geoffry of Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne, and Miles the Brabant; the envoys of Count Baldwin were Conon of Béthune' and Alard Maquereau, and the envoys of Count Louis were John of Friaise, and Walter of Gaudonville. To these six envoys the business in hand was fully committed, all the barons delivering to them valid charters, with seals attached, to the effect that they would undertake to maintain and carry out whatever conventions and agreements the envoys might enter into, in all sea ports, and whithersoever else the envoys might fare. Thus were the six envoys despatched, as you have been told; and they took counsel among themselves, and this was their conclusion: that in Venice they might expect to find a greater number of vessels than in any other port. So they journeyed day by day, till they came thither in the first week of Lent (February 1201). THE ENVOYS ARRIVE IN VENICE, AND PROFFER THEIR REQUEST The Doge of Venice, whose name was Henry Dandolo* and [note: That Henry Dandolo was a very old man is certain, but there is doubt as to his precise age, as also as to the cause of his blindness. According to one account he had been blinded, or all but blinded, by the Greeks, and in a treacherous manner, when sent, at an earlier date, on an embassy to Constaritinople-whence his bitter hostility to the Greek Empire. I agree, however, with Sir Rennell Rodd that, if this had been so, Villehardouin would scarcely have refrained from mentioning such an act of perfidy on the part of the wicked Greeks. (See p. 41 of Vol 1of Sir Rennell Rodd's Princes of Achaia.) It is hardly to be imagined that he would keep the matter dark because, if he mentioned it, people would think Dandolo acted throughout from motives of personal vengeance. This would be to regard Villehardouin a- a very astute controversial historian indeed.] 5 who was very wise and very valiant, did them great honour, both he and the other folk, and entertained them right willingly, marvelling, however, when the envoys had delivered their letters, what might be the matter of import that had brought them to that country. For the letters were letters of credence only, and declared no more than that the bearers were to be accredited as if they were the counts in person, and that the said counts would make good whatever the six envoys should undertake. So the Doge replied: " Signors, I have seen your letters; well do we know that of men uncrowned your lords are the greatest, and they advise us to put faith in what you tell us, and that they will maintain whatsoever you undertake. Now, therefore, speak, and let us know what is your pleasure." And the envoys answered: " Sire, we would that you should assemble your council; and before your council we will declare the wishes of our lords; and let this be tomorrow, if it so pleases you." And the Doge replied asking for respite till the fourth day, when he would assemble his council, so that the envoys might state their requirements. The envoys waited then till the fourth day, as had been appointed them, and entered the palace, which was passing rich and beautiful; and found the Doge and his council in a chamber. There they delivered their message after this manner: " Sire, we come to thee on the part of the high barons of France, who have taken the sign of the cross to avenge the shame done to Jesus Christ, and to reconquer Jerusalem, if so be that God -will suffer it. And because they know that no people have such great power to help them as you and your people, therefore we pray you by God that you take pity on the land overseas and the shame of Christ, and use diligence that our lords 'have ships for transport and battle." " And after what manner should we use diligence? 6 said the Doge. " After all manners that you may advise and propose," rejoined the envoys, " in so far as what you propose may be within our means." " Certes," said the Doge, " it is a great thing that your lords require of us, and well it seems that they have in view a high enterprise. We will give you our answer eight days from to-day. And marvel not if the term be long, for it is meet that so great a matter be fully pondered." CONDITIONS PROPOSED BY THE DOGE When the term appointed by the Doge was ended, the envoys returned to the palace. Many were the words then spoken which I cannot now rehearse. But this was the conclusion of that parliament: " Signors," said the Doge, " we will tell you the conclusions at which we have arrived, if so be that we can induce our great council and the commons of the land to allow of them; and you, on your part, must consult and see if you can accept them and carry them through. " We will build transports* to carry four thousand five hundred horses, and nine thousand squires, and ships for four thousand five hundred knights, and twenty thousand sergeants of foot. And we will agree also to purvey food for these horses and people during nine months. This is what we undertake to do at the least, on condition that you pay us for each horse four marks, and for each man two marks. [note: The old French term is vuissiers, and denotes a kind of vessel, flat-bottomed, with large ports, specially constructed for the transport of horses. T. Smith translates "palanders," but I don't know that " palander" conveys any very clear idea to the English reader.] "And the covenants we are now explaining to you, we undertake to keep, wheresoever we may be, for a year, reckoning from the day on which we sail from the port of Venice in the service of God and of Christendom. Now the sum total of the expenses above named amounts to 85,000 marks. "And this will we do moreover. For the love of God, we will add to the fleet fifty armed galleys on condition that, so long as we act in company, of all conquests in land or money, whether at sea or on dry ground, we shall have the half, and you the other half. Now consult together to see if you, on your parts, can accept and fulfil these covenants." 7 The envoys then departed, and said that they would consult together and give their answer on the morrow. They consulted, and talked together that night, and agreed to accept the terms offered. So the next day they appeared before the Doge, and said: " Sire, we are ready to ratify this covenant." The Doge thereon said he would speak of the matter to his people, and, as he found them affected, so would he let the envoys know the issue. On the morning of the third day, the Doge, who was very wise and valiant, assembled his great council, and the council was of forty men of the wisest that were in the land. And the Doge, by his wisdom and wit, that were very clear and very good, brought them to agreement and approval. Thus he wrought with them; and then with a hundred others, then two hundred, then a thousand, so that at last all consented and approved. Then he assembled well ten thousand of the people in the church of St. Mark, the most beautiful church that there is, and bade them hear a mass of the Holy Ghost, and pray to God for counsel on the request and messages that had been addressed to them. And the people did so right willingly. CONCLUSION OF THE TREATY, AND RETURN OF THE ENVOYS When mass had been said, the Doge desired the envoys to humbly ask the people to assent to the proposed covenant. The envoys came into the church. Curiously were they looked upon by many who had not before had sight of them. Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne, by will and consent of the other envoys, acted as spokesman and said unto them: " Lords, the barons of France, most high and puissant, have sent us to you; and they cry to you for mercy, that you take pity on Jerusalem, which is in bondage to the Turks, and that, for God's sake, you help to avenge the shame of Christ Jesus. And for this end they have elected to come to you, because they know full well that there is none other people having so great power on the seas, as you and your people. And they commanded us to fall at your feet, and not to rise till you consent to take pity on the Holy Land which is beyond the seas." 8 Then the six envoys knelt at the feet of the people, weeping many tears. And the Doge and all the others burst into tears of pity and compassion, and cried with one voice, and lifted up their hands, saying: " We consent, we consent I " Then was there so great a noise and tumult that it seemed as if the earth itself were falling to pieces. And when this great tumult and passion of pity - greater did never any man see-were appeased, the good Doge of Venice, who was very wise and valiant, went up into the reading-desk, and spoke to the people, and said to them: "Signors, behold the honour that God has done you; for the best people in the world have set aside all other people, and chosen you to join them in so high an enterprise as the deliverance of our Lord! All the good and beautiful words that the Doge then spoke, I cannot repeat to you. But the end of the matter was, that the covenants were to be made on the following day; and made they were, and devised accordingly. When they were concluded, it was notified to the council that we should go to Babylon (Cairo), because the Turks could better be destroyed in Babylon than in any other land; but to the folk at large it was only told that we were bound to go overseass. We were then in Lent (March 1201), and by St. john's Day, in the following year-which would be twelve hundred and two years after the Incarnation of Jesus Christ-the barons and pilgrims were to be in Venice, and the ships ready against their coming. When the treaties were duly indited and sealed, they were brought to the Doge in the grand palace, where had been assembled the great and the little council. And when the Doge delivered the treaties to the envoys, he knelt greatly weeping, and swore on holy relics faithfully to observe the conditions thereof, and so did all his council, which numbered fifty-six persons. And the envoys, on their side, swore to observe the treaties, and in all good faith to maintain their oaths and the oaths of their lords; and be it known to you that for great pity many a tear was there shed. And forthwith were messengers sent to Rome, to the Pope Innocent, that he might confirm this covenant-the which he did right willingly. Then did the envoys borrow five thousand marks of silver, and gave them to the Doge so that the building of the ships 9 might be begun. And taking leave to return to their own land, they journeyed day by day till they came to Placentia in Lombardy. There they parted. Geoffry, the Marshal of Champagne and Alard Maquereau went straight to France, and the others went to Genoa and Pisa to learn what help might there be had for the land overseass When Geoffry, the Marshal of Champagne., passed over Mont Cenis, he came in with Walter of Brienne, going into Apulia, to conquer the land of his wife, whom he had married since he took the cross, and who was the daughter of King Tancred. With him went Walter of Montbéliard, and Eustace of Conflans, Robert of Joinville, and a great part of the people of worth in Champagne who had taken the cross. And when he told them the news how the envoys had fared, great was their joy, and much did they prize the arrangements made. And they said, " We are already on our way; and when you come, you will find us ready." But events fall out as God wills, and never had they power to join the host. This was much to our loss; for they were of great prowess and valiant. And thus they parted, and each went on his way. So rode Geoffry the Marshal, day by day, that he came to Troyes in Champagne, and found his lord the Count Thibaut sick and languishing, and right glad was the count of his coming. And when he had told the count how he had fared, the count was so rejoiced that he said he would mount horse, a thing he had not done of a long time. So he rose from his bed and rode forth. But alas, how great the pity! For never again did he bestride horse but that once. His sickness waxed and grew worse, so that at the last he made his will and testament, and divided the money which he would have taken with him on pilgrimage among his followers and companions, of whom he had many that were very good men and true-no one at that time had more. And he ordered that each one, on receiving his money, should swear on holy relics, to join the host at Venice, according as he had promised. Many there were who kept that oath badly, and so incurred great blame. The count ordered that another portion of his treasure should be retained, and taken to the host, and there expended as might seem best. Thus died the count; and no man in this world made a better end. And there were present at that time a very 10 great assemblage of men of his lineage and of his vassals. But of the mourning and funeral pomp it is unmeet that I should here speak. Never was more honour paid to any man. And right well that it was so, for never was man of his age more beloved by his own men, nor by other folk. Buried he was beside his father in the church of our lord St. Stephen at Troyes. He left behind him the Countess, Ws wife, whose name was Blanche, very fair, very good, the daughter of the King of Navarre. She had borne him a little daughter, and was then about to bear a son. THE CRUSADERS LOOK FOR ANOTHER CHIEF When the Count was buried, Matthew of Montmorency, Simon of Montfort, Geoffry of Joinville who was seneschal, and Geoffry the Marshal, went to Odo, Duke of Burgundy, and said to him, " Sire, your cousin is dead. You see what evil has befallen the land overseass We pray you by God that you take the cross, and succour the land overseas in his stead. And we will cause you to have all his treasure, and will swear on holy relics, and make the others swear also, to serve you in all good faith, even as we should have served him." Such was his pleasure that he refused. And be it known to you that he might have done much better. The envoys charged Geoffry of Joinville to make the self-same offer to the Count of Bar-le-Duc, Thibaut, who was cousin to the dead count, and he refused also. Very great was the discomfort of the pilgrims, and of all who were about to go on God's service, at the death of Count Thibaut of Champagne; and they held a parliament, at the beginning, of the month, at Soissons, to determine what they should do. There were present Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, the Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, the Count Geoffry of Perche, the Count Hugh of Saint- Paul, and many other men of worth. Geoffry the Marshal spake to them and told them of the offer made to the Duke of Burgundy, and to the Count of Bar-le-Duc, and how they had refused it. " My lords," said he, " listen, I will advise you of somewhat if you will 11 consent thereto. The Marquis of Montferrat* is very worthy and valiant, and one of the most highly prized of living men. If you asked him to come here, and take the sign of the cross and put himself in place of the Count of Champagne, and you gave him the lordship of the host, full soon would he accept thereof." [note: Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, was one of the most accomplished men of the time, and an approved soldier. His little court at Montferrat was the resort of artist and troubadour. His family was a family of Crusaders. The father, William of Montferrat, had gone overseass and fought valiantly against the infidel. Boniface's eldest brother, William of the Long Sword, married a daughter of the titular King of Jerusalem, and their son became titular king in turn. Another brother, Conrad, starting for the Holy Land, stopped at Constantinople, and did there such good service that the Greek emperor gave his sister to him in marriage; but afterwards fearing the perfidy of his brother-in-law, Conrad fled to Syria, and there battled against Saladin. Yet another brother, Renier, also served in the Greek Empire, married an Emperor's daughter, and received for guerdon of his deeds the kingdom of Salonika. Boniface himself had fought valiantly against Saladin, been made prisoner, and afterwards liberated on exchange. It was no mean and nameless knight that Villehardouin was proposing as chief to the assembled Crusaders, but a princely noble, the patron of poets, verrsed in state affairs, and possessing personal experience of Eastern warfare. I extract these details from M. Bouchet's Notice]. Many were the words spoken for and against; but in the end all agreed, both small and great. So were letters written, and envoys chosen, and the marquis was sent for. And he came, on the day appointed, through Champagne and the Isle-de-France, where he received much honour, and specially from the King of France, who was his cousin. BONIFACE, MARQUIS OF MONTFERRAT, BECOMES CHIEF OF THE CRUSADE - NEW CRUSADERS - DEATH OF GEOFFRY COUNT OF PERCHE So he came to a parliament assembled at Soissons; and the main part of the counts and barons and of the other Crusaders were there assembled. When they heard that the marquis was coming, they went out to meet him, and did him much honour. In the morning the parliament was held in an orchard belonging to the abbey of our Lady of Soissons. There they besought the marquis to do as they had desired of him, and prayed him, for the love of God, to take the cross, and accept the leadership of the host, and stand in the place of Thibaut Count of Champagne, and accept of his money 12 and of his men. And they fell at his feet, with many tears; and he, on his part, fell at their feet, and said he would do it right willingly. Thus did the marquis consent to their prayers, and receive the lordship of the host. Whereupon the Bishop of Soissons, and Master Fulk, the holy man, and two white monks whom the marquis had brought with him from Ws own land, led him into the Church of Notre Dame, and attached the cross to his shoulder. Thus ended this parliament, and the next day he took leave to return to his own land and settle his own affairs-telling them all to settle their own affairs likewise, for that he would meet them at Venice. Thence did the marquis go to attend the Chapter at Citeaux, which is held on Holy Cross Day in September (14th September 1241). There he found a great number of abbots, barons and other people of Burgundy; and Master Fulk went thither to preach the Crusade. And at that place took the cross Odo the Champenois of Champlitte, and William his brother, Richard of Dampierre, Odo his brother, Guy of Pesmes, Edmund his brother, Guy of Conflans, and many other good men of Burgundy, whose names are not recorded. Afterwards took the cross the Bishop of Autun, Guignes Count of Forez, Hugh of Bergi (father and son), Hugh of Colemi. Further on in Provence took the cross Peter Bromont, and many others whose names are unknown to us. Thus did the pilgrims make ready in all lands. Alas! a great mischance befell them in the following Lent (March 1202) before they had started, for the Count Geoffry of Perche fell sick, and made his will in such fashion that he directed that Stephen, his brother, should have his goods, and lead his men in the host. Of this exchange the pilgrims would willingly have been quit, had God so ordered. Thus did the count make an end and die; and much evil ensued, for he was a baron high and honoured, and a good knight. Greatly was he mourned throughout all his lands. FIRST STARTING OF THE PILGRIMS FOR VENICE, AND OF SOME WHO WENT NOT THITHER After Easter and towards Whitsuntide (June 1202) began the pilgrims to leave their own country. And you must know that at their departure many were the tears shed for 13 pity and sorrow, by their own people and by their friends. So they journeyed through Burgundy, and by the mountains of Mont-joux (? Jura) by Mont Cenis, and through Lombardy, and began to assemble at Venice, where they were lodged on an island which is called St. Nicholas in the port. At that time started from Flanders a fleet that carried a great number of good men-at-arms. Of this fleet were captains John of Nêle, Castellan of Bruges, Thierri, who was the son of Count Philip of Flanders, and Nicholas of Mailly. And these promised Count Baldwin, and swore on holy relics, that they would go through the straits of Morocco, and join themselves to him, and to the host of Venice, at whatsoever place they might hear that the count was faring. And for this reason the Count of Flanders and Henry his brother had confided to them certain ships loaded with cloth and food and other wares. Very fair was this fleet, and rich, and great was the reliance that the Count of Flanders and the pilgrims placed upon it, because very many of their good sergeants were journeying therein. But ill did these keep the faith they had sworn to the count, they and others like them, because they and such others of the same sort became fearful of the great perils that the host of Venice had undertaken. Thus did the Bishop of Autun fail us, and Guignes the Count of Forez, and Peter Bromont, and many people besides, who were greatly blamed therein; and of little worth were the exploits they performed there where they did go. And of the French failed us Bernard of Moreuil, Hugh of Chaumont, Henry of Araines, John of Villers, Walter of Saint-Denis, Hugh his brother, and many others, who avoided the passage to Venice because of the danger, and went instead to Marseilles-whereof they received shame, and much were they blamed-and great were the mishaps that afterwards befell them. OF THE PILGRIMS WHO CAME TO VENICE, AND OF THOSE WHO WENT TO APULIA Now let us for this present speak of them no further, but speak of the pilgrims, of whom a great part had already come to Venice. Count Baldwin of Flanders had already arrived there, and many others, and thither were tidings brought to 14 them that many of the pilgrims were travelling by other ways, and from other ports. This troubled them greatly, because they would thus be unable to fulfil the promise made to the Venetians, and find the moneys that were due. So they took counsel together, and agreed to send good envoys to meet the pilgrims, and to meet Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, who had not yet arrived, and to put them in good heart, and beseech them to have pity of the Holy Land beyond the sea, and show them that no other passage, save that from Venice, could be of profit. For this embassy they made choice of Count Hugh of Saint-Paul and Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, and these rode till they came to Pavia in Lombardy. There they found Count Louis with a great many knights and men of note and worth; and by encouragements and prayers prevailed on many to proceed to Venice who would otherwise have fared from other ports, and by other ways. Nevertheless from Placentia many men of note proceeded by other ways to Apulia. Among them were Villain of Neuilly, who was one of the best knights in the world, Henry of Arzilliéres, Renaud of Dampierre, Henry of Longchamp, and Giles of Trasegnies, liegeman to Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, who had given him, out of his own purse, five hundred livres to accompany him on this journey. With these went a great company of knights and sergeants, whose names are not recorded. Thus was the host of those who went by Venice greatly weakened; and much evil befell them therefrom, as you shall shortly hear. THE PILGRIMS LACK MONEY WHEREWITH TO PAY THE VENETIANS Thus did Count Louis and the other barons wend their way to Venice; and they were there received with feasting and joyfully, and took lodging in the Island of St. Nicholas with those who had come before. Goodly was the host, and right worthy were the men. Never did man see goodlier or worthier. And the Venetians held a market, rich and abundant, of all things needful for horses and men. And the fleet they had got ready was so goodly and fine that never did Christian man see one goodlier or finer; as well galleys 15 as transports, and sufficient for at least three times as many men as were in the host. Ah ! the grievous harm and loss when those who should have come thither sailed instead from other ports! Right well if they had kept their tryst, would Christendom have been exalted, and the land of the Turks abased! The Venetians had fulfilled all their undertakings, and above measure, and they now summoned the barons and counts to fulfil theirs and make payment, since they were ready to start. The cost of each man's passage was now levied throughout the host; and there were people enough who said they could not pay for their passage, and the barons took from them such moneys as they had. So each man paid what he could. When the barons had thus claimed the cost of the passages, and when the payments had been collected, the moneys came to less than the sum due-yea, by more than one half. Then the barons met together and said: "Lords, the Venetians have well fulfilled all their undertakings, and above measure. But we cannot fulfil ours in paying for our passages, seeing we are too few in number; and this is the fault of those who have journeyed by other ports. For God's sake therefore let each contribute all that he has, so that we may fulfil our covenant; for better is it that we should give all that we have, than lose what we have already paid, and prove false to our covenants; for if this host remains here, the rescue of the land overseas comes to naught." Great was then the dissension among the main part of the barons and the other folk, and they said: " We have paid for our passages, and if they will take us, we shall go willingly; but if not, we shall inquire and look for other means of passage." And they spoke thus because they wished that the host should fall to pieces and each return to his own land. But the other party said, " Much rather would we give all that we have and go penniless with the host, than that the host should fall to pieces and fail; for God will doubtless repay us when it so pleases Him." Then the Count of Flanders began to give all that he had and all that he could borrow, and so did Count Louis, and the Marquis, and the Count of Saint-Paul, and those who were of their party. Then might you have seen many a fine vessel of gold and silver borne in payment to the palace of the Doge. And when all had been brought together, there 16 was still wanting, of the sum required, 34,000 marks of silver. Then those who had kept back their possessions and not brought them into the common stock, were right glad, for they thought now surely the host must fail and go to pieces. But God, who advises those who have been ill-advised, would not so suffer it. THE CRUSADERS OBTAIN A RESPITE BY PROMISING TO HELP THE VENETIANS AGAINST ZARA Then the Doge spoke to his people, and said unto them: Signors, these people cannot pay more; and in so far as they have paid at all, we have benefited by an agreement which they cannot now fulfil. But our right to keep this money would not everywhere be acknowledged; and if we so kept it we should be greatly blamed, both us and our land. Let us therefore offer them terms. "The King of Hungary has taken from us Zara in Sclavonia, which is one of the strongest places in the world; and never shall we recover it with all the power that we possess, save with the help of these people. Let us therefore ask them to help us to reconquer it, and we will remit the payment of the debt of 34,000 marks of silver, until such time as it shall please God to allow us to gain the moneys by conquest, we and they together." Thus was agreement made. Much was it contested by those who wished that the host should be broken up. Nevertheless the agreement was accepted and ratified. THE DOGE AND A NUMBER OF VENETIANS TAKE THE CROSS Then, on a Sunday, was assemblage held in the church of St. Mark. It was a very high festival, and the people of the land were there, and the most part of the barons and pilgrims. Before the beginning of High Mass, the Doge of Venice, who bore the name of Henry Dandolo, went up into the reading-desk, and spoke to the people, and said to them:" Signors, you are associated with the most worthy people in the world, and for the highest enterprise ever undertaken; and I am a man old and feeble, who should have need of rest, and I am sick in body; but I see that no one could command 17 and lead,you like myself, who am your lord. If you will consent that I take the sign of the cross to guard and direct you, and that my son remain in my place to guard the land, then shall I go to five or die with you and with the pilgrims." And when they had heard him, they cried with one voice: "We pray you by God that you consent, and do it, and that you come with us! " Very great was then the pity and compassion on the part of the people of the land and of the pil-rims; and many were the tears shed, because that worthy 0and good man would have had so much reason to remain behind, for he was an old man, and albeit his eyes were unclouded, yet he saw naught, having lost his sight through a wound in the head. He was of a great heart. Ah! how little like him were those who had gone to other ports to escape the danger. Thus he came down from the reading-desk, and went before the altar, and knelt upon his knees greatly weeping. And they sewed the cross on to a great cotton hat, which he wore, in front, because he wished that all men should see it. And the Venetians began to take the cross in great numbers, a great multitude, for up to that day very few had taken the cross. Our pilgrims had much joy in the cross that the Doge took, and were greatly moved, because of the wisdom and the valour that were in him. Thus did the Doge take the cross, as you have heard. Then the Venetians began to deliver the ships, the galleys, and the transports to the barons, for departure; but so much time had already been spent since the appointed term, that September drew near (1202). MESSAGE OF ALEXIUS, THE SON OF ISAAC, THE DETHRONED EMPEROR OF CONSTANTINOPLE -DEATH OF FULK OF NEUILLY - ARRIVAL OF THE GERMANS Now give ear to one of the greatest marvels, and most wonderful adventures that you have ever heard tell of. At that time there was an emperor in Constantinople, whose name was Isaac, and he had a brothor, Alexius by name, whom he had ransomed from captivity among the Turks. This Alexius took his brother the emperor, tore the eyes out of his head, and made himself emperor by the aforesaid 18 treachery. He kept Isaac a long time in prison, together with a son whose name was Alexius. This son escaped from prison, and fled in a ship to a city on the sea, which is called Ancona. Thence he departed to go to King Philip of Germany, who had his sister for wife; and he came to Verona in Lombardy, and lodged in the town, and found there a number of pilgrims and other people who were on their way to join the host. And those who had helped him to escape, and were with him, said: " Sire, here is an army in Venice, quite near to us, the best and most valiant people and knights that are in the world, and they are going overseass Cry to them therefore for mercy, that they have pity on thee and on thy father, who have been so wrongfully dispossessed. And if they be willing to help thee, thou shalt be guided by them. Perchance they will take pity on thy estate." And Alexius said he would do this right willingly, and that the advice was good. Thus he appointed envoys, and sent them to the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, who was chief of the host, and to the other barons. And when the barons saw them, they marvelled greatly, and said to the envoys: " We understand right well what you tell us. We will send an envoy with the prince to King Philip, whither he is going. If the prince will help to recover the land overseass we will help him to recover his own land, for we know that it has been wrested from him and from his father wrongfully." So were envoys sent into Germany, both to the heir of Constantinople and to King Philip of Germany. Before this happened, of which I have just told you, there came news to the host which greatly saddened the barons and the other folk, viz., that Fulk, the good man, the holy man, who first preached the Crusade, had made an end and was dead. And after this adventure, there came to the host a company of very good and worthy people from the empire of Germany, of whose arrival they of the host were full fain. There came the Bishop of Halberstadt, Count Berthold of Katzenelenbogen, Gamier of Borland, Thierri of Loos, Henry of Orme, Thierri of Diest, Roger of Suitre, Alexander of Villers, Ulric of Tone, and many other good folk, whose names are not recorded in this book. 19 THE CRUSADERS LEAVE VENICE TO BESIEGE ZARA Then were the ships and transports apportioned by the barons. Ah, God I what fine war-horses were put therein. And when the ships were fulfilled with arms and provisions, and knights and sergeants, the shields were ranged round the bulwarks and castles of the ships, and the banners displayed, many and fair. And be it known to you that the vessels carried more than three hundred petraries and mangonels, and all such engines as are needed for the taking of cities, in great plenty. Never did finer fleet sail from any0port. And this was in the octave of the Feast of St. Remigius (October) in the year of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ twelve hundred and two. Thus did they sail from the port of Venice, as you have been told. On the Eve of St. Martin (10th November) they came before Zara in Sclavonia, and beheld the city enclosed by high walls and high towers; and vainly would you have sought for a fairer city, or one of greater strength, or richer. And when the pilgrims saw it, they marvelled greatly, and said one to another, " How could such a city be taken by force, save by the help of God himself? " The first ships that came before the city cast anchor, and waited for the others; and in the morning the day was very fine and very clear, and all the galleys came up with the transports, and the other ships which were behind; and they took the port by force, and broke the chain that defended it and was very strong and well-wrought; and they landed in such sort that the port was between them and the town. Then might you have seen many a knight and many a sergeant swarming out of the ships, and taking from the transports many a good war-horse, and many a rich tent and many a pavilion. Thus did the host encamp. And Zara was besieged on St. Martin's Day (11th November 1202). At this time all the barons had not yet arrived. Thus the Marquis of Montferrat had remained behind for some business that detained him. And Stephen of Perche had remained at Venice sick, and Matthew of Montmorency. When they were healed of their sickness Matthew of Montmorency came to rejoin the host at Zara; but Stephen of Perche dealt less worthily, for he abandoned the host, and 20 went to sojourn in Apulia. With him went Rotrou of Montfort and Ives of la jaille, and many others, who were much blamed therein; and they journeyed to Syria in the following spring.* [note: Literally, "in the passaae of March," i.e. among the pilgrims who periodically started for the (,,y Land in March.] THE INHABITANTS OF ZARA OFFER TO CAPITULATE, AND THEN DRAW BACK - ZARA IS TAKEN On the day following the feast of St. Martin, certain of the people of Zara came forth, and spoke to the Doge of Venice, who was in his pavilion, and said to him that they would yield up the city and all their goods-their lives being spared-to his mercy. And the Doge replied that he would not accept these conditions, nor any conditions, save by consent of the counts and barons, with whom he would go and confer. While he went to confer with the counts and barons, that party, of whom you have already heard, who wished to disperse the host, spoke to the envoys and said, " Why should you surrender your city? The pilgrims will not attack you -have no care of them. If you can defend yourselves against the Venetians, you will be safe enough." And they chose one of themselves, whose name was Robert of Boves, who went to the walls of the city, and spoke the same words. Therefore the envoys returned to the city, and the negotiations were broken off. The Doge of Venice, when he came to the counts and barons, said to them: "Signors, the people who are therein desire to yield the city to my mercy, on condition only that their lives are spared. But I will enter into no agreement with them-neither this nor any other-save with your consent." And the barons answered: " Sire, we advise you to accept these conditions, and we even beg of you so to do." He said he would do so; and they all returned together to the pavilion of the Doge to make the agreement, and found that the envoys had gone away by the advice of those who wished to disperse the host. Then rose the abbot of Vaux, of the order of the Cistercians, and said to them: " Lords, I forbid you, on the part of the Pope of Rome, to attack this city; for those within it 21 are Christians, and you are pilgrims." When the Doge heard this, he was very wroth, and much disturbed, and he said to the counts and barons: "Signors, I had this city, by their own agreement, at my mercy, and your people have broken that agreement; you have covenanted to help me to conquer it, and I summon you to do so." Whereon the counts and barons all spoke at once, together with those who were of their party, and said: " Great is the outrage of those who have caused this agreement to be broken, and never a day has passed that they have not tried to break up the host. Now are we shamed if we do not help to take the city." And they came to the Doge, and said: " Sire, we will help you to take the city in despite of those who would let and hinder us." Thus was the decision taken. The next morning the host encamped before the gates of the city, and set up their petraries and manoonels, and other engines of war, which they had in plenty, and on the side of the sea they raised ladders from the ships. Then they began to throw stones at the walls of the city and at the towers. So did the assault last for about five days. Then were the sappers set to mine one of the towers, and began to sap the wall. When those within the city saw this, they proposed an agreement, such as they had before refused by the advice of those who wished to break up the host. THE CRUSADERS ESTABLISH THEMSELVES IN THE CITYAFFRAY BETWEEN THE VENETIANS AND THE FRANKS Thus did the city surrender to the mercy of the Doge, on condition only that all lives should be spared. Then came the Doge to the counts and barons, and said to them: " Signors, we have taken this city by the grace of God, and your own. It is now winter, and we cannot stir hence till Eastertide; for we should find no market in any other place; and this city is very rich, and well furnished with all supplies. Let us therefore divide it in the midst, and we will take one half, and you the other." As he had spoken, so was it done. The Venetians took the part of the city towards the port, where were the ships, and the Franks took the other part. There were quarters 22 assigned to each, according as was right and convenient. And the host raised the camp, and went to lodge in the city. On the third day after they were all lodged, there befell a great misadventure in the host, at about the hour of vespers; for there began a fray, exceeding fell and fierce, between the Venetians and the Franks, and they ran to arms from all sides. And the fray was so fierce that there were but few streets in which battle did not rage with swords and lances and cross-bows and darts; and many people were killed and wounded. But the Venetians could not abide the combat, and they began to suffer great losses. Then the men of mark, who did not want this evil to befall, came fully armed into the strife, and began to separate the combatants; and when they had separated them in one place, they began again in another. This lasted the better part of the night. Nevertheless with great labour and endurance at last they were separated. And be it known to you that this was the greatest misfortune that ever befell a host, and little did it lack that the host was not lost utterly. But God would not suffer it. Great was the loss on either side. There was slain a high lord of Flanders, whose name was Giles of Landas: he was struck in the eye, and with that stroke he died in the fray; and many another of whom less was spoken. The Doge of Venice and the barons laboured much, during the whole of that week, to appease the fray, and they laboured so effectually that peace was made. God be thanked therefor. ON WHAT CONDITIONS ALEXIUS PROPOSES TO OBTAIN THE HELP OF THE CRUSADERS FOR THE CONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE A fortnight after came to Zara the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, who had not yet joined, and Matthew of Montmorency, and Peter of Bracieux, and many another man of note. And after another fortnight came also the envoys from Germany, sent by King Philip and the heir of Constantinople. Then the barons, and the Doge of Venice assembled in a palace where the Doge was lodged. And the envoys addressed them and said: " Lords, King Philip sends us to you, as does also the brother of the king's wife, the son of the emperor of Constantinople. 23 "`Lords,' says the king, ' I will send you the brother of my wife; and I commit him into the hands of God-may He keep him from death! - and into your hands. And because you have fared forth for God, and for right, and for justice, therefore you are bound, in so far as you are able, to restore to their own inheritance those who have been unrighteously despoiled. And my wife's brother will make with you the best terms ever offered to any people, and give you the most puissant help for the recovery of the land overseass " ' And first, if God grant that you restore him to his inheritance, he will place the whole empire of Roumania in obedience to Rome, from which it has long been separated. Further, he knows that you have spent of your substance, and that you are poor, and he will give you 200,000 marks of silver, and food for all those of the host, both small and great. And he, of his own person, will go with you into the land of Babylon, or, if you hold that that will be better, send thither 10,000 men, at his own charges. And this service he will perform for one year. And all the days of his life he will maintain, at his own charges, five hundred knights in the land overseass to guard that land.' " " Lords, we have full power," said the envoys, " to conclude this agreement, if you are willing to conclude it on your parts. And be it known to you, that so favourable an agreement has never before been offered to any one; and that he that would refuse it can have but small desire of glory and conquest." The barons and the Doge said they would talk this over; and a parliament was called for the morrow. When all were assembled, the matter was laid before them. DISCORD AMONG THE CRUSADERS - OF THOSE WHO ACCEPT THE PROPOSALS OF THE YOUNG ALEXIUS Then arose much debate. The abbot of Vaux, of the order of the Cistercians, spoke, and that party that wished for the dispersal of the host; and they said they would never consent: that it was not to fall on Christians that they had left their homes, and that they would go to Syria. And the other party replied: "Fair lords, in Syria you will be able to do nothing; and that you may right well perceive by considering how those have fared who abandoned us, and 24 sailed from other ports. And be it known to you that it is only by way of Babylon, or of Greece, that the land overseas can be recovered, if so be that it ever is recovered. And if we reject this covenant we shall be shamed to all time." There was discord in the host, as you hear. Nor need you be surprised if there was discord among the laymen, for the white monks of the order of Citeaux were also at issue among themselves in the host. The abbot of Loos, who was a holy man and a man of note, and other abbots who held with him, prayed and besought the people, for pity's sake and the sake of God, to keep the host together, and agree to the proposed convention, in that " it afforded the best means by which the land overseas might be recovered; " while the abbot of Vaux, on the other hand, and those who held with him, preached full oft, and declared that all this was naught, and that the host ought to go to the land of Syria, and there do what they could. Then came the Marquis of Montferrat, and Baldwin Count of Flanders and Hainault, and Count Louis, and Count Hugh of St. Paul, and those who held with them, and they declared that they would enter into the proposed covenant, for that they should be shamed if they refused. So they went to the Doge's hostel, and the envoys were summoned, and the covenant, in such terms as you have already heard, was confirmed by oath, and by charters with seals appended. And the book tells you that only twelve persons took the oaths on the side of the Franks, for more (of sufficient note) could not be found. Among the twelve were first the Marquis of Montferrat, the Count Baldwin of Flanders, the Count Louis of Blois and of Chartres, and the Count of St. Paul, and eight others who held with them. Thus was the agreement made, and the charters prepared, and a term fixed for the arrival of the heir of Constantinople; and the term so Fixed was the fifteenth day after the following Easter. OF THOSE WHO SEPARATED THEMSELVES FROM THE HOST TO GO TO SYRIA, AND OF THE FLEET OF THE COUNT OF FLANDERS Thus did the host sojourn at Zara all that winter (1202-1203) in the face of the King of Hungary. And be it known to you that the hearts of the people were not at peace, for 25 the one party used all efforts to break up the host, and the other to make it hold together. Many of the lesser folk escaped in the vessels of the merchants. In one ship escaped well nigh five hundred, and they were all drowned, and so lost. Another company escaped by land, and thought to pass through Sclavonia; and the peasants of that land fell upon them, and killed many, so that the remainder came back flying to the host. Thus did the host go greatly dwindling day by day. At that time a great lord of the host, who was from Germany, Garnier of Borland by name, so wrought that he escaped in a merchant vessel, and abandoned the host, whereby he incurred great blame. Not long afterwards, a great baron of France, Renaud of Monmirail by name, besought so earnestly, with the countenance of Count Louis, that he was sent to Syria on an embassy in one of the vessels of the fleet; and he swore with his right hand on holy relics, he and all the knights who went with him, that within fifteen days after they had arrived in Syria, and delivered their message, they would return to the host. On this condition he left the host, and with him Hervée of Chitel, his nephew, William the vidame of Chartres, Geoffry of Beaumont, John of Frouville, Peter his brother, and many others. And the oaths that they swore were not kept; for they did not rejoin the host. Then came to the host news that was heard right willingly, viz., that the fleet from Flanders, of which mention has been made above, had arrived at Marseilles. And John of Nêle, Castellan of Bruges, who was captain of that host, and Thierri, who was the son of Count Philip of Flanders, and Nicholas of Mailly, advised the Count of Flanders, their lord, that they would winter at Marseilles, and asked him to let them know what was his will, and said that whatever was his will, that they would do. And he told them, by the advice of the Doge of Venice and the other barons, that they should sail at the end of the following March, and come to meet him at the port of Modon in Roumania. Alas! they acted very evilly, for never did they keep their word, but went to Syria, Where, as they well knew, they would achieve nothing. Now be it known to you, lords, that if God had not loved the host, it could never have held together, seeing how many people wished evil to it! 26 THE CRUSADERS OBTAIN THE POPE'S ABSOLUTION FOR THE CAPTURE OF ZARA Then the barons spoke together and said that they would send to Rome, to the Pope, because he had taken the capture of Zara in evil part. And they chose as envoys such as they knew were fitted for this office, two knights, and two clerks. Of the two clerks one was Nevelon, Bishop of Soissons, and the other Master John of Noyon, who was chancellor to Count Baldwin of Flanders; and of the knights one was John of Friaize, the other Robert of Boves. These swore on holy relics that they would perform their embassy loyally and in good faith, and that they would come back to the host. Three kept their oath right well, and the fourth evilly, and this one was Robert of Boves. For he executed his office as badly as he could, and perjured himself, and went away to Syria as others had done. But the remaining three executed their office right well, and delivered their message as the barons had directed, and said to the Pope: " The barons cry mercy to you for the capture of Zara, for they acted as people who could do no better, owing to the default of those who had gone to other ports, and because, had they not acted as they did, they could not have held the host together. And as to this they refer themselves to you, as to their good Father, that you should tell them what are your commands, which they are ready to perform." And the Pope said to the envoys that he knew full well that it was through the default of others that the host had been impelled to do this great mischief, and that he had them in great pity. And then he notified to the barons and pilgrims that he sent them his blessing, and absolved them as his sons, and commanded and besought them to hold the host together, inasmuch as he well knew that without that host God's service could not be done. And he gave full powers to Nevelon, Bishop of Soissons, and Master John of Noyon, to bind and to unloose the pilgrims until the cardinal joined the host. 27 DEPARTURE OF THE CRUSADERS FOR CORFU - ARRIVAL OF THE YOUNG ALEXIUS - CAPTURE OF DURAS So much time had passed that it was now Lent, and the host prepared their fleet to sail at Easter. When the ships were laden on the day after Easter (7th April 1203), the pilgrims encamped by the port, and the Venetians destroyed the city, and the walls and the towers. Then there befell an adventure which weighed heavily upon the host; for one of the great barons of the host, by name Simon of Montfort, had made private covenant with the King of Hungary, who was at enmity with those of the host, and went to him, abandoning the host. With him went Guy of Montfort his brother, Simon of Nauphle and Robert Mauvoisin, and Dreux of Cressonsacq, and the abbot of Vaux, who was a monk of the order of the Cistercians, and many others. And not long after another great lord of the host, called Enguerrand of Boves, joined the King of Hungary, together with Hugh, Enguerrand's brother, and such of the other people of their country as they could lead away. These left the host, as you have just heard; and this was a great misfortune to the host, and to such as left it a great disgrace. Then the ships and transports began to depart; and it was settled that they should take port at Corfu, an island of Roumania, and that the first to arrive should wait for the last; and so it was done. Before the Doge, the Marquis, and the galleys left Zara, Alexius, the son of the Emperor Isaac of Constantinople, had arrived together. He was sent by the King Philip of Germany, and received with great joy and great honour; and the Doge gave Mm as many galleys and ships as he required. So they left the port of Zara, and had a fair wind, and sailed onwards till they took port at Duras. And those of the land, when they saw their lord, yielded up the city right willingly and sware fealty to Mm. And. they departed thence and came to Corfu, and found there the host encamped before the city; and those of the host had spread their tents and pavilions, and taken the horses out of the transports for ease and refreshment. When they heard that the son of the Emperor of Constantinople 28 had arrived in the port, then might you have seen many a good knight and many a good sergeant leading many a good war-horse and going to meet him. Thus they received him with very great joy, and much high honour. And he had his tent pitched in the midst of the host; and quite near was pitched the tent of the Marquis of Montferrat, to whose ward he had been commended by King Philip, who had his sister to wife. HOW THE CHIEFS OF THE CRUSADERS HELD BACK THOSE WHO WANTED TO ABANDON THE HOST The host sojourned thus for three weeks in that island, which was very rich and plenteous. And while they sojoumed, there happened a misadventure fell and grievous. For a great part of those who wished to break up the host, and had aforetime been hostile to it, spoke together and said that the adventure to be undertaken seemed very long and very perilous, and that they, for their part, would remain in the island, suffering the host to depart, and that-when the host had so departed-they would, through the people of Corfu, send to Count Walter of Brienne, who then held Brandis, so that he might send ships to take them thither. I cannot tell you the names of all those who wrought in this matter, but I will name some among the most notable of the chiefs, viz., Odo of Champlitte, of Champagne, James of Avesnes, Peter of Amiens, Guy the Castellan of Coucy, Oger of Saint-Chéron, Guy of Chappes and Clerembaud his nephew, William of Aunoi, Peter Coiseau, Guy of Pesmes and Edmund his brother, Guy of Conflans, Richard of Dampierre, Odo his brother, and many more who had promised privily to be of their party, but who dared not for shame openly so to avow themselves; in such sort that the book testifies that more than half the host were in this mind. And when the Marquis of Montferrat heard thereof, and Count Baldwin of Flanders, and Count Louis, and the Count of St. Paul, and the barons who held with them, they were greatly troubled, and said: " Lords, we are in evil case. If these people depart from us, after so many who have departed from us aforetime, our host is doomed, and we shall make no conquests. Let us then go to them, and fall at their feet, and cry to them for mercy, and for God's sake to have compas- 29 sion upon themselves and upon us, and not to dishonour themselves, and ravish from us the deliverance of the land overseass Thus did the council decide; and they went, all together, to a valley where those of the other part were holding their parliament; and they took with them the son of the Emperor of Constantinople, and all the bishops and all the abbots of the host. And when they had come to the place they dismounted and went forward, and the barons fell at the feet of those of the other part, greatly weeping, and said they would not stir till those of the other part had promised not to depart from them. And when those of the other part saw this, they were filled with very great compassion; and they wept very bitterly at seeing their lords, and their kinsmen, and their friends, thus lying at their feet. So they said they would consult together, and drew somewhat apart, and there communed. And the sum of their communing was this: that they would remain with the host till Michaelmas, on condition that the other part would swear, loyally, on holy relics, that from that day and thenceforward, at whatever hour they might be summoned to do so, they would in all good faith, and without guile, within fifteen days, furnish ships wherein the non-contents might betake themselves to Syria. Thus was covenant made and sworn to; and then was there great joy throughout all the host. And all gat themselves to the ships, and the horses were put into the transports. DEPARTURE FROM CORFU-CAPTURE OF ANDROS AND ABYDOS Then did they sail from the port of Corfu on the eve of Pentecost (24th May), which was twelve hundred and three years after the Incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ. And there were all the ships assembled, and all the transports, and all the galleys of the host, and many other ships of merchants that fared with them. And the day was fine and clear, and the wind soft and favourable, and they unfurled all their sails to the breeze. And Geoffry, the Marshal of Champagne, who dictates this work, and has never lied therein by one word to his know- 30 ledge, and who was moreover present at all the councils held -he bears witness that never was yet seen so fair a sight. And well might it appear that such a fleet would conquer and gain lands, for, far as the eye could reach, there was no space without sails, and ships, and vessels, so that the hearts of men rejoiced greatly. Thus they sailed over the sea till they came to Malea, to straits that are by the sea. And there they met two ships with pilgrims, and knights and sergeants returning from Syria, and they were of the parties that had gone to Syria by Marseilles. And when these saw our fleet so rich and well appointed, they conceived such shame that they dared not show themselves. And Count Baldwin of Flanders sent a boat from Ws ship to ask what people they were; and they said who they were. And a sergeant let himself down from his ship into the boat, and said to those in the ship, " I cry quits to you for any goods of mine that may remain in the ship, for I am going with these people, for well I deem that they will conquer lands. "Much did we make of the sergeant, and gladly was he received in the host. For well may it be said, that even after following a thousand crooked ways a man may find his way right in the end. The host fared forward till it came to Nigra (Negropont). Nigra is a very fair island, and there is on it a very good city called Negropont. Here the barons took council. Then went forward the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, and Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, with a great part of the transports and galleys, taking with them the son of the Emperor Isaac of Constantinople; and they came to an island called Andros, and there landed. The knights took their arms, and over-rode the country; and the people of the land came to crave mercy of the son of the Emperor of Constantinople, and gave so much of their goods that they made peace with Wm. Then they returned to the ships, and sailed over the sea; when a great mishap befell, for a great lord of the host, whose name was Guy, Castellan of Coucy, died, and was cast into the sea. The other ships, which had not sailed thitherward, had entered the passage of Abydos, and it is there that the straits of St. George (the Dardanelles) open into the great 31 sea. And they sailed up the straits to a city called Abydos, which lies on the straits of St. George, towards Turkey, and is very fair, and well situate. There they took port and landed, and those of the city came to meet them, and surrendered the city, as men without stomach to defend themselves. And such guard was established that those of the city lost not one stiver current. They sojoumed there eight days to wait for the ships transports and galleys that had not yet come up. And while they thus sojourned, they took corn from the land, for it was the season of harvest, and great was their need thereof, for before they had but little. And within those eight days all the ships and barons had come up. God gave them fair weather. ARRIVAL AT ST. STEPHEN - DELIBERATION AS TO PLAN OF ATTACK All started from the port of Abydos together. Then might you have seen the Straits of St. George (as it were) in flower with ships and galleys sailing upwards, and the beauty thereof was a great marvel to behold. Thus they sailed up the Straits of St. George till they came, on St. John the Baptist's Eve, in June (23rd June 1203) to St. Stephen, an abbey that lay three leagues from Constantinople. There had those on board the ships and galleys and transports full sight of Constantinople; and they took port and anchored their vessels. Now you may know that those who had never before seen Constantinople looked upon it very earnestly, for they never thought there could be in all the world so rich a city; and they marked the high walls and strong towers that enclosed it round about, and the rich palaces, and mighty churches of which there were so many that no one would have believed it who had not seen it with his eyes-and the height and the length of that city which above all others was sovereign. And be it known to you, that no man there was of such hardihood but his flesh trembled: and it was no wonder, for never was so great an enterprise undertaken by any people since the creation of the world. Then landed the counts and barons and the Doge of Venice, and a parliament was held in the church of St. - 32 Stephen. There were many opinions set forth, this way and that. All the words then spoken shall not be recorded in this book; but in the end the Doge rose on his feet and said: "Signors, I know the state of this land better than you do, for I have been here erewhile. We have undertaken the greatest enterprise, and the most perilous, that ever people have undertaken. Therefore it behoves us to go to work warily. Be it known to you that if we go on dry ground, the land is great and large, and our people are poor and ill-provided. Thus they will disperse to look for food; and the people of the land are in great multitude, and we cannot keep such good watch but that some of ours will be lost. Nor are we in case to lose any, for our people are but few indeed for the work in hand. "Now there are islands close by which you can see from here, and these are inhabited, and produce corn, and food, and other things. Let us take port there, and gather the corn and provisions of the land. And when we have collected our supplies, let us go before the city, and do as our Lord shall provide. For he that has supplies, wages war with more certainty than he that has none. "To this counsel the lords and barons agreed, and all went back to their ships and vessels. THE CRUSADERS LAND AT CHALCEDON AND SCUTARI They rested thus that night. And in the morning, on the day of the feast of our Lord St. John the Baptist in June (24th June 1203), the banners and pennants were flown on the castles of the ships, and the coverings taken from the shields, and the bulwarks of the ships garnished. Every one looked to his antis, such as he should use, for well each man knew that full soon he would have need of them. The sailors weighed the anchors, and spread the sails to the wind, and God gave them a good wind, such as was convenient to them. Thus they passed before Constantinople, and so near to the walls and towers that we shot at many of their vessels. There were so many people on the walls and towers that it seemed as if there could be no more people (in the world). Then did God our Lord set to naught the counsel of the day before, and keep us from sailing to the islands: that counsel 33 fell to naught as if none had ever heard thereof. For lo, our ships made for the mainland as straight as ever they could, and took port before a palace of the Emperor Alexius, at a place called Chalcedon. This was in face of Constantinople, on the other side of the straits,. towards Turkey. The palace was one of the most beautiful and delectable that ever eyes could see, with every delight therein that the heart of man could desire, and convenient for the house of a prince. The counts and barons landed and lodged themselves in the palace; and in the city round about, the main part pitched their tents. Then were the horses taken out of the transports, and the knights and sergeants got to land with all their arms, so that none remained in the ships save the mariners only. The country was fair, and rich) and well supplied with all good things, and the sheaves of corn (which had been reaped) were in the fields, so that all-and they stood in no small need-might take thereof. Thev soioumed thus in that palace the following day; and on the third day God gave them a good wind, and the mariners raised their anchors, and spread their sails to the wind. They went thus up the straits, a good league above Constantinople, to a palace that belonged to the Emperor Alexius, and was called Scutari. There the ships anchored, and the transports, and all the galleys. The horsemen who had lodged in the palace of Chalcedon went along the shore by land. The host of the French encamped thus on the straits of St. George, at Scutari, and above it. And when the Emperor Alexius saw this, he caused his host to issue from Constantinople, and encamp over against us on the other side of the straits, and there pitched his tents, so that we might not take land against him by force. The host of the French sojourned thus for nine days, and those obtained supplies who needed them, and that was every one in the host. THE FORAGERS DEFEAT THE GREEKS During this time, a company of good and trustworthy men issued (from the camp) to guard the host, for fear it should be attacked, and the foragers searched the country. In the said company were Odo of Champlitte, of Champagne, and William his brother, and Oger of Saint-Chéron, and 34 Manasses of l'Isle, and Count Girard, a count of Lombardy, a retainer of the Marquis of Montferrat; and they had with them at least eighty knights who were good men and true. And they espied, at the foot of a mountain, some three leagues distant from the host, certain tents belonging to the Grand Duke of the Emperor of Constantinople, who had with him at least five hundred Greek knights. When our people saw them, they formed their men into four battalions, and decided to attack. And when the Greeks saw this, they formed their battalions, and arrayed themselves in rank before their tents, and waited. And our people went forward and fell upon them right vigorously. By the help of God our Lord, this fight lasted but a little while, and the Greeks turned their backs. They were discomfited at the first onset, and our people pursued them for a full great league. There they won plenty of horses and stallions, and palfreys, and mules, and tents and pavilions, and such spoil as is usual in such case. So they returned to the host, where they were right well received, and their spoils were divided, as was fit. MESSAGE OF THE EMPEROR ALEXIUS-REPLY OF THE CRUSADERS The next day after, the Emperor Alexius sent an envoy with letters to the counts and to the barons. This envoy was called Nicholas Roux, and he was a native of Lombardy. He found the barons in the rich palace of Scutari, where they were holding council and he saluted them on the part of the Emperor Alexius of Constantinople, and tendered his letters to the Marquis of Montferrat-who received them. And the letters were read before all the barons; and there were in them words, written after various manners, which the book does not (here) relate, and at the end of the other words so written, came words of credit, accrediting the bearer of the letters, whose name was Nicholas Roux. "Fair Sir," said the barons, "we have seen your letters, and they tell us that we are to give credit to what you say, and we credit you right well. Now speak as it pleases you." And the envoy was standing before the barons, and spoke thus: "Lords," said he, "the Emperor Alexius would have you know that he is well aware that you are the best people 35 uncrowned, and come from the best land on earth. And he marvels much why, and for what purpose, you have come into his land and kingdom. For you are Christians, and he is a Christian, and well he knows that you are on your way to deliver the Holy Land overseass and the Holy Cross, and the Sepulchre. If you are poor and in want, he will right willmgly give you of his food and substance, provided you depart out of his land. Neither would he otherwise wish to do you any hurt, though he has full power therein, seeing that if you were twenty times as numerous as you are, you would not be able to get away without utter discomfiture if so be that he wished to harm you." By agreement and desire of the other barons, and of the Doge of Venice, then rose to his feet Conon of Béthune, who was a good knight, and wise, and very eloquent, and he replied to the envoy: " Fair Sir, you have told us that your lord marvels much why our signors and barons should have entered into Ms kingdom and land. Into his land they have not entered, for he holds this land wrongfully and wickedly, and against God and against reason. It belongs to Ws nephew, who sits upon a throne among us, and is the son of his brother, the Emperor Isaac. But if he is willing to throw himself on the mercy of his nephew, and to give Mm back his crown and empire, then we will pray his nephew to forgive him, and bestow upon him as much as will enable him to live wealthily. And if you come not as the bearer of such a message, then be not so bold as to come here again." So the envoy departed and went back to Constantinople, to the Emperor Alexius. THE CRUSADERS SHOW THE YOUNG ALEXIUS TO THE PEOPLE OF CONSTANTINOPLE, AND PREPARE FOR THE BATTLE The barons consulted together on the morrow, and said that they would show the young Alexius, the son of the Emperor of Constantinople, to the people of the city. So they assembled all the galleys. The Doge of Venice and the Marquis of Montferrat entered into one, and took with them Alexius, the son of the Emperor Isaac; and into the other galleys entered the knights and barons, as many as would. They went thus quite close to the walls of Constantinople and showed the youth to the people of the Greeks, and said, 36 "Behold your natural lord; and be it known to you that we have not come to do you harm, but have come to guard and defend you, if so be that you return to your duty. For he whom you now obey as your lord holds rule by wrong and wickedness, against God and reason. And you know full well that he has dealt treasonably with him who is your lord and his brother, that he has blinded his eyes and reft from him his empire by wrong and wickedness. Now behold the rightful heir. If you hold with him, you will be doing as you ought; and if not we will do to you the very worst that we can." But for fear and terror of the Emperor Alexius, not one person on the land or in the city made show as if he held for the prince. So all went back to the host, and each sought his quarters. On the morrow, when they had heard mass, they assembled in parliament, and the parliament was held on horseback in the midst of the fields. There might you have seen many a fine war-horse, and many a good knight thereon. And the council was held to discuss the order of the battalions, how many they should have, and of what strength. Many were the words said on one side and the other. But in the end it was settled that the advanced guard should be given to Baldwin of Flanders, because he had a very great number of good men, and archers and crossbowmen, more than any other chief that was in the host. And after, it was settled that Henry his brother, and Matthew of Wallincourt, and Baldwin of Beauvoir, and many other good knights of their land and country, should form the second division. The third division was formed by Count Hugh of St. Paul, Peter of Amiens his nephew, Eustace of Canteleu, Anseau of Cayeux, and many good knights of their land and country. The fourth division was formed by Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, and was very numerous and rich and redoubtable; for he had placed therein a great number of good knights and men of worth. The fifth division was formed by Matthew of Montmorency and the men of Champagne. Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne formed part of it, and Oger of Saint-Chéron, Manasses of l'Isle, Miles the Brabant, Macaire of Sainte-Menehould, John Foisnous, Guy of Chappes, Clerembaud his nephew, Robert of Ronsoi; all these people formed part of the fifth 37 division. Be it known to you that there was many a good knight therein. The sixth division was formed by the people of Burgundy. In this division were Odo the Champenois of Champlitte, William his brother, Guy of Pesmes, Edmund his brother, Otho of la Roche, Richard of Dampierre, Odo his brother, Guy of Conflans, and the people of their land and country. The seventh division, which was very large, was under the command of the Marquis of Montferrat. In it were the Lombards and Tuscans and the Germans, and all the people who were from beyond Mont Cenis to Lyons on the Rhone. All these formed part of the division under the marquis, and it was settled that they should form the rearguard. THE CRUSADERS SEIZE THE PORT The day was fixed on which the host should embark on the ships and transports to take the land by force, and either live or die. And be it known to you that the enterprise to be achieved was one of the most redoubtable ever attempted. Then did the bishops and clergy speak to the people, and tell them how they must confess, and make each one his testament, seeing that no one knew what might be the will of God concerning him. And this was done right willingly throughout the host, and very piously. The term fixed was now come; and the knights went on board the transports with their war-horses; and they were fully armed, with their helmets laced, and the horses covered with their housings, and saddled. All the other folk, who were of less consequence in battle, were on the great ships; and the galleys were fully armed and made ready. The morning was fair a little after the rising of the sun; and the Emperor Alexius stood waiting for them on the other side, with great forces, and everything in order. And the trumpets sound, and every galley takes a transport in tow, so as to reach the other side more readily. None ask who shall go first, but each makes the land as soon as he can. The knights issue from the transports, and leap into the sea up to their waists, fully armed, with helmets laced, and lances in hand; and the good archers, and the good sergeants, and the good crossbowmen, each in his company, land so soon as they touch ground. 38 The Greeks made a goodly show of resistance; but when it came to the lowering of the lances, they turned their backs, and went away flying, and abandoned the shore. And be it known to you that never was port more proudly taken. Then began the mariners to open the ports of the transports, and let down the bridges, and take out the horses; and the knights began to mount, and they began to marshal the divisions of the host in due order. CAPTURE OF THE TOWER OF GALATA Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, with the advanced guard, rode forward, and the other divisions of the host after him, each in due order of march; and they came to where the Emperor Alexius had been encamped. But he had turned back towards Constantinople, and left his tents and pavilions standing. And there our people had much spoil. Our barons were minded to encamp by the port before the tower of Galata, where the chain was fixed that closed the port of Constantinople. And be it known to you, that any one must perforce pass that chain before he could enter into the port. Well did our barons then perceive that if they did not take the tower, and break the chain, they were but as dead men, and in very evil case. So they lodged that night before the tower, and in the Jewry that is called Stenon, where there was a good city, and very rich. Well did they keep guard during the night; and on the morrow, at the hour of tierce, those who were in the tower of Galata made a sortie, and those who were in Constantinople came to their help in barges; and our people ran to arms. There came first to the onset James of Avesnes and his men on foot; and be it known to you that he was fiercely charged, and wounded by a lance in the face, and in peril of death. And one of his knights, whose name was Nicholas of Jenlain, gat to horse, and came to his lord's rescue, and succoured him right well, and so won great honour. Then a cry was raised in the host, and our people ran together from all sides, and drove back the foe with great fury, so that many were slain and taken. And some of them did not go back to the tower, but ran to the barges by which they had come, and there many were drowned, and some escaped. 39 As to those who went back to the tower, the men of our host pressed them so hard that they could not shut the gate. Then a terrible fight began again at the gate, and our people took it by force, and made prisoners of all those in the tower. Many were there killed and taken. ATTACK ON THE CITY BY LAND AND SEA So was the tower of Galata taken, and the port of Constantinople won by force. Much were those of the host comforted thereby, and much did they praise the Lord God; and greatly were those of the city discomforted. And on the next day, the ships, the vessels, the galleys and the transports were drawn into the port. Then did those of the host take council together to settle what thing they should do, and whether they should attack the city by sea or by land. The Venetians were firmly minded that the scaling ladders ought to be planted on the ships, and all the attack made from the side by the sea. The French, on the other hand, said that they did not know so well how to help themselves on sea as on land, but that when they had their horses and their arms they could help themselves on land right well. So in the end it was devised that the Venetians should attack by sea, and the barons and those of the host by land. They sojourned thus for four days. On the fifth day, the whole host were armed, and the divisions advanced on horseback, each in the order appointed, along the harbour, till they came to the palace of Blachernae; and the ships drew inside the harbour till they came over against the self-same place, and this was near to the end of the harbour. And there is at that place a river that flows into the sea, and can only be passed by a bridge of stone. The Greeks had broken down the bridge, and the barons caused the host to labour all that day and all that night in repairing the bridge. Thus was the bridge repaired, and in the morning the divisions were armed, and rode one after the other in the order appointed, and came before the city. And no one came out from the city against them; and this was a great marvel, seeing that for every man that was in the host there were over two hundred men in the city. Then did the barons decide that they should quarter them- 40 selves between the palace of Blachernae and the castle of Boemond, which was an abbey enclosed with walls. So the tents and pavilions were pitched-which was a right proud thing to look upon; for of Constantinople, which had three leagues of front towards the land, the whole host could attack no more than one of the gates. And the Venetians lay on the sea, in ships and vessels, and raised their ladders, and mangonels, and petraries, and made order for their assault right well. And the barons for their part made ready their petraries and mangonels on land. And be it known to you that they did not have their time in peace and quiet; for there passed no hour of the night or day but one of the divisions had to stand armed before the gate, to guard the engines, and provide against attack. And, notwithstanding all this, the Greeks ceased not to attack them, by this gate and by others, and held them so short that six or seven times a day the whole host was forced to run to arms. Nor could they forage for provisions more than four bow-shots' distance from the camp. And their stores were but scanty, save of flour and bacon, and of those they had a little; and of fresh meat none at all, save what they got from the horses that were killed. And be it known to you that there was only food generally in the host for three weeks. Thus were they in very perilous case, for never did so few people besiege so many people in any city. FIRST INCIDENTS OF THE ASSAULT Then did they bethink themselves of a very good device; for they enclosed the whole camp with good lists, and good palisades, and good barriers, and were thus far stronger and much more secure. The Greeks meanwhile came on to the attack so frequently that they gave them no rest, and those of the host drove them back with great force; and every time that the Greeks issued forth they lost heavily. One day the Burgundians were on guard, and the Greeks made an attack upon them, with part of the best forces that they had. And the Burgundians ran upon the Greeks and drove them in very fiercely, and followed so close to the gate that stones of great weight were hurled upon them. There was taken one of the best Greeks of the city, whose name was Constantine Lascaris; William of Neuilly took him all 41 mounted upon his horse. And there did William of Champlitte have his arm broken with a stone, and great pity it was, for he was very brave and very valiant. I 'cannot tell you of all the good strokes that were there stricken, nor of all the wounded, nor all the dead. But before the fight was over, there came into it a knight of the following of Henry, the brother, of Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, and his name was Eustace of Marchais; and he was armed only in padded vest and steel cap, with his shield at his neck; and he did so well in the fray that he won to himself great honour. Few were the days on which no sorties were made; but I cannot tell you of them all. So hardly did they hold us, that we could not sleep, nor rest, nor eat, save in arms. Yet another sortie was made from a gate further up; and there again did the Greeks lose heavily. And there a knight was slain, whose name was William of Gi; and there Matthew of Wallincourt did right well, and lost his horse, which was killed at the drawbridge of the gate; and many others who were in that fight did right well. From this gate, which was beyond the palace of Blachernae, the Greeks issued most frequently, and there Peter of Bracieux gat himself more honour than any, because he was quartered the nearest, and so came most often into the fray. ASSAULT OF THE CITY Thus their peril and toil lasted for nearly ten days, until, on a Thursday morning (I7th July I203) all things were ready for the assault, and the ladders in trim; the Venetians also had made them ready by sea. The order of the assault was so devised, that of the seven divisions, three were to guard the camp outside the city, and other four to give the assault. The Marquis Boniface of Montferrat guarded the camp towards the fields, with the division of the Burgundians, the division of the men of Champagne, and Matthew of Montmorency. Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault went to the assault with his people, and Henry his brother; and . Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, and Count Hugh of St. Paul, and those who held with them, went also to the assault. They planted two ladders at a barbican near the sea; and the wall was well defended by Englishmen and Danes; and 42 the attack was stiff and good and fierce. By main strength certain knights and two sergeants got up the ladders and made themselves masters of the wall; and at least fifteen got upon the wall, and fought there, hand to hand, with axes and swords, and those within redoubled their efforts and cast them out in very ugly sort, keeping two as prisoners' And those of our people who had been taken were led before the Emperor Alexius; much was he pleased thereat. Thus did the assault leave matters on the side of the French. Many were wounded and many had their bones broken, so that the barons were very wroth. Meanwhile the Doge of Venice had not forgotten to do his part, but had ranged his ships and transports and vessels in line, and that line was well three crossbow-shots in length; and the Venetians began to draw near to the part of the shore that lay under the walls and the towers. Then might you have seen the mangonels shooting from the -ships and transports, and the crossbow bolts flying, and the bows letting fly their arrows deftly and well; and those within defending the walls and towers very fiercely; and the ladders on the ships coming so near that in many places swords and lances crossed; and the tumult and noise were so great that it seemed as if the very earth and sea were melting together. And be it known to you that the galleys did not dare to come to the shore. CAPTURE OF TWENTY-FIVE TOWERS Now may you hear of a strange deed of prowess; for the Doge of Venice, who was an old man, and saw naught (seeing he was blind), stood, fully armed, on the prow of his galley, and had the standard of St. Mark before him; and he cried to his people to put him on land, or else that he would do justice upon their bodies with his hands. And so they did, for the galley was run aground, and they leapt therefrom, and bore the standard of St. Mark before him on to the land. And when the Venetians saw the standard of St. Mark on land, and the galley of their lord touching ground before them, each held himself for shamed, and they all gat to the land; and those in the transports leapt forth, and landed; and those in the big ships got into barges, and made for the shore, each and all as best they could. Then might you have 43 seen an assault, great and marvellous; and to this bears witness Geoffry of Villehardouin, who makes this book, that more than forty people told him for sooth that they saw the standard of St. Mark of Venice at the top of one of the towers, and that no man knew who bore it thither. Now hear of a strange miracle: those who are within the city fly and abandon the walls, and the Venetians enter in, each as fast and as best he can, and seize twenty-five of the towers, and man them with their people. And the Doge takes a boat, and sends messengers to the barons of the host to tell them that lie has taken twenty-five towers, and that they may know for sooth that such towers cannot be retaken. The barons are so overjoyed that they cannot believe their ears; and the Venetians begin to send to the host in boats the horses and palfreys they have taken. When the Emperor Alexius saw that our people had thus entered into the city, he sent his people against them in such numbers that our people saw they would be unable to endure the onset. So they set fire to the buildings between them and the Greeks; and the wind blew from our side, and the fire began to wax so great that the Greeks could not see our people who retired to the towers they had seized and conquered. THE EMPEROR ALEXIUS COMES OUT FOR BATTLE, BUT RETIRES WITHOUT ATTACKING Then the Emperor Alexius issued from the city, with all his forces, by other gates which were at least a league from the camp; and so many began to issue forth that it seemed as if the whole world were there assembled. The emperor marshalled his troops in the plain, and they rode towards the camp; and when our Frenchmen saw them coming, they ran to arms from all sides. On that day Henry, the brother of Count Baldwin of Flanders, was mounting guard over the engines of war before the gate of Blachernae, together with Matthew of Wallincourt, and Baldwin of Beauvoir, and their followers. Against their encampment the Emperor Alexius had made ready a great number of his people, who were to issue by three gates, while he himself should fall upon the host from another side. Then the six divisions issued from our camp as had been 44 devised, and were marshalled in ranks before the palisades: the sergeants and squires on foot behind the horses, and the archers and crossbowmen in front. And there was a division of the knights on foot, for we had at least two hundred who, were without horses. Thus they stood still before the palisades. And this showed great good sense, for if they had moved to the attack, the numbers of the enemy were such that they must have been overwhelmed and (as it were) drowned among them. It seemed as if the whole plain was covered with troops, and they advanced slowly and in order. Well might we appear in perilous case, for we had but six divisions, while the Greeks had full forty, and there was not one of their divisions but was larger than any of ours. But ours were ordered in such sort that none could attack them save in front. And the Emperor Alexius rode so far for-ward that either side could shoot at the other. And when the Doge of Venice heard this, he made his people come forth, and leave the towers they had taken, and said he would live or die with the pilgrims. So he came to the camp, and was himself the first to land, and brought with him such of his people as he could. Thus, for a long space, the armies of the pilgrims and of the Greeks stood one against the other; for the Greeks did not dare to throw themselves upon our ranks, and our people would not move from their palisades. And when the Emperor Alexius saw this, he began to withdraw his people, and when he had rallied them, he turned back. And seeing this, the host of the pilgrims began to march towards him with slow steps, and the Greek troops began to move backwards, and retreated to a palace called Philopas. And be it known to you, that never did God save any people from such peril as He saved the host that day; and be it known to you further that there was none in the host so hardy but he had great joy thereof. Thus did the battle remain for that day. As it pleased God nothing further was done. The Emperor Alexius returned to the city, and those of the host to their quarters-the latter taking off their armour, for they were weary and overwrought; and they ate and drank little, seeing that their store of food was but scanty. 45 ALEXIUS ABANDONS CONSTANTINOPLE - HIS BROTHER ISAAC IS REPLACED ON THE THRONE - THE CRUSADERS SEND HIM A MESSAGE Now listen to the miracles of our Lord-how gracious are they whithersoever it pleases Him to perform them! That very might the Emperor Alexius of Constantinople took of his treasure as much as he could carry, and took with him as many of his people as would go, and so fled and abandoned the city. And those of the city remained astonied, and they drew to the prison in which lay the Emperor Isaac, whose eyes had been put out. Him they clothed imperially, and bore to the great palace of Blachernae, and seated on a high throne; and there they did to him obeisance as their lord. Then they took messengers, by the advice of the Emperor Isaac, and sent them to the host, to apprise the son of the Emperor Isaac, and the barons, that the Emperor Alexius had fled, and that they had again raised up the Emperor Isaac as emperor. When the young man knew of this he summoned the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, and the marquis summoned the barons throughout the host. And when they were met in the pavilion of the Emperor Isaac's son, he told them the news. And when they heard it, their joy was such as cannot be uttered, for never was greater joy in all this world. And greatly and most devoutly was our Lord praised by all, in that He had succoured them within so short a term, and exalted them so high from such a low estate. And therefore well may one say: " Him whom God will help can no man injure." Then the day began to dawn, and the host to put on their armour; and all gat them to their arms throughout the host, because they did not greatly trust the Greeks. And messengers began to come out from the city, two or three together, and told the same tale. The barons and counts, and the Doge of Venice had agreed to send envoys into the city, to know how matters really stood; and, if that was true which had been reported, to demand of the father that he should ratify the covenants made by the son; and, if he would not, to, declare that they on their part should not suffer the son to enter into the city. So envoys were chosen: one was 46 Matthew of Montmorency, and Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne was the other, and two Venetians on the part of the Doge of Venice. The envoys were conducted to the gate, and the gate was opened to them, and they dismounted from their horses. The Greeks had set Englishmen and Danes, with their axes, at the gate and right up to the palace of Blachernae. Thus were the envoys conducted to the great palace. There they found the Emperor Isaac, so richly clad that you would seek in vain throughout the world for a man more richly apparelled than he, and by his side the empress, his wife, a most fair lady, the sister of the King of Hungary; and of great men and great ladies there were so many, that you could not St' ir foot for the press, and the ladies were so richly adomed that richer adornment might not be. And all those who, the day before, had been against the emperor were, on that day, subject in everything to his good pleasure. THE EMPEROR ISAAC RATIFIES THE COVENANTS ENTERED INTO BY HIS SON The envoys came before the Emperor Isaac, and the emperor and all those about him did them great honour. And the envoys said that they desired to speak to him privily, ,on the part of his son, and of the barons of the host. And he rose and entered into a chamber, and took with him only the empress, and his chancellor, and his dragoman (interpreter) and the four envoys. By consent of the other envoys, Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne, acted as spokesman, and he said to the Emperor Isaac: " Sire, thou seest the service we have rendered to thy son, and how we have kept our covenants with him. But he cannot come hither till he has given us surety for the covenants he has made with us. And he asks of thee, as thy son, to confirm those covenants in the same form, and the same manner, that he has done." " What covenants are they? " said the emperor. " They are such as we shall tell you," replied the envoys: " In the first place to put the whole empire of Roumania in obedience to Rome, from which it has been separated this long while; further to give 200,000 marks of silver to those of the host, with food for one year for small and great; to send 10,000 men, horse and foot - many on 47 foot as we shall devise and as many mounted-in his own ships, and at his own charges, to the land of Babylon, and keep them there for a year; and during his lifetime to keep, at his own charges, five hundred knights in the land overseass so that they may guard that land. Such is the covenant that your son made with us, and it was confirmed by oath, and charters with seals appended, and by King Philip of Germany who has your daughter to wife. This covenant we desire you to confirm." Certes said the emperor, " this covenant is very onerous, and I do not see how effect can be given to it; nevertheless, you have done us such service, both to my son and to myself, that if we bestowed upon you the whole empire, you would have deserved it well." Many words were then spoken in this sense and that, but, in the end, the father confirmed the 'covenants, as his son had confirmed them, by oath and by charters with gold seals appended. These charters were delivered to the envoys. Then they took their leave of the Emperor Isaac, and went back to the host, and told the barons that they had fulfilled their mission. ENTRY OF THE CRUSADERS INTO CONSTANTINOPLE - CORONATION OF THE YOUNG ALEXIUS Then did the barons mount their horses, and led the young man, with great rejoicings, into the city, to his father; and the Greeks opened the gate to him, and received him with very much rejoicing and great feasting. The joy of the father and of the son was very great, because of a long time they had not seen one another, and because, by God's help and that of the pilgrims, they had passed from so great poverty and ruin to such high estate. Therefore the joy was great inside Constantinople; and also without, among the host of the pilgrims, because of the honour and victory that God had given them. And on the morrow the emperor and his son also besought the counts and the barons, for God's sake, to go and quarter themselves on the other side of the straits, toward Estanor and Galata; for, if they quartered themselves in the city, it was to be feared that quarrels would ensue between them and the Greeks, and it might well chance that the city would be destroyed. And the counts and barons said that they had 48 already served him in so many ways that they would not now refuse any request of his. So they went and quartered themselves on the other side, and sojoumed there in peace and quiet, and with great store of good provisions. Now you must know that many of those in the host went to see Constantinople, and the rich palaces and great churches, of which there were many, and all the great wealth of the city-for never was there city that possessed so much. Of relics it does not behove me to speak, for at that day there were as many there as in all the rest of the world. Thus did the Greeks and French live in good fellowship in all things, both as regards trafficking and other matters. By common consent of Franks and Greeks it was settled that the new emperor should be crowned on the feast of our Lord St. Peter (1st August 1203). So was it settled, and so it was done. He was crowned full worthily and with honour according to the use for Greek emperors at that time. Afterwards he began to pay the moneys due to the host; and such moneys were divided among the host, and each repaid what had been advanced in Venice for his passage. ALEXIUS BEGS THE CRUSADERS TO PROLONG THEIR STAY The new emperor went oft to see the barons in the camp, and did them great honour, as much as he could; and this was but fitting, seeing that they had served him right well. And one day he came to the camp, to see the barons privily in the quarters of Count Baldwin of Hainault and Flanders. Thither were summoned the Doge of Venice, and the great barons, and he spoke to them and said: " Lords, I am emperor by God's grace and yours, and you have done me the highest service that ever yet was done by any people to Christian man. Now be it known to you that there are folk enough who show me a fair seeming, and yet love me not; and the Greeks are full of despite because it is by your help that I have entered into my inheritance. Now the term of your departure is nigh, and your fellowship with the Venetians is timed only to last till the feast of St. Michael. And within so short a term I cannot fulfil our covenant. Be it known to you therefore, that, if you abandon me, the Greeks hate me because of you: I shall losemy land, and they will kill me. But now do this thing that 49 I ask of you: remain here till March, and I will entertain your ships for one year from the feast of St. Michael, and bear the cost of the Venetians, and will give you such things as you may stand in need of till Easter. And within that term I shall have placed my land in such case that I cannot lose it again; and your covenant will be fulfilled, for I shall have paid such moneys as are due to you, obtaining them from all mi lands; and I shall be ready also with ships either to go with you myself, or to send others, as I have covenanted; and you will have the summer from end to end in which to carry on the war against the Saracens." The barons thereupon said they would consult together apart; knowing full well that what the young man said was sooth, and that it would be better, both for the emperor and for themselves, to consent unto him. But they replied that they could not so consent save with the common agreement of the host, and that they would therefore lay the matter before the host, and then give such answer as might be devised. So the Emperor Alexius departed from them, and went back to Constantinople. And they remained in the camp and assembled a parliament the next day. To this parliament were summoned all the barons and the chieftains of the host, and of the knights the greater part; and in their hearing were repeated all the words that the emperor had spoken. DEBATE AMONG THE CRUSADERS - DEATH OF MATTHEW OF MONTMORENCY Then was there much discord in the host, as had been oft times before on the part of those who wished that the host should break up; for to them it seemed to be holding together too long. And the party that had raised the discord at Corfu reminded the others of their oaths, and said: " Give us ships as you swore to us, for we purpose to go to Syria." And the others cried to them for pity and said: " Lords, for God's sake, let us not bring to naught the great honour that God has given us. If we go to Syria at this present, we shall come thither at the beginning of winter and so not be able to make war, and the Lord's work will thus remain undone. But if we wait till March, we shall leave this emperor in good estate, and go hence rich in goods and in food. Thus 50 shall we go to Syria, and over-run the land of Babylon. And the fleet will remain with us till Michaelmas, yes, and onwards from Michaelmas to Easter, seeing it will be unable to leave us because of the winter. So shall the land overseas fall into our hands." Those who wished the host to be broken up, cared not for reasons good or bad so long as the host fell to pieces. But those who wished to keep the host together, wrought so effectually, with the help of God, that in the end the Venetians made a new covenant to maintain the fleet for a year, reckoning from Michaelmas, the Emperor Alexius paying them for so doing; and the pilgrims, on their side, made a new covenant to remain in the same fellowship as theretofore, and for the same term. Thus were peace and concord established in the host. Then there befell a very great mischance in the host; for Matthew of Montmorency, who was one of the best knights in the kingdom of France, and of the most prized and most honoured, took to his bed for sickness, and his sickness so increased upon him that he died. And much dole was made for him, for great was the loss-one of the greatest that had befallen the host by any man's death. He was buried in a church of my Lord St. John, of the Hospital of Jerusalem. PROGRESS OF THE YOUNG ALEXIUS THROUGH THE EMPIRE Afterwards, by the advice of the Greeks and the French the Emperor Alexius issued from Constantinople, with a very great company, purposing to quiet the empire and subject it to his will. With him went a great part of the barons; and the others remained to guard the camp. The Marquis Boniface of Montferrat went with him, and Count Hugh of St. Paul, and Henry, brother to Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, and James of Avesnes, and William of Champlitte, and Hugh of Colerni, and many others whom the book does not here mention by name. In the camp remained Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault, and Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, and the greater part of the pilgrims of lesser note. And you must know that during this progress all the Greeks, on either side of the straits, came to the Emperor 51 Alexius, to do his will and commandment, and did him fealty and homage as to their lord-all except John, who was King of Wallachia and Bulgaria. This John was a Wallachian, who had rebelled against. his father and uncle, and had warred against them for twenty years, and had won from them so much land that he had become a very wealthy king. -And be it known to you, that of the land lying on the west side of the Straits of St. George, he had conquered very nearly the half. This John did not come to do the will of the emperor, nor to submit himself to him. CONFLICT BETWEEN THE GREEKS AND LATINS IN CONSTANTINOPLE-BURNING OF THE CITY While the Emperor Alexius was away on this progress, there befell a very grievous misadventure; for a conflict arose between the Greeks and the Latins who inhabited Constantinople, and of these last there were many. And certain people-who they were I know not-out of malice, set fire to the city; and the fire waxed so great and horrible that no man could put it out or abate it. And when the barons of the host, who were quartered on the other side of the port, saw this, they were sore grieved and filled with pity-seeing the great churches and the rich palaces melting and falling in, and the great streets filled with merchandise burning in the flames; but they could do nothing. Thus did the fire prevail, and win across the port, even to the densest part of the city, and to the sea on the other side, quite near to the church of St. Sophia. It lasted two days and two nights, nor could it be put out by the hand of man. And the front of the fire, as it went flaming, was well over half a league broad. What was the damage then done, what the possessions and riches swallowed up, could no man tell-nor what the number of men and women and children who perished-for many were burned. All the Latins, to whatever land they might belong, who were lodged in Constantinople, dared no longer to remain therein; but they took their wives and their children, and such of their possessions as they could save from the fire, and entered into boats and vessels, and passed over the port and came to the camp of the pilgrims. Nor were they few in number, for there were of them some fifteen thousand, small 52 and great; and afterwards it proved to be of advantage to the pilgrims that these should have crossed over to them. Thus was there division between the Greeks and the Franks; nor were they ever again as much at one as they had been before, for neither side knew on whom to cast the blame for the fire; and this rankled in men's hearts upon either side. At that time did a thing befall whereby the barons and those of the host were greatly saddened; for the Abbot of Loos died, who was a holy man and a worthy, and had wished well to the host. He was a monk of the order of the Cistercians. THE YOUNG ALEXIUS RETURNS TO CONSTANTINOPLIZHE FAILS IN HIS PROMISES TO THE CRUSADERS The Emperor Alexius remained for a long time on progress, till St. Martin's Day, and then he returned to Constantinople. Great was the joy at his home-coming, and the Greeks and ladies of Constantinople went out to meet their friends in great cavalcades, and the pilgrims went out to meet their friends, and had great joy of them. So did the emperor re-enter Constantinople and the palace of Blachernae; and the Marquis of Montferrat and the other barons returned to the camp. The emperor, who had managed his affairs right well and thought he had now the upper hand, was filled with arrogance towards the barons and those who had done so much for him, and never came to see them in the camp, as he had done aforetime. And they sent to him and begged him to pay them the moneys due, as he had covenanted. But he led them on from delay to delay, making them, at one time and another, payments small and poor; and in the end the payments ceased and came to naught. The Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, who had done more for him than any other, and stood better in his regard, went to him oftentimes, and showed him what great services the Crusaders had rendered him, and that greater services had never been rendered to any one. And the emperor still entertained them with delays, and never carried out such things as he had promised, so that at last they saw and knew clearly that his intent was wholly evil. Then the barons of the host held a parliament with the 53 Doge of Venice, and they said that they now knew that the emperor would fulfil no covenant, nor ever speak sooth to them; and they decided to send good envoys to demand the fulfilment of their covenant, and to show what services they had done him; and if he would now do what was required, they were to be satisfied; but, if not, they were to defy him, and right well might he rest assured that the barons would by all means recover their due. THE CRUSADERS DEFY THE EMPERORS For this embassy were chosen Conon of Béthune and Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne, and Miles the Brabant of Provins; and the Doge also sent three chief men of his council. So these envoys mounted their horses, and, with swords girt, rode together till they came to the palace of Blachernae. And be it known to you that, by reason of the treachery of the Greeks, they went in great peril, and on a hard adventure. They dismounted at the gate and entered the palace, and found the Emperor Alexius and the Emperor Isaac seated on two thrones, side by side. And near them was seated the empress, who was the wife of the father, and stepmother of the son, and sister to the King of Hungary-a lady both fair and good. And there were with them a great company of people of note and rank, so that well did the court seem the court of a rich and mighty prince. By desire of the other envoys Conon of Béthune, who was very wise and eloquent of speech, acted as spokesman: "Sire, we have come to thee on the part of the barons of the host and of the Doge of Venice. They would put thee in mind of the great service they have done to thee-a service known to the people and manifest to all men. Thou hast swom, thou and thy father, to fulfil the promised covenants, and they have your charters in hand. But you have not fulfilled those covenants well, as you should have done. Many times have they called upon you to do so, and now again we call upon you, in the presence of all your barons, to fulfil the covenants that are between you and them. Should you do so, it shall be well. If not, be it known to you that from this day forth they will not hold you as lord or friend, but will endeavour to obtain their due by all the means in their 54 Power. And of this they now give you warning, seeing that they would not injure you, nor any one, without first defiance given; for never have they acted treacherously, nor in their land is it customary to do so. You have heard what we have said. It is for you to take counsel thereon according to your pleasure." Much were the Greeks amazed and greatly outraged by this open defiance; and they said that never had any one been so hardy as to dare defy the Emperor of Constantinople in his own hall. Very evil were the looks now cast on the envoys by the Emperor Alexius and by all the Greeks, who aforetime were wont to regard them very favourably. Great was the tumult there within, and the envoys turned about and came to the gate and mounted their horses. When they got outside the gate, there was not one of them but felt glad at heart; nor is that to be marvelled at, for they had escaped from very great peril, and it held to very little that they were not all killed or taken. So they returned to the camp, and told the barons how they had fared. THE WAR BEGINS - THE GREEKS ENDEAVOUR TO SET FIRE TO THE FLEET OF THE CRUSADERS Thus did the war begin; and each side did to the other as much harm as they could, by sea and by land. The Franks and the Greeks fought often; but never did they fight, let God be praised therefor I that the Greeks did not lose more than the Franks. So the war lasted a long space, till the heart of the winter. Then the Greeks bethought themselves of a very great device, for they took seven large ships, and filled them full of big logs, and shavings, and tow, and resin, and barrels, and then waited until such time as the wind should blow strongly from their side of the straits. And one night, at midnight, they set fire to the ships, and unfurled their sails to the wind. And the flames blazed up high, so that it seemed as if the whole world were a-fire. Thus did the burning ships come towards the fleet of the pilgrims; and a great cry arose in the host, and all sprang to arms on every side. The Venetians ran to their ships, and so did all those who had ships in possession, and they began to draw them away out of the flames very vigorously. 55 And to this bears witness Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, who dictates this work, that never did people help themselves better at sea than the Venetians did that night; for they sprang into the galleys and boats belonging to the ships, and seized upon the fire ships, all burning as they were, with hooks, and dragged them by main force before their enemies, outside the port, and set them into the current of the straits, and left them to go burning down the straits. So many of the Greeks had come down to the shore that they were without end and innumerable, and their cries were so great that it seemed as if the earth and sea would melt together. They got into barges and boats, and shot at those on our side who were battling with the flames, so that some were wounded. All the knights of the host, as soon as they heard the clamour, armed themselves; and the battalions marched out into the plain, each according to the order in which they had been quartered, for they feared lest the Greeks should also attack them on land. They endured thus in labour and anguish till daylight; but by God's help those on our side lost nothing, save a Pisan ship, which was full of merchandise, and was burned with fire. Deadly was the peril in which we stood that night, for if the fleet had been consumed, all would have been lost, and we should never have been able to get away by land or sea. Such was the guerdon which the Emperor Alexius would have bestowed upon us in return for our services. MOURZUPHLES USURPS THE EMPIRE - ISAAC DIES, AND THE YOUNG ALEXIUS IS STRANGLED Then the Greeks, being thus embroiled with the Franks, saw that there was no hope of peace; so they privily took counsel together to betray their lord. Now there was a Greek who stood higher in his favour than all others, and had done more to make him embroil himself with the Franks than any other. This Greek was named Mourzuphles. With the advice and consent of the others, one night towards midnight, when the Emperor Alexius was asleep in his chamber, those who ought to have been guarding him and specially Mourzuphles-took him in his bed and threw him into a dungeon in prison. Then Mourzuphles assumed 56 the scarlet buskins with the help and by the counsel of the other Greeks (January 1204). So he made himself emperor. Afterwards they crowned him at St. Sophia. Now see if. ever people were guilty of such horrible treachery! When the Emperor Isaac heard that his son was taken and Mourzuphles crowned, great fear came upon him, and he fell into a sickness that lasted no long time. So he died. And the Emperor Mourzuphles caused the son, whom he had in prison, to be poisoned two or three times; but it did not please God that he should thus die. Afterwards the emperor went and strangled him, and when he had strangled him, he caused it to be reported everywhere that he had died a natural death, and had him mourned for, and buried honourably and as an emperor, and made great show of grief. But murder cannot be hid. Soon was it clearly known, both to the Greeks and to the French, that this murder had been committed, as has just been told to you. Then did the barons of the host and the Doge of Venice assemble in parliament, and with them met the bishops and the clergy. And all the clergy, including those who had powers from the Pope, showed to the barons and to the pilgrims that any one guilty of such a murder had no right to hold lands, and that those who consented thereto were abettors of the murder; and beyond all this, that the Greeks had withdrawn themselves from obedience to Rome. "Wherefore we tell you," said the clergy, " that this war is lawful and just, and that if you have a right intention in conquering this land, to bring it into the Roman obedience, all those who die after confession shall have part in the indulgence granted by the Pope." And you must know that by this the barons and pilgrims were greatly comforted. THE CRUSADERS CONTINUE THE WAR - DEFEAT OF MOURZUPHLES Dire was the war between the Franks and the Greeks, for it abated not, but rather increased and waxed fiercer, so that few were the days on which there was not fighting by sea or land. Then Henry, the brother of Count Baldwin of Flanders rode forth, and took with him a great part of the good men in the host. With him went James of Avesnes, and Baldwin of Beauvoir, Odo of Champagne of Champlitte, 57 William his brother, and the people of their country. They started at vesper time and rode all night, and on the morrow, when it was full day, they came to a good city, called Phile, and took it; and they had great gain, beasts, and prisoners, and clothing, and food, which they sent in boats down the straits to the camp, for the city lies on the sea of Russia. So they sojoumed two days in that city, with food in great plenty, enough and to spare. The third day they departed with the beasts and the booty, and rode back towards the camp. Now the Emperor Mourzuphles heard tell how they had issued from the camp, and he left Constantinople by night, with a great part of his people, and set himself in ambush at a place by which they must needs pass. And he watched them pass with their beasts and their booty, each division, the one after the other, till it came to the rearguard. The rear-guard was under the command of Henry, the brother of Count Baldwin of Flanders, and formed of his people, and the Emperor Mourzuphles fell upon them at the entrance to a wood; whereupon they turned against him. Very fiercely did the battle rage there. By God's help the Emperor Mourzuphles was discomfited, and came near to being taken captive; and he lost his imperial banner and an Eikon that was home before him, in which he and the other Greeks had great confidence-it was an ikon that figured our Lady-and he lost at least twenty knights of the best people that he had. Thus was discomfited the Emperor Mourzuphles, as you have just heard and fiercely did the war rage between him and the Franks; and by this time a great part of the winter had already passed, and it was near Candlemas (2nd February 1204), and Lent was approaching. OF THE PILGRIMS WHO HAD GONE TO SYRIA Now we will leave off speaking of the host before Constantinople, and speak of those who sailed from other ports than Venice, and of the ships of Flanders that had sojoumed during the winter at Marseilles, and had all gone over in the summer to the land of Syria; and these were far more in number than the host before Constantinople. Listen now, and you shall hear what a great mischance it was that they 58 had not joined themselves to the host, for in that case would Christendom have been for ever exalted. But because of their sins, God would not so have it, for some died of the sickness of the land, and some turned back to their own homes. Nor did they perform any great deeds, or achieve aught of good, in the land overseass And there started also a company of very good men to go to Antioch, to join Boemond, prince of Antioch and Count of Tripoli, who was at war with King Leon, the lord of the Armenians. This company was going to the prince to be in his pay; and the Turks of the land knew of it, and made an ambuscade there where the men of the company needs must pass. And they came thither, and fought, and the Franks were discomfited, so that not one escaped that was not killed or taken. There were slain Villain of Neuilly, who was one of the best knights in the world, and Giles of Trasegnies, and many others; and were taken Bernard of Moreuil, and Renaud of Dampierre, and John of Villers, and William of Neuilly. And you must know that eightty knights were in this company, and every one was either killed or taken. And well does this book bear witness, that of those who avoided the host of Venice, there was not one but suffered harm or shame. He therefore must be accounted wise who holds to the better course. AGREEMENT BETWEEN THE FRANKS AND VENETIANS BEFORE ATTACKING CONSTANTINOPLE Now let us leave speaking of those who avoided the host, and speak of those before Constantinople. Well had these prepared all their engines, and mounted their petraries, and mangonels on the ships and on the transports, and got ready all such engines of war as are needful for the taking of a city, and raised ladders from the yards and masts of the vessels, so high that they were a marvel to behold.* [note: This passage is obscure in the original.] And when the Greeks saw this, they began, on their side, to strengthen the defences of the city which was enclosed with high walls and high towers. Nor was any tower so high that they did not raise thereon two or three stages of wood to heighten it still more. Never was city so well fortified. 59 Thus did the Greeks and the Franks bestir themselves on the one side and the other during the greater part of Lent. Then those of the host spoke together, and took counsel what they should do. Much was advanced this way and that, but in the end, they devised that if God granted them entry into the city by force, all the booty taken was to be brought together, and fittingly distributed; and further, if the city fell into their power, six men should be taken from among the Franks, and six from among the Venetians, and these twelve should swear, on holy relics, to elect as emperor the man who, as they deemed, would rule with most profit to the land. And whosoever was thus elected emperor, would have one quarter of whatever was captured, whether within the city or without, and moreover would possess the palace of Bucoleon and that of Blachernae; and the remaining three parts would be divided into two, and one of the halves awarded to the Venetians and the other to those of the host. And there should be taken twelve of the wisest and most experienced men among the host of the pilgrims, and twelve among the Venetians, and those twenty-four would divide fiefs and honours, and appoint the service to be done therefor to the emperor. This covenant was made sure and sworn to on the one side and the other b' the Franks and the Venetians; with provision that at the end of March, a year thence, any who so desired might depart hence and go their way, but that those who remained in the land would be held to the service of the emperor in such mariner as might be ordained. Thus was the covenant devised and made sure; and such as should not observe it were excommunicated by the clergy. ATTACK OF THE CRUSADERS REPULSED - THEY MAKE READY FOR ANOTHER ASSAULT The fleet was very well prepared and armed, and provisions were got together for the pilgrims. On the Thursday after mid-Lent (8th April 1204), all entered into the vessels, and put their horses into the transports. Each division had its own ships, and all were ranged side by side; and the ships were separated from the galleys and transports. A marvellous sight it was to see; and well does this book bear 60 witness that the attack, as it had been devised, extended over full half a French league. On the Friday morning the ships and the galleys and the other vessels drew near to the city in due order, and then began an assault most fell and fierce. In many places the pilgrims landed and went up to the walls, and in many places the scaling ladders on the ships approached so close, that those on the towers and on the walls and those on the ladders crossed lances, hand to hand. Thus lasted the assault, in more than a hundred places, very fierce, and very dour, and very proud, till near upon the hour of nones. But, for our sins, the pilgrims were repulsed in that assault, and those who had landed from the galleys and transports were driven back into them by main force. And you must know that on that day those of the host lost more than the Greeks, and much were the Greeks rejoiced thereat. And some there were who drew back from the assault, with the ships in which they were. And some remained with their ships at anchor so near to the city that from either side they shot at one another with petraries and mangonels. Then, at vesper time, those of the host and the Doge of Venice called together a parliament, and assembled in a church on the other side of the straits-on the side where they had been quartered. There were many opinions given and discussed; and much were those of the host moved for the mischief that had that day befallen them. And many advised that they should attack the city on another side the side where it was not so well fortified. But the Venetians, who had fuller knowledge of the sea, said that if they went to that other side, the current would carry them down the straits, and that they would be unable to stop their ships. And you must know that there were those who would have been well pleased if the current had home them down the straits, or the wind, they cared not whither, so long -as they left that land behind, and went on their way. Nor is this to be wondered at, for they were in sore peril. Enough was there spoken, this way and in that; but the conclusion of their deliberation was this: that they would repair and refit on the following day, which was Saturday, and during the whole of Sunday, and that on the Monday they would return to the assault; and they devised further that the ships that carried the scaling ladders should be 61 bound together, two and two, so that two ships should be in case to attack one tower; for they had perceived that day how only one ship had attacked each tower, and that this had been too heavy a task for the ship, seeing that those in the tower were more in number than those on the ladder. For this reason was it well seen that two ships would attack each tower with greater effect than one. As had been settled, so was it done, and they waited thus during the Saturday and Sunday. THE CRUSADERS TAKE A PART OF THE CITY Before the assault the Emperor Mourzuphles had come to encamp, with all his power, in an open space, and had there pitched his scarlet tents. Thus matters remained till the Monday morning, when those on the ships, transports, and galleys were all armed. And those of the city stood in much less fear of them than they did at the beginning, and were in such good spirits that on the walls and towers you could see nothing but people. Then began an assault proud and marvellous, and every ship went straight before it to the attack. The noise of the battle was so great that it seemed to read the earth. Thus did the assault last for a long while, till our Lord raised a wind called Boreas which drove the ships and vessels further up on to the shore. And two ships that were bound together, of which the one was called the Pilgrim and the other the Paradise, approached so near to a tower, the one on the one side and the other on the other-so as God and the wind drove them-that the ladder of the Pilgrim joined on to the tower. Immediately a Venetian, and a knight of France, whose name was Andrew of Urboise, entered into the tower, and other people benan to enter after them, and those in the tower were discomfited and fled.* [NOTE [pp. 61-63]: I should like to quote here another feat of arms related by Robert of Clari, one of those feats that serve to explain how the Crusaders obtained mastery - the mastery of perfect fearlessness - over the Greeks. Robert of Clari, then, relates how a small body of the besiegers, ten knights and nine sergeants, had come before a postem which had been newly bricked up.- "Now there was there a clerk, Aleaume of Clari by name, who had shown his courage whenever there was need, and was always first in any assault at which he might be present; and when the tower of Galata was taken, this same clerk had performed more deeds of prowess with his body, man for man, than any one in the host, save only the Lord Peter of Bracuel; for the Lord Peter it was who surpassed all others, whether of high or low degree, so that there was none other that performed such feats of arms, or acts of prowess with his body, as the Lord Peter of Bracuel. So when they came to the postern they began to hew and pick at it very hardily; but the bolts flew at them so thick, and so many stones were hurled at them from the wall, that it seemed as if they would be buried beneath the stones-sucb was the mass of quarries and stones thrown from above. And those who were below held up targes and shields to cover those who were picking and hewing underneath; and those above threw down pots of boiling pitch, and Greek fire, and large rocks, so that it was one of God's miracles that the assailants were not utterly confounded; for my Lord Peter and his men suffered more than enough of blows and grievous danger. However, so did they hack at the postern, both above and below, with their axes and good swords, that they made a great bole therein; and when the postern was broken through, they all swarmed to the aperture, but saw so many people above and below, that it seemed as if half the world were there, and they dared not be so bold as to enter. "Now when Aleaume, the clerk, saw that no one dared to go in, be sprang forward, and said that go in he would. And there was there present a knight, a brother to the clerk (the knight's name was Robert ofClari),who-forbade him,and said he should not go in. And the clerk said he would, and scrambled in on his hands and feet. And when the knight saw this, he took hold upon him, by the foot, and began to drag him back. But in his brother's despite, and whether his brother would or not, the clerk went in. And when he was within, many were the Greeks who ran upon him, and those on the walls cast big stones upon him. And the clerk drew his knife, and ran at them; and he drave them before him as if they had been cattle, and cried to those who were without, to the Lord Peter of Amiens and his folk, 'Sire, come in boldly, I see that they are falling back discomfited and flying.' When my Lord Peter heard this, he and his people who were without, they entered in; and there were no more than ten knights with him, but there were some sixty sergeants, and they were all on foot. And when those who were on the wall at that place saw them, they had such fear that thev did not dare to remain there, but avoided a great space on the wall, and fled helter-skelter. "Now the Emperor Mourzuphles, the traitor, was near by, at less than a stone's throw of distance, and he caused the silver horns to be sounded, and the cymbals, and a great noise to be made. And when he saw my Lord Peter, and his people, who bad entered in on foot, he made a great show of falling upon them, and spurring forward, came about half-way to where they stood. But mv Lord Peter, when he saw him coming, began to encourage his people, and to say: 'Now, Lord God, grant that we may do well, and the battle is ours. Here comes the emperor! Let no one dare to think of retreat, but each bethink himself to do well' Then Mourzuphles, seeing that they would in no wise give way, stayed where he was, and then turned back to his tents." After this, according to Robert of Clari, Lord Peter's men break open a gate, and.the Crusaders enter into the city. See Li Estoires de chiaus qus conquisent Constantinoble. de Robert de Clari en aminois, chevalier, pp. 60-62. The volume in the British Museum is undated, and there is this note in the catalogue, " No more printed." The volume itself is noteless, though there are printed marks here and there which would suggest that notes were intended. The Chronicle of Robert of Clari win also be found in Hopf's Chroniques Gréco-romanes inédites ou peu connues, etc., pp. 1-85, Berlin, 1873.] 62 When the knights see this, who are in the transports, they land, and raise their ladders against the wall, and scale the top of the wall by main force, and so take four of the towers. And all begin to leap out of the ships and transports and galleys, helter-skelter, each as best he can; and they break in some three of the gates and enter in; and they draw the horses out of the transports; and the knights mount and ride straight to the quarters of the Emperor Mourzuphles. He had his battalions arrayed before his tents, and when his men see the mounted knights coming, they lose heart and fly; and so goes the emperor flying through the streets to the castle of Bucoleon. Then might you have seen the Greeks beaten down; and horses and palfreys captured, and mules, and other booty. Of killed and wounded there was neither end nor measure. A great part of the Greek lords had fled towards the gate of 63 Blachernae. And vesper-time was already past, and those of the host were wear of the battle and of the slaying,. And they began to assemble in a great open space that was in Constantinople, and decided that they would take up their quarters near the walls and towers they had captured. Never had they thought that in a whole month they should be able to take the city, with its great churches, and great palaces, and the people that were in it. FLIGHT OF MOURZUPHLES - SECOND FIRE IN CONSTANTINOPLE As they had settled, so was it done, and they encamped before the walls and before the towers by their ships. Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault quartered himself in the scarlet tents that the Emperor Mourzuphles had left standing, and Henry his brother before the palace of Blachernae; and Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, he and his men, towards the thickest part of the city. So were the host encamped as you have heard, and Constantinople taken on the Monday after Palm Sunday (12th April 1204). Now Count Louis of Blois and Chartres had languished all the winter with a q ' uartan fever, and could not bear his armour. And you must know that this was a great misfor- 64 tune to the host, seeing he was a good knight of his body; and he lay in one of the transports. Thus did those of the host, who were very weary, rest that night. But the Emperor Mourzuphles rested not, for he assembled all his people, and said he would go and attack the Franks. Nevertheless he did not do as he had said, for he rode along other streets, as far as he could from those held by the host, and came to a gate which is called the Golden Gate, whereby he escaped, and avoided the city; and afterwards all who could fled also. And of all this those of the host knew nothing. During that night, towards the quarters of Boniface Marquis of Montfcrrat, certain people, whose names are unknown to me, being in fear lest the Greeks should attack them, set fire to the buildings between themselves and the Greeks. And the city began to take fire, and to burn very direfully; and it burned all that night and all the next day, till vesper-time. And this was the third fire there had been in Constantinople since the Franks arrived in the land; and more houses had been burned in the city than there are houses in any three of the greatest cities in the kingdom of France. That night passed and the next day came, which was a Tuesday morning (13th April 1204); and all armed themselves throughout the host, both knights and sergeants, and each repaired to his post. Then they issued from their quarters, and thought to find a sorer battle than the day before, for no word had come to them that the emperor had fled during the night. But they found none to oppose them. THE CRUSADERS OCCUPY THE CITY The Marquis Boniface of Montferrat rode all along the shore to the palace of Bucoleon, and when he arrived there it surrendered, on condition that the lives of all therein should be spared. At Bucoleon were found the larger number of the great ladies who had fled to the castle, for there were found the sister [Agnes, sister of Philip Augustus, married successively to Alexius II., to Andronicus, and to Theodore Branas] of the King of France, who had been empress, and the sister [Margaret, sister of Emeric, King of Hungary, married to the Emperor Isaac, and afterwards to the Marquis of Montferrat.] of the King of Hungary, who 65 had also been empress, and other ladies very many. Of the treasure that was found in that palace I cannot well speak, for there was so much that it was beyond end or counting. At the same time that this palace was surrendered to the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, did the palace of Blachernae surrender to Henry, the brother of Count Baldwin of Flanders, on condition that no hurt should be done to the bodies of those who were therein. There too was found much treasure, not less than in the palace of Bucoleon. Each garrisoned with his own people the castle that had been surrendered to him, and set a auard over the treasure. And the other people, spread abroad throughout the city, also gained much booty. The booty gained was so great that none could tell you the end of it: gold and silver, and vessels and precious stones, and samite, and cloth of silk, and robes vair and grey, and ermine, and every choicest thing found upon the earth. And well does Geoffry of Villehardouin the Marshal of Champagne, bear witness, that never, since the world was created, had so much booty been won in any city. Every one took quarters where he pleased and of lodgings there was no stint. So the host of the pilgrims and of the Venetians found quarters, and greatly did they rejoice and give thanks because of the victory God had vouchsafed to them-for those who before had been poor were now in wealth and luxury. Thus they celebrated Palm Sunday and the Easter Day following (25th April 1204) in the joy and honour that God had bestowed upon them. And well miaht they praise our Lord, since in all the host there were no more than twenty thousand armed men, one with another, and with the help of God they had conquered four hundred thousand men, or more, and in the strongest city in all the world - yea, a great city - and very well fortified. DIVISION OF THE SPOIL Then was it proclaimed throughout the host by the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, who was lord of the host, and by the barons, and by the Doge of Venice, that all the booty should be collected and brou-ht together, as had been covenanted under oath and pain of excommunication. Three churches were appointed for the receiving of the 66 spoils, and guards were set to have them in charge, both Franks and Venetians, the most upright that could be found. Then each began to bring in such booty as he had taken, and to collect it together. And some brought in loyally, and some in evil sort, because covetousness, which is the root of all evil, let and hindered them. So from that time forth the covetous began to keep things back, and our Lord began to love them less. Ah God! how loyally they had borne themselves up to now! And well had the Lord God shown them that in all things He was ready to honour and exalt them above all people. But full oft do the good suffer for the sins of the wicked. The spoils and booty were collected together, and you must know that all was not brought into the common stock, for not a few kept thin-s back, maugre the excommunication of the Pope. That which was brought to the churches was collected together and divided, in equal parts, between the Franks and the Venetians, according to the sworn covenant. And you must know further that the pilgrims, after the division had been made, paid out of their share fifty thousand marks of silver to the Venetians, and then divided at least one hundred thousand marks between themselves, among their own people. And shall I tell you in what wise? Two sergeants on foot counted as one mounted, and two sergeants mounted as one knight. And you must know that no man received more, either on account of his rank or because of his deeds, than that which had been so settled and orderedsave in so far as he may have stolen it. And as to theft, and those who were convicted thereof, you must know that stem justice was meted out to such as were found guilty, and not a few were hung. The Count of St. Paul hung one of his knights, who had kept back certain spoils, with his shield to his neck; but many there were, both great and small, who kept back part of the spoils, and it was never known. Well may you be assured that the spoil wa- very great, for if it had not been for what was stolet- and for the part given to the Venetians, there would if have been at least four hundred thousand marks of silver and at least ten thousand horses-one with another. Thus were divided the spoils of Constantinople, as you have heard. 67 BALDWIN, COUNT OF FLANDERS, ELECTED EMPEROR Then a parliament assembled, and the commons of the host declared that an emperor must be elected, as had been settled aforetime. And they parliamented so long that the matter was adjourned to another day, and on that day would they choose the twelve electors who were to make the election. Nor was it possible that there should be lack of candidates, or of men covetous, seeing that so great an honour was in question as the imperial throne of Constantinople. But the greatest discord that arose was the discord concerning Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault and the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat; for all the people said that either of those two should be elected. And when the chief men of the host saw that all held either for Count Baldwin or for the Marquis of Montferrat, they conferred together and said: " Lords, if we elect one of these two great men, the other will be so filled with envy that he will take away with him all his people. And then the land that we have won may be lost, just as the land of Jerusalem came nigh to be lost when, after it had been conquered, Godfrey of Bouillon was elected king, and the Count of St. Giles became so fulfilled with envy that he enticed the other barons, and whomsoever he could, to abandon the host. Then did many people depart, and there remained so few that, if God had not sustained them, the land of Jerusalem wouldhavebeenlost. Letusthereforebewarelestthesame mischance befall us also, and rather bethink ourselves how we may keep both these lords in the host. Let the one on whom God shall bestow the empire so devise that the other is well content; let him grant to that other all the land on the further side of the straits, towards Turkey, and the Isle of Greece, and that other shall be his liegeman. Thus shall we keep both lords in the host." As had been proposed, so was it settled, and both consented right willingly. Then came the day for the parliament, and the parliament assembled. And the twelve electors were chosen, six on one side and six on the other; and they swore on holy relics to elect, duly, and in good faith, whomsoever would best meet the needs of the host, and bear rule over the empire most worthily. 68 Thus were the twelve chosen, and a day appointed for the election of the emperor; and on the appointed day the twelve electors met at a rich palace, one of the fairest in the world, where the Doge of Venice had his quarters. Great and marvellous was the concourse, for every one wished to see who should be elected. Then were the twelve electors called, and set in a very rich chapel within the palace, and the door was shut, so that no one remained with them. The barons and knights stayed without in a great palace. The council lasted till they were agreed; and by consent' of all they appointed Nevelon, Bishop of Soissons, who was one of the twelve, to act as spokesman. Then they came out to the place where all the barons were assembled, and the Doge of Venice. Now you must know that many set eyes upon them, to know how the election had turned. And the bishop, lifting up his voice-while all listened intentlyspoke as he had been charged, and said: " Lords, we are agreed, let God be thanked! upon the choice of an emperor; and you have all sworn that he whom we shall elect as ern,,)eror shall be held by you to be emperor indeed, and that it any one gainsay him, you will be his helpers. And we name him now at the self-same hour when God was born, THE COUNT BALDWIN OF FLANDERS AND HAINAULT! " A cry of joy was raised in the palace, and they bore the count out of the palace, and the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat bore him on one side to the church, and showed him all the honour he could. So was the Count Baldwin of Flanders and Hainault elected emperor, and a day appointed for his coronation, three weeks after Easter (16th May 1204). And you must know that many a rich robe was made for the coronation; nor did they want for the wherewithal. BONIFACE WEDS ISAAC'S WIDOW, AND AFTER BALDWIN'S CORONATION OBTAINS THE KINGDOM OF SALONIKA Before the time appointed for the coronation, the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat espoused the empress who had been the wife of the Emperor Isaac, and was sister to the King of Hungary. And within that time also did one of the most noble barons of the host, who bore the name of Odo of Champlitte of Champagne, make an end and die. Much was he mourned and bewept by William his brother, and by his 69 other friends; and he was buried in the church of the Apostles with great honour. The time for the coronation drew near, and the Emperor Baldwin was crowned with great joy and great honour in the church of St. Sophia, in the year of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ one thousand twelve hundred and four. Of the rejoicings and feasting there is no need to speak further, for the barons and knights did all they could; and the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat and Count Louis of Blois and Chartres did homage to the emperor as their lord. After the great rejoicings and ceremonies of the coronation, he was taken in great pomp, and with a great procession, to the rich palace of Bucoleon. And when the feastings were over he began to discuss his affairs. Boniface the Marquis of Montferrat called upon him to carry out the covenant made, and give him, as he was bound to do, the land on the other side of the straits towards Turkey and the Isle of Greece. And the emperor acknowledged that he was bound so to do, and said he would do it right willingly. And when the Marquis of Montferrat saw that the emperor was willing to carry out this covenant so debonairly, he besought him, in exchange for this land, to bestow upon him the kingdom of Salonika, because it lay near the land of the King of Hungary, whose sister he had taken to wife. Much was this matter debated in various ways; but in the end the emperor granted the land of Salonika to the marquis, and the marquis did homage therefor. And at this there was much joy thr oughout , the host, because the marquis was one of the knights most highly prized in all the world, and one whom the knights most loved, inasmuch as no one dealt with them more liberally than he. Thus the marquis remained in the land, as you have heard. BALDWIN MARCHES AGAINST MOURZUPHLES The Emperor Mourzuphles had not yet removed more than four days' journey from Constantinople; and he had taken with him the empress who had been the wife of the Emperor Alexius, who aforetime had fled, and his daughter. This Emperor Alexius was in a city called Messinopolis, with all his people, and still held a great part of the land. And at that 70 time the men of note in Greece departed, and a large number passed over the straits towards Turkey; and each one, for his own advantage, made himself master of such lands as he could lay hands upon; and the same thing happened also throughout the other parts of the empire. The Emperor Mourzuphles made no long tarrying before he took a city which had surrendered to my lord the Emperor Baldwin, a city called Tchorlu. So he took it and sacked it, and seized whatever he found there. When the news thereof came to the Emperor Baldwin, he took counsel with the barons, and with the Doge of Venice, and they agreed to this, that he should issue forth, with all his host, to make conquest of the land, and leave a garrison in Constantinople to keep it sure, seeing that the city had been newly taken and was peopled with the Greeks. So did they decide, and the host was called together, and decision made as to who should remain in Constantinople, and who should go in the host with the Emperor Baldwin. In Constantinople remained Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, who had been sick, and was not yet recovered, and the Doge of Venice. And Conon of Béthune remained in the palaces of Blachemoe and Bucoleon to keep the city; and with him Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, and Miles the Brabant of Provins, and Manasses of l'Isle, and all their people. All the rest made ready to go in the host with the emperor. Before the Emperor Baldwin left Constantinople, his brother Henry departed thence, by his command, with a hundred very good knights; and he rode from city to city, and in every city to which he came the people swore fealty to the emperor. So he fared forward till he came to Adrianople, which was a good city, and wealthy; and those of the city received him right willingly and swore fealty to the emperor. Then he lodged in the city, he and his people, and sojoumed there till the Emperor Baldwin came thither. MOURZUPHLES TAKES REFUGE WITH ALEXIUS, THE BROTHER OF ISAAC, WHO PUTS OUT HIS EYES The Emperor Mourzuphles, when he heard that they thus advanced against him, did not dare to abide their coming, but remained always two or three days' march in advance. 71 So he fared forward till he came near Messinopolis, where the Emperor Alexius was sojourning, and he sent on messengers, telling Alexius that he would give him help, and do all his behests. And the Emperor Alexius answered that he should be as welcome as if he were his own son, and that he would give him his daughter to wife, and make of him his son. So the Emperor Mourzuphles encamped before Messinopolis, and pitched his tents and pavilions, and Alexius was quartere within the city. So they conferred together, and Alexius gave him his daughter to wife, and they entered into alliance, and said they should be as one. They sojourned thus for I know not how many days, the one in the camp and the other in the city, and then did the Emperor Alexius invite the Emperor MourzupWes to come and eat with him, and to go with him to the baths. So were matters settled. The Emperor Mourzuphles came privately, and with few people, and when he was within the house, the Emperor Alexius called him into a privy chamber, and had him thrown on to the ground, and the eyes drawn out of his head. And this was done in such treacherous wise as you have heard. Now say whether this people, who wrought such cruelty one to another, were fit to have lands in possession I And when the host of the Emperor Mourzuphles heard what had been done, they scattered, and fled this way and that; and some joined themselves to the Emperor Alexius, and obeyed him as their lord, and remained with him. BALDWIN MARCHES AGAINST ALEXIUS-HE IS JOINED BY BONIFACE Then the Emperor Baldwin moved from Constantinople, with all his host, and rode forward till he came to Adrianople. There he found Henry his brother, and the men with him. All the people whithersoever the emperor passed, came to him, and put themselves at his mercy and under his rule. And while they were at Adrianople, they heard the news that the Emperor Alexius had pulled out the eyes of the Emperor Mourzuphles. Of this there was much talk among them; and well did all say that those who betrayed one another so disloyally and treacherously had no right to hold land in possession. Then was the Emperor Baldwin minded to ride straight to 72 Messinopolis, where the Emperor Alexius was. And the Greeks of Adrianople besought him, as their lord, to leave a garrison in their city because of Johannizza, King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, who ofttimes made war upon them. And the' Emperor Baldwin left there Eustace of Saubruic, who was a knight of Flanders, very worthy and very valiant, together with forty right good knights, and a hundred mounted sergeants. So departed the Emperor Baldwin from Adrianople, and rode towards Messinopolis, where he thought to find the Emperor Alexius. All the people of the lands through which he passed put themselves under his rule and at his mercyand when the Emperor Alexius saw this, he avoided Messl-' nopolis and fled. And the Emperor Baldwin rode on till he came before Messinopolis; and those of the city went out to meet him and surrendered the city to his commandment. Then the Emperor Baldwin said he would sojourn there, wafting for the arrival of Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, who had not yet joined the host, seeing he could not move as fast as the emperor, because he was bringing with him the empress, his wife. However, he also rode forward till he came to Messinopolis, by the river, and there encamped, and pitched his tents and pavilions. And on the morrow he went to speak to the Emperor Baldwin, and to see him, and reminded him of his promise. "Sire," said he, "tidings have come to me from Salonika that the people of the land would have me know that they are ready to receive me willingly as their lord. And I am your liegeman, and hold the land from you. Therefore, I pray you, let me go thither; and when I am in possession of my land and of my city, I will bring you out such supplies as you may need, and come ready prepared to do your behests. But do not go and ruin my land. Let us rather, if it so pleases you, march against Johannizz', the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, who holds a great part of the land wrongfully." RUPTURE BETWEEN BALDWIN AND B0NIFACE - THE ONE MARCHES ON SALONIKA, THE OTHER ON DEMOTICA I know not by whose counsel it was that the emperor replied that he was determined to march towards Salonika, 73 and would afterwards attend to his other affairs. Sire," said Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, " I pray thee, since I am able without thee to get possession of my land, that thou wilt not enter therein; but if thou dost enter therein, I shall deem that thou art not acting for my good. And be it known to thee that I shall not go with thee, but depart from among you." And the Emperor Baldwin replied that, notwithstanding all this, he should most certainly go. Alas! how ill-advised were they, both the one and the other, and how great was the sin of those who caused this quarrel! For if God had not taken pity upon them, now would they have lost all the conquests they had made, and Christendom been in danger of ruin. So by ill fortune was there division between the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople and Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat,-and by illadvice. . The Emperor Bal dwin rode towards Salonika, as he devised, with all his people, and with all his power. And Boniface, the Marquis of Montferrat, went back, and he took with him a great number of right worthy people. With him went James of Avesnes, William of Champlitte, Hugh of Colemi, Count Berthold of Katzenellenbogen, and the greater part of those who came from the Empire of Germany and held with the marquis. Thus did the marquis ride back till he came to a castle, very goodly, very strong, and very rich, which is called Demotica; and it was surrendered by a Greek of the city, and when the marquis had entered therein he garrisoned it. Then because of their knowledge of the empress (his wife), the Greeks began to turn towards him, and to surrender to his rule from all the country round about, within a day or two's journey. The Emperor Baldwin rode straight on to Salonika, and came to a castle called Christopolis, one of the strongest in the world. And it surrendered, and those of the city did homage to him. Afterwards he came to another place called Blache, which was very strong and very rich, and this too surrendered, and the people did homage. Next he came to Cetros, a city strong and rich, and it also came to his rule and order, and did homage. Then he rode to Salonika, and encamped before the city, and was there for three days. And those within surrendered the city, which was one of the best and wealthiest in Christendom at that day, on condition that 74 he would maintain the uses and customs theretofore observed by the Greek emperor. MESSAGE OF THE CRUSADERS TO BONIFACE - HE SUSPENDS THE SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE While the Emperor Baldwin was thus at Salonika, and the land surrendering to his good pleasure and commandment, the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, with all his people and a great quantity of Greeks who held to his side, marched to Adrianople and besieged it, and pitched his tents and pavilions round about. Now Eustace of Saubruic was therein, with the people whom the emperor had left there, and they mounted the walls and towers and made ready to defend themselves. Then took Eustace of Saubruic two messengers and sent them, riding night and day, to Constantinople. And they came to the Doge of Venice, and to Count Louis, and to those who had been left in the city by the Emperor Baldwin, and told them that Eustace of Saubruic would have them know that the emperor and the marquis were embroiled together, and that the marquis had seized Demotica, which was one of the strongest castles in Roumania, and one of the richest, and that he was besieging them in Adrianople. And when those in Constantinople heard this they were moved with anger, for they thought most surely that all their conquests would be lost. Then assembled in the palace of Blachernae the Doge of Venice, and Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, and the other barons that were in Constantinople; and much were they distraught, and greatly were they angered, and fiercely did they complain of those who had put enmity between the emperor and the marquis. At the prayer of the Doge of Venice and of Count Louis, Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne, was enjoined to go to the siege of Adrianople, and appease the war, if he could, because he was well in favour with the marquis, and therefore they thought he would have more influence than any other. And he, because of their prayers, and of their great need, said he would go willingly; and he took with him Manasses of l'Isle, who was one of the good knights of the host, and one of the most honoured. 75 So they departed from Constantinople, and rode day by day till they came to Adrianople, where the siege was going on. And when the marquis heard thereof, he came out of the camp and went to meet them. With him came James of Avesnes, and William of Champlitte, and Hugh of Colemi, and Otho of la Roche, who were the chief counsellors of the marquis. And when he saw the envoys, he did them much honour and showed them much fair seeming. Geoffry the Marshal, with whom he was on very good terms, spoke to him very sharply, reproaching him with the fashion in which he had taken the land of the emperor and besieged the emperor's people in Adrianople, and that without apprising those in Constantinople, who surely would have obtained such redress as was due if the emperor had done him any wrong. And the marquis disculpated himself much, and said it was because of the wrong the emperor had done him that he had acted in such sort. So wrought Geoffry, the Marshal of Champagne, with the help of God, and of the barons who were in the confidence of the marquis, and who loved the said Geoffry well, that the marquis assured him he would leave the matter in the hands of the Doge of Venice, and of Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, and of Conon of Béthune, and of Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal-all of whom well knew what was the covenant made between himself and the emperor. So was a truce established between those in the camp and those in the city. And you must know that Geoffry the Marshal, and Manasses of l'Isle, were right joyously looked upon, both by those in the camp and those in the city, for very strongly did either side wish for peace. And in such measure as the Franks rejoiced, so were the Greeks dolent, because right willingly would they have seen the Franks quarrelling and at war. Thus was the siege of Adrianople raised, and the marquis returned with all his people to Demotica, where was the empress his wife. MESSAGE OF THE CRUSADERS TO BALDWIN - DEATH OF SEVERAL KNIGHTS The envoys returned to Constantinople, and told what they had done. Greatly did the Doge of Venice, and Count Louis 76 of Blois, and all besides, then rejoice that to these envoys had been committed the negotiations for a peace; and they chose good messengers, and wrote a letter, and sent it to the Emperor Baldwin, tellin- him that the marquis had referred himself to them, with assurances that he would accept their arbitration, and that he (the emperor) was even more strongly bound to do the same, and that they besought him to do so-for they would in no wise countenance war-and promise to accept their arbitration, as the marquis had done. While this was in progress the Emperor Baldwin had settled matters at Salonika and departed thence, garrisoning it with his people, and had left there as chief Renier of Mons, who was a good knight and a valiant. And tidings had come to him that the marquis had taken Demotica, and established himself therein, an(f conquered a great part of the land lying round about, and besieged the emperor's people in Adrianople. Greatly enraged was the Emperor Baldwin when these tidings came to him, and much did he hasten so as to raise the siege of Adrianople, and do to the marquis all the -harm that he could. Ah God! what mischief their discord might have caused! If God had not seen to it, Christendom would have been undone. So did the Emperor Baldwin journey day by day. And a very great mischance had befallen those who were before Salonika, for many people of the host were stricken down with sickness. Many who could not be moved had to remain in the castles by which the emperor passed, and many were brought along in litters, journeying in sore pain; and many there were who died at Cetros (La Serre). Among those who so died at Cetros was Master ' John of Noyon, chancellor to the Emperor Baldwin. He was a good clerk, and very wise, and much had he comforted the host by the word of God, which he well knew how to preach. And you must know that by his death the good men of the host were much discomforted. Nor was it long ere another great misfortune befell the host, for Peter of Amiens died, who was a man rich and noble, and a good and brave knight, and great dole was made for him by Hugh of St. Paul, who was his cousin-german; and heavily did his death weigh upon the host. Shortly after died Gerard of Mancicourt, who was a knight much 77 prized, and Giles of Annoy, and many other good people. Forty knights died during this expedition, and by their death was the host greatly enfeebled. BALDWIN'S REPLY TO THE MESSAGE OF THE CRUSADERS The Emperor Baldwin journeyed so day by day that he met the messengers sent by those of Constantinople. One of the messengers was a knight belonging to the land of Count Louis of Blois, and the count's liegeman; his name was Bègue of Fransures, and he was wise and eloquent. He spoke the message of his lord and the other barons right manfully, and said: " Sire, the Doge of Venice, and Count Louis, my lord, and the other barons who are in Constantinople send you health and greeting as to their lord, and they complain to God and to you of those who have raised discord between you and the Marquis of Montferrat, whereby it failed but little that Christendom was not undone; and they tell you that you did very ill when you listened to such counsellors. Now they apprise you that the marquis has referred to them the quarrel that there is between him and you, and they pray you, as their lord, to refer that quarrel to them likewise, and to promise to abide by their ruling. And be it known to you that they will in no wise, nor on any ground, suffer that you should go to war." The Emperor Baldwin went to confer with his council, and said he would reply anon. Many there were in the emperor's council who had helped to cause the quarrel, and they were greatly outraged by the declaration sent by those at Constantinople, and they said: " Sire, you hear what they declare to you, that they will not suffer you to take vengeance of your enemy. Truly it seems that if you will not do as they order, they will set themselves against you." Very many big words were then spoken; but, in the end, the council agreed that the emperor had no wish to lose the friendship of the Doge of Venice, and Count Louis, and the others who were in Constantinople; and the emperor replied to the envoys: " I will not promise to refer the quarrel to those who sent you, but I will go to Constantinople without doing aught to injure the marquis." So the Emperor Baldwin journeyed day by day till he came to Constantinople, and 78 the barons, and the other people, went to meet him, and received him as their lord with great honour. RECONCILIATION OF BALDWIN AND BONIFACE On the fourth day the emperor knew clearly that he had been ill-advised to quarrel with the marquis, and then the Doge of Venice and Count Louis came to speak to him and said: "Sire, we would pray you to refer this matter to us, as the marquis has done." And the emperor said he would do so right willingly. Then were envoys chosen to fetch the marquis, and bring him thither. Of them envoys one was Gervais of Chatel, and the second Renier of Trit, and Geoffry, Marshal of Champagne the third, and the Doge of Venice sent two of his people. The envoys rode day by day till they came to Demotica, and they found the marquis with the empress his wife, and a great number of right worthy people, and they told him how they had come to fetch him. Then did Geoffry the Marshal desire him to come to Constantinople, as he had promised, and make peace in such wise as might be settled by those in whose hands he had remitted his cause; and they promised him safe conduct, as also to those who might go with him. The marquis took counsel with his men. Some there were who agreed that he should go, and some who advised that he should not go. But the end of the debate was such that he went with the envoys to Constantinople, and took full a hundred knights with him; and they rode day by day till they came to Constantinople. Very gladly were they received in the city; and Count Louis of Blois and Chartres, and the Doge of Venice went out to meet the marquis, together with many other right worthy people, for he was much loved in the host. Then was a parliament assembled, and the covenants were rehearsed between the Emperor Baldwin and the Marquis Boniface; and Salonika was restored to Boniface, with the land, he placing Demotica, which he had seized, in the hands of Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, who undertook to keep it till he heard, by accredited messenger, or letters duly sealed, that the marquis was seized of Salonika, when he would give back Demotica to the emperor, or to whomsoever the emperor might appoint. Thus was peace made between the emperor and the marquis, as you have heard. And great was the joy 79 thereof throughout the host, for out of this quarrel might very great evil have arisen. THE KINGDOM OF SALONIKA IS RESTORED TO BONIFACE - DIVISION OF THE LAND BETWEEN THE CRUSADERS The marquis then took leave, and went towards Salonika with his people, and with his wife; and with him rode the envoys of the emperor; and as they went from castle to castle, each, with all its lordship, was restored to the marquis on the part of the emperor. So they came to Salonika, and those who held the place for the emperor surrendered it. Now the governor, whom the emperor had left there, and whose name was Renier of Mons, had died; he was a man most worthy, and his death a great mischance. Then the land and country began to surrender to the marquis, and a great part thereof to come under his rule. But a Greek, a man of great rank, whose name was Leon Sgure, would in no wise come under the rule of the marquis, for he had seized Corinth and Napoli, two cities that lie upon the sea, and are among the strongest cities under heaven. He then refused to surrender, but began to make war against the marquis, and a very great many of the Greeks held with him. And another Greek, whose name was Michael, and who had come with the marquis from Constantinople, and was thought by the marquis to be his friend, he departed, without any word said, and went to a city called Arthe (? Durazzo) and took to wife the daughter of a rich Greek, who held the land from the emperor, and seized the land, and began to make war on the marquis. Now the land from Constantinople to Salonika was quiet and at peace, for the ways were so safe that all could come and go at their pleasure, and from the one city to the other there were full twelve long days' journey. And so much time had now passed that we were at the beginning of September (1204). And the Emperor Baldwin was in Constantinople, and the land at peace, and under his rule. Then died two right good knights in Constantinople, Eustace of Canteleu, and Aimery of Villeroi, whereof their friends had great sorrow. Then did they begin to divide the land. The Venetians had their part,and the pilgrims the other. And when each 80 one was able to go to his own land, the covetousness of this world, which has worked so great evil, suffered them not to be at peace, for each began to deal wickedly in his land, some more, and some less, and the Greeks began to hate them and to nourish a bitter heart. Then did the Emperor Baldwin bestow on Count Louis the duchy of Nice, which was one of the greatest lordships in the land of Roumania, and situate on the other side of the straits, towards Turkey. Now all the land on the other side of the straits had not surrendered to the emperor, but was against him. Then afterwards he gave the duchy of Philippopolis to Renier of Trit. So Count Louis sent his men to conquer his land-some h.undred and twenty knights. And over them were set Peter of Bracieux and Payen of Orleans. They left Constantinople on All Saints Day (1st November 1204), and passed over the Straits of St. George on ship-board, and came to Piga, a city that lies on the sea, and is inhabited by Latins. And they began to war against the Greeks. EXECUTION OF MOURZUPHLES AND IMPRISONMENT OF ALEXIUS In those days it happened that the Emperor Mourzuphles, whose eyes had been put out-the same who had murdered his lord, the Emperor Isaac's son, the Emperor Alexius, whom the pilgrims had brought with them to that land-it happened, I say, that the Emperor Mourzuphles fled privily, and with but few people, and took refuge beyond the straits. But Thierri of Loos heard of it, for Mourzuphles' flight was revealed to him, and he took Mourzuphles and brought him to the Emperor Baldwin at Constantinople,. And the Emperor Baldwin rejoiced thereat, and took counsel with his men what he should do with a man who had been guilty of such a murder upon his lord. And the council agreed to this: There was in Constantinople, towards the middle of the city, a column, one of the highest and the most finely wrought in marble that eye had ever seen; and Mourzuphles should be taken to the top of that column and made to leap down, in the sight of all the people, because it was fit that an act of justice so notable should be seen of the whole world. So they led the Emperor 81 Mourzuphles to the column, and took him to the top, and all the people in the city ran together to behold the event. Then they cast him down, and he fell from such a height that when he came to the earth he was all shattered and broken. Now hear of a great marvel! On that column from which he fell were images of divers kinds, wrought in the marble. And among these images was one, worked in the shape of an emperor, falling headlong; for of a long time it had been prophesied that from that column an emperor of Constantinople should be cast down. So did the semblance and the prophecy come true. It came to pass, at this time also, that the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat, who was near Salonika, took prisoner the Emperor Alexius-the same who had put out the eyes of the Emperor Isaac-and the empress his wife with him. And he sent the scarlet buskins, and the imperial vestments, to the Emperor Baldwin, his lord, at Constantinople, and the emperor took the act in very good part. Shortly after the marquis sent the Emperor Alexius and the empress his wife, to Montferrat, there to be imprisoned. CAPTURE OF ABYDOS, OF PHILIPPOPOLIS, AND OF NICOMEDIA - THEODORE LASCARIS PRETENDS TO THE EMPIRE At the feast of St. Martin after this (11th November 1204), Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, went forth from Constantinople, and marched down by the straits to the mouth of Abydos; and he took with him some hundred and twenty good knights. He crossed the straits near a city which is called Abydos, and found it well furnished with good things, with corn and meats, and with all things of which man has need. So he seized the city, and lodged therein, and then began to war with the Greeks who were before him. And the Armenians of the land, of whom there were many, began to turn towards him, for they greatly hated the Greeks. At that time Renier of Trit left Constantinople, and went towards Philippopolis, which the emperor had given him; and he took with him some hundred and twenty very good knights, and rode day by day till he passed beyond Adrianople, and came to Philippopolis. And the people of the land received him, and obeyed him as their lord, for they beheld his coming very willingly. And they stood in great 82 need of succour, for Johannizza, the King of Wallachia, had mightily oppressed them with war. So Renier helped them right well, and held a great part of the land, and most of those who had sided with Johannizza, now turned to him. In those parts the war with Johannizza raged fiercely. Tle emperor had sent some hundred knights over the straits of Saint George opposite Constantinople. Macaire of SainteMen,ehould was in command, and with him went Matthew of Wallincourt, and Robert of Ronsoi. They rode to a city called Nicomedia, which lies on a gulf of the sea, and is well two days' journey from Constantinople. When the Greeks saw them coming, they avoided the city, and went away; so the pilgrims lodged therein, and garrisoned it, and enclosed it with walls, and began to wage war before them, on that side also. The land on the other side of the straits had for lord a Greek named Theodore Lascaris. He had for wife the daughter of the Emperor Alexius, through whom he laid claim to the land - this was the Alexius whom the Franks had driven from Constantinople, and who had put out his brother's eyes. The same Lascaris maintained the war against the Franks on the other side of the straits, in whatsoever part they might be. In Constantinople remained the Emperor Baldwin and Count Louis, with but few people, and the Count of St. Paul, who was grievously sick with gout, that held him by the knees and feet; and the Doge of Venice, who saw naught. REINFORCEMENTS FROM SYRIA - DEATH OF MARY, THE WIFE OF BALDWIN After this time came from the land of Syria a great company of those who had abandoned the host, and gone thither from other ports than Venice. With this company came Stephen of Perche, and Renaud of Montmirail, who was cousin to Count Louis, and they were by him much honoured, for he was very glad of their coming. And the Emperor Baldwin, and the rest of the people also received them very gladly, for they were of high rank, and very rich, and brouaht very many good people with them. From the land of Syria came Hugh of Tabarie, and Raoul his brother, and Thierri of Tenremonde, and very many people of the land, knights and light horsemen, and sergeants. 83 And the Emperor Baldwin gave to Stephen of Perche the duchy of Philadelphia. Among other tidings came news at this time to the Emperor Baldwin whereby he was made very sorrowful; for the Countess Mary [She was the daughter of Henry Count of Champagne and of Mary, daughter of Philip Augustus, King of France] his wife, whom he had left in Flanders, seeIng she could not go with him because she was with childhe was then but count-had brought forth a daughter-and afterwards, on her recovery, she started to go to her lord overseass and passed to the port of Marseilles, and coming to Acre, she had but just landed, when the tidings came to her from Constantinople-told by the messengers whom her lord had sent-that Constantinople was taken, and her lord made emperor, to the great joy of all Christendom. On hearing this the lady was minded to come to him forthwith. Then a sickness took her, and she made an end and died, whereof there was great dole throughout all Christendom, for she was a gracious and virtuous lady and greatly honoured. And those who came in this company brought the tidings of her death, whereof the Emperor Baldwin had sore affliction, as also the barons of the land, for much did they desire to have her for their lady. DEFEAT OF THEODORE AND CONSTANTINE LASCARIS At that time those who had gone to the city of Piga - Peter of Bracieux and Payen of Orléans being the chiefs - fortified a castle called Palormo; and they left therein a garrison of their people, and rode forward to conquer the land. Theodore Lascaris had collected all the people he could, and on the day of the feast,of our Lord St. Nicholas (6th December 1204), which is before the Nativity, he joined battle in the plain before a castle called Poemaninon. The battle was engaged with great disadvantage to our people, for those of the other part were in such numbers as was marvellous; and on our side there were but one hundred and forty knights, without counting the mounted sergeants. But our Lord orders battles as it pleases Him. By His grace and by His will, the Franks vanquished the Greeks and discomfited them, so that they suff ered very great loss. And within the week, they surrendered a very large part of the land. They surrendered Poemaninon, which was a very 84 strong castle, and Lopadium, which was one of the best cities of the land, and Polychna, which is seated on a lake of fresh water, and is one of the strongest and best castles that can be found. And you must know that our people fared very excellently, and by God's help had their will of that land. Shortly after-, by the advice of the Armenians, Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople, started from the city of Abydos, leaving therein a garrison of his people, and rode to a city called Adramittium, which lies on the sea, a two days' journey from Abydos. This city yielded to him, and he lodged therein, and a great part of the land surrendered; for the city was well supplied with corn and meats, and other goods. Then he maintained the war in those parts against the Greeks. Theodore Lascaris, who had been discomfited at Poemaninon, collected as many people as he could, and assembled a very great army, and gave the command thereof to Constantine, his brother, who was one of the best Greeks in Roumania, and then rode straight towards Adramittium. And Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, had knowledge, through the Armenians, that a great host was marching against him, so he made ready to meet them, and set his battalions in order; and he had with him some very good men, as Baldwin of Beauvoir, and Nicholas of Mailly, and Anseau of Cayeux, and Thierri of Loos, and Thierri of Tenremonde. So it happened that on the Saturday which is before mid Lent (19th March 1205), came Constantine Lascaris with his great host, before Adramittium. And Henry, when he knew of his coming, took counsel, and said he would not suff er himself to be shut up in the city, but would issue forth. And those of the other part came on with all their host, in great companies of horse and foot, and those on our part went out to meet them, and began the onslaught. Then was there a dour battle and fighting hand to hand; but by God's help the Franks prevailed, and discomfited their foes, so that many were killed and taken captive, and there was much booty. Then were the Franks at ease, and very rich, so that the people of the land turned to them, and began to bring in their rents. 85 BONIFACE ATTACKS LEON SGURE; HE IS JOINED BY GEOFFRY OF VILLEHARDOUIN, THE NEPHEW Now let us leave speaking further (for the nonce), of those at Constantinople, and return to the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat. The marquis had gone, as you have heard, towards Salonika, and then ridden forth against Leon Sgure, who held Napoli and Corinth, two of the strongest cities in the world. Boniface besieged both cities at once. James of Avesnes, with many other good men, remained before Corinth, and the rest encamped before Napoli, and laid siege to it. Then befell a certain adventure in the land. For Geoffry of Villehardouin, who was nephew to Geofiry of Villehardouin, Marshal of Roumania and Champagne, being his brother's son, was moved to leave Syria with the company that came to Constantinople. But wind and chance carried him to the port of Modon, and there his ship was injured, so that, of necessity, it behoved him to winter in that country. And a Greek, who was a great lord of the land, knew of it, and came to him, and did him much honour, and said: " Fair Sir, the Franks have conquered Constantinople, and elected an emperor. If thou wilt make alliance with me, I will deal with thee in all good faith, and we together Will conquer much land." So they made alliance on oath, the Greek and Geoffry of Villehardouin, and conquered together a great part of the country, and Geoffry of Villehardouin found much good faith in the Greek. But adventures happen as God wills, and sickness laid hold of the Greek, and he made an end and died. And the Greek's son rebelled against Geoffry of ViHehardouin, and betrayed him, and the castles in which Geoffry had set a garrison turned against him. Now he heard tell that the marquis was besieging Napoli, so he went towards him with as many men as he could collect, and rode through the land for some six days in very great peril, and thus came to the carnp, where he was received right willingly, and much honoured by the marquis and all who were there. And this was but right, seeing he was very honourable and valiant, and a good knight. 86 EXPLOITS OF WILLIAM OF CHAMPLITTE AND GEOFFRY OF VILLEHARDOUIN, THE NEPHEW, IN MOREA The marquis would have given him land and possessions so that he might remain with him, but he would not, and spoke to William of Champlitte, who was his friend, and said: " Sir, I come from a land that is very rich, and is called Morea. Take as many men as you can collect, and leave this host, and let us go and conquer that land by the help of God. And that which you will give me out of our conquests, I will hold from you, and I will be your liegeman." knd William of Champlitte, who greatly trusted and loved him, went to the marquis, and told him of the matter, and the marquis allowed of their going. So William of Champlitte and Geoffry of Villehardouin (the nephew) departed from the host, and took with them about a hundred knights, and a great number of mounted sergeants, and entered into the land of Morea, and rode onwards till they came to the city of Modon. Michael heard that they were in the land with so few people, and he collected together a great number of people, a number that was marvellous, and he rode after them as one thinking they were all no better than prisoners, and in his hand. And when they heard'tell that he was coming, they refortified Modon, where the defences had long since been pulled down, and there left their baggage, and the lesser folk. Then they rode out a day's march, and ordered their array with as many people as they had. But the odds seemed too great, for they had no more than five hundred men mounted, whereas on the other part there were well over five thousand. But events happen as God pleases; for our people fought with the Greeks ' and discomfited and conquered them. And the Greeks lost very heavily, while those on our side gained horses and arms enough, and other goods in very great plenty, and so returned very happy, and very joyously, to the city of Modon. Afterwards they rode to a city called Coron, on the sea, and besieged it. And they had not besieged it long before it surrendered, and William gave it to Geoffry of Villehardouin (the nephew) and he became his liegeman, and set therein a garrison of his men. Next they went to a castle called Chale- 87 mate which was very strong and fair, and besieged it. This castle troubled them for a very long space, but they remained before it till it was taken. Then did more of the Greeks of that land surrender than had done aforetiine. SIEGE OF NAPOLI AND CORINTH; ALLIANCE BETWEEN THE GREEKS AND JOHANNIZZA The Marquis of Montferrat besieged Napoli, but he could there do nothing, for the place was too strong, and his men suffered greatly. James of Avesnes, meanwhile, continued to besiege Corinth, where he had been left by the marquis. Leon Sgure, who was in Corinth, and very wise and wily, saw that James had not many people with him, and did not keep good watch. So one morning, at the break of day, he issued from the city in force, and got as far as the tents, and killed many before they could get to their armour. . There was killed Dreux of Estruen, who was very honourable and valiant, and greatly was he lamented. And James of Avesnes, who was in command, waxed very wroth at the death of his knight, and did not leave the fray till he was wounded in the leg right grievously. And well did those who were present bear witness that it was to his doughtiness that they owed their safety; for you must know that they came very near to being all lost. But by God's help they drove the Greeks back into the castle by force. Now the Greeks, who were very disloyal, still nourished treachery in their hearts. They perceived at that time that the Franks were so scattered over the land that each had his own matters to attend to. So they thought they could the more easily betray them. They took envoys therefore privily, from all the cities in the land, and sent them to Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, who was still at war with them as he had been aforetime. And they told Johannizza they would make him emperor, and give themselves wholly to him, and slay all the Franks. So they swore that they would obey him as their lord, and he swore that he would defend them as though they were his own people. Such was the oath sworn. 88 UPRISING OF THE GREEKS AT DEMOTICA AND ADRIANOPLE; THEIR DEFEAT AT ARCADIOPOLIS At that time there happened a great misfortune at Constantinople, for Count Hugh of St. Paul, who had long been in bed, sick of the gout, made an end and died; and this caused great sorrow, and was a great mishap, and much was he bewept by his men and by his friends. He was buried with great honour in the church of our Lord St. George of Mangana. Now Count Hugh in his lifetime had held a castle called Demotica, which was very strong and rich, and he had therein some of his knights and sergeants. The Greeks, who had made oath to the King of Wallachia that they would kill and betray the Franks, betrayed them in that castle, and slaughtered many and took many captive. Few escaped, and those who escaped went flying to a city called Adrianople, which the Venetians held at that time. Not long after the Greeks in Adrianople rose in arms; and such of our men as were therein, and had been set to guard it, came out in great peril, and left the city. Tidings thereof came to the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople, who had but few men with him, he and Count Louis of Blois. Much were they then troubled and dismayed. And thenceforth, from day to day, did evil tidings begin to come to them, that everywhere the Greeks were rising, and that wherever the Greeks found Franks occupying the land, they killed them. And those who had left Adrianople, the Venetians and the others who were there, came to a city called Tzurulum, that belonged to the Emperor Baldwin. There they found William of Blanvel, who kept the place for the emperor. By the help and comfort that he gave them, and because he accompanied them with as many men as he could, they turned back to a city, some twelve lea-ues distant, called Arcadiopolis, which belonged to the Venetians, and they found it empty. So they entered in, and put a garrison there. On the third day the Greeks of the land gathered together, and came at the break of dawn before Arcadiopohs; and then began, from all sides, an assault, great and marvellous. The Franks defended themselves right well, and opened their 89 gates, and issued forth, attacking vigorously. As was God's will, the Greeks were discomfited, and those on our side began to cut them down and to slay them, and then chased them for a league, and killed many, and captured many horses and much other spoil. So the Franks returned with great joy to Arcadiopolis, and sent tidings of their victory to the Emperor Baldwin, in Constantinople, who was much rejoiced tliereat. Nevertheless they dared not hold the city of Arcadiopolis, but left it on the morrow, and abandoned it, and returned to the city of Tzurulum. Here they remained in very great doubt, for they misdoubted the Greeks who were in the city as much as those who were without, because the Greeks in the city had also taken part in the oath sworn to the King of Wallachia, and were bound to betray the Franks. And manv there were who did not dare to abide in Tzurulum, but made their way back to Constantinople. THE CRUSADERS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STRAITS ARE RECALLED TO MARCH ON ADRIANOPLE - EXPEDITION OF GEOFFRY OF VILLEHARDOUIN Then the Emperor Baldwin and the Doge of Venice, and Count Louis took counsel together, for they saw they were losing the whole land. And they settled that the emperor should tell his brother Henry, who was at Adramittium, to abandon whatsoever conquests he had made, and come to their succour. Count Louis, on his side, sent to Payen of Orléans and Peter of Bracieux, who were at Lopadium, and to all the people that were with them, telling them to leave whatsoever conquests they had made, save Pioa only, that lay on the sea, where they were to set a garrison - the smallest they could - and that the remainder were to come to their succour. The emperor directed Macaire of Sainte-Menchould, and Matthew of Wallincourt, and Robert of Ronsoi, who had some hundred knights with them in Nicomedia, to leave Nicomedia and come to their succour. By command of the Emperor Baldwin, Geoffry of Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne and of Roumania, issued from Constantinople, with Manasses of l'Isle, and Nvith as many men as they could corect, and these were few enough, seeing 90 that all the land was being lost. And they rode to the city of Tzurulum, which is distant a three days' journey. There they found William of Blanvel, and those that were with him, in very great fear, and much were these reassured at their coming. At that place they remained four days. The Emperor Baldwin sent after Geoffry the Marshal as many as he could, of such people as were coming into Constantinople, so that on the fourth day there were at Tzurulum eighty knights. Then did Geoffry the Marshal move forward, and Manasses of l'Isle, and their people, and they rode on, and came to the city of Arcadiopolis, and quartered themselves therein. There they remained a day, and then moved to a city called Bulgaropolis. The Greeks had avoided this city and the Franks quartered themselves therein. The following day they rode to a city called Neguise, which was very fair and strong, and well furnished with all good things. And they found that the Greeks had abandoned it, and were all gone to Adrianople. Now Adrianople was distant nine French leagues, and therein were gathered all the great multitude of the Greeks. And the Franks decided that they should wait where they were till the coming of the Emperor Baldwin. RENIER OF TRIT ABANDONED AT PHILIPPOPOLIS BY HIS SON AND THE GREATER PART OF HIS PEOPLE Now does this book relate a great marvel: for Renier of Trit, who was at Philippopolis, a good nine days' journey from Constantinople, with at least one hundred and twenty knights, was deserted by Reginald his son, and Giles his brother, and James of Bondies, who was his nephew, and Achard of Verdun, who had his daughter to wife. And they had taken some thirty of his knights, and thought to come to Constantinople; and they had left him, you must know, in great peril. But they found the country raised against them, and were discomfited; and the Greeks took them, and afterwards handed them over to the King of Wallachia, who had their heads cut off. And you must know that they were but little pitied by the people, because they had behaved in such evil sort to one whom they were bound to treat quite otherwise. And when the other knights of Renier de Trit saw that he 91 was thus abandoned by those who were much more bound to him than themselves, they felt the less shame, and some eighty together left him, and departed by another way. So Renier of Trit remained among the Greeks with very few men, for he had not more than fifteen knights at Philippopolis and Stanimac-which is a very strong castle which he held, and where he was for a long time besieged. BALDWIN UNDERTAKES THE SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE We will speak no further now of Renier of Trit but return to the Emperor Baldwin, who is in Constantinople, with but very few people, and greatly angered and much distracted. He was waiting for Henry his brother, and all the people on the other side of the straits, and the first who came to him from the other side of the straits came from Nicomedia, viz.: Macaire of Sainte-Menehould, and Matthew of Wallincourt, and Robert of Ronsoi, and with them full a hundred knights. When the emperor saw them, he was right glad, and he consulted with Count Louis, who was Count of Blois and Chartres. And they settled to go forth, with as many men as they had, to follow Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, who had gone before. Alas 1 what a pity it was they did not wait till all had joined them who were on the other side of the straits, seeing how few people they had, and how perilous the adventure on which they were bound. So they started from Constantinople, some one hundred and forty knights, and rode from day to day till they came to the castle of Neguise, where Geoffry the Marshal was quartered. That night they took counsel together, and the decision to which they came was, that on the morrow they should go before Adrianople, and lay siege to it. So they ordered their battalions, and did for the best with such people as they had. When the morning came, and full daylight, they rode as had been arranged, and came before Adrianople. And they found it very well defended, and saw the flags of Johannizza, King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, on the walls and towers; and the city was very strong and very rich, and very full of people. Then they made an assault, with very few people, before two of the gates, and this was on the Tuesday of 92 Palmtide (29th March I205). So did they remain before the city for three days, in great discomfort, and but few in number. THE SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE CONTINUED WITHOUT RESULT Then came Henry Dandolo, the Doge of Venice, who was' an old man and saw naught. And he brought with him as many people as he had, and these were quite as many as the Emperor Baldwin and Count Louis had brought, and he encamped before one of the gates. On the morrow they were joined by a troop of mounted sergeants, but these might well have been better men than they proved themselves to be. And the host [note: meaning here a little obscure. I think, however, the intention of the origin'd is to state that the host, and not only the sergeants, lacked supplies] had small store of provisions, because the merchants could not come with them; nor could they go foraginc, because of the many Greeks that were spread throughout the land. Johannizza, King of Wallachia, was coming to succour Adrianople with a very great host; for he brought with him Wallachians and Bulgarians, and full fourteen thousand Comans who had never been baptised. Now because of the dearth of provisions, Count Louis of Blois and Chartres went foraging on Palm Sunday. With him went Stephen of Perche, brother of Count Geoffry of Perche, and Renaud of Montmirail, who was brother of Count Hervée of Nevers, and Gervais of Châtel, and more than half of the host. They went to a castle called Peutace, and found it well garrisoned with Greeks, and assailed it with great force and fury; but they were able to achieve nothing, and so retreated without taking anv spoils. Thus they remained during the week of the two'Easters (Palm Sunday to Easter Day), and fashioned engines of divers sorts, and set such miners as they had to work underground and so undermine the wall. And thus did they celebrate Easter (10th April) before Adrianople, being but few in number and scant of provisions. 93 JOHANNIZZA, KING OF WALLACHIA, COMES TO RELIEVE ADRIANOPLE Then came tidings that Johannizza, King of Wallachia, was coming upon them to relieve the city. So they set their affairs in order, and it was arranged that Geoffry the Marshal, and Manasses of l'Isle should guard the camp, and that the Emperor Baldwin and all the remainder of the host should issue from the camp if so be that johanizza came and offered battle. Thus they remained till the Wednesday of Easter week, and Johannizza had by that time approached so near that he encamped at about five leagues from us. And he sent his Comans running before our camp, and a cry was raised throughout the camp, and our men issued therefrom helterskelter, and pursued the Comans for a full league very foolishly; for when they wished to return, the Comans began to shoot at them in grievous wise, and wounded a good many of their horses. So our men returned to the camp, and the barons were summoned to the quarters of the Emperor Baldwin. And they took counsel, and all said that they had dealt foolishly in thus pursuing people who were so lightly armed. And in the end they settled that if Johannizza came on again, they would issue forth, and set themselves in array of battle before the camp, and there wait for him, and not move from thence. And they had it proclaimed throughout the host that none should be so rash as to disregard this order, and move from his post for any cry or tumult that might come to his ears. And it was settled that Geoffry the Marshal should keep guard on the side of the city, with Manasses of l'Isle. So they passed that night till the Thursday morning in Easter week, when they heard mass and ate their dinner. And the Comans ran up to their tents, and a cry arose, and they ran to arms, and issued from the camp with all their battalions in array, as had afore been devised. 94 DEFEAT OF THE CRUSADERS-BALDWIN TAKEN PRISONER Count Louis went out first with his battalion, and began to follow after the Comans, and sent to urge the emperor to come after him. Alas! how ill did they keep to what had been settled the night before! For they ran in pursuit of the Comans for at least two leagues, and joined issue with them, and chased them a long space. And then the Comans turned back upon them, and began to cry out and to shoot. On our side there were battalions made up of other people than knights, people having too little knowledge of arms, and they began to wax afraid and be discomfited. And Count Louis, who had been the first to attack, was wounded in two places full sorely; and the Comans and Wallachians began to invade our ranks; and the count had fallen, and one of his knights, whose name was John of Friaise, dismounted, and set him on his horse. Many were Count Louis' people who said: "Sir, get you hence, for you are too sorely wounded, and in two places." And he said: "The Lord God forbid that ever I should be reproached with flying from the field, and abandoning the emperor." The emperor, who was in great straits on his side, recalled his people, and he told them that he would not fly, and that they were to remain with him: and well do those who were there present bear witness that never did knight defend himself better with his hands than did the emperor. This combat lasted a long time. Some were there who did well, and some were there who fled. In the end, for so God suffers misadventures to occur, they were discomfited. There on the field remained the Emperor Baldwin, who never would fly, and Count Louis; the Emperor Baldwin was taken alive and Count Louis was slain. Alas! how woful was our loss! There was lost the Bishop Peter of Bethlehem, and Stephen of Perche, brother to Count Geoffry, and Renaud of Montmirail, brother of the Count of Nevers, and Matthew of Wallincourt, and Robert of Ronsoi, John of Friaise, Walter of Neuilli, Ferri of Yerres, John his brother, Eustace of Heumont, John his brother, Baldwin of Neuville, and many more of whom the book does 95 not here make mention. Those who were able to escape, they came back flying to the camp. THE CRUSADERS RAISE THE SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE When Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, who was keeping guard at one of the gates of the cityo , saw this he issued from the camp as soon as he could, with all the men that were with him, and gave command to Manasses of lisle, who was on guard at another gate, that he should follow after him. And he rode forth with all his force at full speed, and in full array, to meet the fugitives, and the fugitives all rallied round him. And Manasses of l'Isle followed as soon as he was able, with his men, and joined himself to him, so that together they formed a very strong body; and all those who came out of the rout, and whom they could stop, were taken into their ranks. The rout was thus stayed between Nones and Vespers. But the most part of the fugitives were so afeared that they fled right before them till they came to the tents and quarters. Thus was the rout stayed, as you have heard; and the Comans, with the Wallachians and Greeks, who were in full chace, ceased their pursuit. But these still galled our force with their bows and arrows, and the men of our force kept still with their faces turned towards them. Thus did both sides remain till nightfall, when the Comans and Wallachians began to retire. Then did Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne and Roumania, summon to the camp the Doge of Venice, who was an old man and saw naught, but very wise and brave and vigorous; and he asked the Doge to come to him there where he stood with his men, holding the field; and the Doge did so. And when the Marshal saw him, he called him into council, aside, all alone, and said to him: "Lord, you see the misadventure that has befallen us. We have lost the Emperor Baldwin and Count Louis, and the larger part of our people, and of the best. Now let us bethink ourselves how to save what is left. For if God does not take pity of them, we are but lost." And in the end they settled it thus: that the Doge would return to the camp, and put heart into the people, and order that every one should arm and remain quiet in his tent or 96 pavilion; and that Geoffry the Marshal would remain in full order of battle before the camp till it was night, so that their enemies might not see the host move; and that when it was night all would move from before the city; the Doge of Venice would go before, and Geoffry the Marshal would form the rear-guard, with those who were with him. RETREAT OF THE CRUSADERS Thus they waited till it was night; and when it was night the Doge of Venice left the camp, as had been arranged, and Geoffry the Marshal formed the rear-guard. And they departed at foot pace, and took with them all their people mounted and dismounted, the wounded as well those who were whole-they left not one behind. And they journeyed towards a city that lies upon the sea, called Rodosto, and that was full three days' journey distant. So they departed from Adrianople, as you have heard; and this adventure befell in the year of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ twelve hundred and five. And in the night that the host left Adrianople, it happened that a company started to get to Constantinople earlier, and by a more direct way; and they were greatly blamed therefor. In this company was a certain count from Lombardy named Gerard, who came from the land of the marquis, and Odo of Ham, who was lord of a castle called Ham in Vermandois, and John of Maseroles, and many others to the number of twenty-five knights, whom the book does not name. And they went away so fast after the discomfiture, which had taken place on the Thursday evening, that they came to Constantinople on the Saturday night, though it was ordinarilyagoodfivedays'journey. Andtheytoldthenews to the Cardinal Peter of Capua, who was there by the authority of Innocent Pope of Rome, and to Conon of Béthune, who guarded the city, and to Miles the Brabant, and to the other good men in the city. And you must know that these were greatly affeared, and thought of a certainty that all the rest, who had been left before Adrianople, were lost, for they had no news of them. 97 PETER OF BRACIEUX AND PAYEN OF ORLEANS MEET THE RETREATING HOST Now will we say no more about those at Constantinople, who were in sore trouble, but go back to the Doge of Venice and Geoffry the Marshal, who marched all the night that they left Adrianople, till the dawn of the following day; and then they came to a city called Pamphyle. Now listen and you shall hear how adventures befall as God wills: for in that city had lain during the night, Peter of Bracieux and Payen of Orldans, and all the men belonging to the land of Count Louis, at least a hundred very good knights and one hundred and forty mounted sergeants, and they were coming from the other side of the straits to join the host at Adrianople. When they saw the host coming, they ran to their arms nght nimbly, for they thought we were the Greeks. So they armed themselves, and sent to know what people we were, when their messengers discovered that we were the host retreating after our discomfiture. So the messengers went back, and told them that the Emperor Baldwin was lost, and their lord Count Louis, of whose land and country they were, and of whose following. Sadder news could they not have heard. There might you have seen many tears wept, and many hands wrung for sorrow and pity. And they went on, all an-ned as they were, till they came to where Geoffry, the Marshal of Champagne, was keeping guard in the rear, in very great anxiety and misease. For Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, had come at the point of day before Adrianople with all his host, and found that we had departed, and so ridden after us till it was full day; and when he found us not, he was full of grief; and well was it that he found us not, for if he had found us we must all have been lost beyond recovery. "Sir," said Peter of Bracieux and Payen of Orléans to Geoffry the Marshal, "what would you have us do? We will do whatever you wish." And he answered them: " You see how matters stand with us. You are fresh and unwearied, and your horses also; therefore do you keep guard in the rear, and I will go forward and hold in hand our people, who are greatly dismayed and in sore need of comfort." To this they consented right willingly. So they 98 established the rearguard duly and efficiently, and as men who well knew how, for they were good knights and honourable. THE HOST REACHES RODOSTO Geoffry the Marshal rode before and led the host, and rode till he came to a city called Cariopolis. Then he saw that the horses were weary with marching all night, and entered into the city, and put them up till noon. And they gave food to their horses, and ate themselves of what they could find, and that was but little. So they remained all the day in that city until night. And Johannizza, the King of Wallachia, had followed them all the day with all his powers, and encamped about two leaaues from them. And when it was night, those in the city all armed themselves and departed. Geoffry the Marshal led the van, and those formed the rear-guard who had formed it during the day. So they rode through that night, and the following day (16th April) in great fear and much hardship, till they came to the city of Rodosto, a city very rich and very strong, and inhabited by Greeks. These Greeks did not dare to defend themselves, so our people entered in and took quarters; so at last were they in safety. Thus did the host escape from Adrianople, as you have heard. Then was a council held in the city of Rodosto; and it seemed to the council that Constantinople was in greater jeopardy than they were. So they took messengers, and sent them by sea, telling them to travel night and day, and to advise those in the city not to be anxious about them-for they had escaped-and that they would repair back to Constantinople as soon as they could. SEVEN THOUSAND PILGRIMS LEAVE THE CRUSADERS At the time when the messengers arrived, there were in Constantinople five ships of Venice, very large and very good, laden with pilgrims, and knights and sergeants, who were leaving the land and returning to their own countries. There were at least seven thousand men at arms in the ships, and one was William the advocate of Béthune, and there were besides Baldwin of Aubigny, and John of Virsin, who be- 99 longed to the land of Count Louis, and was his liegeman, and at least one hundred other knights, whom the book does not here name. Master Peter of Capua, who was cardinal from the Pope of Rome, Innocent, and Conon of Béthune, who commanded in Constantinople, and Miles the Brabant, and a great number of other men of mark, went to the five ships, and prayed those who were in them, with sighs and tears, to have mercy and pity upon Christendom, and upon their liege lords who had been lost in battle, and to remain for the love of God. But they would not listen to a single word, and left the port. They spread their sails, and went their way, as God ordained, in such sort that the wind took them to the port of Rodosto; and this was on the day following that on which those who had escaped from the discomfiture came thither. The same prayers, with tears and weeping, that had been addressed to them at Constantinople-those same prayers were now addressed to them at Rodosto; and Geoffry the Marshal, and those who were with him, besought them to have mercy and pity on the land, and remain, for never would they be able to succour any land in such dire need. They replied that they would consult together, and give an answer on the morrow. And now listen to the adventure which befell that night in the city. There was a knight from the land of Count Louis, called Peter of Frouville, who was held in honour, and of great name. The same fled by night, and left all his baggage and his people, and gat himself to the ship of John of Virsin, who was from the land of Count Louis of Blois and Chartres. And those on board the five ships, who in the morning were to give their answer to Geoffry the Marshal and to the Doge of Venice, so soon as they saw the day, they spread their sails, and went their way without word said to any one. Much and great blame did they receive, both in the land whither they went, and in the land they had left; and he who received most blame of all was Peter of Frouville. For well has it been said that he is but ill-advised who, through fear of death, does what will be a reproach to him for ever. 100 MEETING OF MANY OF THE CRUSADERS-HENRY, THE BROTHER OF BALDWIN, IS MADE REGENT Now let us speak of these last no farther, but speak of Henry, brother to the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople, who had left Adramittium, which he had conquered, and passed the straits at the city of Abydos, and was coming towards Adrianople to succour the Emperor Baldwin, his brother. And with him had come the Armenians of the land, who had helped him against the Greeks-some twenty thousand with all their wives and children-for they dared not remain behind. Then came to him the news, by certain Greeks, who had escaped from the discomfiture, that his brother the Emperor Baldwin was lost, and Count Louis, and the other barons. Afterwards came the news of those who had escaped and were at Rodosto; and these asked him to make all the haste he could, and come to them. And because he wanted to hasten as much as he could, and reach them earlier, he left behind the Armenians, who travelled on foot, and had with them chariots, and their wives and children; and inasmuch as these could not come on so fast, and he thought they would travel safely and without hurt, he went forward and encamped in a village called Cartopolis. On that very day came thither the nephew of Geoffry the Marshal, Anseau of Courcelles, whom Geoffry had summoned from the parts of Macre, Trajanopolis, and the Baie, lands that had been bestowed upon him; and with Anseau came the people from PhilippoPolis, who had left Renier of Trit. This company held full a hundred good knights, and full five hundred mounted sergeants, who all were on their way to Adrianople to succour the Emperor Baldwin. But tidings had come to them, as to the others, that the emperor had been defeated, so they turned to go to Rodosto, and came to encamp at Cartopolis, the village where Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, was then encamped. And when Baldwin's men saw them coming, they ran to arms, for they thought they were Greeks, and the others thought the same of Baldwin's men. And so they advanced till they became known to one another, and each was right glad of the other's 101 coming, and felt all the safer; and they quartered themselves in the village that night until the morrow. On the morrow they left, and rode straight towards Rodosto, and came that night to the city; and there they found the Doge of Venice and Geoffry the Marshal, and all who had escaped from the late discomfiture; and right glad were these to see them. Then were many tears shed for sorrow by those who had lost their friends. Ah, God! what pity it was that those men now assembled had not been at Adrianople with the Emperor Baldwin, for in that case would nothing have been lost. But such was not God's pleasure. So they sojoumed there on the following day, and the day after, and arranged matters; and Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, was received into lordship, as regent of the empire, in lieu of his brother. And then misfortune came upon the Armenians, who were coming after Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, for the people of the land gathered together and discomfited the Armenians, so that they were all taken, killed or lost. RETURN TO CONSTANTINOPLE - APPEALS FOR HELP SENT TO THE POPE, AND TO FRANCE AND TO OTHER LANDS - DEATH OF THE DOGE Johannizza., King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, had with him all his power, and he occupied the whole land; and the country, and the cities, and the castles held for him; and his Comans over-ran the land as far as Constantinople. Henry the regent of the empire, and the Doge of Venice, and Geoffry the Marshal, were still at Rodosto, which is a three days' journey from Constantinople. And they took council, and the Doge of Venice set a garrison of Venetians in Rodosto -for it was theirs. And on the morrow they put their forces in array, and rode, day by day, towards Constantinople. When they reached Selymbria, a city which is two days' journey from Constantinople, and belonged to the Emperor Baldwin, Henry his brother set there a garrison of his people, and they rode with the rest to Constantinople, where they were received right willingly, for the people were in great terror. Nor is that to be wondered at, for they had lost so much of the country, that outside Constantinople they only held Rodosto and Selymbria; the whole of the rest of the 102 country being held by Johannizza, King of Wallachia and Bulgaria. And on the other side of the straits of St. George, they held no more than the castle of Piga, while the rest of the land was in the hands of Theodore Lascaris. Then the barons decided to send to the Apostle of Rome, Innocent, and to France and Flanders, and to other lands, to ask for succour. And for this purpose were chosen as envoys Nevelon, Bishop of Soissons, and Nicholas of Mailly, and John Bliaud. The rest remained in Constantinople, in great distress, as men who stood in fear of losing the land. So they remained till Pentecost (29th May 1205). And within this time a very great misfortune happened to the host, for Henry Dandolo was taken sick; so he made an end and died, and was buried with great honour in the church of St. Sophia. When Pentecost had come, Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, had pretty well had his will of the land; and he could no longer hold his Comans to-ether, because they were unable to keep the field during the summer; so the Comans departed to their own country. And he, with all his host of Bulgarians and Greeks, marched against the marquis towards Salonika. And the marquis, who had heard the news of the discomfiture of the Emperor Baldwin, raised the siege of Napoli, and went to Salonika with as many men as he could collect, and garrisoned it. THE REGENT OBTAINS CERTAIN ADVANTAGES OVER THE GREEKS Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople, with as many people as he could gather, marched against the Greeks to a city called Tzurulum, which is a three days' journey from Constantinople. This city surrendered, and the Greeks swore fealty to him-an oath which at that time men observed badly. From thence he marched to Arcadiopolis, and found it void, for the Greeks did not dare to await his coming. And from thence again he rode to the city of Bizye, which was very strong, and well garrisoned with Greeks; and this city too surrendered. Aferwards he rode to the city of Napoli (Apros) which also remained well garrisoned with Greeks. As our people were preparing for an assault, the Greeks within the city asked to negotiate for capitulation. But 103 while they thus negotiated, the men of the host effected an entrance into the city on another side, and Henry the Regent of the empire and those who were negotiating knew nothing of it. And this proved very disastrous to the Greeks. For the Franks, who had effected an entrance, began to slaughter them, and to seize their goods, and to take all that they had. So were many killed and taken captive. In this wise was Napoli (Apros) captured; and the host remained there three days. And the Greeks were so terrified by this slaughter, that they abandoned all the cities and castles of the land, and fled for refuge to Adrianople and Demotica, which were very strong and good cities. SERES SURRENDERS TO JOHANNIZZA - HE FORFEITS HIS WORD At that time it happened that Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, with all his host, marched against the marquis, towards a city called Seres. And the marquis had set a strong garrison of his people in the city, for he had set there Hugh of Colemi, who was a very good knight, and hi,h in rank, and William of Arles, who was his marshal, and great part of his best men. And Johannizza, the King of Wallachia besieged them; nor had he been there long before he took the burgh by force. And at the taking of the burgh a great misfortune befell, for Hugh of Colemi was killed; he was struck through the eye. When he was killed, who was the best of them all, the rest of the garrison were greatly afeared. They drew back into the castle, which was very strong; and Johannizza besieged them, and erected his petraries and mangonels. Nor had he besieged them long before they began to talk about surrendering, for which they were afterwards blamed, and incurred great reproach. And they agreed to yield up the castle to Johannizza, and Johannizza on his side caused twenty-five of the men of highest rank that he had to swear to them that they should be taken, safe and sound, with all their horses, and all their arms, and all their baggage, to Salonika, or Constantinople, or Hungary-wMchever of the three it liked them best. In this manner was Seres surrendered, and Johannizza caused the besieged to come forth from the castle and en- 104 camp near him in the fields; and he treated them with much fair seeming, and sent them presents. So he kept them for three days, and then he lied and foreswore his promises; for he had them taken, and spoiled of their goods, and led away to Wallachia, naked, and unshod, and on foot. The poor and the mean people, who were of little worth, he sent into Hungary; and as for the others, he caused their heads to be cut off. Of such mortal treachery was the KinL, of Wallachia guilty, as you have heard. Here'did the host suffer grievous loss, one of the most dolorous that ever it suffered. And Johannizza had the castle and city razed, and went on after the marquis. THE REGENT BESIEGES ADRIANOPLE IN VAIN Henry, the Regent of the empire, with all his power, rode towards Adrianople, and laid siege to it; and he was in great peril, for there were many, both within and without the city who so hemmed him in, he and his people, that they could scantl buy provisions, or go foraging. Therefore they enclosed their camp with palisades and barriers, and told off part of their men to keep guard within the palisades and barriers, while the others attacked the city. And they devised machines of divers kinds, and scaling ladders, and many other engines, and wrought diligently to take the city. But they could not take it, for the city was very strong and well furnished for defence. So matters went ill with them, and many of their people were wounded; and one of their good knights, Peter of Bracieux, was struck on the forehead from a mangonel, and brought near to death; but he recovered, by the will of God, and was taken away in a litter. When they saw that they could in no wise prevail against the city, Henry the Regent of the empire, and the French host departed. And greatly were they harassed by the people of the land and by the Greeks; and they rode -from day to day till they came to a city called Pamphyle, and lodged there, and sojourned in it for two months. And they made thence many forays towards Demotica and the country round about, where they captured much cattle, and other booty. So the host remained in those parts till the beginning of winter; and supplies came to them from Rodosto, and from the sea. 105 DESTRUCTION OF PHILIPPOPOLIS BY JOHANNIZZA Now let us leave speaking of Henry, the Regent of the empire, and speak of Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, who had taken Seres, as you have already heard, and killed by treachery those who had surrendered to him. Afterwards he had ridden towards Salonika, and sojoumed thereby a long while, and wasted a great part of tfle land. The Marquis Boniface of Montferrat was at Salonika, very wroth, and sorrowing greatly for the loss of his lord the Emperor Baldwin, and for the other barons, and for his castle of Seres that he had lost, and for his men. And when Johannizza saw that he could do nothing more, he retired towards his own land, with all his force. And the people in Philippopolis-which belonged to Renier of Trit, for the Emperor Baldwin had bestowed it upon him-heard tell how the Emperor Baldwin was lost, and many of his barons, and that the marquis had lost Seres; and they saw that the relatives of Renier of Trit, and his own son and his nephew, had abandoned him, and that he had with him but very few people; and they deemed that the Franks would never be in power again. So a great part of the people, who were Paulicians, [Note: An Eastem sect. They believed, among other things, that all matter is evfl, and that Christ suffered in appearance only.] betook themselves to Johannizza, and surrendered themselves to him, and said: " Sire, ride to Philippopolis, or send thither thy host, and we will deliver the whole city into thy hands." When Renier of Trit, who was in the city, knew of this, he doubted not that they would yield up the city to Johannizza. So he issued forth with as many people as he could collect, and left at the point of day, and came to one of the outlying quarters of the city where dwelt the Paulicians who had repaired to Johannizza, and he set fire to that quarter of the city, and burned a great part of it. Then he went to the castle of Stanimac, which was at three leagues' distance, and garrisoned by his people, and entered therein. And in this castle he lay besieged for a long while, some thirteen months, in great distress and great poverty, so that for famine they ate their horses. He was distant a nine 106 days' journey from Constantinople, and could neither obtain tidings therefrom, nor send tidings thither. Then did Johannizza send his host before Philippopolis; nor had he been there long before those who were in the city surrendered it to him, and he promised to spare their lives. And after he had promised to spare their lives, he first caused the archbishop of the city to be slain, and the men of rank to be flayed alive, and certain others to be burned, and certain others to have their heads cut off, and the rest he caused to be driven away in chains. And the city he caused to be pulled down, with its towers and walls; and the high palaces and rich houses to be burned and utterly destroyed. Thus was destroyed the noble city of Philippopolis, one of the three finest cities in the empire of Constantinople. THE REGENT SETS GARRISONS IN SUCH PLACES AS HE STILL HELD Now let us leave off speaking of those who were at Philippopolis, and of Renier of Trit, who is shut up in Stanimac, and return to Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, who had sojourned at Pamphyle till the beginning of winter. Then he took council with his men and with his barons; and they decided to set a garrison in a city called Rusium, which was situate at a place rich and fertile in the middle of the land; and the chiefs placed over this garrison were Thierri of Loos, who was seneschal, and Thierri of Tenremonde, who was constable. And Henry,,the Regent of the empire, gave to them at least seven score knights, and a great many mounted sergeants, and ordered them to maintain the war against the Greeks, and to guard the marches. And he himself went with the rest of his people to the city of Bizye, and placed a garrison there; and left in command Anseau of Cayeux, and confided to him at least six score knights, and a great many mounted sergeants. Another city, called Arcadiopolis was garrisoned by the Venetians. And the city of Napoli was restored by the brother of the Emperor Baldwin to Vemas, who had to wife the sister [Agnes, sister to Philip Augustus, King of France] of the King of France, and was a Greek who sided with us; and except he, no other Greek was on our part. And those who were in these cities maintained the war against the Greeks, 107 and made many forays. Henry himself returned to Constantinople with the rest of his men. Now Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, though rich and of great possessions, never forgat his own interests, but raised a great force of Comans and Wallachians. And when it came to three weeks after Christmas, he sent these men into the land of Roumania to help those at Adrianople and Demotica; and the latter, being now in force, grew bolder and rode abroad with the greater assurance. DEFEAT OF THE FRANKS NEAR RUSIUM Thierri of Tenremonde, who was chief and constable, made a foray on the fourth day before the feast of St. Mary Candlemas (30th January 1206); and he rode all night, having six score knights with him, and left Rusium with but a small garrison. When it was dawn, he came to a village where the Comans and Wallachians were encamped, and surprised them in such sort that those who were in the village were unaware of their coming. They killed a good many of the Comans and Wallachians, and captured some forty of their horses; and when they had done this execution, they turned back towards Rusium. And on that very night the Comans and Wallachians had ridden forth to do us hurt; and there were some seven thousand of them. They came in the morning before Rusium, and were there a lono, space; and the garrison, which was but small, closed the gates, and mounted the walls; and the Comans and Wallachians turned back. They had not gone more than a league and a half from the city, when they met the company of the French under the command of Thierri of Tenremonde. So soon as the French saw them advancing, they formed into their four battalions, with intent to draw into Rusium in slow time; for they knew that if, by God's grace, they could come thither, they would then be in safety. The Comans, and the Wallachians, and the Greeks of the land rode towards them, for they were in very great force. And they came upon the rear-guard, and began to harass it full sorely. Now the rear-guard was formed of the men of Thierri of Loos, who was seneschal, and had returned to Constantinople, and his brother Villain was now in command. 108 And the Comans and Wallachians and Greeks pressed them very hard, and wounded many of their horses. Loud were the cries and fierce the onslaught, so that by main force and pure distress they drove the rear-guard back on the battalion of Andrew of Urboise and John of Choisy; and in this manner the Franks retreated, suffering greatly. The enemy renewed their onslaught so fiercely that they drove the Franks who were nearest to them back on the battalion of Thierri of Tenremonde, the constable. Nor was it long before they drove them back still further on to the battalions led by Charles of the Frêne. And now the Franks had retreated, sore harassed, till they were within half a mile of Rusium. And the others ever pressed upon them more hardily; and the battle went sore against them, and many were wounded, and of their horses. So, as God will suffer misadventures, they could endure no further, but were discomfited; for they were heavily armed, and their enemies lightly; and the latter began to slaughter them. Alas! well might Christendom rue that day! For of all those six score knights did not more than ten escape who were not killed or taken; and those who escaped came flying into Rusiiim, and rejoined their own people. There was slain Thierri of Tenremonde, the constable, Orri of l'Isle, who was a good knight and highly esteemed, and John of Pompone, Andrew of Urboise, John of Choisy, Guy of Conflans, Charles of the Frêne, Villain the brother of Thierri the seneschal. Nor can this book tell the names of all who were then killed or taken. On that day happened one of the greatest mishaps, and the most grievous that ever befell to the Christendom of the land of Roumania, and one of the most pitiful. he Comans and Greeks and Wallachians retired, having done according to their will in the land, and won many good horses and good hawberks. And this misadventure happened on the day before the eve of our Lady St. Mary Candlemas (31st January 1206). And the remnant who had escaped from the discomfiture, together with those who had been in Rusium. escaped from the city, so soon as it was night, and went all night flying, and came on the morrow to the city of Rodosto. 109 NEW INVASION OF JOHANNIZZA; RUIN OF NAPOLI This dolorous news came to Henry the Regent of the empire, while he was going in procession to the shrine of our Lady of Blachemae, on the day of the feast of our Lady St. Mary Candlemas. And you must know that many were then dismayed in Constantinople, and they thought of a truth that the land was but lost. And Henry, the Regent of the empire, decided that he would place a garrison in Selymbria, which was a two days' journey from Constantinople, and he sent thither Macaire of Sainte-Menehould, with fifty knights to garrison the city. Now when tidings came to Johannizza, King of Wallachia. as to how his people had fared, he was very greatly rejoiced'; for they had killed or taken a very great part of the best men in the French host. So he sent throughout all his lands to collect as many people as he could, and raised a great host of Comans, and Greeks and Wallachians, and entered into Roumania. And the greater part of the cities held for him, and all the castles; and he had so large a host that it was a marvel. When the Venetians heard tell that he was coming with so great a force, they abandoned Arcadiopolis. And Johannizza rode with all his hosts till he came to Napoli, which was garrisoned by Greeks and Latins, and belonged to Vemas, who had to wife the empress, the sister of the King of France; and of the Latins was chief Bègue of Fransures, a knight of the land of the Beauvaisais. And Johannizza, the King of Wallachia, caused the city to be assaulted, and took it by force. There was so great a slaughter of people killed, that it was a marvel. And Bègue of Fransures was taken before Johannizza, who had him killed incontinently, together with all, whether Greek or Latin, who were of any account; and all the meaner folk, and women and children, he caused to, be led away captive to Wallachia. Then did he cause all the city-which was verv good and very rich, and in a good land, to be cast down and utterly destroyed. Thus was the city of Napoli rased to the ground as you have heard. 110 DESTRUCTION OF RODOSTO Twelve leagues thence lay the city of Rodosto, on the sea. Tt was very strong, and rich, and large, and very well garrisoned by Venetians, And besides all this, there had come thither a body of sergeants, some two thousand strong, and they had also come to guard the city. When they heard that Napoli had been taken by force, and that Johannizza had caused all the people that were therein to be put to death, they fell in to such terror that they were utterly confounded and foredone. As God suffers misadventures to fall upon men, so the Venetians rushed to their ships, helter-skelter, pell-mell, and in such sort that they almost drowned one another; and the mounted sergeants, who came from France and Flanders, and other countries, went flying through the land. Now listen and hear how little this served them, and what a misadventure was their flight; for the city was so strong, and so well enclosed by good walls and good towers, that no one would ever have ventured to assault it, and that Johannizza had no thought of going thither. But when Johannizza, who was full half a day's journey distant, heard tell that they had fled, he rode thither. The Greeks who had remained in the city, surrendered, and he incontinently caused them to be taken, small and great-save those who escaped-and led captive into Wallachia; and the city he ordered to be destroyed and rased to the ground. Ah! the loss and dar.,iage! for the city was one of the best in Roumania, and of the best situated. JOHANNIZZA CONTINUES HIS CONQUESTS AND RAVAGES Near there was another citv called Panedor, which surrendered to him; and he caused it to be utterly destroyed, and the people to be led captive to Wallachia like the people of Rodosto. Afterwards he rode to the city of Heraclea, that lay by a good seaport, and belonged to the Venetians, who had left in it but a weak garrison; so he assaulted it, and took it by force. There aain was a mighty slaughter, and the remnant that escaped the slaughter he caused to be led captive to Wallachia, while the city itself he destroyed, as lie had destroyed the others. 111 Thence he marched to the city of Daonium, which was very strong and fine; and the people did not dare to defend it. So he caused it to be destroyed and rased to the ground. Then he marched to the city of Tzurulum, which had already surrendered to him, and caused it to be destroyed and rased to the ground, and the people to be led away captive. And thus he dealt with every castle and city that surrendered; even though he had promised them safety, he caused the buildings to be destroyed, and the men and women to be led away captive; and no covenant that he made did he ever keep. Then the Comans and Wallachians scoured the land up to the gates of Constantinople, where Henry the Regent then was, with as many men as he could command; and very dolorous was he and very wroth, because he could not get men enough to defend his land. So the Comans seized the cattle off the land, and took captive men, women, and children, and destroyed the cities and castles, and caused such ruin and desolation that never has man heard tell of greater. So they came to a city called Athyra, which was twelve leagues from Constantinople, and had been given to Payen of Orléans by Henry, the emperor's brother. This city held a very great number of people, for the dwellers in the country round about had fled thither; and the Comans assaulted it, and took it by force. There the slaughter was so great, that there had been none such in any city where they had been. And you must know that all the castles and all the cities that surrendered to Johannizza under promise of safety were destroyed and rased to the ground, and the people led away captive to Wallachia in such manner as you have heard. And you must know that within five days' journey from Constantinople there remained nothing to destroy save only the city of Bizye, and the city of Selymbria, which were garrisoned by the French. And in Bizye abode Anseau of Cayeux, with six score knights, and in Salymbria abode Macaire of Sainte-Menehould with fifty knights; and Henry the brother of the Emperor Baldwin remained in Constantinople with the remainder of the host. And you may know that their fortunes were at the lowest, seeing that outside of Constantinople they had kepl& possession of no more than these two cities. 112 THE GREEKS ARE RECONCILED TO THE CRUSADERS - JOHANNIZZA DESIEGES DEMOTICA When the Greeks who were in the host with Johannizza - the same who had yielded themselves up to him, and rebelled against the Franks - when they saw how he destroyed their castles and cities, and kept no covenant with them, they held themselves to be but dead men, and betrayed. They spoke one to another, and said that as Johannizza had dealt with other cities, so would he deal with Adrianople and Demotica, when he returned thither, and that if these two cities were destroyed, then was Roumania for ever lost. So they took messengers privily, and sent them to Vernas in Constantinople. And they besought Vernas to cry for pity to Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin, and to the Venetians, so that they might make peace with them; and they themselves, in turn, would restore Adrianople and Demotica to the Franks; and the Greeks would all turn to Henry; and the Greeks and Franks dwell together in good accord. So a council was held, and many words were spoken this way and that, but in the end it was settled that Adrianople and Demotica, with all their appurtenances, should be bestowed on Vernas and the empress his wife, who was sister to the King Philip of France, and that they should do service therefor to the emperor and to the empire. Such was the convention made and concluded, and so was peace established between the Greeks and the Franks. Johanizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, who had sojourned long in Roumania, and wasted the country during the whole of Lent, and for a good while after Easter (2nd April 1206), now retired towards Adrianople and Demotica, and had it in mind to deal with those cities as he had dealt with the other cities of the land. And when the Greeks who were with him saw that he turned towards Adrianople, they began to steal away, both by day and by night, some twenty, thirty, forty, a hundred, at a time. When he came to Adrianople, he required of those that were within that they should let him enter, as he had entered elsewhere. But they said they would not, and spoke thus: "Sire, when we surrendered to thee, and rebelled against the 113 Franks, thou didst swear to protect us in all good faith, and to keep us in safety. Thou hast not done so, but hast utterly ruined Roumania; and we know full well that thou wilt do unto us as thou hast done unto others." And when Johannizza heard this, he laid siege to Demotica, and erected round it sixteen large petraries, and began to construct engines of every kind for the siege, and to waste all the country round. Then did those in Adrianople and Demotica take messengers, and send them to Constantinople, to Henry, the Regent of the empire, and to Vemas, and prayed them, for God's sake, to rescue Demotica, which was being besieged. And when those at Constantinople heard these tidings, they decided to succour Demotica. But some there were who did not dare to advise that our people should issue from Constantinople, and so place in jeopardy the few Christian folk that remained. Nevertheless, in the end, as you have heard, it was decided to issue forth, and move on Selymbria. The cardinal, who was there as legate on the part of the Pope of Rome, preached thereon to the people, and promised a full indulgence to all such as should go forth, and lose their lives on the way. So Henry issued from Constantinople with as many men as he could collect, and marched to the city of Selyrnbria; and he encamped before the city for full eight days. And from day to day came messengers from Adrianople praying him to have mercy upon them, and come to their relief, for if he did not come to their relief, they were but lost. THE CRUSADERS MARCH TO THE RELIEF OF DEMOTICA Then did Henry take council with his barons, and their decision was that they would go to the city of Bizve, which was a fair city, and strong. So they did as they had devised, and came to Bizye, and encamped before the city on the eve of the feast of our Lord St. John the Baptist, in June (23rd June 1206). And on the day that they so encamped came messengers from Adrianople, and said to Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin: "Sire, be it known to thee that if thou dost not relieve the city of Demotica, it cannot hold out more than eight days, for Johannizza's petraries have breached the walls in four places, and his men have twice got on to the walls." 114 Then he asked for counsel as to what he should do. Many were the words spoken, to and fro; but in the end they said: " Lord, we have come so far that we shall be for ever shamed if we do not succour Demotica. Let every man now confess and receive the communion; and then let us set our forces in array." And it was reckoned that they had with them about four hundred knights, and of a certainty no more. So they summoned the messengers who had come from Adrianople, and asked them how matters stood, and what number of men Johannizza had with him. And the messengers answered that he had with him at least forty thousand men-at-arms, not reckoning those on foot, of whom they had no count. Ah God! what a perilous battle-so few against so many 1 In the morning, on the day of the feast of our Lord St. John the Baptist, all confessed and received the communion, and on the following day they marched forward. The van was commanded by Geoffry, the Marshal of Roumania and Champagne, and with him was Macaire of Sainte-Menehould. The second division was under Conon of Béthune and Miles the Brabant; the third under Payen of Orléans and Peter of Bracieux; the fourth was under Anseau of Cayeux; the fifth under Baldwin of Beauvoir; the sixth under Hugh of Beaumetz; the seventh under Henry, brother of the Emperor Baldwin; the eighth, with the Flemings, under Walter of Escornai; Thierri of Loos, who was seneschal, commanded the rear-guard. So they rode for three days, all in order; nor did any host ever advance seeking battle so perilously. For they were in peril on two accounts; first because they were so few, and those they were about to attack so many; and secondly, because they did not believe the Greeks, with whom they had just made peace, would help them heartily. For they stood in fear lest, when need arose, the Greeks would go over to Johannizza, who, as you have already heard, had been so near to taking Demotica. JOHANNIZZA RETREATS, FOLLOWED BY THE CRUSADERS When Johannizza heard that the Franks were coming, he did not dare to abide, but burned his engines of war, and broke up his camp. So he departed from Demotica; and you must know that this was accounted by all the world as a 115 great miracle. And Henry, the Regent of the empire, came on the fourth day (28th June) before Adrianople, and pitched his cainp near the river of Adrianople, in the fairest meadows in the world. When those who were within the city saw his host coming, they issued forth, bearing all their crosses, and in procession, and showed such joy as had never been seen. And well might they rejoice for they had been in evil case. Then came tidings to the host that Johannizza was lodged at a castle called Rodosto. So in the morning they set forth and marched to those parts to seek battle; and Johannizza broke up his,camp, and marched back towards his own land. The host followed after him for five days, and he as constantly retired before them. On the fifth day they encamped at a very fair and pleasant place by a castle called Fraim; and there they sojoumed three days. And at this place there was a division in the host, and a company of valiant men separated themselves therefrom because of a quarrel that they had with Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin. Of this company Baldwin of Beauvoir was chief; and Hugh of Beaumetz went with him, and William of Gommegnies and Dreux of Beaurain. There were some fifty knights who departed together in that company; and they never thought the rest would dare to remain in the land in the midst of their enemies. RENIER OF TRIT RELIEVED AND DELIVERED Then did Henry, the Regent of the empire, take council with the barons that were with him; and they decided to ride forward. So they rode forward for two days, and encamped in a very fair valley, near a castle called Moniac. The castle yielded itself to them, and they remained there five days; and then said they would go and relieve Renier of Trit, who was besieged in Stanimac, and had been shut up therein for thirteen months. So Henry the Regent of the empire, remained in the camp, with a great part of the host, and the remainder went forward to relieve Renier of Trit at Stanimac. And you must know that those who went forward went in very great peril, and that any rescue so full of danger has but seldom been undertaken, seeing that they rode for three days through the land of their enemies. In this rescue took part 116 Conon of Béthune, and Geoffry of Villehardouin, Marshal of Roumania and Champagne, and Macaire of Sainte-Menehould, and Miles the Brabant, and Peter of Bracieux, and Payen of Orléans, and Anseau of Cayeux, and Thierri of Loos, and William of Perchoi, and a body of Venetians under command of Andrew Valère. So they rode forward till they came to the castle of Stanimac, and approached so near that they could now see it. Renier of Trit was on the walls, and he perceived the advanced guard, which was under Geoffry the Marshal, and the other battalions, approaching in very good order; and he knew not what people they might be. And no wonder that he was in doubt, for of a long time he had heard no tidings of us ; and he thought we were Greeks coming to besiege him. Geoffry the Marshal of Roumania and Champagne took certain Turcoples [soldiers born of a Turkish father atid a Greek mother] and mounted cross-bowmen and sent them forward to see if they could learn the condition of the castle; for they knew not if those within it were alive or dead, seeing that of a long time they had heard no tidings of them. And when these came before the castle, Renier of Trit and his men knew them; and you may well think what joy they had 1 They issued forth and came to meet their friends, and all made great joy of each other. The barons quartered themselves in a very good city that lay at the foot of the castle, and had aforetime besieged the castle. Then said the barons that they had often heard tell that the Emperor Baldwin had died in Johannizza's prison, but that they did not believe it. Renier of Trit, however, told them of a truth that the emperor was dead, and then they believed it. Greatly did many then grieve; alas I if only their grief had not been beyond remedy I So they lay that night in the city; and on the morrow they departed, and abandoned Stanimac. They rode for two days., and on the third they came to the camp, below the castle of Moniac, that lies on the river Arta, where Henry, the Emperor's brother, was waiting for them. Greatly did those of the host rejoice over Renier of Trit, who had thus been rescued from durance, and great was the credit given to those who had brought him back, for they had gone for him in great peril. 117 HENRY CROWNED EMPEROR - JOHANNIZZA RAVAGES THE COUNTRY AGAIN - THE EMPEROR MARCHES AGAINST HIM The barons now resolved that they would go to Constantinople, and crown Henry, the brother of the Emperor Baldwin as emperor, and leave in the country Vemas, and all the Greeks of the land, together with forty knights, whom Henry, the Regent of the empire, would leave with him. So Henry, the Regent of the empire, and the other barons, went towards Constantinople, and they rode from day to day till they came thither, and right well were they received. They crowned Henry as emperor with great joy and great honour in the church of St. Sophia, on the Sunday (20th August) after the festival of our Lady St. Mary, in August. And this was in the year of the Incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ twelve hundred and six. Now when Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria, heard that the emperor had been crowned in Constantinople, and that Vemas had remained in the land of Adrianople and Demotica, he collected together as large a force as he could. And Vemas had not rebuilt the walls of Demotica where they had been breached by Johannizza with his petraries and mangonels, and he had set but a weak garrison therein. So Johannizza marched on Demotica, and took it, and destroyed it, and rased the walls to the ground, and overran the whole country, and took men, women, and children for a prey, and wrought devastation. Then did those in Adrianople beseech the Emperor Henry to succour them, seeing that Demotica had been lost in such cruel sort. Then did the Emperor Henry summon as many people as he could, and issued from Constantinople, and rode day by day towards Adrianople, with all his forces in order. And Johannizza, the King of Wallachia, who was in the land, when he heard that the emperor was coming, drew back into his own land. And the Emperor Henry rode forward till he came to Adrianople, and he encamped outside the city in a meadow. Then came the Greeks of the land, and told him that johanriizza, the King of Wallachia, was carrying off men and women and cattle, and that he had destroyed Demotica, and wasted the country round; and that he was still within a 118 day's march. The emperor settled that he would follow after, and do battle-if so be that Johannizza would abide his coming-and deliver the men and women who were being led away captive. So he rode after Johannizza, and Johannizza retired as the emperor advanced, and the emperor followed him for four days. Then they came to a city called Veroi. When those who were in the city saw the host of the Emperor Henry approaching, they fled into the mountains and abandoned the city. And the emperor came with all his host, and encamped before the city, and found it well furnished with corn and meat, and such other things as were needful. So they sojourned there for two days, and the emperor caused his men to overrun the surrounding country, and they obtained a large booty in beeves and cows and buffaloes, and otl-ler beasts in very great plenty. Then he departed from Veroi with all his booty, and rode to another city, a day's journey distant, called Blisnon. And as the other Greeks had abandoned Veroi, so did the dwellers in Blisnon abandon their city; and he found it furnished with all things necessary, and quartered himself there. THE EMPEROR MEETS JOHANNIZZA, AND RECAPTURES HIS PRISONERS Then came tidings that in a certain valley, three leagues distant from the host, were the men and women whom ohannizza was leading away captive, together with 9.11 his plunder, and all his chariots. Then did Henry appoint that the Greeks from Adrianople and Demotica should go and recover the captives and the plunder, two battalions of knights going with them; and as had been arranged, so was this done on the morrow. The command of the one battalion was given to Eustace, the brother of the Emperor Henry of Constantinople, and the command of the other to Macaire of Sainte-Menehould. So they rode, they and the Greeks, till they came to the valley of which they had been told; and there they found the captives. And Johannizza's men engaged the Emperor Henry's men, and men and horses were killed and wounded On either side; but by the goodness of God, the Franks had 119 the advantage, and rescued the captives, and caused them to turn again, and brought them away. And you must know that this was a mighty deliverance; for the captives numbered full twenty thousand men, women, and children; and there were full three thousand chariots laden with their clothes and baggage, to say nothing of other booty in good quantity. The line of the captives, as they came to the camp, was two great leagues in length, and they reached the camp that night. Then was the Emperor Henry greatly rejoiced, and all the other barons; and they had the captives lodged apart, and well guarded, with their goods, so that they lost not one pennyworth of what they possessed. On the morrow the Emperor Henry rested for the sake of the people he had delivered. And on the day after he left that country, and rode day by day till he came to Adrianople. There he set free the men and women he had rescued; and each one went whithersoever he listed, to the land where he was bom, or to any other place. The booty, of which he had great plenty, was divided in due shares among the host. So the Emperor Henry sojoumed there five days, and then rode to the city of Demotica, to see how far it had been destroyed, and whether it could again be fortified. He encamped before the city, and saw, both he and his barons, that in the state in which it then was, it were not well to refortify it. PROJECTED MARRIAGE BETWEEN THE EMPEROR AND THE DAUGHTER OF BONIFACE - THE CRUSADERS RAVAGE THE LANDS OF JOHANNIZZA Then came to the camp, as envoy, a baron, Otho of La Roche by name, belonging to the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat. He came to speak of a marriage that had been spoken of aforetime between the daughter of Boniface, the Marquis of Montferrat, and the Emperor Henry; and brought tidings that the lady had come from Lombardy, whence her father had sent to summon her, and that she was now at Salonika. Then did the emperor take council, and it was decided that the marriage should be ratified on either side. So the envoy, Otho of La Roche, returned to Salonika. The emperor had reassembled his men, who had gone to place in safe holding the booty taken at Veroi. And he marched day by day from Adrianople till he came to the land 120 of Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria. They came to a city called Ferme, and took it, and entered in, and won much booty. They remained there for three days, and overran all the land, got very much spoil, and destroyed a city called Aquilo. On the fourth day they departed from Ferme, which was a city fair and well situated, with hot water springs for bathing, the finest in the world; and the emperor caused the city to be burned and destroyed, and they carried away much spoil, in cattle and goods. Then they rode day by day till they came back to the city of Adrianople; and thev sojoumed in the land till the feast of All Saints (1st November 1206), when they could no longer carry on the war because of the winter. So Henry and all his barons, who were much aweary of campaigning, turned their faces towards Constantinople; and he left at Adrianople, among the Greeks, a man of his named Peter of Radinghem, with ten knights. THE EMPEROR RESUMES THE WAR AGAINST THEODORE LASCARIS At that time Theodore Lascaris, who held the land on the other side of the straits towards Turkey, was at truce with the Emperor Henry; but that truce he had not kept well, having broken and violated it. So the emperor held council, and sent to the other side of the straits, to the city of Piga, Peter of Bracieux, to whom land had been assigned in those parts, and with him Payen of Orléans, and Anseau of Cayeux, and Eustace, the emperor's brother, and a great part of his best men to the number of seven score knights. These began to make war in very grim and earnest fashion against Theodore Lascaris, and greatly wasted his land. They marched to a land called Skiza, which was surrounded by the sea except on one side. And in old days the way of entry had been defended with walls and towers, and moats, but these were now decayed. So the host of the French entered in, and Peter of Bracieux, to whom the land had been devised, began to restore the defences, and built two castles, and made two fortified ways of entry. From thence they overran the land of Lascaris, and gained much booty and cattle, and brought such booty and cattle into their island: Theodore Lascaris, on the other hand, harked back upon 121 Skiza, so that there were frequent battles and skirmishes, and losses on the one side and on the other; and the war in those parts was fierce and perilous. Now let us leave speaking of those who were at Skiza, and speak of Thierri of Loos, who was seneschal, and to whom Nicomedia should have belonged; and Nicomedia lay a day's journey from Nice the Great, the capital of the land of Theodore Lascaris. Thierri then went thither, with a great body of the emperor's men, and found that the castle had been destroyed. So he enclosed and fortified the church of St. Sophia, which was very large and fair, and maintained the war in that place. ADVANTAGES OBTAINED BY BONIFACE - MARRIAGE OF HIS DAUGHTER WITH THE EMPEROR At that time the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat departed from Salonika, and went to Seres, which Johannizza had destroyed; and he rebuilt it; and afterwards rebuilt a castle called Drama in the valley of Philippi. All the country round about surrendered to him, and came under his rule; and he wintered in the land. Meanwhile, so much time had gone by, that Christmas was now past. Then came messengers from the marquis to the emperor at Constantinople to say that the marquis had sent his daughter in a galley to the city of Abydos. So the Emperor Henry sent Geoffry the Marshal of Roumania and Champagne, and Miles the Brabant, to bring the lady; and these rode day by day till they came to Abydos. They found the lady, who was very good and fair, and saluted her on behalf of their lord Henry, the emperor, and brought her to Constantinople in great honour. So the Emperor Henry was wedded to her in the Church of St. Sophia, on the Sunday after the feast of our Lady St. Mary Candlemas (4th February I207), with great joy and in great pomp; and they both wore a crown; and high were the marriage-feastings in the palace of Bucoleon. Thus, as you have just heard, was the marriage celebrated between the emperor and the daughter of the Marquis Boniface, Agnes the empress by name. THEODORE LASCARIS FORMS AN ALLIANCE WITH JOHANNIZZA Theodore Lascaris, who was warring against the Emperor Henry, took messengers and sent them to Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria. And he advised Johannizza that all the forces of the Emperor Henry were fighting against him (Lascaris) on the other side of the straits towards Turkey; that the emperor was in Constantinople with but very few people; and that now was the time for vengeance, inasmuch as he himself would be attacking the emperor on the one side, and Johannizza on the other, and the emperor had so few men that he would not be able to defend himself against both. Now Johannizza had already engaged a great host of Comans, who were on their way to join his host; and had collected together as large a force of Wallachians and Bulgarians as ever he could. And so much time had now gone by, that it was the beginning of Lent (7th March 1207). Macaire of Sainte-Menehould had begun to build a castle at Charax, which lies on a gulf of the sea, six leagues from Nicomedia, towards Constantinople. And William of Sains began to build another castle at Cibotos, that lies on the gulf of Nicomedia, on the other side, towards Nice. And you must know that the Emperor Henry had as much as he could do near Constantinople; as also the barons who were in the land. And well does Geoffry of Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne and Roumania, who is dictating this work, bear witness, that never at any time were people so distracted and oppressed by war; this was by reason that the host were scattered in so many places. SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE BY JOHANNIZZA - SIEGE OF SKIZA AND CIBOTOS BY LASCARIS Then Johannizza left Wallachia with all his hosts, and with a great host of Comans who joined themselves to him, and entered Roumania. And the Comans overran the country up to the gates of Constantinople; and he himself besieged Adrianople, and erected there thirty-three great petraries, which hurled stones against the walls and the towers. And inside Adrianople were only the Greeks and 123 Peter of Radinghem, who had been set there by the emperor, with ten knights. Then the Greeks and the Latins together sent to tell the Emperor Henry how Johannizza had besieged them, and prayed for succour. Much was the emperor distraught when he heard this; for his forces on the other side of the straits were so scattered, and were everywhere so hard pressed that they could do no more than they were doing, while he himself had but few men in Constantinople. None the less he undertook to take the field with as many men as he could collect, in the Easter fortnight; and he sent word to Skiza, where most of his people were, that they should come to him. So these began to come to him by sea; Eustace, the brother of the Emperor Henry, and Anseau of Cayeux, and the main part of their men, and thus only Peter of Bracieux, and Payen of Orléans, with but few men, remained in Skiza. When Theodore Lascaris heard tidings that Adrianople was besieged, and that the Emperor Henry, through utter need, was recalling his people, and did not know which way to tum-whether to this side or to that-so heavily was he oppressed by the war, then did Lascaris with the greater zeal gather together all the people he could,, and pitched his tents and pavilions before the gates of Skiza; and many were the battles fought before Skiza, some lost and some won. And when Theodore Lascaris saw that there were few people remaining in the city, he took a great part of his host, and such ships as he could collect on the sea, and sent them to the castle of Cibotos, which William of Sains was fortifying; and they set siege to the castle by sea and land, on the Saturday in mid-Lent (31st March 1207). Within were forty knights, very good men, and Macaire of Sainte-Menehould was their chief; and their castle was as yet but little fortified, so that their foes could come at them with swords and lances. The enemy attacked them by land and by sea very fiercely; and the assault lasted during the whole of Saturday, and our people defended themselves very well. And this book bears witness that never did fifty knights defend themselves at greater disadvantage against such odds. And well may this appear, for of the knights that were there, all were wounded save five only; and one was killed, who was nephew to Miles the Brabant, and his name was Giles. 124 THE EMPEROR ATTACKS THE FLEET OF THEODORE LASCARIS, AND RESCUES CIBOTOS Before this assault began, on the Saturday morning, there came a messenger flying to Constantinople. He found the Emperor Henry in the palace of Blachernae, sitting at meat, and spoke to him thus: "Sire, be it known to you that those at Cibotos are being attacked by land and sea; and if you do not speedily deliver them, they will be taken, and but dead men." With the emperor were Conon of Béthune, and Geoffry the Marshal of Champagne, and Miles the Brabant, and but very few people. And they held a council, and the council was but short, and the emperor went down to the shore, and entered into a galleon; and each one was to take ship such as he could find. And it was proclaimed throughout the city that all were to follow the emperor in the utter need wherein he stood, to go and rescue his men, seeing that without help they were but lost. Then might you have seen the whole city of Constantinople all a-swarrn with Venetians and Pisans and other seafaring folk, running to their ships, helterskelter and pell-mell; and with them entered into the ships the knights, fully armed; and whosoever was first ready, he first left port to go after the emperor. So they went rowing hard all the evening, as long as the light lasted, and all through the night till the dawn of the following day. And the emperor had used such diligence, that a little after sun-rising he came in sight of Cibotos, and of the host surrounding it by sea and land. And those who were within the castle had not slept that night, but had kept guard through the whole night, however sick or wounded they might be, as men who expected nothing but death. The emperor saw that the Greeks were close to the walls and about to assault the city. Now he himself had but few of his people with him-among them were Geoffry the Marshal in another ship, and Miles the Brabant, and certain Pisans, and other knights, so that he had some sixteen ships great and small, while on the other side there were full sixty. Nevertheless they saw that if they waited for their people, and suffered the Greeks to assault Cibotos, then those within 125 must be all killed or taken; and when they saw this they decided to sail against the enemy's ships. They sailed thitherward therefore in line; and all those on board the ships were fully armed, and with their helms laced. And when the Greeks, who were about to attack the castle, saw us coming, they perceived that help was at hand for the besieged, and they avoided the castle, and came to meet us; and all this great host, both horse and foot, drew up on the shore. And the Greeks on ship-board [The meaning here is a little obscure in the original ] when they saw that the emperor and his people meant to attack them in any case, drew back towards those on shore, so that the latter might give them help with bows and darts. So the emperor held them close with his seventeen ships, till the shouts of those coming from Constantinople began to reach him; and when the night fell so many had come up that the Franks were everywhere in force upon the sea; and they lay all armed during the night, and cast anchor. And they settled that as soon as they saw the day, they would go and do battle with the enemy on the shore, and also seize their ships. But when it came to about midnight, the Greeks dragged all their ships to land, and set fire to them, and burned them all, and broke up their camp, and went away flying. The Emperor Henry and his host were right glad of the victory that God had given them,,and that they had thus been able to succour their people. And when it came to be morning, the emperor and his barons went to the castle of Cibotos, and found those who were therein very sick, and for the most part sore wounded. And the emperor and his people looked at the castle, and saw that it was so weak as not to be worth the holding. So they gathered all their people into the ships, and left the castle and abandoned it. Thus did the Emperor Henry return to Constantinople. JOHANNIZZA RAISES THE SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE Johannizza, the king of Wallachia, who had besieged Adrianople, gave himself no rest, for his petraries, of which he had many, cast stones night and day against the walls and towers, and damaed the walls and towers very greatly. And he set his sappers to mine the walls, and made many 126 assaults. And well did those who were within, both Greeks and Latins, maintain themselves, and often did they beg the Emperor Henry to succour them, and wam him that, if he did not succour them, they were utterly undone. The emperor was much distraught; for when he wished to go and succour his people at Adrianople on the one side, then Theodore Lascaris pressed upon him so straitly on the other side, that of necessity he was forced to draw back. So Johannizza remained during the whole month of April (1207) before Adrianople; and he came so near to taking it that in two places he beat down the walls and towers to the ground, and his men fought hand to hand, with swords and lances, against those who were within. Also he made assaults in force, and the besieged defended themselves well; and there were many killed and wounded on one side and on the other. As it pleases God that adventures should be ordered, so it befell that the Comans who had overrun the land, and gained much booty, and returned to the camp before Adrianople, with all their spoils, now said they would remain with Johannizza no longer, but go back to their own land. Thus the Comans abandoned Johannizza. And without them he dared not remain before Adrianople. So he departed from before the city, and left it. And you must know that this was held to be a great miracle: that the siege of a city so near to the taking should be abandoned, and by a man possessed of such power. But as God wills, so do events befall. Those in Adrianople made no delay in begging the emperor, for the love of God, to come to them as soon as he could; for sooth it was that if Johannizza, the King of Wallachia returned, they would all be killed or taken. SKIZA AGAIN BESIEGED BY THEODORE LASCARIS - THE EMPEROR DELIVERS THE CITY The emperor, with as many men as he possessed, had prepared to go to Adrianople, when tidings came, very grievous, that Escurion, who was admiral of the galleys of Theodore Lascaris, had entered with seventeen galleys into the straits of Abydos, in the channel of St. George, and come before Skiza, where Peter of Bracieux then was, and Payen of 127 Orléans; and that the said Escurion was besieging the city by sea, while Theodore Lascaris was besieging it by land. Moreover, the people of the land of Skiza had rebelled against Peter of Bracieux, as also those of Marmora, and had wrought him great harm, and killed many of his people. When these tidi . ngs came to Constantinople, they were greatly dismayed. Then did the Emperor Henry take council with his men, and his barons, and the Venetians also; and they said that if they did not succour Peter of Bracieux, and Payen of Orléans, they were but dead men, and the land would be lost. So they armed fourteen galleys in all diligence, and set in them the Venetians of most note, and all the barons of the emperor. In one galley entered Conon of Béthune and his people; in another Geoffry of Villehardouin and his people; in the third Macaire of Sainte-Menehould and his people; in the fourth Miles the Brabant in the fifth Anscau of Cayeux; in the sixth Thierri of Loos, who was seneschal of Roumania; m the seventh William of Perchoi; and in the eighth Eustace the Emperor's brother. Thus did the Emperor Henry put into all these galleys the best people that he had; and when they left the port of Constantinople, well did all say that never had galleys been better armed, nor manned with better men. And thus, for this time, the march on Adrianople was again put off. Those who were in the galleys sailed down the straits, right towards Skiza. How Escurion, the admiral of Theodore Lascaris' galleys, heard of it, I know not; but he abandoned Skiza, and went away, and fled down the straits. And the others chased him two days and two nights, beyond the straits of Abydos, forty miles. And when they saw they could not come up with him, they turned back, and came to Skiza, and found there Peter of Bracieux and Payen of Orléans; and Theodore Lascaris had dislodged from before the city and repaired to his own land. Thus was Skiza relieved, as you have just heard; and those in the galleys turned back to Constantinople, and prepared once more to march on Adrianople. 128 THE EMPEROR TWICE DELIVERS NICOMEDIA, BESIEGED BY THEODORE LASCARIS Theodore Lascaris sent the most part of his force into the land of Nicomedia. And the people of Thierri of Loos, who had fortified the church of St. Sophia, and were therein, besought their lord and the emperor to come to their relief; for if they received no help they could not hold out, especially as they had no provisions. Through sheer distress and sore need, the Emperor Henry and his people agreed that they must once more abandon thought of going to Adrianople, and cross the straits of St. George, to the Turkish side, with as many people as they could collect, and succour Nicomedia. And when the people of Theodore Lascaris heard that the emperor was coming, they avoided the land, and retreated towards Nice the Great. And when the emperor knew of it, he took council, and it was decided that Thierri of Loos, the seneschal of Roumania, should abide in Nicomedia, with all his knights, and all his sergeants, to guard the land; and Macaire of Sainte-Menehould should abide at Charax, and William of Perchoi in Skiza; and each defend the land where he abode. Then did the Emperor Henry, and the remainder of his people return to Constantinople, and prepare once again to go towards Adrianople. And while he was so preparing, Thierri of Loos the seneschal, who was in Nicomedia, and William of Perchoi, and all their people, went out foraging on a certain day. And the people of Theodore Lascaris knew of it, and surprised them, and fell upon them. Now the people of Theodore Lascaris were very many, and our people very few. So the battle began, and they fought hand to hand, and before very long the few were not able to stand against the many. Thierri of Loos did right well, as also his people; he was twice struck down, and by main strength his men remounted him. And William of Perchoi was also struck down, and remounted and rescued. But numbers hemmed them in too sore, and the Franks were discomfited. There was taken Thierri of Loos, wounded in the face, and in peril of death. There, too, were most of his people taken, for few escaped. William of Perchoi fled on a hackney, wounded in the hand. 129 Those that escaped from the discomfiture rallied in the church of St. Sophia. He who dictates this history heard blame attached in this affair-whether rightly or wrongly he knows not-to a certain knight named Anseau of Remi, who was liegeman of Thierri of Loos the seneschal, and chief of his men; and who abandoned him in the fray. Then did those who had returned to the church of St. Sophia in Nicomedia, viz. William of Perchoi and Anseau of Remi, take a messenger, and send him flying to Constantinople, to the Emperor Henry; and they told the emperor what had befallen, how the seneschal had been taken with his men; how they themselves were besieged in the church of St. Sophia, in Nicomedia, and how they had food for no more than five days; and they told him he must know of a certainty that if he did not succour them they must be killed or taken. The emperor, as one hearing a cry of distress, passed over the straits of St. George, he and his people, each as best he could, and pell-mell, to go to the relief of those in Nicomedia. And so the march to Adrianople was put off once more. When the emperor had passed over the straits of St. George, he set his troops in array, and rode day by day till he came to Nicomedia. When the people of Theodore Lascaris, and his brothers, who formed the host, heard thereof, they drew back, and passed over the mountain on the other side, towards Nice. And the emperor encamped by Nicomedia in a very fair field that lay beside the river on this side of the mountain. He had his tents and pavilions pitched; and caused his men to overrun and harry the land, because the people had rebelled when they heard that Thierri of Loos, the seneschal, was taken; and the emperor's men captured much cattle and many prisoners. TRUCE WITH THEODORE LASCARIS - THE EMPEROR INVADES THE LANDS OF JOHANNIZZA The Emperor Henry sojoumed after this manner for five days in the meadow by Nicomedia. And while he was thus sojourning, Theodore Lascaris took messengers, and sent them to him, asking him to make a truce for two years, on condition that the emperor would suffer him to demolish 130 Skiza and the fortress of the church of St. Sophia of Nicomedia, while he, on his side, would yield up all the prisoners taken in the last victory, or at other times of whom he had a great many in his land. Now the emperor took council with his people; and they said that they could not maintain two wars at the same time, and that it was better to suffer loss as proposed than suffer the loss of Adrianople, and the land on the other side of the straits; and moreover that they.would (by agreeing to this truce) cause division between their enemies, viz. Johannizza, the King of Wallachia and Bulgaria and Theodore Lascaris who were now friends, and helped one another in the war. The matter was thus settled and agreed to. Then the Emperor Henry summoned Peter of Bracieux from Skiza; and he came to him; and the Emperor Henry so wrought with him that he gave up Skiza into his hands, and the emperor delivered it to Theodore Lascaris to be demolished, as also the church of St. Sophia of Nicomedia. So was the truce established, and so were the fortresses demolished. Thierri of Loos was given up, and all the other prisoners. Then the Emperor Henry repaired to Constantinople, and undertook once more to go to Adrianople with as many men as he could collect. He assembled his host at Selymbria; and so much time had already passed that this did not take place till after the feast of St. John, in June (1207). And he rode day by day till he came to Adrianople, and encamped in the fields before the city. And those within the city, who had greatly desired his coming, went out to meet him in procession, and received him very gladly.. And all the Greeks of the land came with them. The emperor remained only one day before the city to see all the damage that Johannizza had done to the walls and towers, with mines and petraries; and these had worked great havoc to the city. And on the morrow he departed', and marched towards the country of Johannizza, and so marched for four days. On the fifth day he came to the foot of the mountain of Wallachia, to a city called Euloi, which Johannizza had newly repeopled with his folk. And when the people of the land saw the host coming, they abandoned the city, and fled into the mountains. 131 THE E MPEROR'S FORAGERS SUFFER LOSS The Emperor Henry and the host of the French encamped before the city; and the foraging parties overran the land and captured oxen, and cows, and beeves in great plenty and other beasts. And those from Adrianople, who had brought their chariots with them, and were poor and illfurnished with food, loaded their chariots with corn and other grain; and they found also provisions in plenty and loaded with them, in great quantities, the other chariots that they had captured. So the host sojoumed there for three days; and every day the foraging parties went foraging throughout the land; but the land was full of mountains, and strong defiles, and the host lost many foragers, who adventured themselves madly. In the end, the Emperor Henry sent Anscau of Cayeux to guard the foragers, and Eustace his brother, and Thierri of Flanders, his nephew, and Walter of Escomai, and John Bliaud. Their four battalions went to guard the foragers, and entered into a land rough and mountainous. And when their people had overrun the land, and wished to return, they found the defiles very well guarded. For the Wallachians of the country had assembled, and fought against them, and did them great hurt, both to men and horses. Hardly were our men put to it to escape discomfiture; and the knights had, of necessity, to dismount and go on foot. But by God's help they returned to the camp, though not without great loss and damage. On the morrow the Emperor Henry, and the host of the French departed thence, and marched day by day till they came to Adrianople; and they stored therein the corn and other provisions that they brought with them. The emperor sojourned in the field before the city some fifteen days. HOMAGE RENDERED BY BONIFACE TO THE EMPEROR, AND BY GEOFFRY OF VILLEHARDOUIN TO BONIFACE At that time Boniface, the Marquis of Montferrat, who was at Seres, which he had fortified, rode forth as far as Messinopolis, and all the land surrendered to his will. Then he took messengers, and sent them to the Emperor Henry, and told him that he would right willingly speak with him 132 by the river that runs below Cypsela. Now they two had never been able to speak together face to face since the conquest of the land, for so many enemies lay between them that the one had never been able to come to the other. And when the emperor and those of his councilheardthat themarquis Boniface was at Messinopolis, they rejoiced greatly; and the emperor sent back word by the messengers that he would speak with the marquis on the day appointed. So the emperor went thitherward, and he left Conon of Bethune to guard the land near Adrianople, with one hundred knights. And they came on the set day to the place of meeting in a very fair field, near the city of Cypsela. The emperor came from one side, and the marquis from the other, and they met with very great joy; nor is that to be wondered at, seeing they had not, of a long time, beheld one another. And the marquis asked the emperor for tidings of his daughter Agnes; and the emperor told him she was with child, and the marquis was glad thereof and rejoiced. Then did the marquis become liegeman to the emperor, and held from him his land, as he had done from the Emperor Baldwin, his brother. And the marquis gave to Geoffry of Villehardouin, Marshal of Roumania and Champagne, the city of Messinopolis, and all its appurtenances, or else that of Seres, whichever he liked best; and the Marshal became his liegeman, save in so far as he owed fealty to the emperor of Constantinople. They sojourned thus in that field for two days, in great joy, and said that, as God had granted that they should come together, so might they yet again defeat their enemies. And they made agreement to meet at the end of the summer, in the month of October, with all their forces, in the meadow before the city of Adrianople, and make war against the King of Wallachia. So they separated joyous and well content. The marquis went to Messinopolis, and the Emperor Henry towards Constantinople. BONIFACE IS KILLED IN A BATTLE AGAINST THE BULGARIANS When the marquis had come to Messinopolis, he did not remain there more than five days before he rode forth, by the advice of the Greeks of the land, on an expedition to the mountain of Messinopolis, which was distant a long day's 133 journey. And when he had been through the land, and was about to depart, the Bulgarians of the land collected and saw that the marquis had but a small force with him. So they came from all parts and attacked the rear-guard. And when the marquis heard the shouting, he leapt on a horse, all unarmed as he was, with a lance in his hand. And when he came together, where the Bulgarians were fighting with the rear-guard, hand to hand, he ran in upon them, and drove them a great way back. Then was the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat wounded with an arrow, in the thick of the arm, beneath the shoulder, mortally, and he began to lose blood. And when his men saw it, they began to be dismayed, and to lose heart, and to bear themselves badly. Those who were round the marquis held him up, and he was losing much blood; and he began to faint. And when his men perceived that he could give them no farther help, they were the more dismayed, and began to desert him. So were they discomfited by misadventure; and those who remained by him-and they were but few-were killed. The head of the Marquis Boniface of Montferrat was cut off, and the people of the land sent it to Johannizza; and that was one of the greatest joys that ever Johannizza had. Alas! what a dolorous mishap for the Emperor Henry, and for all the Latins of the land of Roumania, to lose such a man by such a misadventure-one of the best barons and most liberal, and one of the best knights in the world! And this misadventure befell in the year of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ, twelve hundred and seven. END 
4370	----	The Deeds of God through the Franks by Guibert of Nogent Copyright (C)1997 by Robert Levine The Deeds of God through the Franks by Guibert of Nogent translated by Robert Levine (notes are at the end of chapter 7) The four-year period (1095-1099) between the call for crusade by Pope Urban II at the Council of Claremont and the capture of Jerusalem produced a remarkable amount of historiography, both in Western Europe and in Asia Minor. Three accounts by western European eye-witnesses--an anonymous soldier or priest in Bohemund's army, Fulker of Chartres, and Raymond of Aguilers--provoked later twelfth-century Latin writers from various parts of what are now France, Germany, England, Italy, and the Near East, to take up the task of providing more accurate, more thorough, more interpretive, and better written versions of the events. Very little is known about most of the earliest rewriters; Albert of Aix, Robert the Monk, and Raoul of Caen are little more than names, while Baldric of Dole is known to have occupied a significant ecclesiastical position, and to have composed other literary works. Guibert of Nogent, on the other hand, is better known than any other historian of the First Crusade, in spite of the fact that The Deeds of God Through the Franks, composed in the first decade of the twelfth century (1106-1109), did not circulate widely in the middle ages, and no writer of his own time mentions him. Guibert himself, in the course of the autobiographical work he composed in the second decade of the twelfth century (1114-1117), never mentions the Deeds, and it has never been translated into English.[1] What measure of fame he currently has is based mostly on his autobiography, the Monodiae, or Memoirs, an apparently more personal document, which has been translated into both French and English.[2] Although the Memoirs contain a strong historical component--the third book, in particular, if used with discretion, offers rich material for a study of the civil disorder that took place in Laon 1112-111-- the first book has attracted the attention of most recent scholars and critics because it offers more autobiographical elements. However, Guibert did not include among those elements the exact date and place of his birth.[3] Scholarly discussion has narrowed the possible dates to 1053-1065, although the latest editor of the Memoirs, Edmonde Labande, categorically chooses 1055. Among the candidates for his birthplace are Clermont-en-Beauvaisis, Agnetz, Catenoy, Bourgin, and Autreville, all within a short distance of Beauvais. No record of his death, generally assumed to have occurred by 1125, has survived. In spite of the lack of exactitude about places and dates, the Memoirs provide an extensive account of some of the ways religious, psychological, and spiritual problems combined in the mind of an aristocratic oblate, who became an aggressive Benedictine monk, fervently attached to his pious mother, fascinated and horrified by sexuality, enraged at the extent of contemporary ecclesiastical corruption, intensely alert to possible heresies, and generally impatient with all opinions not his own.[4] The personality that dominates the Monodiae had already permeated the earlier, historical text. As cantankerous as Carlyle, Guibert reveals in the Deeds the same qualities that Jonathan Kantor detected in the Memoirs: The tone of the memoirs is consistently condemning and not confiding; they were written not by one searching for the true faith but by one determined to condemn the faithless.[5] Such a tone is clearly reflected in the Deeds, whose very title is designed to correct the title of the anonymous Gesta Francorum, generally considered to be the earliest chronicle, and possibly eye-witness account (in spite of the evidence that a "monkish scribe" had a hand in producing the text), of the First Crusade.[6] Throughout his rewriting (for the most part, amplifying) of the Gesta Francorum, Guibert insists upon the providential nature of the accomplishment; by replacing the genitive plural of Franks with the genitive singular of God, Guibert lays the credit and responsibility for the deeds done--though, not by the French--where they properly belong.[7] Guibert also sees to it that his characters explicitly articulate their awareness of providential responsibility; in Book IV, one of the major leaders of the Crusade, Bohemund, addresses his men: Bohemund said: "O finest knights, your frequent victories provide an explanation for your great boldness. Thus far you have fought for the faith against the infidel, and have emerged triumphant from every danger. Having already felt the abundant evidence of Christ's strength should give you pleasure, and should convince you beyond all doubt that in the most severe battles it is not you, but Christ, who has fought. The Gesta Francorum, however, the text that Guibert sets out to correct, did not neglect the providential aspect of the First Crusade, although the surviving text contains no prologue making such an agenda blatantly explicit. Nevertheless, the anonymous author provides more than enough characters, direct discourse, and action to assure every reader that God looked favorably upon the Crusade. The warning given to Kherboga by his mother, for example,[8] indicates that even pagans were aware that God was on the side of the Christians; the appearance of the divine army,--led by three long-dead saints,[9] is another example of divine support. Perhaps the most vivid example is the series of visits Saint Andrew pays to Peter Bartholomew,[10] urging him to dig up the Lance that pierced Christ's side. Redirecting, or redistributing the credit for victory, then, was not a radical contribution by Guibert. A far more noticeable correction, however, was the result of Guibert's determination to correct the style of his source: A version of this same history, but woven out of excessively simple words, often violating grammatical rules, exists, and it may often bore the reader with the stale, flat quality of its language. The result of his attempt to improve the quality of the Gesta's language, however, is what has distressed some of the modern readers who have tried to deal with Guibert's strenuously elaborate diction, [11] itself a part of his general delight, perhaps obsession, with difficulty. The utter lack of references to Guibert by his contemporaries may indicate that earlier readers shared R.B.C. Huygens' recent judgement that it is marred by an "affected style and pretentious vocabulary."[12] Guibert seems to have anticipated such a response; at the beginning of Book Five of the Gesta he claims to be utterly unconcerned with his audiences' interests and abilities: In addition to the spiritual reward this little work of mine may bring, my purpose in writing is to speak as I would wish someone else, writing the same story, would speak to me. For my mind loves what is somewhat obscure, and detests a raw, unpolished style. I savor those things which are able to exercise my mind more than those things which, too easily understood, are incapable of inscribing themselves upon a mind always avid for novelty. In everything that I have written and am writing, I have driven everyone from my mind, instead thinking only of what is good for myself, with no concern for pleasing anyone else. Beyond worrying about the opinions of others, calm or unconcerned about my own, I await the blows of whatever words may fall upon me.[13] However, anyone who reads the conventionally obsequious opening of the dedicatory epistle to Bishop Lysiard would have difficulty accepting the claim that Guibert has no concern for pleasing anyone else: Some of my friends have often asked me why I do not sign this little work with my own name; until now I have refused, out of fear of sullying pious history with the name of a hateful person. However, thinking that the story, splendid in itself, might become even more splendid if attached to the name of a famous man, I have decided to attach it to you. Thus I have placed most pleasing lamp in front of the work of an obscure author. For, since your ancient lineage is accompanied by a knowledge of literature, an unusual serenity and moral probity, one may justly believe that God in his foresight wanted the dignity of the bishop's office to honor the gift of such reverence. By embracing your name, the little work that follows may flourish: crude in itself, it may be made agreeable by the love of the one to whom it is written, and made stronger by the authority of the office by which you stand above others. We do not know whether Lysiard shared Guibert's fascination with what is difficult, but the failure of any other medieval writer to mention Guibert implies a negative reception in general for the Gesta Dei. Not every modern reader, however, has been alienated by Guibert's posture. Labande expresses some enthusiasm for "la virtuosité du styliste,"[14] and declares that Guibert's various uses of literary devices "mériteraient une étude attentive." Acknowledging the fact that Guibert's language is somewhat "alambique" and "tarbiscoté," Labande had argued in an earlier article, although only on the basis of the historical material in the Monodiae, that Guibert deserved to be appreciated as an historian, with some "modern" qualities.[15] Going even further than Labande, Eitan Burstein admires "la richesse et l complexité" of Guibert's diction.[16] One might also point out that Guibert was not the first to compose a text of an historical nature in a self-consciously elaborate, difficult style. A century earlier Dudo of Saint Quentin had used such a style for his history of the Normans;[17] Saxo Grammaticus' History of the Danes indicates that the acrobatic style did not die out with Guibert.[18] Translating into English the work of a deliberately difficult writer, whose declared aspiration is to be as hermetic as possible, might become a quixotic task, if Guibert's passion and energy had been focused only on providing a performance worthy of Martianus Capella. [19] The abbot of Nogent, however, also provides additional material, excises or corrects stories that he considers inaccurate, or worse, and, as his corrective title indicates, alters the focus of the material. The results of Guibert's efforts certainly provide unusually rich material for those interested in medieval mentalité. In addition, since history was a branch of rhetoric during the middle-ages (i.e., it was a part of literature),[20] those interested in intertextual aspects of medieval literature will find a treasure trove, particularly since Guibert eventually sets about correcting and improving two earlier texts.[21] A clear example of what Guibert means by improvement occurs in his amplification of the Crusaders' arrival at Jerusalem. Where the Gesta Francorum had provided: We, however, joyful and exultant, came to the city of Jerusalem... Guibert composes a veritable cadenza on the arrival: Finally they reached the place which had provoked so many hardships for them, which had brought upon them so much thirst and hunger for such a long time, which had stripped them, kept them sleepless, cold, and ceaselessly frightened, the most intensely pleasurable place, which had been the goal of the wretchedness they had undergone, and which had lured them to seek death and wounds. To this place, I say, desired by so many thousands of thousands, which they had greeted with such sadness and in jubilation, they finally came, to Jerusalem. Amplifications like this, magnifying the internal, psychological significance of the events, while simultaneously insisting upon the religious nature of the expedition, characterize Guibert's response to the Gest Francorum. His desire to correct is complicated by the competitive urges that emerge when he faces the other apparently eye-witness account of the First Crusade that became available to him, Fulcher of Chartres' Histori Hierosolymitana.[22] Where he had offered gently corrective remarks about the crudeness of the Gest Francorum, Guibert mounts a vitriolic attack on Fulker's pretentiousness: Since this same man produces swollen, foot-and-a-half words, pours forth the blaring colors of vapid rhetorical schemes,[23] I prefer to snatch the bare limbs of the deeds themselves, with whatever sack-cloth of eloquence I have, rather than cover them with learned weavings.[24] However, to convince readers of his superiority Guibert knew that stylistic competence was necessary but not sufficient, particularly because both Fulker and the author of the Gesta Francorum had convinced most readers, including Guibert himself, that they were eye-witnesses of most of the events in their texts.[25] Guibert then had to deal with the commonplace assumption passed on by Isidore of Seville: Apud veteres enim nemo conscribebat historiam, nisi is qui interfuisset, et ea quae conscribend essent vidisset.[26] Among the ancients no one wrote history unless he had been present and had seen the things he was writing about. To overcome his apparent disadvantage, Guibert offers defense of his second-hand perspective several times in the course of his performance. In the fifth book, immediately after acknowledging the fascination of what is difficult, Guibert provides two paragraphs on the difficulties of determining exactly what happened at Antioch. These paragraphs offer another opportunity to watch Guibert rework material from an earlier text. The author of the Gesta Francorum had invoked variation of the topos of humility,[27] just before giving his account of how Antioch was betrayed by someone inside the city: I am unable to narrate everything that we did before the city was captured, because no one who was in these parts, neither cleric nor laity, could write or narrate entirely what happened. But I shall tell a little.[28] When Guibert takes his turn at the topos, he is clearly determined to outdo the author of the Gesta Francorum, both stylistically and in terms of the theory of historiography: We judge that what happened at the siege of Antioch cannot possibly be told by anyone, because, among those who were there, no one can be found who could have observed everything that took place throughout the city, or who could understand the entire event in a way that would enable him to represent the sequence of actions as they took place. At the beginning of the fourth book of the Gest Dei, Guibert's defense of his absence is again intertextual, but openly polemic as well, as he declares the battle between modern Christian writing (saints lives and John III.32) and ancient pagan authority (Horace, Ars Poetica 180-181) no contest: If anyone objects that I did not see, he cannot object on the grounds that I did not hear, because I believe that, in a way, hearing is almost as good as seeing. For although: Less vividly is the mind stirred by what finds entrance through the ears than by what is brought before the trusty eyes.[29] Yet who is unaware that historians and those who wrote the lives of the saints wrote down not only what they had seen, but also those things they had drawn from what others had told them? If the truthful man, as it is written, reports "what he has seen and heard," then his tale may be accepted as true when he describes what he has not seen, but has been told by reliable speakers. Guibert then goes on to challenge those who object to do the job better. Correcting the Gesta Francorum, castigating Fulker, and challenging his other contemporaries, however, do not absorb all of Guibert's competitive urges. He also attacks both the Graeco-Roman and Jewish texts upon which he also heavily depends.[30] His use of moderns to castigate the ancients begins in Book One: We wonder at Chaldean pride, Greek bitterness, the sordidness of the Egyptians, the instability of the Asiatics, as described by Trogus Pompeius and other fine writers. We judge that the early Roman institutions usefully served the common good and the spread of their power. And yet, if the essence of these things were laid bare, not only would the relentless madness of fighting without good reason, only for the sake of ruling, would obviously deserve reproach. Let us look carefully, indeed let us come to our senses about the remains, I might have said dregs, of this time which we disdain, and we may find, as that foolish king said,[31] that our little finger is greater than the backs of our fathers, whom we praise excessively. If we look carefully at the wars of the pagans and the kingdoms they traveled through by great military effort, we shall conclude that none of their strength, their armies, by the grace of God, is comparable to ours. Throughout the text Guibert relentlessly insists that the Crusaders outdo the ancient Jews; in the last book he attempts to strip them of every accomplishment: The Lord saves the tents of Judah in the beginning, since He, after having accomplished miracles for our fathers, also granted glory to our own times, so that modern men seem to have undergone pain and suffering greater than that of the Jews of old, who, in the company of their wives and sons, and with full bellies, were led by angels who made themselves visible to them.[32] Partisan outbreaks like this fill the Gesta Dei per Francos, perhaps more clearly distinguishing it from the earlier accounts of the First Crusade than Guibert's more elaborate syntax, and self-conscious diction. His hatred of poor people also penetrates the text, often to bring into higher relief the behavior of aristocrats. In Book Two, for example, he offers a comic portrayal of poor, ignorant pilgrims: There you would have seen remarkable, even comical things: poor men, their cattle pulling two-wheeled carts, armed as though they were horses, carrying their few possessions together with their small children in the wagon. The small childrne, whenever they came upon a castle or town on the way, asked whether this was the Jerusalem they were seeking. In the seventh and last book, Guibert tells the story of the woman and the goose, again to ridicule the foolishness of the poor: A poor woman set out on the journey, when a goose, filled with I do not know what instructions, clearly exceeding the laws of her own dull nature, followed her. Lo, rumor, flying on Pegasean wings, filled the castles and cities with the news that even geese had been sent by God to liberate Jerusalem. Not only did they deny that this wretched woman was leading the goose, but they said that the goose led her. At Cambrai they assert that, with people standing on all sides, the woman walked through the middle of the church to the altar, and the goose followed behind, in her footsteps, with no one urging it on. Soon after, we have learned, the goose died in Lorraine; she certainly would have gone more directly to Jerusalem if, the day before she set out, she had made of herself a holiday meal for her mistress. Poor people, however, are not merely comic, but dangerous, to themselves, as Guibert's version of the story of Peter the Hermit indicates, and to others, as Guibert's version of the death of Peter Bartholomew emphasizes.[33] The story of the goose, however, is a comic reflection of a persistently urgent problem on the First Crusade; Guibert addresses the problem of famine often, and expresses particularly warm sympathy towards aristocratic hunger: How many jaws and throats of noble men were eaten away by the roughness of this bread. How terribly were their fine stomachs revolted by the bitterness of the putrid liquid. Good God, we think that they must have suffered so, these men who remembered their high social position in their native land, where they had been accustomed to great ease and pleasure, and now could find no hope or solace in any external comfort, as they burned in the terrible heat. Here is what I and I alone think: never had so many noble men exposed their own bodies to so much suffering for a purely spiritual benefit. Furthermore, he bends over backwards to defend aristocrats towards whom other historians of the First Crusade were far less sympathetic. Guibert's description of the count of Normandy, for example, shows remarkable moral flexibility: It would hardly be right to remain silent about Robert, Count of Normandy, whose bodily indulgences, weakness of will, prodigality with money, gourmandising, indolence, and lechery were expiated by the perseverance and heroism that he vigorously displayed in the army of the Lord. His inborn compassion was naturally so great that he did not permit vengeance to be taken against those who had plotted to betray him and had been sentenced to death, and if something did happen to them, he wept for their misfortune. He was bold in battle, although adeptness at foul trickery, with which we know many men befouled themselves, should not be praised, unless provoked by unspeakable acts. For these and for similar things he should now be forgiven, since God has punished him in this world, where he now languishes in jail, deprived of all his honors. His defense of Stephen of Blois also shows a remarkably complex tolerance and sensitivity towards aristocratic failure: At that time, Count Stephen of Blois, formerly man of great discretion and wisdom, who had been chosen as leader by the entire army, said that he was suffering from a painful illness, and, before the army had broken into Antioch, Stephen made his way to a certain small town, which was called Alexandriola. When the city had been captured and was again under siege, and he learned that the Christian leaders were in dire straits, Stephen, either unable or unwilling, delayed sending them aid, although they were awaiting his help. When he heard that an army of Turks had set up camp before the city walls, he rode shrewdly to the mountains and observed the amount the enemy had brought. When he saw the fields covered with innumerable tents, in understandably human fashion he retreated, judging that no mortal power could help those shut up in the city. A man of the utmost probity, energetic, pre-eminent in his love of truth, thinking himself unable to bring help to them, certain that they would die, as all the evidence indicated, he decided to protect himself, thinking that he would incur no shame by saving himself for a opportune moment. Guibert concludes his defense of Stephen's questionable behavior with a skillful use of counter-attack: And I certainly think that his flight (if, however, it should be called a flight, since the count was certainly ill), after which the dishonorable act was rectified by martyrdom, was superior to the return of those who, persevering in their pursuit of foul pleasure, descended into the depths of criminal behavior. Who could claim that count Stephen and Hugh the Great, who had always been honorable, because they had seemed to retreat for this reason, were comparable to those who had steadfastly behaved badly? One of the functions of the panegyric he composes for martyred Crusader is to make Guibert's own rank clear, present, and significant: We have heard of many who, captured by the pagans and ordered to deny the sacraments of faith, preferred to expose their heads to the sword than to betray the Christian faith in which they had been instructed. Among them I shall select one, knight and an aristocrat, but more illustrious for his character than all others of his family or social class I have ever known. From the time he was a child I knew him, and I watched his fine disposition develop. Moreover, he and I came from the same region, and his parents held benefices from my parents, and owed them homage, and we grew up together, and his whole life and development were an open book to me. He is a spokesman not only for aristocrats, but for the French, in spite of his emphasis on per Deum in his title, regularly emphasizing, throughout his text, the significance and superiority of the French contribution. At the end of Book One, Guibert insists that Bohemund, the major military figure in his history, was really French: Since his family was from Normandy, a part of France, and since he had obtained the hand of the daughter of the king of the French, he might be very well be considered a Frank. In Book Three, when the Franks win a significant victory, Guibert insists that the defeated Turks and the victorious Franks have not merely common but noble ancestors, thereby melding his two political commitments: But perhaps someone may object, arguing that the enemy forces were merely peasants, scum herded together from everywhere. Certainly the Franks themselves, who had undergone such great danger, testified that they could have known of no race comparable to the Turks, either in liveliness of spirit, or energy in battle. When the Turks initiated a battle, our men were almost reduced to despair by the novelty of their tactics in battle; they were not accustomed to their speed on horseback, not to their ability to avoid our frontal assaults. We had particular difficulty with the fact that they fired their arrows only when fleeing from the battle. It was the Turk's opinion, however, that they shared an ancestry with the Franks, and that the highest military prowess belonged particularly to the Turks and Franks, above all other people. Having praised the West at the expense of the East in the first book, in the second he praises the French at the expense of the Teutons, recounting a conversation he recently held with a German ecclesiastic, to show himself an ardent defender of ethnicity: Last year while I was speaking with a certain archdeacon of Mainz about a rebellion of his people, I heard him vilify our king and our people, merely because the king had given gracious welcome everywhere in his kingdom to his Highness Pope Paschalis and his princes; he called them not merely Franks, but, derisively, "Francones." I said to him, "If you think them so weak and languid that you can denigrate a name known and admired as far away as the Indian Ocean, then tell me upon whom did Pope Urban call for aid against the Turks? Wasn't it the French? Had they not been present, attacking the barbarians everywhere, pouring their sturdy energy and fearless strength into the battle, there would have been no help for your Germans, whose reputation there amounted to nothing." That is what I said to him. Guibert then turns to his reader, and provides a more extensive panegyric for his people, recalling pre-Merovingian accomplishments: I say truly, and everyone should believe it, that God reserved this nation for such a task. For we know certainly that, from the time that they received the sign of faith that blessed Remigius brought to them, they succumbed to none of the diseases of false faith from which other nations have remained uncontaminated either with great difficulty or not at all. They are the ones who, while still laboring under the pagan error, when they triumphed on the battlefield over the Gauls, who were Christians, did not punish or kill any of them, because they believed in Christ. Instead, those whom Roman severity had punished with sword and fire, French native generosity covered with gems and amber. They strove to welcome with honor not only those who lived within their own borders, but they also affectionately cared for people who came from Spain, Italy, or anywhere else, so that love for the martyrs and confessors, whom they constantly served and honored, made them famous, finally driving them to the glorious victory at Jerusalem. Because it has carried the yoke since the days of its youth, it will sit in isolation,[34] a nation noble, wise, war-like, generous, brilliant above all kinds of nations. Every nation borrows the name as an honorific title; do we not see the Bretons, the English, the Ligurians call men "Frank" if they behave well? But now let us return to the subject. "Let us return to the subject," like the earlier injunction, "let us continue in the direction in which we set out," indicates Guibert's awareness of his tendency to perform "sorties."[35] At times he turns from the narrative to deliver a sermon, or to offer a biography of Mahomet, and, more than once, to lecture on ecclesiastical history. The apparent looseness of structure which results, a quality Misch attributed to the Memoirs as well, may be symptom of Guibert's Shandy-like temperament, or may be evidence that the remarks he made about his style in an early aside to the reader apply equally well to his structure: Please, my reader, knowing without a doubt that I certainly had no more time for writing than those moments during which I dictated the words themselves, forgive the stylistic infelicities; I did first write on writing-tablets to be corrected diligently later, but I wrote them directly on the parchment, exactly as it is, harshly barked out. Such a cavalier attitude towards the finished product was not characteristic of Guibert,[36] and seems to be in keeping neither with his declared penchant for difficulty, nor with his declared intention to raise the level of his style to match the significance of his subject: No one should be surprised that I make use of style very much different from that of the Commentaries on Genesis, or the other little treatises; for it is proper and permissible to ornament a history with the crafted elegance of words; however, the mysteries of sacred eloquence should be treated not with poetic loquacity, but with ecclesiastical plainness. Therefore I ask you to accept this graciously, and to keep it as perpetual monument to your name. The seriousness of purpose and the apparent looseness of structure may perhaps be reconciled by considering that the literal level of events was a less urgent concern for Guibert than the significance of those events. In addition, he imagined himself not so much as a recorder of events, but as a competitor in a rhetorical agon, as the implied metaphor that he uses in describing his activity as writer, in hujus stadio operis excurrisse debueram, "racing in a stadium," implies. In fact, in the course of composing his explicitly corrective version of the First Crusade, Guibert participates in several contests simultaneously; he "mollifies" the style and corrects the substance of previous writers on the Crusades; he argues for some miracles and against others; he utilizes and attempts to transcend both the Graeco-Roman and the Judaeo part of the Judaeo-Christian past. As a rhetorical performance, in both prose and verse, the results are impressive, since the Gesta Dei per Francos simultaneously reflects historical reality, and provides some insight into the workings of the mind of gifted, early twelfth-century French cleric and aristocrat. Summary of the Gesta Dei per Francos Characteristically, Guibert opens the Gesta defensively, justifying his choice of a modern topic by insisting upon the exceptional nature of the Crusade, as well as the exceptional nature of the French. The entire first book is devoted to a selective history of the Eastern Church and a denunciation of heresies, concluding with an extensive invective against Mahomet, compounding sex, excrement, and disease. [37] Guibert then moves forward in time, to the generation before the First Crusade, to describe a complaint about Muslim lust made by the Greek Emperor to the elder Count Robert of Flanders. Guibert also complains about the Greek Emperor's own excessive interest in erotic motivation for warriors. Book Two begins with an account that amounts to little more than a panegyric of Pope Urban II, admired by Guibert at least partially because he is French. Guibert then compliments the French for their long-standing loyalty to the Popes, and for their generally Christian behavior.[38] Guibert then proceeds to describe the rise of Peter the Hermit as leader of the poor people who misguidedly set out on the Crusade, a group whose lack of control outrages Guibert throughout the Gesta.[39] However, he quickly returns to giving an account of the aristocrats who took the cross, composing panegyrics for Godfrey, Baldwin, and Eustace of Bouillon, complimenting Godfrey in particular for his military victories in skirmishes with the Greek emperor. The second book ends with a description of some of the other leaders and their qualities. In Book Three Guibert introduces Bohemund, describes the siege of Nicea, the battle of Dorylea, and adds the story about Baldwin's adoption by the ruler of Edessa (not to be found in the Gesta Francorum). In Book Four the Crusaders arrive at Antioch and take up the lengthy siege. Guibert again adds material not to be found in the Gesta Francorum: one story involves the false stigmata of an abbot, another the martyrdom of a man know personally by Guibert. In Book Five Guibert describes the taking of Antioch, the capture of Cassian and his decapitation by Armenians and Syrians, the prediction of eventual Christian victory by Kherboga's mother, the Crusaders' themselves besieged in Antioch, the initial resistance to Peter's vision about the location of the Lance,[40] and the desertion of the Crusade by Stephen of Blois, whom Guibert defends with his characteristic loyalty to aristocrats. Book Six offers the discovery of the Lance, a futile meeting between Peter the Hermit and Kherboga, the reported appearance of a celestial army, the Crusaders' defeat of Kherboga, and the lifting of the siege of Antioch. In addition, Ademar of Puy dies, the Crusaders attack Marrah, and Bohemund and Raymond of St. Gilles disagree about to whom Antioch belongs. The trial by fire of Peter Bartholomew (not to be found in the Gesta Francorum) differs significantly and with clear polemical intentions from the scene in Fulcher; Guibert attributes the skepticism about the authenticity of the Lance to the death of Ademar. The book ends with the martyrdom of Anselm of Ribemont, and mention of his letters, which Guibert will use later. Book Seven is more than twice the length of any of the earlier books; in it the Crusaders reach Tripoli, negotiate successfully with its king, continue on through Palestine, reach Jerusalem, and begin the siege. As part of his extended panegyric of both brothers, Guibert now inserts the story of Godfrey cutting a man in half and wrestling with bear (not in the Gesta Francorum), which permits him, by association, to modulate to the story of Baldwin refusing to be saved by having a soldier killed and examined for similar wound, instead agreeing to substitute a bear. As he approaches the end of his task, Guibert loosens the structure of his narrative even more, providing a discussion of Near Eastern ecclesiastical politics, a description of some of the battles in which the Crusaders consolidated their control over Palestine, and a cadenza, dense with Biblical quotations and some allegorical exegesis, on the significance of the Crusade itself. After providing an anecdote about the way in which children's combat inspired the soldiers, Guibert provides a brief discussion of the Tafurs, and describes the betrayal by the emperor that led to the death of Hugh Magnus. Next Guibert describes Stephen's disastrous expedition to Paphligonia, offers conflicting versions of Godfrey's death, mentions his replacement by Baldwin, and provides a flashback to Robert of Flanders' visit to Jerusalem twelve years before the Crusade (at which time, according to Guibert, an astrological prediction of a later Christian victory had been made). Guibert now tells a story about a man who defeated the Devil, then attacks Fulker of Chartres for his style, for his story about Pirrus betraying Antioch, and for his rejection of the authenticity of the Lance. Guibert's Other Works None of the salacious verse Guibert confesses to have written in his youth has survived.[41] Instead, in addition to the Gesta Dei and the Monodiae, the following writings, entirely on religious topics, have survived, and have been published in vol 156 of Migne's Patrologia Latina: Quo ordine sermo fieri debeat (Migne 21-32 and Huygens 1993 47-63). Moralium Geneseos libri decem (Migne 32-338). Tropologiae in prophetas Osee, Amos ac Lamentationes Jeremiae (Migne 337-488). Tractatus de Incarnatione contra Judaeos (Migne 489-528). Epistola de buccella Judae data et de veritate dominici Corporis (Migne 527-538 and Huygens 1993 65-77). De laude sanctae Mariae liber (Migne 537-578). De virginitate opusculum (Migne 579-608). De pignoribus sanctorum libri quatuor (Migne 607-680 and Huygens 1993 79-175). The Translation In diction, syntax, word order, and complexity of expression, Guibert's Latin is more difficult than that of any other Latin historian of the First Crusade. I have tried to preserve as much of the complexity of the syntax as is tolerable in comprehensible English sentences. Guibert's penchant for alliteration, rhyming clausulae, and pithiness must usually be sacrificed. A characteristic example of the sonic loss occurs in my attempt to translate the sardonic description of Arnulf's elevation to patriarch: ...dum vox magis quam vita curatur, ad hoc ut Iherosolimitanus fieret patriarcha vocatur. (RHC 4.233) and since a man's voice is of more concern than the life he has led, he was called to the patriarchy of Jerusalem. I have followed the paragraphs of the latest edition, often longer than those to which twentieth-century readers are accustomed, to allow readers to check the original more easily. Passages which Guibert composed in verse are translated into prose and indented. Guizot's early nineteenth-century French translation, although at times erroneous or misleading, was very helpful. Notes Annotating Guibert's text in a truly satisfying manner would have produced a prologomenon to a synoptic history of the First Crusade. [42] Instead, I have tried to limit myself to providing: (1) information necessary to understand and to clarify the translation; (2) sources for Guibert's Biblical and classical references; (3) modern names of cities and towns mentioned in the text;[43] (4) the names of the meters in which Guibert composes the portions of his text in verse; (5) representative illustrations of the intertextual nature of the Gesta Dei per Francos. Acknowledgements I am grateful to Jessica Weiss for reading through the entire translation and making useful corrections and suggestions, to Mark Stansbury for reading through parts of the translation and making useful corrections and suggestions, and to the staff of The Boston University Office of Information Technology for help in solving problems involving word-processing. Bibliography Albert of Aix, Historia Hierosolymitana, Recueil des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens Occidentaux IV, Paris, 1879, pp. 265-713. Auerbach, Erich, Literary language and its public in late antiquity and in the Middle Ages, translated by Ralph Mannheim, New York, 1965. Baldric of Dole, Historia Hierosolymitana, RHC.HO IV. pp. 1-111. Benton, John, Self and Society in Medieval France, New York, 1970. Boehm, Laetitia, Studien zur Geschichtschreibung des ersten Kreuzzuges Guibert von Nogent, Munich, 1954. Bréhier, Louis (ed. and tr.), Histoire anonyme de l première croisade, Paris, 1924. Bull, Marcus, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade, Oxford, 1993. Burstein, Eitan, "Quelques remarques à propos du vocabulaire de Guibert de Nogent," Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, XXI (1978), pp. 247-263. Cahen, C., La Syrie du nord, Paris, 1940, pp. 211-218. Charaud, Jacques, "La conception de l'histoire de Guibert de Nogent," Cahiers de civilisation médiévale VIII (1965), pp. 381-395. Damascus Chronicle, transl. A.R. Gibbs, London, 1932. Daniel, Norman, Heroes and Saracens, Edinburgh, 1984. Duby, Georges, The Three Orders: Feudal Society Imagined, Chicago, 1980 (original, Paris, 1978). Edbury, Peter, and Rowe, John Gordon, William of Tyre, Cambridge, 1988. Embricho of Mainz, La vie de Mahomet, ed. Guy Cambier, 1962. Fulcheri Carnotensis Historia Hierosolymitana, ed. Heinrich Hagenmayer, Heidelberg, 1913. Garand, Monique-Cecile and Etcheverry, Francois, "Analyse d'écriture et macrophotographie; les manuscripts originaux de Guibert de Nogent, Codices manuscripti I (1975), pp. 112-122. __, "Le Scriptorium de Guibert de Nogent," Scriptorium XXXI (1977), pp. 3-29. Grundmann, Herbert, Geschichtsschreibung im Mittelalters, Goettingen, 1965. Guenée, Bernard, Histoire et culture historique dans l'occident mediéval, Paris, 1980. Guibert de Nogent, Autobiographie, edited and translated by Edmond-René Labande, Paris, 1981. Guibert de Nogent, Gesta Dei per Francos, RHC.HO IV, pp. 115-263. Guizot, F., Collection des mémoires rélatifs à l'histoire de France, Paris, 1823-35, v. 9. Hagenmeyer, Heinrich, Chronologie de la première croisade, Hildesheim, 1898-1901. __, (ed.) Epistulae et chartae ad historiam primi belli sacri spectantes, Innsbruck, 1901. Huygens, R.B.C., Guibert de Nogent: Quo Ordine Sermo Fieri Debeat; De Bucella Iudae Data et De Veritate Dominic Corporis; De Sanctis et Eorum Pigneribus, Turnholt, 1993. __, La tradition manuscrite de Guibert de Nogent, The Hague, 1991. __, (ed.), Guillaume de Tyre Chronique, Turnholt, 1986, I and II. Knoch, Peter, Studien zur Albert von Aachen, Stuttgart, 1966. Labande, Edmond-Rene, "L'Art de Guibert de Nogent," in Mèlanges E. Perroy, Paris, 1973, pp. 608-625. Levine, Robert, "Satiric Vulgarity in Guibert de Nogent's Gesta Dei per Francos," Rhetorica 7 (1989), pp. 261-273. Mayer, Hans Eberhard (tr. John Gillingham), The Crusades, Oxford, 1988. Misch, Georg, Geschichte der Autobiographie, vol. 3, part two, first half, Frankfurt, 1959, pp. 108-162. Monod, Bernard, "De la méthode historique chez Guibert de Nogent," Revue historique 84 (1904), pp. 51-70. Morris, C., "Policy and Visions: The Case of the Holy Lance at Antioch," in J.B. Gillingham and J.C. Holt (eds.), War and Government in the Middle Ages, Cambridge, 1984. Partner, Nancy, Serious Entertainment, Chicago, 1977. Peeters, P., "Un témoignage autographe sur le siège d'Antioche etc.," in Miscellanea historica Alberti de Meyer, 2 vols., Louvain, 1946; I. 373-390. Pickering, F.P. Augustinus oder Boethius, Berlin, 1967. Porges, W., "The Clergy, the Poor, and the Non-Combatants on the First Crusade," Speculum 21 (1946), pp. 1-20. Raoul of Caen, Gesta Tancredi, RHC.HO III, pp. 588-716. Riley-Smith, Jonathan The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, Philadelphia, 1986. Robert the Monk, Hierosolomytana expeditio, RHC.HO, III, pp. 717-802. Rogers, R., Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth Century, Oxford, 1992. Schreiner, Klaus, "Discrimen veri ac falsi," Archive fur Kulturgeschicht XLVIII (1966), pp. 1-51. Setton, Kenneth M., and Baldwin, M.W., A History of the Crusades, Madison, 1969, vol. I. Smalley, Beryl, Historians in the Middle Ages, London, 1974. Ward, John O., "Some Principles of Rhetorical Historiography in the 12th Century," in Classical Rhetoric and Medieval Historiography, edited by Ernest Breisach, Kalamazoo, 1985. The letter of Guibert to Lysiard Some of my friends have often asked me why I do not sign this little work with my own name; until now I have refused, out of fear of sullying a pious history with the name of hateful person. However, thinking that the story, splendid in itself, might become even more splendid if attached to the name of a famous man, I have finally decided to attach it to you. Thus I have placed a most pleasing lamp in front of the work of an obscure author. For, since your ancient lineage is accompanied by a knowledge of literature, as well an unusual serenity and moral probity, one may justly believe that God in his foresight wanted the dignity of the bishop's office to honor the gift of such reverence. By embracing your name, the little work that follows may flourish: crude in itself, it may be made agreeable by the love of the one to whom it is written, and made stronger by the authority of the office by which you stand above others. Certainly there were bishops, and others, who have heard something about this book and about some of my other writings; leaving them aside, my greatest wish was to reach you. In reading this you should consider that, if I occasionally have deviated from common grammatical practice, I have done it to correct the vices, the style that slithers along the ground, of the earlier history. I see villages, cities, towns, fervently studying grammar, for which reason I tried, to the best of my abilities, not to deviate from the ancient historians. Finally, consider that while taking care of my household duties, listening to the many cases brought to my attention, I burned with the desire to write, and, even more, to pass the story along; and while I was compelled outwardly to listen to various problems, presented with biting urgency, inwardly I was steadily compelled to persist in what I had begun. No one should be surprised that I make use of a style very much different from that of the Commentaries on Genesis or the other little treatises; for it is proper and permissible to ornament history with the crafted elegance of words; however, the mysteries of sacred eloquence should be treated not with poetic loquacity, but with ecclesiastical plainess. Therefore I ask you to accept this graciously, and to keep it as a perpetual monument to your name. Preface to the book of the deeds of God by means of the Franks In trying to compose the present small work, I have placed my faith not in my literary knowledge, of which I have very little, but rather in the spiritual authority of the history events themselves, for I have always been certain that it was brought to completion only by the power of God alone, and through those men whom he willed. Likewise, the story undoubtedly was written down by whatever men, even if uneducated, God willed. I am unable to doubt that He who guided their steps through so many difficulties, who removed the many military obstacles that lay before them, will implant within me, in whatever manner he pleases, the truth about what happened, nor will he deny to me the ability to choose the correct and fitting words. A version of this same history, but woven out of excessively simple words, often violating grammatical rules, exists, and it may often bore the reader with the stale, flat quality of its language. It works well enough for the less learned, who are not interested in the quality of the diction, but only in the novelty of the story, nor is it the case that the author should have spoken in a way that they do not understand. Those, moreover, who think that honesty nourishes eloquence, when they see that the words have been chosen less carefully than the narrative demands, and that the story is told briefly where the elaborate variety of mollifying[44] eloquence was appropriate, when they see the narration proceed bare-footed, then, as the poet says, they will either sleep or laugh.[45] They hate a badly performed speech, which they judge should have been recited in a much different way. The style of writers should fit the status of the events: martial deeds should be told with harsh words; what pertains to divine matters must be brought along at more controlled pace. In the course of this work, if my ability is equal to the task, I should perform in both modes, so that haughty Gradivus[46] may find that his lofty crimes have been represented in matching words, and, when piety is the subject, gravity is never violated by excessive cleverness.[47] Even if I have been unable to follow these standards, nevertheless I have learned to admire or praise for the most part what is done well by someone else. Therefore I confess that I, with shameless temerity, but out of love of faith, have run the risk of being criticized by judges whom I do not know because, when they find that I have taken up this project with a vow to correct a previous work, they may value the second less than the first. Since we see a passion for grammar everywhere, and we know that the discipline, because of the number of scholars that now exist, is now open to the worst students, it would be horrid thing not to write, even if we write only as we are able, and not as we should, about this glory of our time, or even to leave the story hidden in the scabbiness of artless speech. I have seen what God has done in these times--miracles greater than any he has ever performed--and now I see a gem of this kind lying in the lowest dust. Impatient with such contemptuous treatment, I have taken care, with whatever eloquence I have, to clean what was given over to neglect more preciously than any gold. I have not boldly done this entirely on my own initiative, but I have faithfully promised others, who were eager for this to be done. Some asked that I write in prose; but most asked that it be done in meter, since they knew that I had, in my youth, performed more elementary exercises in verse than I should have. Older and more responsible, however, I thought that it should not be done with words designed to be applauded, or with the clatter of verse; but I thought, if I may dare to say this, that it deserved being told with greater dignity than all the histories of Jewish warfare, if God would grant someone the ability to do this. I do not deny that I set my mind to writing after the capture of Jerusalem, when those who had taken part in the expedition began to return; but because I did not want to be importunate, I put the task off. However, because, with the permission (I do not know if it is in accordance with the will) of God, the chance to carry out my wishes came about, I have gone forward with what I had desired piously, perhaps only to be laughed at by everyone, yet I shall transcend the laughter of some, as long as I may occupy myself with the daily growth of my creation, no matter what objections others may bark. If anyone does laugh, let him not blame man who has done what he was able to do, whose intentions were sound; may he not instantly cauterize the fault in my writings, but if he utterly despises them, let him lay aside the war of words, rewrite what was badly done, and offer his own examples of correct writing. Furthermore, if anyone accuses me of writing obscurely, let him fear inflicting on himself the stigma of weak intellect, since I know for certain that no one trained in letters can raise a question about whatever I may have said in the following book. In proceeding to offer a model to correct (or perhaps to corrupt) the history, I have first attempted to consider the motives and needs that brought about this expedition, as I have heard them, and then, having shown how it came about, to relate the events themselves. I learned the story, related with great veracity, from the previous author whom I follow, and from those who were present on the expedition. I have often compared the book's version of events with what was said by those who saw what happened with their own eyes, and beyond a doubt I have seen that neither testimony was discordant with the other. Whatever I have added, I have learned from eye-witnesses, or have found out for myself. If anything described is false, no clever critic may rightly accuse me of lying, I say, since he cannot argue, as God is my witness, that I have spoken out of a desire to deceive. How can it be surprising if we make errors, when we are describing things done in a foreign land, when we are clearly unable not only to express in words our own thoughts and actions, but even to collect them in the silence of our own minds? What can I say then about intentions, which are so hidden most of the time that they can scarcely be discerned by the acuity of the inner man? Therefore we should not be severely attacked if we stumble unknowingly in our words; but relentless blame should be brought to bear when falsity is willfully woven into the text, in an attempt to deceive, or out of a desire to disguise something. Furthermore, the names of men, provinces, and cities presented me with considerable difficulties; I knew some of the familiar ones were written down incorrectly by this author, and I do not doubt that in recording foreign, and therefore less known, names, errors were also made. For example, we inveigh every day against the Turks, and we call Khorasan[48] by its new name; when the old word has been forgotten and has almost disappeared, no use of ancient sources, even if they were available, has been made: I have chosen to use no word unless it were in common use. Had I used Parthians instead of Turks, as some have suggested, Caucasus and not Khorasan, in the pursuit of authenticity, I might have been misunderstood and laid myself open to the attacks of those who argue about the proper names of provinces. In particular, since I have observed that in our lands provinces have been given new names, we should assume that the same changes take place in foreign lands. For if what was once called Neustria is now called Normandy, and what was once called Austrasia is now, because of a turn of events, called Lotharingia, why should one not believe that the same thing happened in the East? As some say, Egyptian Memphis is now called Babylon. Instead of using different names, thereby becoming obscure or participating in polemics, I have preferred to make use of the common word. I was in doubt for a long time about the name of the bishop of Puy, and learned it just before finishing this work, for it was not in the text from which I was working. Please, my reader, knowing without a doubt that I certainly had no more time for writing than those moments during which I dictated the words themselves, forgive the stylistic infelicities; I did not first write on wax tablets to be corrected diligently later, by I wrote them directly on the parchment, exactly as it is, harshly barked out. I inscribed a name that lacks arrogance, and brings honor to our people: The Deeds of God through the Franks. Here ends the preface to the history which is called the Deeds of God through the Franks, written by the reverend Dom Guibert, abbot of the monastery of Saint Mary at Nogent, which is located near Coucy, in the district of Laon.-- BOOK ONE Sometimes but not always incorrectly, certain mortals have developed the foul habit of praising previous times and attacking what modern men do. Indeed the ancients should be praised for the way in which they balanced good fortune with restraint, as well as for the way in which thoughtfulness controlled their use of energy. However, no discerning individual could prefer in any way the temporal prosperity of the ancients to any of the strengths of our own day. Although pure strength was pre-eminent among the ancients, yet among us, though the end of time has come upon us, the gifts of nature have not entirely rotted away. Things done in early times may rightly be praised because done for the first time, but far more justly are those things worth celebrating which are usefully done by uncultivated men in world slipping into old age. We admire foreign nations famous for military strength; we admire Philip for his merciless slaughter and victories everywhere, never without relentless shedding of blood. We commend with resounding rhetoric the fury of Alexander, who emerged from the Macedonian forge to destroy the entire East. We measure the magnitude of the troops of Xerxes at Thermopylae, and of Darius against Alexander, with the terrible killing of infinite numbers of nations. We wonder at Chaldean pride, Greek bitterness, the sordidness of the Egyptians, the instability of the Asiatics, as described by Trogus-Pompeius[49] and other fine writers. We judge that the early Roman institutions usefully served the common good and the spread of their power. And yet, if the essence of these things were laid bare, not only would their bravery be considered praiseworthy by wise men, but the relentless madness of fighting without good reason, only for the sake of ruling, would obviously deserve reproach. Let us look carefully, indeed let us come to our senses about the remains, I might have said dregs, of this time which we disdain, and we may find, as that foolish king said,[50] that our little finger is greater than the backs of our fathers, whom we praise excessively. If we look carefully at the wars of the pagans and the kingdoms they traveled through by great military effort, we shall conclude that none of their strength, none of their armies, by the grace of God, is comparable in any way to ours. Although we have heard that God was worshipped among the Jews, we know that Jesus Christ, as he once was among the ancients, today exists and prevails by clear proofs among the moderns. Kings, leaders, rulers and consuls, have collected vast armies from everywhere, and from among the so-called powerful of nations everywhere, have amassed hordes of people to fight. They, however, come together here out of fear of men. What shall I say of those who, without master, without a leader, compelled only by God, have traveled not only beyond the borders of their native province, beyond even their own kingdom, but through the vast number of intervening nations and languages, from the distant borders of the Britannic Ocean, to set up their tents in the center of the earth? We are speaking about the recent and incomparable victory of the expedition to Jerusalem, whose glory for those who are not totally foolish is such that our times may rejoice in a fame that no previous times have ever merited. Our men were not driven to this accomplishment by desire for empty fame, or for money, or to widen our borders--motives which drove almost all others who take up or have taken up arms. About these the poet correctly says: Quis furor, o cives, quae tanta licentia ferri, Gentibus invisis proprium praebere cruorem? (Lucan 1.8,9) What madness was this, my countrymen, what fierce orgy of slaughter... to give to hated nations the spectacle of Roman bloodshed?[51] and: Bella geri placuit, nullos habitura triumphos. It was decided to wage wars that could win no triumphs.[52] If they were taking up the cause of protecting liberty or defending the republic, they would be able to offer morally acceptable excuse for fighting. Indeed, in the case of an invasion of barbarians or pagans, no knight could rightly be prevented from taking up arms. And if these conditions were not the case, then simply to protect Holy Church they waged the most legitimate war. But since this pious purpose is not in the minds of everyone, and instead the desire for material acquisitions pervades everyone's hearts, God ordained holy wars in our time, so that the knightly order and the erring mob, who, like their ancient pagan models, were engaged in mutual slaughter, might find new way of earning salvation. Thus, without having chosen (as is customary) a monastic life, without any religious committment, they were compelled to give up this world; free to continue their customary pursuits, nevertheless they earned some measure of God's grace by their own efforts. Therefore, we have seen nations, inspired by God, shut the doors of their hearts towards all kinds of needs and feelings, taking up exile beyond the Latin world, beyond the known limits of the entire world, in order to destroy the enemies of the name of Christ, with an eagerness greater than we have seen anyone show in hurrying to the the banquet table, or in celebrating a holiday.[53] The most splendid honors, the castles and towns over which they held power, meant nothing to them; the most beautiful women were treated as though they were worthless dirt; pledges of domestic love,[54] once more precious than any gem, were scorned. What no mortal could have compelled them to do by force, or persuade them to do by rhetoric, they were carried forward to do by the sudden insistence of their transformed minds. No priest in church had to urge people to this task, but one man urged another, both by speech and by example, proclaiming his determination, both at home and in the streets, to go on the expedition. Every man showed the same fervor; the chance to go on the trip appealed both to those who had little property, and to those whose vast possessions or stored-up treasures permitted them to take the richest provisions for the journey. You would have seen Solomon's words clearly put into action, "the locusts have no king, yet they march together in bands."[55] This locust made no leap of good works, as long as he lay in the frozen torpor of deep sin, but when the heat of the sun of justice shone, he leaped forward in the flight of a double (or natural)[56] movement, abandoning his paternal home and family, changing his behaviour to take on a sacred purpose. The locust had no king, because each faithful soul had no leader but God alone; certain that He is his companion in arms, he has no doubt that God goes before him. He rejoices to have undertaken the journey by the promptings of God's will, who will be his solace in tribulation. But what is it that drives a whole community unless it is that simplicity and unity which compels the hearts of so many people to desire one and the same thing? Although the call from the apostolic see was directed only to the French nation, as though it were special, what nation under Christian law did not send forth throngs to that place? In the belief that they owed the same allegiance to God as did the French, they strove strenuously, to the full extent of their powers, to share the danger with the Franks. There you would have seen the military formations of Scots, savage in their own country, but elsewhere unwarlike, their knees bare, with their shaggy cloaks, provisions hanging from their shoulders, having slipped out of their boggy borders, offering as aid and testimony to their faith and loyalty, their arms, numerically ridiculous in comparison with ours. As God is my witness I swear that I heard that some barbarian people from I don't know what land were driven to our harbor, and their language was so incomprehensible that, when it failed them, they made the sign of the cross with their fingers; by these gestures they showed what they could not indicate with words, that because of their faith they set out on the journey. But perhaps I shall treat these matters at greater length when I have more room. Now we are concerned with the state of the church of Jerusalem, or the Eastern church, as it was then. In the time of the faithful Helen, the mother of the ruler Constantine, throughout the regions known for the traces of the Lord's sufferings, churches and priests worthy of these churches were established by this same Augusta.[57] From church history we learn that, for a long time after the death of those just mentioned, these institutions endured while the Roman Empire continued. However, the faith of Easterners, which has never been stable, but has always been variable and unsteady, searching for novelty, always exceeding the bounds of true belief, finally deserted the authority of the early fathers. Apparently, these men, because of the purity of the air and the sky in which they are born, as a result of which their bodies are lighter and their intellect consequently more agile, customarily abuse the brilliance of their intelligence with many useless commentaries. Refusing to submit to the authority of their elders or peers, "they searched out evil, and searching they succumbed."[58] Out of this came heresies and ominous kinds of different plagues. Such a baneful and inextricable labyrinth of these illnesses existed that the most desolate land anywhere could not offer worse vipers and nettles. Read through the catalogues of all heresies; consider the books of the ancients against heretics; I would be surprised if, with the exception of the East and Africa, any books about heretics could be found in the Roman world. I read somewhere that Pelagius, unless I am mistaken, was a British heretic; but I believe that no one has ever been able to compose an account of the mistaken people, or their errors. The Eastern regions were lands cursed on earth in the work of its teachers,[59] bringing forth thorns and prickly weeds for those working it. Out of Alexandria came Arius,[60] out of Persia Manes.[61] The madness of one of them tore and bloodied the mantle of holy Church, which had until then no spot or wrinkle,[62] with such persistence that the persecution of Datian[63] seemed shorter in time, and more narrowly confined in space. Not only Greece, but, afterwards, Spain, Illyria, and Africa succumbed to it. The fictions of the other, although ridiculous, nevertheless deceived the sharpest minds far and wide with its trickery. What should I say about the Eunomians, the Eutychians, the Nestorians, how can I represent the thousands of hideous groups whose frenzy against us was so relentless, and against whom victory was so difficult, that the heresies seemed to be beheaded not with swords but with sticks? If we examine the early histories of the beginnings of their kingdoms, and if we chatter about the ridiculous nature of their kings, we must wonder at the sudden overthrowing and replacing of rulers brought about by Asiatic instability. Anyone who wants to learn about their inconstancy may look at the Antiochi and Demetrii, whirling and alternating in and out of power; the man flourishing in power today may be driven tomorrow not merely from power, but from his native land, exiled by the fickleness of the peoples whom he had ruled. Their foolishness, both in secular behavior and in religious belief, has thrived until this day, so that neither in the preparation of the Eucharist, nor in the location of the Apostolic see do they have anything in common with us. But if making the sacrament out of leavened bread is defended with the apparently reasonable argument that using yeast is not harmful when it is done in good faith, and that the Lord had put an end to the old ways by eating lamb with unleavened bread, and celebrating the sacrament of his own body with the same bread, because there was no other bread, and he could not fulfill the law at that time in any other way, to them the use of unleavened bread, necessary at the time, did not seem a central part of the mystery, just as the dipping of the mouthful[64] was an indication not of the carrying out of the sacrament but of Judas' betrayal. If, I say, these things and others also can be proposed as either true or false, then what will they say about the Holy Spirit, those who impiously argue, in accordance with the vestiges of the Arian heresy, that He is less than the Father and the Son, and who disagree, both in thought and in many of their actions, with the ancient laws of the fathers, and with the holy ritual of the Western Church, they have added this increment to their damnation: they claim that God limps, having inflicted upon him an inequality of his own nature. For if one is baptized according to the teaching of the Son of God, "in the name of the Son and the Holy Spirit," it is for this reason, that the three are one God; arguing that any of the three is less than the other is to argue that he is not God. Therefore the herd of such bulls among the cows of the people now shuts out those who have proved themselves worth their weight in silver, since some of our countrymen, stirred by the debate with the Greeks, have published splendid books on the office of the Holy Spirit. However, since God places stumbling-block before those who sin voluntarily, their land has spewed forth its own inhabitants, since they were first deprived of the awareness of true belief, and rightly and justly they have been dispossessed of all earthly possessions. For since they fell away from faith in the Trinity, like those who fall in the mud and get muddier, little by little they have come to the final degradation of having taken paganism upon themselves; as the punishment for their sin proceeded, foreigners attacked them, and they lost the soil of their native land. Even those who managed to remain in their native land must pay tribute to foreigners. The most splendidly noble cities, Antioch, Jerusalem, and Nicea,[65] and the provinces, Syria, Palestine, and Greece, the seed-beds of the new grace, have lost their internal strength at the roots, while the aborted[66] Italians, French, and English, have flourished. I am silent about the fact that so many abuses have become customary in those worthless churches, that in many of these regions no one is made a priest unless he has chosen a wife, so that the apostle's statement that a man who is to be chosen should have only one wife be observed. That this statement does not concern a man who has and uses a wife, but does concern man who had a wife and sent her away, is confirmed by the authority of the Western church. I am also silent about the fact that, against Latin custom, people of the Christian faith, regardless of whether they are men or women, are bought and sold like brute animals. To add to the cruelty, they are sent far from their native country to be sold as slaves to pagans. Finally, worse than all these, it appears that imperial law among them generally sanctions young girls (a freedom permitted everywhere as though to be just) being taken to become prostitutes. An example: if a man has three or four daughters, one of them is put in a house of prostitution; some part of the smelly lucre derived from the suffering of these unhappy women goes to the wretched emperor's treasury, while part goes to support the woman who earned it in such a base way. Hear how the clamor ascends mightily to the ears of the Lord of Hosts.[67] Moreover, the priests who are in charge of celebrating the divine sacraments prepare the Lord's body after they have eaten, as I have heard, and offer it to be eaten by anyone who is fasting. While they wander in these and similar paths of evil, and while they "follow their own devices,"[68] God has set up over them a new law-giver, "so that the people may know that they are mortal."[69] And since they, more wanton than the beasts of the field, have knowingly transgressed the limits set by their fathers, they have become objects of opprobrium. But just let me tell something about the authority upon which the nations of the East rely when they decide to abandon the Christian religion to return to paganism. According to popular opinion, there was a man, whose name, if I have it right, was Mathomus, who led them away from belief in the Son and in the Holy Spirit. He taught them to acknowledge only the person of the Father as the single, creating God, and he said that Jesus was entirely human. To sum up his teachings, having decreed circumcision, he gave them free rein for every kind of shameful behavior. I do not think that this profane man lived a very long time ago, since I find that none of the church doctors has written against his licentiousness. Since I have learned nothing about his behavior and life from writings, no one should be surprised if I am willing to tell what I have heard told in public by some skillful speakers. To discuss whether these things are true or false is useless, since we are considering here only the nature of this new teacher, whose reputation for great crimes continues to spread. One may safely speak ill of a man whose malignity transcends and surpasses whatever evil can be said of him. An Alexandrian patriarch died, I'm not sure when, and the leaderless church was divided, as usual, into various factions; the more eagerly each argued for the person whom he favored, the more strongly he argued against the person whom he opposed. The choice of the majority was a hermit who lived nearby. Some of the more discerning men often visited him, to find out what he was really like, and from these conversations they discovered that he disagreed with them about the Catholic faith. When they found this out, they immediately abandoned the choice they had made, and, with the greatest regret, set about condemning it. Scorned, torn apart by bitter grief, since he had been unable to reach what he had striven for, like Arius, he began to think carefully how to take vengeance by spreading the poison of false belief, to undermine Catholic teaching everywhere. Such men, whose whole aim in life is to be praised, are mortally wounded, and bellow unbearably, whenever they feel that their standing in the community is diminished in any way. Seeing his opportunity with the hermit, the Ancient Enemy approached the wretch with these words, "If," he said, "you want certain solace for having been rejected, and you want power far greater than that of a patriarch, look very carefully at that young man who was with those who came to you lately--I shall recollect for you his clothing, his face, his physical appearance, his name--fill his vigorous, receptive mind with the teaching that lies near to your heart. Pursue this man, who will listen faithfully to your teachings and propagate them far and wide." Encouraged by the utterance, the hermit searched among the groups that visited him for the identifying signs of the young man. Recognizing him, he greeted him affectionately, then imbued him with the poison with which he himself was rotting. And because he was a poor man, and a poor man has less authority than a rich one, he proceeded to procure wealth for himself by this method: a certain very rich woman had recently become a widow; the filthy hermit sent a messenger to bring her to him, and he advised her to marry again. When she told him that there was no one appropriate for her to marry, he said that he had found for her a prophet who was appropriate, and that, if she consented to marry him, she would live in perfect happiness. He persisted steadily in his blandishments, promising that the prophet would provide for her both in this life and in the next, and he kindled her feminine emotions to love a man she did not know. Seduced, then, by the hope of knowing everything that was and everything that might be, she was married to her seer, and the formerly wretched Mahomet, surrounded by brilliant riches, was lifted, perhaps to his own great stupefaction, to unhoped-for power. And since the vessel of a single bed frequently received their sexual exchanges, the famous prophet contracted the disease of epilepsy, which we call, in ordinary language, falling sickness; he often suffered terribly while the terrified prophetess watched his eyes turning upward, his face twisting, his lips foaming, his teeth grinding. Frightened by this unexpected turn of events, she hurried to the hermit, accusing him of the misfortune which was happening to her. Disturbed and bitter in her heart, she said that she would prefer to die rather than to endure an execrable marriage to a madman. She attacked the hermit with countless kinds of complaints about the bad advice he had given her. But he, who was supplied with incomparable cleverness, said, "you are foolish for ascribing harm to what is a source of light and glory. Don't you know, blind woman, that whenever God glides into the minds of the prophets, the whole bodily frame is shaken, because the weakness of the flesh can scarcely bear the visitation of divine majesty? Pull yourself together, now, and do not be afraid of these unusual visions; look upon the blessed convulsions of the holy man with gratitude, especially since spiritual power teaches him at those moments about the things it will help you to know and to do in the future." Her womanly flightiness was taken in by these words, and what she had formerly thought foul and despicable now seemed to her not only tolerable, but sacred and remrkable. Meanwhile the man was being filled with profane teaching drawn by the devil's piping through the heretical hermit. When the hermit, like a herald, went everywhere before him, Mahomet was believed by everyone to be a prophet. When far and wide, in the opinion of everyone, his growing reputation shone, and he saw that people in the surrounding as well as in distant lands were inclining towards his teachings, after consulting with his teacher, he wrote a law, in which he loosened the reins of every vice for his followers, in order to attract more of them. By doing this he gathered a huge mob of people, and the better to deceive their uncertain minds with the pretext of religion, he ordered them to fast for three days, and to offer earnest prayers for God to grant a law. He also gives them a sign, because, should it please God to give them law, he will grant it in an unusual manner, from an unexpected hand. Meanwhile, he had a cow, whom he himself had trained to follow him, so that whenever she heard his voice or saw him, almost no force could prevent her from rushing to him with unbearable eagerness. He tied the book he had written to the horns of the animal, and hid her in the tent in which he himself lived. On the third day he climbed a high platform above all the people he had called together, and began to declaim to the people in a booming voice. When, as I just said, the sound of his words reached the cow's ears, she immediately ran from the tent, which was nearby, and, with the book fastened on her horns, made her way eagerly through the middle of the assembled people to the feet of the speaker, as though to congratulate him. Everyone was amazed, and the book was quickly removed and read to the breathless people, who happily accepted the licence permitted by its foul law. What more? The miracle of the offered book was greeted with applause over and over again. As though sent from the sky, the new license for random copulation was propagated everywhere, and the more the supply of permitted filth increased, the more the grace of a God who permitted more lenient times, without any mention of turpitude, was preached. All of Christian morality was condemned by a thousand reproofs, and whatever examples of goodness and strength the Gospel offered were called cruel and harsh. But what the cow had delivered was considered universal liberty, the only one recommended by God. Neither the antiquity of Moses nor the more recent Catholic teachings had any authority. Everything which had existed before the law, under the law, under grace, was marked as implacably wrong. If I may make inappropriate use of what the Psalmist sings, "God did not treat other nations in this fashion, and he never showed his judgements to any other people."[70] The greater opportunity to fulfil lust, and, going beyond the appetites of beasts, by resorting to multiple whores, was cloaked by the excuse of procreating children. However, while the flow of nature was unrestrained in these normal acts, at the same time they engaged in abnormal acts, which we should not even name, and which were unknown even to the animals. At the time, the obscurity of this nefarious sect first covered the name of Christ, but now it has wiped out his name from the furthest corners of the entire East, from Africa, Egypt, Ethiopia, Libya, and even the more remote coasts of Spain--a country near us. But now to describe how this marvelous law-giver made his exit from our midst. Since he often fell into sudden epileptic fit, with which we have already said he struggled, it happened once, while he was walking alone, that a fit came upon him and he fell down on the spot; while he was writhing in this agony, he was found by some pigs, who proceeded to devour him, so that nothing could be found of him except his heels. While the true Stoics, that is, the worshipers of Christ, killed Epicurus, lo, the greatest law-giver tried to revive the pig, in fact he did revive it, and, himself a pig, lay exposed to be eaten by pigs, so that the master of filth appropriately died a filthy death. He left his heels fittingly, since he had wretchedly fixed the traces of false belief and foulness in wretchedly deceived souls. We shall make an epitaph for his heels in four lines of the poet: Aere perennius, Regalique situ pyramidum altius: (I have built a monument) more lasting than brass, taller that the royal site of the Pyramids... So that the fine man, happier than any pig, might say with the poet: Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei Vitabit Libitiam. I shall not die entirely, a great part of me shall avoid Hell. That is: Manditur ore suum, qui porcum vixerat, hujus Membra beata cluunt, podice fusa suum. Quum talos ori, tum quod sus fudit odori, Digno qui celebrat cultor honore ferat. He who has lived by the pig is chewed to death by the pig and the limbs which were called blessed have become pigs' excrement. May those who wish to honor him carry to their mouths his heels, which the pig has poured forth in stench. What if there is some truth in what the Manicheans say about purification, that in every food something of God is present and that part of God is purified by chewing and digesting, and the purified part is turned into angels, who are said to depart from us in belching and flatulence: how many angels may be believe were produced by the flesh eaten by these pigs and by the great farts they let go? But, laying aside the comic remarks intended to mock his followers, my point is that they did not think that he was God, but a just man and leader, through whom divine laws might be transmitted. They imagined that he had been taken up into heaven, with only his heels left as a monument for his faithful adherents, who visit them with great veneration, and condemn eating pork, because pigs consumed their lord with their bites. After the pagan heresy had grown strong over a long time, and for many generations, the people whom we have mentioned above invaded Palestine, Jerusalem, and the Holy Sepulchre, and captured Armenia, Syria, and the part of Greece that extends almost to the sea which is called the Arm of Saint George. Among all the Eastern kingdoms, the Babylonian empire was from ancient times the most powerful, and ruled over many kingdoms. However, the kingdom of the Parthians, whom we, because of changes in the language, call the Turks, is pre-eminent in military matters, in horsemanship, and in courage, although it is a very small country. And so the Babylonian emperor occupied the areas we just mentioned with a large army, but in the course of time he lost them, as the Turks grew in number, and the Assyrians were defeated. More energetic, and in command of an astute boldness, they were attacking the empire of Constantinople and seemed about to besiege the city, when the emperor of the Greeks, frightened by their frequent and relentless incursions, sent a letter to France, written to the elder Robert, count of Flanders,[71] offering him reasons that might urge him to defend endangered Greece. He did not approach him because he thought that Robert, although extremely wealthy, and capable of raising a large force, could alone supply enough troops for the task, but because he realized that if a man of such power went on such a journey, he would attract many of our people, if only for the sake of a new experience, to support him. This count was truly as wise in military matters as he was perspicacious and discriminating in literary matters. He had once before gone to Jerusalem, for the sake of prayer, and, happening to pass through Constantinople on the way, had spoken with the emperor; as result, on the basis of the great feeling of trust he had developed for him, the emperor was impelled to call upon him for aid. Since inserting the letter itself in this little work would produce a tedious effect, I have preferred to offer some of what was said, but clothed in my own words. He complained that, "after Christianity was driven out, the churches which the pagans held had been turned into stables for horses, mules, and other animals. It was also true that they had set up in them temples, which they called Mahomeries, and they carried out all kinds of filthy activity in them, so that they had become not cathedrals, but brothels and theaters. Moreover, there would be no purpose to my mentioning the slaughter of Catholics, since the faithful who died received in exchange eternal life, while those who survived led lives wretchedly bound by the yoke of slavery, harsher, I believe, than what those who died endured. They took virgins and made them public prostitutes, since they were never deterred by shame or feeling for marital fidelity. Mothers were violated in the presence of their daughters, raped over and over again by different men, while their daughters were compelled, not only to watch, but to sing obscene songs and to dance. Then they changed places, and the suffering, which is painful and shameful to speak of, was inflicted upon the daughters, while the filthy activity was adorned by the obscene songs of the unfortunate mothers. Finally reverence for all that was called Christian was handed over to the brothel. When the female sex was not spared (an action which might be excused since it is at least in accord with nature), they became worse than animals, breaking all human laws by turning on men. Their lust overflowed to the point that the execrable and profoundly intolerable crime of sodomy, which they committed against men of middle or low station, they also committed against a certain bishop, killing him. How can this urgent lust, worse than any insanity anywhere, which perpetually flees wisdom and modesty, and is enkindled more powerfully the more it is quenched, control itself among human beings, whom it befouls with couplings unheard of among beasts, actions to which Christians may not give name. And although, according to their own judgment, these wretches may have many women, that is not enough, but they must stain their dignity at the hog-trough of such filth by using men also. It is not surprising that God could not tolerate their ripe wantoness, and turned it into grief, and the earth, in its ancient way, cast out the excrement of such destructive inhabitants." Therefore, after he had expressed his great fears about the siege of Constantinople, which would follow the crossing of the Arm of Saint George by his enemies, he added, among other remarks, the following: "This great city is most deserving of every kind of help if for no other reason than to prevent the six apostles whose bodies are buried here from being burned by unbelievers, or buried in the swirling sea." And certainly nothing is more true. For that city, not only superior for its monuments of the saints, but also famed for the merit and renown of its founder, and particularly for the divine revelation which transformed it from a very old little town into a miraculous city and a second Rome, is worth of having the whole world come together to help it, if that were possible. Then, after speaking of the apostles, the emperor said that they had the head of John the Baptist, which (although it was not true) seemed to be covered with hair and skin, as though alive today. Now if this were true, one would have to investigate the head of John the Baptist that is glorified by the monks at Angers. Now we are certain that two John the Baptists did not exist, nor did the one man have two heads, which would be impious to say. In this matter, one should consider the frequent but not deadly error, which particularly assails the churches of France, regarding the bodies of saints: two different places claim to have the same martyr or confessor, but a single entity cannot occupy two spaces simultaneously. This mistaken contention arises from the fact that saints are not permitted to enjoy the peace of the permanent burial they deserve. And I do not doubt that their bodies are covered with silver and gold out of motives lower than piety; open and extremely foul avarice drives them to collect money by displaying bones and dragging around wagons. These things would stop if, as in the case of the Lord Jesus, their limbs were shut up in locked tombs. However, setting these things aside, let us go on. The emperor added that if neither the prevention of such evil, nor the love of the aforementioned saints inspired them to perform this task, then at least greed for gold and silver, of which there was a plentiful supply in his region, might entice them. Finally he offered an argument that has no power over men with self-control, saying that they would be drawn by the pleasure of seeing the most beautiful women, as though the beauty of Greek women were so great that they would be preferred to the women of Gaul, and for this reason alone, the Frankish army would march to Thrace. While this foul tyrant was offering this argument, he should have kept in mind that for this very reason the most powerful adversity had descended upon him and his people; in well-known proclamation, he had issued an order throughout the land that families with several daughters give one of them up to prostitution, and place in his own treasury money gained from the disgusting experience. In addition, he had issued another edict, ordering families with several sons to have one castrated, thus rendering their bodies, deprived of virility, weak and effeminate, no longer fit for military service. Even worse, they were cut off from producing progeny for the future, who might have been looked for as aid against their enemies. Therefore he who had brought destruction upon himself was now compelled to seek help from foreigners. In addition, one should note that this emperor had received the purple not by legitimate succession, but because he had been one of the officers of the palace, under the ruler whose name, unless I am mistaken, was Michael, who had put him in charge of the larger group of Western soldiers, whose natural probity made them the best of the emperor's men, and the emperor's bodyguard. Gathering boldness from the men he commanded, he undertook a coup against his own prince. Invading the city of Constantinople, he captured his ruler, cruelly deprived him of his eyes, and placed him under close guard in a certain town. Then he usurped imperial power entirely without legal right. Compelled by necessity, as we said above, he sought the Franks. But after he saw such remarkable leaders assembled, distinguished both for their impeccable conduct and military ability, he envied the size of the forces, but envied their wisdom even more. When they successfully completed what they had set out to do, his envy of the ability of our men grew even greater; after the victory at Jerusalem, the emperor feared that they might turn their victorious arms against him, especially since they had learned that, among the nations in that area, he was their most powerful rival. We also heard, however, before the beginning of the journey had been announced, that the emperor's mother, a sorceress, had predicted that a man of Frankish origin would take his empire and his life from him. Judging by events, Bohemund tried to fulfill this oracle, attacking the emperor with such force, and compelling him so often to flee from battle, that a large part of the provinces fell into his hands. Since his family was from Normandy, a part of France, and since he had obtained the hand of the daughter of the king of the Franks, he might be very well be considered a Frank. HERE ENDS THE FIRST BOOK OF THE DEEDS OF GOD AS PERFORMED BY THE FRENCH. BOOK TWO Pope Urban, whose name was Odo before becoming Pope, was descended from a noble French family[73] from the area and parish of Rheims, and they say, unless the report is in error, that he was the first French Pope. A cleric, he was made a monk of Cluny, after the abbot of glorious memory who aided Hugo;[74] not long afterwards he was made prior, and then, because of his abilities, he was appointed bishop of the city of Ostia, by order of Pope Gregory VII; finally, he was elected supreme pontiff of the Apostolic See. His greatness of spirit was made manifest when he urged that the journey be undertaken, because when he first showed how it was to be done the whole world was astonished. His death, resplendent in miracles, attests to the state of his mind. According to what the bishop who succeeded him at Osti wrote,[75] many signs were seen after he was dead and buried; a certain young man stood at his tomb, and swore by his own limbs that no sign had ever been given or might be given by the merit of Urban, who was called Odo. Before he could move a step, he was struck dumb, and paralyzed on one side; he died the next day, offering testimony to the power of Urban. This great man, although honored with great gifts, and even with prayers, by Alexius, prince of the Greeks, was driven much more by the danger to all of Christendom, which was diminished daily by pagan incursions (for he heard that Spain was steadily being torn apart by Saracen invasions), decided to make a journey to France, to recruit the people of his country. It was, to be sure, the ancient custom for pontiffs of the apostolic see, if they had been harmed by neighboring people, always to seek help from the French: the Pontiffs Stephen and Zacharias, in the time of Pepin and Charles,[76] took refuge with them; Pepin made an expedition to Ticinum to restore to the church its patrimony, and to place Stephen back on his throne.[77] Charles compelled king Desiderius,[78] by the mere threat of combat, to return what he had seized by force. More respectful and humble than other nations toward blessed Peter and pontifical decrees, the French, unlike other peoples, have been unwilling to behave insolently against God. For many years we have seen the Germans, particularly the entire kingdom of Lotharingia, struggling with barbaric obstinacy against the commands of Saint Peter and of his pontiffs.[79] In their striving, they prefer to remain under a daily, or even eternal excommunication rather than submit. Last year while I was arguing with a certain archdeacon of Mainz about a rebellion of his people, I heard him vilify our king and our people, merely because the king had given a gracious welcome everywhere in his kingdom to his Highness Pope Paschal and his princes; he called them not merely Franks, but, derisively, "Francones."[80] I said to him, "If you think them so weak and languid that you can denigrate a name known and admired as far away as the Indian Ocean, then tell me upon whom did Pope Urban call for aid against the Turks? Wasn't it the French? Had they not been present, attacking the barbarians everywhere, pouring their sturdy energy and fearless strength into the battle, there would have been no help for your Germans, whose reputation there amounted to nothing." That is what I said to him. I say truly, and everyone should believe it, that God reserved this nation for such a great task. For we know certainly that, from the time that they received the sign of faith that blessed Remigius brought to them until the present time, they succumbed to none of the diseases of false faith from which other nations have remained uncontaminated either with great difficulty or not at all. They are the ones who, while still laboring under the pagan error, when they triumphed on the battlefield over the Gauls, who were Christians, did not punish or kill any of them, because they believed in Christ. Instead, those whom Roman severity had punished with sword and fire, native French generosity encased in gold and silver, covered with gems and amber. They strove to welcome with honor not only those who lived within their own borders, but they also affectionately cared for people who came from Spain, Italy, or anywhere else, so that love for the martyrs and confessors, whom they constantly served and honored, made them famous, finally driving them to the glorious victory at Jerusalem. Because it has carried the yoke since the days of its youth, it will sit in isolation,[81] a nation noble, wise, war-like, generous, brilliant above all kinds of nations. Every nation borrows the name as an honorific title; do we not see the Bretons, the English, the Ligurians call men "Frank" if they behave well? But now let us return to the subject. When the Pope crossed our borders, he was greeted with such great joy by crowds in the cities, towns, and villages, because no one alive could remember when the bishop of the apostolic see had come to these lands. The year of the incarnate Word 1097 was hastening to its end, [82] when the bishop hastily convoked a council, choosing a city in Auvergne, famous for the most learned of all bishops, Sidonius, although its name has now been changed to Clermont. The council was even more crowded because of the great desire to see the face and to hear the words of such an excellent, rarely seen person. In addition to the multitudes of bishops and abbots, whom some, by counting their staves, estimated at approximately 400, learned men from all of France and the dependent territories flowed to that place. One could see there how he presided over them with serene gravity, with a dignified presence, and, if I may use the words of Sidonius, with what peppery eloquence[83] the most learned Pope answered whatever objections were raised. It was noted with what gentleness the most brilliant man listened gently to the most vehemently argued speeches, and how little he valued the social position of people, judging them only by God's laws. Then Philip, king of the French, who was in the thirty-seventh year of his reign, having put aside his own wife, whose name was Berta, and having carried off Bertrada, the wife of the count of Anjou, was excommunicated by the Pope, who spurned both the attempts by important people to intercede for the king, and the offers of innumerable gifts. Nor was he afraid that he was now within the borders of the kingdom of France. In this council, just as he had planned before leaving Rome and seeking out the French for this reason, he gave a fine speech to those who were in attendance. Among other things, which were said to exceed the memories of the listeners, he spoke about this project. His eloquence was reinforced by his literary knowledge; the richness of his speech in Latin seemed no less than that of any lawyer nimble in his native language. Nor did the crowd of disputants blunt the skill of the speaker. Surrounded by praiseworthy teachers, apparently buried by clouds of cases being pressed upon him, he was judged to have overcome, by his own literary brilliance, the flood of oratory and to have overwhelmed the cleverness of every speech. Therefore his meaning, and not his exact words, follow: "If, among the churches scattered through the whole world, some deserve more reverence than others because they are associated with certain people and places, then, because of certain persons, I say, greater privileges are granted to apostolic sees; in the case of places, some privilege is granted to royal cities, as is the case with the city of Constantinople. We are grateful for having received from this most powerful church the grace of redemption and the origin of all Christianity. If what was said by the Lord remains true, namely that "salvation is from the Jews," and it remains true that the Lord of the Sabbath has left his seed for us, lest we become like those of Sodom and Gomorrha, and that Christ is our seed, in whom lies salvation and blessing for all people, then the earth and the city in which he lived and suffered is called holy by the testimony of Scripture. If this land is the inheritance of God, and his holy temple, even before the Lord walked and suffered there, as the sacred and prophetic pages tell us, then what additional sanctity and reverence did it gain then, when the God of majesty took flesh upon Himself there, was fed, grew up, and moving in his bodily strength walked here and there in the land? To abbreviate a matter that could be spun out at much greater length, this is the place where the blood of the Son of God, holier than heaven and earth, was spilled, where the body, at whose death the elements trembled, rested in its tomb. What sort of veneration might we think it deserves? If, soon after our Lord's death, while the city was still in the possession of the Jews, the Evangelist called it sacred, when he said, "Many bodies of the saints that have been asleep here have awoken, and come to the holy city, and they been seen by many."[84], and it was said by the prophet Isaiah, "His tomb will be glorious,"[85], since this very sanctity, once granted by God the sanctifier himself, cannot be overcome by any evil whatsoever, and the glory of his tomb in the same way remains undiminished, then, O my dearly beloved brothers, you must exert yourselves, with all your strength, and with God leading you and fighting for you, to cleanse the holiness of the city and the glory of the tomb, which has been polluted by the thick crowd of pagans, if you truly aspire to the author of that holiness and glory, and if you love the traces that he has left on earth. If the Maccabees once deserved the highest praise for piety because they fought for their rituals and their temple, then you too, O soldiers of Christ, deserve such praise, for taking up arms to defend the freedom of your country. If you think you must seek with such effort the thresholds of the apostles and of others, then why do you hesitate to go see and to snatch up the cross, the blood, and to devote your precious souls to rescuing them? Until now you have waged wrongful wars, often hurling insane spears at each other, driven only by greed and pride, for which you have deserved only eternal death and damnation. Now we propose for you battles which offer the gift of glorious martyrdom, for which you will earn present and future praise. If Christ had not died and been buried in Jerusalem, had not lived there at all, if all these things had not taken place, surely this fact alone should be enough to drive you to come to the aid of the land and the city: that the law came from Zion and the word of God from Jerusalem. If all Christian preaching flows from the fountain of Jerusalem, then let the rivulets, wherever they flow over the face of the earth, flow into the hearts of the Catholic multitude, so that they may heed of what they owe to this overflowing fountain. If "rivers return to the place whence they flow, so that they may continue to flow,"[86] according to the saying of Solomon, it should seem glorious to you if you are able to purify the place whence you received the cleansing of baptism and the proof of faith. And you should also consider with the utmost care whether God is working through your efforts to restore the church that is the mother of churches; he might wish to restore the faith in some of the eastern lands, in spite of the nearness of the time of the Antichrist. For it is clear that the Antichrist makes war neither against Jews, nor against pagans, but, according to the etymology of his name, he will move against Christians. And if the Antichrist comes upon no Christian there, as today there is scarcely any, there will be no one to resist him, or any whom he might justly move among. According to Daniel and Jerome his interpreter, his tent will be fixed on the Mount of Olives, and he will certainly take his seat, as the Apostle teaches, in Jerusalem, "in the temple of God, as though he were God, "[87] and, according to the prophet, he will undoubtedly kill three kings pre-eminent for their faith in Christ, that is, the kings of Egypt, of Africa, and of Ethiopia. This cannot happen at all, unless Christianity is established where paganism now rules. Therefore if you are eager to carry out pious battles, and since you have accepted the seedbed of the knowledge of God from Jerusalem, then you may restore the grace that was borrowed there. Thus through you the name of Catholicism will be propagated, and it will defeat the perfidy of the Antichrist and of the Antichristians. Who can doubt that God, who surpasses every hope by means of his overflowing strength, may so destroy the reeds of paganism with your spark that he may gather Egypt, Africa and Ethiopia, which no longer share our belief, into the rules of his law, and "sinful man, the son of perdition,"[88] will find others resisting him? See how the Gospel cries out that "Jerusalem will be trodden down by the Gentiles, until the time of the nations will be fulfilled."[89]"The time of nations" may be understood in two ways: either that they ruled at will over the Christians, and for their own pleasures have wallowed in the troughs of every kind of filth, and in all of these things have found no obstruction (for "to have one's time" means that everything goes according to one's wishes, as in "My time has not yet come, but your time is always ready,"[90] and one customarily says to voluptuaries, "You have your time;") or else the "time of nations" means the multitudes of nations who, before Israel is saved, will join the faith. These times, dearest brothers, perhaps will now be fulfilled, when, with the aid of God, the power of the pagans will be pushed back by you, and, with the end of the world already near, even if the nations do not turn to the Lord, because, as the Apostle says, "there must be a falling away from faith."[91] Nevertheless, first, according to the prophecies, it is necessary, before the coming of the Antichrist in those parts, either through you or through whomever God wills, that the empire of Christianity be renewed, so that the leader of all evil, who will have his throne there, may find some nourishment of faith against which he may fight. Consider, then, that Almighty providence may have destined you for the task of rescuing Jerusalem from such abasement. I ask you to think how your hearts can conceive of the joy of seeing the holy city revived by your efforts, and the oracles, the divine prophecies fulfilled in our own times. Remember that the voice of the Lord himself said to the church, "I shall lead your seed from the East, and I shall gather you from the West."[92] The Lord has led our seed from the East, in that he brought forth for us in double manner[93] out of the Eastern land the early progeny of the Church. But out of the West he assembled us, for through those who last began the proof of faith, that is the Westerners, (we think that, God willing, this will come about through your deeds), Jerusalem's losses will be restored. If the words of Scripture and our own admonitions do not move your souls, then at least let the great suffering of those who wish to visit the holy places touch you. Think of the pilgrims who travel the Mediterranean; if they are wealthy, to what tributes, to what violence are they subjected; at almost every mile they are compelled to pay taxes and tributes; at the gates of the city, at the entrances of churches and temples, they must pay ransoms. Each time they move from one place to another they are faced with another charge, compelled to pay ransom, and the governors of the Gentiles commonly coerce with blows those who are slow to give gifts. What shall we say about those who have taken up the journey, trusting in their naked poverty, who seem to have nothing more than their bodies to lose? The money that they did not have was forced from them by intolerable tortures; the skin of their bones was probed, cut, and stripped, in search of anything that they might have sewed within. The brutality of these evil-doers was so great that, suspecting that the wretches had swallowed gold and silver, they gave them purgatives to drink, so that they would either vomit or burst their insides. Even more unspeakable, they cut their bellies open with swords, opening their inner organs, revealing with a hideous slashing whatever nature holds secret. Remember, I beg you, the thousands who died deplorably, and, for the sake of the holy places, whence the beginnings of piety came to you, take action. Have unshakable faith that Christ will be the standard-bearer and inseparable advance guard before you who are sent to His wars." The superb man delivered this speech, and by the power of the blessed Peter absolved everyone who vowed to go, confirming this with an apostolic benediction, and establishing a sign of this honorable promise. He ordered that something like a soldier's belt, or rather that for those about to fight for the Lord, something bearing the sign of the Lord's passion, the figure of a Cross, be sewn onto the tunics and cloaks of those who were going. If anyone, after accepting this symbol, and after having made the public promise, then went back on his good intentions, either out of weak regretfulness, or out of domestic affection, such a person, according to the Pope's decree, would be considered everywhere an outlaw, unless he came to his senses and fulfilled the obligation which he had foully laid aside. He also cursed with a horrible anathema all those who might dare to harm the wives, sons, and possessions of those who took up God's journey for all of the next three years. Finally, he entrusted the leadership of the expedition to the most praiseworthy of men, the bishop of the city of Puy (whose name, I regret, I have never discovered or heard). He granted him the power to teach the Christian people as his representative, wherever they went, and therefore, in the manner of the apostles, he laid hands upon him and gave him his blessing as well. How wisely he carried out his commission the results of this wonderful effort demonstrate. And so, when the council held at Clermont at the octave of blessed Martin in the month of November was over, the great news spread through all parts of France, and whoever heard the news of the Pontiff's decree urged his neighbors and family to undertake the proposed "path of God" (for this was it epithet). The courtly nobility were already burning with desire, and the middle-level knights were bursting to set out, when lo the poor also were aflame with desire, without any consideration for the scarcity of their resources, and without worrying about suitably disposing of their homes, vineyards, and fields. Instead, each sold his assets at a price much lower than he would have received if he had been shut up in a painful prison and needed to pay an immediate ransom. At this time there was a general famine, with great poverty even among the very wealthy, since when even though there were enough things, here and there, for sale for some people, they had nothing or scarcely anything with which those things could be bought. Masses of poor people learned to feed often on the roots of wild plants, since they were compelled by the scarcity of bread to search everywhere for some possible substitute. The misery that everyone was crying out about was clearly threatening to the powerful people as they watched, and, while each man, considering the anguish of the starving mob to be of little importance, became fastidiously parsimonious, fearing that he might squander the wealth for which he had worked hard by spending money too easily. The thirsty hearts of the avaricious, who rejoiced that the times smiled upon their brutal rates of interest, thought of the bushels of grain they had stored through the fertile years, and calculated how much their sale would add to their accumulating mountains of money. Thus, while some suffer terribly, and others swiftly go about their business, Christ, "breaking the ships of Tarshish with a powerful wind,"[94] resounded in everyone's ears, and he "who freed those who were in adamantine chains" broke[95] the shackles of those desperate men whose hearts were ensnared by greed. Although, as I just said, hard times reduced everyone's wealth, nevertheless, when the hard times provoked everyone to spontaneous exile, the wealth of many men came out into the open, and what had seemed expensive when no one was moved, was sold at a cheap price, now that everyone one was eager for the journey. As many men were rushing to depart (I shall illustrate the sudden and unexpected drop in prices with one example of those things that were sold), seven sheep brought an unheard-of price of five cents. The lack of grain became surfeit, and each tried to get whatever money he could scrape together by any means; each seemed to be offering whatever he had, not at the seller's, but at the buyer's price, lest he be late in setting out on the path of God. It was a miraculous sight: everyone bought high and sold low; whatever could be used on the journey was expensive, since they were in a hurry; they sold cheaply whatever items of value they had piled up; what neither prison nor torture could have wrung from them just a short time before they now sold for a few paltry coins. Nor is it less absurd that many of those who had no desire to go, who laughed one day at the frantic selling done by the others, declaring that they were going on a miserable journey, and would return even more miserable, were suddenly caught up the next day, and abandoned all their good for a few small coins, and set out with those at whom they had laughed. Who can tell of the boys, the old men, who were stirred to go to war? Who can count the virgins and the weak, trembling old men? Everyone sang of battle, but did not say that they would fight. Offering their necks to the sword, they promised martyrdom. "You young men," they said, "will draw swords with your hands, but may we be permitted to earn this by supporting Christ."[96] Indeed they seemed to have a desire to emulate God, "but not according to knowledge,"[97] but God, who customarily turns many vain undertakings to a pious end, prepared salvation for their simple souls, because of their good intentions. There you would have seen remarkable, even comical things; poor people, for example, tied their cattle to two-wheel carts, armed as though they were horses, carrying their few possessions, together with their small children, in the wagon. The little children, whenever they came upon a castle or a city, asked whether this was the Jerusalem to which they were going. At that time, before people set out on the journey, there was a great disturbance, with fierce fighting, throughout the entire kingdom of the Franks. Everywhere people spoke of rampant thievery, highway robbery; endless fires burned everywhere. Battles broke out for no discernible reason, except uncontrollable greed. To sum up briefly, whatever met the eye of greedy men, no matter to whom it belonged, instantly became their prey. Therefore the change of heart they soon underwent was remarkable and scarcely believable because of the heedless state of their souls, as they all begged the bishops and priests to give the sign prescribed by the above-mentioned Pope, that is, the crosses. As the force of powerful winds can be restrained by the gentle rain, so all of the feuds of each against the other were put to rest by the aspiration imbedded undoubtedly by Christ Himself. While the leaders, who needed to spend large sums of money for their great retinues, were preparing like careful administrators, the common people, poor in resources but copious in number, attached themselves to a certain Peter the Hermit, and they obeyed him as though he were the leader, as long as the matter remained within our own borders. If I am not mistaken, he was born in Amiens, and, it is said, led a solitary life in the habit of a monk in I do not know what part of upper Gaul, then moved on, I don't know why, and we saw him wander through cities and towns, spreading his teaching, surrounded by so many people, given so many gifts, and acclaimed for such great piety, that I don't ever remember anyone equally honored. He was very generous to the poor with the gifts he was given, making prostitutes morally acceptable for husbands, together with generous gifts, and, with remarkable authority, restoring peace and treaties where there had been discord before. Whatever he did or said seemed like something almost divine. Even the hairs of his mule were torn out as though they were relics, which we report not as truth, but as a novelty loved by the common people. Outdoors he wore a woolen tunic, which reached to his ankles, and above it a hood; he wore a cloak to cover his upper body, and a bit of his arms, but his feet were bare. He drank wine and ate fish, but scarcely ever ate bread. This man, partly because of his reputation, partly because of his preaching, had assembled a very large army, and decided to set out through the land of the Hungarians. The restless common people discovered that this area produced unusually abundant food, and they went wild with excess in response to the gentleness of the inhabitants. When they saw the grain that had been piled up for several years, as is the custom in that land, like towers in the fields, which we are accustomed to call "metas"[98] in every-day language, and although supplies of various meats and other foods were abundant in this land, not content with the natives' decency, in a kind of remarkable madness, these intruders began to crush them. While the Hungarians, as Christians to Christians, had generously offered everything for sale, our men willfully and wantonly ignored their hospitality and generosity, arbitrarily waging war against them, assuming that they would not resist, but would remain entirely peaceful. In an accursed rage they burned the public granaries we spoke of, raped virgins, dishonored many marriage beds by carrying off many women, and tore out or burned the beards of their hosts. None of them now thought of buying what he needed, but instead each man strove for what he could get by theft and murder, boasting with amazing impudence that he would easily do the same against the Turks. On their way they came to a castle that they could not avoid passing through. It was sited so that the path allowed no divergence to the right or left. With their usual insolence they moved to besiege it, but when they had almost captured it, suddenly, for a reason that is no concern of mine, they were overwhelmed; some died by sword, others were drowned in the river, others, without any money, in abject poverty, deeply ashamed, returned to France. And because this place was called Moisson, and when they returned they said that they had been as far as Moisson, they were greeted with great laughter everywhere.[99] When he was unable to restrain this undisciplined crowd of common people, who were like prisoners and slaves, Peter, together with a group of Germans and the dregs of our own people, whose foresight had enable them to escape, reached the city of Constantinople on the calends of August (July 30). But a large army of Italians, Ligurians, Langobards, together with men from parts of countries beyond the Alps, had preceded him, and had decided to wait for his army and the armies of the other Frankish leaders, because they did not think that they had a large enough army to go beyond the province of the Greeks and attack the Turks. By order of the emperor they had been granted permission to buy everything they wanted, and to conduct business in the city, but, on the advice of this prince, they were forbidden to cross the Arm of Saint George, which was the sea that provided border with the Turks, because he said that it was sure destruction for so few men to go up against so many. But they were not held back by the decency of the people of the province, nor were they mollified by the emperor's affability, but they behaved very insolently, wrecking palaces, burning public buildings, tearing the roofs of churches that were covered with lead, and then offering to sell the lead back to the Greeks. Disturbed by such foul arrogance, the emperor instructed them to delay their crossing of the waters of the Arm no longer. Once they had made the crossing, they continued to behave as they had on the other side; those who had taken a vow to fight against the pagans fought against men of our own faith, destroying churches everywhere, and stealing the possessions of Christians. Since they were not subject to the severity of a king, who might correct their errors with judicial strength, nor did they reflect soberly upon divine law, which might have restrained the instability of their minds, they fell to sudden death, because death comes to meet the undisciplined, and the man who cannot control himself does not last long. When they finally reached Nicomedia,[100] the Italians, Lombards, and Germans, unable to bear the pride of the Franks, separated from them. For the Franks, as their name indicates,[101] were famous for their great energy, but, in large groups, unless they are restrained by a firm hand, they are fiercer than they should be. And so the people from beyond the Alps, having separated, as we just said, from the Franks, chose as their leader a certain Rainald, and entered the province which is called Romania.[102] Four days march from Nicomedia, they came upon a castle which its builder had been pleased to call Exorogorgum,[103] and which, since it had been abandoned by its inhabitants, lay open to the troops, who immediately rushed in. The inhabitants had fled out of fear of the invaders; desperate to save themselves, they gave no thought to carrying with them their goods, of which they had a considerable amount. Thus the troops found an abundance of food there, and they ate their full. When the Turks discovered that the Christians had occupied the castle, they laid siege to it with great force. In front of the entrance to the city was a well, and below it, not far from the city walls, another well, where their leader Rainald cleverly set an ambush, to keep an eye on the Turks. Soon the Turks who were being watched advanced towards the city, and on the day on which the memory of the blessed Michael was celebrated,[104] the duke and his retainers were attacked, and many of those who lay in ambush were killed, while others were forced to return in disgrace within the battlements. The surrounding Turks attacked so relentlessly that the Crusaders were prevented from drawing water. They became so thirsty that they drew blood from their horses and asses, and were compelled to drink the blood. Some, by dipping their belts and rags into a cistern, and squeezing the liquid into their mouths, seemed to find some relief. Others, horrible though it is to say, drank their own urine,[105] while others dug a hole and placed themselves in the hole they had dug, covering their parched breasts with the recently dug up earth, in the belief that they might relieve their burning insides with a bit of moisture. The bishops and priests who were present, and were themselves suffering in the same way, seeing that the dangers were hideous and human help unavailable, offered consolation, continuing to promise heavenly rewards. For eight days their suffering continued. While they all seemed to be subject to the same misery, they did not all hope for God's mercy in the same way; those who had been the leaders plotted treacherously to save themselves. Rainald, who lead them in prosperity, secretly and foully concluded a pact with the Turks, promising to betray to them all the soldiers he commanded. And so he marched out as though about to battle them, but while pretending to lead them in this way, he and many of his own men fled to the Turks, and he remained with them from then on; the others were captured. Some of the prisoners were challenged about their faith, and ordered to renounce Christ, but they proclaimed Christ with steady heart and voice, and were decapitated. And now Christ will have new honors, like those he had long ago, ornamenting our age with new martyrs. How fragrant are the laurels on the brows of those who prepare to offer their throats to the swift blade! I shall call them happy who endure those few moments: their firm faith has brought them eternal life. Now the least of us need despair no longer, having dared what can scarcely be imitated.[106] The Turks divided up among themselves some of the captives, whose lives they had spared, or rather reserved for a more painful death, and submitted them to dismal servitude at the hands of cruel masters. Some were exposed in public, like targets, and were pierced by arrows; others were given away as gifts, while others were sold outright. Those to whom they were given took them back to their own homes, bringing some of them to the region called Khorasan, and others to the city of Antioch, where they would endure wretched slavery under the worst masters imaginable. They underwent a torture much longer than that endured by those whose heads were severed swiftly by the sword. A cruel master drives them, subjecting them to painful labor; everywhere the pious man serves the ungrateful man. The conscientious worker is flogged; the faithful man, who performs eagerly and competently, is punished. What he sees, what he hears, what he does during the day, because he resists doing evil, becomes foul torture. I have no doubt that their suffering was more excruciating than three days of torture on the rack.[107] These were the first martyrs God made in the nearly desperate state of our modern times. Meanwhile Peter, about whom we spoke earlier, often troubled by the folly of his retinue, disturbed by frequent losses, finally gave the reins of leadership over to well-born man, a powerful warrior from beyond the Seine, whose name was Walter,[108] in the hope that those whom he had been unable to control by warnings might at least be restrained by military authority. Walter hurried, together with his insane army, to reach Civitot,[109] a city that is said to be located above Nicaea.[110] When the Turks, who were keeping track of our movements, found out, they hurried to Civitot, eager to act out their great ill will. Half-way there, they met up with the above-mentioned Walter and his group, and they killed him and a great many of his men. Peter, called the Hermit, unable to restrain the insanity of the men he had gathered together, was afraid of being caught up in their undisciplined, improvident folly, and wisely retreated to Constantinople. The Turks attacked them without warning, and, finding some of them asleep, and others not only without weapons, but unclothed as well, immediately killed them all. Among them they found a certain priest performing mass, and they killed him in the very act of completing the sacrament; while he was sacrificing to God, they sacrificed him at the same altar. What better host can be offered to God than the flesh of him who becomes a victim for his God. What prayer did he utter from the depths of his heart when the trumpets of battle sounded? The victors tore them to pieces, the clangor of arms resounded, and the wretched band of fugitives howled. The fine priest embraced the altar, holding the sacred host closely, "Good Jesus," he said,"you are here as my protection. Since I am holding you, let the hope of flight disappear. I shall enter into an eternal pact with you. I am killed, and you, God, shall carry out the sacred things we have begun."[111] Those who were able to escape fled to the city of Civetot. The depths of the sea received some, who, unable to escape, preferred to choose their death rather than have it thrust upon them. Others sought out the mountains and hid among the rocks, while others hid in the woods. After they had captured or taken vengeance on those they found outside, the Turks quickly attacked those who were hiding inside the castle and they set up a siege, bringing wood to start fire. They lit fires for those who were being besieged, thinking that the fire would burn those inside the castle. However, in accordance with God's judgment, the whole force of the fire fell upon the Turks, and burned some of them, while none of it reached our men. They continued to attack, however, and the town was captured. Those whom they found alive they tied up and then, as had been done to the others before them, they were sent to the various provinces from which the enemy had come, to endure perpetual exile. These things happened in the month of October. When the treacherous Emperor was informed of the disaster that had befallen the faithful, the wretch was elated with joy, and ordered that the remaining troops be given permission to cross the Arm of Saint George, and to retreat to the nearer parts of Greece. When he saw them return to the territory over which he had power, he forced them to sell their arms to him. Such was the end of the group under the command of Peter the Hermit. We have followed this story without interrupting it so that we might show that Peter's group in no way helped the others, but in fact added to the audacity of the Turks. And now we shall return to the men we have passed over, who followed the same path that Peter did, but in a far more restrained and fortunate way. Duke Godfrey, the son of count Eustace of Boulogne, had two brothers: Baldwin, who ruled Edessa, and succeeded his brother as king of Jerusalem, and who still rules there; and Eustace, who rules in the county he inherited from his father. They had a powerful father, who was competent in worldly affairs, and their mother was, if I am not mistaken, a learned Lotharingian aristocrat, but most remarkable for her innate serenity and great devotion to God. The joys she received from such exemplary sons were due, we believe, to her profound religious belief. Godfrey, about whom we are now speaking, had received a duchy in Lotharingia as his maternal heritage. All three, in no way inferior to their mother in honesty, flourished in great military deeds, as well as in the restraint of their behavior. The glorious woman used to say, when she marveled at the result of the journey and the success of her sons, that she had heard from the mouth of her son the duke a prediction of the outcome long before the beginning of the expedition. For he said that he wanted to go to Jerusalem not as a simple pilgrim, as others had done, but forcefully, with a large army, if he could raise one. In accordance with this divinely inspired intuition, fortune later smiled on his project. The three brothers, heedless of the great honors they already had, set out on the journey. But even as Godfrey was wiser than his other brothers, so he was equipped with a larger army. He was joined by Baldwin, Count of Mons, son of Robert, the paternal uncle of the young count of Flanders. With the splendid knightly ceremony and spectacle, the band of powerful young men entered the land of the Hungarians, in possession of what Peter was unable to obtain: control over his army. Two days before Christmas, the first of the French leaders to arrive, they reached the city of Constantinople, but their lodgings were outside the city. The treacherous emperor, frightened when he heard that the brilliant duke had arrived, offered formal, but grudging signs of respect, and offered him permission to dwell in front of the walls, in a suburb of the city. And so, after accepting the emperor's offer, the duke and each of his men sent their own squires to get straw and whatever was necessary for their horses from wherever they could. While they were thinking that they could go safely and securely wherever they wished, the foul prince secretly ordered the men around him to kill, without making any distinctions, all of the men who were carrying out the duke's instructions, wherever they found them. When Baldwin, the duke's brother, found out about this, he set an ambush; when he discovered the Turcopolitans violently attacking his own men, he forcefully attacked them, as was right. And with God's favor he won such a victory that he captured sixty of them; he killed some of them and handed others over to his brother the duke. When news of this event reached the impious emperor, he was filled with self-reproach. Made more cautious by this event, the duke left the suburb of the city where he had been staying, and set up camp outside of its borders. However, as evening approached, the emperor, unable to put aside his anger, hastily collected an army and began hostilities against the duke and his men. Forcefully accepting the challenge, the duke defeated them and drove them in flight back into the city, killing seven men. After this fortunate turn of events, the duke returned to his encampment, and remained there for five days, while he and the emperor negotiated a treaty. The frightened emperor asked that the duke cross the Arm of Saint George, promising in return that he would order to be brought to them supplies of whatever kinds of food were to be found in Constantinople and that he would give alms to their poor. And this was done. Since we have spoken about the duke and his journey up to this point, I must return to the leaders of central France; I shall give a brief sketch of who they were, by what roads they traveled, and what the outcome of their efforts was. The Bishop of Puy, a man to be admired for his life, knowledge, teaching, and wisdom in military affairs, together with a large group of his countrymen, chose to set out through the land of the Slavs. Earlier I expressed my regret at not knowing his name, and for being unable to learn it from the history of which I seem to be the interpreter; finally, however, through those who knew him on that expedition, and who were familiar with him, I learned that this precious man's name was Aimarus. Among the rest of the leaders, it seems to me that Hugh the Great, the brother of Philip the king of the Franks, must be dealt with first. Although others were wealthier or more powerful, he was second to none in birth or in the probity of his behavior. He was most justly celebrated for being forceful in arms, serenely secure in his noble birth, and, even more important, humble towards every sacred order, forthright and restrained. Certain leaders attached themselves to him, thinking that they would make him king if it happened that, after the Gentiles were driven out, the occupation of the land came about as a result of battle. After him came Count Stephen, a man endowed with such power that, according to report, he controlled as many castles as the year has days. His generosity was unexcelled, his presence very pleasing, his performance in council sober, steady, and thoughtfully mature; he so excelled in his activities as a knight, that the entire holy army chose him as their chief magistrate and general for the duration of the battle against the Turks. His wife was the wisest of women, the daughter of King William the elder, who had conquered the kingdoms of the English and the Scots. If we wish to praise her wisdom, generosity, bountifulness, and opulence, I fear lest, by praising his wife, we cast shadow on the magnificent man, which he has earned now that he has been deprived of her. Robert the younger, son of Robert the elder, to whom the emperor had sent a letter, with great eagerness took charge of building up their forces; he gave up the county of Flanders, which he had ruled with great military skill, to become a fellow soldier on the journey with those who had chosen to become exiles for Christ. The rest of the present history will indicate how steadily he carried out what he had begun. Leaving behind their superb wives and their fine sons, they put aside whatever they felt great affection for, choosing instead exile. I say nothing about their honors and possessions, which are outside our concerns. But what surprises us most is the way in which loving husbands and wives, attached even more closely to each other by the bond of children, could be separated, when there was no present danger to either. It would hardly be right to remain silent about Robert, Count of Normandy, whose bodily indulgences, weakness of will, prodigality with money, gourmandising, indolence, and lechery were expiated by the perseverance and heroism that he vigorously displayed in the army of the Lord. His inborn compassion was naturally so great that he did not permit vengeance to be taken against those who had plotted to betray him and had been sentenced to death, and if something did happen to them, he wept for their misfortune. He was bold in battle, although adeptness at foul trickery, with which we know many men befouled themselves, should not be praised, unless provoked by unspeakable acts. For these and for similar things he should now be forgiven, since God has punished him in this world, where he now languishes in jail, deprived of all his honors. Each of the illustrious leaders was followed on the journey by many lesser princes, whom we shall not list at this point, because it might seem to be distracting, and we shall perhaps have better reason for naming them in the course of the narration. Who can count the masters of one, two, three, or four castles? There were so many that the siege of Troy could scarcely have brought so many together. At the time that this expedition was being undertaken by the magnates of the kingdom, and a meeting was being held by them with Hugh the Great, with Philip the king present, at Paris, in the month of February, on the eleventh day of the month, a lunar eclipse took place just before midnight. Little by little the moon turned to the color of blood, until it had turned completely and hideously blood red, but at dawn an unusually bright splendor shone around the circle of the moon. Soon afterward stars seemed to fall from the skies, like a heavy rain. This was so like a portent that many churches considered it to be one, and they instituted public prayers to avert the punishment that it might signify, and they wrote down the time of the event. Soon after, in the month of August, on the eighth day, just before sunset, the part around the center of the moon turned black, and many people saw this happen. It should be said that, although the moon normally undergoes eclipses when full, nevertheless some of these changes of colors are manifestations of portents, and are customarily recorded in the pontifical books and in the deeds of kings. Other things were also seen, most of which we shall pass over. Raymond, Count of Saint Gilles is placed last, not because he is of no worth, but to complete the list. Because he lived at the furthest edge of France, he has offered us less information about his activities; but he ennobles the telling of this history, from the beginning to the end, with the model of his great virtue and constancy. Having left behind his own son to rule his land, he brought with him his present wife and the only son he had had with her. Raymond was older than the other leaders, but his army was in no way inferior, except perhapsfor the Provencal habit of talking too much. When this large force of powerful knights, having traveled over the road which we customarily take to Rome, arrived in Apulia, they had contracted a great many illnesses, and many died, because of the great heat of the summer, the foul air, and the strange food. To cross the sea they gathered at different ports: many went to Brundisi, pathless Hydrus (Otrante) received others, while the fishy waters of Bari welcomed others.[112] Hugh the Great did not wait for his men and the knights of the princes who were his allies, but hastily and unwisely went to the port of Bari, and after a fortunate sea-journey, arrived at Dyrrachium.[113] He should have considered that at the prospect of so many men, such great numbers of knights and foot soldiers, all of Greece, as one might say, trembled to its very foundations. And although other leaders had greater repute among us than he, nevertheless, among foreigners, and particularly among the Greeks, who are the laziest of men, his unbounded fame as the brother of the king of France preceded him. Therefore, when the leader appointed by the emperor to govern that place saw such well-known man without a large retinue about him, he seized the opportunity to make something out of his isolation. He took the man and ordered him to be conducted carefully and respectfully to Constantinople, with one purpose in mind: that he might promise the frightened prince that he would not harm his life or honor. Thus what happened to this famous man weakened the courage of the great leaders who came after him, for the cleverness of the treacherous prince compelled the others, either by force, or in secret, or by imprecations, to do what he had done. But now the end of this book has come. Book Three When the vast army drawn from nearly all the Western lands approached Apulia, word of the arrival of that multitude reached Bohemund, son of Robert who was called Guiscard, a man of remarkable greatness. At that time he was engaged in besieging Amalfi. After the messenger had made his way through the crowd of people, he told Bohemund the reasons for the journey: they were hastening to free Jerusalem, the Lord's tomb, and the sacred places which were being abused there, from the power of the Gentiles. He also told him of the kind of people, of how many fine men, as I might say, left their honorable positions and were striving with unheard-of eagerness to join this expedition. He asked if they were carrying arms, packs, what insignia of this new pilgrimage they were wearing, and finally, what war-cries they called out in battle. He replied that the Franks were carrying their usual arms, and that they had sewn the sign of the cross on their shoulders or elsewhere, out of any material or rag they had at hand; they had renounced individual battle-cries as arrogant, and instead they all humbly and faithfully shouted in battle, "God wishes it." His heart was deeply stirred by these words, and, inspired by God, he was stung by conscience; he ordered that his most precious mantle be brought to him, and he had it cut up into little crosses; he put one on himself, and gave out the other crosses to be worn by those of his men who subscribed to the cause to which he had dedicated himself. The knights who had followed him to this siege also experienced a sudden change of heart, and set out on the same journey that their leader had chosen. Such a crowd of knights made this choice at that moment that Bohemund's brother, count Roger of Sicily, grieved deeply that he was robbed of nearly all of his retainers at this siege. But I should say a few words about Bohemund's parentage, and about the steps by which he proceeded to this position of honor. Robert, whose surname we have given as Guiscard, was from Normandy, and was born to a family of no great distinction. He went from there to Apulia, but whether he left his native land voluntarily or was driven from it I don't know. There, by some means or other, he earned horses and arms to become a knight. He assembled, from various places, a group of thieves to help him in his endeavours, took over certain castles, with the aid of disgraceful treachery, occupied some other castles after wearing them down with frequent attacks, laid sieges to wealthy cities, and compelled them to surrender. To finish in a few words, this "new man" extended his power, conquering at will to such an extent that the verses on his epitaph read, "he drove him out whom the Ligurians, Rome, and Lake Leman recognized as king, "[114]that is, Henry Augustus, a man favored by fortune with innumerable, almost continual victories. Parthia, Arabia, the phalanx of Macedonians did not protect Alexis, [115] the prince of the Greeks, who has often been our concern. Having defeated him often, Robert, they say, would have worn the crown in the city of Constantinople in a few days, had draught of poison not suddenly snatched his life from him. Anyone who wishes today may see the power of his son Bohemund who, obliterating the low origin of his family, married the daughter of Philip, king of France, and tried to take by violence the empire of the above mentioned king Alexis. While his brother Roger returned to Sicily, unhappy that he had lost so many men of all ranks, that it seemed that the whole people was about to go off to Jerusalem, Bohemund collected the troops and supplies that were necessary for such an expedition, embarked with his army, and with a favoring wind easily reached the Bulgarian shore. His retinue was filled with many wise knights and great princes, among whom was Tancred, who was, if I am not mistaken, the son of a certain marquis and Bohemund's sister. Tancred's brother, whose name was William, had set out before him with Hugh the Great. In addition there was Richard of the First City,[116] a remarkably good-looking man, whom we saw perform the office of delegate to the king of the Franks, to ask for the hand of Constantia as wife for Bohemund. Then, when he and his men entered the land of Bulgaria, they found a great supply of every kind of food. When they arrived in the valley of Andropolitanus,[117] they remained there waiting for the rest of the fleet to finish the journey. When everyone had arrived, the leaders met, and Bohemund told his plan to his men, ordering everyone alike who was about to pass through territory inhabited by Christians to behave peacefully, to do no harm, and not to depopulate the land of those whose rights they had come to protect; they should take, as peacefully as possible, and after having paid for it, only the food that they needed. They went forward, and as they passed from city to city, from field to field, from camp to camp, they found abundant trade everywhere, until they arrived in the province called Castoria, and there they solemnly celebrated Christmas, remaining for several days. They asked the people of the province for permission to trade, but they refused to grant permission, fearing that our men, whom they considered warriors, not pilgims, wanted to destroy their land and crush them. Angered, their restraint now turned to fury, and they seized horses, cows, asses, and whatever else was useful. Then they left Castoria and entered Pelagonia, where they came upon a fortified town of heretics, which they attacked on every side, compelling them to surrender. They then burned it to the ground, together with its inhabitants. From there they went to the river called the Baudarus. [118] Bohemund moved forward with part of his knights and left the rest in the hands of a certain one of his counts. When the emperor's army, which was not far off, learned of this, it attacked the count, who was now without the aid of Bohemund, who had gone on ahead of him, and the count's men were thrown into confusion by the attack of the enemy. When brave Tancred heard of this, he swiftly turned back, leaped into the river mentioned above, and swam back to those who were being attacked. He then assembled the nearly two thousand men who swam behind him, found the enemy, who were fighting fiercely against his own men, and attacked them with equal fierceness, quickly overcoming them. Many of them were captured and brought before Bohemund in chains. To them the prince said, "Why do you pursue my people, the people of Christ? I am not trying to overthrow your emperor." They replied, "We do nothing by our own deliberation. We are soldiers who earn money by carrying out the orders of the emperor; whatever he tells us to do we do." When the splendid man heard this, he let them go, without punishment and without ransom. This battle took place on the fourth day of the week, which among Christians is called the beginning of the fast[119] The emperor Alexis, when he heard of Bohemund's exemplary action, then sent for the councilor upon whom he most relied, and told him to lead the magnanimous duke, together with his army, through his own land, and into his own presence at Constantinople. While the army was passing through all the towns and cities of the empire, an imperial edict commanded all the inhabitants of these regions to see to it that Bohemund and his men had a supply of everything that could be bought. However, although the army was allowed to proceed through the provinces, none of Bohemund's men were permitted to enter the walls of any city. The knights were about to invade a certain fort that seemed abundant with supplies, but the illustrious man forbade it, partly out of respect for the laws of the land, partly to avoid offending the emperor, or rather, he did not want to break the pact he had just made with him through intermediaries. Angry at their foolish attempt, and particularly at Tancred, he forbade them to go on. This happened in the evening. The next morning the inhabitants of the fort came out, bearing the banners of the Cross before them, demonstrating their humility and religious belief to Bohemund. He greeted them affably and courteously, thanked them, and sent the contented people back to the town. Then they reached a city called Serra, where they pitched their tents, and successfully traded in the marketplace. Here Bohemund was reconciled with his two courtly prefects. In keeping with the recent treaty and with the law of the land, he ordered that everything which had been taken from the inhabitants be restored to them. Then they proceeded to the outskirts of city called Rusa,[120] where a crowd of Greeks, both aristocrats and commoners, rushed to greet the noble man, offering all kinds of merchandise. They made camp there three days before the feast of the Lord. Bohemund then left his retinue behind and set out for Constantinople, together with a few of his knights, to confer with the emperor. In the meanwhile Tancred was in charge of the army, and when he saw that food was difficult to purchase with empty purses, he decided to leave the major routes and move along the less frequented ones, where a greater supply of necessary items for everyone might be found. Therefore he lead them from the public way, out of consideration for the poor, and entered a valley abundantly supplied with different kinds of food. There the people piously celebrated Easter (April 5, 1097). When Alexis heard that Bohemund was coming to meet with him, he ordered that he be given the most respectful welcome, and that he be given quarters just outside the city wall.[121] When he arrived, he was invited to speak with the emperor; he went and was received in secret. Meanwhile Duke Godfrey, together with his brother Baldwin and the count of Saint-Gilles, each leading a strong group of men, reached the outskirts of Constantinople. The perfidious Alexis, who once was thought to be eager for support against the Turks, gnashed his teeth in the bitterness of his anger, and pondered on a means to bring about the total destruction of the large army that was, as he thought, about to attack him. But God, whose force drove this pious army, watched over them so well that no occasion presented itself for the scoundrel to harm them; furthermore, cut off from all possibility of doing harm, the wretch was stricken with great fear. The people of Constantinople were disturbed at the sight of so many battalions assembling, and they held a meeting to determine what to do. Fearful that the city would be crushed by the great number of men who were arriving, and that the provinces would be taken over and devastated, they decided, after considering several alternatives, that their tyrant should demand an oath from the Franks that they would never harm him or his people. When our leaders learned of this, they showed great contempt and scorn. They understood clearly that if the initial army happened to deviate from this pact, it would be necessary for such a large army, stripped of all resources by poverty, to wage war against the perfidious prince, contrary to the oaths they had taken. "And certainly," they said, "Even if no fear of what might happen in the future weighed upon us, the fact that we had been compelled by the puny Greeks, laziest of all people, to swear an oath would be to our eternal shame. We cannot doubt that they would say that we, willy-nilly, had submitted to their rule." The emperor came to mighty Bohemund about this matter, and was ready to entice him whom he greatly feared with gifts, for Bohemund had often defeated him in battle; Alexis concentrated particularly on Bohemund, because he regarded him as his greatest rival. Therefore he offered him land the other side of Antioch, whose length would take fifteen days to cross, and whose width would take no less than eight days to cross. The great man's firmness was broken by this offer, and what Hugh the Great had promised, compelled by necessity and the enticement of money, Bohemund agreed to swear to on condition that if Alexis reneged on what he had agreed to, he himself would not have to carry out what he had sworn to. If anyone asks why he and the others relaxed their firmness by swearing oaths to the tyrant, he should understand that the leaders were helping their fellow soldiers in God out of necessity, for they would have been in dire poverty if they had been denied their pay. Alexis swore oaths also, stating, "that he would come with them, at the head of his own army, aid them on land and on the sea, and he would order that food be brought from everywhere for them to purchase; if they suffered any losses, he would indemnify them fully; finally, he would not wish or allow anyone on this expedition, to the extent that he had the ability, to be harassed, harmed, or killed." The Count of Saint-Gilles had established camp in the outskirts of Byzantium before the entire army had arrived, and the tyrant sent a messenger to ask the count to do what the others had done, that is, offer him homage. The cleverness of the insolent tyrant demanded this, but the wisdom of the glorious count set about devising a way to take vengeance against the envy of the scoundrel. But the leaders, that is, Godfrey, Hugh the Great, and Robert of Flanders, and the others, said that they would never take up arms against someone who was considered to be a Christian. Bohemund added that if Raymond waged war against the Emperor, and thereby broke the oath he had given the Emperor, he himself would take the emperor's part. And so the count, after consulting with his closest advisors, swore to protect the life and honor of the impious Alexis, and that he would not for his own sake or to aid others work to destroy him. When they considered the clause about hommage, he said that he would rather undergo mortal danger than submit to such a proposition. Meanwhile Bohemund's army drew near to the towers of Constantinople. Having learned what oaths the emperor had exacted, Tancred, together with the men he was leading (almost the entire forces of Bohemund), quickly crossed the Arm of Saint George. The army of the Count of Saint-Gilles had scattered, setting up its tents at the edge of the city. Bohemund remained with the Emperor, so that he might more easily supervise the carrying out of the imperial edict which ordered the people beyond Nicaea to bring food from everywhere to his army. Duke Godfrey had gone ahead, together with Tancred, to Nicomedia, a city founded by Nicomedes, who, according to a poem, won a battle against Caesar, but did not triumph.[122] Each of them remained there with his troops for three days. The duke, considering that the roads were filled with obstacles, and that an army as large as theirs could not make its way along them, since the road that Peter the Hermit's men had used could not accommodate so many men, sent three thousand men ahead of him, with axes and hoes to widen the roads and make them passable as far as Nicea. The road was incredibly difficult, filled with sharp stones, and moving over steep mountains. Those who were in the lead widened the road by cutting up the rocks, and they placed crosses of iron and wood on tall stakes, so that our men, when they saw these signs aloft, would not wander from the road. Finally they came to Nicea, the central city of Armenia, and the chief city of Bythinia, famous for the synod of 318 fathers, but even more famous for the declaration of Omousion, and the condemnation of Arius. The next day was the sixth of May, and they pitched their camps in the area around the city, on the third day after they had left Nicomedia. Before the army of Bohemund arrived, they say that there was such shortage of bread that one loaf of bread cost twenty or thirty pennies. But when Bohemund appeared, he brought great quantity of food by land and by sea, and suddenly plentiful supply of everything necessary flowed. On the day of the Ascension of Our Lord, they began to attack the city from all sides, to draw up machines, to erect ladders, prepare fire-bombs, and to fire at the ramparts of the walls and towers with their crossbows.[123] The siege of the city was undertaken with such sharp fervor that within two days they had undermined the walls. The Turks, who held the city, sent messengers to other cities, asking for them to bring help, and to enter without fear by the southern gate, since that part was not under siege, and presented no obstacle to those wishing to bring help. On that very day, however, the sabbath after the Ascension of Our Lord, the entrance of that gate was being guarded by the Count of Saint-Gilles and the Bishop of Puy. An event occurred there that was truly noteworthy. This same noble count, faithful to God, strong and competent in arms, surrounded by a no less competent army, found in front of him enemy reinforcements hurrying towards the town. Relying in his spirit upon divine assistance, he attacked and conquered the Turks, compelling them to flee, and slicing most of them to pieces. Hideously defeated, the Turks went about finding new forces with which they enthusiastically decided to go to battle again, carrying ropes with which they proposed to tie up our men and bring them back to Khorasan. Encouraged by this empty hope, they began, in single file and step by step, to descend from the top of the mountain that towered over the city. They were welcomed with pleasure by our men, as was fitting, and they left their severed heads as proof of our victory. After the Turks fled, our catapults and slings fired the severed heads into the city to terrify the Gentiles. However, the bishop of Puy of blessed memory and Count Raymond of Saint-Gilles, pressing forward to weaken the city, attacked a tower near their own camp by digging tunnels to undermine its foundations. After the miners were in place to carry this out, they were given protection by men with bows and crossbows, by men swinging balearic ropes, and by others defending the sappers. Thus the tower was undermined to the depths of its foundation, while the collapsing wall was held only with beams and poles; when the base of the foundation had been entirely demolished, they set fire to the beams: When cloudy night brought quiet to both sides, the weakened tower fell in ruins, but because night is less appropriate for fighting, the Franks stopped, refusing to harm the Turks at night.[124] The Turks, however, worried about their safety, very wisely got up, and, in the same place, rebuilt the wall so quickly and of such strength that the next day our men could find no way of doing them any harm. Meanwhile, two men arrived, the most celebrated for deeds of arms and the wealthiest counts, whom we have already mentioned, accompanied by many knights, whose arrival filled the whole army of the Lord with joy: Robert, Count of Normandy, and Count Stephen of Chartres. Thus Bohemund besieged the city from the front, Tancred from the side, Duke Godfrey from a third position, the count of Flanders from a fourth, the count of Normandy from fifth, and the count of Saint-Gilles and the bishop of Puy from a sixth. They set about besieging it, so that none of the besieged could get in or out. There one could see gathered the flower of the armed force, or the wisdom, the nobility, of the fame of all of France, dressed in the breastplates and helmets of knights; those who were skilled at counting the number of people in an army thought that there were about 100,000 men. I do not think that anyone could count the whole crowd of foot-soldiers, or of those who attended knights. The latter group not only performed the tasks that servants and slaves normally perform for soldiers, but they took part in the siege, and in the battles themselves, like lions, with bravery like that of their betters, as though they were accustomed to wielding now arms, now tools of any sort, whether for war, or for any other task necessary. No speech will be able to tell how much the integrity of those powerful warriors shone forth at that time. No land on earth will ever see soldiers of such nobility fighting together. If you wish, I shall relate the story of every kingdom, speak of battles done everywhere; none of these will be able to equal either the nobility or the force of these men. They left their paternal lands, abandoned conjugal bonds, their children were unattractive to them, remaining at home was punishment for them; in every knight the desire for martyrdom burns. When the mob is carried away by the promise of bloodshed, who can find anyone who is unmoved? Everyone is lion-hearted, pleased to see the walls of Nicea surrounded. The field shone with the reins of horses, and the shape and sound of their trappings gives pleasure to everyone. Their armor burns more brightly once it has drunk the sun's rays. Their helmets, shields with yellow bronze, and belts blaze. You would have seen them, like a storm, beating the walls down with their battering rams. The Frankish spears penetrated their hard limbs, and their sharp swords broke many of their bones. The wooden tower strove to drive the Turks from the lofty walls. The battle rages hand-to-hand, and spears were hurled on both sides; hardly any of them missed. Unexpected death laid some men low. Heavenly glory then made our men strong; they exposed their bodies to what was fated. They rejoiced in seeking rewards through death. Every weary man became bold and aggressive, driven by hope for a better life. The crimes of souls greedy of praise are far distant. Every man believed that, if war granted him a breath of fame, Christ was the one who gave it. No one who performed noble act took credit for it. We will not be able to compare the Scythian triumphs over Darius with these, nor could the great, manly efforts of Cyrus be known, which Tomyris had finished off with a bag of gore.[125] You would have mourned the outcome, good Pyrrus, looking upon Tarentum; you babble uselessly of taking on new wars with elephants. Once, twice, three times Hanibal's men cut down the Quirites like wheat, but they were at last defeated and left the city. Although under Caesar there was ten-year fight without loss, let it be clear that the sojourn in the fields of Gaul was harmful. The task took very little time, and was entirely successful. Since God was involved, everything turned out well in the end. Those who died as martyrs had a glorious fate, and those who did not judged that the suffering mitigated their sins.[126] Part of the city was bordered by a long, broad, stagnant lake, upon which the enemy was seen launching boats, freely going in and out, carrying wood and fodder and other necessary items. Our leaders held a meeting about this activity, and they agreed to send a delegation to the prince of Constantinople, to urge him to send as many ships as possible to the city of Civitot, where there was a port, and to collect a great number of bulls to carry the ships over the mountains and through the forests until they reached the above-mentioned lake. The plan was discussed and carried out quickly, urged on by the prince; those who are called the Turkopoles, that is, the knights of his court, were sent on the expedition. When the boats were brought, in accordance with the emperor's orders, they remained still on the day that they were brought. That night, however, they put the boats on the lake, and the Turkopoles, very well equipped with weapons, got into them. In the morning the fleet assembled, and proceeded slowly towards the city, as though they were bringing tribute. The Turks, who were amazed at the sight of the ships, could not decide whether they were their own, or the emperor's. After they understood that what they were seeing was an enemy force, they grew weak with a fear of death, but the more they groaned and wept the more our own men were pleased and gave thanks to the Lord. This misfortune severely enfeebled the enemy, who now lost faith in themselves and their allies, and sent legation to the emperor, offering to surrender the city, if he could get permission from the Franks for them to leave with their wives, sons, and adequate provisions. The tyrant graciously favored their request, and not only granted it without punishing them, but, to bind them even closer to himself, brought them to Constantinople. He had one principal object in doing this: in case of a disagreement with the Franks, he would advantageously have men with whom to oppose them. The siege had lasted seven weeks and three days, and many of our men received the gift of martyrdom in that place. It is undoubtedly true that those who went to their death in defense of the true faith certainly may be numbered among those who are with God; having paid with their blood, they have earned celestial rewards. Those who died of starvation are certainly their equals, and a great number died there in that way. For if, according to the Prophet, speaking historically, "it was better for those killed by the sword than for those killed by hunger,"[127] since the latter undoubtedly were tortured to death by daily pain, they will not, it is right to believe, be deprived of the more noble crown of martyrdom. After the city had surrendered, and the Turks had been brought to Constantinople, the tyrannical prince was extremely pleased to have regained the city, and he gave our leaders countless gifts; he also made substantial charitable contributions to all the poorest people. As a result, those who were neither powerful nor poor, whom his generosity had overlooked, grew envious and hostile towards the leaders. And, in a way, it was not unjust. They had fought the battles; they were the ones who had carried out the entire siege, hauled the engines of war, fired the catapults; to conclude briefly, I say that they carried, "the burden and heat of the day."[128] On the day that they left the captured city they reached a bridge in whose vicinity they remained for two days. On the third day, at the first feeble glimmerings of dawn, they arose, moved about blindly in what little light there was, and went down two separate roads, forming two groups. For two days they marched in two separate divisions. One contained Bohemund, Robert of Normandy, and Tancred, together with a large contingent of knights; the Count of Saint-Gilles, Duke Godfrey, the bishop of Puy, Hugh the Great, and the count of Flanders were leading the other group through pathless territory. On the third day, an innumerable, terrible, and nearly overwhelming mass of Turks suddenly rushed upon Bohemund and his men. You would have seen them speaking melodramatically about the fear that they expected our men, frightened at their unexpected attack, to feel as they shouted their war-like battle-cry in the horrible tones of their language. Under attack by an immense force, the extraordinary man was not frightened into acting unwisely, but immediately ordered everyone to halt, unroll the tents, and establish camp quickly. Before his orders had been carried out, he addressed his own knights: "If you keep in mind the expedition that you joined, having considered why it was necessary, then go forward; attack them like men, defend your honor and your life, and you, foot soldiers, pitch the tents carefully." When he had finished, the Turks attacked suddenly and swiftly, hurling javelins, and fighting in their usual fashion by fleeing as they fired arrows into the breasts of their pursuers. Aware of what they had promised, mindful of their vaunted strength, the Franks clearly understood that they were numerically overmatched, but they fought with energetic bravery against their furious enemies. The count of Normandy, properly mindful of his father's military valor and noble ancestry, performed mighty deeds of arms, fighting off the enemy, and offering a fine example of resistance to our momentarily frightened army. God was also present, so that the women who had accompanied them stood by their men, constantly bringing water to refresh the knights. Indeed, their encouragement and advice did more to make the men more tireless and inventive than the water did to refresh them. But when Bohemund became troubled by the extreme inequality of the contest, he sent a messenger to those who had gone off separately, Raymond the Count of Saint-Gilles, Duke Godfrey, Hugh the Great, the bishop of Puy, and others of their retinues, telling them to come very quickly, because battle was imminent. Thus they say: If they would like to see the beginnings of battle with the Turks, what they want is now here: come quickly.[129] And so Godfrey, worthy of the title of duke, a model warrior, accompanied by Hugh the Great, who took after his father in military ardor, courageous as befitted one descended from kings, like a leopard, I might say, together with his retinue, raced to the battle as eagerly as to feast. Then the Bishop of Puy, strengthened the army not only with his shining arms, but with his counsel and sacred prayers; if they had been hesitant, he ignited the army.[130] Then the Count of Saint-Gilles, older and wiser with experience and very reliable in council, surrounded by his Provencal soldiers, burst forth. When our men saw the enemy army face-to-face, they wondered where in the world such an infinite number of people had come from. Turks, Arabs, and Saracens stood out among the others, both in number and in nobility; there was a smaller number of auxiliaries and people from less illustrious nations. There you would have seen the heights of the mountains and the slopes of the hills grow dense with this profane mass, and all the plains were covered with countless throngs. And so our leaders exhorted their men, "If you have devoted to God the army in which you now serve, if you have given up your countries, homes, wives, children, and your bodies, and if these bodies have only survived to be offered for the glories of martyrdom, how, I ask, can you be terrified at this sight? The wisdom of one of you, derived from faith in God, is more powerful than the superstitions of this entire heap of rabble. If death is to be your lot, the heavenly kingdom and a joyful death await you; if you remain alive, and persevere in your faith, certain victory awaits you, and after victory, glory, and after glory, greater courage, and then great opulence from the enemy's treasures. Whatever happens, you will be secure, you have nothing to fear; no delay or doubt should stand in your way. Therefore surrender your minds and bodies to the faith of the Lord of the Cross, and take up arms against this pile of husks, these little creatures who are hardly men at all." Then they drew up their battle lines in an orderly fashion, with great-hearted Bohemund on the left flank, together with the count of Normandy, valiant knight, Tancred, and Richard who was called "of the first city." The Bishop of Puy, however, moving through the mountains from enemy territory, was surrounding the Turks; count Raymond rode on the left flank. On the right flank, Duke Godfrey, Robert of Flanders, Hugh the Great, and the other warriors, powerful because they took up their positions on behalf of Christ. Oh good God, who knows men's thoughts, how many tears were shed for you during these preparations! How much pious remorse and how many pious confessions rose up out of the minds of all of these men! Who could judge adequately how much sensitivity was in the hearts of all these men whose hopes were placed only in You? O Christ, with what grief did holiness and sinfulness cry out to you. They wept, and called upon pious Christ with their pious sighs, when, lo, all the soldiers crossed themselves; I do not say that they were as brave as lions, but, what is more fitting, brave as martyrs, bearing the banners against the enemy throng. The Arabs, Persians, and ferocious Turks soon fled; the savage people showed their backs to the Christians. It was a rout, and the wretched army ran in all directions; the Arabs ran like rabbits. Prodigious was the slaughter of the fleeing army; we hardly had enough swords to do all the killing. Swords became dull with cutting so many limbs; they cut men down the way reapers cut wheat with scythe. Here they cut a head, here a nose, here throat, here a pair of ears; a belly is sliced open; everyone in their path dies. Hands become stupefied, arms grow stiff with gore. No one resists them and remains alive; lassitude overcomes the infidels. Their breasts blindly receive the baneful assault.[131] The number of enemy defeated is said to have been 460,000, not counting the Arabs, whose number was too great to be counted.[132] At first, indeed, crying out in despair of their lives, they ran in fear to their tents,[133] where they seized what they could with their hands and fled. For a whole day our men pursued them very closely, piling up the spoils they took from the fleeing enemy; and so, after drawing considerable amounts of blood, they took comfort in the copious sums of money, in the precious garments, and in the herds of cattle which they took from the fleeing men. From the third until the ninth hour the destruction, or rather Arabian slaughter, of this battle raged. Two leaders of distinguished name, Geoffrey of Mont Scabieuse, and William, brother of Tancred, and many others whose names are entrusted to the notice of God alone, died there. Here we can clearly see the signs of Christian power; and if we marvel at the inequality of a battle between so few men and so many, we must attribute the results entirely to the aid of Christ. For if in the ancient text it is said of the Jews who had not yet separated from God, "one will pursue thousand, and two will put to flight ten thousand,"[134] then it seems to me no less true of this victory, since human understanding cannot hope to fathom how so many men could be defeated by so few. But perhaps someone may object, arguing that the enemy forces were merely peasants, scum herded together from everywhere. Certainly the Franks themselves, who had undergone such great danger, testified that they could have known of no race comparable to the Turks, either in the liveliness of spirit, or energy in battle. When the Turks initiated a battle, our men were almost reduced to despair by the novelty of their tactics in battle; they were not accustomed to their speed on horseback, nor to their ability to avoid our frontal assaults. We had particular difficulty with the fact that they fired their arrows only when fleeing from the battle. It was the Turk's opinion, however, that they shared an ancestry with the Franks, and that the highest military prowess belonged particularly to the Turks and Franks, above all other people. While they were being defeated in this manner, and were fleeing day and night from the face of the Franks, the prince who ruled Nicaea, [135] frightened out of his mind, after the siege had ended, happened to meet a group of ten thousand Arabs, who said to him, "O least of men, why are you fleeing in miserable fright?" He replied, "I thought that I had destroyed and killed every last Frank, and I thought that I would deliver them to eternal captivity; I assumed that I would conquer them as they moved forward in small groups, and I would bind them and lead them away to distant lands. But a large army appeared, and the fields and mountains were covered with great numbers of them, and they seemed to occupy every inch of our entire land." The capture which he mentioned referred to the army of Peter the Hermit, and the multitude that followed to those who lately had subjugated Nicaea. "There, when we had seen an army of so many people, with divisions growing like wheat, against whom we judged correctly that we stood no chance of defending ourselves (for there was no safe place), we thought it best to escape imminent death by fleeing swiftly. Although we are now at some distance, nevertheless we are shaken by the terrible memory of those men whom we saw, and the momentary encounter has left us frightened of their ferocity. If you have any faith in my report of what happened, you will retreat from this place because, if their forces find you here, you will undoubtedly pay for your folly many times over." They decided that what they heard was credible, quickly reversed direction,[136] and scattered all over Romania. Meanwhile our men were intent on pursuing the fleeing Turks, who, when they passed through cities and forts, boastfully proclaimed that they had conquered the Franks, thus deluding the inhabitants of the lands through which they traveled with lying words. "We have defeated the Christian armies," they said, "and deprived them of all desire for combat. Therefore let us into your cities, and welcome gratefully those who go to such lengths to protect you." Then they entered the cities, stripped the churches of their ornaments, carried off the wealth of public buildings, and set about carrying off gold and silver, various kinds of animals, and whatever else might be of use to them. For this purpose, they abducted the sons of Christians as slaves, and consigned to the flames other things that were less useful, constantly in fear of our coming up behind them. Afterward, in searching for the infidels through pathless solitudes, our men entered a deserted, pathless, waterless land, from which the pitiful men emerged scarcely alive. They suffered from hunger and thirst; nothing edible could be found, but the cruel deprivation seemed sometimes to be relieved by rubbing their hands with the spikes.[137] Certainly many noble knights died there, and the desert, to which they were unaccustomed, took the lives of many horses. The feeble succumbed to the relentless hardship. The great lack of horses and carts compelled them to use cattle, goats, rams, and what is more amazing, dogs, to carry whatever supplies were appropriate to their size. From there they moved on to a province rich in what they needed, and they reached the city of Iconia,[138]famous for its tolerance of Paul and his writings. Meanwhile, the inhabitants of this province urged our men to provide themselves with supplies, and to bring water in bags with them, because they would not be able to find any water on the entire next day's journey. They did so, and moved on until they reached the bank of a river, where they rested for two days. And so those who made up the vanguard reached Trachias, [139] where a large Turkish phalanx had assembled for the sole purpose of finding a way to trouble the army of Christ. When our men came upon them, they attacked them with their usual boldness. The enemy swiftly took flight, like an arrow launched from a cross-bow. [140] Thus our men, now that the gate was open, entered the city and they remained there for four days. There Tancred, Bohemund's nephew, and Baldwin, Duke Godfrey's brother, left the encampment of the army, not out of a desire to avoid fighting, but because of the ardor of their spirits, and they entered a certain valley, which they call in that language Bothrentot. And so Tancred, uncomfortable with partner, separated from the duke's brother, and, together with his men, attacked Tarsus, renowned for the precious birth of the special apostle[141]. Turks from the city rushed out to battle our men as they approached, but, as they were about to join battle, they sought refuge in the city from which they had come. Tancred gave rein to his horse in pursuit of the enemy, and set up his camp in position that blockaded the gate of the city. Baldwin soon arrived to besiege the city, set up camp on the other side, and asked Tancred if he and his army might share in the taking of the city. Tancred angrily refused, since he wanted control of the city and the trophies of victory for himself alone. And so night fell, and the crowd of Turks, uncomfortable with the siege, and well aware of the strength and persistent nature of the besieger, fled in haste. When they had been forced out, those who remained in the city, the Gentiles of that land, which is to say those who were Christians, came out to our men during the night, and cried out, "Franks, hurry, enter the city, since the alien race has fled, so great was their fear of your strength." At dawn, the leaders surrendered the city, and when they learned that there was a fight about who should control the city, they said, "We choose to rule over us the man whom we saw yesterday battling so fiercely with the Turks." Baldwin instantly urged Tancred that they enter the city together, so that each might set about taking the spoils with all his might. Tancred wisely replied, "Our plan was to fight the Turks, not to rob Christians, particularly since they have voluntarily chosen me, and do not want anyone else." Although he had said this, Tancred took into account the fact that Baldwin's army was larger and better supplied, and yielded to him, willingly or unwillingly, for the moment. During his retreat two very fine cities, Athena[142] and Manustra,[143] yielded themselves to him, together with many castles. Since no chance to talk about Baldwin may offer itself later on, I wish to insert a few details about how well things turned out for him. Near Edessa, a city in Mesopotamia, as we understand from reports of people who have been there, a certain man became leader[144] and ruled over the Christian province as a duke, protecting it from the incursions of Gentiles not by arms, but by paying protection money. Worn out with age and illness, with a wife as old as he, and without children, when he heard that the Franks were at the borders of Mesopotamia, he very much wanted to find someone from among the Frankish nobility to adopt, who, in exchange, would defend with arms and strength the land that he had defended only with money. One of the knights of his household, aware of his desire, happened to be speaking with Baldwin. When he aroused the hope of obtaining the dukedom if he permitted himself to be adopted by the above mentioned old man, the count believed him and, accompanied by the knight, he went to Edessa. Welcomed even more warmly than he had hoped, he was adopted as a son by both. The method of adoption, in accordance with the customs of this nation, is said to have been like this: the old man directs him to strip himself naked and put on linen inner garment, which we call a chemise, and he embraces him, and confirms the entire transaction with kiss; both the old man and the old woman do this. When this was finished, the citizens perceived that the old man had been stripped of the high honor, and they made a secret pact immediately to besiege the court in which he and Baldwin were staying. They remembered whatever harmful things the old man had done to them. And so during the siege, when his newly adopted son wanted to fight back with Frankish boldness, the old man, admirably faithful, prevented him, saying that he knew for certain that he could by no means be delivered from the hands of the mob, while Baldwin would be in great danger if he took up his defense. Thus after many imprecations he persuaded him not to fight back, and when tearful Baldwin said that he would prefer to die with him, the old man pushed him away, and pleaded with the besiegers to kill him if they wished, but to spare the new prince. And they did in fact kill him, but in the meantime Baldwin, with great effort, managed to hold on to the power he had gained by adoption and, mindful of the recent treachery, brought in Frankish knights and servants for his own protection, little later, at Christmas, another conspiracy was formed, to kill the new duke on that holy day. The attempt did not remain hidden from Baldwin, who told the members of his retinue who were Franks to appear in church wearing their cuirasses and helmets, as though prepared for battle; foot-soldiers were to bring their lances, swords, and battle-axes, and to move about everywhere in their gear. When this had been done, the inhabitants of the city understood that the ruler had been alerted, and he himself proceeded to the church with a large contingent of armed men, participated in the divine service, yet said nothing that day. But the next day he called the citizens of Edessa together and charged them with treason, compelled them by law to confess, and did not permit them to deny what they had proposed to do. And so, after the leaders of the entire city had been convicted, some had their feet cut off, some their hands, others their ears and noses, others their tongues and lips, and all of them were castrated and sent into exile in various distant places. Finally, when no one remained who might incite the crowd against him, Baldwin experienced the rewards and happiness of such a dukedom. Thereafter he led a prosperous and rich life, ruled several cities, among which Seleucia[145] stood out as the best known since antiquity. After the death of his brother Godfrey, who had ruled at Jerusalem, Baldwin moved from this dukedom to that of Jerusalem, but from this he derived no increase in earthly felicity, but only more blessed labor in the service of God--that is, continual battle against the Gentiles. The Third Book of the Deeds of God by the Franks Ends. BOOK FOUR I think that no one can justifiably ridicule me for undertaking this task. For although I did not go to Jerusalem, and to this day am unacquainted with many of the people and places, I think that these conditions in no way hinder the general usefulness of what I do, if the things which I have written or shall have written have been taken from men whose testimony is endowed with truth. If anyone objects that I did not see, he cannot object on the grounds that I did not hear, because I believe that, in a way, hearing is almost as good as seeing. For although, "What has been thrust into the ears stirs the mind more slowly than those things which have appeared before reliable eyes,"[146] nevertheless, who doubts those historians who wrote the lives of the saints, who wrote down not only what they saw with their own eyes, but what they drunk up from what others have understood and told them? For if the narrator is reliable and, as one reads, "testifies to what he saw and heard,"[147] then stories told by those who speak the truth about events no one has seen are clearly acceptable as true. If there is anyone who objects, and who despises this undertaking, he has the option, if he wishes, of offering corrections. Whoever is displeased with what we have done may write his own version. Thus the Lord's army, led by Raymond, Count of Saint-Gilles, Bohemund, Godfrey, and many others, entered Armenia, rejoicing at the possibility of Turkish attacks. On their way they took a fort which was difficult to approach, so that any attempt to attack it seemed futile. A pagan of that district, a certain Symeon, well known for having Christian surname, asked our leaders for control of that area, so that he could guard it against Turkish attacks. They did not refuse the favor he requested, and he remained there, intending to guard the land. Then our men moved on and reached Cappadocian Caesarea.[148]After they left the province of Caesarea, they reached a very lovely, wealthy city,[149] which the Turkish army had been besieging for three weeks before the arrival of our army. But their siege produced no results. When our men approached, the citizens voluntarily surrendered the city. A certain knight called Peter of the Alps asked that the leaders grant him the right to protect the region in the name of the emperor of the Greeks and of our own leaders. His request was willingly granted, since the meritorious fidelity of the petitioner was well known. As the day then drew to a close, Bohemund heard that a large but insignificant group of the enemies who had earlier besieged this city was moving ahead of our men. And so, taking with him only his immediate retinue, he set out in pursuit, but did not find those whom he sought. Now the army reached a town called Coxon,[150] where they found great abundance of useful supplies. The inhabitants of this place happily opened their gates to our men, and for three days fed them properly and well. After the count of Saint-Gilles heard that the Turks, who usually supplied the garrison for the city of Antioch, had left the stronghold, he sent part of his army ahead to take possession of the city and to maintain control of it. He chose four men from among the leaders of his army, of whom three had the same name, that is, Peter, and the fourth was called William of Montpellier, a man well know among us for his feats of arms, and he gave them 500 knights to lead. And so, not far from the above-mentioned city, they entered valley and in that valley found a fort, and there they heard that the Turks, with a large army, were in control of the city of Antioch, and in addition they learned that the Turks were making great preparations of men and arms, to defend themselves against the French, in case they attacked. Therefore one of those Peters we named above, whose surname had been derived from a place called Roaix, separating himself from his companions, entered a valley of a town named Rugia, [151] where he found Turks and Saracens, with whom he fought. After killing many of them, he pursued the others. The Armenians took notice of this and, pleased with the man's bravery, and impressed by his unusual boldness against the Turks, surrendered voluntarily to his command. Quickly thereafter he was given control of a city named Rusa[152] when its inhabitants capitulated, and several other forts surrendered to him. The rest of the army departed from Coxon, the city we mentioned, and marched through high mountains along incredibly rocky paths so narrow that no one could pass the man in front of him, but each man had to proceed one step at a time, stepping carefully, in single file. A deep gulley lay beneath the narrow, rough path, so that if a horse happened to push up against another horse, he would fall to instant death. There you would have seen armed men, who, having just been converted by the hardship and starvation of the journey from knights into foot-soldiers, were suffering wretchedly, smashing their fists, tearing their hair, begging for the relief of death, selling their shields, helmets, and all of their arms, regardless of their true worth, for three or four, perhaps five cents. When they could find no buyer, they threw their shields and other fine equipment into the gulley, to disencumber their weakened, endangered bodies. When they finally emerged from these rocks and precipices, after unbearable suffering, they entered a town called Marasim,[153] whose inhabitants came forth joyfully to meet them, bring abundant supplies to sell to the soldiers. The rich earth replenished the exhausted men, until the presence of their leader Bohemund, who was following those who were waiting for him there, was restored to them. Finally they arrived in the plains where the renowned city of Antioch was situated, whose particular glories, beyond those by means of which she flourished in this world, are those which grew out of her Christian fame. Pharphar was the name of the river on which she was located. When our men had reached a place near the bridge over that river, some of them, who had been assigned the task of forming the vanguard of the army, met up with a large force of Turks, who were well supplied with provisions, and were hurrying to bring aid to the besieged. When our men saw them, they charged with Frankish ferocity, and almost instantly defeated them and scattered them in all directions. Like charging rams, they tore them to pieces, and the Turks threw away the arms that only moments before had been able to inspire terror. The mass of foot-soldiers fled through their own lines, in their haste and confusion wounding and crushing their own allies. The madness of pride now felt humiliation, and the man who anticipated taking pleasure in heaping up destruction upon us was now happy if he could get himself out alive, even though dishonored. Those who had come to bring aid to the besieged were turned into instant, filthy piles of cadavers. The Almighty mercifully converted what they had brought to aid the besieged into gifts for the besiegers. Thus after they had been destroyed, like grain crushed by hail, great quantities of grain and wine fell into our hands, and the foot-soldiers acquired the valuable horses, camels, mules, and asses that remained. And so our men built camps on the shore of the above-mentioned river. Bohemund, together with 4000 of his best men, undertook blockade of the city's gate, and remained on guard all that night to prevent anyone from getting in or out. The next day, the twelfth calends of November,[154] the fourth day of the week, in the middle of the day, the army arrived, set up camp, and began a blockade of three of the city's gates; the fourth gate was left free, since it was inaccessible to the besiegers because of the great height of the surrounding mountains, and the narrowness of its paths. However, not only the inhabitants, but the Turks themselves who were inside the city were so frightened by us that none of them came out to fight us. No one put up any resistance, but instead they behaved as though we had come to the market, and this pretence of peace continued, as though a truce had been declared, for fifteen days. The city was surrounded by signs that augured well for beginning this siege; fresh abundance of everything necessary to sustain life was vividly present; I am surprised that at that time the crusaders found abundant grapes hanging on the vines everywhere, wheat shut up not in granaries, but in ditches and underground pits. The trees had plenty of apples, and whatever made their lives more comfortable was supplied by an extremely fertile soil. The Armenians and the Syrians, who formed the entire population of the city (except for the Turks, who, as I mentioned earlier, were not permanent residents), since they inhabited the city itself, and were titular Christians, visited us in great numbers, and told them whatever they had learned among us. They enticed the Franks with their deceptive, repeated lies, and, whispering in their ears, using the most flattering terms, they claimed that they shunned the Turks, although they did not allow their own wives to go beyond the city limits; when they left the Franks, and were back in the city, they reported to the Turks whatever news they had been able to gather about the weaknesses of the Christian side. Thus, informed by the Syrians about our plans, the Turks from time to time rushed out from the city to sneak up upon our men and attack them as they were searching for food, and they covered over the most used paths and made unexpected attacks upon them as they sought the mountains and the sea, never permitting them to rest from ambush or open attack. Not far off was a fort named Harenc[155] in which they had placed a garrison of the fiercest Turkish warriors, who made frequent raids upon the Franks when they were unprepared. Our leaders, unwilling to suffer such affronts, sent a large force of cavalry and infantry to find out where those who were doing so much harm to their men were concealing themselves. When they found their hiding place, they at first attacked them, but then, cleverly simulating flight, they permitted themselves to be brought to a position where they knew that Bohemund was waiting in ambush. At that point, two of our men died in pursuit of the Turks. Coming out of his hiding-place, Bohemund fell upon the enemy, leading the group who appeared to have turned their backs, delivering the punishment they deserved by attacking the Turks with all his forces. He killed many of them, made others prisoners, and brought those he had captured back to the gate of the city, where, to terrify the citizens who were watching, he ordered that they be decapitated. Some of the citizens, however, climbed to the top of this gate and wore out our men by discharging so many arrows that a cloud of missiles flowed in the midst of Bohemund's camp, and one woman died when struck by one of the arrows. Finally the leaders consulted with each other, and decided to set up a fort at the top of a mountain which they called Malregard, and which, as a formidable stronghold, might serve to drive away the Turks. Thus the fort was being constructed, and there you would have seen the greatest princes laboring at carrying rocks. There no poor man might complain that he had to endure hardships inflicted upon him by the power of great men, since those who were in charge would permit themselves no rest in bringing the work to completion. For they knew by the instinct of pious nature, even if they had not read it, what Marius, according to Sallust, said, "If you behave gently, but rule the army firmly, you will be a master, not an general."[156] And when the fort was built, the leaders took turns guarding it. Christmas was near, and the grain and other food for the body began to diminish severely, and throughout the army everything that was for sale was expensive. There was no energy to go even a moderate distance to seek food; within the territory held by those who called themselves Christians almost nothing to eat could be found; no one could go into the Saracen region without large military force. Therefore, compelled by hunger, the leaders held a meeting to discuss how to deal with the danger of such a large group of men starving unless something were done for them. Finally they decided to send part of the army to search everywhere for supplies, while the others maintained the siege they had undertaken. Bohemund then said, "If, O powerful soldiers, it seems prudent to you, I, with the support of the army of the count of Flanders, shall devote myself to the effort of procuring food." The offer was accepted gratefully by the younger men, since they were worn out by greater thirst and more urgent need for food. The day after the Lord's Nativity, which was the second day of the week, had been celebrated, with what emotion and energy they could muster, the two princes just mentioned, together with 20,000 foot-soldiers and cavalry, set out as swiftly and as energetically as they could to attack the Saracen provinces. Meanwhile the Turks, Arabs, Saracens, and other Gentiles, who had assembled from Jerusalem, Damascus, Aleph, [157] and other places, with one purpose in mind, to bring aid, hastened to Antioch in large numbers. They had heard that the Christians were coming into their own lands, to gather food and other supplies; as dusk fell, they moved in formation towards the place where they had learned our men were, with an eagerness that would soon be turned to grief. They divided themselves into two lines of battle, setting the first in front of us, and moving to position the other behind us. But the count of Flanders, trusting in divine power, with the sign of the Cross fixed to his heart and body, relying confidently on the excellent count Bohemund, attacked the enemy with the courage to be expected of such men. The battle began, but from the first moment of contact, the enemy turned in flight. The battle turned into victory, and many a sharp spear shattered in the bodies of those who had turned their backs to flee. The enemy's shields were battered by long ashwood lances that were struck with such force that they dwindled into slivers. No helmet prevented a head struck by the edges of the Crusaders' swords from being wounded; and they found the stitching of their so-called impenetrable cuirasses too fragile. Armor protected no part of the body; whatever the barbarians thought firm was weak; whatever the Franks touched shattered. The field was covered with innumerable corpses, and the thick pile of dead men disturbed the evenness of the grassy field. Everywhere the earth, sprinkled with the hateful blood of Gentiles, grew dark. Those who survived the carnage we inflicted saved their lives by their speed afoot, and were pleased to unburden themselves of their spoils, not out of generosity towards us, but to increase their speed. Our state of mind changed utterly: fear changed into courage, battle into victory, mourning into joy, hunger into plenty. He who was naked now had clothing, those who were on foot now had chariots, the poor man had money, the man who had been cast out now danced with gratitude and joy. While these things were going on, the fact that Bohemund and the count of Flanders were not present at the siege was not hidden from the Turks who were in control of Antioch. Made more confident by their absence, they came out, though cautiously, to challenge us in battle more often, trying to find out where the besiegers were weakest. Finally, seeing day, the third day of the week, that seemed apt for trying their courage, they made a sudden assault, and killed many of our foot-soldiers and knights, who were caught unaware. The magnificent bishop of Puy lost a mainstay of his court, the man who was his standard-bearer, who was among those who perished. Had not the the river upon whose banks their camp was pitched separated them, the carnage among the Christians would have been very great. Meanwhile, Bohemund was on his way back, having pillaged the Saracen provinces; he was traveling through the mountainous area in which Tancred was staying, thinking that there he might be able to find something to help the men besieging Antioch. Although some of our men had carried off whatever they could see, many found nothing at all, and returned empty-handed, that is, without anything that could be eaten. Bohemund, however, never without a plan, when he saw them wandering about unsuccessfully, spoke these words, "If you are looking for material with which to sustain life, if you want to provide adequately for the bodily needs dictated by hunger, then while you search for food do not risk your lives. Stop scurrying through the pathless mountains, since you know that your enemies are preparing hidden traps for you in these horrible, desolate places. Let the army move forward united, for each is made stronger by the presence of the other, so that if one part is attacked violently, the other may offer assistance. For even as a sheep, if it escapes from the shepherd's grasp, is exposed to the wolf's jaws, so the knight, if he wanders forth alone from the tents of his companions, invariably becomes a plaything for plunderers. Therefore remain together with each other and with your men, and rather eat very little food than feed upon rare delicacies in permanent captivity. To go out and come back together, to take pleasure in being together, to do nothing rash, these are the things that sensible men do; anyone who wanders away wishes to die." He spoke, and returned to his companions, without enriching the besiegers in no way by his return. But the clever Armenians and Syrians, when they saw that the army's food was running out, and there was nothing left to buy, traveled about among all the places that they knew, bought grain, and brought it back to the army that was suffering from a lack of supplies. They sold the grain at inordinate prices, so that the amount of grain a single ass could carry brought eight of their besants, which they called "purpled," approximately 120 sous. Clearly those who could not possibly pay such a price were in great danger of succumbing to a terrible crisis of hunger. And if the leaders were already becoming hard pressed to pay such price, what could he do who, for all his previous wealth, was now all but a pauper? Great torture had come upon them lack of food was crushing them; the madness of hunger laid low the highest by exhausting their strength. Bread was far off, and they had neither the meat of cattle nor of pig: the hands of the indigent had torn up the grass far and wide. Whatever food they had finally had disappeared. Their limbs were weak, and they had lost heart. The skin of those who had nothing to eat was stretched with dreadful swelling. Without nourishment their strength ebbed, and they died. A brief torment delivered those who were killed in battle, but those who were hungry were tortured at length; therefore protracted death brought them a greater reward. Clearly angelic bread fed those who rejoiced in the finest reward for their sufferings, the more they bore the burden of agonies. Others fought, struggling to endure various misfortunes, and scarcely anything went in their favor; they preferred unhappiness to joy. Now they struggled to follow Christ, bearing a double cross, rejoicing that they had surpassed His commands, who had imposed upon them only one cross. Hideous hunger gnawed at their weak hearts, and their dried-up stomachs cracked open; suffering racked their bowels, and destroyed their thinking. Disease ate away at their minds, already attacked by the ferocity of battle, and both day and troubling night threatened slaughter. Their minds were sharp although their strength was slight; their illness refreshed the energy of the soul, and they did not fear to go forth to shed blood.[158] Meanwhile, William, who was called the Carpenter, not because he was a craftsman in wood, but because he prevailed in battle like a carpenter, by cutting men down, and who was from beyond the Seine, powerful in words, but less so in action, magni nominis umbra, "the shade of a great name,"[159] a man who set out to do things too great for him, but finished nothing, who when he set out for Jerusalem took from his poor neighbors the little that they had to provide himself shamefully with provisions for the journey, this man, I say, unwilling to suffer hunger, while he could see others much needier than he remaining faithful, silently fled. His reputation in war was for boasting only, and not for deeds done. In Spain, when a Frankish expedition took place against pagans who had come from Africa, he, whose boldness was entirely confined to words, retreated like wretch, leaving countless men stranded by his flight. This probably took place by the will of God, so that divine judgment may show that those men whom public repute has made famous are worse than everyone else, and less capable of bearing difficulties. Nor is this evident in his case alone, but it is very clearly the case among others, whose names I shall pass over, that those whose reputation for martial ferocity among us had been pre-eminent became weaker than rabbits when they took their place in the Lord's army. The more their conduct deviated from the true path, the more contemptible it should be held. While they were here in France, fighting unjustly, making beggars with their criminal looting, they clearly should have been afraid that their souls would undergo certain damnation; but there, where they had every chance of eternal life, their sinful cowardice was evident. Then, like the stars that, according to the Apocalypse (VI.13; VIII. 10; IX.1) were seen to fall from the sky, Peter, the celebrated Hermit about whom we spoke previously, also foolishly fled. Why do you follow this plan, Peter? Why do you forget the meaning of your name? If Peter is originally "stone," which designates something solid, what do you mean by thinking of flight? Stone cannot easily be moved. Stay your steps and recollect your old hermitage, your earlier fasting. You should have joined your bones to your skin,[160] you should have stretched your stomach with the least roots, fed it with the grass eaten by cattle. Why do you remember immoderate eating? That is not the monastic rule, nor what you learned from the woman who gave you birth; or let your own teachings drive you. Even as you compelled people to go on this journey, and have made them into paupers, so you should go before them, carrying out the commandments that you have taught them. Once he abstained from grain, eating only fish and wine. For a monk, more pious food would be leeks, cress, turnips, cardamum, nuts, filberts, barley, lentils, and herbs, without fish or wine, but with crumbs of bread.[161] And so the refugees from the pious siege and from the holy suffering were pursued by Tancred, a man steady in the pursuit of Christ's business, who followed and caught them; and, as was right, heaping abuse on them, he brought them back. He placed no faith in their promises to return until each had sworn on his faith to return to the sacred army and to submit to whatever judgment the leaders might make about their desertion. Therefore William, willing or unwilling, was compelled to return, and he was brought to the court of the magnificent Bohemund, outside of which he remained awake all night. The next day, at dawn's early light, he was led into the presence of this fine prince. To Peter, covered with the shame he had earned for himself, the leader said, "Although the name of the Frankish race, stands forth with regal majesty everywhere, and although France, the mother of virtue and resolve in accordance with God's will has sent forth men who until now have been the most morally unblemished, she bore you, you, useless babbler and most impure of all men, to her own disgrace and infamy, as though you were some kind of monster. O good Father of all things, what kind of Carpenter did we have, who, like construction worker with a pick axe, hacked away, with lances and swords, at the backs of the Gentiles? See how the craftsman has worn out a thousand swords with the strength of his blows, and single-handedly slain the pagan people while we merely rested. Where is that haughty firmness, that quickness with words that was nourished at the Loire and at the Seine, which has resulted in so little action, but in so much steady, thundering speech? Alone, he had been able to aid the laboring moon,[162] yet, foully sluggish, he has done nothing useful whatever. Certainly it is in accord with your great strength that the man who had betrayed the people of the Lord in Spain exert himself in Syria to achieve the full measure of honor. Let it be so. Certainly it suits you to do nothing else; in this way you will receive the most generous reward for behavior that has been so wretched." Now his derisory speech began to make the Franks who were standing there feel shame, and with difficulty they restrained the angry man from speaking. Tempering his severity, the illustrious man spared the wretch, and was content to exact from him the oath to continue the journey to Jerusalem, whether prosperity or penury attended them. And William promised that Tancred, who had prevented him from escaping, would henceforth be his friend, if he decided to behave in a manly fashion. After these words were spoken, they came to mutual agreement. A short time later, that remarkable Carpenter, who, when he was out of harm's way, once threatened to be executioner to the Turks, forgot his oath, and that profligate of fidelity did not hesitate to flee furtively again. However, let no one be surprised that the army, although pious, had suffered such want, since it is clear that, with the great crimes they had committed, they struggled against receiving the divine gifts which would have been theirs had they behaved properly. Such need afflicted them, and they were so horribly overcome by lack of food, that if any of our men happened to move any distance from the army, anyone else from the army who found him alone would kill him, even for the slightest gain. Such utter devastation raged among our men that scarcely thousand horses could be found in so great an army; everyone was in beastly agony from a lack of food, which did not prevent, but rather inspired some men to criminal actions. Tortured by divine punishment, many of them were brought to remember their true selves by repenting; despairing of their own strength, they were driven by hope for something better to rely on God alone, the only true support in such tribulation. Under these circumstances they learned increasingly that the more they watched their supplies diminish and their strength ebb away, the more they were taught to submit with appropriate humility to God, for whom they believed all things possible. Moreover, one of the delegates of the tyrannical emperor, whose name, unless I am mistaken, was Tetigus, and who was present at this siege, was a man heavy with age; his nose had been cut on some occasion or other, and for this reason he had a golden nose. A skilled liar, compelled by fear of the Turks as well as driven by the danger of starvation, he addressed the leaders: "Necessity compels your excellency, O finest of leaders, to recognize how hard pressed we are by internal suffering, and how much we are goaded on by external fears. Since battle threatens us outwardly, while hunger insistently gnaws at us inwardly, there seems to be no refuge for us anywhere, no solace that would permit us to catch our breath. If in your wisdom it seems appropriate, grant me permission to go back to Byzantium, and I shall see to it that grain, wine, wheat, meat, cereal, cheese, and various other necessary items be brought here by a large fleet. I shall also see to it that constant commercial traffic in these items will be established by imperial decree. By land, all of Greece will send to you horses and whatever other animals and supplies may be useful. The emperor himself, who has not known of your great need until now, as soon as he hears of your distress, will provide aid to you in your great need. And I myself swear to carry out faithfully what I have promised; and when I have finished these tasks I shall certainly not be afraid to present myself here again to undertake the labors of this siege. If you fear that I am leaving your camp because of hunger, lo, my tents and my men shall remain here with you. Although I am leaving them for a while, I shall not be able finally to value them lightly." He spoke, and charmed the ears of the leaders with his smooth, elaborate speech. Then he left, not at all fearing what punishment his perjury might incur. Having fabricated a complete lie, he never afterwards gave thought to what he had promised. The presence and strength of the enemy began to constrain us so greatly that none of our men presumed to leave his tents or the encampment for any business whatever. In addition, within the camp, famine, like a madness, plagued them. For if, as they say, "nothing does more harm than hunger wrung from the unwilling," what suffering do you think they endured, to what crosses were they constantly condemned, without a single, even false, consoling hope, as they laid siege each day to the impenetrable walls? The ordinary people, eaten away by poverty, wandered through various provinces; driven by the lack of food, some began to wander towards Cyprus, others to Romania, while others made their way to the mountains. But the frequent forays of the Turks had closed off the road to the sea. In short, there was no exit for our men. When Bohemund heard that a very large army of Turks was approaching the Crusaders' camp, he called the other leaders together and said, "Since the very small part of our army that remains seems insufficient and too weak to fight single battle, nor can it be split into two parts to carry on two battles, we should consider, if we are going to fight the attacking Turks with whatever kind of army we can muster, which soldiers to leave to continue the siege of the city, and which to defend our tents. Therefore, if it seems reasonable to you, let us assign the best part of the finest infantrymen to guard the besieged city; in our judgment, the strongest knights should be put up against the madness of the Turks." He spoke, and none of the leaders spoke against his plan. The enemy army now set up camp near the fort called Areg, which was close to the city, across the river Pharphar. The day was ending, and Bohemund, having summoned the entire army, came out of the camp and quickly set up camp between the river and the lake next to it. In the morning he swiftly instructed sentinels to determine the size of the Turkish forces, as well as what they were doing and where they were located, and then to report to him as quickly as possible. They had advanced a short distance and begun to search out the enemy, whose advance could be clearly heard, when they saw an infinite number of soldiers, divided into legions of two battalions, appear before them. They were followed by very large group of foot-soldiers. As soon as they saw them the sentinels returned: "The enemy," they said, "is at hand; see to it that they find you strong and prepared." Then, to stir up his brothers in Christ and fellow-soldiers, Bohemund said, "O finest knights, your frequent victories provide an explanation for your great boldness. Thus far you have fought for the faith against the infidel, and have emerged triumphant from every danger. Having already felt the abundant evidence of Christ's strength should give you pleasure, and should convince you beyond all doubt that in the most severe battles it is not you, but Christ, who has fought. In the face of any attack, what desperate folly can enter the mind of you who have thus far, with God's assistance, escaped harm greater than any men have ever encountered, and who have achieved triumphs impossible for mere human beings? I ask only that you place your trust in your own experience, so that at last no human force may now resist us. Fortify your minds, proceed carefully, and strive mightily to emulate Christ, who carries your banners, as he usually does, and call upon him." They responded by shouting that they would behave faithfully, energetically, and prudently, and they entrusted to him, because he was the most experienced in battle, the task of dividing up the army; Bohemund ordered each leader to collect his liege men and to draw them up into individual battle lines. Six lines were drawn up, as he had directed, each to attack the enemy in separate formations, and five of them cautiously marched forward. Bohemund followed behind with his own group, to offer help if needed. Drawn up in this manner, closely packed and filled with courage, our troops went forth to fight, each man encouraging the other by his close presence, so that no one, to the extent that it depended upon each individual, would allow the conflict to falter. Swiftly the enemy came forth with curved spears; as their courage grew warm, they pricked their horses with their spurs, and the air was shaken with wild clamor on both sides. The battle-lines clashed, the Turks threw their javelins, the Franks thrust their weapons through the breasts of their enemies. Swords grew dull from striking blows, the collision of steel made a splitting noise. The swift right hand, thirsting for the filthy blood, inflicted sword wounds. Like a line of flying crows, like a countless flock of thrushes, thus the arrows blocked the celestial light, crowding and darkening the air with the hail of spears. Arms resounded, horses were caught up in the charge, bronze echoed. They grieved for the losses and rejoiced in the successes, making for wild discord.[163] When the entire force of the army behind the vanguard poured into the hideous strife, the sharpness of our men began to grow dull under the fierce assault of the enemy; as their numbers grew, our men began to lose some of their previous ardor. When Bohemund, who was waiting in the rear with reinforcements, saw this, he gnashed his teeth in rage. He sent for his constable, Robert, the son of Girardus, and gave him the following directions, "Go, and make use of the courage which you should now show, and which is right for such a great task; keep in mind the purpose of this effort, and understand that our motive is to aid all of Christianity by redeeming Jerusalem for God and liberating his tomb. It is clear to you that to carry out this task divine rather than human aid is necessary. Go then, and offer your bravery for the suffering Christ, and do not let such an opportunity find you slow to act, for God may be preparing to give you great glory." Inflamed by these words, relying on God with his whole soul, He sprung forward, and tore at the thick crowd of enemies with his sword, holding aloft the standards of the duke, which inspired such awe that wherever they appeared the spirits of our men were uplifted, and he raged like a lioness who, bereft of her cubs, kills anyone in her way. The sword carved a path, cut through the dense battalions, smashing everyone who got in the way, pointing the way for the soldiers who followed.[164] When our men saw that the familiar standard of Bohemund was not faltering in the least, and the constable was raging with such eagerness against the Turks, they all took heart and attacked with such force that flight was the only protection the enemy could hope for. Our men fell upon the fleeing Turks, who were running at great speed, helter-skelter, and we did not cease cutting them down and decapitating their bodies all the way to the narrow bridges of the Pharphar, After such slaughter, the Turks entered the fort of Areg, which I mentioned above, looted it entirely, set it afire, and then fled, never to return to it. However, the perfidious Armenians and Syrians, who had awaited the outcome of the battle without taking sides, so that they could join the side to whom victory was granted, when they saw the Turks vanquished, moved forward and blocked the roads, killing the Turks as they tried to go by. The painful indigence of our men was somewhat alleviated with what was taken from the conquered enemy; horses and money provided relief, and even more so, our growing triumphs vitiated the Turkish reputation for fierceness. After the victory, they cut off the heads of one hundred of those who had fallen in battle, and hung them before the walls of Antioch for the besieged Turks to look at. It is, of course, the custom of the Gentiles to keep the decapitated heads and to display them as a sign of victory. While these things were going on, the Babylonian emperor sent ambassadors to the leaders of our army, congratulating them for what they had done to the Turks; in addition, he promised, although falsely, that he would become Christian, if our people would grant and restore to him what the Turks had taken from his kingdom. We had said earlier that the Babylonian empire was far more powerful than the other eastern kingdoms, but that the Turks, more ferocious in arms and in spirits, had usurped much of their territory. Those who had remained to maintain the siege of the city had fought bitterly with the inhabitants, not merely at one point, but at every gate of the city. This triumph occurred on the fifth day before the Ides of February,[165] the day before the beginning of the fast. It was right that on the day before Christians were to fast they grew fat on what they most desired, the blood of their evil enemies. The Franks, in their fervent victory celebrations, thanked God for granting them so many of their prayers, and went back to their camps, loaded with booty. The Turks, on the other hand, ashamed to be seen, would have made their way, if they could, through secret passages, back to their native lands. Then the leaders of the army, considering the many humiliations they were suffering from the attacks of the besieged people, held a meeting and decided, to prevent the chance of any diminution of their forces, to build, at the gate of the city, where the pagan temple was located, a fort by means of which they could restrain, to some extent, the enemy's forays. All the junior officers assented to this plan. Then the count of Saint-Gilles was the first to speak: "I shall provide for and protect the fort; you must help build it only." Bohemund said, "If it please you, I promise to go with this count who has offered his services, to the Gate of Saint Simeon, where we shall both supervise those who do the work. Let the others continue the siege, and prevent the enemy from getting out of the city." And so the Count and Bohemund then proceeded to the Gate, as they had proposed. Those who had remained to build the castle began to work, but the Turks made a sudden, violent attack on the beginnings of the structure. With their sudden attack they compelled our men to flee, killing many of them, bringing a day of grief to the Franks. The next day the Turks learned that some of our leaders had left the siege and gone to the Gate of Saint Simeon. They prepared a large force and quickly moved to encounter those who were returning from the Gate. When they saw the count and Bohemund, together with a large military force, coming towards them, they began to shout and utter hideous noises. They surrounded our men on all sides, inflicting terrible wounds on them, hurling spears, firing arrows, and savagely killing them. Their attack was so severe that our men scarcely were able to escape into the nearby mountains, or wherever else escape seemed possible. Those who were, in manner of speaking, swifter than winged horses, escaped; anyone whom the swift pagans found slower, however, died. In this disaster, as it was considered, a thousand of our men perished; those who were found, because of their proven faith, to be acceptable, received glorious rewards after death for their sufferings. For those who needed to expiate their sins, the outpouring of blood alone was the most potent way to purge their guilt. In great anguish because of such a misfortune, and separated from his companions because he had taken a shorter road, Bohemund, with a few of his knights, whom he found banded together, returned to the siege. Driven to distraction by the death of so many of their own men, sobbing bitterly, crying out to Christ, they moved out against those who had inflicted such pain upon them, and reached the field of battle. Confident because of their recent victory, the cohorts of the enemy stood firm, expecting to perform exactly as they boasted they had performed against Bohemund and the count. Against these proponents of evil the loving God in his mercy arranged proper remedy for his suffering people. Therefore these famous men, moved by grief and compassion for their dead brothers, with the sign of the Lord's cross fixed on their foreheads and in their hearts, hurled themselves with all their strength against the enemy. As soon as they saw this, the enemy fled towards the Pharphar river, intending to cross the strait. In their hasty flight the mass of men was jammed together in the attempt to cross, and as the wedge of knights and infantry piled up in a very small space, struggling to pass each other, men knocked each other down. Our men watched all this very carefully, and when the crowd of fugitives seemed to thicken, a fall was more effective than a wound. If any man fell into the water and tried to get out either by hanging on to the columns of the bridge, or by swimming to dry land, our men located on the shore forced him back into the water to drown. The signs of carnage were so great that the Pharphar seemed to flow with blood, not with water. The sounds made there by the vanquished and the victors, by the dying and by those who were forcing them to die, were so terrible that the highest vault of the heavens seemed to resound with their shrieks. The air became clouded with arrows and other kinds of missiles, and the brightness of the solar globe was covered by a shower of flying spears. The women of the city who were Christian stood on the ramparts of the wall, feeding upon the sight; as they watched the Turks perish and submit to calamity they groaned openly, but then turned their faces away and secretly applauded the fortunate course events had taken for the Franks. The Armenians and Syrians, although they were Christian, were compelled to fire arrows at us; some even did so willingly. Twelve of the principal enemy leaders, called "satraps" in the Chaldean language, and "emirs" in the barbaric tongue, fell in battle on this occasion, as well as many others, amounting to perhaps 1500 of the wealthiest and most important people, upon whom the entire defense of the city rested. Those who survived the carnage no longer hurled their customary insults at our men; their boisterous, scurrilous chattering ceased. On that day their daily joy was turned into grief. Then oncoming night separated the enemies; strength and arms dropped from their agitated minds.[166] This victory for us resulted in an apparent dimunition of their strength and force, and their derisory remarks entirely ceased. Moreover, the short supply of many things whose lack pressed our men was amply replenished, thanks to God's benevolence. At daylight the next day, some of the Turks came forth from the city to collect the bodies of their dead; they found some, but others had disappeared, carried off in the bed of the river. They buried those they found in the temple called the Mahometry, on the other side of the Pharphar, near the gate of Antioch. In these tombs they buried cloaks, gold besants, bows and arrows, and many other utensils that I shall refrain from describing. When they heard about these funeral ceremonies, our men armed themselves and entered the cemetery, broke open the tombs, took out the bodies, heaped them up and dropped them into deep pit. Then they decapitated them and had the heads brought to their own tents, in order to calculate accurately the number they had killed, with the exception of the bodies that the ambassadors of the Babylonian emperor transported on the backs of four horses, as evidence of the victory won over the Turks. When the Turks saw this, they suffered more bitterly from the uncovering of the bodies than from the killings themselves. Now they did not restrain their grief with a few modest tears, but, putting aside all shame, they screamed in public agony. Three days later they began building the fort mentioned above, with the very stones they had taken from the tombs of the Gentiles that they had broken open. When the fort was finished, the besieged town began to suffer exceedingly, and their discomfort became even greater. Our own men were now free to go where they wished, and even the mountain paths, which previously had been treacherous, were now favorable for searching for food. With all the roads shut off to the Turks, one section near where the fort and the temple next to the fort were located, seemed to offer the possibility of entering and leaving the river. If we properly equipped this fort, which belonged to us, none of the enemy could have hoped to have found a way out. A meeting was held, and the leaders decided that they would choose one of our men to guard the fort, to fortify it carefully, and to defend it faithfully, so that the pagans might be kept from wandering through the mountains and fields, and might be cut off from entering or leaving the city. When they were looking for someone fit for such task, Tancred, who earned and still deserves the title of wise young man in the Lord's wars, unable to restrain himself, broke in at this point, saying:, "If I were to know what future advantages for me might result from the present hard task, then I might undertake, carefully and with the aid of my retinue, to strengthen this fort, and I shall try to block our enemies from moving along the roads they are accustomed to use." Pleased with his generous offer, the leaders immediately promised to give him 400 silver marks. Displeased with the offer, which seemed not to match the magnitude of the task, Tancred nevertheless agreed; and so, lest he be considered cowardly if he refused, he gathered his knights and clients quickly and resolutely, took charge of the fort, and cut the enemy off from the possibility of getting out through the city's gates. By this means he inflicted upon them the greatest scarcity of food for their horses, as well as a great dearth of wood and other necessary items. This outstanding man chose to remain there resolutely, cutting off all traffic, and he set about surrounding the city and setting up a vigilant blockade. On the very day on which he entered the fort, a large group of Armenians and Syrians came through the mountains, bringing supplies of all sorts to the besieged city. This superb knight, to ensure that the task he had begun would have positive outcome, intercepted them, compelled by God more than by his own boldness, and seized a great amount of grain, wine, oil, and other no less necessary supplies. The good man could no longer complain, that while he was carrying out such a holy task God was forgetful of him, but he had learned, for the first time, from this remarkable good fortune that he would never again lack bodily necessities, and that he would not lack eternal reward from God, after His earthly assistance. The Turks were entirely prevented from leaving the city or moving around outside the walls, but were compelled to make do with what they could find within the city walls, until Antioch was under siege. In the course of this siege the strength of Christian law flourished greatly, and, if anyone was convicted of a crime, he submitted to the severe judgment of the leaders of the army. Moreover, sexual crimes were punished with particular severity, and this was just. Those who were surrounded by atrocious deprivations, who seemed to be exposed to the swords of the enemy every day, if God were not protecting them, should not have been at the mercy of lustful thoughts. And how could pleasure enter where the fear of death was ceaselessly present? So it happened that merely speaking of a prostitute or of a brothel was considered intolerable, and they feared dying beneath the swords of the pagans if they committed such a crime. If any of the unmarried women was found to be pregnant, she and her pimp were submitted to hideous punishments. A certain monk of the most prestigious monastery, who had fled from the cloister to go on the expedition to Jerusalem, moved not by piety but by whim, was caught with a certain woman, and convicted, if I am not mistaken, by a trial by fire. Then they were stripped naked and led, by order of the bishop of Puy and others, through all the nearby camps, and beaten in the cruellest fashion with whips, to the terror of the onlookers. The above-mentioned bishop of Puy assiduously exhorted men to be more patient in their sufferings and more careful about their vices; he let no Sunday or holiday go by without preaching the authority of holy writ through every corner of the camp. He enjoined every priest, bishop, abbot, and cleric whom he met and who seemed educated, to do the same. It seems to me worthwhile, since the word "abbot" has made its way into my work, to tell about a certain abbot who, when this journey was first proposed among our people, finding himself without sufficient funds for the pilgrimage, cut into his forehead by I know not what means the sign of the cross, which ordinarily was made out of some kind of material and affixed to clothing. It did not look as though it had been painted on, but as though it had been inflicted, like stigmata received in battle. After he had done this, to make the trick look authentic, he claimed that an angel had appeared to him in a vision and placed it there. His hopes were not disappointed; when the restless crowd, always avid for novelty, heard this story, the man was innundated with gifts, both from people in and from people outside of his own region. Such a trick, however, could not be hidden from the eyes of those who looked at him carefully, because a slimy liquid seemed very clearly to ooze from the forcefully inscribed lines that formed the cross itself. Finally he set out on the crusade, was present at the siege of Antioch, displayed what he had fabricated, although others had seen through it for some time, and did not hide his intention to gain money. He behaved well there, and was very useful in instructing the Lord's army. He wished to emulate God, but he did not do this the way a wise man would. He was so outstanding that after the capture of Jerusalem he was made abbot of the church of the blessed Mary in the vale of Josaphat,[167] and later was made archbishop of Caesarea, metropolis of Palestine. It is an indubitable fact that had the solace of the divine Word not been administered with great frequency to them, their patient perseverance would never have survived the hunger and hardships of war. Therefore we may say that those among them who were circumspect in their lives and endowed with wisdom were not less but more valuable than those who fought the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. He who provides encouragement that strengthens a wavering mind certainly is greater than the person to whom his exhortation provides strength, especially when the advisers and the advisees share the same suffering. What shall I say finally about those who, on this same expedition, were sanctified in various places by becoming martyrs? They were not only priests, learned men, but warriors, and ordinary people, who had had no hope of confession, but were called to this glorious fate. We have heard of many who, captured by the pagans and ordered to deny the sacraments of faith, preferred to expose their heads to the sword than to betray the Christian faith in which they had once been instructed. Among them I shall select one, a knight and an aristocrat, but more illustrious for his character than all others of his family or social class I have ever known. From the time he was a child I knew him, and I watched his fine disposition develop. Moreover, he and I came from the same region, and his parents held benefices from my parents, and owed them homage, and we grew up together, and his whole life and development were an open book to me. Although he was already an outstanding knight, he was a singularly expert warrior, but entirely free from sexual vice. He was well-known at the court of Alexis, the emperor of Constantinople, for he often traveled in his service. To consider his manner of living: although he had been blessed with wealth by fortune, he was considered to be unusually generous in giving alms; he attended divine services so regularly that he seemed to lead a life more like that of a bishop than a knight. When I recall his steadfast prayer, his pious words, and his generosity in giving gifts, I am extremely pleased with his holy purpose, but also with my own good fortune in having known him. I witnessed him perform acts that entitled him to nothing less than a martyr's death. I certainly take pride, as all those who were able to know him may take pride, in having known him, since I do not presume to say that I was his friend. Whoever saw him knew without a doubt that he had seen martyr. Captured by the pagans, who demanded that he renounce the Christian faith, he asked these unbelievers to delay until the sixth day of the week. They readily agreed, thinking that his stubbornness would be altered, and when the day arrived, and the Gentiles in their madness pressed him to agree to their demand, he is reported to have said, "If you think that I have put off the sword hanging above my head because I wanted to enjoy a few more days alive, and not because I wanted to die on the day on which my Lord Jesus Christ was crucified, then it is fitting that I give evidence of how a Christian mind thinks. Get up, then, and kill me for the example that you want, so that I may restore my soul to him for whom I die, who on this day gave his own life for mankind." Having said this, he stretched his neck out to the sword that hung over him, and when his head was cut off, he was carried to God, whose death he had longed to imitate. His name was Matthew, as his name indicates, "given to God." BOOK FIVE In addition to the spiritual reward this little work of mine may bring, my purpose in writing is to speak as I would wish someone else, writing the same story, would speak to me. For my mind loves what is somewhat obscure, and detests a raw, unpolished style. I savor those things which are able to exercise my mind more than those things which, too easily understood, are incapable of inscribing themselves upon mind always avid for novelty. In everything that I have written and am writing, I have driven everyone from my mind, instead thinking only of what is good for myself, with no concern for pleasing anyone else. Beyond worrying about the opinions of others, calm or unconcerned about my own, I await the blows of whatever words may fall upon me. And so let us take up what we have begun, and calmly bear the judgements that men bark at us. We do not think it possible for anyone to tell what happened at the siege of Antioch, because, among those who were there, no one can be found who could have seen everything that happened everywhere in the city, or who could have understood it entirely in the order in which it happened. Since we have already briefly touched upon the privations and misfortunes of war that they suffered, it now seems proper to pass on to how they managed to end the siege, and what the fruits of such labor were. One of the Turkish leaders in the city was called Pyrrus; having become familiar with Bohemund by some means or other, he began communicating with him by frequent messengers, and they often informed each other about what was happening on both sides. As their friendship grew, kindled by their steady conversations, little by little Bohemund began to propose that the city, over which the Turk had significant power, be surrendered to the Christians, and that he accept Christianity. He promised him, if he did these two things, that he would receive greater wealth, along with greater honor than he had ever had. After these offers had been made not once, but many times, attracted by the reward, he consented, and wrote a letter like this, "I am in charge of three towers: I shall hand them over to you; at whatever hour you please, or whatever time is convenient, I shall gladly permit either you or whomever you wish to enter them." Hope now began to lift Bohemund's spirit greatly, and while he waited to enter the city, his handsome face shone with inward pleasure. Fearing that, at the moment the city was being betrayed, one of our leaders might seize control of the whole city for himself he cleverly called the leaders of the army together. "It is no secret," he said, "O excellent peers, what starvation, what cold, what harsh vigils you have had to endure while besieging this city; clearly a deadly weariness, for which there is no known remedy, has descended equally on all of our people, the highest, the lowest, and those in between. I ask you to hold a meeting among yourselves, to consider whether you will give power over this city to one of us, if he is able to obtain its surrender. It seems to me right, if someone, whether by force, or in secret, or by bribery, manages to gain entrance, that everyone categorically agree to grant him rule over the city." The attitude of the leaders was very much at odds with Bohemund's; with angry frowns they said, "It is not right that, after the work and the fear have been shared by all, and undertaken without seeking the honor of reward, and when danger has hung in an equal balance over all, that rule over the city, struggled for so long and through so much pain, by so many great men, should be granted to any one man. For who does not think it just, that, since the struggle raged for everyone, the rest and his own share after the victory rightly belongs to everyone." Unhappy with these developments, weighing in his troubled mind what he had heard, Bohemund left. Suddenly, news came to the leaders that an innumerable army, formed from among the barbarous nations that were their enemies, was forming to come to the aid of Antioch. After a swift change of mind, they called a meeting, and said to each other, "Should Bohemund take the city by some trick, we might permit him to possess it, with this one condition: if the emperor supplies the help he has promised us, and carries out with matching generosity what he has offered and sworn to give us, we must ourselves hand over the city to the emperor's jurisdiction. Should he fail us, the entire city will be given over to Bohemund, as he requested." When he found out what they had said, the splendid man was reassured, and repeated his imprecations to Pyrrus every day, seducing him with promises and praise. "Lo," he said, "fine Pyrrus, you see that opportunity smiles in the working out of these matters. Therefore, I say, do not delay, lest you lose what we have labored together for, because it is discovered, God forbid, by someone." Pleased with Bohemund's message, Pyrrus promised that his efforts would in no way be delayed. And, lest the effect of the daily delay create anxiety in the noble man, Pyrrus secretly sent his own son to Bohemund, informing him that he faithfully looked forward to the surrender of the city. "Tomorrow," he said, "at the first light, collect the entire force of the Franks army, with horns blowing, and order them to proceed some distance from the encampment, as though they were going to make one of their usual raids on Saracen territory; but then bring them back immediately through the mountains on the right. I shall wait inside the city for your return, ready to admit immediately into the towers which seem to be under my control those whom you choose to send. Bohemund eagerly hastened to carry out the plan he had heard; summoning one of his retainers, he ordered him to carry out the office of herald, circulating throughout the Franks' camp, telling them to prepare themselves with the greatest care, as though they were proceeding into the land of the Saracens. Without delay, the wisdom of the servant carried out the command of the leader directly, nor did the men of France refuse to comply. At last Bohemund told the joy in his heart to duke Godfrey, to the count of Flanders, to the count of Saint-Gilles, and to the bishop of Puy; trusting the promises of Pyrrus, he said that Antioch would be surrendered to him that night. Therefore, when the army was drawn up in the order we have described, the knights were ordered to march through the plain; the band of foot-soldiers marched through the mountains. Throughout the night they marched, and before dawn offered its first rays, they stood before the towers over which the blessed traitor vigilantly stood watch. When Bohemund got down from his horse, he spoke to the Franks with a tone of unusual authority, "Go forward, and breathe free of the anxiety which you have long endured; climb the ladder built for you; let me detain you no longer--seize the city you have been hoping for so long. Long under subjection to the Turks, it will now surrender, God willing, to your custody." The Franks reached the ladder, which was attached and very firmly tied to the walls of the city, offering a way to ascend to the sixty men who, when they reached the towers, were given authority over them. However, because so few Franks had climbed up, Pyrrus, waiting, and anxious, not for our men but for himself, as became very clear later, feared that the outcome of the betrayal he had undertaken would lead to his own destruction, and he cried out brusquely in Greek to those near him, "We have too few Franks." With these words he eagerly called upon Bohemund to proceed quickly, before the inhabitants knew that the Franks were assembling. But certain Lombard servant, understanding that Pyrrus was complaining about the absence of Bohemund, hastened as quickly as he could to the man who was being sought, "Why," he said, "are you behaving so foolishly? Why do you carry out such an arduous task so slowly? See how we now have obtained control of three towers; why do you watch the doubtful outcome of this affair from a distance? Wake up, move your forces, place yourself in the midst of the action." Very swiftly now he hastened with his men to the ladder, and he revived the hopes both of the good traitor and of those who had already climbed the wall. Immediately those who already occupied Pyrrus' towers, waiting for the Franks to assemble from all sides, began to shout with great joy, "God wishes it!" Those who were standing before the walls, about to climb up, shouted the same thing with all their might. With great competitiveness each tried to climb the wall first; once up the ladder, they took over the towers, and others, as quickly as possible. Whoever stood in their way was put to death; among those who died was Pyrrus' brother. Meanwhile a ladder broke, and the great crowd of our men below, and those who had preceded them, were sorely troubled; those on the top of the wall feared that they were cut off from aid, and those at the bottom feared that those who had climbed up could not receive support. But great effort quickly made a way. There was a hidden gate to their left; it was not remarkable that it could not be seen at night; even during the day it was hardly ever seen, since it was located in a place where there was little traffic. By tapping the wall, however, impelled by urgent need, they found it; immediately they ran up to it, and opened it by breaking the hinges and locks, making an entry for the Franks, who rushed in. You would have heard the whole city shaken with terrible roar. While some rejoiced in the completion of such a task, others wept at the unlooked-for destruction of their prospects. Neither the victors nor the vanquished showed any moderation or self-control. Bohemund ordered his standard, easily recognized by the Turks, to be placed on top of a certain mountain, in full view of the citadel, which was still resisting, to make the city aware of his presence. Wailing and shrieking filled the city; while throngs pressed through the narrow streets, the brutal, bloody shouts of the victors, eager to kill, resounded. As they recalled the sufferings they had endured during the siege, they thought that the blows that they were giving could not match the starvations, more bitter than death, that they had suffered. The same punishment inflicted upon the hordes of pagans was justly meted out to the treacherous Armenians and Syrians, who, with the aid of the Turks, had eagerly and diligently pursued the destruction of our men, and our men were, in turn, unwilling to spare them painful punishment. And yet I say that they would have spared many of them, had they known how to make a distinction between the natives pagans and those of our own faith. In the confusion of the moment and of the action (it was night, and eagerness to capture the town and impatience with delay incited everyone), perhaps nothing permitted distinguishing foreigners by their clothing or beards. A terrible neglect covered the thinness of the weary cheeks of our men, who, continually prepared for battle, worn out by continual traveling, had stopped shaving their beards in the Franks' manner. The bishop of Puy noticed this, and to prevent mutual slaughter in case they confronted each other in battle, (each thinking the other a Turk because of the beard), ordered them to shave often, and to hang on their necks crosses made of silver or of some other material, so that no one, mistaken for a foreigner, would be struck down by a comrade. In the morning, those who had remained in the tents heard the tumult in the city, and came out. They saw Bohemund's standard fixed on the lofty mountain, in front of the walls of the citadel, which had not yet been captured. They quickly ran towards the gates of the city and broke in, cut down the Turks and Saracens whom they found there, while those, however, who had fled into the citadel, escaped death. Some of the Turks, having learned that the Franks had taken control of the city, escaped through other gates of the city. Within the city, however, no one was spared because of sex; young children were killed, and, since those weak with age were not spared, there can be no doubt about the ferocity with which those who were young enough to be fit for battle were killed. Meanwhile, fearing capture by the Frankish forces, and wishing to purchase his life by running away, Cassian, who was in charge of the city of Antioch, together with several of his leaders, took refuge not far from Antioch, in an area occupied by Tancred. Exhausting their horses by the speed of their flight, unable to proceed any further, they turned aside and stopped at a small house. When the inhabitants of the mountains, Armenians and Syrians, found their greatest enemy hidden, at the mercy of fortune, in a poor hut, they recognized him at once, decapitated him, and brought the severed head as a gift to Bohemund, expecting that they would obtain their freedom from him in exchange for the unusual gift. His baldric and the scabbard of the sword they took from him were estimated to be worth 60 besants. These events occurred on Thursday, the fifth of June. Then you would have seen the city overflowing with bodies and with intolerable stench. Markets, public places, the porches and vestibules of homes, which once were adorned with beautifully polished marble surfaces, were now completely stained with gore. Infinite numbers of corpses heaped up everywhere, a horrible spectacle, and the savagery of the foul air, horribly infected both the eyes and the ears. The narrow streets were strewn with deep piles of stinking bodies, and since there was no way to carry off so many dead, and there was no escape from the smells, the constant sight and stink made men used to the horror. Thus habit led to audacity, and no one feared to walk down the streets filled with bodies. Therefore Kherboga, the mayor of the palace or rather the leader of the troops of the king of the Persians, whom they were accustomed to call Sogdianus,[168] the name of previous king of the Persians (as the Romans are accustomed to call their leaders Caesars), while he was still within the kingdom of Persia, in the province called Khorasan (some say that this land derives its name by corruption from the name of the land around the Caucasus), was summoned by frequent messengers from Cassianus, the ruler of the city of Antioch, to bring help to him in his beleaguered position. Cassianus promised that, if he drove off the Franks, he would either turn over to him the liberated city, or provide him with a gift equal to his great labor. When the general, enticed by this promise, had put together a huge army, and had asked for and received permission to kill the Christians from the chief pontiff of their heresy (for even they have their Pope, in the likeness of ours), he quickly set off to relieve the siege of Antioch. The prefect of Jerusalem (whom they call in their barbaric language "emir") also immediately increased the invading forces with his own army, which was, in turn, augmented by the considerable forces of the king of Damascus. The pagans recruited by the infidel prince, in addition to the Turks, Saracens, Arabs, and Persians (who are already familiar to historians), bore new names: they were the Publicans, the Kurds, the Azimites, and the Agulani, together with innumerable others, who were by no means human, but monsters. Three thousand of those who were called Agulani were said to be present, and they were afraid neither of swords, lances, arrows, nor any kind of arms, because they and their horses were covered with armor everywhere. In battles the only weapons they used were their swords. Kherboga therefore, with the great arrogance of the pagans, strove to drive the Franks from Antioch. As the prince approached the city, the son of the dead Cassian, Sensadolus by name, met him, and, with great sadness, said to him, "Since your strength is widely renowned, and the victories of you and your people are everywhere judged to be incomparable, certainly my hope for your aid will not be disappointed, O most victorious of men. No one denies the worth of your judgements; because of the brilliance of your deeds, your power is worshipped everywhere; therefore I need not be ashamed of lamenting my misfortune in your presence. I know for certain that I am not begging in vain for the things for which I ask. Your excellency remembers that you received ambassadors from my father when Antioch was being besieged, and that, while you were deciding to come to his aid, you heard that the city had been captured by the Franks. Now my father is dead, and I am besieged in the citadel of the city, undoubtedly awaiting the same fate that overtook my father. If they have invaded Antioch, and have done the same to many cities and towns of Armenia and Syria, they undoubtedly intend to do the same thing to you and to others of our race. May your excellency carry out with all your force what you have undertaken against these vicious men, so that the usurpations intended by these most wretched of men may be thwarted. For me, in this crisis, you remain the last hope." In response to these laments, Kherbog replied, "If you want my help in these present dangers, turn over to me the city which you are defending and for which you are pleading, and after I have put my men in charge of the citadel, then you will find out what I shall do on your behalf." Sensadolus replied, "If you kill the Franks for me, and bring me their severed heads, I shall let you into the city; then I shall swear allegiance to you and as your liege rule the citadel." Corboran said to him, "You will not behave like that towards me, but will hand over the city immediately." What more? The demand of the infidel ruler prevailed, and the young man, surrendered control of the citadel to him who wrested it from him, but who would not long enjoy his power. On the third day after the Franks had broken into Antioch, the vanguard of the Turks had appeared before the walls of the city, while the rest of their vast army set up their tents at the Pharfar bridge. First they attacked the tower closest to the bridge, and after they had captured it with very great effort, they killed everyone they found within in it, sparing only the commander of the tower, whom our men found, after a later battle against them, chained in irons. The next day the army hurried towards the city, chose a spot between two rivers for their tents, and remained there for two days. After capturing the fort whose commander, as I said, was put in chains, Kherboga summoned one of his officers, whom he knew to be wise and trustworthy, and gave him the following orders, " Go and defend the fort for me, with the fidelity that you owe me, and which I expect of you." He replied, "I shall have difficulty carrying out your command in this matter, but I shall carry it out on the condition that, if the Franks are victorious, you permit me to surrender the citadel to the victors." Kherboga replied, "I trust your discretion and your faithfulness in this matter, and shall firmly support whatever you choose to do." After the fort had been provisioned, the ill-fated prince returned to his camp, where some of his Turks, having stripped a poor foot-soldier of his arms, brought them to Kherboga to make sport of us. The sword was filthy with rust, the bow was black as soot, the dull lance was covered with the smoke of many years. Joking, they said to him, "Here are the weapons with which the Frankish army will defeat us." Smiling, Kherboga said to them, "Will they depopulate the East with with these shining, powerful arms? Will the far reaches of the Caucasus submit to these men? Will the unarmed Franks be able to take away from us the lands which the Amazons once held, and which our ancestors once claimed?" He spoke, called scribe, and said, "Write as quickly as possible the same letters on different pieces of parchment, so that they may be sent throughout the provinces of Persia, to our Pope, to the lord and king of our Persians, to the governors and to our military peers in the different areas." This is the tenor of what he wrote: To the magnificent lord and king of the Persians, to the blessed Pope, and to all of those sworn to fight a holy war against the Christians, Kherboga, prince of his army, wishes health and victory. Fathers and lords, I am grateful that the supreme divinity continually provides us with good fortune, and offers us victory everywhere over the enemies of the people. We are sending you three weapons which we have taken from the Franks, so that you may see what with what equipment those who wish to drive us from our country fight. I would like you to know that I am besieging the Franks, who intend to destroy us, in the very city, Antioch, which they have just captured. I am in possession of the lofty citadel in the heart of the city. Since I can either put to death those who are shut up there, or place them in abject captivity, I do not want you meanwhile to be tortured with worry out of concern for us, but I want you to know that we are completely in control. Therefore give yourselves up to pleasures: in greater security than that to which you are accustomed, eat the finest foods; lie with multitudes of wives and concubines to propagate the race, so that the increasing number of sons may oppose the Christians, whose number now grows. I swear by the high Thunderer, that I, protected by the blessed Mahomet, will not appear before the eyes of your majesty until I have subdued the royal city, that is, Antioch, as well as neighboring Syria, the Greeks and the Epirites, whom they call the Bulgars, and I have conquered the Apulians and Calabrians as an additional ornament to your glory. Farewell. Kherboga's mother, who lived in the city of Aleppo, came to him at this time, and sadly offered him counsel: "I would like to know whether what is said of you is true." Her son replied, "What is that?" She said, "They say that you are going to fight the Franks." He replied, "Absolutely true." She said, "Son, best of men, I dare to appeal to your native nobility not to fight them, lest you mar your reputation. Since the brilliance of your arms gleams as far as the furthest reaches of the Indian Ocean, and remote Thule resounds with your praise, why would you soil your weapons with the blood of poor men, whom it does not pay to attack, and from whose defeat you can gain no glory? Since you can compel distant kings to tremble, why harm wretched foreigners? My son, I say that you rightly despise them as individuals, but you should know for a fact that the authority of the Christian religion is superior. Therefore I beg you not to attempt something that you will later regret having undertaken." When he heard what she had to say, he looked at her with anger in his eyes and said, "Why do you weave these old wives' tales? You are raving, I suggest, insanely pouring forth words without understanding. All the men in their army do not amount even to the number of noble leaders from the cities who are fighting under my command. And do you, in your insanity, think that Christian presumption will obscure my power?" She said, "Oh most dearly beloved son, I place little value on the names of the people about whom we are speaking, but I beg you not to shun their leader, Christ. Perhaps they themselves do not have the power to fight you, but victory is certain for their God, if he wishes to prevail. He customarily defends his own men, though they be weak and ignorant, purely for his own glory, and watches over and protects them, whose shepherd, or rather redeemer, he says he is. Do you think that he who has looked after the empires of his faith, who has thus far granted them victory over us, is incapable at this very moment of easily overturning our efforts? For it was said to him by the Father, as though to a God about to rise again from the dead, 'Arise God, and judge the earth, for you will inherit it among the nations of men.'[169] Therefore, if he judges the earth, he sees and sets apart some from the mass doomed to destruction, while others he condemns, and he takes as his inheritance not all nations, but only a portion of the whole. May your foresight hear, my son, how severely he punishes those whom he permits to be ignorant of him. The prophet David says, 'Pour forth thy wrath against the nations that have not known thee, and against the kingdoms that have not cried out thy name.'[170] You do not condemn these Franks because they are strangers and you are gentiles; you do not reject them because their arms are humble or because they are impoverished; but rather you hate in them the name of Christ. Certainly He who is despised in them will fight for them, if necessary, with overflowing anger. If he has promised them with prophetic mouth that 'the name of God will be praised from east to west,'[171] for he is said to be exalted not over the Jews, but over all nations, and by the mouth of God himself it was said that the people who had not been his people were now his people, and those who had not been loved were now loved,[172] and what had been among the Jews was transferred to all nations by the grace of adoption, and among the rest of them the face of the God of the Jews was provided, then who except a madman would dare attack the sons of God? I predict that if you fight them, you will bring upon yourself great discomfort and shame. You will undergo certain military defeat, enrich the Christians with booty taken from you, and you yourself will run off in ignominious flight. Even if death does not wait for you in this battle, you may be certain that your life will end within a year. Their God does not take immediate vengeance when a crime is done, but defers the punishment until the crime itself has come to full fruition. For this reason, my son, I fear that you may be increasing the horror of your death by delaying it." Stunned by his mother's miraculous eloquence, pale and weakened by the announcement of his impending death, Kherboga replied, "And you, I would like to know how you came by this knowledge, how you have discovered that the Christian people will use its strength against us, that they are about to triumph in battle over us, that they will despoil us, and that I shall die a sudden death within the year." She said, "Son, we know that nearly one hundred years have gone by since it was discovered in certain secret books of a pagan sect that the Christian people would rise up against us in battle and subjugate us entirely, setting up their kingdom where we now exercise dominion, so that pagans would be subject to those of the true faith. But our knowledge was not clear in this respect: we did not know whether it would come about now or after a long time. I then diligently studied astronomy, examining innumerable possibilities, until, checking them against each other, I learned that we would inevitably be conquered by Christian men. For this reason I grieve for you with all my heart, because I have no doubt that I shall soon be deprived of you." And he replied, "mother, I would like you to explain some things about which I am uncertain." She said, "ask, so that you will not be in doubt. Whatever I know you will know immediately." He said, "Tell me whether Bohemund and Tancred should be considered gods or men, and tell me whether they will bring victory in battle to the Franks." She replied, "Son, Bohemund and Tancred are like us, subject to mortality, but because they fight for their faith, they have merited glorious renown, for God helps them. They declare that God is the Father, whose son, made into a human being, they worship in the same manner, and they believe that both are the same in the unity of the holy Spirit." He replied, "Since you testify, O mother, that they are not Gods, but merely human beings like us, no more doubt remains, and we may try our strength in battle." Therefore, understanding that her son, intent on fighting with the Franks, was unwilling to heed her advice, the mother collected whatever supplies she could gather and, spurned by her son, retired to the above-mentioned city of Aleppo. And so, three days later, Kherboga took up arms, and a large group of Turks approached the city with him on the side where the fort they had recently captured and fortified was located. Our men, however, judging that they could resist them, set up lines of defense against them, but the number of Turks was so great that our men did not have the force or boldness to resist. Therefore they were compelled to retreat into the city, but, as they were entering the gate in crowded flight, the entrance proved too narrow, and many were crushed to death. It was the fifth day of the week, and some outside the city were attacking the gate, while others continued to battle the inhabitants inside the city until evening. But because Christ knew once and knows now whom he has chosen, some men who, so to speak, were not of the kind by means of whom salvation would come to Israel,[173] when they saw that they were surrounded by the Turkish army, and that the day's battle was scarcely ended when night came, they grew fearful and panic-stricken, aware only of their imminent death. Petrified, each saw his own life hanging before him, and in their frightened minds the men saw Turks already before them, about to strike them with deadly spears. Each lost faith in his own ability to fight, and therefore turned his mind to flight. Those who gave up hope in God made a filthy descent into the foul sewers, a worthy place for those who were giving such a bad example to the troops. The crawling cowards made their way to the sea, with the skin from their hands and feet torn away, and their bones stripped of flesh by the sharp rocks. Like Paul the doctor, who escaped from Damascus by means of a wall,[174] they showed that the sewers were fitting for them.[175] Among those who retreated were a certain William of Normandy, nobly born, and his brother Alberic, sent to school early, who became a cleric, and then, out of passion for fighting, dropped away from the church and foully, like an apostate, became a knight. I would name the towns from which they came, were I not constrained by my close friendship with some members of their family to limit my remarks, thereby protecting them from shame. A certain Guido Trossellus, well known for his power and influence in cities across the Seine, and who was considered remarkable by the whole race of Franks, was the standard-bearer for the escape. There were other deserters from the holy army also, who, when they came back to their native land, were held in contempt and denounced as infamous everywhere. Some of them we do not know; others we know very well, but we prefer not to humiliate them. They came to the port which is called the gate of Saint Simeon, where they found boats and sailors, and they asked the sailors, "Why are you waiting here, unhappy men? You should know that all those to whom you customarily bring food are about to die, for the city and those within it are besieged by an army of Turks, and we scarcely escaped from their onslaught with our naked bodies." Stung by the dire news, they hesitated, stunned for a long time, and then placed all their hope in flight. They got into the ships and sought the depths of the sea.[176] Almost immediately afterwards, as their prows began to move through the waves, the Turks arrived, killed everyone they found there, burned the ships they found riding at anchor, and despoiled the bodies of those whom they had killed. After those base men, fleeing from divine assistance, had escaped through the foul places we have mentioned, those who had chosen to remain were no longer able to withstand the enemies' weapons or onslaughts. Therefore they built a wall between themselves and their enemies, which they patrolled night and day. The suffering of our men was so great there that they were compelled to eat the foulest food, the flesh of horses and donkeys. One day, when the leaders of the army were standing before the citadel they were besieging, and were gravely worried about the misery they were suffering, a priest presented himself before them, and said, "Leaders and elders, I shall relate a vision of your excellence which, if you give it credence, may offer you some consolation, as I hope. While I was asleep one night in the church of the blessed mother of God, the Lord Jesus Christ, together with his most blessed mother and the blessed leader of the apostles, Peter, appeared standing before me and said, 'Do you know who I am?' 'Not at all,' I said. He spoke, and lo in a cloud above his head a cross appeared, like those one sees in paintings. Again questioning me, the image of the Savior repeated, 'Now do you know whom you see?' I said, 'O lord, I can recognize your identity only because I see above your neck the figure of the cross, which customarily represents your image wherever it is painted.' He said, 'you are not wrong. I am he. ' Aware of how much we have suffered, I threw myself immediately at his feet and urgently begged him to relieve the suffering of those who were fighting for our faith. 'I have seen what you have endured, ' he said, 'and I shall not now hesitate to bring you help. At my instigation you vowed to undertake this expedition; you have captured the city of Nicea with my support; under my leadership you have won many victories; having brought you this far, I have grieved for the sufferings you endured in besieging the city of Antioch, and which you are suffering even now within the city itself. However, after I raised you up with so much help and with so many victories, and I granted you victory in the city, preserving you safe and unharmed, you have behaved badly towards Christians, and have entered into filthy relations with pagan women; you have raised a foul clamor to heaven.' At this point the Virgin of unconquerable piety, always the intercessor with God for the human race, and Peter, the heavenly gatekeeper, and the patron bishop of Antioch, threw themselves at the feet of the most merciful Lord, praying and asking that He grant relief to his people. The miraculous Peter himself said, 'Your majesty remembers with what shameful things the pagans desecrated my home in this city, insulting your divinity by filling your shrines with disgraceful actions and with murder. Since you at last showed pity and expelled them, bringing joy to the heavenly kingdom, will you now relent and permit their pride to regain its former position against you yourself?' Moved by these words, God said to me, 'Go and tell my people to return with all their hearts to me, and I shall eagerly restore myself to them; within five days I shall provide the greatest help. Let them recite litanies, and let each man sing this response from *Ecclesiastes*: Our enemies have joined against me, and they rejoice in their strength; destroy their strength, O Lord, and scatter them (add here the verse)."[177] The priest then added, "If you have any doubt about what I have said, I shall submit, in the name of truth, to whatever trial you wish, gladly undergoing trial by fire or by being thrown from a cliff. If I am harmed in the test, you may add to my injuries the worst punishment you can imagine." The bishop of Puy, always attentive to church law, ordered the bible and the Cross brought forward, so that the reliability of his words might be tested by oath. When this had been done, the leaders, after consultation, mutually pledged that neither death nor life would compel them to abandon the defense they had undertaken, no matter how difficult the circumstances. Therefore first Bohemund, then the count of Saint Gilles, Hugh the Great, Robert of Normandy, duke Godfrey, and the count of Flanders, swore with equal vigor that they would never abandon the undertaking. But Tancred swore on this condition, that as long as he could rely on the support of forty knights he would not only refuse to retreat from the siege under which they presently labored, but he would not turn from the path to Jerusalem, unless death intervened. The news of these transactions fortified the hearts of the multitude. Before Antioch was captured, a vision of the apostle Andrew appeared to one of the soldiers, whose name was Peter, and the vision said, "What are you doing?" Stunned, he did not reply, but asked who he was. He revealed that he was the apostle Andrew. "You should know, my son, that when the army of the Franks enters the city which God will open for them, you will go to the church of the blessed Peter, my brother and fellow apostle, and there in a certain place you will find the lance with which it is said the side of our Savior Jesus Christ was pierced." Saying no more, he departed. Peter wanted no one to know about the vision, nor did he think that it was anything more than one of those deceptive dreams to which we are all regularly subjected. But during his conversation with the apostle he had the presence of mind to ask him, "Lord, if I tell to our people what you have told me to do, what reliable evidence can I offer to overcome their doubts and to convince them to believe me?" In response, the glorious apostle took him and carried him in spirit to the basilica of his blessed brother, to the place in which the lance rested. After the city had been captured, when the people of God were subjected to the tribulations which we have described, the same memorable apostle who had undertaken to preserve in every way the elaborate beauty of the home of his famous brother again appeared to the man Peter, and said, "Why have you delayed carrying out my command? Since you see your people undergoing terrible hardships, attacked by the Turks, about to fall into the depths of despair, you should tell them what you learned from me, since they certainly should know that wherever they bear this same lance, they will have certain victory." After this second warning from the apostle, Peter began to relate to our people what he had seen in the vision. However, the people rejected his words, thinking them false, since they were surrounded on all sides by misfortunes, and could in no way conceive of any hope for their conditon. Firmly relying on the authority of what the apostle had said, Peter insisted that the apostle had appeared to him and had said to him twice in a vision, "Hurry, do not delay telling the imperilled army of God, as quickly as possible, to set aside their fears and cling to their firm belief in God, who will help them. Within five days the Lord will reveal things that will joyfully relieve their hearts. If they go into battle carrying this sign before them, their opposition will quickly be defeated and will submit to them." Peter's steady persuasiveness began to have an effect, and the Christians began to urge each other to have some hope, and they began to feel some relief. They said, "We should not be so stupid as to believe that God, who has thus far given us so many victories, would now permit us, besieged while defending the true faith, having placed our trust in Him, with our souls eagerly groaning for him, to be cut down by Turkish swords. Instead, we should certainly believe that, after our long suffering, He will shine the light of pity on us, and will cast fear of Himself upon the peoples who have not sought Him out." Then the Turks who were guarding the citadel made sudden attack on our men, trapping three of our knights at fortification facing the citadel. Then the pagans stormed out of the citadel against our men with such force that they were unable to resist. Two of the men under attack were wounded and escaped, while the third continued to defend himself vigorously against the enemy, killing two of them on the top of the ramparts, having broken the shafts of their spears, while the Turks themselves had shattered three spears in their hands. The name of this knight was Hugh, nicknamed "the Madman," and he was one of the servants of certain Godfrey of Mount-Scabieuse. Famed Bohemund, however, scarcely able to persuade some men to attack the citadel (for of those who hid in their homes, some suffered from lack of bread, while others were frightened by the ferocity and number of the pagans), driven by great anger, ordered that the part of the city around the palace of the now dead Cassian be burned. When they saw what was happening, they fled the conflagration, some towards the citadel, some towards the gate guarded by the count of Saint-Gilles, and some towards Godfrey; each fled towards the people to whom he most closely connected. Soon the suffering was increased by a very powerful storm, and the power of the wind was such that almost no one could walk upright. Meanwhile, when Bohemund saw that the city would be entirely destroyed by the conflagration, he was seized with anxiety about the fate of the church of blessed Peter and of the Holy Mother, and other churches as well. From the third hour until midnight the raging flames turned two thousand churches and homes into dust. In the middle of the night, the force of the raging fire abated. Meanwhile those in the citadel cruelly attacked our men, who turned back into the city, worn out by hunger; they struck our men with steady effort, and by day and by night the two sides were separated only by the length of their swords and spears. When our men saw that they were caught in a non-stop battle, and had no opportunity at all to eat or drink, even if they had had a great supply of food, they built a wall out of cement and stone, and quickly surrounded it with many machines, so that they would have a feeling of greater security. In the citadel, a group of Turks remained who would, almost continually, come out to harass our men in battle, while other Turks remained in the field, facing the fortification. On the following night, a kind of fire appeared in the western sky, falling between the enemy camps. To both sides the sight of the falling fire seemed miraculous. In the morning, the Turks left the place in which the celestial fire had fallen as quickly as possible, and set themselves up in front of the gate that Bohemund was guarding. The portent which had appeared clearly before them announced the destruction that was obviously approaching them, had they understood it. The inhabitants of the citadel, who made frequent, relentless sorties against our army, their bows always stretched, inflicted wounds and death upon our men. The Turks who surrounded the city outside, and who occupied all the territory near the walls, vigilantly blocked every entrance to the city, so that the Christians were unable to leave or to enter, except at night, and even then only secretly. The enemy had assembled here in such great numbers and with such wealth, that everywhere one looked there were only men and tents, expensive furnishings, the brilliance of variegated costumes, flocks of cattle and sheep to be eaten, and women dressed as though they were, so to speak, temples. To add to this list of luxury, young women came with quivers full of arrows, looking like a new form of the ancient Diana; they seemed to have been brought here not to fight, but rather to reproduce. When the battle was over, those who were present asserted that new-born babies, born by women brought for this purpose on the expedition, were found thrown into the grass by these women, who, in their urgent flight from the Franks, could not endure the burden, and, more concerned for themselves than for the babies, heartlessly cast them away. In the way in which we have described, then, with Turks everywhere preventing our men from getting out, and therefore unable to procure provisions from outside, the dangers of famine took hold of nearly the entire army, and the extraordinary lack of food particularly weakened the courage of the poor people. Since the Franks, at the time that they were besieging Antioch, had prevented the inhabitants from increasing their dwindling supply of food, when they captured the city they found very little to eat. After they had used up everything they could find, a mere piece of bread cost a bezant. The scarcity of produce and of spices resulted in great hardship, and many died, their bellies bloated with starvation. About wine I shall say nothing, since no one had any at all, and he who had nothing to eat would certainly drink fruit juice. Since there was no proper meat to eat, no one finally refused to eat the flesh of horses, and the small amount of donkey meat, sought for throughout the marketplaces and purchased at exorbitant prices, was a bitter resource for many crusaders. A chicken sold for fifteen sous, an egg for two sous, and a nut for penny. If many men assemble in a place where food is scarce, everything becomes expensive. They ate a mixture of figs, thistles, and grape leaves; fruit could no longer be found on the trees; out of the leaves they made a substitute for vegetables. Wealthy men ate the flesh of horses, camels, cows, and deer, but the poor prepared the dried skins of these animals, cut them into slices, boiled them and then ate them. Among the ancient stories of besieged cities, where might we find people who, exiles from their native land, enduring such suffering, were able to persevere as steadfastly as these men? Even the ten-year siege of Troy was often interrupted by mutually beneficial truces, during which men might recover their strength, and the earth and the sea might offer them sustenance. And even if any besieged men had suffered similar dangers, certainly they suffered to preserve their own freedom, and the defense of one's own life and country is considered more important than all other things. The crusaders, however, were driven from their native soil by no desire for personal gain, but by the intention of working for God. To deliver the church from harm, they endured the hardships of famine, rough sleeping places, long watches during the night, cold, rain, and the torment of ceaseless fear, which exceeded that endured by anyone whose sufferings have ever been recorded. What must be recognized as even more of a miracle is the fact that these men, at home in their own native lands, could scarcely endure setting up their tents as part of the king's army for three days, even when they were not forced to venture beyond the borders of their own regions. In my opinion, none of those who risked such danger could remember all of the anxieties of mind and agonies of body they had been compelled to endure. For twenty-six straight days this punishment continued. At that time, Count Stephen of Blois, formerly a man of great discretion and wisdom, who had been chosen as leader by the entire army, said that he was suffering from painful illness, and, before the army had broken into Antioch, Stephen made his way to a certain small town, which was called Alexandriola.[178] When the city had been captured and was again under siege, and he learned that the Christian leaders were in dire straits, Stephen, either unable or unwilling, delayed sending them aid, although they were awaiting his help. When he heard that an army of Turks had set up camp before the city walls, he rode shrewdly to the mountains and observed the amount the enemy had brought. When he saw the fields covered with innumerable tents, in understandably human fashion he retreated, judging that no mortal power could help those shut up in the city. A man of the utmost probity, energetic, pre-eminent in his love of truth, thinking himself unable to bring help to them, certain that they would die, as all the evidence indicated, he decided to protect himself, thinking that he would incur no shame by saving himself for a opportune moment. And I certainly think that his flight (if, however, it should be called a flight, since the count was certainly ill), after which the dishonorable act was rectified by martyrdom, was superior to the return of those who, persevering in their pursuit of foul pleasure, descended into the depths of criminal behavior. Who could claim that count Stephen and Hugh the Great, who had always been honorable, because they had seemed to retreat for this reason, were comparable to those who had steadfastly behaved badly? The results of the action for which they are blamed were so splendid, that surely one might praise them for what they did, while the behavior of the others embarrasses all good men. Let us look carefully at those who take pride in having been present at the capture of Jerusalem; we shall see that none permitted himself to be second to anyone else in committing crimes, betrayals, and perjuries. These two, however, were known for the nobility of their previous and subsequent behavior. The others, because they had seen Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre, thought that they could safely commit any crime, offering their own example as a reproach to holy men who had retreated, without considering how much they themselves should be blamed for the many stinking crimes they had committed. But laying these matters aside, let us continue in the direction in which we set out. When he left Alexandriola, his own town, the count went to the town called Philomena.[179] The capture of Antioch had been made known to the tyrannical emperor, who had quickly set out in that direction with many troops, thinking that he would undoubtedly be given the town by the Franks. When he had met the greedy emperor, who asked him about the condition of the Christian army and of the betrayed town, the count told him that the town had been captured, but he also told him that the citadel was held by the Turks. "Alas," he said, "a second siege destroys the joy of winning the city, for those who had at first besieged the Turks are now, in a wretched reversal, surrounded by Turks. I do not know what happened between them after I left." This is what the count said in secret to the prince. When the emperor heard this, he became discouraged, and summoned Bohemund's brother Guido, a man conspicuous for his martial spirit, together with some others, and described the situation to them, although he exaggerated what the count had told him. "What do you think should be done? The Franks are surrounded by a terrible Turkish siege, and perhaps have already fallen before their swords, or have been led away to different regions under the yoke of perpetual slavery. Since we do not have the ability or occasion to provide them with aid, particularly since, if we went forward, we would have to fear being killed by the Turks we might encounter, we should turn back, if this is in accord with your judgement." Having said this, the traitor was undoubtedly pleased with himself, because he had heard that those whom he hated no less than the Turks had been killed. But Guido, having heard of the danger in which his brother and the Franks found themselves, together with the entire Norman household, began to howl with grief, launching complaints self-righteously even against God himself; they said, "All powerful God, whose judgement never errs, who never permits the unjust to triumph over the just, why have you betrayed those who, out of love for you, have given themselves over to daily torment and death, who have left their relatives, wives, sons, the greatest honors, their native land, and why have you exposed them, without the aid of your protection, to be cut down by the swords of abominable men? If it becomes known that you have permitted profane hands to deliver them to a horrible death, whom will you find willing to obey your commands, since everyone will judge you unable to defend your own people? But so be it. It may be that you want them to die for you, and that you you will crown them with glory and honor, yet even if you bestow land one hundred fold on these people, you will have brought about eternal shame among nations for the people of your own faith. You have plunged the entire Christian world into the depths of despair and incredulity, and you have provoked the worst men to display relentless aggression against your people. From this day forth no man will expect anything great from you, since those who believed themselves dearer to you than all other mortals have been subjected to such an unworthy fate. Therefore, O most gracious one, from now on why should they call upon you, when your own people will expect such a death?" Thus they expressed their terrible grief and desperate anguish, so that for several days none of the astonished bishops, abbots, clerics or laymen in the entire army led by the tyrant dared to call upon God. Guido, remembering his love for his noble brother, going over in his mind the splendid qualities of the man, expressed his inmost anguish with many a groan. Ready to retreat, the emperor, fearing that, with the Frankish bulwark broken, the Turks might now more freely move against him, gave orders to his troops, "Go," he said, "and promulgate an imperial edict throughout this region. Lay waste the Bulgar's land, so that, when the Turks attack to depopulate our lands, they will find no useful supplies." Willingly or not, the Christians who had been eager to rejoin us were compelled to return with the emperor. The knights hastened to carry out the tyrant's orders, while the conscripted foot-soldiers followed the army. In their attempt to follow the swift cavalry, they fell into inextricable problems because of their weakness. Therefore, wearied by the effort, they continually dropped away, falling in their tracks, worn out by exhaustion. When the tyrant returned to the city of Constantinople, the troops returned, by way of Greece, to the lands from which they had come. Let this book end here. BOOK SIX When we read in the authentic histories of the holy Fathers about the wars waged under God's direction, and when we see that such things were accomplished by inconsequential people of such little faith (we do not place in this class the blessed Joshua, David, Samuel, but we are speaking of the despicable vanity of the Jewish people, with the exception of those whose radiance is now celebrated by the church of God), then we might think, if reason did not intervene, that such wretched men, serving God for their bellies only, were more pleasing to God than those whose whole spirit was devoted to him. For them, whose only virtue perhaps was that they were not idolaters, everything went well; they were frequently victorious, and had an abundance of everything. But for these Christians, victories came about only with great difficulty, at great cost; they had little wealth, and they lived in continual and great need, leading the lives not of knights but of piously impoverished monks. All of this is explained, however, by the grace of reason, when we recall that "God torments with whips every child whom he loves,"[180] and to those whom he deprives of the things of this world out of the rigor of his teaching, he gives spiritual gifts, out of the affection of his sweet love. Therefore, after Peter had told what the blessed Andrew had revealed in a dream to him about the Lord's lance, the Christian people were filled with joy, and, in anticipation of the marvelous event, emerged out of the depths of despair. Lead by this man,[181] everyone rushed to the designated place, and a hole was dug beside the altar of the Lord in the church of the blessed Peter. After thirteen men had dug up the earth from dawn to dusk, Peter himself found the Lance. What they saw before them corresponded in every way with the dream-vision which had been reported to them; they all began to rejoice, and their boldness against the enemy matched their joy. They bore off the lance with great exultation, and from that day forth they confidently went about planning to wage war. Then the leaders of the Christian army met in council, considered together what action was needed, and decided that the wisest thing to do before fighting was to meet first with the Turks, to urge them not to occupy Christian territory, not to drive the servants of Christ out of their lands, and not to kill them, but instead to remain within their own territories, content with their own lands. Peter the Hermit, who had helped to initiate the undertaking, was summoned, together with a man named Herluin, an interpreter proficient in both languages, and they were both sent to the pagan prince, with instructions about what to say. When they reached the tent of the pagan, and stood in the terrible presence of the diabolical man, they delivered a speech like this: "You should understand that our leaders are shocked to find that you have profanely and wickedly undertaken to usurp a land firmly and freely possessed since ancient times by Christians. Since you have undoubtedly learned by our relentless victories against you that Christ's power has not declined, and you have found that your forces have little power against Christ, our leaders think that you, having been beaten so many times, will in no way dare to resume the madness of war against God. Therefore we unanimously judge that, in your wisdom, you have come here for no other reason than to learn the teaching of our faith from the Christian bishops who have come with us. For we are absolutely certain that you will hardly be able to ensure your safety if you try to wage war against the Catholic belief. Therefore, aware of your ignorance, we ask that you desist from this presumption, for we know that God gave the blessed apostle Peter authority over the city, and he who was its first bishop intends to restore the worship of God, which he was the first to bring here, using us, sinners that we are, as his instruments. Our princes, in their extreme generosity, will permit you to carry off everything which you have brought here, nor, if you retreat peacefully, will any of us do you any harm whatever." But Kherboga was deeply stung by the words of Peter, and when the arrogant Turks who accompanied him raged when they heard these things, he said: "We shall demonstrate that we have every right to the land which you say has belonged to your Christianity since ancient times, particularly since we took it, by means of our remarkable strength, from a nation scarcely better than women. Moreover, we think that you are mad to come from the ends of the earth, threatening with all your might to drive us from our homes, when you have insufficient supplies, too few arms, and too few men. Not only do we refuse to accept the name of Christians, but we spit upon it in disgust. To respond briefly to the message you have brought: return, you who form this delegation, to your leaders swiftly and tell them that if they are willing to become like us and renounce the Christ upon whom you seem to rely, we shall give them not only this land, but land of greater wealth and size. After granting them castles and cities, we shall allow none of them to remain foot-soldiers, but shall make them all knights; and, when we have shared the same ceremonial rites, each side will rejoice in mutual and close friendship. But if they shall decide not to accept this proposal, they will undoubtedly die horribly, or endure the exile of eternal imprisonment, as slaves to us and to our descendants." He spoke, and the delegation quickly returned and told the leaders of the Christian army everything that had taken place. The army was still in dire straits, suffering, on the one hand, from extreme hunger, and, on the other hand, tormented by fear of the pagans who surrounded them. Finally, placing their faith in divine assistance, they observed a three-day fast, instituted by the splendid bishop of Puy. In every church they poured forth suppliant litanies, purifying themselves by sincere confession of sins; when the bishop had granted them absolution, they faithfully took communion of the body and blood of the Lord. Each gave alms according to his ability, and all prayed that divine offerings might be made for them. Finally, having derived some comfort from these activities, they prepared to fight, drawing up six lines of battle inside the city. The first line of battle, which would bear the brunt of the Turkish attack, was led by Hugh, who truly was, as his cognomen indicated, great; he and his men were supported by the entire contingent of Franks, led by the count of Flanders. I have heard about this royal man that, before the battle began, his quartermaster paid a remarkable amount of money for a camel's foot, since he was unable to find anything better for him to eat at that point. The unusual quality of this food had so weakened this man of God that he was scarcely able to remain on his horse, and when someone suggested that he not go into battle, but remain with those besieging the citadel, he quickly replied, "No! I certainly shall go; I only hope that I find a blessed death there with those who are to die today!" The noble duke Godfrey and his men formed the second line. Count Robert of Normandy and his men made up the third line, and the fourth was led by the splendid bishop of Puy, carrying with him the recently found Lance of the Savior. This line was composed of the bishop's men and those of Raymond, count of Saint-Gilles, who remained within the city, blockading the citadel, so that the inhabitants might not escape. Tancred and his men made up the fifth line, and Bohemund with his army made up the sixth. Bishops, priests, clerics, monks, dressed in their ecclesiastical garb, marched forward, holding their crosses before them, eager to aid the soldiers with their tearful prayers, themselves awaiting the gift of martyrdom, if they should happen to be cut down. Others looked out from the ramparts of the walls, to watch the outcome of the battle, holding the sign of the Lord's cross in their hands, faithfully making the sign of the cross over the army as it marched forth. In the order I have given, they marched out the gate in front of the temple which our people call the Mahometry, walking so slowly that even a weak old woman would not have asked for a slower pace. God Almighty, with what heartfelt groans were you invoked; while their frail, frightened bodies were being overcome by long hunger, how rapidly did the grief of their wretched hearts reach your ears, O most high one! With what anguish were their minds still lingering in their racked bodies! When weakness was compelling them to despair of victory, God alone remained steadfast in the minds of all in their suffering for You. Their hearts were shattered by long anguish; desiccated by famine, their eyes were too dry to weep; since the exterior man was almost without material substance, spiritual desires struggled violently. Good God, what could you have denied to such devotion when you saw them, or rather made them burn in such agony? When I consider how they maintained a military fierceness on their faces, while their inmost hearts were preparing to undergo martyrdom, I seriously think that no army ever equalled their constancy. Indeed I truly should have said that they raised a shout to heaven; but then I say that they, who performed not with physical strength but with unusual daring of soul, made the sacred trumpets sound. Meanwhile Kherboga saw them leaving the city, moving slowly; he laughed at the small size of the group, and said, "Let them leave, the better that they may, when they have fled from battle, be shut out of the city." But when the entire army had passed through the gates, and Kherbog noticed that the Frankish forces were mighty in order and in number, then, at last, he trembled. As he made preparations to flee, he immediately ordered the master of his palace to let it be known throughout the army, as soon as he saw flames coming from the nearest tents, that the French troops had won the victory. Meanwhile Kherboga began to retreat, little by little, heading for the mountains, while our men were pursuing him relentlessly. Then the Turks, uselessly clever, split their forces into two parts, one of which moved along the shore of the sea, while the other waited in place for the Franks to reach them, thinking that in this manner they might surround our men. When our men perceived this, they turned audaciously towards the Turkish troops, separating themselves from their fellows; because of this excessive boldness, they were the only group of our army that suffered a loss, with only a few knights and scarcely any foot-soldiers escaping alive. The instigator of this foray, together with some others, was Clairambaut of Vandeuil, who, although reputable in his own lands, did nothing useful in the East. Meanwhile, to face the Turks at the edge of the sea, a seventh group was formed out of the two armies led by duke Godfrey and the count of Normandy, and a certain count Renaud was placed in charge. That day the battle was very bitter, and many of our men were slaughtered by the arrows of the enemy. The cavalry of the enemy extended from the river Pharphar to the mountains, length of two miles. Squadrons of pagans attacked from both sides, and struck with arrows and javelins the group of Franks whom our men had placed in the vanguard as the strongest and most likely to resist the Turkish attacks. In charge of them was magnificent Hugh, regal in mind, no less brave than his ancestors, who proudly called out to his men, "Endure, and wait courageously for the second and third discharge of missiles, because they will then flee more quickly than speech." And lo, innumerable forces began to come down from the mountains, and their horses and standards shone brightly; our men, however, were stunned even more now, fearing that these men were bringing reinforcements for the Turks, until they discovered that this was aid, now visible, sent by Christ. After the battle, they thought that these glorious leaders were, in particular, the martyrs George, Mercurius, and Demetrius. These things were seen by many of our men, and when they told what they had seen to others, their words were taken in good faith as true.[182] And if celestial help appeared long ago to the Maccabees fighting for circumcision and the meat of swine, how much more did those who poured out their blood for Christ, purifying the churches and propagating the faith, deserve such help. Therefore, when the first line of the enemy at the shore were driven back by our men, unable to bear our attack, they set fire to the grass, thereby giving the agreed-upon signal to retreat to those who were guarding the tents during the battle. In response to the signal, they snatched anything of any value, and fled. But the Franks, when they saw where the pagans greater forces were, raced to their tents. Duke Godfrey, the count of Normandy, and Hugh the Great joined forces to attack those who were riding along the shore. These three, together with their men, with the image of the son of God crucified for their sake before their eyes, eagerly plunged into the thick of the melee. When our men saw this, they too drove forward vigorously. The enemy, screaming like madmen, rushed to meet them. For it was their custom when they entered battle to make constant, terrible noise with the metal shafts they used as spears, as well as with cymbals and with their own horrifying voices, so that horses and men could scarcely check their terror of such sound. But their efforts were entirely in vain; our men immediately overcame the enemy; once the battle had been joined, they subdued the enemy in the first attack, encouraging those who had for a long time been considering flight to carry out their plan. And even so, our men pursued them through the middle of their encampment. They were not carried away by the desire for the booty lying about, but instead preferred to feed only on the blood of the enemies of Christ, pursuing them to the bridge over the Pharphar, and to the fortress of Tancred. The glorious spoils covered the ground of the enemy encampment; the tents, though filled with gold, silver, and many kinds of equipment, stood there abandoned; herds of sheep, cows, goats, horses, mules, asses were spread about everywhere; there also was a great supply of wheat, wine, and grain. But, when the Syrian and Armenian colonists, who were scattered throughout the region, learned that the Franks had won an unexpected victory, they rushed into the mountains to face the fleeing Turks, killing those whom they found. Our own men, joyfully shouting praises to Christ for his help, entered the city with the honor of a heavenly victory. The Turk in charge of the citadel, however, seeing the leader of his own army fleeing with our men in hot pursuit, became frightened. Judging that he could no longer defend the citadel, he immediately asked for the standard of one of our leaders. The count of Saint-Gilles, who was close to the spot where the request was made, quickly ordered that his own standard be offered to the man who made the request, who promptly affixed it to the tower. But the Lombards, striving to obtain the favor of their leader Bohemund (for they relied upon hjis favor), cried out to the man in charge of the citadel, "This is not Bohemund's standard." He asked to whom did it belong, and when he was told that it belonged to the count of Saint Gilles, he took it down and gave it back to the count. Having asked for and received Bohemund's standard, he also accepted the promise that those who were with him might, if any wished to accept our religion, remain with Bohemund. Those who did not, might freely leave. With this agreement, the citadel was surrendered to Bohemund, who then chose men to guard it. After a few days, the man who surrendered the citadel received baptism, together with the other pagans who decided to take communion in the name of Christ. Those who chose to remain pagan were free to do so, and they were brought by Bohemund himself to Saracen territory. On August 28, on the eve of their passion, Peter and Paul waged this battle, out of compassion for their wretched city, unable to tolerate the expulsion of the new citizens, who had driven out the pagans who had contaminated the holy temple of God. And it was right that they took pity on the city which they had both instructed by their preaching. In the churches stables for horses had been set up, and in part of the great basilica of saint Peter they had erected house of their Mahomet. While the defeated enemy was retreating in different directions, the mountains and the vallies, the fields and the forests, the roads and pathless places overflowed with the dead and the dying, and with innumerable wounded men. The objects of God's sudden compassion, however, were relieved of the pain of daily hunger; where an egg might have cost two sous, one might now come away with a whole cow for less than twelve cents. To sum up briefly, where hunger had raged like a disease, there was now so much meat and other food that great abundance seemed everywhere to pour in a sudden eruption from the earth, and God seemed to have opened the cataracts of heaven.[183] There were so many tents that, after all of our people had plundered one, they were so wealthy and sated with the weight of their booty, that almost no one wanted to take any more. If a poor man took something that he wanted, no wealthier man tried to take it from him by force, but each permitted the other to take what he wanted without fight. Then our leaders, duke Godfrey, the count of Saint-Gilles, Bohemund, the count of Normandy and Robert of Flanders, and all the others, consulted with each other, and sent Hugh the Great and Baldwin, the count of Mons, together with some others of great repute, to the emperor, so that he might receive Antioch from them, according to their agreement. They departed, but afterwards were slow to return to those who had sent them. For, in a certain place, the Turks attacked them; those who had horses nearby escaped; those who were not close enough to their horses were carried away as captives, or were slain by the sword. We are not at all certain yet about the unfortunate fate that befell the count of Mons. According to some people, this provided Hugh the Great with a reason to delay his return; although capable in other matters, he showed himself less concerned in obtaining those things which are thought to be fitting for such a great man. A man highly fastidious about honor, he was afraid of being less well off among men to whom he was superior or in no way way inferior, but who were either more tenacious or more eager to acquire things. However, no one should complain about the return of a man who later died with the deserved repute of a martyr and fine soldier. Finally, a short time later, they began again to consider how to get to Jerusalem, a task for which they had suffered so much, and how the people who so greatly wanted to arrive might be governed until they got there. The leaders took into consideration the fact that there would be very little water during the heat of summer, and therefore decided that the journey would be put off until the calends of November. Meanwhile, after everyone had agreed to this plan, the nobles of the army visited the various cities and towns they had captured, and sent heralds among the conquered people, to tell them that if anyone of them were in need, he could join them and receive remuneration for his services. Among them was a knight, exceptionally skilled with weapons, among the leading followers of the count of Saint-Gilles, named Raymond Pelet, to whom many knights and foot-soldiers had affiliated themselves. His generosity and energy had attracted many men, and he set out with a large army into Saracen territory, and the first place they reached was fortress called Talamina. The inhabitants, since they were Syrians, immediately surrendered to him. After staying in this town eight days, he heard that not far away there was town filled with a large group of Saracens. He quickly launched an assault to enter the town; God led the penetration, and the town was captured. Those inhabitants who agreed to become Christian were spared; those who refused were killed. Having finished this business, they gave thanks to God and returned to Talamina. On the third day they again went out, this time to attack a village called Marrah, a fine city, well fortified, where people of many different nations had assembled. Close to the previously mentioned fortress, it attracted the refuse of Saracens and Turks from nearby towns and cities, especially from Aleph. A force of pagans ready to fight approached our men, who judged themselves able to fight in the usual manner, but who were quickly deceived by the pagan's trickery. The enemy, advancing in great numbers, did great harm to our men. All that day each side in turn advanced and retreated. Our men suffered from the intense heat, and, their insides parched with unusual thirst, weary and unable to find relief, they decided to pitch their tents near the city. When the inhabitants understood that our men were faltering somewhat (it was the Syrians who first began to talk of flight more seriously), they became more aggressive in response to their enemies' fears, and no longer were afraid to attack. Struck down in this attack, many of our men piously delivered their souls to God; they died on the fifth of July. The remaining Franks returned to Talamina, remaining there with their leader Raymond for several days. Those who had remained at Antioch enjoyed peace and prosperity. For reasons hidden from us, God confounded their rest with a cloud. He who had led them, and piously nourished both their internal and external needs, a man admired by God and by the world, Adhemar, bishop of Puy, fell ill; the Omnipotent in his generous compassion permitted him to wipe away the sweat of his pious labor in a sabbatical of eternal rest. He died on the holy day of Saint-Peter-in-Chains,[184] and he had earned absolution by him to whom the keys to the Kingdom and the powers of absolution belonged, and it was fitting that Peter greet him at the gates of the celestial realm. A great sadness and bitter grief arose throughout the entire army of Christ; when each person, of whatever rank, sex, and age, recalled how many benefits he had received from this most compassionate of men, and understood that the bishop was past help, he grieved inconsolably. At his funeral the princes themselves let out heartfelt groans fit for the death of the entire army. Before he was even buried, such offerings of money were made at the litter on which his corpse was carried by the people over whom he had ruled like a father, that I think no one had ever made such offerings in such a short time at the altars of any nations. These offerings were immediately distributed to the poor, for the benefit of his soul. While he was alive, he showed great care for the souls of the poor, always teaching the rich to love the needy, to help them in their need, insisting that they were the guardians of the poor. He said: "He will be judged mercilessly who has shown no mercy. If you do not show compassion for your inferiors, who are also by nature your brothers, and if you do not share with them equally those things that were created by God for you and them, which are now unfairly seized from them by you, you will undoubtedly shut the gate of divine mercy for yourselves. Give them, I say, out of gratitude for these things, some of your goods, certain that even as they cannot survive in this world without you, so you cannot live eternally without them." Of these and similar matters the remarkable man often reminded them. Then Raymond, count of Saint Gilles, enter the territory of the Saracens, and led his army to a city called Albara, which he attacked and quickly captured, putting to death all the Saracen men and women he found there. Once in control of the city, he filled it with Christian colonists, and, on the advice of wise men, ordered that a bishop be ordained for the city, who would gradually teach the natives Christian doctrine, and who would carry out in their temples, once they had been purified, the services of devotion, and the mysteries of rebirth. They chose a man of an appropriate age, who was known for his learning, and they brought him to Antioch to be ordained. After he had been ordained a bishop, he did not neglect to carry out the journey to Jerusalem, but he assigned the task of guarding the city to someone who volunteered for the task, and set out with the others, brave man, with little income, he who remained behind set out to protect the citadel with the few people he could afford to hire. Because there were very few Saracens in the city, those pagans who remained submitted to his authority, and in exchange for their lives gave him part of their earned income. Antioch was now flourishing with prosperity, and the holiday of All Saints was approaching, at the end of which the expedition was scheduled to begin again. Mindful of this, the leaders assembled at Antioch, and began to consult with each other about how they might best expedite the journey for which they had come. Before the army of the Lord made a move, Bohemund brought up the matter of turning the city over to him, according to the agreement which had been made. But the count of Saint Gilles refused to assent, since he respected the oath he had given to the emperor. The bishops, who acted as intermediaries between them, met frequently in the church of the blessed Peter. Bohemund said that after the city had been betrayed by Pyrrus, parts of the city had been granted to him generously by the leaders themselves. The count of Saint Gilles replied that he had given an oath to restore the city to the ruler of Constantinople, unless their agreement was broken by the emperor, and that all this was done on the advice of Bohemund. Meanwhile, the bishops, who were trying to bring the disagreement to an end, summoned duke Godfrey, the counts of Flanders and Normandy, and other leaders, listened to what each had to say, and then met separately to sift the arguments and to come to a correct decision. However, after having heard the arguments, they remained undecided, and when they returned to the assembled leaders, afraid to alienate such men, they postponed making a decision. When the count saw that this was done deliberately, he said: "To prevent the present disagreement from generating discord among those faithful to Christ, and thereby delaying the day on which the tomb of the Savior will be set free, and to prevent us from being tainted with the charge of greed, I agree to the decision of my peers, the princes now present, as long as it does not contradict what you know, brothers and leaders, I unwillingly promised to the prince of Constantinople." Bohemund immediately agreed to the count's proposal, and they put aside their quarrel, placed their right hands in the hands of the bishops as a sign of good faith, and swore solemnly that the army of God in no way would be disturbed by their disagreements. After consulting with the others, Bohemund then fortified his fortress with men and food from the mountains. The count of Saint Gilles also consulted with his men, and fortified at great expense the palace of Cassian, which the pagans called the Emir, as well as the tower which guarded the gate of the bridge which led to the port of Saint Simon. The city of Antioch is incomparably beautiful, second to none in the majesty of its buildings; it is pleasantly situated, with an unequalled climate, and with fertile vines and rich fields. To the east it is surrounded by four high mountains; to the west its walls are washed by a river renowned in the Bible,[185] the Pharphar, whose waves are dense with fish. At the top of one of the mountains remarkable, impregnable fortification stands; below it stands the city itself, filled with past glory and fiercely proud of the noble monuments of its ancient splendor, with 360 churches within its confines. The pontiff of the city, by right of apostolic succession honored with the title of patriarch, was in charge of 153 bishops. The city was surrounded by a double wall, one of which was of normal height, the other, however, remarkably broad and high, built out of massive stones, surrounded by four hundred and fifty towers. They say that it was rebuilt from that ancient Antioch in testimony of whose power many monuments have survived, and that such lofty citadels and such a variety of buildings were erected by the efforts of 50 subject kings and their subjects.[186] This is false, since Pompeius Trogus correctly said that it was founded by king Seleucus, who named it after his father, and it was built up by him and by the kings who succeeded him, even as he founded Laodicea, named after his mother, and Seleucia, which he named after himself. All sorts of siege engines were of no avail against this city, and had Pyrrus not betrayed it to the besiegers, or rather had God not aided those whom he wished, French bravery would have endured famine and other suffering in vain. Our men had besieged the city for eight months and one day. Then they were themselves besieged for three weeks by an uncountable horde of pagans; after they finally defeated them, the Christians remained there five months and eight days, until the people were urged by their leaders again to take up the journey to Jerusalem. But because it seems to me that I shall not have another chance to report what happened to the Pyrrus whom I mentioned earlier, I should do it now. Having received the sacraments, he accepted Christianity, taking, as his baptismal name, Bohemund. He helped us out at the siege of Jerusalem, and, when it was captured, returned to Antioch. There he sent out a messenger to announce that any Christian in the city or in the vicinity of the city might come with him to a far-off land, where he had considerable land, and he offered to make everyone rich. He inspired a large group of people with this hope, and he is said to have led this deceived group off to what he called his own land. When he had reached his own encampments, he betrayed some of the knights who had accompanied him by killing them, and he exiled others. Had word of the betrayal not reached the others, who were lodged outside of the encampment because of their great numbers, and who therefore managed to hide or to escape wretchedly, the freedom of all of them would have perished by the sword or in slavery. There Pyrrus deserted Christianity and returned to the filth of his old lechery and paganism. Nor was this unfitting, for the name Pyrrus in Greek is Rufus[187] in Latin, and the mark of treachery is branded on red-haired people; he is shown by no means to have been deprived of his lineage. Towards the end of November, Count Raymond of Saint-Gilles moved his army out of Antioch; after passing the cities of Rugia and Albara, on the fourth day, which was the last day of November, he reached the city of Marrah.[188] A large group of Saracens, Turks, and Arabs had come together in that city, and the count prepared to attack with all his forces on the day after he arrived. Bohemund and his army quickly followed the count, and set up his camp next to him on a Sunday. The next day they attacked the walls so vigorously that their ladders clung to the walls, and they stepped on the walls themselves as they went up. The inhabitants resisted with such energy that nothing could be gained by our men that day. Then the count of Saint-Gilles, seeing that his men were toiling in vain, ordered that a very tall, strong wooden fort be built, placed on four wheels, with room at at the top for a large group of soldiers. This armed group then moved the war-machine with great force against the walls of the city, near one of the towers. In response, the inhabitants quickly built a ballistic machine, with which they tried to bombard our fort with huge stones, threatening to destroy both our machine and men. They also hurled Greek fire at the machine, trying to set the scaffolding afire, but God thwarted their plan. The machine stood high over the city wall, and, in the midst of the clash, the sound of trumpets ringing stirred the combatants. Meanwhile, some of our soldiers who were in the upper part of the machine, including William of Montpellier and some others, were hurling huge stones against those who were defending the walls. As a result, many shields were pierced, and the shields and their owners, both now useless, fell from the wall. Others, with iron hooks at the tips of their spears, tried to hook the Saracen defenders on the walls, to pull them off. The battle went back and forth, and was hardly over by evening. In the rear, priests, clerics, and monks, dressed in sacred attire, each according to his rank, earnestly prayed that God intervene by reducing the strength of the pagans, and by increasing the strength of those who fought for the true faith. On the other side of the siege machine, other knights were climbing ladders that had been set in place, while the wildly energetic pagans tried to push them off the walls. A certain Goufier, impatient with their resistance, was the first to climb the wall, together with a very small group of men. The inhabitants fiercely attacked these brave men, with spears and arrows, and some of them became frightened at this resistance, and jumped from the wall. Those who remained stood up to the enemies' missiles, spurning flight, returning blow for blow, while those who remained below continued to mine the wall. Soon the inhabitants saw that they were doomed by the mining of the wall, and, intent only on the safety of flight, climbed back down into the city. This happened on a Sunday, while the sun was already setting in the West, when December had reached its eleventh day. Bohemund quickly sent an interpreter to the Saracen leaders, offering to conduct them, together with their own knights, children, and wives, and with all the goods and supplies they could gather, to a palace near the gate of the city, promising to protect their lives, and to defend their people and possessions. Having taken the city in this manner, they took possession of everything they found in the caves and in the homes. When night had ended and daylight began to appear, a crowd of our people raced through the city, killing every pagan they found. No gate of the city, no matter how small, was without a pile of dead Saracens, and the narrow streets were impassable, because pagan bodies obstructed the public ways. Bohemund himself attacked those whom he had commanded to shut themselves up in the palace mentioned before, and took what they had from them. Some he killed, others he ordered brought to Antioch and sold. The Franks remained there for a whole month and four days, and the people suffered from great hunger. Some of our men, entirely without resources, finding nothing in nearby areas to satisfy their needs, desecrated the bellies of dead Saracens, daring to probe their internal organs, because they had heard that pagans in serious danger would try to preserve their gold and silver by eating them. Others, they say, cut pieces of flesh from the corpses, cooked them and ate them, but this was done rarely and in secret, so that no one could be sure whether they actually did this. Meanwhile, Bohemund had not forgotten the quarrel that had taken place between him and the count of Saint-Gilles, but returned angrily to Antioch when the count refused to yield to him. The count quickly sent men to Duke Godfrey, to the count of Flanders, to the count of Normandy, and to Bohemund, summoning them to a conference in Rugia (a city I mentioned above). They hurried to the meeting to arrange for an agreement, so that the journey to Jerusalem might be delayed no longer. Angry and proud, Bohemund resisted reconciliation unless the count agreed to what Bohemund wanted, granting him the part of Antioch over which he had control. The count, however, was adamant, insisting that he had given his word to the emperor. Therefore, divided against each other by bitterness of mind, the man from Saint-Gilles, Bohemund, and the duke returned to Antioch. The count of Saint-Gilles, however, placed his knights in charge of the palace and castle that looked down upon the gate at the bridge, and went off to Marrah, which he had recently captured. However, the count was not entirely unreasonable; considering that everyone would suffer because of his obstinacy, which would delay the liberation of the Tomb of the Lord, the noble man went barefooted out of Marrah on the thirteenth of January, and reached Capharda,[189] where he stayed three days. There he was joined by the count of Normandy, who gave up his resistance. The king of Caesarea had often sent ambassadors to the count of Saint-Gilles, to persuade him to enter into a pact with him, promising that he would offer aid to the Christians everywhere in his kingdom, permitting them to purchase food, clothing, horses, and whatever else they needed. Pleased with this offer, our men chose to set up their tents near the city, where the Pharphar river flowed near the city walls. But the king of the city, not overjoyed at the prospect of such an army so close to him, took the move badly, and forbade them to purchase supplies unless they quickly moved further away. The next day he sent two of his people together with our own men, to show them a passage of shallows across the river, and to lead them to where they might capture some booty. Our men were led to a valley below the encampment, where they found many animals, and they took about five thousand of them; they also found abundant wheat and other supplies, so that God's cavalry was ready again for action. The fort was also surrendered to the count, giving him a considerable amount of gold as well as horses. They also promised that they would not harm our men. After remaining there five days, our men left, and reached another fort which was held by Arabs. When they had set up their tents, the leader of the town came out and made an agreement with the count. After hastily packing their tents, the Christians moved on to a beautiful, prosperous town called Kephalia,[190] situated in a valley. When the inhabitants heard that the Franks were coming, they fled from the city, leaving homes filled with food, and gardens overflowing with produce; all that was in their minds was to save their lives. Our men left this city after three days; they climbed tall, jaggedly rocky mountains, then descended into a valley no less fertile than the valley in which Kephali was situated, where they stayed for fifteen days, rejoicing in the abundance, and resting. The Franks then found out that there was a nearby fort, to which many pagans had come. Our men quickly laid siege to it, and were about to win the town, when the inhabitants offered a plentiful supply of cattle to them, together with some flattering words, tricking them into delaying the siege for a while. The next morning, our men moved their tents closer to the city, preparing to undertake the siege. When the pagans perceived what was happening, they fled quickly, leaving the town deserted. The Christian army entered, and found plentiful supplies of grain, wine, wheat, oil, and other useful items. They celebrated the holiday of the Purification of the Blessed Mary there, and received the delegates sent by the king of the city of Camela, who promised to give the count horses, gold and silver, and to do no harm to the Christians, but to show them appropriate respect. The king of Tripoli[191] asked the count if he wished to enter into an agreement with him, in exchange for ten horses, four mules, and a large amount of gold. The count said that he would not consider a peaceful settlement with him, unless the king became Christian. Then they left the fertile valley, which I mentioned above, and reached a place well fortified by nature, high on a rock, called Archas, on the thirteenth of February, on the second day of the week. They set up their tents near the fortress, which was filled with an innumerable multitude of pagans, Turks, Saracens, and Arabs, whose numbers increased the original strength of the locations. At this point, fourteen knights from the Christian army fighting at Tripoli, which was near to this fortress, happened to come along, for no other reason, I think, than to find food. The fourteen of them came upon nearly sixty Turks, who were accompanied by others, leading more than fifteen hundred men and animals whom they had captured. Those who were carrying out the Lord's promise that two would make ten thousand flee before them, and one would make a thousand flee, called to their pious minds the sign of the cross and, with the aid of God, attacked them with unbelievable bravery, killing six men and capturing as many horses. From the retinue of the count of Saint-Gilles, Raymond, to whom we have given the additional name of Pelet, who deserves to be mentioned often in this little book, man remarkable for sternness as well as for eagerness in battle, together with another man whose surname I do not know, who performed the duties of a vicount,[192] sought out the city of Tortosa. At their first attack, which they launched with great ferocity, they terrified the inhabitants. Like a swarm of flies, a remarkably large crowd of pagans flocked to the fort. The following night, our men set up their tents at one end of the city, and lit many beacon fires, giving the impression that the entire Frankish army was there. Desperately afraid, the pagans judged that they could not protect their lives with their shields, and decided that the only way to escape death was to flee on foot. During the night they slipped away silently, leaving the city filled with wealthy treasure, and empty of inhabitants. Thus they piously fulfilled Scripture, which says that, "Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath he will give for his life."[193] This city, situated on the sea, has a fine port in one of its suburbs. The next day our men prepared to attack the city in full strength, but when they assembled to fight, they found that the city was empty. After entering, they remained there only until they set off to besiege the city of Archas, which I mentioned above. However, there was another city nearby, which was called Maraclea. He who was in charge of it, whom they called the emir, immediately prepared to enter into an agreement, and soon accepted our men and their banners in the city. Meanwhile duke Godfrey, Bohemund and the count of Flanders had reached Laodicia.[194] But Bohemund, impatient at being separated from his beloved Antioch, left his companions and returned to her. With equal desire, the others set out to besiege a city called Gibel. [195] Rumor reached count Raymond of Saint-Gilles that a huge force of pagans had assembled to wage war against him. He quickly called all the leaders of his army together, and asked them what should be done. The group replied that there was nothing to be done in these circumstances, except to call for help from their companions on the Lord's journey. He accepted and quickly carried out this plan. When the leaders, that is duke Godfrey and Robert of Flanders, found out that their companions were in trouble, they made an agreement with the ruler of the city of Gibel, who gave them magnificent gifts of horses and gold, and they gave up the siege of the city, and went off to bring help to the count. Their expectation of waging war was disappointed, however, and they all decided to go back to the siege of the fort at Archas. They gave themselves to the project energetically, and a short time later undertook an expedition against the inhabitants of Tripoli, whom they found ready for battle, with an army of Turks, Saracens, and Arabs lined up in front of the walls of the city. Our men attacked them vigorously and compelled them to take refuge in flight. The result was not merely a carnage of the nobles of the city, but wholesale slaughter, to the point that the waves of the river that ran through the city were died red with their blood, and the sewers were stained with this foulness. From that point on a day of no commerce[196] arose in the minds of the pagans, and the hearts of those who survived were so riddled with fear that none of them, for any reason whatsover, dared to go beyond the walls of the city. On the next day, our men went beyond the valley of Sem, an area which had been reached by those mentioned above on the third day after the capture of Kephalia. They found that it was rich in supplies, and stayed there fifteen days. They happily returned with what they had found there: cows, asses, sheep, with many other kinds of animals, including three thousand camels. They continued to lay siege to the fort of Archas for three months less one day, and celebrated Easter there on April 10. While they were engaged in the siege, the fleet which usually brought them provisions reached a nearby port, bringing a large amount of grain, wine, meat, cheese, barley, and oil, which provided the Lord's army with abundant supplies. Although they had to suffer no privation in this place, it seems to me foolish to have undertaken for such a long time such a useless task for such a trivial result. After the death of the noble bishop of Puy, who had managed, by a combination of love for his flock and discipline, to bind them together in harmony and unity, arguments and rude, arrogant behavior began to arise among the leaders; in particular, the middle and lower ranks began to behave badly, so that one might have thought that the Old Testament statement, "There was no longer a king in Israel, but each man did what seemed right in his own eyes,"[197] was being fulfilled. The bishops and others who remained, after the death of that glorious man who had been assigned the office of father and leader, did not have the same concern for them, particularly because they knew that that had not been granted the same powers that had been given to the bishop of Puy. Therefore, since they had no single ruler, and every man thought himself the equal of every other man, justice diminished among them, and the will of the mob often prevailed. Therefore it happened that, after the discovery of the Lance, which the late bishop had accepted devoutly, a shameful and faithless rumor began to circulate; some said that the discovery had been staged, and that he had exhibited not the Lord's Lance, but merely lance. Many people from the lower ranks began to grumble, and, by relentlessly lying, they corrupted those who had believed truly and had venerated the lance. They demanded proof of the discovery; they asked that the discoverer be tested by divine judgment. The man was compelled to pledge his word to those who were in doubt; he was compelled to offer what they forced from him, merely to deal with their lack of faith. Two pyres were constructed, in accordance with his orders, scarcely a cubit apart; many of the people, avid for novelty, heaped up a mass of kindling material, and when they had crowded together on both sides of the fire, only a narrow path remained between the flames. He then delivered a pitiful prayer, as was fitting, to merciful God, who is the Truth, without whose permission he knew he could do nothing about the situation, and walked briskly across the dark path of the flames, and then returned by the same path. A large crowd of western soldiers, in their war-gear, was present at this spectacle, awaiting, with different expectations, the outcome of this unusually daring undertaking. When he had returned, as I said, a huge crowd welcomed him as he came forth from the flames, and when they saw that he had escaped from the fire safe and sound, they snatched at his body and at his clothes, as though they were relics, and in the tumult of tearing and pushing, they killed him. Having barely escaped from the flames with his life, frightened by the danger from which he would not have escaped without God's help, trapped by people clutching at him from all sides, exhausted by the terror he had undergone, he could hardly have avoided being suffocated. When the man died, the common people, unreliable and fickle in their judgement, were disturbed by an even worse form of confusion, arguing about the outcome of the trial by fire. Some said that he had come out of the flames burned, others that he had escaped unharmed, and they reproached those who had killed him for no reason. However, whatever popular opinion may have been, we know that the glorious bishop embraced the sacred Lance with veneration, to the point that, in accordance with his directions, the body of the bishop was buried in the place where the Lance was found. So much for this matter. While our men were unsuccessfully engaged in the lengthy siege of the citadel of Archas, set atop a high mountain, and the army had pitched their tents in a distant valley, Anselm of Ribemont, a rich and powerful lord, exceedingly generous and remarkably capable at leading an army, saw how difficult the siege had become, and, without delay, advised our men to use machines for launching stones. They had already begun to undermine a lofty tower, digging a long tunnel which they shored up with planks and posts; they dug and scraped steadily every day with great energy, and women and the wives of the nobles, even on holidays, in flowing robes or tunics, carried off the material that had been dug up. When those inside the citadel discovered what our men were trying to do, they put up great resistance to those carrying out the digging, doing them great harm. When he saw that undermining the tower could not be accomplished, Anselm undertook the task of urging our men to use the ballistic machines. When the machines were set in place, and had fired many stones at the tower, the besieged put in place similar machine at the same spot. After it had been set in place, the machine hurled massive rocks down, doing great damage to the entire Frankish army; Anselm himself was the first, or among the first, to be struck down. He, who had always behaved faithfully and steadfastly as a member of the Lord's army, had shown other signs of his wisdom and strong faith; one particular example, which is most pleasing to men of letters, is brilliantly evident in the set of two letters he composed to Manassas, the archbishop of Rheims, a man of pious memory, who died about two years ago,[198] in which Anselm related everything which our men did at the siege of Nicea, how they traveled through Romania and Armenia, how they attacked, captured, and defended what they had captured at Antioch, and how at the same time they had fought against the king of Aleppo, against the king of Damascus, and against the king of Jerusalem, whom he called the adulterer. As testimony of his devoted love towards the noble martyr, on the day of the anniversary of the passion of the blessed Quintinus,[199] he held a celebration, surrounded by a crowd of clergy whom he had assembled to honor the saint, and he offered a fine ceremony for the celebrants. On the same day Anselm himself, together with many others, underwent joyous martyrdom, earning the kingdom of heaven as their reward for a holy death. BOOK SEVEN That the Eastern Church was restored by the labor of the Western faithful offers no small stimulus for our faith. We see the most pious battles fought solely for God, an army burning with a passion for martyrdom, without a king, without a prince, driven only by a dedication to their own salvation. We read of how the Gauls went off into the distant East, eager for battle, and they searched the secret places of Delphic Apollo, and we know that the treasures taken from the sacred shrines were thrown into the swamps of Toulouse. We know that all these troops were summoned together by the princes in those days; we have heard that, in this instance, not a single man was compelled against his will, by any master, to go on the journey. Here, weeping, confessing their sins, abandoning their possessions, spurning their wives and fleeing from their children, they took up arms. Foremost in the minds of all of them was the desire for a blessed death, for the love of God. Here, I say, I wish to weigh God's wonders: He who once strengthened the minds of the martyrs to undergo torture out of a love for invisible things, again in our own times, in an entirely unexpected way, which would have been considered absurd had anyone said it, placed in the hearts of our men such contempt for the things of this world, even in the hearts of the most bloodthirsty and greedy men. He accomplished so much with so few men, that one must refrain from praising those who did it, since it is clearly God who was responsible. This is clearly demonstrated by the fact that men who have won many victories often grow insolent, and princes rise up against each other, or they become stained with sin, and the Gentiles find them reduced, I might say, almost to the level of animals. However, if they were to grow aware of themselves, and were motivated by penitence, they would immediately be restored to their proper fortunes and pious successes. Let us rejoice then in the battles they won, undertaken purely out of spiritual desire, granted by divine power, which had never before appeared, but was made manifest in modern times; and let us not admire the fleshly wars of Israel, which were waged merely to fill the belly. The king of Tripoli ceaselessly petitioned our princes to remove themselves from the town, and make an alliance with him. In response, the leaders of the army, that is, Duke Godfrey, Raymond the Count of Saint-Gilles, Robert, Count of Flanders and Robert, Count of Normandy, took into account the fact that the land was abundant with new produce, that beans, sowed earlier, ripened by the middle of March, and that barley could be harvested before the middle of April, and they also considered the general condition of the land, and the great quantities of supplies, and they decided to resume the journey to Jerusalem. They abandoned the siege of the town and reached Tripoli on the sixth day of the week, on May 13, and they remained there three days. The king of Tripoli made an agreement with our leaders, and immediately freed more than 300 captives whom he held in chains. At their departure, as a sign of his gratitude, he gave them 15,000 besants, as well as fifteen costly horses. In addition, he gave our men a very good price on horses, donkeys, and other goods that would prove useful for the army, as a result of which the Lord's expedition was now fully restored to fighting condition. After this agreement had been made, he also added that if the Crusaders won the war which he had been told they were preparing strenuously to wage against the emperor of Babylon, and if they captured Jerusalem, then he would immediately convert to Christianity and hand himself and his land over to them. When they left this city, on the second day of May, they traveled over rough, narrow road all day and all night, and they finally reached a fort named Betholon.[200] Then they traveled on to a city located on the sea, called Zabari,[201] at whose river, called the Braim,[202] they quickly and opportunely relieved the great thirst from which they had been suffering. On the evening of the Ascension of the Lord they ascended a mountain along a very narrow road, in great fear that the narrowness of the path might prevent them from evading any enemies they might meet at the end of the road. But God's providence prevented anyone from daring to attack them. Our soldiers formed a vanguard that kept the road free from hostile attack. At length they reached a city by the sea, which was called Baruth; then they went on to Sarepta,[203] once inhabited by the Sidonians, and made famous by Elijah's feeding of the widow;[204] from there they went to Sur,[205] and then to Acre, once the capital of Palestine. Continuing on, they came to a castle called Caiphas, finally reaching the renowned Caesarea of Palestine, where they remained for three days after the end of May, celebrating Pentecost. Then they went on to Ramathan,[206] famed as the birthplace of Samuel, which some wiser men, more knowledgeable about topography, claim to be Ramothgalaad, in the struggle for which the wicked Ahab was defeated by Benadab, the king of the Syrians.[207] When they heard that the Franks were coming, the inhabitants fled. This city, even if it were not notable for any ancient monuments, would still seem to me to overshadow all other cities because of the presence of the brilliant martyr George, whose tomb they claim is there. After the inhabitants left, a large supply of every kind of food was found there, which offered, for many days, ample provisions for our army. The leaders, after consulting with and obtaining the approval of the clerics and bishops were were able to be present, decided to choose a bishop for this city. They tithed themselves, enriching him with gold and silver; they also supplied him with horses and other animals, so that he and his household might live without the pain of indigence, and in accordance with his rank. Amid general rejoicing, the bishop[208] settled in the city which had been entrusted to him, to guard the people, to build cathedral as soon as possible, and to install officials who would look after the church, ready to obey the leaders who had vehemently sought this out of love and worship of the martyr. Finally they reached the place which had provoked so many hardships for them, which had brought upon them so much thirst and hunger for such a long time, which had stripped them, kept them sleepless, cold, and ceaselessly frightened, the most intensely pleasurable place, which had been the goal of the wretchedness they had undergone, and which had lured them to seek death and wounds. To this place, I say, desired by so many thousands of thousands, which they had greeted with such sadness and jubilation, they finally came, to Jerusalem. As one reads that the sojourners ate and worshiped the Body of the Lord,[209] so it may be said of these men that they adored Jerusalem and took it by storm. Tuesday, the sixth of June, the siege was begun with remarkable energy, by a remarkable combination of forces. From the north, Count Robert of Normandy laid siege to it, near the church of the blessed Saint Stephen, who, because he said that he had seen the Son of man standing at the right hand of God, was covered with a rain of stones by the Jews. From the west, Duke Godfrey, the count of Flanders, and Tancred attacked. From the south, the count of Saint-Gilles laid siege, on the mount of Zion, near the church of the blessed Mary, mother of God, where the Lord is said to have sat at dinner with his disciples, the day before his Passion. On the third day after they had arrived at the city, Raymond, whose deeds on the Lord's expedition were well known, this man, I say, whom they called Pelet, together with another man who had the same name, and several others, marched some distance from the place of siege, to see if he could find any of the enemy wandering into our ambushes, as they often did. Suddenly a band of nearly 200 Arabs fell upon them; as soon as Raymond saw them, he attacked as fiercely as a lion, and, in spite of their boldness, with the aid of God, they were subdued. After killing many of them, and capturing thirty horses, they brought the victory back to the army, which took pleasure in their glorious deed. At dawn, on the second day of the next week, the outer, smaller wall of the city was attacked with such force and with such teamwork that both the city and its outskirts would have immediately fallen to the Franks, if they had not lacked ladders. After the outer wall was broken, and a broad passage opened through its rubble, the ladder they did have was extended towards the battlements of the main wall. Some of our knights climbed it quickly and began to fight at long range. And when the arrows ran out, they fought with lances and swords; both the defenders of the city and the besiegers battled hand-to-hand with steel. Many of our men fell, but more of their men. One should know that while Antioch was under siege, Jerusalem was held by the Turks, under the authority of the king of Persia. Moreover, the emperor of Babylon, as I mentioned previously, had sent ambassadors to our army, for the sole purpose of determining the condition of our enterprise. When they saw the terrible need that afflicted the Christian army, and when they discovered that the nobles had become foot-soldiers because of a lack of horses, they considered us valueless in a struggle against the Turks, whom they hated intensely. The king of Persia had taken great part of the Babylonian empire, which was very large, for his people were wiser and more energetic in military matters. When the Babylonian prince heard, however, that the Franks--that is, God working through the Franks--had taken Antioch, and had defeated Kherboga himself, together with the pride of Persia, before the walls of Antioch, he quickly gathered his courage, bore arms against the Turks, and laid siege to them in Jerusalem, which they occupied. Then, I don't know whether by force or by some agreement, they entered the town, and placed many Turks, whether to guard it or to take charge of it I don't know, in the tower bearing the name of David, which we think more correctly should be called the tower of Zion. In any case, during the siege they harmed none of us, merely watching peacefully over their assigned tower. As a result, our men fought only with the Saracens. They were unable to buy bread during the siege, and for nearly ten days food was difficult to find anywhere, until God brought help, and our fleet reached the port of Jaffa. In addition, the army also suffered from thirst, and they not only were worn out by this great discomfort, but they had to drive their horses and pack animals a great distance, six miles, to find water, all the while fearful that the enemy might attack them. The fountain of Siloah, famous for having cured the blind man in the Gospel,[210] which rises from springs on mount Zion, supplied them with water, which was sold to them at the highest prices. After messengers had announced that the fleet had arrived at Jaffa, the leaders held a meeting and decided to send a group of knights to the harbor to guard the ships and the men in them. Early in the morning, at the crack of dawn, Raymond, of whom we have spoken often, together with two other nobles, took 100 knights from the army of his lord, the count of Saint-Gilles, and set out for the port, with his customary decisiveness. Thirty of the knights separated from the main group and came upon approximately 700 Turks, Arabs, and Saracens, whom the king of Babylon had sent to watch our comings and goings. Although greatly outnumbered, our men forcefully attacked their troops, but the strength and ferocity of the enemy was so great that we were threatened on all sides with imminent death. They killed one of the two leaders, whose name was Achard, as well as some of the most respected among the poor and the foot-soldiers. As they were surrounding our men, pressing them with arms on all sides, so that they were about to despair utterly, one man came to the above-mentioned Raymond and told him of the plight of his peers. "Why do you and your men remain here? See how your men, who recently separated from you, are now fiercely surrounded by an swarm of Saracens and Arabs. Unless you bring them help very quickly, you will undoubtedly soon find them dead, if they have not already perished. Therefore fly, hurry, I say, so that you may not be too late." Together with all of his nobles, Raymond quickly set off to look at the place where the fighting was going on. In preparing for combat he placed his faith not in arms, not in strength, but in faith in the Saviour. When the Gentile troops saw the Christian army, they swiftly broke up into two groups. Calling upon the Most High for support, our men attacked with such force that each man knocked the opponent charging at him to the ground. Judging themselves unable to withstand the onslaught of the Christians, the pagans stopped, and, driven by fear, fled swiftly. Our men followed them quickly, pursuing them for four miles. After having killed many of them, they brought back 103 horses as trophies of victory. They refrained from killing only one man, whom they brought back with them, and from whom they learned everything that was going on among their enemies, including what the prince of Babylon was planning against us. Meanwhile the army was suffering from a terrible thirst, which compelled them to sew together the hides of cattle and oxen, in which they carried water from six miles away. They used the water carried in such bags, which were putrid with recent sweat, and multiplied the great suffering caused by hunger, to make barley bread for the army. How many jaws and throats of noble men were eaten away by the roughness of this bread. How terribly were their fine stomachs revolted by the bitterness of the putrid liquid. Good God, we think that they must have suffered so, these men who remembered their high social position in their native land, where they had been accustomed to great ease and pleasure, and now could find no hope or solace in any external comfort, as they burned in the terrible heat.[211] Here is what I and I alone think: never had so many noble men exposed their own bodies to so much suffering for a purely spiritual benefit. Although the hearts of the pilgrims burned for the dear, distant pledges of their affections, for their sweet wives and for the dignity of their possessions, nevertheless they remained steadfastly in place there, and did not cease to pursue the battle for Christ. The Saracens were always waiting in ambush around the springs and rivers, eager to kill our men wherever they found them, strip their bodies, and, if they happened to gain booty and horses, to hide them in caves and caverns. Terrible hunger and thirst raged through the army surrounding the city, and the very great rage of the enemy prowling here and there thundered against them as well. But the leaders of the sacred army, seeing that so many men of such different capacities could scarcely endure such pain any longer, urged the use of machines by means of which the city might be made more vulnerable, so that, after all they had gone through, they might finally stand before the monuments of the passion and burial of the Saviour. In addition to the many other instruments, like battering rams with which they might tear down the walls, or catapults to topple the towers and walls, they ordered two wooden castles to be built, which we usually call "falas." Duke Godfrey was the first to build his castle, together with other machines; and Raymond, Count of Saint-Gilles, who permitted himself to be second to no one, also built his own. When they saw the machines being built, the castles being constructed, the missile launchers and equipment being moving up to the towers, the Saracens began, with unusual speed, to extend and to repair their walls and towers. Working all night long, they surprised our men by the speed with which they accomplished things. Moreoever, the wood from which our men had built the castles and other machines was brought from a distant region. When the leaders of the army of the Lord perceived which side of the city was most vulnerable, on a certain Sunday night they brought the castle, together with some other machines, to that place. At dawn they set up the machines on the eastern side, and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday they established them firmly in place. The count of Saint-Gilles, however, set up his machine on the southern side. As they burned with eagerness for the siege, their hearts were burning with intolerable thirst, and a silver coin could not purchase enough water to quench a man's thirst. Finally, on the fourth and fifth day, gathering all their forces, they started to attack the walled city. But before the attack took place, the bishops and priests directed the people who were their subjects to sing litanies, and to undertake fasts, to pray, and to give alms. The bishops remembered what had once happened at Jericho, that the walls of the perfidious city had fallen when the Israelites' trumpets sounded, and they marched seven times around the city, carrying the sacred ark, and the walls of the faithless city fell down.[212] They too circled Jerusalem in their bare feet, their spirits and bodies contrite, as they tearfully cried out the names of the saints. Both the leaders and the people came together in this time of necessity, to implore divine assistance. When this was accomplished with great humility, on the sixth day of the week, after they had attacked the city with great forcefulness, and their common effort had proved to be of no avail, such a great torpor fell upon the whole army that their strength vanished, and the steady misfortunes undermined the determination of the most courageous men. As God is my witness, I have heard, from men renowned for their truthfulness, who were present in the divine army, that after their unsuccessful assault upon the walls of the city, you would have seen the best of the knights who had returned from the walls striking their hands, shouting angrily, lamenting that God had deserted them. And I also learned, from sources no less reliable, that Robert, count of Normandy, and the other Robert, prince of Flanders, met and shared their mutual grief, weeping copiously, and declaring themselves the most wretched of men, since the Lord Jesus had judged them unworthy of worshipping His Cross, and of seeing, or rather of adoring His tomb. But as the hour drew near at which Jesus, who for the second time delivered the people from the prison of Egypt, is believed to have ascended the Cross, duke Godfrey and his brother, count Eustace, who had not stopped battling from their castle, steadily struck the lower walls with battering rams, while at the same time attacking the Saracens, who were fighting to protect their lives and country, with stones, with various other kinds of missiles, and even with the points of their swords, Meanwhile, Lietaud, one of the knights, who will be known for generations to come for his daring and for his deeds, was the first to leap onto the walls of the city, startling the Gentiles who surrounded him, and robbing them of their confidence When he had mounted the wall, several of the young Franks whose pious boldness had made them preeminent rushed forward, unwilling to seem inferior to him who had preceded them, and they climbed to the top of the wall. I would insert their names on this page, were I not aware of the fact that, after they returned, they became infamous for criminal acts; therefore, according to the judgment of men who love the name of God, my silence is not unjust. Very soon, when the Saracens saw the Franks breaching the walls, they quickly fled over the walls and through the city. While they were retreating, our entire army rushed in, some through the breaches made by the battering rams, others by jumping from the tops of their machines. Their struggle to enter resulted in harmful speed; with each man wanting to be perceived as the first, they got in each other's way. Moreover, near the entrance to the gates to the city, the Saracens had built secret covered pits, which injured many of our men, not to speak of the difficulties caused by the narrowness of the entrance as our men rushed in. The Franks chased the fleeing pagans fiercely, killing everyone they came upon, more in slaughter than in battle, through the streets, squares, and crossroads, until they reached what was called the Temple of Solomon. So much human blood flowed that a wave of damp gore almost covered the ankles of the advancing men. That was the nature of their success that day. Raymond, the Count of Saint-Gilles, moved his army from the southern flank and had a very large machine on wheels brought to the wall, but between the machine, which was called the Castle, and the wall, was a very deep pit. The princes soon conferred about how to accomplish the breaching of the wall quickly, and ordered a messenger to announce throughout the army that anyone who carried three stones into the ditch would certainly receive a penny. In the space of scarcely three days the moat was filled in, since night did not prevent them from carrying out their project. When the moat had been filled in by this means, they pushed the machine against the walls. However, those who had taken on the defense of the inner city resisted us, not out of bravery I say, but out of obstinate madness, hurling what they call Greek fire at our men, and damaging the wheels of the machine with stones. The Franks, however, with remarkable skill, often managed to evade their blows and efforts. Meanwhile, at the eastern side of the city, the tumult of battle alone made the aforementioned count think that the Franks had broken into the city, and were racing though it, spreading death. "Why," he said to his men, "do we delay? Don't you see that the Franks have taken the city, and are now triumphantly seizing great booty?" The count, together with his men, then swiftly invaded the city. When he learned that some of the Franks had spread through the city's palaces, some into the Temple of the Lord, and that many were fighting at the altars of the Temple of Solomon, as it was formerly called, in order to retain power in the captured city he spoke with the emir (as they called him) in charge of the tower of David, which was called Zion, demanding that he hand over the tower with which he had been entrusted. Thus the satrap, after a pact had been agreed upon between them, opened for him the gate through which the pilgrims used to pass when they entered Jerusalem, and where they were cruelly and unfairly compelled to pay tribute, which was called *musellae*. When the Provencals, that is, the army of the Count of Saint-Gilles, and all the others had entered the city, a general slaughter of the pagans took place. No one was spared because of tender years, beauty, dignity, or strength: one inescapable death awaited them all. Those who had retreated to the Temple of Solomon continued to battle against us throughout the day, but our men, enraged at the feeble arrogance of these desperate men, attacked them with united force, and by means of their combined efforts penetrated to the depths of the temple, where they inflicted such slaughter on the wretches within the temple that the blood of the innumerable crowd of those who were killed nearly submerged their boots. An innumerable crowd, of mingled sexes and ages, had poured into this Temple; the Franks granted some of them a few moments of life, so that they might remove from the Temple the bodies of the fallen, of whom a foul pile lay scattered here and there. After they had removed the bodies, they were themselves put to the sword. Those who had climbed to the top of the Temple, a large crowd of the common people, received the standards of Tancred and Gaston as a sign that peace had been granted to them in the meantime. However, whether Gaston, a famous and very wealthy man, was a Gascon or a Basque, I don't exactly remember, but I am certain that he was one or the other.[213] The army then ran amok, and the entire city was looted. Palaces and other buildings lay open, and silver, gold, and silken garments were seized as booty. They found many horses and mules, and in the houses they found great abundance of every kind of food. This was right and proper for the army of God, that the finest things that offered themselves to each man, no matter how poor, became his by right, without doubt or challenge, no matter the social class of the man who first came upon them. And then, putting these things aside, they ran, equally joyful and sad, towards that which they had thirsted for so fervently. They approached the sepulchre of the Lord and thanked Him for what they had sought, the liberation of the Blessed Places; He had performed such great deeds with them as his instruments, that neither those who had performed them nor any other men could properly evaluate these great deeds. They kept in mind how much anguish they had endured to achieve this, and how they had accomplished what they could not have hoped for, and when they considered that they themselves had done deeds which had been unknown for centuries, no man could understand how blessed were the tears which they poured forth. Omnipotent God, what deep emotion, what joy, what grief they felt, after unheard-of sufferings, never experienced by any army, like the tortures of child-birth, when, like new-born children, they saw that they had attained the fresh joys of the long-desired vision. Therefore they were sad, and after they had joyfully wept tears sweeter than any bread, they rejoiced, and with overflowing emotions they embraced the most pious Jesus, the cause of their excruciating daily labors, as though he had been hanging on the cross, or had been held until that moment in the shelter of the tomb from time immemorial. Magnificent gifts of gold and silver were offered there, but sincere devotion was more valuable than any gift. At last the next day shone forth, and the Franks, sorry that they had permitted those who had climbed to the top of the Temple (to whom Tancred and Gaston had given their own standards, as we said earlier) to remain alive, invaded the heights of the temple and cut the Saracens to pieces, killing the women together with the men. Some of them, preferring suicide, threw themselves from the top of the Temple. Tancred, however, because he and Gaston had given their pledges of security, was much disturbed by this killing. Then our men ordered some of the Saracens to carry off the dead, because the foul stench of the bodies was oppressive, and the city was filled with so many corpses that the Franks were unable to move without stepping on dead bodies. Therefore the pagans, when they had carried the bodies from the city, in front of the main gates piled up mountains of corpses, and burned them in a huge pile. We merely read about, and have never seen such a killing of Gentiles anywhere; God repaid them who had inflicted such pain and death upon the pilgrims--who had suffered for such a long time in that land--by exacting a retribution equal to their hideous crimes. For no one except God himself can calculate how much suffering, how many labors, how much destruction all of those who sought the Holy Places endured at the hands of the arrogant Gentiles. God certainly must have grieved more over their suffering than over the delivery of his Cross and Tomb into profane hands. But before we turn our stylus to other matters, it should be made clear that the Temple of Solomon, to which we referred earlier, is not the structure which Solomon himself built, which the Lord had predicted would not continue to stand, "one stone upon another," and which was destroyed, but an imitation of it, built by I don't know whom, as tribute to the noble ancient House. It certainly was a place of very great beauty, built out of gold and silver, of immeasurable price, and of incredible variety, with walls and gates plated with layers of precious metals. Count Raymond then had the prefect who had been in charge of the citadel, to whom he had sent his banners, brought out of the citadel that night, together with his entire retinue, and given safe conduct to Ascalon. Then, when the holy places had been liberated, the entire Christian army was ordered to give alms and offerings, so that their souls might be properly receptive to the divine grace that they needed to choose the man who would rule the holy city as its king. On the eighth day after the taking of the city, they made an offer to the count of Saint-Gilles, because of his excellence, but he, although mindful of his high position, refused to take on such an onerous task, for good reason (he was an old man, who had only one eye, but was famous for his remarkable feats of arms and for his energy). Finally, they approached duke Godfrey, and, at the urgent insistence of everyone, the labor rather than the honor of this task was imposed upon him, for he would have to battle unremittingly against the great strength of the Gentiles, and to show good will towards the neighboring Christians. Slender, relatively tall, eloquent, and even-tempered, he had made himself known for his strength in battle on the Lord's expedition. According to reliable, accurate testimony, the following story is told about a remarkable deed he did, when he met at Antioch, on the bridge over the Pharphar, a Turk, wearing no cuirass, but riding a horse. Godfrey struck his guts so forcefully with his sword that the trunk of his body fell to the earth, while the legs remained seated as the horse moved on. The men of Lotharingia customarily had remarkable long as well as sharp swords. We think that another of his deeds, no less glorious, and worthy to be told, should be included. They had taken Nicea, and since things had gone well at Nicea, they hurried off to besiege Antioch; on the way, from time to time, when the chance to relax their usual caution occurred, they hunted beasts in the nearby forests (the fields in this region were not as tall and thick as in our country). On one occasion, a bear of enormous size came out of the bushes; when the army caught sight of him, they set out in pursuit. Frightened by the shouting crowd, the bear immediately sought out the woods from which it had emerged. While many men were surrounding it, one wretch happened to reach the beast's lair. Leaping forward, the bear attacked the rash man, pinned him in his arms, and with his teeth swiftly seized the leg of the man lying there.[214] Then the Duke, separated from his men, went to help him; when the wretched man, weeping with pain and fear, saw him, he called upon the man's noble nature, and urged him to help him. Nor did the Duke, whose nature consisted almost entirely of virtue, delay helping him, but he swiftly drew his sword from its scabbard and forcefully struck the head of the beast. More annoyed than wounded, because of the hardness of its bones, the beast attacked the Duke, removing its teeth from the leg of the unfortunate man whom he had first attacked so fiercely. The man quickly departed, without troubling himself about the Duke's difficulty, but saving himself, leaving the man and the beast to resolve their conflict between them. The beast, angry at the blow he had received, leapt up, seized the Duke with his claws, threw him down, and pinned him under his terrible limbs. With his raging mouth he bit the Duke's leg,[215] but the noble-minded man remained steadfast in spite of his fall, and tightly held onto the sword he had drawn.[216] As he lay there, and the beast continued to gnaw at the hip he had seized, the Duke, fully aware of his predicament, placed his sword between the head and arm of the beast, gathered all of his strength, and drove the point of the blade into the depths of the beast's body. When he felt the metal gliding through his viscera, the beast finally relaxed the jaws that had sunk into the Duke's flesh. When the Duke saw that he had been released from the beast's mouth, and noticed that the beast was not moving from its place, he pushed with both feet, but in the act of pushing he received an almost mortal wound in his leg from the sword that was stuck in the breast of the beast above him. He fell down in worse shape than when he had been held by the beast, and now, weakened from loss of blood, after some time he was found by his men. The Duke was now sorry, although too late, for having gone out by himself, since this adventure was costly for his own warriors, and for the entire sacred army. Until the siege of Antioch was over, he had to be carried on a litter, and since he could not look after himself or others, he quickly lost almost 15,000 men of those who had belonged to him, but who abandoned him when he became disabled. Since we have dealt with the bear, we would also like to mention a deed performed by his brother Baldwin, who is now still the ruler of Jerusalem, since no other more fitting place for the story may occur. He suffered a similarly severe wound in battle, in the course of saving one of his foot-soldiers, who had supported him bravely. Foresight led the doctor whom he summoned to resist covering the wound with medicinal poultices, because he knew that the wound was very deep, and while the skin could be made smooth, the wound would fester deep within his body. He proposed to conduct a remarkable experiment. He asked the king to order one of the Saracens whom they held prisoner to be wounded in the same place and in the same manner that Baldwin himself had been (for it was forbidden for him to ask for Christian), and to have him killed thereafter, so that he might look more freely into the corpse, and determine from this inspection something about the king's own internal wounds. The prince's piety recoiled in horror at this suggestion, and he recalled the example of ancient Constantine, declaring that he would not be the cause of the death of any man, no matter how insignificant, for such insignificant salvation, when it is ever doubtful. The doctor then said to him, "If you have decided that no man's life can be spent for your own well-being, then at least give the order to bring forward a bear, an animal useless except for show, and have it hung up by its front paws, then struck with an iron blade, so that I may then examine his entrails, and I shall be able to measure how far it went in, and thereby determine the depth of your own wound." The king answered him, "The beast will be brought immediately, since it is necessary: consider it a done deed." When the doctor had finished his experiment at the animal's expense, he found, as we mentioned above, that harm would come to the king if the wound were quickly covered, unless the pus was removed and the interior part of the wound would heal. To have said these things about the piety of the kings is sufficient; they would have been deservedly famous had the choice of a bishop, and the bishopric itself, not been defective. Up to this point the careful Muse has proceeded through brambles, along a narrow path. A cloud obscures the traveller's path, and the dawning of the late star scarcely grows warm. Let the plague of blood have run only thus far; let there be no further time for slaughter and hunger. If Fortune has sometimes smiled on our efforts, the rapacious air of destruction has soon followed. When the walls of Nicea fell, and the city of Antioch was captured, what good was produced? The good that resulted from the sufferings, for each holy martyr, when death was conquered. For if grievous things had to be suffered, bearing poverty and death at the same time, the grief brought about future joys. I shall use the voice of the writer of the Psalms, "I was glad when they said to me, let us go into the house of the Lord;"[217] our feet shall tread the halls of Solyme, walking there joyfully. Franks, take these rewards of labor; do not grieve for the unhappiness you have endured. Take pleasure in the sight of the Sepulchre you had long hoped for, and in the restoration of the tear-stained Cross, and all suffering will leave your hearts. This city, often made the spoil of kings, was given over to utter ruin. O city made blessed by this capture, from now on you should rule, drawing to you Christian kingdoms. You will see the glories of the earth come here, to show filial gratitude to you. Not Ezra nor Judas Machabee did as much, after your sufferings; Hadrian, whence Elia gets its name, was not able, in reviving you, to give so much. This world fights for you and yours; concern for you involves almost the entire age. Once Judea, when it was at its strongest, could match this glory. Why are knights sung of in battle? I ask that you be the ruin of Persia and not of yourself. Attack the prince of Babylon, and whatever stands in the way of Jerusalem, so that good men may visit the Cross of Jesus, bowing their pious heads at the Tomb. I shall cry out that our times have learned what no future annals will teach.[218] While temporal activities, which are thought to be the concern of the royal administration, were being taken care of, internal ecclesiastical concerns were not to be neglected, and as soon as a king was set up, they dealt with replacing the patriarch. At that time there was a cleric, of what rank I am not sure, named Arnulf. He had some skill at logic, significant knowledge of grammatical learning, and for some time had taught, in the subject mentioned above, the daughter of the king of England, a nun. The count of the Normans, through his sister, had promised him as much as a bishop's honors, if any of his bishops happened to die. Meanwhile, when the journey to Jerusalem was proposed, the bishop of Bayeux, whose name was Odo, and who was very wealthy, vowed to undertake the journey. Since he was the brother of William the elder, king of England, and, in addition to the office of bishop, among the English he held the county of Kent, with the expectation of great wealth, he seemed ready to dare new enterprises, to the extent of plotting to take over the kingdom from his brother. When the king found out about his intentions, he put him in prison, where he remained until the day the king died. At this time the bishop regained his freedom and office, and, as I said earlier, when the pilgrimage was proclaimed, Odo, accompanied by a large retinue and immense resources, set out on the journey. Arnulf enrolled himself in his retinue, and when death overtook this bishop, within the borders of Romania if I am not mistaken, Odo bequeathed, out of the fortune which he left behind, a legacy to him, which consisted of almost all of his most precious possessions. Since he possessed a considerable amount of literary knowledge, as well as native eloquence, and his increased wealth made him more well known, he began to drive our men on with many speeches, and to increase his fame in this way. The fact that learned men were in short supply made him even more illustrious, and since a man's voice is of more concern than the life he has led, he was called to the patriarchy of Jerusalem. For some time, then, he presented himself as the bishop, though in name only; he fulfilled his new office by sermonizing. Finally, after a short time, when news of his election reached the Apostlic See, after the death of the bishop of Puy, Pope Paschal decreed that Daimbert, the archbishop of Pisa, should administer pastoral care to the Lord's army. After Jerusalem had been captured and the king had taken office, Daimbert arrived with a large fleet; short while later he examined the process by which Arnulf had been chosen, and decided that, in accordance with canon law, it should be challenged. After a thorough investigation of the man's origin, he was found to be the son of a priest and therefore one who should not only be barred from sacred office, but, according to a decision by the council of Toledo, he should be ordered to become an eternal slave of that church whose dignity had been affronted by his engendering. When he had been deposed, then, in spite of his strenuous efforts to defend himself, the leaders wanted to mitigate the shame that he felt at being rejected, and so they asked him whom they should choose. In accordance with his depraved nature, which envied both his peers and juniors, he said, "Choose the Pisan himself, who is carrying out his assignment." The leaders agreed with his words, seized the archbishop in the church where he was sitting, almost without asking his consent, and escorted him themselves to the cathedral to take up the see. A short time later, after the death of the glorious king Godfrey, during the reign of his brother Baldwin, who had previously ruled over Edessa, they accused Daimbert of treason. Convicted of the crime, he who had resigned his metropolitan see was deprived of the office of patriarch. When another election was held to determine who would be bishop, Arnulf shrewdly nominated one of his peers, whom he knew to be submissive, a simple, illiterate man, named Ebremar, who would offer no resistance to Arnold's power. He, however, behaved in a religious fashion, and I think that he did not carry out Arnulf's wishes in every way. As result, he soon was accused at the Apostolic See, but the accusation failed miserably. As a result, Arnulf, together with those who had been his accomplices in the accusation against Ebremar, incurred the wrath of the king, who deprived him of the guardianship of the Sepulchre, and drove him from the city. Reinstated by the leaders of the Apostolic See, the bishop returned to Jerusalem, to the great shame of his persecutors. This is quite enough to have said about the election and deposition of that would-be patriarch. The election, which was null and void in the minds of all right-thinking men, took place on the day of the festival of Saint-Peter-in-chains, but since he had no help from a pious life, it dissolved. The city was captured by the Franks on the fifteenth day of July, on the sixth day of the week, almost at the hour when Christ was put on the cross. A short time later, only a few days in fact, ambassadors[219] arrived from the city of Naplouse,[220] which, unless I am mistaken, in ancient times was called Emmaus. They invited Tancred and count Eustachius, the brother of the duke who was now king, both of whom were brave, noteworthy men, to set out for the above mentioned city, bringing with them a large army, to take control of it. They set out, bringing many men with them, including great number of foot-soldiers, and reached the outskirts of the city. The residents of the town, of their own free will, then opened the fortifications and surrendered to them. Other messengers came to king Godfrey, bearing the news that the emperor of Babylon was getting large numbers of troops ready to wage war against him. The king, made fiercer by what he had just been told, dispatched messengers to his brother Eustace and to Tancred, instructing and urging them to return to Jerusalem as soon as possible. The king also indicated that the battle would take place at Ascalon. When these most fearless men heard what had happened, they hastily set off through the mountains, where they found none of the Saracens they thought would be up in arms against them; then they reached Caesarea in Palestine. From there they retraced their steps, proceeding to Ram, the town mentioned above, made famous by the memory of Saint George, and situated on the shore of the sea, where they met up with many Arabs, who were the vanguard of the army they were to face. Our men joined forces against them, attacked them, and by their united efforts overwhelmed the enemy, who were compelled to flee. Many were captured alive, and they revealed the enemies' plans for the battle about to take place: where the army was going to assemble; what was its size; and where they planned to stand and fight. After he had gathered this information, Tancred sent messengers directly to Godfrey, king of Jerusalem, to tell him what he had learned. He sent other messengers to Arnulf, the man known as the patriarch, and to the other leaders, saying, "You should know that a great battle awaits you, and since it is certainly about to take place, come quickly to Ascalon, supported by as many fine troops as you can quickly and carefully gather." The king, than whom no one was wiser in his faith in God, by the authority invested in him proceeded to rouse the entire army of God to perform this task, and designated Ascalon as the place to which they should proceed to face the enemy. He himself, together with the man called the patriarch, and Robert, count of Flanders, left the city on the third day of the week. But the count of Saint-Gilles and the count of Normandy informed the king that they were unwilling to proceed until they learned whether the battle was certain to take place; they said that meanwhile they would return to Jerusalem, offering to come quickly if needed. The king departed, and when he saw the enemy from afar, quickly sent news of what he had found back to those who were in Jerusalem. He summoned a certain bishop,[221] and sent him to the city, to entreat everyone to delay no longer, but, at this moment of need, to join him. On Wednesday the leaders gathered together the Lord's expeditionary forces and moved their camp outside the city. The bishop who had brought the king's words to those who had remained in Jerusalem was captured by Saracens, as he was making his way back to the king. It is not clear whether he died or was led away captive. Peter the Hermit, the official in charge of work that to this point was pious, together with clerics, both Greek and Latin, remained in the city, organizing processions, supervising prayers, preaching sermons, urging the giving of alms, so that God might deign to add this supreme victory to the victories of his people. The ecclesiastics who could be present, dressed in their sacred vestments, as though they were going to perform sacred offices, marched to the Lord's Temple, where they led masses and delivered sermons that moved the men and women deeply, asking God to end their exile. But the man with the name of patriarch, together with the other bishops who were present, gathered with several of the leaders at the river which is known to be on this side of Ascalon. There, by the trickery of the Gentiles, many thousands of animals, including herds of cows, camels, and sheep, had been put in place. When the leaders learned that they had been placed there as booty to tempt our men, the order was circulated throughout the encampment that none of this booty was to be found in anyone's tent, unless he could show that it was necessary for his food that day.[222] Meanwhile, 300 Arabs rode into view, and our men pursued them so effectively that they captured two of them as they fled, and harassed the others by pursuing them to their encampment. Later on the same day, the man performing the function of patriarch had the announcement made through the entire army that early the next day everyone would prepare for battle, and he threatened to excommunicate anyone who stopped during the battle to pillage; each man was to suppress his desire for booty until the end of the battle. He asked that they concentrate on killing the enemy, so that they might not be diverted from the task by desire for shameful gain, thereby permitting greed to stand in the way of the victory they had in their grasp. Friday morning our army entered a very lovely valley, on a level with the nearby river, where they set up their separate battle lines. The Duke, who was now king, the count of Flanders, the count of Normandy, the count of Saint-Gilles, Eustace of Bologne, Tancred and Gaston together, in addition to others, both in single and in shared commands, stood before their units. Bowmen and lancers, who customarily march in front of the troops of foot-soldiers, were drawn up, and king Godfrey with his troops took up the left side, while the count of Saint-Gilles took up a position near the sea, and the counts of Flanders and Normandy rode on the right side. Tancred and others marched along in the center. Our foot soldiers moved against the enemy's forces; the Gentiles prepared themselves for battle without moving. You would have seen them carrying on their shoulders vessels, which enabled them to hold the cool water in small sacks,[223] from which they thought that they would drink while pursuing us as we fled. But God provided something other than the enemy race was imagining, for meanwhile, Robert, the count of Normandy, saw shining from afar the spear of the leader of the army; it seemed to be covered with bright silver, and its top decorated with thick gold. Steadily spurring his swift horse on, he attacked the prince, who was carrying spear as a standard, with great force, wounding him with terrible blow. On the other side, the count of Flanders loosened his horse's reins and plunged into the thick of the enemy. Tancred rushed among the tents with a great company, and the troops, along with their leaders, were revelling everywhere.[224] The fields and plains became bloody with carnage. The enemy was unable to bear their losses, and soon fled in despair. Even as the number of pagans was great, so was the carnage great. If the waves of the sea were great, so the Lord shows himself much more marvelous in the deeps.[225] Then, so that it might be clear that the hand of God only, and not that of man, was waging war, you would seen them flee blindly, with their eyes open, and in their attempt to avoid our weapons, they threw themselves on them. There was no place of refuge: tall trees offered no protection for many of them, nor were they able to escape our arrows. Swift blows created massive destruction.[226] All those whom flight could not protect were dead or almost dead from the blows of our arrows and swords, which cut them down like cattle. The count of Saint-Gilles, near the shore, from which he had launched his own army against the enemy, attacked them like a storm, with such vehemence that many of them, trying to escape from the blades, voluntarily plunged into the sea. When the victory had been won, thanks to God's leadership, the prince of the Babylonian army, who, in their language, is called an emir, was confounded, and, unable to control his astonishment at what had happened to him, lamented at great length. He thought about the great amount of supplies that he had brought, and the superb, strong, fine-looking young men, the noble arms, the power of his allies, and, I should have said, all the knights; in addition, he saw that they had what would make the most sluggish of men secure, that is, they had fought in front of their own city's gates, to which they could surely retreat, and, what made it even safer, in their own land. And he looked upon the Franks, in every way inferior in military might, whose young men had been weakened by long hunger, whose swords were rusty, whose lances were darkened, whose few remaining troops were worn out, all of whose leaders were exhausted by bitter suffering, as they rode on horses racked with every kind of disease, and, to put it briefly, he marveled that these poor wretches, a band of exiles, had conquered the countless soldiers of his own nation, and that the glory of the entire East had been brought down by the least of men. Our victory was also aided by the fact that, when the cry for retreat spread through the enemy's army, the emir in charge of Ascalon, seeing the Babylonian prince turn to flee, ordered that all those who fled should be prevented from entering his city. The enemy was very much astonished that the Franks had chosen not to fight before the walls of Jerusalem, but had marched for nearly two days to meet them. While the Franks were thanking God, as was right, for such a victory, Robert, the count of Normandy, a man of remarkable generosity, even in his impoverished exile, bought for twenty silver marks, from the man who had captured it, the spear, which, as we have said, was covered with silver, and which had stood before the prince of Babylon as his standard. He then gave it, to stand at the Tomb of the Lord, as a symbol of such a victory, to Arnulf, who was called the Patriarch. They say that the sword which had belonged to this prince was bought by someone for sixty besants. In addition, a large fleet had followed the army to Ascalon so that, after the Franks had been defeated and made captives, they might buy them from the victors, and carry them off to be sold throughout the furthest kingdoms of the East. However, when they saw the Egyptians shamefully fleeing, they set sail instantly, and made their way into the interior by sea. Finally, after having slaughtered the Saracens, and the Egyptians as well, the Franks returned to the abandoned tents and collected booty beyond count. They brought out a horde of gold and silver, the wealth of the Assyrian nobility, and whatever precious household goods they had, as well as all kinds of animals, and a collection of various arms. They kept whatever could be used, and burned the rest. Then they returned to Jerusalem, with overwhelming joy, pouring out unnumbered tears of gratitude in memory of the passion and burial of the Lord. As a result of this fortunate turn of events, the Franks were now so prosperous that those who had begun the journey in poverty and without enough to sustain them on the pilgrimage, now returned from it laden with gold, silver, horses, and mules. They won this glorious battle on August 13. Since we offered, at the beginning of this volume, examples from Scripture which we thought were relevant to such an enterprise, we may now be able to find something in the words of the prophet Zechariah that fits the siege of Jerusalem. He says, "The Lord, who stretches forth the heavens and lays the foundation of the earth, and forms the spirit of man within him, speaks." He stretches the skies who spread (the influence of) the church, as he propagated his seed from the East, according to Isaiah,[227] by means of the apostles, even as he had to gather the church through them from the West. He lays the foundations, since he permits the pagans to persevere in their heard-hearted falsehood. He places the spirit within man when he grants innate reason in the mind of every true believer. "Behold I shall make Jerusalem the lintel of intoxication unto all the people roundabout."[228] The lintel rises about the door; house is entered through the door; drinking is harmful to the stomach. If we call the door faith in the Lord Jesus, through whom we come to the Father, then the Church of Jerusalem, because both the Law and the Word of the Lord came from it, we may correctly call the lintel, because it gave rise to these things. For Paul, after fourteen years, returned to it, to confer with Peter and the others about the Gospel, "lest he had run, or should run, in vain."[229] But this is the lintel of drunkenness unto all the people roundabout, since all nations were disgusted and nauseated by those things in which the traces of our faith resided. "But Judah will be in the siege against Jerusalem. "[230] He says not only that it will be a terror to foreigners, but that Judah, that is, the faithful people, will besiege Jerusalem, acknowledging that it will be trodden by the nations. "In that day I shall place Jerusalem as a heavy rock upon all people."[231] If I may take the part for the whole, in accordance with the frequent practice of Scripture, Jerusalem becomes a heavy weight for all the people because it recently imposed upon all people who are called Christian the weight of a very great labor for her liberation. "All that lift up Jerusalem will be cut in pieces, and all the kingdoms of the earth will be gathered together against it"[232] Who are those who will lift it up, if not those who, after the times of nations have ended, lift it up from its own destruction? The Lord says, "Jerusalem will be trodden down by the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled."[233] They will be torn apart because no one can say or even imagine how great the labor, the suffering, the misery of hunger and thirst would be that they endured in the siege. And, to speak like Ezekiel, "every head was made bald, and every shoulder was peeled;"[234] that is, perhaps, either by the steady attack of siege-machines, or by carrying heavy weights. But after Jerusalem has been raised, "all the kingdoms of the earth will gather against her," which should not be taken allegorically, but, as the story that has just been told, was offered as something visible to heavenly eyes. For what kingdom of the East did not send its men to war, bringing every kind of siege-engine, which I did not mention earlier, and everything necessary to besiege a city? They brought, in addition to soldiers, merchants to buy the Franks, since they expected that the pagans would win because of the great size of their forces, and perhaps they had heard that the number was greater than Kherboga actually had. "On that day, God says, I will smite every horse with astonishment, and his rider with madness."[235] If the horse is taken to mean earthly honor, the rider of the horse is undoubtedly to be understood as he who is preeminent in honor. All honor is astonished because every power or kingdom, stupified by God's army, dares do nothing. Every prince went mad, because he did not know what to do, nor where to turn; deprived of force, each learned what the strength of God's army was. "And I will open my eyes upon the house of Judah, and I will smite every horse of the people with blindness."[236] If Judah is the confessor, I may certainly call them confessors who have never chosen to abandon the origin of their faith, that is, the Franks, upon whom the entire weight of the journey fell. God opened his eyes upon them when he showed the grace of his goodness to them by bringing about this outcome. He struck the horses of the people with blindness when he punished the arrogance of the Gentiles by showing them his displeasure. In Sacred Scripture the horse often stands for pride. For what greater blindness is there than to make war on the sons of God? What is more blameful than to fail to acknowledge God, to glory in one's own ignorance, and to war against the faithful? But why exercise the license of allegory, piecing words together, when historical truth prevents us from going astray in belief? Didn't we say earlier that the enemy was struck with blindness, and overcome with astonishment at the swords which threatened them? And I marvel that the horse was able to see well enough to move when its rider had clearly gone mad. "And the leaders of Judah shall say in their heart: The inhabitants of Jerusalem shall be my confident in the Lord of hosts, their God."[237] Whom should I call the leaders of Judah, unless they be the leaders of that faithful army, who prayed that the inhabitants of Jerusalem be confident, when they ardently desired to restore the holy city by means of the strength of the Christian army, so that Christianity might grow, the Lord's memory be honored, and the Gentiles everywhere be attacked? But their strength is said to be in the Lord of armies, which can be seen today, when a small force of men assembles against all of the pagan kingdoms. Everything they did was foreseen by Him who rules the heavenly powers. At this point one should add, "Their God," since their thoughts were not directed to any but their own God, that is, the Christian God. "In that day will I make the governors of Judah like a fiery furnace among the wood, and like a torch of fire in a sheaf; and they shall devour all the people round about, on the right hand and on the left."[238] On this day, I say, of faith or of divine prosperity, the leaders who govern the Christian people, either externally in arms, or internally by means of spiritual doctrine, will become the furnace. That is, burning internally with heavenly love, they consume the wood of sinners among the Gentiles, while externally, they consume the evil-doers in battle as though they were straw. We have no doubt that God did not undertake this merely to liberate one city, but to scatter the seeds that will grow long and far against the madness of the Antichrist. They devour all the people round about, on the left and on the right, for they bring all those on the right into the piety of Christianity, while they destroy the wicked, those who are recognized as belonging to the left, and who are worthy of vengeful destruction. "And Jerusalem shall be inhabited again in her own place, in Jerusalem."[239] If Jerusalem is the Church, its place is the faith of Christ, therefore Jerusalem inhabits Jerusalem, since the terrestial city is restored so that she may long for a vision of heavenly peace, since she she has a place, since she clings steadfastly to Christ. "The Lord also shall save the tents of Judah, as in the beginning, that the glory of the house of David and the glory of the inhabitants of Jerusalem do not magnify themselves against Judah."[240] The Lord saves the tents of Judah in the beginning, since He, after having accomplished miracles for our fathers, also granted glory to our own times, so that modern men seem to have undergone pain and suffering greater than that of the Jews of old, who, in the company of their wives and sons, and with full bellies, were led by angels who made themselves visible to them. I say that today's men are the ones whom he more truly saves, because he truly receives as his children those whose bodies he has allowed to be slain, and whom he punishes in the temporal world. He says, "That the glory of the house of David may not glorify itself," that is, that the ancients, who excelled in their victories in war, may refrain from excessive pride, when they think of how modern men have done better than they. "The glory of the inhabitants of Jerusalem may magnify itself against Judah," opposes to modern accomplishments the pride of those who once reigned in Jerusalem and did famous things. By David, who was the most powerful, he expresses whatever generates the greatest pride, as though he were saying that although David had been the most celebrated in warfare, and some of the kings who succeeded him sought glory, they could in no way equal what our own men have done. The word "to dwell" *(habitare)* however, we say means "to dominate," since it is the frequentive of the word "to have" *(habeo, habes)*. David raising himself up in glory against Judah, and the glory of the inhabitants of Jerusalem are mentioned because they are the material in which those who wish to make little of our deeds take pride. "In that day shall the Lord defend the inhabitants of Jerusalem."[241] And did he not today also protect that meager band whom he guarded in the midst of countless pagans? They make bold, armed attacks on the neighboring nations every day, who have all they can do to protect themselves against their attacks, without presuming to go on the attack themselves. "And he who has offended among them in that day shall be as David, and the house of David shall be as God, as the angel of the Lord before them."[242] Certainly David, whose punishment is not described in the present passage, is not to be considered seriously at fault. Therefore whoever of us shall offend is like David, for God does not permit his lechery or his pride to go unpunished, as the deeds related above indicate. And soon, in the course of their sinning, he inflicted upon them the punishment that they very much deserved, either hunger, or some other kind of torment. Therefore the house of David become like the house of God, because it was returned to spiritual grace by means of divine censure. Those like David, upon whom God imposes his paternal correction, may still be embraced by his spirit. In the sight of God he becomes like an angel, for when through imminent punishment man sees himself banished by God's authority from his own affections, he then burns more ardently to love God. When he understands that he is being punished like a child, he loves like an angel. The sight of God is the pious emotion of the inner man. "And it shall come to pass in that day that I will seek to destroy all the nations that come against Jerusalem." We generally seek for things that are not visible to us. Why would God seek unless to propose the things that should be done according to eternal providence? Therfore God seeks "to destroy all the nations that come against Jerusalem,"[243] and, "in that day," because in his fine judgment he foresees and ordains that those who resist the faith are struck with eternal damnation, or are destroyed or diminished according to the extent of their own weakness. Therefore he says, "thou shalt break them like potter's vessel,"[244] whom you shall rule "with a rod of iron."[245] But God does this by internal illumination, which is certainly what is meant by "day," but this is something which cannot be expressed in rational terms. "And I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and of supplications."[246] I have said that the inhabitants of Jerusalem were the house of David, whom omnipotent God, although he has granted and still grants them many victories, subdued and continues to subdue with frequent misfortunes. While he does not permit them to despair at their continual misfortunes, nor does he allow them to grow prideful at their frequent good fortune, the sacred distributor necessarily pours the spirit of grace and prayers upon them, so that, while no prosperity, even the most satisfying, seems to smile upon them without soon being followed by adversity, the soul always filled with anxiety is compelled to place its hope in Him who aids them in every circumstance. Now, laying aside all mystery, we may think how this material Jerusalem was so often in doubt and fear, since she was, according to Ezekiel,[247] "set in the midst of the nations, with nations around her," a tiny city surrounded by countless nations. And while they steadily fear the attacks of barbarian nations, since they are not utterly stupid, they are never without the grace of the fear and love of God, these people who never lack matter for pious affection and prayers. Of course, with the arrows of adversity the Omnipotent is accustomed to compel his people to remember him; by stimulating the flesh he customarily inflames their minds, and while they fear destruction they are always ready to invoke the aid of God with their vows and prayers. We have said many times, and do not hesitate to repeat, that this had never been accomplished in any age. If some one cites the sons of Israel and the miracles God performed for them, I shall offer something more miraculous: an open sea filled with Gentiles; a cloud of divine fear rising from a column among them; I shall point to the light of divine hope offered to those whom Christ inspired, himself a column of uprightness and strength, those who were comforted by the food of the word of God only, like divine manna, when they had no earthly hope. Those men spurned the heavenly food that they were offered, and looked back in their minds and with their voices to the Egypt they had left behind, but our men never looked back, but instead eagerly embraced whatever poverty and suffering came upon them. Certainly the steady, destructive starvation endured at Antioch was also accompanied by noble scenes. In the midst of every kind of poverty, than which nothing more painful had ever been endured by men, how bravely did those men who did not refrain from participating in this Christian drama perform. Those who were present report that while the city was under siege, and the besiegers and the inhabitants of the city were fighting hand-to-hand, it frequently happened that, when the men withdrew on both sides, and wisely and reasonably refrained from fighting, a contingent of boys, some from the city, and some from our own camp, marched out and met each other, to fight in a worthy manner. As we said at the beginning of this history, when the expedition to Jerusalem spread throughout the Western lands, fathers set out on the journey together with their little sons. When it happened that the parents of some of them died, the little boys continued to follow the army, and they grew accustomed to the hardships. Their ability to tolerate privation was in no way inferior to that of their elders. When they set up their battle lines, they appointed leaders from among themselves, and they called them Hugh the Great, Bohemund, the count of Flanders, the count of Normandy, with different person playing each role. Whenever they saw that their subjects were suffering from lack of food, they went off to ask for food from the princes after whom they were named, and these princes gave them enough supplies to nourish them properly in their need. This remarkable army often challenged the city's children, using long reeds as spears, weaving shields out of twigs, and brandishing small arrows and missiles, according to what each could do. As their elders looked on, both from the city and from the encampment, the city children came out of the gates of the wall, and our children came from the tents, to face each other in the middle of the field. There one could see the shock of combat, the shouts on both sides, and the bloody blows, delivered without mortal danger. Often these preliminaries incited the hearts of the adults to go to battle. For when they watched the souls burn within those weak limbs, and they saw such frail muscles eagerly wielding arms, the adults groaned at the sight of children on both sides being wounded, and moved the children off the battle field, rushing forward themselves to renew their usual fighting. Thus the Lord's army was scarcely found at rest; every day some were practicing, while others were fighting. There was another kind of man in this army, who was bare-footed, carried no arms, and was not permitted to have any money. Dirty, naked, and poor, he marched in front of everyone, feeding on the roots of herbs, and on the most wretched things that grow. A Norman, well-born, said to have been formerly a knight, but now a foot-soldier, he saw them wandering without a leader, and laid aside his arms and the clothing he wore, wishing to declare himself their king. He had himself called Tafur, a term taken from the barbarian language. Among the pagans they are called Tafur whom we call, to speak less literally, Trudennes, that is, men who kill time, that is, who pass their time wandering aimlessly here and there. It was the Tafur's custom, whenever the people he was leading arrived at a bridge to be crossed, or at a narrow pass to be traversed, to rush forward to observe very carefully, and if he saw that anyone of his men possessed two deniers, he would quickly separate him from the general group, order him to purchase arms, and assign him to the section of the army that bore weapons. However, those in whom he saw a love of the simple life, who had no impulse or desire to save money, he made members of his inner circle. Perhaps some might think that these men were not useful for the general good, and that he could have fed others what he was uselessly giving to them. But no one can describe how useful they were in carrying food, in collecting tribute, in hurling stones during the sieges of cities. They were better at carrying heavy burdens than the asses and mules, and they were as good at hurling projectiles as the machines and launchers. Moreover, when pieces of flesh were found among the pagan bodies at Marra, and elsewhere, during a terrible famine, a hideous rumor (based on something that had been done furtively and very rarely) circulated widely among the pagans, that there were some men in the Frankish army who eagerly fed upon the corpses of Saracens. To circulate this rumor among them even more vividly, the men carried the battered corpse of a Turk out in full view of the other Turks, set it afire, and roasted it as if the flesh was going to be eaten. When they learned what had happened, thinking that the charade was real, they grew even more afraid of the fearlessness of the Tafurs than of our other leaders. Like the ancient pagans, the Turks were tormented more by unburied bodies than any Christian seems to be concerned with his soul or fears damnation. To incite their wrath even more fiercely, at the siege of Antioch the Bishop of Puy promulgated an edict throughout the army, offering an immediate reward of twelve deniers for every decapitated Turkish head brought to him. When the bishop received the heads, he ordered them placed on long poles, before the walls of the city, where the enemy could see them. When they saw this, they squirmed in anguish. The bishop also did something there, after consulting with our leaders, that I should not pass over silently; when the inhabitants of the city understood that our men were struggling because of the scarcity of food, our men proceeded to yoke bulls to the plow, to dig up and seed the ground in sight of the city. By this means the inhabitants of the city understood that no cause could compel them to abandon the siege that they had undertaken, since they were in the process of growing food for the next year. These and other remarkable things were done on this expedition, which we think can be described in their entirety by no one. No one in any age has ever heard that any nation, without a king, without a prince, departed from its own lands and that, under God only, both the lowly and the great learned to carry the yoke, so that the servant did not serve a master, nor did the lord claim anything more than brotherhood from the servant. Thus, I say, we cannot offer examples from the past to match this, nor do we think that anything like this will occur in the future. Our argument is based most of all on the fact that, after the capture of Jerusalem, we saw so many Christian nations moving, so many people of great dignity, so many battalions of noble knights, such a great number of foot-soldiers setting out after those who had preceded them and opened the way, that we understood that in wealth and in number we might judge that this second movement was scarcely inferior to the first. For who could describe how great a crowd of nobles, burghers, and peasants, from Frankish lands alone (of the others I say nothing) accompanied count Stephen, whom we mentioned earlier, and Hugh the Great, brother of king Philip, when, later on, they again undertook the journey to the tomb of the Lord? Not to speak of the count of Burgundy, what shall I say of the count of Poitou, who brought not only a large group of knights, but a crowd of young girls as well? When his renown had been established everywhere, he came to Constantinople and held a conference with the tyrant Alexis, the most abominable of men. This wretched traitor informed the Turks by letters of his arrival, before the count had left the royal city. "Lo," he said, "the fattest sheep from France are moving in your direction, led by a foolish shepherd." What more can I say? The count went beyond the borders of the tyrannical prince; suddenly before him stood an army of Turks, who scattered, preyed upon, and conquered the disorganized foreigners. There Hugh the Great, struck in the knee by an arrow, after a long illness died, and was buried at Tharsa in Cilicia. They say that these things were done in the province called Satyria.[248] But count Stephen, with certain bishops of our kingdom, among whom were Hugh of Soissons, William of Paris, fine, noble men, who were splendid, accomplished young rulers, and Enguerrand of Laon--would that he had been as preeminent in his religious belief as he was in appearance and eloquence--together with many dignitaries of all ranks, entered the city of Constantinople. The emperor summoned them into his presence and rewarded their leaders with large gifts. They consulted with him on whether they should follow the route of the previous army, or some other, and he truthfully told them that they did not have enough horsemen to take a route different from that of the first expedition. However, thinking that they could do new things and do them better than those who had preceded them, they declared that they would go on to other regions. They also asked the emperor to give orders that they might purchase supplies anywhere in Grecian territory. He agreed, understanding that, in their insolence, they were in effect bringing about their own ruin, which he foresaw clearly, as he happily agreed to their error. They went into Paphligonia, province unknown not only to pilgrims, but scarcely mentioned in Scripture, where for some unknown reason they were persuaded to enter the desert. The emperor urged them not to take more than forty days worth of supplies, and discouraged them from bringing more by promising that they could purchase supplies freely anywhere for their entire journey through the land. Therefore, having marched into these solitary depths, the mob foolishly moved forward, without supplies, hoping that the opportunity they had been promised to make purchases would come about, and they began to suffer from terrible hunger, swelling up and dying, and the army, which was following behind them, began to be annoyed by the stench of corpses lying everywhere. At times, when the leaders of the starving multitude castigated those in the rear for not more swiftly following the knights in front of them, to avoid sudden attack by the Turks, these men, driven by the pain of hunger, hoped and prayed that the Turks would actually come. Now they had almost reached the borders of Armenia, and the men were exhausted, and the animals dying of starvation, when thousands of Turks suddenly attacked. But the Franks, who seemed to be in charge of the front line, in spite of their weariness, easily drove off the enemy forces. The next day, when the Turks saw that the Franks had moved out of the front line, and the Lombards, Ligurians, and Italians had taken their places, alas, the enemy sensed the sluggishness of those in the front line and attacked fiercely. Those who were in the vanguard and carried the standards turned their backs shamefully, and the entire army, already too weakened by hunger to flee, lay open to hideous slaughter. Those who fled did not return in the direction whence they had come, nor did they move in a single group, so that they might at least form an organized retreat. Instead each turned his steps in whatever direction appealed to him, clearly going to his death. This pursuit and bloodshed continued steadily for almost eight days. In the army there was an archbishop of Milan, who had brought with him the cope, that is, the chasuble and alb (I don't know if he brought anything else) of Saint Ambrose. It was adorned with gold and gems so precious that nowhere on earth could anyone find its equal. The Turks took it and carried it off, and thus the foolish clerk was punished for having been insane enough to bring so sacred an object to barbarian lands. Such a slaughter of Christians of both sexes took place, so much money, clothing, gold and silver was taken, that this one victory was enough to recompense the Turks for the losses inflicted upon them by the first expedition. Of the 200,00--or more, as some argue--Christians who were there, hardly 7000 remained alive. Count Stephen, together with several other leaders, including Harpin of Bourges, a splendid man, and Count Stephen of Beyond-the-Saone, finally reached Jerusalem. When they arrived, the army of the emperor of Babylon was at the city of Ramla, fighting Baldwin, who was now the king. The above-mentioned Harpin urged the king to delay battle until he could collect as many men as possible. The king said, "If you are afraid, run back to Bourges." Having spoken, he rushed unwisely into battle, lost all of his troops, was driven from the city of Ramla, and escaped alone. Many of his men were captured, and we still do not know what happened to many of them. Harpin was led away captive, was finally released, returned to France, and become a monk. Nothing certain is known about Stephen of Chartres, but he is believed to have been killed, although we have no evidence. Presumably he was shut up in a tower within Ramla, together with many others, but we have not yet been able to determine from the sources whether he was delivered into captivity or death, although we are inclined to believe that he died, since he has never been found. After victory, the Turks customarily decapitated the dead bodies, to carry them as trophies of victory, and, with the heads removed, it is difficult to recognize someone from his decapitated body. The same doubt exists today about the fate of other great men. Meanwhile, the king himself, who, as we said, was the only one to escape, was mourned by his people, not only because they were threatened with death themselves, but because his death had been announced mockingly by the pagans. He himself, however, making his way through terrifying mountains known to very few men, two days later, if I am not mistaken, finally reached Jerusalem, which was expecting great dangers with justifiable grief. When he had swiftly collected whatever knights he could, together with the best foot-soldiers, he prepared to fight against the temporarily triumphant pagans. Therefore, at the moment that they thought the king was dead, he suddenly appeared with new troops, and fought with greater authority than before, driving them into flight, and piling up new carnage with his sword. Since we have not described the death of king Godfrey, Baldwin's brother, because other material took precedence in the narrative, it is fitting that we briefly tell how his life came to an end, and where he is buried. They say that a certain neighboring pagan prince sent him gifts dipped, as became clear, in deadly poisons. He carelessly made use of them, thinking that he who had sent them was a friend; he fell ill suddenly, and died very soon afterwards. Some people, however, reject this opinion, and say that he died natural death. He was, however, buried in accordance with the eternal redemption that his faith and life testified he had deserved, next to the very place of the Lord's Passion, thereby obtaining the monument which he had liberated, and which he had defended from being trampled and destroyed by the pagans. His remarkable humility and modesty, worthy to be imitated by monks, added glory to his already exemplary reign, for he would never wear the royal crown in the city of Jerusalem, out of consideration for the fact that the general author of all men's salvation, our Lord Jesus Christ, provoked human laughter by wearing a crown of thorns. As we said earlier, he died, and, believing him to be no less temperate and wise than his brother, they brought Baldwin from Edessa, and set him up as king of the new sacred Christian colony. In the brilliant nature of these men they recognized and loved the peaceful and modest behavior, the relentless courage, the fearlessness in the face of death, which exceeded what might be expected of royal majesty, as well as the great self-control, and an extreme generosity that exceeded their resources. Baldwin's loyalty towards his people and disregard of himself can be inferred from one event: in an expedition he was conducting against the enemies, to save a certain foot-soldier, he put himself in great peril, received a serious wound, and narrowly escaped death. Meanwhile, there was something which very much frightened the many people who surrounded them about attacking our small group, and it frightens them no less today. The study of the stars, in which Westerners have only the mildest interest, is known to burn more brightly, because of its steady use and constant study, among the Easterners, where it had its origin. The pagans admit that they had received prophecy, and a long time before the present misfortune they had predicted that they would be subjugated by the Christian people, but they were unable, because of their limited skill, to determine at what time the prophecies would be fulfilled. Approximately twelve years before our leaders had gone on the journey to Jerusalem, Robert of Flanders, the elder count, about whom we spoke in the first book of this work, went to Jerusalem, with much wealth, to pray. He remained in the city for some days, wishing to see the holy places, and his generosity enabled him to learn much--even about what went on among the pagans. One day, as I learned from those who had accompanied the count, nearly all the inhabitants of the city assembled at the temple of Solomon; they held meeting throughout the entire day, and finally returned home in the evening. The count was then received as a guest by an old, wise man, who had led a virtuous life by Saracen standards, for which reason they usually called him, "the Servant of God." When they returned to his house, he asked him why they had sat so long in the temple, and what was the nature of the difficult issues they had been disputing. The man replied, "We have seen unusual signs in the comings and goings of the stars, from which we have inferred that men of the Christian belief would come to these regions and would conquer us by means of steady and frequent victories in battle. Whether this should happen in a later time or closer to our own time, is profoundly uncertain. From this astronomical portent, however, it is very clear that these men, whom celestial judgment has permitted to conquer our people, and to drive us from our native shores, will, at later time, be conquered by us, and will be driven by military force from the lands which they usurped. This celestial sign is in accord with a thorough and regular reading of the ancient texts of our faith, which openly state what the celestial brightness has indicated in veiled manner." The words of this noble man are in harmony with the words of Kherboga's mother, which were given earlier. Nor do we at all doubt that for the same reason that she discouraged her son from fighting against the Christians, those who burned with desire to destroy Jerusalem restrained themselves, lest they oppose what was clearly a fatal decree by entering a battle. If at first they seemed to attack us in many battles, now they fought less eagerly, since they understood that they were not fighting against us, but against God, who was exerting himself and fighting for us. However, if it seems unbelievable to anyone that someone might be able to learn the future through the art of astrology, this argument seems clear evidence to us: the emperor Heraclius, through this kind of study, foresaw that a circumcised race would rise up against the Roman empire, but he was unable through this method to foresee that it would not be the Jews, but the Saracens who would do this. Let us also consider the Magi who, when they discerned by a swift inspection of a star that a king would be born, and that he would be both God and man, also knew over whom he would rule, although they could not have known, by means of the method mentioned, had divine light not pointed the way. In this new battle of God against diabolical men, it will be worthwhile considering the many apparent resemblances between what happened and what happened to Gideon[249] Although everyone considered the infinite number of our men sufficient for the undertaking, they were tested by the waters, that is, pleasures and delights. That is, those who loved following God did not yield to the tortures of hunger and thirst, nor to the fear of various forms of death. But those who placed God after the interest of their bodies weakly submitted themselves to desires, symbolized by bent knees. Those who drank by bringing their hands to their mouths are those who, like Diogenes, heedless of all pleasures, intent on serving God, satisfied nature in whatever way was available. Three hundred were proven under Gideon, so that externally and internally they carried the cross, which, by means of the letter Tau, signifies the three hundred who were honored for their perseverance. Why did many of our men depart like wretches from the Lord's army, if not because they were in the grip of great, steady hunger, and because, "Without bread and wine, Venus is cold."[250] Because their bodies were so weak, none of them had the ability to perform sexually, and even if they wanted to, no opportunity presented itself. Therefore those who were found to be wise held trumpets in their hands, because they offered divine speech, the only solace among so many hardships, in their works. They hold vessels because, continually preparing for battle, they restrained themselves from all the foulness of carnality. Within the vessels they hold lamps, because, in the vessels of the bodies the brilliant treasures of pious intention shine more brightly than any light. That Gideon divided them into three parts may be interpreted in the following ways: Christ draws some of them to the crown when they pour out their own blood; others he brings to guard the sacred city, to preserve the promised land, and through these few men today, he resists the entire empire of the East; still others he permitted to return to their native land as testimony to such a victory, and to urge others to emulate their own pious exile. Therefore when the vessels are broken the lamps shine forth, because, when their bodies died, the spirits burning with divine love emigrated directly to God. The frightened enemies were defeated, because they rightly feared those men who, brave with the spirit of eternity, embraced death more dearly than life. As the Apostle says, [251] "For the bodies of those beasts whose blood is brought into the sanctuary by the high priest are burned without the camp." Therefore God suffered beyond the gate. Thus they went out of the camp to him, that is, beyond the desires of the flesh, by carrying his shame, the mortification of the cross, in the midst of sinful desires. The value of taking up this great task, along with the emotion of good will can be inferred from considering the one example that we have offered on this topic, which we think clearly demonstrates how much those who devoutly undertook the pilgrimage, after confession and sincere repentance, profitted, if it did such great good for those who were almost without penitence and confession, and if it even struck terror into the heart of the devil. A man of knightly rank, living on the shore of the sea, lost his brother in the fighting. Hardly able to bear his death, he wore himself out in inconsolable grief, since the man who had killed him seemed so strong that the grieving man's hope of vengeance had been entirely extinguished. Worn out by intolerable grief, his mind dwelling at every moment and in every place upon his brother, the pain of his irreparable loss increased each day; without hope of solace, the poor man was tortured by the inescapable memory, until the difficulty of obtaining vengeance increased his distress so greatly that the devil, whose long experience had made him crafty, shrewder by nature than any mortal, on the lookout everywhere for occasions and motivations, smiled at the opportunity provided by his excessive grief. Therefore, on a certain day, worn out by putrifying internal anguish, gasping with the deepest weariness, he mounted his horse and brought it to drink at a river, where he saw the devil standing on the other side. He appeared in the guise of man with crooked legs, whom he often used to see. He seemed to be a knight, holding a sparrow-hawk in his hand, wearing his usual orange-yellow tunic. After watching him from afar, and remembering the weakness and the look of the man whom he thought he had known, he was struck by the unexpected change, when the evil spirit, mindful of its ancient effrontery, spoke first: "I am not who you think I am: know that I am a Devil, sent to offer a remedy for the torment you undergo every day. My master, who compassionately deigns to help all those who suffer, if they submit to him, sent me to you. If you obey him, just as I say, your relief will not be delayed. For since he is generous, and possesses an infinite treasure of things to be distributed to those with a desire for riches, he gives lavish and incalculable gifts; to those in need he provides assistance beyond their wildest hopes. Therefore you, who bitterly bewail an old misfortune that remains ever new, if you have a complaint, share it, certain in the knowledge that you will receive far more than you might dare to ask for. In the case of your dead brother, you can certainly hasten to take vengeance; if you want increased wealth, you will be amazed to see your wish granted. Therefore ask for what you want, and your ability will be equal to your wish." He had been watching this truly unusual creature, stunned that the devil was speaking, both attracted by the alluring offer and frightened by the enormity of the one making the offer. However, finally carried away by his desire for what he was being promissed, he said that he would gratefully accept the Devil's offerings. "However," the Devil said, "if the fruits of my offerings appeal to you, and the freely given benevolence of my prince, who sent me to you, captivates you, when you have truly experienced the results of what I have said, both about avenging your brother and adding to your wealth, then my master requires that you offer him homage, by promising to transfer your allegiance from the Christian faith to cling indivisibly to him, and by abstaining from those things that he forbids. There are certain things that he wishes you to agree never to do: never enter a church, or accept baptism from a sacred font." He also forbad a third thing, which escaped the memory of the person who told me about this. The man replied to him: "I can adhere to these prohibitions easily and without delay, but I ask for a short delay on the subject of offering homage." Since he had the free use of his rational faculty, the man very much abhorred the execrable change of faith that was being demanded of him, but he thought that it was more tolerable to abstain from Christian practices than to lose the foundation of his belief. Finally, without delay, the opportunity for taking vengeance for his brother, following the suggestions of the Devil, was offered to him, in such a way that the fondest wishes of the man were far surpassed by his increasing good fortune. In this way, as the remedy grew more effective, the bitterness of his grief gradually diminished, but meanwhile he did not dare violate any of the Devil's prohibitions. The ancient enemy of mankind continued to appear to him regularly, not only, as he used to do, when he was alone, or in out of the way places, but in the midst of a crowd of people he would suddenly make an unexpected appearance, point out the benefits he had already received, offer him better ones in the future, and insistently urge him to transfer his faith to him. The man, however, extremely grateful for the generosity he had received, promised eternal obedience to the generosity of the prince, but in the matter of the homage which was often demanded of him, he continually begged for delays. Therefore, while he was being pressed insistently by these appearances, even invisible ones in the midst of large crowds, news of the journey to Jerusalem spread, by the will of God, throughout the Latin world. Whoever felt that he was caught in sin was directed thither, where God showed a new way to repent. Among them this man chose to set out, although he had not confessed the foul pact he had already almost entirely concluded with the Devil. Thus this man, eager to emulate God, although not in keeping with doctrine, in that he had not confessed his sins before beginning his good works, was accompanied by such an abundance of the grace of God on the journey, and his labor was so pleasing to God, even though his efforts were not performed out of pure piety, that while traveling on this expedition the grim overseer did not dare to harass him. Moreover, as though he had no memory of the pact he had made, he never in any way appeared to him in a vision. After the capture of Jerusalem, when he was staying in the city with the others, one night, while he was thought to be asleep, along with the other soldiers, he became concerned about the horses that belonged to him and to his companions, who were resting under the sky, as was the custom in that region, and he went to look at them. Seeing the figure of man standing among them, and suspecting that he was a thief, he got up and asked, in a disturbed voice, who he was. In his usual manner, as though pious and humble, he replied to him: "Don't you know me?" And he, as though reminded of his old shame, replied with great severity: "I know you." After this initial exchange, the one offered no further questions, and the other added nothing to his reply. Although this apparition seems to have been idle, we know that it is of no idle significance to us, by God's dispensation; the Devil had not forgetfully passed him by, but had announced, by his appearance, what he wanted, and had indicated, by his silence, what he was unable to ask for. What more should I say? He went home, but on his way home the Devil never showed himself, or made any trouble. But a short time after he arrived home, he who provides wretched men with wicked counsel was aroused, so that the man had very few moments free from admonishments of this kind; men may put some distance between themselves and what they fear, and their rooms and walls may separate them from their anxieties, but neither the presence of other people, nor the locks on doors can protect them from their spiritual crimes, no matter where they go. One day, the man who had undergone excruciating, deadly suffering at the hands of the indivisible thief happened to meet a priest of Christ, distinguished for his learning, gentleness, and pious cheerfulness, whose name was Conon. When he had described, in the little time available (each was concerned with his journey), how much he had endured, the good man gave him whatever comfort he was able to give, extracted the promise that he would return, and sent him on his way. However the cruel beast did not remain silent, but persistently continued to offer enticements. The man soon grew weary of the burdensome and almost daily incursions, and returned to the doctor, made a clean confession, eagerly undertook penitence, and, once he had begun repentance, never again saw his tormentor. By this example we can understand how valuable the pilgrimage must have been for the pure in heart, since it offered so much defense and support for the impure. It is also significant that for good reasons kings were excluded from participating in the grace to be earned from this journey, lest the visible royalty seem to arrogate to itself divine operations.[252] Therefore praise should be offered to the heavenly Lord, and utter silence to the human being. No leader assembled so many soldiers, or deserved so many triumphs. Regulus deserved praise for beating the Phoenician rebels. Alexander, battling the Eastern kingdoms, worn out with great battles, managed to acquire the name of the Great. However, Count Stephen, who had been granted the leadership of the holy army, like a man who had recklessly usurped those things that properly belong to God alone, was rejected as though charged with cowardice. And Hugh the Great, in effect, a man of royal name, was put aside. Therefore, when the "shades of a great name"[253] were rejected, and the power which had supported them was removed, the little people remained, relying now on God's aid only. And when things were decided, not according to birth, but according to God's choice, the unexpected one wore the crown.[254] God, who makes miracles, did not want the glory of his name given to another, for he was the sole leader, he was the king, the chastiser, who brought things from their beginnings to their conclusions, who extended his kingdoms this far. Therefore he gathered into His, not their arms, the lambs whom he had made out of wolves, raised them, children filled with the joy of pious hope, to the protection of his bosom, and he carried them to what they had longed to see. As we were about to put an end to the body of the present history, we discovered, with the aid of the author of the world, that a certain Fulker, a priest of Chartres, who had for a long time been the chaplain for Baldwin at Edessa, had spread word, in a manner different from ours, about a few other things that were unknown to us, and these were erroneous and in rough language. We decided to include some, though certainly not all, of this material in these pages. Since this same man produces swollen, foot-and-a-half-long words,[255] and pours forth the blaring colors of vapid rhetorical schemes, I prefer to snatch the bare limbs of the deeds themselves, with whatever sack-cloth of eloquence I have, rather than cover them with learned weavings. Unless I am in error, at the beginning of his little work he says that some of those who set out on the journey to Jerusalem arranged for boats and sailed across the sea that separates Apulia and Epirus, and, whether because they committed themselves to a sea that was unknown to them, or because the ships sank because overloaded, it is reported that the ship carrying nearly 600 men was dashed to pieces. After they were drowned in the roaring sea during storm, and quickly washed up on shore by the force of the waves, signs of the cross which they all wore on their cloaks, tunics, and mantles were found on the skin of their shoulders. No one, that is, of the faithful, doubted that the sacred stigma could have been imprinted on their skin by God, to make their faith manifest, but the man who wrote it, if he is still alive, had to think carefully about whether it actually happened. For when the beginning of this journey was announced everywhere among the Christian people, and it was proclaimed throughout the Roman Empire in accordance with God's will, men of the lowest social class, and even worthless women, laid claim to this miracle in every way, in every part of their bodies. One man scratched his cheeks, drew a cross with the flowing blood, and showed it to everyone. Another showed the spot in his eye, by means of which he had been blinded, as a sign that a heavenly announcement had urged him to undertake the journey. Another, either by using the juices of fresh fruits, or some other kind of dye, painted on some little piece of his body the shape of a cross. As they used to paint the area below the eyes with antimony, so they now painted themselves green or red, so that, by means of this fraudulent and deceitful exhibition, they might claim that God had showed himself in them. The reader will remember the abbot of whom I spoke above, who cut his forehead with iron, and who I said was made the bishop of Caesarea in Palestine. I swear by God that I saw, when I was living in Beauvais, in the middle of the day, clouds approach each other somewhat obliquely, so that they scarcely seemed to form anything other then the shape of a crane or a stork, when suddenly many voices from everywhere in the city cried out that a cross had been sent to them in the sky. What I am about to say is ridiculous, but has been testified to by authors who are not ridiculous. A poor woman set out on the journey, when a goose, filled with I do not know what instructions, clearly exceeding the laws of her own dull nature, followed her. Lo, rumor, flying on Pegasean wings, filled the castles and cities with the news that even geese had been sent by God to liberate Jerusalem. Not only did they deny that this wretched woman was leading the goose, but they said that the goose led her. At Cambrai they assert that, with people standing on all sides, the woman walked through the middle of the church to the altar, and the goose followed behind, in her footsteps, with no one urging it on. Soon after, we have learned, the goose died in Lorraine; she certainly would have gone more directly to Jerusalem if, the day before she set out, she had made of herself a holiday meal for her mistress. We have attached this incident to the true history so that men may know that they have been warned against permitting Christian seriousness to be trivialized by belief in vulgar fables. Finally, the same author claims that God appeared to Pyrrus, the man who betrayed Antioch, and commanded him in vision to betray the city. This was easy to do for him who made himself audible to Cain and Hagar, and made an angel visible to an ass. Certainly all those who returned after the capture of the sacred city, and who sent to us letters about the things that happened, particularly Anselm of Ribemont, said no such thing. Anselm makes no mention of Pyrrus, but reveals that it was betrayed by three men. According to the letter, before the three leaders engaged in serious discussions about handing over the city, they offered us a false peace, promising that they would soon thereafter give up the city. The mutual confidence that resulted was so great that they sometimes welcomed Franks within the walls of the city, and their men often mingled with ours. But when our army became less watchful and too comfortable, the Turks set ambushes and killed some Franks, and themselves suffered losses. There our men lost an excellent young man, who had been the constable for the king of the Franks, and his name was Gualo.[256] Fulcher denies the discovery of the Lord's Lance, claiming that the man who discovered it was exposed as false, and punished by death in the trial by fire which he undertook. Not only do recent testimonies contradict him on this event, but the most pious ancient writers stipulate that long ago, when they visited the Holy Places, before the Turks invaded the kingdoms of the East and of Syria, they used to worship and kiss this same lance in that city. Will the cleverness of the priest Fulcher, who, while our men were suffering from starvation at Antioch, was feasting at ease in Edessa, prevail over the inspired work of the wise men who died at the time that it was found? Baldwin, who ruled this Edessa after the previous Baldwin, in his letter to Archbishop Manassa said that it was found by means of the revelation of Saint Andrew, and that it instilled bravery and faithful confidence in our men to battle the attacking Turks. Was the worthy bishop of Puy so foolish as to have carried a lance of questionable authenticity with such reverence when he went out to fight Kherboga? A certain memorable event occurred there: when Kherboga ordered the grass to be burned, the bishop saw that the dense smoke was pouring into the faces and eyes of the Franks as they rushed into battle, and he held the holy Lance in front of him, while, with his pious right hand, he made the image of the cross in the face of the rising smoke, tearfully imploring the aid of all-powerful Jesus; then, swifter than speech, his piety sent the round mass of foul smoke right back at those who had sent it. In addition, to speak about the death of the man who found the Lance, who is said to have died few days after undergoing the trial by fire, I shall say how he died, although no one is certain whether he was harmed by the flames, if they tell me why he who had received the gift of tongues according to Gregory destroyed his limbs with his own teeth. Furthermore, if I am not mistaken, he adds that, while they were maintaining the siege of Antioch, a brilliant red light, like a fire, shone in the night above the army, and it also unmistakably took the form of a cross. Some of the wise men there related the fire to future battles, and said that the appearance of a cross was a sign of certain salvation and victory to come. We do not call this an error, for many witnesses confirm this testimony. About this, I say, leaky Parmeno should be able to keep silent.[257] Something like this occurred at the beginning of the journey, which I happened to pass over earlier[258] when I spoke of the movements of the eclipses and shooting stars which were seen. One day during the summer, towards evening, such a great fire appeared in the Northern sky that many people rushed from their homes to find out who was the enemy destroying their lands with such flames. All these events we firmly believe to have been portents of the wars which were to come. And now, having put aside the things that we thought might be treated separately, let us return to the order of the narrative. No one can express how courageously Jerusalem was defended by its inhabitants during the siege. You would have seen how they had learned to hurl stones at the ballistic machines, how to cover their walls with timber and mats, and how to hurl what they called Greek fire at the machines, since they knew that the greatest difficulty for the besiegers was the lack of material. But the Franks, known for their cleverness, quenched the raging fire by sprinkling vinegar on it; in addition, they struck with sharp scythes anything found hanging over the walls. The Saracens added iron hooks to their long spears, with which they struck our men who, dressed in cuirasses, were fighting from the tops of machines; drawing their swords, our men made sticks out of their spears. But what best showed the vehement commitment of the Saracens was the fact that when one of them was struck by one of our men, the shield of the man who had been struck was snatched up, quicker than speech, by another man, who took up the place from which the first had fallen, so that none of our men could have known that his blows had wounded any of them. When the city was fortunately captured, Bohemund, who had won the right to rule, by means of the hunger, cold, and loss of blood suffered by the Franks, preferred to remain there, rather to go on to trouble about liberating the tomb of Jesus Christ. And while he was inappropriately fighting to win a house and small tower, he lost the fruit and joy of all of his previous labor. What good would it have done him to run, when he was unwilling to understand in which direction to go? However, since he had until this time performed so well for the army of the Lord, both in arms and in counsel, it is not inappropriate to weave a few words into the text at this point, to indicate how it came about that he went. When he sent a messenger to Baldwin at Edessa, asking him also to come with him to look at the tomb of the Savior, Baldwin held back from rushing off to besiege the city, not because he was greedy, but because he had to look after his own city. The city was filled with Christians, and often endured the attacks of the surrounding Gentiles. After the man had promised to go on the journey, both men gathered large numbers of knights and foot-soldiers, since they feared not only those, but nearly everyone in the surrounding territory, and they set off for Jerusalem. After they had pitched their tents together, and nearly 20,000 men had assembled, a terrible lack of food began to assail them, so that they had nothing to put on their bread, and no bread on which to put anything. The supplies of the provinces, drained by the constant, various sieges, and the extended and lengthy expeditions that had passed through them, were in no way sufficient to maintain so many animals and men. Therefore the multitude, driven by the wretched lack of food, again resorted to their earlier strategy of eating the flesh of asses and horses, and they not desist from this practice until they reached the longed-for city of Tiberias, famous for having fed 5000 men under the Lord's guidance. There for a little while their mad hunger was relieved by a plentiful supply of food, and then they went on at last to Jerusalem, where they found a huge number of stinking bodies, hacked to pieces, so that they could not breathe without the stench penetrating their noses and mouths. They were welcomed joyfully by king Godfrey, and they remained there because Christmas was approaching. They celebrated Christmas at Bethlehem, as the judgement of reason would dictate, not only because they had come together there with a mutual purpose, but also because of the unexpected victory granted in their own time, which aroused unbelievable celebration among the Franks. After they left, each for his own territory, Bohemund was attacked by a large Turkish force as he was entering a certain city, and led away as a captive to a distant region of Persia. When news of this event reached the illustrious Tancred, he hurried as quickly as he could to occupy Antioch, and to fortify Laodicia, since both were under Bohemund's control. Robert, the count of Normandy, held Laodicea first, but when the city's inhabitants could no longer bear the taxes levied by this prodigal man, they drove the guards from the citadel, freed themselves from his authority, and, out of hatred for him, abjured the use of the coinage of Rouen. After some years in prison, Bohemund's release was finally obtained by a treaty and a ransom. Since much has been said earlier, my praise of Godfrey's great knightly prowess can be brought to a conclusion by using the words of the Baldwin whom I just mentioned, the son of count Hugo of Rethel[259] When king Baldwin came to the throne he was put in charge of Edessa, but, alas, a band of Turks attacked him[260] and he was imprisoned by the pagans, and if he is alive, he is still there. This is what he said, although clothed in my words, about Godfrey: "It happened on the holiday of Saint-Denis. The king was returning from a city called Morocoria, and 120 Turks lay in ambush, while he was accompanied by only twenty knights. Fearlessly we awaited their attack, gripping our arms, while they, because they had attacked suddenly, thought that we would flee because we were so few. But we, made more audacious by the aid we had continually experienced from God, upon whom we relied spiritually, attacked the barbarians, and wreaked such havoc upon them, that we killed eighty men and captured ninety horses." Then he remembered, with a mocking smile, those who had fled from Antioch, and those who, after they had carried out their mission in Constantinople, had put off returning, and, to inspire the Franks who had remained in France, he added the following about his own fortune: "We have a vast fortune, and, not counting the treasures that belong to others, ten castles that belong to me alone, and an abbey pay me annually total of 1500 marks. And if God favors my taking Aleppo, I shall soon have 100 castles under my command. Do not believe those who have retreated, claiming that we grow weary with hunger, but rather trust in my words." When this king left his noble life for a more blessed future life, the inhabitants of Jerusalem, mindful of his temperance and mildness, and afraid of losing his nobility of lineage, sent ambassadors to his brother, the duke of Edessa, to take control of the kingdom. He lived in splendor in his realm; whenever he went out he had a gold shield carried before him, which bore the image of an eagle, in the Greek manner. Like the pagans, he went about in a toga, let his beard grow, accepted bows from his worshippers, and ate on rugs laid on the ground. If he entered one of his towns or cities, two knights blew two trumpets before his chariot. Baldwin then yielded to the ambassadors and set off for Jerusalem. But when the neighboring pagans heard what he proposed to do, and saw him depart, they embarked in their ships, with a favoring wind, although in vain, since the duke was hurrying along the sandy banks of the sea, accompanied by a small group of men, while they rowed furiously, their prows plowing the waves, striving to intercept him, hurrying to bring their ship to the shore. But the duke, with all of his mortal strength gone,[261] in his great anguish called upon the Most High, promising that he would always obey Him and that he would rule the kingdom in accordance with Christian faith. And lo, the ships which had been moving as though they had wings now stood still as though stuck in mud, and the more each man struggled to sweep the sea with his oars, the more the hope was ridiculed by the steady backward movement of their boats. Thus the efforts of the unjust were confounded, and the duke remained deservedly free, seeing in this auspicious event a sign that heaven favored his assuming the purple. I have omitted mentioning the fact that Daimbert, the bishop of Pisa, had already set out for Jerusalem, together with group of his people, accompanied by the bishop of Apulia, by Bohemund, and by this very Duke. After he accepted the kingdom, it is said that his first expeditions were undertaken against the Arabs. When he reached the slopes of Mount Sinai, he found a barbaric group of people, who resembled the Ethiopeans. He spared their lives because of their untamed behavior and ugliness. There, in the church which is called Saint Aaron, where God had given his oracles to our fathers, he prayed, and the army drank from the fountain of refutation, where, because Moses had drawn a distinction with his lips, and did not sanctify the Lord in the presence of the sons of Israel,[262] the Lord kept him from the promised land. Here the opinion of my priest has faltered, for it is is known that not Sinai, but the mountain Or, which forms the border of the ancient city of Petra in Arabia, was the place where Aaron lost his life, and water emerged from the depths of the rock which he struck. In that holy city of Jerusalem, an ancient miracle renewed itself, and I call it ancient because the Latin world does not know when it begun. Our conjecture is that it began when, after the city had begun to be trampled by pagans, before our times, the Lord granted it both to those who lived there, and to those who happened to be there at that time. Every year, on the Sabbath of Easter, the lamp of the Lord's tomb seemed to be kindled by divine power; it was the custom in that city that the pagans went through everyone's house, extinguishing every fire, leaving only ashes in the hearths; the pagans made such a search, because they thought that the miracle was the product of the fraud, and not of the faith of the faithful. When Vulcan had been turned out by this means from the city, at the hour at which our religion's law has determined that the Catholic people are to be present at the service of the solemn resurrection and baptism, you would have seen pagans moving throughout the basilica with their swords drawn, threatening to kill our people. You would also have seen those natives who worshipped our faith entrusting their profound grief to God, both those whose prayers had drawn them from the furthest reaches of the world, and those who had come because of the miracle, all to pray singlemindedly for the gift of light. Nor was there any unsuitable delay, but the passionate request was granted swiftly. I have heard from some old men who went there that the papyrus or wick (I don't know which of them was used) was once removed by a pagan's trick, and the metal remained empty, but, by means of a miracle from heaven, when light shone from the metal, he who wanted to defraud the heavenly powers learned that natural forces fight even against their own natures for their God. In the year that Baldwin accepted the sceptre from his predecessor, it is said that the miracle was obtained with such difficulty that night was almost upon them before their prayers and tears were answered. The priest mentioned above delivered a sermon to the people, asking for sinners to confess; the king and the priest urged them to make peace among themselves, and they promised to remedy whatever was contrary to faith and to virtue. Meanwhile, because of the urgency of the matter, so many hideous crimes were confessed that day, that if penitence did not follow, it would have seemed correct for the sacred light to have been removed without delay; however, soon after the reproof, the lamp was lit. The next year, when the time came for the celestial flame to make the tomb glorious, all men lifted up their prayers from deep within. Greeks and Syrians, Armenians and Latins, each in his own language, called upon God and his saints. The king, the leaders, and the people, with penance and grief in their hearts, marched behind the priests; all men were racked with pain, because, since the day that the city was won by the Christians, things had happened there that they had never heard of happening under the pagans. Fulker of Charters, however, taking with him the chaplain of the patriarch Daimbert, went to the Mount of Olives, where the lamp of God used to appear when it did not come to Jerusalem. When they returned, bringing nothing to please the ears of the expectant Church, many sermons were delivered to the people, which gave no solace to those who were suffering, but rather cause for anguish. That day, when the miracle did not happen, everyone returned home; there was a double night, with bitter sadness tormenting their breasts. The next day they decided to make a procession, with appropriate mourning, to the Temple of the Lord. They went, without the joy of Easter, dressed no differently from the day before, when suddenly, behind them, the keepers of the temple proclaimed that the lamp of the sacred monument was lit. Why do I delay? On that day such grace shone, augmented abundantly by the delay, that the brilliance of God illuminated, although not simulataneously, but sequentially, approximately fifty lamps. Not only during the sacred mysteries, but even when the king, after services were over, ate in the palace, messengers came frequently to summon him to leave the table to see the lights newly lit. One cannot describe how much grief was changed to relief when, on that day, he agreed to what he never had consented to before, to be crowned king in that city, in the house of the Lord, in acknowledgement of the Lord's gift. Then the Franks, who had redeemed the city with their blood, eager to see their parents, sons, and wives, and perhaps confident in their number and bravery, decided to return to their own sweet home by the same land route they had taken when they came. Although they thought that they would be able to pass freely through the land surrounding Nicea, which they had seized earlier, the Turks, who had been placed there by the emperor once the city had been turned over to him to impede the Franks when the occasion arose, put up strenuous resistance to them. Unless I am mistaken, my priest[263] says that they cut to pieces 100,000 men, but I fear that the man is wrong in offering such a number, because it is the case that he is eager to offer such guesses elsewhere. For example, he dares to estimate that those who set out for Jerusalem numbered 6,000,000.[264] I would be surprised if all the land this side of the Alps, indeed if all the kingdoms of the West, could supply so many men, since we know for a fact that at the first battle before the walls of Nicea scarcely 100, 000 fully-equipped knights are reported to have been present. And if he was concerned with including all those who had gone on the journey, but who died, on land and on the sea, of sickness or hunger, in the various regions through which they passed, they still would not amount to such a great number of men. After the Franks, then, had suffered hideous carnage, most of those who had survived returned to Jerusalem, having lost what they owned. The generous king genuinely commiserated with them, gave them many gifts, and persuaded them to return to their homeland by sea. But the prince of Babylon, less concerned with the loss of Jerusalem than with the proximity of the Frankish settlement, set out to launch a heavy offensive against the new king, often striving to attack the port city of Acre. Count Robert of Normandy had besieged Acre when the army of the Lord was advancing to besiege Jerusalem, but duke Godfrey had brought him away, in expectation of a more successful undertaking. The Babylonian then gathered a vast army and challenged the Christian king to battle. He gathered his small band, to whom the Lord said, "Fear not,"[265] and, setting his troops in order as well as he could, he attacked the impious ones. Killing them swiftly, like brute beasts, he scattered them, like a hurricane driving dust. A second time he sent his 9000 knights forward, supported by 20,000 Ethiopean common foot-soldiers. The pious king assembled against him scarcely 1000 knights and foot-soldiers, forming seven battalions out of them, and he sent them with great confidence directly at the thickest ranks of the enemy. When the prince saw far off a pagan knight, he rushed at him with such force that he drove his spear, together with its standard, into the man's breast, and when he pulled the spear from the wound, the standard remained in the man's breast. Frightened by the courage of the prince and his men, the enemy retreated at first, but their courage returned, because of the strength of their numbers, and they united to attack our men, compelling them to think of fleeing. They said that this misfortune had happened to them because, in their foolishness, they had not brought the cross of the Lord to this battle. They said that, guided by a Syrian or some Armenian, they found this cross, which, like the Lance, had lain buried somewhere. They drew a lesson from this incident, which was more blemish of a victory in the process of being won than defeat, and when the army of the Babylonian prince, as strong as the previous one, came forward to fight for the third time, the splendid king, together with what forces he could gather, deriving his confidence from God, went up against them. After he had drawn up his troops as well as he could, the clash of men was so great that, although the armies were unequal, both sides suffered severe losses, as 6000 pagan soldiers, and 100 Christians, lay dead. And because they had no prideful concern for banners with eagles and dragons, they raised aloft the sign of the humiliating Crucifixion, the Cross, and as praiseworthy conquerors drove their enemies to flight. When they had been driven off, as was right, he assembled as much of a larger army as he could, and surrounded the extraordinary city of Palestinian Caesarea, with no concern for the number of men, but instead for their might. Siege engines were quickly built, many ballistic machines were drawn up around the walls, and a beam with a metal front, which was called a battering ram, was put in place. Towers were prepared and moved forward at different times, whose armed men not only rained down torrents of various kinds of missiles on the Saracens who were standing on the battlements of the walls, but who also struck and slew them with their swords. There you would have seen catapults with huge rocks not only striking the external walls, but delivering the weight of harsh blows to the city's lofty palaces. As they smashed the building and walls, they also used sling-shots to scatter sticks burning with liquid lead, to set the town on fire. Meanwhile the battering-ram crashed against the walls; as it began to open a hole in the lower part of the wall, all the surrounding structures began to crack. Then, while the Franks struggled to enter, and eagerness to attack drove the Saracens to come forth, blood was shed on both sides. When one of our machines fell, killing many of our men, both sides became more courageous, for the Saracens, who do not like fighting in open combat, were remarkably competent when on the defensive. On the twentieth day of the siege, the king, supported by the best of his young knights, attacked the inhabitants fiercely, suddenly leaping from an assault tower, with one knight behind him, onto the wall, and driving the enemy into flight. The Franks swiftly followed the king, annihilating multitudes throughout the city, sparing no one, except the young women who could become slaves. Treasure was sought everywhere; they cut open not only chests, but the throats of the silent Saracens. When they were struck by a fist, their jaws yielded the besants that had been poured into them. They found pieces of gold in the wombs of the women who had used these areas for purposes other than the ones for which they were intended. A contingent of Franks was promptly left to guard the captive city, and shortly thereafter the king marched to Acre, wore it down with daily attacks, until it submitted to his authority. He is known to have captured many other cities, but since they were located in the middle of the insane pagans, he could not be sure that our colonists would be safe there. The series of battles and victories made the Saracens increasingly contemptible to the Christians; For example, here is something that we learned happened last year. A certain knight,[266] whom the king had made prefect of the city of Tiberias, behaved insolently towards the king. Angry at the man's insolence, the king ordered him to leave the land he had been given. He hastened to leave, taking with him as his retinue two armed knights, and soon encountered a large troop of pagans. Putting his trust not in the number of his own men, but in God, he tore his shirt, which they call an undertunic, placed it as a banner on his spear, and commanded his companions to do the same. They did so, cried out loudly, spurred their horses forward, and charged headlong at their enemies. Frightened by the sudden attack, and thinking that a large army was following these men, they fled, leaving themselves mortally vulnerable to these three men. Many were killed, and more booty was taken than they could carry. Returning after this event, grateful to God, he was moved to prostrate himself before the king and he promised that he would faithfully obey him from that point on. Once, when the king was suffering from a great lack of money, and did not have enough to pay the monthly stipend to his knights, divine mercy suddenly and miraculously granted aid. Things had become so difficult that the servants and knights were thinking of leaving, when the young men of Joppa, washing themselves, or rather enjoying a swim in the sea, on a certain day found in the swirling sand and water sacks filled with large amounts of gold, which the Venetians had lost here in a shipwreck. Brought to the king, they offered solace to everyone, an amazing miracle, both to the king, who had been close to despair, and to the new Christian community. But since the charge has been spread about that the king repudiated his wife, here is what is said about it. His wife was descended from the finest pagans in the land, and in obedience to him, she followed her husband to Jerusalem, arriving by ship at the port of Saint-Simeon. There she was transferred to a faster ship, in an attempt to make the trip more quickly, but she was brought by unfavorable winds to certain island inhabited by Barbars. The islanders seized her, killed a bishop of her retinue, together with some other officials, and, after holding her captive for some time, finally released her. When she reached her husband, the king, suspicious, and not unreasonably, of the Barbars' sexual incontinence, banished her from his bed, changed her mode of dress, and sent her to live with other nuns in the monastery of Anne, the blessed mother of the virgin mother of God. He himself was glad to live the celibate life, because, "his struggle was not against the flesh and blood, but against the rulers of the world"[267] Around the time of Easter last year, the knight I mentioned earlier, whom we called the prefect of Tiberiad, and who had been victorious in that battle, was involved in another encounter, less fortunate for our men, in which he was captured, and brought alive by the pagans to a city belonging to them. During I don't know which one of their sacrilegious celebrations, they brought this knight out and urged him to renounce and to abjure his own belief. Splendidly obdurate, he rejected such criminal behavior, and was horrified even to hear such a suggestion. This praiseworthy man was immediately seized, tied, as they say, to a tree that stood in the middle of a field, and was torn by a hail of arrows from all sides. The crown was then sawed from his head, and the rest was made into the form of a cup, as though to hold drinks for the king of Damascus, by whose orders these acts had been done, to frighten our men. By dying to preserve the confession of his faith, this knight made himself a martyr who would be known for ages to come. His name was Gervais, of noble blood, from the castle of Basilcas[268] in Soissons. These are the things that, by the grace of God, we have found out from entirely reliable men up to this day. If, in following the opinions of other men, we have said anything false, we have not done so with the intention of deceiving anyone. We are grateful to God, the Redeemer of this holy City, through the efforts of our people. For when the siege of the city began, He himself revealed, to an anchorite living in Bethania, as the story has been reliably told to us, that the city would be besieged furiously, but that it would be entered on Easter day, at the hour at which Christ was brought to the cross, to demonstrate that He again redeemed it from its afflictions by the suffering of his own limbs. This anchorite then called together some of our leaders, and told them these things, which were all proven true by the manner in which the city was actually captured. We thank God for having composed these deeds with his own spirit, through our mouth. For the rest, if anyone thinks that we have not laid things out as diligently as Julius Caesar and Hirtius Pansa[269] did in the history of the Gauls, Spaniards, Pharsalians, Alexandrians, and Numidians, he should carefully consider the fact that the same people who waged the wars wrote them down. As a result, nothing general or particular that happened is omitted from their accounts. They tell how many thousands of men there were, how many from each region, who the princes were, to whom power was delegated, who the leaders and princes were on the other side, what the cavalry, what the lightly armed troops did, how many shields were pierced by javelins, and, if I may use their own words, "after the consuls and their officers had sounded the retreat," how many men were missing and wounded at the end of the battle. Since another profession detains us who write this history, and our confidence is not strengthened by what we saw, we have decided, in reporting what we have heard, to exercise restraint. Observing the discipline of the Julian Quirites,[270] the officers of the legions, the troops of cavalry, the common soldiers, and the cohorts were compelled to rally around their banners, and if the locations were favorable, and in suitable places they set up their encampments, as though they were towns or cities, with moats and towers. Before they set up battle lines, they occupied the neighboring mountains, taking into account the irregularities of the terrain, and they had large numbers of servants, workers, and expensive baggage. Since almost nothing like these arrangements and activities existed among our men, their deeds were due, I shall not say to Frankish courage, but rather to their strength and their aroused faith. Let those who wish say that I have omitted more than I have written: I prefer being less to being more. If anyone knows other things that were done, let him write what he please. We thank God and such victors, who, when they had no grain, learned to feed upon roots that they dug up. If anyone is in doubt about the name of the Parthians, whom we have called Turks, or of the Caucasus, let him read Solin on Wonders, Trogus-Pompeius on the origin of the Parthians, and Jordanus the Goth on the Getae. May God stand watch as this pious work comes to an end.-- Endnotes [1] A translation into French was done more than 170 years ago by F. Guizot, in v. 9 of his *Collection des mémoires rélatifs a l'histoire de France*, Paris, 1825. [2] John Benton, *Self and Society in Medieval France*, New York, 1970; Guibert de Nogent, *Autobiographie*, edited and translated by Edmond-René Labande, Paris, 1981; Paul J. Archambault, *A Monk's Confessions*, University Park, 1995. The *Monodiae*, however, was also not popular in its own time. No medieval writer mentions the work, and no manuscript has survived. See Labande's edition, pp. xxiii-xxviii, for a discussion of the editorial problems that stem from being compelled to work from BN. f.l. Baluze 42. For recent discussion of Guibert, see M.D. Coupe, "The personality of Guibert de Nogent reconsidered," *Journal of Medieval History* IX, no. 4 [Dec. 1983], pp. 317-329, which supplies summary and judgement of the work of J. Kantor, Benton, and others. See also Jacques Charaud, "La conception de l'histoire de Guibert de Nogent," *Cahiers de civilisation médiévale* VIII (1965), pp. 381-395, and Klaus Schreiner, "Discrimen veri ac falsi," *Archive fur Kulturgeschicht* XLVIII (1966), pp. 1-51. Both Charaud and Schreiner are concerned to demonstrate the degree to which Guibert's vision of history is ruled by theology, and tropology in particular; both articles can be read as respectful corrections of Bernard Monod, "De la méthode historique chez Guibert de Nogent," *Revue historique* 84 (1904), pp. 51-70. Unfortunately, Laetitia Boehm's thesis, *Studien zur Geschichtschreibung des ersten Kreuzzuges Guibert von Nogent*, Munich, 1954, has remained unpublished. Georg Misch also makes an attempt to characterize Guibert, for the most part on the basis of Book One of the *Monodiae*, in *Geschichte der Autobiographie*, vol. 3, part two, first half, Frankfurt, 1959, pp. 108-162 [3] Early in the *Memoirs* Guibert says that his father died eight months after his own birth; later he gives the time between his birth and his father's death as scarcely six months; in both instances he neglects to give the year. [4] Characteristics at work also in his other writings; see Guibert's *De pignoribus sanctorum* (Migne PL 156.607-684) for an extended attack on those who believe in the wrong relics. [5] *Journal of Medieval History* 2 (1976), p. 299 (of pp. 281-303). [6] See Louis Bréhier's edition and translation, *Histoire anonyme de la première croisade*, Paris, 1924; for a later edition, see Rosalind Hill, *Gesta Francorum*, London, New York, 1962. [7] Baldric of Dole and Robert the Monk also insistently added to the story of the First Crusade what Riley-Smith (pp. 135-153) calls "theological refinement." [8] Bréhier 119-125. [9] Bréhier 155. [10] Brehier 133-135. [11] For a preliminary study of Guibert's diction, see Eitan Burstein, "Quelques remarques à propos du vocabulaire de Guibert de Nogent," *Cahiers de civilisation médiévale*, XXI (1978), pp. 247-263. [12] *La tradition manuscrite de Guibert de Nogent*, The Hague, 1991, p. 20. Last year, however, in a note informing me of the impending publication of his edition of the <Gesta Dei>, Professor Huygens reported that he has changed his mind. The latest modern edition is more than 100 years old, *(Recueil des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens Occidentaux* IV, Paris, 1879, pp. 115-263), and Professor Huygens, the latest reader of the eight surviving manuscripts of the *Gesta Dei per Francos*, finds the edition pretentious, orthographically aberrant, and of no philological value whatever. [13] Guibert perhaps has some support for this preference: In Praeloq. 2.30 212A Rather of Verona quotes Ambrose on interpreting the difficulties of scripture: *quod difficilius invenitur, dulcius tenetur*." [14] 339, n. 3 [15] 1973 613. [16]p. 255. [17] *De Moribus et Actis primorum Normanniae Ducum*, ed. Jules Lair, Caen, 1865. [18] (eds.) J. Olrik and H. Raeder, *Saxonis Gest Danorum*, 1931, 1957, Hauniae, 2 vols. *The History of the Danes*, translated by Peter Fisher, ed. H.E. Davidson, Totowa, 1979, 1981, 2 vols. [19] For the significance and influence of Martianus, see W.H. Stahl, R. Johnson, and E.L. Burge, *Martianus Capella and the Seven Liberal Arts*, NY, 1971; Danut Shanzer, *A philosophical and literary commentary on Martianus Capella's De Nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurri, book one*, Berkeley, 1986. [20] For a densely compacted discussion of this hypothesis, see Herbert Grundmann, *Geschichtsschreibung im Mittelalters*, Göttingen, 1965. For a more extensive, lavishly detailed discussion, see Bernard Guenee, *Histoire et culture historique dans l'occident médiéval*, Paris, 1980. In English, the argument was popularized by R.G. Collingwood, *The Idea of History*, Oxford, 1946; p. 258 gives a useful formulation. [21] Aimon's early eleventh-century rewriting of both Gregory of Tours sixth-century text and the eighth-century *Liber Historiae Francorum* is only roughly comparable, since he was much further removed in time from the authors whose work he was correcting. See Gregory of Tours, *Historiae Francorum*, edited by W. Arndt and Bruno Krusch, *Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores Rerum Merovingicarum*, vol. I, Hanover, 1885; Aimon, *De Gestis Francorum*, pp. 20-143 of *Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de l France*, ed. M. Bouquet, vol. III, 1869, pp. 20-143; Bruno Krusch, *Fredegarii et Aliorum Chronica; Monumenta Germaniae Historica*: Scriptorum Rerum Merovingicarum, Hanover, 1888. [22] Two editions are available: *Recueil des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens Occidentaux* III, Paris, 1866, pp. 319-585; *Fulcheri Carnotensis Histori Hierosolymitana*, ed. Heinrich Hagenmayer. Heidelberg, 1913. [23] A judgement contained within the less sardonic assessment, almost nine hundred years later, by Ernest Baker, who called Fulcher, "a kindly old pedant," in the *Encyclopaedia Britannica*, 11th edition, Cambridge, 1910. [24] Guibert decision to insert verses of his own composition, in a variety of meters, some unusual, in his predominantly prose text, also seems to be an attempt to outdo Fulker, who had chosen to compose occasional verse for his predominantly prose text, although he limited himself to hexameters and elegaics. [25] Quod ego Fulcherus Carnotensis, cum ceteris iens peregrinis, postea, sicut oculis meis perspexi, diligenter et sollicite in memoriam posteris collegi. (RHC.HO III.327) The case for the *Gesta Francorum* as a text composed by an eye-witness is inferential only. [26] Isidore of Seville, *Etymologies*, I, XLI, ed. W.M Lindsay, Oxford, 1911. See also Bernard Guenée on the topos of the eye-witness, in *Histoire et culture historique dans l'occident médiéval*, Paris, 1980. For a paradigmatic example of the difficulties generated by trying to determine whether a medieval text of an historical nature is the product of an eyewitness, see Stubbs' argument (Rolls Series 38.1) that the *Itinerarium Regis Ricardi* is the product of an eyewitness of the Third Crusade, then Gaston Paris' argument that *L'Estoire de la guerre sainte*, Paris, 1897 is the eye-witness account that the author of the *Itinerarium* was translating, and then Hans Eberhard Mayer, *Das Itinerarium peregrinorum*, Stuttgart, 1962, for the argument that neither is an eye-witness account; see also the discussion in M.R. Morgan, *The Chronicle of Ernoul and the Continuations of William of Tyre*, Oxford, 1973, pp. 61 ff.. [27] See E.R. Curtius, *European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages*, New York, 1953, pp. 83-85. [28] Translation by Rosalind Hill, London, 1962, p. 44. [29] Translated by H. Rushton Fairclough, *Horace*, London, 1966, p. 465. [30] Guibert's behavior in this respect suggests that the anxiety of influence which Harold Bloom assigned primarily to the English Romantic poets existed earlier and more extensively ( *Anxiety of Influence*, Oxford, 1973). [31] III Reg xii.10; II Par x.10. [32] Book VII, p. 239. [33] See Appendix A. [34] Jeremiah III.27,28. [35] A term Paul Zumthor introduced in "Roman et Gothique," in *Studi in honore di Italo Siciliano*, Florence, 1966, vol. II, p. 1227. [36] For evidence that Guibert was remarkably fastidious in his attitude towards his literary production, or at least towards three of his theological compositions, see Monique-Cecile Garand, "Le Scriptorium de Guibert de Nogent," *Scriptorium* 31 (1977), pp. 3-29. [37] See Robert Levine, "Satiric Vulgarity in Guibert de Nogent's *Gesta Dei per Francos," Rhetorica* 7 (1989), pp. 261-273. [38] Although he calls the Pope a fine Latinist, instead of giving Urban's words at Clermont, Guibert rewrites them, *etsi non verbis, tamen intentionibus*, "not word for word, but according to what he meant." For an attempt, on the basis of the various surviving representations of Urban's performance at Clermont, to determine what the Pope actuually said, see D.C. Munro, "The Speech of Pope Urban II at Clermont," *American Historical Review* XI (1906), pp. 231-242. For objections to Munro's technique, see Paul Rousset, *Les origines et les caracteres de la premiere croisade*, Geneva, 1945, p. 58. [39] See W. Porges, "The Clergy, the Poor, and the Non-Combatants on the First Crusade," *Speculum* 21 (1946), pp. 1-20; Jean Flori, "Faut-il réhabiliter Pierre l'Ermite?" *Cahier de civilisation médiévale* XXXVIII (1995), pp. 35-54. [40] See Appendix A. [41] Labande, I.xvii, pp. 135 ff.. [42] A task for which Heinrich Hagenmeyer's *Chronologie de la première croisade*, Hildesheim, 1898-1901, provides a sound basis. [43] Whenever possible, the modern spellings are taken from the Gazetteer provided in *A History of the Crusades*, ed. by Kenneth M. Setton and M.W. Baldwin, Madison, 1969, vol. I, pp. 626-666. [44] *paregorizantis*, "curative," a rare word, used by Augustine. [45] Horace AP 105. [46] One of the names of Mars. [47] Literally, never goes beyond Mercurial moderation. [48] An area in northeast Persia, but used as a general term for the Near East by the Western chroniclers of the First Crusade. [49] Gnaeus Trogus Pompeius, a contemporary of Livy, wrote 44 books, of which only an epitome by Justin survives. [50] I Kings xii.10; II Chronicles x.10. [51] Translation by J.D. Duff, *Lucan*, Cambridge, 1969. "of one's own blood," is the more literal translation. [52] Lucan I. 8,9,12. [53] Albert of Aix uses the same comparison several times within one paragraph to describe the joys of the Crusaders about to attack Ascalon: they are *tanquam ad convivium pergentes laetati*, then the pagan prefect of Ramna, noticing that the Christians are singing and rejoicing, *tanquam ad epulas omnium deliciarum invitati essent*, remarks: Miror, et sufficienter mirari nequeo unde populus hic in tanta laetitia et voce exultationis glorietur, quasi ad convivium iturus. (RHC IV.492) [54] That is, children. [55] Proverbs xxx.27. [56] The first printed edition offers *genuinae*, where MS A offers *geminae*. [57] That is, Helena. [58] Psalm 63.7 [59] Genesis III.17,18. [60] Died c. 336 A.D.. [61] Died c. 274 A.D. [62] Ephesians 5.27. [63] A.D. 249-251. [64] buccella intinctio. [65] Iznik (Turkish). [66] abortivis? _________ [67] Jacob V.4. [68] Psalm 80.13. [69] Psalm 9.21 [70] Psalm 146 (147)20 [71] Robert I, count of Flanders, 1071-1093. The letter is printed in *Epistulae et chartae ad historiam primi belli sacri sectantes*, edited by Heinrich Hagenmayer, Innsbruck, 1901, pp. 129-136 [72] Michael VII Ducas, Parapinaces, 1071-1078. [73] He was the son of Eucherius, master of Lageri. [74] Elected abbot of Cluny in 1049. [75] Odo, nephew of Urban II. [76] Stephen II, 752-757; Zacharias, 741-752. [77] Pepin compelled Astolphus to restore Ravenna and other cities to Stephen in 755. [78] Last Lombard king, 756-774. [79] A reference to the struggle between Emperor Henry IV and Gregory VII; see Uta-Renate Blumenthal, *The Investiture Controversy* Philadelphia, 1988. [80] Paschal came to France in 1107, with Philip I on the throne. Isidore of Seville (IX.ii.101) offers two derivations for "Franks." *Franci a quodam proprio duce vocari putantur. Alii eos a feritate morum nuncupatos existimant* The archdeacon of Mainz clearly was referring to their animal-like behavior. [81] Jeremiah III.27,28. [82] An error by Guibert or by the scribe; the council of Clermont began 18 November, 1095. [83] Sidonius Apollinarus uses *piperata facundia* in Book VIII, epistle xi, of the *Poems and Letters*, ed. W.B. Anderson, Cambridge, 1984, vol I. [84] Mathew 27.53. [85] Isaiah 11.10. [86] Eccl. 1.7 [87] II Thess. ii.4 [88] II Thess ii.3 [89] Luke xxi.24. [90] John VII.6 [91] II Thess ii.3. [92] Isaiah 43.5. [93] Presumably Peter and Paul. [94] Psalm 47.8. [95] Psalm 77.7. [96] These seven elegiacs are the first verses Guibert inserts in the *Gesta Dei*. [97] Rom X.2 [98] Classical Latin for a conical column. [99] In French, *moisson* means "harvest." [100] Izmit, on the sea of Marmara. The *Gest Francorum* begins here. A more specific account of the difficulties that produced the separation from the Franks can be found in Albert of Aix, RHC IV.284. [101] Franci a quodam proprio duce vocari putantur. Alii eos a feritate morum nuncupatos existimant. Sunt enim in illis mores inconditi, naturalis ferocitas animorum. The French are thought to derive their name from one of their leaders. Others think that they derive their name from the ferocity of their behavior. For they are naturally fierce. (Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ____________ ed. W.M. Lindsay, Oxford, 1962, vol. 2). [102] Asia Minor, or the entire Byzantine empire. [103] Xerigordo, according to Anna Comnena; today, Eski-Kaled. [104] September 29, 1096. [105] Guibert here rejects the perhaps more pathetic scene in the *Gesta Francorum* (Brehier 8): *alii mingebant in pugillo alterius et bibebant*. [106] Eight elegiacs. [107] Ten elegiacs. [108] Sometimes given the epithet, *sine habere*, "the Penniless." [109] Gemlik, now abandoned. [110] Iznick, on the lake of the same name. [111] Twelve Asclepiadeans. At this point, the *Gest Francorum* gives only *quemdam sacerdotem missam celebrantem, quem statim super altare martirizaverunt*, "a priest celebrating mass, whom they immediately martyred on the altar." [112] Two dactyls, the second line borrowed from Horace, Sat I.97. [113] Durazzo. [114] This single elegiac may contain a scribal error, confusing Alemannus with Lemanus (Lake Geneva). The epitaph reads: Hic terror mundi Guiscardus, hic expulit urbe Quem Ligures regem, Roma, Alemannus habet. Parthus, Arabs, Macedumque phalanx non texit Alexim, At fuga; sed Venetum, nec fuga, nec pelagus. [115] A single dactylic hexameter. [116] In the Latin, *de prima civitate Richardum*, glossed (p. 152) as *Richardum de Principatu, vel Principem*. [117] Edirne (Turkish) in Bulgaria. [118] Today, the Vardar. [119] Ash Wednesday. [120] Today, Ruskujan. [121] "outside of the city wall" is my version of *brugo*, uninhabited land, a field not under cultivation. [122] Suetoniuis, Caesar 80: Gallias Caesar subegit, Nicomedes Caesarem. [123] For whatever facts can be assembled about the siege, see R. Rogers, *Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth Century*, Oxford, 1992, pp. 16-25. [124] Four dactylic hexameters. [125] Tomyris dips Cyrus' head in a bag of blood in Herodotus I CCV. Tibullus (IV.i.143 ff.) alludes to the story, and Valerius Maximus (IX.x) uses the story to illustrate vengeance. [126] 99 Adonic verses kata stichon, followed by 13 dactylic hexameters. [127] Lamentations II.9 [128] Matthew XX.12. [129] Two dactylic hexameters. [130] Three dactylic hexameters. [131] Fourteen elegiacs. [132] The *Gesta Francorum* had given the number as 360,000, Anselm of Ribemont as 260,000. (Brehier 49). [133] An elegiac couplet. [134] Deut XXXII.30. [135] Kilidj-Arslan [136] one hexameter. [137] Spikes of cactus, perhaps, or making flour? [138] Konya (Turkish). [139] Ereghli (Turkish) [140] One dactylic hexameter. [141] Paul. [142] Adana. [143] Mamistra (medieval), Mopsuestia (classical), Msis (Armenian), Misis (Turkish). [144] Thoros. [145] Selevgia (West Armenian), Silifke (Turkish). [146] Horace *Ars Poetica* 180-181. [147] John III.32 [148] Kayseri [149] Placentia, or Comana. [150] Goksun. [151] Riha, perhaps. [152] Rouveha, perhaps. [153] Marash [154] Oct 21, 1097 [155] Aregh [156] Sallust, Jugurtha 85. [157] Aleppo. [158] Eleven stanzas of sapphics. [159] Lucan I.135. [160] i.e., become emaciated [161] Fourteen heptameters. [162] Juvenal 6.443. [163] Fourteen dactylic hexameters." [164] Seven dactylic hexameters. [165] February 9. [166] Two dactylic hexameters. [167] Rom X.2. [168] Sultan. [169] Psalm 81.8. [170] Psalm 78.6. [171] Psalm 92.3. [172] Romans 9.25 [173] I Mac. v.62. [174] Acts IX.25; II Cor XI.33 [175] Sixteen dactylic hexameters. [176] One dactylic hexameter. [177] Scatter them that they may know that no other than you, our Lord fights for us. Scatter them by your power, and destroy them, our protector, Lord. (Eccl. xxxvi.1) [178] Iskenderum. [179] Aksehir. [180] Hebrews XII.6. [181] Or "miracle" in B. [182] Miraculous intervention at this point is reported also in the *Gesta Francorum*, (Brehier 154), and in a letter published by Hagenmayer (*Epistulae et Chartae* 167), but neither Raymond nor Fulcher mention it. [183] Malach.III.10 [184] August 1, 1098. [185] IV Kings.v.12 [186] At this point manuscript I adds: Jerome says, in the fifth book of his explication of Isaiah, that Antioch was the city of Reblata, in which king Nabugodonosor tore out the eyes of king Sedechia, and killed his sons. [187] Latin for "red." [188] Ma'arrat-an-Nu'man. [189] Kafartab. [190] Rafaniya. [191] Abou Ali Ibn Ammar. [192] Raymond, vicount of Torena. [193] Job 2.4 [194] Latakia. [195] Djebali [196] Among the Romans, *iustitium* was a day on which no business can be undertaken due to natural disaster [197] Judges XVII.6. [198] Manassas II of Chatillon died in 1106. Anselm's letters have survived and appear in *Epistulae et chartae ad historiam primi belli sacri spectantes*, ed. Heinrich Hagenmeyer, Innsbruck, 1901, pp. 144-146 and 156-160. [199] October 31. [200] Botron. [201] Jubail. [202] Nahir-Ibrahim. [203] Saida. [204] I Kings 17.9. [205] Tyre. [206] Ramla. [207] I Kings I. [208] Robert, a Norman cleric. [209] Psalm 21.30. [210] John IX.7. [211] Guibert has elided the assertion in the *Gest Francorum* that the Arabs had poisoned the wells, substituting instead these remarks sympathetic to the class from which he sprung. [212] Joshua VI.20. [213] The author of the *Gesta Francorum* gives his name as Gaston Bearn. [214] Part of a dactylic hexameter couplet. [215] Three elegiac lines. [216] Two dactylic hexameters. [217] Psalms 121.1. [218] 48 iambic trimeters. [219] Guibert multiplies the single *nuntius* of the *Gesta Francorum* into *legati*. [220] Sichem, then Flavia Neapolis, then Nabulus. [221] Arnulf of Martirano. [222] The *Gesta Francorum* reports the presence of the animals without attributing them to any Arabian design. [223] One dactylic hexameter. [224] Two dactylic hexameters. [225] Psalm 92.4. [226] Three dactylic hexameters. [227] Isaiah 43.5. [228] Zech 12.2. [229] Galatians 2.2. [230] Zechariah 12.2. [231] Zechariah 12.3. [232] Zechariah 12.3. [233] Luke 21.24. [234] Ezekiel 29.18. [235] Zechariah 12.4. [236] Zechariah 12.4. [237] Zechariah.12.5. [238] Zechariah 12.6. [239] Zechariah 12.6. [240] Zechariah 12.7 [241] Zechariah 12.8. [242] Zechariah 12.8. [243] Zechariah 12.9. [244] Psalm 2.8. [245] Apoc 2.27; 19.15. [246] Zecharia 12.10. [247] 5.5. [248] It is not clear what this province is. The RHC editor tentatively suggests "Isauria." [249] Judges VI, VII, VIII. [250] Terence *Eunuch* 4.6.6. [251] Hebrews 13 II. [252] Three times in the course of the last book of the *Gesta Dei* Guibert finds something positive in the absence of Western kings on the expedition to Jerusalem. Among the practical reasons for their absence: (1) Philip I and the Holy Roman Emperor were excommunicate at the time; (2) William Rufus was anticlerical and otherwise occupied; (3) the Italian rulers were absorbed with local problems. [253] Lucan I.135. [254] Ecclesiasticus 11.5. [255] Horace, Ars Poetica 97. [256] Robert the Monk, RHC.HO III, p. 794, provides a longer passage on Gualo. [257] In Terence's *Eunuch* (I.ii.105), the slave Parmeno says he can keep silent about the truth, but must immediately speak (or leak) what is a lie. [258] RHC IV 149F. [259] 1066-1118. [260] 1104. [261] One dactylic hexameter. [262] Numbers XX.2-13; XXIII.38. [263] Fulker. [264] In RHC, p. 333, Fulker mentions 600,000. [265] Luke 12.32. [266] The *Gesta Francorum* gives his name: Gervais de Bazoches. The Deeds of God through the Franks (C)1997 by Robert Levine 
13354	----	THE BOY KNIGHT. A TALE OF THE CRUSADES. BY G.A. HENTY, _Author of "The Young Buglers," "Through the Fray," "The Cornet of Horse," "The Young Colonists," "In Times of Peril," etc., etc._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. The Outlaws. CHAPTER II. A Rescue. CHAPTER III. The Capture of Wortham Hold. CHAPTER IV. The Crusades. CHAPTER V. Preparations. CHAPTER VI. The Lists. CHAPTER VII. Revenge. CHAPTER VIII. The Attack. CHAPTER IX. The Princess Berengaria. CHAPTER X. Pirates. CHAPTER XI. In the Holy Land. CHAPTER XII. The Accolade. CHAPTER XIII. In the Hands of the Saracens. CHAPTER XIV. An Effort for Freedom. CHAPTER XV. A Hermit's Tale. CHAPTER XVI. A Fight of Heroes. CHAPTER XVII. An Alpine Storm. CHAPTER XVIII. Sentenced to Death. CHAPTER XIX. Dresden. CHAPTER XX. Under the Greenwood. CHAPTER XXI. The Attempt on the Convent. CHAPTER XXII. A Dastardly Stratagem. CHAPTER XXIII. The False and Perjured Knight. CHAPTER XXIV. The Siege of Evesham Castle. CHAPTER XXV. In Search of the King. CHAPTER XXVI. King Richard's Return to England. THE BOY KNIGHT. CHAPTER I. THE OUTLAWS. It was a bright morning in the month of August, when a lad of some fifteen years of age, sitting on a low wall, watched party after party of armed men riding up to the castle of the Earl of Evesham. A casual observer glancing at his curling hair and bright open face, as also at the fashion of his dress, would at once have assigned to him a purely Saxon origin; but a keener eye would have detected signs that Norman blood ran also in his veins, for his figure was lither and lighter, his features more straightly and shapely cut, than was common among Saxons. His dress consisted of a tight-fitting jerkin, descending nearly to his knees. The material was a light-blue cloth, while over his shoulder hung a short cloak of a darker hue. His cap was of Saxon fashion, and he wore on one side a little plume of a heron. In a somewhat costly belt hung a light short sword, while across his knees lay a crossbow, in itself almost a sure sign of its bearer being of other than Saxon blood. The boy looked anxiously as party after party rode past toward the castle. "I would give something," he said, "to know what wind blows these knaves here. From every petty castle in the Earl's feu the retainers seem hurrying here. Is he bent, I wonder, on settling once and for all his quarrels with the Baron of Wortham? or can he be intending to make a clear sweep of the woods? Ah! here comes my gossip Hubert; he may tell me the meaning of this gathering." Leaping to his feet, the speaker started at a brisk walk to meet a jovial-looking personage coming down from the direction of the castle. The newcomer was dressed in the attire of a falconer, and two dogs followed at his heels. "Ah, Master Cuthbert," he said, "what brings you so near to the castle? It is not often that you favor us with your presence." "I am happier in the woods, as you well know, and was on my way thither but now, when I paused at the sight of all these troopers flocking in to Evesham. What enterprise has Sir Walter on hand now, think you?" "The earl keeps his own counsel," said the falconer, "but methinks a shrewd guess might be made at the purport of the gathering. It was but three days since that his foresters were beaten back by the landless men, whom they caught in the very act of cutting up a fat buck. As thou knowest, my lord though easy and well-disposed to all, and not fond of harassing and driving the people as are many of his neighbors, is yet to the full as fanatical anent his forest privileges as the worst of them. They tell me that when the news came in of the poor figure that his foresters cut with broken bows and draggled plumes--for the varlets had soused them in a pond of not over savory water--he swore a great oath that he would clear the forest of the bands. It may be, indeed, that this gathering is for the purpose of falling in force upon that evil-disposed and most treacherous baron, Sir John of Wortham, who has already begun to harry some of the outlying lands, and has driven off, I hear, many heads of cattle. It is a quarrel which will have to be fought out sooner or later, and the sooner the better, say I. Although I am no man of war, and love looking after my falcons or giving food to my dogs far more than exchanging hard blows, yet would I gladly don the buff and steel coat to aid in leveling the keep of that robber and tyrant, Sir John of Wortham." "Thanks, good Hubert," said the lad. "I must not stand gossiping here. The news you have told me, as you know, touches me closely, for I would not that harm should come to the forest men." "Let it not out, I beseech thee, Cuthbert, that the news came from me, for temperate as Sir Walter is at most times, he would, methinks, give me short shift did he know that the wagging of my tongue might have given warning through which the outlaws of the Chase should slip through his fingers." "Fear not, Hubert; I can be mum when the occasion needs. Can you tell me further, when the bands now gathering are likely to set forth?" "In brief breathing space," the falconer replied. "Those who first arrived I left swilling beer, and devouring pies and other provisions cooked for them last night, and from what I hear, they will set forth as soon as the last comer has arrived. Whichever be their quarry, they will try to fall upon it before the news of their arrival is bruited abroad." With a wave of his hand to the falconer the boy started. Leaving the road, and striking across the slightly undulated country dotted here and there by groups of trees, the lad ran at a brisk trot, without stopping to halt or breathe, until after half an hour's run he arrived at the entrance of a building, whose aspect proclaimed it to be the abode of a Saxon franklin of some importance. It would not be called a castle, but was rather a fortified house, with a few windows looking without, and surrounded by a moat crossed by a drawbridge, and capable of sustaining anything short of a real attack. Erstwood had but lately passed into Norman hands, and was indeed at present owned by a Saxon. Sir William de Lance, the father of the lad who is now entering its portals, was a friend and follower of the Earl of Evesham; and soon after his lord had married Gweneth, the heiress of all these fair lands--given to him by the will of the king, to whom by the death of her father she became a ward--Sir William had married Editha, the daughter and heiress of the franklin of Erstwood, a cousin and dear friend of the new Countess of Evesham. In neither couple could the marriage at first have been called one of inclination on the part of the ladies, but love came after marriage. Although the knights and barons of the Norman invasion would, no doubt, be considered rude and rough in these days of broadcloth and civilization, yet their manners were gentle and polished by the side of those of the rough though kindly Saxon franklins; and although the Saxon maids were doubtless as patriotic as their fathers and mothers, yet the female mind is greatly led by gentle manners and courteous address. Thus, then, when bidden or forced to give their hands to the Norman knights, they speedily accepted their lot, and for the most part grew contented and happy enough. In their changed circumstances it was pleasanter to ride by the side of their Norman husbands, surrounded by a gay cavalcade, to hawk and to hunt, than to discharge the quiet duties of mistress of a Saxon farmhouse. In many cases, of course, their lot was rendered wretched by the violence and brutality of their lords; but in the majority they were well satisfied with their lot, and these mixed marriages did more to bring the peoples together and weld them in one than all the laws and decrees of the Norman sovereigns. This had certainly been the case with Editha, whose marriage with Sir William had been one of the greatest happiness. She had lost him three years before the story begins, fighting in Normandy, in one of the innumerable wars in which our first Norman kings were constantly involved. On entering the gates of Erstwood Cuthbert had rushed hastily to the room where his mother was sitting, with three or four of her maidens, engaged in work. "I want to speak to you at once, mother," he said. "What is it now, my son?" said his mother, who was still young and very comely. Waving her hand to the girls they left her. "Mother," he said, when they were alone, "I fear me that Sir Walter is about to make a great raid upon the outlaws. Armed men have been coming in all the morning from the castles round, and if it be not against the Baron de Wortham that these preparations are intended, and methinks it is not, it must needs be against the landless men." "What would you do, Cuthbert?" his mother asked anxiously. "It will not do for you to be found meddling in these matters. At present you stand well in the favor of the earl, who loves you for the sake of his wife, to whom you are kin, and of your father, who did him good liegeman's service." "But, mother, I have many friends in the wood. There is Cnut, their chief, your own first cousin, and many others of our friends, all good men and true, though forced by the cruel Norman laws to refuge in the woods." "What would you do?" again his mother asked. "I would take Ronald my pony and ride to warn them of the danger that threatens." "You had best go on foot, my son. Doubtless men have been set to see that none from the Saxon homesteads carry the warning to the woods. The distance is not beyond your reach, for you have often wandered there, and on foot you can evade the eye of the watchers; but one thing, my son, you must promise, and that is, that in no case, should the earl and his bands meet with the outlaws, will you take part in any fray or struggle." "That will I willingly, mother," he said. "I have no cause for offense against the castle or the forest, and my blood and my kin are with both. I would fain save shedding of blood in a quarrel like this. I hope that the time may come when Saxon and Norman may fight side by side, and I may be there to see." A few minutes later, having changed his blue doublet for one of more sober and less noticeable color, Cuthbert started for the great forest, which then stretched to within a mile of Erstwood. In those days a large part of the country was covered with forest, and the policy of the Normans in preserving these woods for the chase tended to prevent the increase of cultivation. The farms and cultivated lands were all held by Saxons, who although nominally handed over to the nobles to whom William and his successors had given the fiefs, saw but little of their Norman masters. These stood, indeed, much in the position in which landlords stand to their tenants, payment being made, for the most part, in produce. At the edge of the wood the trees grew comparatively far apart, but as Cuthbert proceeded further into its recesses, the trees in the virgin forest stood thick and close together. Here and there open glades ran across each other, and in these his sharp eye, accustomed to the forest, could often see the stags starting away at the sound of his footsteps. It was a full hour's journey before Cuthbert reached the point for which he was bound. Here, in an open space, probably cleared by a storm ages before, and overshadowed by giant trees, was a group of men of all ages and appearances. Some were occupied in stripping the skin off a buck which hung from the bough of one of the trees. Others were roasting portions of the carcass of another deer. A few sat apart, some talking, others busy in making arrows, while a few lay asleep on the greensward. As Cuthbert entered the clearing several of the party rose to their feet. "Ah, Cuthbert," shouted a man of almost gigantic stature, who appeared to be one of the leaders of the party, "what brings you here, lad, so early? You are not wont to visit us till even, when you can lay your crossbow at a stag by moonlight." "No, no, Cousin Cnut," Cuthbert said, "thou canst not say that I have ever broken the forest laws, though I have looked on often and often, while you have done so." "The abettor is as bad as the thief," laughed Cnut, "and if the foresters caught us in the act, I wot they would make but little difference whether it was the shaft of my longbow or the quarrel from thy crossbow which brought down the quarry. But again, lad, why comest thou here? for I see by the sweat on your face and by the heaving of your sides that you have run fast and far." "I have, Cnut; I have not once stopped for breathing since I left Erstwood. I have come to warn you of danger. The earl is preparing for a raid." Cnut laughed somewhat disdainfully. "He has raided here before, and I trow has carried off no game. The landless men of the forest can hold their own against a handful of Norman knights and retainers in their own home." "Ay," said Cuthbert, "but this will be no common raid. This morning bands from all the holds within miles round are riding in, and at least five hundred men-at-arms are likely to do chase to-day." "Is it so?" said Cnut, while exclamations of surprise, but not of apprehension, broke from those standing round. "If that be so, lad, you have done us good service indeed. With fair warning we can slip through the fingers of ten times five hundred men, but if they came upon us unawares, and hemmed us in, it would fare but badly with us, though we should, I doubt not, give a good account of them before their battle-axes and maces ended the strife. Have you any idea by which road they will enter the forest, or what are their intentions?" "I know not," Cuthbert said; "all that I gathered was that the earl intended to sweep the forest, and to put an end to the breaches of the laws, not to say of the rough treatment that his foresters have met with at your hands. You had best, methinks, be off before Sir Walter and his heavily-armed men are here. The forest, large as it is, will scarce hold you both, and methinks you had best shift your quarters to Langholm Chase until the storm has passed." "To Langholm be it, then," said Cnut, "though I love not the place. Sir John of Wortham is a worse neighbor by far than the earl. Against the latter we bear no malice, he is a good knight and a fair lord; and could he free himself of the Norman notions that the birds of the air, and the beasts of the field, and the fishes of the water, all belong to Normans, and that we Saxons have no share in them, I should have no quarrel with him. He grinds not his neighbors, he is content with a fair tithe of the produce, and as between man and man is a fair judge without favor. The baron is a fiend incarnate; did he not fear that he would lose by so doing, he would gladly cut the throats, or burn, or drown, or hang every Saxon within twenty miles of his hold. He is a disgrace to his order, and some day, when our band gathers a little stronger, we will burn his nest about his ears." "It will be a hard nut to crack," Cuthbert said, laughing. "With such arms as you have in the forest the enterprise would be something akin to scaling the skies." "Ladders and axes will go far, lad, and the Norman men-at-arms have learned to dread our shafts. But enough of the baron; if we must be his neighbors for a time, so be it." "You have heard, my mates," he said, turning to his comrades gathered around him, "what Cuthbert tells us. Are you of my opinion, that it is better to move away till the storm is past than to fight against heavy odds, without much chance of either booty or victory?" A general chorus proclaimed that the outlaws approved of the proposal for a move to Langholm Chase. The preparations were simple. Bows were taken down from the boughs on which they were hanging, quivers slung across the backs, short cloaks thrown over the shoulders. The deer was hurriedly dismembered, and the joints fastened to a pole slung on the shoulders of two of the men. The drinking-cups, some of which were of silver, looking strangely out of place among the rough horn implements and platters, were bundled together, carried a short distance and dropped among some thick bushes for safety; and then the band started for Wortham. With a cordial farewell and many thanks to Cuthbert, who declined their invitations to accompany them, the retreat to Langholm commenced. Cuthbert, not knowing in which direction the bands were likely to approach, remained for awhile motionless, intently listening. In a quarter of an hour he heard the distant note of a bugle. It was answered in three different directions, and Cuthbert, who knew every path and glade of the forest, was able pretty accurately to surmise those by which the various bands were commencing to enter the wood. Knowing that they were still a long way off, he advanced as rapidly as he could in the direction in which they were coming. When by the sound of distant voices and the breaking of branches he knew that one, at least, of the parties was near at hand, he rapidly climbed a thick tree and ensconced himself in the branches, and there watched, secure and hidden from the sharpest eye, the passage of a body of men-at-arms fully a hundred strong, led by Sir Walter himself, accompanied by some half dozen of his knights. When they had passed Cuthbert again slipped down the tree and made at all speed for home. He reached it, so far as he knew, without having been observed by a single passer-by. After a brief talk with his mother he started for the castle, as his appearance there would divert any suspicion that might arise; and it would also appear natural that seeing the movements of so large a body of men, he should go up to gossip with his acquaintances there. When distant a mile from Evesham he came upon a small party. On a white palfrey rode Margaret, the little daughter of the earl. She was accompanied by her nurse and two retainers on foot. Cuthbert--who was a great favorite with the earl's daughter, for whom he frequently brought pets, such as nests of young owlets, falcons, and other creatures--was about to join the party when from a clump of trees near burst a body of ten mounted men. Without a word they rode straight at the astonished group. The retainers were cut to the ground before they had thought of drawing a sword in defense. The nurse was slain by a blow with a battle-ax, and Margaret, snatched from her palfrey, was thrown across the saddlebow of one of the mounted men, who then with his comrades dashed off at full speed. CHAPTER II. A RESCUE. The whole of the startling scene of the abduction of the Earl of Evesham's daughter occupied but a few seconds. Cuthbert was so astounded at the sudden calamity that he remained rooted to the ground at the spot where, fortunately for himself, unnoticed by the assailants, he had stood when they first burst from their concealment. For a short time he hesitated as to the course he should take. The men-at-arms who remained in the castle were scarce strong enough to rescue the child, whose captors would no doubt be reinforced by a far stronger party lurking near. The main body of Sir Walter's followers were deep in the recesses of the forest, and this lay altogether out of the line for Wortham, and there would be no chance whatever of bringing them up in time to cut off the marauders on their way back. There remained only the outlaws, who by this time would be in Langholm Forest, perhaps within a mile or two of the castle itself. The road by which the horsemen would travel would be far longer than the direct line across country, and he resolved at once to strain every nerve to reach his friends in time to get them to interpose between the captors of the Lady Margaret and their stronghold. For an instant he hesitated whether to run back to Erstwood to get a horse; but he decided that it would be as quick to go on foot, and far easier so to find the outlaws. These thoughts occupied but a few moments, and he at once started at the top of his speed for his long run across the country. Had Cuthbert been running in a race of hare and hound, he would assuredly have borne away the prize from most boys of his age. At headlong pace he made across the country, every foot of which, as far as the edge of Langholm Chase, he knew by heart. The distance to the woods was some twelve miles, and in an hour and a half from the moment of his starting Cuthbert was deep within its shades. Where he would be likely to find the outlaws he knew not; and, putting a whistle to his lips, he shrilly blew the signal, which would, he knew, be recognized by any of the band within hearing. He thought that he heard an answer, but was not certain, and again dashed forward, almost as speedily as if he had but just started. Five minutes later a man stood in the glade up which he was running. He recognized him at once as one of Cnut's party. "Where are the band?" he gasped. "Half a mile or so to the right," replied the man. Guided by the man, Cuthbert ran at full speed, till, panting and scarce able to speak, he arrived at the spot where Cnut's band were gathered. In a few words he told them what had happened, and although they had just been chased by the father of the captured child, there was not a moment of hesitation in promising their aid to rescue her from a man whom they regarded as a far more bitter enemy, both of themselves and their race. "I fear we shall be too late to cut them off," Cnut said, "they have so long a start; but at least we will waste no time in gossiping." Winding a horn to call together some of the members of the band who had scattered, and leaving one at the meeting-place to give instructions to the rest, Cnut, followed by those assembled there, went off at a swinging trot through the glades toward Wortham Castle. After a rapid calculation of distances, and allowing for the fact that the baron's men--knowing that Sir Walter's retainers and friends were all deep in the forest, and even if they heard of the outrage could not be on their traces for hours--would take matters quietly, Cnut concluded that they had arrived in time. Turning off, they made their way along the edge of the wood, to the point where the road from Evesham ran through the forest. Scarcely had the party reached this point when they heard a faint clatter of steel. "Here they come!" exclaimed Cuthbert. Cnut gave rapid directions, and the band took up their posts behind the trees, on either side of the path. "Remember," Cnut said, "above all things be careful not to hit the child, but pierce the horse on which she is riding. The instant he falls, rush forward. We must trust to surprise to give us the victory." Three minutes later the head of a band of horsemen was seen through the trees. They were some thirty in number, and, closely grouped as they were together, the watchers behind the trees could not see the form of the child carried in their midst. When they came abreast of the concealed outlaws Cnut gave a sharp whistle, and fifty arrows flew from tree and bush into the closely gathered party of horsemen. More than half their number fell at once; some, drawing their swords, endeavored to rush at their concealed foes, while others dashed forward in the hope of riding through the snare into which they had fallen. Cuthbert had leveled his crossbow, but had not fired; he was watching with intense anxiety for a glimpse of the bright-colored dress of the child. Soon he saw a horseman separate himself from the rest and dash forward at full speed. Several arrows flew by him, and one or two struck the horse on which he rode. The animal, however, kept on its way. Cuthbert leveled his crossbow on the low arm of a tree, and as the rider came abreast of him touched the trigger, and the steel-pointed quarrel flew true and strong against the temple of the passing horseman. He fell from his horse like a stone, and the well-trained animal at once stood still by the side of his rider. Cuthbert leaped forward, and to his delight the child at once opened her arms and cried in a joyous tone: "Cuthbert!" The fight was still raging fiercely, and Cuthbert, raising her from the ground, ran with her into the wood, where they remained hidden until the combat ceased, and the last survivors of the baron's band had ridden past toward the castle. Then Cuthbert went forward with his charge and joined the band of outlaws, who, absorbed in the fight, had not witnessed the incident of her rescue, and now received them with loud shouts of joy and triumph. "This is a good day's work indeed for all," Cuthbert said; "it will make of the earl a firm friend instead of a bitter enemy; and I doubt not that better days are dawning for Evesham Forest." A litter was speedily made with boughs; on this Margaret was placed, and on the shoulders of two stout foresters started for home, Cnut and Cuthbert walking beside, and a few of the band keeping at a short distance behind, as a sort of rearguard, should the baron attempt to regain his prey. There was now no cause for speed, and Cuthbert in truth could scarce drag one foot before another, for he had already traversed over twenty miles, the greater portion of the distance at his highest rate of speed. Cnut offered to have a litter made for him also, but this Cuthbert indignantly refused; however, in the forest they came upon the hut of a small cultivator, who had a rough forest pony, which was borrowed for Cuthbert's use. It was late in the afternoon before they came in sight of Evesham Castle. From the distance could be seen bodies of armed men galloping toward it, and it was clear that only now the party were returning from the wood, and had learned the news of the disappearance of the earl's daughter, and of the finding of the bodies of her attendants. Presently they met one of the mounted retainers riding at headlong speed. "Have you heard or seen anything," he shouted, as he approached, "of the Lady Margaret? She is missing, and foul play has taken place." "Here I am, Rudolph," cried the child, sitting up on the rude litter. The horseman gave a cry of astonishment and pleasure, and without a word wheeled his horse and galloped past back at headlong speed toward the castle. As Cuthbert and the party approached the gate the earl himself, surrounded by his knights and followers, rode out hastily from the gate and halted in front of the little party. The litter was lowered, and as he dismounted from his horse his daughter sprang out and leaped into his arms. For a few minutes the confusion and babble of tongues were too great for anything to be heard, but Cuthbert, as soon as order was somewhat restored, stated what had happened, and the earl was moved to fury at the news of the outrage which had been perpetrated by the Baron of Wortham upon his daughter and at the very gates of his castle, and also at the thought that she should have been saved by the bravery and devotion of the very men against whom he had so lately been vowing vengeance in the depths of the forest. "This is not a time," he said to Cnut, "for talk or making promises, but be assured that henceforth the deer of Evesham Chase are as free to you and your men as to me. Forest laws or no forest laws, I will no more lift a hand against men to whom I owe so much. Come when you will to the castle, my friends, and let us talk over what can be done to raise your outlawry and restore you to an honest career again." Cuthbert returned home tired, but delighted with his day's work, and Dame Editha was surprised indeed with the tale of adventure he had to tell. The next morning he went over to the castle, and heard that a grand council had been held the evening before, and that it had been determined to attack Wortham Castle and to raze it to the ground. Immediately on hearing of his arrival, the earl, after again expressing his gratitude for the rescue of his daughter, asked him if he would go into the forest and invite the outlaws to join their forces with those of the castle to attack the baron. Cuthbert willingly undertook the mission, as he felt that this alliance would further strengthen the position of the forest men. When he arrived there was some considerable consultation and discussion between the outlaws as to the expediency of mixing themselves in the quarrels between the Norman barons. However, Cnut persuaded them that as the Baron of Wortham was an enemy and oppressor of all Saxons, it was in fact their own quarrel that they were fighting rather than that of the earl, and they therefore agreed to give their aid, and promised to be at the rendezvous outside the castle to be attacked soon after dawn next morning. Cuthbert returned with the news which gave great satisfaction to the earl. The castle was now a scene of bustle and business; armorers were at work repairing headpieces and breastplates, sharpening swords and battle-axes, while the fletchers prepared sheaves of arrows. In the courtyard a number of men were engaged oiling the catapults, ballistas, and other machines for hurling stones. All were discussing the chances of the assault, for it was no easy matter which they had set themselves to do. Wortham Hold was an extremely strong one, and it needed all and more than all the machines at their disposal to undertake so formidable an operation as a siege. The garrison, too, were strong and desperate; and the baron, knowing what must follow his outrage of the day before, would have been sure to send off messengers round the country begging his friends to come to his assistance. Cuthbert had begged permission of his mother to ask the earl to allow him to join as a volunteer, but she would not hear of it. Neither would she suffer him to mingle with the foresters. The utmost that he could obtain was that he might go as a spectator, with strict injunctions to keep himself out of the fray, and as far as possible beyond bow-shot of the castle wall. It was a force of some four hundred strong that issued from the wood early next morning to attack the stronghold at Wortham. The force consisted of some ten or twelve knights and barons, some one hundred and fifty or one hundred and sixty Norman men-at-arms, a miscellaneous gathering of other retainers, two hundred strong, and some eighty of the forest men. These last were not to fight under the earl's banner, but were to act on their own account. There were among them outlaws, escaped serfs, and some men guilty of bloodshed. The earl then could not have suffered these men to fight under his flag until purged in some way of their offenses. This arrangement suited the foresters well. Their strong point was shooting; and by taking up their own position, and following their own tactics, under the leadership of Cnut, they would be able to do far more execution, and that with less risk to themselves, than if compelled to fight according to the fashion of the Normans. As they approached the castle a trumpet was blown, and the herald advancing, demanded its surrender, stigmatized the Baron of Wortham as a false knight and a disgrace to his class and warned all those within the castle to abstain from giving him aid or countenance, but to submit themselves to the earl, Sir Walter of Evesham, the representative of King Richard. The reply to the summons was a burst of taunting laughter from the walls; and scarcely had the herald withdrawn than a flight of arrows showed that the besieged were perfectly ready for the fray. Indeed the baron had not been idle. Already the dispute between himself and the earl had come to such a point that it was certain that sooner or later open hostilities would break out. He had therefore been for some time quietly accumulating a large store of provisions and munitions of war, and strengthening the castle in every way. The moat had been cleaned out, and filled to the brim with water. Great quantities of heavy stones had been accumulated on the most exposed points of the walls, in readiness to hurl upon any who might try to climb. Huge sheaves of arrows and piles of crossbow bolts were in readiness, and in all, save the number of men, Wortham had for weeks been prepared for the siege. On the day when the attempt to carry off the earl's daughter had failed, the baron, seeing that his bold stroke to obtain a hostage which would have enabled him to make his own terms with the earl had been thwarted, knew that the struggle was inevitable. Fleet messengers had been sent in all directions. To Gloucester and Hereford, Stafford, and even Oxford, men had ridden, with letters to the baron's friends, beseeching them to march to his assistance. "I can," he said, "defend my hold for weeks. But it is only by aid from without that I can finally hope to break the power of this baggart [Transcriber's note: sic] earl." Many of those to whom he addressed his call had speedily complied with his demand, while those at a distance might be expected to reply later to the appeal. There were many among the barons who considered the mildness of the Earl of Evesham toward the Saxons in his district to be a mistake, and who, although not actually approving of the tyranny and brutality of the Baron of Wortham, yet looked upon his cause to some extent as their own. The Castle of Wortham stood upon ground but very slightly elevated above the surrounding country. A deep and wide moat ran round it, and this could, by diverting a rivulet, be filled at will. From the edge of the moat the walls rose high, and with strong flanking towers and battlements. There were strong works also beyond the moat opposite to the drawbridge; while in the center of the castle rose the keep, from whose summit the archers, and the machines for casting stones and darts, could command the whole circuit of defense. As Cuthbert, accompanied by one of the hinds of the farm, took his post high up in a lofty tree, where at his ease he could command a view of the proceedings, he marveled much in what manner an attack upon so fair a fortress would be commenced. "It will be straightforward work to attack the outwork," he said, "but that once won, I see not how we are to proceed against the castle itself. The machines that the earl has will scarcely hurl stones strong enough even to knock the mortar from the walls. Ladders are useless where they cannot be planted; and if the garrison are as brave as the castle is strong, methinks that the earl has embarked upon a business that will keep him here till next spring." There was little time lost in commencing the conflict. The foresters, skirmishing up near to the castle, and taking advantage of every inequality in the ground, of every bush and tuft of high grass, worked up close to the moat, and then opened a heavy fire with their bows against the men-at-arms on the battlements, and prevented their using the machines against the main force now advancing to the attack upon the outwork. This was stoutly defended. But the impetuosity of the earl, backed as it was by the gallantry of the knights serving under him, carried all obstacles. The narrow moat which encircled this work was speedily filled with great bundles of brushwood, which had been prepared the previous night. Across these the assailants rushed. Some thundered at the gate with their battle-axes, while others placed ladders by which, although several times hurled backward by the defenders, they finally succeeded in getting a footing on the wall. Once there, the combat was virtually over. The defenders were either cut down or taken prisoners, and in two hours after the assault began the outwork of Wortham Castle was taken. This, however, was but the commencement of the undertaking, and it had cost more than twenty lives to the assailants. They were now, indeed, little nearer to capturing the castle than they had been before. The moat was wide and deep. The drawbridge had been lifted at the instant that the first of the assailants gained a footing upon the wall. And now that the outwork was captured, a storm of arrows, stones, and other missiles was poured into it from the castle walls, and rendered it impossible for any of its new masters to show themselves above it. Seeing that any sudden attack was impossible, the earl now directed a strong body to cut down trees, and prepare a moveable bridge to throw across the moat. This would be a work of fully two days; and in the meantime Cuthbert returned to the farm. CHAPTER III. THE CAPTURE OF WORTHAM HOLD. Upon his return home, after relating to his mother the events of the morning's conflict, Cuthbert took his way to the cottage inhabited by an old man who had in his youth been a mason. "Have I not heard, Gurth," he said, "that you helped to build the Castle of Wortham?" "No, no, young sir," he said; "old as I am, I was a child when the castle was built. My father worked at it, and it cost him, and many others, his life." "And how was that, prithee?" asked Cuthbert. "He was, with several others, killed by the baron, the grandfather of the present man, when the work was finished." "But why was that, Gurth?" "We were but Saxon swine," said Gurth bitterly, "and a few of us more or less mattered not. We were then serfs of the baron. But my mother fled with me on the news of my father's death. For years we remained far away with some friends in a forest near Oxford. Then she pined for her native air, and came back and entered the service of the franklin." "But why should your mother have taken you away?" Cuthbert asked. "She always believed, Master Cuthbert, that my father was killed by the baron to prevent him giving any news of the secrets of the castle. He and some others had been kept in the walls for many months, and were engaged in the making of secret passages." "That is just what I came to ask you, Gurth. I have heard something of this story before, and now that we are attacking Wortham Castle, and the earl has sworn to level it to the ground, it is of importance if possible to find out whether any of the secret passages lead beyond the castle, and if so, where. Almost all the castles have, I have been told, an exit by which the garrison can at will make sorties or escape; and I thought that maybe you might have heard enough to give us some clue as to the existence of such a passage at Wortham." The old man thought for some time in silence and then said: "I may be mistaken, but methinks a diligent search in the copse near the stream might find the mouth of the outlet." "What makes you think that this is so, Gurth?" "I had been with my mother to carry some clothes to my father on the last occasion on which I saw him. As we neared the castle I saw my father and three other of the workmen, together with the baron, coming down from the castle toward the spot. As my mother did not wish to approach while the baron was at hand, we stood within the trees at the edge of the wood and watched what was being done. The baron came with them down to the bushes, and then they again came out, crossed the river, and one of them cut some willows, peeled them, and erected the white staves in a line toward the castle. They walked for a bit on each side, and seemed to be making calculations. Then they went back into the castle, and I never saw my father again." "Why did you not go in at once according to your intention?" "Because my mother said that she thought some important work was on hand, and that maybe the baron would not like that women should know aught of it, for he was of suspicious and evil mind. More than this I know not. The castle had already been finished and most of the masons discharged. There were, however, a party of serfs kept at work, and also some masons, and rumor had it that they were engaged in making the secret passages. Whether it was so or not I cannot say, but I know that none of that party ever left the castle alive. It was given out that a bad fever had raged there, but none believed it; and the report went about, and was I doubt not true, that all had been killed, to preserve the secret of the passage." Cuthbert lost no time in making use of the information that he had gained. Early next morning, at daybreak, he started on his pony to Wortham. As he did not wish the earl or his followers to know the facts that he had learned until they were proved, he made his way round the camp of the besiegers, and by means of his whistle called one of the foresters to him. "Where is Cnut?" he asked. "He is with a party occupied in making ladders." "Go to him," Cuthbert said, "and tell him to withdraw quietly and make his way here. I have an important matter on which I wish to speak to him." Cnut arrived in a few minutes, somewhat wondering at the message. He brightened greatly when Cuthbert told him what he had learned. "This is indeed important," he said. "We will lose no time in searching the copse you speak of. You and I, together with two of my most trusty men, with axes to clear away the brush, will do. At present a thing of this sort had best be kept between as few as may be." They started at once and soon came down upon the stream. It ran at this point in a little valley, some twenty or thirty feet deep. On the bank not far from the castle grew a small wood, and it was in this that Cuthbert hoped to find the passage spoken of by Gurth. The trees and brushwood were so thick that it was apparent at once that if the passage had ever existed it had been unused for some years. The woodmen were obliged to chop down dozens of young saplings to make their way up from the water toward the steeper part of the bank. The wood was some fifty yards in length, and as it was uncertain at which point the passage had come out, a very minute search had to be made. "What do you think it would be like, Cnut?" Cuthbert asked. "Like enough to a rabbit-hole, or more likely still there would be no hole whatever. We must look for moss and greenery, for it is likely that such would have been planted, so as to conceal the door from any passer-by, while yet allowing a party from inside to cut their way through it without difficulty." After a search of two hours, Cnut decided that the only place in the copse in which it was likely that the entrance to a passage could be hidden was a spot where the ground was covered thickly with ivy and trailing plants. "It looks level enough with the rest," Cuthbert said. "Ay, lad, but we know not what lies behind this thick screen of ivy. Thrust in that staff." One of the woodmen began to probe with the end of a staff among the ivy. For some time he was met by the solid ground, but presently the butt of the staff went through suddenly, pitching him on his head, amid a suppressed laugh from his comrades. "Here it is, if anywhere," said Cnut, and with their billhooks they at once began to clear away the thickly grown creepers. Five minutes' work was sufficient to show a narrow cut, some two feet wide, in the hillside, at the end of which stood a low door. "Here it is," said Cnut, with triumph, "and the castle is ours. Thanks, Cuthbert, for your thought and intelligence. It has not been used lately, that is clear," he went on. "These creepers have not been moved for years. Shall we go and tell the earl of our discovery? What think you, Cuthbert?" "I think we had better not," Cuthbert said. "We might not succeed in getting in, as the passage may have fallen further along; but I will speak to him and tell him that we have something on hand which may alter his dispositions for fighting to-morrow." Cuthbert made his way to the earl, who had taken possession of a small cottage a short distance from the castle. "What can I do for you?" Sir Walter said. "I want to ask you, sir, not to attack the castle to-morrow until you see a white flag waved from the keep." "But how on earth is a white flag to be raised from the keep?" "It may be," Cuthbert said, "that I have some friends inside who will be able to make a diversion in our favor. However, sir, it can do no harm if you will wait till then, and may save many lives. At what hour do you mean to attack ?" "The bridges and all other preparations to assist us across the moat will be ready to-night. We will advance then under cover of darkness, and as soon after dawn as may be attack in earnest." "Very well, sir," Cuthbert said. "I trust that within five minutes after your bugle has sounded the white flag will make its appearance on the keep, but it cannot do so until after you have commenced an attack, or at least a pretense of an attack." Two or three hours before daylight Cuthbert accompanied Cnut and twenty-five picked men of the foresters to the copse. They were provided with crowbars, and all carried heavy axes. The door was soon pried open. It opened silently and without a creak. "It may be," Cnut said, "that the door has not been opened as you say for years, but it is certain," and he placed his torch to the hinges, "that it has been well oiled within the last two or three days. No doubt the baron intended to make his escape this way, should the worst arrive. Now that we have the door open we had better wait quiet until the dawn commences. The earl will blow his bugle as a signal for the advance; it will be another ten minutes before they are fairly engaged, and that will be enough for us to break open any doors that there may be between this and the castle, and to force our way inside." It seemed a long time waiting before the dawn fairly broke--still longer before the earl's bugle was heard to sound the attack. Then the band, headed by Cnut and two or three of the strongest of the party entered the passage. Cuthbert had had some misgivings as to his mother's injunctions to take no part in the fray, and it cannot be said that in accompanying the foresters he obeyed the letter of her instructions. At the same time as he felt sure that the effect of a surprise would be complete and crushing, and that the party would gain the top of the keep without any serious resistance, he considered the risk was so small as to justify him in accompanying the foresters. The passage was some five feet high, and little more than two feet wide. It was dry and dusty, and save the marks on the ground of a human foot going and returning, doubtless that of the man who had oiled the lock the day before, the passage appeared to have been unused from the time that it left the hands of its builders. Passing along for some distance they came to another strong oaken door. This, like the last, yielded to the efforts of the crowbars of the foresters, and they again advanced. Presently they came to a flight of steps. "We must now be near the castle," Cnut said. "In fact, methinks I can hear confused noises ahead." Mounting the steps, they came to a third door; this was thickly studded with iron, and appeared of very great strength. Fortunately the lock was upon their side, and they were enabled to shoot the bolt; but upon the other side the door was firmly secured by large bolts, and it was fully five minutes before the foresters could succeed in opening it. It was not without a good deal of noise that they at last did so; and several times they paused, fearing that the alarm must have been given in the castle. As, however, the door remained closed, they supposed that the occupants were fully engaged in defending themselves from the attacks of the earl's party. When the door gave way they found hanging across in front of them a very thick arras, and pressing this aside they entered a small room in the thickness of the wall of the keep. It contained the merest slit for light, and was clearly unused. Another door, this time unfastened, led into a larger apartment, which was also at present unoccupied. They could hear now the shouts of the combatants without, the loud orders given by the leaders on the walls, the crack, as the stones hurled by the mangonels struck the walls, and the ring of steel as the arrows struck against steel cap and cuirass. "It is fortunate that all were so well engaged, or they would certainly have heard the noise of our forcing the door, which would have brought all of them upon us. As it is, we are in the heart of the keep. We have now but to make a rush up these winding steps, and methinks we shall find ourselves on the battlements. They will be so surprised that no real resistance can be offered to us. Now let us advance." So saying Cnut led the way upstairs, followed by the foresters, Cuthbert, as before, allowing five or six of them to intervene between him and the leader. He carried his short sword and a quarterstaff, a weapon by no means to be despised in the hands of an active and experienced player. Presently, after mounting some fifty or sixty steps, they issued on the platform of the keep. Here were gathered some thirty or forty men, who were so busied in shooting with crossbows, and in working machines casting javelins, stones, and other missiles upon the besiegers, that they were unaware of the addition to their numbers until the whole of the foresters had gathered on the summit, and at the order of Cnut suddenly fell upon them with a loud shout. Taken wholly by surprise by the foe, who seemed to have risen from the bowels of the earth by magic, the soldiers of the Baron of Wortham offered but a feeble resistance. Some were cast over the battlement of the keep, some driven down staircases, others cut down, and then, Cuthbert fastening a small white flag he had prepared to his quarterstaff, waved it above the battlements. Even now the combatants on the outer wall were in ignorance of what had happened in the keep; so great was the din that the struggle which had there taken place had passed unnoticed; and it was not until the fugitives, rushing out into the courtyard, shouted that the keep had been captured, that the besieged became aware of the imminence of the danger. [Illustration: CUTHBERT FASTENED A SMALL WHITE FLAG TO HIS QUARTER-STAFF AND WAVED IT ABOVE THE BATTLEMENTS.] Hitherto the battle had been going well for the defenders of the castle. The Baron of Wortham was indeed surprised at the feebleness of the assault. The arrows which had fallen in clouds upon the first day's attack upon the castle among his soldiers were now comparatively few and ineffective. The besiegers scarcely appeared to push forward their bridges with any vigor, and it seemed to him that a coldness had fallen upon them, and that some disagreement must have arisen between the foresters and the earl, completely crippling the energy of the attack. When he heard the words shouted from the courtyard below he could not believe his ears. That the keep behind should have been carried by the enemy appeared to him impossible. With a roar he called upon the bravest of his men to follow, and rushing across the courtyard, rapidly ascended the staircase. The movement was observed from the keep, and Cnut and a few of his men stationed themselves with their battle-axes at the top of various stairs leading below. The signal shown by Cuthbert had not passed unobserved. The earl, who had given instructions to his followers to make a mere feint of attacking, now blew the signal for the real onslaught. The bridges were rapidly run across the moat, ladders were planted, and the garrison being paralyzed and confused by the attack in their rear, as well as hindered by the arrows which now flew down upon them from the keep above, offered but a feeble resistance, and the assailants, led by Sir Walter himself, poured over the walls. Now there was a scene of confusion and desperate strife. The baron had just gained the top of the stairs, and was engaged in a fierce conflict with Cnut and his men, when the news reached him that the wall was carried from without. With an execration he again turned and rushed down the stairs, hoping by a vigorous effort to cast back the foe. It was, however, all too late; his followers, disheartened and alarmed, fought without method or order in scattered groups of threes and fours. They made their last stand in corners and passages. They knew there was but little hope of mercy from the Saxon foresters, and against these they fought to the last. To the Norman retainers, however, of the earl they offered a less determined resistance, throwing down their arms and surrendering at discretion. The baron, when fiercely fighting, was slain by an arrow from the keep above, and with his fall the last resistance ceased. A short time was spent in searching the castle, binding the prisoners, and carrying off the valuables that the baron had collected in his raids. Then a light was set to the timbers, the granaries were fired, and in a few minutes the smoke wreathing out of the various loopholes and openings told the country round that the stronghold had fallen, and that they were free from the oppressor at last. CHAPTER IV. THE CRUSADES. Warm thanks and much praise were bestowed upon Cuthbert for his share in the capture of the castle, and the earl, calling the foresters round him, then and there bestowed freedom upon any of them who might have been serfs of his, and called upon all his knights and neighbors to do the same, in return for the good service which they had rendered. This was willingly done, and a number of Cnut's party, who had before borne the stigma of escaped serfs, were now free men. We are too apt to forget, in our sympathy with the Saxons, that, fond as they were of freedom for themselves, they were yet severe masters, and kept the mass of the people in a state of serfage. Although their laws provided ample justice as between Saxon man and man, there was no justice for the unhappy serfs, who were either the original inhabitants or captives taken in war, and who were distinguished by a collar of brass or iron round their neck. Cnut's party had indeed long got rid of these badges, the first act of a serf when he took to the woods being always to file off his collar; but they were liable when caught to be punished, even by death, and were delighted at having achieved their freedom. "And what can I do for you, Cuthbert?" Sir Walter said, as they rode homeward. "It is to you that I am indebted: in the first place for the rescue of my daughter, in the second for the capture of that castle, which I doubt me much whether we should ever have taken in fair fight had it not been for your aid." "Thanks, Sir Walter," the lad replied. "At present I need nothing, but should the time come when you may go to the wars I would fain ride with you as your page, in the hope of some day winning my spurs also in the field." "So shall it be," the earl said, "and right willingly. But who have we here?" As he spoke a horseman rode up and presented a paper to the earl. "This is a notice," the earl said, after perusing it, "that King Richard has determined to take up the cross, and that he calls upon his nobles and barons to join him in the effort to free the holy sepulcher from the infidels. I doubt whether the minds of the people are quite prepared, but I hear that there has been much preaching by friars and monks in some parts, and that many are eager to join in the war." "Think you that you will go to the war, Sir Walter?" Cuthbert asked. "I know not as yet; it must much depend upon the king's mood. For myself I care not so greatly as some do about this question of the Holy Land. There has been blood enough shed already to drown it, and we are no nearer than when the first swarms of pilgrims made their way thither." On Cuthbert's returning home and telling his mother all that had passed, she shook her head, but said that she could not oppose his wishes to go with the earl when the time should come, and that it was only right he should follow in the footsteps of the good knight his father. "I have heard much of these Crusades," he said; "canst tell me about them?" "In truth I know not much, my son; but Father Francis, I doubt not, can tell you all the particulars anent the affair." The next time that Father Francis, who was the special adviser of Dame Editha, rode over from the convent on his ambling nag, Cuthbert eagerly asked him if he would tell him what he knew of the Crusades. "Hitherto, my son," he said, "the Crusades have, it must be owned, brought many woes upon Europe. From the early times great swarms of pilgrims were accustomed to go from all parts of Europe to the holy shrines. "When the followers of the evil prophet took possession of the land, they laid grievous burdens upon the pilgrims, heavily they fined them, persecuted them in every way, and treated them as if indeed they were but the scum of the earth under their feet. "So terrible were the tales that reached Europe that men came to think that it would be a good deed truly to wrest the sepulcher of the Lord from the hands of these heathens. Pope Urban was the first to give authority and strength to the movement, and at a vast meeting at Claremont of thirty thousand clergy and four thousand barons, it was decided that war must be made against the infidel. From all parts of France men flocked to hear Pope Urban preach there; and when he had finished his oration the vast multitude, carried away by enthusiasm, swore to win the holy sepulcher or to die. "Mighty was the throng that gathered for the First Crusade. Monks threw aside their gowns and took to the sword and cuirass; even women and children joined in the throng. What, my son, could be expected from a great army so formed? Without leaders, without discipline, without tactics, without means of getting food, they soon became a scourge of the country through which they passed. "Passing through Hungary, where they greatly ravaged the fields, they came to Bulgaria. Here the people, struck with astonishment and dismay at this great horde of hungry people who arrived among them like locusts, fell upon them with the sword, and great numbers fell. The first band that passed into that country perished miserably, and of all that huge assembly, it may be said that, numbering at the start not less than two hundred and fifty thousand persons, only about one hundred thousand crossed into Asia Minor. The fate of these was no better than that of those who had perished in Hungary and Bulgaria. After grievous suffering and loss they at last reached Nicaea. There they fell into an ambuscade; and out of the whole of the undisciplined masses who had followed Peter the Hermit, it is doubtful whether ten thousand ever returned home. "This first attempt to rescue the holy sepulcher was followed by others equally wild, misguided, and unfortunate. Some of them indeed began their evil deeds as soon as they had left their home. The last of these bodies fell upon the Jews, who are indeed enemies of the Christian faith, but who have now, at least, nothing to do with the question of the holy sepulcher. As soon as they entered into Germany the Crusaders put them to death with horrible torture. Plunder and rapine indeed appeared to be the object of the Crusaders. On this as well as on most other preceding bands, their misdeeds drew down the vengeance of the people. At an early period of their march, and as soon as they reached Hungary, the people fell upon them, and put the greater portion to the sword. "Thus, in these irregular expeditions no less than five hundred thousand people are supposed to have perished. Godfrey de Bouillon was the first who undertook to lead a Crusade according to the military knowledge of the day. With him were his brothers Eustace and Baldwin, the Counts of Anault and St. Paul, and many other nobles and gentlemen, with their retainers, well armed and under good order; and so firm was the discipline of Duke Godfrey that they were allowed to pass freely by the people of the countries who had opposed the previous bands. "Through Hungary, Bulgaria, and Thrace he made his way; and though he met with many difficulties from Alexius, the crafty and treacherous Emperor of the Greeks, he at last succeeded in crossing into Asia. There he was joined by many from England, as well as from France and other countries. Duke Robert, the son of our first William, led a strong band of Normans to the war, as did the other great princes of France and Spain. "The army which crossed the narrow passage of the Hellespont is estimated at no less than seven hundred thousand fighting men. Of these one hundred thousand were knights clad in complete armor, the remainder were men-at-arms and bowmen. "Nicaea, the place which had been the scene of the massacre of Peter the Hermit's hosts, was taken after a desperate conflict, lasting for many weeks, and the Crusaders afterward defeated the Turks in a great battle near the town of Doryleum. After these successes disputes arose among the leaders, and Count Baldwin, brother of Duke Godfrey, left the main body with about fifteen hundred men, and founded a kingdom for himself in Mesopotamia. "The main body, slowly and painfully, and suffering from disease, famine, and the heat, made its way south. Antioch, a city of great strength and importance, was besieged, but it proved so strong that it resisted for many months, and was at last only taken by treachery. "After the capture of this place the sufferings of the Crusaders so far from being diminished were redoubled. They themselves during the siege had bought up all the food that could be brought from the surrounding country, while the magazines of the town were found, when an entry was effected, to be entirely deserted. The enemy, aided by a great Persian host, came down, and those who had been the besiegers were now besieged. However, when in the last strait the Christian army sallied out, and inspired with supernatural strength, defeated the Turks and Persians, with a slaughter of one hundred thousand men. Another slow movement to the south brought them into the Holy Land, and pressing forward, they came at last within sight of Jerusalem itself. "So fearful had been the losses of the Crusaders that of seven hundred thousand who crossed the Hellespont, not more than forty thousand reached the end of the pilgrimage. This fragment of an army, which had appeared before a very strongly fortified town, possessed no means of capturing the place--none of the machines of war necessary for the purpose, no provisions or munitions of any kind. Water was scarce also; and it appeared as if the remnant of the great army of Godfrey de Bouillon had arrived before Jerusalem only to perish there. "Happily just at this time a further band of Crusaders from Genoa, who had reached Jaffa, made their appearance. They were provided with stores, and had skilled workmen capable of making the machines for the siege. On July 14, 1099, the attack was made, and after resistance gallant and desperate as the assault, the Crusaders burst into the city, massacred the whole of the defenders and inhabitants, calculated at seventy thousand in number, and so became masters of the holy sepulcher. "The Sultan of Egypt was meanwhile advancing to the assistance of the Mohammedans of Syria; but Godfrey, with twenty thousand of his best men, advanced to meet the vast host, and scattered them as if they had been sheep. Godfrey was now chosen King of Jerusalem, and the rest of his army--save three hundred knights and two hundred soldiers, who agreed to remain with him--returned to their home. The news of the victory led other armies of Crusaders to follow the example of that of Godfrey; but as these were almost as completely without organization or leadership as those of Peter the Hermit, they suffered miserably on their way, and few indeed ever reached the Holy Land. Godfrey died in 1100, and his brother Baldwin succeeded him. "The history of the last hundred years has been full of fresh efforts to crush the Moslem power, but hitherto it cannot be said that fortune has attended the efforts of the Christians. Had it not been indeed for the devotion of the Knights of St. John and of the Templars, two great companies formed of men who devoted their lives to the holding of the sepulcher against the infidel, our hold of the Holy Land would have been lost. "Gradually the Saracens have wrested post after post from our hands. Edessa was taken in 1144, and the news of this event created an intense excitement. The holy St. Bernard stirred up all France, and Louis VII. himself took the vow and headed a noble army. The ways of God are not our ways, and although the army of Germany joined that of France, but little results came of this great effort. "The Emperor Conrad, with the Germans, was attacked by the Turk Saladin of Iconium, and was defeated with a loss of sixty thousand men. The King of France, with his army, was also attacked with fury, and a large portion of his force were slaughtered. Nothing more came of this great effort, and while the first Crusade seemed to show that the men-at-arms of Europe were irresistible, the second on the contrary gave proof that the Turks were equal to the Christian knights. Gradually the Christian hold of the Holy Land was shaken. In 1187, although fighting with extraordinary bravery, the small army of Christian Knights of the Temple and of St. John were annihilated, the King of Jerusalem was made prisoner, and the Christian power was crushed. Then Saladin, who commanded the Turks, advanced against Jerusalem, and forced it to capitulate. "Such, my boy, is the last sad news which has reached us; and no wonder that it has stirred the hearts of the monarchs of Europe, and that every effort will be again made to recapture the holy sepulcher, and to avenge our brethren who have been murdered by the infidels." "But, Father Francis, from your story it would seem that Europe has already sacrificed an enormous number of lives to take the holy sepulcher, and that after all the fighting, when she has taken it, it is only to lose it again." "That is so, my son; but we will trust that in future things will be better managed. The Templars and Hospitalers now number so vast a number of the best lances in Europe, and are grown to be such great powers, that we may believe that when we have again wrested the holy sepulcher from the hands of the infidels they will be able to maintain it against all assaults. Doubtless the great misfortunes which have fallen upon the Christian armies have been a punishment from heaven, because they have not gone to work in the right spirit. It is not enough to take up lance and shield, and to place a red cross upon the shoulder. Those who desire to fight the battle of the Lord must cleanse their hearts, and go forth in the spirit of pilgrims rather than knights. I mean not that they should trust wholly to spiritual weapons--for in truth the infidel is a foe not to be despised--but I mean that they should lay aside all thoughts of worldly glory and rivalry one against another." "And think you, Father, that such is the spirit with which King Richard and the other kings and nobles now preparing to go to the Holy Land are animated?" Father Francis hesitated. "It is not for me, my son, to judge motives, or to speak well or ill of the instruments who have been chosen for this great work. It is of all works the most praiseworthy, most holy. It is horrible to think that the holy shrines of Jerusalem should be in the hands of men who believe not in our Redeemer; and I hold it to be the duty of every man who can bear arms, no matter what his rank or his station, to don his armor and to go forth to battle in the cause. Whether success will crown the effort, or whether God wills it otherwise, it is not for man to discuss; it is enough that the work is there, and it is our duty to do it." "And think you, Father, that it will do good to England?" "That do I, my son, whether we gain the Holy Land or no. Methinks that it will do good service to the nation that Saxon and Norman should fight together under the holy cross. Hitherto the races have stood far too much apart. They have seen each other's bad qualities rather than good; but methinks that when the Saxon and the Norman stand side by side on the soil of the Holy Land, and shout together for England, it must needs bind them together, and lead them to feel that they are no longer Normans and Saxons, but Englishmen. I intend to preach on the village green at Evesham next Sunday morning on this subject, and as I know you are in communication with the forest men, I would, Cuthbert, that you would persuade them to come in to hear me. You were wondering what could be found for these vagrants. They have many of them long since lost the habits of honest labor. Many of them are still serfs, although most have been freed by the good earl and the knights his followers. Some of those who would fain leave the life in the woods still cling to it because they think that it would be mean to desert their comrades, who being serfs are still bound to lurk there; but methinks that this is a great opportunity for them. They are valiant men, and the fact that they are fond of drawing an arrow at a buck does not make them one whit the worse Christians. I will do my best to move their hearts, and if they will but agree together to take the cross, they would make a goodly band of footmen to accompany the earl." "Is the earl going?" Cuthbert asked eagerly. "I know not for certain," said Father Francis; "but I think from what I hear from his chaplain, Father Eustace, that his mind turns in that direction." "Then, Father, if he goes, I will go too," Cuthbert exclaimed. "He promised to take me as his page the first time he went to war." Father Francis shook his head. "I fear me, Cuthbert, this is far from the spirit in which we awhile ago agreed that men should go to the holy war." Cuthbert hung his head a little. "Ay, Father Francis, men; but I am a boy," he said, "and after all, boys are fond of adventure for adventure's sake. However, Father," he said, with a smile, "no doubt your eloquence on the green will turn me mightily to the project, for you must allow that the story you have told me this morning is not such as to create any very strong yearning in one's mind to follow the millions of men who have perished in the Holy Land." "Go to," said Father Francis, smiling, "thou art a pert varlet. I will do my best on Sunday to turn you to a better frame of mind." CHAPTER V. PREPARATIONS. Next Sunday a large number of people from some miles round were gathered on the green at Evesham, to hear Father Francis preach on the holy sepulcher. The forest men in their green jerkins mingled with the crowd, and a look of attention and seriousness was on the faces of all, for the news of the loss of the holy sepulcher had really exercised a great effect upon the minds of the people in England as elsewhere. Those were the days of pilgrimage to holy places, when the belief in the sanctity of places and things was overwhelming, and when men believed that a journey to the holy shrines was sufficient to procure for them a pardon for all their misdeeds. The very word "infidel" in those days was full of horror, and the thought that the holy places of the Christians were in the hands of Moslems affected all Christians throughout Europe with a feeling of shame as well as of grief. Among the crowd were many of the Norman retainers from the castle and from many of the holds around, and several knights with the ladies of their family stood a little apart from the edge of the gathering; for it was known that Father Francis would not be alone, but that he would be accompanied by a holy friar who had returned from the East, and who could tell of the cruelties which the Christians had suffered at the hands of the Saracens. Father Francis, at ordinary times a tranquil preacher, was moved beyond himself by the theme on which he was holding forth. He did not attempt to hide from those who stood around that the task to be undertaken was one of grievous peril and trial; that disease and heat, hunger and thirst, must be dared, as well as the sword of the infidel. But he spoke of the grand nature of the work, of the humiliation to Christians, of the desecration of the shrines, and of the glory which awaited those who joined the Crusade, whether they lived or whether they died in the Holy Land. His words had a strong effect upon the simple people who listened to him, but the feelings so aroused were as naught to the enthusiasm which greeted the address of the friar. Meager and pale, with a worn, anxious face as one who had suffered much, the friar, holding aloft two pieces of wood from the Mount of Olives tied together in the form of a cross, harangued the crowd. His words poured forth in a fiery stream, kindling the hearts, and stirring at once the devotion and the anger of his listeners. He told of the holy places, he spoke of the scenes of Holy Writ, which had there been enacted; and then he depicted the men who had died for them. He told of the knights and men-at-arms, each of whom proved himself again and again a match for a score of infidels. He spoke of the holy women, who, fearlessly and bravely, as the knights themselves, had borne their share in the horrors of the siege and in the terrible times which had preceded it. He told them that this misfortune had befallen Christianity because of the lukewarmness which had come upon them. "What profited it," he asked, "if a few knights who remained to defend the holy sepulcher were heroes? A few heroes cannot withstand an army. If Christendom after making a mighty effort to capture the holy sepulcher had not fallen away, the conquest which had been made with so vast an expenditure of blood would not have been lost. This is a work in which no mere passing fervor will avail; bravery at first, endurance afterward, are needed. Many men must determine not only to assist to wrest the holy sepulcher from the hands of the infidels, but to give their lives, so long as they might last, to retaining it. It is scarce to be expected that men with wives and families will take a view like this, indeed it is not to be desired. But there are single men, men of no ties, who can devote their whole lives, as did the Knights of the Orders of the Cross, to this great object. When their life has come to an end doubtless others will take up the banner that their hands can no longer hold. But for life it is, indeed, that many of humble as well as of princely class must bind themselves to take and defend to death the holy sepulcher." So, gradually raising the tone of his speech, the friar proceeded; until at length by his intense earnestness, his wild gesticulations, his impassioned words, he drew the whole of his listeners along with him; and when he ceased, a mighty shout of "To the Holy Land!" burst from his hearers. Falling upon their knees the crowd begged of him to give them the sign of the cross, and to bestow his blessing upon their swords, and upon their efforts. Father Francis had prepared, in contemplation of such a movement, a large number of small white crosses of cloth. These he and the friar now fastened to the shoulders of the men as they crowded up to receive it, holding their hands aloft, kissing the cross that the friar extended to them, and swearing to give their lives, if need be, to rescue the holy shrines from the infidel. When all had received the holy symbol, Father Francis again ascended the bank from which they had addressed the crowd: "Now go to your homes, my sons," he said. "Think of the oath that you have taken, and of the course that lies open to you when the time comes. When King Richard is prepared to start, then will you be called upon to fulfill your vows. It may be that all who have sworn may not be called upon to go. It needs that the land here should be tilled, it needs that there should be protectors for the women and children, it needs that this England of ours should flourish, and we cannot give all her sons, however willing they might be to take the cross. But the willingness which you will, I am sure, show to go if needs be, and to redeem your vows, will be sufficient. Some must go and some must stay; these are matters to be decided hereafter; for the time let us separate; you will hear when the hour for action arrives." A fortnight later the Earl of Evesham, who had been on a long journey to London, returned with full authority to raise and organize a force as his contingent to the holy wars. All was now bustle and activity in the castle. Father Francis informed him of the willingness of such of the forest men as he deemed fit to enlist under his banner; and the earl was much gratified at finding that the ranks of heavily-armed retainers whom he would take with him were to be swollen by the addition of so useful a contingent as that of one hundred skillful archers. Cuthbert was not long in asking for an interview with the earl. He had indeed great difficulty in persuading Dame Editha that he was old enough to share in the fatigues of so great an expedition, but he had Father Francis on his side; and between the influence of her confessor, and the importunities of her son, the opposition of the good lady fell to the ground. Cuthbert was already, for his age, well trained to arms. Many of the old soldiers at the castle who had known and loved his father had been ever ready to give lessons in the use of arms to Cuthbert, who was enthusiastic in his desire to prove as good a knight as his father had been. His friends, the outlaws, had taught him the use of the bow and of the quarterstaff; and Cuthbert, strong and well-built for his age, and having little to do save to wield the sword and the bow, had attained a very considerable amount of skill with each. He had too, which was unusual, a certain amount of book learning, although this, true to say, had not been acquired so cheerfully or willingly as the skill at arms. Father Francis had, however, taught him to read and to write--accomplishments which were at that time rare, except in the cloister. In those days if a knight had a firm seat in his saddle, a strong arm, a keen eye, and high courage, it was thought to be of little matter whether he could or could not do more than make his mark on the parchment. The whole life of the young was given to acquiring skill in arms; and unless intended for the convent, any idea of education would in the great majority of cases have been considered as preposterous. To do Cuthbert justice, he had protested with all his might against the proposition of Father Francis to his mother to teach him some clerkly knowledge. He had yielded most unwillingly at last to her entreaties, backed as they were by the sound arguments and good sense of Father Francis. The Earl of Evesham received Cuthbert's application very graciously. "Certainly, Cuthbert," he said, "you shall accompany me; first, on account of my promise to you; secondly, because from the readiness you displayed both in the matter of my daughter and of the attack on Wortham, you will be a notable aid and addition to my party; thirdly, from my friendship for your father and Dame Editha." This point being settled, Cuthbert at once assumed his new duties. There was plenty for him to do--to see that the orders of the earl were properly carried out; to bear messages to the knights who followed the earl's fortunes, at their various holds; to stand by and watch the armorers at work, and the preparation of the stores of arms and missiles which would be necessary for the expedition. Sometimes he would go round to summon the tenants of the various farms and lands, who held from the earl, to come to the castle; and here Sir Walter would, as far as might be without oppression, beg of them to contribute largely to the expedition. In these appeals he was in no slight way assisted by Father Francis, who pointed out loudly to the people that those who stayed behind were bound to make as much sacrifice of their worldly goods as those who went to the war might make of their lives. Life and land are alike at the service of God. Could the land be sold, it would be a good deed to sell it; but as this could not be, they should at least sell all that they could, and pledge their property if they could find lenders, in order to contribute to the needs of their lord, and the fitting out of this great enterprise. The preparations were at last complete, and a gallant band gathered at the castle ready for starting. It consisted of some two hundred men-at-arms led by six knights, and of one hundred bowmen dressed in Lincoln green, with quilted jerkins to keep out the arrows of the enemy. All the country from around gathered to see the start. Dame Editha was there, and by her side stood the earl's little daughter. The earl himself was in armor, and beside him rode Cuthbert in the gay attire of a page. Just at that moment, however, his face did not agree with his costume, for although he strove his best to look bright and smiling, it was a hard task to prevent the tears from filling his eyes at his departure from his mother. The good lady cried unrestrainedly, and Margaret joined in her tears. The people who had gathered round cheered lustily; the trumpets blew a gay fanfaronade, and the squire threw to the wind the earl's colors. It was no mere pleasure trip on which they were starting, for all knew that, of the preceding Crusades, not one in ten of those who had gone so gladly forth had ever returned. It must not be supposed that the whole of those present were animated by any strong religious feeling. No doubt there existed a desire, which was carefully fanned by the preaching of the priests and monks, to rescue the holy sepulcher from the hands of the Saracens; but a far stronger feeling was to be found in the warlike nature of the people in those days. Knights, men-at-arms, and indeed men of all ranks were full of a combative spirit. Life in the castle and hut was alike dull and monotonous, and the excitement of war and adventure was greatly looked for, both as a means of obtaining glory and booty, and for the change they afforded to the dreary monotony of life. There is little to tell of the journey of the Earl of Evesham's band through England to Southampton, at which place they took ship and crossed to France--or rather to Normandy, for in those days Normandy was regarded, as indeed it formed, a part of England. Cuthbert, as was natural to his age, was full of delight at all the varying scenes through which they passed. The towns were to him an especial source of wonder, for he had never visited any other than that of Worcester, to which he had once or twice been taken on occasions of high festival. Havre was in those days an important place, and being the landing-place of a great portion of the English bands, it was full of bustle and excitement. Every day ships brought in nobles and their followings. The King of England was already in Normandy hastening the preparations, and each band, as it landed, marched down to the meeting-place on the plains of Vezelay. Already they began to experience a taste of the hardships which they were to endure. In those days there was no regular supply train for an army, but each division or band supported itself by purchase or pillage, as the case might be, from the surrounding country. As the English troops were marching through a friendly country, pillage was of course strictly forbidden; but while many of the leaders paid for all they had, it must be owned that among the smaller leaders were many who took anything that they required with or without payment. The country was eaten up. The population in those days was sparse, and the movement of so large a number of men along a certain route completely exhausted all the resources of the inhabitants; and although willing to pay for all that his men required, the Earl of Evesham had frequently to lie down on the turf supperless himself. "If this is the case now," he said to Cuthbert, "what will it be after we have joined the French army? Methinks whatever we may do if we reach the Holy Land, that we have a fair chance of being starved before we sail." After a long succession of marches they arrived in sight of the great camp at Vezelay. It was indeed rather a canvas town than a camp. Here were gathered nearly one hundred thousand men, a vast host at any time, but in those days far greater in proportion to the strength of the countries than at present. The tents of the leaders, nobles, and other knights and gentlemen rose in regular lines, forming streets and squares. The great mass of troops, however, were contented to sleep in the open air; indeed the difficulties of carriage were so great that it was only the leaders who could carry with them their canvas abodes. Before each tent stood the lance and colors of its owner, and side by side in the center of the camp stood the royal pavilions of Philip of France and Richard of England, round which could be seen the gonfalons of all the nobles of Western Europe. Nothing could be gayer than the aspect of this camp as the party rode into it. They were rather late, and the great body of the host were already assembled. Cuthbert gazed with delight at the varied colors, the gay dresses, the martial knights, and the air of discipline and order which reigned everywhere. This was indeed war in its most picturesque form, a form which, as far as beauty is concerned, has been altogether altered, and indeed destroyed, by modern arms. In those days individual prowess and bravery went for everything. A handful of armored knights were a match for thousands of footmen, and battles were decided as much by the prowess and bravery of the leader and his immediate following as by that of the great mass of the army. The earl had the day before sent on a messenger to state that he was coming, and as the party entered the camp they were met by a squire of the camp-marshal, who conducted them to the position allotted to them. The earl's tent was soon erected, with four or five grouped around it for his knights, one being set aside for his squires and pages. When this was done Cuthbert strolled away to look at the varied sights of the camp. A military officer in these days would be scandalized at the scenes which were going on, but the strict, hard military discipline of modern times was then absolutely unknown. A camp was a moving town, and to it flocked the country people with their goods; smiths and armorers erected their forges; minstrels and troubadours flocked in to sing of former battles, and to raise the spirits of the soldiers by merry lays of love and war; simple countrymen and women came in to bring their presents of fowls or cakes to their friends in camp; knights rode to and fro on their gayly caparisoned horses through the crowd; the newly-raised levies, in many cases composed of woodmen and peasants who had not in the course of their lives wandered a league from their birthplaces, gaped in unaffected wonder at the sights around them; while last, but by no means least, the maidens and good wives of the neighborhood, fond then as now of brave men and gay dresses, thronged the streets of the camp, and joined in, and were the cause of, merry laughter and jest. Here and there, a little apart from the main stream of traffic, the minstrels would take up their position, and playing a gay air, the soldier lads and lasses would fall to and foot it merrily to the strains. Sometimes there would be a break in the gayety, and loud shouts, and perhaps fierce oaths, would rise. Then the maidens would fly like startled fawns, and men hasten to the spot; though the quarrel might be purely a private one, yet should it happen between the retainers of two nobles, the friends of each would be sure to strike in, and serious frays would arise before the marshal of the camp with his posse could arrive to interfere. Sometimes, indeed, these quarrels became so serious and desperate that alliances were broken up and great intentions frustrated by the quarrels of the soldiery. Here and there, on elevated platforms, or even on the top of a pile of tubs, were friars occupied in haranguing the soldiers, and in inspiring them with enthusiasm for the cause upon which they were embarked. The conduct of their listeners showed easily enough the motives which had brought them to war. Some stood with clasped hands and eager eyes, listening to the exhortations of the priests, and ready, as might be seen from their earnest gaze, to suffer martyrdom in the cause. More, however, stood indifferently round, or, after listening to a few words, walked on with a laugh or a scoff; indeed, preaching had already done all that lay in its power. All those who could be moved by exhortations of this kind were there, and upon the rest the discourses and sermons were thrown away. Several times in the course of his stroll round the camp Cuthbert observed the beginnings of quarrels, which were in each case only checked by the intervention of some knight or other person in authority coming past, and he observed that these in every instance occurred between men of the English and those of the French army. Between the Saxon contingent of King Richard's army and the French soldiers there could indeed be no quarrel, for the Saxons understood no word of their language; but with the Normans the case was different, for the Norman-French, which was spoken by all the nobles and their retainers in Britain, was as nearly as possible the same as that in use in France. It seemed, however, to Cuthbert, watching narrowly what was going on, that there existed by no means a good feeling between the men of the different armies; and he thought that this divergence so early in the campaign boded but little good for the final success of the expedition. When he returned to the tent the earl questioned him as to what he had seen, and Cuthbert frankly acknowledged that it appeared to him that the feeling between the men of the two armies was not good. "I have been," the earl said, "to the royal camp, and from what I hear, Cuthbert, methinks that there is reason for what you say. King Richard is the most loyal and gallant of kings, but he is haughty and hasty in speech. The Normans, too, have been somewhat accustomed to conquer our neighbors, and it may well be that the chivalry of France love us not. However, it must be hoped that this feeling will die away, and that we shall emulate each other only in our deeds on the battlefield." CHAPTER VI. THE LISTS. The third day after the arrival of the Earl of Evesham there was a great banquet given by the King of France to King Richard and his principal nobles. Among those present was the Earl of Evesham, and Cuthbert as his page followed him to the great tent where the banquet was prepared. Here, at the top of the tent, on a raised daïs, sat the King of France, surrounded by his courtiers. The Earl of Evesham, having been conducted by the herald to the daïs, paid his compliments to the king, and was saluted by him with many flattering words. The sound of a trumpet was heard, and Richard of England, accompanied by his principal nobles, entered. It was the first time that Cuthbert had seen the king. Richard was a man of splendid stature and of enormous strength. His appearance was in some respects rather Saxon than Norman, for his hair was light and his complexion clear and bright. He wore the mustache and pointed beard at that time in fashion; and although his expression was generally that of frankness and good humor, there might be observed in his quick motions and piercing glances signs of the hasty temper and unbridled passion which went far to wreck the success of the enterprise upon which he was embarked. Richard possessed most of the qualities which make a man a great king and render him the idol of his subjects, especially in a time of semi-civilization, when personal prowess is placed at the summit of all human virtues. In all his dominions there was not one man who in personal conflict was a match for his king. Except during his fits of passion, King Richard was generous, forgiving, and royal in his moods. He was incapable of bearing malice. Although haughty of his dignity, he was entirely free from any personal pride, and while he would maintain to the death every right and privilege against another monarch, he could laugh and joke with the humblest of his subjects on terms of hearty good fellowship. He was impatient of contradiction, eager to carry out whatever he had determined upon; and nothing enraged him so much as hesitation or procrastination. The delays which were experienced in the course of the Crusade angered him more than all the opposition offered by the Saracens, or than the hardships through which the Christian host had to pass. At a flourish of trumpets all took their seats at dinner, their places being marked for them by a herald, whose duty it was to regulate nicely the various ranks and dignities. The Earl of Evesham was placed next to a noble of Brabant. Cuthbert took his place behind his lord and served him with wines and meats, the Brabant being attended by a tall youth, who was indeed on the verge of manhood. As the dinner went on the buzz of conversation became fast and furious. In those days men drank deep, and quarrels often arose over the cups. From the time that the dinner began Cuthbert noticed that the manner of Sir de Jacquelin Barras, Count of Brabant, was rude and offensive. It might be that he was accustomed to live alone with his retainers, and that his manners were rude and coarse to all. It might be that he had a special hostility to the English. At any rate, his remarks were calculated to fire the anger of the earl. He began the conversation by wondering how a Norman baron could live in a country like England, inhabited by a race but little above pigs. The earl at once fired up at this, for the Normans were now beginning to feel themselves English, and to resent attacks upon a people for whom their grandfathers had entertained contempt. He angrily repelled the attack upon them by the Brabant knight, and asserted at once that the Saxons were every bit as civilized, and in some respects superior to the Normans or French. The ill-feeling thus began at starting clearly waxed stronger as dinner went on. The Brabant knight drank deeply, and although his talk was not clearly directed against the English, yet he continued to throw out innuendos and side attacks, and to talk with a vague boastfulness, which greatly irritated Sir Walter. Presently, as Cuthbert was about to serve his master with a cup of wine, the tall page pushed suddenly against him, spilling a portion of the wine over his dress. "What a clumsy child!" he said scoffingly. "You are a rough and ill-mannered loon," Cuthbert said angrily. "Were you in any other presence I would chastise you as you deserve." The tall page burst into a mocking laugh. "Chastise me!" he said. "Why, I could put you in my pocket for a little hop-of-my-thumb as you are." "I think," said Sir Jacquelin--for the boys' voices both rose loud--to the earl, "you had better send that brat home and order him to be whipped." "Sir count," said the earl, "your manners are insolent, and were we not engaged upon a Crusade, it would please me much to give you a lesson on that score." Higher and higher the dispute rose, until some angry word caught the ear of the king. Amid the general buzz of voices King Philip rose, and speaking a word to King Richard, moved from the table, thus giving the sign for the breaking up of the feast. Immediately afterward a page touched the earl and Sir Jacquelin upon the shoulder, and told them that the kings desired to speak with them in the tent of the King of France. The two nobles strode through the crowd, regarding each other with eyes much like those of two dogs eager to fly at each other's throat. "My lords, my lords," said King Philip when they entered, "this is against all law and reason. For shame, to be brawling at my table. I would not say aught openly, but methinks it is early indeed for the knights and nobles engaged in a common work to fall to words." "Your majesty," said the Earl of Evesham, "I regret deeply what has happened. But it seemed from the time we sat down to the meal that this lord sought to pass a quarrel upon me, and I now beseech your majesty that you will permit us to settle our differences in the lists." King Richard gave a sound of assent, but the King of France shook his head gravely. "Do you forget," he said, "the mission upon which you are assembled here? Has not every knight and noble in these armies taken a solemn oath to put aside private quarrels and feuds until the holy sepulcher is taken? Shall we at this very going off show that the oath is a mere form of words? Shall we show before the face of Christendom that the knights of the cross are unable to avoid flying at each other's throats, even while on their way to wrest the holy sepulcher from the infidel? No, sirs, you must lay aside your feuds, and must promise me and my good brother here that you will keep the peace between you until this war is over. Whose fault it was that the quarrel began I know not. It may be that my Lord of Brabant was discourteous. It may be that the earl here was too hot. But whichever it be, it matters not." "The quarrel, sire," said Sir Jacquelin, "arose from a dispute between our pages, who were nigh coming to blows in your majesty's presence. I desired the earl to chide the insolence of his varlet, and instead of so doing he met my remarks with scorn." "Pooh, pooh," said King Richard, "there are plenty of grounds for quarrel without two nobles interfering in the squabbles of boys. Let them fight; it will harm no one. By the bye, your Majesty," he said, turning to the King of France with a laugh, "if the masters may not fight, there is no reason in the world why the varlets should not. We are sorely dull for want of amusement. Let us have a list to-morrow, and let the pages fight it out for the honor of their masters and their nations." "It were scarce worth while to have the lists set for two boys to fight," said the King of France. "Oh, we need not have regular lists," said King Richard. "Leave that matter in my hands. I warrant you that if the cockerels are well plucked, they will make us sport. What say you, gentlemen?" The Brabant noble at once assented, answering that he was sure that his page would be glad to enter the lists; and the earl gave a similar assent, for he had not noticed how great was the discrepancy between the size of the future combatants. "That is agreed, then," said King Richard joyously. "I will have a piece of ground marked out on the edge of the camp to-morrow morning. It shall be kept by my men-at-arms, and there shall be a raised place for King Philip and myself, who will be the judges of the conflict. Will they fight on foot or on horse?" "On foot, on foot," said the King of France. "It would be a pity that knightly exercises should be brought to scorn by any failure on their part on horseback. On foot at least it will be a fair struggle." "What arms shall they use?" the Brabant knight asked. "Oh, swords and battle-axes, of course," said King Richard with a laugh. "Before you go," King Philip said, "you must shake hands, and swear to let the quarrel between you drop, at least until after our return. If you still wish to shed each other's blood, I shall offer no hindrance thereto." The earl and Count Jacquelin touched each other's hands in obedience to the order, went out of the tent together, and strode off without a word in different directions. "My dear lad," the Earl of Evesham said on entering his tent where his page was waiting him, "this is a serious business. The kings have ordered this little count and myself to put aside our differences till after the Crusade, in accordance with our oath. But as you have in no wise pledged yourself in the same fashion, and as their majesties feel somewhat dull while waiting here, it is determined that the quarrel between the count and me, and between you and the count's page, shall be settled by a fight between you two in the presence of the kings." "Well, sir," Cuthbert said, "I am glad that it should be, seeing the varlet insulted me without any cause, and purposely upset the cup over me." "What is he like?" the earl asked. "Dost think that you are a fair match?" "I doubt not that we are fair match enough," Cuthbert said. "As you know, sir, I have been well trained to arms of all kinds, both by my father and by the men-at-arms at the castle, and could hold my own against any of your men with light weapons, and have then no fear that this gawky loon, twenty years old though he seems to be, will bring disgrace upon me or discredit upon my nation." "If thou thinkest so," the earl said, "the matter can go on. But had it been otherwise I would have gone to the king and protested that the advantage of age was so great that it would be murder to place you in the lists together." "There is," Cuthbert said, "at most no greater difference between us than between a strong man and a weak one, and these, in the ordeal of battle, have to meet in the lists. Indeed I doubt if the difference is so great, for if he be a foot taller than I, methinks that round the shoulders I should have the advantage of him." "Send hither my armorer," the earl said; "we must choose a proper suit for you. I fear that mine would be of little use; but doubtless there are some smaller suits among my friends." "The simpler and lighter the better," Cuthbert said. "I'd rather have a light coat of mail and a steel cap than heavy armor and a helmet which would press me down, and a visor through which I could scarce see. The lighter the better, for after all if my sword cannot keep my head, sooner or later the armor would fail to do so too." The armorer speedily arrived, and the knights and followers of the earl being called in and the case stated, there was soon found a coat of fine linked mail, which fitted Cuthbert well. As to the steel cap there was no difficulty whatever. "You must have a plume at least," the earl said, and took some feathers from his own casque and fastened them in. "Will you want a light sword and battle-ax?" "No," Cuthbert said, "my arms are pretty well used to those of the men-at-arms. I could wield my father's sword, and that was a heavy one." The lightest of the earl's weapons were chosen, and it was agreed that all was now ready for the conflict to-morrow. In the morning there was a slight bustle in the camp. The news that a fight was to take place between an English and a Brabant page, by the permission of the kings of England and France, that their majesties were to be present, and that all was to be conducted on regular rules, caused a stir of excitement and novelty in the camp. Nowhere is life duller than among a large body of men kept together for any time under canvas, and the thought of a combat of this novel kind excited general interest. In a meadow at a short distance from the camp a body of King Richard's men-at-arms marked off an oval space of about an acre. Upon one side of this a tent was pitched for the kings, and a small tent was placed at each end for the combatants. Round the inclosure the men-at-arms formed the ring, and behind them a dense body of spectators gathered, a place being set aside for nobles, and others of gentle blood. At the hour fixed the kings of England and France arrived together. King Richard was evidently in a state of high good humor, for he preferred the clash of arms and the sight of combat to any other pleasure. The King of France, on the other hand, looked grave. He was a far wiser and more politic king than Richard; and although he had consented to the sudden proposal, yet he felt in his heart that the contest was a foolish one, and that it might create bad feeling among the men of the two nationalities whichever way it went. He had reserved to himself the right of throwing down the baton when the combat was to cease, and he determined to avail himself of this right to put a stop to the conflict before either party was likely to sustain any deadly injury. When the monarchs had taken their places the trumpeters sounded their trumpets, and the two combatants advanced on foot from their ends of the lists. A murmur of surprise and dissatisfaction broke from the crowd. "My Lord of Evesham," the king said angrily to the earl, who with Count Jacquelin was standing by the royal party, "thou shouldst have said that the difference between the two was too great to allow the combat to be possible. The Frenchman appears to be big enough to take your page under his arm and walk off with him." The difference was indeed very striking. The French champion was arrayed in a full suit of knightly armor--of course without the gold spurs which were the distinguishing mark of that rank--and with his helmet and lofty plume of feathers he appeared to tower above Cuthbert, who, in his close-fitting steel cap and link armor seemed a very dwarf by the side of a giant. "It is not size, sire, but muscle and pluck will win in a combat like this. Your majesty need not be afraid that my page will disgrace me. He is of my blood, though the kinship is not close. He is of mixed Saxon and Norman strain, and will, believe me, do no discredit to either." The king's brow cleared, for in truth he was very proud of his English nationality, and would have been sorely vexed to see the discomfiture of an English champion, even though that champion were a boy. "Brother Philip," he said, turning to the king, "I will wager my gold chain against yours on yonder stripling." "Methinks that it were robbery to take your wager," the King of France said. "The difference between their bulk is disproportionate. However, I will not balk your wish. My chain against yours." The rule of the fight was that they were to commence with swords, but that either could, if he chose, use his battle-ax. The fight need scarcely be described at length, for the advantage was all one way. Cuthbert was fully a match in strength for his antagonist, although standing nigh a foot shorter. Constant exercise, however, had hardened his muscles into something like steel, while the teaching that he had received had embraced all what was then known of the use of arms. Science in those days there was but little of; it was a case rather of hard, heavy hitting, than of what we now call swordsmanship. With the sword Cuthbert gained but slight advantage over his adversary, whose superior height enabled him to rain blows down upon the lad, which he was with difficulty enabled to guard; but when the first paroxysm of his adversary's attack had passed he took to the offensive, and drove his opponent back step by step. With his sword, however, he was unable to cut through the armor of the Frenchman, but in the course of the encounter, guarding a severe blow aimed at him, his sword was struck from his hand, and he then, seizing his ax, made such play with it that his foe dropped his own sword and took to the same weapon. In this the superior height and weight of his opponent gave him even a greater advantage than with the sword, and Cuthbert knowing this, used his utmost dexterity and speed to avoid the sweeping blows showered upon him. He himself had been enabled to strike one or two sweeping strokes, always aiming at the same place, the juncture of the visor with the helmet. At last the Frenchman struck him so heavy a blow that it beat down his guard and struck his steel cap from his head, bringing him to the knee. In an instant he was up, and before his foe could be again on guard, he whirled his ax round with all its force, and bringing it just at the point of the visor which he had already weakened with repeated blows, the edge of the ax stove clean through the armor, and the page was struck senseless to the ground. A great shout broke from the English portion of the soldiery as Cuthbert leaned over his prostrate foe, and receiving no answer to the question "Do you yield?" rose to his feet, and signified to the squire who had kept near that his opponent was insensible. King Richard ordered the pursuivant to lead Cuthbert to the royal inclosure. "Thou art a brave lad and a lusty," the king said, "and hast borne thee in the fight as well as many a knight would have done. Wert thou older, I would myself dub thee knight; and I doubt not that the occasion will yet come when thou wilt do as good deeds upon the bodies of the Saracens as thou hast upon that long-shanked opponent of thine. Here is a gold chain; take it as a proof that the King of England holds that you have sustained well the honor of his country; and mark me, if at any time you require a boon, bring or send me that chain, and thou shalt have it freely. Sir Walter," he said, turning to the earl, "in this lad thou hast a worthy champion, and I trust me that thou wilt give him every chance of distinguishing himself. So soon as thou thinkest him fit for the knightly rank I myself will administer the accolade." CHAPTER VII. REVENGE. After his interview with the king Cuthbert was led to his tent amid the hearty plaudits of the English troops. His own comrades flocked round him; the men of the greenwood, headed by Cnut, were especially jubilant over his victory. "Who would have thought," said the tall forester, "that the lad who but a short time ago was a child should now have sustained the honor of the country? We feel proud of you, Cuthbert; and trust us some day or other to follow wherever you may lead, and to do some deed which will attain for you honor and glory, and show that the men of Evesham are as doughty as any under King Richard's rule." "You must be wary, Cuthbert," the earl said to him that evening. "Believe me that you and I have made a foe, who, although he may not have the power, has certainly the will to injure us to the death. I marked the eye of Count Jacquelin during the fight, and again when you were led up to the king. There was hatred and fury in his eye. The page too, I hear, is his own nephew, and he will be the laughing-stock of the French camp at having been conquered by one so much younger than himself. It will be well to keep upon your guard, and not to go out at night unattended. Keep Cnut near you; he is faithful as a watch-dog, and would give his life, I am sure, for you. I will myself be also upon my guard, for it was after all my quarrel, and the fury of this fierce knight will vent itself upon both of us if the opportunity should come. I hear but a poor account of him among his confréres. They say he is one of those disgraces to the name of knight who are but a mixture of robber and soldier; that he harries all the lands in his neighborhood; and that he has now only joined the Crusade to avoid the vengeance which the cries of the oppressed people had invoked from his liege lord. I am told indeed that the choice was given him to be outlawed, or to join the Crusades with all the strength he could raise. Naturally he adopted the latter alternative; but he has the instincts of the robber still, and will do us an evil turn, if he have the chance." Two days later the great army broke up its camp and marched south. After a week's journeying they encamped near a town, and halted there two or three days in order to collect provisions for the next advance; for the supplies which they could obtain in the country districts were wholly insufficient for so great a host of men. Here the armies were to separate, the French marching to Genoa, the English to Marseilles, the town at which they were to take ship. One evening the earl sent Cuthbert with a message to another English lord, staying in the town at the palace of the bishop, who was a friend of his. Cnut accompanied Cuthbert, for he now made a point of seldom letting him out of his sight. It was light when they reached the bishop's palace, but here they were delayed for some time, and night had fallen when they sallied out. The town was already quiet, for the inhabitants cared not to show themselves in the streets now that such a large army of fierce men were in the neighborhood. The orders indeed of the monarchs were stringent, but discipline there was but little of, and the soldiery in those days regarded peaceful citizens as fair game; hence, when they came from the palace the streets of the city were already hushed and quiet, for the orders of the king had been peremptory that no men-at-arms, or others except those on duty, were to be away from their camp after nightfall. This order had been absolutely necessary, so many were the complaints brought in by country peasants and farmers of the doings of bands of soldiers. Cnut and Cuthbert proceeded along the streets unmolested for some distance. Occasionally a solitary passer-by, with hooded cape, hurried past. The moon was half full, and her light was welcome indeed, for in those days the streets were unlighted, and the pavement so bad that passage through the streets after dark was a matter of difficulty, and even of danger. Here and there before some roadside shrine a lamp dimly burned; before these they paused, and, as good Catholics, Cnut and Cuthbert crossed themselves. Just as they had passed one of these wayside shrines, a sudden shout was heard, and a party of eight or ten men sprang out from a side street and fell upon them. Cnut and Cuthbert drew their swords and laid about them heartily, but their assailants were too strong. Cnut was stricken to the ground, and Cuthbert, seeing that defense was hopeless, took to his heels and ran for his life. He was already wounded, but happily not so severely as in any way to disable him. Seeing that it was speed, and speed alone, which now could save him, he flung aside his belt and scabbard as he ran, and with rapid steps flew along the streets, not knowing whither he went, and striving only to keep ahead of his pursuers. They, more incumbered by arms and armor, were unable to keep up with the flying footsteps of a lad clothed in the light attire of a page; but Cuthbert felt that the blood running from his wound was weakening him fast, and that unless he could gain some refuge his course must speedily come to an end. Happily he saw at some little distance ahead of him a man standing by a door. Just as he arrived the door opened, and a glow of light from within fell on the road, showing that the person entering was a monk. Without a moment's hesitation Cuthbert rushed through the door, shouting "Sanctuary!" and sank almost fainting on the ground. The monks, accustomed to wild pursuits and scenes of outrage in those warlike days, hastily closed the door, barring it securely. In a moment there was a rush of men against it from without. One of the monks opened a lattice above the door. "What mean you," he said, "by this outrage? Know ye not that this is the Monastery of St. John, and that it is sacrilege to lay a hand of violence even against its postern? Begone," he said, "or we'll lodge a complaint before the king." The assailants, nothing daunted, continued to batter at the door; but at this moment the monks, aroused from their beds, hastened to the spot, and seizing bill and sword--for in those days even monks were obliged at times to depend upon carnal weapons--they opened the door, and flung themselves upon the assailants with such force that the latter, surprised and discomfited, were forced to make a hasty retreat. The doors were then again barred, and Cuthbert was carried up to a cell in the building, where the leech of the monastery speedily examined his wound, and pronounced that although his life was not in danger by it, he was greatly weakened by the loss of blood, that the wound was a serious one and that it would be some time before the patient would recover. [Illustration: THE DOORS WERE AGAIN BARRED, AND CUTHBERT WAS CARRIED TO A CELL.] It was two days before Cuthbert was sufficiently restored to be able to speak. His first question to the monk was as to his whereabouts, and how long he had been there. Upon being answered, he entreated that a messenger might be dispatched to the camp of the Earl of Evesham, to beg that a litter might be sent for him, and to inquire what had become of Cnut, whom he had last seen stricken down. The monk replied, "My son, I grieve to tell you that your request cannot be complied with. The army moved away yesternoon, and is now some twenty-five miles distant. There is nothing for you but patience, and when restored you can follow the army, and rejoin your master before he embarks at Marseilles. But how is it that a lad so young as you can have incurred the enmity of those who sought your life? For it is clear from the pertinacity with which they urged their attack that their object was not plunder, of which indeed they would get but little from you, but to take your life." Cuthbert recounted the circumstances which had led to the feud of the Count of Brabant against him, for he doubted not that this truculent knight was at the bottom of the attack. "After what has happened," the monk said, "you will need have caution when you leave here. The place where you have taken refuge is known to them, and should this wild noble persist in his desire for vengeance against you, he will doubtless leave some of his ruffians to watch the monastery. We will keep a lookout, and note if any strangers are to be seen near the gates; if we find that it is so, we shall consider what is best to be done. We could of course appeal to the mayor for protection against them, and could even have the strangers ejected from the town or cast into prison; but it is not likely that we should succeed in capturing more than the fellow who may be placed on the lookout, and the danger would be in no wise lessened to yourself. But there is time to talk over this matter before you leave. It will be another fortnight at least before you will be able to pursue your journey." Cuthbert gained strength more rapidly than the monk had expected. He was generously fed, and this and his good constitution soon enabled him to recover from the loss of blood; and at the end of five days he expressed his hope that he could on the following day pursue his journey. The monk who attended him shook his head. "Thou mightst, under ordinary circumstances, quit us to-morrow, for thou art well enough to take part in the ordinary pursuits of a page; but to journey is a different thing. You may have all sorts of hardships to endure; you may have even to trust for your life to your speed and endurance; and it would be madness for you to go until your strength is fully established. I regret to tell you that we have ascertained beyond a doubt that the monastery is closely watched. We have sent some of the acolytes out, dressed in the garbs of monks, and attended by one of our elder brethren; and in, each case, a monk who followed at a distance of fifty yards was able to perceive that they were watched. The town is full of rough men, the hangers-on of the army; some, indeed, are followers of laggard knights, but the greater portion are men who merely pursue the army with a view to gain by its necessities, to buy plunder from the soldiers, and to rob, and, if necessary, to murder should there be a hope of obtaining gold. Among these men your enemies would have little difficulty in recruiting any number, and no appeal that we could make to the mayor would protect you from them when you have left the walls. We must trust to our ingenuity in smuggling you out. After that, it is upon your own strength and shrewdness that you must rely for an escape from any snares that may be laid for you. You will see, then, that at least another three or four days are needed before you can set forth. Your countrymen are so far away that a matter of a few days will make but little difference. They will in any case be delayed for a long time at Marseilles before they embark; and whether you leave now or a month hence, you would be equally in time to join them before their embarkation--that is, supposing that you make your way through the snares which beset you." Cuthbert saw the justice of the reasoning, and it was another week before he announced himself as feeling absolutely restored to strength again, and capable of bearing as much exertion as he could have done before his attack. A long consultation was held with the prior and a monk who had acted as his leech, as to the best plan of getting Cuthbert beyond the walls of the city. Many schemes were proposed and rejected. Every monk who ventured beyond the walls had been closely scrutinized, and one or two of short stature had even been jostled in the streets, so as to throw back their hoods and expose a sight of their faces. It was clear, then, that it would be dangerous to trust to a disguise. Cuthbert proposed that he should leave at night, trusting solely to their directions as to the turnings he should take to bring him to the city walls, and that, taking a rope, he should there let himself down, and make the best of his way forward. This, however, the monks would not consent to, assuring him that the watch was so strictly kept round the monastery that he would inevitably be seen. "No," the prior said, "the method, whatever it is, must be as open as possible; and though I cannot at this moment hit upon a plan, I will think it over to-night, and putting my ideas with those of Father Jerome here, and the sacristan, who has a shrewd head, it will be hard if we cannot between us contrive some plan to evade the watch of those robber villains who beset the convent." The next morning, when the prior came in to see Cuthbert, the latter said: "Good father, I have determined not to endeavor to make off in disguise. I doubt not that your wit could contrive some means by which I should get clear of the walls without observation from the scouts of this villain noble. But once in the country, I should have neither horse nor armor, and should have hard work indeed to make my way down through France, even though none of my enemies were on my track. I will therefore, if it please you, go down boldly to the mayor and claim a protection and escort. If he will but grant me a few men-at-arms for one day's ride from the town, I can choose my own route, and riding out in mail, can then take my chance of finding my way down to Marseilles." "I will go down with you, my son," the prior said, "to the mayor. Two of my monks shall accompany us; and assuredly no insult will be offered to you in the street thus accompanied." Shortly afterward Cuthbert started as arranged, and soon arrived at the house of the mayor, Sir John de Cahors. Upon the prior making known to this knight whom he had brought with him the mayor exclaimed: "_Peste!_ young gentleman; you have caused us no small trouble and concern. We have had ridings to and fro concerning you, and furious messages from your fiery king. When in the morning a tall, stalwart knave dressed in green was found, slashed about in various places, lying on the pavement, the townsmen, not knowing who he was, but finding that he still breathed, carried him to the English camp, and he was claimed as a follower of the Earl of Evesham. There was great wrath and anger over this; and an hour later the earl himself came down and stated that his page was missing, and that there was reason to believe that he had been foully murdered, as he had accompanied the man found wounded. Fortunately the bulk of the armies had marched away at early dawn, and the earl had only remained behind in consequence of the absence of his followers. I assured the angry Englishman that I would have a thorough search made in the town; and although in no way satisfied, he rode off after his king with all his force, carrying with him the long-limbed man whom we had picked up. Two days after a message came back from King Richard himself, saying that unless this missing page were discovered, or if, he being killed, his murderers were not brought to justice and punished, he would assuredly on his return from the Holy Land burn the town over our ears. Your king is not a man who minces matters. However, threatened men live long, especially when the person who threatens is starting for a journey, from which, as like as not, he may never return. However, I have had diligent search made for you. All the houses of bad repute have been examined and their inhabitants questioned. But there are so many camp-followers and other rabble at present in the town that a hundred men might disappear without our being able to obtain a clew. I doubted not indeed that your body had been thrown in the river, and that we should never hear more of you. I am right glad that you have been restored; not indeed from any fear of the threats of the king your master, but because, from what the Earl of Evesham said, you were a lad likely to come to great fame and honor. The earl left in my charge your horse, and the armor which he said you wore at a tournament lately, in case we should hear aught of you." Cuthbert gave an exclamation of pleasure. His purse contained but a few pieces of silver, and being without arms except for his short dagger, or means of locomotion, the difficulties of the journey down to Marseilles had sorely puzzled him. But with his good horse between his knees, and his suit of Milan armor on his back, he thought that he might make his way through any dangers which threatened him. The prior now told the knight that circumstances had occurred which showed that it was known to the assailants of Cuthbert that he had taken refuge in the convent, over which a strict watch had been kept by Cuthbert's enemies. "If I could find the varlets I would hang them over the gates of the town," the knight said wrathfully. "But as at the present moment there are nearly as many rogues as honest men in the place it would be a wholesale hanging indeed to insure getting hold of the right people. Moreover, it is not probable that another attempt upon his life will be made inside our walls; and doubtless the main body of this gang are somewhere without, intending to assault him when he continues his journey, and they have left but a spy or two here to inform them as to his movements. I will give you any aid in my power, young sir. The army is by this time nigh Marseilles, and, sooth to say, I have no body of men-at-arms whom I could send as your escort for so long a distance. I have but a small body here, and they are needed, and sorely, too, to keep order within the walls." "I thought, sir," Cuthbert said, "that if you could lend me a party of say four men-at-arms to ride with me for the first day I could then trust to myself, especially if you could procure me one honest man to act as guide and companion. Doubtless they suppose that I should travel by the main road south; but by going the first day's journey either east or west, and then striking some southward road, I should get a fair start of them, throw all their plans out, and perchance reach Marseilles without interruption." The knight willingly agreed to furnish four men-at-arms, and a trustworthy guide who would at least take him as far south as Avignon. "I will," he said, "tell the men-at-arms off to-night. They shall be at the western gate at daybreak, with the pass permitting them to ride through. The guide shall be at the convent door half an hour earlier. I will send up to-night your armor and horse. Here is a purse which the Earl of Evesham also left for your use. Is there aught else I can do for you?" "Nothing, sir," Cuthbert said; "and if I regain the army in safety I shall have pleasure in reporting to King Richard how kindly and courteously you have treated me." The arrangements were carried out. An hour before daybreak Cuthbert was aroused, donned his armor and steel casque, drank a flask of wine, and ate a manchet of bread which the prior himself brought him, and then, with a cordial adieu to the kind monks, issued forth. The guide had just reached the gate, and together they trotted down the narrow streets to the west gate of the city, where four men-at-arms were awaiting them. The gates were at once opened, and Cuthbert and his little troop sallied forth. CHAPTER VIII. THE ATTACK. All day they rode with their faces west, and before nightfall had made a journey of over forty miles. Then bestowing a largess upon the men-at-arms, Cuthbert dismissed them, and took up his abode at a hostelry, his guide looking to the two horses. Cuthbert was pleased with the appearance of the man who had been placed at his disposal. He was a young fellow of twenty-two or twenty-three, with an honest face. He was, he told Cuthbert, the son of a small farmer near Avignon; but having a fancy for trade, he had been apprenticed to a master smith. Having served his apprenticeship, he found that he had mistaken his vocation, and intended to return to the paternal vineyards. Cuthbert calculated that he would make at least four days' journey to the south before he could meet with any dangers. Doubtless his exit from the convent had been discovered, and the moment the gates of the city were opened the spy would have proceeded south to warn his comrades, and these would doubtless have taken a road which at a distance would again take them on to that by which Cuthbert would be now traveling. As, however, he rode fast, and made long marches each day, he hoped that he might succeed in distancing them. Unfortunately, upon the third day his horse cast his shoe, and no smith could be met with until the end of the day's journey. Consequently, but a short distance could be done and this at a slow pace. Upon the fifth day after their first start they arrived at a small town. The next morning Cuthbert on rising found that his guide did not present himself as usual. Making inquiries he found that the young man had gone out the evening before, and had not returned. Extremely uneasy at the circumstance, Cuthbert went to the city guard, thinking that perhaps his guide might have got drunk, and been shut up in the cells. No news, however, was to be obtained there, and after waiting some hours, feeling sure that some harm had befallen him, he gave notice to the authorities of his loss, and then mounting his horse, and leaving some money with the landlord of the hostelry to give to his guide in case the latter should return, he started at midday by the southern road. He felt sure now that he was overtaken, and determined to keep his eyes and faculties thoroughly on watch. The roads in those days were mere tracks. Here and there a little village was to be met with; but the country was sparsely cultivated, and traveling lonely work. Cuthbert rode fast, carefully avoiding all copses and small woods through which the road ran, by making a circuit round them and coming on to it again on the other side. His horse was an excellent one, the gift of the earl, and he had little fear, with his light weight, of being overtaken if he could once leave his enemies behind him. At length he approached an extensive forest, which stretched for miles on either side. Half a mile before he reached it the track divided. He had for some little time eased his horse down to a walk, as he felt that the wood would be the spot where he would in all probability be attacked, and he needed that his steed should be possessed of its utmost vigor. At the spot where the track branched a man in the guise of a mendicant was sitting. He begged for alms, and Cuthbert threw him a small coin. A sudden thought struck him as he heard a rustling in the bushes near. "Which is the nearest and best road to Avignon?" he said. "The right-hand road is the best and shortest," the beggar said. "The other makes a long circuit and leads through several marshes, which your honor will find it hard to pass." Cuthbert thanked him and moved forward, still at a walk, along the right-hand road. When he had gone about two hundred yards, and was hidden from the sight of the man he had left--the country being rough, and scattered with clumps of bushes--he halted, and, as he expected, heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming on at full gallop along the other road. "Your master must have thought me young indeed," he said, "to try and catch me with such a transparent trick as that. I do not suppose that accursed page has more than ten men with him, and doubtless has placed five on each road. This fellow was placed here to see which track I would follow, and has now gone to give the party on the left hand the news that I have taken this way. Had it not been for him I should have had to run the gantlet with four or five of my enemies. As it is, the path will doubtless be clear." So saying, he turned his horse, galloped back to the spot where the tracks separated, and then followed the left-hand route. As he had hoped, he passed through the wood without incident or interruption, and arrived safely that night at a small town, having seen no signs of his enemies. The next day he started again early, and rode on until midday, when he halted at a large village, at which was the only inn between the place from which he started and his destination. He declined the offer of the servant of the inn to take his horse round to the stable, telling the man to hold him outside the door and give him from a sieve a few handfuls of grain. Then he entered the inn and ate a hearty meal. As he appeared at the door he saw several men gathered near. With a single spring he threw himself into the saddle, just as a rush forward was made by those standing round. The man next to him sprang upon him, and endeavored to drag him from the saddle. Cuthbert drew the little dagger called a _miséricorde_ from his belt, and plunged it into his throat. Then seizing the short mace which hung at the saddlebow, he hurled it with all his force full in the face of his enemy, the page of Sir Philip, who was rushing upon him sword in hand. The heavy weapon struck him fairly between the eyes, and with a cry he fell back, his face completely smashed in by the blow, the sword which he held uplifted to strike flying far through the air. Cuthbert struck his spurs into his horse, and the animal dashed forward with a bound, Cuthbert striking with his long sword at one or two men who made a snatch at the reins. In another minute he was cantering out of the village, convinced that he had killed the leader of his foes, and that he was safe now to pursue the rest of his journey on to Marseilles. So it turned out. Without further incident he traveled through the south of France, and arrived at the great seaport. He speedily discovered the quarters in which the Earl of Evesham's contingent were encamped, and made toward this without delay. As he entered a wild shout of joy was heard, and Cnut ran forward with many gestures of delight. "My dear Cuthbert, my dear Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "Can it be true that you have escaped? We all gave you up; and although I did my best, yet had you not survived it I should never have forgiven myself, believing that I might have somehow done better, and have saved you from the cutthroats who attacked us." "Thanks, thanks, my good Cnut," Cuthbert cried. "I have been through a time of peril, no doubt; but as you see, I am hale and well--better, methinks, than you are, for you look pale and ill; and I doubt not that the wound which I received was a mere scratch to that which bore you down. It sounded indeed like the blow of a smith's hammer upon an anvil." "Fortunately, my steel cap saved my head somewhat," Cnut said, "and the head itself is none of the thinnest; but it tried it sorely, I confess. However, now that you are back I shall, doubt not, soon be as strong as ever I was. I think that fretting for your absence has kept me back more than the inflammation from the wound itself--but there is the earl at the door of his tent." Through the foresters and retainers who had at Cnut's shout of joy crowded up, Cuthbert made his way, shaking hands right and left with the men, among whom he was greatly loved, for they regarded him as being in a great degree the cause of their having been freed from outlawry, and restored to civil life again. The earl was really affected. As Cuthbert rode up he held out both arms, and as his page alighted he embraced him as a father. "My dear Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "What anxiety have we not suffered. Had you been my own son, I could not have felt more your loss. We did not doubt for an instant that you had fallen into the hands of some of the retainers of that villain count; and from all we could learn, and from the absence of any dead body by the side of that of Cnut, I imagined that you must have been carried off. It was clear that your chance of life, if you fell into the hands of that evil page, or his equally vile master, was small indeed. The very day that Cnut was brought in I visited the French camp, and accused him of having been the cause of your disappearance and Cnut's wounds. He affected the greatest astonishment at the charge. He had not, as he said, been out of the camp for two days. My accusation was unfounded and malicious, and I should answer this as well as the previous outrage, when the vow of the Crusaders to keep peace among themselves was at an end. Of course I had no means of proving what I said, or I would have gone direct to the king and charged him with the outrage. As it was I gained nothing by my pains. He has accompanied the French division to Genoa; but when we meet at Sicily, where the two armies are to rendezvous, I will bring the matter before the king, as the fact that his page was certainly concerned in it must be taken as showing that he was the instigator." "It would, my lord earl, be perhaps better," Cuthbert said, "if I might venture to advise, to leave the matter alone. No doubt the count would say that he had discharged his page after the tournament, and that the latter was only carrying out his private feud with me. We should not be able to disprove the story, and should gain no satisfaction by the matter." The earl admitted the justice of Cuthbert's reasoning, but reserved to himself the task of punishing the author of the outrage upon the first fitting opportunity. There was a weary delay at Marseilles before the expedition set sail. This was caused by the fact of the English fleet, which had been ordered to be there upon their arrival, failing to keep the agreement. The words English fleet badly describe the vessels which were to carry the English contingent to their destination. They were ships belonging to the maritime nations of Italy--the Venetians, Genoese, Pisans, etc.; for England at that time had but few of her own, and these scarcely fitted for the stormy navigation of the Bay of Biscay. King Richard, impatient as ever of delay, at last lost his temper, and embarked on board a ship with a few of his chosen knights, and set sail by himself for Sicily, the point at which the two armies of the expedition were to reunite. A few days after his departure the long-looked-for fleet arrived, and a portion of the English host embarked at once, and set sail for Sicily, where they were to be landed, and the ships were to return to fetch the remaining contingent. A sea voyage of this kind in those days was a serious matter. Long voyages were rare, and troops were carried very much upon the principle of herrings; that is, were packed as close as they could be, without any reference to their comfort. As the voyages seldom lasted more than twenty-four hours, this did not much matter, but during long voyages the discomforts, or as may be said sufferings, of the troops were considerable. So tightly packed were the galleys in which the English set sail from Marseilles that there was no walking about. Every man slept where he sat, and considered himself lucky indeed if he could obtain room sufficient to stretch himself at full length. Most slept sitting against bulwarks or other supports. In the cabins, where the knights, their pages and squires were placed, the crowding was of course less excessive, but even here the amount of space, which a subaltern traveling to India for the first time nowadays would grumble at, was considered amply sufficient for half a dozen knights of distinction. It was a week after sailing, when Cnut touched Cuthbert's arm as he came on deck one morning, and said: "Look, look, Cuthbert! that mountain standing up in the water has caught fire on the top. Did you ever see such a thing?" The soldiers crowded to the side of the vessel in intense astonishment and no little awe. From the top of a lofty and rugged hill, rising almost straight from the sea, flames were roaring up, smoke hung over the island, and stones were thrown into the air and rattled down the side of the hill, or fell into the sea with a splash. "That is a fearsome sight," Cnut said, crossing himself. "It looks as if it was the mouth of purgatory," exclaimed another, standing by. Cuthbert himself was amazed, for the instruction he had received from Father Francis was of too slight a nature to include the story of volcanoes. A priest, however, who accompanied the ship in the character of leech and confessor, explained the nature of the phenomenon to his astonished listeners, and told them that over on the mainland was a mountain which at times vomited forth such masses of stones and of liquid rock that it had swallowed up and covered many great cities. There was also, he told them, another mountain of the same sort, even more vast, on the island of Sicily itself; but that this had seldom, as far back as man could remember, done any great harm. Sailing on, in another day they arrived off the coast of Sicily itself, and sailing up the straits between it and the mainland they landed at Messina. Here a considerable portion of the French army had already arrived, having been brought down from Genoa. There was no news of the King of England; and, as often happens, the saying "The more haste the less speed," had been verified here. It was some days later before King Richard arrived, having been driven from his course by tempests, well-nigh cast ashore, and having besides gone through many adventures. Three weeks later the whole of the army of the Crusaders were gathered around Messina, where it was intended to remain some little time before starting. It was a gay time; and the kings vied with each other in entertainments, joustings, and tournaments. The Italian knights also made a brave show, and it might have been thought that this huge army of men were gathered there simply for amusement and feasting. In the tournaments every effort was made to prevent any feeling of national rivalry, and although parties of knights held their own against all comers, these were most carefully selected to represent several nationalities, and therefore victory, on whichsoever side it fell, excited no feelings of bitterness. Alone, King Richard was undoubtedly the strongest cavalier of the two armies. Against his ponderous strength no knight could keep his seat; and this was so palpable that after many victories King Richard was forced to retire from the lists from want of competitors, and to take his place on the daïs with the more peace-loving King of France. The gayety of the camp was heightened by the arrival of many nobles and dames from Italy. Here, too, came the Queen of Navarre, bringing with her the beautiful Princess Berengaria. "Methinks," the Earl of Evesham said to Cuthbert a fortnight after the arrival of the queen "that unless my eyes deceive me the princess is likely to be a cause of trouble." "In what way?" asked Cuthbert with surprise, for he had been struck with her marvelous beauty, and wondered greatly what mischief so fair a being could do. "By the way in which our good lord, the king, gazes upon her, methinks that it were like enough that he broke off his engagement with the Prince of France for the sake of the fair eyes of this damsel." "That were indeed a misfortune," Cuthbert said gravely, for he saw at once the anger which such a course would excite in the minds of the French king and his knights, who would naturally be indignant in the extreme at the slight put upon their princess. As day after day passed it became evident to all that the King of England was infatuated by the princess. Again he entered the lists himself, and as some fresh Italian knights and others had arrived, he found fresh opponents, and conspicuously laid the spoils of victory at the feet of the princess, whom he selected as the Queen of Beauty. All sorts of rumors now became current in camp; violent quarrels between the kings, and bad feelings between the French and English knights broke out again in consequence, and this more violently than before. CHAPTER IX. THE PRINCESS BERENGARIA. One night it chanced that Cuthbert was late in his return to camp, and his road took him through a portion of the French encampment; the night was dark, and Cuthbert presently completely lost all idea as to his bearings. Presently he nearly ran against a tent; he made his way to the entrance in order to crave directions as to his way--for it was a wet night; the rain was pouring in torrents, and few were about of whom he could demand the way--and, as he was about to draw aside the hangings, he heard words said in a passionate voice which caused him to withdraw his hand suddenly. "I tell you," said a voice, "I would rather drive a dagger myself into her heart than allow our own princess to be insulted by this hot-headed island dog." "It is sad indeed," said another, but in a calmer smoother tone, "that the success of a great expedition like this, which has for its object the recovery of the holy sepulcher from the infidels, should be wrecked by the headstrong fancies of one man. It is even, as is told by the old Grecian poet, as when Helen caused a great war between people of that nation." "I know nothing," another voice said, "either of Helen or the Greeks, or of their poets. They are a shifty race, and I can believe aught that is bad of them. But touching this princess of Navarre, I agree with our friend, it would be a righteous deed to poniard her, and so to remove the cause of dispute between the two kings, and, indeed, the two nations. This insult laid upon our princess is more than we, as French knights and gentlemen, can brook; and if the king says the word there is not a gentleman in the army but will be ready to turn his sword against the islanders." Then the smooth voice spoke again. "It would, my brethren, be wrong and useless to shed blood; but methinks that if this apple of discord could be removed a good work would be done not, as our friend the count has suggested, by a stab of the dagger; that indeed would be worse than useless. But surely there are scores of religious houses, where this bird might be placed in a cage without a soul knowing where she was, and where she might pass her life in prayer that she may be pardoned for having caused grave hazards of the failure of an enterprise in which all the Christian world is concerned." The voices of the speakers now fell, and Cuthbert was straining his ear to listen, when he heard footsteps approaching the tent, and he glided away into the darkness. With great difficulty be recovered the road to the camp, and when he reached his tent he confided to the Earl of Evesham what he had heard. "This is serious indeed," the earl said, "and bodes no little trouble and danger. It is true that the passion which King Richard has conceived for Berengaria bids fair to wreck the Crusade, by the anger which it has excited in the French king and his nobles; but the disappearance of the princess would no less fatally interfere with it, for the king would be like a raging lion deprived of his whelps, and would certainly move no foot eastward until he had exhausted all the means in his power of tracing his lost lady love. You could not, I suppose, Cuthbert, point out the tent where this conversation took place?" "I could not," Cuthbert answered; "in the darkness one tent is like another. I think I should recognize the voices of the speakers did I hear them again; indeed, one voice I did recognize; it was that of the Count of Brabant, with whom we had trouble before." "That is good," the earl said, "because we have at least an object to watch. It would never do to tell the king what you have heard. In the first place, his anger would be so great that it would burst all bounds, and would cause, likely enough, a battle at once between the two armies; nor would it have any good effect, for he of Brabant would of course deny the truth of your assertions, and would declare it was merely a got-up story to discredit him with the king, and so to wipe out the old score now standing between us. No, if we are to succeed, alike in preventing harm happening to the princess, and an open break between the two monarchs, it must be done by keeping a guard over the princess, unsuspected by all, and ourselves frustrating any attempt which may be made." Cuthbert expressed his willingness to carry out the instructions which the earl might give him; and, much disturbed by the events of the day, both earl and page retired to rest, to think over what plan had best be adopted. The princess was staying at the palace of the bishop of the town; this he, having another residence a short distance outside the walls, had placed at the disposal of the Queen of Navarre and her suite; and the first step of Cuthbert in the morning was to go into the town, to reconnoiter the position and appearance of the building. It was a large and irregular pile, and communicated with the two monasteries lying alongside of it. It would therefore clearly be a most difficult thing to keep up a complete watch on the exterior of so large a building. There were so many ways in which the princess might be captured and carried off by unscrupulous men that Cuthbert in vain thought over every plan by which it could be possible to safeguard her. She might be seized upon returning from a tournament or entertainment; but this was improbable, as the queen would always have an escort of knights with her, and no attempt could be successful except at the cost of a public fracas and much loss of blood. Cuthbert regarded as out of the question that an outrage of this kind would be attempted. The fact that one of the speakers in the tent had used the words "my sons," showed that one priest or monk, at least, was connected with the plot. It was possible that this man might have power in one of the monasteries, or he might be an agent of the bishop himself; and Cuthbert saw that it would be easy enough in the night for a party from one or other of the monasteries to enter by the door of communication with the palace, and carry off the princess without the slightest alarm being given. Once within the walls of the convent she could be either hidden in the dungeons or secret places, which buildings of that kind were sure to possess, or could be at once carried out by some quiet entrance, and taken into the country, or transferred to some other building in the town. When Cuthbert joined the earl he told him the observations that he had made, and Sir Walter praised the judgment which he had shown in his conclusions. The earl was of opinion that it would be absolutely necessary to get some clew as to the course which the abductors purposed to take; indeed it was possible that on after-consideration they might drop their plan altogether, for the words which Cuthbert had overheard scarcely betokened a plan completely formed and finally decided upon. The great point he considered, therefore, was that the tent of his old enemy should be carefully watched, and that an endeavor should be made to hear something of what passed within, which might give a clew to the plan fixed upon. They did not, of course, know whether the tent in which the conversation had been heard by Cuthbert was that of Sir de Jacquelin Barras, or of one of the other persons who had spoken; and Cuthbert suggested that the first thing would be to find out whether the count, after nightfall, was in the habit of going to some other tent, or whether, on the other hand, he remained within and was visited by others. It was easy, of course, to discover which was his tent; and Cuthbert soon got its position, and then took Cnut into his counsels. "The matter is difficult," Cnut said, "and I see no way by which a watch can be kept up by day; but after dark--I have several men in my band who can track a deer, and surely could manage to follow the steps of this baron without being observed. There is little Jack, who is no bigger than a boy of twelve, although he can shoot, and run, and play with the quarterstaff, or, if need be, with the bill, against the best man in the troop. I warrant me that if you show him the tent he will keep such sharp watch that no one shall enter or depart without his knowing where they go to. On a dark night he will be able to slip among the tents, and to move here and there without being seen. He can creep on his stomach without moving a leaf, and trust me the eyes of these French men-at-arms will look in vain for a glimpse of him." "You understand, Cnut, all that I want to know is whether the other conspirators in this matter visit his tent, or whether he goes to theirs." "I understand," Cnut said. "That is the first point to be arrived at." Three days later Cnut brought news that each night after dark a party of five men met in the tent that was watched; that one of the five always came out when all had assembled, and took his station before the entrance of the tent, so as to be sure that no eavesdropper was near. Cuthbert smiled. "It is a case of locking the door after the horse has gone." "What is to be done now?" Cnut asked. "I will talk with the earl before I tell you, Cnut. This matter is too serious for me to take a step without consulting Sir Walter." That night there was a long talk between the earl and his page as to the best course to be pursued. It was clear that their old enemy was the leading person in the plot, and that the only plan to baffle it with any fair chances of success was to keep a constant eye upon his movements, and also to have three or four of the sturdiest men of the band told off to watch, without being perceived, each time that the princess was in her palace. The Earl of Evesham left the arrangements entirely in the hands of his page, of whose good sense and sagacity he had a very high opinion. His own first impulse had been to go before the king and denounce the Count of Brabant. But the ill-will between them was already well known; for not only was there the original dispute at the banquet, but when the two armies had joined at Sicily, King Richard, who had heard from the earl of the attempt at the assassination of Cuthbert, had laid a complaint before King Philip of the conduct of his subject. Sir de Jacquelin Barras, however, had denied that he had any finger in the matter. "He had," he said, "discharged his page after the encounter with Cuthbert, and knew nothing further whatever of his movements." Although it was morally certain that the page could not have purchased the services of the men who assisted him, from his own purse, or gain them by any means of persuasion, but that they were either the followers of the Count of Brabant, or ruffians hired with his money, as no proof could be obtained the matter was allowed to drop. The earl felt, however, that an accusation against the count by him of an intention to commit a high crime, and this merely on the evidence of his page, would appear like an attempt to injure the fame of his rival. Feeling, therefore, that nothing could be done save to watch, he left the matter entirely in the hands of his page, telling him that he could take as many men-at-arms or archers as he might choose and use them in his name. Cnut entered warmly into Cuthbert's plans; and finally it was arranged between them that six of the archers should nightly keep watch opposite the various entrances of the bishop's palace and of the two monasteries joining. Of course, they could not patrol up and down without attracting attention, but they were to take up posts where they could closely observe the entrances, and were either to lie down and feign drunken sleep, or to conceal themselves within the shadow of an arch or other hiding-place. Down on the seashore Cuthbert made an arrangement with one of the owners of small craft lying there that ten of his men should sleep on board every night, together with some fishermen accustomed to the use of the oar. Cuthbert himself determined to be always with this party. Night after night passed, and so long a time went by that Cuthbert began to think the design must have been given up. However, he resolved to relax none of his watchfulness during the remaining time that the expedition might stop in Sicily. It was in January, three weeks after the first watch had been set, when one of the men who had been placed to watch the entrance to one of the monasteries leaped on board the craft and shook Cuthbert by the shoulder. "A party of some five men," he said, "have just issued out from the monastery. They are bearing a burden--what, I cannot see. They were making in the direction of the water. I whistled to Dion who was next to me in the lane. He is following them, and I came on to tell you to prepare." The night was pitch-dark, and it was difficult in the extreme to see any one moving at a short distance off. There were two or three streets that led from the monastery, which stood at the top of the town, toward the sea; and a party coming down might take any of these, according to the position in which the boat they were seeking was placed. Cuthbert now instantly sent five or six of his men with instructions to avoid all noise, along the line of the port, with orders to bring in word should anyone come down and take boat, or should they hear any noise in the town. He himself with the sailors loosed the ropes which fastened the boat to shore, got out the oars, and prepared to put off at a moment's notice. He was of course ignorant whether the abductor would try to carry the princess off by water, or would hide her in one of the convents of the town; but he was inclined to think that the former would be the course adopted; for the king in his wrath would be ready to lay the town in flames, and to search every convent from top to bottom for the princess. Besides, there would be too many aware of the secret. Cuthbert was not wrong in his supposition. Soon the man he had sent to the extreme right came running up with the news that a boat had embarked at the further end with a party of some ten men on board. As he came along he had warned the others, and in five minutes the whole party were collected in the craft, numbering in all twelve of Cuthbert's men and six sailors. They instantly put out, and rowed in the direction in which the boat would have gone, the boatmen expressing their opinion that probably the party would make for a vessel which was lying anchored at some little distance from shore. The bearings of the position of this ship was known to the boatmen, but the night was so dark that they were quite unable to find it. Orders had been given that no sound or whisper was to be heard on board the boat; and after rowing as far as they could the boatmen said they were in the direction of the ship. The boatmen all lay on their oars, and all listened intently. Presently the creaking of a pulley was heard in the still night, at a distance of a few hundred yards. This was enough. It was clear that the vessel was getting up sail. The boat's head was turned in that direction; the crew rowed steadily but noiselessly, and in a few minutes the tall mast of a vessel could be seen faintly against the sky. Just as they perceived the situation, a hail from on board showed that their approach was now observed. "Stretch to your oars," Cuthbert said, "we must make a dash for it now." The rowers bent to their work and in a minute the boat ran alongside the craft. As Cuthbert and his followers scrambled upon the deck they were attacked by those of the crew and passengers who were standing near; but it was evident at once that the chiefs of the expedition had not heard the hail, and that there was no general plan of defense against them. It was not until the last of them had gained a footing and were beginning to fight their way along the vessel that from below three or four men-at-arms ran up, and one in a tone of authority demanded what was the matter. When he heard the clash of swords and the shouts of the combatants he put himself at once at the head of the party and a fierce and obstinate fight now took place. The assailants had, however, the advantage. Cuthbert and his men were all lightly clad, and this on the deck of a ship lumbered with ropes and gear, and in the dark, was a great advantage, for the mailed men-at-arms frequently stumbled and fell. The fight lasted for several minutes. Cnut, who was armed with a heavy mace, did great service, for with each of his sweeping blows he broke down the guard of an opponent, and generally leveled him to the deck. The numbers at the beginning of the fight were not unequal, but the men to whom the vessel belonged made but a faint resistance when they perceived that the day was going against them. The men-at-arms, however, consisting of three, who appeared to be the leaders, and of eight pikemen fought stubbornly and well. Cuthbert was not long in detecting in the tones of the man who was clearly at the head of affairs the voice of Sir de Jacquelin Barras. To do him justice he fought with extreme bravery, and when almost all his followers were cut down or beaten overboard, he resisted stanchly and well. With a heavy two-handed sword he cleaved a space at the end of the boat, and kept the whole of Cuthbert's party at bay. At last Cnut, who had been engaged elsewhere, came to the front, and a tough fight ensued between them. It might have ended badly for the brave forester, for his lack of armor gave an enormous advantage to his opponent. Soon, however, the count's foot slipped on the boards of the deck, and before he could recover himself the mace of Cnut descended with tremendous force upon his head, which was unprotected, as he had taken off his casque on arriving at the ship. Without a word or a cry the count fell forward on the deck, killed as a bullock by a blow of a poleax. While this conflict had been going on, occasionally the loud screams of a woman had been heard below. Cuthbert, attended by Cnut and two of his followers, now descended. At the bottom of the steps they found a man-at-arms placed at the door of a cabin. He challenged as they approached, but being speedily convinced that the vessel was in their hands, and that his employer and party were all conquered, he made a virtue of necessity, and laid down his arms. "You had better go in alone," Cnut said, "Master Cuthbert. The lady is less likely to be frightened by your appearance than by us, for she must wonder indeed what is going on." On entering the cabin, which had evidently been fitted up for the use of a lady, Cuthbert saw standing at the other end the princess, whom of course he knew well by sight. A lamp was burning in the cabin, and by its light he could see that her face was deadly pale. Her robes were torn and disarranged, and she wore a look at once of grave alarm and surprise upon seeing a handsomely dressed page enter with a deep reverence. "What means this outrage, young sir? Whoever you be, I warn you that the King of England will revenge this indignity." "Your highness," Cuthbert said, "you have no further reason for alarm; the knaves who carried you off from the bishop's palace and conveyed you to this ship are all either killed or in our power. I am the page of the Earl of Evesham, a devoted follower of King Richard. Some of the designs of the bold men came to the ears of my lord, and he ordered me and a band of his followers to keep good guard over the palace and buildings adjoining. We were unable to gather our strength in time to prevent your being taken on board, but we lost no time in putting forth when we found that your abductors had taken boat, and by good fortune arrived here in time; a few minutes later, and the knaves would have succeeded in their object, for the sails were already being hoisted, and the vessel making way, when we arrived. Your abductors are all either killed or thrown overboard, and the vessel's head is now turned toward the shore, and I hope in a few minutes to have the honor of escorting you to the palace." The princess, with a sigh of much satisfaction and relief, sank on to a couch. "I am indeed indebted to you, young sir," she said. "Believe me, the Princess Berengaria is not ungrateful, and should it be ever in her power to do aught for your lord, or for yourself, or for those who have accompanied you to rescue her, believe me that she will do it." "May I be so bold as to ask a boon?" Cuthbert said, dropping on one knee before her. "It is granted at once, whatever it be, if in my power." "My boon is, lady," he said, "that you will do your best to assuage the natural anger which the King of England will feel at this bold and most violent attempt. That he should be told, is of course necessary; but, lady, much depends upon the telling, and I am sure that at your request the king would restrain his anger. Were it not for that, I fear that such quarrels and disputes might arise as would bring the two armies to blows, and destroy forever all hope of the successful termination of our joint enterprise." "You are a wise and good youth," the princess said, holding out her hand to Cuthbert, which, as duty bound, he placed to his lips. "Your request is wise and most thoughtful. I will use any poor influence which I may possess"--and Cuthbert could see that the blood came back now to the white face--"to induce King Richard to allow the matter to pass over. There is no reason why he should take up the case. I am no more under his protection than under that of the King of France, and it is to the latter I should appeal, for as I believe the men who abducted me were his subjects." "The leader of them, madam, was a certain Sir de Jacquelin Barras, a Count of Brabant, with whom my master has had an old feud, and who has been just killed by the leader of our men-at-arms. The others, who have had the most active hand in the matter, have also perished; and it would, I think be doubtful whether any clew could be obtained of those who were in league with them. The only man in the party who is alive was placed as a sentry at your door, and as he is but a man-at-arms we may be sure that he knows naught of the enterprise, but has merely carried out the orders of his master." The vessel had by this time brought up close to the port. The princess determined to wait on board until the first dawn was seen in the skies, and then under the escort of her deliverers to go back to the palace, before the town was moving. This plan was carried out, and soon after dawn the princess was safe in the palace from which she had been carried a few hours previously. CHAPTER X. PIRATES. It was not possible that a matter of this sort could be entirely hushed up. Not many hours passed before rumors were current of events which had taken place, though none knew what those events were. There were reports that the tire-woman of the Princess Berengaria had in the night discovered that her mistress' couch was unoccupied, that she had found signs of a struggle, and had picked up a dagger on the floor, where it had evidently fallen from the sheath; also it was said that the princess had returned at daylight escorted by an armed party, and that she was unable to obtain entrance to the palace until one of the ladies of the queen had been fetched down to order the sentries at the gate to allow her to enter. This was the news which rumor carried through the camp. Few, however, believed it, and none who could have enlightened them opened their lips upon the subject. It was known, however, that a messenger had come to King Richard early, and that he had at once mounted and ridden off to the bishop's palace. What had happened there none could say, but there were rumors that his voice had been heard in furious outbursts of passion. He remained there until the afternoon, when he sent for a number of his principal nobles. When these arrived they found him standing on a daïs in the principal hall of the palace, and he there formally introduced to them the Princess Berengaria as his affianced wife. The ceremony of the marriage, he told them, would shortly take place. This announcement caused a tremendous stir in both armies. The English, who had never been favorable to the alliance with the French princess, were glad to hear that this was broken off, and were well content that the Princess Berengaria should be their future queen, for her beauty, high spirit, and kindness had won all hearts. On the part of the French, on the other hand, there was great indignation, and for some time it was feared that the armies would come to open blows. King Philip, however, although much angered, was politic enough to deprecate any open outbreak. He knew that a dispute now began would not only at once put a stop to the Crusade, but that it might lead to more serious consequences at home. The fiery bravery of the English king, backed as it would be by the whole strength of his subjects, might render him a very formidable opponent; and the king felt that private grievances must be laid aside where the good of France was concerned. Still the coldness between the armies increased, their camps were moved further apart, and during the time that they remained in Sicily there was but little commerce between the two forces. As soon as the winter had broken the French monarch broke up his camp, and in March sailed for the Holy Land. The English had expected that the marriage ceremony of the king and Princess Berengaria would be celebrated before they left Sicily, but this was not the case. There were high joustings and _fêtes_ in honor of the princess, but the marriage was delayed. A fortnight after the French had sailed the English embarked in the two hundred ships which had been prepared, and sailed also on their way to Acre. It must not be supposed that the attempted abduction of the Princess Berengaria was unimportant in its results to Cuthbert. After returning from the palace the king, who had heard from her the details of what had taken place, and the names of her rescuers, sent for the Earl of Evesham. The latter had of course learned from Cuthbert all that had happened, and had expressed his high approval of his conduct, and his gratification at the result. "I learn, Sir Earl," said King Richard, "that it is to you that I am indebted for the rescue of the princess. She tells me that suspecting some plot you placed a guard around the bishop's palace, with a strong body on the shore ready to rescue her from the hands of any who might attempt to take her to sea." "It is as you say, sire," replied the earl; "but the whole merit of the affair rests upon my page, the lad whom you may remember as having fought with and conquered the French page, and of whose conduct you then approved highly. You may also remember that he escaped by some display of bravery and shrewdness the further attempts to assassinate him, and your majesty was good enough to make a complaint to King Philip of the conduct of one of his nobles on that head. It seems that some two months since the lad in coming through the French camp at night missed his way, and accidentally overheard a few words spoken in a voice which he recognized as that of his enemy. The name of your majesty being mentioned, he deemed it his duty to listen, and thus discovered that a plot was on foot for carrying off the princess. After consultation with me, we agreed upon the course to be adopted, namely, to place sentries round the bishop's place and the buildings adjoining, who should follow and bring word should she be taken to another place in town, while a band was placed on the shore in readiness to interfere at once to prevent her being carried away by sea. He undertook the management of all details, having with him a trusty squire who commands my Saxon bowmen." "For your own part I thank you, my lord," the king said, "and, believe me, you shall not find Richard ungrateful. As to your page, he appears brave and wise beyond his years. Were it not that I think that it would not be good for him, and might attract some envy upon the part of others, I would at once make him a knight. He already has my promise that I will do so on the first occasion when he can show his prowess upon the infidels. Bring him to me to-morrow, when the princess will be here with the Queen of Navarre at a banquet. I would fain thank him before her; and, although I have agreed--at the princess' earnest solicitation--to take no further notice of the matter, and to allow it to pass as if it had not been, yet I cannot forgive the treachery which has been used, and without letting all know exactly what has occurred would fain by my reception of your page let men see that something of great import has happened, of the nature of which I doubt not that rumor will give some notion." Upon the following day, therefore, Cuthbert to his confusion found himself the center of the royal circle. The king expressed himself to him in the most gracious manner, patting him on the shoulder, and said that he would be one day one of the best and bravest of his knights. The princess and the Queen of Navarre gave him their hands to kiss, and somewhat overwhelmed, he withdrew from the royal presence, the center of attention, and, in some minds, of envy. Cnut too did not pass unrewarded. His majesty, finding that Cnut was of gentle Saxon blood, gave him a gold chain in token of his favor, and distributed a heavy purse among the men who had followed him. When the British fleet, numbering two hundred ships, set sail from Sicily, it was a grand and martial sight. From the masts were the colors of England and those of the nobles who commanded; while the pennons of the knights, the bright plumes and mantles, the flash of armor and arms made the decks alive with light and color. The king's ship advanced in the van, and round him were the vessels containing his principal followers. The Queen of Navarre and the Princess Berengaria were with the fleet. Strains of music rose from the waters, and never were the circumstances of war exhibited in a more picturesque form. For two days the expedition sailed on, and then a change of a sudden and disastrous kind took place. "What is all this bustle about?" Cuthbert said to Cnut. "The sailors are running up the ladders, all seems confusion." "Methinks," said Cnut, "that we are about to have a storm. A few minutes ago scarce a cloud was to be seen; now that bank over there has risen halfway up the sky. The sailors are accustomed to these treacherous seas, and the warnings which we have not noticed have no doubt been clear enough to them." With great rapidity the sails of the fleet came down, and in five minutes its whole aspect was changed; but quickly as the sailors had done their work, the storm was even more rapid in its progress. Some of the ships whose crews were slower or less skillful than the others were caught by the gale before they could get their sails snug, and the great sheets of white canvas were blown from the bolt-ropes as if made of paper, and a blackness which could almost be felt covered the sea, the only light being that given by the frothing waters. There was no longer any thought of order. Each ship had to shift for herself; and each captain to do his best to save those under his charge, without thought of what might befall the others. In the ship which carried the Earl of Evesham's contingent, order and discipline prevailed. The earl's voice had been heard at the first puff of wind, shouting to the men to go below, save a few who might be of use to haul at ropes. His standard was lowered, the bright flags removed from the sides of the ship, the shields which were hanging over the bulwarks were hurriedly taken below, and when the gale smote them the ship was trim, and in readiness to receive it. A few square yards of sail alone were all that the captain had thought it prudent to keep spread, and in a minute from the time she was struck the lofty hulk was tearing along through the waters at a tremendous speed. Four of the best hands were placed at the helm; and here the captain took his post. The danger was now that in the darkness they might run against one of their consorts. Even in the war of the elements they could hear from time to time crashes as of vessels striking against each other, with shouts and cries. Once or twice from the darkness ships emerged, close on one hand or the other; but the steadiness of the captain in each case saved the ship from collision. As the storm continued these glimpses of other vessels became more and more rare, and the ship being a very fast sailer, the captain indulged the hope that he was now clear of the rest of the fleet. He now attempted to lie-to to the storm, but the wind was too strong. The ships in those days, too, were so high out of the water, and offered in themselves such a target to the wind, that it was useless to adopt any other maneuver than to run before it. For two days and nights the tempest raged. "What think you," the earl said to the captain, "of our position? Where are we, and where will the course upon which we are running take us?" "I cannot say with certainty," the captain said, "for the wind has shifted several times. I had hoped to gain the shelter of Rhodes, but a shift of wind bore us away from there, and I much fear that from the direction in which we have been running we must be very nigh on the coast of Africa." "_Peste!_" the earl said. "That would indeed be a speedy end to our Crusade. These Moors are pirates and cutthroats to a man; and even should we avoid the risk of being dashed to pieces, we should end our lives as slaves to one of these black infidels." Three hours later the captain's prophecies turned out right. Breakers were seen in various points in front, and with the greatest difficulty the vessel was steered through an opening between them; but in another few minutes she struck heavily, one of her masts went over the side, and she lay fast and immovable. Fortunately, the outside bank of sand acted as a sort of breakwater; had she struck upon this the good ship would have gone to pieces instantly; but although the waves still struck her with considerable force, the captain had good hope that she would not break up. Darkness came on; the tempest seemed to lull. As there was no immediate danger, and all were exhausted by the tossing which they had received during the last forty-eight hours, the crew of the Rose slept soundly. In the morning the sun rose brilliantly, and there was no sign of the great storm which had scattered the fleet of England. The shore was to be seen at a distance of some four miles. It was low and sandy, with lofty mountains in the distance. Far inland a white town with minaret and dome could be seen. "Know you where we are?" the earl asked. "As far as I can tell," the captain said, "we have been driven up the bay called the Little Syrtis--a place full of shoals and shallows, and abounding with pirates of the worst kind." "Think you that the ship has suffered injury?" "Whether she has done so or not," the captain said, "I fear greatly that she is fast in the sand, and even the lightening of all her cargo will scarce get her off; but we must try at least." "It is little time that we shall have to try, Master Captain," Cuthbert, who was standing close, said. "Me thinks those two long ships which are putting out from that town will have something to say to that." "It is too true," the captain said. "Those are the galleys of the Moorish corsairs. They are thirty or forty oars, draw but little water, and will be here like the wind." "What do you advise?" asked the earl. "The falconets which you have upon the poop can make but a poor resistance to boats that can row around us, and are no doubt furnished with heavy metal. They will quickly perceive that we are aground and defenseless, and will be able to plump their shot into us until they have knocked the good ship to pieces. However, we will fight to the last. It shall not be said that the Earl of Evesham was taken by infidel dogs and sold as a slave, without striking a blow in his defense." Cuthbert stood watching the corsairs, which were now rowing toward them at all speed. "Methinks, my lord," he said presently, "if I might venture to give an opinion, that we might yet trick the infidel." "As how, Cuthbert?" the earl said. "Speak out; you know that I have great faith in your sagacity." "I think, sir," the page said, "that did we send all your men below, leaving only the crew of the vessel on deck, they would take us for a merchant ship which has been wrecked here, and exercise but little care how they approach us. The men on deck might make a show of firing once or twice with the falconets. The pirates, disdaining such a foe, would row alongside. Once there, we might fasten one or both to our side with grapnels, and then, methinks, that English bill and bow will render us more than a match for Moorish pirates, and one of these craft can scarcely carry more men than we have. I should propose to take one of them by force, and drive the pirates overboard; take possession of, if possible, or beat off her consort; and then take the most valuable stores from the ship and make our way as best we can to the north." "Well thought of!" exclaimed the earl cordially. "You have indeed imagined a plan which promises well. What think you, captain?" "I think, my lord," the Genoese said, "that the plan is an excellent one, and promises every success. If your men will all go below, holding their arms in readiness for the signal, mine shall prepare grapnels and ropes, and the first of these craft which comes alongside they will lash so securely to the Rose that I warrant me she gets not away." These preparations were soon made. The soldiers, who at first had been filled with apprehension at the thought of slavery among the infidels, were now delighted at the prospect of a struggle ending in escape. The archers prepared their bows and arrows, and stood behind the portholes in readiness to pour a volley into the enemy; the men-at-arms grasped their pikes and swords; while above, the sailors moved hither and thither as if making preparations for defense, but in reality preparing the grapnels and ropes. One of the pirates was faster than the other, and soon coming within reach, opened fire upon the Rose with a heavy cannon, which she carried in her bow. The crew of the Rose replied with their falconets and sakers from the poop. The corsair at first did not keep her course direct for the ship, but rowed once or twice round her, firing as she did so. Then, apparently satisfied that no great precaution need be observed with a feebly-manned ship in so great a strait as the Rose, they set up a wild cry of "Allah!" and rowed toward her. In two minutes the corsair was alongside of the Rose, and the fierce crew were climbing up her sides. As she came alongside the sailors cast grapnels into her rigging, and fastened her to the Rose; and then a loud shout of "Hurrah for England!" was heard; the ports opened, and a volley of arrows was poured upon the astonished corsair; and from the deck above the assailants were thrown back into the galley, and a swarm of heavily armed men leaped down from the ship upon them. Taken by surprise, and indeed outnumbered, the resistance of the corsairs was but slight. In a close fierce _mêlée_ like this the light-armed Moors had but little chance with the mail-clad English, whose heavy swords and axes clove their defenses at a blow. The fight lasted but three minutes, and then the last of the corsairs was overboard. The men who rowed the galley had uttered the most piercing cries while this conflict had been raging. They were unable to take any part in it, had they been disposed to do so, for they were all slaves chained to the oars. Scarcely had the conflict ended when the other galley arrived upon the scene; but seeing what had happened, and that her consort had fallen into the hands of the English, she at once turned her head, and rowed back rapidly to the town from which she had come. Among the slaves who rowed the galley were many white men, and their cries of joy at their liberation greatly affected those who had thus unexpectedly rescued them. Hammers were soon brought into requisition, the shackles struck off them, and a scene of affecting joy took place. The slaves were of all nationalities, but Italians and Spaniards, French and Greeks formed the principal part. There was no time, however, to be lost; the arms and munitions of war were hastily removed from the Rose, together with the most valuable of the stores. The galley-slaves again took their places, and this time willingly, at the oars, the places of the weakest being supplied by the English, whose want of skill was made up by the alacrity with which they threw their strength into the work; and in an hour from the time that the galley had arrived alongside of the Rose, her head was turned north, and with sixty oars she was rowing at all speed for the mouth of the bay. CHAPTER XI. IN THE HOLY LAND. As soon as the galley which had escaped reached the town from which it had started, it with three others at once set out in pursuit; while from a narrow creek two other galleys made their appearance. There were a few words of question among the English whether to stop and give battle to these opponents, or to make their way with all speed. The latter counsel prevailed; the earl pointing out that their lives were now scarcely their own, and that they had no right on their way to the holy sepulcher to risk them unnecessarily. Fortunately they had it in their hands to fight or escape, as they chose; for doubly banked as the oars now were there was little chance of the enemy's galleys overtaking them. Gradually as they rowed to sea the pursuing vessels became smaller and smaller to view, until at last they were seen to turn about and make again for land. After some consultation between the earl and the captain of the lost ship it was determined to make for Rhodes. This had been settled as a halting point for the fleet, and the earl thought it probable that the greater portion of those scattered by the storm would rendezvous there. So it proved; after a voyage, which although not very long was tedious, owing to the number of men cramped up in so small a craft, they came within sight of the port of Rhodes, and were greatly pleased at seeing a perfect forest of masts there, showing that at least the greater portion of the fleet had survived the storm. This was indeed the fact, and a number of other single ships dropped in during the next day or two. There was great astonishment on the part of the fleet when the long, swift galley was seen approaching, and numerous conjectures were offered as to what message the pirates could be bringing--for there was no mistaking the appearance of the long, dangerous-looking craft. When, upon her approach, the standard of the Earl of Evesham was seen flying on the bow, a great shout of welcome arose from the fleet; and King Richard himself, who happened to be on the deck of the royal ship, shouted to the earl to come on board and tell him what masquerading he was doing there. The earl of course obeyed the order, anchoring near the royal vessel, and going on board in a small boat, taking with him his page and squire. The king heard with great interest the tale of the adventures of the Rose; and when the Earl of Evesham said that it was to Cuthbert that was due the thought of the stratagem by which the galley was captured, and its crew saved from being carried away into hopeless slavery, the king patted the boy on the shoulder with such hearty force as nearly to throw Cuthbert off his feet. "By St. George!" said the monarch, "you are fated to be a very pink of knights. You seem as thoughtful as you are brave; and whatever your age may be, I declare that the next time your name is brought before me I will call a chapter of knights, and they shall agree that exception shall be made in your favor, and that you shall at once be admitted to the honorable post. You will miss your page, Sir Walter; but I am sure you will not grudge him that." "No, no, sire," said the earl. "The lad, as I have told your majesty, is a connection of mine--distant it is true, but one of the nearest I have--and it will give me the greatest pleasure to see him rising so rapidly, and on a fair way to distinguish himself so highly. I feel already as proud of him as if he were my own son." The fleet remained some two or three weeks at Rhodes, for many of the vessels were sorely buffeted and injured, masts were carried away as well as bulwarks battered in, and the efforts of the crews and of those of the whole of the artificers of Rhodes were called into requisition. Light sailing craft were sent off in all directions, for the king was in a fever of anxiety. Among the vessels still missing was that which bore the Queen of Navarre and the fair Berengaria. One day a solitary vessel was seen approaching. "Another of our lost sheep," the earl said, looking out over the poop. She proved, however, to be a merchant ship of Greece, and newly come from Cyprus. Her captain went on board the royal ship, and delivered a message to the king, to the effect that two of the vessels had been cast upon the coast of Cyprus, that they had been plundered by the people, the crews ill-treated and made prisoners by the king, and that the Queen of Navarre and the princess were in their hands. This roused King Richard into one of his furies. "Before I move a step toward the Holy Land," he said, "I will avenge these injuries upon this faithless and insolent king. I swear that I will make him pay dearly for having laid a hand upon these ladies." At once the signal was hoisted for all the vessels in a condition to sail to take on board water and provisions, and to prepare to sail for Cyprus; and the next morning at daybreak the fleet sailed out, and made their way toward that island, casting anchor off the harbor of Famagosta. King Richard sent a messenger on shore to the king, ordering him at once to release the prisoners; to make the most ample compensation to them; to place ships at their service equal to those which had been destroyed; and to pay a handsome sum of money as indemnity. The King of Cyprus, however, an insolent and haughty despot, sent back a message of defiance. King Richard at once ordered the anchors to be raised, and all to follow the royal ship. The fleet entered the harbor of Famagosta; the English archers began the fight by sending a flight of arrows into the town. This was answered from the walls by a shower of stones and darts from the machines. There was no time wasted. The vessels were headed toward the shore, and as the water was deep, many of them were able to run close alongside the rocky wharves. In an instant, regardless of the storm of weapons poured down by the defenders, the English leaped ashore. The archers kept up so terrible a rain of missiles against the battlements that the defenders could scarcely show themselves for an instant there, and the men-at-arms, placing ladders against them, speedily mounted, and putting aside all opposition, poured into the town. The effeminate Greek soldiers of the monarch could offer no effectual resistance whatever, and he himself fled from the palace and gained the open country, followed by a few adherents. The English gained a considerable booty, for in those days a town taken by assault was always looked upon as the property of the captors. The Queen of Navarre and the princess were rescued. King Richard, however, was not satisfied with the success he had gained, and was determined to punish this insolent little king. Accordingly the English were set in motion into the interior, and town after town speedily fell, or opened their gate to him. The king, deserted by his troops, and detested by his people for having brought so terrible a scourge upon them by his reckless conduct, now sued for peace; but King Richard would give him no terms except dethronement, and this he was forced to accept. He was deprived of his crown, and banished from the island. The king now, to the surprise of his barons, announced his intention of at once marrying the Princess Berengaria. Popular as he was, there was yet some quiet grumbling among his troops; as they said, with justice, they had been waiting nearly six months in the island of Sicily, and the king might well have married there, instead of a fresh delay being caused when so near their place of destination. However, the king as usual had his own way, and the marriage was solemnized amid great rejoicing and solemnity. It was a brilliant scene indeed in the cathedral of Limasol. There were assembled all the principal barons of England, together with a great number of the nobles of Cyprus. Certainly no better matched pair ever stood at the altar together, for as King Richard was one of the strongest and bravest men of his own or any other time, so Berengaria is admitted to have been one of the loveliest maidens. The air was rent with the acclamations of the assembled English host and of the numerous inhabitants of Limasol as they emerged from the cathedral. For a fortnight the town was given up to festivity; tournaments, joustings, banquets succeeded each other day after day, and the islanders, who were fond of pleasure, and indeed very wealthy, vied with the English in the entertainments which they gave in honor of the occasion. The festivities over, the king gave the welcome order to proceed on their voyage. They had now been joined by all the vessels left behind at Rhodes, and it was found that only a few were missing, and that the great storm, terrible as it had been, had inflicted less damage upon the fleet than was at first feared. Two days' sail brought them within sight of the white walls of Acre, and it was on June 8, 1191, that the fleet sailed into the port of that town. Tremendous acclamations greeted the arrival of the English army by the host assembled on the shores. Acre had been besieged for two years, but in vain; and even the arrival of the French army under Philip Augustus had failed to turn the scale. The inhabitants defended themselves with desperate bravery; every assault upon the walls had been repulsed with immense slaughter; and at no great distance off the Sultan Saladin, with a large army, was watching the progress of the siege. The fame of King Richard and the English was so great, however, that the besiegers had little doubt that his arrival would change the position of things; and even the French, in spite of the bad feeling which had existed in Sicily, joined with the knights and army of the King of Jerusalem in acclaiming the arrival of the English. Philip Augustus, the French king, was of a somewhat weak and wavering disposition. It would have been thought that after his dispute with King Richard he would have gladly done all in his power to carry Acre before the arrival of his great rival. To the great disappointment of the French, however, he declared that he would take no step in the general assault until the arrival of Richard; and although the French had given some assistance to the besiegers, the army had really remained passive for many weeks. Now, however, that the English had arrived, little time was lost; for the moment the dissensions and jealousies between the monarchs were patched up, the two hosts naturally imitated the example of their sovereigns, and French and English worked side by side in throwing up trenches against the walls, in building movable towers for the attack, and in preparing for the great onslaught. The French were the first to finish their preparations, and they delivered a tremendous assault upon the walls. The besieged, however, did not lose heart, and with the greatest bravery repulsed every attempt. The scaling ladders were hurled backward, the towers were destroyed by Greek fire; boiling oil was hurled down upon the men who advanced under the shelter of machines to undermine the walls; and after desperate fighting the French fell back, baffled and beaten. There was some quiet exultation in the English lines at the defeat of the French, for they believed that a better fortune would crown their own efforts. Such, however, to their surprise and mortification, was not the case. When their preparations were completed they attacked with splendid bravery. They were fighting under the eyes of their king and in sight of the French army, who had a few days before been baffled; and if bravery and devotion could have carried the walls of Acre, assuredly King Richard's army would have accomplished the task. It was, however, too great for them, and with vast loss the army fell back to its camp, King Richard raging like a wounded lion. Many of his barons had been killed in the assault, and the pikemen and men-at-arms had suffered heavily. The Earl of Evesham had been wounded; Cuthbert had taken no part in the assault, for the earl, knowing his bravery, had forbidden his doing so, as he foresaw the struggle would be of the most desperate character; and as it was not usual for pages to accompany their lords on the battlefield, Cuthbert could not complain of his being forbidden to take part in the fight. The earl, however, permitted him to accompany Cnut and the bowmen, who did great service by the accuracy of their aim, preventing by their storm of arrows the men on the battlements from taking steady aim and working their machines, and so saved the Earl of Evesham's troop and those fighting near him from suffering nearly as heavy loss as some of those engaged in other quarters. But while successful in beating off all assaults, the defenders of Acre were now nearly at the end of their resources. The Emperor Saladin, although he had collected an army of two hundred thousand men, yet feared to advance and give battle to the Crusaders in their own lines--for they had thrown up round their camp strong intrenchments to prevent the progress of the siege being disturbed by forces from without. The people of Acre seeing the time pass and no sign of a rescuing force, their provisions being utterly exhausted, and pestilence and fever making frightful ravages in the city, at last determined to surrender. For over two years they had made a resistance of the most valiant description, and now, despairing of success or rescue, and seeing the hosts of their besiegers increasing day by day, they hoisted a flag upon the walls and sent a deputation to the kings, asking for terms if they submitted. They would have done well had they submitted upon the arrival of the French and English reinforcements. For the monarchs, annoyed by the defeat of their forces and by the heavy losses they had sustained, and knowing that the besieged were now at their last crust, were not disposed to be merciful. However, the horrors which then attended the capture of cities in a war in which so little quarter was given on either side were avoided. The city was to be surrendered; the much-prized relic contained within its walls--said to be a piece of the true cross which had been captured by the Saracens at the battle of Tiberias, in which they had almost annihilated the Christian armies a few years before--was to be surrendered; the Christian prisoners in their hands were to be given up unharmed; and the inhabitants undertook to pay two hundred thousand pieces of gold to the kings within forty days, under the condition that the fighting men now taken prisoners were to be put to death should this ransom not be paid. The conquest of Acre was hailed throughout Christendom as a triumph of the highest importance. It opened again the gates of the Holy Land; and so tremendous was the strength of the fortress that it was deemed that if this stronghold were unable to resist effectually the arms of the Crusaders, and that if Saladin with so great an army did not dare to advance to its rescue, then the rest of the Holy Land would speedily fall under the hands of the invading army. With the fall of Acre, however, the dissensions between the two kings, which had for awhile been allowed to rest while the common work was to be done, broke out again with renewed intensity. The jealousy of Philip Augustus was raised to the highest point by the general enthusiasm of the combined armies for the valiant King of England, and by the authority which that monarch exercised in the councils. He therefore suddenly announced his intention of returning to France. This decision at first occasioned the greatest consternation in the ranks of the Crusaders; but this feeling was lessened when the king announced that he should leave a large portion of the French army behind, under the command of the Duke of Burgundy. The wiser councilors were satisfied with the change. Although there was a reduction of the total fighting force, yet the fact that it was now centered under one head, and that King Richard would now be in supreme command, was deemed to more than counterbalance the loss of a portion of the French army. Before starting on the march for Jerusalem King Richard sullied his reputation by causing all the defenders of Acre to be put to death, their ransom not having arrived at the stipulated time. Then the allied army set out upon their journey. The fleet cruised along near them, and from it they obtained all that was requisite for their wants, and yet, notwithstanding these advantages, the toil and fatigue were terrible. Roads scarcely existed, and the army marched across the rough and broken country. There was no straggling, but each kept his place; and if unable to do so, fell and died. The blazing sun poured down upon them with an appalling force; the dust which rose when they left the rocks and came upon flat, sandy ground almost smothered them. Water was only obtainable at the halts, and then was frequently altogether insufficient for the wants of the army; while in front, on flank, and in rear hovered clouds of the cavalry of Saladin. At times King Richard would allow parties of his knights to detach themselves from the force to drive off these enemies. But it was the chase of a lion after a hare. The knights in their heavy armor and powerful steeds were left behind as if standing still, by the fleet Bedouins on their desert coursers; and the pursuers, exhausted and worn out, were always glad to regain the ranks of the army. These clouds of cavalry belonging to the enemy did not content themselves with merely menacing and cutting off stragglers. At times, when they thought they saw an opening, they would dash in and attack the column desperately, sometimes gaining temporary advantages, killing and wounding many, then fleeing away again into the desert. Finding that it was impossible to catch these wary horsemen, King Richard ordered his bowmen to march outside his cavalry, so that when the enemy's horse approached within bowshot they should open upon them with arrows; then, should the horsemen persist in charging, the archers were at once to take refuge behind the lines of the knights. Day after day passed in harassing conflicts. The distance passed over each day was very small, and the sufferings of the men from thirst, heat, and fatigue enormous. Cuthbert could well understand now what he had heard of great armies melting away, for already men began to succumb in large numbers to the terrible heat, and the path traversed by the army was scattered with corpses of those who had fallen victims to sunstroke. Not even at night did the attacks of the enemy cease, and a portion of the harassed force was obliged to keep under arms to repel assaults. So passed the time until the army arrived at Azotus, and there, to the delight of the Crusaders, who only longed to get at their foes, they beheld the whole force of Saladin, two hundred thousand strong, barring their way. Had it not been for the stern discipline enforced by King Richard the knights of England and France would have repeated the mistake which had caused the extermination of the Christian force at Tiberias, and would have leveled their lances and charged recklessly into the mass of their enemies. But the king, riding round the flanks and front of the force, gave his orders in the sternest way, with the threat that any man who moved from the ranks should die by his hand. The army was halted, the leaders gathered round the king, and a hasty consultation was held. Richard insisted upon the fight being conducted upon the same principles as the march--that the line of archers should stand outside the knights, and should gall the advancing force with arrows till the last moment, and then retire among the cavalry, only to sally out again as the Bedouins fell back from the steel wall of horsemen. Cuthbert had now for the first time donned full armor, and rode behind the Earl of Evesham as his esquire, for the former esquire had been left behind, ill with fever at Acre. CHAPTER XII. THE ACCOLADE. It was now a year since they had left England, and Cuthbert had much grown and widened out in the interval, and had never neglected an opportunity of practicing with arms; and the earl was well aware that he should obtain as efficient assistance from him in time of need as he could desire. This was the first time that Cuthbert, and indeed the great proportion of those present in the Christian host, had seen the enemy in force, and they eagerly watched the vast array. It was picturesque in the extreme, with a variety and brightness of color rivaling that of the Christian host. In banners and pennons the latter made a braver show; but the floating robes of the infidel showed a far brighter mass of color than the steel armor of the Christians. Here were people drawn from widely separated parts of Saladin's dominions. Here were Nubians from the Nile, tall and powerful men, jet black in skin, with lines of red and white paint on their faces, giving a ghastly and wild appearance to them. On their shoulders were skins of lions and other wild animals. They carried short bows, and heavy clubs studded with iron. By them were the Bedouin cavalry, light, sinewy men, brown as berries, with white turbans and garments. Near these were the cavalry from Syria and the plains of Assyria--wild horsemen with semi-barbarous armor and scarlet trappings. Here were the solid lines of the Egyptian infantry, steady troops, upon whom Saladin much relied. Here were other tribes, gathered from afar, each distinguished by its own particular marks. In silence did this vast array view awhile the solid mass of the Christians. Suddenly a strange din of discordant music from thousands of musical instruments--conches and horns, cymbals and drums, arose in wild confusion. Shouts of defiance in a dozen tongues and from two hundred thousand throats rose wild and shrill upon the air, while clear above all the din were heard the strange vibratory cries of the warriors from the Egyptian highlands. "One would think," said Cnut grimly to Cuthbert, "that the infidels imagine we are a flock of antelopes to be frightened by an outcry. They would do far better to save their wind for future use. They will want it, methinks, when we get fairly among them. Who would have thought that a number of men, heathen and infidel though they be, could have made so foul an outcry?" Cuthbert laughed. "Every one fights according to his own method, Cnut; and I am not sure that there is not some thing to be said for this outcry, for it is really so wild and fearful that it makes my blood almost curdle in my veins; and were it not that I know the proved valor of our knights and footmen, I should feel shaken by this terrible introduction to the fight." "I heed it no more," said Cnut, "than the outcry of wild fowl, when one comes upon them suddenly on a lake in winter. It means no more than that; and I reckon that they are trying to encourage themselves fully as much as to frighten us. However, we shall soon see. If they can fight as well as they can scream, they certainly will get no answering shouts from us. The English bulldog fights silently, and bite as hard as he will, you will hear little beyond a low growl. Now, my men," he said, turning to his archers, "methinks the heathen are about to begin in earnest. Keep steady; do not fire until you are sure that they are within range. Draw your bows well to your ears, and straightly and steadily let fly. Never heed the outcry or the rush, keep steady to the last moment. There is shelter behind you, and fierce as the attack may be, you can find a sure refuge behind the line of the knights." Cnut with his archers formed part of the line outside the array of English knights, and the arrows of the English bowmen fell fast as bands of the Bedouin horse circled round them in the endeavor to draw the Christians on to the attack. For some time Saladin persisted in these tactics. With his immense superiority of force he reckoned that if the Christian chivalry would but charge him, the victory of Tiberias would be repeated. Hemmed in by numbers, borne down by the weight of armor and the effects of the blazing sun, the knights would succumb as much to fatigue as to the force of their foes. King Richard's orders, however, were well obeyed, and at last the Moslem chief, urged by the entreaties of his leading emirs, who felt ashamed that so large a force should hesitate to attack one so vastly inferior in numbers, determined upon taking the initiative, and forming his troops in a semicircle round the Christian army, launched his horsemen to the attack. The instant they came within range a cloud of arrows from the English archers fell among them, but the speed at which the desert horses covered the ground rendered it impossible for the archers to discharge more than one or two shafts before the enemy were upon them. Quickly as they now slipped back and sought refuge under the lances of the knights, many of them were unable to get back in time, and were cut down by the Saracens. The rest crept between the horses or under their bellies into the rear, and there prepared to sally out again as soon as the enemy retired. The Christian knights sat like a wall of steel upon their horses, their lances were leveled, and brave as the Bedouin horsemen were, they felt to break this massive line was impossible. The front line, however, charged well up to the points of the lances, against which they hewed with their sharp scimiters, frequently severing the steel top from the ashpole, and then breaking through and engaging in hand-to-hand conflict with the knights. Behind the latter sat their squires, with extra spears and arms ready to hand to their masters; and in close combat, the heavy maces with their spike ends were weapons before which the light-clad horsemen went down like reeds before a storm. Hour after hour the Arab horsemen persisted in their attack, suffering heavily, but determined to conquer if possible. Then Saladin suddenly ordered a retreat, and at seeing their enemy fly, the impetuosity of the Crusaders at last broke out. With a shout they dashed after the foe. King Richard, knowing that his followers had already shown a patience far beyond what he could have expected, now headed the onslaught, performing prodigies of valor with his single arm, and riding from point to point to see that all was well. The early resistance of the infidel host was comparatively slight. The heavy mass of the Christian cavalry, with their leveled lances, swept through the ranks of the light horsemen, and trampled them down like grass beneath their feet; but every moment the resistance became more stubborn. Saladin, knowing the Christians would sooner or later assume the offensive, had gathered his troops line in line behind the front ranks, and as the force of the Crusaders' charge abated, so did the number of foes in their front multiply. Not only this, but upon either side chosen bands swept down, and ere long the Christians were brought to a stand, and all were fighting hand to hand with their enemies. The lances were thrown away now, and with ax and mace each fought for himself. The Earl of Evesham was one of a group of knights whom King Richard had that day ordered to keep close to his person, and around this group the fight raged most furiously. Saladin, aware of the extreme personal valor and warlike qualities of King Richard, set the greatest value upon his death or capture, and had ordered a large number of his best troops to devote their whole attention to attacking the King of England. The royal standard carried behind the king was a guide to their onslaught, and great as was the strength and valor of King Richard, he with difficulty was able to keep at bay the hosts that swept around him. Now that the lance had been abandoned for battle-ax, Cuthbert was able to take an active part in the struggle, his duties consisting mainly in guarding the rear of his master, and preventing his being overthrown by any sudden attack on the flank or from behind. King Richard was bent not only on defending himself from the attacks of his foes, but on directing the general course of the battle; and from time to time he burst, with his own trusty knights, through the ring of foes, and rode from point to point of the field, calling the knights together, exhorting them to steadiness, and restoring the fight where its fortunes seemed doubtful. At one time the impetuosity of the king led him into extreme danger. He had burst through the enemy surrounding him, and these, by order of their captain, allowed him to pass through their ranks, and then threw themselves together in his rear, to cut him off from the knights who rode behind. The maneuver was successful. The rush of horsemen fairly carried away the Christian knights, and one or two alone were able to make their way through. Amid the wild confusion that raged, where each man was fighting for his own life, and but little view of what was passing could be obtained through the barred visor, the fact that the king was separated from them was known to but few. Sir Walter himself was engaged fiercely in a hand-to-hand fight with four Bedouins who surrounded him, when Cuthbert shouted: "The king, Sir Walter! the king! He is cut off and surrounded! For heaven's sake ride to him. See! the royal standard is down." With a shout the earl turned, brained one of his foes with a sweep of his heavy ax, and, followed by Cuthbert, dashed to the assistance of the king. The weight of his horse and armor cleft through the crowd, and in a brief space he penetrated to the side of King Richard, who was borne upon by a host of foes. Just as they reached them a Bedouin who had been struck from his horse crawled beneath the noble charger of King Richard, and drove his scimiter deep into its bowels. The animal reared high in its sudden pain, and then fell on the ground, carrying the king, who was unable to disengage himself quickly enough. [Illustration: WITH A SHOUT THE EARL TURNED, FOLLOWED BY CUTHBERT, AND DASHED TO THE ASSISTANCE OF THE KING.] In an instant the Earl of Evesham had leaped from his horse and with his broad triangular shield extended, sought to cover him from the press of enemies. Cuthbert imitated his lord, and strove to defend the latter from attacks from the rear. For a moment or two the sweep of the earl's heavy ax and Cuthbert's circling sword kept back the foe, but this could not last. King Richard in vain strove to extricate his leg from beneath his fallen steed. Cuthbert saw at a glance that the horse still lived, and with a sudden slash of his sword he struck it on the hind quarter. Goaded by the pain the noble animal made a last effort to rise, but only to fall back dead. The momentary action was, however, sufficient for King Richard, who drew his leg from under it, and with his heavy battle-ax in hand, rose with a shout, and stood by the side of the earl. In vain did the Bedouins strive to cut down and overpower the two champions; in vain did they urge their horses to ride over them. With each sweep of his ax the king either dismounted a foe or clove in the head of his steed, and a wall of slain around them testified to the tremendous power of their arms. Still, even such warriors as these could not long sustain the conflict. The earl had already received several desperate wounds, and the king himself was bleeding from some severe gashes with the keen-edged scimiters. Cuthbert was already down, when a shout of "St. George!" was heard, and a body of English knights clove through the throng of Saracens and reached the side of King Richard. Close behind these in a mass pressed the British footmen with bill and pike, the enemy giving way foot by foot before their steady discipline. The king was soon on horseback again, and rallying his troops on, led them for one more great and final charge upon the enemy. The effect was irresistible. Appalled by the slaughter which they had suffered, and by the tremendous strength and energy of the Christian knights, the Saracens broke and fled; and the last reserves of Saladin gave way as the king, shouting his war-cry of "God help the holy sepulcher!" fell upon them. Once, indeed, the battle still seemed doubtful, for a fresh band of the enemy at that moment arrived and joined in the fray. The Crusaders were now, however, inspired with such courage and confidence that they readily obeyed the king's war-cry, gathered in a firm body, and hurled themselves upon this new foe. Then the Saracens finally turned and fled, and the Christian victory was complete. It was one of the features of this war that however thorough the victories of the Christians, the Saracens very speedily recovered from their effects. A Christian defeat was crushing and entire; the knights died as they stood, and defeat meant annihilation. Upon the other hand, the Saracens and Bedouins, when they felt that their efforts to win the battle were unsuccessful, felt no shame or humiliation in scattering like sheep. On their fleet horses and in their light attire they could easily distance the Christians, who never, indeed, dreamed of pursuing them. The day after the fight the enemy would collect again under their chiefs, and be as ready as before to renew their harassing warfare. On his return from the field the king assembled many of his principal knights and leaders, and summoned the Earl of Evesham, with the message that he was to bring his esquire with him. When they reached the tent the king said: "My lords, as some of you may be aware, I have this day had a narrow escape from death. Separated from you in the battle, and attended only by my standard-bearer, I was surrounded by the Saracens. I should doubtless have cleft my way through the infidel dogs, but a foul peasant stabbed my charger from below, and the poor brute fell with me. My standard-bearer was killed, and in another moment my nephew Arthur would have been your king, had it not been that my good lord here, attended by this brave lad, appeared. I have seen a good deal of fighting, but never did I see a braver stand than they made above my body. The Earl of Evesham, as you all know, is one of my bravest knights, and to him I can simply say, 'Thanks; King Richard does not forget a benefit like this.' But such aid as I might well look for from so stout a knight as the Earl of Evesham I could hardly have expected on the part of a mere boy like this. It is not the first time that I have been under a debt of gratitude to him; for it was his watchfulness and bravery which saved Queen Berengaria from being carried off by the French in Sicily. I deemed him too young then for the order of knighthood--although, indeed, bravery has no age; still for a private benefit, and that performed against allies, in name at least, I did not wish so far to fly in the face of usage as to make him a knight. I promised him then, however, that the first time he distinguished himself against the infidel he should win his spurs. I think that you will agree with me, my lords, that he has done so. Not only did he stand over me, and with great bravery defend Sir Walter from attacks from behind, but his ready wit saved me when even his sword and that of Sir Walter would have failed to do so. Penned down under poor Robin I was powerless to move until our young esquire, in an interval of slashing at his assailants, found time to give a sharp blow together with a shout to Robin. The poor beast tried to rise, and the movement, short as it was, enabled me to draw my leg from under him, and then with my mace I was enabled to make a stand until you arrived at my side. I think, my lords, that you will agree with me that Cuthbert, the son of Sir William de Lance, is fit for the honor of knighthood." A general chorus of approval arose from the assembly, and the king, bidding Cuthbert kneel before him, drew his sword and laid it across his shoulders, dubbing him Sir Cuthbert de Lance. When he had risen the great barons of England pressed round to shake his hand, and Cuthbert, who was a modest young fellow, felt almost ashamed at the honors which were bestowed upon him. The usual ceremonies and penances which young knights had to undergo before admission into the body--and which in those days were extremely punctilious, and indeed severe, consisting, among other things, in fasting, in watching the armor at night, in seclusion and religious services--were omitted when the accolade was bestowed for bravery in the field. The king ordered his armorer at once to make for Cuthbert a suit of the finest armor, and authorized him to carry on his shield a sword raising a royal crown from the ground, in token of the deed for which the honor of knighthood had been bestowed upon him. Upon his return to the earl's camp the news of his new dignity spread at once among the followers of Sir Walter, and many and hearty were the cheers that went up from the throats of the Saxon foresters, led by Cnut. These humble friends were indeed delighted at his success, for they felt that to him they owed very much; and his kindness of manner and the gayety of heart which he had shown during the hardships they had undergone since their start had greatly endeared him to them. Cuthbert was now to take rank among the knights who followed the banner of the earl. A tent was erected for him, an esquire assigned to him, and the lad as he entered his new abode felt almost bewildered at the change which had taken place in one short day--that he, at the age of sixteen, should have earned the honor of knighthood, and the approval of the King of England, expressed before all the great barons of the realm, was indeed an honor such as he could never have hoped for; and the thought of what his mother would say should the news reach her in her quiet Saxon home brought the tears into his eyes. He had not gone through the usual religious ceremonies, but he knelt in his tent alone, and prayed that he might be made worthy of the honors bestowed upon him; that he might fulfill the duties of a Christian knight fearlessly and honorably; that his sword might never be raised but for the right; that he might devote himself to the protection of the oppressed, and the honor of God; that his heart might be kept from evil; and that he might carry through life unstained his new escutcheon. If the English had thought that their victory would have gained them immunity from the Saracen attacks they were speedily undeceived. The host, indeed, which had barred their way had broken up; but its fragments were around them, and the harassing attacks began again with a violence and persistency even greater than before. The Crusaders, indeed, occupied only the ground upon which they stood. It was death to venture one hundred yards from the camp unless in a strong body; and the smallest efforts to bring in food from the country round were instantly met and repelled. Only in very strong bodies could the knights venture from camp even to forage for their horses, and the fatigues and sufferings of all were in no way relieved by the great victory of Azotus. CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE SARACENS. The English had hoped that after one pitched battle they should be able to advance upon Jerusalem, but they had reckoned without the climate and illness. Although unconquered in the fray, the Christian army was weakened by its sufferings to such an extent that it was virtually brought to a standstill. Even King Richard, with all his impetuosity, dared not venture to cut adrift from the seashore and to march direct upon Jerusalem; that city was certainly not to be taken without a long siege, and this could only be undertaken by an army strong enough, not only to carry out so great a task, but to meet and defeat the armies which Saladin would bring up to the rescue, and to keep open the line down to Joppa, by which alone provisions and the engines necessary for the siege could be brought up. Hence the war resolved itself into a series of expeditions and detached fights. The British camp was thoroughly fortified, and thence parties of the knights sallied out and engaged in conflicts with the Saracens, with varying success. On several of these expeditions Cuthbert attended the earl, and behaved with a bravery which showed him well worthy of the honors which he had received. Upon one occasion the news reached camp that a party of knights, who had gone out to guard a number of footmen cutting forage and bringing it into camp, had been surrounded and had taken refuge in a small town, whose gates they had battered in when they saw the approach of an overwhelming host of the enemy. King Richard himself headed a strong force and advanced to their assistance. Their approach was not seen until within a short distance of the enemy, upon whom the Crusaders fell with the force of a thunderbolt, and cleft their way through their lines. After a short pause in the little town they prepared to again cut their way through, joined by the party who had there been besieged. The task was now, however, far more difficult; for the footmen would be unable to keep up with the rapid charge of the knights, and it was necessary not only to clear the way, but to keep it open for their exit. King Richard himself and the greater portion of his knights were to lead the charge; another party were to follow behind the footmen, who were ordered to advance at the greatest speed of which they were capable, while their rearguard by charges upon the enemy kept them at bay. To this latter party Cuthbert was attached. The Saracens followed their usual tactics, and this time with great success. Dividing as the king with his knights charged them, they suffered these to pass through with but slight resistance, and then closed in upon their track, while another and still more numerous body fell upon the footmen and their guard. Again and again did the knights charge through the ranks of the Moslems, while the billmen stoutly kept together and resisted the onslaughts of the enemy's cavalry. In spite of their bravery, however, the storm of arrows shot by the desert horsemen thinned their ranks with terrible rapidity. Charging up to the very point of the spears, these wild horsemen fired their arrows into the faces of their foe, and although numbers of them fell beneath the more formidable missiles sent by the English archers, their numbers were so overwhelming that the little band melted away. The small party of knights, too, were rapidly thinned, although performing prodigious deeds of valor. The Saracens when dismounted or wounded still fought on foot, their object being always to stab or hough the horses, and so dismount the riders. King Richard and his force, though making the most desperate efforts to return to the assistance of the rearguard, were baffled by the sturdy resistance of the Saracens, and the position of those in the rear was fast becoming hopeless. One by one the gallant little band of knights fell, and a sea of turbans closed over the fluttering plumes. Cuthbert, after defending himself with extreme bravery for a long time, was at last separated from the small remainder of his comrades by a rush of the enemy's horse, and when fighting desperately he received a heavy blow at the back of the head from the mace of a huge Nubian soldier, and fell senseless to the ground. When he recovered his consciousness the first impression upon his mind was the stillness which had succeeded to the din of battle; the shouts and war-cries of the Crusaders, the wild yells of the Moslems were hushed, and in their place was a quiet chatter in many unknown tongues, and the sound of laughter and feasting. Raising his head and looking round, Cuthbert saw that he and some ten of his comrades were lying together in the midst of a Saracen camp, and that he was a prisoner to the infidels. The sun streamed down with tremendous force upon them; there was no shelter; and though all were wounded and parched with thirst, the Saracens of whom they besought water, pointing to their mouths and making signs of their extreme thirst, laughed in their faces, and signified by a gesture that it was scarcely worth the trouble to drink when they were likely so soon to be put to death. It was late in the afternoon before any change was manifest. Then Cuthbert observed a stir in the camp; the men ran to their horses, leaped on their backs, and with wild cries of "Welcome!" started off at full speed. Evidently some personage was about to arrive, and the fate of the prisoners would be solved. A few words were from time to time exchanged between these, each urging the other to keep up his heart and defy the infidel. One or two had succumbed to their wounds during the afternoon, and only six were able to stand erect when summoned to do so by some of their guard, who made signs to them that a great personage was coming. Soon the shouts of the horsemen and other sounds announced that the great chief was near at hand, and the captives gathered from the swelling shouts of the Arabs that the new arrival was Sultan Suleiman--or Saladin, for he was called by both names--surrounded by a bodyguard of splendidly-dressed attendants. The emir, who was himself plainly attired, reined up his horse in front of the captives. "You are English," he said, in the _lingua-franca_, which was the medium of communication between the Eastern and Western peoples in those days. "You are brave warriors, and I hear that before you were taken you slaughtered numbers of my people. They did wrong to capture you and bring you here to be killed. Your cruel king gives no mercy to those who fall into his hands. You must not expect it here, you who without a pretense of right invade my country, slaughter my people, and defeat my armies. The murder of the prisoners of Acre has closed my heart to all mercy. There, your king put ten thousand prisoners to death in cold blood, a month after the capture of the place, because the money at which he had placed their ransom had not arrived. We Arabs do not carry huge masses of gold about with us; and although I could have had it brought from Egypt, I did not think that so brave a monarch as Richard of England could have committed so cruel an action in cold blood. When we are fresh from battle, and our wounds are warm, and our hearts are full of rage and fury, we kill our prisoners; but to do so weeks after a battle is contrary to the laws alike of your religion and of ours. However, it is King Richard who has sealed your doom, not I. You are knights, and I do not insult you with the offer of turning from your religion and joining me. Should one of you wish to save his life on these conditions, I will, however, promise him a place of position and authority among us." None of the knights moved to accept the offer, but each, as the eye of the emir ran along the line, answered with an imprecation of contempt and hatred. Saladin waved his hand, and one by one the captives were led aside, walking as proudly to their doom as if they had been going to a feast. Each wrung the hand of the one next to him as he turned, and then without a word followed his captors. There was a dull sound heard, and one by one the heads of the knights rolled in the sand. Cuthbert happened to be last in the line, and as the executioners laid hands upon him and removed his helmet, the eye of the sultan fell upon him, and he almost started at perceiving the extreme youth of his captive. He held his hand aloft to arrest the movements of the executioners, and signaled for Cuthbert to be brought before him again. "You are but a boy," he said. "All the knights who have hitherto fallen into my hands have been men of strength and power; how is it that I see a mere youth among their ranks, and wearing the golden spurs of knighthood?" "King Richard himself made me a knight," Cuthbert said proudly, "after having stood across him when his steed had been foully stabbed at the battle of Azotus, and the whole Moslem host were around him." "Ah!" said the emir, "were you one of the two who, as I have heard, defended the king for some time against all assaults? It were hard indeed to kill so brave a youth. I doubt me not that at present you are as firmly determined to die a Christian knight as those who have gone before you? But time may change you. At any rate for the present your doom is postponed." He turned to a gorgeously dressed noble next to him, and said: "Your brother, Ben Abin, is Governor of Jerusalem, and the gardens of the palace are fair. Take this youth to him as a present, and set him to work in his gardens. His life I have spared, in all else Ben Abin will be his master." Cuthbert heard without emotion the words which changed his fate from death to slavery. Many, he knew, who were captured in these wars were carried away as slaves to different parts of Asia, and it did not seem to him that the change was in any way a boon. However, life is dear, and it was but natural that a thought should leap into his heart that soon either the Crusaders might force a way into Jerusalem and there rescue him, or that he himself might in some way escape. The sultan having thus concluded the subject, turned away, and galloped off surrounded by his bodyguard. Those who had captured the Christians now stripped off the armor of Cuthbert; then he was mounted on a barebacked steed, and with four Bedouins, with their long lances, riding beside him, started for Jerusalem. After a day of long and rapid riding the Arabs stopped suddenly on the crest of a hill, with a shout of joy, and throwing themselves from their horses bent with their foreheads to the earth at the sight of their holy city. Cuthbert, as he gazed at the stately walls of Jerusalem, and the noble buildings within, felt bitterly that it was not thus that he had hoped to see the holy city. He had dreamed of arriving before it with his comrades, proud and delighted at their success so far, and confident in their power soon to wrest the town before them from the hands of the Moslems. Instead of this he was a slave--a slave to the infidel, perhaps never more to see a white face, save that of some other unfortunate like himself. Even now in its fallen state no city is so impressive at first sight as Jerusalem; the walls, magnificent in height and strength, and picturesque in their deep embattlements, rising on the edge of a deep valley. Every building has its name and history. Here is the church built by the first Crusaders; there the mighty mosque of Suleiman on the site of the Temple; far away on a projecting ridge the great building known as the Tomb of Moses; on the right beyond the houses rise the towers on the Roman walls; the Pool of Bethsaida lies in the hollow; in the center are the cupolas of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Among all the fairest cities of the world, there are none which can compare in stately beauty with Jerusalem. Doubtless it was a fairer city in those days, for long centuries of Turkish possession have reduced many of the former stately palaces to ruins. Then, as now, the banner of the Prophet floated over the high places; but whereas at present the population is poor and squalid, the city in those days contained a far larger number of inhabitants, irrespective of the great garrison collected for its defense. The place from which Cuthbert had his first sight of Jerusalem is that from which the best view is to be obtained--the crest of the Mount of Olives. After a minute or two spent in looking at the city the Arabs with a shout continued their way down into the valley. Crossing this they ascended the steep road to the walls, brandishing their lances and giving yells of triumph; then riding two upon each side of their prisoner, to protect him from any fanatic who might lay a hand upon him, they passed under the gate known as the Gate of Suleiman into the city. The populace thronged the streets; and the news brought by the horsemen that a considerable portion of the Christian host had been defeated and slain passed from mouth to mouth, and was received with yells of exultation. Execrations were heaped upon Cuthbert, who rode along with an air as quiet and composed as if he were the center of an ovation instead of that of an outburst of hatred. He would, indeed, speedily have been torn from his guards, had not these shouted that he was placed in their hands by Saladin himself for conduct to the governor. As the emir was as sharp and as ruthless with his own people as with the prisoners who fell into his hands, the name acted as a talisman, and Cuthbert and his escort rode forward without molestation until they reached the entrance to the palace. Dismounting, Cuthbert was now led before the governor himself, a stern and grave-looking man, sitting cross-legged on a divan surrounded by officers and attendants. He heard in silence the account given him by the escort, bowed his head at the commands of Suleiman, and, without addressing a word to Cuthbert, indicated to two attendants that he was to be removed into the interior of the house. Here the young knight was led to a small dungeon-like room; bread and dates with a cruse of water, were placed before him; the door was then closed and locked without, and he found himself alone with his thoughts. No one came near him that night, and he slept as soundly as he would have done in his tent in the midst of the Christian host. He was resolved to give no cause for ill-treatment or complaint to his captors, to work as willingly, as cheerfully, as was in his power, and to seize the first opportunity to make his escape, regardless of any risk of his life which he might incur in doing so. In the morning the door opened, and a black slave led him into the garden, which was surrounded by a very high and lofty wall. It was large, and full of trees and flowers, and far more beautiful than any garden that Cuthbert had seen in his native land. There were various other slaves at work; and an Arab, who appeared to be the head of the gardeners, at once appointed to Cuthbert the work assigned to him. A guard of Arabs with bow and spear watched the doings of the slaves. With one glance round, Cuthbert was assured that escape from this garden, at least, was not to be thought of, and that for the present patience alone was possible. Dismissing all ideas of that kind from his mind, he set to work with a steady attention to his task. He was very fond of flowers, and soon he became so absorbed in his work as almost to forget that he was a slave. It was not laborious--digging, planting, pruning and training the flowers, and giving them copious draughts of water from a large fountain in the center of the garden. The slaves were not permitted to exchange a word with each other. At the end of the day's work they were marched off to separate chambers, or, as they might be called, dungeons. Their food consisted of water, dried dates, and bread, and they had little to complain of in this respect; indeed, the slaves in the gardens of the governor's house at Jerusalem enjoyed an exceptionally favored existence. The governor himself was absorbed in the cares of the city. The head gardener happened to be a man of unusual humanity, and it was really in his hands that the comfort of the prisoners was placed. Sometimes in the course of the day veiled ladies would issue in groups from the palace, attended by black slaves with drawn scimiters. They passed without unveiling across the point where the slaves were at work, and all were forbidden on pain of death to look up, or even to approach the konak or pavilion, where the ladies threw aside their veils, and enjoyed the scent and sight of the flowers, the splash of murmuring waters, and the strains of music touched by skillful hands. Although Cuthbert wondered in his heart what these strange wrapped-up figures might look like when the veils were thrown back, he certainly did not care enough about the matter to run any risk of drawing the anger of his guards upon himself by raising his eyes toward them; nor did he ever glance up at the palace, which was also interdicted to the slaves. From the lattice casements during the day the strains of music and merry laughter often came down to the captives; but this, if anything, only added to the bitterness of their position, by reminding them that they were shut off for life from ever hearing the laughter of the loved ones they had left behind. For upward of a month Cuthbert remained steadily at work, and during that time no possible plan of escape had occurred to him, and he had indeed resigned himself to wait, either until, as he hoped, the city would be taken by the Christians, or until he himself might be removed from his present post and sent into the country, where, although his lot would doubtless be far harder, some chance of escape might open before him. One night, long after slumber had fallen upon the city, Cuthbert was startled by hearing his door open. Rising to his feet, he saw a black slave, and an old woman beside him. The latter spoke first in the _lingua-franca_: "My mistress, the wife of the governor, has sent me to ask your story. How is it that, although but a youth, you are already a knight? How is it that you come to be a slave to our people? The sultan himself sent you to her lord. She would fain hear through me how it has happened. She is the kindest of ladies, and the sight of your youth has touched her heart." With thanks to the unknown lady who had felt an interest in him, Cuthbert briefly related the events which had led to his captivity. The old woman placed on the ground a basket containing some choice fruit and white bread, and then departed with the negro as quietly as she had come, leaving Cuthbert greatly pleased at what had taken place. "Doubtless," he said to himself, "I shall hear again; and it may be that through the pity of this lady some means of escape may open to me." Although for some little time no such prospect appeared, yet the visits of the old woman, which were frequently repeated, were of interest to him, and seemed to form a link between him and the world. After coming regularly every night for a week she bade the young knight follow her, holding her finger to her lips in sign that caution must be observed. Passing through several passages, he was at length led into a room where a lady of some forty years of age, surrounded by several slaves and younger women, was sitting. Cuthbert felt no scruple in making a deep obeisance to her; the respect shown to women in the days of chivalry was very great, and Cuthbert, in bowing almost to the ground before the lady who was really his mistress, did not feel that he was humiliating himself. "Young slave," she said, "your story has interested us. We have frequently watched from the windows, and have seen how willingly and patiently you have worked; and it seems strange indeed that one so young should have performed such feats of bravery as to win the honor of knighthood from the hand of that greatest of warriors, Richard of England. What is it, we would fain learn from your lips, that stirs up the heart of the Christian world that they should launch their armies against us, who wish but to be left alone, and who have no grudge against them? This city is as holy to us as it is to you; and as we live around it, and all the country for thousands of miles is ours, is it likely that we should allow it to be wrested from us by strangers from a distance?" This was spoken in some Eastern language of which Cuthbert understood no word, but its purport was translated to him by the old woman who had hitherto acted as his mistress' messenger. Cuthbert reported the circumstances of the fight at Azotus, and endeavored to explain the feelings which had given rise to the Crusade. He then, at the orders of the lady, related the incidents of his voyage out, and something of his life at home, which was more interesting even than the tale of his adventures to his hearers, as to them the home-life of these fierce Christian warriors was entirely unknown. After an audience of two hours Cuthbert was conducted back to his cell, his mistress assuring him of her good-will, and promising to do all in her power to make his captivity as light as possible. CHAPTER XIV. AN EFFORT FOR FREEDOM. Two or three nights afterward the old woman again came to Cuthbert, and asked him, in her mistress' name, if in any way he could suggest a method of lightening his captivity, as his extreme youth and bravery of demeanor had greatly pleased her. Cuthbert replied that nothing but freedom could satisfy his longings; that he was comfortable and not over-worked, but that he pined to be back again with his friends. The old woman brought him on the following night a message to the effect that his mistress would willingly grant him his liberty, but as he was sent to her husband by the sultan, it would be impossible to free him openly. "From what she said," the old woman continued, "if you could see some plan of making your escape, she would in no way throw difficulties in your path; but it must not be known that the harem in any way connived at your escape, for my lord's wrath would be terrible, and he is not a man to be trifled with." Looking round at the high walls that surrounded the garden, Cuthbert said that he could think of no plan whatever for escaping from such a place; that he had often thought it over, but that it appeared to him to be hopeless. Even should he manage to scale these walls, he would only find himself in the town beyond, and his escape from that would be altogether hopeless. "Only," he said, "if I were transported to some country palace of the governor could I ever hope to make my escape." The next night the messenger brought him the news that his mistress was disposed to favor his escape in the way he had pointed out, and that she would in two or three days ask the governor for permission to pay a visit to their palace beyond the walls, and that with her she would take a number of gardeners--among them Cuthbert--to beautify the place. Cuthbert returned the most lively and hearty thanks to his patroness for her kind intentions, and hope began to rise rapidly in his heart. It is probable, however, that the black guards of the harem heard something of the intentions of their mistress, and that they feared the anger of the governor should Cuthbert make his escape, and should it be discovered that this was the result of her connivance. Either through this or through some other source the governor obtained an inkling that the white slave sent by the sultan was receiving unusual kindness from the ladies of the harem. Two nights after Cuthbert had begun to entertain bright hopes of his liberty, the door of the cell was softly opened. He was seized by four slaves, gagged, tied hand and foot, covered with a thick burnous, and carried out from his cell. By the sound of their feet he heard that they were passing into the open air, and guessed that he was being carried through the garden; then a door opened and was closed after them; he was flung across a horse like a bale of goods, a rope or two were placed around him to keep him in that position, and then he felt the animal put in motion, and heard by the trampling of feet that a considerable number of horsemen were around him. For some time they passed over the rough, uneven streets of the city; then there was a pause and exchange of watchword and countersign, a creaking of doors, and a lowering of a drawbridge, and the party issued out into the open country. Not for very long did they continue their way; a halt was called, and Cuthbert was taken off his horse. On looking round, he found that he was in the middle of a considerable group of men. Those who had brought him were a party of the governor's guards; but he was now delivered over to a large band of Arabs, all of whom were mounted on camels. One of these creatures he was ordered to mount, the bonds being loosed from his arms and feet. An Arab driver, with lance, bows, and arrows, and other weapons, took his seat on the neck of the animal, and then with scarcely a word the caravan marched off with noiseless step, and with their faces turned southward. It seemed to Cuthbert almost as a dream. A few hours before he had been exalted with the hope of freedom; now he was being taken away to a slavery which would probably end but with his life. Although he could not understand any of his captors, the repetition of a name led him to believe that he was being sent to Egypt as a present to some man in high authority there; and he doubted not that the Governor of Jerusalem, fearing that he might escape, and dreading the wrath of the sultan should he do so, had determined to transfer the troublesome captive to a more secure position and to safer hands. For three days the journey continued; they had now left the fertile lowlands of Palestine, and their faces were turned west. They were entering upon that sandy waste which stretches between the southern corner of Palestine and the land of Egypt, a distance which can be traveled by camels in three days, but which occupied the children of Israel forty years. At first the watch had been very sharply kept over the captive; but now that they had entered the desert the Arabs appeared to consider that there was no chance of an attempt to escape. Cuthbert had in every way endeavored to ingratiate himself with his guard. He had most willingly obeyed their smallest orders, had shown himself pleased and grateful for the dates which formed the staple of their repasts. He had assumed so innocent and quiet an appearance that the Arabs had marveled much among themselves, and had concluded that there must have been some mistake in the assertion of the governor's guard who had handed the prisoner over to them, that he was one of the terrible knights of King Richard's army. Cuthbert's heart had not fallen for a moment. He knew well that if he once reached Cairo all hope of escape was at an end; and it was before reaching that point that he determined if possible to make an effort for freedom. He had noticed particularly the camel which appeared to be the fleetest of the band; it was of lighter build than the rest, and it was with difficulty that its rider had compelled it to accommodate itself to the pace of the others. It was clear from the pains he took with it, by the constant patting and the care bestowed upon its watering and feeding, that its rider was extremely proud of it; and Cuthbert concluded that if an escape was to be made, this was the animal on which he must accomplish it. Upon arriving at the end of each day's journey the camels were allowed to browse at will, a short cord being tied between one of their hind and one of their fore-feet. The Arabs then set to work to collect sticks and to make a fire--not for cooking, for their only food was dried dates and some black bread, which they brought with them--but for warmth, as the nights were damp and somewhat chilly, as they sat round the fire, talked, and told stories. Before finally going off to rest each went out into the bushes and brought in his camel; these were then arranged in a circle around the Arabs, one of the latter being mounted as sentry to prevent any sudden surprise--not indeed that they had the smallest fear of the Christians, who were far distant; but then, as now, the Arabs of the desert were a plundering race, and were ever ready to drive off each other's camels or horses. Cuthbert determined that if flight was possible, it must be undertaken during the interval after the arrival at the halting-place and before the bringing in of the camels. Therefore, each day upon the halt he had pretended great fatigue from the rough motion of the camel, and had, after hastily eating the dates handed to him, thrown himself down, covered himself with his Arab robe, and feigned instant sleep. Thus they had in the three days from starting come to look upon his presence sleeping close to them as a matter of course. The second day after entering the desert, however, Cuthbert threw himself down by the side of an uprooted shrub of small size and about his own length. He covered himself as usual with his long, dark-blue robe, and pretended to go to sleep. He kept his eyes, however, on the alert through an aperture beneath his cloth, and observed particularly the direction in which the camel upon which he had set his mind wandered into the bushes. The darkness came on a very few minutes after they had halted, and when the Arabs had once settled round their fire Cuthbert very quietly shifted the robe from himself to the long low bush near him, and then crawled stealthily off into the darkness. He had no fear of his footfall being heard upon the soft sand, and was soon on his feet, looking for the camels. He was not long in finding them, or in picking out the one which he had selected. The bushes were succulent, and close to the camping-ground; indeed, it was for this that the halting-places were always chosen. It was not so easy, however, to climb into the high wooden saddle, and Cuthbert tried several times in vain. Then he repeated in a sharp tone the words which he had heard the Arabs use to order their camels to kneel, striking the animal at the same moment behind the fore-legs with a small switch. The camel immediately obeyed the order to which he was accustomed, and knelt down, making, however, as he did so, the angry grumble which those creatures appear to consider it indispensable to raise when ordered to do anything. Fortunately this noise is so frequently made, and the camels are so given to quarrel among themselves that although in the still air it might have been heard by the Arabs sitting a short hundred yards away, it attracted no notice, and Cuthbert, climbing into the seat, shook the cord that served as a rein, and the animal, rising, set off at a smooth, steady swing in the direction in which his head was turned--that from which they had that day arrived. Once fairly away from the camping-ground, Cuthbert, with blows of his stick, increased the speed of the camel to a long shuffling trot, and the fire in the distance soon faded out into the darkness. Cuthbert trusted to the stars as guides. He was not unarmed, for as he crawled away from his resting-place he had picked up one of the Arabs' spears and bow and arrows, and a large bag of dates from the spot where they had been placed when their owner dismounted. He was already clad in Eastern garb, and was so sunburnt and tanned that he had no fear whatever of any one at a distance detecting that he was a white man. Steering his course by the stars, he rode all night without stopping. He doubted not that he would have at least three hours' start, for the Arabs were sure to have sat that time round the fires before going out to bring in their camels. Even then they would suppose for some time that the animal upon which he was seated had strayed, and no pursuit would be attempted until it was discovered that he himself had made his escape, which might not be for a long time, as the Arabs would not think of looking under the cloth to see if he were there. He hoped, therefore, that he would reach the cultivated land long before he was overtaken. He had little fear but that he should then be able to journey onward without attracting attention. A solitary Arab when traveling rides straight, and his communications to those whom he meets are confined to the set form of two or three words, "May Allah protect you!" the regular greeting of Moslems when they meet. When morning broke Cuthbert, even when ascending to the top of a somewhat lofty mound, could see no signs of pursuers in the vast stretch of desert behind him. In front the ground was already becoming dotted here and there with vegetation, and he doubted not that after a few hours' ride he should be fairly in the confines of cultivated country. He gave his camel a meal of dates, and having eaten some himself, again set the creature in motion. These camels, especially those of good breed, will go on for three or four days with scarcely a halt; and there was no fear of that on which he rode breaking down from fatigue, for the journeys hitherto had been comparatively short. By midday Cuthbert had reached the cultivated lands of Palestine. Here and there over the plain villages were dotted, and parties of men and camels were to be seen. Cuthbert now arranged his robes carefully in Arab fashion, slung the long spear across his shoulders, and went boldly forward at a slinging trot, having little fear that a passer-by would have any suspicion whatever as to his being other than an Arab bent upon some rapid journey. He soon found that his hopes were justified. Several times he came upon parties of men whom he passed with the salute, and who scarcely raised their eyes as he trotted by them. The plain was an open one, and though cultivated here and there, there were large tracts lying unworked. There was no occasion therefore to keep to the road; so riding across country, and avoiding the villages as far as possible, stopping only at a stream to give his camel water, Cuthbert rode without ceasing until nightfall. Then he halted his camel near a wood, turned it in to feed on the young foliage, and wrapping himself in his burnous was soon asleep, for he ached from head to foot with the jolting motion which had now been continued for so many hours without an interval. He had little fear of being overtaken by the party he had left behind; they would, he was convinced, be many hours behind, and it was extremely improbable that they would hit upon the exact line which he had followed, so that even if they succeeded in coming up to him, they would probably pass him a few miles either to the right or left. So fatigued was he with his long journey that the next day he slept until after the sun had risen. He was awakened suddenly by being seized by a party of Arabs, who, roughly shaking him, questioned him as to where he came from, and what he was doing there. He saw at a glance that they were not with the party from which he had escaped, and he pointed to his lips to make signs that he was dumb. The Arabs evidently suspected that something was wrong. They examined the camel, and then the person of their captive. The whiteness of his skin at once showed them that he was a Frank in disguise, and without more ado or questioning, they tied him hand and foot, flung him across the camel, and, mounting their own animals, rode rapidly away. From the position of the sun Cuthbert saw that they were making their course nearly due east, and therefore that it could not be their intention to take him to Jerusalem, which was to the north of the line they were following. A long day's journey, which to Cuthbert seemed interminable, found them on the low spit of sand which runs along by the side of the Dead Sea. Behind, lofty rocks rose almost precipitously, but through a cleft in these the Arabs had made their way. Cuthbert saw at once that they belonged to some desert tribe over whom the authority of Suleiman was but nominal. When summoned for any great effort, these children of the desert would rally to his armies and fight for a short time; but at the first disaster, or whenever they became tired of the discipline and regularity of the army, they would mount their camels and return to the desert, generally managing on the way to abstract from the farms of those on their route either a horse, cattle, or some other objects which would pay them for the labors they had undergone. They were now near the confines of their own country, and apparently had no fear whatever of pursuit. They soon gathered some of the dead wood cast on the shores of the sea, and with these a fire was speedily lighted, and an earthenware pot was taken down from among their baggage: it was filled with water from a skin, and then grain having been placed in it, it was put among the wood ashes. Cuthbert, who was weary and aching in every limb from the position in which he had been placed on the camel, asked them by signs for permission to bathe in the lake. This was given principally apparently from curiosity, for but very few Arabs were able to swim; indeed, as a people they object so utterly to water that the idea of any one bathing for his amusement was to them a matter of ridicule. Cuthbert, who had never heard of the properties of the Dead Sea, was perfectly astonished upon entering the water to find that instead of wading in it up to the neck before starting to swim, as he was accustomed to do at home, the water soon after he got waist-deep took him off his feet, and a cry of astonishment burst from him as he found himself on rather than in the fluid. The position was so strange and unnatural that with a cry of alarm he scrambled over on to his feet, and made the best of his way to shore, the Arabs indulging in shouts of laughter at his astonishment and alarm. Cuthbert was utterly unable to account for the strange sensations he had experienced; he perceived that the water was horribly salt, and that which had got into his mouth almost choked him. He was, however, unaware that saltness adds to the weight of water, and so to the buoyancy of objects cast into it. The saltness of the fluid he was moreover painfully conscious of by the smarting of the places on his wrists and ankles where the cords had been bound that fastened him to the camel. Goaded, however, by the laughter of the Arabs, he determined once more to try the experiment of entering this strange sheet of water, which from some unaccountable cause appeared to him to refuse to allow anybody to sink in it. This time he swam about for some time, and felt a little refreshed. When he returned to the shore he soon re-attired himself in his Bedouin dress, and seated himself a little distance from his captors, who were now engaged in discussing the materials prepared by themselves. They made signs to Cuthbert that he might partake of their leavings, for which he was not a little grateful, for he felt utterly exhausted and worn out with his cruel ride and prolonged fasting. The Arabs soon wrapped themselves in their burnouses, and feeling confident that their captive would not attempt to escape from them in a place where subsistence would be impossible, paid no further attention to him beyond motioning to him to lie down at their side. Cuthbert, however, determined to make another effort to escape; for although he was utterly ignorant of the place in which he found himself, or of the way back, he thought that anything would be better than to be carried into helpless slavery into the savage country beyond the Jordan. An hour, therefore, after his captors were asleep he stole to his feet, and fearing to arouse them by exciting the wrath of one of the camels by attempting to mount him, he struck up into the hills on foot. All night he wandered, and in the morning found himself at the edge of a strange precipice falling abruptly down to a river, which, some fifty feet wide, ran at its foot. Upon the opposite side the bank rose with equal rapidity, and to Cuthbert's astonishment he saw that the cliffs were honeycombed by caves. Keeping along the edge for a considerable distance, he came to a spot where it was passable, and made his way down to the river bank. Here he indulged in a long drink of fresh water, and then began to examine the caves which perforated the rocks. These caves Cuthbert knew had formerly been the abode of hermits. It was supposed to be an essentially sacred locality, and between the third and fourth centuries of Christianity some twenty thousand monks had lived solitary lives on the banks of that river. Far away he saw the ruins of a great monastery, called Mar Saba, which had for a long time been the abode of a religious community, and which at the present day is still tenanted by a body of monks. Cuthbert made up his mind at once to take refuge in these caves. He speedily picked out one some fifty feet up the face of the rock, and approachable only with the greatest difficulty and by a sure foot. First he made the ascent to discover the size of the grotto, and found that although the entrance was but four feet high and two feet wide, it opened into an area of considerable dimensions. Far in the corner, when his eyes became accustomed to the light, he discovered a circle of ashes, and his conjectures that these caves had been the abode of men were therefore verified. He again descended, and collected a large bundle of grass and rushes for his bed. He discovered growing among the rocks many edible plants, whose seeds were probably sown there centuries before, and gathering some of these he made his way back to the cavern. The grass furnished him with an excellent bed, and he was soon asleep. CHAPTER XV. A HERMIT'S TALE. The next day he discovered on his excursions plenty of eatable berries on the bushes; and now that he had no longer fear of hunger he resolved to stay for some little time, until his wounds, which had festered badly, had recovered, before making an attempt to rejoin the Christian army. One day when employed in gathering berries he was surprised by meeting a wild-looking figure, who appeared suddenly from one of the caves. It was that of a very old man, with an extremely long white beard flowing to his waist; his hair, which was utterly unkempt, fell to the same point. He was thin to an extraordinary extent, and Cuthbert wondered how a man could have been reduced to such a state of starvation, with so plentiful a supply of fruit and berries at hand. The old man looked at Cuthbert attentively, and then made the sign of the cross. Cuthbert gave a cry of joy, and repeated the sign. The old man at once came down from his cavern, and looked at him with surprise and astonishment, and then addressed him in the French language. "Are you a Christian truly; and if so, whence do you come?" Cuthbert at once explained that he had been taken prisoner when with King Richard's army, and had effected his escape. He also told the old man that he had been remaining for the last four days in a cave higher up the stream. The hermit--for he was one--beckoned him to follow him, and Cuthbert found himself in a cave precisely similar to that which he himself inhabited. There were no signs of comfort of any kind; a bed-place made of great stones stood in one corner, and Cuthbert, remembering the comforts of his own grassy couch, shuddered at the thought of the intense discomfort of such a sleeping-place. In another corner was an altar, upon which stood a rough crucifix, before which the hermit knelt at once in prayer, Cuthbert following his example. Rising again, the hermit motioned to him to sit down, and then began a conversation with him. It was so long since the hermit had spoken to any living being that he had almost lost the use of his tongue, and his sentences were slow and ill-formed. However, Cuthbert was able to understand him, and he to gather the drift of what Cuthbert told him. The old man then showed him that by touching a stone in the corner of his cave the apparently solid rock opened, and revealed an entrance into an inner cave, which was lit by a ray of light which penetrated from above. "This," he said, "was made centuries ago, and was intended as a refuge from the persecutors of that day. The caves were then almost all inhabited by hermits, and although many recked not of their lives, and were quite ready to meet death through the knife of the infidel, others clung to existence, and preferred to pass many years of penance on earth for the sake of atoning for their sins before called upon to appear before their Maker. If you are pursued it will be safer for you to take up your abode here. I am known to all the inhabitants of this country, who look upon me as mad, and respect me accordingly. None ever interfere with me, or with the two or three other hermits, the remains of what was once almost an army, who now alone survive. I can offer you no hospitality beyond that of a refuge; but there is water in the river below, fruits and berries in abundance on the shrubs. What would you have more?" Cuthbert accepted the invitation with thanks; for he thought that even at the worst the presence of this holy man would be a protection to him from any Arabs who might discover him. For three or four days he resided with the hermit, who, although he stretched his long lean body upon the hard stones of his bed, and passed many hours of the night kneeling on the stone floor in front of his altar, yet had no objection to Cuthbert making himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. At the end of the fourth day Cuthbert asked him how long he had been there, and how he came to take up his abode in so desolate and fearsome a place. The hermit was silent for a time, and then said: "It is long indeed since my thoughts have gone back to the day when I was of the world. I know not whether it would not be a sin to recall them; but I will think the matter over to-night, and if it appears to me that you may derive good from my narrative, I will relate it to you to-morrow." The next day Cuthbert did not renew the request, leaving it to the hermit to speak should he think fit. It was not until the evening that he alluded to the subject; and then taking his seat on a bank near the edge of the river, he motioned to Cuthbert to sit beside him, and began: "My father was a peer of France, and I was brought up at the court. Although it may seem strange to you, looking upon this withered frame, sixty-five years back I was as bold and comely a knight as rode in the train of the king, for I am now past ninety, and for sixty years I have resided here. I was a favorite of the king's, and he loaded me with wealth and honor. He, too, was young, and I joined with him in the mad carousals and feastings of the court. My father resided for the most part at one of his castles in the country, and I, an only son, was left much to myself. I need not tell you that I was as wild and as wicked as all those around me; that I thought little of God, and feared neither Him nor man. "It chanced that one of the nobles--I need not mention his name--whose castle lay in the same province as that of my father, had a lovely daughter, who, being an only child, would be his heiress. She was considered one of the best matches in France, and reports of her exceeding beauty had reached the court. Although my allowance from my father, and from the estates which the king had given me personally, should have been more than enough for my utmost wants, gambling and riotous living swallowed up my revenue faster than it came in, and I was constantly harassed by debt. "Talking one night at supper with a number of bold companions as to the means we should take for restoring our wasted fortunes, some said in jest that the best plan would be for one of us to marry the beauty of Dauphiny. I at once said that I would be the man to do it; the idea was a wild one, and a roar of laughter greeted my words. Her father was known to be a stern and rigid man, and it was certain that he would not consent to give his daughter to a spendthrift young noble like myself. When the laughter had subsided I repeated my intention gravely, and offered to wager large sums with all around the table that I would succeed. "On the morrow I packed up a few of my belongings, put in my valise the dress of a wandering troubadour, and taking with me only a trusty servant, started for Dauphiny. It would be tedious to tell you the means I resorted to to obtain the affections of the heiress. I had been well instructed in music and could play on the lute, and knew by heart large numbers of ballads, and could myself, in case of necessity, string verses together with tolerable ease. As a troubadour I arrived at the castle gate, and craved permission to enter to amuse its occupants. Troubadours then, as now, were in high esteem in the south, and I was at once made a welcome guest. "Days passed, and weeks; still I lingered at the castle, my heart being now as much interested as my pride in the wager which I had undertaken. Suffice it to say that my songs, and perhaps my appearance--for I cannot be accused of vanity now in saying nature had been bountiful to me--won my way to her heart. Troubadours were licensed folk, and even in her father's presence there was naught unseemly in my singing songs of love. While he took them as the mere compliments of a troubadour, the lady, I saw, read them as serious effusions of my heart. "It was only occasionally that we met alone; but ere long she confessed that she loved me. Without telling her my real name, I disclosed to her that I was of her own rank and that I had entered upon the disguise I wore in order to win her love. She was romantic, and was flattered by my devotion. I owned to her that hitherto I had been wild and reckless; and she told me at once that her father destined her for the son of an old friend of his, to whom it appeared she had been affianced while still a baby. She was positive that nothing would move her father. For the man she was to marry she entertained no kind of affection, and indeed had never seen him, as she had been brought up in a convent to the age of fifteen; and just before she had returned thence he had gone to finish his education at Padua. "She trembled when I proposed flight; but I assured her that I was certain of the protection of the king, and that he would, I was sure, when the marriage was once celebrated, use his influence with her father to obtain his forgiveness. "The preparations for her flight were not long in making. I purchased a fleet horse in addition to my own, and ordered my servant to bring it to a point a short distance from the castle gate. I had procured a long rope with which to lower her down from her lattice to the moat below, which was at present dry, intending myself to slide after her. The night chosen was one when I knew that the count was to have guests, and I thought that they would probably, as is the custom, drink heavily, and that there would be less fear of any watch being kept. "The guests arrived just at nightfall. I had feigned illness, and kept my room. From time to time I heard through the windows of the banqueting hall bursts of laughter. These gradually ceased; and at last when all was still I, after waiting some time, stole from my room with a rope in my hand to the apartment occupied by her. A slight tap at the door, as arranged, was at once answered, and I found her ready cloaked and prepared for the enterprise. She trembled from head to foot, but I cheered her to the best of my power, and at last she was in readiness to be lowered. The window was at a considerable height from the ground; but the rope was a long one, and I had no fear of its reaching the bottom. Fastening it round her waist, I began to lower her from the window. "The night was a windy one, and she swung backward and forward as she went down. By what chance it was I know not--for I had examined the rope and found it secure--but methinks in swaying backward and forward it may have caught a sharp stone, maybe it was a punishment from Heaven upon me for robbing a father of his child--but suddenly I felt there was no longer a weight on my arms. A fearful shriek rang through the air, and, looking out, I saw far below a white figure stretched senseless in the mud! "For a minute I stood paralyzed. But the cry had aroused others, and, turning round, I saw a man at the door with a drawn sword. Wild with grief and despair, and thinking, not of making my escape, or of concealing my part in what had happened, but rushing without an instant's delay to the body of her I loved so well, I drew my sword, and like a madman rushed upon him who barred the door. The combat was brief but furious, and nerved by the madness of despair I broke down his guard and ran him through the body. As he fell back, his face came in the full light of the moon, which streamed through the open door of the passage, and to my utter horror and bewilderment I saw that I had slain my father. "What happened after that night I know not. I believe that I made my escape from the castle and rushed round to the body of her whose life I had destroyed, and that there finding her dead, I ran wildly across the country. When I came to my senses months had passed, and I was the inmate of an asylum for men bereaved of their senses, kept by noble monks. Here for two years I remained, the world believing that I was dead. None knew that the troubadour whose love had cost the lady her life, who had slain the guest of her father, and had then disappeared, was the unhappy son of that guest. My friends in Paris when they heard of the tragedy of course associated it with me, but they all kept silent. The monks, to whom I confessed the whole story, were shocked indeed, but consoled me in my grief and despair by the assurance that however greatly I had sinned, the death of the lady had been accidental, and that if I were a parricide it was at least unintentionally. "My repentance was deep and sincere; and after awhile, under another name, I joined the army of the Crusaders, to expiate my sin by warring for the holy sepulcher. I fought as men fight who have no wish to live; but while all around me fell by sword and disease, death kept aloof from me. When the Crusade had failed I determined to turn forever from the world, and to devote my life to prayer and penance; and so casting aside my armor I made my way here, and took up my abode in a cave in this valley, where at that time were many thousands of other hermits--for the Saracens, while they gained much money from fines and exactions from pilgrims who came to Jerusalem, and fought stoutly against those who sought to capture that city, were in the main tolerant, and offered no hindrance to the community of men whom they looked upon as mad. "Here, my son, for more than sixty years have I prayed, with much fasting and penance. I trust now that the end is nearly at hand, and that my long life of mortification may be deemed to have obliterated the evil deeds which I did in my youth. Let my fate be a warning to you. Walk steadily in the right way; indulge not in feasting and evil companionship; and above all, do not enter upon evil deeds, the end of which no man can see." The hermit was silent, and Cuthbert, seeing that his thoughts had again referred to the past, wandered away, and left him sitting by the river side. Some hours later he returned and found the hermit kneeling before the altar; and the next morning the latter said: "I presume, my son, you do not wish to remain here as a hermit, as I have done? Methinks it were well that we made our arrangements for your return to the Christian host, who will, I hope, ere long be at the gates of Jerusalem." "I should like nothing better," Cuthbert said. "But ignorant as I am of the nature of the country, it seems to be nigh impossible to penetrate through the hosts of the Saracens to reach the camp of King Richard." "The matter is difficult and not without danger," the hermit said. "As to the nature of the country, I myself know but little, for my dealings with the natives have been few and simple. There are, however, several Christian communities dwelling among the heathen. They are poor, and are forced to live in little-frequented localities. Their Christianity may be suspected by their neighbors, but as they do no man harm, and carry on their worship in secret, they are little interfered with. There is one community among the hills between this and Jerusalem, and I can give you instructions for reaching this, together with a token which will secure you hospitality there, and they will no doubt do their best to forward you to another station. When you approach the flat country where the armies are maneuvering you must doubtless trust to yourself; but as far as the slopes extend, methinks that our friends will be able to pass you without great difficulty." Cuthbert's heart rose greatly at the prospect of once again entering upon an active life, and the next evening, with many thanks for his kindness, he knelt before the aged hermit to receive his blessing. With the instructions given him he had no difficulty in making his way through the mountains, until after some five hours' walk he found himself at a little village situated in a narrow valley. Going to the door of the principal hut he knocked, and upon entering showed the owner--who opened the door--a rosette of peculiar beads and repeated the name of Father Anselm. The peasant at once recognized it and bade Cuthbert welcome. He knew but a few words of French, although doubtless his ancestors had been of European extraction. In the morning he furnished Cuthbert with the sheepskin and short tunic which formed the dress of a shepherd, and dyeing his limbs and face a deep brown he himself started with Cuthbert on his journey to the next Christian community. This was a small one consisting of two huts only, built almost on the summit of a mountain, the inhabitants living partly on the milk and cheese of their goats and partly upon the scanty vegetables which grew around the huts. His welcome was as cordial as that of the night before; and the next morning, his former guide taking leave of him, the peasant in whose house he had slept again conducted him forward to another community. This was the last station and stood in a narrow gorge on the face of the hills looking down over the plain, beyond which in the far distance a faint line of blue sea was visible. This community was far more prosperous and well-to-do than those at which the previous nights had been passed. The head of the village appeared to be a personage of some importance; and although clinging in secret to his Christian faith, he and his belongings had so far adopted the usages of the Mussulmen that apparently no thought of their Christianity entered into the minds of the authorities. He was the owner of two or three horses and of some extensive vineyards and olive grounds. He was also able to speak French with some degree of fluency. At considerable length he explained to Cuthbert the exact position of the Christian army, which had moved some distance along the coast since Cuthbert had left it. It was, he said, exposed to constant attacks by the Saracens, who harassed it in every way, and permitted it no repose. He said that the high hopes which had been raised by the defeat of the Saracens at Azotus had now fallen, and that it was feared the Christians would not be able to force their way forward to Jerusalem. The great portion of their animals had died, and the country was so eaten up by the Saracen hosts that an advance upon Jerusalem without a large baggage train was next to impossible; and indeed if the Christians were to arrive before that city, they could effect nothing without the aid of the heavy machines necessary for battering the walls or effecting an escalade. Cuthbert was vastly grieved when he heard of the probable failure of the expedition, and he burned with eagerness to take his part again in the dangers and difficulties which beset the Christian army. His host pointed out to him the extreme difficulty and danger of his crossing the enemy's lines, but at the same time offered to do all in his power to assist him. After two days' stay at the village, and discussing the pros and cons of all possible plans, it was decided that the best chance lay in a bold effort. The host placed at his disposal one of his horses, together with such clothes as would enable him to ride as an Arab chief of rank and station; a long lance was furnished him, a short and heavy mace, and scimitar; a bag of dates was hung at the saddlebow; and with the sincerest thanks to his protector, and with a promise that should the Christian host win their way to Jerusalem the steed should be returned with ample payment, Cuthbert started on his journey. CHAPTER XVI. A FIGHT OF HEROES. The horse was a good and spirited one, and when he had once descended to the plains, Cuthbert rode gayly along, exulting in his freedom, and in once again possessing arms to defend himself should it be needed. His appearance was so exactly that of the horsemen who were continually passing and repassing that no observation whatever was attracted by it. Through villages, and even through camps, Cuthbert rode fearlessly, and arrived, without having once been accosted, near the main camp of the Saracens, which extended for miles parallel to the sea. But at a distance of some three leagues beyond could be seen the white tents of the Christian host, and Cuthbert felt that the time of trial was now at hand. He dismounted for an hour to allow his steed to rest itself, fed it with dates from his wallet, and gave it a drink of water at the stream. Then, when he felt that it had thoroughly recovered its strength and freshness, he remounted, and rode briskly on as before. He passed unchallenged, attracting no more notice than a person nowadays would do in walking along a crowded street. Without hesitation he passed through the tents and started across the open country. Bands of horsemen were seen here and there, some going, and some coming from the direction of the Christian camp. As it was doubtless supposed that he was on his way to join some band that had gone on in advance, the passage of the solitary horseman excited no comment until he approached within about two miles of the Christian camp. There were now, so far as he could see, no enemies between him and the point he so longed to gain. But at this minute a group of Arab horsemen, gathered, apparently on the lookout against any movement of the Christians, shouted to him "Halt!" demanding whither he was going. Up to this point Cuthbert had ridden at a gentle canter; but at the challenge he put spurs into his steed and made across the plain at full speed. With a wild yell the Arabs started in pursuit. They lay at first some two hundred yards on his right, and he had therefore a considerable start of them. His horse was fairly fresh, for the journey that he had made had only been about fifteen miles--an inconsiderable distance to an Arab steed. For half a mile he did not think that his pursuers gained much upon him, riding as they had done sideways. They had now gathered in his rear, and the nearest was some one hundred and fifty yards behind him. A quarter of a mile further he again looked around, and found that two of the Arabs, far better mounted than the others, had come within half the distance which separated them from him when he last glanced back. His horse was straining to the utmost, and he felt that it could do no more; he therefore prepared himself for a desperate fight should his pursuers overtake him. In another quarter of a mile they were but a short distance behind, and an arrow whizzing by Cuthbert's ear told him they had betaken themselves to their bows. Half a mile ahead he saw riding toward him a group of Christian knights; but he felt that it was too late for him to hope to reach them, and that his only chance now was to boldly encounter his pursuers. The main body of the Arabs was fully two hundred yards behind--a short distance when going at a gallop--which left him but little time to shake off the pursuit of the two immediately behind him. A sharp stinging pain in his leg told him that it was time to make his effort; and checking his horse, he wheeled suddenly round. The two Arabs with a yell rode at him with pointed lance. With his right hand Cuthbert grasped the short heavy mace which hung at his saddlebow, and being well practiced in the hurling of this weapon--which formed part of the education of a good knight--he cast it with all his force at the chest of the Arab approaching on that side. The point of the spear was within a few yards of his breast as he flung the mace; but his aim was true, for it smote the Saracen full on the chest, and hurled him from his horse as if struck with a thunderbolt. At the same instant Cuthbert threw himself flat on the neck of his steed and the lance of the Arab who came up on the other side passed harmlessly between his shoulders, tearing his clothes as it went. In an instant Cuthbert had wheeled his horse, and before the Arab could turn his steed Cuthbert, coming up from behind, had run him through the body. Short as the delay had been, the main body of the pursuers were scarcely fifty yards away; but Cuthbert now continued his flight toward the knights, who were galloping forward at full speed; and a moment afterward glancing back, he saw that his pursuers had turned and were in full flight. With a shout of joy he rode forward to the party who had viewed with astonishment this conflict between what appeared to be three of the infidels. Even louder than his first shout of exultation was the cry of joy which he raised at seeing among the party to whom he rode up the Earl of Evesham, who reined in his horse in astonishment, and drew his sword as the supposed enemy galloped toward him. "My lord, my lord!" Cuthbert said. "Thank Heaven I am safe with you again." The earl lowered his sword in astonishment. "Am I mad," he said, "or dreaming, or is this really Sir Cuthbert?" "It is I, sure enough," Cuthbert exclaimed, "although truly I look more like a Bedouin soldier than a Christian knight." "My dear boy!" exclaimed the earl, galloping forward and throwing his arms around Cuthbert's neck, "we thought you were dead. But by what wonderful fortune have you succeeded in escaping?" In a few words Cuthbert related the principal incidents of his adventures, and he was heartily congratulated by the assembled knights. There was, however, no time for long explanations. Large bodies of the Saracen horse were already sweeping down to capture, if possible, this small band of knights who had ventured so far from the camp; and as King Richard's orders were that none should venture upon conflicts except by his orders, the party reluctantly turned their horses and galloped back to the camp. Great as had been the earl's joy, it was, if possible, exceeded by that of Cnut on discovering in the Arab chief who rode up alongside the earl the lad he loved so well. Loud and hearty were the cheers which rang out from the earl's camp as the news spread, and Cuthbert was compelled to shake hands with the whole party before entering the earl's tent, to refresh himself and give the narrative of what had happened. Cuthbert, retiring to his tent with the Earl of Evesham, inquired of him what had taken place during his absence. "For," he said, "although but a short three days' march from here, I have been as one of the dead, and have heard nothing whatever of what has taken place." "Nothing could have gone worse," the earl said. "We have had nothing but dissensions and quarrels. First, the king fell out with the Archduke of Austria." "On what ground did this happen?" Cuthbert asked. "For once," the earl said, "the king our master was wholly in the wrong, which is not generally the case. We had just taken Ascalon, and were hard at work fortifying the place. King Richard with his usual zeal, in order to encourage the army, seized heavy stones and himself bore them into their place. The archduke stood near with some of his knights: and it may be that the haughty Austrian looked somewhat superciliously at our king thus laboring. "'Why do you not make a show of helping?' King Richard said, going up to him. 'It would encourage the men, and show that the labor upon which we are engaged can be undertaken by all without derogation.' "To this the archduke replied: "'I am not the son of a mason!' "Whereupon Richard, whose blood no doubt had been excited by the air of the Austrian, struck him with his hand a fierce blow across the face. We nearly betook ourselves to our swords on both sides; but King Richard himself could have scattered half the Austrians, and these, knowing that against his impetuous valor they could do nothing, simply withdrew from our camp, and sailed the next day for home. Then the king, in order to conciliate some at least of his allies, conferred the crown of Jerusalem upon Conrad of Montferat. No sooner had he done this than Conrad was mysteriously wounded. By whom it was done none knew. Some say that it was by emissaries of the Old Man of the Mountain. Others affirm that it was the jealousy of some of the knights of the holy orders. But be that as it may, he died. Some of the French, ever jealous of the valor of our king, ascribed it to his orders. This monstrous accusation coming to the ears of King Richard, he had hot words with the Duke of Burgundy. In this I blame him not, for it is beyond all reason that a man like the king, whose faults, such as they are, arise from too much openness, and from the want of concealment of such dislikes as he may have, should resort to poison to free himself of a man whom he himself had but a day or two before appointed King of Jerusalem. However it be, the consequences were most unfortunate, for the result of the quarrel was that the Duke of Burgundy and his Frenchmen followed the example of the Austrians, and we were left alone. Before this we had marched upon Jerusalem. But the weather had been so bad, and our train was so insufficient to carry the engines of war, that we had been forced to fall back again. King Richard again advanced, and with much toil we went as far as the village of Bethany." "Why," Cuthbert exclaimed, "I passed through that village, and it is but three miles from the holy city." "That is so," the earl said; "and many of us, ascending the hill in front, saw Jerusalem. But even then it was certain that we must again retrace our steps; and when we asked King Richard to come to the crest of the hill to see the holy city, he refused to do so, saying, 'No; those who are not worthy of conquering Jerusalem should not look at it!' This was but a short time since, and we are now retracing our steps to Acre, and are treating with Saladin for a peace." "Then," Cuthbert said sadly, "all our hopes and efforts are thrown away; all this blood has been shed for nothing; and after the three great powers of Europe have engaged themselves solemnly in the war, we are baffled, and have to fall back before the hordes of the infidels." "Partly before them," the earl said, "partly as the result of our own jealousies and passions. Had King Richard been a lesser man than he is, we might have conquered Jerusalem. But he is so extraordinary a warrior that his glory throws all others into the shade. He is a good general, perhaps the best in Europe; and had he done nothing but lead, assuredly we should have carried out our purpose. See how ably he maneuvered the army at the fight of Azotus. Never was a more complete defeat than that which he inflicted there upon the Saracens; and although the fact that his generalship achieved this, might have caused some jealousy to the other commanders, this might have died away could he between the battles have been a general, and nothing more. But, alas! he is in addition a knight-errant--and such a knight-errant as Europe has never seen before. Wherever there is danger, Richard will plunge into the midst. There are brave men in all the three armies; but the strongest and bravest are as children to King Richard. Alone he can dart into ranks of the infidels, and cut a lane for himself by the strength of his right arm. More than this, when danger has threatened he has snatched up his battle-ax and dashed into the fray without helm or cuirass, performing such prodigies of valor and strength that it has been to his prowess alone that victory was to be ascribed. Hence he is the idol of all the soldiers, whatever their nationality; for he is as ready to rush to the rescue of a French or Austrian knight when pressed as to that of his own men. But the devotion which the whole army felt for him was as gall and wormwood to the haughty Austrian and the indolent Frenchman; and the retirement of the King of France, which left Richard in supreme command, was in every way unfortunate." Upon the following day the army again marched, and Cuthbert could not but notice the difference, not only in number but in demeanor, from the splendid array which had left Acre a few months before. There was little now of the glory of pennon and banner; the bright helms and cuirasses were rusted and dinted, and none seemed to care aught for bravery of show. The knights and men-at-arms were sunburnt and thin, and seemed but half the weight that they had been when they landed. Fatigue, hardship, and the heat had done their work; disease had swept off vast numbers. But the remains of the army were so formidable in their fighting powers that the Saracens, although following them at a distance in vast numbers, did not venture an attack upon them. A few days after their arrival at Acre, the king gave orders for the embarkation of the troops. Just as they were preparing to enter the ships a small vessel was seen entering the harbor. It drew up to the shore, and a knight leaped from it, and, inquiring where King Richard was to be found, made his way to the king, who was standing superintending the embarkation of some of the horses. "The Saracens, sire!" he exclaimed. "The Saracens are besieging Jaffa, and the place must be lost unless assistance arrives in a day or two." The king leaped on board the nearest ship, shouted to his leading officers to follow him, and gave orders to others to bring down the troops with all possible speed, to waste not a moment, and to see that all was done, and then, in five minutes after the receipt of the news he started for Jaffa. The Earl of Evesham and Cuthbert had been standing near the king when the order was given, and followed him at once on board the bark which he had chosen. "Ah, my gallant young knight," the king exclaimed, "I am right glad to see you with me. We shall have more fighting before we have done, and I know that that suits your mood as well as my own." The king's vessel was far in advance of any of the others, when early the following morning it arrived at Jaffa. "Your eyes are better than mine," the king said to Cuthbert. "Tell me what is that flag flying on the top of the town." Cuthbert looked at it earnestly. "I fear, sire, that it is the crescent. We have arrived too late." "By the holy cross," said King Richard, "that shall not be so; for if the place be taken, we will retake it." As the vessel neared the shore a monk ran out into the water up to his shoulders, and said to the king that the citadel still held out, and that even now the Saracens might be driven back. Without delay the king leaped into the water, followed by the knights and men-at-arms, and entering the gate, threw himself upon the infidels within, who, busy plundering, had not noticed the arrival of the ship. The war cry of "St. George! St. George!" which the king always shouted in battle, struck panic among the infidels; and although the king was followed but by five knights and a few men-at-arms, the Saracens, to the number of three thousand, fled before him, and all who tarried were smitten down. The king followed them out upon the plain, driving them before him as a lion would drive a flock of sheep, and then returned triumphant into the city. The next day, some more ships having arrived, King Richard found that in all, including the garrison, he could muster two thousand combatants. The enemy renewed the attack in great numbers, and the assaults upon the walls were continuous and desperate. King Richard, who loved fighting in the plain rather than behind walls, was impatient at this, and at one time so fierce was the attack that he resolved to sally out. Only ten horses remained in the town, and King Richard, mounting one, called upon nine of the knights to mount and sally out with him. The little band of ten warriors charged down upon the host of the Saracens and swept them before them. It was a marvelous sight indeed to see so small a group of horsemen dashing through a crowd of Saracen warriors. These, although at first beaten back, yet rallied, and the ten knights had great difficulty in fighting their way back to the town. When near the walls the Christians again made a stand, and a few knights sallied out from the town on foot and joined them. Among these was Cuthbert, the Earl of Evesham having accompanied King Richard in his charge. In all, seventeen knights were now rallied round the king. So fierce was the charge of the Saracens that the king ordered those on horseback to dismount, and with their horses in the center, the little body knelt with their lances opposed to the Saracens. Again and again the wild cavalry swept down upon this little force, but in vain did they attempt to break their ranks. The scene was indeed an extraordinary one. At last the king, seeing that the enemy were losing heart, again ordered the knights to mount, and these dashing among the enemy, completed their defeat. While this had been going on news came to the king that the Saracens from another side had made their way into Jaffa, and were massacring the Christians. Without, an instant's delay he flew to their succor, followed only by two knights and a few archers, the rest being so worn by their exertions as to be unable to move. The Mamelukes, the chosen guard of Saladin, had headed the attack; but even these were driven out from the town, and Richard dashed out from the city in their pursuit. One Saracen emir, distinguished for his stature and strength, ventured to match himself against the king, and rode boldly at him. But with one blow Richard severed his head, and his right shoulder and arm, from his body. Then having, by his single arm, put to rout the Saracens at this point, he dashed through them to the aid of the little band of knights who had remained on the defensive when he left them at the alarm of the city being entered. These were almost sinking with fatigue and wounds; but King Richard opened a way around them by slaying numbers of the enemy, and then charged again alone into the midst of the Mussulman host, and was lost to the sight of his companions. All thought that they would never see him again. But he soon reappeared, his horse covered with blood, but himself unwounded; and the attack of the enemy ceased. From the hour of daybreak, it is said, Richard had not ceased for a moment to deal out his blows, and the skin of his hand adhered to the handle of his battle-ax. This narration would appear almost fabulous, were it not that it is attested in the chronicles of several eye-witnesses, and for centuries afterward the Saracen women hushed their babes when fractious by threatening them with Malek-Rik, the name which they gave to King Richard. Glorious as was the success, it was a sad one, for several of the most devoted of the followers of King Richard were wounded badly, some few to death. Among these last, to the terrible grief of Cuthbert, was his friend and patron, the Earl of Evesham. The king, on taking off his armor, hurried to his tent. "The glory of this day is marred indeed," he said to the wounded knight, "if I am to lose you, Sir Walter." "I fear that it must even be so, my lord," the dying earl said. "I am glad that I have seen this day, for never did I think to witness such feats as those which your majesty has performed; and though the Crusade has failed, and the holy city remains in the hands of the infidel, yet assuredly no shadow of disgrace has fallen upon the English arms, and, indeed, great glory has accrued to us. Whatever may be said of the Great Crusade, it will at least be allowed by all men, and for all time, that had the princes and soldiers of other nations done as your majesty and your followers have done, the holy city would have fallen into our hands within a month of our putting foot upon the soil. Your majesty, I have a boon to ask." "You have but to name it, Sir Walter, and it is yours." "Sir Cuthbert, here," he said, pointing to the young knight, who was sorrowfully kneeling by his bedside, "is as a son to me. The relationship by blood is but slight, but by affection it is as close as though he were mine own. I have, as your majesty knows, no male heirs, and my daughter is but young, and will now be a royal ward. I beseech your majesty to bestow her in marriage, when the time comes, upon Sir Cuthbert. They have known each other as children, and the union will bring happiness, methinks, to both, as well as strength and protection to her; and further, if it might be, I would fain that you should bestow upon him my title and dignity." "It shall be so," the king said. "When your eyes are closed, Sir Walter, Sir Cuthbert shall be Earl of Evesham, and, when the time comes, the husband of your daughter." Cuthbert was too overwhelmed with grief to feel a shadow of exaltation at the gracious intimation of the king; although, even then, a thought of future happiness in the care of the fair young lady Marguerite passed before his mind. For the last time the king gave his hand to his faithful servant, who pressed it to his lips, and a few minutes afterward breathed his last. CHAPTER XVII. AN ALPINE STORM. The tremendous exertions which King Richard had made told upon him, and attacks of fever succeeded each other at short intervals. This, however, mattered the less, since negotiations were now proceeding between him and Saladin. It was impossible, with the slight means at his disposal, for Richard further to carry on the Crusade alone. Moreover, pressing news had arrived from his mother in England, urging him to return, as his brother John was intriguing against him, and had already assumed all but the kingly title. Saladin was equally desirous of peace. His wild troops were, for the most part, eager to return to their homes, and the defeats which they had suffered, and the, to them, miraculous power of King Richard's arm, had lowered their spirit and made them eager to be away. Therefore he consented without difficulty to the terms proposed. By these, the Christians were to surrender Ascalon, but were to keep Jaffa, Tyre, and the fortresses along the coast. All hostilities were to be suspended on both sides for the space of three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours, when Richard hoped to return again and to recommence the struggle. Between the sultan and King Richard a feeling approaching that of friendship had sprung up during the campaign. Saladin was himself brave in the extreme, and exposed his life as fearlessly as did his Christian rival, and the two valiant leaders recognized the great qualities of each other. Several times during the campaign when Richard had been ill, the emir had sent him presents of fruit and other matters, to which Richard had responded in the same spirit. An interview had taken place between them which further cemented their friendship; and when Richard promised to return again at the end of the truce with a far larger army, and to accomplish the rescue of the holy city, the sultan smiled, and said that it appeared that valor alone was not sufficient to conquer in the Holy Land, but that if Jerusalem were to fall into the hands of the Christians, it could fall into no worthier hands than those of Malek-Rik. So, with many mutual courtesies, the great rivals separated, and soon after King Richard and the little remnant of his army embarked on board ship, and set sail for England. It was on October 11, 1192, that Richard Coeur de Lion left Palestine. Soon after they started a storm suddenly burst upon them, and dispersed them in various directions. The ship in which Queen Berengaria was carried arrived safely in Sicily; but that in which King Richard was borne was missing, and none of his fellow-voyagers knew what had become of him. Sir Cuthbert was in the same vessel as the king, and the bark was driven upon the Island of Corfu. All reached shore in safety, and King Richard then hired three small vessels, in which he sailed to the port of Zara, whence he hoped to reach the domains of his nephew, Otho of Saxony, the son of his sister Matilda. The king had with him now but two of his knights, Baldwin of Béthune, and Cuthbert of Evesham. Cnut was with his feudal chief--for such Cuthbert had now, by his accession to the rank of Earl of Evesham, become--and three or four English archers. "I fear, my lords," the king said to his knights as he sat in a little room in an inn at Zara, "that my plight is a bad one. I am surrounded by enemies, and, alas! I can no longer mount my steed and ride out as at Jaffa to do battle with them. My brother, John Lackland, is scheming to take my place upon the throne of England. Philip of France, whose mind is far better at such matters than at setting armies in the field, is in league with him. The Emperor Henry has laid claim to the throne of Sicily. Leopold of Austria has not forgiven me the blow I struck him in the face at Ascalon, and the friends of Conrad of Montferat are spreading far and wide the lie that I was the instigator of his murder. Sure never had a poor king so many enemies, and few have ever had so small a following as I have now. What think you, my lords? What course would you advise that I should adopt? If I can reach Saxony doubtless Otho will aid me. But hence to Dresden is a long journey indeed. I have neither credit nor funds to hire a ship to take us by sea. Nor would such a voyage be a safe one, when so many of my enemies' ships are on the main. I must needs, I think, go in disguise, for my way lies wholly through the country of my enemies." "Surely," Cuthbert said, "no potentate could for very shame venture to detain your majesty on your way from the Holy Land, where you have wrought such great deeds. Were I in your place, I would at once proclaim myself, mount my horse, have my banner carried before me, and ride openly on. You have, too, another claim, namely, that of being shipwrecked, and even in war-time nations respect those whom the force of God has thrown upon their shores." "I fear me, Sir Cuthbert," Sir Baldwin said, "that you overrate the chivalry of our master's enemies. Had we been thrown on the shores of France, Philip perhaps would hesitate to lay hands upon the king; but these petty German princelings have no idea of the observances of true chivalry. They are coarse and brutal in their ways; and though in outward form following the usage of knighthood, they have never been penetrated with its spirit. If the friends of Conrad of Montferat lay hands upon King Richard I fear that no scruples will prevent them from using their advantage to the utmost. Even their emperor I would not trust. The course which you advise would no doubt be in accordance with the spirit of King Richard; but it would be madness for him to judge other people's spirit by his own, and it would be rushing into the lion's den to proclaim himself here. I should recommend, if I might venture to do so, that his majesty should assume a false name, and that we should travel in small parties so as to attract no attention, each making his way to Saxony as best he may." There was silence for a minute or two, and then the king with a sigh said: "I fear that you are right, Sir Baldwin, and that there is no chivalry among these swinish German lords. You shall accompany me. Not, Sir Cuthbert," he observed kindly, noticing a look of disappointment upon the face of the young knight, "that I estimate your fidelity one whit lower than that of my brave friend; but he is the elder and the more versed in European travel, and may manage to bring matters through better than you would do. You will have dangers enough to encounter yourself, more even than I shall, for your brave follower, Cnut, can speak no language but his own, and your archers will be hard to pass as any other than what they are. You must be my messenger to England, should you arrive there without me. Tell my mother and wife where you left me, and that, if I do not come home I have fallen into the hands of one or other of my bitter foes. Bid them bestir themselves to hold England for me against my brother John, and, if needs be, to move the sovereigns of Europe to free me from the hands of my enemies. Should a ransom be needed, I think that my people of England will not grudge their goods for their king." The following day the king bade farewell to his faithful followers, giving his hand to kiss, not only to Sir Cuthbert, but to Cnut and his archers. "You have done me brave service," he said, "and I trust may yet have occasion to do it again. These are bad times when Richard of England has naught wherewith to reward his friends. But," he said, taking a gold chain from his neck and breaking it with his strong fingers into five fragments, "that is for you, Cnut, and for your four archers, in remembrance of King Richard." The men, albeit hardened by many scenes of warfare, yet shed tears plenteously at parting with the king. "We had better," Cuthbert said to them when they were alone, "delay here for a few days. If we are taken, the news that some Englishmen have been captured making their way north from Zara will spread rapidly, and may cause the enemies of Richard to be on the lookout for him, suspecting that the ship which bore us may also have carried him; for the news that he is missing will spread rapidly through Europe, and will set all his enemies on the alert." In accordance with this plan they delayed for another ten days at Zara, and then, hiring a small boat, were landed some thirty miles further along the coast. Cuthbert had obtained for Cnut the dress of a palmer, as in this he would pass almost unquestioned, and his silence might be accounted for on the ground that he had taken a vow of silence. He himself had placed on his coat armor a red cross, instead of the white cross borne by the English knights, and would now pass as a French knight. Similar changes were made in the dress of his followers, and he determined to pass as a French noble who had been wrecked on his way home, and who was returning through Germany to France. The difficulties in his own case would not be serious, as his French would pass muster anywhere in Germany. The greatest difficulty would be with his attendants; but he saw no way of avoiding this. Cuthbert's object, when with his little party he separated from King Richard, was to make his way to Verona, thence cross by Trent into Bavaria, and so to journey to Saxony. Fortunately he had at the storming of Acre become possessed of a valuable jewel, and this he now sold, and purchased a charger for himself. He had little fear of any trouble in passing through the north of Italy, for this was neutral ground, where knights of all nations met, and where, neither as an English nor a French Crusader, would he attract either comment or attention. It was a slow journey across the northern plains, as of course he had to accommodate his pace to that of his men. Cnut and the archers had grumbled much at the change of the color of the cross upon their jerkins; and, as Cnut said, would have been willing to run greater perils under their true colors than to affect to belong to any other nationality. On their way they passed through Padua, and there stopped a few days. Cuthbert could but feel, in looking at the splendor of this Italian city, the courteous manner of its people, and the university, which was even then famous, how far in advance were those stately cities of Italy to Western Europe. His followers were as much surprised as himself at the splendors of the city. Here they experienced no trouble or annoyance whatever, for to the cities of Italy knights of all nations resorted, learned men came to study, philosophers to dispute, and as these brought their attendants with them, you might in the streets of Padua and its sister cities hear every language in Europe spoken. From Padua they journeyed to Verona, marveling greatly at the richness of the country. The footmen, however, grumbled at the flatness of the plain, and said that it was as bad as marching in the Holy Land. On their right, however, the slopes of the Alps, thickly clad with forests, reached down nearly to the road, and Cuthbert assured them that they would have plenty of climbing before they had done. At Verona they tarried again, and wondered much at the great amphitheater, then almost perfect. Cuthbert related to Cnut and the archers how men had there been set to fight while the great stone benches round were thronged with men and women looking on at their death struggles, and said that not unfrequently British captives were brought hither and made to contend in the arena. The honest fellows were full of indignation and horror at the thought of men killing themselves to give sport to others. They were used to hard knocks, and thought but little of their life, and would have betaken themselves to their bows and bills without hesitation in case of a quarrel. But to fight in cold blood for amusement seemed to them very terrible. Cuthbert would then have traveled on to Milan, at that time next to Rome the richest city in Europe, but he longed to be back in England, and was the more anxious as he knew that King Richard would be passing through great dangers, and he hoped to meet him at the court of Saxony. His money, too, was fast running out, and he found that it would be beyond his slender means to extend his journey so far. At Verona, then, they turned their back on the broad plains of Lombardy, and entered the valley of the Trent. So far no observation whatever had been excited by the passage of the English knight. So many Crusaders were upon their way home, many in grievous plight, that the somewhat shabby retinue passed unnoticed. But they were now leaving Italy, and entering a country where German was spoken. Trent, in those days an important city, was then, and is still, the meeting place of Italy and Germany. Both tongues are here spoken; but while the Italian perhaps preponderates, the customs, manners, and mode of thought of the people belong to those of the mountaineers of the Tyrol rather than of the dwellers on the plains. "You are choosing a stormy time," the landlord of the hostelry where they put up said to Cuthbert. "The winter is now at hand, and storms sweep across the passes with terrible violence. You had better, at the last village you come to in the valley, obtain the services of a guide, for should a snowstorm come on when you are crossing, the path will be lost, and nothing will remain but a miserable death. By daylight the road is good. It has been cut with much trouble, and loaded mules can pass over without difficulty. Poles have been erected at short distances to mark the way when the snow covers it. But when the snowstorms sweep across the mountains it is impossible to see ten paces before you, and if the traveler leaves the path he is lost." "But I suppose," Cuthbert said, "that even in winter travelers pass over?" "They do," the host said. "The road is as open in winter as in summer, although, of course, the dangers are greater. Still, there is nothing to prevent vigorous men from crossing over when the storms come on. Now, too, with the snow already lying in the upper forests, the wolves are abroad, and should you be attacked by one of those herds, you will find it hard work to defend your lives. Much has been done to render the road safe. At the distance of every league stone houses have been erected, where travelers can find shelter either from the storm or from the attacks of wolves or bears, for these, too, abound in the forests, and in summer there is fine hunting among them. You are, as I see, returning from the Holy Land, an are therefore used to heat rather than cold, so I should advise you before you leave this city to buy some rough cloaks to shield you from the cold. You can obtain them for your followers very cheaply, made of the mountain goat or of sheepskins, and even those of bearskin well dressed are by no means dear." Obtaining the address of a merchant who kept these things, Cuthbert proceeded thither; and purchased five cloaks of goatskin with hoods to pull over their heads for his followers while for himself he obtained one of rather finer material. Another two days' journey brought them to the foot of the steep ascent, and here they hired the services of a guide. The ascent was long and difficult, and in spite of the praises which the host had bestowed upon the road, it was so steep that Cuthbert was, for the most part, obliged to walk, leading his steed, whose feet slipped on the smooth rock, and as in many places a false step would have thrown them down many hundreds of feet into the valley below, Cuthbert judged it safer to trust himself to his own feet. He disincumbered himself of his helmet and gorget, and placed these upon the horse's back. At nightfall they had attained a very considerable height, and stopped at one of the small refuges of which the landlord had spoken. "I like not the look of the weather," the guide said in the morning--at least that was what Cuthbert judged him to say, for he could speak no word of the man's language. His actions, however, as he looked toward the sky, and shook his head, spoke for themselves, and Cuthbert, feeling his own powerlessness in a situation so novel to him, felt serious misgivings at the prospect. The scenery was now very wild. On all sides crags and mountain tops covered with snow glistened in the sun. The woods near the path were free of snow; but higher up they rose black above the white ground. The wind blew keenly, and all rejoiced in the warm cloaks which they had obtained; for even with the protection of these they had found the cold bitter during the night. "I like not this country," Cnut said. "We grumbled at the heat of Palestine, but I had rather march across the sand there than in this inhospitable frozen region. The woods look as if they might contain specters. There is a silence which seems to be unnatural, and my courage, like the warmth of my body, is methinks oozing out from my fingers." Cuthbert laughed. "I have no doubt that your courage would come again much quicker than the warmth, Cnut, if there were any occasion for it. A brisk walk will set you all right again, and banish these uneasy fancies. To-night we shall be at the highest point, and to-morrow begin to descend toward Germany." All day the men kept steadily on. The guide from time to time looked apprehensively at the sky; and although in the earlier part of the day Cuthbert's inexperienced eye saw nothing to cause the slightest uneasiness, toward the afternoon the scene changed. Light clouds began to gather on the top of all the hills and to shut the mountain peaks entirely from view. The wind moaned between the gorges and occasionally swept along in such sudden gusts that they could with difficulty retain their feet. The sky became gradually overcast, and frequently light specks of snow, so small as to be scarcely perceptible, were driven along on the blast, making their faces smart by the force with which they struck them. "It scarcely needs our guide's face," Cuthbert said, "to tell us that a storm is at hand, and that our position is a dangerous one. As for me, I own that I feel better pleased now that the wind is blowing, and the silence is broken, than at the dead stillness which prevailed this morning. After all, methinks that a snowstorm cannot be more dreaded than a sandstorm, and we have faced those before now." Faster and faster the snow came down, until at last the whole air seemed full of it, and it was with difficulty that they could stagger forward. Where the path led across open places the wind swept away the snow as fast as it fell, but in the hollows the track was already covered; and feeling the difficulty of facing the blinding gale, Cuthbert now understood the urgency with which his host had insisted upon the danger of losing the track. Not a word was spoken among the party as they plodded along. The guide kept ahead, using the greatest caution wherever the path was obliterated by the snow, sometimes even sounding with his iron-shod staff to be sure that they were upon the level rock. In spite of his warm cloak Cuthbert felt that he was becoming chilled to the bone. His horse could with difficulty keep his feet; and Cnut and the archers lagged behind. "You must keep together, lads," he shouted. "I have heard that in these mountains when sleepiness overpowers the traveler, death is at hand. Therefore, come what may, we must struggle on." Many times the gale was so violent that they were obliged to pause and take shelter under the side of a rock or precipice until the fury of the blast had passed; and Cuthbert eagerly looked out for the next refuge. At last they reached it, and the guide at once entered. It was not that in which he had intended to pass the night, for this lay still higher; but it would have been madness to attempt to go further in the face of such a gale. He signed to Cuthbert that it was necessary at once to collect firewood, and he himself proceeded to light some brands which had been left by previous travelers. Cuthbert gave directions to Cnut and the archers; and these, feeling that life depended upon a good fire being kept up, set to with a will, cutting down shrubs and branches growing in the vicinity of the hut. In half an hour a huge fire blazed in the refuge; and as the warmth thawed their limbs, their tongues were unloosened, and a feeling of comfort again prevailed. "If this be mountaineering, my lord," Cnut said, "I trust that never again may it be my fortune to venture among the hills. How long, I wonder, do the storms last here? I was grumbling all the way up the hill at the load of provisions which the guide insisted that each of us should bring with him. As it was to be but a three days' journey before we reached a village on the other side, I wondered why he insisted upon our taking food enough to last us at least for a week. But I understand now, and thank him for his foresight; for if this storm goes on we are assuredly prisoners here for so long as it may continue." The horse had to be brought into the hut, for it would have been death for it to have remained outside. "What is that?" Cnut said presently, as a distant howl was heard between the lulls of the storm. The guide muttered some word which Cuthbert did not understand. But he said to Cnut, "I doubt not that it is wolves. Thank God that we are safe within this refuge, for here not even the most ravenous beasts could make their way." "Pooh!" Cnut said contemptuously. "Wolves are no bigger than dogs. I have heard my grandfather say that he shot one in the forest, and that it was no bigger than a hound. We should make short work of them." "I know not," Cuthbert said. "I have heard tales of these animals which show that they must be formidable opponents. They hunt in great packs, and are so furious that they will attack parties of travelers; many of these have perished miserably, horses and men, and nothing but their swords and portions of their saddles have remained to tell where the battle was fought." CHAPTER XVIII. SENTENCED TO DEATH. Just before arriving at the refuge they had passed along a very steep and dangerous path. On one side the rock rose precipitously, ten feet above their heads. On the other was a fall into the valley below. The road at this point was far wider than usual. Presently the howl of a wolf was heard near, and soon the solitary call was succeeded by the howling of great numbers of animals. These speedily surrounded the hut, and so fierce were their cries that Cnut changed his opinion as to the ease with which they could be defeated, and allowed that he would rather face an army of Saracens than a troop of these ill-conditioned animals. The horse trembled in every limb at the sound of the howling of the wolves; and cold as was the night, in spite of the great fire that blazed on the hearth, his coat became covered with the lather of fear. Even upon the roof above the trampling of the animals could be heard; and through the open slits of the windows which some travelers before them had stuffed with straw, they could hear the fierce breathing and snorting of the savage beasts, who scratched and tore to make an entrance. "Methinks," Cuthbert said, "that we might launch a few arrows through these loopholes. The roof appears not to be over strong; and should some of them force an entrance, the whole pack might follow." Dark as was the night, the black bodies were visible against the white snow, and the archers shot several arrows forth, each stretching a wolf dead on the ground. Those killed were at once pounced upon by their comrades and torn to pieces; and this mark of savageness added to the horror which those within felt of the ferocious animals. Suddenly there was a pause in the howling around the hut, and then Cnut, looking forth from the loophole, declared that the whole body had gone off at full speed along the path by which they had reached the refuge. Almost immediately afterward a loud shout for help was heard, followed by the renewed howling and yelping of the wolves. "Good heavens!" Cuthbert exclaimed. "Some traveler coming after us is attacked by these horrible beasts. Let us sally out, Cnut. We cannot hear a Christian torn to pieces by these beasts, without lending him a hand." In spite of the angry shouts and entreaties of the guide, the door was thrust open, and the party, armed with their axes and bows, at once rushed out into the night. The storm had for the moment abated and they had no difficulty in making their way along the track. In fifty yards they came to a bend of the path, and saw, a little distance before them, a black mass of animals covering the road, and congregated round a figure who stood with his back to the rock. With a shout of encouragement they sprang forward, and in a few moments were in the midst of the savage animals, who turned their rage against them at once. They had fired two or three arrows apiece, as they approached, into them; and now throwing down their bows, the archers betook themselves to their swords, while Cuthbert with his heavy battle-axe hewed and cut at the wolves as they sprang toward him. In a minute they had cleared their way to the figure, which was that of a knight in complete armor. He leaned against the rock completely exhausted, could only mutter a word of thanks through his closed visor. At a short distance off a number of the wolves were gathered, rending and tearing the horse of the knight; but the rest, soon recovering from their surprise, attacked with fury the little party. The thick cloaks of the archers stood them in good stead against the animal's teeth, and standing in a group with their backs to the rock, they hewed and cut vigorously at their assailants. The numbers of these, however, appeared almost innumerable, and fresh stragglers continued to come along the road, and swell their body. As fast as those in front fell, their heads cleft with the axes of the party, fresh ones sprang forward; and Cuthbert saw that in spite of the valor and strength of his men, the situation was well-nigh desperate. He himself had been saved from injury by his harness, for he still had on his greaves and leg pieces. "Keep together," he shouted to his men, "and each lend aid to the other if he sees him pulled down. Strike lustily for life, and hurry not your blows, but let each toll." This latter order he gave perceiving that some of the archers, terrified by this furious army of assailants with gaping mouths and glistening teeth, were striking wildly, and losing their presence of mind. The combat, although it might have been prolonged, could yet have had but one termination, and the whole party would have fallen. At this moment, however, a gust of wind, more furious than any which they had before experienced, swept along the gorge, and the very wolves had to crouch on their stomachs to prevent themselves being hurled by its fury into the ravine below. Then even above the storm a deep roar was heard. It grew louder and louder. The wolves, as if struck with terror, leaped to their feet, and scattered on either way along the path at full speed. "What sound can this be?" Cnut exclaimed in an awe-struck voice. "It sounds like thunder; but it is regular and unbroken; and, my lord, surely the earth quakes under our feet!" Louder and louder grew the roar. "Throw yourselves down against the wall of rock," Cuthbert shouted, himself setting the example. A moment afterward, from above a mighty mass of rock and snow poured over like a cascade, with a roar and sound which nigh stunned them. For minutes--it seemed for hours to them--the deluge of snow and rock continued. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased, and a silence as of death reigned over the place. "Arise," Cuthbert said; "the danger, methinks, is past. It was what men call an avalanche--a torrent of snow slipping down from the higher peaks. We have had a narrow escape indeed." By this time the knight whom they had rescued was able to speak, and raising his visor, he returned his deepest thanks to those who had come so opportunely to his aid. "I was well-nigh exhausted," he said, "and it was only my armor which saved me from being torn to pieces. A score of them had hold of me; but fortunately my mail was of Milan proof, and even the jaws and teeth of these enormous beasts were unable to pierce it." "The refuge is near at hand," Cuthbert said. "It is but a few yards round yonder point. It is well that we heard your voice. I fear that your horse has fallen a victim." Assisting the knight, who in spite of his armor was sorely bruised and exhausted, they made their way back to the refuge. Cnut and the archers were all bleeding freely from various wounds inflicted upon them in the struggle, breathless and exhausted from their exertions, and thoroughly awe-struck by the tremendous phenomenon of which they had been witnesses, and which they had only escaped from their good fortune in happening to be in a place so formed that the force of the avalanche had swept over their heads. The whole of the road, with the exception of a narrow piece four feet in width, had been carried away. Looking upward, they saw that the forest had been swept clear, not a tree remaining in a wide track as far as they could see up the hill. The great bowlders which had strewn the hillside, and many of which were as large as houses, had been swept away like straws before the rush of snow, and for a moment they feared that the refuge had also been carried away. Turning the corner, however, they saw to their delight that the limits of the avalanche had not extended so far, the refuges, as they afterward learned, being so placed as to be sheltered by overhanging cliffs from any catastrophe of this kind. They found the guide upon his knees, muttering his prayers before a cross, which he had formed of two sticks laid crosswise on the ground before him; and he could scarce believe his eyes when they entered, so certain had he considered it that they were lost. There were no longer any signs of the wolves. The greater portion, indeed, of the pack had been overwhelmed by the avalanche, and the rest, frightened and scared, had fled to their fastnesses in the woods. The knight now removed his helmet, and discovered a handsome young man of some twenty-four or twenty-five years old. "I am," he said, "Baron Ernest of Kornstein. To whom do I owe my life?" "In spite of my red cross," Cuthbert said, "I am English. My name is Sir Cuthbert, and I am Earl of Evesham. I am on my return from the Holy Land with my followers; and as we are passing through countries where many of the people are hostile to England, we have thought it as well for a time to drop our nationality. But to you I do not hesitate to tell the truth." "You do well," the young knight said, "for, truth to say, the people of these parts bear but little love to your countrymen. You have saved my life when I was in the sorest danger. I had given myself up for lost, for even my armor could not have saved me long from these wretches; and my sword and life are at your disposal. You are young indeed," he said, looking with surprise at Cuthbert, who had now thrown back the hood of his cloak, "to have gained the honor of knighthood. You scarce look eighteen years of age, although, doubtless, you are older." "I am scarce seventeen," Cuthbert said; "but I have had the good fortune to attract the notice of King Richard, and to have received the knighthood from his sword." "None more worthy," said the young knight, "for although King Richard may be fierce and proud, he is the worthiest knight in Christendom, and resembles the heroes of romance rather than a Christian king." "He is my lord and master," Cuthbert said, "and I love him beyond all men, and would give my life for his. He is the kindest and best of masters; and although it be true that he brooks no opposition, yet is it only because his own bravery and eagerness render hateful to him the indolence and cowardice of others." They now took their seats round the fire. The archers, by the advice of the guide, rubbed their wounds with snow, and then applied bandages to them. The wallets were opened, and a hearty supper eaten; and all, wrapping themselves in their fur cloaks, were soon asleep. For four days the gale continued, keeping the party prisoners in the hut. On the fifth the force of the wind abated, and the snow ceased to fall. They were forced to take the door off its hinges to open it, for the snow had piled up so high that the chimney alone of the hut remained above its surface. With great difficulty and labor they cleared a way out, and then the guide again placing himself at their head, they proceeded on their way. The air was still and cold, and the sky of a deep, dark blue, which seemed even darker in contrast with the whiteness of the snow. At times they had great difficulty in struggling through the deep drifts; but for the most part the wind had swept the path clear. Where it was deepest, the tops of the posts still showed above the snow, and enabled the guide to direct their footsteps. They were, however, obliged to travel slowly, and it was three days before they gained the village on the northern slope of the mountains, having slept at refuges by the road. "What are your plans?" the knight asked Sir Cuthbert that night, as they sat by the fire of the hostelry. "I would warn you that the town which you will first arrive at is specially hostile to your people, for the baron, its master, is a relation of Conrad of Montferat, who is said to have been killed by order of your king." "It is false," Cuthbert said. "King Richard had appointed him King of Jerusalem; and, though he liked him not, thought him the fittest of those there to exercise sovereignty. He was the last man who would have had an enemy assassinated; for so open is he of disposition that he would have fought hand to hand with the meanest soldier of his army had he desired to kill him." "I doubt not that it is so, since you tell me," the knight said courteously. "But the people here have taken that idea into their minds, and it will be hard to disabuse them. You must therefore keep up your disguise as a French knight while passing through this neighborhood. Another week's journeying, and you will reach the confines of Saxony, and there you will, as you anticipate, be safe. But I would not answer for your life were you discovered here to be of English birth. And now tell me if there is aught that I can do for you. I will myself accompany you into the town, and will introduce you as a French knight, so that no suspicion is likely to lie upon you, and will, further, ride with you to the borders of Saxony. I am well known, and trust that my company will avert all suspicion from you. You have told me that your purse is ill-supplied; you must suffer me to replenish it. One knight need not fear to borrow of another; and I know that when you have returned to your home you will bestow the sum which I now give you upon some holy shrine in my name, and thus settle matters between us." Cuthbert without hesitation accepted the offer, and was well pleased at finding his purse replenished, for its emptiness had caused him serious trouble. Cuthbert's steed was led by one of the archers, and he himself walked gayly alongside of Sir Ernest, followed by his retainers. Another long day's march brought them down to Innsbruck, where they remained quietly for a week. Then they journeyed on until they emerged from the mountains, crossed the Bavarian frontier, and arrived at Fussen, a strong city, with well-built walls and defenses. They at once proceeded to the principal hostelry, where the young baron was well known, and where great interest was excited by the news of the narrow escape which he had had from the attack of the wolves. A journey across the Alps was in those days regarded as a very perilous enterprise in the winter season, and the fact that he should have been rescued from such a strait appeared almost miraculous. They stayed for two days quietly in the city, Cuthbert declining the invitation of the young noble to accompany him to the houses of his friends, as he did not wish that any suspicion should be excited as to his nationality, and preferred remaining quiet to having forced upon him the necessity of making false statements. As to his followers, there was no fear of the people among whom they mixed detecting that they were English. To the Bavarian inhabitants, all languages, save their native German, were alike unintelligible; and even had French been commonly spoken, the dialects of that tongue, such as would naturally be spoken by archers and men-at-arms, would have been a Greek to those accustomed only to Norman French. Upon the third day, however, an incident occurred which upset Cuthbert's calculations, and nearly involved the whole party in ruin. The town was, as the young baron had said, governed by a noble who was a near relation of Conrad of Montferat, and who was the bitter enemy of the English. A great _fête_ had been given in honor of the marriage of his daughter, and upon this day the young pair were to ride in triumph through the city. Great preparations had been made; masks and pageants of various kinds manufactured; and the whole townspeople, dressed in their holiday attire, were gathered in the streets. Cuthbert had gone out, followed by his little band of retainers, and taken their station to see the passing show. First came a large body of knights and men-at-arms, with gay banners and trappings. Then rode the bridegroom, with the bride carried in a litter by his side. After this came several allegorical representations. Among these was the figure of a knight bearing the arms of Austria. Underneath his feet, on the car, lay a figure clad in a royal robe, across whom was thrown a banner with the leopards of England. The knight stood with his foot on this figure. This representation of the dishonor of England at the hands of Austria elicited great acclamations from the crowd. Cuthbert clinched his teeth and grasped his sword angrily, but had the sense to see the folly of taking any notice of the insult. Not so with Cnut. Furious it the insult offered to the standard of his royal master, Cnut, with a bound, burst through the ranks of the crowd, leaped on to the car, and with a buffet smote the figure representing Austria into the road, and lifted the flag of England from the ground. A yell of indignation and rage was heard. The infuriated crowd rushed forward. Cnut, with a bound, sprang from the car, and, joining his comrades, burst through those who attempted to impede them, and darted down a by-street. Cuthbert, for the moment amazed at the action of his follower, had on the instant drawn his sword and joined the archers. In the crowd, however, he was for a second separated from them; and before he could tear himself from the hands of the citizens who had seized him, the men-at-arms accompanying the procession surrounded him, and he was led away by them to the castle, the guards with difficulty protecting him from the enraged populace. Even at this moment Cuthbert experienced a deep sense of satisfaction at the thought that his followers had escaped. But he feared that alone, and unacquainted with the language of the country, they would find it difficult indeed to escape the search which would be made for them, and to manage to find their way back to their country. For himself, he had little hopes of liberty, and scarcely more of life. The hatred of the baron toward the English would now be heightened by the daring act of insult to the arms of Austria, and this would give a pretext for any deed of violence which might be wrought. Cuthbert was, after a short confinement, brought before the lord baron of the place, in the great hall of the castle. "Who art thou, sir," the noble exclaimed, "who darest to disturb the marriage procession of my daughter, and to insult the standard of the emperor my master?" "I am Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham, a baron of England," Cuthbert said fearlessly, "and am traveling homeward from the Holy Land. My garb as a Crusader should protect me from all interruption; and the heedless conduct of my retainer was amply justified by the insult offered to the arms of England. There is not one of the knights assembled round you who would not in like manner have avenged an insult offered to those of Austria; and I am ready to do battle in the lists with any who choose to say that the deed was a foul or improper one. In the Holy Land Austrians and English fought side by side; and it is strange indeed to me that on my return, journeying through the country of the emperor, I should find myself treated as an enemy, and see the arms of King Richard exposed to insult and derision by the burghers of this city." As Cuthbert had spoken he threw down his mailed glove, and several of the knights present stepped forward to pick it up. The baron, however, waved them back. "It is no question," he said, "of honorable fight. This is a follower of the murderer of my good cousin of Montferat, who died under the hands of assassins set upon him by Richard of England." "It is false!" Cuthbert shouted. "I denounce it as a foul lie, and will maintain it with my life." "Your life is already forfeited," the baron said, "both by your past connection with Richard of England and as the insulter of the arms of Austria. You die, and to-morrow at noon your head shall be struck off in the great square before my castle." Without another word Cuthbert was hurried off to his cell, and there remained, thinking moodily over the events of the day, until nightfall. He had no doubt that his sentence would be carried out, and his anxiety was rather for his followers than for himself. He feared that they would make some effort on his behalf, and would sacrifice their own lives in doing so, without the possibility of assisting him. The next morning he was led out to the square before the castle. It was a large flagged courtyard. Upon one side was the entrance to the castle, one of whose wings also formed a second side to the square. The side facing this was formed by the wall of the city, and the fourth opened upon a street of the town. This side of the square was densely filled with citizens, while the men-at-arms of the baron and a large number of knights were gathered behind a scaffold erected in the center. Upon this was a block, and by the side stood a headsman. As Cuthbert was led forward a thrill of pleasure ran through him at perceiving no signs of his followers, who he greatly feared might have been captured in the night, and brought there to share his fate. As he was led forward the young noble whose life he had saved advanced to the baron, and dropping on one knee before him, craved the life of Cuthbert, relating the event by which he had saved his life in the passage of the mountains. The baron frowned heavily. "Though he had saved the life of every noble in Bavaria," he said, "he should die. I have sworn an oath that every Englishman who fell into my hands should expiate the murder of my kinsman; and this fellow is, moreover, guilty of an outrage to the arms of Austria." The young Sir Ernest drew himself up haughtily. "My lord baron," he said, "henceforth I renounce all allegiance to you, and I will lay the case before the emperor, our common master, and will cry before him at the outrage which has thus been passed upon a noble gentleman. He has thrown down the glove, and challenged any of your knights, and I myself am equally ready to do battle in his cause." The baron grew red with passion, and he would have ordered the instant arrest of the young man, but as Sir Ernest was connected by blood with many present, and was indeed one of the most popular among the nobles of the province, the baron simply waved him aside, and ordered Cuthbert to be led to the block. The young Englishman was by the executioner divested of his armor and helmet, and stood in the simple attire worn by men of rank at that time. He looked around, and holding up his hand, conveying alike a farewell and a command to his followers to remain in concealment, he gazed round the crowd, thinking that he might see among them in some disguise or other the features of Cnut, whose tall figure would have rendered him conspicuous in a crowd. He failed, however, to see any signs of him, and turning to the executioner, signified by a gesture that he was ready. At this instant an arrow from the wall above pierced the brain of the man, and he fell dead in his tracks. A roar of astonishment burst from the crowd. Upon the city wall at this point was a small turret, and on this were five figures. The wall around was deserted, and for the moment these men were masters of the position. "Seize those insolent varlets!" the baron shouted, shaking his sword with a gesture of fury at them. His words, however, were arrested, for at the moment another arrow struck him in the throat, and he fell back into the arms of those around him. Quickly now the arrows of the English archers flew into the courtyard. The confusion which reigned there was indescribable. The citizens with shouts of alarm took to their heels. The men-at-arms were powerless against this rain of missiles, and the knights, hastily closing their visors, shouted contradictory orders, which no one obeyed. In the confusion no one noticed the prisoner. Seizing a moment when the attention of all was fixed upon the wall, he leaped from the platform, and making his way unnoticed through the excited crowd of men-at-arms, darted down a narrow lane that divided the castle from the wall. He ran along until, one hundred yards further, he came to a staircase by which access to the battlements was obtained. Running lightly up this, he kept along the wall until he reached the turret. "Thanks, my noble Cnut!" he exclaimed, "and you, my brave fellows. But I fear you have forfeited your lives. There is no escape. In a minute the whole force of the place will recover from their confusion, and be down upon us from both sides." "We have prepared for that," Cnut said. "Here is a rope hanging down into the moat." Glancing over, Cuthbert saw that the moat was dry; and after a final discharge of arrows into the crowd, the six men slid one after another down the rope and made their way at full speed across the country. CHAPTER XIX. DRESDEN. It was some ten minutes before the men-at-arms rallied sufficiently from their surprise to obey orders. Two bodies were then drawn up, and proceeded at a rapid pace toward the staircases leading to the wall, one on each side of the turret in which they believed that the little body of audacious assailants were still lying. Having reached the wall, the soldiers advanced, covering themselves with their shields, for they had learned the force with which an English clothyard shaft drawn by a strong hand flies. Many had been killed by these missiles passing through and through the cuirass and backpiece. No reply being obtained to the summons to surrender, they proceeded to break in with their battle-axes the door of the little turret. Rushing in with ax and pike, they were astonished to find the place empty. A glance over the wall showed the rope still hanging, and the manner of the escape became manifest. The fugitives were already out of sight, and the knights, furious at the escape of the men who had bearded them in the heart of the city with such audacity, and had slain the lord baron and several of his knights, gave orders that an instant pursuit should be organized. It was, however, a full half hour before the city gates were thrown open, and a strong troop of knights and mounted men issued out. Cuthbert had been certain that an instant pursuit would be set on foot, and the moment that he was out of sight of the battlements he changed the direction in which he had started, and turning at right angles, swept round the city, still keeping at a distance, until he reached the side next the mountains, and then plunged into the woods on the lower slopes of the hills. "They will," he said, as they halted breathless from their run, "follow the road toward the south, and scour the country for awhile before it occurs to their thick German skulls that we have doubled back on our tracks. Why, what is it, Cnut?" This exclamation was provoked by the forester throwing himself on his knees before Sir Cuthbert, and imploring his pardon for the dire strait into which his imprudence had drawn him. "It was a dire strait, certainly, Cnut. But if you got me into it, at least you have extricated me; and never say more about it, for I myself was near committing the imprudence to which you gave way, and I can well understand that your English blood boiled at the sight of the outrage to the flag of England. Now, let us waste no time in talk, but, keeping to the foot of this mountain, make along as far as we can to the west. We must cling to the hills for many days' march before we venture again to try to cross the plains. If possible, we will keep on this way until we reach the confines of the country of the Swiss, who will assuredly give us hospitality, and who will care little for any threats of these German barons, should they hear that we have reached their asylum." By nightfall they had already traveled many leagues, and making a fire in the wood, Cuthbert asked Cnut for an account of what had taken place on the previous day. "We ran for life, Sir Cuthbert, and had not noticed that you had been drawn into the fray. Had we done so, we would have remained, and sold our lives with yours; but hoping that you had passed unnoticed in the crowd, and that you would find some means to rejoin us we kept upon our way. After running down three streets we passed a place where a courtyard with stables ranged round it was open. There were none about, and we entered, and taking refuge in a loft hid ourselves beneath some provender. There we remained all night, and then borrowing some apparel which some of the stablemen had hung upon the walls, we issued into the town. As we neared the great square we saw some men employed in erecting a platform in the midst, and a suspicion that all might not be right, and that you might have fallen into the hands of these German dogs, beset our minds. After much consultation we determined to see what the affair meant, and making our way on to the walls which, indeed, were entirely deserted, we took refuge in that turret where you saw us. Seeing the crowd gather, and being still more convinced that some misfortune was about to occur, I again went back to the stables, where I had noticed a long rope used by the carters for fastening their loads to the wagons. With this I returned, for it was clear that if we had to mingle in this business it would be necessary to have a mode of escape. Of the rest you are aware. We saw the knights coming out of the castle, with that portly baron, their lord, at their head. We saw the block and the headsman upon the platform, and were scarcely surprised when you were led out, a prisoner, from the gates. We judged that what did happen would ensue. Seeing that the confusion wrought by a sudden attack from men perched up aloft as we were, commanding the courtyard, and being each of us able to hit a silver mark at the distance of one hundred yards, would be great indeed, we judged that you might be able to slip away unobserved, and were sure that your quick wit would seize any opportunity which might offer. Had you not been able to join us, we should have remained in the turret and sold our lives to the last, as, putting aside the question that we could never return to our homes, having let our dear lord die here, we should not, in our ignorance of the language and customs of the country, have ever been able to make our way across it. We knew, however, that before this turret was carried we could show these Germans how five Englishmen, when brought to bay, can sell their lives." They had not much difficulty in obtaining food in the forest, for game abounded, and they could kill as many deer as seemed fit to them. As Cnut said, it was difficult to believe that they were not back again in the forest near Evesham, so similar was their life to that which they had led three years before. To Cnut and the archers, indeed, it was a pleasanter time than any which they had passed since they had left the shores of England, and they blithely marched along, fearing little any pursuit which might be set on foot, and, indeed, hearing nothing of their enemies. After six days' travel they came upon a rude village, and here Cuthbert learned from the people--with much difficulty, however, and pantomime, for neither could understand a word spoken by the other--that they were now in one of the Swiss cantons, and therefore secure from all pursuit by the Germans. Without much difficulty Cuthbert engaged one of the young men of the village to act as their guide to Basle, and here, after four days' traveling, they arrived safely. Asking for the residence of the burgomaster, Cuthbert at once proceeded thither, and stated that he was an English knight on the return from the Crusades; that he had been foully entreated by the Lord of Fussen, who had been killed in a fray by his followers; and that he besought hospitality and refuge from the authorities of Basle. "We care little," the burgomaster said, "what quarrel you may have had with your neighbors. All who come hither are free to come and go as they list, and you, as a knight on the return from the Holy Land, have a claim beyond that of an ordinary traveler." The burgomaster was himself able to speak French, and summoning several of the councilors of the town, he requested Cuthbert to give a narrative of his adventures; which he did. The councilors agreed with the burgomaster that Cuthbert must be received hospitably; but the latter saw that there was among many of them considerable doubt as to the expediency of quarreling with a powerful neighbor. He therefore said to the burgomaster: "I have no intention, honorable sir, of taking up any prolonged residence here. I only ask to be furnished with a charger and arms, and in payment of these I will leave this gold chain, the gift of King Richard himself, as a gage, and will on my return to my country forward to you the value of the arms and horse, trusting that you will return the chain to me." The burgomaster, however, said that the city of Basle was not so poor that it need take the gage of an honorable knight, but that the arms and charger he required should be given him in a few hours, and that he might pay the value in London to a Jew merchant there who had relations with one at Basle. Full instructions were given to him, and he resolved to travel down upon the left bank of the Rhine, until he reached Lorraine, and thence to cross into Saxony. The same afternoon the promised horse and arms were provided, and Cuthbert, delighted again to be in harness, and thanking courteously the burgomaster and council for their kindness, started with his followers on his journey north. These latter had been provided with doublets and other garments suitable to the retinue of a knight, and made a better show than they had done since they first left England. Leaving Basle, they traveled along the left side of the Rhine by easy stages. The country was much disturbed, owing to the return and disbandment of so many of the troops employed in the Crusades. These, their occupation being gone, scattered over the country, and France and Germany alike were harassed by bands of military robbers. The wild country between the borders of Switzerland and Lorraine was specially vexed, as the mountains of the Vosges afforded shelter, into which the freebooters could not be followed by the troops of the duke. Upon the evening of the third day they reached a small inn standing in a lonely position near the foot of the mountains. "I like not the look of this place," Cuthbert said; "but as we hear that there is no other within a distance of another ten miles, we must e'en make the best of it." The host received them with extreme and even fawning civility, which by no means raised him in the estimation of Cuthbert or Cnut. A rough meal was taken, and they then ascended to the rude accommodation which had been provided. It was one large room barely furnished. Upon one side straw was thickly littered down--for in those days beds among the common people were unknown. In a sort of alcove at the end was a couch with a rough mattress and coverlet. This Cuthbert took possession of, while his followers stretched themselves upon the straw. "Methinks," Cnut said, "that it were well that one should keep watch at the door. I like not the look of our host, and we are near the spot where the bands of the robbers are said to be busy." Toward morning the archer on guard reported that he could hear the sound of many approaching footsteps. All at once sprang to their feet, and betook themselves to their arms. Looking from the window they saw a large party of rough men, whose appearance at once betokened that they were disbanded soldiers--a title almost synonymous in those days with that of robber. With the united strength of the party the truckle bed was carried from the alcove and placed against the door. Cuthbert then threw open the window, and asked in French what they wanted. One of the party, who appeared to be the leader, said that the party had better surrender immediately. He promised them good treatment, and said that the knight would be put to ransom, should it be found that the valuables upon his person were not sufficient to pay the worshipful company present for the trouble which they had taken in waiting upon him. This sally was received with shouts of laughter. Cuthbert replied quietly that he had no valuables upon his person; that if they took him there were none would pay as much as a silver mark for the ransom of them all; and that the only things that they had to give were sharp arrows and heavy blows. "You talk bravely, young sir," the man said. "But you have to do with men versed in fight, and caring but little either for knocks or for arrows. We have gone through the Crusades, and are therefore held to be absolved from all sin, even that so great as would be incurred in the cutting of your knightly throat." "But we have gone through the Crusades also," Cuthbert said, "and our persons are sacred. The sin of slitting our weazands, which you speak of, would therefore be so great that even the absolution on which you rely would barely extend to it." "We know most of those who have served in the Holy Land," the man said more respectfully than he had yet spoken, "and would fain know with whom we speak." "I am an Englishman, and a follower of King Richard," Cuthbert said, "and am known as Sir Cuthbert of Evesham. As I was the youngest among the knights who fought for the holy sepulcher, it may be that my appearance is known to you?" "Ah," the other said, "you are he whom they called the Boy Knight, and who was often in the thick of the fray, near to Richard himself. How comes it, Sir Cuthbert, that you are here?" "The fleet was scattered on its return," Cuthbert replied, "and I landed with my followers, well-nigh penniless, at Zara, and have since made my way across the Tyrol. I have, then, as you may well suppose, neither silver nor gold about my person; and assuredly neither Philip of France nor John of Austria would give a noble for my ransom; and it would be long, methinks, to wait ere John of England would care to ransom one of King Richard's followers." The brigands spoke for awhile among themselves, and then the leader said: "You speak frankly and fairly, Sir Knight, and as you have proved yourself indeed a doughty giver of hard blows, and as I doubt not that the archers with you can shoot as straight and as fast as the rest of the Saxon breed, we will e'en let you go on your way, for your position is but little better than ours, and dog should not rob dog." "Thanks, good fellow," Cuthbert said. "We trust that in any case we might have made a strong defense against you; but it would be hard if those who have fought together in the Holy Land should slay each other in this lonely corner of Lorraine." "Are you seeking adventures or employment, Sir Knight? For if so, myself and comrades here would gladly take service with you; and it may be that with a clump of spears you might obtain engagement, either under the Duke of Lorraine or he of Cleves." "Thanks for your offer," Cuthbert replied; "but at present my face is turned toward England. King Richard needs all his friends; and there is so little chance of sack or spoil, even should we have--which God forfend--civil war, that I fear I could ill reward the services which you offer me." The leader and his men shouted an adieu to Cuthbert and departed for the mountains, leaving the latter well pleased with his escape from a fight of which the result was doubtful. Journeying on without further adventure, they came to Nancy, and were there kindly received by the duke, who was not at that time upon good terms with Philip of France, and was therefore well disposed toward the English. Cuthbert inquired from him whether any news had been heard of King Richard? but received as a reply that the duke had heard nothing of him since he sailed from Palestine. "This is strange," Cuthbert said, "for I myself have journeyed but slowly, and have met with many delays. King Richard should long ere this have reached Saxony; and I fear much that some foul treatment has befallen him. On our way we found how bitter was the feeling among those related to Conrad of Montferat against him; and the Archduke John is still smarting from the blow which King Richard struck him at Ascalon. But surely they would not be so unknightly as to hinder so great a champion of Christendom as King Richard on his homeward way?" "The Archduke John is crafty and treacherous," the duke said; "and the emperor himself would, I think, be not sorry to lay hand upon the King of England, were it only to do pleasure to Philip of France. Assuredly, however the anger and indignation of all Christendom will be aroused should the king's passage be interrupted, for it were indeed a gross breach of hospitality to seize upon a man who has the double claim of being a champion of Christendom and a shipwrecked man. However, it is early yet to be uneasy, and it may be that in a few days we may have news of the arrival of the king in Saxony. He may have encountered difficulties similar to those which you yourself have met with. The country is everywhere disturbed, and it is not only in my forests that bands of outlawed men are to be met with. At present there is peace in Europe. It may last indeed but a short time. But so long as it continues, so long must the mountains and woods be full of desperate men. Were war declared between any two princes these would flock to the banners of him who would pay them highest, and a war which could end in the entire destruction of the armies of both combatants would be a blessing to Europe." After entertaining Cuthbert courteously for three days, the Duke of Lorraine bade him adieu, and gave him an escort of men-at-arms to the borders of the Rhine, where he would find the way open to the domains of the Duke of Saxony. Without adventure Cuthbert and his followers arrived at Dresden, and he immediately presented himself at the castle of the duke. The instant that he sent in his name as Sir Cuthbert of Evesham, a knight of King Richard, he was conducted to the presence of the duke and of his wife, the sister of King Richard. "Are you bearer of news of my brother Richard?" the duke said, advancing a step to meet the young knight as he entered the hall. "Alas! my lord duke, I am not," Cuthbert said; "but had hoped to gain tidings from you." "From me?" the duke said in surprise. "What should lead you to believe that I have any news of King Richard later than that which others have received? The last I heard of him was upon the day of his departure from the Holy Land, before the storm arose which scattered his fleet, and I am ignorant whether he has foundered at sea, or whether, as some suppose, his vessel may have been taken captive by the Moors." "I bear you later tidings," Cuthbert said, "than those you have received. I was on board the ship with King Richard. We were wrecked upon the Island of Corfu and there hiring a small ship, we proceeded to Zara. King Richard determined to make his way across the Tyrol to this place; but he thought that it would attract attention to him were he accompanied by so large a party. Therefore he, with Sir Baldwin of Béthune, and a few followers, started north, while I with my men kept west through the north of Italy, and then crossed by the pass over Trent." "How long is it since you left my brother?" the duchess asked anxiously. "It is now over a month since I bade him adieu," Cuthbert answered. "Then he should have been heard of long since," the duchess said. "What fate can have befallen him?" "Judging from my own experience," Cuthbert said, "I fear that he may have come to harm at the hands of the friends of Conrad of Montferat, who falsely allege that the death of their kinsman was caused by King Richard. The Archduke John, too, owes him no good-will; and even the emperor is evilly disposed toward him. The king traveled under an assumed name; but it might well be that he would be recognized upon the way. His face was known to all who fought in the East; and his lordly manner and majestic stature could ill be concealed beneath a merchant's garb. Still, lady, as I have been so long in making my way across, it may be that King Richard has been similarly delayed without danger befalling him, and it could hardly be that so important a man as the King of England would be detained, or come to any misfortune, without the news being bruited abroad." In spite of Cuthbert's reassuring words, the duke and duchess were greatly alarmed at the news of King Richard's disappearance, although indeed consoled to find that their previous fears, that he had been drowned in the storm or captured by the Moorish corsairs, were unfounded. They now requested from Cuthbert the story of what had befallen him since he left the king; and this he related at some length. The duke was greatly interested, and begged Cuthbert at least to remain at his court until some news might arrive of King Richard. For a month Cuthbert tarried at the castle of the Duke of Saxony, where he was nobly entertained, and treated as a guest of much honor. Cnut and the archers were delighted at the treatment they received, for never in their lives had they been so royally entertained. Their Saxon tongue was nigh enough akin to the language spoken here to be understood; and their tales of adventure in the Holy Land rendered them as popular among the retainers of the duke as their master became with the duke and duchess. CHAPTER XX. UNDER THE GREENWOOD. At the end of a month, news came from England that Sir Baldwin of Béthune had returned there, bearing the news that the king had been arrested at Gortz, only two days' journey north of the Adriatic--that he had been recognized, and at once captured. He had offered no resistance, finding indeed that it would be hopeless so to do. Sir Baldwin had been permitted to depart without molestation. He believed that the folk into whose hands he had fallen were retainers of the Archduke John. This news, although sad in itself, was yet in some degree reassuring to the duke and his wife; for they felt that while the followers of Conrad of Montferat would not hesitate to put King Richard to death should he fall into their hands, the Archduke John would not dare to bring upon himself the indignation of Europe by such treatment of his royal captive. Cuthbert at once determined to return to England to see Sir Baldwin, and to ascertain what steps were being taken for the discovery of the prison in which King Richard was confined, and for his release therefrom; and also to establish himself in his new dignity as Earl of Evesham. Therefore, bidding adieu to the duke and duchess, he started north. The duke furnished him with letters of introduction to the princes through whose countries he would travel; and again crossing the Rhine, he journeyed through the territories of the Dukes of Cleves and Brabant, and reached the mouth of Scheldt without interruption. There taking ship, he sailed for London. It was a long and stormy passage between the mouth of the Scheldt and London. The vessel in which Cuthbert had shipped was old and somewhat unseaworthy, and several times in the force of the gale all on board gave up hope for their lives. At last, however, they reached the mouth of the Thames, and dropping up with the tide, reached London eight days after their embarkation. The noble charger which the King of Saxony had presented to Cuthbert had suffered greatly, and he feared at one time that the poor animal would succumb to the effects of the tempest. However, after entering into smooth water it recovered itself, and on landing near the Tower he found that it was able to support his weight. Cnut and the archers were, like Cuthbert, delighted to have their feet again upon English soil; and although London did not now strike them with the same wonder which it would have done had they first visited it before starting on their journey--for in many respects it was greatly behind some of the continental cities--yet the feeling of home, and the pleasure of being able to understand the conversation of those around them, made the poor fellows almost beside themselves with joy. Beyond the main political incidents Cuthbert had heard little of what had passed in England since his departure; and putting up at a hostelry, he inquired of the host whether Sir Baldwin of Béthune was in London, or whether he was away on his estates. The landlord did not know. There were, he said, but few nobles at court, and London was never so dull as at present. As Cuthbert did not wish his coming home to be known to John until he had learned something of the position of affairs, he dispatched Cnut to the Tower to inquire privately of some of the officials about the place whether Sir Baldwin was there. Cnut soon returned with the news that he had not been at the court since his return from the Holy Land, and that he was living at his castle down in Dorsetshire. After some hesitation Cuthbert resolved to set out to see his friend, and after six days' travel he arrived at the castle of the knight. Sir Baldwin received him with immense joy. He had not heard of him since they parted at Zara, and he feared that a fate similar to that which had befallen King Richard had overtaken Cuthbert, even if he were still alive. "Have you seen aught of the king, our master?" the good knight inquired. "Nothing," Cuthbert said. "I know no more than yourself. Indeed, I hoped to have learned something from you as to the king." "I was separated from him at Gortz, and while he was taken a prisoner to the archduke, I was allowed to pursue my way. I had many difficulties and dangers, and was some weeks in finding my way back. Nothing was known of the king when I returned. Indeed, I was the first bearer of any definite news concerning him since the day when he sailed from Acre. Three weeks ago, as you may have learned, the news came that he is now detained in captivity by the emperor, who demanded his delivery by the Archduke John, into whose hands he first fell. But where he is no one exactly knows. The news has created an immense excitement in the kingdom, and all are resolved to sacrifice any of their treasures which may be demanded in order to satisfy the ransom which the recreant emperor has placed upon the king. Shame is it indeed that a Christian sovereign should hold another in captivity. Still more, when that other was returning through his dominions as a Crusader coming from the Holy Land, when his person should be safe, even to his deadliest enemy. It has long been suspected that he was in the hands either of the emperor or of the archduke, and throughout Europe the feeling of indignation has been strong; and I doubt not, now that the truth is known, this feeling will be stronger than ever." "But now that it is known," Cuthbert said, "I suppose there will be no delay in ransoming the king." "There will be no delay in raising the ransom," Sir Baldwin said. "But the kingdom is very impoverished by war, by the exactions of Prince John, and by those of Langley, who held it for King Richard. He was a loyal servant of the king, but an exacting and rapacious prelate. However, I doubt not that the rents of the English nobles will soon be charged with sums sufficient for the ransom; and if this avail not, not one of them will grudge their silver flagons and vessels to melt down to make the total required. But we must not flatter ourselves that he will obtain his liberty so soon as the money is raised. Prince John has long been yearning for sovereignty. He has long exercised the real, if not the nominal, power, and he has been intriguing with the pope and Philip of France for their support for his seizing the crown. He will throw every obstacle in the way, as, we may be sure, will Philip of France, Richard's deadly enemy. And now about yourself, Sir Cuthbert; tell me what has befallen you since we last met." Cuthbert related the adventures which had befallen him, and heard those of Sir Baldwin. "You have not, I suppose," the latter remarked, "as yet seen Prince John?" "No," Cuthbert replied, "I thought it better to come down to ask you to advise me on the position of affairs before I attempted to see him." "You did well," Sir Baldwin said. "When I arrived, I found that the proper officials had, according to King Richard's instructions, draw up the patent conferring upon you the lands and title of Earl of Evesham, before leaving Acre, and had received the king's signature to it. This was attested by several of the nobles who were with us and who returned safely to England. Prince John, however, declared that he should not give any heed to the document; that King Richard's power over this realm had ceased before he made it; and that he should bestow the earldom upon whomsoever he chose. As a matter of fact, it has been given to Sir Rudolph Fleming, a Norman knight and a creature of the prince. The king has also, I hear, promised to him the hand of the young Lady Margaret, when she shall become of marriageable age. At present she is placed in a convent in Worcester. The abbess is, I believe, a friend of the late earl, and the girl had been with her for some time previously. Indeed she went there, I think, when her father left England. This lady was ordered to give up her charge to the guardianship of Sir Rudolph; but she refused to do so, saying that it would not be convenable for a young lady to be under the guardianship of a bachelor knight having no lady at the head of his establishment, and that therefore she should retain her, in spite of the orders of the prince. Prince John, I hear, flew into a fury at this; but he did not dare to provoke the anger of the whole of the clergy by ordering the convent to be violated. And indeed, not only would the clergy have been indignant, but many of the great nobles would also have taken their part, for there can be no doubt that the contention of the abbess was reasonable; and there is among all the friends of King Richard a very strong feeling of anger at your having been deprived of the earldom. This, however, has so far not found much vent in words, for as it was uncertain whether you would ever return to claim your rights, it was worth no one's while to embroil himself unnecessarily with the prince on such a subject. God knows that there are subjects enough of dispute between John Lackland and the English barons without any fresh ones arising. The kingdom is in a state of disturbance. There have been several risings against Prince John's authority; but those have been, so far, suppressed. Now that we know where King Richard is, and hope for his return ere very long, it is probable that peace will be maintained; but should treachery prevail, and King Richard's return be prevented, you may be sure that John will not be permitted to mount the throne without the determined resistance of a large number of the nobles." "But," Cuthbert said, "John is not the successor to the throne. Prince Arthur of Brittany was named by King Richard from the first as his successor. He is so by blood and by right, and John can have no pretense to the throne so long as he lives." "That is so," Sir Baldwin said. "But unhappily in England at present might makes right, and you may be sure that at King Richard's death, be it when it may, Prince John will make a bold throw for the throne, and, aided as he will be by the pope and by Philip of France, methinks that his chances are better than those of the young prince. A man's power, in warlike times, is more than a boy's. He can intrigue and promise and threaten, while a boy must be in the hands of partisans. I fear that Prince Arthur will have troubled times indeed before he mounts the throne of England. Should Richard survive until he becomes of age to take the field himself and head armies, he may succeed, for all speak well of him as a boy of singular sweetness of disposition, while Prince John is detested by all save those who flatter and live by him. But enough for the present of politics, Cuthbert; let us now to table. It is long since we two feasted together; and, indeed, such meals as we took in the Holy Land could scarcely have been called feasts. A boar's head and a good roasted capon are worthy all the strange dishes that we had there. I always misdoubted the meat, which seemed to me to smack in flavor of the Saracens, and I never could bring myself to inquire whence that strange food was obtained. A stoup of English ale, too, is worth all the Cyprus wines, especially when the Cyprus wines are half-full of the sand of the desert. Pah! it makes my throat dry to think of those horrible meals. So you have brought Cnut and your four archers safely back with you?" "Yes," Cuthbert said, smiling. "But they were, I can assure you, a heavy weight on me, in spite of their faithfulness and fidelity. Their ignorance of the language brought most of my troubles upon me, and Cnut had something of the nature of a bull in him. There are certain things which he cannot stomach, and when he seeth them he rageth like a wild beast, regardless altogether of safety or convenience." In the evening the two knights again talked over the course which Cuthbert should adopt. The elder knight's opinion was that his young friend had best formally claim the title by writing to the king-at-arms, and should also announce his return to Prince John, signing himself "Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham;" but that, in the present state of things, it would be unwise for him to attempt to regain his position, should, as was certain to be the case, Prince John refuse to recognize him. "You are very young yet," Sir Baldwin said, "not eighteen, I think, and can afford to wait, at any rate, to see whether King Richard returns. Should he come back, he will see all these wrongs are righted; and one of his first cares would assuredly be to cast this usurper out of his stolen dignities. How old is the Lady Margaret?" "She is fifteen," Cuthbert said. "She was three years younger than I." "I wish she had been younger," Sir Baldwin said. "At fifteen she is not by custom fairly marriageable; but men can strain these points when they choose; and I fear that the news of your coming will hasten both the prince and Sir Rudolph in their determination to strengthen the claim of this usurper by marriage with the heiress of Evesham. The Lady Margaret and her friends can of course claim that she is a royal ward, and that as such the king alone can dispose of her person and estates. But unfortunately force overrides argument." "But surely," Cuthbert said, "they will never venture to take her by force from the convent?" "They venture a great many strange things in England now," Sir Baldwin said; "and Worcester is perilously near to Evesham. With a clump of twenty spears, Sir Rudolph might break into the convent and carry off the young lady, and marry her by force; and although the Church might cry out, crying would be of little avail when the deed was done; and a handsome present on the part of Sir Rudolph might go far to shut the mouths of many of the complainants, especially as he will be able to say that he has the king's sanction for what he did." "Methinks," Cuthbert said, "that if such be the case it would be perilous indeed to wait for King Richard's return. Assuredly Sir Rudolph would not tarry until she attained the age of seventeen, and it may well be that two years may yet pass before King Richard comes back. It seems to me the wiser part will be that I should give Prince John no notice that I am in England. As you say, such notice would be of no avail in recovering my lands and title, but it would put the prince upon his guard; and assuredly he and his minions would press forward their measures to obtain possession of the person of the Lady Margaret; while, on the other hand, no harm can come of my maintaining silence." "I think that you are right, Sir Cuthbert. It were indeed best that your enemies should suppose you either dead or in some dungeon in the Tyrol. What would you then do?" "I would return to my old home," Cuthbert said. "My lady mother is, I trust, still alive. But I will not appear at her house, but will take refuge in the forest there. Cnut, and the archers with him, were all at one time outlaws living there, and I doubt not that there are many good men and true still to be found in the woods. Others will assuredly join when they learn that Cnut is there, and that they are wanted to strike a blow for my rights. I shall then bide my time. I will keep a strict watch over the castle and over the convent. As the abbess is a friend and relative of Lady Margaret's, I may obtain an interview with her, and warn her of the dangers that await her, and ask if she be willing to fulfill the promise of her father and King Richard's will, in accepting me as her husband when due time shall arrive, and whether she will be willing that I should take such steps as I may to deliver her from the persecution of Sir Rudolph. If, as I trust, she assents to this, I will keep a watch over the convent as well as the castle, and can then either attack the latter or carry her off from the former, as the occasion may appear to warrant. There are plenty of snug cottages round the forest, where she can remain in concealment in the care of some good farmer's wife for months, and we shall be close at hand to watch over her. With the aid of the forest men, Sir Walter took the castle of Sir John of Wortham; and although Evesham is a far grander pile than that, yet methinks it could be carried by a sudden assault; and we know more of war now than we did then. Prince John may deny me the right of being the Earl of Evesham; but methinks before many months I can, if I choose, become its master." "Be not too hasty in that matter," Sir Baldwin said. "You might capture the castle with the aid of your outlaws; but you could scarcely hold it. The prince has, ere now, with the aid of those faithful to him and his foreign mercenaries, captured stronger holds than that of Evesham; and if you turn his favorite out, you would have a swarm of hornets around you such as the walls of Evesham could not keep out. It would therefore be worse than useless for you to attempt what would be something like an act of rebellion against Prince John's authority, and would give him what now he has no excuse for, a ground for putting a price upon your head--and cutting it off if he got the opportunity. You might now present yourself boldly at court, and although he might refuse to recognize your title of earl, yet, as a knight and a Crusader who has distinguished himself greatly in the Holy Land, he dare not interfere with your person, for this would be resented by the whole of the chivalry of England. Still, I agree with you that your best course is to keep your return a secret. You will then be unwatched and unnoticed, and your enemies will take their time in carrying their designs into effect." Two days later Cuthbert, attended by his faithful retainers, left Sir Baldwin's castle, and traveled by easy stages through Wiltshire and the confines of Gloucestershire up to Worcester. He had been supplied by Sir Baldwin with suitable attire for himself and his followers, and now rode as a simple knight, without arms or cognizance, journeying from one part to another. All the crosses and other crusading signs were laid aside, and there was nothing to attract any attention to him upon his passage. Cuthbert had at first thought of going direct to the convent of Worcester, and asking for an interview with Lady Margaret; but he reflected that it might be possible that some of the myrmidons of Sir Rudolph might be keeping a watch over that building to see that Lady Margaret was not secretly removed to some other place of refuge, and that the appearance of a knight before its doors would excite comment and suspicion. He therefore avoided the town, and journeyed straight to the forest, where he had so often roamed with Cnut and the outlaws. Here he found that matters had but little changed since he was last there. Many of those who had fought with him in the Holy Land, and who had returned by sea, had again taken to the forest, joined by many new men whom the exactions of Sir Rudolph had already goaded into revolt. Cnut was received with enthusiasm, and when he presented Cuthbert to them as the rightful heir of Evesham and the well-known friend of the foresters, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They at once accepted him as their lord and master, and promised to obey his orders, and to lay down their lives, if necessary, in his cause, as they knew that it was he who had formerly obtained the pardon of the forest band, and who had fought with them in their attack on Wortham Castle. To Cuthbert's great delight he heard that his mother was in good health, although she had for some months been grievously fretting over his disappearance and supposed death. Cuthbert hesitated whether he should proceed at once to see her; but he feared that the shock of his appearance might be too much for her, and that her expressions of joy might make the retainers and others aware of his arrival, and the news might in some way reach the ears of those at the castle. He therefore dispatched Cnut to see her, and break the news to her cautiously, and to request her to arrange for a time when she would either see Cuthbert at some place at a distance from the house, or would so arrange that the domestics should be absent and that he would have an interview with her there unobserved. Cnut was absent some hours, and on his return told Cuthbert that he had seen Dame Editha, and that her joy on hearing of her son's safe arrival had caused her no harm, but rather the reverse. The news that King Richard had bestowed upon him the title and lands of Evesham was new to her, and she was astonished indeed to hear of his elevation. Having heard much of the character of the pretending earl, she had great fears for the safety of Cuthbert, should his residence in the neighborhood get to his ears; and although sure of the fidelity of all her retainers, she feared that in their joy at their young master's return they might let slip some incautious word which would come to the ears of some of those at the castle. She therefore determined to meet him at a distance. She had arranged that upon the following day she would give out that she intended to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Dunstan, which lay at the edge of the forest, to thank him for her recovery from illness, and to pray for the safety of her son. She would be carried thither in a litter, and her journey would excite no comment whatever. She would take with her four of her most trusted retainers, and would on her arrival at the shrine send them to a distance, in order to pay her devotions undisturbed. Cuthbert was to be near, and the moment he saw them depart, to enter. This arrangement was carried out, and the joy of Dame Editha at again meeting her son was deep indeed. He had left her a lad of fifteen. He now returned a youth of nearly eighteen, stout and strong beyond his age, and looking far older than he was, from the effect of the hot sun of Syria and of the hardships through which he had gone. That he should win his spurs upon the first opportunity the earl had promised her, and she doubted not that he would soon attain the rank which his father had held. But that he should return to her a belted earl was beyond her wildest thoughts. This, however, was but little in her mind then. It was her son, and not the Earl of Evesham, whom she clasped in her arms. As the interview must necessarily be a short one, Cuthbert gave her but a slight outline of what had happened since they parted, and the conversation then turned upon the present position, and upon the steps which had best be taken. "Your peril is, I fear, as great here as when you were fighting the infidels in the Holy Land," she said. "Sir Rudolph has not been here long; but he has proved himself a cruel and ruthless master. He has driven forth many of the old tenants and bestowed their lands upon his own servants and retainers. The forest laws he carries out to the fullest severity, and has hung several men who were caught infringing them. He has laid such heavy burdens on all the tenants that remain that they are fairly ruined, and if he stay here long he will rule over a desert. Did he dream of your presence here, he would carry fire and sword through the forest. It is sad indeed to think that so worthless a knave as this should be a favorite of the ruler of England. But all men say that he is so. Thus were you to attack him, even did you conquer and kill him, you would have the enmity of Prince John to contend with; and he spareth none, man or woman, who stand in his way. It will be a bad day indeed for England should our good King Richard not return. I will, as you wish me, write to my good cousin, the Lady Abbess of St. Anne's, and will ask that you may have an interview with the Lady Margaret, to hear her wishes and opinions concerning the future, and will pray her to do all that she can to aid your suit with the fair young lady, and to keep her at all events safe from the clutches of the tyrant of Evesham." Three days later a boy employed as a messenger by Dame Editha brought a note to Cuthbert, saying that she had heard from the Abbess of St. Anne's, who would be glad to receive a visit from Cuthbert. The abbess had asked his mother to accompany him; but this she left for him to decide. Cuthbert sent back a message in reply that he thought it would be dangerous for her to accompany him, as any spy watching would report her appearance, and inquiries were sure to be set on foot as to her companion. He said that he himself would call at the convent on the following evening after nightfall, and begged her to send word to the abbess to that effect, in order that he might, when he presented himself, be admitted at once. CHAPTER XXI. THE ATTEMPT ON THE CONVENT. Upon the following evening Cuthbert proceeded to Worcester. He left his horse some little distance outside the town, and entered on foot. Having no apprehension of an attack, he had left all his pieces of armor behind, and was in the quiet garb of a citizen. Cnut attended him--for that worthy follower considered himself as responsible that no harm of any sort should befall his young master. The consequences of his own imprudence in the Tyrol were ever before his mind, and he determined that from henceforth there should be no want of care on his part. He accompanied Cuthbert to within a short distance of the convent, and took up his position in the shade of a house, whence he could watch should any one appear to be observing Cuthbert's entrance. Upon ringing the bell Cuthbert told the porteress, as had been arranged, that he had called on a message from Dame Editha, and he was immediately ushered into the parlor of the convent, where, a minute or two later, he was joined by the lady abbess. He had when young been frequently to the convent, and had always been kindly received. "I am indeed glad to see you, Sir Cuthbert," she said, "though I certainly should not have recognized the lad who used to come here with my cousin in the stalwart young knight I see before me. You are indeed changed and improved. Who would think that my gossip Editha's son would come to be the Earl of Evesham! The Lady Margaret is eager to see you; but I think that you exaggerate the dangers of her residence here. I cannot think that even a minion of Prince John would dare to violate the sanctity of a convent." "I fear, good mother," Cuthbert said, "that when ambition and greed are in one scale, reverence for the holy church will not weigh much in the other. Had King Richard been killed upon his way home, or so long as nothing was heard of him, Sir Rudolph might have been content to allow matters to remain as they were, until at least Lady Margaret attained an age which would justify him in demanding that the espousal should be carried out. But the news which has now positively been ascertained, that the king is in the hands of the emperor, and the knowledge that sooner or later his freedom will be obtained, will hasten the friends of the usurper to make the most of their advantage. He knows that the king would at once upon his return annul the nomination of Sir Rudolph to the earldom which had previously been bestowed upon me. But he may well think that if before that time he can secure in marriage the person of the late earl's daughter, no small share of the domains may be allotted to him as her dowry, even if he be obliged to lay by his borrowed honors. You will, unless I am greatly mistaken, hear from him before long." The abbess looked grave. "There is much in what you say, Sir Cuthbert; and indeed a certain confirmation is given to it by the fact that only yesterday I received a letter from Sir Rudolph, urging that now the Lady Margaret is past the age of fifteen, and may therefore be considered marriageable, the will of the prince should be carried into effect, and that she should for the present be committed to the charge of the Lady Clara Boulger, who is the wife of a friend and associate of Sir Rudolph. He says that he should not wish to press the marriage until she attains the age of sixteen, but that it were well that his future wife should become accustomed to the outside world, so as to take her place as Castellan of Evesham with a dignity befitting the position. I wrote at once to him saying that in another year it would, in my poor judgment, be quite time to think about such worldly matters; that at the present the Lady Margaret was receiving an education suitable to her rank; that she was happy here; and that unless constrained by force--of which, I said, I could not suppose that any possibility existed--I should not surrender the Lady Margaret into any hands whatsoever, unless, indeed, I received the commands of her lawful guardian, King Richard." "You said well, holy mother," Sir Cuthbert said. "But you see the hawks scent the danger from afar, and are moving uneasily already. Whether they consider it so pressing that they will dare to profane the convent, I know not. But I am sure that should they do so, they will not hesitate a moment at the thought of the anger of the church. Prince John has already shown that he is ready, if need be, to oppose the authority of the holy father, and he may well, therefore, despise any local wrath that might be excited by an action which he can himself disavow, and for which, even at the worst, he need only inflict some nominal punishment upon his vassal. Bethink thee, lady, whether it would not be safer to send the Lady Margaret to the care of some person, where she may be concealed from the search of Sir Rudolph." "I would gladly do so," the abbess said, "did I know of such a person or such a place. But it is difficult indeed, for a young lady of rank to be concealed from such sharp searchers as Sir Rudolph would be certain to place upon her track. Your proposal that she should take refuge in the house of some small franklin near the forest, I cannot agree to. In the first place, it would demean her to be so placed; and in the second, we could never be sure that the report of her residence there might not reach the ears of Sir Rudolph. As a last resource, of course, such a step would be justifiable, but not until at least overt outrages have been attempted. Now I will call Lady Margaret in." The young girl entered with an air of frank gladness, but was startled at the alteration which had taken place in her former playfellow, and paused and looked at the abbess, as if inquiring whether this could be really the Cuthbert she had known. Lady Margaret was fifteen in years; but she looked much younger. The quiet seclusion in which she had lived in the convent had kept her from approaching that maturity which as an earl's daughter, brought up in the stir and bustle of a castle, she would doubtless have attained. "This is indeed Sir Cuthbert," the abbess said, "your old playfellow, and the husband destined for you by your father and by the will of the king." Struck with a new timidity, the girl advanced, and, according to the custom of the times, held up her cheek to be kissed. Cuthbert was almost as timid as herself. "I feel, Lady Margaret," he said, "a deep sense of my own unworthiness of the kindness and honor which the dear lord your father bestowed upon me; and were it not that many dangers threaten, and that it were difficult under the circumstances to find one more worthy of you, I would gladly resign you into the hands of such a one were it for your happiness. But believe me that the recollection of your face has animated me in many of the scenes of danger in which I have been placed; and although even in fancy my thoughts scarcely ventured to rise so high, yet I felt as a true knight might feel for the lady of his love." "I always liked you, Sir Cuthbert," the girl said frankly, "better than any one else next to my father, and gladly submit myself to his will. My own inclinations indeed, so far as is maidenly, go with his. These are troubled times," she said anxiously, "and our holy mother tells me that you fear some danger is overhanging me." "I trust that the danger may not be imminent," Cuthbert answered. "But knowing the unscrupulous nature of the false Earl of Evesham, I fear that the news that King Richard is found will bestir him to early action. But you can rely, dear lady, on a careful watch being kept over you night and day; and should any attempt be made to carry you away, or to put force upon you, be assured that assistance will be at hand. Even should any attempt succeed, do not lose heart, for rescue will certainly be attempted; and I must be dead, and my faithful followers crushed, before you can become the bride of Sir Rudolph." Then turning to other subjects, he talked to her of the life he had led since he last saw her. He told her of the last moments of her father, and of the gallant deeds he had done in the Holy Land. After waiting for two hours, the abbess judged that the time for separation had arrived; and Cuthbert, taking a respectful adieu of his young mistress, and receiving the benediction of the abbess, departed. He found Cnut on guard at the point where he had left him. "Have you seen aught to give rise to suspicion?" Cuthbert asked. "Yes," Cnut said, "the place is undoubtedly watched. Just after you had entered a man came from that house yonder and went up to the gate, as if he would fain learn by staring at its iron adornments the nature of him who had passed in. Then he re-entered his house, and if I mistake not is still on the watch at that casement. If we stand here for a minute or two, perchance he may come out to see what delays you in this dark corner, in which case I may well give him a clout with my ax which will settle his prying." "Better not," Cuthbert said. "We can retire round this corner and so avoid his observation; and were his body found slain here, suspicion would be at once excited in the mind of his employer. At present he can have no ground for any report which may make the knight uneasy, for he can but know that a gentleman has entered, and remained for two hours at the convent, and he will in no way connect my visit with the Lady Margaret." They had just turned the corner which Cuthbert indicated, when a man came up rapidly behind them and almost brushed them as he passed, half-turning round and trying to gaze into their faces. Cnut at once assumed the aspect of an intoxicated person, and stretching forth his foot, with a dexterous shove pushed the stranger into the gutter. The latter rose with a fierce cry of anger; but Cnut with a blow of his heavy fist again stretched him on the ground, this time to remain quiet until they had walked on and passed out of sight. "A meddling fool," Cnut grumbled. "He will not, methinks, have much to report to Sir Rudolph this time. Had I thought that he had seen your face, I would have cleft his skull with no more hesitation than I send an arrow into the brain of a stag in the forest." As they journeyed along Cuthbert informed Cnut of what the abbess had told him; and the latter agreed that a watch must be placed on the convent, and that a force must be kept as near as possible at hand so as to defeat any attempt which might be made. The next day one of the forest men who had been a peaceable citizen, but who had been charged with using false weights and had been condemned to lose his ears, repaired to Worcester. His person was unknown there, as he had before lived at Gloucester. He hired a house in the square in which the convent was situated, giving out that he desired to open a house of business for the sale of silks, and for articles from the Low Countries. As he paid down earnest-money for the rent no suspicion whatever was excited. He at once took up his abode there, having with him two stout serving-men, and a 'prentice boy; and from that time two sets of watchers observed without ceasing what passed at the Convent of St. Anne. At a distance of half a mile from the road leading between Worcester and Evesham stood a grange, which had for some time been disused, the ground belonging to it having been sequestrated and given to the lord of an adjoining estate, who did not care to have the grange occupied. In this ten men, headed by Cnut, took up their residence, blocking up the window of the hall with hangings, so that the light of the fire kindled within would not be observed. Two months passed on without any incident of importance. The feeling between the outlaws in the forest and the retainers of the false Earl of Evesham was becoming much imbittered. Several times the foresters of the latter, attempting pursuit of men charged with breaking the game laws, were roughly handled. These on making their report were sent back again, supported by a force of footmen; but these, too, were driven back, and the authority of Sir Rudolph was openly defied. Gradually it came to his ears that the outlaws were commanded by a man who had been their leader in times gone by, but who had been pardoned, and had, with a large number of his band, taken service in the army of the Crusaders; also, that there was present a stranger, whose manner and the deference paid to him by Cnut proclaimed him to be of gentle blood. This news awakened grave uneasiness on the part of Sir Rudolph. The knight caused inquiries to be made, and ascertained that Cnut had been especially attached to the young Cuthbert, and that he had fought under the Earl of Evesham's banner. It seemed possible then that with him had returned the claimant for the earldom; and in that case Sir Rudolph felt that danger menaced him, for the bravery of the Earl of Evesham's adopted son had been widely spoken of by those who had returned from the Holy Land. Sir Rudolph was a man of forty, tall and dark, with Norman features. He held the Saxons in utter contempt, and treated them as beings solely created to till the land for the benefit of their Norman lords. He was brave and fearless, and altogether free from the superstition of the times. Even the threats of the pope, which although Prince John defied them yet terrified him at heart, were derided by his follower, who feared no one thing in the world, save, perhaps, the return of King Richard from captivity. No sooner had the suspicion that his rival was in the neighborhood possessed him than he determined that one of two things must be carried out: either Sir Cuthbert must be killed, or the Lady Margaret must be carried off and forced to accept him as her husband. First he endeavored to force Sir Cuthbert to declare himself and to trust to his own arm to put an end to his rival. To that end he caused a proclamation to be written, and to be affixed to the door of the village church at the fair of Evesham. Cnut and several of his followers were there, all quietly dressed as yeomen. Seeing a crowd round the door of the church, he pressed forward. Being himself unable to read writing, he asked one of the burgesses what was written upon the paper which caused such excitement. "It is," the burgess said, "in the nature of a cartel or challenge from our present lord, Sir Rudolph. He says that it having come to his ears that a Saxon serf, calling himself Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham, is lurking in the woods and consorting with outlaws and robbers, he challenges him to appear, saying that he will himself, grievously although he would demean himself by so doing, yet condescend to meet him in the lists with sword and battle-ax, and to prove upon his body the falseness of his averments. Men marvel much," the burgess continued, "at this condescension on the earl's part. We have heard indeed that King Richard, before he sailed for England, did, at the death of the late good earl, bestow his rank and the domains of Evesham upon Sir Cuthbert, the son of the Dame Editha. Whether it be true or not, we cannot say; but it seems strange that such honor should have been bestowed upon one so young. In birth indeed he might aspire to the rank, since his father, Sir Walter, was a brave knight, and the mother, Dame Editha, was of good Saxon blood, and descended from those who held Evesham before the arrival of the Normans." Cnut's first impulse was to stride forward and to tear down the proclamation. But the remembrance of his solemn determination not in future to act rashly came across him, and he decided to take no steps until he had reported the facts to his master, and taken his counsel thereon. Cuthbert received the news with much indignation. "There is naught that I should like better," he said, "than to try my strength against that of this false traitor. But although I have proved my arm against the Saracens, I think not that it is yet strong enough to cope against a man who, whatsoever be his faults, is said to be a valiant knight. But that would not deter me from attempting the task. It is craftily done on the part of Sir Rudolph. He reckons that if I appear he will kill me; that if I do not appear, I shall be branded as a coward, and my claims brought into disrepute. It may be, too, that it is a mere ruse to discover if I be in the neighborhood. Some rumors thereof may have reached him, and he has taken this course to determine upon their truth. He has gone too far, and honest men will see in the cartel itself a sign that he misdoubts him that my claims are just; for were I, as he says, a Saxon serf, be sure that he would not condescend to meet me in the lists as he proposes. I trust that the time will come when I may do so. But at present I will submit to his insult rather than imperil the success of our plans, and, what is of far greater importance, the safety and happiness of the Lady Margaret, who, did aught befall me, would assuredly fall into his hands." After some thought, however, Cuthbert drew up an answer to the knight's proclamation. He did not in this speak in his own name, but wrote as if the document were the work of Cnut. It was worded as follows: "I, Cnut, a free Saxon and a leader of bowmen under King Richard in the Holy Land, do hereby pronounce and declare the statements of Sir Rudolph, miscalled the Earl of Evesham, to be false and calumnious. The earldom was, as Rudolph well knows, and as can be proved by many nobles and gentlemen of repute who were present with King Richard, granted to Sir Cuthbert, King Richard's true and faithful follower. When the time shall come Sir Cuthbert will doubtless be ready to prove his rights. But at present right has no force in England, and until the coming of our good King Richard must remain in abeyance. Until then, I support the title of Sir Cuthbert, and do hereby declare Sir Rudolph a false and perjured knight; and warn him that if he falls into my hands it will fare but badly with him, as I know it will fare but badly with me should I come into his." At nightfall the cartel of Sir Rudolph was torn down from the church and that of Cnut affixed in its place. The reading thereof caused great astonishment in Evesham, and the rage of Sir Rudolph, when the news came to his ears, was very great. Cuthbert was sure that this affair would quicken the intentions of Sir Rudolph with regard to the Lady Margaret, and he received confirmation of this in a letter which the abbess sent him, saying that she had received another missive from Sir Rudolph, authoritatively demanding in the king's name the instant surrender of Lady Margaret to him. That night forty archers stole, one by one, quietly into Worcester, entering the town before the gates were shut, and so mingling with the citizens that they were unobserved. When it was quite dark they quietly took their way, one by one, to the square in which stood the convent, and were admitted into the shop of Master Nicholas, the silk mercer. The house was a large one, with its floors overhanging each the one beneath it, as was the custom of the time, and with large casements running the whole width of the house. The mercer had laid by a goodly store of provisions, and for three days the troop, large as it was, was accommodated there. Cuthbert himself was with them, Cnut remaining at the grange with the ten men originally sent there. On the third day Sir Rudolph, with a number of knights and men-at-arms, arrived in the town, giving out that he was passing northward, but he would abide that night at the hostelry. A great many of his men-at-arms did, as those on the watch observed, enter one by one into the town. The people of Worcester were somewhat surprised at this large accompaniment of the earl, but thought no harm. The Abbess of St. Anne's, however, was greatly terrified, as she feared that some evil design might be intended against her. She was, however, reassured in the evening by a message brought by a boy, to the effect that succor would be near, whatsoever happened. At midnight a sudden uproar was heard in the streets of Worcester. A party of men fell upon the burgesses guarding the gate of the town, disarmed them, and took possession of it. At the same time those who had put up at the hostelry with Sir Rudolph suddenly mounted their horses, and with a great clatter rode down the streets to the convent of St. Anne. Numbers of men on foot also joined, and some sixty in all suddenly appeared before the great gate of the convent. With a thundering noise they knocked at the door, and upon the grating being opened Sir Rudolph himself told the porteress who looked through it that she was to go at once to the abbess and order her to surrender the body of the Lady Margaret to him, in accordance with the order of Prince John; adding, that if within the space of five minutes the order was not complied with, he would burst in the gates of the convent and take her for himself. In another minute a casement opened above, and the abbess herself appeared. "Rash man," she said to Sir Rudolph, "I warn you against committing the sin of sacrilege. Neither the orders of Prince John nor of any other potentate can override the rights of the holy church; and should you venture to lay the hand of force upon this convent you will be placed under the anathema of the church, and its spiritual terrors will be directed against you." "I am prepared to risk that, holy mother," Sir Rudolph said, with a laugh. "So long as I am obeying the orders of my prince, I care naught for those of any foreign potentate, be he pope or be he emperor. Three minutes of the time I gave you have elapsed, and unless within two more the Lady Margaret appears at the gate I will batter it down; and you may think yourself lucky if I do not order my men to set light to it and to smoke you out of your hole." The abbess closed the window, and as she did so the long row of casements in the house of Master Nicholas were opened from top to bottom, and a volley of sixty clothyard arrows was poured into the group closely standing round the gate. Many fell, killed outright, and shouts of rage and pain were heard arising. Furious at this unexpected attack, Sir Rudolph turned and commanded those with him to attack the house whence this volley of missiles had come. But even while he spoke another flight of arrows, even more deadly than the last, was poured forth. One of the knights standing by the side of Sir Rudolph fell, shot through the brain. Very many of the common men, undefended by harness, fell shot through and through; and an arrow piercing the joint of the armor of Sir Rudolph wounded him in the shoulder. In vain the knight stormed and raged and ordered his men to advance. The suddenness of the attack seemed to his superstitious followers a direct answer from heaven to the words of the abbess. Their number was already seriously lessened, and those who were in case to do so at once took flight and scattered through the city, making for the gate, which had already been seized by Sir Rudolph's men. Finding himself alone with only a few of his knights and principal men-at-arms remaining, while the storm of arrows continued unabated, Sir Rudolph was forced to order his men to retreat with many fierce threats of the vengeance which he would hereafter take. CHAPTER XXII. A DASTARDLY STRATAGEM. The return of Sir Rudolph's party to Evesham was not unmarked by incident, for as they passed along the road, from an ambush in a wood other archers, whose numbers they could not discover, shot hard upon them, and many fell there who had escaped from the square at Worcester. When the list was called upon the arrival at the castle, it was found that no less than thirty of those who had set out were missing, while many others were grievously wounded. The noise of the tumult in the square of the convent aroused the whole town of Worcester. Alarm bells were rung; and the burgesses, hastily arming themselves, poured into the streets. Directed by the sound, they made their way to the square, and were astonished at finding it entirely deserted, save for some twenty men, lying dead or dying in front of the gate of the convent, pierced with long arrows. They speedily found that Sir Rudolph and his troop had departed; and further inquiry revealed the fact that the burgher guard at one of the gates had been overpowered and were prisoners in the watchroom. These could only say that they were suddenly seized, all being asleep save the one absolutely on guard. They knew nothing more than that a few minutes later there was a great clatter of horsemen and men on foot leaving the city. Unable to find any solution to this singular circumstance, but satisfied that Sir Rudolph had departed, and that no more disturbance was likely to arise that night, the burgesses again betook themselves to their beds, having closed the gates and placed a strong guard over them, determining next morning to sift the affair to the bottom. In the morning the leading burgesses met in council, and finding none who could give them any information, the mayor and two of the councilors repaired to the convent, where they asked for an interview with the lady abbess. Mightily indignant were they at hearing that Sir Rudolph had attempted to break into the convent, and to carry off a boarder residing there. But the abbess herself could give them no further news. She said that after she retired from the window she heard great shouts and cries, and that almost immediately afterward the whole of the party in front hastily retired. That Sir Rudolph had been attacked by a party of archers was evident; but whence they had shot, or how they had come upon the spot at the time, or whither they had gone, were mysteries that could not be solved. In the search which the authorities made, however, it was discovered that the house of the draper, Master Nicholas, was closed. Finding that summonses to open were unanswered, the door was broken in, and the premises were found in confusion. No goods of any kind were discovered there, but many bales filled with dried leaves, bark of trees, and other worthless matters. Such goods as had been displayed in the window had clearly been carried away. Searching the house, they found signs that a considerable number of men had been concealed there, and although not knowing whence the body of archers could have come, they concluded that those who defeated the attempt of Sir Rudolph must have been hidden in the draper's house. The singularity of this incident gave rise to great excitement; but the indignation against Sir Rudolph was in no way lessened by the fact that his attempt had been defeated, not by the townsmen themselves, but by some unknown force. After much consultation on the part of the council, it was resolved that a deputation, consisting of the mayor and the five senior councilors, should resort to London, and there demand from the prince redress for the injury put upon their town by Sir Rudolph. These worthy merchants betook themselves to London by easy stages, and upon their arrival there were kept for some days before they could obtain an interview with King John. When they appeared before him and commenced telling their story the prince fell into sudden rage. "I have heard of this matter before," he said, "and am mightily angry with the people of Worcester, inasmuch as they have dared to interfere to prevent the carrying out of my commands. The Earl of Evesham has written to me, that thinking to scare the abbess of St. Anne's into a compliance with the commands which I had laid upon her, and to secure the delivery of a contumacious ward of the crown, he had pretended to use force, having, however, no idea of carrying his threats into effect. When, as he doubted not, the abbess was on the point of yielding up the ward, the good knight was suddenly set upon by the rascals of the town, who slew some of his companions and followers, and did grievously ill-treat the remainder. This," said the prince, "you now pretend was done by a party of men of whose presence in the town you had no cognizance. Your good sense must be small, if you think that I should believe such a tale as this. It is your rascaldom at Worcester which interfered to prevent my will being carried out, and I have a goodly mind to order the troop of Sir Charles Everest, which is now marching toward Evesham, to sack the town, as a punishment for its rebellion. As, however, I am willing to believe that you and the better class of burgesses were in ignorance of the doings of the rougher kind, I will extend mercy toward the city, and will merely inflict a fine of three thousand golden marks upon it." The mayor attempted humbly to explain and to entreat; but the prince was seized with a sudden passion, and threatened if he said more he would at once cast him and his fellows into durance. Therefore, sadly crestfallen at the result of their mission, the mayor and councilors returned to Worcester, where their report caused great consternation. This was heightened by the fact that upon the following day Sir Charles Everest, with five hundred mercenaries of the prince, together with Sir Rudolph and his following, and several other barons favorable to the cause of the prince, were heard to be approaching the town. Worcester was capable of making a stout defense, but seeing that no help was likely to be forthcoming, and fearing the utter ruin of the town should it be taken by storm, the council, after sitting many hours in deliberation, determined to raise the money required to pay the fine inflicted by the prince. The bolder sort were greatly averse to this decision, especially as a letter had been received, signed "Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham," offering, should the townspeople decide to resist the unjust demands of Prince John, to enter the town with one hundred and fifty archers to take part in its defense. With this force, as the more ardent spirits urged, the defeat of any attempt to carry it by storm would be assured. But the graver men argued that even if defeated for the first time further attempts would be made, and as it was likely that King Richard would not return for a long time, and that Prince John might become sovereign of England, sooner or later the town must be taken, and, in any case, its trade would for a long time be destroyed, and great suffering inflicted upon all; therefore, that it was better to pay the fine now than to risk all these evils, and perhaps the infliction of a heavier impost upon them. The abbess was kept informed by friends in the council of the course of the proceedings. She had in the meantime had another interview with Sir Cuthbert and had determined, seeing that Prince John openly supported the doings of his minion, it would be better to remove the Lady Margaret to some other place, as no one could say how the affair might terminate; and with five hundred mercenaries at his back, Sir Rudolph would be so completely master of the city that he would be able in broad daylight, did he choose, to force the gates of the convent and carry off the king's ward. Accordingly, two days before the arrival of the force before the walls of Worcester, Lady Margaret left the convent by a postern gate in the rear, late in the evening. She was attended by two of the sisters, both of whom, as well as herself, were dressed as country women. Mules were in readiness outside the city gates, and here Sir Cuthbert, with an escort of archers, was ready to attend them. They traveled all night, and arrived in the morning at a small convent situated five miles from the city of Hereford. The abbess here was a cousin of the Superior of St. Anne's, and had already consented to receive Lady Margaret. Leaving her at the door, and promising that, as far as possible, he would keep watch over her, and that even in the worst she need never despair, Sir Cuthbert left her and returned to the forest. The band there assembled varied considerably in numbers, for provisions could not be found continually for a large body of men. The forest was indeed very extensive, and the number of deer therein large. Still, for the feeding of one hundred and fifty men many animals are required, and other food. The franklins in the neighborhood were all hostile to Sir Rudolph, whom they regarded as a cruel tyrant, and did their utmost in the way of supplies for those in the forest. Their resources, however, were limited, and it was found necessary to scatter the force, and for a number of them to take up their residence in places a short distance away, forty only remaining permanently on guard. Sir Rudolph and his friends entered Worcester, and there received with great hauteur the apologies of the mayor and council, and the assurance that the townspeople were in nowise concerned in the attack made upon him. To this he pretended disbelief. The fine demanded was paid, the principal portion in gold, the rest in bills signed by the leading merchants of the place; for after every effort it had been found impossible to collect such a sum within the city. The day after he arrived he again renewed his demand to the abbess for the surrender of the Lady Margaret; this time, however, coming to her attended only by two squires, and by a pursuivant bearing the king's order for the delivery of the damsel. The abbess met him at the gate, and informed him that the Lady Margaret was no longer in her charge. "Finding," she said in a fearless tone, "that the holy walls of this convent were insufficient to restrain lawless men, and fearing that these might be tempted to acts of sacrilege, which might bring down upon them the wrath of the church and the destruction of their souls, I have sent her away." "Whither has she gone?" Sir Rudolph demanded, half-mad with passion. "That I decline to say," the lady abbess replied. "She is in good hands; and when King Richard returns his ward shall be delivered to him at once." "Will you take oath upon the Bible that she is not within these walls?" Sir Rudolph exclaimed. "My word is sufficient," the lady abbess replied calmly. "But should it be necessary, I should be ready to swear upon the relics that she is not here." A few hours later Sir Rudolph, attended by his own party and by one hundred of Sir Charles Everest's mercenaries, returned to his castle. Three days afterward, as Cuthbert was sitting at a rude but hearty meal in the forest, surrounded by Cnut and his followers, a hind entered breathless. Cuthbert at once recognized him as one of the servitors of his mother. "What is it?" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Terrible news, Master Cuthbert, terrible news!" exclaimed the man. "The wicked earl came down this morning, with fifty of his men, set fire to the house, and all its buildings and stacks, and has carried off the lady, your mother, a prisoner to the castle, on a charge, as he said, of harboring traitors." A cry of fury broke from Cnut and his men. "The false traitor shall bitterly regret this outrage," Cuthbert exclaimed. He had in the first excitement seized his arms, and his followers snatched up their bows, as if for instant warfare. A few moments' reflection, however, showed to Cuthbert the impossibility of his attacking a fortress like Evesham, garrisoned by a strong body of well-armed men, with only the archers of the forest, without implements necessary for such an assault. "Send at once, Cnut," he said, "and call in all the band. We cannot take the castle; but we will carry fire and sword round its walls. We will cut off all communication from within or from without. If attacked by large forces, we will retire upon the wood, returning to our posts without the walls as soon as the force is withdrawn. These heavily armed men can move but slowly, while we can run at full speed. There cannot be more than some twenty horsemen in the castle; and methinks with our arrows and pikes we can drive these back if they attempt to fall upon us." Cnut at once sent off swift-footed messengers to carry out Cuthbert's orders, and on the following day the whole of the band were again assembled in the woods. Just as Cuthbert was setting them in motion a distant blast of a horn was heard. "It is," Cuthbert exclaimed, "the note calling for a parley. Do you, Cnut, go forward, and see what is demanded. It is probably a messenger from Sir Rudolph." After half an hour's absence Cnut returned, bringing with him a pursuivant or herald. The latter advanced at once toward Cuthbert, who, now in his full knightly armor, was evidently the leader of the party. "I bear to you, Sir Cuthbert, falsely calling yourself Earl of Evesham, a message from Sir Rudolph. He bids me tell you that the traitress, Dame Editha, your mother, is in his hands, and that she has been found guilty of aiding and abetting you in your war against Prince John, the regent of this kingdom. For that offense she has been condemned to die." Here he was interrupted by a cry of rage which broke from the assembled foresters. Continuing unmoved, he said: "Sir Rudolph, being unwilling to take the life of a woman, however justly forfeited by the law, commands me to say that if you will deliver yourself up to him by to-morrow at twelve the Dame Editha shall be allowed to go free. But that if by the time the dial points to noon you have not delivered yourself up, he will hang her over the battlements of the castle." Cuthbert was very pale, and he waved his hand to restrain the fury which animated the outlaws. "This man," he said to them, "is a herald, and, as such, is protected by all the laws of chivalry. Whatsoever his message, it is none of his. He is merely the mouthpiece of him who sent him." Then, turning to the herald, he said, "Tell the false knight, your master, on my part, that he is a foul ruffian, perjured to all the vows of knighthood; that this act of visiting upon a woman the enmity he bears her son will bring upon him the execration of all men; and that the offer which he makes me is as foul and villainous as himself. Nevertheless, knowing his character, and believing that he is capable of keeping his word, tell him that by to-morrow at noon I will be there; that the lady, my mother, is to leave the castle gates as I enter them; and that though by his foul device he may encompass my death, yet that the curse of every good man will light upon him, that he will be shunned as the dog he is, and that assuredly Heaven will not suffer that deeds so foul should bring with them the prize he seeks to gain." The herald bowed, and, escorted by two archers to the edge of the forest, returned to Evesham Castle. After his departure an animated council took place. Cnut and the outlaws, burning with indignation, were ready to attempt anything. They would, had Cuthbert given the word, have attacked the castle that very night. But Cuthbert pointed out the absolute impossibility of their carrying so strong a place by such an assault, unprovided with engines for battering down the gates. He said that surprise would be impossible, as the knight would be sure to take every precaution against it; and that in the event of such an attack being attempted, he would possibly carry his threat into execution, and murder Dame Editha before their eyes. Cnut was like a madman, so transported with fury was he; and the archers were also beside themselves. Cuthbert alone retained his calmness. Retiring apart from the others, he paced slowly backward and forward among the trees, deliberating upon the best course to be pursued. The archers gathered round the fire and passed the night in long and angry talk, each man agreeing that in the event of their beloved leader being sacrificed by Sir Rudolph, they would one and all give their lives to avenge him by slaying the oppressor whensoever he ventured beyond the castle gates. After a time, Cuthbert called Cnut to him, and the two talked long and earnestly. Cnut returned to his comrades with a face less despairing than that he had before worn, and sent off at once a messenger with all speed to a franklin near the forest to borrow a stout rope some fifty feet in length, and without telling his comrades what the plans of Sir Cuthbert were, bade them cheer up, for that desperate as the position was, all hope was not yet lost. "Sir Cuthbert," he said, "has been in grievous straits before now, and has gone through them. Sir Rudolph does not know the nature of the man with whom he has to deal, and we may trick him yet." At eleven o'clock the next day from the walls of Evesham Castle a body of archers one hundred and fifty strong were seen advancing in solid array. "Think you, Sir Rudolph," one of his friends, Sir Hubert of Gloucester, said to him, "that these varlets think of attacking the castle?" "They might as well think of scaling heaven," Sir Rudolph said. "Evesham could resist a month's siege by a force well equipped for the purpose; and were it not that good men are wanted for the king's service, and that these villains shoot straight and hard, I would open the gates of the castle and launch our force against them. We are two to one as strong as they, and our knights and mounted men-at-arms could alone scatter that rabble." Conspicuous upon the battlements a gallows had been erected. The archers stopped at a distance of a few hundred yards from the castle, and Sir Cuthbert advanced alone to the edge of the moat. "Sir Rudolph of Eresby, false knight and perjured gentleman," he shouted in a loud voice, "I, Sir Cuthbert of Evesham, do denounce you as foresworn and dishonored, and do challenge you to meet me here before the castle in sight of your men and mine, and decide our quarrel as Heaven may judge with sword and battle-ax." Sir Rudolph leaned over the battlements, and said: "It is too late, varlet. I condescended to challenge you before, and you refused. You cannot now claim what you then feared to accept. The sun on the dial approaches noon, and unless you surrender yourself before it reaches the mark, I will keep my word, and the traitress, your mother, shall swing from that beam." Making a sign to two men-at-arms, these brought forward Dame Editha and so placed her on the battlements that she could be seen from below. Dame Editha was still a very fair woman, although nigh forty years had rolled over her head. No sign of fear appeared upon her face, and in a firm voice she cried to her son: "Cuthbert, I beg--nay, I order you to retire. If this unknightly lord venture to carry out his foul threats against me, let him do so. England will ring with the dastardly deed, and he will never dare show his face again where Englishmen congregate. Let him do his worst. I am prepared to die." A murmur rose from the knights and men-at-arms standing round Sir Rudolph. Several of his companions had from the first, wild and reckless as they were, protested against Sir Rudolph's course, and it was only upon his solemn assurance that he intended but to frighten Sir Cuthbert into surrender, and had no intention of carrying his threats against the lady into effect, that they had consented to take part in the transaction. Even now, at the fearless words of the Saxon lady several of them hesitated, and Sir Hubert of Gloucester stepped forward to Sir Rudolph. "Sir knight," he said, "you know that I am your true comrade and the faithful servant of Prince John. Yet in faith would I not that my name should be mixed up in so foul a deed. I repent me that I have for a moment consented to it. But the shame shall not hang upon the escutcheon of Hubert of Gloucester that he stood still when such foul means were tried. I pray you, by our long friendship, and for the sake of your own honor as a knight, to desist from this endeavor. If this lady be guilty, as she well may be of aiding her son in his assaults upon the soldiers of Prince John, then let her be tried, and doubtless the court will confiscate her estates. But let her son be told that her life is in no danger, and that he is free to go, being assured that harm will not come to her." "And if I refuse to consent to allow my enemy, who is now almost within my hand, to escape," Sir Rudolph said, "what then?" "Then," said the knight, "I and my following will at once leave your walls, and will clear ourselves to the brave young knight yonder of all hand in this foul business." A murmur of agreement from several of those standing round showed that their sentiments were in accordance with those of Sir Hubert. "I refuse," said Rudolph passionately. "Go, if you will. I am master of my actions, and of this castle." Without a word, Sir Hubert and two others of the knights present turned, and briefly ordering their men-at-arms to follow them, descended the staircase to the courtyard below. Their horses were brought out, the men fell into rank, and the gates of the castle were thrown open. "Stand to arms!" Sir Cuthbert shouted to the archers. "They are going to attempt a sortie." And hastily he retired to the main body of his men. CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALSE AND PERJURED KNIGHT. As the band of knights and their retainers issued from the gate a trumpeter blew a parley, and the three knights advanced alone toward the group of archers. "Sir Cuthbert de Lance," Sir Hubert said, "in the name of myself and my two friends here we ask your pardon for having so far taken part in this foul action. We did so believing only that Sir Rudolph intended the capture of your lady mother as a threat. Now that we see he was in earnest, we wash our hands of the business; and could we in any way atone for our conduct in having joined him, we would gladly do so consistently only with our allegiance to the prince regent." Cuthbert bowed courteously. "Thanks for your words, Sir Hubert. I had always heard yourself and the knights here spoken of as brave and gallant gentlemen, whose sole fault was that they chose to take part with a rebel prince rather than with the King of England. I rejoice that you have cleared your name of so foul a blot as this would have placed upon it, and I acknowledge that your conduct now is knightly and courteous. But I can no more parley. The sun is within a few minutes of twelve, and I must surrender, to meet such fate as may befall me." So saying, with a bow he left them, and again advanced to the castle gate. "Sir Rudolph," he shouted, "the hour is at hand. I call upon you to deliver, outside the gate, the lady, my mother. Whether she wills it or not, I call upon you to place her beyond the gate, and I give you my knightly word that as she leaves it I enter it." Dame Editha would then have attempted resistance; but she saw that it would be useless. With a pale face she descended the steps, accompanied by the men-at-arms. She knew that any entreaty to Sir Rudolph would be vain, and with the courage of her race she mentally vowed to devote the rest of her life to vengeance for her son. As the gate opened and she was thrust forth, for a moment she found herself in the arms of her son. "Courage, mother!" he whispered; "all may yet be well." Cnut was waiting a few paces behind, and offering his hand to Dame Editha, he led her to the group of archers, while Cuthbert, alone, crossed the drawbridge and entered the portal, the heavy portcullis falling after him. Cnut, immediately ordering four of his men to escort Dame Editha to the wood with all speed, advanced with his men toward the walls. All had strung their bows and placed their arrows on the ground in front of them in readiness for instant use. Cnut himself, with two others carrying the rope, advanced to the edge of the moat. None observed their doings, for all within the castle were intent upon the proceedings there. In the courtyard Sir Rudolph had taken his post, with the captain of the mercenaries beside him, and the men-at-arms drawn up in order. He smiled sardonically as Cuthbert entered. "So, at last," he said, "this farce is drawing to an end. You are in my power, and for the means which I have taken to capture you, I will account to the prince. You are a traitor to him; you have attacked and slaughtered many of my friends; you are an outlaw defying the law; and for each of these offenses your head is forfeited." "I deny," Cuthbert said, standing before him, "your right to be my judge. By my peers only can I be tried. As a knight of England and as rightful lord of this castle, I demand to be brought before a jury of my equals." "I care nothing for rights or for juries," said Sir Rudolph. "I have the royal order for your execution, and that order I shall put into effect, although all the knights and barons in England objected." Cuthbert looked round to observe the exact position in which he was standing. He knew, of course, every foot of the castle, and saw that but a short distance behind a single row of armed men was the staircase leading to the battlements. "False and perjured knight," he said, taking a step forward, "I may die; but I would rather a thousand deaths than such a life as yours will be when this deed is known in England. But I am not yet dead. For myself, I could pardon you; but for the outrage to my mother--" and with a sudden movement he struck Sir Rudolph in the face with all his strength with his mailed hand. With the blood gushing from his nostrils, the knight fell backward, and Sir Cuthbert, with a bound, before the assembly could recover from their astonishment at the deed, burst through the line of men-at-arms, and sprang up the narrow staircase. A score of men-at-arms started in pursuit; but Sir Cuthbert gained the battlements first, and without a moment's hesitation sprang upon them and plunged forward, falling into the moat fifty feet below. Here he would have perished miserably, for in his heavy armor he was of course unable to swim a stroke, and his weight took him at once into the mud of the moat. At its margin, however, Cnut stood awaiting him, with one end of the rope in his hand. In an instant he plunged in, and diving to the bottom grasped Cuthbert by the body, and twisted the rope round him. The two archers on the bank at once hauled upon it, and in a minute Sir Cuthbert was dragged to the bank. By this time a crowd of men-at-arms appeared upon the battlements. But as they did so the archers opened a storm of arrows upon them, and quickly compelled them to find shelter. Carried by Cnut and the men with him--for he was insensible--Sir Cuthbert was quickly conveyed to the center of the outlaws, and these at once in a compact body began their retreat to the wood. Cuthbert quickly recovered consciousness, and was soon able to walk. As he did so the gates of the castle were thrown open, and a crowd of men-at-arms, consisting of the retainers of the castle and the mercenaries of Prince John, sallied forth. So soon as Cuthbert was able to move the archers started at a brisk run, several of them carrying Cuthbert's casque and sword, and others assisting him to hurry along. The rear ranks turned as they ran and discharged flights of arrows at the enemy, who, more heavily armed and weighted, gained but slowly upon them. Had not Sir Rudolph been stunned by the blow dealt him by Cuthbert he would himself have headed the pursuit, and in that case the foresters would have had to fight hard to make their retreat to their fastness. The officer in command of the mercenaries, however, had no great stomach for the matter. Men were hard to get, and Prince John would not have been pleased to hear that a number of the men whom he had brought with such expense from foreign parts had been killed in a petty fray. Therefore after following for a short time he called them off, and the archers fell back into the forest. Here they found Dame Editha, and for three days she abode among them, living in a small hut in the center of the forest. Then she left, to take up her abode until the troubles were past with some kin who lived in the south of Gloucestershire. Although the lady abbess had assured Cuthbert that the retreat of Lady Margaret was not likely to be found out, he himself, knowing how great a stake Sir Rudolph had in the matter, was still far from being easy. It would not be difficult for the latter to learn through his agents that the lady superior of the little convent near Hereford was of kin to her of St. Anne's, and, close as a convent is, yet the gossiping of the servants who go to market was certain to let out an affair so important as the arrival of a young lady to reside under the charge of the superior. Cuthbert was not mistaken as to the acuteness of his enemy. The relationship between the two lady superiors was no secret, and after having searched all the farmhouses and granges near the forest, and being convinced that the lady abbess would have sent her charge rather to a religious house than to that of a franklin, Sir Rudolph sought which of those within the circuit of a few miles would be likely to be the one selected. It was not long before he was enabled to fix upon that near Hereford, and spies going to the spot soon found out from the country people that it was a matter of talk that a young lady of rank had been admitted by the superior. Sir Rudolph hesitated whether to go himself at the head of a strong body of men and openly to take her, or to employ some sort of device. It was not that he himself feared the anathema of the church; but he knew Prince John to be weak and vacillating, at one time ready to defy the thunder of the pope, the next cringing before the spiritual authority. He therefore determined to employ some of his men to burst into the convent and carry off the heiress, arranging that he himself, with some of his men-at-arms, should come upon them in the road, and make a feigned rescue of her, so that, if the lady superior laid her complaint before the pope's legate he could deny that he had any hand in the matter, and could even take credit for having rescued her from the men who had profaned the convent. That his story would be believed mattered but little. It would be impossible to prove its falsity, and this was all that he cared for. This course was followed out. Late one evening the lady superior was alarmed by a violent knocking at the door. In reply to questions asked through the grill, the answer was given, "We are men of the forest, and we are come to carry the Lady Margaret of Evesham off to a secure hiding-place. The Lord of Evesham has discovered her whereabouts, and will be here shortly, and we would fain remove her before he arrives." "From whom have you warrant?" the lady superior said. "I surrender her to no one, save to the lady abbess of St. Anne's. But if you have a written warrant from Sir Cuthbert, the rightful Lord of Evesham, I will lay the matter before the Lady Margaret, and will act as it may seem fit to her." "We have no time for parleying," a rough voice said. "Throw open the gate at once, or we will break it down." "Ye be no outlaws," the lady superior said, "for the outlaws are men who fear God and respect the church. Were ye what ye say, ye would be provided with the warrants that I mention. I warn you, therefore, that if you use force, you will be excommunicated, and placed under the ban of the church." The only answer was a thundering assault upon the gate, which soon yielded to the blows. The sisters and novices ran shrieking through the corridors at this rude uproar. The lady superior, however, stood calmly awaiting the giving way of the gate. "Where is the Lady Margaret?" the leader of the party, who were dressed in rough garb, and had the seeming of a band of outlaws, demanded. "I will say nothing," she said, "nor do I own that she is here." "We will soon take means to find out," the man exclaimed. "Unless in five minutes she is delivered to us, we will burn your place to the ground." The lady abbess was insensible to the threat; but the men rushing in, seized some sisters, who, terrified out of their wits by this irruption, at once gave the information demanded, and the men made their way to the cell where the Lady Margaret slept. The girl had at once risen when the tumult commenced, doubting not in her mind that this was another attempt upon the part of her enemy to carry her off. When, therefore, she heard heavy footsteps approaching along the gallery--having already hastily attired herself--she opened the door and presented herself. "If you seek the Lady Margaret of Evesham," she said calmly, "I am she. Do not harm any of the sisters here. I am in your power, and will go with you at once. But I beseech you add not to your other sins that of violence against holy women." The men, abashed by the calm dignity of this young girl, abstained from laying hands upon her, but merely motioned to her to accompany them. Upon their way they met the man who appeared to be their leader, and he, well pleased that the affair was over, led the way to the courtyard. "Farewell, my child," the abbess exclaimed. "God will deliver you from the power of these wicked men. Trust in Him, and keep up your courage. Wickedness will not be permitted to triumph upon the earth; and be assured that the matter shall be brought to the ears of the pope's legate, and of Prince John himself." She could say no more, for the men, closing round the weeping girl, hurried her out from the convent. A litter awaited them without, and in this the young lady was placed, and, borne upon the shoulders of four stout men, she started at a fast pace, surrounded closely by the rest of the band. It was a dark night, and the girl could not see the direction in which she was being taken; but she judged from the turn taken upon leaving the convent that it was toward Evesham. They had proceeded some miles, when a trampling of horses was heard, and a body of armed men rode up. For a moment Lady Margaret's heart gave a leap, for she thought that she had been rescued by her friends. There was a loud and angry altercation, a clashing of swords, and a sound of shouting and cries outside the litter. Then it was placed roughly on the ground, and she heard the sound of the footsteps of her first captors hurrying away. Then the horsemen closed round the litter, and the leader dismounted. "I am happy indeed, Lady Margaret," he said, approaching the litter, "to have been able to save you from the power of these villains. Fortunately, word came to me that the outlaws in the forest were about to carry you off, and that they would not hesitate even to desecrate the walls of the convent. Assembling my men-at-arms, I at once rode to your rescue, and am doubly happy to have saved you, first, as a gentleman, secondly, as being the man to whom our gracious prince has assigned you as a wife. I am Sir Rudolph, Earl of Evesham." As from the first the girl had been convinced that she had fallen into the power of her lawless suitor, this came upon her as no surprise. "Whether your story is true, Sir Rudolph," she said, "or not, God knows, and I, a poor weak girl, will not pretend to venture to say. It is between you and your conscience. If, as you say, you have saved me from the power of the outlaws, I demand that, as a knight and a gentleman, you return with me at once to the convent from which I was taken by force." "I cannot do that," Sir Rudolph said. "Fortune has placed you in my hands, and has enabled me to carry out the commands of the prince. Therefore, though I would fain yield to your wishes and so earn your good-will, which above all things I wish to obtain, yet my duty toward the prince commands me to utilize the advantage which fate has thrown in my hands." "You must do as you will, Sir Rudolph," the girl said with dignity. "I believe not your tale. You sought before, in person, to carry me off, but failed, and you have now employed other means to do so. The tale of your conduct to Dame Editha has reached my ears, and I hold you a foresworn knight and a dishonored man, and as such I would rather die than become your wife, although as yet I am but a child, and have no need to talk of weddings for years to come." "We need not parley here," the knight said coldly. "We shall have plenty of time when at my castle." The litter was now lifted, placed between two horses, and proceeded rapidly on its journey. Although the hope was but faint, yet until the gates of the castle closed upon them the Lady Margaret still hoped that rescue might reach her. But the secret had been too well kept, and it was not until the following day that the man who had been placed in a cottage near the convent arrived in all haste in the forest, to say that it was only in the morning that he had learned that the convent had been broken open by men disguised as archers, and the Lady Margaret carried off. Four days elapsed before Sir Rudolph presented himself before the girl he had captured. So fearfully was his face bruised and disfigured by the blow from the mailed hand of Cuthbert three weeks before, that he did not wish to appear before her under such unfavorable circumstances, and the captive passed the day gazing from her casement in one of the rooms in the upper part of the keep, toward the forest whence she hoped rescue would come. Within the forest hot discussions were going on as to the best course to pursue. An open attack was out of the question, especially as upon the day following the arrival there of Lady Margaret three hundred more mercenaries had marched in from Worcester, so that the garrison was now raised to five hundred men. "Is there no way," Cnut exclaimed furiously, "by which we might creep into this den, since we cannot burst into it openly?" "There is a way from the castle," Cuthbert said, "for my dear lord told me of it one day when we were riding together in the Holy Land. He said then that it might be that he should never return, and that it were well that I should know of the existence of this passage, which few besides the earl himself knew of. It is approached by a very heavy slab of stone in the great hall. This is bolted down, and as it stands under the great table passes unnoticed, and appears part of the ordinary floor. He told me the method in which, by touching a spring, the bolts were withdrawn and the stone could be raised. Thence a passage a quarter of a mile long leads to the little chapel standing in the hollow, and which, being hidden among the trees, would be unobserved by any party besieging the castle. This of course was contrived in order that the garrison, or any messenger thereof, might make an exit in case of siege." "But if we could escape," Cnut asked, "why not enter by this way?" "The stone is of immense weight and strength," Cuthbert replied, "and could not be loosed from below save with great labor and noise. There are, moreover, several massive doors in the passage, all of which are secured by heavy bolts within. It is therefore out of the question that we could enter the castle by that way. But were we once in, we could easily carry off the lady through this passage." The large force which Sir Rudolph had collected was not intended merely for the defense of the castle, for the knight considered that with his own garrison he could hold it against a force tenfold that which his rival could collect. But he was determined if possible to crush out the outlaws of the forest, for he felt that so long as this formidable body remained under an enterprising leader like Sir Cuthbert, he would never be safe for a moment, and would be a prisoner in his own castle. Cuthbert had foreseen that the attack was likely to be made, and had strengthened his band to the utmost. He felt, however, that against so large a force of regularly armed men, although he might oppose a stout resistance and kill many, yet that in the end he must be conquered. Cnut, however, suggested to him a happy idea, which he eagerly grasped. "It would be a rare sport," Cnut said, "when this armed force comes out to attack us, if we could turn the tables by slipping in, and taking their castle." "The very thing," Cuthbert exclaimed. "It is likely that he will use the greater portion of his forces, and that he will not keep above fifty or sixty men, at the outside, in the castle. When they sally out we will at first oppose a stout resistance to them in the wood, gradually falling back. Then, at a given signal, all save twenty men shall retire hastily, and sweeping round make for the castle. Their absence will not be noticed, for in this thick wood it is difficult to tell whether twenty men or two hundred are opposing you among the bushes; and the twenty who remain must shoot thick and fast to make believe that their numbers are great, retiring sometimes, and leading the enemy on into the heart of the wood." "But supposing, Sir Cuthbert, that they should have closed the gates and lifted the drawbridge? We could not gain entrance by storming, even if only twenty men held the walls, until long after the main body would have returned." Cuthbert thought for some time, and then said, "Cnut, you shall undertake this enterprise. You shall fill a cart high with faggots, and in it shall conceal a dozen of your best men. You, dressed as a serf, shall drive the oxen, and when you reach the castle shall say, in answer to the hail of the sentry, that you are bringing in the tribute of wood of your master the franklin of Hopeburn. They will then lower the drawbridge and open the gates; and when you have crossed the bridge and are under the portcullis, spring out suddenly, cut loose the oxen so that they will not draw the cart further in, cut the chains of the drawbridge so that it cannot be drawn off, and hold the gate for a minute or two until we arrive." "The plan is capital," Cnut exclaimed. "We will do the proud Norman yet. How he will storm when he finds us masters of his castle! What then will you do, Sir Cuthbert?" "We can hold the castle for weeks," Cuthbert said, "and every day is in our favor. If we find ourselves forced to yield to superior numbers, we can at last retire through the passage I have spoken of, and must then scatter and each shift for himself until these bad days be past." CHAPTER XXIV. THE SIEGE OF EVESHAM CASTLE. Upon the day before starting out to head the expedition against the outlaws, Sir Rudolph sent word to the Lady Margaret that she must prepare to become his wife at the end of the week. He had provided two tiring maids for her by ordering two of the franklins to send in their daughters for that purpose, and these mingled their tears with Margaret's at the situation in which they were placed. She replied firmly to the messenger of the knight that no power on earth could oblige her to marry him. He might drive her to the altar; but though he killed her there, her lips should refuse to say the words which would unite them. The following morning, early, the castle rang with the din of preparation. The great portion of the mercenaries were encamped in tents outside the walls, for, spacious as it was, Evesham could hardly contain four hundred men in addition to its usual garrison. The men-at-arms were provided with heavy axes to cut their way through the bushes. Some carried bundles of straw, to fire the wood should it be found practicable to do so; and as it was now summer and the wind was blowing high, Sir Rudolph hoped that the dry grass and bushes would catch, and would do more even than his men-at-arms in clearing the forest of those whom he designated the villains infesting it. They had, too, with them several fierce dogs trained to hunting the deer, and these, the knight hoped, would do good service in tracking the outlaws. He and the knights and the men-at-arms with him were all dismounted, for he felt that horses would in the forest be an incumbrance, and he was determined himself to lead the way to the men-at-arms. When they reached the forest they were saluted by a shower of arrows; but as all were clad in mail, these at a distance effected but little harm. As they came closer, however, the clothyard arrows began to pierce the coarse and ill-made armor of the foot soldiers, although the finer armor of the knights kept out the shafts which struck against it. Sir Rudolph and his knights leading the way, they entered the forest and gradually pressed their invisible foe backward through the trees. The dogs did good service, going on ahead and attacking the archers; but, one by one, they were soon shot, and the assailants left to their own devices. Several attempts were made to fire the wood. But these failed, the fire burning but a short time and then dying out of itself. In addition to the fighting men, Sir Rudolph had impressed into the service all the serfs of his domain, and these, armed with axes, were directed to cut down the trees as the force proceeded, Sir Rudolph declaring that he would not cease until he had leveled the whole forest, though it might take him months to do so. The assailants gained ground steadily, the resistance being less severe than Sir Rudolph had anticipated. Several small huts and clearings in the forest which had been used by the outlaws, and round which small crops had been planted, were destroyed, and all seemed to promise well for the success of the enterprise. It was about two hours after they had left the castle, when a heavy cart filled with fagots was seen approaching its gates. The garrison, who had not the least fear of any attack, paid no attention to it until it reached the edge of the moat. Then the warder, seeing that it contained fagots, lowered the drawbridge without question, raised the portcullis, and opened the gates. "From whom do you bring this wood?" he asked as the man driving the oxen began to cross the bridge. "From the franklin of Hopeburn." "It is well," said the warder, "for he is in arrear now, and should have sent in the firewood two months since. Take it to the woodhouse at the other end of the court." The heavy wagon crossed the drawbridge, but as it was entering the gate it came suddenly to a stop. With a blow of his ox goad Cnut leveled the warder to the ground, and cutting the cords of the bullocks, drove them into the yard ahead. As he did so the pile of fagots fell asunder, and twelve men armed with bow and pike leaped out. The men-at-arms standing near, lounging in the courtyard, gave a shout of alarm, and the garrison, surprised at this sudden cry, ran to their arms. At first they were completely panic-stricken. But seeing after a time how small was the number of their assailants, they took heart and advanced against them. The passage was narrow, and the twelve men formed a wall across it. Six of them with their pikes advanced, the other six with bent bows standing behind them and delivering their arrows between their heads. The garrison fought stoutly, and although losing many, were pressing the little band backward. In vain the assistant-warder tried to lower the portcullis, or to close the gates. The former fell on to the top of the wagon, and was there retained. The gates also were barred by the obstacle. The chains of the drawbridge had at once been cut. Cnut encouraged his followers by his shouts, and armed with a heavy ax, did good service upon the assailants. But four of his party had fallen, and the rest were giving way, when a shout was heard, and over the drawbridge poured Cuthbert and one hundred and fifty of the outlaws of the forest. Struck with terror at this attack, the garrison drew back, and the foresters poured into the yard. For a few minutes there was a fierce fight; but the defenders of the castle, disheartened and taken by surprise, were either cut down or, throwing down their arms, cried for quarter. Ten minutes after the wagon had crossed the drawbridge the castle was safely in possession of Sir Cuthbert. The bridge was raised, the wagon removed, the portcullis lowered, and to the external eye all remained as before. Cuthbert at once made his way to the chamber where the Lady Margaret was confined, and her joy at her deliverance was great indeed. So unlimited was her faith in Sir Cuthbert that she had never lost confidence; and although it did not seem possible that in the face of such disparity of numbers he could rescue her from the power of Sir Rudolph, yet she had not given up hope. The joy of the farmers' daughters who had been carried off to act as her attendants was little inferior to her own; for once in the power of this reckless baron, the girls had small hopes of ever being allowed to return again to their parents. The flag of Sir Rudolph was thrown down from the keep, and that of the late earl hoisted in its stead; for Cuthbert himself, although he had assumed the cognizance which King Richard had granted him, had not yet any flag or pennon emblazoned with it. No words can portray the stupefaction and rage of Sir Rudolph when a man who had managed to slip unobserved from the castle at the time of its capture bore the news to him in the forest. All opposition there had ceased, and the whole of the troops were engaged in aiding the peasants in cutting wide roads through the trees across the forest, so as to make it penetrable by horsemen in every direction. It was supposed that the outlaws had gradually stolen away through the thickets and taken to the open country, intending to scatter to their homes, or other distant hiding-places; and the news that they had by a ruse captured the castle came as a thunder-clap. Sir Rudolph's first impulse was to call his men together and to march toward the castle. The drawbridge was up and the walls bristled with armed men. It was useless to attempt a parley; still more useless to think of attacking the stronghold without the proper machines and appliances. Foaming with rage, Sir Rudolph took possession of a cottage near, camped his men around and prepared for a siege. There were among the mercenaries many men accustomed to the use of engines of war. Many, too, had aided in making them; and these were at once set to work to construct the various machines in use at that time. Before the invention of gunpowder, castles such as those of the English barons were able to defy any attack by an armed force for a long period. Their walls were so thick that even the balistas, casting huge stones, were unable to breach them except after a very long time. The moats which surrounded them were wide and deep, and any attempt at storming by ladders was therefore extremely difficult; and these buildings were consequently more often captured by famine than by other means. Of provisions, as Sir Rudolph knew, there was a considerable supply at present in the castle, for he had collected a large number of bullocks in order to feed the strong body who had been added to the garrison. The granaries, too, were well stored; and with a groan Sir Rudolph thought of the rich stores of French wines which he had collected in his cellars. After much deliberation with the knights with him and the captain of the mercenaries, it was agreed in the first instance to attempt to attack the place by filling up a portion of the moat and ascending by scaling ladders. Huge screens of wood were made, and these were placed on wagons; the wagons themselves were filled with bags of earth, and a large number of men getting beneath them shoved the ponderous machines forward to the edge of the moat. The bags of stones and earth were then thrown in, and the wagons pushed backward to obtain a fresh supply. This operation was of course an exceedingly slow one, a whole day being occupied with each trip of the wagons. They were not unmolested in their advance, for, from the walls, mangonels and other machines hurled great stones down upon the wooden screens, succeeding sometimes, in spite of their thickness, in crashing through them, killing many of the men beneath. The experiment was also tried of throwing balls of Greek fire down upon the wood; but as this was green and freshly felled it would not take fire, but the flames dropping through, with much boiling pitch and other materials, did grievously burn and scald the soldiers working below it. Upon both sides every device was tried. The crossbowmen among the mercenaries kept up a fire upon the walls to hinder the defenders from interfering with the operations, while the archers above shot steadily, and killed many of those who ventured within range of their bows. After ten days' labor a portion of the moat some twenty yards in length was filled with bags of earth, and all was ready for the assault. The besiegers had prepared great numbers of strong ladders, and these were brought up under shelter of the screens. Then, all being ready, the trumpets sounded for the assault, and the troops moved forward in a close body, covering themselves with their shields so that no man's head or body was visible, each protecting the one before him with his shield held over him. Thus the body presented the appearance of a great scale-covered animal. In many respects, indeed, the warfare of those days was changed in no way from that of the time of the Romans. In the twelve hundred years which had elapsed between the siege of Jerusalem and the days of the Crusades there had been but little change in arms or armor, and the operations which Titus undertook for the reduction of the Jewish stronghold differed but little from those which a Norman baron employed in besieging his neighbor's castle. Within Evesham Castle all was contentment and merriment during these days. The garrison had no fear whatever of being unable to repel the assault when it should be delivered. Huge stones had been collected in numbers on the walls, caldrons of pitch, beneath which fires kept simmering, stood there in readiness. Long poles with hooks with which to seize the ladders and cut them down were laid there; and all that precaution and science could do was prepared. Cuthbert passed much of the day, when not required upon the walls, chatting with the Lady Margaret, who, attended by her maidens, sat working in her bower. She had learned to read from the good nuns of the convent--an accomplishment which was by no means general, even among the daughters of nobles; but books were rare, and Evesham boasted but few manuscripts. Here Margaret learned in full all the details of Cuthbert's adventures since leaving England, and the fondness with which as a child she had regarded the lad grew gradually into the affection of a woman. The courage of the garrison was high, for although they believed that sooner or later the castle might be carried by the besiegers, they had already been told by Cnut that there was a means of egress unknown to the besiegers, and that when the time came they would be able to escape unharmed. This, while it in no way detracted from their determination to defend the castle to the last, yet rendered their task a far lighter and more agreeable one than it would have been had they seen the gallows standing before them as the end of the siege. As the testudo, as it was called in those days, advanced toward the castle, the machines upon the walls--catapults, mangonels and arbalasts--poured forth showers of stones and darts upon it, breaking up the array of shields and killing many; and as these openings were made, the archers, seizing their time, poured in volleys of arrows. The mercenaries, however, accustomed to war, advanced steadily, and made good their footing beneath the castle wall, and proceeded to rear their ladders. Here, although free from the action of the machines, they were exposed to the hand missiles, which were scarcely less destructive. In good order, and with firmness, however, they reared the ladders, and mounted to the assault, covering themselves as well as they could with their shields. In vain, however, did they mount. The defenders poured down showers of boiling pitch and oil, which penetrated the crevices of their armor and caused intolerable torment. Great stones were toppled over from the battlements upon them; and sometimes the ladders, seized by the poles with hooks, were cast backward, with all upon them, on the throng below. For half an hour, encouraged by the shouts of Sir Rudolph and their leaders, the soldiers strove gallantly; but were at last compelled to draw off, having lost nigh one hundred men, without one gaining a footing upon the walls. That evening another council of war was held without. Already some large machines for which Sir Rudolph had sent had arrived. In anticipation of the possibility of failure, two castles upon wheels had been prepared, and between these a huge beam with an iron head was hung. This was upon the following day pushed forward on the newly-formed ground across the moat. Upon the upper part of each tower were armed men who worked machines casting sheaves of arrows and other missiles. Below were those who worked the ram. To each side of the beam were attached numerous cords, and with these it was swung backward and forward, giving heavy blows each stroke upon the wall. The machines for casting stones, which had arrived, were also brought in play, and day and night these thundered against the walls; while the ram repeated its ceaseless blows upon the same spot, until the stone crumbled before it. Very valiantly did the garrison oppose themselves to these efforts. But each day showed the progress made by the besiegers. Their forces had been increased, Prince John having ordered his captain at Gloucester to send another one hundred men to the assistance of Sir Rudolph. Other towers had now been prepared. These were larger than the first, and overtopped the castle walls. From the upper story were drawbridges, so formed as to drop from the structures upon the walls, and thus enable the besiegers to rush upon them. The process was facilitated by the fact that the battlements had been shot away by the great stones, and there was a clear space on which the drawbridges could fall. The attack was made with great vigor; but for a long time the besieged maintained their post, and drove back the assailants as they poured out across the drawbridges on to the wall. At last Cuthbert saw that the forces opposed to him were too numerous to be resisted, and gave orders to his men to fall back upon the inner keep. Making one rush, and clearing the wall of those who had gained a footing, the garrison fell back hastily, and were safely within the massive keep before the enemy had mustered in sufficient numbers upon the wall to interfere with them. The drawbridge was now lowered, and the whole of the assailants gained footing within the castle. They were still far from having achieved a victory. The walls of the keep were massive and strong, and its top far higher than the walls, so that from above a storm of arrows poured down upon all who ventured to show themselves. The keep had no windows low enough down for access to be gained; and those on the floors above were so narrow, and protected by bars, that it seemed by scaling the walls alone could an entry be effected. This was far too desperate an enterprise to be attempted, for the keep rose eighty feet above the courtyard. It was upon the door, solid and studded with iron, that the attempt had to be made. Several efforts were made by Sir Rudolph, who fought with a bravery worthy of a better cause, to assault and batter down the door. Protected by wooden shields from the rain of missiles from above, he and his knights hacked at the door with their battle-axes. But in vain. It had been strengthened by beams behind, and by stones piled up against it. Then fire was tried. Fagots were collected in the forest, and brought; and a huge pile having been heaped against the door, it was lighted. "We could doubtless prolong the siege for some days, Lady Margaret," said Cuthbert, "but the castle is ours; and we wish not, when the time comes that we shall again be masters of it, that it should be a mere heap of ruins. Methinks we have done enough. With but small losses on our side, we have killed great numbers of the enemy, and have held them at bay for a month. Therefore, I think that to-night it will be well for us to leave the place." Lady Margaret was rejoiced at the news that the time for escape had come, for the perpetual clash of war, the rattling of arrows, the ponderous thud of heavy stones caused a din very alarming to a young girl; and although the room in which she sat, looking into the inner court of the castle, was not exposed to missiles, she trembled at the thought that brave men were being killed, and that at any moment a shot might strike Cuthbert, and so leave her without a friend or protector. Content with having destroyed the door, the assailants made no further effort that evening, but prepared in the morning to attack it, pull down the stones filled behind it, and force their way into the keep. There was, with the exception of the main entrance, but one means of exit, a small postern door behind the castle, and throughout the siege a strong body of troops had been posted here, to prevent the garrison making a sortie. Feeling secure therefore that upon the following day his enemies would fall into his power, Sir Rudolph retired to rest. An hour before midnight the garrison assembled in the hall. The table was removed, and Cuthbert having pressed the spring, which was at a distance from the stone and could not be discovered without a knowledge of its existence, the stone turned aside by means of a counterpoise, and a flight of steps was seen. Torches had been prepared. Cnut and a chosen band went first; Cuthbert followed, with Lady Margaret and her attendants; and the rest of the archers brought up the rear, a trusty man being left in charge at last with orders to swing back the stone into its place, having first hauled the table over the spot, so that their means of escape should be unknown. The passage was long and dreary, the walls were damp with wet, and the massive doors so swollen by moisture that it was with the greatest difficulty they could be opened. At last, however, they emerged into the little friary in the wood. It was deserted, the priest who usually dwelt there having fled when the siege began. The stone which there, as in the castle, concealed the exit, was carefully closed, and the party then emerged into the open air. Here Cuthbert bade adieu to his comrades. Cnut had very anxiously begged to be allowed to accompany him and share his fortunes, and Cuthbert had promised him that if at any time he should again take up arms in England, he would summon him to his side, but that at present as he knew not whither his steps would be turned, it would be better that he should be unattended. The archers had all agreed to scatter far and wide through the country, many of them proceeding to Nottingham and joining the bands in the forest of Sherwood. Cuthbert himself had determined to make his way to the castle of his friend, Sir Baldwin, and to leave the Lady Margaret in his charge. Cnut hurried on at full speed to the house of a franklin, some three miles distant. Here horses were obtained and saddled, and dresses prepared; and when Cuthbert with Lady Margaret arrived there, no time was lost. Dressed as a yeoman, with the Lady Margaret as his sister, he mounted a horse, with her behind him on a pillion. The other damsels also mounted, as it would not have been safe for them to remain near Evesham. They therefore purposed taking refuge in a convent near Gloucester for the present. Bidding a hearty adieu to Cnut, and with thanks to the franklin who had aided them, they set forward on their journey. By morning they had reached the convent, and here the two girls were left, and Cuthbert continued his journey. He left his charge at a convent a day's ride distant from the castle of Sir Baldwin, as he wished to consult the knight first as to the best way of her entering the castle without exciting talk or suspicion. Sir Baldwin received him with joy. He had heard something of his doings, and the news of the siege of Evesham had been noised abroad. He told him that he was in communication with many other barons, and that ere long they hoped to rise against the tyranny of Prince John, but that at present they were powerless, as many, hoping that King Richard would return ere long, shrank from involving the country in a civil war. When Cuthbert told him that the daughter of his old friend was at a convent but a day's ride distant, and that he sought protection for her, Sir Baldwin instantly offered her hospitality. "I will," he said, "send my good wife to fetch her. Some here know your presence, and it would be better therefore that she did not arrive for some days, as her coming will then seem to be unconnected with yourself. My wife and I will, a week hence, give out that we are going to fetch a cousin of my wife's to stay here with her; and when we return no suspicion will be excited that she is other than she seems. Should it be otherwise, I need not say that Sir Baldwin of Béthune will defend his castle against any of the minions of Prince John. But I have no fear that her presence here will be discovered. What think you of doing in the meantime?" "I am thinking," Cuthbert said, "of going east. No news has been obtained of our lord the king save that he is a prisoner in the hands of the emperor; but where confined, or how, we know not. It is my intent to travel to the Tyrol, and to trace his steps from the time that he was captured. Then, when I obtain knowledge of the place where he is kept, I will return, and consult upon the best steps to be taken. My presence in England is now useless. Did the barons raise the standard of King Richard against the prince, I should at once return and join them. But without land or vassals, I can do nothing here, and shall be indeed like a hunted hare, for I know that the false earl will move heaven and earth to capture me." Sir Baldwin approved of the resolution; but recommended Cuthbert to take every precaution not to fall himself into the hands of the emperor; "for," he said, "if we cannot discover the prison of King Richard, I fear that it would be hopeless indeed ever to attempt to find that in which a simple knight is confined." CHAPTER XXV. IN SEARCH OF THE KING. The following day, with many thanks, Cuthbert started from the castle, and in the first place visited the convent, and told Lady Margaret that she would be fetched in a few days by Sir Baldwin and his wife. He took a tender adieu of her, not without many forebodings and tears upon her part; but promising blithely that he would return and lead her back in triumph to her castle, he bade adieu and rode for London. He had attired himself as a merchant, and took up his abode at a hostelry near Cheapside. Here he remained quietly for some days, and, mixing among the people, learned that in London as elsewhere the rapacity of Prince John had rendered him hateful to the people, and that they would gladly embrace any opportunity of freeing themselves from his yoke. He was preparing to leave for France, when the news came to him that Prince John had summoned all the barons faithful to him to meet him near London, and had recalled all his mercenaries from different parts of the country, and was gathering a large army; also, that the barons faithful to King Richard, alarmed by the prospect, had raised the royal standard, and that true men were hurrying to their support. This entirely destroyed the plans that he had formed. Taking horse again, and avoiding the main road, by which he might meet the hostile barons on their way to London, he journeyed down to Nottingham. Thence riding boldly into the forest, he sought the outlaws, and was not long ere he found them. At his request he was at once taken before their leader, a man of great renown both for courage and bowmanship, one Robin Hood. This bold outlaw had long held at defiance the sheriff of Nottingham, and had routed him and all bodies of troops who had been sent against him. With him Cuthbert found many of his own men; and upon hearing that the royal standard had been raised, Robin Hood at once agreed to march with all his men to join the royal force. Messengers were dispatched to summon the rest of the forest band from their hiding-places, and a week later Cuthbert, accompanied by Robin Hood and three hundred archers, set out for the rendezvous. When they arrived there they found that Sir Baldwin had already joined with his retainers, and was by him most warmly received, and introduced to the other barons in the camp, by whom Cuthbert was welcomed as a brother. The news that Prince John's army was approaching was brought in a fortnight after Cuthbert had joined the camp, and the army in good order moved out to meet the enemy. The forces were about equal. The battle began by a discharge of arrows; but Robin Hood and his men shot so true and fast that they greatly discomfited the enemy; and King John's mercenaries having but little stomach for the fight, and knowing how unpopular they were in England, and that if defeated small mercy was likely to be shown to them, refused to advance against the ranks of the loyal barons, and falling back declined to join in the fray. Seeing their numbers so weakened by this defection, the barons on the prince's side hesitated, and surrounding the prince advised him to make terms with the barons while there was yet time. Prince John saw that the present was not a favorable time for him, and concealing his fury under a mask of courtesy, he at once acceded to the advice of his followers, and dispatched a messenger to the barons with an inquiry as to what they wanted of him. A council was held, and it was determined to demand the dismissal of the mercenaries and their dispatch back to their own country; also that John would govern only as his brother's representative; that the laws of the country should be respected; that no taxes should be raised without the assent of the barons; that all men who had taken up arms against his authority should be held free; and that the barons on Prince John's side should return peaceably home and disband their forces. Seeing, under the circumstances, that there was no way before him but to yield to these demands, Prince John accepted the terms. The mercenaries were ordered to march direct to London, and orders were given that ships should be at once prepared to take them across to Normandy, and the barons marched for their homes. Satisfied, now that the mercenaries were gone, that they could henceforth hold their ground against Prince John, the royal barons also broke up their forces. Robin Hood with his foresters returned to Sherwood; and Cuthbert, bidding adieu to Sir Baldwin, rode back to London, determined to carry out the plan which he had formed. He was the more strengthened in this resolution, inasmuch as in the royal camp he had met a friend from whom he parted last in the Holy Land. This was Blondel, the minstrel of King Richard, whose songs and joyous music had often lightened the evening after days of fighting and toil in Palestine. To him Cuthbert confided his intention, and the minstrel instantly offered to accompany him. "I shall," he said, "be of assistance to you. Minstrels are like heralds. They are of no nationality, and can pass free where a man-at-arms would be closely watched and hindered. Moreover, it may be that I might aid you greatly in discovering the prison of the king. So great is the secrecy with which this has been surrounded that I question if any inquiries you could make would enable you to trace him. My voice, however, can penetrate into places where we cannot enter. I will take with me my lute, and as we journey I will sing outside the walls of each prison we come to one of the songs which I sang in Palestine. King Richard is himself a singer and knows my songs as well as myself. If I sing a verse of some song which I wrote there and which, therefore, would be known only to him, if he hears it he may follow with the next verse, and so enable us to know of his hiding-place." Cuthbert at once saw the advantages which such companionship would bring him, and joyfully accepted the minstrel's offer, agreeing himself to go as serving man to Blondel. The latter accompanied him to London. Here their preparations were soon made, and taking ship in a merchantman bound for the Netherlands, they started without delay upon their adventure. The minstrels and troubadours were at that time a privileged race in Europe, belonging generally to the south of France, although produced in all lands. They traveled over Europe singing the lays which they themselves had composed, and were treated with all honor at the castles where they chose to alight. It would have been considered as foul a deed to use discourtesy to a minstrel as to insult a herald. Their persons were, indeed, regarded as sacred, and the knights and barons strove to gain their good-will by hospitality and presents, as a large proportion of their ballads related to deeds of war; and while they would write lays in honor of those who courteously entertained them, they did not hesitate to heap obloquy upon those who received them discourteously, holding them up to the gibes and scoffs of their fellows. In no way, therefore, would success be so likely to attend the mission of those who set out to discover the hiding-place of King Richard as under the guise of a minstrel and his attendant. No questions would be asked them; they could halt where they would, in castle or town, secure of hospitality and welcome. Blondel was himself a native of the south of France, singing his songs in the soft language of Languedoc. Cuthbert's Norman French would pass muster anywhere as being that of a native of France; and although when dressed as a servitor attention might be attracted by his bearing, his youth might render it probable that he was of noble family, but that he had entered the service of the minstrel in order to qualify himself some day for following that career. He carried a long staff, a short sword, and at his back the lute or small harp played upon by the troubadour. Blondel's attire was rich, and suitable to a person of high rank. They crossed to the Scheldt, and thence traveled by the right bank of the Rhine as far as Mannheim, sometimes journeying by boat, sometimes on foot. They were also hospitably entertained, and were considered to more than repay their hosts by the songs which Blondel sang. At Mannheim they purchased two horses, and then struck east for Vienna. The journey was not without danger, for a large portion of this part of Europe was under no settled government, each petty baron living in his own castle, and holding but slight allegiance to any feudal lord, making war upon his neighbor on his own account, levying blackmail from travelers, and perpetually at variance with the burghers of the towns. The hills were covered with immense forests, which stretched for many leagues in all directions, and these were infested by wolves, bears, and robbers. The latter, however, although men without pity or religion, yet held the troubadours in high esteem, and the travelers without fear entered the gloomy shades of the forest. They had not gone far when their way was barred by a number of armed men. "I am a minstrel," Blondel said; "and as such doubt not that your courtesy will be extended to me." "Of a surety," the leader said; "the gay science is as much loved and respected in the greenwood as in the castle; and moreover, the purses of those who follow it are too light to offer any temptation to us. We would pray you, however, to accompany us to our leader, who will mightily rejoice to see you, for he loves music, and will gladly be your host so long as you will stay with him." Blondel, without objection, turned his horse's head and accompanied the men, followed by Cuthbert. After half an hour's traveling they came to a building which had formerly been a shrine, but which was now converted to the robbers' headquarters. The robber chief, on hearing from his followers the news that a minstrel had arrived, came forward to meet him, and courteously bade him welcome. "I am Sir Adelbert, of Rotherheim," he said, "although you see me in so poor a plight. My castle and lands have been taken by my neighbor, with whom for generations my family have been at feud. I was in the Holy Land with the emperor, and on my return found that the baron had taken the opportunity of my absence, storming my castle and seizing my lands. In vain I petitioned the emperor to dispossess this traitorous baron of my lands, which by all the laws of Christendom should have been respected during my absence. The emperor did indeed send a letter to the baron to deliver them up to me; but his power here is but nominal, and the baron contemptuously threw the royal proclamation into the fire and told the messenger that what he had taken by the sword he would hold by the sword; and the emperor having weightier matters on hand than to set troops in motion to redress the grievances of a simple knight, gave the matter no further thought. I have therefore been driven to the forest, where I live as best I may with my followers, most of whom were retainers upon my estate, and some my comrades in the Holy Land. I make war upon the rich and powerful, and beyond that do harm to no man. But, methinks," he continued, "I know your face, gentle sir." "It may well be so, Sir Adelbert," the minstrel said, "for I too was in the Holy Land. I followed the train of King Richard, and mayhap at some of the entertainments given by him you have seen my face. My name is Blondel." "I remember now," the knight said. "It was at Acre that I first saw you, and if I remember rightly you can wield the sword as well as the lute." "One cannot always be playing and singing," Blondel said, "and in lack of amusement I was forced to do my best against the infidel, who indeed would have but little respected my art had I fallen into his hands. The followers of the prophet hold minstrels but in slight reverence." "What is the news of King Richard?" the knight said. "I have heard that he was lost on the voyage homeward." "It is not so," Blondel said. "He landed safely on the coast, and was journeying north with a view of joining his sister at the court of Saxony, when he was foully seized and imprisoned by the Archduke John." "That were gross shame indeed," the knight said, "and black treachery on the part of Duke John. And where is the noble king imprisoned?" "That," said Blondel, "no man knows. On my journey hither I have gathered that the emperor claimed him from the hand of the archduke, and that he is imprisoned in one of the royal fortresses, but which I know not. And indeed, sir knight, since you are well disposed toward him, I may tell you that the purport of my journey is to discover if I can the place of his confinement. He was a kind and noble master, and however long my search may be, I will yet obtain news of him." The knight warmly applauded the troubadour's resolution, and was turning to lead him into his abode, when his eye fell upon Cuthbert. "Methinks I know the face of your attendant as well as your own; though where I can have seen him I know not. Was he with you in the Holy Land?" "Yes," Blondel said, "the youth was also there; and doubtless you may have noticed him, for he is indeed of distinguished and of good family." "Then let him share our repast," the knight said, "if it seems good to you. In these woods there is no rank, and I myself have long dropped my knightly title, and shall not reassume it until I can pay off my score to the Baron of Rotherheim, and take my place again in my castle." The minstrel and Cuthbert were soon seated at the table with the knight and one or two of his principal companions. A huge venison pasty formed the staple of the repast, but hares and other small game were also upon the table. Nor was the generous wine of the country wanting. The knight had several times glanced at Cuthbert, and at last exclaimed, "I have it now. This is no attendant, sir minstrel, but that valiant young knight who so often rode near King Richard in battle. He is, as I guess, your companion in this quest; is it not so?" "It is," Cuthbert replied frankly. "I am, like yourself, a disinherited knight, and my history resembles yours. Upon my return to England I found another in possession of the land and titles that belonged to the noble I followed, and which King Richard bestowed upon me. The Earl of Evesham was doubtless known to you, and before his death King Richard, at his request, bestowed upon me as his adopted son--although but a distant connection--his title and lands and the hand of his daughter. Prince John, who now rules in England, had however granted these things to one of his favorites, and he having taken possession of the land and title, though not, happily, of the lady, closed his door somewhat roughly in my face. I found means, however, to make my mark upon him; but as our quarrel could not be fought out to the end, and as the false knight had the aid of Prince John, I am forced for awhile to postpone our settlement, and meeting my good friend the minstrel, agreed to join him in his enterprise to discover our lord the king." The knight warmly grasped Cuthbert's hand. "I am glad," he said, "to meet so true and valiant a knight. I have often wondered at the valor with which you, although so young, bore yourself; and there were tales afloat of strange adventures which you had undergone in captivity for a time among the infidels." At Sir Adelbert's request Cuthbert related the story of his adventures among the Saracens; and then Blondel, tuning his lute, sang several canzonets which he had composed in the Holy Land, of feats of arms and adventure. "How far are you," Cuthbert asked presently, when Blondel laid his lute aside, "from the estates which were wrongfully wrested from you?" "But twenty leagues," the knight said. "My castle was on the Rhine, between Coblentz and Mannheim." "Does the baron know that you are so near?" Cuthbert asked. "Methinks that he does not," the knight replied, "but that he deems me to have gone to the court of the emperor to seek for redress--which, he guesses, I shall certainly fail to obtain." "How many men have you with you?" Cuthbert asked. "Fifty men, all good and true," the knight said. "Has it never entered your thoughts to attempt a surprise upon his castle?" Cuthbert said. The knight was silent for a minute. "At times," he said at length, "thoughts of so doing have occurred to me; but the castle is strong, and a surprise would be difficult indeed." "If the baron is lulled in security at present," Cuthbert said, "and deems you afar off, the watch is likely to be relaxed, and with a sudden onslaught you might surely obtain possession. Blondel and myself are not pressed for time, and the delay of a few days can make but little difference. If, therefore, you think we could be of assistance to you in such an attempt, my sword, and I am sure that of my friend, would be at your disposal." The knight sat for some time in silence. "Thanks, generous knight," he said at last, "I am sorely tempted to avail myself of your offer; but I fear that the enterprise is hopeless. The aid, however, of your arm and knowledge of war would greatly add to my chances, and if it pleases you we will ride to-morrow to a point where we can obtain a sight of the baron's castle. When you see it you shall judge yourself how far such an enterprise as you propose is possible." "Is your own castle intact?" Cuthbert asked. "The walls are standing," he said; "but a breach has been made in them, and at present it is wholly deserted." "Do you think," Cuthbert asked, "that if you succeeded in surprising and defeating the garrison of the castle that you could then regain your own, and hold it against your enemy?" "I think that I could," Sir Adelbert said. "The baron's domains are but little larger than my own. Many of my retainers still live upon the estate, and would, I am sure, gladly join me, if I were to raise my flag. The baron, too, is hated by his neighbors, and could I inflict a crushing blow upon him, methinks it would be so long a time before he could assemble a force, that I might regain my castle and put it in an attitude of defense before he could take the field against me." "If," Cuthbert said, "we could surprise the castle, it might well be that the baron would fall into your hands, and in that case you might be able to make your own terms with him. How strong a force is he likely to have in his castle?" "Some fifty or sixty men," the knight replied; "for with such a force he could hold the castle against an attack of ten times their number, and he could in twelve hours call in his retainers, and raise the garrison to three hundred or four hundred men." Blondel warmly assented to Cuthbert's scheme, and it was settled that at daybreak they should start to view the Castle of Rotherheim. At early dawn they were in the saddle, and the three rode all day, until toward sunset they stood on the crest of a hill looking down into the valley of the Rhine. The present aspect of that valley affords but a slight idea of its beauty in those days. The slopes are now clad with vineyards, which, although picturesque in idea, are really, to look at from a distance, no better than so many turnip fields. The vines are planted in rows and trained to short sticks, and as these rows follow the declivities of the hillside, they are run in all directions, and the whole mountain side, from the river far up, is cut up into little patches of green lines. In those days the mountains were clad with forests, which descended nearly to the riverside. Here and there, upon craggy points, were situate the fortalices of the barons. Little villages nestled in the woods, or stood by the river bank, and a fairer scene could not be witnessed in Europe. "That is Rotherheim," the knight said, pointing to a fortress standing on a crag, which rose high above the woods around it; "and that," he said, pointing to another some four miles away, similarly placed, "is my own." Cuthbert examined closely the fortress of Rotherheim. It was a large building, with towers at the angles, and seemed to rise almost abruptly from the edge of the rock. Inside rose the gables and round turrets of the dwelling-place of the baron, and the only access was by a steep winding path on the riverside. "It is indeed a strong place," Cuthbert said, "and difficult to take by surprise. A watch no doubt is always kept over the entrance, and there we can hope for no success. The only plan will be to scale the wall by means of a ladder; but how the ladder is to be got to so great a height, I own at present passes my comprehension." After much thought, Cuthbert went on, "It might, methinks, be practicable for an archer to approach the walls, and to shoot an arrow over the angle of the castle so that it would pass inside the turret there, and fall in the forest beyond. If to this arrow were attached a light cord, it could be gained by one on the other side, and a stronger cord hauled over. To this could be attached a rope ladder, and so this could be raised to the top of the wall. If a sentinel were anywhere near he might hear the rope pulled across the battlements; but if, as we may hope, a watch is kept only over the entrance, the operation might be performed without attracting notice." The knight was delighted with the project, which seemed perfectly feasible, and it was agreed that the attempt should be made. "It will need," Sir Adelbert said, "an archer with a strong arm indeed to shoot an arrow with a cord attached to it, however light, over the corner of the castle." "Methinks," Cuthbert said, "that I can do that, for as a lad I was used to the strong bows of my country. The first thing, however, will be to obtain such a bow; but doubtless one can be purchased in one of the towns, which, if not so strong as those to which I was accustomed, will at any rate suffice for us." The party bivouacked in the woods for the night, for the horses had already done a very long journey, and needed rest before starting back for the Black Forest. At daybreak, however, they started, and at nightfall rejoined their band. These were delighted when they heard the scheme that had been set on foot, and all avowed their eagerness to join in the attempt to restore their lord to his rights. Two days later they set out, having already procured from the nearest town a strong bow, some arrows, a very light rope, and a stronger one from a portion of which they manufactured a rope ladder capable of reaching from the top of the wall to the rock below. The journey this time occupied two days, as the men on foot were unable to march at the pace at which the mounted party had traversed the ground. The evening of the second day, however, saw them in sight of the castle. By Cuthbert's advice, Sir Adelbert determined to give them twenty-four hours of rest, in order that they might have their full strength for undertaking the task before them. During the day Cuthbert, guided by the knight, made his way through the woods to the foot of the rocks on which the castle stood. They were extremely steep, but could be mounted by active men if unopposed from above. Cuthbert measured the height with his eye from the top of the castle wall to the place which he selected as most fitting from which to shoot the arrow, and announced to the knight that he thought there would be no difficulty in discharging an arrow over the angle. At nightfall the whole party made their way silently through the woods. Three men were sent round to the side of the castle opposite that from which Cuthbert was to shoot. The length of light string was carefully coiled on the ground, so as to unwind with the greatest facility, and so offer as little resistance to the flight of the arrow as might be. Then, all being in readiness, Cuthbert attached the end to an arrow, and drawing the bow to its full compass, let fly the arrow. All held their breath; but no sound followed the discharge. They were sure, therefore, that the arrow had not struck the wall, but that it must have passed clear over it. Half an hour elapsed before they felt that the cord was pulled, and knew that the men upon the other side had succeeded in finding the arrow and string attached. The stronger cord was now fastened to that which the arrow had carried, and this gradually disappeared in the darkness. A party now stole up the rock, and posted themselves at the foot of the castle wall. They took with them the coil of rope-ladder and the end of the rope. At length the rope tightened, and to the end they attached the ladder. This again ascended until the end only remained upon the ground, and they knew that it must have reached the top of the wall. They now held fast, and knew that those on the other side, following the instructions given them, would have fastened the rope to a tree upon the opposite side. They were now joined by the rest of the party, and Sir Adelbert leading the way, and followed by Cuthbert and Blondel, began cautiously to ascend the rope ladder. All this time no sound from the castle proclaimed that their intention was suspected, or that any alarm had been given, and in silence they gained the top of the wall. Here they remained quiet until the whole band were gathered there, and then made their way along until they reached the stairs leading to the courtyard. These they descended, and then, raising his war-cry, Sir Adelbert sprang upon the men who, round a fire, were sitting by the gate. These were cut down before they could leap to their feet, and the party then rushed at the entrance to the dwelling-house. The retainers of the castle, aroused by the sudden din, rushed from their sleeping places, but taken completely by surprise, were unable to offer any resistance whatever to the strong force which had, as if by magic, taken possession of the castle. The surprise was complete, and with scarce a blow struck they found themselves in possession. The baron himself was seized as he rose from his bed, and his rage at finding himself in the power of his enemy was so great as for some time to render him speechless. Sir Adelbert briefly dictated to him the conditions upon which only he should desist from using his power to hang him over his own gate. The baron was instantly to issue orders to all his own retainers and tenantry to lend their aid to those of Sir Adelbert in putting the castle of the latter into a state of defense and mending the breach which existed. A sum of money, equal to the revenues of which he had possessed himself, was to be paid at once, and the knight was to retain possession of Rotherheim and of the baron's person until these conditions were all faithfully carried out. The baron had no resource but to assent to these terms, and upon the following day Cuthbert and Blondel departed upon their way, overwhelmed with thanks by Sir Adelbert, and confident that he would now be able to regain and hold the possession of his estate. CHAPTER XXVI. KING RICHARD'S RETURN TO ENGLAND. Journeying onward, Blondel and his companion stopped at many castles, and were everywhere hospitably entertained. Arriving at Vienna they lingered for some time, hoping there to be able to obtain some information of the whereabouts of King Richard. Blondel in his songs artfully introduced allusions to the captive monarch and to the mourning of all Christendom at the imprisonment of its champion. These allusions were always well received, and he found that the great bulk of the nobles of the empire were indignant and ashamed at the conduct of the emperor in imprisoning his illustrious rival. The secret of his prison place, however, appeared to have been so well kept that no information whatever was obtainable. "We must carry out our original plan," he said at length, "and journey into the Tyrol. In one of the fortresses there he is most likely to be confined." Leaving the capital they wandered up into the mountains for weeks, visiting one castle after another. It was no easy matter in all cases to get so near to these prisons as to give a hope that their voice might be heard within, or an answer received without. More than once crossbow bolts were shot at them from the walls when they did not obey the sentinel's challenge and move further away. Generally, however, it was in the daytime that they sang. Wandering carelessly up, they would sit down within earshot of the castle, open their wallets, and take out provisions from their store, and then, having eaten and drunk, Blondel would produce his lute and sing, as if for his own pleasure. It needed, however, four visits to each castle before they could be sure that the captive was not there; for the song had to be sung on each side. Sometimes they would cheat themselves with the thought that they heard an answering voice; but it was not until the end of the fourth week, when singing outside the castle of Diernstein, that a full rich voice, when Blondel ceased, sang out the second stanza of the poem. With difficulty Blondel and Cuthbert restrained themselves from an extravagant exhibition of joy. They knew, however, that men on the prison wall were watching them as they sat singing, and Blondel, with a final strain taken from a ballad of a knight who, having discovered the hiding-place of his lady love, prepared to free her from her oppressors, shouldered his lute, and they started on their homeward journey. There was no delay now. At times they sang indeed at castles; but only when their store was exhausted, for upon these occasions Blondel would be presented with a handsome goblet or other solid token of the owner's approval, and the sale of this at the next city would take them far on their way. They thought it better not to pass through France, as Philip, they knew, was on the watch to prevent any news of King Richard reaching England. They therefore again passed through Brabant, and so by ship to England. Hearing that Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, one of Richard's vicegerents, was over in Normandy, and rightly deeming him the most earnest of his adherents, they at once recrossed the sea, and found the warlike prelate at Rouen. Greatly delighted was he at hearing that Richard's hiding-place had been discovered. He at once sent across the news to England, and ordered it to be published far and wide, and himself announced it to the barons of Normandy. Then with a gorgeous retinue, including Cuthbert and Blondel, he started for Vienna, and arriving there demanded an interview with the emperor. The news that it was now certain that Richard was imprisoned in a castle of the emperor had already spread through Europe, and the bishop had been received everywhere with tokens of sympathy; and so great was the feeling shown by the counts and barons of the empire that the Emperor Henry felt that he could no longer refuse to treat for the surrender of his captive. Therefore he granted the interview which Longchamp demanded. The English envoy was received by the emperor surrounded by his nobles. The prelate advanced with great dignity. "I come," he said, "in the name of the people of England to demand the restoration of King Richard, most unjustly and unknightly detained a prisoner in his passage through your dominions." "King Richard was my foe," the emperor said, "open and secret, and I was justified in detaining one who is alike my enemy and a scourge to Europe as a prisoner, when fortune threw him in my hands. I am, however, willing to put him to a ransom, and will upon the payment of one hundred and fifty thousand marks allow him to go free." "I deny your right to detain him or to put him to ransom," the bishop said. "But as you have the power, so my denial is useless. England is poor, impoverished with war and by the efforts which she made in the service of our holy religion. Nevertheless, poor as she is, she will raise the sum you demand. There is not an Englishman who will not furnish all he can afford for the rescue of our king. But once again, in the presence of your nobles, I denounce your conduct as base and unkingly." The emperor could with difficulty restrain his passion; but the sight of the somber visages of his nobles showed that they shared in no slight degree the feelings which the English envoy had so boldly announced. "Before, however," the emperor said, "I surrender King Richard, he must be tried by my peers of many and various crimes of which he is accused. Should he be found guilty of these, no gold can purchase his release. Should he, however, be acquitted, then as my word is given so shall it be." "Although," the prelate said, "I deny your right to try our king, and believe that he himself will refuse to accept your jurisdiction, yet I fear not the result if our lord be left in the hands of the nobles of the empire and not in yours. I can trust their honor and courtesy." And turning upon his heel, without another word he quitted the apartment. An hour later the bishop and his following took horse and rode with all speed to the north coast, and thence sailed for England. The news of the amount of ransom filled the people with consternation; but preparations were at once made for collecting the sum demanded. Queen Eleanor was unceasing in her efforts to raise the money for the release of her favorite son. The nobles contributed their jewels and silver; the people gave contributions of goods, for money was so scarce in England that few had the wherewithal to pay in coin. Prince John placed every obstacle in the way of the collection; but the barons had since their successful stand obtained the upper hand, and it was by intrigue only that he could hinder the collection. In the meantime, popular opinion throughout Europe was strong upon the side of King Richard. The pope himself wrote to the emperor on his behalf. The barons of the empire were indignant at the shame placed upon their country; and the emperor, although he would fain have thrown further delays in the way, was obliged at last to order the first step to be taken. A solemn diet was ordered to assemble at Worms. Here were collected all the nobles of the empire, and before them King Richard was brought. It was a grand assembly. Upon a raised throne on the daïs sat the emperor himself, and beside him and near him were the great feudatories of the empire, and along the sides of the walls were ranged in long rows the lesser barons. When the doors were opened and King Richard entered, the whole assembly, save the emperor, rose in respect to the captive monarch. Although pale from his long confinement, the proud air of Richard was in no way abated, and the eyes that had flashed so fearlessly upon the Saracens looked as sternly down the long lines of the barons of Germany. Of splendid stature and physique, King Richard was unquestionably the finest man of his time. He was handsome, with a frank face, but with a fierce and passionate eye. He wore his mustache with a short beard and closely-cut whisker. His short curly hair was cropped closely to his head, upon which he wore a velvet cap with gold coronet, while a scarlet robe lined with fur fell over his coat of mail, for the emperor had deemed it imprudent to excite the feeling of the assembly in favor of the prisoner by depriving him of the symbols of his rank. King Richard strode to the place prepared for him, and then turning to the assembly he said, in a voice which rang through the hall: "Counts and lords of the Empire of Germany, I, Richard, King of England, do deny your right to try me. I am a king, and can only be tried by my peers and by the pope, who is the head of Christendom. I might refuse to plead, refuse to take any part in this assembly, and appeal to the pope, who alone has power to punish kings. But I will waive my rights. I rely upon the honor and probity of the barons of Germany. I have done no man wrong, and would appear as fearlessly before an assembly of peasants as before a gathering of barons. Such faults as I may have, and none are without them, are not such as those with which I am charged. I have slain many men in anger, but none by treachery. When Richard of England strikes he strikes in the light of day. He leaves poison and treachery to his enemies, and I hurl back with indignation and scorn in the teeth of him who makes them the charges brought against me." So saying King Richard took his seat amid a murmur of applause from the crowded hall. The trial then commenced. The accusations against Richard were of many kinds. Chief among them was the murder of Conrad of Montferat; but there were charges of having brought the Crusade to naught by thwarting the general plans, by his arrogance in refusing to be bound by the decision of the other leaders, and by having made a peace contrary to the interests of the Crusaders. The list was a long one; but the evidence produced was pitiably weak. Beyond the breath of suspicion, no word of real evidence connecting him with the murder of Conrad of Montferat was adduced, and the other charges were supported by no better evidence. Many of the German barons who had been at the Crusades themselves came forward to testify to the falsity of these charges, and the fact that Richard had himself placed Conrad of Montferat upon the throne, and had no possible interest in his death, was alone more than sufficient to nullify the vague rumors brought against him. Richard himself in a few a scornful words disposed of this accusation. The accusation that he, Richard of England, would stoop to poison a man whom he could have crushed in an instant was too absurd to be seriously treated. "I am sure," the king said, "that not one person here believes this idle tale. That I did not always agree with the other leaders is true; but I call upon every one here to say whether, had they listened to me and followed my advice, the Crusade would not have had another ending. Even after Philip of France had withdrawn; even after I had been deserted by John of Austria, I led the troops of the Crusaders from every danger and every difficulty to within sight of the walls of Jerusalem. Had I been supported with zeal, the holy city would have been ours; but the apathy, the folly, and the weakness of the leaders brought ruin upon the army. They thought not of conquering Jerusalem, but of thwarting me; and I retort upon them the charge of having sacrificed the success of the Crusade. As to the terms of peace, how were they made? I, with some fifty knights and one thousand followers, alone remained in the Holy Land. Who else, I ask, so circumstanced, could have obtained any terms whatever from Saladin? It was the weight of my arm alone which saved Jaffa and Acre, and the line of seacoast, to the Cross. And had I followed the example set me by him of Austria and the Frenchman, not one foot of the Holy Land would now remain in Christian hands." The trial was soon over, and without a single dissentient the King of England was acquitted of all the charges brought against him. But the money was not yet raised, and King Richard was taken back into the heart of Germany. At length, by prodigious exertions, half the amount claimed was collected, and upon the solicitations of the pope and of the counts of his own empire, the emperor consented to release Richard upon receipt of this sum, and his royal promise that the remainder should be made up. Not as yet, however, were the intrigues at an end. Prince John and King Philip alike implored the emperor to retain his captive, and offered to him a larger sum than the ransom if he would still hold him in his hands. Popular opinion, was, however, too strong. When the news of these negotiations became bruited abroad the counts of the empire, filled with indignation, protested against this shame and dishonor being brought upon the country. The pope threatened him with excommunication; and at last the emperor, feeling that he would risk his throne did he further insist, was forced to open the prison gates and let the king free. Cuthbert, Blondel, and a few other trusty friends were at hand, and their joy at receiving their long-lost sovereign was indeed intense. Horses had been provided in readiness, and without a moment's delay the king started, for even at the last moment it was feared that the emperor might change his mind. This indeed was the case. The king had not started many hours, when the arrival of fresh messengers from Philip and John induced the emperor once more to change his intentions, and a body of men were sent in pursuit of the king. The latter fortunately made no stay on the way, but changing horses frequently--for everywhere he was received with honor and attention--he pushed forward for the coast of the North Sea, and arrived there two or three hours only before his oppressors. Fortunately it was night, and taking a boat he embarked without a moment's delay; and when the emissaries of the emperor arrived the boat was already out of sight, and in the darkness pursuit was hopeless. On landing at Dover, the first to present himself before him was Prince John, who, in the most abject terms besought pardon for the injuries he had inflicted. King Richard waved him contemptuously aside. "Go," he said, "and may I forget your injuries as speedily as you will forget my pardon." Then taking horse, he rode on to London, where he was received with the most lively acclamation by his subjects. The first step of King Richard was to dispossess all the minions of John from the castles and lands which had been taken from his faithful adherents. Some of these resisted; but their fortresses were speedily stormed. Sir Rudolph was not one of these. Immediately the news of King Richard's arrival in England reached him, feeling that all was now lost, he rode to the seacoast, took ship, and passed into France, and Cuthbert, on his arrival at Evesham, found himself undisputed lord of the place. He found that the hiding-place of his mother had not been discovered, and, after a short delay to put matters in train, he, attended by a gallant retinue, rode into Wiltshire to the castle of Sir Baldwin of Béthune. Here he found the Lady Margaret safe and sound, and mightily pleased to see him. She was now seventeen, and offered no objections whatever to the commands of King Richard that she should at once bestow her hand upon the Earl of Evesham. By the king's order, the wedding took place at London, the king himself bestowing the bride upon his faithful follower, whom we may now leave to the enjoyment of the fortune and wife he had so valiantly won. THE END. 
40537	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive.) THE HISTORY OF CHIVALRY. BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ., AUTHOR OF "DE L'ORME," "DARNLEY," "RICHELIEU," ETC. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 82 CLIFF STREET. PREFACE. In writing the pages which follow this Preface, I have had to encounter the difficulty of compressing very extensive matter into an extremely limited space. As the subject was, in my eyes, a very interesting one, and every particular connected with it had often been food for thought and object of entertainment to myself, the task of curtailing was the more ungrateful: nor should I have undertaken it, had I not been convinced by my publisher that one volume would be as much as the public in general would be inclined to read. I wished to write upon Chivalry and the Crusades, because I fancied that in the hypotheses of many other authors I had discovered various errors and misstatements, which gave a false impression of both the institution and the enterprise; and I have endeavoured, in putting forth my own view of the subject, to advance no one point, however minute, which cannot be justified by indisputable authority. A favourite theory is too often, in historical writing like the bed of the ancient Greek; and facts are either stretched or lopped away to agree with it: but to ensure as much accuracy as possible, I have taken pains to mark in the margin of the pages the different writers on whose assertions my own statements are founded, with a corresponding figure, by which each particular may be referred to its authority. In regard to these authors themselves, it seems necessary here to give some information, that those persons who are inclined to inquire beyond the mere surface may know what credit is to be attached to each. On the first crusade we have a whole host of contemporary writers, many of whom were present at the events they describe. Besides these are several others, who, though they wrote at an after-period, took infinite pains to render their account as correct as possible. The authors I have principally cited for all the earlier facts of the Holy War are, William of Tyre, Albert of Aix, Fulcher of Chartres, Raimond of Agiles, Guibert of Nogent, Radulph of Caën, and Robert, surnamed the Monk. William of Tyre is, beyond all doubt, the most illustrious of the many historians who have written on the crusades. Born in Palestine, and though both educated for the church and raised step by step to its highest dignities, yet mingling continually in the political changes of the Holy Land--the preceptor of one of its kings--frequently employed in embassies to Europe, and ultimately Archbishop of Tyre and Chancellor of the kingdom of Jerusalem, William possessed the most extensive means of gathering materials for the great work he has left to posterity. He brought to his task, also, a powerful mind, as well as considerable discrimination; and was infinitely superior in education and every intellectual quality to the general chroniclers of his age. He was not born, however, at the time of the first crusade; and consequently, where he speaks of the events of that enterprise, we may look upon him as an historian, clear, talented, elegant, and not extremely credulous; but we must not expect to find the vivid identity of contemporaneous writing. In regard to the history of his own days he is invaluable, and in respect to that of the times which preceded them, his work is certainly superior, as a whole, to any thing that has since been written on the subject. A much more vivid and enthusiastic picture of the first crusade is to be found in Albert of Aix, from whom William of Tyre borrowed many of his details; but the Syrian Archbishop, living long after, saw the events he recounted as a whole, rejected much as false that Albert embraced as true, and softened the zealous fire which the passions and feelings of the moment had lighted up in the bosom of the other. Albert himself was not one of the crusaders; but living at the time, and conversing continually with those who returned from the Holy Land, he caught, to an extraordinary extent, the spirit of the enterprise, and has left behind him a brilliant transcript of all the passed-by dreams and long-extinguished enthusiasms of his day. Thus, as a painting of manners and customs, the _Chronicon Hierosolymitanum_ is one of the most valuable records we possess, and the account there given of Peter the Hermit and _Gautier sans avoir_ is in many points more full and comprehensive than any other. Fulcher of Chartres set out for the Holy Land with Stephen, Count of Blois, one of the first crusaders. He soon after became chaplain to Baldwin, the brother of Godfrey de Bouillon, and ended his days a canon of the Holy Sepulchre. His relation is useful in many respects, especially in regard to the march of the crusaders through Italy--the proceedings of Baldwin at Edessa, and the history of Jerusalem for several years after its conquest. His style, however, is tumid and circumlocutory, and his credulity equal to that of Raimond d'Agiles. Raimond d'Agiles accompanied the Count of Toulouse on the first crusade, in quality of chaplain. Superstitious to the most lamentable degree, and as bigoted in party politics as in religion, he wrote as he lived, like a weak and ignorant man. Nevertheless there is, in his account, much excellent information, detailed with simplicity; and very often, through the folly of the historian, we arrive at truths which his prejudices concealed from himself. Guibert of Nogent did not visit the Holy Land; but he lived during the first crusade, and, in common with all Europe, felt deeply interested in the fate of that expedition. He examined and noted with accuracy all the anecdotes which reached Europe, and painted, with great vivacity, scenes that he had not himself witnessed. In his account of the crusade many circumstances, evincing strongly the spirit of the age, are to be met with which do not appear elsewhere; and, as we have every reason to feel sure of his general accuracy, it is but fair to suppose that these are well founded. Radulph, or Raoul, of Caën, is inflated in style, and often inexact; but he is perhaps less superstitious than any other chronicler of the crusades. By poetical exaggeration, he often renders his narrative doubtful; yet, as the biographer of Tancred, he tends to elucidate much that would otherwise have remained in darkness. Robert, called the Monk, was present at the council of Clermont, at which the first crusade was determined; and, though he did not immediately take the Cross, he set out for the Holy Land not long after, and was present at the siege of Jerusalem. He is, in general, accurate and precise; and, though not a little credulous in regard to visions, apparitions, and such imaginations of the day, he is on the whole more calm, clear, and exact than any other contemporary author. Besides these writers, I have had occasion to cite several others of less authority. Of these, Baldric bears the highest character; and, notwithstanding the fact of his not having been present at the crusade, he is in general accurate. Tudebodus is both brief and imperfect. Matthew of Edessa deserves little or no credit; and the part of the Alexiad which refers to the first crusade is far more likely to mislead than to assist. The most important part, of the whole work, as it is published at present, consists in the notes of Ducange. William of Malmsbury is more useful, but still his account is merely a repetition of what we find in other sources. For all the affairs of Normandy, I have consulted Orderic, Vital, and William of Jumieges. The history of William of Tyre was afterward continued by several writers, the chief of whom is an author taking the title of Bernard the Treasurer. A Latin version of his book was published by Muratori: Martenne, however, has since printed a work from an old French manuscript, the identity of which with the account of Bernard the Treasurer has been proved by Mansi. This work is one of the most interesting extant; for although it wants entirely either the power or the grace of William of Tyre's composition, and is full of errors, in respect to every thing beyond the immediate limits of the Holy Land, yet there is a simple and interesting minuteness--an individuality of tone through the whole, where it relates to the affairs of Syria, which could not have been given but by an eyewitness. Even the old French in which it is written, slightly different from the exact language of France at the same period, gives it a peculiar character, and stamps it as the work of a Syrian Frank. Another continuation of William of Tyre is extant, by a Suabian of the name of Herold. This, however, is a much later composition, and possesses few of the qualities of the other. The Cardinal de Vitry also wrote an abbreviated history of the Crusades, bringing it down to his own time A. D. 1220. His work is principally to be consulted for the account it gives of the events which passed under the author's own eyes, while Bishop of Acre, and for a great many curious particulars concerning the manners and customs of the Saracens, which are to be found in no other work. The second book of the Cardinal de Vitry's History has been omitted, I cannot conceive why, in the Gesta Dei per Francos. It is, nevertheless, infinitely valuable, as showing the horrible state of the Christians of Palestine, and displaying those vices and weaknesses which eventually brought about the ruin of the Latin kingdom. The authorities for the second crusade are lamentably few, and by their very paucity show what a change had come over the spirit of the age in the short space of fifty years. The only eyewitnesses who have written on the subject, as far as I can discover, are Odo, a priest of Deuil, or Diagolum, in the neighbourhood of Paris, and Otho, Bishop of Freysinghen. The first of these authors followed Louis VII. to the Holy Land as his chaplain, and his account is, more properly speaking, an epistle to the famous Suger, Abbot of St. Denis, than a chronicle. Otho of Freysinghen was nearly related to the emperor Conrad, whom he accompanied on his unfortunate expedition. Both these authors, therefore, had the best means of obtaining information; and in the writings of each there is an air of truth and sincerity, which does much towards conviction. I have had occasion in speaking of this crusade to cite casually a number of authors, of whom it is not necessary to give any very detailed account. Their works are to be found in the admirable collections of Dom Bouquet, Duchesne, Martenne, or Muratori. Wherever I have been obliged to quote from any of the Arabian writers, I am indebted to the extracts of Monsieur Reinaud. In regard to the crusade of Richard Coeur de Lion and Philip Augustus; for the history of the first, I have borrowed from Benedict of Peterborough, from Hovedon, and especially from Vinesauf, whose work is inestimable. These, with the other English authorities I have cited, are too well known to need comment. Having some time ago written a romance, not yet published, on the history of Philip Augustus, I had previously studied almost all the old chroniclers who speak of that monarch. The most important treatise on his reign is the work of Rigord, who was at once monk, physician, and historiographer at the court of Philip. William the Breton, one of the king's chaplains, continued his history in prose, from the period where Rigord abandoned the task. He also wrote a bombastic poem on the reign of his patron, which, however exaggerated and absurd, is useful as an historical document, and a painting of the manners and customs of the time. On the taking of Constantinople by the French, I have found no want of authorities. Villehardouin, one of the principal actors in the scenes he describes, has been my chief source of information. I have also met with much in Nicetas, who was present; and I have confirmed the evidence of other writers, by the chronicle in the Rouchy dialect, published by Monsieur Buchon, and by the metrical chronicle of Philippe Mouskes in the same collection. I need hardly say that the works of Ducange have proved invaluable in every part of my inquiry, and that his history of Constantinople under its French monarchs both gave me facts and led me to authorities. Joinville is the principal writer on the crusade of St. Louis. He was an eyewitness, a sufferer, and a principal actor in the scenes he describes. Of all old chroniclers, with the exception, perhaps, of Froissart, Joinville offers the most original, simple, and delightful painting of times and manners long gone by. With the notes of Ducange, his work is an erudite repertory for antique manners and usages, and may be read and reread with gratification, and studied deeply with advantage. The folio edition in my own library comprises the Observations, and Dissertations of Ducange, and the Commentaries of Claud Menard; together with the Establishments of St. Louis, and a curious treatise upon the ancient law of France, by Pierre de Fontaines. All these works afford a great insight into the spirit of that day; and many other particulars are to be found in the _Branche aux royaux Lignages_, and in the Sermon of Robert de Sainceriaux. Besides the authors I have here particularized, I have had occasion to cite casually a great number of others, whose names, with some account of the works of each, may be found in the _Manuel_ of Brunet. Vertot also has furnished us with much information concerning the Knights of St. John; and Dupuy, Raynouard, &c. have spoken largely of the Templars. I cannot close the enumeration of authors to whom I am under obligations for information or instruction without mentioning M. Guizot, one of the most clearsighted and unprejudiced of all modern historians. His views of causes I have often adopted, sometimes with very slight modifications, and sometimes with none; and, in all instances to which his writings extend, I have been indebted to him for light to conduct me through the dark sanctuary of past events, to the shrine of Truth, even where he has not unveiled the deity herself. I can only regret that his essays did not embrace more of the very comprehensive subject on which I was called to treat. Several motives have impelled me to give this long account of my authorities; one of which motives was, that often, in reading works on history, I have myself wished that the sources from which facts were derived had been laid open to my examination; but still, my principal view in the detail was, to show the ground on which I had fixed opinions directly opposed to those of several other authors. In many cases, the aspect under which I have seen the events of the Crusades has been entirely different from that under which Mills has regarded them, and I felt myself called upon not to attack any position of a clever writer and a learned man, without justifying myself as completely as possible. In regard to my own work I shall say nothing, but that I have spared neither labour nor research to make it as correct as if it had appeared under a much more imposing form. In space, I have been confined; and in time, I have been hurried: but I have endeavoured to remedy the one inconvenience, by cutting off all superfluous matter; and to guard against evil consequences from the other, by redoubling my own exertions. Whether I have succeeded or not the world must judge; and if it does judge with the same generous lenity which it has extended to my other productions, I shall have every reason to be both satisfied and grateful. CONTENTS. Page CHAPTER I. A Definition, with Remarks and Evidence--An Inquiry into the Origin of Chivalry--Various Opinions on the Subject--Reasons for doubting the great Antiquity of Chivalry, properly so called--The State of Society which preceded it, and of that which gave it Birth--Its Origin and early Progress. 17 CHAPTER II. Of Chivalrous Customs--Education--Grades--Services on the Reception of a Knight--On Tournaments--Jousts--Combats at Outrance--Passages of Arms--The Round Table--Privileges of Knighthood--Duties of Knighthood. 31 CHAPTER III. The Progress of Chivalry in Europe--Exploits--That some great Enterprise was necessary to give Chivalry an extensive and permanent Effect--That Enterprise presented itself in the Crusades--Pilgrimage to Jerusalem--Haroun Al Raschid-- Charlemagne--Cruelties of the Turks--Pilgrimages continued-- Peter the Hermit--Council of Clermont. 53 CHAPTER IV. The Effects of the Council of Clermont--State of France-- Motives of the People for embracing the Crusade--Benefits produced--The Enthusiasm general--Rapid Progress--The first Bodies of Crusaders begin their March--Gautier sans avoir-- His Army--Their Disasters--Reach Constantinople--Peter the Hermit sets out with an immense Multitude--Storms Semlin-- Defeated at Nissa--His Host dispersed--The Remains collected--Joins Gautier--Excesses of the Multitude--The Italians and Germans separate from the French--The Germans exterminated--The French cut to pieces--Conduct of Alexius. 73 CHAPTER V. The Chivalry of Europe takes the Field--The Leaders--Godfrey of Bouillon--Conducts his Army towards Constantinople--Hugh the Great--Leads his Army through Italy--Embarks for Durazzo--Taken Prisoner--Liberated--Robert, Duke of Normandy--Winters in Italy--Arrives at Constantinople-- Robert, Count of Flanders--Joins the rest--Boemond of Tarentum--Tancred--Their March--Defeat the Greeks--Boemond does Homage--Tancred avoids it--The Count of Toulouse arrives--Refuses to do Homage--Robert of Normandy does Homage. 89 CHAPTER VI. Germ of After-misfortunes already springing up in the Crusade--Siege of Nice--First Engagement with the Turks-- Siege continued--The Lake occupied--Surrender of Nice to the Emissaries of Alexius--Discontent--March towards Antioch--The Army divides into two Bodies--Battle of Doryloeum--Dreadful March through Phrygia--Adventures of Baldwin and Tancred-- Arrival at Antioch--The City invested 109 CHAPTER VII. The Host of the Crusade invests Antioch--Description of that City--Difficulties and Errors of the Crusaders-- Improvidence--Famine--Spies--Desertions--Embassy from the Calif of Egypt--Succours from the Genoese and Pisans-- Battle--Feats of the Christian Knights--Boemond keeps up a Communication within the Town--The Town betrayed to the Christians--Massacres--Arrival of an Army from Persia--The Christians besieged in Antioch--Famine--Desertions--Visions-- Renewed Enthusiasm--Diminished Forces of the Christians-- Battle of Antioch--The Crusaders victorious--Spoils--Disputes with the Count of Toulouse--The Chiefs determine to repose at Antioch--Ambassadors sent to Alexius--Fate of their Embassy 136 CHAPTER VIII. Pestilence in Antioch--Death of the Bishop of Puy--The Chiefs separate--Siege of Marrah--Cannibalism--Disputes between the Count of Toulouse and Boemond--The Count marches towards Jerusalem--Siege of Archas--Godfrey of Bouillon marches-- Siege of Ghibel--Treachery of Raimond--Fraud of the Holy Lance investigated--Ordeal of Fire--Decisive Conduct of the Crusaders towards the Deputies of Alexius, and the Calif of Egypt--Conduct of the Crusaders towards the Emir of Tripoli-- First Sight of Jerusalem--Siege and Taking of the City-- Fanatical Massacres 162 CHAPTER IX. Election of a King--Godfrey of Bouillon--Sketch of the History of Jerusalem--Death of the chief Crusaders--New Bodies of Crusaders set out from Europe--Their Destruction in Asia Minor--Armed Pilgrimages--The Northern Armaments--The Venetians--The Genoese and Pisans--Anecdotes of the Crusaders--Battle of the Children at Antioch--The Thafurs-- Baldwin's Humanity well repaid--Superstitions--Arms of the Crusaders--Of the Turks--Hospitallers--Templars 175 CHAPTER X. Consequences of the Loss of Edessa--The State of France unfavourable to a new Crusade--View of the Progress of Society--Causes and Character of the Second Crusade--St. Bernard--The Emperor of Germany takes the Cross, and sets out--Louis VII. follows--Conduct of the Germans in Greece-- Their Destruction in Cappadocia--Treachery of Manuel Comnenus--Louis VII. arrives at Constantinople--Passes into Asia--Defeats the Turks on the Meander--His Army cut to pieces--Proceeds by Sea to Antioch--Fate of his remaining Troops--Intrigues at Antioch--Louis goes on to Jerusalem-- Siege of Damascus--Disgraceful Failure--Conrad returns to Europe--Conduct of Suger, Abbot of St. Denis--Termination of the Second Crusade 198 CHAPTER XI. Progress of Society--The Rise of Poetry in modern Europe-- Troubadours--Trouveres--Various Poetical Compositions--Effect of Poetry upon Chivalry--Effect of the Crusades on Society-- State of Palestine after the Second Crusade--Cession of Edessa to the Emperor Manuel Comnenus--Edessa completely subjected by the Turks--Ascalon taken by the Christians-- State of Egypt under the last Califs of the Fatimite Race-- The Latins and the Atabecks both design the Conquest of Egypt--Struggles for that Country--Rise of Saladin--Disputes among the Latins concerning the Succession of the Crown--Guy of Lusignan crowned--Saladin invades Palestine--Battle of Tiberias--Fall of Jerusalem--Conquest of all Palestine--Some Inquiry into the Causes of the Latin Overthrow 219 CHAPTER XII. The News of the Fate of Palestine reaches Europe--The Archbishop of Tyre comes to seek for Aid--Assistance granted by William the Good, of Sicily--Death of Urban, from Grief at the Loss of Jerusalem--Gregory VIII. promotes a Crusade-- Expedition of Frederic, Emperor of Germany--His Successes-- His Death--State of Europe--Crusade promoted by the Troubadours--Philip Augustus and Henry II. take the Cross-- Laws enacted--Saladin's Tenth--War renewed--Death of Henry II.--Accession of Richard Coeur de Lion--The Crusade-- Philip's March--Richard's March--Affairs of Sicily--Quarrels between the Monarchs--Philip goes to Acre--Richard subdues Cyprus--Arrives at Acre--Siege and Taking of Acre--Fresh Disputes--Philip Augustus returns to Europe--Richard marches on--Battle of Azotus--Heroism of Richard--Unsteady Councils-- The Enterprise abandoned 237 CHAPTER XIII. Death of Saladin--Disunion among his Successors--Celestine III. preaches a new Crusade--Henry of Germany takes the Cross--Abandons his Purpose--Crusaders proceed without him-- Saif Eddin takes the Field, and captures Jaffa--The Crusaders are reinforced--Defeat Saif Eddin--Lay Siege to Thoron-- Seized with Panic, and retreat--Disperse--Death of Henry of Champagne, King of Jerusalem--His Widow marries Almeric, King of Cyprus--Truce--Death of Almeric; and Isabella Mary, Heiress of Jerusalem, wedded to John of Brienne--Affairs of Europe--Innocent III. and Foulque, of Neuilly, promote a Crusade--The Barons of France take the Cross--Proceed to Venice--Their Difficulties--Turn to the Siege of Zara--A Change of Purpose--Proceed to Constantinople--Siege and Taking of that City--Subsequent Proceedings--A Revolution in Constantinople, Alexius deposed by Murzuphlis--Second Siege and Capture of the Greek Capital--Flight of Murzuphlis-- Plunder and Outrage--Baldwin, Count of Flanders, elected Emperor 264 CHAPTER XIV. Divisions among the Moslems--Among the Christians--Crusade of Children--Innocent III. declares he will lead a new Crusade to Syria--The King of Hungary takes the Cross--Arrives in Syria--Successes of the Pilgrims--Abandon the Siege of Mount Thabor--The King of Hungary returns to Europe--The Duke of Austria continues the War--Siege of Damietta--Reinforcements arrive under a Legate--Famine in Damietta--The Moslems offer to yield Palestine--The Legate's Pride--He refuses--Taking of Damietta--The Army advances towards Cairo--Overflowing of the Nile--The Army ruined--The Legate sues for Peace--Generous Conduct of the Sultaun--Marriage of the Heiress of Jerusalem with Frederic, Emperor of Germany--His Disputes with the Pope--His Treaties with the Saracens--He recovers Jerusalem-- He quits the Holy Land--Disputes in Palestine--The Templars defeated and slaughtered--Gregory IX.--Crusade of the King of Navarre ineffectual--Crusade of Richard, Earl of Cornwall-- Jerusalem recovered--The Corasmins--Their Barbarity--They take Jerusalem--Defeat the Christians with terrible Slaughter--Are exterminated by the Syrians--Crusade of St. Louis--His Character--Arrives in the Holy Land--Takes Damietta--Battle of Massoura--Pestilence in the Army--The King taken--Ransomed--Returns to Europe--Second Crusade of St. Louis--Takes Carthage--His Death--Crusade of Prince Edward--He defeats the Saracens--Wounded by an Assassin-- Returns to Europe--Successes of the Turks--Last Siege and Fall of Acre--Palestine lost 286 CHAPTER XV. Fate of the Orders of the Temple and St. John--The Templars abandon all Hopes of recovering Jerusalem--Mingle in European Politics--Offend Philip the Fair--Are persecuted--Charges against them--The Order destroyed--The Knights of St. John pursue the Purpose of defending Christendom--Settle in Rhodes--Siege of Rhodes--Gallant Defence--The Island taken-- The Knights remove to Malta--Siege of Malta--La Valette-- Defence of St. Elmo--Gallantry of the Garrison--The whole Turkish Army attempt to storm the Castle--The Attack repelled--Arrival of Succour--The Siege raised--Conclusion 312 NOTES 331 HISTORY OF CHIVALRY AND THE CRUSADES CHAPTER I. _A Definition, with Remarks and Evidence--An Inquiry into the Origin of Chivalry--Various Opinions on the Subject--Reasons for doubting the great Antiquity of Chivalry properly so called--The State of Society which preceded it, and of that which gave it Birth--Its Origin and early Progress._ The first principles of whatever subject we may attempt to trace in history are ever obscure, but few are so entirely buried in darkness as the origin of Chivalry. This seems the more extraordinary, as we find the institution itself suddenly accompanied by regular and established forms, to which we can assign no precise date, and which appear to have been generally acknowledged before they were reduced to any written code. Although definitions are dangerous things--inasmuch as the ambiguity of language rarely permits of perfect accuracy, except in matters of abstract science--it is better, as far as possible, on all subjects of discussion, to venture some clear and decided position, that the subsequent reasoning may be fixed upon a distinct and unchanging basis. If the position itself be wrong, it may be the more speedily proved so from the very circumstance of standing forth singly, uninvolved in a labyrinth of other matter; and if it be right, the arguments that follow may always be more easily traced, and afford greater satisfaction by being deduced from a principle already determined. These considerations lead me to offer a definition of Chivalry, together with some remarks calculated to guard that definition from the consequences of misapprehension on the part of others, or of obscurity on my own. When I speak of Chivalry I mean a military institution, prompted by enthusiastic benevolence, sanctioned by religion, and combined with religious ceremonies, the purpose of which was to protect the weak from the oppression of the powerful, and to defend the right cause against the wrong. Its military character requires no proof; but various mistaken opinions, which I shall notice hereafter, render it necessary to establish the fact, that religious ceremonies of some kind were always combined with the institutions of Chivalry. All those written laws and regulations affecting knighthood,[1] which were composed subsequent to its having taken an acknowledged form, prescribed, in the strictest manner, various points of religious ceremonial, which the aspirant to Chivalry was required to perform before he could be admitted into that high order. What preceded the regular recognition of Chivalry as an institution is entirely traditional; yet in all the old romances, fabliaux, sirventes, ballads, &c. not one instance is to be found in which a squire becomes a knight, without some reference to his religious faith. If he be dubbed in the battle-field, he swears to defend the right, and maintain all the statutes of the noble order of Chivalry, upon the _cross_ of his sword; he calls _heaven_ to witness his vow, and the _saints_ to help him in its execution. Even in one of the most absurd fables[2] of the chivalrous ages, wherein we find Saladin himself receiving the order of Chivalry from the hands of the Count de Tabarie, that nobleman causes the infidel sultan to be shaved, and to bathe as a symbol of baptism, and then to rest himself upon a perfumed bed, as a type of the repose and joy of Paradise. These tales are all fictitious, it is true; and few of them date earlier than the end of the twelfth century: but at the same time, as they universally ascribe religious ceremonies to the order of knighthood, we have every reason to suppose that such ceremonies formed a fundamental part of the institution. Before proceeding to inquire into the origin of Chivalry, I must be permitted to make one more observation in regard to my definition; namely, that there was a great and individual character in that order, which no definition can fully convey. I mean the Spirit of Chivalry; for, indeed, it was more a spirit than an institution; and the outward forms with which it soon became invested, were only, in truth, the signs by which it was conventionally agreed that those persons who had proved in their initiate they possessed the spirit, should be distinguished from the other classes of society. The ceremonial was merely the public declaration, that he on whom the order was conferred was worthy to exercise the powers with which it invested him; but still, _the spirit was the Chivalry_. In seeking the source of this order through the dark mazes of the history of modern Europe, it appears to me that many writers have mistaken the track; and, by looking for the mere external signs, have been led into ages infinitely prior to the spirit of Chivalry. Some have supposed that the institution descended to more modern times, from the equestrian order of the ancient Romans; but the absence of all but mere nominal resemblance between the two, has long placed this theory in the dusty catalogue of historical dreams. Others again have imagined that the Franks, and the rest of the German nations, who, on the fall of the Roman empire, subdued and divided Gaul, brought with them the seeds of Chivalry, which spontaneously grew up into that extraordinary plant which has flourished but once in the annals of the world. This opinion they support by citing the customs of the German tribes[3] who, not only at particular periods invested their youth with the shield and the javelin, but also (especially towards the period of the conquest of Gaul) chose from the bravest of the tribe a number of warriors, to be the companions and guards of the chief. These were termed _Leudes_, and we find them often mentioned under the whole of the first race of French kings. They served on horseback, while the greater part of each German nation fought on foot only; and they were bound to the chief by an oath of fidelity.[4] The reception of an aspirant into the body of _Leudes_ was also marked with various ceremonies; but in this, if we examine correctly, we find neither the spirit nor the forms of Chivalry. The oath of the Frank was one of service to his prince; that of the knight, to his God and to society: the one promised to defend his leader; the other to protect the oppressed, and to uphold the right. The _Leudes_ were in fact the nobility of the German tribes, though that nobility was not hereditary; but they were in no respect similar to the knights of an after-age, except in the circumstance of fighting on horseback. A third opinion supposes the origin of Chivalry to be found among the ancient warlike tribes of Northmen, or Normans, who, towards the ninth century, invaded in large bodies the southern parts of Europe, and established themselves principally in France; and certainly, both in their traditions, and even in their actions, as recorded by Abbon, an eyewitness to their deeds in the siege of Paris, there is to be found an energetic and romantic spirit, not unlike that which animated Chivalry at the rudest period of its existence. Still, there is much wanting. The great object of Chivalry, the defence of the weak, was absent, as well as every form and ceremony. The object of the Northman's courage was plunder; and all that he had in common with the knight was valour, contempt of death, and a touch of savage generosity, that threw but a feint light over his dark and stormy barbarities. Many persons again have attributed the foundation of all the chivalrous institutions of Europe to the bright and magnificent reign of Charlemagne; and as this opinion has met with much support, among even the learned, it is worth while more particularly to inquire upon what basis it is raised. Of the reign of Charlemagne we have not so many authentic accounts as we have romances, founded upon the fame of that illustrious monarch. Towards the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries, when Chivalry was in its imaginative youth, a thousand tales of wild adventure were produced, in which Charlemagne and his warriors were represented with all the qualities and attributes of those knights, whose virtues and courage had by that time wrought deeply on the heart and fancy of the people. We should be as much justified, however, in believing that Virgil was a celebrated necromancer, or that Hercules was a _Preux Chevalier_--characters which have been assigned to them by the very same class of fables--as in giving any credit to the distorted representations that those romances afford of the days of Charlemagne. In regard to the tales of King Arthur, I am perfectly inclined to use the energetic words of Menestrier, who, in speaking of the famous knights of the round table, says, without hesitation, "All that they tell of King Arthur and that fictitious Chivalry of which they represent him as the author, is nothing but a lie;"[5] for, though beyond all doubt the romances of Chivalry afford a great insight into the manners of the times wherein they were written, they are, nevertheless, quite worthless as authority concerning the ages which they pretend to display, and which had preceded their composition by nearly three centuries. After rejecting the evidences of such tales, we find nothing in the authentic records of Charlemagne which gives the slightest reason to suppose that Chivalry was known, even in its most infant state, during his reign. Though his great system of warfare had that in common with Chivalry which all warfare must have--feats of daring courage, heroic valour, bursts of feeling and magnanimity, and as much of the sublime as mighty ambition, guided by mighty genius, and elevated by a noble object can achieve--yet the government of Charlemagne was, in fact, any thing but a chivalrous government. Too powerful a hand held the reins of state for Chivalry either to have been necessary or permitted; and in reading the annals of Eginhard, his life of Charlemagne, or the account, given by the monk of St. Gall, we find a completely different character from that which is visible in every page of the history of the knightly ages. We find, indeed, that Charlemagne, according to the immemorial custom of his German[6] ancestors, solemnly invested his son Lewis with the arms of a man. A thousand years before, in the forests of the North, his predecessors had done the same: and Charlemagne, one of whose great objects ever was, to preserve both the habits and the language of the original country[7] free from amalgamation with those of the conquered nations, not only set the example of publicly receiving his son into the ranks of manhood and warfare, but strictly enjoined that the same should be done by his various governors in the provinces. But this custom of the Franks, as I have before attempted to show, had no earthly relation to knighthood. Were nothing else a proof that Chivalry was perfectly unknown in the days of Charlemagne, it would be sufficient that the famous capitularies of that monarch, which regulate every thing that can fall under the eye of the law, even to the details of private life, make no mention whatever of an institution which afterward exercised so great an influence on the fate of Europe. Nor can we trace in the annals of the surrounding countries, a mark of Chivalry having been known at that period to any other nation more than to the Franks. Alfred, it is true, invested Athelstan with a purple garment and a sword; but the Saxons were from Germany as well as the Franks, and no reason exists for supposing that this ceremony was in any degree connected with the institutions of Chivalry. There have been persons, indeed, who supposed that Pharaoh conferred knighthood upon Joseph, when he bestowed upon him the ring and the golden chain, and probably the Egyptian king had fully as much knowledge of the institution of Chivalry as either Charlemagne or Alfred. Of the annals that follow the period of Charlemagne, those of Nithard, Hincmar, and Thegan, together with those called the Annals of St. Bertinus and of Metz, are the most worthy of credit; and in these, though we often meet with the word _miles_, which was afterward the name bestowed upon a knight, it is used simply in the signification of a soldier, or one of the military race.[8] No mention whatever is made of any thing that can fairly be looked upon as chivalrous, either in feeling or institution. All is a series of dark conflicts and bloodthirsty contentions, among which the sprouts of the feudal system, yet young and unformed, are seen springing up from seeds sown long before. In the picture of those times, a double darkness seemed to cover the earth, which, a chaos of unruly passions, showed no one general institution for the benefit of mankind except the Christian religion: and that, overwhelmed by foul superstitions and guarded chiefly by barbarous, ignorant, selfish, and disorderly priests, lay like a treasure hidden by a miser, and watched by men that had not soul to use it. This was no age of knighthood. Up to this period, then, I fully believe that Chivalry did not exist; and having attempted to show upon some better ground than mere assertion, that the theories which assign to it an earlier origin are wrong, I will now give my own view of its rise, which possibly may be as erroneous as the rest. Charlemagne expired like a meteor that, having broken suddenly upon the night of ages, and blazed brilliantly over a whole world for a brief space, fell and left all in darkness, even deeper than before. His dominions divided into petty kingdoms--his successors waging long and inveterate wars against each other--the nations he had subdued shaking off the yoke--the enemies he had conquered avenging themselves upon his descendants--the laws he had established forgotten or annulled--the union he had cemented scattered to the wind--in a lamentably brief space of time, the bright order which his great mind had established throughout Europe was dissolved. Each individual, who, either by corporeal strength, advantageous position, wealth, or habit, could influence the minds of others, snatched at that portion of the divided empire which lay nearest to his means, and claimed that power as a gift which had only been intrusted as a loan. The custom of holding lands by military service had come down to the French from their German ancestors, and the dukes, the marquises, the counts, as well as a whole herd of inferior officers, who in former days had led the armies, or commanded in the provinces as servants of the crown, now arrogated to themselves hereditary rights in the charges to which they had been intrusted; and, in their own behalf, claimed the feudal service of those soldiers to whom lands had been granted, instead of preserving their allegiance for their sovereigns. The weak monarchs, who still retained the name of kings, engaged in ruinous wars with each other and in vain attempts to repel the invasions of the Northmen or Normans, first tolerated these encroachments, because they had at the time no power of resisting, and then gradually recognised them as rights, upon the condition that those who committed them should assist the sovereign in his wars, and acknowledge his title in preference to that of any of his competitors. Thus gradually rose the feudal system from the wrecks of Charlemagne's great empire. But still all was unstable and unconfirmed; the limits of the different powers in the state undecided and variable, till the war of Paris, the incompetence of the successors of Charlemagne, and the elevation of Hugues Capet, the Count of Paris, to the throne, showed the barons the power they had acquired, and crowned the feudal compact by the creation of a king whose title was found in it alone. Great confusion, however, existed still. The authority of the sovereign extended but a few leagues round the city of Paris; the Normans ravaged the coast; the powerful and the wicked had no restraint imposed upon their actions, and the weak were every where oppressed and wronged. Bands of plunderers raged through the whole of France and Germany, property was held by the sword, cruelty and injustice reigned alone, and the whole history of that age offers a complete medley of massacre, bloodshed, torture, crime, and misery. Personal courage, however, had been raised to the highest pitch by the very absence of every thing like security. Valour was a necessity and a habit, and Eudes and his companions, who defended Paris against the Normans, would have come down as demigods to the present day, if they had but possessed a Homer to sing their deeds. The very Normans themselves, with their wild enthusiasm and supernatural daring, their poetical traditions, and magnificent superstitions, seemed to bring a new and extraordinary light into the very lands they desolated. The plains teemed with murder, and the rivers flowed with blood; but the world was weary of barbarity, and a reacting spirit of order was born from the very bosom of confusion. It was then that some poor nobles, probably suffering themselves from the oppression of more powerful lords, but at the same time touched with sincere compassion for the wretchedness they saw around them, first leagued together with the holy purpose of redressing wrongs and defending the weak.[9] They gave their hands to one another in pledge that they would not turn back from the work, and called upon St. George to bless their righteous cause. The church readily yielded its sanction to an institution so noble, aided it with prayers, and sanctified it with a solemn blessing. Religious enthusiasm became added to noble indignation and charitable zeal; and the spirit of Chivalry, like the flame struck forth from the hard steel and the dull flint, was kindled into sudden light by the savage cruelty of the nobles, and the heavy barbarity of the people. The spirit spread rapidly, and the adoration of the populace, who almost deified their heroic defenders, gave both fresh vigour and purity to the design. Every moral virtue became a part of knightly honour, and the men whose hands were ever ready to draw the sword in defence of innocence--who in their own conduct set the most brilliant example--whose sole object was the establishment of right, and over whom no earthly fear or interested consideration held sway, were readily recognised as judges, and appealed to as arbitrators. Public opinion raised them above all other men, even above kings themselves; so much so, indeed, that we find continually repeated, in the writings of the chivalrous ages, such passages as the following:-- Chevaliers sont de moult grant pris, Ils ont de tous gens le pris, Et le los et le seignorie. Thus gradually Chivalry became no longer a simple engagement between a few generous and valiant men, but took the form of a great and powerful institution; and as each knight had the right of creating others without limit, it became necessary that the new class thus established in society should be distinguished by particular signs and symbols, which would guard it against the intrusion of unworthy or disgraceful members. The time at which fixed regulations first distinguished Chivalry from every other order in the state cannot be precisely determined; certainly it was not before the eleventh century. Then, however, it is probable, that this was done more from a general sense of its necessity, and by slow and irregular degrees, than by any one law or agreement. Every thing in that age was confusion, and though the spirit of Chivalry had for its great object the restoration of order, it is not likely that its own primary efforts should be very regular, amid a chaos of contending interests and unbridled passions, which rendered general communication or association difficult, if not impossible. Each knight, in admitting another to the noble order of which he himself was a member, probably added some little formality, as he thought fit, till the mass of these customs collected by tradition formed the body of their ceremonial law. The first point required of the aspirants to Chivalry, in its earliest state, was certainly a solemn vow, "_To speak the truth, to succour the helpless and oppressed, and never to turn back from an enemy_."[10] This vow, combined with the solemn appeal to Heaven in witness thereof, was the foundation of Chivalry; but, at the same time, we find, that in all ages, only one class of people was eligible to furnish members to the institution; namely, the military class, or, in other words, the northern conquerors of the soil; for, with very few exceptions, the original inhabitants of Europe had been reduced to the condition of serfs, or slaves of the glebe. Some few, indeed, had held out till they forced the invaders to permit their being incorporated with themselves upon more equal terms; but this was very rare, and the _race rustique_, as it was called, though it furnished archers to the armies, was kept distinct from the military race by many a galling difference. This lower race, then, could not be invested with the honours of Chivalry; and one of the first provisions we find in any written form, respecting the institution of knighthood, is designed to mark this more particularly. _Ad militarem honorem nullus accedat qui non sit de genere militum_, says a decree of the twelfth century. We may therefore conclude that this was the first requisite, and the vow the first formality of Chivalry. It is more than probable that the ceremony next in historical order, attached to the admission of an aspirant into the ranks of knighthood, was that of publicly arming him with the weapons he was to use, in pursuance of his vow. This is likely, from many circumstances. In the first place, to arm him for the cause was naturally the next preceding to his vowing himself to that cause, and also by his receiving those arms in the face of the public, the new defender that the people had gained became known to the people, and thus no one would falsely pretend to the character of a knight without risking detection. In the second place, as I have before said, the arming of the German youth had been from the earliest ages, like the delivery of the virile robe to young Romans, an occasion of public solemnity; and it was therefore natural that it should be soon incorporated with the ceremonial of the new military institution which now took the lead of all others. The church of course added her part to secure reverence for an order which was so well calculated to promote all the objects of religion, and vigils, fasts, and prayers speedily became a part of the initiation to knighthood. Power is ever followed by splendour and display; but to use the energetic words of a learned and talented writer of the present day,[11] the knights for long after the first institution of Chivalry, were "simple in their clothing, austere in their morals, humble after victory, firm under misfortune." In France, I believe, the order first took its rise; and, probably, the disgust felt by some pure minds at the gross and barbarous licentiousness of the times, infused that virtuous severity into the institutions of Chivalry which was in itself a glory. If we may give the least credit to the picture of the immorality and luxury of the French, as drawn by Abbon in his poem on the siege of Paris, no words will be found sufficient to express our admiration for the men who first undertook to combat not only the tyranny but the vices of their age; who singly went forth to war against crime, injustice, and cruelty who defied the whole world in defence of innocence, virtue, and truth; who stemmed the torrent of barbarity and evil; and who, from the wrecks of ages, and the ruins of empires, drew out a thousand jewels to glitter in the star that shone upon the breast of knighthood. For long the Christian religion had struggled alone, a great but shaded light through the storms of dark and barbarous ages. Till Chivalry arose there was nothing to uphold it; but from that moment, with a champion in the field to lead forth the knowledge that had been imprisoned in the cloister, the influence of religion began to spread and increase. Though worldly men thereunto attached the aggrandizement of their own temporal power, and knaves and villains made it the means of their avarice, or the cloak of their vice, still the influence of the divine truth itself gradually wrought upon the hearts of men, purifying, calming, refining, till the world grew wise enough to separate the perfection of the Gospel from the weakness of its teachers, and to reject the _errors_ while they restrained the _power_ of the Roman church. In the mean time Chivalry stood forth the most glorious institution that man himself ever devised. In its youth and in its simplicity, it appeared grand and beautiful, both from its own intrinsic excellence, and from its contrast with the things around. In its after-years it acquired pomp and luxury; and to pomp and luxury naturally succeeded decay and death; but still the legacy that it left behind it to posterity was a treasure of noble feelings and generous principles. There cannot be a doubt that Chivalry, more than any other institution (except religion) aided to work out the civilization of Europe. It first taught devotion and reverence to those weak, fair beings, who but in their beauty and their gentleness have no defence. It first raised love above the passions of the brute, and by dignifying woman, made woman worthy of love. It gave purity to enthusiasm, crushed barbarous selfishness, taught the heart to expand like a flower to the sunshine, beautified glory with generosity, and smoothed even the rugged brow of war. For the mind, as far as knowledge went, Chivalry itself did little; but by its influence it did much. For the heart it did every thing; and there is scarcely a noble feeling or a bright aspiration that we find among ourselves, or trace in the history of modern Europe, that is not in some degree referable to that great and noble principle, which has no name but the _Spirit of Chivalry_. CHAPTER II. _Of Chivalrous Customs--Education--Grades--Services on the Reception of a Knight--On Tournaments--Jousts--Combats at Outrance--Passages of Arms--The Round Table--Privileges of Knighthood--Duties of Knighthood._ Although the customs which I am about to detail at once grew gradually up under the various circumstances of different centuries, and were for the most part unknown to the infancy of Chivalry, I think it right to notice here the principal peculiarities of the institution, rather than to interrupt the course of my narrative afterward, when the history of knighthood may be traced continuously down to its final extinction. We have already seen that each individual member of the order possessed the power of admitting any other person to its honours without restraint; but it did not by any means follow that all previous trial and education was dispensed with. Very soon after the first institution of Chivalry every one became covetous of the distinction, and it naturally followed that the object of each boy's aspirations, the aim of every young man's ambition, was one day to be a knight. Those, however, who had already received the order, were scrupulously careful to admit none within its fellowship who might disgrace the sword that dubbed them; and knighthood gradually became as much the reward of a long and tedious education, as the bonnet of the doctor or the stole of the clerk. The feudal system had now reached its acme; and each individual lord, within his own domain, assumed the state and importance of a prince. With the vain spirit of ostentatious imitation which unhappily is common to all climes and all centuries, the great feudatories of the crown copied the household of the sovereign, and the petty barons imitated them. Each had his crowd of officers, and squires, and pages, and varlets. Even the monasteries and the abbeys affected the same pomp and ceremonial, so that we find the abbot of St. Denis riding[12] forth accompanied by his chamberlain and marshal, whose offices were held as feoffs. The manor or the castle of each feudal chieftain, however, soon became the school of Chivalry, and any noble youth whose parents were either dead or too poor to educate him to the art of war was willingly received in the dwelling of a neighbouring baron, who took care that his pupil should be instructed in all military exercises, glad to attach to his own person as large a body of armed retainers as his circumstances would permit. Till they reached the age of seven years the youths, afterward destined to arms, were left to the care of the females of the household, who taught them the first principles of religion and of Chivalry. They were then in general sent from home, those fathers even, who possessed the means of conducting their education themselves, preferring to intrust it to some other noble knight who could be biassed[13] by no parental tenderness to spare the young aspirant to Chivalry any of those trials and hardships absolutely necessary to prepare him for his after-career. On entering the household of another knight, the first place filled by the youths, then fresh from all the soft kindnesses of home, was that of page or varlet, which, though it implied every sort of attendance on the person of their new lord, was held as honourable, not degrading. Here they still remained[14] much among the women of the family, who undertook to complete their knowledge of their duty to God and their lady, instilling into their infant minds that refined and mystic idea of love, which was so peculiar a trait in the Chivalry of old. In the mean while the rest of their days were passed in the service of their lord, accompanying him in his excursions, serving him at table, pouring out his drink; all of which offices being shared in by the children and young relations of the baron himself,[15] were reckoned, as I have said, highly honourable, and formed the first step in the ascent to Chivalry. At the same time infinite pains were bestowed upon the education of these pages. They were taught all sorts of gymnastic exercises which could strengthen the body; and, by continually mingling with the guests of the castle, receiving them on their arrival, offering them every sort of service, and listening respectfully to the conversation of their elders, they acquired that peculiar grace of manner which, under the name of courtesy, formed a principal perfection in the character of the true knight. At fourteen the page was usually admitted to the higher grade of squire, and exchanged his short dagger for the manly sword. This, however, was made a religious ceremony; and the weapon which he was in future to wear was laid upon the altar, from whence it was taken by the priest,[16] and after several benedictions, was hung over the shoulder of the new squire, with many a sage caution and instruction as to its use. His exercises now became more robust than they had ever been before; and, if we are to believe the old biographer of the celebrated Boucicaut, they were far more fatiguing than any man of the present age could endure. To spring upon horseback armed at all pieces, without putting a foot in the stirrup; to cast somersets in heavy armour[17] for the purpose of strengthening the arms; to leap upon the shoulders of a horseman from behind, without other hold than one hand laid upon his shoulder--such, and many others, were the daily exercises of the young noble, besides regular instruction in riding and managing his arms. Though it would seem at first that few constitutions could undergo for any length of time such violent exertions, we must remember the effects produced--we must call to mind that these very men in their after-life, are found bearing a weight, that few persons of the present times could lift, through the heat of a whole summer's day, under the burning sun of Palestine. We must remember the mighty feats of strength that these men performed; and, when we see a Boemond fighting from noon to sunset cased from head to foot in thick iron, or in long after-days a Guise swimming against a torrent armed cap-a-pie, we must naturally conclude that no ordinary course of training could produce such vigour and hardihood. Several degrees of squires or esquires are mentioned in the ancient chronicles; and it is difficult to distinguish which class included the young noble--which was filled by an inferior race. That there was a distinction is evident; for in the life of Bayard[18] we find an old squire mentioned more than once, from whom he received instructions, but who never appears to have aspired to any higher degree. Nevertheless it is equally certain that many services which we should consider menial, were performed by the squires of the highest race about the persons of their lords. Nor was this confined to what might be considered military services; for we learn that they not only held the stirrup for their lord to mount, and then followed, carrying his helm, his lance, his shield, or his gauntlets; but they continued to serve him at table, to clean his armour, to dress his horses, and to fulfil a thousand other avocations, in which they were aided, it is true, by the _gros varlets_ or common servants, but which they still had their share in accomplishing with their own hands.[19] The highest class of esquires, however, was evidently the _écuyer d'honneur_, who, from the manner of Froissart's mention of many at the court of the Count de Foix, appears to have had in charge the reception and entertainment of guests and strangers. The squires of course had often more important duties to perform. It was for them to follow their lords to the battle-field; and, while the knights, formed in a long line, fought hand to hand against their equals, the squires remained watching eagerly the conflict, and ready to drag their master from the _mêlée_, to cover him if he fell, to supply him with fresh arms, and, in short, to lend him every aid; without, however, presuming to take an active part against the adverse knights, with whose class it was forbidden for a squire to engage. St. Palaye limits to these defensive operations the services of the squires in the field of battle,[20] and it is possible that the strict laws of Chivalry might justify such a restriction. Nevertheless there can be no earthly doubt that they were often much more actively engaged, even in the purest days of Chivalry. In all the wars between Richard Coeur de Lion and Philip Augustus,[21] we find them often fighting bravely; and at the battle of Bovine, a squire had nearly taken the life of the famous Count de Boulogne. These services in the field perfected the aspirant to Chivalry in the knowledge of his profession; and the trials of skill which, on the day that preceded a tournament, were permitted to squires, in the lists, gave him an opportunity of distinguishing himself in the eyes of the people, and of gaining a name among the heralds and chroniclers of knightly deeds. If a noble squire had conducted himself well during the period of his service, it seldom occurred that his lord refused to bestow upon him the honour of knighthood at the age of twenty-one; and sometimes, if he had been distinguished by any great or gallant feat, or by uniform talent and courage,[22] he was admitted into the order before he had reached that age. This, nevertheless, was rare, except in the case of sovereign princes; and, on the contrary, it occasionally happened that a knight who did not choose to part so soon with a favourite squire would delay on various pretences a ceremony which almost always caused some separation between the young knight and his ancient master.[23] The squire, however, had always the right to claim the knighthood from the hand of another, if his lord unjustly refused to bestow it; and that high sense of honour which was their great characteristic prevented the knights thus applied to from ever refusing, when the aspirant was fully justified in his claim. The times chosen for conferring knighthood were generally either those of great military ceremony,[24] as after tournaments, _cours plénières_, the muster or _monstre_, as it was called, of the army, or on days consecrated by the church to some peculiar solemnity, as Easter-day, the day of Pentecost, or even Christmas-day.[25] This was, nevertheless, by no means imperative; for we have already seen that knighthood was often conferred on any particular emergency, and even on the field of battle.[26] On these occasions the forms were of course abridged to suit the necessity of the case, but the knighthood was not the less valid or esteemed. The more public and solemn the ceremony could be made, the more it appeared to the taste of the nobles of the middle ages. Nor was the pomp and display without its use, raising and dignifying the order in the eyes of the people, and impressing deeply upon the mind of the young knight the duties which he had voluntarily taken upon himself. We all know how much remembrance depends upon external circumstance, and it is ever well to give our feelings some fixed resting-place in the waste of life, that in after-years memory may lead us back and refresh the resolutions and bright designs of youth by the aid of the striking scenes and solemn moments in which those designs and resolutions were first called into activity. Nothing could be better calculated to make a profound impression on the mind than the ceremonies of a knight's reception in the mature times of Chivalry. On the day appointed,[27] all the knights and nobles at that time in the city where the solemnity was to be performed, with the bishops and clergy, each covered with the appropriate vestments of his order, the knight in his coat-of-arms, and the bishop in his stole, conducted the aspirant to the principal church of the place. There, after the high mass had been chanted, the novice approached the altar and presented the sword to the bishop or priest, who, taking it from his hand, blessed and consecrated it to the service of religion and virtue. It often happened that the bishop himself then solemnly warned the youth of the difficulties and requisites of the order to which he aspired. "He who seeks to be a knight,"--said the Bishop of Valenciennes to the young Count of Ostrevant on one of these occasions,[28] "he who wishes to be a knight should have great qualities. He must be of noble birth, liberal in gifts, high in courage, strong in danger, secret in council, patient in difficulties, powerful against enemies, prudent in his deeds. He must also swear to observe the following rules: To undertake nothing without having heard mass fasting; to spare neither his blood nor his life in defence of the Catholic faith; to give aid to all widows and orphans; to undertake no war without just cause; to favour no injustice, but to protect the innocent and oppressed; to be humble in all things; to seek the welfare of those placed under him; never to violate the rights of his sovereign, and to live irreprehensibly before God and man." The bishop, then taking his joined hands in his own, placed them on the missal, and received his oath to follow the statutes laid down to him, after which his father advancing dubbed him a knight. At other times it occurred, that when the sword had been blessed, the novice[29] carried it to the knight who was to be his godfather in Chivalry, and kneeling before him plighted his vow to him. After this the other knights, and often the ladies present, advanced, and completely armed the youth, sometimes beginning with one piece of the armour, sometimes another. St. Palaye declares that the spurs were always buckled on before the rest, but in the history of Geoffrey, Duke of Normandy, we find the corslet and the greaves mentioned first, and the spear and sword last. After having been armed, the novice still remained upon his knees before his godfather in arms, who then, rising from his seat, bestowed upon him the _accolade_, as it was called, which consisted generally of three blows of the naked sword upon the neck or shoulder. Sometimes it was performed by a blow given with the palm of the hand upon the cheek of the novice, which was always accompanied by some words, signifying that the ceremony was complete, and the squire had now become a knight. The words which accompanied the accolade were generally, when the kings of France bestowed the honour, "In the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I make thee knight; be loyal, bold, and true." Sometimes to the blow were joined the words,[30] "Bear this blow and never bear another," and sometimes was added the more Christian admonition to humility, "Remember that the Saviour of the world was buffeted and scoffed."[31] Whatever was its origin the custom was a curious one, and bore a strong resemblance to the ceremony of manumission among the Romans, who, on freeing a slave, struck him a slight blow, which Claudian happily enough terms _felicem injuriam_. I do not, however, intend to insinuate that the one custom was derived from the other, though, perhaps, the fact of a serf becoming free if his lord struck him with any instrument,[32] except such as were employed in his actual labour, may have been, in some degree, a vestige of the Roman law in this respect, which we know descended entire to many of the barbarous nations. However that may be, after having submitted to the blow which ended his servitude as a squire, the new knight was decorated with his casque, which had hitherto been held beside him, and then proceeding to the door of the church, or of the castle, where his knighthood had been bestowed, he sprang upon his horse and showed himself armed in the principal places of the city, while the heralds proclaimed his name and vaunted his prowess.[33] As long vigils, fast, prayers, and confessions had preceded and accompanied the admission of the new knight, festivals, banquets, and tournaments followed.[34] The banquets and the festivals, as common to all ages, though differing in each, I will pass over: suffice it, that one of the strictest laws of Chivalry forbade gluttony and intemperance. The tournament, as a purely chivalrous institution, I must mention; though so much has been already written on the subject, that I could have wished to pass it over in silence. The most complete description ever given of a tournament is to be found in the writings of one whose words are pictures; and if I dared but copy into this place the account of the passage of arms in Ivanhoe, I should be enabled to give a far better idea of what such a scene really was, than all the antiquarian researches in my power will afford. All military nations, from the earliest antiquity, have known and practised various athletic games in imitation of warfare; and we of course find among the Franks various exercises of the kind from the very first records which we have of that people. Nithard,[35] however, gives an elaborate picture of these mock-fights as practised in the reigns succeeding Charlemagne; and we find but little resemblance to the tournament. Four equal bands of Saxons, Gascons, Austrasians, and Armoricans (or Britons,[36] as they are there called) met together in an open place, and, while the populace stood round as spectators, pursued each other, in turn, brandishing their arms, and seeming fiercely to seek the destruction of their adversaries. When this had proceeded for some time, Louis and Charles (the two monarchs in whose history the description is given) suddenly rushed into the field with all their choice companions, and, with quivering lances and loud cries, followed, now one, now another, of the parties, who took care to fly before their horses. The first authentic mention of a tournament[37] is to be found in the Chronicle of Tours, which records the death of Geoffrey de Priuli in 1066; adding the words _qui torneamenta invenit_--who invented tournaments. From the appearance[38] of these exercises in Germany[39] about the same time, we may conclude that this date is pretty nearly correct; and that if tournaments were not absolutely invented at that precise period, they were then first regulated by distinct laws. In England[40] they did not appear till several years later, when the Norman manners introduced after the conquest had completely superseded the customs of the Saxons. Thus much has seemed necessary to me to say concerning the origin of tournaments, as there are so many common fables on the subject which give far greater antiquity to the exercise than that which it is entitled to claim. The ceremonies and the splendour of the tournament of course differed in different ages and different countries; but the general principle was the same. It was a chivalrous game, originally instituted for practising those exercises, and acquiring that skill which was likely to be useful in knightly warfare. A tournament was usually given upon the occasion of any great meeting, for either military or political purposes. Sometimes it was the king himself who sent his heralds through the land to announce to all noblemen and ladies, that on a certain day he would hold a grand tournament, where all brave knights might try their prowess. At other times a tournament was determined on by a body of independent knights; and messengers were often sent into distant countries to invite all gallant gentlemen to honour the passage of arms. The spot fixed upon for the lists was usually in the immediate neighbourhood of some abbey or castle, where the shields of the various[41] cavaliers who purposed combating were exposed to view for several days previous to the meeting. A herald was also placed beneath the cloisters to answer all questions concerning the champions, and to receive all complaints against any individual knight. If, upon investigation, the kings of arms and judges of the field found that a just accusation was laid against one[42] of the knights proposing to appear, a peremptory command excluded him from the lists; and if he dared in despite thereof to present himself, he was driven forth with blows and ignominy. Round about the field appointed for the spectacle were raised galleries, scaffoldings, tents,[43] and pavilions, decorated with all the magnificence of a luxurious age. Banners and scutcheons, and bandrols, silks and cloth of gold, covered the galleries and floated round the field; while all that rich garments and precious stones, beauty and youth, could do to outshine the inanimate part of the scene, was to be found among the spectators. Here too was seen the venerable age of Chivalry--all those old knights whose limbs were no longer competent to bear the weight of arms, surrounding the field to view the prowess of their children and judge the deeds of the day. Heralds and pursuivants, in the gay and many-coloured garments which they peculiarly affected, fluttered over the field, and bands of warlike music were stationed near to animate the contest and to salute the victors. The knights, as they appeared in the lists, were greeted by the heralds and the people[44] according to their renown; but the approbation of the female part of the spectators was the great stimulus to all the Chivalry of the field. Each knight, as a part of his duty, either felt or feigned himself in love; and it was upon these occasions that his lady might descend from the high state to which the mystic adoration of the day had raised her, and bestow upon her favoured champion a glove, a riband, a bracelet,[45] a jewel, which, borne on his crest through the hard-contested field, was the chief object of his care, and the great excitement to his valour. Often, too, in the midst of the combat, if accident or misfortune deprived the favoured knight of the gage of his lady's affection, her admiration or her pity won her to supply another token, sent by a page or squire, to raise again her lover's resolution, and animate him to new exertions. The old romance of Perce-forest gives a curious picture of the effects visible after a tournament, by the eagerness with which the fair spectators had encouraged the knights. "At the close of the tournament," says the writer, "the ladies were so stripped of their ornaments, that the greater part of them were bareheaded. Thus they went their ways with their hair floating on their shoulders more glossy than fine gold; and with their robes without the sleeves, for they had given to the knights to decorate themselves, wimples and hoods, mantles and shifts, sleeves and bodies. When they found themselves undressed to such a pitch, they were at first quite ashamed; but as soon as they saw every one was in the same state, they began to laugh at the whole adventure, for they had all bestowed their jewels and their clothes upon the knights with so good a will, that they had not perceived that they uncovered themselves." This is probably an exaggerated account of the enthusiasm which the events of a tournament excited in the bosom of the fair ladies of that day: but still, no doubt can be entertained, that they not only decorated their knights before the tournament with some token of their approbation, but in the case of its loss, often sent him even a part of their dress in the midst of the conflict. The other spectators, also, though animated by less thrilling interests, took no small share in the feelings and hopes of the different parties. Each blow of the lance or sword, struck well and home, was greeted with loud acclamations; and valour met with both its incitement and its reward, in the expecting silence and the thundering plaudits with which each good champion's movements were waited for and seen. In the mean while, without giving encouragement to any particular knight, the heralds strove to animate all by various quaint and characteristic exclamations, such as "The love of ladies!" "Death to the horses!" "Honour to the brave!" "Glory to be won by blood and sweat!" "Praise to the sons of the brave!" It would occupy too much space to enter into all the details of the tournament, or to notice all the laws by which it was governed. Every care was taken that the various knights should meet upon equal terms; and many a precaution was made use of to prevent accidents, and to render the sports both innocent and useful. But no regulations could be found sufficient to guard against the dangerous consequences of such furious amusements; and Ducange gives a long list of princes and nobles who lost their lives in these fatal exercises. The church often interfered, though in vain, to put them down; and many monarchs forbade them in their dominions; but the pomp with which they were accompanied, and the excitement they afforded to a people fond of every mental stimulus, rendered them far more permanent than might have been expected. The weapons in tournaments were, in almost all cases, restrained to blunted swords and headless spears, daggers, and battle-axes; but, as may well be imagined, these were not to be used without danger; so that even those festivals that passed by without the absolute death of any of the champions, left, nevertheless, many to drag out a maimed and miserable existence, or to die after a long and weary sickness. And yet the very peril of the sport gave to it an all-powerful interest, which we can best conceive, at present, from our feelings at some deep and thrilling tragedy. After the excitement, and the expectation, and the suspense, and the eagerness, came the triumph and the prize--and the chosen queen of the field bestowed upon the champion whose feats were counted best, that reward, the value of which consisted more in the honour than the thing itself. Sometimes it was a jewel,[46] sometimes a coronet[47] of flowers or of laurel; but in all cases the award implied a right to one kiss from the lips of the lady appointed to bestow the prize. It seems to have been as frequent a practice to assign this prize on the field, as in the chateau[48] or palace whither the court retired after the sports were concluded; and we often find that the female part of the spectators were called to decide upon the merits of the several champions, and to declare the victor[49] as well as confer the reward. Mirth and festivity ever closed the day of the tournament, and song and sports brought in the night. Every thing that could interest or amuse a barbarous age was collected on the spot where one of these meetings was held. The minstrel or _menestrier_, the juggler, the saltimbank, the story-teller, were present in the hall to soothe or to entertain; but still the foundation of tale and song was Chivalry;--the objects of all praise were noble deeds and heroic actions; and the very voice of love and tenderness, instead of seducing to sloth and effeminacy, was heard prompting to activity, to enterprise, and to honour--to the defence of virtue, and the search for glory. It may be here necessary to remark, that there were several sorts of tournaments, which differed essentially from each other; but I shall not pause upon these any longer than merely to point out the particular differences between them. The joust, which was certainly a kind of tournament, was always confined to two persons, though these persons encountered each other with blunted arms.[50] The combat at outrance was, in fact, a duel, and only differed from the trial by battle in being voluntary, while the other was enforced by law. This contest was often the event of private quarrels, but was, by no means, always so; and, to use the language of Ducange, "though mortal, it took place ordinarily between persons who most frequently did not know each other, or, at least, had no particular misunderstanding, but who sought alone to show forth their courage, generosity, and skill in arms." Sometimes, however, the combat at outrance was undertaken by a number of knights[51] together, and often much blood was thus shed, without cause. The _pas d'armes_ or passage of arms, differed from general tournaments, inasmuch as a certain number of knights fixed their shields and tents in a particular pass, or spot of ground, which they declared their intention to defend against all comers.[52] The space before their tents was generally listed in, as for a tournament; and, during the time fixed for the defence of the passage, the same concourse of spectators, heralds, and minstrels were assembled. The round table was another distinct sort of tournament,[53] held in a circular amphitheatre, wherein the knights invited jousted against each other. The origin of this festival, which was held, I believe, for the last time by Edward III., is attributed to Roger Mortimer,[54] who, on receiving knighthood, feasted a hundred knights and a hundred ladies at a round table. The mornings were spent in chivalrous games, the prize of which was a golden lion, and the evenings in banquets and festivities. This course of entertainments continued three days with the most princely splendour; after which Mortimer, having won the prize himself, conducted his guests to Warwick, and dismissed them. From this account, taken from the History of the Priory of Wigmore, Menestrier deduces that those exercises called "round tables" were only tournaments, during which the lord or sovereign giving the festival entertained his guests at a table which, to prevent all ceremony in respect to precedence, was in the form of a circle. Perhaps, however, this institution may have had a different and an earlier origin, though I find it mentioned in no author previous to the year 1279.[55] Chivalry, which in its pristine purity knew no reward but honour, soon--as it became combined with power--appropriated to itself various privileges which, injuring its simplicity, in the end brought about its fall. In the first place, the knight was, by the fact of his Chivalry, the judge of all his equals, and consequently of all his inferiors.[56] He was also, in most cases, the executor of his own decree, and it would indeed have required a different nature from humanity to secure such a jurisdiction from frequent perversion. The knight[57] also took precedence of all persons who had not received Chivalry, a distinction well calculated to do away with that humility which was one of knighthood's strictest laws.[58] Added to this was the right of wearing particular dresses and colours, gold and jewels, which were restrained to the knightly class, by very severe ordinances. Scarlet and green were particularly reserved for the order of knighthood, as well as ermine, minever, and some other furs. Knights also possessed what was called privilege of clergy, that is to say, in case of accusation, they could claim to be tried before the ecclesiastical judge.[59] Their arms were legally forbidden to all other classes, and the title of Sire, Monseigneur, Sir, Don, &c., were applied to them alone, till the distinction was lost in the course of time. Though these privileges changed continually, and it is scarcely possible to say what age gave birth to any one of them, yet it is evident that monarchs, after they had seen the immense influence which Chivalry might have on their own power, and had striven to render it an engine for their own purposes, took every care to secure all those rights and immunities to the order which could in some degree balance the hardships, fatigues, and dangers inevitably attendant upon it, and supply the place of that enthusiasm which of course grew fainter as the circumstances which excited it changed, and the objects which it sought were accomplished. It is probable that there would always have been many men who would have coveted Chivalry for the sole purpose of doing good and protecting the innocent; but monarchs sought to increase the number of knights as a means of defending their realms and extending their power, and, consequently, they supplied other motives and external honours as an inducement to those persons of a less exalted mind. Chivalry was indeed a distinction not to be enjoyed without many and severe labours. The first thing after receiving knighthood was generally a long journey[60] into foreign countries, both for the purpose of jousting with other knights, and for instruction in every sort of chivalrous knowledge. There the young knight studied carefully the demeanour of every celebrated champion he met, and strove to glean the excellencies of each. Thus he learned courtesy and grace, and thus he heard all the famous exploits of the day which, borne from court to court by these chivalrous travellers, spread the fame of great deeds from one end of the world to the other.[61] It cannot be doubted that this practice of wandering armed through Europe gave great scope to licentiousness in those who were naturally ill-disposed; and many a cruelty and many a crime was assuredly committed by that very order instituted to put down vice and to protect innocence. To guard against this the laws of Chivalry were most severe;[62] and as great power was intrusted to the knight, great was the shame and dishonour if he abused it. The oath taken in the first place was as strictly opposed to every vice, as any human promise could be, and the first principle of chivalrous honour was never to violate an engagement. I must here still repeat the remark, that it was the spirit which constituted the Chivalry, and as that spirit waned, Chivalry died away. One of the most curious institutions of Chivalry was that which required a knight, on his return from any expedition,[63] to give a full and minute account to the heralds, or officers of arms, of all his adventures during his absence, without reserve or concealment; telling as well his reverses and discomfitures, as his honours and success. To do this he was bound by oath; and the detail thus given was registered by the herald, who by such relations learned to know and estimate the worth and prowess of each individual knight. It served also to excite other adventurers to great deeds in imitation of those who acquired fame and honour; and it afforded matter of consolation to the unfortunate, who in those registers must ever have met with mishaps to equal or surpass their own. The spirit of Chivalry, however, led to a thousand deeds and habits not required nor regulated by any law. Were two armies opposed to each other, or even encamped in the neighbourhood of each other, though at peace,[64] the knights would continually issue forth singly from the ranks to challenge any other champion to come out, and break a lance in honour of his lady. Often before a castle, or on the eve of a battle, a knight would vow to some holy saint never to quit the field, or abandon the siege, till death or victory ended his design. Frequently, too, we find that in the midst of some great festival, where all the Chivalry of the land was assembled, a knight would suddenly appear, bearing in his hands[65] a peacock, a heron, or some other bird. Presenting it in turn to each noble in the assembly, he would then demand their oath upon that bird to do some great feat of arms against the enemy. No knight dared to refuse, and the vow so taken was irrevocable and never broken. One of the most extraordinary customs of Chivalry, and also one of the most interesting, was the adoption of a brother in arms.[66] This custom[67] seems to have taken its rise in England, and was in common use especially among the Saxons. After the Conquest, however, it rapidly spread to other nations, and seems to have been a favourite practice with the crusaders. Esteem and long companionship were the first principles of this curious sort of alliance, which bound one knight to another by ties more strict than those of blood itself. It is true the brotherhood in arms was often contracted but for a time, or under certain circumstances,[68] which once passed by, the engagement was at an end; but far oftener it was a bond for life, uniting interests and feelings, and dividing dangers and successes. The brothers in arms[69] met all perils together, undertook all adventures in company, shared in the advantage of every happy enterprise, and partook of the pain or loss of every misfortune. If the one was attacked in body, in honour, or in estate, the other sprang forward to defend him. Their wealth and even their thoughts were in common; so that the news which the one received, or the design that he formed, he was bound to communicate to the other without reserve. Even if the one underlay a wager of battle[70] against any other knight, and was cut off by death before he could discharge himself thereof, his brother in arms was bound to appear in the lists, in defence of his honour, on the day appointed. Sometimes[71] this fraternity of arms was contracted by a solemn deed; sometimes by a vow ratified by the communion and other ceremonies of the church. In many cases,[72] however, the only form consisted in the mutual exchange of arms, which implied the same devotion to each other, and the same irrevocable engagement. I have now said sufficient concerning the habits and customs of the ancient knights, to give a general idea of the rules by which Chivalry was governed, and the spirit by which it was animated. That spirit waxed fainter, it is true, as luxury and pomp increased, and as the barbarities of an early age merged into the softer licentiousness that followed. But the rules of the order themselves remained unchanged, and did far more than any other institution to restrain the general incontinence[73] of the age. Even in those days when chivalrous love was no longer pure, and chivalrous religion no longer the spring of the noblest morality, the spirit of the days of old lingered amid the ruins of the falling institution. An Edward, a Du Guesclin, a Bayard, a Sidney, would rise up in the midst of corrupted times, and shame the vices of the day by still showing one more true knight; and even now, when the order has altogether passed away, we feel and benefit by its good effects. So complete a change has come over manners and customs, so rapid has been our late progress, and so many and vast have been the events of latter years, that to trace the remains of Chivalry in any of our present feelings or institutions, seems but a theoretical dream. The knights of old are looked upon as things apart, that have neither kin nor community with ourselves; their acts are hardly believed; and their very existence is doubted. Let him who would make historical remembrance more tangible, and see how nearly the days of Chivalry approach to our own, run his eye over one short page in the chronology of the world, and he will find that no more than three centuries have passed since Bayard himself died, a knight without reproach. CHAPTER III. _The Progress of Chivalry in Europe--Exploits--That some great Enterprise was necessary to give Chivalry an extensive and permanent Effect--That Enterprise presented itself in the Crusades--Pilgrimage to Jerusalem-- Haroun Al Raschid--Charlemagne--Cruelties of the Turks--Pilgrimages continued--Peter the Hermit--Council of Clermont._ The picture which I have just attempted to draw of the various customs of Chivalry must be looked upon rather as a summary of its institutions and feelings, as they changed through many ages and many nations, than as a likeness of Chivalry at any precise period, or in any one country. Previous to the age of the crusades, to which I now propose to turn as speedily as possible, the state of Chivalry in Europe had made but little progress. It had spread, however, as a spirit, to almost all the nations surrounding the cradle of its birth. In Spain Alphonso VI.[74] was already waging a completely chivalric war against the Moors, and many of the knights of France, who afterward distinguished themselves in the Holy Land, had, in the service of one or other of the Spanish princes, tried their arms against the Saracens. In England we have seen that there is reason to suppose the institution of knighthood was known to the Saxons,[75] though the indiscriminate manner in which the word _miles_ is used in the Latin chronicles of the day renders it scarcely possible to ascertain at what period the order was introduced. The same difficulty indeed occurs in regard to the Normans, though from various circumstances connected with the accounts given by William of Jumieges,[76] of the reigns of William I. and Richard I., Dukes of Normandy, we are led to believe that Chivalry was very early introduced among that people. At all events it seems certain that after the accession of Richard to the ducal dignity, A. D. 960, knightly feelings made great progress among the Normans, and in 1003, we find an exploit so purely chivalrous, performed by a body of forty gentlemen from Normandy, that we cannot doubt the spirit of knighthood in its purest form had already spread through that country. "Forty Norman gentlemen," says Vertot, "all warriors, who had distinguished themselves in the armies of the Duke of Normandy, returning from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, disembarked in Italy without arms. Having learned that the town of Salerno was besieged by the Saracens, their zeal for religion caused them instantly to throw themselves into that place. Guimard, the Prince of Salerno, had shut himself up in the town, to defend it to the last against the infidels; and he immediately caused arms and horses to be given to the Norman gentlemen, who made so many vigorous and unexpected sallies upon the Saracens, that they compelled them to raise the siege." In Italy we find many traces of Chivalry at an early date, and it would appear that the institution which took its rise in France was no sooner known than adopted by most other nations. The Normans, whom we have seen above succouring the Prince of Salerno in his necessity, did not remain a sufficient length of time in Italy to spread the chivalrous spirit; but it is said that Guimard, after using every effort to induce them to stay, sent deputies after them to Normandy, praying for aid from the nobles of that country against the Saracens. Several large bodies of Norman adventurers, in consequence of his promises and persuasions, proceeded to establish themselves in Apulia and Calabria, defeated the Saracens, cleared the south of Italy and part of Greece of those locust-like invaders, and re-established the Greek and Italian princes in their dominions. These princes, however, soon became jealous of their new allies, and employed various base means to destroy them. They, on the other hand, united for mutual defence, and under the famous Robert Guiscard, one of twelve brothers who had left Normandy for Italy together, they speedily conquered for themselves the countries which they had restored to ungrateful lords. Guiscard was now universally acknowledged as their chief, and thus began the chivalrous Norman empire in Italy. Nothing, perhaps, more favoured the general progress of Chivalry than the state of religion in that day; which, overloaded with superstitions, and decked out with every external pomp and ornament, appealed to the imagination through the medium of the senses, and woke a thousand enthusiasms which could find no such fitting career as in the pursuits of knighthood. The first efforts of the feudal system, too, gradually extending themselves to every part of Europe, joined to make Chivalry spread through the different countries where they were felt, by raising up a number of independent lords who--each anxious to reduce his neighbours to vassalage, and to preserve his own separate lordship--required continual armed support from others, to whom he offered in return honour and protection. Thus, for about a century, or perhaps a little more, after the first institution of knighthood, Chivalry slowly gained ground, and by each exploit of any particular body of knights (such, for instance, as we have recorded of the Normans) the order became more and more respected, and its establishment more firm, decided, and regular. It wanted but one great enterprise commenced and carried through upon chivalrous principles alone to render Chivalry, combined as it was with religion and the feudal system, the great master power of Europe--and that enterprise was at hand. The natural reverence for those countries, sanctified and elevated by so many miracles, and rendered sublimely dear to the heart of every Christian, as the land in which his salvation was brightly but terribly worked out, had from all ages rendered Palestine an object of pilgrimage. In the earliest times, after the recognition of the Christian faith by Constantine, the subjects of the Roman empire had followed the example of the empress Helena, and had deemed it almost a Christian duty to visit the scenes of our Saviour's mortal career. For many ages while the whole of Judea remained under the sway of the Cesars, the journey was an easy one. Few difficulties waylaid the passenger, or gave pilgrimage even the merit of dangers encountered and obstacles overcome. Towards the seventh century, the eastern provinces of the Roman empire, already weakened by many invasions, had to encounter the exertions of another adversary, who succeeded in wresting them from their Christian possessors. The successors of Mahomet, who from a low station had become a great legislator, a mighty conqueror, and a pretended prophet, carried on the conquest which he had begun in Arabia, and one by one made themselves masters of Syria, Antioch, Persia, Medea, and in fact the greater part of the rich continent of Asia. It is not here my purpose to trace the progress of these conquerors, or to examine for a moment the religion they professed. Suffice it, that in the days of Charlemagne the fame of that great prince produced from the calif Haroun al Raschid many liberal concessions in favour of the Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem, now in the hands of the unbelievers. Particular ages seem fertile in great men; and it is very rare to find one distinguished poet, monarch, or conqueror standing alone in his own century. Nay more;--we generally discover--however different the country that produces them, and however opposite the circumstances under which they are placed--that there is a similarity in the character of the mind, if I may so express myself without obscurity, of the eminent persons produced in each particular age. This was peculiarly the case in the age of Charlemagne. It seemed as if the most remote corners of the earth had made an effort, at the same moment, to produce from the bosom of barbarism and confusion a great and intelligent monarch--an Alfred, a Haroun, and a Charlemagne. The likeness seemed to be felt by the two great emperors of the east and the west; and a reciprocation of courtesy[77] and friendship appears to have taken place between them, most rare in that remote age. Various presents were transmitted from one to the other; and the most precious offering that the Christian monarch could receive, the keys of the Holy City, were sent from Bagdad to Aix, together with a standard, which has been supposed to imply the sovereignty of Jerusalem resigned by Haroun to his great contemporary. Nothing could afford a nobler proof of a great, a liberal, and a delicate mind, than the choice evinced by the calif in his gift. Charlemagne took advantage so far of Haroun's liberality,[78] as to establish an hospital and a library for the Latin pilgrims. The successors of Haroun, and more particularly Monstacer Billah, continued to yield tolerance at least, if not protection, to the Christians of Jerusalem. The pilgrims also were more or less protected during the reigns that followed, both from motives of liberal feeling and of interest, as the great influx of travellers, especially from Italy, brought much wealth and commerce into Syria. Under the califs of the Fatemite race several persecutions took place; and when at length the invasion of the Turkish hordes had brought the whole of Palestine under the dominion of a wild and barbarous race, Jerusalem was taken and sacked; and while the Christian inhabitants were treated with every sort of brutal cruelty, the pilgrims were subject to taxation[79] on their arrival, as well as liable to plunder by the way. A piece of gold was exacted for permission to enter the Holy City; and at that time, when the value of the precious metals was infinitely higher than in the present day, few, if any, of the pilgrims on their arrival possessed sufficient to pay the cruel demand. Thus, after having suffered toils unheard of--hunger, thirst, the parching influence of a burning sky, sickness, danger, and often robbery, and wounds; when the weary wanderer arrived at the very entrance of the city, with the bourn of all his long pilgrimage before him, the enthusiastic object of all his hopes in sight, the place of refuge and repose for which he had longed and prayed within his reach--unless he could pay the stipulated sum, he was driven by the barbarians from the gates, and was forced to tread back all his heavy way unfurnished with any means, and unsupported by any hope, or to die by the roadside of want, weariness, and despair. The pilgrimages nevertheless continued with unremitting zeal; and the number of devotees increased greatly in the tenth and eleventh centuries. In the tenth, indeed, the custom of pilgrimage became almost universal, from a misinterpretation[80] of a prophecy in the Apocalypse. A general belief prevailed that at the end of the tenth century, the thousand years being concluded, the world was to be judged; and crowds of men and women, in the frantic hope of expiating their sins by the long and painful journey to the Holy Land, flocked from all parts of Europe towards Jerusalem. Many of the more clear-sighted and sensible of the Christian prelates had from time to time attempted to dissuade the people from these dangerous and fatal pilgrimages; but the principle of bodily infliction being received as a mark of internal penitence and a means of obtaining absolution, had been so long inculcated by the church of Rome, that the current of popular opinion had received its impulse, and it was no longer possible to turn it from its course. No penance could be more painful or more consistent with the prejudices of the multitude, than a pilgrimage to the Holy Land; and thus the priests continued often to enforce the act, while the heads of the church themselves, as religion became corrupted, learned to see this sort of penitence in the same light as the people, and encouraged its execution. They found the great efficacy of external excitements in stimulating the populace to that superstitious obedience on which they were fast building up the authority of the Roman church, and probably also were not without a share in the bigoted enthusiasm which they taught. Thus in the tenth century the pilgrimages which fear lest the day of judgment should be approaching induced many to undertake in expiation of their sins, met but little opposition; while various meteoric phenomena, of a somewhat awful nature, earthquakes, hurricanes, &c., contributed to increase the general alarm. When these had passed by, and the dreaded epoch had brought forth nothing, the current still continued to flow on in the course that it had taken; and during the eleventh century several circumstances tended to increase it. Among others the terror spread through France by the Papal Interdict, called forth by the refractory adherence of Robert I. to his queen[81] Bertha, brought more pilgrims than usual from that country. Of many thousands who passed into Asia,[82] a few isolated individuals only returned; but these every day, as they passed through the different countries of Europe on their journey back, spread indignation and horror by their account of the dreadful sufferings of the Christians in Judea. Various[83] letters are reported as having been sent by the emperors of the east to the different princes of Europe, soliciting aid to repel the encroachments of the infidel; and if but a very small portion of the crimes and cruelty attributed to the Turks by these epistles were believed by the Christians, it is not at all astonishing that wrath and horror took possession of every chivalrous bosom. Pope Sylvester II. had made an ineffectual appeal to Christendom towards the end of the tenth century, bringing forward the first idea of a crusade;[84] but the age was not then ripe for a project that required a fuller developement of chivalrous feelings. Gregory VII. revived the idea, and made it the subject of a very pompous epistle; but he himself was one of the first to forget the miseries of his fellow-christians in Palestine, in the pursuit of his own aggrandizement. Still, the persecution of the Christians in Palestine, and the murder and pillage of the pilgrims continued; still the indignation of Europe was fed and renewed by repeated tales of cruel barbarity committed in the Holy Land--sufferings of the church--insults to religion--and merciless massacres of countrymen and relations: still, also, the spirit of Chivalry was each day spreading further and rising more powerfully, so that all was preparing for some great and general movement. The lightning of the crusade was in the people's hearts, and it wanted but one electric touch to make it flash forth upon the world. At this time a man, of whose early days we have little authentic knowledge, but that he was born at Amiens, and from a soldier had become a priest,[85] after living for some time the life of a hermit, became seized with the desire of visiting Jerusalem. He was, according to all accounts,[86] small in stature and mean in person; but his eyes possessed a peculiar fire and intelligence, and his eloquence was powerful and flowing. The fullest account of his manners and conduct is to be found in Robert the Monk, who was present at the council of Clermont, and in Guibert of Nogent, who speaks in the tone of one who has beheld what he relates. The first of these authors describes Peter the Hermit,[87] of whom we speak, as esteemed among those who best understand the things of earth, and superior in piety to all the bishops or abbots of the day. He fed upon neither flesh nor bread, says the same writer, though he permitted himself wine and other aliments, finding nevertheless his pleasure in the greatest abstinence. Guibert, or Gilbert, of Nogent, speaks still more fully of his public conduct.[88] "He set out," says the writer, "from whence I know not, nor with what design; but we saw him at that time passing through the towns and villages, preaching every where, and the people surrounding him in crowds, loading him with presents, and celebrating his sanctity with such high eulogiums, that I never remember to have seen such honours rendered to any other person. He showed himself very generous, however, in the distribution of the things given to him. He brought back to their homes the women that had abandoned their husbands, not without adding gifts of his own, and re-established peace between those who lived unhappily, with wonderful authority. In every thing he said or did, it seemed as if there was something of divine; so much so, that people went to pluck some of the hairs from his mule, which they kept afterward as relics; which I mention here not that they really were so, but merely served to satisfy the public love of any thing extraordinary. While out of doors he wore ordinarily a woollen tunic, with a brown mantle, which fell down to his heels. He had his arms and his feet bare, eat little or no bread, and lived upon fish and wine." Such was his appearance after his return: prior to that period it is probable that this hermit had made himself remarkable for nothing but his general eloquence and his ascetic severity. Great and extraordinary men are often long before opportunity gives scope for the display of the particular spirit whose efforts are destined to distinguish them. I mean not to class Peter the Hermit among great men; but certainly he deserves the character of one of the most extraordinary men that Europe ever produced, if it were but for the circumstance of having convulsed a world--led one continent to combat to extermination against another, and yet left historians in doubt whether he was madman or prophet, fool or politician. Peter, however, accomplished in safety his pilgrimage to Jerusalem,[89] paid the piece of gold demanded at the gates, and took up his lodging in the house of one of the pious Christians of the Holy City. Here his first emotion[90] seems to have been indignant horror at the barbarous and sacrilegious brutality of the Turks. The venerable prelate of Tyre represents him as conferring eagerly with his host upon the enormous cruelties of the infidels, even before visiting the general objects of devotion. Doubtless the ardent, passionate, enthusiastic mind of Peter had been wrought upon at every step he took in the Holy Land, by the miserable state of his brethren, till his feelings and imagination became excited to almost frantic vehemence. After performing the duties of the pilgrimage, visiting each object of reputed holiness,[91] and praying in those churches which had the fame of peculiar sanctity, Peter, with his heart wrung at beholding the objects of his deepest veneration in the hands of the church's enemies, demanded an audience of the patriarch, to whom some Latin friend presented him. Simeon the patriarch, though a Greek, and consequently in the eyes of Peter a heretic, was still a Christian, suffering in common with the rest of the faithful in the Holy Land, and the hermit saw in him that character alone. The union--the overflowing confidence with which the hermit and the prelate appear to have treated each other--raises them both in our estimation; but it also throws an historical light upon the character of Peter, which places him in a more elevated situation than modern historians have been willing to concede to him. The patriarch Simeon, a man as famous for his good sense as for his piety, would not, surely, have opened his inmost thoughts to a wandering pilgrim like Peter, and intrusted to him a paper sealed with his own seal, which, if taken by the Turks, would have ensured death to himself and destruction to Christianity in Palestine, had he not recognised in the hermit "a man,"[92] to use the words of William of Tyre, "full of prudence and experience in the things of this world." This, however, was the case; and after long conversations, wherein many a tear was shed over the hapless state of the Holy Land, it was determined, at the suggestion of Peter, that the patriarch should write to the pope and the princes of the west, setting forth the miseries of Jerusalem and of the faithful people of the Holy City, and praying for aid and protection against the merciless sword of the Saracen. Peter, on his part, promised to seek out each individual prince, and to show, with his whole powers of language, the ills of the Christians of Palestine. From these conversations Peter went again and again to pray in the church of the Resurrection, petitioning ardently for aid in the great undertaking before him. On one of these occasions it is said that he fell asleep,[93] and beheld the Saviour in a vision, who exhorted him to hasten on his journey, and persevere in his design. Without searching for any thing preternatural, the vision is not at all difficult to believe, though the place of its occurrence seems to have been fictitious. Nothing could be more natural than for Peter the Hermit, with his mind full of the mission he was about to undertake, to dream that the Being in whose cause he believed himself engaged appeared to encourage him, and to hasten his enterprise; and it is easy to conceive that, with full confidence in this manifestation of heavenly favour, he should set forth upon his journey with enthusiastic zeal. Bearing the letter of the patriarch, Peter now returned in haste to Italy, and sought out the pope, to declare the miseries of the church in the Holy Land, and to propose the means of its deliverance. Urban II., who then occupied the apostolic chair, had inherited from Gregory wars and contestations with the emperor Henry IV., and was at the same time embroiled with the weak and luxurious Philip I. of France, on the subject of that king's adulterous intercourse with Bertrade. He, as well as Gregory, had taken refuge in Apulia and Calabria, and had thrown himself upon the protection of the famous Robert Guiscard, who readily granted him the aid of that powerful mind which made the utmost parts of the earth tremble.[94] It does not correctly appear at what place Urban sojourned at the time of Peter's arrival in Italy.[95] His whole support was, evidently, still in the family of Guiscard; and it seems that with Boemond, Prince of Tarentum, the gallant and chivalrous son of Robert, he first held council upon the hermit's[96] great and interesting proposal, before he determined on the line of conduct to be pursued. One of the historians of the crusades,[97] attributing perhaps somewhat too much the spirit of modern politics to an age whose genius was of very different quality, supposes that the course determined on by the pope and his ally was, in fact, principally a shrewd plot to fix Urban firmly in the Vatican, and to forward Boemond's ambitious views in Greece. It seems to me, however, that such a supposition is perfectly irreconcilable with the subsequent conduct of either. The pope shortly after threw himself into the midst of his enemies, to hold a council on the subject of the crusades; and Boemond abandoned every thing in Europe to carry on the holy war in Palestine. It is much more natural to imagine that the spirit of their age governed both the prelate and the warrior--the enthusiasm of religion the one, and the enthusiasm of Chivalry the other. However that may be, Peter the Hermit met with a most encouraging reception from the pope. The sufferings of his fellow-christians brought tears from the prelate's eyes; the general scheme of the crusade was sanctioned[98] instantly by his authority; and, promising his quick and active concurrence, he sent him on, the pilgrim to preach the deliverance of the Holy Land through all the countries of Europe. Peter wanted neither zeal nor activity[99]--from town to town, from province to province, from country to country, he spread the cry of vengeance on the Turks, and deliverance to Jerusalem! The warlike spirit of the people was at its height; the genius of Chivalry was in the vigour of its early youth; the enthusiasm of religion had now a great and terrible object before it, and all the gates of the human heart were open to the eloquence of the preacher. That eloquence was not exerted in vain; nations rose at his word and grasped the spear; and it only wanted some one to direct and point the great enterprise that was already determined. In the mean time the pope did not forget his promise; and while Peter the Hermit spread the inspiration throughout Europe,[100] Urban called together a council at Placentia, to which deputies were admitted from the emperor of Constantinople, who displayed the progress of the Turks, and set forth the danger to all Christendom of suffering their arms to advance unopposed. The opinion of the assembly was universally favourable to the crusade; and trusting to the popularity of the measure, and the indications of support which he had already met with, the pope determined to cross the Alps and to hold a second council in the heart of Gaul. The ostensible object of this council was to regulate the state of the church, and to correct abuses; but the great object was, in fact, the crusade. It is useless to investigate the motives which gave Urban II. courage to summon a council, destined, among other things, to solemnly reprobate the dissolute conduct of Philip of France, in the midst of dominions, if not absolutely feudatory to the crown[101] of that monarch, at least bound to it by friendship and alliance. Whether it arose from fortitude of a just cause, or from reliance on political calculation, the prelate's judgment was proved by the event to be right. After one or two changes in regard to the place of meeting, the council was assembled at Clermont, in Auvergne,[102] and was composed of an unheard-of multitude of priests, princes, and nobles, both of France and Germany, all willing and eager to receive the pope's injunctions with reverence and obedience. After having terminated the less important affairs which formed the apparent business of the meeting, and which occupied the deliberation of seven days, Urban, one of the most eloquent men of the age, came forth from the church[103] in which the principal ecclesiastics were assembled, and addressed the immense concourse which had been gathered into one of the great squares, no building being large enough to contain the number. The prelate[104] then, with the language best calculated to win the hearts of all his hearers, displayed the miseries of the Christians in the Holy Land. He addressed the multitude as a people peculiarly favoured by God, in the gift of courage, strength, and true faith. He told them that their brethren in the east were trampled under the feet of infidels, to whom God had not granted the light of his Holy Spirit--that fire, plunder, and the sword had desolated completely the fair plains of Palestine--that her children were led away captive, or enslaved, or died under tortures too horrible to recount--that the women of their land were subjected to the impure passions of the pagans, and that God's own altar, the symbols of salvation, and the precious relics of the saints were all desecrated by the gross and filthy abomination of a race of heathens. To whom, then, he asked--to whom did it belong to punish such crimes, to wipe away such impurities, to destroy the oppressors, and to raise up the oppressed? To whom, if not to those who heard him, who had received from God strength, and power, and greatness of soul; whose ancestors had been the prop of Christendom, and whose kings had put a barrier to the progress of infidels? "Think!" he cried, "of the sepulchre of Christ our Saviour possessed by the foul heathen!--think of all the sacred places dishonoured by their sacrilegious impurities!--O brave knights, offspring of invincible fathers, degenerate not from your ancient blood! remember the virtues of your ancestors, and if you feel held back from the course before you by the soft ties of wives, of children, of parents, call to mind the words of our Lord himself: 'Whosoever loves father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me. Whosoever shall abandon for my name's sake his house, or his brethren, or his sisters, or his father, or his mother, or his wife, or his children, or his lands, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit eternal life.'" The prelate then went on to point out the superior mundane advantages which those might obtain who took the Cross. He represented their own country as poor and arid, and Palestine as a land flowing with milk and honey; and, blending the barbarous ideas of a dark age with the powerful figures of enthusiastic eloquence, he proceeded--"Jerusalem is in the centre of this fertile land; and its territories, rich above all others, offer, so to speak, the delights of Paradise. That land, too, the Redeemer of the human race rendered illustrious by his advent, honoured by his residence, consecrated by his passion, repurchased by his death, signalized by his sepulture. That royal city, Jerusalem--situated in the centre of the world--held captive by infidels, who deny the God that honoured her--now calls on you and prays for her deliverance. From you--from you above all people she looks for comfort, and she hopes for aid; since God has granted to you, beyond other nations, glory and might in arms. Take, then, the road before you in expiation of your sins, and go, assured that, after the honour of this world shall have passed away, imperishable glory shall await you even in the kingdom of heaven!" Loud shouts of "God wills it! God wills it!" pronounced simultaneously by the whole people, in all the different dialects and languages of which the multitude was composed, here interrupted for a moment the speech of the prelate: but, gladly seizing the time, Urban proceeded, after having obtained silence, "Dear brethren, to-day is shown forth in you that which the Lord has said by his evangelist--'When two or three shall be assembled in my name, there shall I be in the midst of them;' for if the Lord God had not been in your souls, you would not all have pronounced the same words; or, rather, God himself pronounced them by your lips, for he it was that put them in your hearts. Be they, then, your war-cry in the combat, for those words came forth from God.--Let the army of the Lord, when it rushes upon his enemies, shout but that one cry, 'God wills it! God wills it!'[105] "Remember, however, that we neither order nor advise this journey to the old, nor to the weak, nor to those who are unfit to bear arms. Let not this way be taken by women, without their husbands, or their brothers, or their legitimate guardians, for such are rather a burden than an aid. Let the rich assist the poor, and bring with them, at their own charge, those who can bear arms to the field. Still, let not priests nor clerks, to whatever place they may belong, set out on this journey without the permission of their bishop; nor the layman undertake it without the blessing of his pastor, for to such as do so their journey shall be fruitless. Let whoever is inclined to devote himself to the cause of God, make it a solemn engagement, and bear the cross of the Lord either on his breast or on his brow till he set out; and let him who is ready to begin his march place the holy emblem on his shoulders, in memory of that precept of the Saviour--'He who does not take up his cross and follow me, is not worthy of me.'" The pontiff thus ended his oration, and the multitude prostrating themselves before him, repeated the _Confiteor_[106] after one of the cardinals. The pope then pronounced the absolution of their sins, and bestowed on them his benediction; after which they retired to their homes to prepare for the great undertaking to which they had vowed themselves. Miracles are told of the manner in which the news of this council, and of the events that distinguished it, spread to every part of the world; but nevertheless it did spread, as may easily be conceived, with great quickness, without any supernatural aid; and, to make use of the words of him from whom we have sketched the oration of the pope, "Throughout the earth, the Christians glorified themselves and were filled with joy, while the Gentiles of Arabia and Persia trembled and were seized with sadness: the souls of the one race were exalted, those of the others stricken with fear and stupor." Great, certainly, was the influence which the zeal and eloquence of Urban gave him over the people. Some authors, with a curious sort of historical puritanism, which leads them to judge of ages past only by the principles of the day in which they themselves exist, have reproached the pope with not using the means in his hands for purposes which would have needed the heart of a Fenelon to conceive properly, and the head of a Napoleon to execute. They say that, with the powers which he did possess, he might have reformed a world! It is hardly fair, methinks, to require of a man in a barbarous, ignorant, corrupted age the enlightened visions of the nineteenth century. Pope Urban II., at the end of the eleventh century, showed a great superiority to the age in which he lived, and at the council of Clermont evinced qualities of both the heart and the mind which have deservedly brought his name down to us with honour. His first act in the council was to excommunicate, for adulterous profligacy, Philip, monarch of the very ground on which he stood; and, in so doing, he made use of the only acknowledged authority by which the kings of that day could be checked in the course of evil. Whether the authority itself was or was not legitimate, is not here the question; but, being at the time undisputed, and employed for the best of objects, its use can in no way fairly be cited as an instance either of pride or ambition. The pope's conduct in preaching the crusade is equally justifiable. His views were of course those of the age in which he lived, and he acted with noble enthusiasm in accordance with those views. He made vast efforts, he endangered his person, he sacrificed his ease and comfort, to accomplish what no churchman of his day pretended to doubt was a glorious and a noble undertaking. In thus acting, he displayed great qualities of mind, and showed himself superior to the century in powers of _conducting_, if he was not so in the powers of _conceiving_ great designs. It would be very difficult to prove, also, that the pope, had he even possessed the will, could, by the exertion of every effort, have produced the same effect in any other cause that he did in favour of the crusades. I have already attempted to show that all things were prepared in Europe for the expedition to the Holy Land, by the spirit of religious and military enthusiasm; and the task was light, to aid in pouring on the current of popular feeling in the direction which it had already begun to take, when compared with the labour necessary to have turned that current into another channel. He who does not grasp the spirit of the age on which he writes, but judges of other days by the feelings of his own, is like one who would adapt a polar dress to the climate of the tropics. Before closing this chapter, one observation also must be made respecting the justice of the crusade, which enterprise it has become somewhat customary to look upon as altogether cruel and unnecessary. Such an opinion, however, is in no degree founded on fact. The crusade was not only as just as any other warfare of the day, but as just as any that ever was waged. The object was, the protection and relief of a cruelly oppressed and injured people--the object was, to repel a strong, an active, and an encroaching enemy--the object was, to wrest from the hands of a bloodthirsty and savage people territories which they themselves claimed by no right but the sword, and in which the population they had enslaved was loudly crying for deliverance from their yoke--the object was, to defend a weak and exposed frontier from the further aggression of a nation whose boast was conquest. Such were the objects of the crusades; and though much of superstition was mingled with the incitements, and many cruelties committed in its course, the evils were not greater than ordinary ambition every day produces; and the motives were as fair as any of those that have ever instigated the many feuds and warfares of the world. CHAPTER IV. _The Effects of the Council of Clermont--State of France--Motives of the People for embracing the Crusade--Benefits produced--The Enthusiasm general--Rapid Progress--The First Bodies of Crusaders begin their March--Gautier Sans Avoir--His Army--Their Disasters--Reach Constantinople--Peter the Hermit sets out with an immense Multitude-- Storms Semlin--Defeated at Nissa--His Host dispersed--The Remains collected--Joins Gautier--Excesses of the Multitude--The Italians and Germans separate from the French--The Germans exterminated--The French cut to pieces--Conduct of Alexius._ The immediate effects of the council of Clermont are detailed with so much animation by Guibert of Nogent, that I shall attempt to trace them nearly in his own words, merely observing, that previous to his departure from France, Urban II., having taken every means in his power to secure the property of the crusaders during their absence, committed the chief direction of the expedition to Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, in Auvergne.[107] "As soon as the council of Clermont was concluded," says the historian, "a great rumour spread through the whole of France, and as soon as fame brought the news of the orders of the pontiff to any one, he went instantly to solicit his neighbours and his relations to engage with him in the _way of God_, for so they designated the purposed expedition. "The Counts Palatine[108] were already full of the desire to undertake this journey; and all the knights of an inferior order felt the same zeal. The poor themselves soon caught the flame so ardently, that no one paused to think of the smallness of his wealth, or to consider whether he ought to yield his house and his fields, and his vines; but each one set about selling his property, at as low a price as if he had been held in some horrible captivity, and sought to pay his ransom without loss of time. "At this period, too, there existed a general dearth. The rich even felt the want of corn; and many, with every thing to buy, had nothing, or next to nothing, wherewithal to purchase what they needed. The poor tried to nourish themselves with the wild herbs of the earth; and, as bread was very dear, sought on all sides food heretofore unknown, to supply the place of corn. The wealthy and powerful were not exempt; but finding themselves menaced with the famine which spread around them, and beholding every day the terrible wants of the poor, they contracted their expenses, and lived with the most narrow parsimony, lest they should squander the riches now become so necessary. "The ever insatiable misers rejoiced in days so favourable to their covetousness; and casting their eyes upon the bushels of grain which they had hoarded long before, calculated each day the profits of their avarice. Thus some struggled with every misery and want, while others revelled in the hopes of fresh acquisitions. No sooner, however, had Christ inspired, as I have said, innumerable bodies of people to seek a voluntary exile, than the money which had been hoarded so long was spread forth in a moment; and that which was horribly dear while all the world was in repose, was on a sudden sold for nothing, as soon as every one began to hasten towards their destined journey. Each man hurried to conclude his affairs; and, astonishing to relate, we then saw--so sudden was the diminution in the value of every thing--we then saw seven sheep sold for five deniers. The dearth of grain, also, was instantly changed into abundance; and every one, occupied solely in amassing money for his journey, sold every thing that he could, not according to its real worth, but according to the value set upon it by the buyer. "In the mean while, the greater part of those who had not determined upon the journey, joked and laughed at those who were thus selling their goods for whatever they could get; and prophesied that their voyage would be miserable, and their return worse. Such was ever the language one day; but the next--suddenly seized with the same desire as the rest--those who had been most forward to mock, abandoned every thing for a few crowns, and set out with those whom they had laughed at but a day before. Who shall tell the children and the infirm that, animated with the same spirit, hastened to the war? Who shall count the old men and the young maids who hurried forward to the fight?--not with the hope of aiding, but for the crown of martyrdom to be won amid the swords of the infidels. 'You, warriors,' they cried, 'you shall vanquish by the spear and brand; but let us, at least, conquer Christ by our sufferings.' At the same time, one might see a thousand things springing from the same spirit, which were both astonishing and laughable: the poor shoeing their oxen, as we shoe horses, and harnessing them to two-wheeled carts, in which they placed their scanty provisions and their young children; and proceeding onward, while the babes, at each town or castle that they saw, demanded eagerly whether that was Jerusalem." Such is the picture presented, by an eyewitness, of the state of France after the first promulgation of the crusade; and a most extraordinary picture it is. The zeal, the enthusiasm, the fervour of the spirit, the brutal ignorance and dark barbarity of the people, are the objects that catch the eye from the mere surface; but underneath may be seen a hundred fine and latent tints which mingle in the portrait of the age. There may be found the hope of gain and the expectation of wealth in other lands, as well as the excitement of devotion; and there also may be traced the reckless, daring courage of a period when comfort was unknown, and when security was scarcely less to be expected among the swords of the Saracens, than in the fields of France and Germany. While the thirst of adventure, the master-passion of the middle ages, prompted to any change of scene and circumstances, imagination portrayed the land in view with all that adventitious splendour which none--of all the many betrayers of the human mind--so well knows how to bestow as hope. The same land, when the Jews marched towards it from the wilderness, had been represented to them as a land flowing with milk and honey,--rich in all gifts; and doubtless that inducement moved the stubborn Hebrews, as much as the command of him they had so often disobeyed. Now the very same prospect was held out to another host of men, as ignorant of what lay before them as the Jews themselves; and it may be fairly supposed that, in their case too, imaginary hopes, and all the gay phantasma of ambition, shared powerfully with religion in leading them onward to the promised land. Still zeal, and sympathy, and indignation, and chivalrous feeling, and the thirst of glory, and the passion for enterprise, and a thousand vague but great and noble aspirations, mingled in the complicated motive of the crusade. It increased by contagion; it grew by communion; it spread from house to house, and from bosom to bosom; it became a universal desire--an enthusiasm--a passion--a madness. In the mean while, the crusade was not without producing a sensible benefit even to Europe. The whole country had previously been desolated by feuds[109] and pillage, and massacre. Castle waged war with castle: baron plundered baron; and from field to field, and city to city, the traveller could scarcely pass without injury or death. No sooner,[110] however, had the crusade been preached at the council of Clermont, than the universal peace, which was there commanded, called the _Truce[111] of God_, was sworn throughout the country, the plunder ceased and the feuds disappeared. The very fact of the wicked, the infamous, and the bloodthirsty having embraced the crusade, either from penitence or from worse motives, was a positive good to Europe. That not alone the good,[112] the religious, the zealous, or the brave, filled the ranks of the Cross is admitted on all hands; yet those who had once assumed that holy sign were obliged, in some degree, to act as if their motives had been pure, and their very absence was a blessing to the land they left. Still the crusade went on; and the imagination of the people being once directed towards a particular object found, even in the phenomena which in former days would have struck nations with fear and apprehension, signs of blessing and omens of success. An earthquake itself[113] was held as good augury; and scarcely a meteor shot across the sky without affording some theme for hope. The sign of the Cross was now to be seen on the shoulder of every one; and being generally cut in red[114] cloth, was a conspicuous and remarkable object. As these multiplied, the hearts even of the fearful grew strong, and the contagion of example added to the number every hour. Peter the Hermit, indefatigable in his calling, though his mind seems day by day[115] to have become more excited, till enthusiasm grew nearly akin to madness, gathered a vast concourse of the lower orders, and prepared to set out by the way of Hungary. But the real and serviceable body of crusaders was collected from among another class, whose military habits and chivalrous character were well calculated to effect the great object proposed. In France, Hugh, the brother of King Philip, Robert, Count of Flanders, Stephen, Count of Chartres and Blois, Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, William, Bishop of Orange, Raimond, Count of Toulouse, and many others of the highest station, assumed the Cross, and called together all the knights and retainers that their great names and influence could bring into the field. Robert, Duke of Normandy, son of William the Conqueror of England, accompanied by a number of English barons, prepared also for the crusade. Godfrey of Loraine, and his brothers were added to the number; and Boemond, Prince of Tarento, the valiant son of Robert Guiscard, cast from him the large possessions which his sword and that of his father had conquered, and turned his hopes and expectations towards the east. The immense multitudes thus assembled are said to have amounted to nearly six millions of souls;[116] and one of the most astonishing proofs of the rapidity with which the news of the crusade must have spread, and the enthusiasm with which it was received, is to be found in the fact, that the council of Clermont was held in the November of the year 1095, and that early in the spring of 1096 a large body of the crusaders was in motion towards Palestine. The historians of the day are not at all agreed in regard to which was the multitude that led the way towards the Holy Land. It appears[117] almost certain, however, that _Gautier sans avoir_, or Walter the Penniless, a Burgundian gentleman, without fortune, who had assembled a considerable band of the lower classes under the banner of the Cross, was the first who set out in compliance with the general vow. He was, according to all accounts, a complete soldier of fortune, renowned for his poverty even to a proverb, but by no means, as has been asserted, without military fame. All[118] the contemporary writers designate him by his cognomen of poverty; but all at the same time describe him as an illustrious warrior. Nevertheless, the host that he led was rather an ill-governed crowd of men on foot than an army; and but eight knights accompanied the leader on his expedition. The difficulties of the undertaking were incalculable; and the followers of Walter had provided but little for the necessities of the way. It showed, however, no small skill in that leader to conduct the disorderly rabble by which he was followed, so far as he did in safety. Passing through Germany,[119] he entered into Hungary; where, entangled among the marshes and passes of that kingdom, his whole followers must have perished inevitably, had he not met with the greatest kindness and assistance from the king and people of the country, who, professing the Christian religion, understood and venerated the motives of the crusade. Thus the host of Walter swept on till their arrival at Semlin, where some stragglers were attacked and plundered by a party of Hungarians less humane than their brethren. The arms and crosses of the crusaders who had thus been despoiled, were fixed upon the walls of the city as a sort of trophy; but Walter, though strongly urged by his followers to seek vengeance for the insult, wisely forbore and passing forward, entered into Bulgaria. Here the champions of the Cross met with no further aid. The people regarded them with jealous suspicion; the cities shut their gates upon them; all commerce was prohibited, and all supplies denied. Famine now imperiously urged them to violence; and having taken possession of whatever flocks and herds they could find, the crusaders soon found themselves attacked by the Bulgarians, by whom considerable numbers were cut off and destroyed. Walter himself, with great wisdom[120] and resolution, forced his way through innumerable difficulties, till he had left behind him the inhospitable country of the Bulgarians; and at length brought his army, infinitely wasted by both famine and the sword, to the neighbourhood of Constantinople. Here he obtained permission to refresh his forces, and wait the arrival of Peter the Hermit himself, who followed close upon his steps. The multitude which had been collected by the Hermit was even of a less uniform and regular description than that which had followed _Gautier sans avoir_. Men, women, and children,--all sexes, ages, and professions,--many and distinct languages--a quantity of baggage and useless encumbrance, rendered the army of Peter as unwieldy and dangerous an engine as ever was put in motion. Notwithstanding its bulk and inconsistency, it also proceeded in safety, and without much reproach, through Germany and Hungary; but at Semlin, the sight of the crosses and vestments which had been stripped from[121] the stragglers of Walter's host roused the anger of the multitude. The town was attacked and taken by assault, with all the acts of savage ferocity which usually follow such an occurrence; and the crusaders, without remorse, gave themselves up to every barbarity that dark and unrestrained passions could suggest.[122] The news of this event soon reached the king of Hungary; who, calling together a considerable force, marched to avenge the death and pillage of his subjects. His approach instantly caused Peter to decamp from Semlin; but the passage of the Morava was opposed by a tribe of savage Bulgarians: few boats were to be procured; those that were found were of small dimensions; and the rafts that could be hastily constructed were but little manageable in a broad and rapid river. Some of the crusaders thus perished in the water, some fell by the arrows of the enemy; but the tribe that opposed the passage being defeated and put to flight, the rest of Peter's followers were brought over in safety. The Hermit now, after having sacrificed the prisoners to what was then considered a just resentment, pursued his way to Nissa, in which town the Duke of Bulgaria had fortified himself, having abandoned Belgrade at the approach of the army of the Cross. Finding, however, that Peter did not at all contemplate taking vengeance for the inhospitality shown to _Gautier sans avoir_, the duke wisely permitted his subjects to supply the crusaders with necessaries. Thus all passed tranquilly under the walls of Nissa, till Peter and his host had absolutely departed, when some German stragglers, remembering a controversy of the night before with one of the Bulgarian merchants, set fire to several mills and houses without the walls of the town. Enraged at this wanton outrage, the armed people of the city rushed out upon the aggressors, and, not contented with sacrificing them to their fury, fell upon the rear of the Hermit's army, glutted their wrath with the blood of all that opposed them, and carried off the baggage, the women, the children, and all that part of the multitude whose weakness at once caused them to linger behind, and left them without defence. The moment that Peter heard of this event, he turned back; and, with a degree of calmness and moderation that does high honour to his memory, he endeavoured to investigate the cause of the disaster, and conciliate by courtesy and fair words. This negotiation was highly successful; the duke, appeased with the vengeance he had taken, agreed to return the prisoners and the baggage, and every thing once more assumed a peaceful aspect; when suddenly, a body of a thousand imprudent men, fancying that they saw an opportunity of seizing on the town, passed the stone bridge, and endeavoured to scale the walls. A general conflict ensued; the ill-disciplined host of the crusaders was defeated and dispersed, and Peter himself, obliged to fly alone, took refuge, like the rest, in the neighbouring forests. For some time he pursued his way over mountains,[123] and wastes, and precipices; and it may easily be conceived that his heart--so lately elated with honour, and command, and gratified enthusiasm--now felt desolate and crushed, to find the multitude his voice had gathered dispersed or slain, and himself a wandering fugitive in a foreign land, without shelter, protection, or defence. At length, it is said, he met by chance several of his best and most courageous knights at the top of a mountain, where they had assembled with no more than five hundred men, which seemed at first all that remained of his vast army.[124] He caused, however, signals to be made and horns to be sounded in the different parts of the forest, that any of the scattered crusaders within hearing might be brought to one spot. These and other means which were put in practice to call together the remnants of his army, proved so successful, that before night seven thousand men were collected, and with this force he hastened to march on towards Constantinople. As he went, other bands, which had been separated from him in the confusion of the flight, rejoined him, and the only difficulty, as the host advanced, was to procure the necessaries of life. The news of Peter's adventures flew before them, and reached even Constantinople. Alexius, the emperor, who had not yet learned to fear the coming of the crusaders, sent deputies to meet the Hermit, and to hasten his journey; and at Philippopoli the eloquent display of his sufferings, which Peter addressed to the assembled people, moved their hearts to compassion and sympathy. The wants of the host were plentifully supplied, and, after reposing for some days in the friendly city, the whole body, now again amounting to thirty thousand men, set out for Constantinople, where they arrived in safety, and joined the troops which Walter the Penniless had conducted thither previously. Here they found a considerable number of Lombards and Italians; but these, also, as well as the troops which they had themselves brought thither were not only of the lowest, but of the most disorderly classes of the people. It is no wonder therefore--although Alexius supplied them with money and provisions, and tried to secure to them the repose and comfort that they needed in every respect--that these ruffian adventurers should soon begin to tire of tranquillity and order, and to exercise their old trades of plunder and excess.[125] They overturned palaces, set fire to the public buildings, and stripped even the lead off the roofs of the churches, which they afterward sold to the Greeks from whom they had plundered it. Horrified by these enormities,[126] the emperor soon found a pretext to hurry them across the Bosphorus, still giving them the humane caution, to wait the arrival of stronger forces, before they attempted to quit Bithynia. Here, however, their barbarous licentiousness soon exceeded all bounds, and Peter the Hermit himself, having lost command over his turbulent followers, returned to Constantinople in despair, upon the pretence of consulting with the emperor on the subject of provisions.[127] After his departure, the Lombards and Germans separated themselves from the French and Normans, whose crimes and insolence disgusted even their barbarous fellows. _Gautier sans avoir_ still continued in command of the French, who remained where Peter had left them; but the Italians[128] and Germans chose for their leader one Renault, or Rinaldo, and, marching on, made themselves masters of a fortress called Exorogorgon, or Xerigord. Here they were attacked by the sultaun Soliman, who cut to pieces a large body placed in ambuscade, and then invested the fort, which, being ill supplied with water, he was well aware must surrender before long. For eight days the besieged underwent tortures too dreadful to be dwelt upon, from the most agonizing thirst. At the end of that time, Rinaldo and his principal companions went over to the Turks, abandoned their religion, and betrayed their brethren. The castle thus falling into the hands of the infidels, the Christians that remained were slaughtered without mercy. The news of this disaster was soon brought to the French camp, and indignation spread among the crusaders.[129] Some say a desire of vengeance, some a false report of the fall of Nice, caused the French to insist upon hurrying forward towards the Turkish territory. Gautier wisely resisted for some time all the entreaties of his troops, but at length finding them preparing to march without his consent, he put himself at their head, and led them towards Nice. Before reaching that place, he was encountered by the Turkish forces. The battle was fierce, but unequal: Gautier and his knights fought with desperate courage,[130] but all their efforts were vain; the Christians were slaughtered in every direction; and Gautier himself, after having displayed to the last that intrepid valour for which he was renowned, fell under seven mortal wounds. Not above three thousand Christians effected their escape to Civitot. Here again they were attacked by the Turks, who surrounded the fortress with vast piles of wood, in order to exterminate by fire the few of the crusaders that remained. The besieged, however, watched their moment, and while the wind blew towards the Turkish camp, set fire to the wood themselves, which thus was consumed without injury to them, while many of their enemies were destroyed by the flames.[131] In the mean time one of the crusaders had made his way to Constantinople, and communicated the news of all these disasters to Peter the Hermit. The unhappy Peter, painfully disappointed, like all those who fix their enthusiasm on the virtues or the prudence of mankind, was driven almost to despair, by the folly and unworthiness of those in whom he had placed his hopes. He nevertheless cast himself at the feet of the emperor Alexius,[132] and besought him, with tears and supplications, to send some forces to deliver the few crusaders who had escaped from the scimitar of the Turks. The monarch granted his request, and the little garrison of Civitot were brought in safety to Constantinople. After their arrival, however, Alexius ordered them to disperse and return to their own country; and with wise caution bought their arms before he dismissed them;[133] thus at once supplying them with money for their journey, and depriving them of the means of plundering and ravaging his dominions as they went. Most of the historians[134] of that age accuse Alexius of leaguing with the Turks, even at this period, to destroy the crusaders, or, at least, of triumphing in the fall of those very men whom he had himself called to his succour. The conduct of Alexius in this transaction is not very clear, but it is far from improbable that, fearful of the undisciplined multitude he had brought into his dominions, horrified by their crimes, and indignant at their pillage of his subjects, he beheld them fall by their own folly and the swords of the enemy, without any effort to defend them, or any very disagreeable feeling at their destruction. And indeed, when we remember the actions they did commit within the limits of the Greek empire, we can hardly wonder at the monarch, if he rejoiced at their punishment, or blame him if he was indifferent to their fate. Thus ended the great expedition of Peter the Hermit: but several others of a similar unruly character took place previous to the march of those troops, whose discipline, valour, and unity of purpose ensured a more favourable issue to their enterprise. I shall touch but briefly upon these mad and barbarous attempts, as a period of more interest follows. The body of crusaders which seems to have succeeded immediately to that led by Peter the Hermit was composed almost entirely of Germans, collected together by a priest called Gottschalk.[135] They penetrated into Hungary; but there, giving way to all manner of excesses, they were followed by Carloman, the king of that country, with a powerful army, and having been induced to lay down their arms, that the criminals might be selected and punished, they were slaughtered indiscriminately by the Hungarians, who were not a little glad to take vengeance for the blood shed by the army of Peter at Semlin. About the same period, immense bands of men and women came forth from almost every country of Europe, with the symbol of the crusade upon their shoulders, and the pretence of serving God upon their lips. They joined together wheresoever they met, and, excited by a foul spirit of fanatical cruelty, mingled with the most infamous moral depravity, proceeded towards the south of Germany. They gave themselves up, we are told,[136] to the pleasures of the table without intermission: men and women, and even children, it is said, lived in a state of promiscuous debauchery; and, preceded by a goose and a goat,[137] which, in their mad fanaticism, they declared to be animated by the divine spirit, they marched onward, slaughtering the Jews as they went; and proclaiming that the first duty of Christians was to exterminate the nation which had rejected the Saviour himself. Several of the German bishops bravely opposed them, and endeavoured to protect the unhappy Hebrews; but still, vast multitudes were slain, and many even sought self-destruction rather than encounter the brutality of the fanatics, or abjure their religion. Glutted with slaughter, the ungodly herd now turned towards Hungary; but at Mersburg they were encountered by a large Hungarian force, which disputed their passage over the Danube, absolutely refusing the road through that kingdom to any future band of crusaders. The fanatics forced their way across the river, attacked Mersburg itself with great fury and perseverance, and succeeded in making a breach in the walls, when suddenly an unaccountable terror seized them--none knew how or why--they abandoned the siege, dispersed in dismay, and fled like scattered deer over the country. The Hungarians suffered not the opportunity to escape, and pursuing them on every side, smote them during many days with a merciless fury, that nothing but their own dreadful cruelties could palliate. The fields were strewed with dead bodies, the rivers flowed with blood, and the very waters of the Danube are said to have been hidden by the multitude of corpses. Disaster and death had, sooner or later, overtaken each body of the crusaders that had hitherto, without union or command, set out towards the Holy Land; but each of these very bands had been composed of the refuse and dregs of the people. I do not mean by that word _dregs_ the poor, but I mean the base--I do not mean those who were low in station, or even ignorant in mind; but I mean those who were infamous in crime, and brutal in desire. Doubtless, in these expeditions, some fell who were animated by noble motives or excellent zeal; but such were few compared with those whose objects were plunder, licentiousness, and vice. The swords of the Hungarians and the Turks lopped these away; and I cannot find in my heart to look upon the purification which Europe thus underwent with any thing like sorrow. The crusade itself was by this means freed from many a base and unworthy member; and Chivalry, left to act more in its own spirit, though still participating deeply in the faults and vices of a barbarous age, brought about a nobler epoch and a brighter event. CHAPTER V. _The Chivalry of Europe takes the Field--The Leaders--Godfrey of Bouillon--Conducts his Army towards Constantinople--Hugh the Great--Leads his Army through Italy--Embarks for Durazzo--Taken Prisoner--Liberated-- Robert, Duke of Normandy--Winters in Italy--Arrives at Constantinople-- Robert, Count of Flanders--Joins the rest--Boemond of Tarentum--Tancred-- Their March--Defeat the Greeks--Boemond does Homage--Tancred avoids it-- The Count of Toulouse arrives--Refuses to do Homage--Robert of Normandy does Homage._ While the undisciplined and barbarous multitudes who first set out were hurrying to destruction, various princes and leaders were engaged, as I have before said, in collecting the Chivalry of Europe under the banner of the Cross. Six distinguished chiefs--Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Loraine--Hugh the Great, Count of Vermandois, and brother of Philip, King of France--Robert, Duke of Normandy, brother of William Rufus--Robert, Count of Flanders--Boemond, Prince of Tarentum--and Raimond, Count of Toulouse--conducted six separate armies towards Constantinople: and I propose, in this chapter, to follow each of them till their junction in Bithynia. It is indeed a pleasure to turn our eyes from scenes of horror and crime to the contemplation of those great and shining qualities--those noble and enthusiastic virtues, which entered into the composition of that rare quintessence, the spirit of Chivalry. Doubtless, in the war which I am about to paint there occurred many things that are to be deeply regretted, as furnishing abundantly that quantity of alloy which is ever, unhappily, mixed with virtue's purest gold: but, at the same time, I now come to speak of men, in many of whom splendid courage, and moral beauty, and religious zeal, and temperate wisdom, and generous magnanimity, combined to form the great and wonderful of this earth's children. Indeed, if ever there was a man who well merited the glorious name of a true knight, that man was Godfrey of Bouillon; and few have described him without becoming poets for that once. I will not borrow from Tasso--who had the privilege of eulogium--but, in striving to paint the character of the great leader of the crusade, I shall take the words of one of the simplest of the writers of his age,[138] and give them as nearly as possible in their original tone: "He was beautiful in countenance," says Robert the Monk, "tall in stature, agreeable in his discourse, admirable in his morals, and at the same time so gentle, that he seemed better fitted for the monk than for the knight; but when his enemies appeared before him, and the combat approached, his soul became filled with mighty daring; like a lion, he feared not for his person--and what shield, what buckler, could resist the fall of his sword?" Perhaps of all men of the age, Godfrey of Bouillon was the most distinguished. His mother Ida, daughter of Godfrey, Duke of Loraine, was celebrated for her love of letters,[139] and from her it is probable that Godfrey himself derived that taste for literature, so singular among the warriors of that day. He spoke several languages, excelled in every chivalrous exercise, was calm and deliberate in council, firm and decided in resolution; he was active, clearsighted, and prudent, while he was cool, frank, and daring; in the battle he was fierce as the lion, but in victory he was moderate and humane. Though still in his prime of years when the crusades were preached, he was already old in exploits: he had upheld Henry IV. on the imperial throne, had attacked and forced the walls of Rome, and had shone in a hundred fields, where his standard ever was raised upon the side of honour and of virtue. Long ere the idea of such an enterprise as the crusade became general in Europe, Godfrey had often been heard to declare, when tales were brought him of the miseries of the Holy Land, that he longed to travel to Jerusalem,[140] not with staff and scrip,[141] but with spear and shield; and it may well be conceived that his was one of the first standards raised in the ranks of the Cross. A fever that had hung upon him for some time left him at the tidings, and he felt as if he had shaken off a load of years, and recovered all his youth.[142] His fame as a leader soon collected an immense number of other barons and knights, who willingly ranged themselves under his banner; and we find that besides Baldwin, his brother[143]--and many other relations--the lords of St. Paul, of Hainault, of Gray, of Toul, of Hache, of Conti, and of Montagne, with their knights and retainers, had joined him before the beginning of August,[144] and towards the middle of that month they began their march with all the splendour of Chivalry.[145] The progress of this new body of crusaders was directed, like that of Peter the Hermit, towards Hungary; but the conduct maintained by the followers of Godfrey was as remarkable for its strict discipline, moderation, and order, as that of his predecessors had been for turbulence and excess.[146] The first objects, however, that presented themselves on the Hungarian frontier were the unburied corpses of the fanatic crowd slain near Mersburg. Here then Godfrey paused during three weeks,[147] investigating calmly the causes of the bloody spectacle before him; after which he wrote to Carloman, king of Hungary; and his letter on this occasion, mingling firmness with moderation, gives a fair picture of his noble and dignified character. Having mentioned the horrible sight which had arrested him in his progress, and the rumours he had heard, he proceeds--"However severe may have been the punishment inflicted on our brethren, whose remains lie round about us, if that punishment was merited, our anger shall expire; but if, on the contrary, you have calumniated the innocent, and given them up to death, we will not pass over in silence the murder of the servants of God, but will instantly show ourselves ready to avenge the blood of our brethren."[148] It was easy for Carloman to prove that the aggression had been on the side of the crusaders; and after various acts of confidence between Godfrey[149] and the king, the army of the Cross was permitted to pass through Hungary, which they accomplished in safety and peace, maintaining the strictest discipline and regularity, and trading with the people of the country with good faith and courtesy. Hence, proceeding through Bulgaria and Thrace, Godfrey led his troops peacefully on to Philippopoli, where he was met by deputies from the emperor, charged with orders to see that the crusaders should be furnished with every kind of necessary provision. In passing through Dacia and Bulgaria, the army of Godfrey had been not a little[150] straitened for food, and it is impossible to say what might have been the consequences, had the same dearth been suffered to continue. The prudent conduct of the emperor did away all cause of violence, and after the arrival of his deputies, the troops of the Cross celebrated his liberality with joy and gratitude. News soon reached the army[151] of Godfrey, however, which changed their opinion of Alexius, and showed him as the subtle and treacherous being that he really was. To explain what this news consisted of, I must turn for a moment to another party of crusaders, who, while Godfrey pursued his peaceful course through Hungary, marched towards the general meeting-place at Constantinople, by the way of Italy. Hugh, Count of Vermandois, had assembled an army even superior in number to that of Godfrey of Bouillon, and was himself in every respect calculated to shine at the head of such an armament. He was gallant,[152] brave, handsome, and talented; but the calm and dignified spirit of moderation, which so characterized Godfrey of Bouillon, was wanting in the brother of the French king. Joined to his expedition, though marching in separate bodies, and at distinct times,[153] were the troops of Robert, Duke of Normandy, and Stephen, Count of Blois; with those of Robert, Count of Flanders, in another division.[154] The count of Vermandois, impetuous and proud, took his departure before his companions, traversed Italy, and embarking at Barri, landed with but a scanty train at Durazzo. His expectations were high, and his language haughty, supposing he should find in the Greek emperor the same humbled supplicant who had craved, in abject terms, assistance against the infidels from his Christian brethren of the west. But the position of the emperor had now changed. The Turks, occupied with other interests, no longer menaced his frontier. The imperial city slept in peace and splendour; and if he had any thing to fear, it was from his own restless and turbulent subjects rather than from his Saracen foes. Nor, in fact, had he ever been desirous of any thing like the expedition that was entering his dominions. He had prayed for aid and assistance to defend his country, but Urban had preached a crusade, and the princes were now in arms to reconquer the Christian territories in Asia, as well as to protect those of Europe. He had gladly heard of the crusade, and willingly consented to it, it is true, as he well knew it would afford a mighty diversion in his favour, but he then dreamed not of the armed millions that were now swarming towards his capital. His position, too, had changed, as I have said, and he immediately determined upon a line of policy well suited to the weak subtlety of his character. Alexius was one of those men whose minds are not of sufficient scope to view life as a whole, and who therefore have not one great object in their deeds; who act for the petty interests of the moment, and whose cunning, compared with the talents of a really great mind, is like the skill of a fencing-master compared with the genius of a great general. He saw not, and felt not, the vast ultimate benefit which he might receive from maintaining a dignified friendship with the princes commanding the crusade. He did not perceive what an immense and powerful engine was placed, if he chose it, at his disposition.--In his narrow selfishness, he only beheld a temporary danger from the great forces that were approaching, and he strove to diminish them by every base and petty artifice. He did not endeavour to make himself great by their means, but he tried to bring them down to his own littleness. It is true, that on some occasions he showed feelings of liberality and humanity; but from his general conduct it is but fair to infer that these were the inconsistencies of selfishness; and that though he was sometimes prudent enough to be liberal, he was not wise enough to be uniformly generous. On the arrival of Hugh at Durazzo, he was at first received with respect, and entertained with honour and profusion; and thus finding himself at ease, he was induced to remain for a time in confident security. Suddenly, however, without a pretence for such violence, he was arrested, together with his train, and sent to Constantinople, some authors say, _in chains_.[155] Nevertheless, it is not probable that Alexius dared to carry his inhospitality so far; and one of the historians[156] of the day particularly marks, that the prisoner was treated with every testimony of respect. Guibert also ventures a supposition respecting the motives of Alexius, far superior to the general steril course of ancient chronicles. He imagines--and I wonder that the idea has not been adopted by any one--that the object of the Greek emperor, in confining Hugh, was to obtain from him, before the other princes should arrive, that act of homage which he intended to exact from all. The brother of the king of France himself having taken the oath, would be so strong a precedent, that it is more than probable, Alexius[157] fancied the rest of the crusaders would easily agree to do that which their superior in rank had done previous to their arrival. At Philippopoli[158] the news of Hugh's imprisonment reached the army of Godfrey de Bouillon, and with the prompt but prudent firmness of that great leader's character, he instantly sent messengers to Alexius, demanding the immediate liberation of the Count of Vermandois and his companions, accompanying the message with a threat of hostilities, if the demand were not conceded. Godfrey then marched on to Adrianople,[159] where he was met by his deputies, bringing the refusal of the emperor to comply with his request: in consequence of which the country was instantly given up to pillage; and so signal were the effects of this sort of vengeance, that Alexius speedily found himself forced to put his prisoners at liberty. The moment that a promise to this effect was received, Godfrey recalled his forces; and with wonderful discipline and subordination, they instantly abandoned the ravages they were before licensed to commit, and marched on peacefully towards Constantinople. Had the armies of the Cross continued to show such obedience and moderation, Palestine would now have been Christian. In the neighbourhood of the imperial city Godfrey pitched his tents, and the innumerable[160] multitude of his steel-clad warriors struck terror into the heart of the fearful monarch of the east.[161] To the Count of Vermandois, however, it was a sight of joy; and issuing forth from Constantinople with his friends and followers, he galloped forward to the immense camp of the crusaders, where, casting himself into the arms of Godfrey,[162] he gave himself up to such transports of delight and gratitude, that the bystanders were moved to tears. The emperor now turned the whole force of his artful mind to wring from Godfrey an act of homage, and for several weeks he continued, by every sort of fluctuating baseness, to disturb his repose, and to irritate his followers. At one time, he was all professions of kindness and liberality; at another, he breathed nothing but warfare and opposition. Sometimes the markets were shut to the crusaders, sometimes the private stores of the emperor himself were opened. At length, after having twice defeated the bands of plunderers sent by Alexius to attack him,[163] Godfrey gave way to his wrath, and for six days successively ravaged the country round Constantinople with fire and sword. Alexius on this again changed his conduct, and with every profession of regard demanded an interview with the chief of the crusaders, offering his son as a hostage for his good faith. With this safeguard Godfrey, followed by several other noble knights, entered Constantinople, and proceeded to the imperial palace, clothed in his robes of peace,[164] and bearing purple and ermine and gold, instead of the iron panoply of war.[165] The great leader was received by the emperor with the highest distinction, was honoured with the kiss of peace, and underwent that curious ceremony of an adoption of honour (as it was then called) as son to the emperor.[166] He was clothed with imperial robes,[167] and the monarch, calling him his son, nominally placed his empire at Godfrey's disposal. In return for the distinctions he had received--and probably pressed by Hugh, Count of Vermandois, who loved not to stand alone, in having yielded homage to Alexius--Godfrey consented to give the emperor his hand, according to the feudal forms of France, and to declare himself his liegeman. His fears dissipated by this concession, and his hopes of winning the princes who were to follow, by so illustrious an example, raised to the highest pitch, Alexius loaded Godfrey and his followers with magnificent presents, and suffered them to depart. Peace was now permitted to remain unbroken; and after having refreshed themselves for some days, the army of the crusaders passed the Hellespont, and encamped at Chalcedon,[168] to wait the arrival of their brethren. It is more than probable that Godfrey was induced to quit the original place of rendezvous by the solicitations of Alexius, who took care, it has been since observed, to guard his capital from the presence of any two of the crusading hosts at one time. Boemond, prince of Tarentum, and son of the famous Guiscard, had quitted Italy shortly after the departure of Godfrey from Loraine. Various tales are told of the manner in which he first declared his purpose of joining the crusade. Some have asserted, that on hearing of the expedition, while engaged in the siege of Amalfi, he dashed his armour to pieces with his battle-axe,[169] and caused it to be formed into small crosses, which he distributed among his soldiery. Others reduce the anecdote to a less chivalrous but perhaps more civilized degree of energy, and state, that he caused his mantle to be cut into crosses for his troops.[170] As many relate the tale, it is likely to have had some foundation; and there is no doubt that Boemond abandoned all his vast possessions in Italy, with the reserve only of Tarentum, and devoted himself to the wars of the Cross. His presence might have proved more generally advantageous to the cause, had he not, by this enthusiastic renunciation, given himself other motives in the warfare before him, besides those of religion and humanity. He had naturally in his veins quite sufficient of the blood of Guiscard to require no additional stimulus to the desire of conquering for himself. He was nevertheless one of the best soldiers of the Cross, so far as military skill availed--bold, powerful, keen, and active; and possessing that sort of shrewd and even wily art, which, joined with his other qualities, formed an enterprising and successful leader, more perhaps than a distinguished knight. With him, however, came the noblest of all the Christian Chivalry, Tancred--whose valour, generosity, enthusiasm, and courtesy have been the theme of so many a song--of whom Tasso, in seeking to describe him in the highest language of poetry, could say nothing more than truth, Vien poi Tancredi, e non è alcun fra tanti Tranne Rinaldo--O feritor maggiore, O più bel di maniere e di sembianti O più eccelso ed entrepido di core.[171] Few characters can be conceived more opposed to each other than those of the relations,[172] Tancred and Boemond; and yet we find Tancred willingly serving in the army of the Prince of Tarentum, as second to that chief. The same unambitious modesty is to be discovered throughout the whole history of the young knight; and though we ever behold him opposed to meannesses, by whomsoever they may be adopted, we still see him willing to take upon himself the danger and labour of an inferior station. Under the banners of these chiefs marched a host of Italian and Norman nobles; the army, it is said, amounting to ten thousand horse,[173] and an immense multitude of foot, in which view of the forces we must remember that only men of noble birth were usually admitted to fight on horseback.[174] These troops were even increased as they marched to the seacoast of Apulia; and the great body of those Normans who, not a century before, had taken complete possession of the country, now left it for the Holy Land. Mills,[175] following his particular theory, supposes Urban the pope to smile with triumphant self-gratulation on seeing the army of Boemond depart; but it seems strange, that the prelate should rejoice in the absence of the very men by whom he had been always protected, while his enemies remained, and were even in possession of the old church of St. Peter[176] at Rome, as we learn by a contemporary crusader. The forces of Boemond and Tancred landed at Durazzo, and made their way, with much more regularity than could have been expected, through Epirus.[177] They were harassed, however, on their march by various skirmishes with the Greek troops, who did every thing in their power to destroy the crusading army, although Alexius[178] had sent messengers to Boemond himself congratulating him on his arrival, and promising every kind of assistance. These attacks, nevertheless, only amounted to a petty degree of annoyance, till the host of the Cross came to the passage of the Axius. Here, a part of the forces having traversed the river with almost the whole of the cavalry, the rear of the army was suddenly attacked by an infinitely superior body of Greeks.[179] Tancred, already on the other side, lost not a moment, but, spurring his horse into the water, followed by about two thousand knights, he charged the Greeks so vigorously as to drive them back with considerable loss in killed and prisoners. When brought before Boemond, the captives justified themselves by avouching the commands of the emperor, and Tancred would fain have pursued and exterminated the forces of the perfidious Greek. Boemond, however, more prudently forbore, and, without retaliation of any kind, advanced to Adrianople. I see no reason to qualify this moderation as subtilty, which Mills has not scrupled to do. Boemond was artful beyond all doubt, but this was not a fair instance of any thing but wisdom and self-command. At Adrianople, well knowing the character of Alexius, to whom he had frequently been opposed, and foreseeing that his troops might be irritated by various acts of annoyance,[180] Boemond drew up his army, and, in a calm and temperate speech, represented to them that they had taken up arms in the cause of Christ, and therefore that it was their duty to refrain from all acts of hostility towards their fellow-christians. Shortly after this, the Prince of Tarentum was met by deputies from the emperor, inviting him to come on with all speed to Constantinople, leaving his army behind, under the command of Tancred. Boemond at first refused to trust himself in the power of his ancient enemy,[181] but Godfrey of Bouillon having visited him in person, and guarantied his security, the Italian chief agreed to the arrangement proposed, and accompanied the Duke of Loraine to the imperial palace. Gold and dominion were always motives of great force with the mind of Boemond, and Alexius did not spare such temptations, either present or to come, for the purpose of inducing the Prince of Tarentum to do homage to the eastern empire. His promises were limitless, and the actual presents[182] which he heaped upon the Normo-Italian immense. He also granted him, it is said, a territory in Romania, consisting, in length, of as much ground as a horse could travel in fifteen days; and, in breadth,[183] of as much as could be traversed in eight; besides which, he loaded him with jewels and gold, and rich vestments, till Boemond, from one of his most inveterate enemies, became one of his firmest allies. This, indeed, proceeded from no confidence or friendship on either side. Boemond still felt how little Alexius could forgive the injuries he had in former days inflicted, and dared not trust himself to eat of the meat set before him at the emperor's table. Alexius, with all the penetration of his race, evidently dived into the Norman's thoughts, and saw that he aspired even to the imperial crown itself.[184] No reliance, therefore, existed between them; but, on the one hand, Boemond, for considerations of interest, forgot his dignity, and did homage to the emperor, while Alexius, on his part, agreed that the homage should be void, if the promises he made were not exactly fulfilled.[185] The news of his relation's humiliation soon reached Tancred, who was leading on their united forces towards Constantinople; and though unquestionably, the lamentation attributed to him by his biographer[186] is somewhat more poetical than real, little doubt can be entertained that the gallant prince was painfully struck by Boemond's disgraceful concessions. Hugh of Vermandois had done homage to obtain his liberty; Godfrey of Bouillon, to restore peace and unanimity between the Christian emperor and the crusaders; Boemond _sold_ his homage, with no palliating circumstance. The determination of Tancred seems to have been taken almost immediately on hearing this news, and marching upon Constantinople as if it were his intention to follow exactly the course of his relation, he suddenly crossed the Hellespont[187] without giving notice to any one, and joined the army of Godfrey at Chalcedon.[188] This conduct greatly irritated Alexius, and he made several efforts to bring Tancred back without success; but the arrival of Raimond de St. Gilles, Count of Toulouse, with the immense army of the Languedocian crusaders, soon called the attention of the emperor in another direction. The Count of Toulouse has been very variously represented, and no doubt can exist that he was a bold and skilful leader, a courageous and resolute man. He was, it is said, intolerant and tenacious of reverence, fond of pomp and display, and withal revengeful, though his revenge was always of a bold and open character. Not so his avarice, which led him to commit as many pitiful meannesses as ever sprang from that basest of desires. He was proud, too, beyond all question; but where his covetousness did not overbalance the other great principle of his nature, he maintained, in his general conduct, that line of moral firmness which dignifies pride, and raises it almost to a virtue. Under the banners of the Count of Toulouse marched the gay Chivalry of all the south of France--Gascons, and Provençals, and Auvergnats--people, in whose hearts the memory of Saracen invasions from Spain was still fresh; and whose quick and passionate dispositions had at once embraced with enthusiasm the holy war. A glorious train of lords and knights followed their noble chief, and the legate of the pope, as well as several other bishops, gave religious dignity to this body of the crusaders. The count directed his course by Sclavonia towards Greece, notwithstanding that the season was unfavourable, as he set out in winter.[189] During the journey he displayed, in the highest degree, every quality of a great commander. Innumerable difficulties, on which we cannot pause, assailed him even during the first part of his march through the barren and inhospitable passes which lay between his own fair land and Greece. When he had reached the dominions of Alexius, whose call for aid he had not forgotten, the count imagined, to use the words of his chaplain, that he was in his native land, so much did he rely upon the welcome and protection of the Greek emperor. But he, like the chiefs who had preceded him, was deceived, and the same series of harassing persecutions awaited him on the way. An act of seasonable[190] but barbarous vengeance, however, in mutilating and disfiguring several of the prisoners, so much frightened the savage hordes which the emperor had cast upon his track, that the rest of the journey passed in comparative tranquillity. Like those who had gone before, the count was permitted to enter the imperial city with but few attendants. Here the same proposal of rendering homage was made to Raimond which had been addressed to the other leaders of the crusade, but he rejected it at once with dignified indignation, and maintained his resolution with unalterable firmness.[191] The means which had been tried with Godfrey of Bouillon were now employed against the Count of Toulouse; and as no very strong body of crusaders was soon expected from Europe, the emperor seems confidently to have anticipated the destruction of the Languedocian force. The Bosphorus lay between it and the armies of Godfrey, of Hugh, of Boemond, and of Robert of Flanders,[192] whose arrival we have not thought it necessary to dwell upon, as it was accompanied by no circumstance of interest. Alexius had taken especial care, that no vessels should remain on the other side of the Straits, which would facilitate the return of the crusaders even if they should wish it,[193] and Boemond was devoted to his cause from motives of interest. Under these circumstances Alexius did not scruple to order a night attack to be made upon the camp of the French knights. At first it proved successful, and many fell under the treacherous sword of the Greeks. At length, however, the Languedocians recovered from their surprise, repulsed the enemy with great loss, and for some time gave full way to their indignation. Raimond even resolved to declare war against the emperor, but abandoned his intention on finding that the other princes would not succour him, and that Boemond threatened to join his arms to those of Alexius. Thus upheld, the emperor still continued to insist on the homage of the count; but Raimond declared that he would sooner lay down his head upon the block than yield to such an indignity.[194] "He had come,"[195] he said, "to fight for one Lord, which was Christ, and for him he had abandoned country, and goods, and lands, but no other lord would he acknowledge; though, if the emperor would, in person, lead the host towards Constantinople, he would willingly put himself and his troops under his august command." All that could ultimately be obtained from him, even at the intercession of his companions in arms, was a vow that he would neither directly nor indirectly do any act which could militate against the life or honour of the emperor.[196] This concession, however, seemed to satisfy Alexius, upon whose weakness the ambitious spirit of Boemond was pressing somewhat too hard. The power of Raimond of Toulouse, the monarch saw, might be used as a good counterpoise to the authority which the Prince of Tarentum was inclined to assume; and in consequence, Alexius soon completely changed his conduct, and loaded the count with distinctions and courtesy. The pleasures of the imperial palace, the rivalry which the artful emperor contrived to raise up between him and Boemond, and the false but polished society of the Greek court, excited and pleased the Count of Toulouse, who remained some time in the midst of pomp and enjoyment. His character, also, though it had much of the steady firmness of the north, had, in common with that of his countrymen in general, a sparkling and vivacious urbanity, a splendid yet easy grace, which suited the taste of the Greeks much more than the simple manners of the northern crusaders. Indeed, to judge from the terms in which she speaks of him, his handsome person and elegant deportment seem to have made no small impression on the imagination of the princess Anna,[197] although Raimond had already passed the middle age. Boemond, however, had by this time departed, and had marched from Chalcedon with Godfrey and the rest of the crusading host[198] towards Nice, the capital of the Turkish kingdom of Roum.[199] His honour demanded the presence of the Count of Toulouse, and abandoning the pleasures of Constantinople, he superintended the embarkation of his troops, and hastened to join the rest of his companions in arms. Scarcely had the forces of the count quitted Constantinople, when another army appeared under the walls of that city. Its principal leader was Robert, Duke of Normandy--a man, debauched, weak, and unstable; endowed with sufficient talents to have dignified his illustrious station, had he possessed that rare quality of mind which may be called _conduct_. He was eloquent in speech, brave in the field, skilful in warlike dispositions, and personally humane, even to excess;[200] but at the same time he was versatile as the winds, and so easily persuaded, that the common expression, _he had no will of his own_, was, perhaps, more applicable to him than to any other man that ever existed. On the first preaching of the crusade, he had caught the flame of enthusiasm with others, and perhaps not more than those around him; for we must not take the immediate sale of his dutchy of Normandy to William Rufus as a proof of his zeal. It was, in fact, but a proof of that wretched facility which ultimately brought about his ruin. The price he obtained,[201] was only ten thousand marks of silver, but with so petty a sum this modern Esau thought he could conquer worlds. With him was Stephen, Count of Blois, more famous in the council than the field,[202] while all the Norman and English crusaders of rank, together with Eustace, brother of Godfrey of Bouillon,[203] joined themselves to his forces. Thus, followed by a numerous and well-equipped army, Robert took the way of Italy, and having encountered the pope at Lucca, proceeded to Apulia, where he remained to pass the winter. Here, however,[204] many deserted his army, and returned to their native land, and several were drowned, subsequently, in their passage to Durazzo; but, on the whole, the march of Robert of Normandy was more easy and less disastrous than that of any other chief of the crusaders. We find no mention of any attack or annoyance on the part of Alexius; and, on the arrival of the Norman host at Constantinople, the oath of homage seems to have been presented and received, with a sort of quiet indifference well according with the indolent and careless character of the Duke.[205] Alexius simply informed the leaders, that Godfrey, Boemond, Hugh, and the rest had undergone the ceremony proposed. "We are not greater than they,"[206] replied Robert, and the vows were taken without hesitation. Loaded with presents, and supplied with money and provisions, of both which Robert stood in great want, the Norman crusaders now passed the Hellespont, and marched towards Nice to join their companions. The timid Alexius thus found himself delivered from the last body of these terrific allies; and, indeed, the description given of their arrival, in rapid succession, before Constantinople, is not at all unlike the end of Camaralzaman's history in the Arabian Nights, where no sooner is one army disposed of, than another is seen advancing towards the city from a different quarter of the globe. CHAPTER VI. _Germ of After-misfortunes already springing up in the Crusade--Siege of Nice--First Engagement with the Turks--Siege continued--The Lake occupied--Surrender of Nice to the Emissaries of Alexius--Discontent-- March towards Antioch--The Army divides into two Bodies--Battle of Doryloeum--Dreadful March through Phrygia--Adventures of Baldwin and Tancred--Arrival at Antioch--The City invested._ One of the most unfortunate events which occurred to the crusaders in their march was their stay at Constantinople, for it was the remote but certain cause of many other evils. The jealousies and differences raised up among them by the intriguing spirit of Alexius were never entirely done away; and besides this, the intervention of petty motives, long discussions, and schemes of individual aggrandizement chilled the fervour of zeal, and thus weighed down the most energetic spring of the enterprise. Enthusiasm will conquer difficulties, confront danger and death, and change the very nature of the circumstances in which it is placed, to encouragement and hope; but it will not bear to be mingled with less elevated feelings and considerations. The common ambitions and passions of life, cold reasonings, and thoughtful debates, deaden it and put it out; and amid the intrigues of interest, or the speculations of selfishness, it is extinguished like a flame in the foul air of a vault. A great deal of the enthusiasm of the crusade died away amid the bickerings of Constantinople; and even the cowardly effeminacy of the Greeks proved in some degree contagious, for the army of the Count of Toulouse, we find, had at one time nearly disbanded itself. The luxury of the most luxurious court of Europe, too, was not without its effect upon the crusaders, and the memory of the delights of the imperial city was more likely to afford subjects of disadvantageous comparisons, when opposed to the hardships of Palestine, than the remembrance of the turbulent and governless realm from which they had first begun their march. The greatest misfortune of all, however--the cause of many of their vices, and almost all their miseries,--was the want of one acknowledged leader, whom it would have been treason to disobey. Each chief was his own king, but he was not the king of even those who served under him. Many who had followed his banner to the field were nearly his equals in power, and it was only over his immediate vassals that he had any but conditional right of command. In respect to his vassals themselves, this right was much affected by circumstances; and over the chiefs around him, he had no control whatever. Thus, unity of design was never to be obtained; and discord, the fatal stumblingblock of all great undertakings, was always ready in the way, whenever the folly, the passions, or the selfishness of any individual leader chose to dash upon it the hopes of himself and his companions. Nevertheless, during the siege of Nice, which was the first undertaking of the crusaders, a considerable degree of harmony seems to have prevailed among the leaders. Each, it is true, conducted his part of the attack according to his own principles, but each seemed happy to assist the other, and we hear of no wrangling for idle punctilios. The morals, too, of the troops were hitherto pure, reaching a much higher point of virtue, indeed, than might have been anticipated from the great mixture of classes. I do not mean to say that they were free from vice, or were exempt from the follies of their nature or their age; but the noble and dignified manner in which the chiefs of the crusade, and the people in general, bore the conduct of Alexius (mentioned hereafter), would lead me to believe that they had preserved a considerable share of purity and singleness of heart. The first body of the crusaders which reached the city of Nice was that led by Godfrey of Bouillon. He was not alone, however, being accompanied by Hugh, Count of Vermandois; and very shortly after, the troops of Robert of Flanders and Boemond of Tarentum arrived, and took up their position on the northern side, while those of Godfrey had marked their camp towards the east. The Count of Toulouse and the Bishop of Puy followed, and sat down before the southern side,[207] leaving the west open for the Duke of Normandy, who was expected from day to day.[208] This city, the capital of the kingdom of Roum, was occupied by the Seljukian Turks, and strongly defended by a solid wall, flanked by three hundred and fifty towers. It was situated in the midst of a fertile plain, and the waters of the lake Ascanius, to the west, gave it a facility of communication with a large extent of country. The army of the crusaders, after the arrival of the Count of Toulouse,[209] waited not the coming of Robert of Normandy, but began the siege in form. Their forces were already immense; and after the junction of Peter the Hermit with the ruins of his multitude, and the Duke of Normandy with his powerful army, the amount of the fighting men is said to have been six hundred thousand, without comprising those who did not carry arms.[210] The number of knights[211] is stated to have reached nearly two hundred thousand, which left a fair proportion of inferior soldiers. The general disposition of the troops had been made before the arrival of the Count of Toulouse, and he marched his division towards the spot assigned him on the Sunday after Ascension-day.[212] His coming, however, was destined to be signalized by the first regular battle between the Turks and their Christian invaders. Soliman, or Kilidge Aslan, the sultaun of Roum, on the approach of the crusaders, had left his capital[213] defended by a strong garrison, and travelling through his dominions, hastened in every direction the levies of his subjects. He soon collected a considerable body of horse,[214] and leading them to the mountains which overlooked the plain of Nice, he sent down two messengers to the city to concert with the governor a double attack upon the camp of the Christians. The messengers fell into the hands of the outposts of Godfrey. One was killed on the spot, and the other, under the fear of death, betrayed the secrets of the sultaun, giving at the same time an exaggerated account of his forces.[215] Information of Soliman's approach was instantly sent to Raimond of Toulouse, who was advancing from Nicomedia,[216] and by a night-march he succeeded in joining the army of the Cross in time. Scarcely had he taken up his position, when the Moslems began to descend from the mountains, clad like the Christians in steel,[217] and borne by horses fleet as the wind. Divided into two bodies,[218] the one attacked the wearied troops of the Count of Toulouse, seeking to force its way into the city, while the other fell upon the quarters of Godfrey of Bouillon. Doubtless Soliman thought to meet, in the immense multitude before him, a wild and undisciplined crowd, like that of Peter the Hermit; but he soon found bitterly his mistake. The crusaders received him every where with chivalric valour, repulsed him on all points, became in turn the assailants, and the plain round Nice grew one general scene of conflict. The charging of the cavalry, the ringing of the lances and the swords upon shields and corslets, the battle-cries of the Christians, and the _techbir_ of the Turks; the shouts, the screams, the groans, rose up, we are told, in a roar horrible to hear.[219] At length, finding that the sally he had expected was not made, Soliman retreated to the mountains; but it was only to repeat the attempt the following day.[220] In this, although the besieged now comprehended his intention, and issued forth upon the Christians on the one side, while he attacked them on the other, he was not more fortunate than before. He was again repelled with great loss, owning his astonishment at the lion-like courage of the Christian leaders, who with a thousand lances would often charge and put to flight twenty times the number of Turkish horsemen. According to a barbarous custom prevalent at that time, and which even descended to a much later period, the crusaders hewed off the heads of the fallen Moslems,[221] and cast many of them into the city. Others were sent to Constantinople in token of victory; and Alexius, as a sign of gratitude and rejoicing, instantly despatched large presents to the principal chiefs of the crusade, with great quantities of provisions for the army, which had long been straitened to a fearful degree. After the defeat of Soliman,[222] the siege was pressed with renewed vigour; and battering-rams, catapults, and mangonels were plied incessantly against the walls, while moveable towers of wood, called beffroys, filled with armed men, were rolled close to the fortifications, for the purpose of carrying on the fight hand to hand with the enemy, and of endeavouring to effect a lodgment on the battlements. In the mean while, the plains round Nice offered a spectacle of the most extraordinary brilliancy. The glittering arms of the knights, their painted shields, and fluttering pennons--the embroidered banners of the barons, their splendid coats-of-arms and magnificent mantles--the gorgeous robes of the Latin priests, who were present in immense numbers, and the animated multitude of bowmen and foot-soldiers, mingled with thousands of that most beautiful of beasts, the horse, all spread out in the unclouded brightness of an Asiatic sky, formed as shining and extraordinary a scene as the eye could look upon. Not frightened, however, by the terrific splendour that surrounded them, the Turks continued to defend their battlements with persevering valour. Every attack of the Christians was met with dauntless intrepidity, and every laboured attempt to sap the wall, or its towers, was frustrated with unwearied assiduity. Those who approached near were either slain by poisoned arrows,[223] or crushed under immense stones; and the moment any one was killed at the foot of the wall,[224] "it was horrible to see the Turks," says an eyewitness, "seize upon the body with iron hooks let down from above, and lifting it up through the air strip it completely, and then cast it out from the city." Innumerable artifices were resorted to by the assailants to force their way into the town; and none of the chiefs seem to have been more active and ingenious than the Count of Toulouse,[225] who once succeeded in undermining a tower, and casting it to the ground. Before this work was concluded, however, night had fallen over the army, and ere the next morning the laborious activity of the Turks had repaired the damage which their wall had suffered. Two of the principal[226] German barons, also, contrived a machine of wood, to which they gave the name of _the fox_. It was capable of containing twenty knights, and was secured by its immense solidity from all the efforts of the enemy. When this was completed, a vast multitude began to push it towards the part of the curtain which they intended to sap, but the inequality of the ground and the great weight of the machine itself caused some of the joints to give way, when the whole fabric fell to pieces, crushing under its ruins the unhappy knights within. The arrival[227] of Robert of Normandy brought a vast accession of strength to the besiegers; notwithstanding which, during the remainder of the siege of Nice, the immense numbers of the crusaders did not produce that scarcity of provision which ultimately fell upon them; for Alexius, interested more than any one in the capture of the city, took care, after the first few days, that the supplies should be ample and unremitted. Nevertheless the courage of the garrison did not at all decrease, and for five weeks they still continued to return the assailants combat for combat, the whole day being consumed in a storm of arrows from the bows and arbalists, and of stones from the catapults and mangonels.[228] Numerous instances of extraordinary personal courage, shown on both sides, are of course recorded, and each different historian has his own hero, whose deeds are lauded to the sky. One Turk in particular signalized himself by an immense slaughter of the crusaders, showing himself exposed upon the battlements, and plying his terrible bow, which winged death in every direction. The Christians became so fearful of him, that that most imaginative passion, terror, began to invest him with some supernatural defence.[229] The best-aimed arrows proved totally ineffectual, and reports spread rapidly that he might be seen, still sending destruction around from his hand, while twenty shafts--each carrying the fate of a common mortal--were sticking unheeded in his flesh. Godfrey of Bouillon, to end the panic that this man occasioned, at length took a crossbow himself, though that machine[230] was considered but a fit weapon for a yeoman, and directing the quarry with a steadier hand than those which had before aimed at the Turkish archer, he sent the missile directly to his heart.[231] A multitude of the noblest crusaders had now fallen before the bows of the enemy, and many more had yielded to the effects of a climate totally different from their own. "Thus," says one of the followers of the Cross, "nothing was to be seen on the highways, in the woods, and the fields, but a crowd of tombs,[232] where our brethren had been buried." At last, the leaders perceived the existence of a circumstance, their neglect of which, in the very first instance, showed how much the art of warfare was then in its infancy. One evening, after a fierce assault, the soldiers stationed near the water, who, in common with the rest of the host, usually rested from the labours of the siege during the night, suddenly perceived boats upon the lake Ascanius, and it immediately became evident that the Turks received every kind of supply by this easy means of communication. As soon as this was discovered, various vessels were brought from Constantinople, and being drawn to the lake over a narrow neck of land which separated it from the sea, were filled with imperial archers;[233] and the blockade of the town was thus rendered absolute. This was executed during the night, and all hope abandoned the Turks from the next morning, when they beheld that which had proved their great resource suddenly cut off. The crusaders now hoped to force the city to surrender at discretion; and their expectations of such an event were much raised by the fact of the sultauness, the wife of Soliman, who had hitherto courageously undergone all the miseries and dangers of a siege, being taken in endeavouring to make her escape by the lake.[234] By this time the besieged had determined to surrender; but Alexius had taken care to send with the army of the Cross an officer on whose art and fidelity he could depend, to secure for the imperial crown a city which he would probably have rather seen still under the dominion of the Turks, than in the hands of the Latins. This man's name was Taticius, or, according to the crusaders' corruption, Tatin.[235] His face was dreadfully mutilated, and his mind seems to have been as horrible as his countenance. What communication he kept up within the town it is difficult to discover; and how this communication was concealed from the Latins is hardly known, but probably it took place, as Mills conjectures, by means of the lake and the Greek vessels which now covered it. Certain it is, that the Turks entered into a private treaty with the emissary of Alexius, who granted them the most advantageous terms, securing to them not only life,[236] but immunity and protection. It had been covenanted beforehand, between the emperor and the crusaders, that on the fall of the city it should be resigned to Alexius, who promised to give up to the troops all the riches it contained,[237] and to found there a monastery, and an hospital for pilgrims, under the superintendence of the Latins.[238] Not contented with this, or doubting the faith of his allies, he took the means I have stated to secure possession. Suddenly the imperial ensigns appeared upon the walls of Nice, when the host of the crusade was just rushing to the attack in the full confidence of victory. It was now found that the people of the city had surrendered privately to Alexius, and had admitted his troops within the walls; but it required the greatest efforts of the leaders of the crusade, although disgusted with this treachery themselves, to quiet their forces, and reconcile them to the perfidy of their base ally.[239] On the part of the Christians, the wife and children of Kilidge Aslan, who had fallen into their hands, were delivered to the Turks; and, at the same time, all those prisoners which had been taken by Soliman, on the defeat of _Gautier sans avoir_, were restored to liberty. So little, however, did Alexius keep his treaty with the crusaders, that, instead of yielding to them the whole plunder of Nice, he contented himself with distributing some rich presents to the chiefs,[240] and some money to the poor of the army; and suffered them, thus dissatisfied and injured, to raise their camp and march on towards Jerusalem, without permitting them to set foot within the city they had conquered.[241] The army of the Cross waited no time under the walls of Nice, but as soon as the principal leaders had returned from Pelicanum, whither they had gone once more to confer with Alexius, it began its march.[242] At the end of the second day the forces of the different chiefs[243] were accidentally separated,[244] Boemond and the Duke of Normandy taking a path considerably to the left of that followed by Godfrey and the rest of the host. They proceeded on their way, notwithstanding, knowing that they could not be very far from the principal body, and towards night pitched their camp in the valley of Gorgon, in the midst of some rich meadows, and near a running stream.[245] Their situation was, nevertheless, not near so desirable as they imagined, for Soliman, who during the siege of Nice had made the most immense efforts for the purpose of relieving that city, now that it had fallen, hung with the whole of his force,[246] to the amount of nearly two hundred thousand men,[247] upon the left flank of the army of the crusaders, concealing his own evolutions by his perfect knowledge of the country, and watching those of his enemies with the keen anxiety of a falcon hovering over her prey. No sooner had the separation we have mentioned taken place in the host of the Cross, than the sultaun hastened his march to overtake the army of Boemond, which was infinitely the weaker of the two divisions. Accustomed to every sort of rapid movement, Soliman soon came up with the forces of the Prince of Tarentum and the Duke of Normandy. The crusaders had been from time to time warned, during the preceding day, that an enemy was in the neighbourhood, by the sight of scattered parties of Arabs hovering round their army.[248] They nevertheless encamped by the side of a beautiful stream, that, flowing on through the rich valley in which they were advancing, proceeded to join itself to the waters of the Sangarius. Here they passed the night in repose, taking merely the precaution of throwing out sentinels to the banks of the stream. Early the next morning, Boemond and Robert again commenced their march, and had advanced some way,[249] when the immense army of Soliman began to appear upon the hills. Boemond instantly sent off messengers to Godfrey of Bouillon, and the rest of his noble companions, of whose proximity he had now become aware, and gave orders for drawing up his forces, for pitching the tents, and for making a rampart of the wagons[250] and baggage for the defence of the sick and the weak from the arrows of the Turks. In the mean while, turning to his knights and men at arms, he addressed them with the brief eloquence of courage. "Remember the duties of your calling!" he exclaimed. "Behold the peril in which you are placed--charge boldly to meet the infidels--defend your honour and your lives!" While he spoke, the Turks rushed down to the battle with terrific cries,[251] which, mingling with the tramp of two hundred thousand horse, and the ringing of their armour, together with the trumpets of the Christian host, and the shouts of the chiefs and the heralds, raised so fearful a din, that no one could hear another speak among the followers of the Cross. The army of Boemond, hastily drawn up, presented a mingled front of horse and foot soldiers, and pilgrims,[252] some but half-armed, some not armed at all; while the Turks came down in one torrent of cavalry. The immense numbers which it contained all blazing with glittering arms, and provided with bows of horn and scimitars, dazzled and dismayed the troops of the Christians. As the infidels approached, the European Chivalry dropped the points of their long lances, and prepared to hurl back their foes, as was their wont, by the heavy and decided charge which proved always so effective; but suddenly, each Moslem raised his bow even as he galloped forward,[253] a thick cloud seemed to come over the sun, and then, two hundred thousand arrows dropping at once among the crusaders, a multitude[254] of men and horses were instantly stretched upon the plain. Before the Christians could rally from the surprise, a second flight of arrows followed the first, doing dreadful execution among the foot-soldiers and the steeds of the knights.[255] But now Tancred and Boemond led on their troops to the charge, and spurred their horses into the midst of the enemy. The Turks, as was their habit, yielded ground on every side, avoiding, by the swiftness of their chargers, the lances and the swords of the Christians, and, like the Parthians of old, continuing their fearful archery even as they fled. Vain were all the efforts of the European Chivalry, though, throwing away their useless spears, they endeavoured to reach the Turks with their swords;[256] but now, in turn, the swarming multitudes of their foes, pouring down fresh from the mountains on every side, no longer retreated, but pressed closer and closer upon them; and as each adversary fell beneath the vigorous blows of the knights, new foes started up to meet them. In the mean while, thick and fast was mown the flower of the Christian army. The brother of Tancred, famed alike for his beauty and his courage, was slain before the eyes of his relation.[257] Tancred himself, surrounded by a thousand enemies, fought as if Fate had put the weapon in his hands, but fought in vain. Boemond, with all his efforts, could scarcely extricate his gallant cousin from the torrent of adversaries in the midst of which he struggled, and even then it was with the loss of the banner of Otranto.[258] Borne back by the growing multitude that pressed upon them, the knights gave way before the Saracens, and were driven struggling upon the very pikes[259] of the foot-soldiers that were advancing to their support. At the same time Soliman, whose numbers gave him the means of surrounding the army of the crusaders, directed several large bodies of his cavalry through some marshes to the rear of the Christians, and in a moment the camp[260] of Boemond was invaded and deluged with the blood of the old, the women, and the helpless![261] Robert of Normandy, however, who had commanded the reserve, now beholding the flight of his allies, roused all the courage of his heart; and uncovering his head in the midst of the fray, shouted forth his battle-cry[262] of "Normandy! Normandy! Whither fly you Boemond?" he exclaimed; "Your Apulia is afar! Where go you Tancred? Otranto is not near you! Turn! turn upon the enemy! God wills it! God wills it!" And seizing his banner, he spurred on with his followers against the Turks, drove them back, rallied the cavalry, and restored order and regularity to the defence. Boemond, in the mean while, had turned his arms towards the camp; and the Turks had retreated from that quarter of the field, bearing with them all that was valuable, and a considerable number of prisoners. The army of the crusade was now concentrated on one spot, while that of the Turks, surrounding it on all sides, gave it not a moment's repose. Soldier fell beside soldier, knight beside knight.[263] Fatigue and thirst rendered those that remained little capable of defence; and the dust and the hot sun made many of the wounds mortal, which otherwise would have been slight in comparison. In this conjuncture,[264] the women that remained proved infinitely serviceable, bringing to the troops water from the river, and by prayers and exhortations encouraging them to the fight. Thus lasted the battle for many hours, when first a cloud of dust, rising from behind the hills, announced that some new combatants were hurrying to the field. Then rose above the slope banner, and pennon, and lance, and glittering arms, while the red cross fluttering on the wind brought hope and joy to the sinking hearts of the crusaders, and terror and dismay to the victorious Turks.[265] In scattered bands, spurring on their horses as for life, came the Chivalry of the west to the aid of their brother Christians. None waited for the others; but each hastened to the fight as the fleetness of his charger would permit, and rank after rank, troop after troop, banner followed by banner, and spear glittering after spear, came rushing over the mountains to the valley of the battle. "God wills it! God wills it!" echoed from hill to hill.[266] Robert of Normandy shouted his war-cry, Boemond, with renewed hope, couched his lance, and Tancred rushed upon the slayers of his brother. At the same time[267] Godfrey of Bouillon arrayed his army as they came up, and, with levelled lances, drove down upon the Turks. Hugh of Vermandois attacked them on the flank, and Raimond of Toulouse, with the warlike bishop of Puy, soon increased the forces of the Cross. The Turks[268] still made great and valorous efforts to maintain the superiority they had gained, but the charge of the Latin Chivalry was irresistible. The infidels were driven back, compelled to fly in disorder, and pursued over the mountains by the victorious crusaders.[269] In the hills the Christians, who followed hard upon their course, discovered the camp of the Saracens, where immense booty, both in gold and provisions,[270] became the recompense of their exertions. Here, also, they found all the prisoners who had been taken in the first part of the battle, and a great number of beasts of burthen, of which they were themselves in great need. Among the rest was a multitude of camels, an animal which few of the Franks had ever seen before. These were all brought to the Christian encampment, and rejoicing succeeded the fatigues and horrors of the day. The loss of the crusaders, after so long and severe a battle, if we can depend upon the account generally given, was very much less than might have been anticipated. Only four thousand men[271] are supposed to have fallen on the part of the Christians; these were principally, also, of the inferior classes, who, unprotected by the armour which defended the persons of the knights, were fully exposed to the arrows of the Turks. Three men of great note, among the champions of the Cross, were added to this list of killed[272]--William, the brother of Tancred; Geoffrey of Mount Scabius; and Robert of Paris, whose conduct at the court of Alexius we have before mentioned. The loss on the part of the Turks was infinitely more considerable, and thus, at the close of the battle of Doryloeum, the Christian leaders found that they had marked their progress towards the Holy Land by a great and decisive victory. The crusading armies now paused for several days,[273] enjoying the repose and comfort which the spot afforded, and which their exhausted troops so much required. The wounds of the soldiers who had suffered in the late battle were thus in some degree healed; and the abundance of provisions the enemy had left behind served to renovate the strength and raise up the hopes and enthusiasm of the Christians. In the mean while, the Turks, who had survived their defeat at Doryloeum, spread themselves in large bands over the country, and, pretending to have totally overcome the Latins, forced themselves into the cities, destroying and wasting every thing in their way.[274] The Christians thus, in their march through Phrygia, had to cross a large tract which had been completely ravaged by the enemy. With their usual improvidence, they had exhausted the provisions they had found in their adversary's camp; and ignorant of the country, they had provided themselves with no water, so that they had to encounter all the heat of the solstitial days of a Phrygian climate, without a drop of liquid to allay their burning thirst. Men and horses fell by thousands in the way;[275] and the women, parched with drought, and dying with fatigue, forgot delicacy, feeling, and even the ties of human nature--rolled prostrate on the ground with the agony of thirst--offered their naked bosoms to the swords of the soldiers, and prayed for death--or threw down their new-born children in the track of the army, and abandoned them to a slow and miserable fate! The most terrible mortality prevailed among the beasts of burden, so that the animals accustomed to bear the baggage of the host having nearly all died by the way, dogs and oxen, and even hogs,[276] are said to have been loaded with the lighter articles of necessity, while an immense quantity of luggage was cast away on the road. Many falcons and dogs--a part of knightly equipage never forgotten--had been brought from Europe to Asia; but the dogs, spreading their nostrils in vain to the hot wind for the least breath of moisture, left the long-accustomed hand that they were wont to love, and straying through the desolate land, died among the mountains; while the clear eye of the noble falcon withered under the fiery sky, which nothing but a vulture could endure; and, after long privation, he dropped from the glove that held him.[277] At length water was discovered, and the whole army rushed forward to the river. Their intemperate eagerness[278] rendered the means of relief nearly as destructive as the thirst which they had endured, and many were added to the victims of that horrible march by their own imprudent indulgence in the cool blessing that they had found at last. The country now had changed its aspect, and nothing presented itself but splendid fertility till the host of the crusade reached the city of Antiochetta, where, surrounded by rivulets, and forests, and rich pastures, they pitched their tents, determined to enjoy the earthly paradise that spread around them. Some of the warriors, however, whose energetic spirit no fatigues could daunt[279] or subdue, soon tired of the idle sweets of Antiochetta[280] and voluntarily separated themselves from the army, seeking either renown or profit, by detached enterprises. Tancred on the one hand, with the Prince of Salernum, and several other nobles, five hundred knights, and a party of foot-soldiers, set out from the army of Boemond, to explore the country, and ascertain the strength of the enemies by which they were surrounded. Detaching himself, at the same time, from the division of Godfrey of Bouillon, Baldwin, the brother of that leader, joined Tancred with a somewhat superior force, actuated probably more by the hope of his own individual aggrandizement, than by any purpose of serving the general cause of the crusade. After wandering for some time through the districts round Iconium and Heraclea,[281] which the Turks had taken care to desolate beforehand, the two chieftains again separated, and Tancred, pursuing his way by Cilicia, came suddenly before Tarsus. The Turks, by whom that city was garrisoned, knowing that the greater part of the populace was opposed to them, surrendered almost immediately on the approach of the Christian leader, and while he encamped with his forces under the walls, waiting, according to stipulation, for the arrival of Boemond, his banner was hoisted upon the towers of the town.[282] Scarcely had this been done when Baldwin also appeared, and at first, the two armies, each conceiving the other to be an enemy, prepared to give one another battle. The mistake was soon discovered, and Tancred welcomed his comrade in arms to Tarsus. The feelings of Baldwin, however, were less chivalric than those of the noble chief of Otranto, and the banner of Tancred flying on the walls of Tarsus was an object that he could not long endure. After passing a day or two in apparent amity, he suddenly demanded possession of the city, declaring, that as he led the superior force, he was entitled to command. Tancred scoffed at the absurd pretence, and both parties had nearly betaken themselves to arms.[283] The noble moderation of the Italian leader brought about a temporary reconciliation. He agreed that the people of the city themselves should be referred to, and choose the chief to whom they would submit. This was accordingly done, and the inhabitants instantly fixed upon the knight to whom they had first surrendered.[284] But Baldwin was yet unsatisfied; and after having made a proposal to sack and pillage the town, which was rejected with scorn and abhorrence by his more generous fellow-soldier, he caballed with the citizens and the Turks, till he won them to throw down Tancred's banner, and yield themselves to him. Mortified, indignant, even enraged, the steady purpose of right within the bosom of the chief of Otranto maintained him still in that undeviating course of rectitude which he had always pursued; and, resolved not to imbrue a sword drawn for honour and religion in the blood of his fellow-christians,[285] he withdrew his forces from before Tarsus, and turned his arms against Mamistra. The Turks here, more bold than those of the former city, beheld his approach unawed, and held out the town for several days, till at length it fell by storm, and the victorious chief planted his banner on those walls with far more honourable glory than that which surrounded the standard of Baldwin at Tarsus. In the mean while, another body of crusaders, detached from the troops of Boemond, arrived before the city in which Baldwin had established himself, and demanded entrance, or at least assistance and provisions. Baldwin[286] cruelly caused the gates to be shut upon them; and had it not been for the charitable care of some of the Christian inhabitants, who let them down wine and food from the walls, they would have been left to expire of want. A fate hardly better awaited them. The Turks had still, by their capitulation, maintained possession of several of the towers of Tarsus, but fearful of the superior force of Baldwin, they sought but a fair opportunity to escape without pursuit. The very night that the detachment of which I have spoken above arrived, the Turks carried their intentions into effect,[287] and finding a small body of Christians sleeping under the walls without defence, they made the massacre of the whole the first step in their flight. The soldiers of Baldwin and the citizens of Tarsus, who had together witnessed, with indignation, the barbarous conduct of the French chieftain, now rose in absolute revolt.[288] Baldwin, however, having remained in concealment for a few days, contrived to pacify his followers, and to overawe the city. After this he joined himself to a band of piratical adventurers, who about that time arrived accidentally at Tarsus, and who, mingling their lust of prey with some dark and superstitious notions of religion, had turned their course towards the Holy Land, in the pleasant hope of serving both God and Mammon with the sword.[289] With these Baldwin continued to ravage Cilicia, and at length approaching Mamistra, in which Tancred had established himself, he pitched his tents upon the immediate territory of that city. Tancred now gave way to his indignation, and issuing forth, though accompanied by very inferior forces, he attacked Baldwin sword in hand, when a fierce engagement ensued between the two Christian armies. The struggle was severe but short: the superior numbers of the French prevailed, and Tancred was forced to retreat into the city. On one side, the Prince of Salernum was made prisoner by Baldwin,[290] and on the other, Gilbert of Montclar was taken; but the next day, shame for their unchristian dissensions took possession of each chief. Peace was agreed upon; they embraced in sight of the two hosts; the captives were exchanged, and, as usual, Satan got the credit of the dispute. Baldwin proceeded, after this, to join the main army, and left his piratical associates to aid Tancred in laying waste the country. During these events the great body of the crusade had remained for some time at Antiochetta, where the people continued to acquire new health and strength, in the enjoyment of that tranquillity and abundance which had been so long withheld from them. Not so the chiefs, two of whom[291]--and those of the most distinguished--had nearly, in this period of repose and peace, found that death which they had so often dared in the midst of battle and hardship. Godfrey of Bouillon, in delivering a pilgrim from the attack of a huge[292] bear in the woods of Antiochetta, had almost fallen a victim to his chivalrous courage: he received so many wounds, that even after having slain his ferocious adversary, he could not drag himself from the forest to the camp; and remained long and dangerously ill in consequence. At the same time, the Count of Toulouse was seized with a violent fever, which brought him to the brink of the grave. He was taken from his bed and laid upon the ground--as was customary among the pilgrims at the hour of death, that they might expire with all humility--and the Bishop of Orange administered the last sacraments of the church:[293] but a certain Count of Saxe, who accompanied the army, came to visit the leader of the Provençals, and told him that St. Giles (the patron saint of the Counts of Toulouse) had twice appeared to him in a dream, assuring him that so valuable a life should be spared to the crusaders. Whether from the effect of that most excellent medicine, hope, or from a natural turn in his disease, the count suddenly began to recover, and before long was sufficiently well to accompany the army in a litter. The chiefs of the crusade now directed their march towards Antioch, suffering not a little from the desolate state of the country, which, devastated on every side by the Turks, afforded no means of supplying the immense multitude that followed the standard of the Cross. After passing Iconium and Heraclea, their fatigues were destined to increase rather than diminish. Their road now lay through uninhabited wilds, which Robert the Monk describes in language at once picturesque and terrific.[294] "They travelled," says he, "with deplorable suffering through mountains where no path was to be found except the paths of reptiles and savage beasts, and where the passages afforded no more space than just sufficient to place one foot before the other, in tracks shut in between rocks and thorny bushes. The depths of the precipices seemed to sink down to the centre of the earth, while the summits of the mountains appeared to rise up to the firmament. The knights and men-at-arms walked forward with uncertain steps, the armour being slung over their shoulders, and each of them acting as a foot-soldier, for none dared mount his horse. Many would willingly have sold their helmets, their breastplates, or their shields, had they found any one to buy, and some, wearied out, cast down their arms, to walk more lightly. No loaded horses could pass, and the men were obliged to carry the whole burdens. None could stop or sit down: none could aid his companion, except where the one who came behind might sometimes help the person before him, though those that preceded could hardly turn the head towards those that followed. Nevertheless, having traversed these horrible paths, or rather these pathless wildernesses, they arrived at length at the city named Marasia, the inhabitants of which received them with joy and respect." At Marasch the host was rejoined by Baldwin, whose wife died a few days before his arrival. His brother Godfrey,[295] too, was still suffering from the effects of his combat with the wild beast, and all the chiefs of the crusade, indignant at his conduct at Tarsus, gave him but a chilling and gloomy reception.[296] The spirit of individual aggrandizement was still the strongest passion in the breast of Baldwin, and the coldness of his companions in arms yielded him no great encouragement to stay and employ his efforts for the general object of the expedition, rather than for the purposes of his own selfish ambition. He very soon abandoned the rest of the chiefs, contriving to seduce two hundred knights, and a large party of foot-soldiers, to join him; and as his course was thenceforth separate from the rest of the crusaders, I shall follow the example of Guibert, and briefly trace it out, till it falls again into the general stream of events. Accompanied by Pancrates,[297] an Armenian, who painted in glowing colours the wealth of the provinces on the other side of the Euphrates,[298] and the facility with which they might be conquered, he set out with the vague hope of plundering something and overcoming some one, he knew not well what or whom. However, his skill as a commander was certain to find matter on which to exercise itself, in a country possessed by an active enemy, while his rapacious propensities were very likely to be gratified in a rich and plentiful land, where the many were oppressed by the few. Turbessel[299] and Ravendel fell immediately into his hands, and were at first placed under the command of his companion, Pancrates; but beginning to suspect that personage, he forced him to deliver up the cities, by imprisonment, torture, and a threat of having him torn limb from limb.[300] He then passed onward, crossed the Euphrates, and at the invitation of Thoros, sovereign of Edessa, entered that city, to free it from the power of the Turks. Thoros, a weak and childless old man, was driven by the inhabitants--who were terrified at their infidel neighbours, and had no confidence in their feeble monarch--to adopt the brother of Godfrey, with all the curious ceremonies then practised on such occasions. He passed his own shirt over Baldwin's shoulders,[301] pressed him to his naked breast, and publicly declared him his son.[302] The transactions that followed are very obscure, and as I have not been able to satisfy myself in regard to the share which Baldwin had in the tumults that succeeded, and the death of Thoros, I will but state the facts, without attempting to trace them to secret causes, which are now hidden in the dark tabernacle of the past. Something we know--Baldwin was ambitious, unscrupulous, intriguing, cruel--and shortly after his arrival, the people of Edessa rose against their unhappy prince, slew him, and elected Baldwin in his place. It does not absolutely appear that Baldwin was the instigator of these riots, or the prompter of the death of Thoros; but it does appear that he did not exert himself as he might have done to put them down. That it was in his power to suppress them is evinced by the rapidity with which he reduced the Edessians[303] to the most submissive obedience, immediately that the rank for which he had to contend was his own. He afterward proceeded to aggrandize his dominions, by attacking various of the neighbouring cities, and thus, in continual struggles, he passed his days, till some time after his companions in arms had completed their conquest of the Holy Land. In the mean while, Tancred took possession of the whole country as far as the town of Alexandretta, in the Gulf of Ajasse; and the great army of the crusade continued its march, throwing forward Robert of Flanders to seize on Artesia.[304] The Mahommedan soldiery prepared to resist; but the Armenian inhabitants opened the gates to their Christian deliverers, and the infidels were massacred without mercy. On the news of this event, Baghasian, the commander of the Turkish garrison of Antioch, apparently not knowing the immediate proximity of the whole Christian force, endeavoured to cut off, by stratagem, the small army of the Count of Flanders, who was accompanied by only one thousand knights. For this purpose the Turk advanced from Antioch,[305] followed by nearly twenty thousand horsemen, whom he placed in ambush in a plain near the city, while he himself, at the head of a petty detachment, armed alone with bows of horn,[306] advanced as if to reconnoitre the Christian troops. Robert of Flanders and his knights suffered themselves to be deceived, and charged the enemy, who fled before them, but in a moment they were surrounded by immensely superior numbers, who, with terrific cries, rushed on, to what appeared a certain victory. The gallantry[307] and courage of the Christian warriors served to deliver them from the danger into which the excess of that very courage had brought them, and charging the Turks with vigour in one decided direction, they succeeded in cutting their way through, and effecting their retreat to the city. Here, however, they were besieged by the enemy; but the arrival of Tancred, on his return from his victorious expedition, together with reinforcements from the main army, relieved them from the presence of the Turks, who retreated upon Antioch. CHAPTER VII. _The Host of the Crusade invests Antioch--Description of that City-- Difficulties and Errors of the Crusaders--Improvidence--Famine--Spies-- Desertions--Embassy from the Calif of Egypt--Succours from the Genoese and Pisans--Battle--Feats of the Christian Knights--Boemond keeps up a Communication within the Town--The Town betrayed to the Christians-- Massacres--Arrival of an Army from Persia--The Christians besieged in Antioch--Famine--Desertions--Visions--Renewed Enthusiasm--Diminished Forces of the Christians--Battle of Antioch--The Crusaders victorious-- Spoils--Disputes with the Count of Toulouse--The Chiefs determine to repose at Antioch--Ambassadors sent to Alexius--Fate of their Embassy._ The army now began to approach towards Antioch; and it was evident, that the task which the champions of the Cross had undertaken was becoming more and more difficult, as it drew near its consummation. The host was proceeding further and further from all resources; its enemies were gathering strength and falling back upon fresh supplies; multitudes of the invaders had died, and others were each day joining the dead: little hope of fresh reinforcements could be entertained, and the flame of enthusiasm was waxing dim, while fatigue, privation, and continual anxiety were gradually bringing disgust to the enterprise. The council of leaders,[308] well aware of the increasing dangers, now issued orders that in future no party whatever should absent itself from the main body; and all considerable detachments having rejoined it, they marched on to the valley of the Orontes. Over that river a stone bridge of nine arches was the only passage: this was strongly fortified, and closed with doors plated with iron, from which circumstance it had received the name of the iron-bridge. The Turks defended this formidable position with great valour against Robert, Duke of Normandy, who commanded the advance guard of the crusading army; but on the arrival of Godfrey and the other forces, the bridge was carried, the river passed, and Antioch invested. In the vast plain situated at the foot of the mountains,[309] the Orontes wanders on towards the sea, skirting, during a part of its course, the steep boundary which closes in the plain of Antioch from the south. On one of the bendings of the river was situated the town of Antioch, which, climbing up the hills, took within the embrace of its massy walls three high peaks of the mountain, one of which standing towards the north is separated from the others by a steep precipice, and was then crowned by a high and almost impregnable citadel.[310] The town itself, which extended in length two miles, was so strongly fortified by art and nature, that none of the active means then known seemed likely to take it by assault. The walls of the city were not absolutely washed by the Orontes; for between them and that river was a space of level ground, the breadth of which Raimond d'Agiles estimates at an arrow's flight; but, as the river turned in its course, it approached nearer to the town, and an antique bridge,[311] which the crusaders at first neglected to secure, gave infinite facility to the Turks, both in annoying their adversaries, and in procuring supplies. On the other side, spreading from the river to the foot of the mountains, was a marsh supplied constantly by some fresh springs. Over this also was thrown a bridge, which equally remained in the hands of the infidels. The encampment of the crusaders was conducted without any degree of military science.[312] Various points were left open and unguarded; each chief seemed to choose his own situation, and form his own plan of attack; and the most scandalous waste and profusion from the very first laid the foundation of after want and misery. Such were the obstacles which impeded the progress of the forces of the Cross, and which might, ultimately have rendered all their efforts abortive, had not other circumstances arisen to bring about an event that their own skill and conduct would never have accomplished. It is not necessary here to describe the position of the several leaders: suffice it, that Tatin, as he is called by the writers of that day, the commander of the troops of Alexius, took up his station in a spot detached from the rest. Three hundred thousand men capable of bearing arms,[313] sat down under the walls of Antioch; and such a profusion of provisions was found, even for this immense multitude, that the greater part of each animal slaughtered was wasted, the crusaders in the wantonness of luxury refusing to eat any but particular parts of the beast.[314] Such was the formidable appearance of the city, however, that a council was held to consider whether it would be advisable to attack it at once, or, remaining beneath the walls, to wait and see if famine would spare the work of the sword, or spring bring fresh resources to the besiegers. This opinion was soon negatived, and the attack began; but the walls of Antioch resisted all efforts. Every means then known was employed by the crusaders to batter the heavy masonry of those mighty bulwarks, but in vain. Moveable towers, and catapults, and mangonels, and battering-rams, were all used ineffectually; while the besieged, in a variety of sallies, harassed night and day the Christian camp, and destroyed many of the assailants. The consequences[315] of their first improvidence were soon bitterly visited on the heads of the crusaders. Famine began to spread in the camp; and pestilential diseases, engendered by unwholesome food and the neighbourhood of a large tract of marshy land, in the autumn and winter seasons, raged through the hosts of the Cross, and slew more fearfully even than the arrows of the enemy. Death in every shape grew familiar to their eyes, and the thought of passing to another world lost all the salutary horror which is so great a check on vice. Crimes of various descriptions were common;[316] and the sharp urgency of famine, joined with that horrible contempt of all human ties, which the extreme of mortal need alone can bring, induced many of the crusaders, deprived of other aliments, to feed upon the dead bodies of the slain.[317] At the same time, the Turks suffered not their miseries to pass without aggravation, but kept the unsparing sword constantly at their throats;[318] while, by a number of spies, dressed in the garb of Greeks and Armenians, the garrison became aware of all the movements and necessities of their besiegers.[319] To correct the crimes of the camp, a court was instituted, with full power to try and punish; while, to prevent the immorality which was growing too glaring for endurance, the women were separated from the general host, and provided for and protected apart. At the same time, Boemond employed a somewhat savage mode of freeing the army from the spies by which it was infested. Having detected some Turks in disguise, he caused them to be slain and roasted in his presence; declaring, that famine knew no delicacies, and that in future he should feed upon such fare. Still, however, the mortality and the dearth increased; and though an excursion made by Boemond[320] and Robert of Flanders brought a temporary supply to the camp, yet that was soon improvidently wasted like the rest, and the scarcity became more rigorous than ever. Desertion of course followed.[321] Among such a multitude, there were many whose hearts were not of that firm and all-enduring mould which could alone carry on an enterprise surrounded by such horrors and distresses. Taticius,[322] the Greek, upon pretence of searching for assistance at Constantinople, retreated with the few troops he commanded; and his example was fatal to the resolution of many others. Various bodies of crusaders abandoned the army, and found refuge in the different Christian states that still subsisted in the neighbouring countries: many tried to tread their way back to Europe; and the Count de Melun,[323] a celebrated warrior, but a notorious plunderer, attempted to quit the host of the Cross, and seek some other adventure, where personal danger was not accompanied by famine and privation. Even Peter the Hermit himself,[324] no longer looked upon as a great leader or an inspired preacher, seeing misery, death, and horror pursuing the object of all his enthusiasm, and feeling himself, perhaps, less valued than his zeal merited, was abandoned by that ardour which had been his great support. Whereas, had he been still regarded as a prophet, or followed as a mighty chief, he would probably have borne the extremity of suffering without a murmur; now, told to endure want and wretchedness as a private individual, he yielded, like the weakest of those that surrounded him, and tried to flee from the pangs which he had no stimulus to endure. Both of these fugitives[325] were brought back by Tancred; and after undergoing a severe reprimand, were forced to vow that they would never abandon the enterprise till the army had reached Jerusalem. In the mean while,[326] the camp of the crusaders received embassies from two different and unexpected quarters. Which arrived first, or at what period of the siege either arrived, is of little consequence, and impossible exactly to determine; for on this subject, as well as every other collateral circumstance, each of the contemporary authors differs from his fellows; and the historian may think himself fortunate when he finds them agreeing even on the principal facts. The news of the progress of the Christian host had spread even to Cairo;[327] and the calif of Egypt, from whose hands Syria had been wrested by the Turks, sent deputies to the leaders of the crusade, probably more with the intent of ascertaining their real condition, and the likelihood of their ultimate success, than for the purpose of binding himself to them by any formal treaty. His messengers, however, were charged to congratulate the Latins on their progress, and to offer the most advantageous terms of union, if they would consent to act in concert with the Egyptian power. They[328] detailed the mild and liberal measures which the calif had employed towards the Christians of their country, and they engaged the leaders to send back ambassadors to the court of their sovereign.[329] After the siege had continued some time, a most welcome aid, both in men and stores, arrived at the little port of St. Simeon, situated at the mouth of the Orontes. This town had already, for many years, served as a seaport to Antioch, which, in its high prosperity,[330] had carried on considerable trade with the Italian cities of the Mediterranean; and to it the states of Genoa and Pisa now sent a large reinforcement of soldiers,[331] and several ship-loads of provisions. The famished crusaders proceeded towards the spot in straggling crowds, and Boemond,[332] with the Count of Toulouse, at the head of some regular troops, marched down to escort their newly arrived brethren, and the supplies they were conveying, to the general camp of the crusaders. The Turks of Antioch, however, let no opportunity of vengeance and annoyance pass unemployed. Boemond, embarrassed with a multitude of rabble, and encumbered with baggage, was encountered, as he returned through the mountains, by a large body of Moslems, who, taking him unprepared, slew a great number of the people, and put the leaders and their knights to flight. Boemond arrived breathless at the camp, but the rumour of the battle had preceded him. Godfrey of Bouillon[333] was already in the saddle; and now, joined by Raimond and Boemond, together with Hugh of Vermandois, the Duke of Normandy, and Robert of Flanders, he advanced to the top of the hills, behind which the victorious Turks were winding onward, on their return to the city. A skirmish took place for the position on the mountains, but the Christians obtained it with little difficulty; and thus cut off the enemy from the town.[334] The Turks were forced to fight once more; but they were opposed no longer by an undisciplined crowd; and the Chivalry of Europe never displayed that almost superhuman valour[335] which distinguished them, with greater effect. Allowing even for the exaggeration of eulogy, the efforts of the knights must have been extraordinary. Godfrey is reported to have mown the heads of the Turks as a mower strikes down the thistles; and all the authorities of that day repeat the tale of his having at one blow severed an armed infidel in twain, though protected by his cuirass.[336] Every chief rivalled the other; and, beyond all doubt, several of the infidels must have fallen by the hand of each knight. While thus the sword raged among the Turkish host, many made their way to the bridge, and rushed across it in such crowds, that hundreds were thrust over into the water. On the other side, too, Boemond, with a large body of pikemen on foot, opposed their passage,[337] and hurled them at the point of the lance into the river, the banks of which were lined with the crusaders, who repelled even those that swam to land.[338] Thus lasted the fight till the sun going down put a stop to the carnage; and the Christians, with songs of victory and loaded with spoil, returned to their camp for the night. More than two thousand men, several of whom were of high rank, were left by the Turks on the field of battle: a multitude found death in the Orontes; but the number of the fallen was never correctly ascertained,[339] although the Christians, with the characteristic barbarity of the time, dug up many of the dead bodies that the Turks had buried during the night.[340] Various efforts both from within and without were made to raise the siege, but in vain. On one occasion an immense body of Saracens, Arabs, and Turks was defeated by seven hundred Christian knights, to which small number[341] the disposable cavalry of the army was reduced. Famine, however, disease, and tempests did more to alarm and destroy the crusading force than all the efforts of the infidels. The winds[342] became so high that the tents even of the chiefs were blown down, and for some time they were forced to sleep in the open air. An earthquake[343] was felt towards the beginning of the year, and was of course considered as an omen. A comet,[344] too, blazed through the sky; but as the superstitious fancied they beheld in it the form of the Cross, this rather increased than abated their hope. In the midst of these circumstances Stephen,[345] Count of Blois, never very famous for his valour, pretended illness, and retired from the army of the crusade, accompanied by four thousand men, whom he led to Alexandretta. A more serious desertion, also, was threatened, though no design ever existed of its execution: Boemond[346] himself began to murmur at the length of the siege. He was poor, he declared: he had given up every thing in his native country for the Cross, and he could not waste his blood and treasure, and see all his soldiers fall in a siege which was to be productive of no advantage to himself. Such murmurs had their object, and might perhaps spring, in some degree, from a weak quarrel with Godfrey of Bouillon, on the subject of a tent, which had been sent to the duke by the Prince of Armenia, but which had been waylaid by Pancrates, the Armenian I have had occasion to mention in speaking of Baldwin; and had by him been given to Boemond. The Prince of Tarentum had been obliged to yield it by the decision of all the leaders; but though this was a subject of irritation, he had more ambitious projects in view. Boemond for some time, through a proselyte Turk to whom he had given his name at baptism, had kept up a communication with the commander of one of the chief towers, on that part of the city wall which looked towards the gorges of the mountains. This man,[347] by birth an Armenian, had embraced Mahometanism, and raised himself high in the opinion of the prince of Antioch. He had in consequence received the command of the important[348] station I have mentioned, while his two brothers occupied the neighbouring towers.[349] The origin of his communication with Boemond is variously stated, but the event is the same. He was won over by magnificent promises to engage that he would admit that chief and his followers into the town when called upon. Boemond, however, did not intend at all that the intelligence which he had thus practised within the walls should be lost to himself, and benefit others alone:[350] but knowing[351] the jealous nature of his companions, he waited patiently till circumstances compelled them to concede to him the sovereignty of Antioch, in the event of its being taken by his means. At first the proposal was rejected by the other leaders; but soon, increasing reports that an immense army, commanded by the warlike sultaun of Persia, was advancing to the relief of the besieged, induced the Christian chiefs, under the distress and despondency which affected the army generally, to concur in the views of the ambitious Prince of Tarentum. Boemond then intrusted his secret to Godfrey and the other great leaders, but it was under the most solemn promises of silence[352] on the subject; for, notwithstanding all the precautions that could be taken, it was well known that the Turkish spies infested the Christian camp. With the utmost caution all the measures were concerted for carrying the project into effect, and through the whole army the rumour was spread that the preparations made by the chiefs were for the purpose of laying an ambush for the Persian forces, that were approaching. Phirouz, the Armenian traitor, was warned that Boemond was about to take advantage of his offer; and as soon as night had completely set in, the Prince of Tarentum, with a body of chosen knights, proceeded into the mountains,[353] as if with the design of surprising the host of the Persians. Only seven hundred men, however, were selected for this perilous expedition; and marching in the dead of the night, they crossed the valleys and precipices of the rocky chain on which the city rested, and halted in a deep dell at some distance from the walls. The wind was blowing in sharp gusts, and its howlings among the gorges of the mountains prevented the tramp of the armed men from reaching the watchers on the walls. Having assembled their forces in the valley, Godfrey and Boemond explained to their followers the real nature of the enterprise they meditated. A single interpreter was sent forward, to confer with their traitorous coadjutor, and to ascertain that all was prepared. Phirouz assured him that he was ready, and asked eagerly where were the knights; being told that they were near,[354] he pressed them to advance, lest any thing should excite the suspicion of the other commanders, especially as, from time to time, men with lighted torches patrolled the wall during the night, and it was necessary that they should take advantage of the interval. Godfrey, Robert of Flanders, and Boemond instantly led the troops to the foot of the fortifications; a rope was let down, and a ladder of hides raised. At first,[355] no one could be found to mount. Unaccustomed to carry on any warlike operations during the night, a thousand unwonted fears took possession of the bosoms of the crusaders. At length, urged by the chiefs, and encouraged by Phirouz from above, one knight--which of the body is not certain[356]--began to ascend the ladder, and was followed by several others. Silence then succeeded, and temporary hesitation once more took possession of the force below: but the voices of their companions who had ascended, whispering assurances of safety and fidelity, soon renewed their courage, and many attempting to climb the ladder at once,[357] it gave way under their weight, precipitating them upon the lance-heads that were buried in the fosse. The clang of their armour as they fell was a new cause of alarm, lest the sound should reach the other towers: so loud, however, was the roaring of the wind, and the hollow rushing sound of the Orontes, that the noise was not heard by any but those immediately around. The ladder was easily repaired, and more than sixty knights had reached the top of the battlements when the torch of the patrol began to gleam along the walls in its approach towards them. Hid[358] in the shadows of the tower, the crusaders waited the officer's approach, and before he could spread the alarm death had fixed the seal of silence on his lips for ever. The knights now descended through the staircase in the masonry, and finding the soldiers of the guard asleep, they speedily rendered their slumbers eternal. A postern gate was then forced open,[359] and the seven hundred champions rushed into the city sounding their horns in every direction, as had been agreed between the chiefs, in order that on this signal the town might be at the same time attacked from without. It would be painful to dwell upon the scene of slaughter that ensued. The Turks were soon awakened by the shrieks of their falling comrades, and by the trumpets of their victorious foe: they ran to arms,[360] and for many hours manfully opposed their conquerors hand to hand, though all hope of victory was now over. The Greeks and Armenians hastened to force open the gates and give entrance to the rest of the army of the Cross: but, in the darkness that prevailed, many of the Christians as well as the Turks were slaughtered by the victors, who butchered all ages, sexes, and conditions, with indiscriminate rage and haste,[361] in which fear and agitation had probably as much to do as cruelty and fanaticism. During the whole of the night the crusaders continued the massacre of their enemies; and Albert of Aix[362] declares, that the following morning they found they had slain many of their own countrymen by mistake. Such a fact is not difficult to conceive of a body of men wandering without guide through a hostile town, with the paths of which they were unacquainted. As ever follows the violent capture of a large city, the soldiery first satisfied themselves with bloodshed, and perhaps added some extra cruelties to gratify their fanaticism, and then betook themselves to plunder and debauchery; nevertheless, they committed not greater excesses than we have seen perpetrated in days not very distant from our own, by the troops of civilized nations, without the fiery stimulus of religious zeal for a palliation. I mean not to defend the cruelties of the crusaders, but I mean to say, that they were not extraordinary in that age, or in any age that has yet passed: God only knows what may be to come. The crusaders treated the infidels as the infidels had often treated the Christians; and as Christians, unhappily, have too often treated Christians like themselves. Their plunder was not at all of a more atrocious kind than that which attends every storm; and as to the hypocrisy[363] with which Mills charges them, that writer quite loses sight of the spirit of the age on which he writes, and metes men's actions by a standard that they never knew. The crusaders were _not_ hypocrites, they were merely fanatics; and in the relentless fury with which they pillaged, injured, and massacred the Turks, they thought they did God as good and pleasing service as in singing praises to him for the victory they had obtained. They were fearfully wrong in their principle, it is true, but still they acted upon principle, and therefore in this they were not hypocrites. Baghasian, the Turkish prince of Antioch,[364] fled with a part of his troops to the citadel, but finding that security could not long be found within the walls of the town, he escaped alone to the mountains, where he was waylaid by some Syrian Christians and slain. His head, with all the venerable marks of extreme age, was struck off by his slayers, and carried, with his rich sword-belt, into Antioch, where it proved an acceptable present to the rude victors. Though much spoil[365] of various kinds was found in Antioch, little that could satisfy the cravings of hunger had been left by the Turks. They, themselves closely blockaded, had been driven nearly to want; and the Christians soon began to suffer from the very precautions they had formerly taken against their enemies. In the first joy of their conquest, too, the little discipline that ever existed in a chivalrous host was completely relaxed, and before it could be sufficiently restored for necessary measures to be taken in order to procure supplies, famine was in the city, and the hosts of the Persian sultaun[366] encamped beneath the walls. The invasion of the Christians, the fall of Nice, and the siege of Antioch had spread consternation through the empires of the Crescent; and the monarch of Persia had roused himself from the contemptuous sloth in which he had first heard of the crusades, and raised an immense army, to sweep away, as the Moslem expressed it, the band of locusts that had fallen upon the land. Kerboga, or Corbohan, as he was named by the Christians, the emir of Mosul, and favourite of the calif, took the command of the army; and being joined by Kilidge Asian, the sultaun of Roum, with a considerable force, proceeded at the head of about three hundred thousand men towards Antioch. He would, in all probability have reached that city in time to prevent its fall, had he not turned from the direct road to ravage the principality of Edessa, and dispossess Baldwin.[367] From thence, however, he was called, before he could accomplish his object, by the news of the Christians' success, and in a few days Antioch was once more invested. The first attempt of the Moslems was to throw supplies into the citadel, which the Latins had hitherto neglected to attack. In this they in some degree succeeded; and the crusaders, being roused to watchfulness, took what measures they could against further reinforcements reaching the castle. In the mean while the Christians, who had suffered what appeared the extreme of privation while assailing the very walls they now defended, were reduced to a state of famine which beggars all description.[368] The most noisome animals, the most unsavoury herbs, became dainties at the tables of the great. The horses that remained were slaughtered without consideration, and all virtue and order gave way under the pressure of necessity. All sorts of vice became rife, and debauchery grew the more horrid from being the debauchery of despair. The Persians, encamped closely round them, had burnt the vessels, destroyed the port of St. Simeon, and cut off all communication with the neighbouring country. Nevertheless their guard was not so strict but that many of the crusaders escaped over the walls,[369] and fled to the Count of Blois at Alexandretta, excusing their pusillanimity by tales of the horrors they had undergone. Stephen of Blois, now rejoicing in his timely evasion, abandoned his comrades altogether, and with the stragglers who had joined him from Antioch, among whom were many knights and nobles of distinction, he retreated towards Constantinople.[370] By the way he encountered a large force commanded by Alexius, who was marching, not to succour the crusaders, whose condition he did not yet know, but to take advantage of their conquests. The cowardly monarch, in deep sympathy with the cowardly fugitives, turned his back upon Antioch the moment he heard of its danger, and pursued his journey towards his capital, forcing along with him a considerable body of French and Italian crusaders, who, under the command of Guy,[371] the brother of Boemond, had been advancing to the aid of their brethren. The news of Alexius's approach had filled the hearts of the besieged with joy, and the tidings of his retreat of course cast them into still deeper despair. The soldiers forgot their honour and abandoned their posts, hiding in the houses and avoiding every thing that called them into activity. As a last resource to drive them to their duty, Boemond[372] set fire to parts of the town where they were supposed principally to linger; but hope seemed extinguished in every breast, and though the inferior troops returned to some degree of energy, yet the leaders knew full well that without succour--and no succour was near--nothing short of a miracle could save them from their distress. Within the walls they starved,[373] and died, and wasted; and they could hardly be expected to issue forth upon the enemy, when Godfrey himself, their noblest leader, and tacitly their chief, was destitute of even a horse to carry him to the battle. At the same time, from the walls of the city, the luxuries of the Turkish camp might be beheld in tantalizing splendour.[374] Gold and jewels, and rich silks, and beautiful horses, and gay seraglios, seemed rather indications of some joyous company than of a fierce besieging army. Troops of cattle, too, of all kinds, were seen feeding round about, while the acute tooth of famine was gnawing the entrails of those who stood and looked upon all the magnificence and profusion before them. Many even of the leaders of the crusade[375] were reduced to absolute beggary, and several became completely dependent on the bounty of Godfrey for mere food, till he himself had no more to give. The people, accustomed to privation, still in some degree bore up, but the knights themselves gave way, and had it not been for the noble firmness of Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, Godfrey, Raimond, Boemond, and Tancred, the whole of the barons would have fled, and left the people to their fate.[376] The chiefs I have named, however, never ceased their exertions. They bound themselves by the most solemn vows not to abandon each other or the cause they had undertaken; and Tancred, always the first where chivalrous enthusiasm was concerned, pledged himself by oath not to turn back from the road to Jerusalem so long as forty knights would follow his banner. At length superstition came to animate the courage of the soldiery. Visions were seen promising victory to those who endured to the last. The apostles, the saints, and even the Saviour appeared to many of the priests, who took care that their miraculous visitations should be noised abroad.[377] Whether originating in the policy of the leaders, or in the cunning of the lower order of priests, these supernatural consolations had a prodigious effect upon people who, their reliance on every earthly means being gone, were fain to turn to heaven. Enthusiasm, supported by superstition, proved a most excellent nurse to hope. Activity, energy, resolution, returned; and the wan and ghastly herds demanded loudly to be led against the enemy. One more pious fraud[378] was destined to be committed before the troops were brought to the last resource of an almost hopeless battle. A clerk of Provence, serving under Raimond of Toulouse, sought out the chiefs of the armament, and declared that St. Andrew the Apostle had manifested himself in a vision, and had revealed to him that the lance with which our Saviour's side was pierced, at the crucifixion, might be found in a certain spot in the church of St. Peter of Antioch. Accompanied by this holy relic the army was directed by the saint to issue forth upon the Saracens with assurances of victory. The Bishop of Puy,[379] whose religious feelings were of too pure a kind to practise, or even countenance, such cheats, declared that the tale must be false, and several chiefs agreed with him in opinion:[380] but Raimond of Toulouse and others strongly supported the story; and the whole of the leaders soon became convinced that good policy required the lance should be found, a battle seeming the only resource. As no support could be given to the bodies of the emaciated troops, it was as well, also, to stimulate their minds as far as possible. The lance was therefore sought for in form, and though at first it could not be discovered, because it was not there, it very naturally happened that no sooner did the clerk who had been favoured with the vision descend into the pit,[381] than the iron head was perceived, and brought up to the wonder and edification of the people. The matter being now decided, the hearts of the multitude were all enthusiasm, a great many more almost sacrilegious visions were seen, fasting and prayer, and the ceremonies of the church were used to excite and increase the popular ardour; and, in the end, Peter the Hermit was sent out to the camp of Kerboga,[382] not to offer terms of capitulation, but rather to threaten vengeance, and to bid the Turks depart. The reply of the emir was as contemptuous as might have been expected, and Peter returned with a message that would have somewhat quelled the daring of the crusaders if it had been repeated. This, however, was prevented by Godfrey, and every preparation made for a battle. The citadel,[383] I have before said, had remained in the hands of the Turks, who had fled thither on the taking of Antioch. Its commanding situation enabled the garrison to see whatever passed in the town; and the governor being strictly enjoined to give due notice to the army of Kerboga of all the Christian movements, on the morning of the 28th of June, A. D. 1098, a black flag,[384] hoisted on the highest tower of that fortress, announced to the besiegers that the Latins were about to march out and attack them. The army of the Cross presented but a miserable sight; the ghastly hand of famine had wrought horribly on the wan countenances of the soldiery. Of all the fair Chivalry of Europe, whose heavy horses and steel-clad limbs had crushed like the fall of a mountain every thing that opposed them, but two hundred knights appeared mounted as was their wont.[385] Those who could get them were glad to go forth upon mules and asses; some having sold or lost their arms, were furnished with the small shields and scimitars taken from the Turks; and Godfrey of Bouillon himself rode the borrowed horse of the Count of Toulouse, who was left to guard the town. In this state of wretchedness, the crusading army marched out against a splendid force, which, at the beginning of the siege amounted to more than three hundred thousand fighting men, and had every day been increasing.[386] Nevertheless, all was enthusiasm in the Christian ranks. The priests in their pontifical robes,[387] bearing crosses and holy banners, mingled with the soldiers, and, singing hymns of joy, already taught them to anticipate victory. The number of knights going to the fight on foot encouraged the common men by their presence and their example; and, in fact, though destitute of many of the physical means which had given them superiority in former battles, the valour and the self-confidence,[388] which are the soul of victory, were never more present among the Christian warriors. Kerboga committed the great fault that has lost a thousand battles. He despised his enemy. When first the news was brought to him that the Christians were advancing, he was playing at chess,[389] and hardly rose from his game. It was only the complete route of two thousand men, whom he had stationed to defend the bridge, that convinced him the attack was serious. He thus lost the opportunity of annoying the crusaders as they defiled, and now he found his error and began to tremble for the consequences. Hugh of Vermandois,[390] Robert of Flanders, and the Duke of Normandy, each advanced steadily at the head of his followers towards the mountains, where the Turkish cavalry were likely to find more difficulty in manoeuvring. Godfrey of Bouillon followed; and then Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, clothed in armour,[391] and bearing the sacred lance, led on the troops of Provence. Boemond and Tancred brought up the rear, and thus the whole wound on towards their position. Kerboga now used every effort to remedy his first neglect, and made several skilful movements for the purpose of surrounding the crusaders. They, on their part, with little attention to the arts of warfare, continued to march on, their courage increasing rather than diminishing, and persuading themselves that even the morning dew of a fine summer's day, which refreshed both themselves and their horses, was a special sign of favour from Heaven.[392] It is said, that Kerboga, at this moment seized with a sudden and unaccountable fear, sent messengers to declare that he would accept the terms formerly offered, and commit the decision of the quarrel to a combat of five or ten champions to be chosen on each side.[393] This proposal (if really made) was instantly refused, and Kerboga, drawn up before his camp, waited the attack of the Christians; while Soliman or Kilidge Aslan, taking a wide circuit with an immense force of cavalry, prepared to fall upon the rear of the army commanded by Boemond. To conceal this evolution the vizier caused the dry grass and weeds with which great part of the ground was covered to be set on fire, and by the smoke thus raised[394] succeeded in obscuring the movements of his cavalry. During this manoeuvre he extended his line, and endeavoured to turn the flanks of the crusading army. The banner-bearers,[395] in front of the host, were now within bow-shot of the enemy, and the arrows began to fall like hail on either side. The columns of the Christians came up one after another to the attack, and fighting hand to hand forced back the Turkish centre upon their camp, so that in that part of the field victory seemed leaning towards the champions of the Cross. At the same time, however, Soliman had fallen upon the rear of Boemond,[396] who, enveloped by infinitely superior forces, was pressed hard and separated from the rest of the army. The dense cloud occasioned by the burning weeds embarrassed the Lombards and Italians, and the sword of the Persians was reaping a terrible harvest in the ranks of the crusaders. Tancred flew to the rescue of Boemond, and Hugh of Vermandois as well as Godfrey of Bouillon abandoning the attack[397] they were making on the centre of the infidel army, turned to the rear, and succeeded in repelling the troops of Soliman. Still, the battle raged undecided;[398] while Kerboga used every effort to secure the victory, and hurrying up the columns from his wings, caused them to charge the rear of Godfrey as he advanced to the succour of the Prince of Tarentum. All was now confusion in that part of the field, the fight became hand to hand, blade crossed with blade, and man struggled against man. Meanwhile the Bishop of Puy, still bearing the sacred lance,[399] pressed forward upon a corps at the head of which Kerboga had placed himself; and with the Provençals urged the battle manfully against the infidels. The Persians fought bravely, and their numbers, as well as their great superiority in cavalry, gave them vast advantages over the Latins. Returning again and again to the charge with unequalled rapidity, fighting as well when their columns were broken as when their ranks were entire, and unrivalled in the use of the bow, they gave the crusaders not a moment to pause, without some enemy to attack, and some blow to repel. At length a report was raised through the Christian host that the saints were fighting on their side; and either by accident, by the force of imagination, or by some preconcerted artifice, the crusaders saw--or thought they saw--some figures clothed in white raiment, and mounted on white horses, coming over the mountains to their aid.[400] All fear, all suspense was at an end. The enthusiasm was prodigious, extraordinary, overpowering. The redoubted battle-cry "God wills it! God wills it!" once more rang over the field, and the weapons of the Christians seemed swayed by the force of giants. At the same time, among the Moslems spread the sickening news that the Latins had forced their way into the camp. The hopes of the infidels fell, and terror took possession of them, while the courage of the people of the Cross, raised into ecstasy by the belief of visible aid from on high, bore down all that opposed it, and soon converted feeble resistance into flight. In vain Kerboga tried to rally his troops, the panic was general, the pursuers fierce and resolute; and the mighty army of the Persians was scattered to the four winds of heaven. Tancred,[401] leaving to others the plunder of the camp, followed the fugitives over the hills, and prevented them from reassembling, while the rest of the chiefs entered the tents of the Persians, and added to their slaughtered enemies the blood of the helpless and unoffending.[402] A number of women and children were either slain by the sword or borne down in the flight, and an immense booty in gold, arms, horses, cattle, and rich vestments made the host of the crusade richer than even when it took its departure from Europe. The pavilion of Kerboga himself, though not the most valuable, was perhaps the most curious part of the spoil, being formed like a town, with walls, towers, and battlements,[403] and comprising streets, squares, and avenues within itself. It fell to the share of Boemond, and was capable, they say, of containing two thousand men. Sixty-nine thousand Turks[404] died in the battle of Antioch, while the loss of the crusaders is not estimated at more than ten thousand; but it must be remembered that this is the account of the Christians themselves. One of the immediate consequences[405] of this great victory was the surrender of the citadel of Antioch, which was now given up in despair. A considerable number of the soldiers forming its garrison embraced Christianity, and remained in the town; while the rest, who firmly adhered to their ancient faith, were honourably conducted beyond the conquered territory. The whole army, loaded with wealth, and rejoicing in abundance, entered once more the walls of the city, and offered up to Heaven manifold thanksgivings for the victory they had obtained. The only occurrence that for the time troubled the public joy[406] was, that the Count of Toulouse, who had remained behind to guard the town, looked upon the citadel, which had surrendered previous to the return of the host, as his own conquest, and had raised his banner on the walls.[407] The council of leaders determined that their agreement with Boemond embraced the castle as well as the town, and Raimond was, in consequence, forced to resign the authority he had usurped to the Prince of Tarentum. The count, notwithstanding, still retained possession of one of the city-gates,[408] with its adjoining towers, which he maintained for some months, but was obliged at last, by force of arms, to yield the whole. The first occupation of the crusaders after quieting this dispute was to restore the temples, which the Moslems had converted into mosques, to the service of the Christian religion. The priests were re-established, the ceremonies of the church recalled; and though they adhered to the forms of the Latin ritual, with wise and Christian moderation they abstained from interfering with the Greek patriarch, notwithstanding that they considered his dogmas heretical. The next question more related to their further advance into the country; and the people, proud in their victory, and forgetful of privations in the fulness of sudden satiety, clamoured loudly to be led on to Jerusalem. The chiefs,[409] however, saw how greatly repose was required; their army was lamentably diminished; most of the soldiers were suffering from wounds or weariness, and few, though refreshed by their lately acquired stores, were capable of bearing more fatigue and fresh necessities. At the same time, the fiery months of August and September, with the exposed plains of Syria, lay before them; and it was known that water, scanty on the road to Jerusalem even in the best times, was now hardly to be procured. On these considerations, the chiefs determined to postpone their advance till October, and in the mean while despatched Hugh[410] the Great, Count of Vermandois, with Baldwin of Mons, Count of Hainault, to the court of Constantinople. These ambassadors were instructed to urge the base Alexius to fulfil the many promises which he had made and neglected; and to threaten him, in case of his refusal, with the anger both of God and man. Baldwin of Mons was betrayed into a Turkish ambuscade, and his fate was never clearly ascertained;[411] but Hugh of Vermandois made his way safely through Asia Minor, and arrived at Constantinople. Admitted to the presence of Alexius, he detailed the sufferings of the Christians, and their diminished forces, and showed the necessity which they felt of supplies and reinforcements. He announced also their victory over the Turks, and the signal humiliation which had been inflicted on the proud Moslems. This news in both respects gratified Alexius: but, equally well content that the Turks should be made weak, and that the Latins should not grow strong, he found the affairs of the east progressing exactly as he could have desired, and determined to leave them in the course which they had themselves taken. The wrath of Heaven for his broken engagements, and the vengeance of the crusaders on the same score, were far too remote evils for the narrow-minded despot to yield them any consideration. Hugh of Vermandois--now near home[412] and the comforts which he had so long abandoned, anticipating little pleasure and no small danger on the journey back, and having neither satisfactory news nor necessary reinforcements to take to the crusaders--determined upon pursuing his journey into France, and leaving his companions to their fate. Knowing, however, that it would be difficult to justify himself in their eyes, he did not even take the trouble to write for that purpose; others on his part have done so for posterity, and have failed. CHAPTER VIII. _Pestilence in Antioch--Death of the Bishop of Puy--The Chiefs separate--Siege of Marrah--Cannibalism--Disputes between the Count of Toulouse and Boemond--The Count marches towards Jerusalem--Siege of Archas--Godfrey of Bouillon marches--Siege of Ghibel--Treachery of Raimond--Fraud of the Holy Lance investigated--Ordeal of Fire--Decisive Conduct of the Crusaders towards the Deputies of Alexius, and the Calif of Egypt--Conduct of the Crusaders towards the Emir of Tripoli--First Sight of Jerusalem--Siege and taking of the City--Fanatical Massacres._ The crusaders[413] in Antioch had reason to regret they had not at once marched onward. A pestilence began to spread in the city, and multitudes were buried every day. Among the first was the venerable Bishop of Puy,[414] whose high qualities of mind and excellent character as a priest had given much dignity and strength to the enterprise. Many celebrated knights also fell victims to this plague; and all the dissensions[415] and crimes that indolence acting on semi-barbarians can produce, begin to spring up within the walls of Antioch. To effect some change, the chiefs agreed to separate, and to canton their men in the countries round about. Boemond proceeded to reduce all Cilicia to obedience, and carried on a desultory but successful warfare against the Turks. Godfrey[416] led his men to the assistance of the emir of Hezas, who solicited his aid against the sultaun of Aleppo. Being joined by Baldwin, and by some auxiliary forces from Antioch, Godfrey succeeded in delivering the emir, who was besieged in his fortress by the sultaun. Hezas was then placed by the prince under the protection of his new allies, whom he found somewhat exacting in their friendship. The plague still raging in Antioch, Godfrey turned his steps towards Edessa, the principality of his brother Baldwin, to whom he was now fully reconciled. After a short repose at Turbessel,[417] he engaged in the wars which his brother was carrying on against the Turks, whose dominions surrounded Edessa, and also punished Pancrates for the rapine which he had for some time exercised with impunity against all parties. The other princes in various bodies carried on the same separate hostilities against the Saracens, and many towns were added to the Christian dominions. The time fixed for the march of the general army at length arrived; but, whether from a taste for the desultory sort of warfare to which they had now habituated themselves, or from the hope of still receiving some aid from Europe, the crusaders tarried on their way, and laid siege to Marrah.[418] The Moslems made a brave resistance, and the Latins having, with their wonted improvidence, begun the siege without any supplies whatever, were soon again reduced to famine and the most horrible cannibalism.[419] At length Marrah was taken by storm on the arrival of Boemond and his forces. The slaughter was terrible, and a repetition of all the scenes on the taking of Antioch was here enacted with many circumstances of aggravation. New disputes now arose between Boemond and the Count of Toulouse, upon the possession of Marrah; the Prince of Tarentum refusing to give up the portion of the city he had conquered, till Raimond should yield the towers which he still held in Antioch.[420] Days and weeks passed in these unworthy contests, other chiefs attempting in vain to reconcile the two ambitious princes. At length the people, indignant at the conduct of their leaders, broke out into revolt, and destroyed the fortifications of Marrah, in spite of all that could be done to prevent them,[421] vowing that it, at least, should not be a new cause of delay. They declared also that they would choose a chief for themselves, who should conduct them to Jerusalem. This, of course, compelled the leaders of the army to begin their march, but it in no degree produced a reconciliation, and Raimond of Toulouse,[422] with Robert of Normandy and Tancred, proceeded on their way to Jerusalem, leaving the rest of the princes to follow as they might. Town after town submitted to Raimond; but Archas proved a stumblingblock to his glory, and resisted the efforts of all the force he could bring against it. The Saracen emirs of the neighbouring country, however, whether from fear of the Christians, or from misunderstandings among themselves, no longer pursued the firm and destructive plan formerly adopted of desolating the land before the steps of the invaders. The army of the Cross found provisions in plenty, and many of the towns which it approached bought immunity from attack, at the price of large presents to the crusaders.[423] Soon after the departure of Raimond, Godfrey of Bouillon, Robert of Flanders, Boemond, and the other leaders marched out of Antioch, and directed their course towards Laodicea, where Boemond[424] again quitted them, and returned to his new principality, leaving a great part of his troops to aid his brethren. As some compensation for this desertion, the host of the crusade was joined by a considerable body of English who had sailed round Spain; and, entering the Mediterranean by Gibraltar, had touched first at St. Simeon, and then proceeded to Laodicea--a wonderful undertaking, indeed, as Raimond d'Agiles observes, considering the state of the art of navigation in that day. From Laodicea, Godfrey, marching along the coast, turned his arms against Ghibel, or Gabala, whither he was accompanied by the ships of the band of pirates whom we have seen serving under Baldwin; and who, having fallen into the hands of the Greeks of Laodicea, had been kept in strict imprisonment till the arrival of the crusaders. The emir of Ghibel attempted, by the offer of large bribes, to divert the forces of the Cross from the attack of his city, but his proposals were met with contempt by Godfrey and the chiefs who accompanied him; and the infidel commander, in consequence, sent messengers to Raimond of Toulouse[425] (then besieging Archas), whose disinterestedness was reported to be of a different quality. Raimond, always fond of gold, caught at the bait held out, and immediately agreed to draw his fellow-crusaders from Ghibel by artifice. He lost no time, therefore, in sending word to Godfrey, that an immense body of Saracens was marching down against his Provençals under the walls of Archas. This tale of course caused Godfrey[426] to raise the siege of Ghibel, and hasten to the assistance of his comrade. On his arrival, however, Tancred, and the other knights of Raimond's army, undeceived the duke of Loraine, who, indignant at the treachery of the Count of Toulouse, renounced all communication[427] with him, and withdrew his men to the distance of two miles, resolving to give him no aid in the siege of Archas. Tancred, at the same time, disgusted with the avarice of the count, who withheld from him the recompense he had promised for his services, retired with the forty[428] lances that accompanied him, and joined himself to Godfrey. New disputes of every kind arose among the leaders, and as Raimond of Toulouse affected a sort of spiritual superiority, as guardian of the holy lance that had been discovered at Antioch, its virtues and authenticity were manfully denied. Peter Barthelmy, who had found it, had vision after vision, till his commerce with heaven drew so heavily on belief, that men, even the most superstitious, yielded him no further credit. The business was investigated, and Barthelmy brought before a sort of council of inquiry, where he maintained his position, supported by the Count of Toulouse and his chaplain, our worthy chronicler, Raimond d'Agiles, who, fully convinced of the truth of the miracle, unhappily proposed that his _protégé_ should prove his virtue by the fiery ordeal.[429] This was agreed to; fasts and prayers succeeded: Peter walked through the fire with the lance in his hand, got frightened, stopped in the middle, and was burned to death.[430] Some still believed; and, declaring that their martyr had been pressed to death by the crowd,[431] held to their credulity the more eagerly, because it was unsupported by any thing like reason. The fame of the Count of Toulouse suffered as much by the affair of the lance as by his deceit in respect to Ghibel; and the crusaders, wearied with the delay before Archas, determined to raise the siege and proceed to Jerusalem. In the mean while, the emir[432] of Tripoli,[433] finding that the Christians were about to traverse his country, sent messengers to the leaders, begging them to spare his towns and fields, and offering abundant supplies, together with several rich presents. These proffers were so favourably received that the emir even visited the camp of Godfrey himself, and concluded a treaty which was inviolably adhered to on both sides. At the same time[434] the deputies who had been despatched to the calif of Egypt returned, with very unfavourable accounts of their entertainment. The Saracen monarch still offered to join his arms to those of the Christians, for the purpose of subduing Palestine; but it was evident that he proposed to enjoy the fruits of victory without participation. His envoys, and the presents which they bore, were sent back with scorn,[435] the crusaders declaring that they would conquer Jerusalem with the sword of Christ, and keep it with the same. Ambassadors from Alexius were received also under the walls of Archas; and by their lips the perfidious emperor dared to remonstrate against the cession of Antioch to Boemond, who by this time had expelled the troops of Raimond of Toulouse,[436] and was in full possession of the town. The reply given to these messengers was not less haughty than that which had been sent to the calif.[437] The emperor, the crusaders said, had broken his most sacred oaths; he had neglected to succour them when succour was needful; he had betrayed the cause of Christ, and violated his covenant with them. They could not, therefore, be bound by an engagement which he had not found binding on him; and they would neither stay for his coming, as he desired, nor would they yield him what they had conquered with their own hands. These measures of decision having been taken, Godfrey and his companions set fire to their camp, and quitted the siege of Archas: many of the Provençals abandoned Raimond, and hastened after the rest; and the count himself,[438] though unwillingly, was obliged to follow. The noble sincerity and moderation of the crusaders in their conduct to the emir of Tripoli has not been dwelt upon sufficiently by those authors who have lost no opportunity of pointing out their cruelties and excesses. They entered a rich and beautiful country, where spoil of every kind lay around them. The inhabitants were infidels, and had been enemies: but the host of the crusade passed through the whole without the slightest violation of their treaty.[439] To prevent even casual injury, they encamped at a distance from the towns, waited for the supplies that had been promised them, and followed, with confidence and regularity, the guide who was appointed to conduct them through the land.[440] When at war, the crusaders waged it with all the barbarity of the age--the slaughter of the infidel adversary was a virtue praised by historians, and sung by poets, and mercy would have been held a weakness: but with those to whom they had bound themselves in peace, we seldom find that, _as a body_, they violated the most chivalric adherence to their promises. In the neighbourhood of Tripoli, the Europeans first beheld the sugar-cane,[441] and learned the method of preparing the valuable juice which has since been such an article of commerce in Europe. So great was the reliance between the people of Tripoli and the crusaders, that they mutually frequented the camp[442] and the city during the stay of the army. The emir also delivered from the chains in which they had long remained, three hundred Christian pilgrims; and, according to some authorities, promised to embrace the faith of his new allies,[443] in case they were ultimately successful. At the end of three days, the host of the Cross was once more in motion; and passing by Sidon, Acre, Ramula, and Emmaus, approached the city of Jerusalem.[444] At Emmaus, deputies arrived from the Christians of Bethlehem, praying for immediate aid against their infidel oppressors. Tancred was[445] in consequence sent forward with a hundred lances; but the tidings of a deputation from Bethlehem spread new and strange sensations through the bosoms of the crusaders. That word Bethlehem, repeated through the camp, called up so many ideas connected with that sweet religion, which, however perverted, was still the thrilling faith of every heart around. The thoughts of their proximity to the Saviour's[446] birthplace, banished sleep from every eyelid; and before midnight was well past, the whole host was on foot towards Jerusalem. It was a lovely morning, we are told, in the summer time; and after they had wandered on for some time in the darkness, the sun rushed into the sky with the glorious suddenness of eastern dawn, and Jerusalem lay before their eyes. The remembrance[447] of all that that mighty city had beheld; the enthusiasm of faith; the memory of dangers, and ills, and fatigues, and privations, endured and conquered; the fulfilment of hope; the gratification of long desire; the end of fear and doubt; combined in every bosom to call up the sublime of joy. The name was echoed by a thousand tongues--Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Some shouted to the sky;[448] some knelt and prayed; some wept in silence; and some cast themselves down and kissed the blessed earth. "All had much ado," says Fuller, with his emphatic plainness, "to manage so great a gladness."[449] To rejoicing, at the sight of the Holy City, succeeded wrath, at seeing it in the hands of the infidels. The army marched forward in haste, drove in some parties of Saracens, who had vauntingly come forth from the gates; and Jerusalem was invested on all sides. Some of the people, indeed, approached barefoot, in deep humiliation, and in remembrance[450] of the sufferings of Him who had purchased salvation to a world by agony and death; but the greater part of the soldiers advanced with purposes of wrath, and took up their various warlike positions round about the town. The attack was begun almost immediately after the first preparations; and Godfrey of Bouillon, Tancred, the Duke of Normandy, and Robert of Flanders, by a vigorous effort, carried the barbicans, and reached the wall.[451] A portion of this, also, was thrown down with axes and picks; and several knights, mounting by ladders[452] to the top of the battlements, under a hail of arrows and Greek fire, fought for some time hand to hand with the Turks. At length, after many had fallen on both sides, it became evident to the leaders that nothing could be effected without the usual machines, and the assault was suspended. All the energies of the host were now employed in constructing implements of war. Timber was procured from Sichon:[453] some Genoese seamen, having arrived at Jaffa, were pressed by the crusaders into the service of the Cross, and by their mechanical skill greatly facilitated the construction of the engines required. Catapults, mangonels,[454] and large moveable towers were prepared, as in the siege of Nice; and to these was added a machine called the sow, formed of wood, and covered with raw hides to protect it from fire, under cover of which soldiers were employed in undermining the walls.[455] During the fabrication of these implements, a dreadful drought pervaded the army; and all the wells in the circumjacent country having been filled up by the Turks, the only water that reached the camp was brought from far, and paid for as if each drop had been gold. The soldiers, unable to procure it, wandered away in the search, or watched[456] the morning dew, and licked the very stones for moisture. Vice and immorality again grew prevalent, and superstition was obliged to be called, in aid of virtue. From forty to sixty thousand men were all that remained of multitudes; and it became obvious to the leaders that dissensions could no longer exist without hazarding their destruction. Tancred,[457] the first in every noble act, set the example of conciliation, and embraced his foe Raimond of Toulouse, in the sight of the whole army. An expiatory[458] procession was made by the chiefs, the soldiers, and the clergy, round the city of Jerusalem; and prayers were offered up on each holy place in the neighbourhood for success in this last field. The Turks, on their part, forgetting the desperate valour which the crusaders had displayed on every occasion, beheld these ceremonies with contempt; and raising up the image of the Cross upon the walls, mocked the procession of the Christians, and threw dirt at the symbol of their faith. The wrath of the crusaders was raised to the uttermost, and the sacrilegious insult[459] was remembered to be atoned in blood. The engines were at last completed, and the attack once more begun. The towers[460] were rolled on to the walls, the battering-rams were plied incessantly, the sow was pushed on to the foundations; and while the Saracens poured forth fire[461] and arrows upon the besiegers, the crusaders waged the warfare with equal courage from their machines. Thus passed the whole day in one of the most tremendous fights that the host of the Cross had ever sustained. Night fell, and the city was not taken. The walls of the town were much injured, as well as the engines used by the assailants; but by the next morning both had been repaired, and the assault recommenced, and was received with equal ardour.[462] The leaders of the Christian army occupied the higher stages of their moveable towers, and Godfrey of Bouillon himself,[463] armed with a bow, was seen directing his shafts against all who appeared upon the walls. Such soldiers as the machines could not contain were ranged opposite the walls, urging the battering-rams, plying the mangonels, and, by flights of arrows, covering the attack from the towers. The enthusiasm was great and general; the old, the sick, and the feeble lent what weak aid they could, in bringing forward the missiles and other implements of war, while the women encouraged the warriors to daring, both by words and their example; and hurried through the ranks, bearing water to assuage the thirst of toil and excitement. Still the Saracens resisted with desperate valour. For their homes and for their hearths they fought; and so courageously, that when more than half the day was spent, the host of the crusade was still repulsed in all quarters. At that moment a soldier was suddenly seen on Mount Olivet, waving on the crusaders to follow.[464] How he had penetrated does not appear, or whether he was not the mere creature of fancy. The idea, at all events, instantly raised the fainting hopes of the Christians. Immense and almost supernatural efforts were made in every quarter; the tower of Godfrey of Bouillon was rolled up till it touched the wall; the moveable bridge was let down, and a knight called Lutold[465] sprang upon the battlements--his brother followed--another and another came to his support.--Godfrey, Baldwin de Bourg, and Eustace de Bouillon rushed in; and the banner of the Cross announced to the anxious eyes of the army that Christians stood upon the battlements of Jerusalem.[466] Tancred and Robert of Normandy burst open one of the gates, while Raimond of Toulouse, almost at the same instant,[467] forced his way into another part of the city by escalade. The Turks fought[468] for a time in the streets, but then fled to the mosques, and were in every direction massacred by thousands. It is dreadful to read of the blood which on that awful day washed the pavements of Jerusalem. The courts of the mosque of Omar floated in gore, and scarcely the most remote and obscure corners of the city gave shelter to an infidel head. The soldiers[469] remembered the impious mockeries with which the Turks had insulted the Cross, and the leaders believed that they were doing God good service in exterminating the blasphemous strangers who had polluted the holy places of Jerusalem, persecuted and butchered the unhappy Christians of Judea, and desecrated the altars of God. To have spared them or their accursed race would have been considered impious: and Godfrey himself not only encouraged the slaughter, but aided with his own hand. An immense number of Saracens had betaken themselves to the temple of Soliman, as it was called,[470] and there had prepared to defend themselves to the last; but the pursuers were too strong to be resisted, and nearly ten thousand men are said to have fallen in that building. Those even who had climbed to the roof were sought out the next day,[471] and several, to avoid the sword, cast themselves down and were dashed to pieces. Some authors mention a second massacre,[472] and greatly exaggerate the butchery that was perpetrated. In regard to this second massacre, there is much historical evidence to show that no such event took place; and I would fain believe that it was not the case. It cannot, however, be denied, that the most humane of the Christian leaders in that age were taught to look upon all mercy to the infidels as an injury to religion; and it is beyond doubt, that after the general slaughter committed on the capture of Jerusalem, Godfrey de Bouillon,[473] with the other leaders and soldiers, washed away the marks of gore, cast off their armour, assumed the robe of penitents, and, going to the holy sepulchre, offered up their prayers to the mild Teacher of our beautiful religion, convinced that they had accomplished a great and glorious work, and consummated an acceptable sacrifice in the blood of the infidels. Such was the doctrine which, in that day, men were taught from their cradles: such the strange interpretation put upon the Gospel of Peace. CHAPTER IX. _Election of a King--Godfrey of Bouillon--Sketch of the History of Jerusalem--Death of the chief Crusaders--New Bodies of Crusaders set out from Europe--Their Destruction in Asia Minor--Armed Pilgrimages--The Northern Armaments--The Venetians--The Genoese and Pisans--Anecdotes of the Crusaders--Battle of the Children at Antioch--The Thafurs--Baldwin's Humanity well repaid--Superstitions--Arms of the Crusaders--Of the Turks--Hospitallers--Templars._ The great end of the crusade was now accomplished. Jerusalem was delivered from the hands of the infidels; but much remained to be done. To conquer the Holy City had been a work of prodigious difficulty; to keep it was perhaps more so; and it became evident that its defence must be intrusted to one powerful chief. For this purpose the several leaders who had formed the general council of the crusade met to elect a King of Jerusalem. The nomination to that high office was so extraordinary an honour, that the writers of each nation whose forces contributed to the crusade have declared their own particular prince to have been chosen;[474] and, as it was known that none of these did actually reign, they have furnished each with a suitable excuse for declining the distinguished task. It is probable, however, that the choice of the assembly really fixed at once upon the only person fitted for the office; and (to combine the words of Fulcher and Robert the Monk) that, "considering the excellence of his nobility,[475] his valour as a knight, his gentleness and patient modesty, as well as the purity of his morals, Godfrey of Bouillon was elected king by the whole people composing the army of God, with the unanimous wish, the general consent, and the judgment of all." Various clerical cabals followed for the dignity of patriarch, of which it is not necessary to speak here. Scarcely was the new monarch[476] seated on his throne, when the gathering forces of the Moslems called him again into the field. With the wise policy of activity, Godfrey did not wait to be besieged in Jerusalem, but marching out with all the troops he could muster, he advanced towards Ascalon, where a large infidel army had assembled, attacked and routed it completely, and thus secured the conquest he had gained.[477] But the virtues of Godfrey were not long destined to bless, or his talents to protect, the new kingdom of Jerusalem.[478] In the month of July, 1100, he was seized with a severe illness, on his return from a distant expedition, and in a few days the throne of the Holy Land was vacant. Such an unexpected event of course spread dissension and consternation among the crusaders. Tancred, who was at Jerusalem, and from his great military name enjoyed no small power, offered the crown to Boemond, and beyond all doubt would have succeeded in causing his election, had Boemond been able to accept immediately the sceptre thus held out to him.[479] But the Prince of Antioch[480] was at the moment a prisoner in the hands of some Armenian Turks.[481] The Patriarch, on his part, endeavoured to raise Jerusalem into a simple hierarchy,[482] and to unite the crown with the mitre. The partisans of the Count of Toulouse also struggled in his behalf for the supreme power; but in the end, Baldwin, Prince of Edessa, the brother of Godfrey, was elected, and after some intriguing on the part of the Patriarch, was anointed King of Jerusalem. It does not enter into the plan of this book to give a history of Jerusalem under its Latin kings: I shall, however, briefly notice each, that the occasion and object of the after-crusades may be properly understood. Baldwin, on his election,[483] displayed virtues that had slumbered, and lost vices that had been displayed on other occasions. He extended the boundaries of his kingdom, humbled its Saracen enemies, instituted wise and salutary laws, and showed firmness, moderation, and activity in his new station, as well as the great military skill and enterprising spirit he had formerly evinced. He took Assur,[484] Cesarea, and Acre; and added Beritus, Sidon, and several other places to the kingdom of Jerusalem. At length, in the execution of a bold expedition into Egypt, Baldwin died, and his body, after being embalmed, by his own particular direction, was carried back to the Holy City. Baldwin de Bourg, who, on the elevation of Baldwin I. to the throne of Jerusalem, had received the principality of Edessa, was now called to the vacant throne, and proved himself one of the wisest and most valiant of the Latin sovereigns of Judea. He also greatly extended the limits of his dominions; but in passing between Turbessel and Edessa, accompanied by a few soldiers only,[485] and unsuspicious of any ambuscade, he was suddenly surrounded, and carried a prisoner to Khortopret, where he remained in close confinement for several years. During his imprisonment Tyre was added to the territories of Jerusalem,[486] and various successful battles were fought against the Moslems. After his liberation he offered the hand of his daughter to Foulk of Anjou, who had some time before visited Jerusalem upon an armed pilgrimage. The Count of Anjou gladly accepted the proposal, and returning to the Holy Land, espoused Melesinda, soon after which he ascended the throne of Jerusalem, on the death of Baldwin. Foulk combined many virtues;[487] was kind, affable, and humane, as well as skilful and courageous in the field. After a reign of thirteen years he left the kingdom to his son, entire, indeed, but neither more extended in territory, nor more consolidated in power, than when he received it. Baldwin III. succeeded; at the time of his accession being but a boy. Dissensions and animosities raged among all the feudal dependants of the crown of Jerusalem.[488] The Moslems scattered through the country, and girding it on every side, took advantage of each new dispute to harass their Latin invaders with desultory warfare. The emperors of the east strove continually to wrest something of their old possessions from the descendants of the crusaders, and thus divided the forces, and paralyzed all the efforts made by the Christians to establish and secure their yet infirm dominion. At length Zenghi, emir of Aleppo, and Mosul marched against Edessa, the government of which principality had been transferred, on the accession of Baldwin de Bourg to the throne of Jerusalem, to Joscelyn de Courtenay, and from him had descended to his son. The son had not inherited the virtues or the valour of his father; and while Zenghi attacked, stormed, and took Edessa, he was rioting in debaucheries at Turbessel. So severe a reverse spread consternation through Palestine. Others, though of a less important nature, followed; and the news of these misfortunes soon reached Europe, where it gave matter to the eloquence of St. Bernard, and occasion for a new crusade. Long before this period, all the chiefs who had at first led the armies of the Cross to Jerusalem had tasted of the cup reserved for all men, and few words will end the history of each. Godfrey, Baldwin, and Baldwin de Bourg we have already conducted to the tomb. Boemond,[489] as I have said, fell into the hands of the Moslems; and after a captivity of two years, was permitted to pay a ransom, and return to his principality. On arriving, he found that his noble relative, Tancred,[490] had not only preserved, but increased his territories during his absence; and after several years continual warfare with Alexius on the one hand, and the Moslems on the other, mingled with opposition to the King of Jerusalem, Boemond sailed for Europe. There the fame he had acquired obtained for him the hand of Constantia,[491] daughter of the King of France. Her younger sister, Cecilia, was bestowed upon Tancred, who had remained in the government of Antioch. By the aid of France, Boemond raised large forces and landing in Greece, ravaged the dominions of Alexius, who was at length fain to conclude a peace with the powerful and enterprising Italian. The Prince of Antioch then sent forward the greater part of his troops to the Holy Land, while he himself returned to Italy to prepare for the same journey. Death, however, staid his progress;[492] for, after a short illness, he ended his career in Apulia, in 1109.[493] Tancred still survived, and defended constantly the territories of his cousin against every attack for three years after the decease of Boemond. At last the consequences of a wound he had received some time before proved fatal, and the noblest and most chivalrous of all the Christian warriors died in the prime of his days. On his death-bed he called to him his wife, and Pontius, the son of the Prince of Tripoli,[494] and, aware of the necessity of union among the Christians, he recommended strongly their marriage, after death should have dissolved the ties between himself and Cecilia. The government of Antioch he bequeathed to his cousin Roger;[495] but, with the same noble integrity which he had displayed through life, he made the new regent promise, that in case the son of Boemond should ever come to claim those territories, they should be resigned to him without dispute. Thus died Tancred; who, from all that we read of the crusaders, was, with the exception of Godfrey, the noblest of the followers of the Cross--a gallant leader, a disinterested man, a generous friend, a true knight. Previous to his death, however, he had been engaged in all the great events in Palestine. After the election of Godfrey, and the battle of Ascalon, the other chiefs of the crusade had either returned to Europe or spread themselves over the country, in pursuit of their own schemes of private ambition, leaving the new kingdom of Jerusalem to be supported by its king and Tancred, with an army of less than three thousand men. This penury of forces however, did not long continue, or the Holy Land must soon have resumed the yoke it had thrown off. The spirit of pilgrimage was still active in Europe; and combined with this spirit was the hope of gain, springing from vague and exaggerated accounts of the wealth and the principalities which the leaders of the first expedition had acquired. Pilgrimages now differed from those that had preceded the conquest of Jerusalem, in being armed; and many bodies, of several thousand men each, arrived both by sea and land, and proved exceedingly serviceable in peopling the devastated lands of Palestine. Various larger enterprises, more deserving the name of crusades, were planned and attempted, which it would be endless to name, and tedious to recount. Nearly five hundred thousand people set out from Europe for Syria,[496] and to these several of those crusaders who had gone back to Europe joined themselves, urged either by shame for their former desertion, or by the hope of obtaining easier conquests, and less dangerous honours. Of these, then, I will speak first, before noticing more particularly the armed pilgrimages, in order that I may trace to the end all those leaders of the first crusade who died in the Holy Land. The first great expedition set out not many years after the taking of Jerusalem, and consisted of several smaller ones from various countries, which united into larger bodies as they proceeded, and endeavoured to force their way through Asia Minor. At the head of these armies were Count Albert,[497] of Lombardy; Conrad, Constable of the Western Empire; Stephen, Count of Blois, whom we have seen flying from the land to which shame now drove him back; Stephen, Duke of Burgundy; the Bishops of Laon and of Milan; the Duke of Parma; Hugh, Count of Vermandois,[498] who now again turned towards Jerusalem; and the Count of Nevers: as well as William, Count of Poitiers; Guelf, Duke of Bavaria; and Ida, Marchioness of Austria. At Constantinople the first division met with Raimond of Toulouse,[499] who had returned to that city from the Holy Land, in search of aid to pursue the schemes of a grasping and ambitious spirit. The new crusaders put themselves, in some degree, under his command and guidance; but their first step was to disobey his orders, and to take the way of Paphlagonia, instead of following the track of the former crusade. They were for many days harassed in their march by the Turks, then exposed to famine and drought, and finally attacked and cut to pieces by Kilidge Aslan, who revenged, by the death of more than a hundred thousand Christians,[500] all the losses they had caused him to undergo. The principal leaders made good their escape, first to Constantinople, and then to Antioch; except Hugh of Vermandois, who died of his wound at Tarsus. The Count of Nevers,[501] who commanded the second body, met the same fate as the rest, and followed them to Antioch, after the destruction of his whole force. William of Poitiers, with the Duke of Bavaria and the Marchioness Ida, were also encountered by the victorious Saracens, and their defeat added another to the triumphs of the infidels and to the Christian disasters. The Duke of Bavaria, stripping himself of his arms, fled to the mountains, and made his escape. The precise fate of Ida of Austria remained unknown; but it appears certain she was either suffered to die in captivity, or was crushed to death under the horses' feet.[502] The Count of Poitiers, completely destitute of all resources, and separated from his companions, wandered on foot till he arrived at Antioch,[503] where he was kindly received by Tancred, still alive, and met the other chiefs who had encountered disasters like his own.[504] The principal leaders proceeded straight to Jerusalem, with the exception of Raimond of Toulouse, who had long fixed his heart upon the conquest of the rich tract of Tripoli, which he attempted for some time in vain. Death staid him in his progress,[505] and Baldwin succeeded in accomplishing what he had designed; after which the king erected the territory acquired into a feudal county, which was bestowed upon the son of the deceased Raimond. In the mean while Stephen, Count of Blois, reached Jerusalem; and having, by a second completed pilgrimage, wiped out, as he thought, the disgrace of having quitted the first crusade, he embarked, with William of Poitiers, to return to Europe. A contrary wind, however, drove back the vessel into Jaffa,[506] and here Stephen found himself called upon to join Baldwin in an attack upon the Turks. The king advanced with only seven hundred knights,[507] deceived by reports of the enemy's weakness; but in the plains of Ramula he found himself suddenly opposed to the whole Turkish army. The spirit of Chivalry forbade his avoiding the encounter, and in a short time the greater part of his force was cut to pieces. He himself, with his principal knights, made their way to the castle of Ramula, from which he contrived to escape alone. The rest were taken, fighting bravely for their lives; and though some were spared, Stephen of Blois[508] was one of several who were only reserved for slaughter. Thus died the leaders of the first crusade who met their fate in Palestine, and thus ended the greater and more general expeditions which had been sanctioned by the council of Clermont, and excited by the preaching of Peter the Hermit. The ultimate fate of that extraordinary individual himself remains in darkness. On the capture of Jerusalem, when the triumphant Europeans spread themselves through the city, the Christian inhabitants flocked forth to acknowledge and gratulate their deliverers.[509] Then it was that all the toils and dangers which the Hermit had endured, were a thousand fold repaid, and that all his enthusiasm met with its reward. The Christians of Jerusalem instantly recognised the poor pilgrim who had first spoken to them words of hope, and had promised them, in their misery under the Turkish oppression, that aid and deliverance which had at length so gloriously reached them.[510] In the fervour of their gratitude they attributed all to him; and, casting themselves at his feet, called the blessing of Heaven on the head of their benefactor. After that period Peter is mentioned several times by the historians of Jerusalem;[511] and we find that he certainly did act a very principal part in the clerical government of the city.[512] Whether he returned to Europe or not I confess I do not know. He is said to have founded the abbey of Montier, in France, and to have died there; but this rests upon no authority worthy of confidence. In the meanwhile, many of the Christians who had escaped the active swords of the Saracens in Asia Minor made their way to Jerusalem, and served to people and protect the land. Various armaments, also, arrived at the different seaports, bearing each of them immense numbers of military pilgrims, who, after having visited the holy places, never failed to offer their services to the king of Jerusalem, for the purpose of executing any single object that might be desirable at the time. Three only of these bodies are worthy of particular notice, that of the English, Danes,[513] and Flemings, who assisted Baldwin at the unsuccessful siege of Sidon--the Norwegian expedition which succeeded in taking that city--and that of the Venetians, who afterward aided in the capture of Tyre. The Genoese[514] and the Pisans, also, from time to time sent out vessels to the coast of Palestine; but these voyages, which combined in a strange manner the purposes of traffic, superstition, and warfare, tended rather to the general prosperity of the country by commerce, and to its protection, by bringing continual recruits, than to any individual enterprise or conquest. Many anecdotes are told of the first crusaders by their contemporary historians, which--though resting on evidence so far doubtful as to forbid their introduction as absolute facts--I shall mention in exemplification of the manners and customs of the time. The number of women and children who followed the first crusaders to the Holy Land is known to have been immense; but it is not a little extraordinary, that in spite of all the hardships and dangers of the way, a great multitude of both arrived safe at Jerusalem. The women we find, on almost all occasions, exercising the most heroic firmness in the midst of battles and destruction; and Guibert gives a curious account of the military spirit which seized upon the children during the siege of Antioch. The boys of the Saracens and the young crusaders, armed with sticks for lances, and stones instead of arrows, would issue from the town and the camp, and under leaders chosen from among themselves,[515] who assumed the names of the principal chiefs, would advance in regular squadrons, and fight in the sight of the two hosts, with a degree of rancour which showed to what a pitch the mutual hatred of the nations was carried. Even after the crusaders had fallen in battle or had died of the pestilence, their children still pursued their way, and getting speedily accustomed to fatigue and privation, evinced powers of endurance equal to those of the most hardy warriors. With the army of the Cross also was a multitude of men--the same author declares--who made it a profession to be without money; they walked barefoot, carried no arms, and even preceded the beasts of burden in the march, living upon roots and herbs, and presenting a spectacle both disgusting and pitiable. A Norman,[516] who, according to all accounts, was of noble birth, but who, having lost his horse, continued to follow as a foot-soldier, took the strange resolution of putting himself at the head of this race of vagabonds, who willingly received him for their king. Among the Saracens these men became well known, under the name of _Thafurs_ (which Guibert translates _Trudentes_), and were held in great horror from the general persuasion that they fed on the dead bodies of their enemies: a report which was occasionally justified, and which the king of the Thafurs took care to encourage. This respectable monarch was frequently in the habit of stopping his followers one by one, in any narrow defile, and of causing them to be searched carefully, lest the possession of the least sum of money should render them unworthy of the name of his subjects.[517] If even two sous were found upon any one, he was instantly expelled from the society of his tribe, the king bidding him, contemptuously, buy arms and fight. This troop, so far from being cumbersome to the army, was infinitely serviceable, carrying burdens, bringing in forage, provisions, and tribute, working the machines in the sieges, and, above all, spreading consternation among the Turks, who feared death from the lances of the knights less than that further consummation, they heard of, under the teeth of the Thafurs. Mercy towards the Turks was considered, by the contemporary clergy, to whom we owe all accounts of the crusades, as so great a weakness, that perhaps fewer instances of it are on record than really took place; for we seldom find any mention of clemency to an infidel, without blame being attached to it. Thus the promise of Tancred to save the Turks on the roof of the temple is highly censured, as well as the act of the Count of Toulouse, in granting their lives to some five hundred wretches, who had taken refuge in the Tower of David. One deed of this kind is told of Baldwin I., more as in its consequences it saved the king's person, than as any thing praiseworthy in itself. Passing along one day on horseback, after his troops had been employed in wasting the country, Baldwin is said to have met with an Arabian woman, who had been taken in labour by the way.[518] He covered her with his own cloak, ordered her to be protected by his attendants, and having left her with two skins of water, and two female camels, he pursued his march. The chances of the desultory warfare of those times soon brought back her husband to the spot, and his gratitude was the more ardent as the benefit he had received was unusual and unexpected. After the fatal day of Ramula, while Baldwin, with but fifty companions, besieged in the ill-fortified castle of that place, was dreaming of nothing but how to sell his life dearly, a single Arab approached the gates in the dead of the night, and demanded to speak with the king. He was in consequence brought to Baldwin's presence,[519] where he recalled to his mind the kindness once shown to the Arab woman, his wife; and then offered to lead him safely through the lines of the enemy. The fate of Palestine at that moment hung upon Baldwin's life, and, trusting himself in the hands of the Arab, he was faithfully conducted to his own camp,[520] where he appeared, says William of Tyre, like the morning star breaking through the clouds. Superstition, which in that age was at its height in Europe, was, of course, not unknown in Palestine, and all sorts of visions were seen. Battles, according to the monkish accounts, were won by relics and prayers more than by swords and lances. A part of the Holy Cross was said to be found in Jerusalem, a thousand more martyrs were dug up than ever were buried, and we find one of the bishops _ferens in pyxide lac sanctæ Mariæ Virginis_. Ghosts[521] of saints, too, were seen on every occasion, and the Devil himself, in more than one instance, appeared to the crusaders, tempting them with consummate art to all kinds of crimes. The evil spirit, however, often--indeed generally--found himself cheated by his victims in the end, who, by repentance, gifts to the church, and fanatical observances, easily found means to "swear the seal from off their bond." The appearance of an army in the times of the first crusade was highly gorgeous and magnificent.[522] The number of banners of purple and gold, and rich colours--each feudal baron having the right to bear his banner to the field--rendered the Christian host in full array as bright a spectacle as the sun could shine upon. The armour of the knights also gave a glittering and splendid effect to the scene; nor was this armour as has been represented, entirely of that kind called chain mail, which formed the original hauberk. It varied according to various nations, and it is evident from the continual mention of the corslet or breastplate, by all the authors I have had occasion to cite in this work, that that piece of plate armour was used during the first crusade.[523] It is probable, however, that the armour generally worn was principally linked mail, which, in the case of the knights, enveloped the whole body, being composed of a shirt of rings, with hose, shoes, and gauntlets, of the same materials. The helmet might also be covered with a chain hood, which completed the dress. In addition to this, it is not unlikely that a cuirass was frequently worn with the shirt, as we find, from the poem of William the Breton on Philip Augustus, that it was even then a common practice to wear a double plastron or cuirass, though plate armour had returned into common use. The shield, charged with some design, but certainly not with regular armorial bearings, together with the lance, sword, and mace, completed the arms, offensive and defensive, of a knight of that day.[524] I cannot find that either the battle-axe or the armour for the horse is mentioned during the crusade; yet we know that both had been made use of long before. The foot-soldiers were in some cases allowed to wear a shirt of mail, but not a complete hauberk, and were armed with pikes, bows, and crossbows; though it would seem that they gained their knowledge of the latter instrument from the Saracens, there being several lamentations, in all the accounts of their first entrance into Asia Minor, over their unskilfulness in the use of the arbalist. The luxury with which the Christians marched to the crusade may be conceived from the narrative given by Albert of Aix, of the rout of the troops of Conrad and his companions, who followed to the Holy Land, immediately after the capture of Jerusalem. Among the spoils taken by the Turks, he mentions ermines,[525] sables, and all kinds of rich furs, purple and gold embroidery, and an incalculable quantity of silver. The roads, he says, were so strewed with riches, that the pursuers trod upon nothing but besants and other pieces of money, precious stones, vases of gold and silver, and every sort of silk and fine stuff. The Turks proceeded to battle with even greater magnificence; and, after the victories of Antioch and Ascalon, we read continually of invaluable booty, jewels,[526] golden helmets and armour standards of silver, and scimitars of unknown worth. The arms of the Turks were lighter, in all probability, than those of the Christians, and in general consisted of the sword and the bow, in the use of which they were exceedingly skilful.[527] We find, however, that the various nations of which the Mahommedan armies were composed used very different weapons; though all were remarkable for the manner in which they eluded their enemies, by their skill in horsemanship, and the fleetness of their chargers. One nation, mentioned by Albert of Aix under the title of Azoparts, are called _the invincible_, and were furnished with heavy maces, with which they aimed at the heads of the horses, and seldom failed to bring them down. After the conquest of Palestine by the Christians,[528] the surrounding tribes continued to wage an unceasing war against their invaders; but nevertheless many of the Mussulman towns within the limits of the kingdom of Jerusalem submitted to the conquerors, and were admitted to pay tribute. A free communication also took place between the followers of the two religions, and a greater degree of connexion began to exist than was very well consistent with the fanaticism of either people. A mixed race even sprang up from the European[529] and Asiatic population, the children of parents from different continents being called Pullani. At the same time the country was governed by European laws,[530] which, not coming within the absolute scope of this book, I must avoid treating of, from the very limited space to which I am obliged to confine myself. Suffice it to say, that Godfrey of Bouillon, among the first cares of government, appointed a commission to inquire into the laws and customs of the various nations which formed the population of the country he was called to rule. From the investigation thus entered into was drawn up an admirable code of feudal law, under the title of _Assizes de Jerusalem_. Two institutions of a strictly chivalrous nature, which were founded, properly speaking, between the first and second crusades,[531] I must mention here, as all the after-history of knighthood is more or less connected with their progress. I mean the two military orders of the Hospital and the Temple. The spirit of religious devotion and military fervour had been so intimately united during the whole of the crusade, that the combination of the austere rules of the monk, with the warlike activity of the soldier, seems to have been a necessary consequence of the wars of the Cross. Long previous to the crusade, some of the citizens of Amalfi having been led to Jerusalem,[532] partly from feelings of devotion, partly in the pursuit of commerce, had witnessed the misery to which pilgrims were exposed on their road to the Holy Land, and determined to found an hospital in which pious travellers might be protected and solaced after their arrival at the end of their journey. The influence which the Italian merchants possessed through their commercial relations at the court of the calif, easily obtained permission to establish the institution proposed. A piece of ground near the supposed site of the holy sepulchre was assigned to them, and the chapel and hospital were accordingly built, at different times, and placed under the patronage, the one of St. Mary, and the other of St. John the Almoner. A religious house was also constructed for those charitable persons, of both sexes, who chose to dedicate themselves to the service of the pilgrims, and who, on their admission, subjected themselves to the rule of St. Benedict. All travellers, whether Greeks or Latins, were received into the hospital; and the monks even extended their charitable care to the sick or poor Mussulmans who surrounded them. During the siege of Jerusalem by the crusaders, all the principal Christians of the town were thrown into prison; among others, the abbot (as he is called by James of Vitry)[533] of the monastery of St. John. He was a Frenchman by birth, named Gerard; and, after the taking of the city, was liberated, with other Christian prisoners, and returned to the duties of his office, in attending the sick and wounded crusaders who were brought into the Hospital. After the battle of Ascalon, Godfrey visited the establishment, where he still found many of the followers of the crusade, who, struck with admiration at the institution, and filled with gratitude for the services they had received, determined to embrace the order, and dedicate their lives also to acts of charity. Godfrey, as a reward for the benefits which these holy men had conferred on his fellow-christians, endowed the Hospital (now in a degree separated from the abbey of St. Mary) with a large estate, in his hereditary dominions in Brabant. Various other gifts were added by the different crusaders of rank; and the Poor Brothers of the Hospital of St. John began to find themselves a rich and flourishing community. It was at this period that they first took the black habit and the white cross of eight points, and subjected themselves, by peculiar vows, to the continual attendance on pilgrims and sick persons.[534] Pascal II. soon after bestowed upon the order several valuable privileges, among which were, exemption from all tithes, the right of electing their own superior, and absolute immunity from all secular or clerical interference. The constant resort of pilgrims to the Holy Land not only increased the wealth of the Hospitallers, but spread their fame to other countries. Princes and kings conferred lands and benefices upon them, and the order began to throw out ramifications into Europe, where hospitals, under the same rule, were erected, and may be considered as the first commanderies of the institution. At the death of Gerard, which took place almost immediately after that of Baldwin I., Raimond Dupuy, one of the crusaders who had attached himself to the Hospital on having been cured of his wounds received at the siege of Jerusalem, was elected master, and soon conceived the idea of rendering the wealth and number of the Hospitallers serviceable to the state in other ways than those which they had hitherto pursued. His original profession of course led him to the thought of combining war with devotion, and he proposed to his brethren to reassume the sword, binding themselves, however, by a vow, to draw it only against the enemies of Christ. In what precise year the Hospitallers first appeared in arms is not very clearly ascertained; but it is a matter of no moment, and it is certain that they became a military body during the reign of Baldwin du Bourg.[535] The order of St. John was then divided into three classes, knights, clergy, and serving brothers. Each of these classes still, when absent from the field, dedicated themselves to the service of the sick; but the knights were chosen from the noble or military rank of the Hospitallers, and commanded in battle and in the hospital. The clergy, besides the ordinary duties of their calling, followed the armies as almoners and chaplains; and the serving brothers fought under the knights in battle, or obeyed their directions in their attendance on the sick. At first, the garments and food of these grades were the same. The vows also were alike to all, and implied chastity, obedience to their superior and to the council, together with individual poverty. The objects now proposed were war against the infidels, and protection and comfort to the Christian pilgrims. The knights were bound by strict and severe rules; they were enjoined to avoid all luxury, to travel two or three together, seeking only such lodging in the various towns as was provided for them by their community, and burning a light during the night, that they might be always prepared against the enemy. Their faults[536] were heavily punished by fasts, by imprisonments, and even by expulsion from the order; and they were taught to look for no reward but from on high. Nevertheless, before the good Bishop of Acre composed his curious work on the Holy Land, probably about the year 1228, the Hospitallers, he tells us, were buying for themselves castles and towns, and submitting territories to their authority like the princes of the earth. The origin of the order of Red-cross Knights, or Templars, was very different, though its military object was nearly the same. The Christian power in Palestine was probably as firmly established at the time of Baldwin du Bourg, as during any other period of its existence; yet the mixture of the population, the proximity of a thousand inimical tribes, the roving habits of the Turks, who--generally worsted by the Christians in the defence of cities and in arrayed fields--now harassed their enemies with a constant, but flying warfare; all rendered the plains of the Holy Land a scene of unremitting strife, where the pilgrim and the traveller were continually exposed to danger, plunder, and death. Some French knights, who had followed the first crusade,[537] animated beyond their fellows with the religious and military fury which inspired that enterprise, entered into a solemn compact to aid each other in freeing the highways of the Holy Land, protecting pilgrims and travellers, and fighting against the enemies of the Cross. They embraced the rule of St. Augustin; renounced all worldly goods, and bound themselves by oath to obey the commands of their grand master; to defend the Christian faith; to cross the seas in aid of their brethren; to fight unceasingly against the infidel, and never to turn back from less than four adversaries.[538] The founders of this order were Hugh de Paganis and Geoffrey de St. Aldemar--or, according to some, de St. Omer--who had both signalized themselves in the religious wars. Having no fixed dwelling, the Templars were assigned a lodging in a palace in the immediate vicinity of the Temple, from whence they derived the name by which they have since been known. The number of these knights was at first but nine, and during the nine years which followed their institution, they were marked by no particular garb,[539] wearing the secular habit of the day, which was furnished to them by charity alone. The clergy of the temple itself conferred on their body a space of ground between that building and the palace,[540] for the purpose of military exercises, and various other benefices speedily followed. At the council[541] of Troyes, their situation was considered, and a white garment was appointed for their dress. Their vows became very similar to those of the knights of St. John; the numbers of the body rapidly augmented; possessions and riches flowed in upon them apace, as their services became extended and general. They added a red cross to their robe, and raised a banner of their own, on which they bestowed the name of _Beauséant_. The order, as it increased, was soon divided into the various classes of servants of arms, esquires, and knights; and, in addition to their great standard, which was white with the red cross--symbolical, like their dress, of purity of life, and courage, even to death--they bore to battle a banner composed of white and black stripes, intended to typify their tenderness to their friends and implacability towards their enemies.--Their valour became so noted, that, like that of the famous tenth legion,[542] it was a support to itself; and, according to James of Vitry, any Templar, on hearing the cry to arms, would have been ashamed to have asked the number of the enemy. The only question was, "Where are they?" On entering the order, the grand master cautioned the aspirant that he was, in a manner, called upon to resign his individuality. Not only his property and his body, but his very thoughts, belonged, from the moment of his admission, to the institution of which he became a part. He was bound in every thing to obey the commands of his superior, and poverty of course formed a part of his vow. His inclinations, his feelings, his passions, were all to be rendered subservient to the cause he embraced; and he was exhorted to remember, before he engaged himself to the performance of so severe an undertaking, that he would often be obliged to watch when he desired to sleep, to suffer toil when his limbs required rest, and to undergo the pangs of thirst and the cravings of hunger when food would be most delightful. After these and similar warnings of the painful and self-denying nature of the task which he was about to impose upon himself, he was asked three times if he still desired to enter into the order, and on giving an answer in the affirmative, he was invested with the robe, and admitted to the vows, after previous proof that he was qualified in other respects, according to the rules of the institution. No possible means has ever been devised of keeping any body of men poor; and the Templars, whose first device was two knights riding on one horse, to signify their poverty and humility, were soon one of the richest, and beyond comparison the proudest, of the European orders. Their preceptories were to be found in every country, and as their vows did not embrace[543] the charitable avocations which, with the knights of St. John, filled up the hours unemployed in military duties, the Templars soon added to their pride all that host of vices which so readily step in to occupy the void of idleness. While the knights of St. John, spreading benefit and comfort around them, notwithstanding many occasional faults and errors, remained esteemed and beloved, on the whole, both by sovereigns and people; the knights of the Temple were only suffered for some centuries, feared, hated, avoided; and at last were crushed, at a moment when it is probable that a reform was about to work itself in their order.[544] CHAPTER X. _Consequences of the Loss of Edessa--The State of France unfavourable to a new Crusade--View of the Progress of Society--Causes and Character of the Second Crusade--St. Bernard--The Emperor of Germany takes the Cross and sets out--Louis VII. follows--Conduct of the Germans in Greece--Their Destruction in Cappadocia--Treachery of Manuel Comnenus--Louis VII. arrives at Constantinople--Passes into Asia--Defeats the Turks on the Meander--His Army cut to pieces--Proceeds by Sea to Antioch--Fate of his remaining Troops--Intrigues at Antioch--Louis goes on to Jerusalem--Siege of Damascus--Disgraceful Failure--Conrad returns to Europe--Conduct of Suger, Abbot of St. Denis--Termination of the Second Crusade._ The loss of Edessa shook the kingdom of Jerusalem; not so much from the importance of the city or its territory, as from the exposed state in which it left the frontier of the newly established monarchy. The activity, the perseverance, the power of the Moslems had been too often felt not to be dreaded; and there is every reason to believe, that the clergy spoke but the wishes of the whole people, when in their letters to Europe they pressed their Christian brethren to come once more to the succour of Jerusalem. Shame and ambition led the young Count of Edessa to attempt the recovery of his capital as soon as the death of Zenghi, who had taken it, reached his ears. He in consequence collected a large body of troops, and on presenting himself before the walls during the night, was admitted, by his friends, into the town. There he turned his whole efforts to force the Turkish garrison in the citadel to surrender, before Nourhaddin, the son of Zenghi, could arrive to its aid. But the Saracens held out; and, while the Latin soldiers besieged the castle, they found themselves suddenly surrounded by a large body of the enemy, under the command of Nourhaddin. In this situation, they endeavoured to cut their way through the Turkish force, but, attacked on every side, few of them escaped to tell the tale of their own defeat. Nourhaddin marched over their necks into Edessa, and, in order to remove for ever that bulwark to the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem, he caused the fortifications to be razed to the ground. The consternation of the people of Palestine became great and general. The road to the Holy City lay open before the enemy, and continual applications for assistance reached Europe, but more particularly France. The state of that country, however, was the least[545] propitious that it is possible to conceive for a crusade. The position of all the orders of society had undergone a change since the period when the wars of the Cross were first preached by Peter the Hermit; and of the many causes which had combined to hurry the armed multitudes to the Holy Land, none remained but the spirit of religious fanaticism and military enterprise. At the time of the first crusade, the feudal system had reached the acme of its power. The barons had placed a king upon the throne. They had rendered their own dominion independent of his, and though they still acknowledged some ties between themselves and the monarch--some vague and general power of restraint in the king and his court of peers--yet those ties were so loose, that power was so undefined in its nature, and so difficult in its exercise, that the nobles were free and at liberty to act in whatever direction enthusiasm, ambition, or cupidity might call them, without fear of the sovereign, who was, in fact, but one of their own body loaded with a crown. The people, too, at that time, both in the towns and in the fields, were the mere slaves of the nobility; and as there existed scarcely a shadow of vigour in the kingly authority, so there remained not an idea of distinct rights and privileges among the populace. Thus the baronage were then unfettered by dread from any quarter; and the lower classes--both the poorer nobility, and that indistinct tribe (which we find evidently[546] marked) who were neither among the absolute serfs of any lord, nor belonging to the military caste--were all glad to engage themselves in wars which held out to them riches and exaltation in this world, and beatification in the next; while they could hope for nothing in their own land but pillage, oppression, and wrong; or slaughter in feuds without an object, and in battles for the benefit of others. Before the second crusade was contemplated, a change--an immense change had operated itself in the state of society. Just fifty years had passed since the council of Clermont: but the kings of France were no longer the same; the royal authority had acquired force[547]--the latent principles of domination had been exercised for the general good. Kings had put forth their hands to check abuses, to punish violence and crime; and the feudal system began to assume the character, not of a simple confederation, but of an organized _hierarchy_,[548] in which the whole body was the judge of each individual, and the head of that body the executor of its sentence. Louis VI., commonly called Louis the Fat,[549] was the first among the kings of France who raised the functions of royalty above those of sovereignty, and the distinction between the two states is an important one. The former monarchs of France, including Philip I., under whose reign the first crusade was preached, had each been but sovereigns, who could call upon their vassals to serve them for so many days in the field, and whose rights were either simply personal, that is to say, for their own dignity and benefit, or only general so far as the protection of the whole confederacy from foreign invasion was implied. Louis the Fat, however, saw that in the kingly office was comprised both duties and rights of a different character; the right of punishing private crime,[550] and of opposing universal wrong; the duty of maintaining public order, and of promoting by one uniform and acknowledged power the tranquillity of the whole society and the security of each individual. The efforts of that prince were confined and partial, it is true;[551] but he and his great minister, Suger, seized the just idea of the monarchical form of government, and laid the basis of a well-directed and legitimate authority. This authority, of course, was not pleasing to the barons, whose license was thus curtailed. Their views, therefore, were turned rather to the maintenance of their own unjust privileges, than to foreign adventures. At the same time, the nobles found themselves assailed by the classes below them, as well as by the power above, and the people of the towns were seen to struggle for the rights and immunities so long denied to them. The burghers had,[552] indeed, been permitted to labour in some small degree for themselves. Though subject to terrible and grievous exactions, they had still thriven under the spirit of commerce and industry. Their lords had sometimes even recourse to them for assistance. The greater part, though of the servile race, had been either freed, or were descended from freed men; and the baron of the town in which they lived, though cruel and tyrannical, was more an exacting protector than a master. At length--the precise time is unknown--the people of the cities began to think of protecting themselves; and, by mutual co-operation, they strove at once to free themselves from the tyranny of a superior lord, and to defend themselves against the encroachments of others. The word _commune_[553] was introduced, and each town of considerable size hastened to struggle for its liberty. At first the horror and indignation of the nobles were beyond all conception; but the spirit of union among them was not sufficiently active to put down that which animated the commons. Each lord had to oppose his revolted subjects alone; and after long and sanguinary contests,[554] sometimes the baron, the bishop, or the abbot succeeded in subjugating the people; sometimes the burghers contrived, by perseverance, to wring from the nobles themselves a charter which assured their freedom. This struggle[555] was at its height, at the time when the fall of Edessa and the growing power of the Moslems called Europe to engage in a second crusade; but the barons at that moment found their privileges invaded both by the crown and the people; and the latter discovered that they had rights to maintain in their own land--that they were no longer the mere slaves to whom all countries were alike--that prospects were opened before them which during the first crusade they hardly dreamed of--that the swords which had before been employed in fighting the quarrels of their lords at home, or raising them to honour and fame abroad, were now required to defend their property, their happiness, and the new station they had created for themselves in society. Thus the period at which aid became imperatively necessary to the Christians at Jerusalem, was when France was least calculated to afford it. Nevertheless, the superstition of a king and the eloquence of a churchman combined to produce a second crusade; but in this instance it was but a great military expedition, and no longer the enthusiastic effort of a nation, or a great popular movement throughout the whole of the Christian world. One of the strongest proofs of this fact[556] is the scantiness of historians on the second crusade, and the style in which those that do exist, speak of its operations. It is no longer the glory of Christendom that they mention, but the glory of the king; no more the deliverance of the Holy Land, but merely the acts of the monarch. In pursuance of the general plan of extending the dominion of the crown, which had been conceived by Louis VI., and carried on with such infinite perseverance by his great minister Suger, Louis VII., the succeeding monarch, on hearing of the election of the Archbishop of Bourges by the chapter of that city, without his previous consent, had declared the nomination invalid, and proceeded to acts of such flagrant opposition to the papal jurisdiction, that the church used her most terrific thunders to awe the monarch to her will. Thibalt, Count of Champagne, armed in support of the pope's authority, and Louis instantly marched to chastise his rebellious vassal. Thibalt was soon reduced to obedience, but the anger of the monarch was not appeased by submission; for, even after the town of Vitry had surrendered, he set fire to the church, in which nearly thirteen hundred people had taken refuge, and disgraced his triumph by one of the direst pieces of cruelty upon record. A severe illness, however, soon followed, and reflection brought remorse. At that time the news of the fall of Edessa was fresh in Europe; and Louis, in the vain hope of expiating his crime, determined to promote a crusade, and lead his forces himself to the aid of Jerusalem. Deputies were speedily sent to the Pope Eugenius, who willingly abetted in the king's design, and commissioned the famous St. Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux, to preach the Cross through France and Germany. St. Bernard possessed every requisite for such a mission.[557] From his earliest years he had been filled with religious enthusiasm; he had abandoned high prospects to dedicate himself entirely to an austere and gloomy fanaticism; he had reformed many abuses in the church, reproved crime wherever he found it, and raised the clerical character in the eyes of the people, too much accustomed to behold among his order nothing but vice, ignorance, and indolence. He was one of the most powerful orators of his day, endowed with high and commanding talents of many kinds; and in his controversy with the celebrated Abelard, the severe purity of his life and manners had proved most eloquent against his rival. Thus, when after repeated entreaties[558] he went forth to preach the crusade, few that heard him were not either impressed by his sanctity, persuaded by his eloquence, or carried away by his zeal: and thus, notwithstanding the unfavourable state of France,[559] a multitude of men took the symbol of the Cross, and prepared to follow the monarch into Palestine. In Germany the effects of his overpowering oratory were the same. Those who understood not even the language that he spoke, became awed by his gestures and the dignified enthusiasm of his manner, and devoted themselves to the crusade, though the tongue in which it was preached was unknown to them. Wherever he went his presence was supposed to operate miracles, and the sick are reported to have recovered by his touch, or at his command; while all the legions of devils, with which popish superstition peopled the atmosphere, took flight at his approach. For some time Conrad, Emperor of Germany, suffered[560] St. Bernard to call the inhabitants of his dominions to the crusade without taking any active part in his proceedings, but at length the startling eloquence of the Abbot of Clairvaux reached even the bosom of the monarch, and he declared his intention of following the Cross himself. At Vezelai Louis VII. received the symbol: but the most powerful obstacle that he found to his undertaking was the just and continued opposition of his minister,[561] Suger, who endeavoured by every means to dissuade the monarch from abandoning his kingdom. All persuasions were vain; and having committed the care of his estates to that faithful servant,[562] Louis himself, accompanied by Eleonor, his queen, departed for Metz, where he was joined by an immense multitude of nobles and knights, among whom were crusaders from England[563] and the remote islands of the northern sea. Ambassadors from Roger, King of Apulia, had already warned Louis of the treachery of the Greeks, and besought him to take any other way than that through the dominions of the emperor; but the French monarch was biassed by other counsels, and determined upon following the plan before laid down. The Emperor of Germany was the first[564] to set out, and by June reached Constantinople in safety, followed by a large body of armed men, and a number of women whose gay dress, half-military, half-feminine, gave the march the appearance of some bright fantastic cavalcade. The King of France, having previously received[565] at St. Denis, the consecrated banner as a warrior, and the staff and scrip[566] as a pilgrim, now quitted Metz, and proceeded by Worms and Ratisbon. Here he was met by envoys from the Emperor of the East, charged with letters so filled with flattery and fair speeches, that Louis is reported to have blushed, and the Bishop of Langres to have observed-- Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. Here,[567] too, the French beheld, for the first time, the custom of an inferior standing in the presence of his lord. The object of the emperor was to obtain from Louis a promise to pass through his territories without violence, and to yield to him every town from which he should expel the Turks, and which had ever belonged to the Grecian territory. Part of this proposal was acceded to, and part refused; and the army marched on through Hungary into Greece. The progress of the second crusade was of course subject to the same difficulties that attended that of the first, through a waste and deserted land; but many other obstacles no longer existed--the people of the country were more accustomed to the appearance of strangers;[568] the army was restrained by the presence of the king; and the whole account of the march to Constantinople leaves the impression of a more civilized state of society than that which existed at the period of the first crusade. We meet with no massacres, no burning of towns, no countries laid waste: and though there are to be found petty squabbles between the soldiers and the townspeople, frays, and even bloodshed; yet these were but individual outrages, kindled by private passions, and speedily put down by the arm of authority. The Germans[569] were less fortunate on their way than the French, and some serious causes of quarrel sprung up between them and the Greeks, in which it is difficult to discover who were the chief aggressors. The Greeks call the Germans[570] barbarians, and the Germans accuse the Greeks of every kind of treachery; but it appears evident,[571] that Conrad himself was guilty of no small violence on his approach to Constantinople. A most magnificent garden had been laid out at a little distance from that capital, filled with every vegetable luxury of the day, and containing within its walls vast herds of tame animals, for whose security woods had been planted, caverns dug, and lakes contrived; so that the beasts which were confined in this vast prison might follow their natural habits, as if still at liberty. Here also were several buildings, in which the emperors were accustomed to enjoy the summer: but Conrad, with an unceremonious freedom, partaking not a little of barbarism, broke into this retreat, and wasted and destroyed all that it had required the labour of years to accomplish. Manuel Comnenus, who now sat on the throne of Constantinople, beheld, from the windows of his palace, this strange scene of wanton aggression; and sent messengers[572] to Conrad, who was connected with him by marriage,[573] desiring an interview. But the Greek would not trust himself out of the walls of his capital, and the German would not venture within them, so that a short time was passed in negotiation; and then Conrad passed over the Hellespont with his forces, relieving the eastern sovereign from the dread and annoyance of his presence. Manuel, however, furnished the German army with guides to conduct it through Asia Minor; and almost all accounts attribute to the Greek the design of betraying his Christian brethren into the hands of the infidels. After passing the sea, the troops of Conrad proceeded in two bodies,[574] the one under the Emperor, and the other under the Bishop of Freysinghen; but the guides with which they had been provided led them into the pathless wilds of Cappadocia, where famine soon reached them. At the moment also when they expected to arrive at Iconium,[575] they found themselves attacked by the army of the infidels, swelled to an immense extent by the efforts of the sultaun of the Seljukian Turks, who, on the first approach of the Christian forces, had spared no means to ensure their destruction. The heavy-armed Germans[576] in vain endeavoured to close with the light and agile horsemen of the Turkish host. The treacherous guides had fled on the first sight of the infidels, and the enemy hovered round and round the German army, as it struggled on through the unknown deserts in which it was entangled, smiting every straggler, and hastening its annihilation by continual attacks. Favoured by the fleetness of their horses, and their knowledge of the localities, they passed and repassed the exhausted troops of the emperor,[577] who now endeavoured to retrace his steps under a continued rain of arrows. No part of the army offered security. The famous Count Bernard, with many others, was cut off fighting in the rear; the van was constantly in the presence of an active foe; and the emperor himself was twice wounded by arrows which fell in the centre of the host. Thus, day after day, thousands on thousands were added to the slain; and when at length Conrad reached the town of Nice, of seventy thousand knights, and an immense body of foot, who had followed him from Europe, scarcely a tenth part were to be found in the ranks of his shattered army. That he was betrayed into the hands of the Turks by the guides furnished by the emperor no earthly doubt can be entertained; nor is it questionable that Manuel Comnenus was at that time secretly engaged in treaty with the infidels. It is not, indeed, absolutely proved that the monarch of Constantinople ordered or connived at the destruction of the Christian forces; but every historian[578] of the day has suspected him of the treachery, and when such is the case it is probable there was good cause for suspicion. In the mean while, Louis the younger led the French host to Constantinople, and, unlike Conrad, instantly accepted the emperor's invitation to enter the city with a small train. Manuel received him as an equal, descending to the porch of his palace to meet his royal guest. He, of course, pretended to no homage from the King of France, but still his object was to secure to himself all the conquests which Louis might make in the ancient appendages of Greece, without acting himself against the infidels. To force the French monarch into this concession, he pursued a plan of irritating and uncertain negotiations, not at all unlike those carried on by his predecessor Alexius,[579] towards the leaders of the former crusade. In the midst of these, however, it was discovered that Manuel had entered into a secret treaty with the Turks; and, indeed, the confidence which the deceitful Greeks placed in the promises of the crusaders forms a singular and reproachful comment on the constant and remorseless breach of their own. There were many of the leaders of the French who did not scruple to urge Louis to punish by arms the gross perfidy of the Greek emperor; and, by taking possession of Constantinople, to sweep away the continual stumblingblock by which the efforts of all the crusades had been impeded. Had Louis acceded to their wishes, great and extraordinary results would, no doubt, have been effected towards the permanent occupation of the Holy Land by the Christian powers; but that monarch was not to be seduced into violating his own good faith by the treachery of another, and after having, on the other hand, refused to aid Manuel in the war which had arisen between him and Roger, King of Apulia, he crossed the Bosphorus, and passed into Asia Minor. Thence advancing through Nicomedia,[580] Louis proceeded to Nice, and encamped under the walls of that city. Here the first reports reached him of the fate of the German army, for hitherto the Greeks had continued to fill his ears with nothing but the successes of his fellows in arms. For a time the news was disbelieved, but very soon the arrival of Frederic, duke of Suabia, charged with messages from the German monarch, brought the melancholy certainty of his defeat. Louis did all that he could to assuage the grief of the Emperor Conrad,[581] and uniting their forces, they now marched on by the seacoast to Ephesus. Here, however, Conrad, mortified at a companionship in which the inferiority of his own troops was painfully contrasted with the multitude and freshness of the French, separated again from Louis; and, sending back the greater part of his army by land, took ship himself and returned to Constantinople, where he was received both with more distinction and more sincerity, on account of the scantiness of his retinue, and the disasters he had suffered. In the mean while, the French proceeded on their way, and after travelling for some days without opposition, they first encountered the Turks on the banks of the Meander.[582] Proud of their success against the Germans, the infidels determined to contest the passage of the river; but the French knights, having found a ford, traversed the stream without difficulty, and routed the enemy with great slaughter. The loss of the Christians was so small, consisting only of one knight,[583] who perished in the river, that they as usual had recourse to a miracle, to account for so cheap a victory. Passing onward to Laodicea they found that town completely deserted, and the environs laid waste; and they here heard of the complete destruction of that part of the German army which had been commanded by the Bishop of Freysinghen.[584] In the second day's journey after quitting Laodicea, a steep mountain presented itself before the French army, which marched in two bodies, separated by a considerable distance. The commander of the first division, named Geoffroy de Rancun,[585] had received orders from the king, who remained with the rear-guard, to halt on the summit of the steep, and there pitch the tents for the night. That Baron, unencumbered by baggage, easily accomplished the ascent, and finding that the day's progress was considerably less than the usual extent of march, forgot the commands he had received, and advanced two or three miles beyond the spot specified. The king, with the lesser body of effective troops and the baggage, followed slowly up the mountain, the precipitous acclivity of which rendered the footing of the horses dreadfully insecure, while immense masses of loose stone gave way at every step under the feet of the crusaders,[586] and hurried many down into a deep abyss, through which a roaring torrent was rushing onward towards the sea. Suddenly, as they were toiling up, the whole army of the Turks, who had remarked the separation of the division, and watched their moment too surely, appeared on the hill above. A tremendous shower of arrows instantly assailed the Christians. The confusion and dismay were beyond description: thousands fell headlong at once down the precipice, thousands were killed by the masses of rock which the hurry and agitation of those at the top hurled down upon those below; while the Turks, charging furiously all who had nearly climbed to the summit, drove them back upon the heads of such as were ascending. Having concluded,[587] that his advance-guard had secured the ground above, Louis, with the cavalry of his division, had remained in the rear, to cover his army from any attack. The first news of the Turkish force being in presence was gathered from the complete rout of the foot-soldiers, who had been mounting the hill, and who were now flying in every direction. The king instantly sent round his chaplain, Odon de Deuil, to seek for the other body under Geoffroy de Rancun, and to call it back to his aid; while in the mean time he spurred forward with what cavalry he had, to repel the Turks and protect his infantry. Up so steep an ascent the horses could make but little progress, and the Moslems, finding that their arrows turned off from the steel coats of the knights, aimed at the chargers, which, often mortally wounded, rolled down the steep, carrying their riders along with them. Those knights who succeeded in freeing themselves from their dying steeds were instantly attacked by the Turks, who, with fearful odds on their side, left hardly a living man of all the Chivalry that fought that day. The king even, dismounted by the death of his horse, was surrounded before he could well rise; but, catching the branches of a tree, he sprang upon a high insulated rock, where, armed with his sword alone, he defended himself, till the night falling freed him from his enemies. His situation now would have been little less hazardous than it was before, had he not luckily encountered a part of the infantry who had remained with the baggage. He was thus enabled, with what troops he could rally, to make his way during the night to the advance-guard, which had, as yet, remained unattacked. Geoffroy de Rancun had nearly been sacrificed to the just resentment of the people, but the uncle of the king, having been a participator in his fault, procured him pardon; and the army, which was now reduced to a state of greater discipline than before, by the Grand Master of the Templars,[588] who had accompanied it from Constantinople arrived without much more loss at Attalia.[589] Here the Greeks proved more dangerous enemies than the Turks, and every thing was done that human baseness and cunning could suggest, to plunder and destroy the unfortunate crusaders. Much discussion now took place concerning their further progress, and the difficulties before them rendered it necessary that a part of the host should proceed by sea to Antioch. The king at first determined that that part, should be the pilgrims on foot; and that he himself with his Chivalry would follow the path by land. The winter season, however, approaching, the scanty number of vessels that could be procured, and the exorbitant price which the Greeks demanded for the passage of each man--being no less than four marks of silver[590]--rendered the transport of the foot impossible. Louis, therefore, eager to reach Jerusalem, distributed what money he could spare among the pilgrims, engaged at an enormous price a Greek escort and guide to conduct them by land to Antioch, left the Count of Flanders to command them, and then took ship with the rest of his knights. The Count of Flanders soon found that the Greeks, having received their reward, refused to fulfil their agreement, and the impossibility of reaching Antioch without their aid being plain, he embarked and followed the king. The unhappy pilgrims, who remained cooped up beneath the walls, which they were not permitted to enter, on the one hand, and the Turkish army that watched them with unceasing vigilance, on the other, died, and were slaughtered by thousands. Some strove to force their passage to Antioch by land, and fell beneath the Moslem scimitar. Some cast themselves upon the compassion of the treacherous Greeks, and were more brutally treated than even by their infidel enemies. So miserable at length became their condition, that the Turks themselves ceased to attack them, brought them provisions and pieces of money, and showed them that compassion which their fellow-christians refused. Thus, in the end, several hundreds attached themselves[591] to their generous enemies, and were tempted to embrace the Moslem creed. The rest either became slaves to the Greeks, or died of pestilence and famine. In the mean while, Louis and his knights[592] arrived at Antioch, where they were received with the appearance of splendid hospitality by Raimond, the prince of that city, who was uncle of Eleonor, the wife of the French monarch. His hospitality, however, was of an interested nature: Antioch and Tripoli hang upon the skirts of the kingdom of Jerusalem as detached principalities, whose connexion with the chief country was vague and insecure. No sooner, therefore, did the news of the coming of the King of France reach the princes of those cities, than they instantly laid out a thousand plans for engaging Louis in extending the limits of their territories, before permitting him to proceed to Jerusalem. The Prince of Antioch assuredly had the greatest claim upon the king, by his relationship to the queen;[593] and he took every means of working on the husband, by ingratiating himself with the wife. Eleonor was a woman of strong and violent passions,[594] and of debauched and libertine manners, and she made no scruple of intriguing and caballing with her uncle to bend the king to his wishes. The Archbishop of Tyre, who was but little given to repeat a scandal, dwells with a tone of certainty upon the immoral life of the Queen of France, and says, she had even consented that her uncle should carry her off, after Louis had formally refused to second his efforts against Cesarea. However that may be, her conduct was a disgrace to the crusade; and Louis, in his letters to Suger, openly complained of her infidelity. The king resisted all entreaties and all threats, and, equally rejecting the suit of the Count of Tripoli,[595] he proceeded to Jerusalem, where the emperor Conrad, having passed by sea from Constantinople, had arrived before him. Here the whole of the princes were called to council; and it was determined that, instead of endeavouring to retake Edessa, which had been the original object of the crusade, the troops of Jerusalem, joined to all that remained of the pilgrim armies, should attempt the siege of Damascus. The monarchs immediately took the field, supported by the knights of the Temple and St. John, who, in point of courage, equalled the Chivalry of any country, and in discipline excelled them all. Nourhaddin and Saphaddin, the two sons of the famous Zenghi, threw what men they could suddenly collect into Damascus, and hastened in person to raise as large a force as possible to attack the Christian army. The crusaders advanced to the city, drove in the Turkish outposts[596] that opposed them, and laid siege to the fortifications, which in a short time were so completely ruined, that Damascus could hold out no longer. And yet Damascus did not fall. Dissension, that destroying angel of great enterprises, was busy in the Christian camp. The possession of the still unconquered town[597] was disputed among the leaders. Days and weeks passed in contests, and at length, when it was determined that the prize should be given to the Count of Flanders, who had twice visited the Holy Land, the decision caused so much dissatisfaction, that all murmured and none acted. Each one suspected his companion; dark reports and scandalous charges were mutually spread and countenanced; the Templars were accused of having received a bribe from the infidels; the European monarchs[598] were supposed to aim at the subjugation of Jerusalem; the conquerors were conquered by their doubts of each other; and, retiring from the spot where they had all but triumphed, they attempted to storm the other side of the city, where the walls were as firm as a rock of adamant. Repenting of their folly, they soon were willing to return to their former ground, but the fortifications had been repaired, the town had received fresh supplies, and Saphaddin, emir of Mousul, was marching to its relief. Only one plan was to be pursued. The siege was abandoned, and the leaders,[599] discontented with themselves and with each other, retreated gloomily to Jerusalem. The Emperor of Germany set out immediately for Europe; but Louis, who still hoped to find some opportunity of redeeming his military fame, lingered for several months; while Eleonor continued to sully scenes, whose memory is composed of all that is holy, with her impure amours. At length the pressing entreaties of Suger induced the French monarch to return to his native land. There he found the authority he had confided to that great and excellent minister had been employed to the infinite benefit of his dominions--he found his finances increased and order established in every department of the state;[600]--and he found, also, that the minister was not only willing, but eager, to yield the reins of government to the hand from which he had received them.--During the absence of the king, his brother, Robert of Dreux, who returned before him, had endeavoured to thwart the noble Abbot of St. Denis, and even to snatch the regency from him; but Suger boldly called together a general assembly of the nobility of France, and intrusted his cause to their decision. The court met at Soissons, and unanimously supported the minister against his royal opponent; after which he ruled, indeed, in peace; but Robert strove by every means to poison the mind of the king against him; and it can be little doubted, that Louis, on his departure from Palestine, viewed the conduct of Suger with a very jealous eye. The effects of his government, however, and the frankness with which he resigned it, at once did away all suspicions. The expedition was now over, but yet one effort more was to be made, before we can consider the second crusade as absolutely terminated. Suger had opposed the journey of the king to the Holy Land, but he was not in the least wanting in zeal or compassionate enthusiasm in favour of his brethren of the east.[601] Any thing but the absence of a monarch from his unquiet dominions he would have considered as a small sacrifice towards the support of the kingdom of Jerusalem; and now, at seventy years, he proposed to raise an army at his own expense, and to finish his days in Palestine.--His preparations were carried on with an ardour, an activity, an intelligence, which would have been wonderful even in a man at his prime; but, in the midst of his designs, he was seized with a slow fever, which soon showed him that his end was near. He saw the approach of death with firmness; and, during the four months that preceded his decease, he failed not from the bed of sickness to continue all his orders for the expedition, which could no longer bring living glory to himself. He named the chief whom he thought most worthy to lead it; he bestowed upon him all the treasures he had collected for the purpose; he gave him full instructions for his conduct, and he made him swear upon the Cross to fulfil his intentions. Having done this, the Abbot of St. Denis waited calmly the approach of that hour which was to separate him from the living; and died, leaving no one like him in Europe. With his life appears to have ended the second crusade, which, with fewer obstacles and greater facilities than the first, produced little but disgrace and sorrow to all by whom it was accompanied.[602] CHAPTER XI. _Progress of Society--The Rise of Poetry in Modern Europe--Troubadours-- Trouveres--Various Poetical Compositions--Effect of Poetry upon Chivalry-- Effect of the Crusades on Society--State of Palestine after the Second Crusade--Cession of Edessa to the Emperor Manuel Comnenus--Edessa completely subjected by the Turks--Ascalon taken by the Christians--State of Egypt under the last Califs of the Fatimite Race--The Latins and the Atabecks both design the Conquest of Egypt--Struggles for that Country-- Rise of Saladin--Disputes among the Latins concerning the Succession of the Crown--Guy of Lusignan crowned--Saladin invades Palestine--Battle of Tiberias--Fall of Jerusalem--Conquest of all Palestine--Some Inquiry into the Causes of the Latin Overthrow._ Before proceeding to trace the events which occurred in the Holy Land between the second and third crusades, it may be as well to keep our eyes upon Europe for a few moments, and to remark the advance of society towards civilization. Prior to the period of the first expedition to Palestine, Germany had been occupied alone in struggling against the papal authority, and in fighting for dominions in Italy, the limits of which were always sufficiently vague to admit of disputes and aggressions on all parts. Apulia and the southern portion of Italy had been subjected, as we have seen, by the Normans; and the rest of that country, with the exception of some small republican cities, was divided into feudal baronies, the right of homage over which was very uncertain. Engaged in private wars and feuds, where personal interest was the sole object, unmixed with any refining principle, the Chivalry of Italy made but small progress. From time to time a great and distinguished chief started up, and dignified his country; but the general feeling of knightly zeal was not extended far in Italy, or was wasted in the petty purposes of confined and unimportant struggles. In Germany also Chivalry advanced but little. There was much dignified firmness in the character of the people; and--under the walls of Damascus--in the wars with the pope, and with the Norman possessors of Calabria--the German knights evinced that in the battle-field none were more daring, more powerful, or more resolute; but we find few instances where enthusiasm was mingled with valour, and where the ardour of chivalric devotion was joined to the bold courage of the Teutonic warrior. In Spain the spirit was at its height; but Spain had her own crusades; and it was quite enough for the swords of her gallant band of knights to free their native land, inch by inch, from her Saracen invaders. Military orders[603] were there instituted in the middle of the twelfth century; and the knights of Calatrava and St. James might challenge the world to produce a more chivalrous race than themselves; still the object of all their endeavours was the freedom of their native country from the yoke of the Moors, and they engaged but little in any of those great expeditions which occupied the attention and interest of the world. It is to France, then, and to England, under the dominion of its Norman monarchs, that we must turn our eyes; and here, during the course of the twelfth century, we shall find great and extraordinary progress. Previous to the epoch of the crusades, France, though acknowledging one king, had consisted of various nations, whose manners, habits, and languages differed in the most essential points.[604] The Provençal was as opposite a being to the Frank of that day, as the Italian is now to the Russian. The Norman and the Breton also descended from distinct origins, and in most cases these separate tribes hated each other with no slight share of enmity. The character of the Norman was in all times enterprising, wandering, cunning, and selfish; that of the Breton, or Armorican, savage, ferocious, daring, and implacable; but imaginative in the highest degree, as well as superstitious. The Provençal was light, avaricious, keen, active, and sensual; the Frank, bold, hardy, persevering, but vain, insolent, and thoughtless.[605] Distinctive character lies more generally in men's faults than their virtues; and thus, all these different races possessed the same higher qualities in common. They were brave to a prodigy; energetic, talented, enthusiastic; but during the eleventh, and the beginning of the twelfth centuries, the rude state of society in which Chivalry had arisen, continued to affect it still. The first crusade, however, gave an impulse to all those countries that joined in it, which tended infinitely to civilize Europe, by uniting nations and tribes, which had long been separated by different interests, in one great enterprise, wherein community of object, and community of danger, necessarily harmonized many previously discordant feelings, and did away many old animosities, by the strong power of mutual assistance and mutual endeavour. The babel of languages which Fulcher describes in the Christian camp before long began to form itself into two more general tongues. Latin, notwithstanding all the support it received in the court, in the church, and in the schools, was soon confined to the cloister; and the _langue d'oc_, or Provençal, became the common language of all the provinces on the southern side of the Loire, while the _langue d'oil_ only was spoken in the north of France. The manners and habits of the people, too, were gradually shaded into each other; the distinctions became less defined: the Provençal no longer looked upon the Breton as a savage; and the Frank no longer classed the Provençal with the ape. A thousand alliances were formed between individuals of different tribes, and the hand of kindred smoothed away the remaining asperities of national prejudice. Such assimilations tend of course to calm and mollify the mind of man; so that the general character of the country became of a less rude and ferocious nature. At this time, too, sprang up that greatest of all the softeners of the human heart, poetry; and immense was the change it wrought in the manners and deportment of that class which constituted the society of the twelfth century. The poetry of that age bore as distinct and clear a stamp of the epoch to which it belonged, as any that the world ever produced; and it is absurd to trace to an earlier day the origin of a kind of poesy which was founded upon Chivalry alone, and reflected nothing but the objects of a chivalrous society. It is little important which of the two tongues of France first boasted a national poet, and equally unimportant which gave birth to the most excellent poetry. The _langue d'oc_ was the most mellifluous; the _langue d'oil_ was the most forcible; but neither brought forth any thing but the tales, the songs, the satires, the ballads of Chivalry. It is more than probable that some musical ear in Provence first applied to his own language the melody of regularly arranged syllables, and the jingle of rhyme. No sooner was this done than the passion spread to all classes. Chivalrous love and chivalrous warfare furnished subjects in plenty; and the _gai savoir_, the _biau parler_, became the favourite relaxation of those very men who wielded the lance and sword in the battle-field. The Troubadours were multiplied to infinity; the language lent itself almost spontaneously to versification; and kings, warriors, and ladies, as well as the professed poets, occasionally practised the new and captivating art, which at once increased chivalrous enthusiasm, by spreading and perpetuating the fame of noble deeds, and softened the manners of the age, by the influence of sweet sounds and intellectual exercises. The songs themselves soon became as various as those who composed them, and were divided into _Sirventes_, _Tensons_, _Pastourelles_, and _Nouvelles_, or _Contes_.[606] The Conte, or tale in verse, needs no description, and the nature of the Pastourelle also is self-evident. The _Sirvente_ deserves more particular notice. It was in fact a satire, of the most biting and lively character; in which wit and poetry were not used to cover or to temper the reprobation of either individual or general vice, but rather, on the contrary, to give point and energy to invective. The keen bitterness of the Troubadours spared neither rank nor caste; kings, and nobles, and priests, all equally underwent the lash of their wit; and it is from these very sirventes that we gain a clear insight into many of the customs and manners of that day, as well as into many, too many, scenes of grossness and immorality, from which we would fain believe that Chivalry was free. The Tensons, or _Jeux partis_, were dialogues between two persons on some subject of love or chivalry, and in general show far more subtilty than poetical feeling. To these were added occasional epistles in verse; and _Plaintes_, or lamentations, in which the death or misfortune of a friend was mourned with a touching simplicity that has since been too often imitated with very ineffective art. Other compositions, such as the _Aubade_ and the _Serenade_, were in use, the difference of which from the common _lay_ consisted merely in their metrical construction: the word _alba_ being always repeated at the end of each stanza of the aubade, and the word _ser_ continually terminating each division of the serenade.[607] Such was the poesy of the _Langue d'oc_ and the Troubadours. The _Langue d'oil_ had also its poets, the Trouveres, and its poesy, which differed totally from that of the _Langue d'oc_. The art was here more ambitious than with the Provençals; and we find, among the first productions of the Trouveres, long and complex poems, which would fain deserve the name of Epics. The first of these, both in date and importance, is the Norman romance of Rou, which bears a considerable resemblance, in its object and manner, to the fragments of old Scandinavian poetry which have come down to us, but has a continuous and uniform subject, and strong attempts at unity of design. The romance of the Rose also, commenced by Guillaume de Lorris,[608] and concluded by Jean de Meung, is one of the most extraordinary compositions that the world ever produced, and stands perfectly alone--an allegory in twenty-two thousand verses! Various subjects, quite irrelevant to the object of the song, are introduced in its course; and the poet mingles his tale with satire and sarcasm, which were fully as often misdirected as deserved. Besides these were all the famous romances of Chivalry which probably originated in the fabulous but interesting story of Charlemagne's visit to the Holy Land, falsely attributed to the archbishop Turpin. This work bears internal evidence of having been written after the first crusade, and, we have reason to suppose, was translated into French,[609] from the Latin manuscript of some monkish author. In all the romances of the Round Table, we trace the end of the twelfth, and the beginning of the thirteenth century. They could not have been composed prior to that epoch; for we find many customs and objects mentioned, which were not known at an earlier period; and it is probable, from various circumstances, that they are not referable to a later age. Besides these, multitudes of _Fabliaux_[610] have descended to us from the Trouveres, and in this sort of composition, it is but fair to say, we find more originality, variety, and strength, though less sweetness and less enthusiasm, than among the compositions of the Troubadours. At this period also we meet with an institution in Provence, of which I shall speak but slightly, from many motives, though undoubtedly it had a great influence upon the character of Chivalry: I mean the Court of Love, as it was called, where causes concerning that passion were tried and judged as seriously, as if feelings could be submitted to a tribunal. Could that be the case, the object of such a court should certainly be very different from that of the Provençal Court of Love, the effect of which was any thing but to promote morality. It tended, however, with every thing else, to soften the manners of the country, though all the mad absurdities to which it gave rise were a scandal and a disgrace to Europe. Besides all these causes of mitigation, the constant journeys of the people of Europe to the Holy Land taught them gradually the customs of other nations; and in that age there was much good to be learned by a frequent intercourse with foreigners. The great want of Europe was civilization; the vices of the day were pretty equally spread through all countries, and the very circumstance of mingling with men of different habits and thoughts promoted the end to be desired, without bringing any great importation of foreign follies or crimes. Many useful arts, and many sciences, previously unknown, were also obtained from the Saracens themselves; and though in the crusades Europe sacrificed a host of her noblest knights, and spent immense treasures and energies, yet she derived, notwithstanding, no small benefit from her communication with Palestine. The state of that country, in the mean while, was every day becoming more and more precarious. The nations by whom it was surrounded were improving in military discipline, in political knowledge, and in the science of timing and combining their efforts, while the Christians were losing ground in every thing but courage. The military orders of the Temple and St. John were the bulwarks of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem; but at the same time, by their pride, their disputes, and their ambition, they did nearly as much to undermine its strength at home as they did to support it with their swords in the field of battle. It would be endless to trace all the events in Palestine which brought about the third crusade, and to investigate minutely the causes which worked out the ruin of the Christian dominion in the Holy Land. The simple facts must be enough in this place. Although the crusade which went forth for the express purpose of delivering Edessa never even attempted that object, Joscelyn of Courtenay did not neglect to struggle for his lost territory, and gained some splendid successes over the infidels, which were all in turn reversed, by his capture and death in prison.[611] After his failure, the difficulty of keeping Edessa was so apparent, that the monarch of Jerusalem[612] determined to yield it to the Emperor Manuel Comnenus, on condition of his defending it against the Turks. Manuel, therefore, received the principality; but the weak and cowardly Greeks soon lost what the valiant Franks could not maintain; and before a year was over, Nourhaddin the Great, sultaun of Aleppo, was in full possession of Edessa and all its dependencies. Baldwin III., however, who had cast off the follies of his youth, and now displayed as great qualities as any of his race, more than compensated for the loss of that principality by the capture of Ascalon.[613] After this great success, eight years of varied warfare followed; and at the end of that period Baldwin died, leaving behind him the character of one of the noblest of the Latin kings. His brother Almeric ascended the vacant throne, but with talents infinitely inferior, and a mind in no degree calculated to cope with the great and grasping genius of Nourhaddin, who combined, in rare union, the qualities of an ambitious and politic monarch with the character of a liberal, frugal, and unostentatious man. Almeric was ambitious also; but his avarice was always a check on his ambition, and he suffered himself often to be bribed, where he might have conquered. At this time[614] the Fatimite califs of Egypt had fallen into a state of nonentity. The country was governed by a vizier, and the high office was struggled for by a succession of military adventurers. Such a state of things awakened the attention of the monarchs of Jerusalem and Aleppo, and each resolved to make himself master of Egypt. An opportunity soon presented itself. Shawer, the vizier of Egypt, was expelled from his post by Dargham, a soldier of fortune. The disgraced vizier fled to the court of Nourhaddin, and prayed for assistance against the usurper. Nourhaddin willingly granted a request which yielded the means of sending his troops into Egypt; and two Curdish refugees, uncle and nephew, who had risen high in his army,[615] under the names of Assad Eddyn Chyrkouh, and Salah Eddyn or Saladin, were despatched with considerable forces to expel Dargham, and to re-establish Shawer. Dargham saw the gathering storm, and to shelter himself from its fury called the Christians from Palestine to his aid. But the movements of the Moslems were more rapid than those of Almeric; and, before the King of Jerusalem could reach Cairo, Chyrkouh had given battle to Dargham, and defeated and killed him, and Shawer was repossessed of the authority he had lost. Shawer soon found that his power was fully as much in danger from his allies as it had been from his enemies; and, to resist the Turks whom he had brought into Egypt, he was obliged to enter into a treaty with the Christians. Almeric marched immediately to Cairo, and after a multitude of manoeuvres and skirmishes, forced Chyrkouh and Saladin to quit the country; displaying, through the whole of this war, more scientific generalship than was at all usual in that age. No sooner were the Turks gone, than the Latin monarch[616] broke his truce with the Egyptians, and Shawer was once more obliged to apply to Nourhaddin. Chyrkouh again advanced into the Fatimite dominions with increased forces, obliged Almeric to retreat with great loss, took possession of Cairo, beheaded Shawer, and installed himself in the office of vizier to Adhad, calif of Egypt, though he still retained the title of lieutenant for Nourhaddin of Aleppo. Not long after these successes, Chyrkouh died, and Nourhaddin, doubtful of the fidelity of the Turkish emirs, gave the vacant post to Saladin, the nephew of the late vizier; in which choice he was as much guided by the apparently reckless and pleasure-seeking despotism of the young Curdish chief, as by the military skill he had shown when forced unwillingly into action. Saladin, however, was scarcely invested with supreme power in Egypt when his real character appeared. He cast from him the follies with which he had veiled his great and daring mind; and, by means of the immense treasures placed at his command, soon bound to his interests many who had been at first disgusted by his unexpected elevation. The califs of Egypt had been always considered as schismatics by the califs of Bagdat, to whom Nourhaddin still affected homage; and Saladin was forthwith instructed to declare the Fatimite dynasty at an end, and to re-establish in Egypt the nominal dominion of the Abassides. This was easily accomplished; Adhad, the calif, either died before the revolution was completed, or was strangled in the bath; the people little cared under whose yoke they laboured. The children of the late calif were confined in the harem; and Motshadi, calif of Bagdat, was prayed for as God's vicar on earth. Saladin's ambitious projects became every day more and more apparent, and Nourhaddin was not blind to the conduct of his officer. Submission quieted his suspicions for a time; and, though repeated causes for fresh jealousy arose, he was obliged to forego marching into Egypt in person, as he undoubtedly intended, till death put a stop to all his schemes. No sooner was Nourhaddin dead, than Almeric attacked his widow at Paneas,[617] and Saladin began to encroach upon other parts of his territories: but Saladin was the only gainer by the death of the great sultaun, and made himself master, by various means, of the whole of his Syrian dominions, while internal dissensions and changes in the government of Palestine gradually weakened every bulwark of the Latin throne. Almeric[618] died in returning from Paneas, and his son, Baldwin IV, surnamed the Leper, succeeded him. Had his corporeal powers been equal to the task of royalty, it is probable that Baldwin would have been a far greater monarch than his father; but, after many struggles for activity, he found that disease incapacitated him for energetic rule, and he intrusted the care of the state to Guy of Lusignan, who had married his sister Sybilla, widow of the Marquis of Montferrat, to whom she had borne one son.[619] Guy of Lusignan soon showed himself unworthy of the charge, and Baldwin,[620] resuming the government, endeavoured to establish it in such a form that it might uphold itself after his death, which he felt to be approaching. With this view he offered the administration to the Count of Tripoli,[621] during the minority of his sister's child; but the Count refused to accept it, except under condition that the charge of the young prince should be given to Joscelyn de Courtenay, the surviving branch of the Courtenays of Edessa, and son of the unhappy count who died in a Saracen prison. He also stipulated that the castles and fortresses of the kingdom should be garrisoned by the Hospitallers and Templars; and that in case the boy should die in his youth, the question of succession should be determined by the Pope, the Emperor of Germany, the King of France, and the King of England.[622] Not many years after this the king died, and Baldwin V. succeeded, but his death followed immediately upon his accession. Without abiding by the dispositions of the former monarch, no sooner was the young king dead, than the Grand Master of the Temple, Renauld of Chatillon, Count of Karac, and the Patriarch of Jerusalem joined to raise Sybilla to the throne, in spite of the formal protest of all the other barons and the Grand Master of the Hospital. The gates of Jerusalem were shut;[623] and it was only by sending one of their followers, disguised as a monk, that the nobles assembled with the Count of Tripoli at Naplousa could gain any tidings of what passed. Sybilla was crowned in form; and then the patriarch, pointing to the other crown which lay upon the altar, told her that it was hers to dispose of, on which she immediately placed it on the head of Guy of Lusignan.[624] After this some of the barons refused to do homage to the new king, and some absented themselves from his court; but the imminent danger in which the country was placed at length brought back a degree of concord, when concord could no longer avail. Saladin had by this time made himself master of all Syria;[625] and had not only consolidated into one great monarchy dominions which for ages had been separated into petty states, but also, by the incessant application of a powerful and expansive mind, he had drawn forth and brought into action many latent but valuable resources which had previously been unknown or forgotten. He had taught the whole interests of his people to centre in his own person, and he now determined to direct their energies to one great and important enterprise. That enterprise was the conquest of Palestine, and with an army of fifty thousand horse, and near two hundred thousand foot, he advanced towards Jerusalem, and laid siege to Tiberias.[626] Within the walls of that fortress the Countess of Tripoli held out against the Saracens, while her husband joined Guy of Lusignan, and brought his forces to the field in defence of the Holy Land. The conduct of the Count of Tripoli is very obscure.[627] That from time to time he had treated with the Saracens is evident, and almost every European authority, except Mills, accuses him of having, in this instance, betrayed his countrymen into the hands of the infidels. Whether with or against his advice matters little to the general result--the Christians marched down to meet Saladin at Tiberias.[628] Beyond doubt it was by the counsel of the Count of Tripoli that they pitched their tents in a spot where no water was to be found. The troops suffered dreadfully from thirst; and in the morning, when they advanced to attack Saladin in the cool of the dawn, the wary monarch retired before them, resolved not to give them battle till the heat of the risen sun had added to their fatigues. To increase the suffocating warmth of a Syrian summer's day, he set fire to the low bushes and shrubs which surrounded the Christian camp; so that when the battle did begin, the Latin forces were quite overcome with weariness and drought. The contest raged throughout the day, the Christians fighting to reach the wells which lay behind the Saracen power,[629] but in vain; and night fell, leaving the strife still doubtful. The next morning the Latins and Turks again mixed in combat. The Count of Tripoli[630] forced his way through the Saracens, and escaped unhurt; but the scimitars of the Moslems mowed down whole ranks of the Christians, for their immense superiority of numbers allowed them to surround the height upon which the king and the chief of his army were stationed, and to wage the warfare at once against every face of the Latin host. Such a conflict could not long endure. Multitudes of the infidels fell, but their loss was nothing in proportion to their number, when compared with that which their adversaries underwent. The Grand Master of the Hospital[631] alone clove his way from the field of battle, after having staid till victory had settled upon the Paynim banners. He reached Ascalon that night, but died on the following day of the wounds he had received. The King--Renault de Chatillon, Count of Karac, who had so often broken faith with the Moslems--and the Grand Master of the Temple, whose whole order was in abhorrence among the Mussulmans--were taken alive and carried prisoners to the tent of Saladin. That monarch remained for some time on the field, giving orders that the knights of St. John[632] and those of the Temple, who had been captured, should instantly embrace Islamism, or undergo the fate of the scimitar. A thousand acts of cruelty and aggression on their part had given cause to such deadly hatred; but at the hour of death not one knight could be brought to renounce his creed; and they died with that calm resolution which is in itself a glory. After this bloody consummation of his victory, Saladin entered the tent where Lusignan and his companions expected a similar fate: but Saladin, thirsty himself, called for iced sherbet, and having drank, handed the cup to the fallen monarch, a sure pledge that his life was secure. Lusignan in turn passed it to Renaul of Chatillon,[633] but the sultaun, starting up, exclaimed, "No hospitality for the breaker of all engagements!"[634] and before Chatillon could drink, with one blow of his scimitar, Saladin severed his head from his body. Tiberias surrendered immediately. City after city now fell into the power of the victor, and at length, after an obstinate defence, Jerusalem once more was trodden by the Moslems.[635] But the conduct of the infidel sultaun on this occasion shames the cruelty of the crusaders. When the people could hold out no longer, Saladin, who had at first offered the most advantageous terms, insisted that the city should now throw itself upon his mercy. He then agreed upon a moderate ransom for the prisoners, and promised to let each man carry forth his goods without impediment. When this was done, with extraordinary care he saw that neither insult nor injury should be offered to the Christians; and, having taken possession of the town, he placed a guard at one of the gates to receive the ransom of the inhabitants as they passed out. Nevertheless, when the whole wealth which could be collected in the town had been paid down, an immense number of the poorer Christians remained unredeemed. These were destined to be slaves; but Bernard the Treasurer relates, that Saif Eddyn, the brother of the monarch, begged the liberty of one thousand of these, and that about the same number were delivered at the prayer of the Patriarch and of Baléan de Ibelyn,[636] who had commanded in the place, and communicated with the Curdish monarch on its surrender. After this Saladin declared that his brother, the Patriarch, and Ibelyn had done their alms, and that now he would do his alms also; on which he caused it to be proclaimed through the city,[637] that all the poor people who could give no ransom might go forth in safety by the gate of St. Lazarus; but he ordered that if any attempted to take advantage of this permission who really could pay for their deliverance, they should be instantly seized and cast into prison. Many of the nobler prisoners also he freed at the entreaty of the Christian ladies; and in his whole conduct he showed himself as moderate in conquest, as he was great in battle. Antioch and the neighbouring towns, as well as the greater part of the county of Tripoli,[638] were soon reduced to the Saracen yoke, and with the exception of Tyre, which was defended by the gallant Conrad, Marquis of Montferrat, the whole of Palestine became subject to the victor of Tiberias. Such was the sudden and disastrous termination of the Christian dominion in the Holy Land;[639] a misfortune which all the contemporary writers attribute to the vices of the inhabitants. Without presuming to assign it, as they do, to the special wrath of Heaven, we may nevertheless believe that the gross and scandalous crimes of the people of Jerusalem greatly accelerated its return to the Moslem domination. After the successes of the first crusade, the refuse of European populations poured into Palestine in hopes of gain, and brought all their vices to add to the stock of those that the country already possessed. The clergy were as licentious as the laity, the chiefs as immoral as the people. Intestine quarrels are sure to follow upon general crime; and unbridled passions work as much harm to the society in which they are tolerated, as to the individuals on whom they are exercised. The Latins of Palestine retained their courage, it is true; but they knew no confidence in each other. Virtue, the great bond of union, subsisted not among them, and each one caballed, intrigued, and strove against his neighbour. The ambition of the two great military orders bred continual hatred and opposition,[640] and the discord that existed between the Hospitallers and the clergy caused another breach in the harmony of the state. During the time that the kingdom of Jerusalem was thus dividing itself, by passions and vices, into ruinous factions and enfeebled bodies, Saladin and those that preceded him were bending all their energies to consolidate their power and extend their dominion. Zenghi was a great warrior, Nourhaddin a great monarch,[641] and Saladin added to the high qualities of both, not only a degree of civilization in his own person which neither had known, but, what was still more, the spirit of civilization in his heart. Saladin was as superior to any of the princes of Palestine in mind as he was in territory; and with clear and general views of policy, keenness and strength of perception in difficulties, consummate skill in war, innumerable forces, and the hearts of his soldiers, it was impossible that he should not conquer. There can be no doubt that the Latins were a more powerful and vigorous race of men than the Turks. The event of every combat evinced it; and even in their defeats, they almost always left more dead upon the field of the enemy's forces than of their own. Their armour, too, was weightier,[642] and their horses heavier and more overpowering in the charge. But the Turkish horseman and the Turkish horse were more active and more capable of bearing long fatigue, privation, and heat than the European; and this in some degree made up for the slighter form and lighter arms of the Saracen. In war, also, as a science, the Turks had improved more than the Christians. We find that the troops of Saladin employed means in their sieges that they had acquired from the crusaders; that they stood firmly the charge of the cavalry; that they now fought hand to hand with the mailed warriors of Europe, and mixed all the modes of chivalrous warfare with those they had practised before. We do not perceive, however, that the Latins adopted their activity or their skill with the bow; and at the same time it must be remarked, that the armies of the Moslem fought as a whole, under the absolute command of one chief; while the Christians, divided in the battle as in the time of peace, were broken into separate corps under feudal leaders, who each consulted his own will fully as much as that of his sovereign. Many other causes might be traced for the Christian fall and the Mussulman triumph; but perhaps more has been already said than was required. Whatever were the causes the result was the same--Jerusalem was taken by the Moslem, and consternation spread through Christendom. CHAPTER XII. _The News of the Fate of Palestine reaches Europe--The Archbishop of Tyre comes to seek for Aid--Assistance granted by William the Good, of Sicily--Death of Urban, from Grief at the Loss of Jerusalem--Gregory VIII. promotes a Crusade--Expedition of Frederic, Emperor of Germany--His Successes--His Death--State of Europe--Crusade promoted by the Troubadours--Philip Augustus and Henry II. take the Cross--Laws enacted--Saladin's tenth--War renewed--Death of Henry II.--Accession of Richard Coeur de Lion--The Crusade--Philip's March--Richard's March--Affairs of Sicily--Quarrels between the Monarchs--Philip goes to Acre--Richard subdues Cyprus--Arrives at Acre--Siege and Taking of Acre--Fresh Disputes--Philip Augustus returns to Europe--Richard marches on--Battle of Azotus--Heroism of Richard--Unsteady Councils--The Enterprise abandoned._ We have seen the solicitations of the church, and the eloquence of two extraordinary men, produce the first and second crusades; but many other incitements were added to clerical exhortations before the inveterate enmity of the French and English could be sufficiently calmed to permit of any thing like a united expedition for the recovery of the Holy Land. The Italian merchants,[643] who at that time carried on the commerce of the world, were the first that brought to Europe the terrible news of the battle of Tiberias, the capture of Jerusalem, and the fall of Palestine: but very soon after, William of Tyre,[644] the noble historian of the crusades, set out in person to demand assistance in behalf of his afflicted country from all the princes of Christendom. He first landed in Sicily, where William, king of that country, who had married Joan of England, received him with kindness, and instantly took measures for furnishing such assistance to the Christians of the Holy Land, that the small territory yet unconquered might be successfully defended till further succour could arrive. Three hundred knights and a considerable naval force were despatched at once; and William of Sicily was continuing zealously his preparations, when death cut him off in the midst; and the crown was seized by Tancred, natural son of Roger I. From Sicily, the Archbishop of Tyre proceeded to Rome; but he only arrived in time to witness the death of Pope Urban III.,[645] whose mind was so deeply affected by the loss of the Holy Land, and the capture of the sepulchre, that his enfeebled constitution gave way under the shock, and he literally died of grief. Gregory VIII., who succeeded, lost not a moment in preaching a new crusade; and during his short pontificate of but two months, he left no means untried to heal the dissensions of Christendom, and to turn the arms of the princes who now employed them against each other to the service of God, as it was then considered, in the deliverance of that land which had been sanctified by his advent. The first who took the Cross was the famous Frederic Barbarossa,[646] who conducted a magnificent army across Hungary and Greece, saw through and defeated the perfidious schemes of the Greek emperor, Isaac Angelus,[647] passed on into Asia Minor, overthrew in a pitched battle the Saracen forces which had been called against him by the base and cowardly Greek, and took the city of Iconium itself. Such splendid successes, with so little loss, had never before attended any Christian host; but the light that shone upon the German arms was soon changed to darkness by the death of Frederic, who, bathing imprudently in the Orontes,[648] returned to his tent in a dying state, and soon after expired[649] at seventy years of age. After the decease of the emperor, while Henry, his eldest son, who had remained in Germany, assumed the imperial crown, Philip Duke of Suabia led on the host towards Antioch. But the very name of Frederic had been a subject of such fear, even to Saladin himself,[650] that he had ordered the towns of Laodicea, Ghibel, Tortosa, Biblios, Berytes, and Sidon to be dismantled at the approach of the Germans. Now, again, the Saracens resumed the offensive; and, between war and famine, the Teutonic crusaders were reduced to a small body when they reached Antioch. Their force was still sufficient to give them the command of that city, and proved a most serviceable aid to the Christian troops, who were slowly beginning to rally throughout Palestine. A new military institution was soon after attached, by the duke of Suabia, to the German hospital, which had been founded at Jerusalem many years before by some northern merchants, and had since been greatly enlarged by the Hanseatic[651] traders of Bremen and Lubec. On this establishment he grafted the Order of the Knights of the Holy Cross, or the Teutonic knights of the Hospital of St. Mary,[652] which soon greatly increased, and was sanctioned by papal authority. I must now return to France and England, where private feuds had prevented the distresses of Palestine from producing so immediate an effect as they had wrought with the Germans. Henry II. had, as we have already seen, espoused Eleonor, the repudiated wife of Louis VII., and had obtained with her the whole of Aquitain.[653] This, in addition to Normandy, which he also held as a feudatory of the French crown, rendered the kingly vassal a greater territorial lord than even the sovereign to whom he did homage for his continental lands. Such a state of things, was alone quite sufficient to cause endless dissensions; but soon more immediate matter was found. Louis VII. died. Philip Augustus succeeded, yet in his youth; and Henry II., after having himself, in execution of the feudal duty of the dukes of Normandy, lifted the crown with which Philip's brow was to be decorated, endeavoured to strengthen his own party in France as much as possible against the young monarch. His second son, Geoffrey, he married to Constance, Dutchess of Brittany: his eldest son, Henry, espoused Marguerite, sister of Philip, and received with her the lordship of Gisors,[654] and the territory of the Vexin. Prince Henry died early, leaving no children; and the land, by his marriage contract, reverted to the crown of France; but his father refused to yield it. War broke out in consequence, and was raging fiercely when the news of the fall of Jerusalem reached Europe. The tidings were so unexpected, each one felt so deep and religious a devotion for the Holy Land, every knight had there so many relations or friends, that the news found a thousand avenues open to the hearts of all who heard it. The world, too, was then mad with song. Nations in that early age had all the zealous passions of youth. That fresh ardour--that wild spirit of pursuit, which almost every one must have felt in his own young days, was then the character of society at large. Europe was as an enthusiastic boy, and whatever it followed, love, religion, song, it followed with the uncontrolled passion, the fiery desire which burns but in the days of boyhood among nations as among men. Poetry had now become both the great delight, and the great mover of the day; and all the eloquence of verse found a fit subject in the sorrows of Palestine. The Troubadours[655] and the Trouveres vied with each other, which should do most to stimulate the monarchs and the Chivalry of Europe to lay aside their private quarrels, and to fly to the deliverance of the Holy Land. The _plainte_ was heard from castle to castle, mourning over the loss of Jerusalem. The _sirvente_ and the _fabliau_ were spread far and wide, lashing with all the virulence of indignant satire those whom feuds or interests withheld from the battles of the Cross. The papal authority enjoined, with its menaces and its inducements, peace to Europe and war to the Saracen: but even superstition and zeal effected little, when compared with the power of the new passion for song. The first crusade had been the effect of a general enthusiasm; the second of individual eloquence; but this was the crusade of poetry. The first two were brought about by the clergy alone; but this was the work of the Troubadours. A truce between Henry II. and Philip Augustus was agreed upon, and a meeting was fixed between Trie and Gisors,[656] for the purpose of considering the manner of settling all difficulties, and the best means of delivering Jerusalem. The whole of the barons of France and England were present at this parliament, which was held in the month of January, and mutual jealousies and hatred had nearly turned the assembly, which met to promote peace, to the purposes of bloodshed. At length the Cardinal of Albano and William, Archbishop of Tyre, presented themselves to the meeting; and the oriental prelate having related all the horrors he had himself beheld in the Holy Land--the slaughter of Tiberias, the fall of Jerusalem, the pollution of the temple, and the capture of the sepulchre--the symbol of the Cross was unanimously adopted by all; private wars were laid aside, and a mode of proceeding was determined on which promised to furnish vast supplies for the holy enterprise to which the kings and barons bound themselves. The first of the measures resolved was to enforce a general contribution from all persons who did not take the Cross, whether clergy or laity, towards defraying the expense of the crusade. This consisted of a tenth of all possessions, whether landed or personal, and was called _Saladin's tithe_. Each lord, clerical or secular, had the right of raising this tax within his own feoff. The lord of the commune could alone tithe his burghers, the archbishop his see, the abbot the lands of the monastery, the chapter the lands of the church. Any knight having taken the Cross, and being the legitimate heir of a knight or a widow[657] who had not taken the Cross, was entitled to lay the tax upon the lands of the other; while all who refused or neglected to pay their quota were given absolutely to the disposal of him who had the right to require it. At the same time that such inflictions were adjudged to those who rejected the call to the Holy Land, many immunities were accorded to such as followed the crusade. Great facilities were given to all the crusaders for the payment of their anterior debts; but they were by no means, as has been frequently asserted,[658] liberated from all engagements during the time they were occupied in the expedition. Such were the regulations which were first brought forward at Gisors. Each of the monarchs proposed them afterward to a separate court of their barons and clergy, Philip at Paris, and Henry, first at Rouen, to his Norman council, and afterward to his English vassals at Geddington, in Northamptonshire. All seemed now to tend rapidly towards the great enterprise; nothing was seen in the various countries but the symbol of the Cross, which in England was of _ermine_ or white, of _gules_ or red for France, and of _synople_ or green for Flanders. But the whole current of feeling was suddenly turned, by an aggression of Richard, Duke of Guienne, afterward King of England, upon the territories of the Count of Toulouse. Philip Augustus flew to arms to avenge his vassal and friend; Richard met him with equal fierceness, and the feuds between France and England were renewed with increased violence.[659] Many of the French and English knights, several of the clergy of the two countries, together with a great multitude of Germans, Italians, and Flemings, waited not for the tardy journey of the crusading monarchs, but passed over into the Holy Land, and joined themselves to Guy of Lusignan, who had now collected the remnants of all the military orders, and with those princes and knights who had escaped the Moslem scimitar, was engaged in besieging Acre. His forces[660] gradually increased till they became immense; and, owing to the skill of those by whom he was accompanied, rather than his own, the camp of Lusignan was fortified in such a manner that no efforts of the Saracens could penetrate its lines. Saladin pitched his tents on the mountains to the south, not long after the Christians had undertaken the siege, and innumerable battles in the open field succeeded, in which neither army gained any material advantage that was not compensated by some following reverse. The fleet of the Saracens supplied the town,[661] and the fleet of the Christians brought aid to the camp, so that the conflict seemed to be interminable, from the equal zeal and force of the contending parties. In the mean while, the war between Henry and Philip continued; and, from a personal dispute between Richard Coeur de Lion and the French monarch, had so changed its character, that Richard, accompanied by his brother John, went over to the faction of the enemy, and did homage to the crown of France.[662] Henry, abandoned by his children and the greater part of his nobles, found himself forced to sign an ignominious peace; and after one of the violent fits of passion to which he so often yielded himself, was taken ill, and concluded a long life of vice and crime before the altar of the Lord,[663] which he had once caused to be stained with blood.[664] Richard and Philip were already in alliance; and no sooner had the new monarch of England ascended the throne, than the preparations for the crusade were resumed with activity. Ample treaties were entered into between the French and English kings; and as the clergy, though willing enough to preach the crusade, were in general unwilling to aid it by the payment of Saladin's tenth, Richard had recourse to the most arbitrary[665] extortions, to furnish the sums necessary for his enterprise. Philip Augustus, the Count of Flanders, and Richard Coeur de Lion met at Nonancourt, on the confines of Normandy, and engaged mutually to live in peace and defend each other, as true allies, till a period of forty days after their return from Palestine.[666] Richard also published a code of laws or regulations for the government of his troops during the expedition. By these it was enacted, that whoever slew a brother crusader should be tied to the corpse and buried alive; or, if the murder were perpetrated at sea, should be plunged with the dead body into the waves. A man who drew his knife upon another, or struck him so as to produce blood, was destined to have his hand cut off. Other chastisements were instituted for simple blows, abusive language, and blasphemy;[667] and if any one were discovered in committing a robbery, he was sentenced to have his head shaved and to be tarred and feathered. This is, I believe, the first mention in history of that curious naval punishment. Each of the crusading monarchs now made large donations to abbeys, churches, and religious communities,[668] and performed various acts of grace to bring down the blessing of Heaven upon their enterprise. They took every measure that could be devised for the security and good of their respective realms during their absence, and then proceeded towards Lyons, where, finding that the followers of their camp were becoming somewhat more numerous than was desirable, and remembering the vices and irregularities of the former crusades, they instituted several new laws; among which it was strictly enjoined that no woman should be permitted to accompany either army, except washerwomen, and such as had accomplished fifty years. Here, also, the two kings separated,[669] and Philip, traversing the Alps, soon arrived at Genoa,[670] where he hired vessels to carry him to Messina, the general rendezvous, which place he reached with no other impediment than a severe storm. Richard, in the mean time, hurried on to Marseilles, where he waited a few days for the fleet which was to have joined him from England; but his impatient spirit could never brook delay, and after a pause of little more than a week, he hired all the vessels he could find, and proceeded to Genoa. Leaving that city he touched at several places on the coast of Italy, and near the mouth of the Tiber was encountered by Octavian, Bishop of Ostia, who demanded various sums, stated to be due to the church of Rome from the English monarch, as fees, on the election of the Bishop of Ely, and the deposition of the Bishop of Bourdeaux. Richard replied by boldly reproaching the prelate with the simoniacal avarice of his church, and sent him indignantly from his presence. In the Gulf of Salernum, the English king was met by his fleet, and soon anchored before Messina, causing all the horns of his armament to blow as he entered the port. The noise was so great, that the inhabitants crowded to the walls, where they beheld the thousand banners of England covering the sea with all the gay and splendid colours of chivalrous blazonry.[671] Richard was fond of such display, and, perhaps, so slight a thing as this first woke that jealousy in the bosom of Philip Augustus which afterward proved ruinous to the crusade. Nevertheless that monarch came down to meet Richard, with Tancred, the usurping King of Sicily, who had every thing to fear from the anger of the hasty sovereign of England. After dispossessing Constantia, the heiress of the crown, Tancred had imprisoned Joan, sister of Richard, the widow of the last king William the Good. He had freed her, it is true, on the news of Richard's arrival; but the first act of the English monarch[672] was to demand the restitution of his sister's dowery, and the legacies which had been bequeathed by William of Sicily to Henry II. of England. These together amounted to forty thousand ounces of gold,[673] and for some time Richard's application was met by nothing but quibbling and evasion. The best intelligence had hitherto reigned between the French and English, but not so with Richard's knights and the people of Sicily. The Anglo-Normans were dissolute and reckless, and the Sicilians soon proceeded from squabbling and opposition, to seek bloody revenge. It is probable that both parties were in fault. Every thing at Messina was charged at a most exorbitant price,[674] and the Normans were very apt to take what they could not buy. The Sicilians cheated them, and they plundered the Sicilians, till at length some of the Norman soldiers were killed.[675] Hugh Lebrun, a favourite of Richard, was wounded; and Richard himself, finding the peasantry supported by Tancred in the attack on his soldiers, lost command of his temper, fell upon the people who had come forth from Messina, stormed the walls of the city; and in an inconceivably short time, the banner of the King of England was flying over the capital of Sicily.[676] Philip Augustus, who had interfered on many occasions to quiet the differences between the Normans and the Sicilians, could not bear to see the English standard on the towers of Messina, and a coolness rose up between the two monarchs from that moment. All angry discussion, however, was removed by the conduct of Richard, which was calm and moderate, far beyond his usual habits. He offered to give up the guard of the city to either the Knights of the Temple or of St. John, till his claims on Tancred had been fairly met. This tranquillized the matter for a time; but Eleonor, Richard's mother, now arrived in Sicily,[677] bearing with her the beautiful Berengaria, of Navarre. The King of England had been affianced to Alice of France, the sister of Philip; but criminal intercourse, it was supposed, had existed between the French princess and Henry II., and Richard had long meditated breaking off formally an alliance he never intended to fulfil. The sight of Berengaria decided him.[678] Some letters were shown to him by Tancred, King of Sicily, in which Philip Augustus promised aid to the Sicilians in case of their warring with the English. Richard, with the papers in his hand, cast himself on horseback, and galloped to the tent of the French monarch. Philip declared the letters were forged, and that Richard's anger was a mere pretence to break off a marriage which suited not his taste. War between the two sovereigns seemed inevitable, and how it was averted does not very clearly appear. Probably the higher barons interposed; but at all events the concessions were on the side of Philip, who, by a formal treaty, renounced all pretensions to Richard's hand, on the part of his sister;[679] confirmed him in all the feoffs he held from the crown of France; and, leaving him and Berengaria to conclude their marriage, he set sail with his fleet for Acre. The appearance of the French before that place caused great rejoicing among the Christians, for notwithstanding every effort on the part of the assailants the city still held out; and, girt in themselves by the army of Saladin, the scarcity[680] was little less in their camp than in the town. Before the coming of their allies, the crusaders under the walls of Acre had done all that human ingenuity could invent to force the garrison to yield. They had turned the course of the river which supplied the city with fresh water; they had been incessant in their attacks and, during nearly two years, had never relaxed one moment in their endeavours.[681] It was apparent, therefore, that nothing but assault by a large force could carry the fortress, and this the arrival of Philip gave the possibility of attempting. That monarch, however, either from some engagement to that effect, or from the scantiness of the succour he brought, which, according to Boha Eddin, consisted only of six large ships,[682] determined to wait the arrival of Richard Coeur de Lion, contenting himself with battering the walls in the mean while. The coming of the King of France had spread as much alarm among the Saracens as joy among the Christians; but his inactivity calmed their apprehensions; and the escape of a magnificent white falcon which Philip had brought from Europe, was considered by the infidels as an evil omen for the French monarch. The bird flew into the besieged city, and was thence sent to Saladin, who would not be prevailed upon to part with it, though Philip offered a thousand pieces of gold for his favourite falcon.[683] Richard remained some time in Sicily, enjoying the idleness and luxury of a delicious climate, and a fertile and beautiful land; but the preaching of a wild enthusiast, called Joachim, together with various celestial phenomena, which the superstition of the age attributed to Divine wrath, awoke the monarch from his dream of pleasure, and after having submitted to an humiliating penance,[684] he set sail for Acre. A tempest soon dispersed his fleet, and three of the vessels were lost upon the rocky shores of Cyprus. The monarch of that island, one of the Comneni of Constantinople, had rendered himself independent of Greece, and had taken the title of Emperor. In the madness of insatiable greediness, he pillaged the crews and passengers of the English vessels stranded on his coast, and refused a refuge to the bride and sister of Richard himself, when driven by the storm into the port of Limisso. At Rhodes[685] the lion-hearted king heard of the disasters of his fleet, and the inhospitality of the Emperor of Cyprus, and no sooner had he gathered together his ships, than he sailed for Limisso, and demanded reparation and apology. With infinite moderation, the more admirable in the conduct of a violent and irritable monarch, he three times required satisfaction before he proceeded to any act of aggression. At length, finding it not to be obtained but by the sword, he landed on the island, drove the coward Greeks[686] before him, took the ungenerous usurper Isaac, and reduced the whole country to his sway. His wrath had now been roused, and all temper was forgotten: he taxed the unfortunate inhabitants of the country to an enormous extent and then, after having spent some time at Limisso, where he celebrated his marriage with Berengaria, he once more set sail for Acre. In the passage the fleet of the English monarch came suddenly upon a large vessel bearing the arms of the King of France. Something suspicious in the appearance of the ship induced Richard to pursue her, and it was soon discovered that she was filled with Saracen troops. The attack was instantly ordered;[687] the infidels defended themselves with the greatest bravery; the sea was covered with Greek fire, and a rain of arrows fell upon the decks of the low European galleys from the high sides of the Arabian vessel. But resistance against the whole fleet of the English king was vain; and the emir Jacob, who commanded, ordered the ship to be sunk by cutting through the bottom with hatchets. Before this could be completely accomplished, however, the English and Normans were masters of the vessel, and ere she went down a great part of her cargo was saved. This principally consisted of military stores for the camp of Saladin: and, among other implements of destruction, the English were surprised and horrified to find a number of large earthen vases filled with poisonous reptiles, from the bites of which it was known that the Christians near Acre suffered most dreadfully. Whether these animals were or were not really destined by Saladin as the means of a new and direful mode of warfare, such was the purpose which the Christian monarch[688] attributed to those who carried them; and giving way to his wrath, he ordered all the prisoners to be put to death. Some few were saved, who were afterward ransomed according to the universal custom of the day.[689] But little time now elapsed ere Richard, with a hundred sail, arrived before the city of Acre, and the shouts of joy that welcomed him made his proud heart beat with more than wonted ardour. All the Chivalry of Europe were upon the sandy plain between Ptolemais and the mountains of Carouba:[690] the Templars, the Hospitallers, the Knights of France, of England, of Germany, of Italy, of Flanders, and of Burgundy. Thousands of banners floated on the wind; and every sort of arms, device, and ensign glittered through the camp. On the inland hills lay the millions of Saladin, with every accessory of eastern pomp and eastern luxury. There, too, was the pride of all the Saracen tribes, called into the field by their great monarch to meet the swarming invasion of the Christians.[691] One wing of the Moslem army was commanded by Malek Adel Saif Eddin,[692] brother of Saladin, and the other by that monarch's nephew, Modaffer. Through the host were seen banners of green, and black, and yellow; and armour of as many kinds, and of as great magnificence, as that of the Europeans. Nor was the chivalrous courtesy of the day confined to the Christian camp. In times of truce the adverse nations mingled together in friendship; and at one moment they sent mutual presents, and reciprocated good offices, while at another they met in bloody and impetuous strife. Saladin himself seems to have conceived the highest respect for the character of Richard; and when he was not opposing him in the field, he was always desirous of showing that the Moslems were not to be outdone in generous sentiment by any of the Christian knights. It would be endless to recount all the transactions of the siege of Acre. The _spirit_ of the whole of this crusade (which I could wish to dwell upon more than any thing else) has been already fully, perfectly, and feelingly displayed, in that most beautiful composition, The Talisman; wherein Sir Walter Scott, however he may have altered some historical facts to suit the purposes of fiction, has given a more striking picture of the human mind in that age--of the character of nations as well as individuals--than any dull chronicle of cold events can furnish. Richard Coeur de Lion, soon after his arrival before Acre, was seized with the fever of the country, and in the attack made upon the town by Philip Augustus the English monarch was not present.[693] Philip murmured highly, and his assault was repulsed from the want of sufficient forces to follow up his first advantage. Richard in his turn attempted to storm the city without the aid of France, and notwithstanding efforts of almost incredible valour, was likewise repelled. Mutual necessity brought some degree of concord; and it was agreed that while one army assailed the walls the other should guard the camp, but still the endeavours of both were ineffectual to take the town by storm; and continual disputes were every day springing up between the two monarchs and the two hosts. Philip strove to seduce the vassals of Richard to follow his banner, as the sovereign of their sovereign, and paid three pieces of gold per month to each of the Norman knights who would join his standard:[694] Richard gave four pieces of gold to all who came over from Philip, and many a French feudatory joined himself to the English king. The siege of Acre still advanced, notwithstanding, less indeed by the presence or efforts of the two sovereigns, than by the simple fact of the city being cut off from all supplies. It had now held out for many months; and for long had endured but little privation from its communication with the sea; but as one article of the first necessity after another became exhausted, that means of receiving provisions was not sufficiently productive or regular for the supply of a great city. Even when ships arrived the town was in a state of scarcity, and a day's delay brought on a famine. Acre could resist no longer,[695] and after a short truce, which was asked in the hope of assistance from Egypt, it surrendered to the monarchs of France and England, on very rigorous terms. All the Christian prisoners within the town were to be freed, together with one thousand men and two hundred knights, chosen from those that Saladin detained in captivity; two hundred thousand pieces of gold were to be paid, and the true Cross was to be restored to the Christians. Such was the only capitulation granted to the people of Acre, who were also to remain in the hands of the crusaders till the stipulations had been fulfilled by Saladin; and in case the conditions were not accomplished within forty days, the prisoners were left to the disposal of their conquerors. Saladin neglected to fulfil any of the terms which depended on him; the ransom was not paid; the wood of the Cross was not restored; and Richard[696] cruelly commanded his prisoners to be put to death.[697] After the capture of the city, the Archduke of Austria boldly placed his banner on one of the towers but no sooner was it seen by Richard, than with his own hand he tore it down, and rending it to pieces,[698] trampled it under his feet. The insult was neither forgotten nor unrevenged, though from that moment the banners of the kings[699] only continued to float from the walls of Acre. Thus new dissensions were added to those which had already arisen, and the two monarchs, by taking possession of the whole spoil and dividing it between them, gave high disgust to the rest of the crusaders. Another more tangible cause of animosity soon sprang up. Sybilla, the wife of Guy of Lusignan, through whom alone he possessed the title of King of Jerusalem, died during the siege of Acre, but he still pretended a right to the throne. Conrad of Montferrat, lord of Tyre, had seized upon Isabella, sister of Sybilla, and wife of the weak and cowardly Humphrey de Thoron; and having obtained, by one means or another, a divorce between her and her husband, had married her; on which marriage, he also claimed the empty vanity of the crown. Richard, with the Pisans and the Hospitallers, maintained the cause of Lusignan; Philip Augustus, with the Genoese and the Templars, supported Conrad; and the schism was only healed by Lusignan acknowledging Conrad to be heir to the nominal kingdom, while Conrad allowed Lusignan to retain the title for his life. Soon after this, the crusade received[700] its deathblow, by the defection of Philip Augustus. No doubt can exist that that monarch had really lost his health since his sojourn in the Holy Land; but as little doubt is there that his chief motive in returning to Europe was his disgust[701] at the overbearing conduct of Richard, and his jealousy at the great superiority of his rival in all military exercises. Philip Augustus was an expert and able general, a brave and distinguished knight; but Richard was the wonder of his day, and what Philip might have admired in an inferior, he could not bear in a fellow-king. He therefore proclaimed aloud his illness, and his intention to return to Europe, most unwisely--as James of Vitry observes--for the interest of the crusade; for Saladin[702] had been so much depressed by the fall of Acre, that beyond all question immense concessions might have been obtained, had the monarchs but made a demonstration of acting in concert. As bound to him by treaties, Richard's permission was demanded by the King of France. At first Richard exclaimed, with a burst of honest indignation, "Eternal shame on him and on all France, if for any cause he leave the work unfinished!"[703] but he added afterward, "Well, let him go, if his health require it, or if he cannot live without seeing Paris." With this surly leave, Philip hastened his departure, after having made over to Conrad of Tyre his share in the city of Acre, and having sworn, in the most solemn manner, to respect Richard's possessions in Europe--an oath which he soon found occasion to break. The Duke of Burgundy,[704] with ten thousand men, was left behind to support Richard; and that monarch, after repairing the fortifications of Acre, having seen the churches purified, and the Christian religion restored, marched out with considerable force, and took the road by the seaside towards Ascalon. Vessels laden with provisions followed along the shore; but, on the other hand, the Moslems, who had now recovered confidence at the dissensions which they knew reigned among the Christians, pursued the army as it marched, and harassed it by continual attacks. Richard[705] refrained from any thing like a general engagement, as long as such conduct was possible; but near Azotus he found himself compelled to fight, and he accordingly drew out his men in battle array. Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, commanded the left, and the famous Jacques d'Avesnes the right, of the crusaders, while Richard himself appeared in the centre. Saladin[706] led the attack against the Christian army, and the right gave way. At the same time the left repulsed the Moslems, and with the usual impetuous courage of the French, who composed it, followed up their success till they were cut off from the main body. Richard advanced to the aid of the Duke of Burgundy, but only so far as to save him from being destroyed. With wonderful coolness he waited till the Saracens had exhausted their arrows, and wearied their horses with rapid evolutions, so that the knights murmured at the unwonted inactivity of their monarch. At length, seeing that Saladin had weakened his left wing to attack the Duke of Burgundy, that the hail of missiles was passed, and that there existed some confusion in the enemy's[707] lines, the king commanded his knights to charge, and leading them on himself, he with his own hand overthrew all that opposed him. The infidels whom he slew, and the feats that he performed, are almost incredible; but certain it is, that his voice, his eye, his look, brought inspiration to the Christians and dismay to the hearts of the Moslems. The Saracen host fled amain, and Richard remained master of the field, having to mourn few of his distinguished soldiers besides Jacques d'Avesnes who was slain towards the end of the battle.[708] The road both to Ascalon and Jerusalem was now open to the host of the Cross;[709] but either from treachery, as some have supposed, or from envy, as others have imagined, Richard was continually opposed in the council of war: the operations of the crusaders became vacillating, uncertain, and ill-judged, and the kingdom of Jerusalem was virtually cast away. The army, instead of following its advantages, proceeded to Jaffa,[710] wasted time in fortifying that city, and suffered the Saracens to recover from their panic. Various attacks were soon made upon the Christians; a party of Templars was surrounded by the foe, and would have been cut to pieces, with the Earl of Leicester and some English who had come to their aid, had not Richard, with his lion-heart, rushed, almost unarmed, into the fight; and, scattering the enemy like a whirlwind, delivered his friends from their peril. On another occasion, he had himself nearly been taken prisoner while falconing, and would certainly have fallen into the hands of the Saracens, had not one of his followers, named William de Pratelles,[711] exclaimed, "I am the king!" and thus drawn the attention of the enemy to himself. After this, various treaties[712] were entered into, which ended in nothing, and probably were devised by the Saracens merely for the purpose of gaining time to recruit their forces. It was even proposed that Joan of Sicily, the English monarch's sister, should be given in marriage to Saphaddin, or Saif Eddin; and that Jerusalem should be yielded to the parties in this strange alliance. All these negotiations, however, terminated as they began, and hostilities were often commenced and suspended, equally without cause. Richard advanced to Ramula, and nothing opposed his proceeding to Jerusalem; but at a council of war it was determined that the army should retire upon Ascalon.[713] This was done, and Ascalon was once more fortified; but here the troops were cut off from supplies, new divisions arose, and many desertions took place. The Duke of Burgundy retreated to Acre; the Genoese and Pisans broke out into open warfare, and one party, supported by Conrad of Montferrat, would have destroyed the other, had not Richard marched to the spot, forced Conrad to withdraw, and re-established peace between the contending nations. Conrad, frustrated in the views he had entertained, rejected all conciliation from Richard, and allied himself with Saladin. That monarch immediately hastened once more to attack the divided army of the Cross;[714] but Conrad was stabbed by two of a class of men called the Assassins,[715] at the moment that Richard, to obtain concord, had consented to his coronation as king of Jerusalem, in opposition to the claim of Guy of Lusignan. The French attributed the death of Conrad to Richard, and all parties flew to arms; but in the midst of this confusion, Henry Count of Champagne came forward, married the widow of Conrad, was proclaimed king of Jerusalem[716] with the consent of all, and the united host once more prepared to march and conquer the kingdom for which they had just been providing a king. During this time, Richard Coeur de Lion, while waging the war for Jerusalem, was neglecting all his best interests in Europe. John, his brother, was striving for the crown of England, and Philip Augustus was stripping him of his territories in France. Messenger after messenger brought naught but tidings of danger, and pressing solicitations for his return. Still Richard advanced towards Jerusalem,[717] but his force was too small to attempt a long-protracted siege. He found himself far from resources, and in a country where supplies could be obtained but with the greatest difficulty.[718] The marches before him were barren and hot; little water was to be procured and at Bethlehem a council of twenty persons was appointed to inquire into the possibility of proceeding. Certain information was received that the Turks had destroyed all the wells and cisterns round the Holy City, and it was determined to abandon the enterprise. Richard felt the disappointment with all the bitterness of broken hope and crushed ambition. He was led to a hill from whence he could behold Jerusalem; but the sight and its memories were too much, and, covering his eyes with his shield,[719] the warrior monarch turned away with a swelling heart to concert measures for gaining something, at all events, to compensate the loss of Jerusalem. But discord was in the bosom of the crusade; the soldiers murmured,[720] the chiefs rebelled, and the only thing that could save the army was immediate retreat. Such, then, after many plans had been proposed and rejected, was the ultimate step. The great body of the forces, with Richard and the Duke of Burgundy, fell back upon Acre; but a smaller part threw itself into Jaffa; and Saladin, recovering his energies as the crusaders lost theirs, collected his power and prepared to reap the fruits of their disunion. The hope of saving the Holy Land was now gone, and Richard determined to abandon an endeavour which jealousies and treacheries had rendered infeasible; and, returning to Europe, to give his thoughts to the consolidation and security of his own dominions. Before he set out, however, the news reached him that Saladin had attacked Jaffa with immense forces; and that the only hope of the garrison was in aid from him.[721] Sending the bulk of the army by land, he took advantage of a favourable wind, and set sail with a very small retinue for the besieged city. When he arrived at Jaffa, he perceived that the gates were already in the hands of the Saracens, and that the Christians were fighting to the last, to sell their lives dearly. "When King Richard found that the place was taken," to use the words of Bernard the Treasurer, "he sprang on shore, with his shield round his neck, and his Danish axe in his hand, retook the castle, slew the Saracens that were within the walls, and drove those that were without back to their camp, where he halted on a little mound--he and his men. Saladin asked his troops why they fled; to which they replied, that the King of England had come to Jaffa, had slain much people, and retaken the town. Then Saladin asked, 'Where is he?' And they replied, 'There, sire, upon that hillock with his men.' 'What!' cried Saladin, 'the king on foot among his servants! This is not as it should be.' And Saladin sent him a horse,[722] charging the messenger to say, that such a man ought not to remain on foot in so great danger." The attempts of the Saracens were vain to recover the position they had lost, and their terror at the tremendous name of Richard made that name a host. This victory again placed the King of England in a commanding situation, and he took advantage of it to demand peace. Saladin gladly met his advances. A treaty was entered into, and a truce was concluded for three years and eight months, during which period the Christians were to enjoy the liberty of visiting Jerusalem, as pilgrims, exempt from all grievance. Tyre and Jaffa, with the whole district between them, were yielded to the Latins, who, on their part, agreed to demolish the fortifications of Ascalon. The troops of the Cross were permitted to resort as palmers to Jerusalem, where the sultaun received and treated them with courteous hospitality. Richard would not visit the city he could not capture; but the Bishop of Salisbury was entertained in the sultaun's own palace, and obtained from the generous Saracen leave to establish three societies of Latin priests, in Jerusalem, in Bethlehem, and in Nazareth. Various other splendid acts of kingly magnanimity closed Saladin's communication with the crusaders. On the 25th of October, A. D. 1192, Richard set sail for Europe. The fruits of his crusade were but small, as far as the recovery of the Holy Land was concerned; but in his own person he acquired a degree of military glory that enmity could not wrest from him, and ages have not been able to dim. He had many faults and many failings; and his own pride contributed as much as the jealousy of his enemies to create disunion among the allies, and frustrate the object of the expedition. But he had also to contend with many wrongs and difficulties, and possessed many bright and noble qualities. He carried the heart of a lion to his grave;[723] and for centuries after the women of Palestine scared their children with his name.[724] CHAPTER XIII. _Death of Saladin--Disunion among his Successors--Celestine III. preaches a new Crusade--Henry of Germany takes the Cross--Abandons his Purpose--Crusaders proceed without him--Saif Eddin takes the Field, and captures Jaffa--The Crusaders are reinforced--Defeat Saif Eddin--Lay Siege to Thoron--Seized with Panic, and retreat--Disperse--Death of Henry of Champagne, King of Jerusalem--His Widow marries Almeric, King of Cyprus--Truce--Death of Almeric and Isabella--Mary, Heiress of Jerusalem, wedded to John of Brienne--Affairs of Europe--Innocent III. and Foulque of Neuilly promote a Crusade--The Barons of France take the Cross--Proceed to Venice--Their Difficulties--Turn to the Siege of Zara--A Change of Purpose--Proceed to Constantinople--Siege and Taking of that City--Subsequent Proceedings--A Revolution in Constantinople--Alexius deposed by Murzuphlis--Second Siege and Capture of the Greek Capital--Flight of Murzuphlis--Plunder and Outrage--Baldwin, Count of Flanders, elected Emperor._ For some time the Christians of the Holy Land enjoyed an interval of repose. Saladin was a religious observer of his word; and during the short space that intervened between the departure of Richard Coeur de Lion and the death of his great adversary, the Latins received the full benefit of the treaty which had been executed between those monarchs. A year had scarcely elapsed ere Saladin was seized with a mortal sickness; and, finding his end approaching, he commanded the black standard, which had so often led the way to victory, to be taken down, and replaced by the shroud which was to wrap his body in the grave. This was then borne through the streets, while the criers called all men to behold what Saladin, the mighty conqueror, carried away with him of all his vast dominion.[725] Saladin died, a monarch in whose character, though the good was not unmixed with evil, the great qualities so far preponderated, that they overbalanced the effects of a barbarous epoch and a barbarous religion, and left in him a splendid exception to most of the vices of his age, his country, and his creed. At that period the principle of hereditary succession was not very clearly ascertained either in Europe or in Asia; and the vast monarchy which Saladin had been enabled to consolidate was broken in pieces at his death. Saif Eddin, his brother, took possession of the greater part of Syria, and strengthened himself by the soldiers of his dead relative, who both loved and esteemed him. Three of the great monarch's sons seized upon such portions of their father's dominions as they could reach; and civil dissensions followed, highly detrimental to the power of the Moslem, and favourable to the security of the Christians. This, indeed, was the moment when a crusade was most practicable, and Pope Celestine III. exhorted all Christendom to snatch the opportunity. In most instances his call fell upon cold and unwilling ears. Philip Augustus was too deeply engaged in those vast and magnificent schemes which, however impeded by the prejudices of the day, rendered his reign a great epoch in the history of nations.[726] Richard Coeur de Lion had learned the danger of quitting his own kingdom, and the vanity of hoping for union among ambitious men. Henry of Germany alone, moved by wild schemes for aggrandizing his territories, assented at once to the crusade; but finding that Sicily seemed ready to receive him, he deemed the nearer conquest the more advisable; and on the same principle he had taken the Cross, he abandoned it again. Not so his subjects; an immense number of the vassals followed eagerly the road which he had quitted;[727] and several Teutonic bishops, with the Dukes of Saxony, Brabant, and Bavaria, set out from Germany, and reached Acre in safety. The Christians of Palestine were at that moment in the enjoyment of peace,[728] and they beheld the coming of new crusaders with horror and despair. Had the troops that arrived been sufficient, indeed, to give any thing like certainty to their enterprise, all the Latins of the Holy Land would willingly have concurred; but the prospect of new and desolating wars, waged by scanty forces, was, notwithstanding the dissensions of their enemies, a hopeless and painful anticipation. Nevertheless, the Germans began their operations at once;[729] and Saif Eddin, with his whole attention suddenly directed to the Christians, showed, by the energetic activity of his movements, that the spirit of Saladin survived in his brother. Jaffa was taken by assault,[730] with a great slaughter of the Christians, and all promised a speedy destruction to the small remains of the Latin kingdom. Fresh succours, however, were received from Europe; the hopes of the Christians revived; and, under the command of the Duke of Saxony, they marched on towards Beritus. Saif Eddin hastened to meet them, and attacked the Latin forces near Sidon; but his army was completely routed by the firm and steady gallantry of the Germans; and the way to Jerusalem was once more open to the followers of the Cross. But the crusaders embarrassed themselves with the siege of the castle of Thoron. The Saracens had time to recover from their panic; civil dissensions were forgotten; and while the garrison of Thoron held out with persevering valour, the sultaun of Egypt advanced to join his uncle, and repel the Christian invasion. Vague rumours of immense preparation on the part of the infidels reached the besieging army. The crusaders were, as usual, disunited among themselves; the Saracens within the castle were fighting with the coinage of despair; and, at last, a sudden panic seized the leaders of the German army.[731] They abandoned the camp in the night, and, flying to Tyre, left their soldiers to follow as they could.[732] A complete separation ensued between the Germans and the Latins, each accusing the other of treachery; while the Syrian Christians remained at Tyre, the Teutonic crusaders proceeded to Jaffa. Thither Saif Eddin pursued them; and another battle was fought, in which the Germans were once more victorious, though victory cost them the lives of many of their princes. Almost at the same time news reached their camp of the death of the emperor Henry. From that moment, none of the German nobles remembered aught but the election of a new emperor; and as soon as vessels could be procured, the principal barons set off for Europe. They left behind them in Jaffa about twenty thousand of the inferior soldiers, and a few knights; but the town was surprised by the Saracens on the night of the following festival of St. Martin; and the Germans, plunged in revelry and drunkenness,[733] were slaughtered to a man. Such was the end of the German crusade in Palestine; and before proceeding to speak once more of the affairs of Europe, it may be as well to touch upon the brief and uninteresting series of events that followed in that country. Henry, Count of Champagne, who had married Isabella, the heiress of Jerusalem, had proved but an indolent monarch; and in the year 1197, at the precise moment when the Saracens had newly captured Jaffa, he was killed by falling from a window. His loss was attended by no evil consequences;[734] for the Saracens were soon involved once more in civil dissensions by the death of Saladin's second son, Malek el Aziz, sultaun of Egypt, and the truce with the Christians was willingly renewed. Isabella, the queen, whose grief was not even so stable as that of the dame of Ephesus, was easily prevailed on, by the Grand Master of the order of St. John,[735] to give her thrice-widowed hand to Almeric of Lusignan, now--by the cession of Richard of England--King of Cyprus. This marriage was certainly a politic one, as Cyprus afforded both a storehouse and a granary to Palestine; but the peace with the Saracens remained unbroken till the bigoted Simon de Montfort, detaching himself from another body of knights,[736] which I shall mention hereafter, arrived at Acre, and made some feeble and ineffectual incursions on the Mussulman territory. After his fruitless attempts, the truce was once more established, and lasted till the death of Almeric and Isabella, when the crowns of Jerusalem and Cyprus were again separated. The imaginary sovereignty of the Holy City now became vested in Mary,[737] the daughter of Isabella, by Conrad of Tyre, while the kingdom of Cyprus descended to the heirs of Lusignan. According to feudal custom it was necessary to find a husband for Mary who could defend her right, and on every account it was determined to seek one in Europe. The choice was left to Philip Augustus; and he immediately fixed upon Jean de Brienne, a noble, talented, and chivalrous knight, who willingly accepted the hand of the lady of Palestine, and that thorny crown which was held out to him from afar. The news of his coming, and the prospect of large European reinforcements to the Christians,[738] depressed the mind of Saif Eddin, who had already to struggle with vast and increasing difficulties. He tendered the most advantageous terms of peace; but at that time the two great military orders may be said to have governed Palestine.[739] They were then, as usual, contending with jealous rivalry;[740] and the Templars, having for the moment the superiority, the offers of the sultaun were refused, because the Hospitallers counselled their acceptance. Jean de Brienne arrived, and wedded Mary, but the succour that he brought was very far inferior to that which the Latins had anticipated, and the war which had begun was confined to predatory excursions on the territory of the enemy.[741] I must now retrograde in my history for some years, and speak of the affairs of Europe. No crusade, as we have seen, had been desired by the Christians of Palestine[742] since they had enjoyed the comforts of peace, and no crusade had reached that country; but, nevertheless, one of the most powerful expeditions which Europe had ever brought into the field had set out for the purpose of delivering Jerusalem.[743] This crusade was, in the first place, instigated by the preaching of a man less mighty than St. Bernard in oratory,[744] and less moved by enthusiasm than Peter the Hermit; but it was encouraged by one of the most talented and most ambitious of the prelates of Rome. Foulque of Neuilly would have produced little effect, had he not been supported by Innocent III.; and the influence of neither the one nor the other would possibly have obtained the object desired, had not the young and enterprising Thibalt, Count of Champagne, embraced the badge of the Cross with his court and followers, at a grand tournament[745] to which he had invited all the neighbouring princes. In the midst of their festivities, Foulque appeared, and called the whole assembly to the crusade. Partly, it is probable, from the love of adventure, partly from religious feeling, Thibalt, in his twenty-second year, assumed the Cross. The Count of Blois, who was present, followed his example; and of eighteen hundred knights who held vassalage under the lord of Champagne, scarcely enough were left to maintain the territories of their sovereign. Nothing, except fear, is so contagious as enthusiasm: the spirit of crusading was revived in a wonderfully short time. The Count of Flanders, with various other persons, took the Cross at Bruges, and many more knights joined them from different parts of France, among whom was Simon de Montfort, who afterward proved the detestable persecutor of the Albigeois. After holding two general conferences at Soissons and at Compiegne, it was determined to send messengers to Italy for the purpose of contracting with one of the great merchant states to convey the armament to the Holy Land.[746] The choice of the city was left to the deputies; and they proceeded first to Venice, furnished with full powers from the crusading princes to conclude a treaty in their name. Venice was at that time governed by the famous Henry Dandolo, who, with the consent of the Senate, agreed not only to carry the crusaders to Palestine for a certain sum, but also promised to take the Cross himself and aid in their enterprise.[747] Well satisfied with this arrangement, the deputed barons returned to France, but found the Count of Champagne sick of a disease which soon produced his death. After having been refused by Eudes, Duke of Burgundy, and Thibalt, Count of Bar, the office of commander of the expedition was offered to Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, and accepted. The new chief of the crusade repaired to Soissons, to confer with the rest of the knights, and then proceeded to Italy to prepare for his departure. All these delays retarded their departure till the year 1202, when they set out in several bodies for Venice, and arrived safely at that city with very little difficulty.[748] Innocent III. had made infinite efforts in favour of the crusade: and, with the daring confidence of genius, had even taxed the unwilling clergy, while he merely recommended charitable subscriptions among the laity. Under such circumstances it will be easily conceived that the voluntary donations amounted to an equal sum with the forced contributions; but what became of the whole is very difficult to determine. Certain it is, that when the crusaders arrived at Venice, not half the money could be raised among them which they had agreed to pay for the use of the republic's transports,[749] although the chiefs melted down their plate to supply those who had not the means to defray their passage. This poverty was attributed to the fact of various large bodies having, either by mistake or perversity, taken the way to the Holy Land[750] by other ports, and carried with them a large part of the stipulated sum; but it does not appear that the Pope, into whose hands flowed the full tide of European alms, made any effort to relieve the crusaders from their difficulties. In this distress the Venetians offered to compromise their claim, and to convey the French to Palestine, on condition that they should aid in the recapture of the city of Zara, in Sclavonia, which had been snatched from the republic some time before by the King of Hungary.[751] With this stipulation, Dandolo, though aged and stone blind, agreed to take the Cross; and so deeply affected were the knights, both with his forbearance and gallant enthusiasm, that the iron warriors of Europe were melted to tears by the old man's noble daring. The news of this undertaking having reached Rome, the most vehement opposition was raised to any change of destination; and Innocent[752] launched the thunders of the church at the refractory crusaders. Many of the chiefs--terrified by the excommunication pronounced against those who should quit the direct road to the Holy Land, to attack the possessions of a Christian prince--remained in Italy;[753] but the greater part made every preparation to second the Venetians against Zara. Before their departure, the crusaders received envoys, the event of whose solicitations afterward gave a new character to their expedition. At the death of Manuel Comnenus, emperor of the east, Andronicus, his brother, seized upon the throne and murdered his nephew, Alexius II., who had succeeded. Either urged by indignation or ambition, Isaac Angelus, a distant relation of the slaughtered prince, took arms against the usurper, overthrew and put him to death; after which he in turn ascended the throne of Constantinople.[754] His reign was not long; for, at the end of two years, a brother, named Alexius, whom he had redeemed from Turkish captivity, snatched the crown from his head, and, to incapacitate him from ruling, put out his eyes. His son, named also Alexius, made his escape from prison, and fled to Italy, where he endeavoured to interest the Pope in his favour. But the church of Rome entertained small affection for the schismatic Greeks; and though Innocent wrote an impotent letter[755] to the usurper, he showed no real favour to the unhappy prince. The young exile then turned to Philip of Suabia (then Emperor of Germany), who had married his sister Irene; and at the same time hearing of the crusade, which was delayed at Venice,[756] he sent deputies from Verona to the chiefs, to solicit their aid against his treacherous uncle. The barons of France met his prayers with kindness; and the envoys were accompanied, on their return to the court of Philip of Suabia,[757] by a party of the crusaders, who were instructed to receive any proposition which Alexius might think fit to make. In the mean while, the knights embarked on board the Venetian galleys, round the decks of which they ranged their shields, and planted their banners; and having been joined by Conrad, Bishop of Halberstadt, with a large body of German soldiers, a finer armament never sailed from any port.[758] The chain which protected the harbour of Zara was soon broken through; the crusaders landed, pitched their tents,[759] and invested the city on all sides. The besiegers, as usual, were much divided among themselves; and those who had unwillingly followed the host to Zara, against the commands of the Pope,[760] still kept up a continual schism in the camp, which produced fatal consequences to the people of the city. The morning after the disembarkation, a deputation of citizens came forth to treat with Dandolo for the capitulation of the town. The Doge replied that he could enter into no engagement without consulting his allies, and went for that purpose to the tents of the French chiefs. During his absence, those who opposed the siege persuaded the deputies from Zara that the crusaders[761] would not assist the Venetians in an assault. With this assurance the Doge's reply was not waited for; the envoys returned, and the city prepared for defence. At the same time, the Abbot of Vaux Cernay presented himself to the assembled barons, and commanded them, in the name of the Pope, to refrain from warring against Christians while engaged under the banners of the Cross. On this the Doge angrily remonstrated; the greater part of the knights embraced his cause; and Zara, after being furiously attacked, surrendered at discretion. The town was now occupied during the winter by the army of the crusade; and the chiefs of the French forces sent a deputation to Rome to obtain pardon for their disobedience. This was easily granted; but the Venetians, who seemed to care little about excommunication, remained under the papal censure. Notwithstanding the forgiveness they had obtained, many of the most celebrated knights quitted Zara,[762] and made their way to the Holy Land. Such desertions took place especially after the return of the deputies sent to Philip of Suabia; and it was difficult to keep the army[763] together, when it became known that its destination was likely to be changed from Acre to Constantinople. Alexius, however, offered, in case of his being re-established in his father's dominions,[764] to place the Greek church under the authority of the Roman pontiff, to turn the whole force of the eastern empire against the infidels of Palestine, and either to send thither ten thousand men, and there maintain five hundred knights during his life, or to lead his forces towards Jerusalem in person. Besides this he promised to pay two hundred thousand marks of silver[765] to the crusading army, and to place himself in the hands of the chiefs till the city of Constantinople was retaken. These offers were so advantageous that the greater part of the barons embraced them at once: but many exclaimed loudly against the proposed interruption of the main purpose of the crusade, and many abandoned the host altogether. Alexius the usurper trembled at the news of the treaty between his nephew and the crusaders, and sent instant ambassadors to Rome,[766] in order to engage the pontiff in his interest. Such of the chiefs as were opposed to the measure talked loudly of the papal injunction to refrain from all wars with the Christians;[767] but it does not appear that Innocent exerted himself strenuously to turn the Latins from their design. It was far too much his desire to bring the Greek church under the domination of the Roman see, for him to dream of thwarting an enterprise backed with the solemn conditions I have mentioned; and it was not at all likely that the clearsighted prelate should renounce absolute engagements, as Mills has supposed,[768] for the vague hope of wringing the same from a treacherous usurper. At length, after the Venetians had demolished Zara,[769] to prevent its falling again into the hands of their enemies, the expedition, having been joined by the prince Alexius, set sail, and at the end of a short and easy passage came within sight of Constantinople.[770] The allies were instantly met by ambassadors from the Emperor, who, mingling promises with threats, endeavoured to drive them again from the shore, but in vain. The crusaders demanded the restoration of Isaac, and submission from the usurper, and prepared to force their landing; but before they commenced hostilities, they approached the walls of Constantinople, and sailed underneath them, showing the young Alexius to the Greek people, and calling to them to acknowledge their prince. No sympathy was excited, and the attack being determined on, the chiefs held a council on horseback, according to the custom of the ancient Gauls, when the order of their proceedings was regulated. The army was portioned into seven divisions, the first of which was commanded by the Count of Flanders, and the last by the Marquis of Montferrat. Having procured a number of flat-bottomed boats, one of which was attached to every galley, the knights entered with their horses, armed at all points, and looking, as Nicetas says, like statues of bronze.[771] The archers filled the larger vessels, and it was the general understanding that each should fight as he came up. "The morning was beautiful,"[772] writes the old Mareschal of Champagne, "the sun beginning to rise, and the Emperor Alexius waited for them with thick battalions and a great armament. On both sides the trumpets were sounded, and each galley led on a boat. The knights sprang out of the barks, while the water was yet to their girdle,[773] with their helmets laced and their swords in their hands; and the good archers, the sergeants, and the crossbowmen did the same wherever they happened to touch. The Greeks, at first, made great show of resistance, but when they saw the lances levelled they turned their backs and fled." The tents and camp equipage of the fugitives fell immediately into the hands of the crusaders; and siege was laid to the tower of Galata, which guarded one end of the great chain wherewith the mouth of the harbour was closed. Before night the Greeks had recovered from their panic, and some severe fighting took place ere the fort could be taken and the barrier removed; but at length this being accomplished, the Venetians entered the port. After ten days of continual skirmishing, a general attack was determined upon; and it was agreed that the Venetians[774] should assail the city by sea, while the French attempted to storm the walls by land. The enterprise began on the land side against the barbican; but so vigorously was every inch of ground disputed by the Pisans, the English and Danish mercenaries who guarded the fortifications, that though fifteen French knights obtained a footing for some time on the ramparts, they were at length cast out, while four of their number were taken. In the mean while, the fleet of the Venetians advanced to the walls; and after a severe fight of missiles between the defenders and the smaller vessels which commenced the assault, the galleys themselves approached the land; and, provided with high towers of wood, began to wage a nearer warfare with those upon the battlements. Still the besieged[775] resisted with extraordinary valour, and the galleys were beaten off; when the blind chief of the republic, armed at all points, commanded, with tremendous threats in case of disobedience, that his vessel should be run on shore;[776] and then, borne out with the standard of St. Mark before him, he led the way to victory. Shame spread through the rest of the fleet; galley after galley was brought up close under the walls, and all the principal towers round the port were in a moment stormed and taken. Alexius made one great effort to recover the twenty-five towers which the Venetians had captured; but, with remorseless resolution, Dandolo set fire to the neighbouring buildings, and thus raised up a fiery bulwark to his conquest.[777] As a last resource, the Emperor now issued forth to give battle to the French: and so infinite was the superiority of his numbers, that the hearts of the pilgrims almost failed them. The gallant Doge of Venice no sooner heard of their danger, than, abandoning the ramparts he had so nobly won, he brought his whole force[778] to the aid of the French, declaring that he would live or die with his allies. Even after his arrival, however, the disparity was so great, that the crusaders dared not quit their close array to begin the fight, and the troops of Alexius hesitated to attack those hardy warriors whose prowess they had often witnessed. The courage of the Latins gradually increased by the indecision of their enemy, while the fears of the Greeks spread and magnified by delay and at length Alexius abandoned the last hope of courage, and retreated into the city. The weary crusaders hastened to disarm and repose themselves, after a day of immense fatigues; but Alexius, having no confidence either in his own resolution, or in the steadiness of his soldiery, seized what treasure he could carry, and abandoned Constantinople to its fate.[779] The coward Greeks, deserted by their chief, drew forth the miserable Isaac from his prison; and having robed the blind monarch in the long-lost purple, they seated him on the throne, and sent to tell the Franks that their object was accomplished. The crusaders would hardly believe the tidings, but despatched four of their body to ascertain the truth. The envoys found Isaac enthroned in the palace of Blachernæ,[780] and surrounded by as large and splendid a court as if fortune had never ceased to smile upon him. They now represented to the restored Emperor the conditions of their treaty with his son; and Isaac, after some slight hesitation, accepted them as his own. He also agreed to associate the young Alexius in the throne; but as all these hard terms, especially that which implied the subjection of the Greek church to the Roman prelate, deeply offended his subtle and revengeful subjects, he prayed the crusaders to delay their departure till complete order was re-established.[781] This was easily acceded to; and the Franks and Venetians, during their stay, wrote to Innocent III., excusing their having again turned from the road to Jerusalem.[782] The Pope willingly pardoned both; but intimated, that to make that pardon efficacious, they must be responsible that the schism in the church should be healed by the submission of the Greeks to the see of Rome. At first, the harmony between the Franks and the Greeks appeared to be great. The young Alexius paid several portions of the money which had been stipulated;[783] and while the presence of the Latin army kept the capital in awe, he proceeded to reduce the provinces to obedience. When this was completed, however, and the tranquillity of the empire seemed perfectly restored, his conduct changed towards his benefactors. A fire which broke out in the city[784] was attributed to the French, who were at the very moment engaged in serious dispute with a party of Greeks, exasperated by an insult to their religion. The very domineering presence of the crusaders was a continual and irritating reproach, and the Greeks began to testify no small hatred towards their armed guests. Alexius himself, ungrateful in his own nature, contending with his father about their divided sovereignty, and hesitating between the people he was called to govern and those who upheld him in the government, refused or evaded the fulfilment of many of the items in his treaty with the Latins. The chiefs soon found that they were deceived, and formally summoned the young monarch to accomplish his promises. The messengers who bore the haughty demand to a despotic court hardly escaped with their lives; and the same desultory warfare which had been waged by the emperors against each body of crusaders that had passed by Constantinople was now commenced against the Count of Flanders and his companions.[785] A thousand encounters took place, in which the Franks were always victorious; and though the Greeks directed a number of vessels, charged with their terrific fire, against the Venetian fleet, the daring courage and conduct of the sailors freed them from the danger, and only one Pisan galley was consumed. In the mean while the Greeks of the city, hating and despising a monarch who had seated himself among them by the swords of strangers, and who had drained their purses to pay the troops that held them down;[786] seeing, also, that his ingratitude, even to his allies, had left him without the support by which alone he stood, suddenly rose upon Alexius, and cast him into prison. Isaac himself died, it is said, of fear; and the Greeks at first elected a nobleman of a different family, named Nicholas Canabus; but he was mild and weak, a character which little suited the times or country in which he assumed so high a station. A rival, too, existed in a man who had shown unremitting enmity to the Latins, and after a short struggle, Alexius Ducas, a cousin of the late monarch, a bold, unscrupulous villain,[787] was proclaimed emperor. Among his first acts--though at what exact period remains in doubt[788]--the new Alexius, who was more commonly called Murzuphlis, caused the preceding Alexius to be put to death. The manner of his fate is uncertain: but the usurper had the cunning impudence to yield his victim's body a public funeral. War was now determined between the crusaders and Murzuphlis, and the attack of the city was resolved; but previous to that attempt, the crusaders, who were in great want of provisions, despatched Henry, brother of the Count of Flanders, with a considerable force to Philippopoli, in order to take possession of the rich magazines which it contained. Returning loaded with spoil, he was attacked by Murzuphlis; but the Greeks scattered like deer before the Latins,[789] and Henry rejoined his companions not only rich in booty, but in glory also. Negotiations were more than once entered into, for the purpose of conciliating the differences of the Greeks and the Latins; but all proved ineffectual; and early in the spring the armies of France and Venice prepared for the attack. The first step was, as usual, a treaty between the allies to apportion the fruits of success. By this it was determined that the whole booty should be divided equally between the French and Venetians;[790] that six persons from each nation should be chosen to elect an emperor; that the Venetians should retain all the privileges they had hitherto enjoyed under the monarchs of Constantinople; and that, from whichever of the two nations the emperor was selected, a patriarch should be named from the other. There were various other conditions added, the principal of which were, that one-fourth of the whole conquest should be given to the new emperor, besides the palaces of Bucoleon and Blachernæ, while the rest was divided among the French and Venetians; and that twelve persons should be selected from each nation, to determine the feudal laws by which the land was to be governed, and to allot the territory in feoffs among the conquerors. On the 8th of April, 1204, the whole army, having embarked on board the ships,[791] as had been previously concerted, attacked the city by water. The vessels approached close to the walls, and a tremendous fight began between the assailants and the besieged: but no hope smiled on the Franks; they were repelled in every direction; and those who had landed,[792] were forced to regain their vessels with precipitancy, approaching to flight. The Greeks rejoiced in novel victory, and the Franks mourned in unwonted defeat. Four days were spent in consultations regarding a further attempt; and the chiefs, judging that no one vessel contained a sufficient number of troops to effect a successful assault on any particular spot,[793] it was resolved to lash the ships two and two together, and thus to concentrate a greater force on each point of attack. On the fourth day the storm was recommenced, and at first the fortune of battle seemed still in favour of the Greeks; but at length, a wind springing up, drove the sea more fully into the port, and brought the galleys closer to the walls.[794] Two of those lashed together, called the Pilgrim and the Paradise, now touched one of the towers, and, from the large wooden turret with which the mast was crowned, a Venetian and a French knight named Andrew d'Arboise sprang upon the ramparts of the city.[795] The crusaders rushed on in multitudes; and such terror seized the Greeks, that the eyes of Nicetas magnified the first knight who leaped on the walls to the unusual altitude of fifty feet.[796] One Latin drove before him a hundred Greeks;[797] the defence of the gates was abandoned; the doors were forced in with blows of axes; and the knights, leading their horses from the ships, rode in, and took complete possession of the city. Murzuphlis once, and only once, attempted to rally his troops before the camp he had formed, in one of the open spaces of the town. But the sight of the Count of St. Pol, with a small band of followers, was sufficient to put him to flight; and a German having set fire to a part of the buildings[798] no further effort was made to oppose the victorious crusaders. The fire was not extinguished for some time; and the Latin host, in the midst of the immense population of Constantinople, like a handful of dust in the midst of the wilderness, took possession of the purple tents of Murzuphlis, and keeping vigilant guard, passed an anxious and a fearful night, after all the fatigues and exploits of the day. Twenty thousand was the utmost extent of the Latin numbers;[799] and Constantinople contained, within itself, four hundred thousand men capable of bearing arms. Each house was a citadel, which might have delayed and repelled the enemy; and each street was a defile, which might have been defended against a host. But the days of Leonidas were passed; and the next morning the Latins found that Murzuphlis had fled, and that their conquest was complete. Plunder and violence of course ensued;[800] but there was much less actual bloodshed than either the nature of the victory or the dangerous position of the victors might have occasioned. Fear is the most cruel of all passions; and perhaps the fact that not two thousand persons were slain in Constantinople after the storm, is a greater proof of the courage of the Latins than even the taking of the city. Many noble and generous actions mingled with the effects of that cupidity and lust which follow always upon the sack of a great town. Nicetas mentions a striking example which happened to himself, wherein a noble Venetian dedicated his whole attention to protect an ancient benefactor;[801] and a body of Frenchmen, in the midst of the unbounded licentiousness of such a moment, were moved by a father's agony to save his daughter from some of their fellows. This is the admission of a prejudiced and inveterate enemy; and it is but fair to suppose, that many such instances took place. The great evils that followed the taking of the eastern capital, originated in the general command to plunder. Constantinople had accumulated within it the most precious monuments of ancient art,[802] and these were almost all destroyed by the barbarous hands of an avaricious soldiery. Naught was spared; the bronzes, which, valueless as metal, were inestimable as the masterpieces and miracles of antique genius, were melted down,[803] and struck into miserable coin; the marble was violated with wanton brutality; all the labour of a Phidias or a Lysippus was done away in an hour; and that which had been the wonder and admiration of a world left less to show what former days had been, than the earth after the deluge. In this the Latins were certainly _barbarians_; but in other respects--unless subtilty, deceit, vice, and cowardice can be called civilization, and courage, frankness, and honour can be considered as barbarism--the Latins deserved not the opprobrious name by which the Greeks designated them. The plunder of the city was enormous. In money[804] a sufficient sum was collected to distribute twenty marks to each knight, ten to each servant of arms, and five to each archer. Besides this, a vast quantity of jewels and valuable merchandise was divided between the French and Venetians; and the republic, who understood the value of such objects better than the simple Frankish soldiers, offered to buy the whole spoil from their comrades, at the rate of four hundred marks for a knight's share, and in the same proportion to the rest. The booty--with a few individual instances of concealment,[805] which were strictly punished with death when discovered--was fairly portioned out; and, after this partition, the twelve persons selected to choose an emperor proceeded to their deliberations. They were bound by oath to elect without favour the best qualified of the nobles; and after a long hesitation, between the Marquis of Montferrat and the Count of Flanders, they named the latter.[806] In all probability the determining consideration was, that Baldwin, by his immediate connexion with France, was more capable of supporting the new dynasty than the Marquis, whose Italian domains could not afford such effective aid. To prevent the evil consequences of rivalry, the island of Crete and the whole of Asiatic Greece were given to Montferrat, who afterward, with the consent of Baldwin, exchanged them for the Sclavonian territory. Baldwin was then raised upon a buckler,[807] and carried to the church of St. Sophia. After a brief space of preparation, he was formally proclaimed, and crowned as emperor; and, according to old usage, a vase filled with ashes,[808] and a tuft of lighted wool, were presented to the new monarch, as a symbol of the transitory nature of life and the vanity of greatness--emblems too applicable to himself and his dominions; for ere two years had passed, Baldwin had gone down into the grave; and less than the ordinary life of one man elapsed before the dynasty that he established was again overthrown. CHAPTER XIV. _Divisions among the Moslems--Among the Christians--Crusade of Children--Innocent III. declares he will lead a new Crusade to Syria--The King of Hungary takes the Cross--Arrives in Syria--Successes of the Pilgrims--They abandon the Siege of Mount Thabor--The King of Hungary returns to Europe--The Duke of Austria continues the War--Siege of Damietta--Reinforcements arrive under a Legate--Famine in Damietta--The Moslems offer to yield Palestine--The Legate's Pride--He refuses--Taking of Damietta--The Army advances towards Cairo--Overflowing of the Nile--The Army ruined--The Legate sues for Peace--Generous Conduct of the Sultaun--Marriage of the Heiress of Jerusalem with Frederic, Emperor of Germany--His Disputes with the Pope--His Treaties with the Saracens--He recovers Jerusalem--Quits the Holy Land--Disputes in Palestine--The Templars defeated and slaughtered--Gregory IX.--Crusade of the King of Navarre ineffectual--Crusade of Richard, Earl of Cornwall--Jerusalem recovered--The Corasmins--Their Barbarity--They take Jerusalem--Defeat the Christians with terrible slaughter--Are exterminated by the Syrians--Crusade of St. Louis--His Character--Arrives in the Holy Land--Takes Damietta--Battle of Massoura--Pestilence in the Army--The King taken--Ransomed--Returns to Europe--Second Crusade of St. Louis--Takes Carthage--His Death--Crusade of Prince Edward--He defeats the Saracens--Wounded by an Assassin--Returns to Europe--Successes of the Turks--Last Siege and Fall of Acre--Palestine lost._ The fifth crusade had ended, as we have seen, without producing any other benefit to Palestine than a deep depression in the minds of the Turks, from the knowledge that the weak dynasty of the Greeks had been replaced by a power of greater energy and resolution. The famine also, which about this time desolated the territories of the Egyptian sultaun, and the contests[809] between the remaining Attabecs and the successors of Saladin, crippled the efforts of the Moslems; while the courageous activity of Jean de Brienne[810] defeated the attempts of Saif Eddin. Nevertheless, many bloody disputes concerning the succession of Antioch, and the fierce rivalry of the orders of the Temple and Hospital, contributed to shake the stability of the small Christian dominion that remained. Each year,[811] two regular voyages of armed and unarmed pilgrims took place, from Europe to the Holy Land: these were called the _passagium Martii_, or the spring passage; and the _passagium Johannis_, or the summer passage which occurred about the festival of St. John. A continual succour was thus afforded to Palestine: and that the spirit of crusading was by no means extinct in Europe is evinced by the extraordinary fact of a crusade of children[812] having been preached and adopted towards the year 1213. Did this fact rest alone upon the authority of Alberic of Three Fountains Abbey, we might be permitted to doubt its having taken place, for his account is, in several particulars, evidently hypothetical; but so many coinciding authorities exist,[813] that belief becomes matter of necessity. The circumstances are somewhat obscure; but it seems certain that two monks, with the design of profiting by a crime then too common, the traffic in children, induced a great number of the youth of both sexes to set out from France for the Holy Land, habited as pilgrims, with the scrip and staff. Two merchants of Marseilles,[814] accomplices in the plot, as it would seem, furnished the first body of these misguided children with vessels, which, of course, were destined to transport them for sale to the African coast. Several of the ships were wrecked on the shores of Italy, and every soul perished, but the rest pursued their way and accomplished their inhuman voyage. The two merchants, however, were afterward detected in a plot against the emperor Frederic, and met the fate they deserved. Another body, setting out from Germany, reached Genoa after immense difficulties; and there the Genoese, instead of encouraging their frantic enthusiasm, wisely commanded them to evacuate their territory; on which they returned to their homes, and though many died on the road, a great part arrived in safety,[815] and escaped the fate which had overtaken the young adventurers from France. When Innocent III. heard of this crusade, he is reported to have said, "While we sleep, these children are awake:" and it is more than probable, that his circumstance convinced him, that the zealous spirit which had moved all the expeditions to the Holy Land was still active and willing. Certain it is, that he very soon afterward sent round an encyclical letter, calling the Christian world once more to arms against the Moslems. Indulgences were spread, and extended in their character: a council of Lateran was held, and Innocent himself declared[816] his intention of leading the warriors of Christ to the scene of his crucifixion. De Courçon, an English monk, who had become cardinal, preached the new crusade with all the pomp of a Roman prelate, and a great number of individuals were gathered together for the purpose of succouring Palestine. But the kings of the earth had now more correct views of policy; and policy never encourages enthusiasm except as an instrument. Only one king therefore could be found to take the Cross--this was Andrew,[817] monarch of Hungary; and the Dukes of Austria and Bavaria, with a multitude of German bishops and nobles, joined his forces, and advanced to Spalatro. Innocent III. was by this time dead, but the expedition sailed in Venetian ships to Cyprus, and thence, after having given somewhat too much rein to enjoyment, proceeded to Acre, carrying with it a large reinforcement from France and Italy. The Saracens had heard less of this crusade than of those which had preceded it, and were therefore less prepared to oppose it. The Christian army advanced with success, and many thousands of the infidels felt the European steel; but the crusaders, not contented with plundering their enemies, went on to plunder their friends; and serious divisions began, as usual, to show themselves, which were only healed by the influence of the clergy, who turned the attention of the soldiers from pillage and robbery to fasts and pilgrimages. When the host was once more united, its exertions were directed to the capture of the fort[818] built by the Saracens on Mount Thabor. After overcoming infinite difficulties in the ascent of the mountain, the Latins found themselves opposite the fortress: the soldiers were enthusiastic and spirited; and it is more than probable that one gallant attack would have rendered the greatest benefit to the Christian cause, by obtaining possession of such an important point. The leaders,[819] however, seized with a sudden fear of being cut off, abandoned their object without striking a blow, and retired to Acre. The rest of the season was passed in excursions, by which the Christians obtained many prisoners and much spoil; and in pilgrimages, wherein thousands were cut to pieces by the Saracens. The kings of Cyprus and Hungary then turned their course to Tripoli, where the first died, and the Hungarian monarch[820] was suddenly seized with the desire of returning to his own dominions;[821] which he soon put in execution, notwithstanding the prayers and solicitations of the Syrian Christians. Still the Latins of Palestine were not left destitute. The Duke of Austria remained, with all the German crusaders; and the next year a large reinforcement arrived from Cologne; nor would these have been so tardy in coming, had they[822] not paused upon the coast of Portugal to succour the queen of that country against the Moors. The efforts of the Christians had proved hitherto so fruitless for the recovery of Jerusalem, while the Saracens could bring vast forces from Egypt continually to the support of their Syrian possessions, that the Latins now resolved to strike at the very source of their power. Damietta was supposed to command the entrance of the Nile, and consequently to be the key of Egypt; and thither the crusaders set sail, for the purpose of laying siege to that important city. They[823] arrived in the month of May, and landed on the western bank of the river opposite to the town. A tower in the centre of the stream, connected with the walls by a strong chain, was the immediate object of attack; but the first attempt was repulsed with great loss, though made by the Hospitallers, the Teutonic Order, and the Germans, united. An immense machine[824] of wood was now constructed on board two of the vessels, which, lashed together, were moved across to the point of assault, and, after a long and courageous resistance, the garrison of the castle was forced to surrender at discretion.[825] The besieging party then abandoned themselves to joy and revelry; they looked upon the city as taken; and the news of the death of Saif Eddin increased their hopes of the complete deliverance of the Holy Land. The victories which Saif Eddin had gained over the Christians were indeed but small, nor had he struck any one great blow against the Attabecs, but he had gradually, and almost imperceptibly, extended his dominions in every direction, and left a large territory and full treasury to his successors. His high qualities were different from those of Saladin, and his character was altogether less noble and striking, but he possessed more shrewdness than his brother; and if his mind had not the same capability of expanding, it had more powers of concentration. To Saif Eddin succeeded his two sons, Cohr Eddin and Camel, the first of whom took possession of Syria and Palestine in peace. But Egypt, which the second had governed for some time, instantly broke out into revolt on the news of his father's death, and had the Franks pushed the war in that country with vigour, greater effects would have been produced than were ever wrought by any preceding crusade. They neglected their opportunity; spent their time in rioting and debauchery under the yet unconquered walls of Damietta: and, after the arrival of large reinforcements from France, England, and Italy, under the Cardinals Pelagius and Courçon, the Earls of Chester and Salisbury, and the Counts of Nevers and La Marche, they only changed their conduct from revelling to dissension. At length they awoke from their frantic dreams, and prepared to attack the city itself; but before they could accomplish their object, Cohr Eddin had entered Egypt, put down rebellion, and re-established his brother Camel in full possession of his authority. The siege of Damietta now became, like the first siege of Antioch, a succession of battles and skirmishes. For three months the various nations that composed the besieging force as well as the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the Teutonic knights, vied with each other in deeds of glory; nor were the Saracens behind their adversaries in courage, skill, or resolution. But famine took up the sword against the unhappy people of Damietta. Pestilence soon joined her, and the fall of the city became inevitable.[826] Cohr Eddin, fearful that Jerusalem might be turned to a post against him, had destroyed the walls of that town; but now that he saw the certain loss of Damietta, and calculated the immense advantages the Christians might thence gain, he with the best policy agreed to make a vast sacrifice to save the key of his brother's dominions. Conferences were opened with the Christians, and the Saracens offered, on the evacuation of Egypt by the Latins, to yield the whole of Palestine, except the fortresses of Montreal and Karac, to restore all European prisoners, and even to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem for the Christians. The King of Jerusalem, the English, the French, and the Germans looked upon their warfare as ended, and their object achieved, by the very proposal; but the cardinal Pelagius, the two military Orders, and the Italians, opposed all conciliation, contending that no faith was to be put in the promises of infidels. Heaven only knows whether the Saracens would have broken their engagements, or whether calm moderation might not have restored Palestine to the followers of the Cross; but moderation was not consulted, and the walls of Damietta were once more attacked. It was no longer difficult to take them, and when the crusaders entered the city, they discovered nothing-but a world of pestilence. Death was in every street; and of seventy thousand souls, not three thousand were found alive.[827] Discord, of course, succeeded conquest; and after having cleansed and purified Damietta, a winter was spent in dissensions, at the end of which a great part of the army returned to Europe; and Jean de Brienne, offended by the arrogance of Pelagius, retired to Acre. Concessions soon brought him back, and hostilities were resumed against the Moslems, but the legate overbore all counsel; and instead of directing their[828] arms towards Palestine, which was now open to them, the crusaders marched on towards Cairo. The forces of the sultaun had greatly increased, but he still offered peace, on conditions as advantageous as those that had been previously proposed. The legate insultingly rejected all terms, wasted his time in inactivity, the Nile rose, the sluices were opened, and Pelagius found himself at once unable to advance, and cut off from his resources at Damietta. There is nothing too mean for disappointed pride, and the legate then sued in the humblest language for permission to return to Acre. The Sultaun of Egypt, with admirable moderation, granted him peace, and the King of Jerusalem became one of the hostages that Damietta should be given up. The troops would still have perished for want, had not the noble sultaun been melted by the grief of John of Brienne, who wept while recounting the distress in which he had left his people. The Saracen mingled his tears with those of the hostage king, and ordered the army of his enemy to be supplied with food.[829] Damietta was soon after yielded, and the hostages exchanged. John of Brienne retired to Acre, wearied of unceasing efforts to recover his nominal kingdom; and Pelagius passed over into Europe, loaded with the hatred and contempt of Palestine. John of Brienne had received the crown of Jerusalem as his wife's dowry, and it was destined that the marriage of his daughter should restore the Holy City to the Christians. The emperor Frederick II. had often vowed in the most solemn manner to lead his armies into Palestine, and had as often broken his oath. At length it was proposed to him that he should wed Violante, the beautiful heiress of the Syrian kingdom; and it was easily stipulated that John of Brienne should give up his rights on Palestine to his daughter's husband. Frederic eagerly caught at the idea. By the intervention of the Pope the treaty was concluded between the king and the emperor; and Violante, having been brought to Europe, was espoused by her imperial lover.[830] Many causes combined to delay the new crusade, though it was preached by two succeeding popes with all the zeal and promises that had led to those that went before. France and Italy remained occupied entirely by intestine dissensions; but England showed great zeal, and sent sixty thousand men at arms to the field.[831] The emperor collected together immense forces, and proceeded to Brundusium; but there, being taken ill of a pestilential disease which had swept away many of his soldiers, he was obliged to return after having put to sea. Gregory IX. was now in the papal chair; and--wroth with the emperor for many a contemptuous mark of disobedience to the ecclesiastical authority--he now excommunicated him for coming back, however necessary the measure. Frederic was angry, though not frightened; and, after having exculpated himself to Europe by a public letter,[832] he sent his soldiers to plunder the Pope's territories while he recovered his health. At length, in 1228, he set sail from Brundusium, still burdened with the papal censure, which he was too much accustomed to bear to feel as any oppressive load. He arrived without difficulty at Acre; but all men wondered that so great an enterprise should be undertaken with so small a force as that which could be contained in twenty galleys; and it soon appeared that Frederic had long been negotiating with Camel, Sultaun of Egypt, who, fearful of the active and ambitious spirit of his brother Cohr Eddin,[833] had entered into a private treaty with the German monarch. The emperor, on his arrival in Palestine, found that the revengeful Pope had laid his injunction upon all men to show him no obedience, and afford him no aid while under the censure of the church.[834] None, therefore, at first, accompanied him in his march but his own forces and the Teutonic knights. The Hospitallers and Templars soon followed, and, too fond of active warfare to remain neuter, joined themselves to the army on some verbal concession on the part of Frederic. About this time Cohr Eddin died; and Camel,[835] freed from apprehension,[836] somewhat cooled towards his Christian ally. He was, nevertheless, too generous to violate his promises, and after Frederic had advanced some way towards Jerusalem, a treaty was entered into between the German monarch and the Saracens, whereby the Holy City and the greater part of Palestine was yielded to the Christians, with the simple stipulation that the Moslems were to be allowed[837] to worship in the temple, as well as the followers of the Cross.[838] Frederic then proceeded to Jerusalem to be crowned; but the conditions he had agreed to had given offence to the Christians of Judea, and the Pope's excommunication still hung over his head. All the services of the church were suspended during his stay; he was obliged to raise the crown from the altar himself and place it on his own brow; and he discovered, by messengers from the Sultaun of Egypt, that some individuals[839] of the military Orders had offered to betray him into the hands of the Saracens. Frederic now found it necessary to depart,[840] and after having done justice upon several of the chief contemners of his authority, he set sail for Europe, leaving Palestine[841] in a far more favourable state than it had known since the fatal battle of Tiberias. Soon after the departure of Frederic, a new aspirant to the crown of Jerusalem appeared in the person of Alice, Queen of Cyprus, the daughter of Isabella and Henry, Count of Champagne, and half sister of Mary, through whom John of Brienne had obtained the throne. Her claims were soon disposed of; for the three military Orders,[842] uniting in purpose for once, adhered to the Emperor of Germany, and Alice was obliged to withdraw. After this struggle the attention of the Christians was entirely turned to the general defence; and the right of the emperor, who had now made his peace with the Pope, was universally recognised.[843] Nevertheless, the truce which he had concluded with Camel, the Sultaun of Egypt, did not in all instances save the Latins of Palestine from annoyance and warfare. The whole country was surrounded by a thousand petty Mahommedan states not included in the peace, and the Moslems left no opportunity unimproved for the purpose of destroying their Christian neighbours. Their incursions on the Latin territory were incessant; and many large bodies of pilgrims were cut to pieces, or hurried away into distant lands as slaves. A truce had been agreed upon also, between the Templars and the Sultaun of Aleppo; but at the death of that monarch both parties had again recourse to arms, and the Templars were defeated with such terrible slaughter that all Europe was moved with compassion. Even their ancient rivals, the Hospitallers, sent them immediate succour; and from the commandery of St. John, at Clerkenwell,[844] alone, a body of three hundred knights took their departure for the Holy Land. A council likewise was held about this time at Spoletto, where another crusade was announced; and Gregory IX., who combined in his person every inconsistency that ambition, bigotry, and avarice can produce, sent the Dominican and Franciscan friars to stimulate Europe to take the Cross. No sooner had the crusade been preached, and the enthusiastic multitudes were ready to begin the journey, than Gregory and his agents persuaded many to compromise their vow;[845] and, by paying a certain sum towards the expenses of the expedition, to fill the papal treasury, under the pretence of assisting their brother Christians. Those who would not thus yield to his suggestions he positively prohibited from setting out, and engaged the Emperor Frederic to throw impediments in their way, when they pursued their purpose. Nevertheless, the King of Navarre, the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Brittany, and the Count de Bar proceeded to Palestine in spite of all opposition; and their coming was of very timely service to the defenders of the Holy Land, for no sooner had the period of his truce with the Christians expired, than Camel, finding that preparations for war were making on their part, anticipated their efforts, retook Jerusalem, routed all the forces that could be opposed to him, and overthrew what was called the Tower of David. He died shortly after this victory, and on the arrival of the crusaders, a prospect of success seemed open before them. But the operations of the chiefs were detached, and though the Count of Brittany gained some advantages towards Damascus, the rest of the French knights were completely defeated in a pitched battle at Gaza, and most of their leaders were either killed or taken. The King of Navarre was glad to enter into a disgraceful treaty with the Emir of Karac, which was conducted through the intervention of the Templars;[846] and the rest of the Latins formed alliances with what neighbouring powers they could. The Hospitallers, however, would not subscribe to the truce with the Emir of Karac[847] through jealousy towards the Templars, and there was no power in the state sufficiently strong to force them to obedience. Shortly after this event, the King of Navarre returned to Europe, and Richard, Earl of Cornwall, with many knights and large forces, arrived in Palestine. Their expedition had been sanctioned by all the authorities of Europe, except the Pope. Henry III. conducted them in person to the shore; the prayers and benedictions of the people and the clergy followed them, and their journey through France was accompanied by shouts and acclamations. On his arrival in Palestine, Richard instantly marched upon Jaffa, but he was met by envoys from the Sultaun of Egypt--who was now at war with the Sultaun of Damascus--offering an exchange of prisoners, and a complete cession of the Holy Land,[848] with some unimportant exceptions. Richard instantly accepted such advantageous proposals; Jerusalem was given up to the Christians, the rebuilding of the walls was commenced, the churches were purified, and the earl returned to Europe with the glorious title of the deliverer of Palestine. The Templars would not be parties to this treaty, as the Hospitallers had refused to participate in the other; and thus, one of the great military Orders remained at war with the Sultaun of Damascus,[849] and the other with the Sultaun of Egypt. While these events had been passing in Palestine, a new dynasty had sprung up in the north of Asia, and threatened a complete revolution in the whole of that quarter of the world. Genjis Khan and his successors had overturned all the northern and eastern governments of Asia; and, spreading over that fair portion of the earth precisely as the Goths and Huns had spread over Roman Europe, had reduced the more polished and civilized nations of the south, by the savage vigour and active ferocity of a race yet in the youth of being. Among[850] other tribes whom the successors of Genjis had expelled from their original abodes, was a barbarous and warlike horde called the Corasmins; and this people, wandering about without a dwelling, destroying as they went, and waging war against all nations, at length directed their course towards Palestine. So quick and unexpected had been their arrival, that the Christians employed in the re-edification of the city-walls never dreamed of invasion till fire and massacre had swept over half the Holy Land.[851] No troops were collected, no preparations made, the fortifications of the city were incomplete, and the only resource of the people of Jerusalem was to retire in haste to the shelter of Jaffa, under the guidance of the few Templars and Hospitallers who were on the spot. Some few persons remained, and made an attempt at defence; but the town was taken in a moment, and every soul in it put to the sword.[852] The bloodthirsty barbarians, not satisfied with the scanty number of victims they had found, artfully raised the banner of the Cross upon the walls, and many of the Latins who had fled returned. Seven thousand more were thus entrapped and massacred; and the Corasmins exercised every sort of barbarous fury on those objects they thought most sacred in the eyes of the Christians. At length the fugitives at Jaffa received a succour of four thousand men from their allies, the Sultauns of Emissa and Damascus,[853] and resolved to give battle to the barbarians. The Patriarch of Jerusalem precipitated the measures of the army, and after a dreadful struggle the Latins were defeated, the Grand Masters of the Temple and St. John slain, the three military Orders nearly exterminated, and the Sultaun of Emissa forced to fly for shelter to his fortifications. Walter de Brienne, the lord of Jaffa, was taken; and to force that town to surrender, the Corasmins hung the gallant knight by the arms to a cross, declaring to the garrison that he should there remain till the city was yielded. Walter heard, and raising his voice, unmindful of his own agonies, solemnly commanded his soldiers to hold out the city to the last.[854] The barbarians were obliged to retire, and Walter was sent captive into Egypt. The Sultaun of Emissa soon raised the standard a second time against the barbarians and after several struggles, in which the monarch of Egypt sometimes upheld, and sometimes abandoned the Corasmins, they were at length entirely defeated, and not one, it is said, escaped from the field of battle.[855] Barbaquan, their leader, was slain; and thus Asia was delivered of one of the most terrible scourges that had ever been inflicted on her. At this time a monarch reigned over France who combined in a remarkable degree the high talents of his grandfather Philip Augustus with the religious zeal or, perhaps I may say, fanaticism of his father, Louis VIII. Louis IX. was in every respect an extraordinary man; he was a great warrior, chivalrous as an individual, and skilful as a general: he was a great king, inasmuch as he sought the welfare of his people more than the aggrandizement of his territories: he formed the best laws that could be adapted to the time, administered them often in person, and observed them always himself: he was a good man, inasmuch as he served God with his whole heart, and strove in all his communion with his fellows to do his duty according to his sense of obligation. Had he been touched with religious fervour to the amount of zeal, but not to the amount of fanaticism, he would have been perhaps too superior to his age. Previous to the news of the Corasminian irruption, St. Louis had determined to visit the Holy Land, in consequence of a vow made during sickness.[856] It appears, that after the signal defeat which he had given to Henry III. of England at Saintonge, Louis's whole attention was turned to the sufferings of the Christians in Palestine; and so deeply was his mind impressed with that anxious thought, that it became the subject of dreams, which he looked upon as instigations from heaven. The news of the destruction of the Christians by the barbarians, the well-known quarrels and rivalry of the two military Orders, and the persuasions of Innocent IV., who then held the thirteenth oecumenical council at Lyons, all hastened Louis's preparations. William Longsword and a great many English crusaders[857] joined the French monarch from Great Britain; and after three years' careful attention to the safety of his kingdom, the provision of supplies, and the concentration of his forces, Louis, with his two brothers, the Counts of Artois and Anjou, took the scrip and staff, and set sail for Cyprus. The third brother of the king, Alphonso, Count of Poitiers, remained to collect the rest of the crusaders, and followed shortly after.[858] The queen-consort of France, and several other ladies of high note, accompanied the monarch to the Holy Land.[859] At Cyprus, Louis spent eight months in healing the divisions of the military Orders, and endeavouring to bring about that degree of unity which had been unknown to any of the crusades. At length, early in the spring, he set sail from Cyprus with an army of fifty thousand chosen men. A tremendous storm separated the king's fleet, and, supported by but a small part of his troops he arrived at Damietta, where the Sultaun of Egypt, with his whole force, was drawn up to oppose the landing of the Christians. The sultaun himself was seen in golden armour, which shone, Joinville says, like the sun itself; and so great was the noise of drums and trumpets that the French were almost deafened by the sound. After some discussion, it was determined that the landing should be attempted without waiting for the rest of the army. Among the first who reached the shore was Joinville, Seneschal of Champagne, who, accompanied by another baron, and their men-at-arms, landed in the face of an immense body of Turkish cavalry, that instantly spurred forward against them. The French planted their large shields[860] in the sand, with their lances resting on the rim, so that a complete chevaux-de-frise was raised, from which the Turks turned off without venturing an assault. St. Louis himself soon followed, and in his chivalrous impatience to land, sprang into the water up to his shoulders, and, sword in hand, rushed on to charge the Saracens. Intimidated at the bold actions of the French, the Moslems fled from the beach; and as the crusaders advanced, the unexpected news of the death of their sultaun reached the Saracens, upon which they abandoned even the city of Damietta itself, without waiting to destroy the bridge, though they set fire to the bazaars.[861] At Damietta Louis paused for the arrival of his brother, the Count of Poitiers, and the rest of the forces; and here, with the usual improvidence that marked all the crusades, the army gave itself up to luxury and debauchery, which the king neither by laws nor example could check. At length the reinforcements appeared, and Louis, leaving the queen at Damietta, marched on towards Cairo; but near Massoura he found his advance impeded by the Thanisian canal, on the other side of which the Saracens were drawn up to oppose his progress under the command of the celebrated Emir Ceccidun. No other means of passing the canal seemed practicable, but by throwing a causeway across. This was accordingly commenced, under cover of two high moveable towers, called _chats chatiels_, or cat-castles, which were scarcely raised before they were burnt by quantities of Greek fire, thrown from the _pierriers_ and mangonels. At length an Arabian peasant agreed, for a large bribe, to point out a ford. The Count of Artois, with fourteen hundred knights, was directed to attempt it. He succeeded, repulsed the Saracens on the banks, and pursued them to Massoura. The panic among the Moslems was general, and Massoura was nearly deserted. The more experienced and prudent knights of all classes advised the Count of Artois to pause for the arrival of the king and the rest of the army. The Count, with passionate eagerness, accused his good counsellors of cowardice. Chivalrous honour thus assailed forgot reason and moderation; each one more ardently than another advanced into Massoura: the Moslems, recovered from their fear, returned in great numbers; the fight began in earnest, and almost the whole of the imprudent advance-guard of the Christians was cut to pieces. The Count of Artois fell among the first;[862] and when Louis himself arrived, all was dismay and confusion. The battle was now renewed with redoubled vigour; Louis fought in every part of the strife, and the French and Saracens seemed emulous of each other in the paths of glory and destruction. The sun went down over the field of Massoura, leaving neither army assuredly the victors; but the Saracens had been repulsed, and Louis remained master of the plain. Sickness and famine soon began to rage in the Christian camp. The Moslems had now interrupted the communication with Damietta; and every soldier in the army was enfeebled by disease. Negotiations were begun for peace; but were broken off, because the sultaun would receive no hostage for the evacuation of Damietta but Louis himself; and it was determined to attempt a retreat. Many strove to escape by the river, but were taken in the attempt; and the host itself was incessantly subject to the attacks of the Saracens, who hung upon its rear during the whole march, cutting off every party that was detached, even to procure the necessaries of life. In this dreadful state Louis long continued to struggle against sickness, fighting ever where danger was most imminent, and bearing up when the hardiest soldiers of his army failed. At length he could hardly sit his horse; and in the confusion of the flight--which was now the character of the retreat--he was separated from his own servants, and attended only by the noble Geoffroy de Sergines, who defended him against all the attacks of the enemy. He was led to a hut at the village of Cazel, where he lay, expecting every moment that the plague would accomplish its work. He was thus taken by the Saracens,[863] who assisted in his recovery and treated him with honour. The greater part of the army fell into the Moslems' power, but an immense number were slain and drowned in attempting their escape. Several difficulties now arose with regard to the ransom of the king; the Saracens demanding the cession of various parts of Palestine still in the hands of the Christians. This, however, Louis refused; and conducted himself in prison with so much boldness, that the sultaun declared he was the proudest infidel he had ever beheld. To humble him to his wishes, the torture of the bernicles was threatened;[864] but the monarch remained so unmoved, that his enfranchisement was at last granted on other terms. Ten thousand golden besants were to be paid for the freedom of the army; the city of Damietta was to be restored to the Saracens, and a peace of ten years was concluded. During the interval which followed these arrangements, the sultaun was assassinated, and the fate of St. Louis was again doubtful; but the murderers agreed to the same terms which had been before stipulated. Nevertheless, some acts of cruelty were committed; and a great number of the sick were massacred at Damietta. The treasure which the king possessed on the spot not being sufficient to furnish the whole ransom, his friends were obliged to seize upon the wealth of the Grand Master of the Temple, who basely refused to lend a portion to redeem his fellow-christians. At length the first part of the sum was paid; the great body of the foreign nobles who had joined in the crusade returned to Europe, and Louis himself retired to Acre. The Saracens had already broken the treaty with Louis by the murder of the sick at Damietta, and by the detention of several knights and soldiers, as well as a large body of Christian children. The promise of peace, therefore, was not imperative; and the Sultaun of Damascus eagerly courted the French king to aid him in his efforts against the people of Egypt.[865] The news of this negotiation immediately brought deputies from Egypt, who submitted to the terms which Louis thought fit to propose; and that monarch, without mingling in the wars that raged between the two Moslem countries, only took advantage of them to repair the fortifications of Jaffa and Cesarea. After having spent two years in putting the portion of Palestine that yet remained to the Latins[866] into a defensible state, he set sail for France, where his presence was absolutely required. Before proceeding to trace the after-fate of the Holy Land,[867] it may be as well to conduct St. Louis to his last crusade. Sixteen years after his return to Europe, that monarch once more determined on rearing the banner of the Cross. Immense numbers flocked to join him, and England appeared willing to second all the efforts of the French king. Edward, the heir of the English monarchy, assumed the Cross; and large sums were raised throughout Britain for defraying the expenses of the war. In 1270, St. Louis, accompanied by the flower of his national nobility, and followed by sixty thousand chosen troops, set sail for Palestine, but was driven by a storm into Sardinia. Here a change in his plans took place; and it was resolved that the army should land in Africa, where the King of Tunis some time before had professed himself favourable to the Christian religion. St. Louis had been long so weak, that he could not bear the weight of his armour,[868] nor the motion of a horse, for any length of time; but still his indefatigable zeal sustained him; and after a short passage, he arrived on the coast of Africa, opposite to the city of Carthage. Although his coming had been so suddenly resolved,[869] a large Mahommedan force was drawn up to oppose his landing; but the French knights forced their way to the shore, and after a severe contest, obtained a complete victory over the Moors. Siege was then laid to Carthage, which was also taken; but before these conquests could be turned to any advantage, an infectious flux began to appear in the army. St. Louis was one of the first attacked. His enfeebled constitution was not able to support the effects of the disease, and it soon became evident that the monarch's days were rapidly drawing to their close. In this situation, with the most perfect consciousness of his approaching fate, St. Louis called his son Philip,[870] and spoke long to him on his duty to the people he left to his charge; teaching him with the beautiful simplicity of true wisdom. The king then withdrew his thoughts from all earthly things, performed the last rites of his religion, and yielded his soul to God.[871] Scarcely was the monarch dead, when Charles of Sicily arrived with large reinforcements, and unknowing the event, approached Carthage with martial music, and every sign of rejoicing. His joy was soon turned into grief by the tidings of his brother's fate;[872] and the courage of the Moors being raised by the sorrow of their enemies, the united armies of France and Sicily were attacked by a very superior power. After a variety of engagements, Philip, now King of France, and Charles, of Sicily, compelled the defeated Moors to sue for peace; and collecting his troops, the new monarch returned to Europe, driven from the coast rather by the pestilence that raged in his army,[873] than by the efforts of the infidels. Prince Edward of England had taken the Cross, as I have already said, with the intention of following Louis IX. to the Holy Land; and with the small force he could collect, amounting to not more than fifteen hundred men, he arrived in the Mediterranean, but hearing that Louis had turned from the direct object of the crusade, he proceeded to Sicily, where he passed the winter. As soon as spring rendered navigation possible, he set sail, and arrived at Acre, where he found the state of Palestine infinitely worse than it had been since the first taking of Jerusalem. Disunion and violence had done far more to destroy the Christians of the Holy Land than the swords of the infidels. The two military Orders had been constantly opposed to each other, and had often been engaged in sanguinary warfare. The knights of St. John had ever the advantage; and at one time the Templars of Palestine had nearly been exterminated. The clergy attempted to encroach upon the privileges of both. The different Italian republics, who had secured to themselves various portions of territory, and various commercial immunities, were in continual warfare; and while the Saracens and the Mamelukes were gradually taking possession of the whole soil--while the fortresses of Cesarea, Jaffa, and Saphoury fell into the hands of the infidels, as well as all the cities and feoffs of the Latins, except Acre and Tyre--the sands of Palestine were often wet with Christian blood, shed by the hands of Christians. Antioch also fell almost without resistance, and the citizens were either doomed to death or led into captivity. Such was the state of the Holy Land at the time of Prince Edward's arrival. His name, however, was a host; the disunion among the Christians was healed by his coming;[874] every exertion was made to render his efforts effectual; and he soon found himself at the head of a small but veteran force, amounting to seven thousand men. With this he advanced upon Nazareth, and after a severe conflict with the Moslems, he made himself master of that city, in which all the Saracens that remained were slaughtered without mercy. The climate put a stop to his successes. It was now the middle of summer, and the excessive heat brought on a fever, from which Edward was recovering, when a strange messenger desired to render some despatches to the prince's own hand. He was admitted; and as the young leader lay in his bed, without any attendants, he delivered the letters, and for a moment spoke to him of the affairs of Jaffa. The instant after, he drew a dagger from his belt, and before Edward was aware, had stabbed him in the chest. The prince was enfeebled, but was still sufficiently vigorous to wrench the weapon from the assassin, and to put him to death with his own hand. His attendants, alarmed by the struggle, rushed into the apartment, and found Edward bleeding from the wound inflicted by a poisoned knife. Skilful means[875] were instantly used to preserve his life;[876] and an antidote, sent by the Grand Master of the Temple, is said to have obviated the effects of the poison. Edward's natural vigour, with care, soon restored him to health; and the Sultaun of Egypt, daunted by the courage and ability of the English prince, and engaged in ruinous wars in other directions, offered peace on advantageous conditions, which were accepted. Edward and his followers returned to Europe, and the Christians of Palestine were left to take advantage of a ten years' truce. Such was the end of the last expedition. In 1274, Gregory X., who had himself witnessed the sorrows of Palestine, attempted to promote a new crusade, and held a council for that purpose at Lyons, where many great and noble personages assumed the Cross. The death of the Pope followed shortly afterward, and the project was abandoned, on the loss of him who had given it birth. In Palestine, all now tended to the utter expulsion of the Christians. The Latins themselves first madly broke the truce, by plundering some Egyptian merchants near Margat. Keladun, then Sultaun of Cairo, hastened to revenge the injury, and Margat was taken from the Christians, after a gallant defence.[877] Tripoli, which had hitherto escaped by various concessions to the Moslems, fell shortly after Margat; and in the third year from that period, two hundred thousand Mahommedans were under the walls of Acre, the last possession of the Christians. The Grand Master of St. John had collected together a small body of Italian mercenaries, but no serviceable support could be won from the kings of Europe. The Grand Master[878] of the Temple, however, with the rest of the military Orders, and about twelve thousand men, being joined by the King of Cyprus, resolved to undergo a siege. The greater part of the useless inhabitants were sent away by sea, and the garrison prepared to defend themselves to the last. This was the final blaze of chivalric valour that shone on the Holy Land. The numbers of the Moslems were overpowering, and after a breach had been made in the walls by the fall of what was called the _Cursed Tower_, a general assault took place. The King of Cyprus made a dastardly flight, but the Templars and the Teutonic knights died where they stood, and the Hospitallers only left the city to attack the rear of the besieging army. Here they met with infinite odds against them, and fell man by man, till the news came that the Grand Master of the Temple was killed and that the city was taken. The Hospitallers then, reduced to seven in number, reached a ship, and quitted the shores of Palestine. About an equal number of Templars fled to the interior, and thence fought their way through the land, till they gained the means of reaching Cyprus. The inhabitants of the city who had not before departed fled to the sea;[879] but the elements themselves seemed to war against them, and ere they could escape, the Saracen sword died the sands with their blood. The Moslems then set fire to the devoted town, and the last vestige of the Christian power in Syria was swept from the face of the earth. CHAPTER XV. _Fate of the Orders of the Temple and St. John--The Templars abandon all Hopes of recovering Jerusalem--Mingle in European Politics--Offend Philip the Fair--Are persecuted--Charges against them--The Order destroyed--The Knights of St. John pursue the Purpose of defending Christendom--Settle in Rhodes--Siege of Rhodes--Gallant Defence--The Island taken--The Knights remove to Malta--Siege of Malta--La Valette--Defence of St. Elmo-- Gallantry of the Garrison--The Whole Turkish Army attempt to storm the Castle--The Attack repelled--Arrival of Succour--The Siege raised--The Progress of Chivalry independent of the Crusades--Chivalrous Exploits--Beneficial Tendency of Chivalry--Corruption of the Age not attributable to Chivalry--Decline of the Institution--In Germany, England, France--Its Extinction._ From the period of the fall of Acre crusades were only spoken of; but the spirit of Chivalry was perhaps not the less active, though it had taken another course: nor did it lose in purity by being directed, moderated, and deprived of the ferocity which always follows fanaticism. The Holy Land had become a place of vice and debauchery, as well as a theatre for the display of great deeds and noble resolution; and we find, that however orderly and regular any army was on its departure from Europe, it soon acquired all the habits of immorality and improvidence which seemed some inherent quality of that unhappy climate. This was peculiarly apparent in the two Orders of the Hospital and the Temple, the rules of which were particularly calculated to guard against luxury of every kind; yet, the one, till its extinction and both, during their sojourn in Palestine, were the receptacle of more depravity and crimes than perhaps any other body of men could produce. After the capture of Acre the knights of these two Orders retreated to Cyprus; and when some ineffectual efforts had been made to excite a new crusade for the recovery of Palestine, the Templars retired from that country, and, spreading themselves throughout their vast possessions in Europe, seem really to have abandoned all thought of fighting any more for the sepulchre. With the rest of Europe they spoke of fresh expeditions, it is true; but in the mean while they gave themselves up to the luxury, pride, and ambition which, if it was not the real cause of their downfall, at least furnished the excuse. Philip the Fair of France, on his accession to the throne, showed great favour to the Templars,[880] and held out hopes that he would attempt to establish the Order once more in the land which had given it birth. But the Templars were now deeply occupied in the politics of Europe itself: their haughty Grand Master was almost equal to a king in power, and would fain have made kings his slaves. In the disputes between Philip and Boniface VIII., the Templars took the part of the Pope, and treated the monarch, in his own realm, with insolent contempt; but they knew not the character of him whose wrath they roused. Philip was at once vindictive and avaricious, and the destruction of the Templars offered the gratification of both passions: he was also calm, bold, cunning, and remorseless; and from the vengeance of such a man it was difficult to escape. The vices of the Templars were notorious,[881] and on these it was easy to graft crimes of a deeper die. Reports, rumours, accusations, circulated rapidly through Europe; and Philip, resolved upon crushing the unhappy Order, took care that on the very first vacancy his creature, Bertrand de Got, Archbishop of Bourdeaux,[882] should be elevated to the papal throne. Before he suffered the ambitious prelate to be elected, he bound him to grant five conditions, four of which were explained to him previously, but the fifth was to be kept in secrecy till after his elevation. Bertrand pledged himself to all these terms; and as soon as he had received the triple crown, was informed that the last dreadful condition was the destruction of the Order of the Temple. He hesitated, but was forced to consent; and after various stratagems to inveigle all the principal Templars into France, Philip caused them suddenly to be arrested throughout his dominions,[883] and had them arraigned of idolatry, immorality, extortion, and treason, together with crimes whose very name must not soil this page. Mixed with a multitude of charges, both false and absurd, were various others too notorious to be confuted by the body, and many which could be proved against individuals. Several members of the Order confessed some of the crimes laid to their charge, and many more were afterward induced to do so by torture; but at a subsequent period of the trial, when the whole of the papal authority was used to give the proceeding the character of a regular legal inquisition, a number of individuals confessed, on the promise of pardon, different offences, sufficient to justify rigorous punishment against themselves, and to implicate deeply the institution to which they belonged. James de Mollay, however, the Grand Master, firmly denied every charge, and defended himself and his brethren with a calm and dignified resolution that nothing could shake. It would be useless as well as painful to dwell upon all the particulars of their trial, where space is not allowed to investigate minutely the facts: it is sufficient to say, that the great body of the Templars in France were sentenced to be imprisoned for life, and a multitude were burned at the stake, where they showed that heroic firmness which they had ever evinced in the field of battle. Their large possessions were of course confiscated. In Spain, their aid against the Moors was too necessary to permit of similar rigour, and they were generally acquitted in that country. In England, the same persecutions were carried on, but with somewhat of a milder course: and the last blow was put to the whole by a council held at Vienne, which formally dissolved the Order, and transferred its estates to the Hospitallers. James de Mollay and the Grand Prior of France were the last victims, and were publicly burned in Paris for crimes that beyond doubt they did not commit. To suppose that the Templars were guilty of the specific offences attributed to them would be to suppose them a congregation of madmen; but to believe they were a religious or a virtuous Order would be to charge all Europe with a general and purposeless conspiracy. In the mean while, the Knights Hospitallers confined themselves to the objects for which they were originally instituted; and, that they might always be prepared to fight against the enemies of Christendom, they obtained a cession of the island of Rhodes, from which they expelled the Turks. Here they continued for many years, a stumblingblock in the way of Moslem conquest; but at length, the chancellor of the Order, named d'Amaral,[884] disappointed of the dignity of Grand Master, in revenge, it is said, invited the Turks to the siege, and gave them the plan of the island with its fortifications. Soliman II. instantly led an army against it; but the gallant knights resisted with a determined courage, that drove the imperious sultaun almost to madness. He commanded his celebrated general, Mustapha, to be slain with arrows,[885] attributing to him the misfortune of the siege; and at length had begun to withdraw his forces, when a more favourable point of attack was discovered, and the knights were ultimately obliged to capitulate. The city of Rhodes was by this time reduced to a mere heap of stones, and at one period of the siege, the Grand Master himself remained thirty-four days in the trenches, without ever sitting down to food, or taking repose, but such as he could gain upon an uncovered mattress at the foot of the wall. So noble a defence well merited an honourable fate; and even after their surrender, the knights were the objects of admiration and praise to all Europe, though Europe had suffered them to fall without aid. The sultaun, before he allowed the Order to transfer itself to Candia, which had been stipulated by the treaty, requested to see the Grand Master: and to console him for his loss, he said, "The conquest and the fall of empires are but the sports of fortune." He then strove to win the gallant knight who had so well defended his post to the Ottoman service, holding out to him the most magnificent offers, and showing what little cause he had to remain attached to the Christians,[886] who had abandoned him; but Villiers replied, that he thanked him for his generous proposals, yet that he should be unworthy of such a prince's good opinion if he could accept them. Before the Order of St. John could fix upon any determinate plan of proceeding, it was more than once threatened with a complete separation, by various divisions in its councils. At length motives, partly political, partly generous, induced the emperor Charles V. to offer the island of Malta to the Hospitallers. This proposal was soon accepted,[887] and after various negotiations the territory was delivered up to the knights, who took full possession on the 26th of October, 1530. Thirty-five years had scarcely passed, when the Order of St. John, which was now known by the name of the Order of Malta, was assailed in its new possession by an army composed of thirty thousand veteran Turkish soldiers. The news of this armament's approach had long before reached the island, and every preparation had been made to render its efforts ineffectual. The whole of the open country was soon in the hands of the Turks, and they resolved to begin the siege by the attack of a small fort, situated at the end of a tongue of land which separated the two ports. The safety of the island and the Order depended upon the castle of St. Elmo--a fact which the Turkish admiral well knew, and the cannonade that he soon opened upon the fortress was tremendous and incessant. The knights who had been thrown into that post soon began to demand succour; but the Grand Master, La Valette, treated their request with indignation, and speedily sent fresh troops to take the place of those whom fear had rendered weak. A noble emulation reigned among the Hospitallers, and they contended only which should fly to the perilous service. A sortie was made from the fort, and the Turks were driven back from their position; but the forces of the Moslems were soon increased by the arrival of the famous Dragut; and the succour which the viceroy of Sicily had promised to the knights did not appear. After the coming of Dragut, the siege of St. Elmo was pressed with redoubled ardour. A ravelin was surprised, and a lodgment effected; and the cavalier, which formed one of the principal fortifications, had nearly been taken. Day after day, night after night, new efforts were made on either part; and the cannon of the Turks never ceased to play upon the walls of the fort, while, at the same time, the ravelin which they had captured was gradually raised till it overtopped the parapet. The whole of the outer defences were now exposed: the garrison could only advance by means of trenches and a subterranean approach; and to cut off even these communications with the parapet, the pacha threw across a bridge from the ravelin, covering it with earth to defend it from fire. After this, the mine and the sap both went on at once; but the hardness of the rock was in favour of the besieged, and by a sortie the bridge was burnt.[888] In a wonderfully short time it was reconstructed; and the terrible fire from the Turkish lines not only swept away hundreds of the besieged, but ruined the defences and dismounted the artillery. In this state the knights sent a messenger to the Grand Master, representing their situation, showing that the recruits they received only drained the garrison of the town, without protracting the resistance of a place that could stand no longer, and threatening to cut their way through the enemy, if boats did not come to take them off. La Valette knew too well their situation; but he knew also, that if St. Elmo were abandoned, the viceroy of Sicily would never sail to the relief of Malta; and he sent three commissioners to examine the state of the fort, and to persuade the garrison to hold out to the last. Two of these officers saw that the place was truly untenable, but the third declared it might still be maintained; and, on his return, offered to throw himself into it with what volunteers he could raise. La Valette instantly accepted the proposal, and wrote a cold and bitter note to the refractory knights in St. Elmo, telling them that others were willing to take their place. "Come back, my brethren," he said, "you will be here more in safety; and, on our part, we shall feel more tranquil concerning the defence of St. Elmo, on the preservation of which depends the safety of the island and of the Order." Shame rose in the bosom of the knights; and, mortified at the very idea of having proposed to yield a place that others were willing to maintain, they now sent to implore permission to stay. La Valette well knew, from the first, that such would be their conduct; but, before granting their request, he replied, that he ever preferred new troops who were obedient, to veterans who took upon themselves to resist the will of their commanders: and it was only on the most humble apologies and entreaties that he allowed them, as a favour, to remain in the post of peril. From the 17th of June to the 14th of July, this little fort[889] had held out against all the efforts of the Turkish army, whose loss had been already immense. Enraged at so obstinate a resistance, the pacha now determined to attack the rock on which it stood, with all his forces; and the Grand Master, perceiving the design by the Turkish movements, took care to send full supplies to the garrison. Among other things thus received were a number of hoops covered with tow, and imbued with every sort of inflammable matter. For the two days preceding the assault, the cannon of the Turkish fleet and camp kept up an incessant fire upon the place, which left not a vestige of the fortifications above the surface of the rock. On the third morning the Turks rushed over the fosse which they had nearly filled, and at the given signal mounted to storm. The walls of the place were gone, but a living wall of veteran soldiers presented itself, each knight being supported by three inferior men. With dauntless valour the Turks threw themselves upon the pikes that opposed them; and after the lances had been shivered and the swords broken, they were seen struggling with their adversaries, and striving to end the contest with the dagger. A terrible fire of musketry and artillery was kept up; and the Christians, on their part, hurled down upon the swarms of Turks that rushed in unceasing multitudes from below the flaming hoops, which sometimes linking two or three of the enemy together, set fire to the light and floating dresses of the east, and enveloped many in a horrible death. Still, however, the Turks rushed on, thousands after thousands, and still the gallant little band of Christians repelled all their efforts, and maintained possession of the height. From the walls of the town, and from the castle of St. Angelo, the dreadful struggle for St. Elmo was clearly beheld; and the Christian people and the knights, watching the wavering current of the fight, felt perhaps more painfully all the anxious horror of the scene, than those whose whole thoughts and feelings were occupied in the actual combat. La Valette himself stood on the walls of St. Angelo, not spending his time in useless anticipations, but scanning eagerly every motion of the enemy, and turning the artillery of the fortress in that direction where it might prove of the most immediate benefit. At length he beheld a body of Turks scaling a rampart, from which the attention of the besieged had been called by a furious attack on the other side.[890] Their ladders were placed, and still the defenders of St. Elmo did not perceive them--they began their ascent--they reached the top of the rampart--but at that moment the Grand Master opened a murderous fire upon them from the citadel, and swept them from the post they had gained. The cavalier was next attacked; but here also the Turks were met by those destructive hoops of fire which caused more dread in their ranks than all the other efforts of the Christians. Wherever they fell confusion followed; and at the end of a tremendous fight of nine hours, the Moslems were obliged to sound a retreat. A change of operations now took place; means were used to cut off the communication with the town; and, after holding out some time longer, the fort of St. Elmo was taken, the last knight of its noble garrison dying in the breach. The whole force of the Turks was thenceforth turned towards the city; and a slow but certain progress was made, notwithstanding all the efforts of the Grand Master and his devoted companions. In vain he wrote to the viceroy of Sicily; no succour arrived for many days. The town was almost reduced to extremity. The bastion of St. Catherine was scaled, and remained some time in the hands of the infidels, who would have maintained it longer, had not La Valette himself rushed to the spot; and, after receiving a severe wound, succeeded in dislodging the assailants. A small succour came at length under the command of Don Juan de Cardonna; but this was overbalanced by the junction of the viceroy of Algiers with the attacking force. The bulwark of all Christendom was being swept away, while Christian kings stood looking on, and once more saw the knights of St. John falling man by man before the infidels, without stretching forth a hand to save them. A large army had, in the mean while, been assembled in Sicily, under the pretence of assisting Malta; and at last the soldiers clamoured so loudly to be led to the glorious service for which they had been enrolled, that the vacillating viceroy after innumerable delays was forced to yield to their wishes, and set sail for the scene of conflict.[891] The island was reached in safety, the troops disembarked; and though the Turks still possessed the advantage of numbers, a panic seized them, and they fled. Joy and triumph succeeded to danger and dread, and the name of La Valette and his companions, remains embalmed among the memories of the noble and great. This was the last important event in the history of the Order of St. John; and since that day, it has gradually descended to later years, blending itself with modern institutions till its distinctive character has been lost, and the knights of Malta are reckoned among the past. It does not seem necessary to trace the other military fraternities which originated in the crusades to their close; but something more must be said concerning the progress of Chivalry in Europe, and the effect that it had upon society in general. The Holy Wars were, indeed, the greatest efforts of knighthood; but during the intervals between each expedition beyond the seas, and that which followed, and often during the time of preparation, the knight found plenty of occupation for his sword in his own country. The strife with the Moors in Spain bore entirely the aspect of the crusades, but the sanguinary conflicts between France and England offered continual occasions both for the display of knightly valour and of knightly generosity. The bitterest national enmity existed between the two countries--they were ever engaged in struggling against each other; and yet we find, through the whole, that mutual courtesy when the battle was over, and in the times of truce that frank co-operation, or that rivalry in noble efforts, which belonged so peculiarly to Chivalry. Occasionally, it is true, a cruel and bloodthirsty warrior would stain his successes with ungenerous rigour--for where is the institution which has ever been powerful enough to root out the evil spot from the heart of man? But the great tone of all the wars of Chivalry was valour in the field and courtesy in the hall. Deeds were often done in the heat of blood which general barbarism of manners alone would excuse; and most of the men whom we are inclined to love and to admire have left some blot on that page of history which records their lives. But to judge of the spirit of the Order, we must not look to those instances where the habits of the age mixed up a vast portion of evil with the general character of the knight, but we must turn our eyes upon those splendid examples where chivalrous feeling reached its height, did away all the savage cruelty of the time, and raised human actions almost to sublimity. Remarking these instances, and seeing what the spirit of Chivalry could produce in its perfection, we may judge what the society of that day would have been without it: we may trace truly the effect it had in civilizing the world, and we may comprehend the noble legacy it left to after-years. Had Chivalry not existed, all the vices which we behold in that period of the world's history would have been immensely increased; for there would have been no counteracting incitement. The immorality of those times would have been a thousand degrees more gross, for passion would have wanted the only principle of refinement; the ferocity of the brave would have shown itself in darker scenes of bloodshed, for no courtesy would have tempered it with gentleness. Even religion would have longer remained obscured, for the measures taken to darken it, by those whose interest it was to make it a means of rule, would have been but faintly opposed, had not Chivalry, by softening the manners of the age, and promoting general communication between man and man, gradually done away darkness and admitted light. Because knights were superstitious, it has been supposed that superstition was apart of knighthood; but this was not at all the case. The gross errors grafted by the Roman church on the pure doctrine of salvation often taught the knight cruelty, and disgraced Chivalry, by making it the means of persecution; but the tendency of the Order itself was to purify and refine, and the civilization thereby given to the world in general ultimately produced its effect in doing away superstition. The libertinism of society in the middle ages has also been wrongly attributed to knighthood, and thus the most beneficial institutions are too often confounded with the vices that spring up around them. That the fundamental doctrine of Chivalry, if I may so express myself, was decidedly opposed to every infraction of morality, is susceptible of proof. In all authors who have collected the precepts of Chivalry, we find sobriety and continence enjoined as among the first duties of a knight: and female chastity was so particularly esteemed, that we are told by the Chevalier de la Tour, if a lady of doubtful virtue presented herself in company with the good, whatever were her rank, the knights would cause her to give place to those of unsullied fame. From every thing that I can read or hear, I am inclined to believe that the virtues of the knights of old arose in the Order of Chivalry alone, and that their faults belonged to the age in which they lived.[892] In common with all human institutions, Chivalry presents a new aspect in every page of the book of history. Sometimes it is severe and stern; sometimes light and gay; but the qualities of valour, courtesy, and enthusiasm shine out at every period of its existence. At the battle of Crecy, Edward the Black Prince, then fourteen years of age, fought for his knightly spurs; and his father, King Edward III., from a mound near the mill, beheld his gallant son surrounded on every side by enemies. The companions of the young hero sent to the king for succour, alleging the dangerous situation of the Prince of Wales; on which Edward demanded, "Is he dead, or overthrown, or so wounded that he cannot continue to fight?" And on being informed that his son still lived, he added, "Return to him, and to those who sent you, and tell them, whatever happens, to seek no aid from me so long as my son be in life. Further say, that I command them to let the boy well win his spurs; for, please God, the day shall be his, and the honour shall rest with him."[893] In this instance, Edward required no more from his child than he was willing in his own person to endure. No one ever evinced more chivalrous courage than that monarch himself; and in the skirmish under the walls of Calais, he fought hand to hand with the famous De Ribaumont, who brought him twice upon his knee, but was at length vanquished by the king. After the battle, Edward entertained his prisoners in the town; and when supper was concluded the victorious monarch approached his adversary, took the chaplet of rich pearls from his own brow, placed it on the head of De Ribaumont, and said, "Sir Eustace, I give this wreath to you, as the best of this day's combatants, and I beg you to wear it a year for my love. I know that you are gay and gallant, and willingly find yourselves where ladies are. Tell them, then, wherever you may be, that I gave you this token; and, moreover, I free you from your prison. Go to-morrow, if it please you."[894] Such was the character of knighthood; and whether we read anecdotes like the above, or trace in the rolls of history the feats of an Edward the Black Prince, of a Duguesclin, of a Talbot, a Henry, or a Bayard, we find the same spirit; varied, indeed, according to the mind of the individual, but raising all his virtues to the highest pitch of perfection, and restraining all his faults as much as human errors can be restrained. It would be endless to detail all those marvels which Chivalry at various times effected; nor have I space to dwell upon Crecy, or Poitiers, or Agincourt. With respect to those great battles, where England was so eminently triumphant, it is sufficient to point out the extraordinary fact, that though the glory rested with the British, no disgrace attached to their enemies. Each knight in the French armies did every thing that personal valour could do to win the field; and the honour to England consists not so much in having conquered, as in having conquered such opponents. For long, however, it appears that the French commanders were inferior to the English in skill, and that their forces were destitute of that unity which alone secures success. At length, the son of a nobleman of Brittany, who had been much neglected in his early years, began to make head against the English. From his infancy Bertrand Duguesclin had shown the most persevering passion for arms, which had been always repressed; till at a tournament--from the neighbourhood of which he had been purposely sent away--he appeared in disguise, defeated all that encountered him, and was only discovered by refusing to meet his own father. From that hour Duguesclin rose in the estimation of the world; and after opposing, with considerable success, Edward the Black Prince himself, on the death of that noble commander he delivered the greater part of France from the domination of the English. One of the favourite schemes of Duguesclin was to restore to Chivalry its ancient simplicity, and he strove by every means to enforce the more severe and salutary laws by which it had been originally governed. Of course, an institution which had vast privileges and obligations was not without rewards and punishments; and many of these were revived by Duguesclin after he had become Constable of France. The custom of cutting the tablecloth with a knife or dagger before a knight who had in any way degraded himself[895] is said, by some, to have been brought into use by Duguesclin, though others affirm that he only renewed an ancient habit. Much more severe inflictions, also, were destined for those who had dishonoured the Order to which they belonged by cowardice, treachery, or any other unmanly crime. The criminal, condemned to be stripped of his knighthood, was placed upon a scaffold, in the sight of the populace, while his armour was broken to pieces before his face. His shield reversed, with the coat-of-arms effaced, was dragged through the dirt, while the heralds proclaimed aloud his crime and his sentence. The king-at-arms then thrice demanded his name; and at each time, when the pursuivant replied, the king added, "A faithless and disloyal traitor!" A basin[896] of hot water was poured upon the culprit's head, to wash away the very memory of his knighthood; and, being drawn on a hurdle to the church, he was covered with a pall, while the funeral prayers were pronounced over him, as one dead to honour and to fame. Notwithstanding every means taken to uphold it, Chivalry gradually declined from the beginning of the fourteenth century. In England the long civil wars between the houses of York and Lancaster called into action a thousand principles opposed to knightly courtesy and generosity. Many flashes of the chivalrous spirit blazed up from time to time, it is true; but the general character of those contentions was base and interested treachery on all parts. The mean and avaricious spirit which seized upon Henry VII. in his latter years of course had its effect on his court and country; and the infamous extortions of his creatures Empson and Dudley, the ruin which they brought upon many of the nobility, and the disgust and terror which their tyranny spread through the land, served to check all those pageants and exercises which kept alive the sinking flame of Chivalry. Henry VIII., in the vigour of his youth, made vast efforts to give back to knighthood its ancient splendour; but the spirit had been as much injured as the external form, and though he could renew the one, he could not recall the other. The wavering tyranny of his old age also did more to extinguish the last sparks of knightly feeling, than his youth had done to revive the pomp of Chivalry. Then came the Reformation, and a new enthusiasm grew up through the land. In Germany the reign of the Emperor Maximilian was the last in which Chivalry can be said to have existed. Charles V. reduced all things to calculation, and though the name of knighthood remained, it soon became nothing but a sound. The land which had given birth to the institution cherished it long; and there its efforts were continually reawakened even in its decline. During the unhappy reign of Charles VI., France, torn by factions, each struggling for the sceptre of the insane monarch, saw Chivalry employed for the purposes of ambition alone. While all parties turned their arms against their fellow-countrymen, a stranger seized on the power for which they fought, and the English house of Lancaster seated itself on the throne of France. Charles VII. succeeded to a heritage of wars; but, apparently reckless, from the desperate state of his dominions, he yielded himself wholly to pleasure, without striking a blow for the recovery of his kingdom, till Joan of Arc recalled him to glory and himself. From that moment Chivalry again revived, and no period of French history presents knighthood under a brighter aspect than during the wars of Charles VII. At the same time, however, an institution was founded which soon changed the character of Chivalry, and in the end reduced it to a name. The inconveniences attached to the knightly mode of warfare were many and striking; order and discipline were out of the question; and though courage did much, Charles VII. saw that courage well directed would do infinitely more. To establish, therefore, a body over which he might have some control, he raised a company of _gen-d'armerie_, which soon by its courage and its success drew into its own rank all the great and noble of the kingdom. Thus came a great change over the Order; knights became mere soldiers, and Chivalry was used as a machine. Louis XI. contributed still more to do away Chivalry, by depressing the nobility and founding a standing army of mercenary troops. Charles VIII. and Louis XII., by romantic wars in Italy, renewed the fire of the waning institution; and Francis I., the most chivalrous of kings, beheld it blaze up under his reign like the last flash of an expiring flame. He, however unwittingly aided to extinguish it entirely, and by extending knighthood to civilians, deprived it of its original character. The pomps and pageants, the exercises and the games, which had accompanied the Order from its early days, were now less frequent: popes had censured them as vain and cruel, and many kings had discountenanced them as expensive and dangerous: but the death of Henry II., from a wound received at a tournament, put an end to them in France; and from that time all the external ceremonies of Chivalry were confined to the reception of a knight into any of the royal Orders. The distinctive spirit also had by this time greatly merged into other feelings. The valour was as much the quality of the simple soldier as of the knight; the courtesy had spread to society in general, and had become politeness; the gallantry had lost its refinement, and had deteriorated into debauchery. Faint traces of the lost institution appeared from time to time, especially in the wars of Henry IV. and the League. The artful and vicious policy of Catherine de Medicis did much to destroy it; the filthy effeminacy of Henry III. weakened it, in common with all noble feelings; and the iron rod of Richelieu struck at it as a remnant of the feudal power. Still a bright blaze of its daring valour shone out in Condé, a touch of its noble simplicity appeared in Turenne, but the false brilliancy of Louis XIV. completed its downfall; and Chivalry is only to be seen by its general effects on society. Thus things fleet by us; and in reading of all the great and mighty deeds of which this book has given a slight and imperfect sketch, and looking on the multitudes of men who have toiled and struggled through dangers, difficulties, and horrors for the word GLORY, the empty echo of renown, or perhaps a worse reward, I rise as from a phantasmagoria where a world of strange and glittering figures have been passing before my eyes, changing with the rapidity of light, and each leaving an impression for memory, though the whole was but the shadow of a shade. NOTES. NOTE I.--CHAP. I. Menestrier enters into a disquisition on the subject of the two interpretations given to the word _miles_, which would have interrupted the thread of my discourse too much to permit of its introduction in the text. I subjoin it here, however, as a good guide for those who may be inclined to pursue the subject further. "Il ne faut pas donc confondre le titre d'ancienne noblesse, ou de noblesse militaire, avec la dignité de chevalier, par l'équivoque du terme Latin _miles_, qui convient à l'un et à l'autre; ce que n'ont pas assez observé quelques autheurs, qui n'ont pas fait reflexion que dans la plûpart des actes écrits en langue Latine, ce mot signifie également ces deux différentes choses. * * * * * "L'Empereur Frederic avoir déjà? distingué ces deux espèces de Chevalerie, lors qu'il fit une ordonnance à Naples, l'an 1232, que personne ne se presentât pour recevoir l'ordre de Chevalerie, s'il n'estoit d'une ancienne race militaire, ou d'ancienne Chevalerie. _Ad militarem honorem nullus accedat, qui non sit de genere militum_; L'une de ces Chevaleries est donc _genus militare_, race de Chevalerie; l'autre _militaris honor_, honneur de Chevalerie, qui n'ont esté confonduës que par quelques autheurs, qui, écrivans de cette matière sans l'entendre, n'ont fait que l'embroüiller, au lieu de la developper. "Roger, Roy de Sicile et de Naples, fit une ordonnance, que nul ne pût recevoir l'ordre de Chevalerie, s'il n'estoit de race militaire. _Sancimus itaque, et tale proponimus edictum, ut quicumque novam militiam acceperit_, il l'appelle nouvelle Chevalerie, pour la distinguer de celle de la naissance, _sive quocumque tempore arripuerit, contra regni beatitudinem, pacem, atque integritatem, à militiæ nomine, et professione penitùs decidat, nisi fortè à militari genere per successionem duxit prosapiam_."--Menestrier; Preuves, chap. 1. NOTE II.--CHAP. II. St. Palaye, in the body of his admirable essays upon Chivalry, names the day preceding that of the tournament as the one on which squires were permitted to joust with each other: but in a note he has the following passage, which shows that in this, as in almost every other respect, the customs of chivalry varied very much at different epochs. "Les usages out varié par rapport aux tournois, suivant les divers temps de la Chevalerie. Dans les commencements les plus anciens chevaliers joutoient entre eux, et le lendemain de cette joute les nouveaux chevaliers s'exerçoient dans d'autres tournois, auxquels les anciens chevaliers se faisoient un plaisir d'assister en qualité de spectateurs. La coutume changea depuis: ce fut la veille des grands tournois que les jeunes chevaliers s'essayerent les uns contre les autres, et l'on permit aux écuyers de se mêler avec eux. Ceux-ci étoient récompensés par l'ordre de la Chevalerie, lorsqu'ils se distinguoient dans ces sortes de combats. Ce mélange de chevaliers et d'écuyers introduisit dans la suite divers abus dans la Chevalerie, et la fit bientôt dégénérer, comme le remarque M. Le Laboureur. Les écuyers usurpèrent successivement et par degrés les honneurs et les distinctions qui n'appartenoient qu'aux chevaliers, et peu-à-peu ils se confondirent avec eux."--_Note on St. Palaye._ This note is perfectly just in the statement that in after-times the distinctions between knights and squires were not so strictly maintained as in the early days of Chivalry. At the famous jousts between the French and English at Chateau Joscelin, as related by Froissart, we find the squires opposed to the knights upon perfectly equal terms. The limits of this book are too narrow to admit of many long quotations; but the passage will be found well worthy the trouble of seeking, in the sixty fourth chapter of the second book of the admirable Froissart. NOTE III.--CHAP. II. To show the manner in which reports of all kinds were spread and collected even as late as the days of Edward III., I have subjoined the following extract from Froissart, giving an account of his reception at the court of the Count de Foix. It also affords a _naive_ picture of that curious simplicity of manners which formed one very singular and interesting trait in the Chivalry of old. "_Comment Messire Jean Froissart enquéroit diligemment comment les Guerres s'étoient portées par toutes les parties de la France._ "Je me suis longuement tenu à parler des besognes des lointaines marches, mais les prochaines, tant qu'à maintenant, m'ont été si fraîches, et si nouvelles, et si inclinants à ma plaisance, que pour ce les ai mises arrière. Mais, pourtant, ne séjournoient pas les vaillants hommes, qui se désiroient à avancer ens [dans] on [le] royaume de Castille et de Portugal, et bien autant en Gascogne et en Rouergue, en Quersin [Quercy], en Auvergne, en Limousin, et en Toulousain, et en Bigorre; mais visoient et subtilloient [imaginoient] tous les jours l'un sur l'autre comment ils se pussent trouver en parti de fait d'armes, pour prendre, embler [enlever], et écheller villes, et châteaux, et forteresses. Et pour ce, je sire Jean Froissart, qui me suis ensoingné [étudié] et occupé de dicter et écrire cette histoire, à la requête et contemplation de haut prince et renommé Messire Guy de Châtillon, Comte de Blois, Seigneur d'Avesnes, de Beaumont, de Scoonhort, et de la Gende, mon bon et souverain maître et seigneur; considérai en moi-même, que nulle espérance n'étoit que aucuns faits d'armes se fissent ès parties de Picardie et de Flandre, puisque paix y étoit, et point ne voulois être oiseux; car je savois bien que encore au temps à venir, et quand je serai mort, sera cette haute et noble histoire en grand cours, et y prendront tous nobles et vaillants hommes plaisance et exemple de bien faire; et entrementes [pendant] que j'avois, Dieu merci, sens, mémoire, et bonne souvenance de toutes les choses passées, engin [esprit] clair et aigu pour concevoir tous les faits dont je pourrois être informé, touchants à ma principale matière, âge, corps et membres pour souffrir peine, me avisai que je ne voulois mie séjourner de non poursieure [poursuivre] ma matière; et pour savoir la vérité des lointaines besognes sans se que j'y envoyasse aucune autre personne en lieu de moi, pris voie et achoison [occasion] raisonnable d'aller devers haut prince et redouté seigneur, Messire Gaston, Comte de Foix et de Berne [Béarn]; et bien sçavois que si je pouvois venir en son hôtel, et là être à loisir, je ne pourrois mieux cheoir au monde, pour être informé de toutes nouvelles; car là sont et fréquentent volontiers tous chevaliers et écuyers étranges, pour la noblesse d'icelui haut prince. Et tout ainsi, comme je l'imaginai, il m'en advint; et remontrai ce, et le voyage que je voulois faire, a mon très cher et redouté seigneur, Monseigneur le Comte de Blois, lequel me bailla ses lettres de familiarité adressants au Comte de Foix. Et tant travaillai et chevauchai en quérant de tout côtés nouvelles, que, par la grace de Dieu, sans péril et sans dommage, je vins en son chatel, a Ortais [Orthez], au pays de Béarn, le jour de Sainte Catherine, que on compta pour lors en l'an de grace mil trois cent quatre-vingt et huit; lequel comte de Foix, si très tôt comme il me vit, me fit bonne chère, et me dit en riant en bon François: que bien il me connoissoit, et si ne m'avoit oncques mais vu, mais plusieurs fois avoit ouï parler de moi. Si me retint de son hôtel et tout aise, avec le bon moyen des lettres que je lui avois apportées, tant que il m'y plut à être; et la fus informé de la greigneur [majeure] partie des besognes qui étoient avenues au royaume de Castille, au royaume de Portugal, au royaume de Navarre, au royaume d'Aragon, et au royaume d'Angleterre, au pays de Bordelois, et en toute la Gascogne; et je même, quand je lui demandois aucune chose, il le me disoit moult volontiers; et me disoit bien que l'histoire que je avois fait et poursuivois seroit, au temps à venir, plus recommandée que mille autres: 'Raison pourquoi,' disoit-il, 'beau maître: puis cinquante ans en ça sont avenus plus de faits d'armes et de merveilles au monde qu'il n'étoit trois cents ans en devant.' "Ainsi fus-je en l'hôtel du noble Comte de Foix, recueilli et nourri à ma plaisance. Ce étoit ce que je désirois à enquerre toutes nouvelles touchants à ma matière: et je avois prêts à la main barons, chevaliers, et écuyers, qui m'en informoient, et le gentil Comte de Foix aussi. Si vous voudrois éclaircir par beau langage tout ce dont je fus adonc informé, pour rengrosser notre matiere, et pour exemplier les bons qui se désirent à avancer par armes. Car si ci-dessus j'ai prologué grands faits d'armes, prises et assauts de villes et de châteaux, batailles adressées et durs rencontres, encore en trouverez vous ensuivant grand, foison, desquelles et desquels, par la grace de Dieu, je ferai bonne et juste narration."--_Froissart_, book iii. chap. 1. NOTE IV.--CHAP. II. As the Brotherhood of Arms was one of the most curious customs of Chivalry, I have extracted from the Notes on St. Palaye, and from the Disquisitions of Ducange, some passages which will give a fuller view of its real character and ceremonies than seemed necessary in the body of this work. The Notes on St. Palaye also show to how late a period the custom descended and here let me say, that of all the treatises on Chivalry which I possess, there is none in which I have found the real spirit of knighthood so completely displayed, as in the Essays of Lucurne de St. Palaye, with the elegant and profound observations of M. Charles Nodier. "Les Anglois, assemblés peu avant la bataille de Pontvalain, tiennent conseil pour déliberer comment ils attaqueroient le connétable Duguesclin. Hue de Carvalai, l'un d'entre eux, ouvre son avis en ces termes: 'Se m'aist dieux, Bertran est le meilleur chevalier qui regne à present; il est duc, comte et connestable, et a esté long-temps mon compaignon en Espaigne, où je trouvay en luy honneur, largesse et amistié si habundamment et avecques ce hardement, fierté vasselage et emprise, qu'il n'a homme jusques en Calabre qui sceut que j'amasse autant à veoir ne accompaigner de jour ou de nuit pour moy aventurer à vivre ou à mourir ne fust ce qu'il guerrie, Monseigneur le prince. Car en ce cas je dois mettre poyne de le nuyre et grever comme mon ennemi. Si vous diray mon advis.'--(_Hist. De Bert. Duguesclin_, publiée par Menard, p. 407.) "Boucicaut, passant à son retour d'Espagne par le Comte de Foix, se trouva plusieurs fois à boire et à manger avec des Anglois. Comme ils jugèrent a des abstinences particulieres qu'ils lui virent faire dans ses repas, qu'il avoit voué quelque entreprise d'armes, ils lui dirent que s'il ne demandoit autre chose on auroit bien-tôt trouvé qui le delivreroit; Boucicaut leur répondit: 'Voirement estoit-ce pour combattre à oultrance, mais qu'il avoit compaignon; c'estoit un chevalier nomme Messire Regnault de Roye, sans lequel il ne pouvoit rien faire, et toutes fois s'il y avoit aucun d'eulx qui voulussent la bataille, il leur octroyoit et que à leur volente prissent jour tant que il l'eust faict à sçavoir à son compaignon.'--(_Histoire du Maréchal de Boucicaut_, publiée par Godefroi, p. 51.) "Lorsque le prince de Galles eut déclare la guerre au roi Henri de Castille, il manda à tous les Anglois qui etoient alors au service de ce prince de le quitter pour se rendre auprès de lui. Hue de Carvalai, qui étoit du nombre, obligé de se sêparer de Bertrand, vint lui faire ses adieux: 'Gentil sire, lui dit-il, il nous convient de partir nous avons esté ensemble par bonne compaignie, comme preudomme, et avons toujours eu du vostre à nostre voulente que oncques n'y ot noise ne tançon, tant des avoirs conquestez que des joyaulx donnez, ne oncques n'en demandasmes part, si pense bien que j'ay plus reçeu que vous, dont je suis vostre tenu. Et pour ce vous pris que nous en comptons ensemble. Et ce que je vous devray, je vous paieray ou assigneray. Si dist Bertran, ce c'est qu'un sermon, je n'ay point pensé à ce comte, ne ne sçay que ce puet monter. Je ne sçay se vous me devez, ou si je vous doy. Or soit tout quitte puisque vient au departir. Mais se de cy en avant nous acreons l'un à l'autre, nous ferons nouvelle depte et le convendra escripre. Il n'y a que du bien faire, raison donne que vous (suiviez) vostre-maistre. Ainsi le doibt faire tout preudomme. Bonne amour fist l'amour de nous et aussi en fera la departie: dont me poise qu'il convient que elle soit. Lors le baisa Bertran et tous ses compagnons aussi: moult fut piteuse la departie.'--(_Histoire de Bertrand Duguesclin_, publiée par Ménard, c. xxiv., p. 248 et 249.) "Duguesclin tomba dans la suite au pouvoir des Anglois, qui le retinrent long-temps prisonnier. Après avoir enfin obtenu sa liberté sous parole d'acquitter sa rançon, Carvalai, son ancien frère d'armes, qu'il avoit retrouvé, et qui pendant quelque temps lui tint bonne compagnie, voulut lui parler encore du compte qu'ils avoient à regler ensemble. 'Bertran, dit-il à son ami, avant que de se separer nous avons esté compagnons ou pays d'Espangne par de la de prisons, et d'avoir (c'est-à-dire en société tant pour les prisonniers que pour le butin que nous aurions) dont je ne comptay oncques à vous et sçay bien de pieça que je suis vostre tenu (redevable, en reste avec vous) dont je vouldray avoir advis: mais de tout le moins je vous aideray ici de trente mille doubles d'or. Je ne sçay, dit Bertran, comment il va du compte, mais que de la bonne compagnie; ne je n'en vueil point compter; mais se j'ay mestier je vous prieray. Adonc baisierent li uns l'autre au departir.'--(_Ibid_, p. 306.) "L'adoption en frere se trouue auoir esté pratiquée en deux manieres par les peuples étrangers, que les Grecs el les Latins qualifient ordinairement du nom de Barbares. Car parmay ceux dont les moeurs et les façons d'agir ressentoient effectiuement quelque chose de rude et d'inhumain, elle se faisoit en se piquant reciproquement les veines, et beuuant le sang les vns des autres. Baudoüin Comte de Flandres et Empereur de Constantinople reproche cette detestable coûtume aux Grecs mémes, non qu'ils en vsassent entre eux: mais parce que dans les alliances qu'ils contractoient auec les peuples barbares, pour s'accommoder à leurs manieres d'agir, ils estoient obligez de suiure leurs vsages, et de faire ce qu'ils faisoient ordinairement en de semblables occasions. _Hæc est_, ce dit-il, _quæ spurcissimo gentilium ritu pro fraterna societate, sanguinibus alternis ebibitis, cum infidelibus sæpe ausa est amicitias firmare ferales_. L'Empereur Frederic I. auoit fait auparauant ce mesme reproche aux Grecs, ainsi que nous apprenons de Nicetas. Mais ce que les Grecs firent par necessité, nos François qui estoient resserrez dans Constantinople, et attaquez par dehors de toutes parts, furent contraints de le faire, et de subire la meme loy, en s'accommodant au temps, pour se parer des insultes de leurs ennemis. C'est ce que le Sire de Joinuille dit en ces termes: A iceluy Cheualier oüi dire, et comme il le disoit au Roy, que l'Empereur de Constantinople, et ses gens, se allierent vne fois d'vn Roy, qu'on appelloit le Roy des Comains, pour auoir leur aide, pour conquerir l'Empereur de Grece, qui auoit nom Vataiche. Et disoit iceluy Cheualier, que le Roy du peuple des Comains pour auoir seurte et fiance fraternel l'vn l'autre, qu'il faillit qu'ils et chascun de leur gens d'vns part et d'autre se fissent saigner, et que de leur sang ils donnassent à boire l'vn à l'autre, en signe de fraternité, disans qu'ils estoient frere, et d'vn sang, et ainsi le conuint faire entre nos gens, el les gens d'iceluy Roy, et meslérent de leur sang auec du vin, et en beuuoient l'vn à l'autre, et disoient lors qu'ils estoient freres d'vn sang. Georges Pachymeres raconte la méme chose des Comains. Et Alberic en l'an 1187, nous fait assez voir que cette coûtume eut pareillement cours parmy les Sarazins, écriuant que la funeste alliance que le Comte de Tripoly contracta auec le Sultan des Sarazins, se fit auec cette cérémonie, et qu'ils y bûrent du sang l'vn de l'autre. * * * * * "Cette fraternité se contractoit encore par l'attouchement des armes, en les faisant toucher reciproquement les vnes aux autres. Cette coûtume estoit particuliere aux Anglois, auant que les Normans se rendissent maîtres de l'Angleterre, principalement lorsque des communautez entieres faisoient entre eux vne alliance fraternelle, en vsans de cette maniere, au lieu du changement reciproque des armes, qui n'auroit pas pû s'executer si facilement. * * * * * "Mais entre tant de cerémonies qui se sont obseruées pour contracter vne fraternite, celle qui a esté pratiquée par les peuples Chrétiens, est la plus plausible et la plus raisonnable: car pour abolir et pour éteindre entierement les superstitions qui les accompagnoient, et qui tenoient du paganisme, ils en ont introduit vne autre plus sainte et plus pieuse en la contractant dans l'Eglise, deuant le Prétre, et en faisant reciter quelques prieres ou oraisons, nous en auons la formule dans _l'Euchologium_." NOTE V.--CHAP. III. The fear of Robert Guiscard was no chimera; for, after having raised himself from indigence to power and authority, he opposed successfully the whole force of two great monarchies, and defeated alternately the emperors of the east and the west. One of the most pointed accounts of this extraordinary freebooter which I have met with I subjoin, from the _Melanges Curieux_. "Robertus Wischardi de Normania exiens, vir pauper, miles tamen, ingenio et probitate suâ Apuliam, Calabriam suæ ditioni submisit, et Insulam Siciliam de manu Ismaelitarum liberavit, Rotgeriumque fratrem suum ejusdem Insulæ Comitem appellavit. Demum mare transiens, Durachium urbem nobilem cepit, Dalmatiamque et Bulgariam super Alexium Imperatorem acquisivit: insuper eum ter bello fugavit, et Romanum, Henricum semel ab urbe fugere compulit, Pontificemque Romanum, quem ceperat, ab eo liberavit. Qui cum innumerabilia penè fecisset probitatis indicia, hoc de illo constans habetur, quod nisi morte præoccupatus fuisset, filium suum Boamundum Imperatorem faceret, se verò Regem Persarum, ut sæpè dicebat, constitueret, viamque Hieroso, lymorum destructâ paganitate Francis aperiret. Nunquam victus est quanquam sæpè pugnaverit. Venetos, qui contra eum omni virtute sua convenerant cum stolo suo ita profligavit, ut nec fuga, nec pelagus illis esset auxilio. Nec fuit terrarum locus ita remotus, in quo rumor, fama, timor Wischardi per omnium ferê ora non volitaret. Et ut verius de ec dici potest, nulli Regum aut Imperatorum Wischardus secundus extitit."--_Pere l'Abbe._ NOTE VI.--CHAP. III. This cry was not the only cry of arms which the crusaders used in the Holy Land. Though it was the general battle-cry of the whole army, and each leader made use of it occasionally when he wanted to animate the whole host, by rousing up their old enthusiasm; yet when he sought to bring round him his own vassals, he used the appropriate shout of his family. Thus we find, by Raimond d'Agiles, that the battle-cry of Raimond de St. Giles was "_Toulouse!_" The best general account of the old cry of arms which I have met with is given by Ducange. "Le cry d'armes n'est autre chose qu'vne clameur conceuë en deux ou trois paroles, prononcée au commencement ou au fort du combat et de la mêlée, par un chef, ou par tous les soldats ensemble, suivant les rencontres et les occasions: lequel cry d'armes estoit particulier au general de l'armée ou au chef de chaque troupe. * * * * * "Les François que se trouuérent à la premiere conquéte de la Terre Sainte avoient pour cry general ces mots, _Adjuua Deus_, ainsi que nous apprenons de Foucher de Chartres, et d'vn autre ancien Auteur ou bien, _Eia Deus adiuua nos_, suivant l'Histoire de Hierusalem. Raymond d'Agiles rapporte la cause et l'origine de ce cry à la vision de Pierre Barthelemy, qui trouua la sainte Lance au temps que les Turcs assiegeoient la ville d'Antioche sur les nostre: car durant ce siége S. André luy estant apparu plusieurs fois, il luy enjoignit de persuader aux Chrétiens d'auoir recours à Dieu dans les fatigues du siége, et de la faim qu'ils enduroient, et de prendre dans les combats pour cry d'armes ces mots _Deus adjuua, et sit signum clamoris vestri, Devs adjuva, et reuera Deus adjuvabit vos_ qui sont les paroles de S. Andre, Roderic Archeuesque de Tolede dit qu'au siége et à la prise de Cordouë sur les Sarrazins d'Espagne, les Chrétiens crierent aussi _Deus adjuva_. Ils ajoustoient quelquefois à ce cry ces mots _Deus vult_, ou pour parler en langage du temps, et suiuant qu'ils sont enoncez en la Chronique du Mont Cassin, _Diex el volt_, dont l'origine est rapportée au Concile de Clermont en Auuergne, où le Pape Urbain II. ayant fait vne forte exhortation pour porter les princes Chrétiens à prendre les armes pour aller retirer la Terre Sainte demains des Infidéles, _Ita omnium qui aderant affectus in vnum concitauit vt omnes acclamarent, Deux volt, Deus volt_. Aprés quoy le pape ayant rendu graces à Dieu, dit entre autres paroles celle-cy, _Sit ergo vobis vox ista in rebus bellicis militare signum, quia verbum hoc à Deo est prolatum, cùm in hostem fiet bellicosi impetus congressio, erit vni uersis hæc ex parte Dei vna vociferatio Deus vult, Deus vult_. D'où on recueille pourquoy le cry est appelle Signum Dei dans quelques Auteurs."--_Ducange, Dissertations sur l'Histoire de St Louis_, Dissert. xi. NOTE VII.--CHAP. IV. I have used the term _Counts Palatine_, from the old writer whose name stands in the margin. The peculiar position of these Counts Palatine, under the ever-changing dynasties of early Europe, is a curious and interesting subject of inquiry, but one too extensive to be fully treated in this place. I hope, at some future period, to speak of it in a more comprehensive work. The learned author whose works have furnished me with the preceding note affords a good view of the original functions of the Counts of the Palace, or Counts Palatine. "Sovs la premiere et la seconde race de nos Rois, les comtes faisoient la fonction dans les prouinces et dans les villes capitales du royaume, non seulement de gouuerneurs, mais encore celle de juges. Leur principal employ estoit d'y decider les differents et les procés ordinaires de leur justiciables; et où ils ne pouvoient se transporter sur les lieux, ils commettoient à cét effet leurs vicomtes et leurs lieutenans. Quant aux affaires d'importance, et qui meritoient d'estre jugées par la bouche du prince, nos mémes rois auoient des comtes dans leurs palais, et prés de leurs personnes, ausquels ils en commettoient la connoissance et le jugement, qui estoient nommez ordinairement, acause de cét illustre employ, Comtes du Palais, ou Comtes Palatins. * * * * * "Il y a lieu de croire que dans la premiere race de nos Rois, et méme dans le commencement de la seconde, la charge de Comte du Palais n'estoit exercée que par vn seul, qui jugeoit les differens, assisté de quelques Conseillers Palatins, qui sont appellez Scabini Palatii, Echeuins du Palais, dans la Chronique de S. Vincent de Wlturne. * * * * * "On ne peut pas toutefois disconuenir qu'il n'y ait eu en méme temps plusieurs Comtes du Palais. Car Eguinard en vne de ses Epîtres, dit en termes exprés qu'Adalard et Geboïn estoient Comtes du Palais en méme temps. Et vn titre de Louys le Debonnaire de l'an 938, qui se lit aux Antiquitez de l'Abbaye de Fulde est souscrit de ce Gebawinus, ou Gebuinus, et de Ruadbertus, qui y prennent qualité de Comtes du Palais." NOTE VIII.--CHAP. VI. The habit of carrying a small wallet when bound on a pilgrimage is one of the oldest customs of the Christian world. This part of the pilgrim's dress was called afterward an _aumoniere_, and served either as a receptacle for containing the alms received on the journey, or, when worn by the rich, as a repository for those they intended to give away. The curious fact of Charlemagne having borne one of these wallets to Rome, and of its having been buried with him, is mentioned in the XVth Dissertation on Joinville. "Cassian traitant des habits et des vétemens des anciens Moines d'Egypte, dit qu'ils se reuetoient d'vn habit fait de peaux de chevre, que l'on appelloit Melotes, et qu'ils portoient ordinairement l'escarcelle et le baton. Les termes de cét Auteur ne sont pas toutefois bien clairs, en cét endroit-là: _Vltimus est habitus eorum pellis Caprina, quæ Melotes, vel pera appellatur, et baculus._ Car il n'est pas probable que cét habit de peaux de cheure ait esté appellé Pera. Ce qui a donné sujet à quelques Commentateurs de restituer Penula. Neantmoins Isidore et Papias, comme aussi Ælfric dans son Glossaire Saxon, ont écrit aprés Cassian, que Melotis, estoit la méme chose que Pera. Quant à moy j'estime que Cassian a entendu dire que ces Moines, outre ce vétement fait de peaux, auoient encore coûtume de porter vn petit sachet, et vn baton, dont ils se seruoient durant leurs pelerinages. Ce qui ce peut aisement concilier, en restituant le mot appellatur, on le sousentendant, aprés Melotes. Tant y a que Cassian parle du baton des Moines au Chapitre suiuant; et dans l'vne de ses Collations, il fait assez, voir que lorsqu'ils entreprenoient quelque voyage, ils prenoient l'vn et l'autre: Cum accepissemus peram et baculum, vt ibi moris est Monachis vniuersis iter agentibus. Le Moine d'Angouléme ecrit que le corps de Charlemagne, apres sa mort, fut inhumé auec tous ses habits imperiaux, et que pardessus on y posa l'escarcelle d'or, dont les pelerins se seruent ordinairement, et qu'il auoit coûtume de porter lorsqu'il alloit à Rom: et super vestimentis Imperialibus pera peregrinalis aurea posita est, quam Romam portare solitus erat. D'où il resulte que le baton et l'escarcelle ont toûjours esté la marque particuliere des Pelerins, ou comme parle Guillaume de Malmesbury Solatia et indicia itineris. "Les Pelerins de la Terre Sainte, auant que d'entreprendre leurs pelerinages, alloient rcecuoir l'escarcelle et le bourdon des mains des Prestres dans l'Eglise. * * * * * "Et cela s'est pratiqué mémes par nos Rois, lorsqu'ils ont voulu entreprendre ces longs et facheux voyages d'outremer. Car aprés auoir chargé leurs épaules de la figure de la Croix, ils auoient coûtume de venir en l'Abbaye de S. Denys, et là, aprés la celébration de la messe, ils receuoient des mains de quelque Prelat le baton de Pelerin et l'escarcelle, et memes l'Oriflamme, ensuite dequoy ils prenoient conge de S. Denys, Patron du Royaume." NOTE IX.--CHAP. VII. The pretence of the Count of Toulouse for resisting the claims of Boemond to the possession of Antioch was, that he had vowed to the emperor Alexius to deliver up all conquests to him alone. This was but a specious covering for his own avarice. The terms in which Baldric mentions the cession of Antioch to Boemond are as follows; and it will be seen that much more notice was taken of Alexius than that contemptible usurper deserved. "Locuti sunt igitur ad invicem Christianorum duces, et sponte sua Boamundo subintulerunt: Vides quo in articulo res nostra posita sit. Si civitatem ergo istam vel prece vel pretio, nobis etiam juvantibus poteris obtinere, nos eam tibi unanimiter concedimus: salvo in omnibus quod Imperatori, te collaudante, fecimus sacramento. Si ergo Imperator nobis adjutor advenerit, juratasque pactiones custodierit, perjuri vivere nolumus: sed quod pace tua dictum sit, nos illi eam concedimus: sin autem, tuæ semper sit subdite potestati. _Ex Historia Hierosolymitana Baldrici, Episcopi Dolensis._" NOTE X.--CHAP. X. Even in the days of Ducange the form and colour of the Oriflamme, or standard borne to battle before the kings of France, was so far forgotten, that the learned antiquary bestowed no small research to ascertain its texture and appearance. His erudition never left any thing in uncertainty; but though he proved the particular banner called the Oriflamme to have been red; yet Guillaume Guiart mentions one of fine azure, which was carried before Philip Augustus to the siege of Acre. Ducange speaks of the Oriflamme as follows: "Pour commencer par la recherche du nom d'Oriflamme, la plûpart des Ecriuains estiment, qu'on le doit tirer de sa matiere, de sa couleur, et de se forme. Quant à sa figure, il est hors de doute qu'elle estoit faite comme les bannieres de nos Eglises, que l'on porte ordinairement aux processions, qui sont quarrees, fenduës en diuers endroits par le bas, ornees de franges, et attacheés par le haut à vn baton de trauers, qui les tient etenduës, et est soûtenu d'vne forme de pique. Ils ajoûtent que sa matiere estoit de soye, ou de tafetas, sa couleur rouge, et tirant sur celle du feu, et de la sandaraque, à laquelle Pline attribue celle de la flamme. Il est vray que pour la couleur, tous les Ecriuains conuiennent qu'elle estoit rouge. Guillaume le Breton en sa Philippide, la decrit ainsi: 'Ast Regi satis est tenues crispare per auras Vexillum simplex, cendato simplice textum, Splendoris rubei, Letania qualiter vti Ecclesiana solet, certis ex more diebus Quod cum flamma habeat vulgariter aurea nomen Omnibus in bellis habet omnia signa preire.' "Guillaume Guiart en son Histoire de France, en la vie de Philippes Auguste, a ainsi traduit ces vers: 'Oriflamme est vne banniere, Aucune poi plus forte qui quimple, De cendal roujoiant et simple, Sans pourtraiture d'autre affaire.' * * * * * "L'Oriflamme estoit l'enseigne particuliere de l'Abbe et du Monastere de S. Denys, qu'ils faisoient porter dans leurs guerres par leur Auoüe Car c'estoit-là la principale fonction des Auoüez, qui en qualite de defenseurs et de protecteurs des Monasteres et des Eglises, entreprenoient la conduit de leurs vassaux pour la defense de leurs droits, et portoient leurs enseignes à la guerre: d'où vient qu'ils sont ordinairement appellez, les porte-enseignes des Eglise, signiferi Ecclesiarum, comme j'espere justifier ailleurs Les Comtes du Vexin et de Pontoise auoient ce titre dans le Monastere de S. Denys, dont ils estoient les Auoüez, et les protecteurs, et en cette qualite ils portoient l'Oriflamme dans les guerres qui s'entreprenoient pour la defense de ses biens. * * * * * "Il faut donc tenir pour constant que Louys le Gros fut le premier de nos Rois, qui en qualite de Comte du Vexin tira l'Oriflamme de dessus l'autel de l'Eglise de S. Denys, et la fit porter dans ses armees, comme la principale enseigne du Protecteur de son Royaume, et dont il inuoquoit le secours dans son cry d'armes. * * * * * "Il est arriue dans la suite que nos Rois, qui estoient entrez dans les droits de ces Comtes, s'en sont seruis, pour leurs guerres particulieres, comme estant la banniere qui portoit le nom du Protecteur de leur Royaume, ainsi que j'ay remarque, la tirans, de dessus l'autel de l'Eglise S. Denys, auec les memes ceremonies, et les memes prieres, que l'on auoit accoûteme d'observer, lorsqu'on la mettoit entre les mains des Comtes du Vexin pour les guerres particulieres de ce Monastere. Ces ceremonies sont ainsi decrites par Raoul de Presle, au Traite dont je viens de parler en cestermes: Premierement la procession vous vient à l'encontre jusques à l'issuë du Cloistre, et apres la procession, atteints les benoists corps Saints de Monsieur S. Denys, et ses Compagnons, et mis sur l'autel en grande reuerence, et aussi le corps de Monsieur S. Louys, et puis est mise cette banniere ploise sur les corporaux, où est consacre le corps de N. S. Jesus Christ, lequel vous receuez dignement apres la celebration de la Messe: si fait celuy lequel vous auez esleu à bailler, comme au plus prud homme et vaillant Cheualier; et ce fait, le baisez en la bouche, et luy baillez, et la tient en ses mains par grande reuerence, afin que les Barons assistans le puissent baiser comme reliques et choses dignes, et en luy baillant pour le porter, luy faites faire serment solemnel de le porter et garder en grande reuerence, et à l'honneur de vous et de vostre Royaume. * * * * * NOTE XI.--CHAP. XIII. Villehardouin is undoubtedly the best authority for all the particulars of the siege of Constantinople. Nicetas was extravagantly prejudiced; and though the emperor Baldwin, in his letters to the Pope, was as frank as any man in his situation could be, it was but natural that he should endeavour to show the causes of the warfare in the most favourable point of view--that he should represent the conduct of himself and his companions with every advantage--in fact that he should see the events which raised him to the throne through a peculiar medium, and represent them tinged with the same colours that they presented to his own eyes. Villehardouin wrote without many of these disadvantages. He did not belong to the pillaged and conquered class, like Nicetas, nor did he write to excuse himself in the eyes of the Pope. He had his prejudices, of course, like other men, but these prejudices were greatly prevented from affecting his history by the frank simplicity of chivalrous manners, which no one possessed in greater purity than he did himself. In two points Philippe Mouskes gives a different account of the affairs of Constantinople from Villehardouin. In the first place, he states that Alexius Angelus, the brother of Isaac, commanded his nephew to be drowned; but that by entreaties the prince moved those persons who were charged with the cruel order. In the next place, he says that Murzuphlis caused Alexius the younger to be poisoned. In regard to the destruction of the monuments of art committed by the Latins, Nicetas gives a melancholy, though somewhat bombastic account. The famous works destroyed were as follows, according to his statement: A colossal Juno, from the forum of Constantine, the head of which was so large that four horses could scarcely draw it from the spot where it stood to the palace. The statue of Paris, presenting the apple to Venus. An immense bronze pyramid, crowned by a female figure, which turned with the wind. The colossal statue of Bellerophon, in bronze, which was broken down, and cast into the furnace. Under the inner nail of the horse's hind foot, on the left side, was found a seal, wrapped in a woollen cloth. A figure of Hercules, by Lysimachus, of such vast dimensions that the circumference of the thumb was equal in measurement to the waist of an ordinary man. From the attitude of this statue, as described by Nicetas, it is not improbable that it served as a model for that piece of sculpture, the only part of which that remains is the famous _Torso_. The Ass and his Driver, cast by order of Augustus, after the battle of Actium, in commemoration of his having discovered the position of Antony through the means of a peasant and his beast, the one bearing the name of _Fortunate_, and the other that of _Conqueror_. The Wolf suckling the twins of Rome; the Gladiator in combat with a Lion; the Hippopotamus; the Sphynxes: and the famous Eagle fighting with a Serpent; all underwent the same fate, as well as the beautiful statue of Helen, which Nicetas speaks of as the perfection of statuary. Added to these were the exquisite figure on the race-course, and a group, wherein a monster, somewhat resembling a bull, was represented engaged in deadly conflict with a serpent. Each appeared expiring under the efforts of the other; the snake crushed between the teeth of the monster, and the bull tainted to the heart by the venom of the reptile: no bad emblem of the struggle between the bold and furious valour of the Latins and the poisonous treachery of the Greeks themselves. NOTE XII.--CHAP. XIV. That St. Louis was threatened with the torture is an undoubted fact though what that sort of torture was which Joinville calls _les Bernicles_ is not so clear. Ducange fancies that it was the _Cippus_ of the ancients: and whether it was or not, the resolution of the monarch in resisting showed not a little fortitude. I subjoin Ducange's observations. "Le Sire de Joinville dit que le Sultan de Babylone, ou son Conseil fit faire au Roy des propositions peu raisonables, croyant qu'il y consentiroit pour obtenir sa deliurance, et celle de ceux de sa suite, qui auoient este faits prisonniers auec luy en la bataille de Massoure. Et sur ce que le Roy refusa absolument d'y donner les mains, il le voulut intimider; et le menaça de luy faire souffrir de grands tourmens. Mathieu Paris: Cùm frequenter à Saracenis cumterribilibus comminationibus sollicitaretur Rex vt Damiatam redderet, et noluit vlla ratione, postularunt summam sibi pecuniæ persolui sine diminutione, vel diuturno cruciatu vsque ad mortem torqueretur. Ce tourment est appelle par le Sire de Jouinville les Bernicles, lequel il decrit en ces termes. Et voyans les Sarazins que le Roy ne vouloit obtemperer à leur demandes, ils le menacerent de le mettre en Bernicles: qui est le plus grief tourment qu'ils puissent faire à nully: Et sont deux grans tisons de bois, qui sont entretenans au chef. Et quant ils veulent y mettre aucun, ils le couschent sur le couste entre ces dieux tisons, et luy font passer les jambes à trauers de grosses cheuilles: puis couschent la piece de bois, qui est là-dessus, et font asseoir vn homme dessus les tisons. Dont il auient qu'il ne demeure à celuy qui est là cousche point demy pied d'ossemens, qu'il ne soit tout desrompu et escache. Et pour pis luy faire, au bout des trois jours luy remettent les jambes, qui sont grosses et enflees, dedens celles bernicles, et la rebrisent derechief, qui est vne chose moult cruelle à qui sauroit entendre: et la lient à gros nerfs de boeuf par la teste, de peur qu'il ne se remuë là dedans. THE END. FOOTNOTES: [1] La Père Menestrier, Ordres de Chevalerie; Jouvencel; Favin Théâtre. [2] Fabliau de l'ordene de Chevalerie dans les fabliaux de Le Grand d'Aussi. [3] Tacit. de Mor. Germ. [4] Marculfus. [5] Menestrier de la Chevalerie et ses preuves, page 230. [6] Tacitus de Morib. German. [7] Eginhard Ann. [8] See note I. [9] Charles Nodier on St. Palaye. [10] Ordene de Chevalerie Fabliaux. [11] Charles Nodier. [12] Felibien, Hist. St. Denis. [13] Coutumes de Beauvoisis. [14] St. Palaye. [15] Vie de Bayard. [16] Favin Théâtre. [17] Vie de Boucicaut, Coll. Pelitot et Momerque. [18] Vie de Bayard. [19] Froissart. [20] St. Palaye, liv. i. [21] Guillaume Guiart.; Guill, Amoric.; Rigord; Philipeid. [22] Brantome. [23] See note II. [24] Charles Nodier's Annotations on St. Palaye. [25] Ducange, Dissert. xxii. Menestrier, chap. 2; St. Palaye. [26] Roman de Garin, Fabliaux, vol. ii. [27] Menestrier, chap. 2. and 9. [28] Menestrier, chap. 9. [29] St. Palaye. [30] Hartknoch, lib. ii. c. 1. [31] Existing Orders of Knighthood. [32] Cappefigue. [33] Menestrier, ix.; St. Palaye. [34] Adré Favin Théât. [35] Nithard, lib. iii. [36] _Britannarum_ is the word. [37] Ducange apud Chron. Tur. an. 1066. [38] Munster. Geogr. lib. iii. [39] Ducange, in his sixth dissertation, has satisfactorily overturned the assertion made by Modius, that tournaments were known in Germany at a much earlier period than here stated. [40] Ducange, Dissert. vii. [41] Menestrier Origine. [42] Favin Théâtre. [43] St. Palaye. [44] St. Palaye. [45] Vie de Bayard. [46] Vie de Bayard. [47] Olivier de la Marche. [48] Ducange, Dissert. vi. [49] St. Palaye. [50] Ducange, Dissert. vii. [51] Mat. Paris, Ann. 1241. [52] Colombiere. [53] Menestrier, vi. [54] Mat. Westmonas., page 409. [55] Should any one be tempted to investigate further, he will find the subject discussed at length in the seventh dissertation of Ducange. See also the _Chronique de Molinet_. [56] St. Palaye; Ribeiro, lib. x. [57] Menestrier. [58] Ordonances des Rois de France, ann. 1294. [59] Pasquier Recherches. [60] Vie de Bayard sur Jean d'Arces. [61] See note III. [62] Colombiere. [63] La Colombiere. [64] Froissart Olivier de la Marche. [65] See the "Voeu du Heron and the Voeu du Paon." cited in St. Palaye. [66] See note IV. [67] Ducange, Dissert, xxi. [68] Monstrelet. [69] Juvenal des Ursius. [70] Hardouin de la Jaille. [71] See deed between Du Guesclin and Clisson. Ducange, Dissert, xxi. [72] Ducange, Gloss. Lat. Mutare Armas. [73] See the Chevalier de la Tour, as cited by St. Palaye. [74] Vertot. [75] Sharon Turner. [76] William of Jumieges, lib. iv. [77] Eginhard. Annal. [78] Mabillon. [79] William of Tyre, lib. i. [80] Voltaire, Essai sur les Moeurs. [81] Guibert de Nogent. [82] Will. Tyr. lib. i. [83] Mills mentions one from Manuel VII. to Pope Gregory VII., and Guibert of Nogent speaks of another which, though he cautiously avoids naming the emperor who wrote it, lest he should mislead from want of correct information, could only have been sent, under some of the circumstances he mentions, by Isaac Comnenus. Mills supposes it to have been the same with a letter written by Alexius, though it differs in many parts from the usual version of that epistle. Probably, however, this opinion is correct, as a letter is stated to have been addressed to Robert of Flanders, who was in his extreme youth in the time of Isaac Comnenus. [84] Murator. Script. Ital. [85] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [86] Ibid. [87] Robert, lib. i. [88] Guib. Nogent, lib. ii. [89] Hist. Hieros. abrev. Jacob. Vit. lib. i. [90] Will. Tyr. lib. i.; Albert. Chron. Hieros. [91] Will. Tyr.; Hist. Hieros.; Jacob. Vit. lib. i. [92] Will. Tyr. lib. i. [93] Albert. Aquensis; Hist. Hieros.; Jacobi Vitr.; Will. Tyr. [94] See note V. [95] William of Tyre says that he was wandering from place to place under the protection of Guiscard. This opinion I have adopted, although Albert of Aix declares that Peter joined him at Rome. [96] Will. of Malmsbury. [97] Mills. [98] Will. Tyr. lib. i. [99] Guibertus; Gesta Dei. [100] A. D. 1095. [101] Mills, chap. ii. [102] Will. Tyr. lib. i. [103] Robertus Monachus, lib. i. [104] I have followed as nearly as possible the account of Robertus Monachus, who was present. Having found in no book of any authenticity the speech attributed by more modern writers to Peter the Hermit, I have rejected it entirely as supposititious. Neither Robert, nor Albertus Aquensis, nor William of Tyre, nor Guibert of Nogent, nor James of Vitry, the most authentic historians of the crusade, some of whom were present at the council of Clermont, and most of whom lived at the time, even mention the appearance of Peter at that assembly. That he might be there, I do not attempt to deny, but that he addressed the people I believe utterly unfounded. [105] See note VI. [106] Robertus Monachus. [107] Fulcher of Chartres; Guibert of Nogent; William of Tyre. [108] See note VII. [109] Guibert of Nogent. [110] Fulcher of Chartres; William of Tyre. [111] Guibert; Gesta Dei. [112] Albert. Aquensis; Will. Tyr.; Guibert. [113] Albert of Aix. [114] See Ducange in Sig. Cruc. [115] Albert of Aix; James of Vitry; Robert the Monk; Guibert. [116] Fulcher. [117] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. Mills follows this opinion; Guibert of Nogent and James of Vitry are opposed to it, and Fulcher gives a different account also. [118] Fulcher; Will. Tyr.; Albert Aquen. [119] Will. Tyr. [120] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [121] Albert of Aix. [122] Guibert. [123] Albert of Aix. [124] Ibid. [125] Guibert. [126] Baldric. [127] Albert of Aix. [128] Guibert of Nogent, lib. ii.; Albert of Aix, lib. i.; Orderic Vital, lib. ix. Mills says it was the French and Normans who thus advanced into the country, but the great majority of writers is against him. [129] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [130] Robert the Monk; William of Tyre; Guibert of Nogent; Albert of Aix. [131] Robert the Monk; Guibert of Nogent. [132] William of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [133] Robert the Monk; Guibert of Nogent. [134] Ibid. [135] William of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [136] Albert. Aquensis; William of Tyre. [137] Albert of Aix. [138] Robertus Monachus, lib. i. [139] Guibert of Nogent. [140] Guibert of Nogent. [141] See note VIII. [142] Will. Malmsbury. [143] Will. of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [144] Albert of Aix. [145] Guibert of Nogent. [146] Guibert; Will. Tyr. [147] Albert of Aix. [148] William of Tyre. [149] Albert of Aix. [150] Albert. Aquensis. [151] Will Tyr.; Albert. Aquens. [152] Guibert. [153] Fulcher; Guibert; Will. Tyr.; Albert. [154] I have taken perhaps more pains than was necessary to investigate this part of the crusaders' proceedings, which I found nearly as much confused in the writings of Mills as in those of the contemporary authors. Some assert that the whole mass of the western crusaders proceeded in one body through Italy; but finding that Fulcher, who accompanied Robert of Normandy and Stephen of Blois, never mentions Hugh of Vermandois; that Guibert speaks of that prince's departure first; that the Archbishop of Tyre marks the divisions distinctly, and that he certainly embarked at a different port in Italy from the rest, I have been led to conclude, that though probably looking up to Hugh as the brother of their sovereign, the three great leaders proceeded separately on their march. Robertus Monachus is evidently mistaken altogether, as he joins the Count of Toulouse with the army of Hugh, when we know from Raimond d'Agiles that that nobleman conducted his troops through Sclavonia. [155] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [156] Guibert. [157] Ibid. lib. ii. [158] Will. Tyr. lib. ii. [159] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [160] Albert of Aix. [161] Guibert. [162] Albert of Aix; Robertus Monachus; Will. Tyr. [163] Will. Tyr.; Rob. Mon.; Guibert; Albert. Aquens. [164] Albert of Aix. [165] Mills, in speaking of this interview, does not distinguish between the coat-of-arms and the mantle or pallium. They were, however, very different, and never, that I know of, worn together. The coat-of-arms was usually extremely small; and the form may be gathered from the anecdote of an ancient baron, who, not readily finding his coat-of-arms, seized the cloth of a banner, made a slit in the centre with his sword, and passing his head through the aperture, thus went to battle. These customs however often changed, and we find many instances of the coat-of-arms being worn long. The mantle was the garb of peace, and was even more richly decorated than the coat-of-arms. Another peaceful habiliment was the common surcoat, which differed totally from the tunic worn over the armour, having large sleeves and cuffs, as we find from the notes upon Joinville. The size of this garment may be very nearly ascertained from the same account, which mentions 736 ermines having been used in one surcoat worn by the king of France. See Joinville by Ducange. For the use of the pallium, or mantle, see St. Palaye--notes on the Fourth Part. [166] I have not chosen to represent this interview in the colours with which Mills has painted it. The princess Anna, from whom he took his view of the subject, can in no degree be depended upon. Her object was to represent her father as a dignified monarch, receiving with cold pomp a train of barbarous warriors; but the truth was, that Alexius was in no slight measure terrified at Godfrey and his host, and sought by every means to cajole him into compliance with his wishes. Almost every other historian declares that the crusaders were received with the utmost condescension and courtesy. Robert of Paris, one of Godfrey's noble followers, did indeed seat himself on the throne of Alexius, and replied to Baldwin's remonstrance by a braggart boast, for which the emperor only reproved him by a contemptuous sneer. This, however, would, if any thing, prove that the pride and haughtiness was on the part of the crusaders rather than on that of the imperial court. [167] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [168] Albert of Aix. [169] Vertot. [170] Robert the Monk. [171] Gerusalemme, cant. i. [172] What the relationship exactly was I have not been able to discover. Mills does not satisfy me that the mother of Tancred was the sister of Robert Guiscard. The expressions of Ralph of Caen on the subject appear to be obscure. [173] Albert of Aix. [174] St. Palaye. [175] Mills, chap. 3. [176] Fulcher. [177] Raoul de Caen. [178] William of Tyre. [179] Raoul de Caen; William of Tyre; Albert of Aix; Guibert. [180] Orderic. Vital. lib. ix. [181] Boemond had inherited all his father's hatred to the Greek sovereigns, and had waged many a bloody and successful war against Alexius himself. [182] Will. Tyr.; Albert. Aquens. [183] Raoul de Caen; Guibert. [184] Alexiad par Ducange. [185] Guibert, lib. iii. [186] Radulph. Cad. cap. 11. [187] Radulph. Cadom. cap. 12. [188] Albertus Aquensis says that Tancred took with him the whole army. William of Tyre follows the same opinion, as well as Guibert. Orderic Vital declares that when the troops were passing, Tancred dressed himself as a common soldier, and passed among the crowd; but Radulphus Cadomensis (or Raoul of Caen, as the French translate his name), who was his companion and friend in after-years, makes no mention of his having taken with him any part of the forces he commanded, merely stating, that in his eagerness to pass before he was discovered, he aided to row the boat himself. [189] Raimond d'Agiles. [190] Ibid. [191] Raimond d'Agiles; Will. Tyr.; Guibert. [192] Guibert; Albert of Aix. [193] Will. Tyr. [194] Guibert. [195] Raimond d'Agiles. [196] Guibert; Raimond; Will Tyr. [197] Alexiad. [198] Raimond d'Agiles; Albert of Aix. [199] Raimond d'Agiles expressly states that the army of the Count of Toulouse, which he accompanied to the Holy Land, did not join the other crusaders till they were under the walls of Nice. Mills is therefore wrong in writing that the Provençals joined the other soldiers of the Cross before their arrival at Nice, and then let them march on again before them. [200] Guibert, lib. ii. [201] Orderic Vital. [202] Guibert. [203] William of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [204] Fulcher. [205] Albert of Aix; Fulcher. [206] Will. Tyr. [207] Raimond d'Agiles; Guibert. [208] All authors, those who were present as well as those who wrote from the accounts of others, differ entirely among themselves concerning the dispositions of the siege. Fulcher, who accompanied the Duke of Normandy, says that that chief attacked the south; Raimond of Agiles, who was present also, says that the south was the post of the Count of Toulouse. I have, however, adopted the account of Raimond, who appears to me to have paid more attention to the operations of the war than Fulcher. [209] Fulcher. [210] Ibid. [211] The word used is _loricati_; and Ducange, who seldom makes a positive assertion without the most perfect certainty, states, in the observations on Joinville, that we may always translate the word _loricatus_, a knight, "et quand on voit dans les auteurs Latins le terme de loricati il se doit entendre des Chevaliers."--_Ducange, Observ. sur l'Hist. de St. Louis_, page 50. [212] Guibert. [213] Albert of Aix, lib. ii. [214] Albert. [215] Ibid. [216] Albert; Raimond d'Agiles; Guibert. [217] Albert. [218] Raimond. [219] Albert. [220] Guibert. [221] Guibert; Albert of Aix. [222] Raimond d'Agiles; Fulcher; Albert of Aix; Robert. Mon. [223] Robert. Mon. [224] Fulcher. [225] Guibert; Raimond d'Agiles. [226] Albert of Aix. [227] Fulcher. [228] Idun; Albert of Aix. [229] Albert of Aix. [230] The Philippide. [231] Albert of Aix. [232] Fulcher. [233] Raimond d'Agiles; Albert of Aix; Guibert. [234] Will. Tyr. [235] Albert of Aix. [236] Guibert; Albert. [237] William of Tyre; Raimond. [238] Raimond de Agiles. [239] William of Tyre; Raimond de Agiles; Guibert de Nogent. [240] Fulcher, cap. 4; William of Tyre. [241] Ten at a time were admitted within the walls, but not more. [242] June 29, A. D. 1097. [243] Fulcher, cap. 5; Raimond d'Agiles; Orderic Vital; Raoul de Caen. [244] Mills avers that the chiefs separated by mutual consent. I have found nothing to confirm this opinion. Radulphus says that there was a rumour to that effect, but shows that it could not be just, as the baggage of the troops of Boemond and his party had, by the error that separated them, been left with the other division. William of Tyre leaves the question undecided. Fulcher says, absolutely, that the separation originated in a mistake. Orderic Vital follows the same opinion. Raimond d'Agiles is not precise, but he says that it was done inconsiderately; and Guibert decidedly affirms that it was accidental, and through the obscurity of the morning in which they began their march. [245] William of Tyre. [246] Fulcher; Raimond d'Agiles; Albert. [247] Fulcher makes it amount to nearly three hundred and sixty thousand combatants; and Raimond reduces the number to one hundred and fifty thousand. [248] Fulcher. [249] Ibid; Guibert. [250] William of Tyre; Guibert; Fulcher, cap. 5. [251] Guibert; Will. of Tyr. [252] Fulcher; Radulph. Cad. cap. 21. [253] William of Tyre; Guibert; Fulcher. [254] Fulcher, cap. 5; William of Tyre. [255] William of Tyre. [256] Raoul of Caen. [257] Albert; Raoul of Caen; William of Tyre. [258] Albert. [259] Raoul of Caen. [260] Fulcher; Albert; Raoul of Caen. [261] Albert of Aix informs us, that the ladies of Boemond's camp, seeing the merciless fury with which the Turks were dealing death to all ages and sexes, clothed themselves in their most becoming garments, and strove to display their charms to the best advantage, for the purpose of obtaining the durance of the harem rather than the grave. Albert was not present, and did not even visit the Holy Land; and I find his account in this respect confirmed by no other historian. The good canon, indeed, was somewhat fond of little tales of scandal, so that I feel inclined to doubt his authority, where such matters are under discussion. He has an anecdote in a similar style appended to his history of the taking of Nice. [262] Radulphus, cap. 22. [263] William of Tyre. [264] Orderic Vital; Guibert. [265] Albert of Aix; Fulcher, cap. 5; William of Tyre. [266] Radulph. Cadom. cap. 26. [267] Fulcher; Albert of Aix. [268] Albert; Radulphus Cadomachus, cap. 27, 28, _et seq._; William of Tyre. [269] Many of the Christians attributed their victory to the miraculous interposition of two canonized martyrs, who, in glittering armour, led on the army of Godfrey and the count of Toulouse, and scared the Turks more than all the lancers of the crusaders. Though the supposed interposition of such personages certainly robbed the leaders of no small share of glory, yet it gave vast confidence and enthusiasm to the inferior classes. [270] Albert of Aix; Fulcher; Guibert. [271] William of Tyre. [272] Guibert; William of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [273] Albert of Aix. [274] Guibert, lib. iii. [275] Albert of Aix, lib. iii.; William of Tyre. [276] Fulcher; Guibert. [277] Albert. [278] Ibid. [279] Radulph. Cadom. cap. 33; Guibert. lib. iii.; Will. Tyr. [280] All the authors of the day that I have been able to meet with declare this expedition of Baldwin and Tancred to have been voluntary. Mills only, as far as I can discover, attributes their conduct to an order received from others. I mark the circumstance more particularly, because, under my view of the case, the fact of Tancred and his companions having separated themselves from the rest of the host, after such immense fatigues, abandoning repose and comfort, and seeking new dangers and fresh privations, is one of the most extraordinary instances on record of the effect of the chivalrous spirit of the age. Under this point of view, all the historians of that time saw the enterprise which they have recorded; but Mills, writing in the least chivalrous of all epochs, has reduced the whole to a corporal-like obedience of orders. [281] Albert of Aix, lib. iii.; Radulph. cap. 37. [282] Albert of Aix, lib. iii.; Guibert; Will. Tyr. [283] Radulphus, cap. 38. [284] Albert of Aix; Guibert, lib. iii. [285] Radulphus; Albert of Aix; Guibert of Nogent. [286] Albert. lib. iii. [287] Albert. [288] Ibid. [289] Albert; Raoul de Caen. See also Fulcher, who was chaplain to Baldwin. [290] Albert of Aix; Raoul of Caen. [291] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre; Raimond d'Agiles. [292] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [293] Raimond d'Agiles. [294] Robert. Mon. lib. iii. Albert of Aix; Guibert. [295] Albert of Aix. [296] William of Tyre. [297] Albert of Aix. [298] The population of these countries was in general Christian. [299] Fulcher; Albert. [300] Albert; Guibert, lib. iii. [301] Guibert. [302] Albert. [303] Guibert, lib. iii.; where see the manner in which Baldwin contrived to subjugate the inhabitants. [304] Albert of Aix. [305] Guibert. [306] Albert. [307] Mills declares, that the Christians were rescued from this ambuscade by the arrival of Tancred. I find the account of Albert of Aix totally opposed to such a statement; while the passage in Raoul of Caen relating to this event is so full of errors in other respects, that no reliance could be placed upon it, even if it justified the assertion of Mills, which, however, it does not do. He states, that Tancred arrived long before the ambuscade, and that he found Baldwin at Artesia. By this he might mean Baldwin de Bourg, who, after the other Baldwin became King of Jerusalem, was also created Count of Edessa; but this interpretation cannot be admitted here, as he mentions the former disputes between the soldiers of Tancred and of the Baldwin to whom he refers, and who could therefore be none other than the brother of Godfrey, who was, we know, in Edessa at the time. We may therefore conclude, that as a principal part of this account is notoriously false, Raoul of Caen cannot be considered as any authority, so far as this event is concerned. Finding the statement of Tancred's assistance here not confirmed by any other good authority, I have abided by the account of Albert. [308] Albert of Aix. [309] Raimond d'Agiles. [310] Will. Tyr., Raimond. [311] Albert of Aix. [312] Raimond; Guibert of Nogent. [313] Raimond; Albert says six hundred thousand; Guibert of Nogent. [314] Raimond. [315] Raimond d'Agiles; Albert d'Aix; Guibert de Nogent, lib. iv.; Robert. [316] Raimond d'Agiles; Albert of Aix; Guibert de Nogent. [317] Malmsbury. [318] Albert; Raimond d'Agiles. [319] Guibert de Nogent; Robertus Monachus, lib. iv. [320] Guibert; Albert; Robert. Mon. [321] Raimond d'Agiles. [322] Ibid; Guibert; Robertus Monachus. [323] Guibert says he was a boasting coward; but this is contradicted by others. [324] Guibert de Nogent; Robert. [325] Guibert; Robertus Monachus, lib. iv. [326] Robert. Monac. [327] Albert of Aix. [328] Raimond d'Agiles; Vertot; Guibert; William of Tyre. [329] This is one of the points on which the authorities of the day are in direct opposition to each other. Mills has chosen the opinion of Robertus Monachus, who states that the message of the calif was haughty and insolent. I have followed another version of the story, because I find it supported by a greater weight of evidence, and because I do not think the calif would have taken the trouble of sending all the way from Egypt to insult a party of men whose persevering conduct showed that they were not likely to be turned back by words. Guibert says, that the calif promised even to embrace the Christian faith, in case the crusaders overcame the Turks, and restored to him his Syrian dominions. Albert of Aix also vouches the same proposal, which, however improbable might have been made for the purpose of deceiving the crusaders. [330] Robertson's Historical Disquisition on India. [331] Robert, lib. iv. [332] Albert of Aix. [333] Albert; Robert. Mon. [334] Albert of Aix, lib. iii. [335] Robertus, lib. iv. [336] Robert.; Albert of Aix, lib. iii. [337] Guibert; Albert of Aix, lib. iii. [338] Robertus; Albert. [339] Five thousand perished on the bridge and in the water, according to Robert the Monk. [340] Robertus Monachus. [341] Guibert mentions previously that the number of horses was reduced to a thousand; lib. iv. [342] Robertus; Guibert. [343] Raimond d'Agiles. [344] Guibert, lib. v.; Fulcher, cap. 7. [345] Will. Tyr.; Albert; Fulcher, cap. 8. [346] Raimond d'Agiles. [347] William of Tyre says he was a noble Armenian, chief of the tribe of _Benizerra_, or the sons of the armour-forgers, and calls him Emir Feir. Abouharagi, however, says he was a Persian, and calls him Ruzebach. [348] Guibert; Will. Tyr.; Albert. [349] Guibert. [350] William of Tyre, lib. v.; Robert, lib. v.; Guibert, lib. v. [351] This transaction is reported variously. Albert of Aix says, that the proposal of Boemond was at once received with joy. Raoul of Caen gives a different account, and states that the bishop of Puy, on the suggestion of Boemond, suggested that the town should be given to him who could first obtain it. Guibert and Robert relate it as I have done above. The archbishop of Tyre declares that no one opposed the proposal of Boemond but the Count of Toulouse. [352] Will. Tyr.; Albert of Aix; Guibert, lib. v. [353] Albert of Aix; Robertus, lib. v. [354] Robertus, lib. v., 2d June, A. D. 1098. [355] Guibert, lib. v.; Raimond d'Agiles; Albert. [356] There is some reason to believe that Boemond was the first who entered, as stated by William of Tyre; but as Albert of Aix makes no mention of the fact, and as Guibert de Nogent declares positively that Boemond, who is certainly his favourite hero, did not mount till sixty others had preceded him, as Raimond d'Agiles gives the honour of the feat to Fulcher de Chartres, and as Robert the Monk confirms that assertion, I have left the matter in doubt, as I found it. In regard to the story of Phirouz murdering his brother in his sleep, because he would not aid in his design, I believe fully that it was but one of those ornamental falsehoods with which men are ever fond of decorating great and extraordinary events. I doubt not that the tale was current in the time of William of Tyre, who reports it; and the act was, beyond question, looked upon as a noble and devoted one on the part of Phirouz; but as I find nothing to confirm it in any book I possess, except the simple fact of that Armenian having been a traitorous rascal, please God, till further evidence I will look upon it all as a lie. Robert the Monk represents, in very glowing terms, the grief of Phirouz for the death of his two brothers, who were killed in the _melée_. Phirouz became a Christian, at least in name; and to cover the baseness of his perfidy, he declared that the Saviour himself had appeared to him in a vision, commanding him to deliver up the town. [357] Albert of Aix; Guibert, lib. v.; Raimond d'Agiles. [358] Albert of Aix, lib. iv. [359] Guibert; Albert; Raimond d'Agiles. [360] Raimond; Robertus Monachus, lib. vi.; Albert. [361] Guibert, lib. v. [362] Albert of Aix, lib. iv. [363] See Mills's History of the Crusades. [364] Robertus Monachus, lib. vi.; Guibert; Fulcher; Albert. [365] Guibert, lib. v.; Robertus; Albert. [366] Guibert; Albert of Aix. [367] William of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [368] Robertus, lib. vi.; Albert of Aix, lib. iv.; William of Tyre. [369] Robertus Monachus, lib. vi.; Guibert, lib. v. [370] Albert of Aix. [371] Robertus, vi.; Albert of Aix. [372] Guibert. [373] Guibert; Fulcher; Albert, lib. iv. [374] Guibert, lib. v. [375] Albert of Aix, lib. iv. [376] Albert. [377] Guibert; Fulcher; Albert. [378] Raimond d'Agiles; Fulcher; William of Tyre; Albert; Guibert. [379] Fulcher; Raimond. [380] Radulph. Cadom. [381] Raimond d'Agiles. [382] Fulcher; Raimond; Albert; Guibert of Nogent. [383] Albert of Aix; Raimond d'Agiles; Will. Tyr. [384] Albert of Aix. [385] Albert of Aix; Guibert, lib. iii. [386] Albert of Aix. [387] Guibert; Albert; Raimond. [388] Raimond d'Agiles; Fulcher. [389] Raimond; Raoul de Caen. [390] Raimond. [391] Raimond d'Agiles. [392] Histor. Hieros; Jacob. Vit. [393] Raimond d'Agiles; Fulcher. [394] Guibert. [395] Will. Tyr. lib. vi. [396] Raoul of Caen. [397] Albert. [398] Albert. [399] Raimond d'Agiles. [400] Will. Malmsbury; Guibert de Nogent; Raimond d'Agiles. [401] Albert; Raoul of Caen; Guibert. [402] Fulcher; Albert. [403] Guibert; Albert. [404] Mills. [405] Guibert; Fulcher. [406] Raimond d'Agiles; William of Tyre. [407] See note IX. [408] Albert of Aix; Will. Tyr.; Raimond d'Agiles. [409] Guibert. [410] Guibert; Albert; Will. Tyr. [411] Guibert; Albert. [412] Guibert. [413] Albert of Aix. [414] Guibert; Raimond d'Agiles; Albert. [415] Raimond d'Agiles. [416] Albert of Aix. [417] William of Tyre. [418] Albert; Guibert. [419] Fulcher; Albert of Aix; Guibert; Raoul of Caen. [420] Raimond d'Agiles; Guibert de Nogent. [421] Raimond d'Agiles. [422] Raoul of Caen; Raimond. [423] Guibert. [424] Guibert, lib. vi.; Albert of Aix, lib. v.; William of Tyre. [425] Albert of Aix. [426] Fulcher; Guibert. [427] Albert of Aix. [428] Raimond d'Agiles; Albert of Aix. [429] Raimond d'Agiles. [430] Fulcher; Raoul of Caen. [431] Guibert; Raimond. [432] Albert of Aix; Guibert; Robert. Mon. lib. viii. [433] Mills follows Raimond d'Agiles. I have chosen the account of Albert of Aix, because I find it better supported by evidence. [434] William of Tyre. [435] Raimond d'Agiles. [436] Fulcher. Raimond d'Agiles. [437] William of Tyre, lib. vii. [438] Robert. Mon. [439] Albert. [440] William of Tyre; Albert of Aix. [441] Albert. [442] Robert; Guibert. [443] Ibid. [444] Albert. [445] Raoul of Caen; Albert; Fulcher. [446] Albert of Aix, lib. v. [447] Guibert. [448] Guibert, lib. vii.; Robert. [449] Holy War. [450] Raimond. [451] Robert; Albert; Guibert, lib. vii. [452] Fulcher mentions several ladders, but says they were too few. [453] Albert of Aix; Guibert. [454] Raimond; Albert. [455] Albert of Aix. [456] Guibert; Albert. [457] Albert of Aix. [458] Raimond d'Agiles; Guibert. [459] Albert of Aix. [460] Raimond d'Agiles; Albert of Aix. [461] Albert describes perfectly the effect of the Greek fire, and says it could only be extinguished by the means of vinegar, which, on the second day, the crusaders provided in great quantity. [462] Raimond. [463] Guibert; Albert of Aix. [464] Raimond d'Agiles; William of Tyre. [465] Robert; Guibert. lib. vii.; Albert. [466] 15th July. A. D. 1099. [467] Guibert; Raimond. [468] Albert; Robert. [469] Ibid; Guibert. [470] Guibert; Raimond d'Agiles; Robert. [471] Tancred and Gaston of Bearn had promised quarter to these unhappy wretches, and had given them a banner as a certain protection. It was early the next morning, before those chiefs were awake, that this massacre was committed by some of the more bloodthirsty of the crusaders. Tancred was with great difficulty prevented from taking signal vengeance on the perpetrators of this crime.--Guibert; Albert. [472] The story of the second massacre rests upon the authority of Albert of Aix, from whose writings it has been copied by all who have repeated it. Albert of Aix never visited the Holy Land. None of those who were present at the fall of Jerusalem (that I can discover) make the slightest mention of such an occurrence; and we have the strongest proof that part of Albert's story is false; for he declares that all the Saracens were slaughtered in this second massacre, even those who had previously been promised protection; and we know that many were sent to Ascalon.--See _Guibert_, lib. vii. Robert, who was present speaks of many who were spared.--_Robertus_, lib. ix. Fulcher, who was in the country, if not present, does not allude to a second massacre. Raimond d'Agiles, who was a witness to the whole, passes it over in silence; though each of these persons always speaks of the slaughter of the Saracens as the most praiseworthy of actions. The Archbishop of Tyre also, who copied Albert wherever he could be proved correct, has stamped doubt upon this anecdote by omitting it entirely. I have thought fit to notice this particularly, because Mills lays no small stress upon the tale. [473] Guibert; Albert; William of Tyre. [474] See Raimond d'Agiles; Guibert; Albert; Brompton; William of Malmsbury. [475] Fulcher, cap. 18; Robert. Mon. lib. ix. [476] Godfrey appears never to have taken the title of king, from a feeling of religious humility. [477] Robert. [478] Albert; Will. Tyr. [479] Albert. [480] He was taken, after having suffered a complete defeat from the emir Damisman, as he was hastening to the succour of Gabriel of Armenia. [481] Will. Tyren.; Radulph.; Cadom. [482] Arnould, one of the most corrupt priests in the army, had been elected patriarch, but was deposed almost immediately; and Daimbert, who arrived from Rome as legate, was chosen in his stead. This Daimbert it is of whom I speak above. He seems to have conceived, from the first, the idea of making Jerusalem an eastern Rome, and wrung many concessions from Godfrey, which were little respected by that chief's successors. [483] William of Tyre. [484] Hist. Hieros.; Jacob. lib. i.; William of Tyre; Fulcher; Albert. [485] Will. of Tyre; Fulcher of Chartres. [486] Fulcher. [487] William of Tyre. [488] Hist. Hieros.; Jacob. Vit.; Will. of Tyre. [489] Fulcher; Albert. [490] Raoul of Caen; Will. Tyr.; Fulcher. [491] Guibert; lib. vii. [492] Will. of Tyr.; Guibert. [493] Guibert says that Boemond died from the effects of poison. Other authors declare that grief for having been obliged to enter into a less advantageous treaty with Alexius than he had anticipated occasioned his death; but, from his whole history, I should not look upon Boemond as a man likely to die of grief. [494] He was the grandson of that Raimond, Count of Toulouse, of whose conduct I have so often had occasion to speak already, and whose perseverance against Tripoli will be mentioned hereafter. [495] Will. Tyr. [496] Fulcher; Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [497] Albert of Aix; William of Tyre. [498] Fulcher. [499] Albert of Aix. [500] Fulcher; Albert. [501] Albert. [502] Albert of Aix. [503] Fulcher. [504] Albert. [505] Fulcher, cap. 35, A. D. 1105. [506] Fulcher, cap. 27. [507] Albert, lib. ix.; Fulcher. [508] Albert; Fulcher. [509] James of Vitry; Hist. Hieros. ab. [510] Hist. Hieros. abrev. [511] Mills says that the last historical mention of Peter is that which relates to his recognition by the Christians of Jerusalem; but such is not the case. We find him mentioned as a very influential person on the occasion of the battle of Ascalon.--See _Raimond d'Agiles_; _Guibert_, lib. vii. [512] Guibert, lib. vii. [513] Albert of Aix, lib. x.; William of Tyre. [514] Fulcher; William of Tyre. [515] Guibert, lib. vii. [516] Guibert. lib. vii. [517] Ibid. [518] William of Tyre. [519] Albert of Aix and Fulcher give a different account of Baldwin's escape. [520] Will. Tyr. lib. x. [521] Albert; Raimond d'Agiles; Fulcher; William of Tyre; Guibert. [522] Albert of Aix; Raimond d'Agiles; Guibert. [523] Mills is wrong in supposing that plate armour was not at all known before the beginning of the thirteenth century. As far back as the time of Louis the Debonair, the Monk of St. Gall gives a full description of a man in plate armour, and also mentions the barb, or iron covering of the horse. [524] See, for these particulars, the Monk of St. Gall; Albert of Aix; Raimond d'Agiles; Fulcher; Guibert; William of Brittany; Menestrier St. Palaye; Ducange. [525] Albert of Aix, lib. viii. [526] Fulcher; Guibert. [527] Albert of Aix; Fulcher; Robertus Monachus. [528] Fulcher; William of Tyre; Albert. [529] Ducange. [530] Assizes par Thaumassiere. [531] William of Tyre, lib. xviii. [532] Vertot. [533] Hist. Hierosol., Jacob. Vitri. [534] Vertot Preuves. [535] Vertot. [536] Jacob Vitriaci in Hist. Hierosol. [537] William of Tyre. [538] Jac. Vitriaci; Hist. Hierosol. [539] Will. Tyrensis, lib. xxii.; Jacob. Vit. [540] William of Tyre. [541] William of Tyre marks precisely, that the particular rules to which they were subjected, and the dress to which they were restricted, were regularly fixed by the church at the council of Troyes, in the course of the ninth year after their first institution. Now the council of Troyes took place in 1128, and Baldwin du Bourg ascended the throne of Jerusalem on the 2d or April, 1118, ten years previously. Their first institution, therefore, could not be in the reign of Baldwin I., as Mills has stated it, without a gross error on the part of the Archbishop of Tyre, who wrote in the year 1184, and therefore was not likely to be mistaken on a subject so near his own days. [542] Hist. Hierosol.; Jacob. Vitriaci. [543] The Templars founded many charitable institutions, but attendance on the sick was not a part of their profession. [544] For a more particular and correct account of the armour of the crusades, I must refer to the invaluable work of Dr. Meyrick, which I regret much not to have had by me while writing this book. My sources of information have been alone the historians of the day, in consulting whom the ambiguity of language is very often likely to induce error in matters which, like armour, are difficult to describe. [545] Mills says, "The news of the loss of the eastern frontier of the Latin kingdom reached France at a time peculiarly favourable for foreign war." It will be seen that I have taken up a position as exactly the reverse of that assumed by that excellent author as can well be conceived; but I have not done so without much investigation, and the more I consider the subject, the more I am convinced that the moment when the feudal power was checked by the king and assailed by the communes, was not the most propitious to call the nobility to foreign lands--that the moment in which the burghers were labouring up hill for independence, was not a time for them to abandon the scene of their hopes and endeavours--and that the moment when a kingdom was torn by conflicting powers, when the royal authority was unconfirmed, and the nobility only irritated at its exertion, was not the period that a monarch should have chosen to quit his dominions. [546] A curious essay might be written on the classes or castes in Europe at that period. It is quite a mistaken notion which some persons have entertained, that the only distinctions under the monarch, were noble and serf. We find an immense class, or rather various classes, all of which consisted of freemen, interposed between the lord and his slave. Thus Galbertus Syndick, of Bruges, in recounting the death of Charles the Good, Count of Flanders, A. D. 1130, mentions not only the burghers of the town, but various other persons who were not of the noble race, but were then evidently free, as well as the Brabançois or Cotereaux, a sort of freebooting soldier of that day. Guibert of Nogent, also, in his own life, and Frodoardus, in the history of Rheims, refer to many of whose exact station it is difficult to form an idea. [547] Rouillard, Histoire de Melun: Vie de Bouchard. [548] I know that I use this word not quite correctly, but I can find none other to express more properly what I mean. [549] Suger in vit. Ludovic VI. [550] Galbert in vit. Carol. [551] Suger in vit. Ludovic VI. [552] Chron. Vezeliac. [553] Guibert Nog. in vit. s. [554] Chron. Vezeliac. [555] Gesta regis Ludovici VII. [556] The only two I know who accompanied this crusade, and wrote any detailed account of it, are Odon de Deuil, or Odo de Diagolo, and Frisingen, or Freysinghen. It is an extraordinary fact, that the Cardinal de Vitry makes no mention of the second crusade. [557] William of St. Thierry, Mabillon. [558] Geoffroi de Clairvaux, Continuation of the Life of St. Bernard. [559] Odo of Deuil. [560] Mabillon. [561] Guizot. [562] A. D. 1147 [563] Odon de Deuil. [564] William of Tyre. [565] Odon de Deuil. [566] See note X. [567] It appears from the passage of Odo of Deuil which mentions the curious servility, as he designates it, of the Greeks never sitting down in the presence of a superior till desired to do so, that the French of that day were not quite so ceremonious as in that of Louis XIV. [568] Odo of Deuil. [569] Nicetas. [570] Cinnamus, cited by Mills. [571] Odon de Deuil. [572] Ibid. [573] Manuel Comnenus had married Bertha, and Conrad, Gertrude, both daughters of Berenger the elder, Count of Sultzbach. [574] Odon de Deuil. [575] William of Tyre; Odon de Deuil. [576] The Pope, in his exhortation to the second crusade, had not only regulated the general conduct of the crusaders, and formally absolved all those who should embrace the Cross, but he had given minute particulars for their dress and arms, expressly forbidding all that might encumber them in their journey, such as heavy baggage, and vain superfluities, and all that might lead them from the direct road, such as falcons and hunting-dogs. "Happy had it been for them," says Odo of Deuil, "if, instead of a scrip, he had commanded the foot pilgrims to bear a cross bow, and instead of a staff, a sword." [577] Odo of Deuil; Will. Tyr. [578] Will. Tyr; Odon de Deuil; Gest. Ludovic VII; Nicetas. [579] Odon de Deuil. [580] Will. Tyr.; Odon de Deuil. [581] Odon de Deuil; Freysinghen; William of Tyre. [582] William of Tyre. [583] Odon de Deuil. [584] Odo of Deuil always calls Otho, Bishop of Freysinghen, brother of the Emperor Conrad. He was, however, only a half-brother; his relationship being by the mother's side. [585] Will. Tyrens lib. xvi.; Odon de Deuil. [586] Odon de Deuil; Will. Tyr. [587] Odon de Deuil. [588] Odon de Deuil. [589] William of Tyre. [590] Odon de Deuil. [591] Ibid. [592] William of Tyre; Vertot. [593] Gest. Ludovic. regis; William of Tyre; Vertot. [594] Vertot, a learned man and a diligent investigator, speaks of Eleonor in the following curious terms: "On pretend que cette princesse, peu scrupuleuse sur ses devoirs, et devenue éprise d'un jeune Turc baptisé, appellé Saladin, ne pouvait résoudre à s'en séparer, &c." These reports of course gave rise to many curious suppositions, especially when Richard Coeur de Leon, Eleonor's son by her second marriage, went to war in the Holy Land. On his return to France, Louis VII. instantly sought a plausible pretext for delivering himself from his unfaithful wife without causing the scandal of a public exposure of her conduct. A pretence of consanguinity within the forbidden degrees was soon established, and the marriage was annulled. After this Eleonor, who, in addition to beauty and wit, possessed in her own right the whole of Aquitain, speedily gave her hand to Henry II. of England, and in the end figured in the tragedy of Rosamond of Woodstock. [595] William of Tyre; Vertot. [596] Gest. regis Ludov. VII. [597] Vertot. [598] William of Tyre; Col. script. Arab.; Vertot. [599] William of Tyre; Freysinghen, reb. gest. Fred.; Gest. reg. Lud. VII. [600] Guil. Monach. in vit. Suger. Ab. Sanct. Dion.; Gest. reg. Lud. VII. [601] Guil. Monach. in vit. Sug. [602] All the writers of that day attempt to excuse St. Bernard for having preached a crusade which had so unfortunate a conclusion. The principles upon which they do so are somewhat curious. The Bishop of Freysinghen declares, that it was the vice of the crusaders which called upon their heads the wrath of Heaven: and, to reconcile this fact with the spirit of prophecy which elsewhere he attributes to the Abbot of Clairvaux, declares that prophets are not always able to prophesy.--_Freysing. de rebus gestis Fred. Imperat._ Geoffroy of Clairvaux, who was a contemporary, and wrote part of the Life of St. Bernard, would fain prove that the crusade could not be called unfortunate, since, though it did not at all help the Holy Land it served to people heaven with martyrs. [603] Existing orders of knighthood. [604] Fulcher; Raoul Glaber. [605] Robert; Fulcher; Raimond d'Agiles. [606] Raynouard, Poesies des Troubadours; Millot, Hist. des Troubadours; Le Grand d'Aussi Fabliaux. [607] Raynouard. [608] Oeuvres de Maroc. [609] Fauchet. [610] Le Grand d'Aussi. [611] Bernard, the Treasurer; James of Vitry; William of Tyre. [612] William of Tyre; Bernard. [613] William of Tyre. [614] Cardinal of Vitry; William of Tyre. [615] Cardinal of Vitry; Will. of Tyre. [616] Bernard; William of Tyre. [617] William of Tyre; James of Vitry; Guillelm de Nangis; Chron. ann. 1174. [618] William of Tyre. [619] Jacob. Vitr. [620] Bernard the Treasurer says, that the monarch wished to annul the marriage between his sister and Guy. "Si grans haine estoit entre le roy et le cuens de Jaffe que chascun jor cressoit plus et plus et jusque a tant estoit la chose venue que le roy queroit achaison par quoy il peut desevrer tot apertement le mariage qui iert entre lui et sa seror." [621] William of Tyre; Bernard the Treasurer: James of Vitrv. [622] Bernard the Treasurer; James of Vitry. [623] Bernard the Treasurer. [624] Rog. of Hovedon. [625] William of Tyre; William de Nangis. [626] Bernard; William of Nangis. [627] Will. Neub. [628] Bernard. [629] William of Nangis. [630] Bernard the Treasurer; William of Nangis. [631] Vertot. [632] Rog. of Hovedon; William of Nangis. [633] William of Nangis; Bernard the Treasurer. [634] Some writers state that Saladin proposed to Chatillon to abjure Christianity, which he boldly refused: but others do not mention the circumstance, and the act of Saladin seems to me to have been more one of hasty passion than of deliberation. [635] Bernard. [636] Bernard the Treasurer; Continuation of William of Tyre. [637] William of Nangis. [638] Bernard. [639] James of Vitry; Bernard; William of Tyre. [640] Bernard; Albert. [641] William of Tyre. [642] Albert of Aix; Fulcher; Robert. [643] There is a letter in Hovedon from a Templar to Henry II., giving an account of the state of Jerusalem and the Holy Land, dated 1179. [644] Bernard the Treasurer; William of Nangis, A. D. 1188; B. Peterborough. [645] William de Nangis; Jacob. Vit. lib. i. [646] Bernard the Treasurer. [647] A. D. 1189, 1190. [648] I have followed James of Vitry. Some say that Frederic's death proceeded from bathing in the Cydnus, and some in the Calycadnus. The matter is of little moment; but, as he was descending towards Antioch at the time, it is not improbable that the Cardinal de Vitry was right. Emadeddin, in the collection of Arabic historians by Reinaud, calls this river the Selef. [649] Jacob. Vit.; Hist. Hieros. ab.; Bernardus; Lection. Canisius Antiquæ. [650] James of Vitry. [651] Pet. de Dusburg.; Chron. Ord. Teuton. [652] Existing Orders of Knighthood; James of Vitry. [653] Vit. Ludovic VII.; Roger de Hovedon. [654] Rigord de gest. Phil Aug.; Hovedon; Robert, de Monte. [655] Geoffroi Rudel in Raynouard; Millot; Ducange. [656] William of Nangis, A. D. 1188; Rigord. [657] Rigord in vit. Philip August.; Guil. de Nangis, A. D. 1188. [658] See Rigord, who gives minutely the statutes on this occasion. [659] Branche des royaux Lignages, ann. 1189-90, Guil. de Nangis Rigord. William the Breton. [660] Bernard the Treasurer; James of Vitry. [661] Continuation of William of Tyre, Anon. [662] R. de Diceto; Roger de Hovedon; Matthew Paris. Ann. 1188. [663] Henry died before the altar of the church of Chinon. [664] Hovedon. [665] Brompton; Hovedon. [666] Diceto. [667] Rymer, col. diplom. [668] Brequegny, coll. ann. 1188; Rigord in vit. Phil. Aug. [669] Benedict of Peterborough. [670] Rigord says nothing of any illness which Philip suffered at Messina. [671] Hovedon; Brompton. [672] Benedict of Peterborough. [673] Rigord; Benedict of Peterborough. [674] Rigord. [675] Vinesauf. [676] Ben. Abb. Peter.; R. Hovedon. [677] Rigord. [678] Rigordus states positively that Berengaria had arrived before the treaty was signed between Philip and Richard. Mills says, that Richard remained in Sicily after Philip's departure, to wait for Berengaria; but Rigord lived at the time, and was one of the most diligent inquirers who have left us records of that age. The _Branche des royaux Lignages_ makes Richard say to the King of France, "Sire vostre suer espousai De laquele atan le don hui; Mes onc nul jour ne la connui Et j'ai puis prise Bérangarre Qui fille est au roy de Navarre."--1226. William the Breton, also, who was afterward chaplain to Philip Augustus, represents Richard as saying, "Et jam juncta thoro est mihi Berengaria, regis Filia Navarræ." [679] Rigord in vit. Phil. Aug.; Hovedon; Rymer. [680] Bernardus. [681] Various knights are mentioned by Bernard the Treasurer, as having signalized themselves greatly, both prior to the siege and after its commencement. One in particular, whom he calls the Green Knight, even raised the admiration of the Saracens to such a height that Saladin sent for him, and made him the most brilliant offers, in hopes of bringing him to join the Moslems. It is more than probable that this Green Knight was the famous Jacques d'Avesnes, and was so called from the colour of the cross which he wore. [682] Auteurs Arabes, rec. de Reinaud; Branche des loyaux Rignages; Rigord in vit. Phil. August. [683] Boha Eddin, rec. de Reinaud. [684] Brompton, A. D. 1191; Ben. Abb. Peterborough, 1191. [685] Hovedon; Ben. Abb. Peterborough. [686] Hovedon; Brompton; Will. Newb. [687] Boha Eddin; Walter Vinesauf; Hovedon; Benedict of Peterborough [688] Peterborough; Vinesauf; James, Cardinal of Vitry, lib. i. [689] Mills speaks of the conduct of Richard in the following terms: "The sanguinary and ungenerous Richard killed or cast overboard his defenceless enemies; or, with an avarice equally detestable, saved the commanders for the sake of their ransom." That author, however, says not one word of the Saracens' fighting under false colours, or of the horrible cargo which they carried in their ship, though he afterward himself alludes to the sufferings of the crusaders from the bites of reptiles. Is this historical justice? [690] Bernard the Treasurer. [691] Boha Eddin, rec. Hist. Arabes de Reinaud. [692] His name, literally translated, means _the just king, the sword of the faith_. From Saif Eddin the Christians composed the word Saphaddin, by which he is generally designated in the chronicles of the time. [693] Vinesauf; Hovedon. [694] Chron. St. Denis. [695] James of Vitry; Hovedon; Vinesauf; Ben. of Pet.; Bernard the Treasurer. [696] Rigord; William of Nangis; James of Vitry; Bernardus; Vinesauf; Hovedon. All these authors give different accounts of the numbers sacrificed. [697] Bernard the Treasurer affirms that Philip caused the prisoners to be executed; but most of the other historians agree, that this piece of cruelty was committed by Richard alone. [698] Rigord. [699] Bernard the Treasurer says, that the English king lodged in the house of the Templars, and that Philip Augustus occupied the citadel; "Le Roi de France ot le chastel d'Acre, et le fist garnir et le Roi d'Angleterre se herberja en la maison du Temple." Most authorities, however, are opposed to this statement, declaring that Richard lodged in the palace, and Philip with the Templars. [700] Bernard the Treasurer; Rigord; William the Breton; Branche des royaux Lignages. [701] Rigord; Robert of Gloucester. [702] James of Vitry; Boha Eddin; Emad Eddin; Recueil de Reinaud. [703] Benedict of Peterborough. [704] Bernard the Treasurer; James of Vitry, &c. [705] Hovedon; James of Vitry; Vinesauf. [706] Vinesauf; Boha Eddin. [707] Hovedon; Vinesauf. [708] James of Vitry; Trivet Annales. [709] Bernard the Treasurer. [710] James of Vitry. [711] This gentleman was taken prisoner, but was of course ransomed immediately by Richard. [712] Hovedon; Boha Eddin. [713] Vinesauf; James of Vitry. [714] Hovedon; William of Nangis, ann. 1192; Vinesauf. [715] For many years a horde of plunderers had been established in the mountains of Phoenicia, in the neighbourhood of Tortosa and Tripoli, who, in the end, obtained the name of Assassins, from the small dagger which was their only weapon, and which was called _hassassin_. Their religion was a corrupted species of Islamism, and their government a fanatical despotism. Their chief was called sometimes the Ancient, sometimes the Lord of the Mountains, and among the Christians he obtained the name of the Old Man of the Mountains. By working on the exciteable imaginations of an illiterate and fanatical race, the lords of this extraordinary tribe had obtained over them an influence unknown to any other power which was ever brought to sway the mind of man. The will of the Old Man of the Mountains was absolute law to each of his subjects. Whatever were his commands, whether to slay themselves or another, they asked no questions--paused not to consider of justice or injustice--but obeyed; and when sent to execute the will of their lord upon anyone, they followed their object with a keen sagacity and unalterable perseverance, that placed the life of each individual in the hands of their remorseless monarch. Nothing could turn them aside from the pursuit; no difficulties were too great for them to surmount; and when they had struck the victim, if they escaped, it was well; but if they were taken, they met torture and death with stoical firmness, feeling certain of the joys of Paradise as a compensation for their sufferings. The number of this tribe was about sixty thousand, all conscientious murderers, whom no danger would daunt, and no human consideration could deter. Such were the men who slew Conrad of Montferrat; and yet the French with the wild inconsistency of their national hatred, attributed the deed to Richard, who never found aught on earth that could induce him to cover his wrath when it was excited, or to stay him from the open pursuit of revenge, which was always as bold and unconcealed as it was fierce and evanescent. From this tribe we have derived the word _assassin_.--See James of Vitry; Matthew of Paris; William of Tyre; Ducange ou Joinville. [716] Bernard the Treasurer; James of Vitry; William of Nangis. [717] Bernard; Vinesauf; Matthew Paris. [718] Little doubt can exist that one great cause of the abandonment of the crusade were the differences between Richard and the Duke of Burgundy. The Frenchman was jealous of the fame which the English king would have acquired by taking Jerusalem, and consequently took care that he should not effect that object. Such is the account given by Bernard the Treasurer--a Frenchman, who always showed a manifest tendency to exculpate his countrymen, whenever there existed a fair excuse. See the Chronicle in old French, published in the collection of Martenne and Durand. It was generally attributed to Hugh Plagon, but has since been proved to be the original of Bernard the Treasurer. [719] Vinesauf. [720] Hovedon; Vinesauf. [721] The French refused to march to the assistance of Jaffa. [722] Bernard the Treasurer. [723] Bernard the Treasurer. [724] The Queen Berengaria and Joan of Sicily left Acre on the 29th of September, previous to the departure of Richard, who set out on the 25th of October, 1192. After encountering a violent storm, which scattered his fleet and wrecked the greater number of his vessels, Richard, with his single ship, touched at Zara, where he landed, accompanied only by two priests and a few knights of the Temple, whose garb he had assumed. From Zara, Richard endeavoured to make his way through Germany in disguise, but in vain. The news of his journey had already spread; the unforgiving Archduke of Austria, whose banner he had trampled on at Acre, caused every road to be narrowly watched. One after another of his companions were sent away by the king, till at length, with a single squire, he arrived at a small town near Vienna; where, taking up his abode at a petty lodging, Richard despatched his follower for provisions. The squire was recognised by some of the spies of the archduke, and Richard was taken and cast into prison. The royal captive was speedily given into the hands of the emperor of Austria, who concerted with Philip Augustus the means of detaining him in secrecy. His confinement, nevertheless, was soon known in England, and means were used to discover his precise situation. General tradition gives the merit of having ascertained his lord's prison to his favourite troubadour Blondel, or Blondiau; and we may be surely allowed to regret that no grave historian has confirmed the tale. However that may be, the place of the king's confinement was discovered, and England began to cry loudly for justice from all Christendom. Knightly honour and religious feeling were invoked, and the infamy of detaining a traveller, a pilgrim, and a crusader was proclaimed with the loud and powerful voice of a people's indignation. Henry at length felt himself obligated to yield some appearance of justice for detaining an independent monarch; and Richard was brought before the diet at Worms, where he was charged with imaginary crimes, the chief of which was the assassination of Conrad, Marquis of Montferrat. Had the least shadow of reason been left on the side of the emperor, Richard's fate would have been sealed; but the English monarch defended himself with so much eloquence and justice, that no doubt remained on the minds of those who heard him, and his ransom was agreed upon at one hundred thousand marks of silver. This money was obtained with difficulty, and John and Philip strove to raise greater sums to tempt the cupidity of the emperor to retain the lion-hearted monarch. The avaricious Henry hesitated on their proposals, and thus was the liberty of the noble king of England set up to auction, till the Germanic body indignantly interfered, the ransom was paid, and Richard returned to England. [725] William of Nangis. [726] Rigord; William the Breton. [727] Will. of Nangis, ann. 1196. [728] James of Vitry. [729] Bernard the Treasurer. [730] Bernard; Will. of Nangis, ann. 1197. [731] James of Vitry. [732] Hovedon. [733] Fuller's Holy War; Bernard the Treasurer. [734] James of Vitry; Bernard; Will. of Nangis; A. D. 1198. [735] Vertot; Bernard. [736] James of Vitry. [737] Bernard; A. D. 1205. [738] Sanut. cap. 3. [739] Hovedon. [740] The power of the orders of the Temple and the Hospital had, by this time, become immense. Riches flowed in upon riches, and donation was added to donation. In the year 1244, Matthew Paris declares the Templars possessed in Europe nine thousand manors, and the Hospitallers nineteen thousand. [741] A. D. 1210. [742] James, Cardinal de Vitry. [743] A. D. 1202. [744] Rigord. [745] Ducange; Villehardouin chronique. [746] Villehardouin. [747] Ducange, Hist. de Constantinople sous les Français. [748] Vit. Innocent III. [749] Villehardouin. [750] Ducange. [751] Villehardouin. [752] Baronius; Gesta Innocent III. [753] Villehardouin. [754] Villehardouin; Ducange, Hist. de Constantinople sous les Français. [755] Ducange, notes on Villehardouin. [756] Philip Mouskes. [757] Villehardouin. [758] It consisted of three hundred vessels of a large size, besides palanders and storeships. [759] November, 1202. [760] Gunther; Villehardouin. [761] Ducange; Villehardouin. [762] Alberic; A. D. 1202. [763] Villehardouin. [764] Ducange. [765] Villehardouin. [766] Ducange. [767] Gunther in Canisius. [768] Mills says, that Innocent issued decrees and bulls against the expedition to Constantinople, and founds his reasoning on a passage of Baluzius: but it is extremely probable that the anger of the Pope was a mere menace of the party opposed to the enterprise rather than an existing fact. Baluzius was not present any more than Ducange; and surely, for every thing where research is concerned, Ducange is the better authority of the two: yet Ducange makes no mention of the opposition of the Pope, and absolutely states that the legate counselled the attack on Constantinople. See _Ducange_, _Hist. de Constantinople sous les Francais_. Geoffroy de Villehardouin, who was not only present, but one of the chief actors in what he relates, speaks fully of the Pope's wrath at the attack of Zara, but mentions no opposition to the enterprise against Constantinople, though that enterprise was in agitation at the time the deputies were sent to Rome. Philippe Mouskes, Bishop of Tournay, a contemporary, states that the first application of the young Prince Alexius to the crusaders was made by the advice of the Pope. [769] Villehardouin. [770] June, 1203. [771] Nicetas, lib. iii. cap. 5. [772] Villehardouin. [773] Ibid. [774] Dandolo, Chron.; Villehardouin. [775] Epist. Innocent III. [776] Villehardouin. [777] Ducange; Villehardouin; Nicetas. [778] Villehardouin. [779] Nicetas. [780] Ducange; Villehardouin. [781] Ibid. [782] Gest. Innoc. III. [783] Ducange. [784] Nicetas. [785] Villehardouin. [786] Nicetas. [787] Nicetas; Villehardouin; Gest. Innoc. III. [788] Villehardouin intimates that Murzuphlis put Alexius to death immediately after having seized the crown; and the Chronicle in the Rouchy dialect, No. 148, Bibliothéque de l'Arsenal, says, "Et ne demeura gaires après que Morcuffle estrangla le josne empereur Alexes en la prison." [789] Nicetas. [790] Ducange; Villehardouin. [791] Villehardouin; Ducange. [792] Gunther; Ducange. [793] Villehardouin. [794] Ducange. [795] 2d April, 1204. [796] Nicetas. [797] Gest. Inn. iii. [798] Gunther; Villehardouin. [799] Villehardouin; Ducange. [800] Nicetas; Gunther. [801] Nicetas. [802] See note XI. [803] Nicetas. [804] Villehardouin; Ducange. [805] Villehardouin. [806] Nicetas; Ducange; Villehardouin; Alberic. [807] Ducange. [808] The cardinal legate invested Baldwin with the purple with his own hands, and Innocent confirmed, in all points but those of ecclesiastical government, the treaty by which the Venetians and the Franks had bound themselves. He also took the greatest interest in the new state, and wrote to all the prelates of France and Germany to support it by their preaching and influence. This may be added to other proofs, that Innocent never seriously opposed the expedition against the schismatic empire of the Greeks. The truth in all probability is, that he made a show of turning the crusaders from their purpose, both to preserve consistency and to afford room for any after-exertion of his authority that he might judge necessary: but that, at the same time, the cardinal legate very well understood that he was to promote the enterprise, and to be slightly blamed for it afterward, in order to screen his superior from the charge of that ambitious craving for which, however, he was notorious. It would be difficult to believe that Innocent, who triumphed over Philip Augustus, the greatest monarch of the day, and forced him to abandon his dearest wishes, would confine himself to idle threats, if he entertained any serious disinclination to the attack of Constantinople. [809] Reinaud rec. des Hist. Arabes. [810] Vertot. [811] Ducange. [812] Alberic. Mon. Trium Fontium. [813] Jacob. de Voragine; Albert Stadensis. [814] Albericus. [815] Jacob. de Voragine; Albert. Stadensis. [816] Gest. Innocent III: Labbe concil. Matthew Paris, A. D. 1213. [817] Chron. Godefrid Mon.; Bonfinius. [818] Bernard the Treasurer. [819] Jacob. Vitriae; Bernardus. [820] Bernardus. [821] Mere restlessness is stated by Mills to have been the cause of Andrew's abandonment of the enterprise, but this was any thing but the case. Andrew, it is true, was of a weak and unstable character; but there were far too many dissensions in Hungary, and tragic horrors in his own family, to permit of his remaining in Palestine without total ruin to himself and his dominions.--See _Bonfinius_. [822] Godefrid. Moc.; James of Vitry. [823] Bernardus; James of Vitry. [824] Matthew Paris. [825] The whole of the siege of Damietta, and the events that followed, I have taken from James of Vitry and the old French of Bernard the Treasurer, with the Recueil des Hist. Arabes. [826] James of Vitry, Bernard the Treasurer. [827] This pestilence seems to have been somewhat like the sea scurvy. It was not at all confined to the city, though it raged more furiously within the walls. Nevertheless, many of the soldiers of the Cross were attacked by it. James of Vitry, describing its effects, says, "A sudden pain took possession of the feet and legs: soon after, the gums and the teeth became affected with a sort of gangrene, and the sick persons were not able to eat: then, the bones of the legs became horribly black; and thus, after having suffered long torments, during which they showed much patience a great number of Christians went to repose in the bosom of the Lord." [828] James of Vitry; Bernardus. [829] Recueil des Hist. Arabes; Matthew Paris; Bernard the Treasurer. [830] Bernard. [831] Matthew Paris. [832] Matthew Paris, ad. ann. 1228. [833] Bernardus. [834] Rainaldus; Sanut.; William of Nangis, 1232. [835] Bernard the Treasurer; Cont. of William of Tyre. [836] For some curious particulars concerning the disputes between the emperor and the Templars, see the old French of Bernard the Treasurer. [837] Bernard. [838] This story is doubtful. Matthew Paris says, that the Templars and Hospitallers gave information to the sultaun that Frederic would, on a certain day, make a pilgrimage to bathe in the River Jordan. It was not at all likely, however, that two Orders which were always at enmity should unite for such a purpose. [839] Matthew Paris, ann. 1229. [840] There were many motives which induced Frederic to return to Europe besides disgust at the ungrateful conduct of the Syrian Christians. The Pope, not content with using the spiritual sword against him, had unsheathed the temporal one, and was waging a furious war against the imperial lieutenant in Italy. It would seem a strange fact that John of Brienne, ex-king of Jerusalem, and father-in-law of the emperor, was in command of the papal forces which ravaged his son-in-law's territories, had we not good reason to believe that Frederic's conduct to Violante (who was now dead) had been of a nature that so chivalrous a man as John of Brienne was not likely to pass unnoticed, when his daughter was the sufferer. However, it is but just to remark that the reason why his crusade did not entirely restore the Holy Land to the dominion of the Christians, is to be found in the vindictive and unchristian enmity of Pope Gregory IX. towards the Emperor Frederic. [841] Matthew Paris. [842] Sanutus. [843] Regist. Greg. Noni, Vertot Preuves. [844] Matthew Paris, 1237. [845] Matthew Paris; Sanutus. [846] Sanutus, lib. iii. page 216. [847] The Emir of Karac was but a dependant of the Sultaun of Damascus. [848] Matthew Paris; Litteræ Comit. Richardi. [849] Sanutus; Vertot. [850] Bibliothéque Oriental; Joinville; Ducange; Sanutus, 217; Continuation of William of Tyre. [851] Joinville; Matthew Paris; Bernard in Martenne. [852] Joinville; Matthew Paris; Epist. Fred. Imper. [853] Ducange; Joinville; Bernard. [854] Bernard; Joinville, Matthew Paris. [855] The whole of these events are extremely obscure in history. I have followed Joinville more than any other author, because I find his account more clear and satisfactory. Ducange's valuable notes have greatly aided me; but even that indefatigable investigator has not been able to arrive at precise certainty. The accounts in Matthew Paris do not well harmonize with those of persons who had more immediate means of information. Vincent of Beauvais states, that the Corasmins were finally exterminated, not in a battle, but in separate bodies by the peasantry. Their whole number seems to have been about twenty thousand men. Bernard the Treasurer, in Martenne, corroborates the statement of Vincent of Beauvais. [856] Joinville; Bernard in Martenne; Guillaume Guiart. [857] Matthew Paris; Joinville. [858] Joinville. [859] Guillaume Guiart; Joinville. [860] Joinville; Branche des royaux Lignages. [861] Joinville. [862] Joinville; Guillaume Guiart; Ducange. [863] Joinville; Ducange, Guillaume Guiart. [864] See note XII. [865] Ducange; Joinville; Guillaume Guiart. [866] A. D. 1254. [867] A. D. 1270. [868] Joinville. [869] Guillaume Guiart. [870] Joinville. [871] Branche des royaux et Lignages; Sermon de Robert de Saincereaux. [872] Charles, King of Sicily, was brother to St. Louis. [873] Guillaume Guiart; William of Nangis. [874] Hemingford; Langtoft; Matthew Paris, continuation. [875] The popular version of this story is, that Eleonora, the wife of the prince, who had accompanied him to Palestine, sucked the poison from the wound, at the risk of her own life. Camden sanctions this account. [876] Hemingford; Langtoft. [877] Villani; Vet. Script.; Bernard, old French. [878] Martenne; Villani. [879] Martenne, Vet. Script.; Villani; Sanutus. [880] Raynouard. [881] For the history of the Templars, see Raynouard and Du Puy, Vertot, William of Nangis, Historia Templariorum, &c. Almost all the modern writers are more or less in favour of the Templars, while every contemporary authority condemns them. As to Mills's assertion, that they were loyal and virtuous, it is perfectly untenable. All the historians of the Holy Land, many of whom died while the Templars were at the height of their power, declare that they were a corrupt, proud, perfidious body. Mills himself shows that such was the opinion entertained of them by the Saracens; and all the general letters of the popes accuse them of manifold vices and depravities. [882] Vertot. [883] Will. of Nangis. [884] Vertot. [885] He was afterward pardoned when the sultaun's wrath had abated but Soliman would never see him more. [886] Vertot. [887] Watson; Vertot; Nic. Villagagnon. [888] Vertot; Com. de Bel. Mel. [889] Vertot; Com. de Bel. Mel. Nic. Villag.; Watson. [890] Watson; Vertot; Com. [891] Vertot. [892] Jouvencel; Ordre de Chevalerie; Fabliaux de le Grand d'Aussi; Chevalier de la Tour; Notes on St. Palaye. [893] Froissart, chap. 290. [894] Ibid. chap. 329. [895] Alain Chartier Le Grand. [896] La Colombiere Theatre. 
47780	----	[Frontispiece: _The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem_] THE STORY OF THE CRUSADES BY E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON F.R.Hist.S. AUTHOR OF 'BRITAIN LONG AGO' 'THE BOOK OF RUSTEM' 'TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN' ETC. GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD. LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY _First published December 1910_ _by_ GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. _39-4l Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2 Reprinted September 1913 Reprinted in the present series: March 1912; May 1914; January 1919; March 1924; January 1927; November 1927; July 1930_ _Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_ Contents I. The Story of Mohammed the Prophet II. Mohammed as Conqueror III. The Spread of Islam IV. The Rise of Chivalry V. The Story of Peter the Hermit VI. The Story of the Emperor Alexios and the First Crusade VII. The Siege of Antioch VIII. The Holy City is won IX. Bernard of Clairvaux and the Second Crusade X. The Loss of Jerusalem XI. The Story of the Third Crusade XII. The Adventures of Richard Lion-Heart XIII. The Story of Dandolo, the Blind Doge XIV. The Forsaking of the High Enterprise XV. The Story of the Latin Empire of Constantinople XVI. The Story of the Children's Crusade XVII. The Emperor Frederick and the Sixth Crusade XVIII. The Story of the Seventh Crusade XIX. The Crusade of St Louis XX. The Story of the Fall of Acre XXI. The Story of the Fall of Constantinople XXII. The Effect of the Crusades List of Books Consulted Index of Proper Names Illustrations The First Crusaders in Sight of Jerusalem . . . _Frontispiece_ The Vision of Mohammed Pilgrims of the Eleventh Century journeying to the Holy City The Preaching of Peter the Hermit Duke Godfrey marching through Hungary Robert of Normandy at Dorylæum The Storming of Jerusalem King Louis surrounded by the Turks Richard and Philip at the Siege of Acre Richard of England utterly defeats the Army of Saladin The Fleet of the Fifth Crusade sets Sail from Venice The Children crossing the Alps John of Brienne attacking the River Tower The Landing of St Louis in Egypt The Last Fight of William Longsword The Fall of Acre Map of the Crusades {9} The Story of the Crusades CHAPTER I The Story of Mohammed the Prophet _A poor shepherd people roaming unnoticed in the deserts of Arabia: a Hero-Prophet sent down to them with a word they could believe: See! the unnoticed becomes world-notable, the small has grown world-great_. CARLYLE: _Hero as Prophet_. The two hundred years which cover, roughly speaking, the actual period of the Holy War, are crammed with an interest that never grows dim. Gallant figures, noble knights, generous foes, valiant women, eager children, follow one another through these centuries, and form a pageant the colour and romance of which can never fade, for the circumstances were in themselves unique. The two great religious forces of the world--Christianity and Islam, the Cross and the Crescent--were at grips with one another, and for the first time the stately East, with its suggestion of mystery, was face to face with the brilliant West, wherein the civilisation and organisation of Rome were at last prevailing over the chaos of the Dark Ages. A very special kind of interest, moreover, belongs to {10} the story of the Crusades in that the motive of the wars was the desire to rescue from the hands of unbelievers _Those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which, fourteen hundred year before, were nailed For our advantage on the bitter cross._ But we shall see, as we read the story, that this was only a part of the real motive power which inspired and sustained the Holy War. Even if the land of Palestine and the Holy City, Jerusalem, had never fallen into the hands of the Saracens, some such war was inevitable. The East was knocking at the doors of the West with no uncertain sound. An extraordinary force had come into existence during the four centuries that immediately preceded the First Crusade, which threatened to dominate the whole of the Western world. It was a religious force--always stronger and more effective than any other; and it was only repelled with the greatest difficulty by Christendom, inspired, not so much by the motive of religion, as by that curious mixture of romance and adventurous design which we call chivalry. Let us try, then, first of all, to get some idea of these Men of the East, the Mohammedans or Saracens, who managed to keep Europe in a state of constant turmoil for upwards of five centuries, and to do that we must go back to the latter years of the sixth century after Christ. About fifty miles from the shores of the Red Sea stands the city of Mecca, one of the few important towns to be found on the fringe of the great sandy desert of Arabia. During hundreds of years Mecca had been the venerated bourne of pilgrims, for, embedded in the walls {11} of the sacred building known as the Kaaba, was the "pure white stone," said to have fallen from heaven on the day that Adam and Eve took their sorrowful way from the gates of Paradise. The Arabs, or Saracens, of these early days were closely connected with their neighbours, the Jews of Palestine, and claimed the same descent from Abraham through Ishmael, the outcast son. They believed in the existence of God, whom, to some extent, they worshipped, under the name of Allah. But they were deeply interested in nature-worship: the sun, moon, and stars were their deities. They bowed down before the "pure white stone" in the Kaaba, now from its frequent handling rather black than white. They peopled the whole realm of nature--oceans, rivers, mountains, caves--with spirits good and evil, called "jinns" or genii, made, not of clay, like mortal men, but of pure flame of fire. Once upon a time these jinns were said to have lived in heaven, and to have worshipped the Lord of Hosts; but having rebelled, under the leadership of Iblis, against Allah, they were cast forth, and descended to the earth, where they became sometimes a pest and annoyance to men, and sometimes their servants. Many legends concerning these spirits are to be found in the Koran, the sacred book of the Mohammedans. One of these tells how the jinns were wont to roam round about the gates of heaven, peeping and listening and catching here and there a little of the converse of the angels. But these were only isolated words, or disjointed phrases; and the mischievous jinns, hoping that evil would come of these odds and ends of conversation separated from their context, whispered them industriously in the ears of the sons of men. These the {12} latter, always eager to know more of the Unseen World, readily accepted, and invariably put a wrong interpretation upon them. Hence arose superstition, black magic, false prophecies, evil omens, and all such things as had in them the germ of truth, but had been misunderstood and misapplied. From the midst of this imaginative and nature-worshipping people there arose the prophet who was to found one of the most powerful religious sects in the world. In the year 570 A.D., in the city of Mecca, a boy child came to the young mother Amina, to comfort her in her widowhood for the husband who had died a few weeks before. Tradition has been active regarding the cradle of this child, the young Mohammed. He is said to have exclaimed at the moment of birth, "Allah is great! There is no God but Allah, and I am His prophet." That same day an earthquake was reported to have overturned the gorgeous palace of Persia; a wild camel was seen in a vision to be overthrown by a slender Arab horse; and Iblis, the evil spirit, leader of the malignant jinns, was cast into the depths of ocean. What is actually known about the matter is that the babe was presented to his tribe on the seventh day after his birth, and was named Mohammed, the "Praised One," in prophetic allusion to his future fame. For the first five years of his life, according to Arabian custom, the child was sent to a foster-mother in the mountains that he might grow up sturdy and healthy. Soon after the end of that period, his mother died, and he was left to the care of his uncle, Abu Talib, a wealthy trader, who was so fond and proud of his nephew that he let the boy accompany him on many of his long caravan {13} journeys to Yemen or Syria. Thus the young Mohammed became intimately acquainted with all sorts and conditions of men. He had no books, but he was an eager listener to the poems recited by the bards in the market-place of each great town. He quickly absorbed the legends and superstitions of his country, formed his own opinion about the idol-worship practised by many of the Arab tribes, and was present on a great historic occasion, when an oath was taken by his tribe in alliance with others, to be the champions of the weak and the avengers of the oppressed. Moreover, since his own home was at Mecca, the "Fair of all Arabia," the centre of trade for India, Syria, Egypt, and Italy, the boy had plenty of chances of acquiring that knowledge of the world which subsequently served him in good stead as a leader of men. He grew up a silent, thoughtful youth, loved and respected by his companions, who named him El Amin, the "Faithful One." He was notable too for his good looks, for his bright dark eyes, clear brown skin, and for a curious black vein that swelled between his eyebrows when he was moved to anger. He had wide opportunities for thought and meditation, since, as was the case with most Arabs, his occupation was for years that of a shepherd on the hillsides of his native city. Eventually, at his uncle's wish, he became camel-driver and conductor of the caravan of a certain rich widow named Kadija. The long journey to Syria was undertaken with success, and on his return the widow Kadija looked upon the young man of twenty-five with eyes of favour. She imagined she saw two angels shielding him with their wings from the scorching sunshine, and, taking this for an indication that he was under the special protection of {14} Allah, sent her sister to him, according to a common custom of Arabia, to intimate her willingness to be his bride. So the poor camel-driver became the husband of the wealthy Kadija, and a very happy marriage it turned out to be. Six children came to gladden the peaceful home, of whom the youngest, Fatima, was to play a part in future history. To all appearances these were years of calm existence, almost of stagnation, for Mohammed; but all the time the inner life of the man was growing, expanding, throwing out fresh tentacles of thought and inquiry, as he brooded upon the condition, and especially upon the religious condition, of his fellow-countrymen. For the Arabs of his day were a degenerate race, much given to drinking and gaming and evil passions. They thought nothing of burying their girl-children alive after birth, as unworthy to be brought up. They had no heroic ideals, and their religion was becoming more and more vague and shadowy where it was not given over entirely to the worship of idols. It was the Arab custom to keep the month Ramadan as a kind of Lent, in fasting, in seclusion and meditation; and Mohammed, during that period, was wont to retire to a cave in a mountain near Mecca, sometimes with Kadija, sometimes quite alone. There he was overtaken on one occasion by strange trances and visions in which uttered weird prophetic sentences. He subsequently confided to Kadija, who was with him at that time, that he had made the Great Discovery; that all these idols, and sacred stones, and empty phrases of religion were nothing--nothing at all. "That God is great, and that there is nothing else great. He is Reality. Wooden idols are not real; but He is real--He made us and {15} protects us; hence _We must submit to Allah, and strive after righteousness_." This was to be the keynote of the faith to be known as _Islam_. After this revelation had come to him, Mohammed continued his life of thought and meditation for some time, until he was nearly forty years of age. He may have spoken of his conviction to his friends, but he does not seem to have gained much sympathy, and rather he appears to have earned the reputation of a dreamer. But about the year 610, as he was wandering over the wild hillsides, the clear call came, as it is bound to come to the humble, listening soul. He had lain down to sleep when, in a vision, he heard three times his name repeated, and the third time saw the angel Gabriel--in whose existence both Arabs and Jews believed--who spoke to him and bade him _Cry! in the name of Allah! In the name of Allah, Who hath created man._ At first Mohammed was much disturbed by this message, which he did not clearly understand. He feared he was under the influence of magic, and was filled with dread of falling into the hands of jinns. After a visit to his home, he again sought the mountain, intending in his harassed state of mind to put an end to his life. Each time he attempted this, something restrained him, and as he sat at length in despair upon the ground wrapped in his cloak, the angel once more appeared, saying-- _O thou that art covered, Arise and preach, And magnify Allah! Purify thy garments,_ {16} _Shun all evils, Grant not money on usury, Wait patiently for Allah. When the trump shall blow shall be distress for unbelievers._ From that time the vocation of Mohammed was clear. He was to go forth and preach to a nation of idolaters that there was one God, and only one, who might claim their worship. Never again did he hesitate, nor, on the other hand, did he begin his work in haste. He still sojourned among the mountains, where he was visited by his uncle, Abu Talib, and by the little son of the latter, a boy called Ali. "What calls you here, Mohammed?" asked the puzzled Abu, "and what religion do you now profess?" Said Mohammed: "I profess the religion of Allah, of His angels and His prophets, the religion of Abraham. Allah has commissioned me to preach this to men, and to urge them to embrace it. Nought would be more worthy of thee, O my uncle, than to adopt the true faith, and to help me to spread it." But Abu Talib replied: "Son of my brother, I can never forsake the faith of my fathers; but if thou art attacked, I will defend thee." Then to his young son Ali he continued: "Hesitate not to follow any advice he giveth thee, for Mohammed will never lead thee into any wrong way." The first attempts of Mohammed to begin his work of conversion met with small success. We have good authority for the proverb that "a prophet has no honour in his own country," and in Mohammed's case his task was made supremely difficult by the fact that Mecca would no longer be the goal of thousands of pilgrims every year if the Arabs were to give up the worship {17} of the idols of the Kaaba, which numbered, exclusive of the "pure white stone" itself, some three hundred and sixty-five images. Now the whole prosperity of the city depended upon the caravan trade brought by these pilgrims, as well as on the profits made out of providing food and shelter for such vast numbers. Realising this, Mohammed made no attempt at a public proclamation of the new faith for the first three years, but contented himself with training two or three converts to be his helpers in the future. His faithful wife Kadija was with him heart and soul, and to her, first of all, he disclosed the details which the angel had revealed to him in a vision, as to the particular acts of ritual, forms of prayer, and actual doctrine which _Islam_, as their faith was called, demanded of its followers. The essential fact of this religion was a belief in Allah as the one true God, in a future life of happiness or misery after death, and in Mohammed himself as the Prophet of Allah, whom they were bound to obey. It was essentially a practical faith, however, and, in addition to prayer five times a day, the Islamite or _Moslem_ must give alms to the poor, be perfectly honest in weighing and measuring, be absolutely truthful, and keep strictly to all agreements made. Many minor details were afterwards added to these, and the whole were gradually written down in the _Koran_, the sacred book of Islam. This, of course, was not done till many years later, when Mohammed had drawn up a moral and social code which he hoped would reform the whole world. In the meantime he had a hard struggle before him. One of his first followers was the child Ali, who, though but eleven years old, became his constant companion in his lonely rambles, and eagerly received his {18} instructions. A freed slave, and Abu Bekr, a man of official rank, enthusiastic for the new faith, were his next converts. In vain did Mohammed call together the members of his tribe, saying unto them-- "Never has an Arab offered to his people such precious things as I now present to you--happiness in this life, and joys for ever in the next. Allah has bidden me call men to Him--Who will join me in the sacred work and become my brother?" Deep silence followed this appeal, broken only by the high, childish voice of little Ali, who cried out-- "I, Prophet of Allah, I will join you!" Quite seriously Mohammed received the offer, saying to the assembled throng, "Behold my brother, my _Kalif_! Listen to him. Obey his commands." Soon after this appeal to his own tribe, a spirit of active opposition arose among the men of Mecca, so much so that the chief men came to Abu Talib and warned him that if he did not prevail upon Mohammed to hold his peace and give up these new doctrines, they would take up arms against him and his supporters. Much alarmed at this protest, Abu Talib implored his nephew to keep his new-formed faith to himself. But Mohammed answered, "O my uncle, even if the sun should descend on my right hand and the moon on my left to fight against me, ordering me to hold my peace or perish, I would not waver from my purpose." Then, thinking that the friend he loved so well was about to desert him, he turned away and wept. But the old Abu, touched to the heart, cried out, "Come back, O my nephew! Preach whatever doctrine thou wilt. I swear to thee that not for a moment will I desert thy side." {19} Opposition soon took the form of misrepresentation. The enemies of Mohammed would lie in wait for the pilgrims going up to the Kaaba and warn them to beware of a dangerous magician, whose charms sowed discord in the household, dividing husband and wife, parent and child. But this had the natural effect of making strangers much more curious about Mohammed than they would otherwise have been. They made their own inquiries, and though few converts were the result, the reputation of the Prophet, in a more or less misleading form, was gradually spread by them throughout the length and breadth of Arabia. Meantime, Mohammed himself was the object of open insult in the streets of Mecca, as well as of actual violence. One effect of this, however, was to bring over to his side another uncle, Hamza by name who had been one of his fiercest opponents. Hearing of some new outrage, he hastened to the Kaaba and stood forth openly as the champion of the Prophet. "_I_ am of the new religion! Return _that_, if you dare!" he cried, dealing a vigorous blow at one of the angry and astonished assembly. They drew back in awe, and Hamza, the "Lion of Allah," became one of the most ardent followers of Islam. The tide of persecution, however, was not stayed, and at length Mohammed, unable to protect his followers from the violence he was willing to endure himself, persuaded them to take refuge in Abyssinia, under the protection of the Christian king. Furious at this, the men of Mecca placed Mohammed and his whole family under a ban for three long years, during which the Faithful nearly perished of hunger, for no man might buy of them or sell to them or have {20} any kind of intercourse with them. This ban was removed at the end of three years, but then a worse blow fell upon the Prophet. Kadija, his faithful, loving wife, and Abu Talib, his friend and protector, both died. The death of Abu led to a renewal of persecution; very few fresh converts were made; failure met him on every side. The only ray of light in this period of gloom was the discovery that twelve pilgrims journeying from the distant city of Medina had already become followers of Islam from what they had heard of the new faith as taught by Mohammed. These men he gladly instructed more fully, and sent them back as missionaries to their own city. In the midst of his depression and disheartened forebodings for the future, Mohammed was vouchsafed a marvellous vision or dream. "Awake, thou that sleepest!" cried a voice like a silver trumpet, and there appeared to him an angel of wonderful brightness, who bade him mount the winged steed, _Borak_, the Lightning, and ascend to the Temple at Jerusalem. Thence by a ladder of light, Mohammed rose to the first heaven, made of pure silver, and lighted by stars suspended by chains of gold. There he was embraced as the chief of prophets by Adam, the first created man. [Illustration: _The Vision of Mohammed_] Thence he proceeded to the second heaven, which was of steel, and there he was greeted by Noah. The third heaven, where Joseph met him, was brilliant with precious stones. There too sat the Angel of Death, writing down the names of all who were to be born, and blotting out the names of those whose time had come to die. In the fourth heaven Aaron showed to him the Angel of Vengeance, in whose hands was a fiery {23} spear. In the fifth Moses spoke with him and wept to see one who was going to lead to Paradise more of the Chosen People than he, their prophet. In the sixth, of marvellous brightness, Abraham occupied chief place; and Mohammed was even allowed to penetrate further to the seventh heaven, where Allah, His glory veiled, gave him instructions as to the doctrines of Islam, and bade him command his followers to utter fifty prayers a day. When the Prophet returned to Moses, the latter pointed out that the number was too much to expect of Arabs, and bade him ask Allah to reduce it. In answer to his supplications, Allah said at first that forty prayers would be satisfactory, but Mohammed pleaded earnestly for further relief, and at last the number was fixed at five, at which it remains to this day. "Allahu akbar--Prayer is better than sleep! There is no God but Allah! He giveth life and He dieth not! O thou bountiful! Thy mercy ceaseth not! My sins are great, greater is Thy mercy! I praise His perfection! Allahu akbar!" Still, five times a day, the peculiar cry of the "mullah" is heard from the tower of prayer, giving the signal for the follower of Islam to turn towards Mecca, throw himself on his face, and utter the prescribed words. Much inspired by this wonderful dream, Mohammed was further encouraged by the news that seventy men of Medina had joined the ranks of Islam and were about to meet him on the hillside beyond Mecca, with intent to induce him, if possible, to take up his future abode in their city, leaving his birthplace to its fate. There, under the dark midnight sky, these men bound {24} themselves to worship Allah only, to obey the Prophet, and to fight in defence of him and his followers. "And what will be our reward?" asked one. "Paradise!" replied Mohammed briefly. And then the oath was sworn; while the Prophet, on his side, promised to live and die with his new converts when the time was ripe. The meeting had, however, been watched by spies, who reported all to the men of Mecca; and a new persecution arose, so bitter that most of the "Faithful," as the followers of Mohammed came to be called, fled at once to Medina. Mohammed himself remained, hoping that thus he might turn the wrath of the idolaters upon himself and protect the flight of his children. Presently, however, came information that forty men, one from each tribe, had sworn together to take his life; and forthwith Mohammed with Abu Bekr, his devoted friend, departed one dark night and shook off the dust of Mecca from his feet. Danger was so near that they dared not take the path to Medina, but made their way to a mountain, on whose rocky summit they found a small cave into which they crept at dawn of day. Knowing what the end of the pursuit would mean, Abu began to lose nerve, and asked, "What if our pursuers should find our cave? We are but two." "We are three," was the calm reply: "Allah is with us!" Legend says that the pursuers actually approached the mouth of the cave and were about to investigate it. But in the early hours of the day Allah had caused a tree to grow up before it, a spider to weave its web across it, and a wild pigeon, most timid of birds, to lay {25} eggs in a nest made in the branches; and the searchers, seeing these things, declared it impossible that any one could be within. A faithful friend provided them in secret with food and milk, and on the third night they began the journey to Medina. "He is come! He is come!" cried the Faithful in Medina, flocking to meet the wayworn travellers as they entered the city. And thus a new chapter was opened in the history of Islam. {26} CHAPTER II Mohammed as Conqueror _He is come to ope The purple testament of bleeding war._ SHAKESPEARE: _Richard II._ The year which marked Mohammed's triumphant entry into Medina is known in the Mohammedan world as the _Hegira_, and counts as the Year One in their calendar--the year from which all others are reckoned. For the first time the faith of Islam was preached openly, and the claim of Mohammed to be merely _one_ of the "prophets" gave place to a demand for acknowledgment as the chief of all, a demand calculated to arouse the antagonism of all other existing forms of religion. The other important development of his teaching at this time was that all faithful Moslems--the followers of the Prophet--must entirely abstain from the use of intoxicating drink. Moreover, though at first Mohammed (possibly to please the Jews in Medina) had commanded that at the hour of prayer every Moslem should turn his face towards Jerusalem, in course of time, when he began to see the impossibility of uniting the Jewish believers with those of Islam, he suddenly, after the usual prostration, turned towards the Temple at Mecca. From that moment down to the present day the Moslem, wherever {27} he is, follows this example at the fivefold hour of prayer. At Medina, Mohammed married the young girl Ayesha, and, as permitted by the Moslem faith, soon brought other wives to the simply built house by the mosque which he and his converts were building just outside the city. Yet, though a man of fifty-three, the Prophet by no means intended to pass the rest of his life in ease and domestic comfort. He had been forced by violence to flee from Mecca. He now conceived it his duty to make himself master of his native city by means of the sword. The sons of the desert are born fighters, and whether his motive was to enforce the Moslem faith at the peril of the sword, or merely to assert his personal rights, the fact remains that he had no difficulty whatever in rallying to his standard a small though most enthusiastic army. An attempt to seize a rich caravan belonging to a merchant of Mecca was the signal for battle. The forces of Mecca, hastily gathered, went out against the Moslem host, and, after hard fighting, were dispersed. There was joy in Medina when the "swift dromedary" of the Prophet appeared at the house of prayer and the news was made known; but in Mecca was bitter hatred and woe, fitly expressed in the grim words of the wife of the slain leader of the caravan: "Not till ye again wage war against Mohammed and his fellows shall tears flow from my eyes! If tears would wash away grief, I would now weep, even as ye; but with me it is not so!" From that time Mohammed gave up all pretence of winning converts by peaceable methods; {28} henceforth he was to live and die a man of the sword. Deterioration of character was a more or less natural outcome of this change. It may have been necessary to invent visions in order to convince the ignorant people of Medina that their victory was due, not to their own strength, but to the aid of the angels of Allah, who would always fight upon their side; but we cannot say the same of the applause, given openly by Mohammed in the mosque, to the cold-blooded murderer of a woman who had composed some verses throwing doubt upon the right of the Prophet to glory in the death of the men of his own tribe. Nor was this the only instance of revenge and cruelty. It was but too clear that Mohammed, from a calm and peaceful prophet, had been transformed into a warlike chieftain, bent on subduing all others to his will. When Mecca declared battle, he went out to the field, clad in full armour, sword in hand. At first all went well with the Moslems. Then Mohammed was struck in the mouth and cheek, and a cry went up, "The Prophet is slain! Where is now the promise of Allah?" Their cry was drowned in the triumphant shouts of the men of Mecca, "War hath its revenge; Allah is for us--not for you!" The day was lost; and it needed all the Prophet's ingenuity to account for it satisfactorily to those whom he had so often assured of the certain protection of Allah. From that time possibly dates the belief of the Moslems that he who dies in battle against the unbeliever is so certain of the joys of Paradise that it is the survivor rather than the slain who should be pitied. Meantime, before the contest with Mecca could be {29} finally settled, Mohammed undertook to crush, once for all, the Jewish power in Arabia. It seems strange that there should have been such hostility between Jews and Moslems, seeing that both claimed the God of Abraham as the object of their worship; but this was now lost sight of in view of the natural refusal of the former to acknowledge Mohammed as the chief of all prophets, and his sacred book, the Koran, as superior to their "Book of the Law," the Old Testament. By dint of persecuting those who dwelt within the walls of Medina, and of besieging their cities elsewhere, Mohammed compelled the Jews to migrate to Syria, leaving their abandoned lands and cities to him. The event finds special mention in the Koran. "Allah it is who drove out the People of the Book, _(the Jews_), who believed not, to join the former exiles. Ye thought not they would go forth; verily, _they_ thought that their fortresses would defend them against Allah; but Allah came upon them from a quarter unexpected and covered their hearts with dread." Soon after this event, Ali, his faithful nephew, was still more closely united with Mohammed by his marriage with Fatima, the Prophet's daughter; and thus he of whom Mohammed was wont to say, "I am the city of wisdom, but Ali is its door," was joined to one of the "four perfect women" spoken of by the Prophet. It was now six years since Mohammed had left Mecca, during which time he had never ceased to yearn and plan for his triumphant return. The Kaaba, save for its idols, was sacred to him as the home of the worship of Allah, and his heart was bitter within him when he reflected that he and his followers had been so long forbidden the yearly pilgrimage thither. So he {30} determined to put the temper of the Meccans to the test by making a pilgrimage, with a sufficient number of followers to resist any aggressive act of hostility. As they approached the sacred borders, the camel of Mohammed refused to go further. "The creature is obstinate and weary," said the Moslems. "Not so," answered Mohammed, "the hand of Allah restrains her. If the Meccans make any demand of me this day, I will grant it. Let the caravan halt." "There is no water here," they cried in dismay, "how shall we halt?" But Mohammed ordered that a dried-up well should be opened, and at once water bubbled up to the surface. Still more surprised were the Moslems, all of whom were burning to fight, when they found the Prophet quietly accepting the terms offered by the men of Mecca, when they promised to permit future pilgrimages, though they would not allow him to enter the city on that occasion. Once recognised by his own birthplace, Mohammed determined to bring about his most ambitious project, and to summon all the kingdoms of the earth to acknowledge Islam. He even had a signet-ring engraved with the words "Mohammed, the Apostle of Allah," and, in a spirit of sublime self-confidence, sent it to the King of Persia, to the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius, and to the rulers of Syria, Abyssinia, and Egypt. Nothing came of it, of course, and meantime the earlier desire of his heart had been gratified. The pilgrimage to Mecca had been undertaken in safety, and the Prophet had worshipped after the manner of Islam within the very walls of the sacred Kaaba. That same year saw the Moslems on the march against {31} the forces of Rome herself. One of the Prophet's envoys had been put to death by the Christian chieftain of a Syrian tribe, which was under Roman rule; and the little Moslem army at once set out from Medina to avenge him. Little did Mohammed know of the Roman military power when he sent forth his men with such high words of courage. The Moslem troops advanced, crying "Paradise! how fair is thy resting-place! Cold is the water there and sweet the shade! Rome! Rome! The hour of thy woe draweth nigh! When we close with her, we shall hurl her to the dust." Instead of this, a discomfited rabble made their way back to Medina in hot haste, to be received with cries of "Oh, runaways! Do ye indeed flee before the enemy when fighting for Allah?" Nor did the conquest of several wandering desert tribes soothe the wounded pride of the Prophet. He could only be consoled by his next project of making himself master of Mecca, the Holy City, itself. He was strong enough now to put ten thousand of his followers in the field, and with these, after a rapid and secret march, he encamped on the hills above the city, where his ten thousand twinkling watch-fires could strike terror into the hearts of the inhabitants. That night a chieftain of the men of Mecca, going forth in the darkness to reconnoitre the enemy, was captured and brought before the Prophet. Threatened with death, he agreed to embrace the faith of Islam, and was forthwith sent back to his city with this message:-- "Every Meccan who is found in thy dwelling; all who take refuge in the Kaaba; and whosoever shutteth the door of his own house upon his family, shall be safe: haste thee home!" {32} The army followed hard upon his heels, fearing treachery; but the new-made convert kept faith; and when they entered Mecca, it was like a city of the dead. The first act of Mohammed was to destroy the idols in the Kaaba, and to sound the call for prayer from its summit. But except in the case of a few rebellious spirits, no blood was shed, and no cruelty shown to those who had once been his persecutors. The chiefs of the Meccans indeed came before him, fearing the worst; and of them he asked, "What can you expect at my hands?" "Mercy, O generous brother," they answered. "Be it so; ye are free!" was the Prophet's reply. "Thus, after an exile of seven years, the fugitive missionary was enthroned as the Prince and Prophet of his native country."[1] [1] Gibbon. In the years that followed his triumphant possession of Mecca, all the tribes and cities from the Euphrates to the head of the Red Sea submitted to Mohammed, who thus became the founder of a new empire as well as of a new religion. Many of these tribes were Christian, and to them the Prophet always showed the utmost kindness and toleration for their worship. As the enemies of the hated Jews they had a special claim on his favour; and it was no doubt to his own advantage to be on good terms with a religion destined to be the most powerful in the world. During the last four years of his life the strength of the Prophet began to flag under the incessant demands made upon it. He was now over sixty years of age, and, just as he was proposing to undertake a new raid {33} into Roman territory, he was attacked by a high fever. Recovering for a time, he appeared once more in the mosque at the time of prayer. Returning to his couch, his great and increasing weakness warned him that the end was near. "O God, pardon my sins!" he faltered. "Yes--I come--among my fellow-citizens on high." Thus he died, in the tenth year after the Hegira. {34} CHAPTER III The Spread of Islam _Swift and resistless through the land he passed, Like that bold Greek who did the East subdue, And made to battles such heroic haste As if on wings of victory he flew._ DRYDEN: _On Cromwell._ Of those sovereigns visited by the envoys of Mohammed and bidden to give their allegiance to the Prophet, was Khosru, King of Persia, who, in utter disdain of such a demand, tore the letter to pieces. "Beware, O king," said the messenger as he departed, "for in the days to come your kingdom shall be treated as you have treated the written words of the Prophet." The idea of an unknown sect from an Arabian desert attacking the power of the "Great King" seemed preposterous to those who heard, for Persia was then at the height of one of her spasmodic periods of success. Some eighteen years before the envoy of Islam appeared at his court the king had covered his empire with glory by the capture of Jerusalem (611 A.D.), then in the hands of Rome, and inhabited chiefly by Christians. On this occasion the Jews throughout Palestine rose on his behalf with the object of exterminating the Christians, ninety {35} thousand of whom are said to have perished. "Every Christian church was demolished, that of the Holy Sepulchre was the object of furious hatred; the stately building of Helena and Constantine was abandoned to the flames; the devout offerings of three hundred years were rifled in one sacrilegious day."[1] Fortunately for future ages, the great church, built by the pious Helena over the place where the body of Christ had lain, was not entirely destroyed; but--a worse blow still to the Christian inhabitants--the True Cross was taken from its sacred hiding place and carried Into Persia. [1] Milman. Egypt had also fallen into the hands of the conquering Khosru, when at length Heraclius, the Emperor of the East, "slumbering on the throne of Constantinople," awoke, drove the Persian from Syria and Egypt, restored the ruined churches of Jerusalem, and brought back in triumph the Cross to the Holy City. The preceding year had seen the fall of Khosru, and peace concluded between the Empires of Rome and Persia; eight years later Jerusalem was in the hands of the Saracens (637 A.D.). The years intervening between this event and the death of Mohammed had been utilised by the sons of Islam in making a series of conquests, which seem well-nigh miraculous. We can indeed only account for them by the fact that the contest was between a race of fighters, stirred by their new faith to a perfect frenzy of enthusiasm, and the remnants of Empires far gone in decay. Yet, even so, there was no light task. Chaldaea and Babylonia, perhaps the most ancient empires in the world, fell before the sword of Islam only after a long {36} and terrible struggle. The bloodshed on both sides was appalling, but the ever-increasing numbers of Moslems were always providing fresh recruits, eager to win victory or Paradise. Even when they were less numerous than their enemies, they more than made up for it by the determination and obstinacy of their attacks. Emboldened by this success, the Saracens flung themselves upon the Empire of Persia. Three months after the great battle of Cadesia, the "white palace" of Khosru was in their hands, and the remnants of the Persian hosts had fled before them. The story of Harmozan, the Prince of Susa, Persia's most important city, shows the craft of the native Persian, and the binding nature of the Islamite promise. Brought before Omar the Caliph of Islam, stripped of his gorgeous robes, bullied and insulted, Harmozan complained of intolerable thirst. They brought him a cup of water, which he eyed askance. "What ails the man?" cried Omar. "I fear, my lord, lest I be killed even as I drink," confessed Harmozan. "Be of good courage," replied the Caliph, "your life is safe till you have drunk the water." Instantly the crafty ruler dashed the cup to the ground, and when Omar would have avenged his deceit, the bystanders promptly reminded him that the word of a Moslem is as sacred as an oath. Harmozan was liberated, and became speedily a convert to a religion which taught so well how to "keep faith." While these conquests were being made in the East, the forces of Omar had been making equal progress in the West. Palestine was their destination, and Damascus, that {37} famous city, the centre of immense trade, their first prey. From thence they advanced upon Jerusalem, taking town after town on the way. A siege of four months convinced the Christian Patriarch that it was hopeless to hold out longer. All he now demanded was that Omar himself should come to take possession, on the ground that it was written in the sacred book of the Jews that the city should one day fall into the hands of a king having but four letters in his name. In Arabia the word "Omar" fulfilled this condition, and forthwith the Caliph arrived, in the plainest garb, riding upon a camel, and bearing with him his pouch of grain and dates and his skin of water. To meet him came the chieftains he had sent out two years before, clad in the rich cloths of Damascus. "Is it thus ye come before me?" cried Omar in disgust, throwing a handful of sand in their faces. Dismayed for a moment, they recollected themselves, and, opening their gorgeous robes, revealed the armour beneath. "Enough!" cried the Caliph. "Go forward!" The terms arranged were by no means harsh, though clearly marking the inferior position of the conquered Christians. No crosses were to be shown, nor church bells rung in the street. A Christian must rise and stand in the presence of a Moslem. The latter might practise his religion and use his church undisturbed; but the great mosque of Omar was to rise over the ruined altar of the temple and over the sacred stone upon which the patriarch Jacob had once rested his head. Strange as it may seem, the two races settled down side by side in peace and friendship. Both acknowledged {38} the holiness of the Israelites of old, whose bones lay buried in the neighbourhood of the Holy City. Within its walls the Mohammedans treated with respect, if not with reverence, the worship of Him whom they regarded as a prophet not far inferior to their own. Thus four centuries rolled quietly away, until the old distinction between conquerors and conquered had almost ceased to exist, and pilgrims from all parts of Christendom were welcomed by Christian and Moslem alike. Meantime the forces of Islam threatened to overrun the greater part of the known world. The Saracens "rode masters of the sea," throughout the Greek archipelago; their sway was recognised towards the East up to the sources of the Euphrates and Tigris, to the North they had spread over Asia Minor deep to the very walls of Constantinople, the seat of the Eastern Empire. Egypt was conquered by Amrou, one of the most famous generals of the Caliph Omar. With Egypt fell Alexandria, a city renowned for its learning, and especially for its magnificent library, through the civilised world. "I have taken," Amrou told the Caliph, "the great city of the West. It contains four thousand palaces, four thousand baths, four hundred theatres or places of amusement, twelve thousand shops for the sale of vegetable food, and forty thousand tributary Jews. The town has been subdued by force of arms, without treaty or capitulation, and the Moslems are impatient to seize the fruits of their victory." Fortunately for the inhabitants, who were the last to be referred to, Omar would not allow slaughter or pillage. But if the tale be true, the fate of the famous library of Alexandria shows very clearly the narrow limits of Saracen culture in those days. {39} A learned scholar of the city, who had won the liking and respect of Amrou, entreated that the library might be given over to him, as the Moslems would have no use for it. The question was referred to Omar, who replied, "If these writings of the Greeks agree with the Book of God, they are useless, and need not be preserved; if they disagree, they are harmful, and should be destroyed." And forthwith the priceless volumes were committed to the flames. Six years later (647 A.D.) the warrior Othman accomplished the conquest of Northern Africa; and a little more than sixty years later, a small expedition of Saracens crossed the Straits of Gibraltar and set foot in Spain. Their leader, Tarif, gave his name to the place (Tarifa) where he landed, and likewise to the "tariff" or "duty" levied upon the vessels which passed through the straits. At Xeres they were met by Roderick, the "last of the Goths," who was killed, and whose army was put to flight by the forces of the Saracens, or Moors as they were called after their settlement in Mauretania or Morocco, just across the straits. But the conquest of Spain by the Moors, teeming as it is with romantic interest, is too long to be related here, and we must retrace our steps to the East. By the end of the first half of the eighth century, and only a little over a hundred years after Mohammed's death, the Saracens had brought their career of conquest almost to an end, and were firmly established as "the most potent and absolute monarchs of the globe." One determined attempt, indeed, was made during the latter half of the century to take Constantinople, the capital of the Eastern Empire. A battle was fought beneath the {40} walls of the city, and the Saracens were victorious; but they were prevailed upon to retire on the promise of an immense yearly tribute. The beginning of the ninth century saw the Eastern and Western worlds ruled respectively by those two famous monarchs of history and romance, Haroun-Al-Raschid and Charlemagne. The first is familiar to most of us through the enchanting pages of the _Arabian Nights_, but history unfortunately gives us a darker portrait of the renowned Caliph, painting him as a jealous and selfish tyrant. He was, however, a patron of literature and of art, which distinguishes him from his predecessors, who were merely warriors. He could fight, too, on occasion, both with tongue and sword. A new Emperor of Constantinople chose to refuse the tribute promised by the late Empress in these words. "Nicephorus, King of the Greeks, to Haroun, King of the Arabs. "The late Queen was too humble; she submitted to pay tribute to you, though she should have exacted twice as much from you. A man speaks to you now; therefore send back the tribute you have received, otherwise the sword shall be umpire between me and thee." The Caliph replied in unmistakable terms-- "In the name of Allah, most merciful!" "Haroun-al-Raschid, Commander of the Faithful, to Nicephorus, the Roman dog. "I have read thy letter, O thou son of an unbelieving mother! Thou shalt not hear, but thou shalt see my reply." [Illustration: _Pilgrims of the XIth Century journeying to the Holy City_] Forthwith a huge force crossed over into the domains {43} of Nicephorus, and only the promise to pay the tribute twice, instead of once a year, induced the Caliph to withdraw his forces. To us, however, the most interesting incident of his reign is the link that was forged between East and West when the great Haroun courteously received the ambassadors of Charlemagne at his court in Bagdad. He may have been prompted only by a desire to obtain the Great Emperor of the West as his ally against the Emperor of the Eastern Empire, but there seems little doubt that Haroun actually sent to Charlemagne the keys of the Holy Places at Jerusalem, declaring that the city belonged first and foremost to the Champion of Christendom. Charlemagne did not hesitate to avail himself of this generosity. Fifty years later, a monk of Brittany, named Bernard the Wise, described how he was lodged at the hospital of the most glorious Emperor Charles, wherein are received all pilgrims who speak Latin, and who come for a religious reason. There, too, he discovered the fine library founded by Charlemagne close by, in the Church of the Blessed Virgin. He speaks in high terms of the relations existing between Christians and Moslems, both at Jerusalem and in Egypt. "The Christians and Pagans," he says, "have there such peace between them that, if I should go a journey, and in this journey my camel or ass which carried my burdens should die, and I should leave everything there without a guard, and go to the next town to get another, on my return I should find all my property untouched." Thus, in peace and security, the long stream of pilgrims from the West flowed towards the Holy City until the beginning of the eleventh century. Then came, {44} quite suddenly, a terrible interval of persecution. The reigning Caliph, El Hakim, became, as he grew up, a fierce and fanatical madman. Inflamed, it is said, by the report of the Jews, who warned him that unless he put a stop to the crowds of pilgrims he would soon find himself without a kingdom, he instituted a fierce persecution of the Christians, and commanded that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre should be destroyed. Another furious outburst was directed against the Jews themselves, as well as the Christians. Many were killed, and many of their churches laid low. Just before his end a fit of remorse seized El Hakim, and he commanded that the churches of the Christians should be restored. Before he could again change his mind, he was assassinated by command of his own sister, as being a dangerous madman. A brief interval of toleration followed, which was but the lull before the storm; for an outbreak of terrible persecution was to come, an outbreak which was the immediate cause of the First Crusade. {45} CHAPTER IV The Rise of Chivalry _A knight there was, and that a worthy man, That fro the tyme that he first began To riden out, he loved chivalrie, Trouthe and honour, freedom and curteisie._ CHAUCER: _The Prologue._ During the interval of comparative peace that followed the downfall of the mad Caliph Hakim, a new spirit of religious devotion began to awaken in Christendom. This was, to a large extent, a reaction from a truly "dark age"--the period which immediately preceded the end of the tenth century. Famine and pestilence had devastated Europe, and had resulted in absolute demoralisation of the population. Travellers went their way in fear not only of robbery, but of a far worse fate. It was whispered that men, women and children had been waylaid in forest depths, torn to pieces, and devoured alive by human wild beasts. The Church, in her efforts to bring about a better state of things, resorted to counsels of despair, and began to preach, in every part of Christendom, that the end of the world was at hand, and that the appointed time was the thousandth year after the birth of Christ. The result was an outburst of intense religious {46} excitement which did much to check the progress of evil and outrage. It had a practical outcome, too, as is seen in that curious institution known as the Truce of God. In joining this, every knight took an oath not to commit sacrilege; to treat all travellers with respect; to "keep the peace" during the sacred days of each week--that is, from Wednesday evening to Monday morning; not to fight for purposes of private revenge, and always to defend and keep sacred the persons of women. Here we have clearly the foundation of that spirit of chivalry which plays such a prominent part in the Story of the Crusades. The appointed time for the end of the world came and went, but the spirit of devotion remained. A new interest was awakened in the scenes of the life-work of the Saviour, and crowds of pilgrims, young and old, of all ranks and professions, hastened to undertake the long and toilsome journey to the Holy Land. Many of these suffered under the persecution of Hakim; and even after his time, though no active measures were taken against them, they were not received with the favour shown in former days. But this only added zest to the enterprise. To visit the Church of the Holy Tomb, and to return and build a church in his own land, became the ambition of every man of wealth and high rank; while the poor palmer, with his staff and hat decorated with palm sprigs or cockle-shells, became a well-known figure upon the roads of every country in Europe. Says a writer of that day, "At the time there begun to flow towards the Holy Sepulchre so great a multitude as, ere this, no man could have hoped for. First of all went the poorer folk, then men of middle rank, {47} and lastly, very many kings and counts, marquises and bishops; aye, and a thing that had never happened before, many women bent their steps in the same direction." Things were made a little easier for them by the conversion of the Huns to Christianity; for this enabled the pilgrims to pass along the land route through Hungary instead of crossing the Mediterranean and travelling through Egypt. Robert the Magnificent, the father of William, the future "Conqueror," was among these eleventh century pilgrims, and he, like many another, died before he could return home. Sweyn, the eldest and worst of the sons of Godwin, was another; and Eldred, Bishop of York in the days of William the Conqueror, made the little realm of England famous at Jerusalem by his gift before the Holy Sepulchre of a wonderful golden chalice. Side by side with this spirit of religious zeal there grew up and developed that remarkable body of sentiment and custom known as chivalry. Chivalry has been described as the "whole duty of a gentleman"; and when we realise the condition of barbarism, brutality, and vice out of which even Western Christendom was only just emerging in the eleventh century, we can see how important was the work it had to do. Religion, Honour, Courtesy--those were the three watchwords of the knight of chivalry, and they covered a wide area of conduct. The education of a knight began at the age of seven, and commenced with the personal service, which was regarded in those days as a privilege. The small boy was proud to hold the wine-cup behind the chair of {48} his lord, or his stirrup when he rode on horseback. For the next seven years, though much of his time was spent in waiting upon the ladies of the household, who taught him reading, writing, music, and the laws of chivalry, he also learnt the duties of a squire--how to hunt and hawk, and to look after the kennels and the stables. At the age of fourteen the boy might be called a squire, when his duty, in addition to those mentioned, would be to carve for his lord at table, tasting the food first himself for fear of poison; and also, of course, to attend upon him at all times. Thus he had to arm him for battle, to see that his weapons were in perfect condition, to fight by his side, and to lie before his door while he slept. When the squire had mastered all his duties and obligations, he had then to "win his spurs," that is, to perform some deed of valour that should prove him worthy of knighthood. The ceremony of girding on his armour was largely a religious one. The whole of the previous night was spent by him on his knees with his sword held upright between his hands, before the altar upon which his armour was laid. Thus he dedicated himself by prayer and fasting to the service of God, and on the morrow was solemnly consecrated by the Church to his high office, before the armour was actually buckled on. This last part of the ceremony was the privilege of some fair damsel, to whom the knight was bound to give devotion and respect. "To do the pleasure of ladies was his chief solace and the mainspring of his service." Another of the features of chivalry was that of "brotherhood-in-arms," by which two knights vowed {49} eternal faith and love to one another. They dressed alike, wore similar armour, prayed together, supported each other in battle and in any kind of quarrel, and had the same friends and enemies. That their devotion to the rules of chivalry was a very real thing is proved over and over again by the conduct of the knights who took part in the Crusades. It is well expressed by Tristan, in one of the most famous romances of the chivalric age. As he lay dying, he said to his squire, "I take leave of chivalry which I have so much loved and honoured. Alas! my sword, what wilt thou do now? Wilt thou hear, Sagremor, the most shameful word that ever passed the lips of Tristan? I am conquered. I give thee my arms, I give thee my chivalry." It took many a long year to bring to perfection this great institution, with all its rules and regulations, and chivalry was but in its infancy when the First Crusade began. The two movements developed together, and many a chivalric lesson was learnt by the knights of Christendom from the Moslems of the East. Perhaps, however, one of the most marked effects of the Crusades upon this greatest of mediæval institutions was the welding together of the various nations of Europe in a common knighthood, bound by the same rules and codes of honour, and fighting for the same cause. "All wars and brigandage came to an end. The Crusade, like the rain, stilled the wind." Out of this combination of the spirit of chivalry, with that of the Crusades themselves, sprang certain military orders, which play a very prominent part in the history of the time. {50} The first of these was known as the Order of the Knights Hospitallers. About the middle of the eleventh century a guest-house or "hospital," where pilgrims could be entertained, was established by a company of Italian merchants, in connection with the Church of St Mary, opposite that of the Holy Sepulchre, in Jerusalem. This hospital, dedicated to St John, was managed by Benedictine monks, under one called the "Guardian of the Redeemer's Poor." When the First Crusade was over, its hero, Godfrey of Boulogne, visited the place and found that these good monks had devoted themselves during the siege of Jerusalem to the care of the sick and wounded Christians, giving them the best of all they possessed, and living themselves in the utmost poverty. Godfrey at once endowed the Hospital of St John with lands and money, and set up one Gerard as its first Grand Master. A new and splendid church was built for the monks, and a habit or dress was prescribed for their use, consisting of a black robe with a cross of eight points in white linen upon it--the famous Maltese Cross of later days. Early in the twelfth century, this company of priests and holy laymen was changed by its second Grand Master into a military order, bound to carry on the same kind of charitable work in tending the sick and wounded, but specially to defend the Holy Sepulchre by force of arms. Many of this order of "Brothers" had been originally knights who had retired from the world and taken religious vows; hence it was said that the changes merely "gave back to the brethren the arms that they had quitted." These were now distinguished from the rest by a red surcoat with the white cross worn over armour. {51} Except for the obligation of fighting the vows were not changed, and these Knights Hospitallers owed the same allegiance to the three-fold laws of obedience, chastity, and poverty as ordinary monks. The brethren were to be the "servants of the poor"; no member could call anything his own; he might not marry; he could use arms only against the Saracen; but he was independent of any authority save that of the Pope. This Order became immensely popular; in the thirteenth century it numbered fifteen thousand knights, many of them drawn from the noblest houses of Christendom; and it is much to its credit that, at a time when chivalry had become little more than a name, it upheld the old traditions even when it had been driven from Palestine, and forced to find a new home for itself at Rhodes. Driven from thence in the sixteenth century, the Knights of St John were settled by the Emperor Charles V. at Malta, where they remained until the days of the French Revolution. The Order of the Knights Templars was founded early in the twelfth century by Baldwin, then King of Jerusalem, as a "perpetual sacred soldiery," whose special object was to defend the Holy Sepulchre and the passes infested by brigands which led the pilgrims to Jerusalem. Their headquarters was a building granted them by Baldwin, close to the temple on Mt. Moriah. War was their first and most important business, though they were bound by their rule to a certain amount of prayer and fasting. The latter was, however, easily relaxed, and "to drink like a Templar" became a proverb. In every battle of the Holy War these two Orders took a prominent part; the post of honour on the {52} right being claimed by the Templars, that on the left by the Hospitallers. Unlike most other knights, the Templars wore long beards, and from their dress of white, with a large red cross upon it, they gained the title of the Red-Cross Knights. You will, no doubt, remember that Spenser's knight in the first book of the Faery Queene was of that order. _And on his breast a bloudy cross he bore In dear remembrance of his dying lord._ Their banner was half black, half white; "fair and favourable to the friends of Christ, black and terrible to His foes." These Knights Templars, by their arrogance and independence, made for themselves many enemies, and early in the fourteenth century they were strongly opposed by Philip of France. By this time they were established in various parts of Europe, and one of their most powerful "houses" was the building known as the "Temple" in Paris, the members of which openly defied the authority of the king. With some difficulty the consent of a weak Pope was obtained for their destruction. On a given day, when the Grand Master and most of his knights were staying in France, every Templar in the country was seized, imprisoned, and tortured until he had confessed crimes, many of which he probably had never imagined in his wildest moments. More than five hundred were burnt alive, as a preliminary to the Order being declared extinct. Whether the Templars deserved their terrible fate may well be a matter of doubt, though public opinion, in their own day, was decidedly against them. It is generally considered that Philip's treatment of {53} an order, the members of which had again and again laid down their lives for the cause of God, ranks as one of the blackest crimes of history. There is a legend to the effect that on each anniversary of the suppression of the Order, the heads of seven of the martyred Templars rise from their graves to meet a phantom figure clad in the red-cross mantle. The latter cries three times, "Who shall now defend the Holy Temple? Who shall free the Sepulchre of the Lord?" And the seven heads make mournful reply, "None! The Temple is destroyed." The Temple Church, in London, was originally built for the English branch of this great Order, the members of which in England, as well as in Spain and Germany, were almost all acquitted of the charges brought against them. But we must now return to the period prior to the foundation of these two great Orders, with which are associated most of the gallant deeds of the Holy War. {54} CHAPTER V The Story of Peter the Hermit _Great troops of people travelled thitherward Both day and night, of each degree and place But Jew returned, having 'scaped hard With hateful beggary or foul disgrace._ SPENSER: _Faery Queene._ Some twenty years after the death of Hakim, the countries round about the Holy Land began to be harassed by a new and terrible foe. From far-off Turkestan had migrated a fierce fighting tribe, the descendants of one Seljuk, and known to history as the Seljukian Turks. Wherever they went they conquered, until half-way through the eleventh century, their leader drove out the Saracen rulers of Bagdad and made himself Caliph. His successor was converted to Islam, and with added power, swept over Asia Minor and settled in the city of Nicæa, in threatening proximity to Constantinople. This invasion was the more terrible in that it brought in its train a relapse to barbarism, for these Turks were barbarians, hordes of robbers and brigands, who cared for nothing but plunder and violence. Alexios, the weak Emperor of the Eastern Empire, quailed at their approach, and looked on in terror at the spectacle of Christian churches destroyed and Christian {55} children sold into slavery. But he appealed in vain for aid to the kingdom of the West. To unite Western Christendom against a far-off foe was a task beyond the powers of the tottering Empire of the East. That inspiration, however, was at hand. In 1076, the Seljukian Turks conquered Jerusalem, and at once began a reign of terror for Christian inhabitants and pilgrims. The Patriarch, or Bishop of Jerusalem, was dragged through the street by his white hair, and flung into a dungeon, until his people could gather a sum sufficient to pay his ransom. The holiest sacrament of the Church was profaned by the barbarians, who invaded the buildings and insisted upon sharing in the rite. Pilgrims were stripped and beaten on the roads and passes that led to the Holy City; many suffered martyrdom as they knelt before the Holy Tomb. Out of seven thousand who set out from Germany in one year, only two thousand returned to tell a tale of cruel murder and outrage. The marvel is that such a terrible state of things was allowed to exist so long, without anything being done to remedy it. Pope Gregory VII. (Hildebrand) did indeed gather an army in the latter part of the eleventh century, but his energy was dissipated in the hopeless task of asserting the power of the Pope over the Emperor, and his army was eventually dispersed. Robert Guiscard, the Norman, actually crossed the sea with his troops in 1081, when death overtook him; and for a time the unhappy pilgrims seemed to be left to their fate. Then suddenly was heard a "voice calling in the wilderness," the voice of one who was to be the herald of the First Crusade. The story goes that a certain poor hermit named Peter, a native of the French city of Amiens, set out to {56} go to Jerusalem in the year 1098. He had, like every one else, heard of the horrors he might be called upon to endure, but pushed on, undeterred, until, possibly because of his poverty, he arrived safely within the Holy City. He found the condition of things even worse than he expected. The very stones of the great church were stained with the blood of the martyrs; the cries of tortured women rang in his ears; the patriarch Simeon confessed that he had lost heart and was little better than a slave in the Moslem's hands. It was clear that the Emperor of the East, their proper protector, would never act up to his responsibilities. To whom, then, could they look for aid? "The nations of the West shall take up arms in your cause," cried the dauntless Peter, and he forthwith promised to visit the Pope and obtain his help and sympathy on his return journey, if the Patriarch would give him letters to the Church of Rome. That night, says the legend, Peter meant to spend in watching at the tomb of the Saviour, and there he fell asleep. And as he slept, the figure of the Redeemer stood before him, and with hand outstretched, bade him hasten to fulfil his great task, saying, "So shalt thou make known the woes of My people, and rouse the faithful to cleanse the Holy Places from the infidel; for through danger and trial of every kind shall the elect now enter the gates of Paradise." With these words ringing in his ears, the Hermit at once hurried to the coast and sailed for Italy. He came before Pope Urban II. at the very time when the envoys of the Emperor of Constantinople were knocking very hard at the doors of Rome. Urban therefore did not hesitate to bless the enterprise of Peter, and to {57} bid him go forth and preach a Crusade in his own way. To induce kings, princes, and nobles, to leave their lands and go to fight in a cause from which they could gain no apparent profit, needed considerable time, and Urban himself undertook the difficult task. But he was wise enough to see that the peculiar power of Peter the Hermit could be used in stirring up the ordinary people, the simple-minded and the poor, to take up arms for the cause of Christ. So, as a writer of his own time puts it, "The hermit set out, from whence I know not, but we saw him passing through the towns and villages, preaching everywhere, and the people surrounding him in crowds, loading him with offerings and celebrating his sanctity with such great praises that I never remember such honour bestowed on any one." Throughout Italy and France and along the banks of the Rhine journeyed the strange inspired figure, with head and feet bare, his thin frame wrapped in a coarse cloak, holding before him a great crucifix as he rode upon an ass. "He preached to innumerable crowds in the churches, the streets and the highways; the Hermit entered with equal confidence the palace and the cottage; and the people were impetuously moved by his call to repentance and to arms. When he painted the sufferings of the natives and pilgrims of Palestine, every heart was melted to compassion; every breast glowed with indignation when he challenged the warriors of the age to defend their brethren and rescue their Saviour."[1] [1] Gibbon. While Southern Europe was thus being stirred to enthusiasm by being brought into personal contact with {58} one who had seen for himself the woes of the Holy Land, Pope Urban had already called a council to consider the matter in a practical form. At this Council of Placentia, however, the chief part of the attention of those present was drawn to the representations of the Greek Emperor, on whose behalf ambassadors pleaded the cause of the city of Constantinople. If that city fell before the threatened onslaught of the Turks, they said, Christianity must perish for ever in the East, and nothing but a narrow stretch of sea kept the Moslems from the gates of the capital city of the Eastern Empire. At these words the deepest sympathy was expressed, but it was suggested that the best way of succouring the threatened city was to draw off the attention of the Turks by an attack upon Palestine itself. This was just what Urban desired. A definite march upon Jerusalem would fire the imaginations of men of all ranks far more than an attempt to defend Constantinople before it was actually besieged. The old jealousy between the Eastern and Western Empire had to be reckoned with; and the Emperor Alexios was no heroic figure to stand for the Cause of Christ. The whole question, was, therefore, deferred until the autumn of 1095, when a Council was summoned at Clermont in France. That dull November day witnessed a most striking scene. The vast open square in front of the Cathedral was crammed with people of all classes drawn from all quarters by the rumour that the subject of a Crusade would be discussed. From the great western door, immediately after High Mass, emerged the figure of the Pope, and a number of bishops and cardinals, dressed in vestments glowing with colour, followed him upon the high scaffold covered with red cloth. [Illustration: _The Preaching of Peter the Hermit_] {61} With cross outstretched in his left hand, the Pope held up his right to command attention, and then began to speak. "Who can preserve the force of that eloquence?" says one who stood by, and heard him point out that the Turks, having pushed their way to the edge of the Western World, and even then holding parts of Spain and Sicily, must now be driven forth from that holiest place, where Christianity alone had a right to enter. Turning to the knights who stood by, leaning upon their swords, Urban addressed them in words of fire. "Were they spending their days in empty quarrels, shearing their brethren like sheep? Let them go forth and fight boldly for the Cause of God. Christ himself would be their leader as, more valiant than the Israelites of old, they fought for their Jerusalem. A goodly thing would it be for them to die in that city, where Christ for them laid down His life. Let them, as valiant knights, descendants of unconquered sires, remember the vigour of their ancestors and go forth to conquer or to die." This appeal stirred the multitude to its depths. "DEUS VULT! DEUS VULT!"[2] went up to heaven in one great roar of voices, and the cry was at once seized upon by Urban. [2] It is the will of God! It is the will of God! "Let these words be your war-cry," he exclaimed. "When you attack the enemy, let the words resound from every side, 'God wills it.' Go forth then; many sufferings will be yours, but you may redeem your souls at the expense of your bodies. Rid God's sanctuary of the wicked; expel the robbers; bring in the holy souls. These things I command, and for their carrying out I fix the end of next spring. If you have rich {62} possessions here, you are promised better ones in the Holy Land. Those who die will enter the mansions of heaven, while the living shall behold the sepulchre of their Lord. Ye are soldiers of the Cross; wear then on your breasts, or on your shoulders, the blood-red sign of Him who died for the salvation of your souls. Wear it as a token that His help will never fail you; wear it as a pledge of a vow which can never be recalled." Another mighty burst of applause followed these words. Crowds of bishops and knights at once pressed forward to take the red cross badges which had been prepared, and Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, the first to do so, was at once appointed as spiritual head of the expedition, with Raymond, Count of Toulouse, as its military leader. In the months that followed, all Southern Europe rang with the sounds of riveting armour and of forging steel. The actual departure of the Crusaders had been finally appointed for the August of 1090, but this was not early enough for the fervent spirits who had been already stirred to the depths by Peter the Hermit. In the month of March, without preparation or provision for the journey, a vast concourse of some sixty thousand men and women turned their faces to the East, with Peter as their leader. As a writer of the time says, "Lands were deserted of their labourers; houses of their inhabitants; even whole cities migrated. You might see the husband departing with his wife, yea, with all his family, you would smile to see the whole household laden on a waggon, about to proceed on their journey. The road was too narrow for the passengers, the paths too hedged-in for the travellers, so thickly were they thronged by endless multitudes." {63} About fifteen thousand pilgrims, mostly French, assembled in this way at Cologne, about Easter 1096; and finding Peter unwilling to start before the German contingent had come up, they set off under a leader known as Walter the Penniless, and made for Constantinople. To do this they had to pass through Hungary, a wild and barren tract, the people of which had only lately been converted to Christianity; and here the rough discipline which Walter, by mere force of character, had managed to impose upon the horde that followed him, entirely broke down. Food being denied them, the pilgrims began to plunder. The Hungarians at once took up arms, and soon scattered the so-called troops in all directions. Hundreds took refuge in a church, which was promptly fired, and most of those within were burnt to death. Only a few thousand managed to hide in the woods and so escape; and this poor remnant, being collected with pain and difficulty by Walter the Penniless, made their way to Constantinople and put themselves under the protection of the Emperor until Peter should arrive. Meantime, the Hermit had started, with a German following of about forty thousand people. Amongst these were quite a large number of women and children, many of whom doubtless did their part by cheering and helping their men-folk on the long road. But the hardships of the way told heavily on them, many fell out and lingered behind, beseeching the men to wait for them. Long forced marches were an impossibility, and a disorderly progress was made, in spite of the fact that they had more provisions and more money than their predecessors on the road. At length they came to the spot where so many of {64} Walter's followers had lost their lives. The place was but too well marked out by the weapons and crosses of the pilgrims which now adorned the walls and houses of the neighbouring town. In a wild outburst of fury, the mob threw itself upon the inhabitants, all unsuspecting as they were, and massacred them by the thousand. Enraged at this treatment of his people, the Hungarian King came down upon them with his forces, just as the pilgrims were endeavouring to cross the river into Bulgaria, and many perished before they could escape. Once again, in crossing through Bulgaria, the undisciplined host came to blows with their fellow-Christians living in those lands. In vain did Peter represent that valuable lives, time and money was being wasted. About ten thousand lost their lives. Peter himself barely escaped to a wood, where he wandered about all night in misery, thinking that all his host was slain. Next day, however, he managed to collect about seven thousand, and as he marched on, other refugees joined him, until at length he found himself at the head of about half the force with which he had set out. Famished and gaunt, having lost nearly all the women and children, as well as food, clothes and money, Peter hurried them on till at length quite exhausted, they reached the walls of Constantinople. Here they found the remnant of the army of Walter the Penniless, who had, from the first, kept his men under better control than had the Hermit. It was only too clear, however, that neither army was in a fit state to carry on a difficult warfare with the fighting Turks. The Emperor Alexios, therefore, persuaded them to rest and recruit until the organised Crusading Army should appear, {65} meantime giving them all they could require, and treating them with the greatest kindness. But it seemed as though a curse, instead of a blessing, rested upon these forerunners of the First Crusade. The pilgrims became quite unruly, burnt the houses of their hosts, stripped the lead from some of the churches and actually tried to sell it to the inhabitants of the city. The Greeks naturally turned against their ill-mannered guests, and Alexios, dreading the consequences, persuaded Peter to take them with him over the Bosphorus into Asia Minor. Thankful for his aid in transporting them, Peter got his men across the strait, but, all too soon after they had encamped on the other side, a fresh quarrel broke out between the followers of Walter and those of Peter. Utterly unable to control his own men, Peter threw up his task and retired to Constantinople alone. Freed from all pretence of control, and mad with the knowledge that they were free, about ten thousand of these pilgrims began to plunder the neighbouring country, and finally made their way under the very walls of Nicæa, where the Turks were encamped. Here, under the daring leadership of one Reinaldo, they actually took a fortress, and, when the Turkish Sultan advanced against them from Nicæa, left a good part of their army to defend it while the rest came face to face with the troops of Islam. Needless to say, the pilgrims were hopelessly defeated; only their leaders and a handful of men escaped to the fortress, but even here there was no safety for them. The Sultan did not even trouble to besiege it. He merely starved them out until they were forced to yield. {66} The end of the story is a dismal one, seeing to what end the pilgrims had pledged themselves. Offered the alternative of death or Islam, by far the greater number accepted the latter, and the few faithful were slain before their eyes. A cruel trap was laid for that section of the army which had stayed behind with Walter the Penniless. The Turks, whose troops were now harassing the Christian camp, caused a rumour to be spread that Reinaldo and his men had taken possession of Nicæa. At once the camp rose like one man and demanded a share in the plunder. In vain Walter warned, entreated, threatened; heedless of his warning, the infatuated pilgrims rushed towards the city, unhindered, until they found themselves in the midst of a large plain before the walls. Then, all at once the troops of the Sultan David flung themselves upon them from every side. Helpless they fell, with Walter in their midst. About three thousand managed to escape, and fled back to Constantinople, the rest of that vast host either perished on the field or were brutally massacred afterwards by their conquerors. Knowing nothing of the awful failure of their predecessors, a third army, led by a German priest named Gotschalk, advanced as far as Hungary. There the story almost repeats itself. The people of Hungary refused to let them pass through; and their king, panic-stricken at their appearance, captured them by a cruel trick. Calling them to his presence, he told them that his people only opposed them because they came in hostile fashion; but if they would lay down their arms, they should be protected during their passage through his country, and have their weapons restored on the {67} frontier. This the unhappy pilgrims did, to be immediately massacred by the Hungarians. Twice again we hear of the setting out of lawless troops, bent even more openly on plunder than their predecessors, and twice again we hear of the Danube running red with the blood of those slain by the hosts of Carloman of Hungary. Nothing, of course, could have been hoped from such undisciplined hordes; but perhaps they served the purpose, at the cost of a quarter of a million lives, of warning the more thoughtful Crusaders of the dangers of the way, and, of the need of absolute control and able guidance. And thus, "the chaff being winnowed with the fan out of God's store, the good grain began to appear." {68} CHAPTER VI The Story of the Emperor Alexios and the First Crusade _Nought is more honourable to a knight Nor battle doth become brave chivalry Than to defend the feeble in their right And wrong redress in such as wend awry While those great Heroes glory got thereby._ SPENSER: _Faery Queene._ In the August of 1096, the first great army of the Crusaders began to move towards the East, under the command of Godfrey of Boulogne, together with his brothers Eustace and Baldwin. This Godfrey, leader of the Teuton host, is thus described by one of his own day: "He was of a beautiful countenance, tall of stature, agreeable in his discourse, of excellent morals, and at the same time so gentle that he seemed better fitted for the monk than for the knight. But when his enemies appeared before him, and the combat was at hand, his soul became filled with a mighty daring; like a lion, he feared not for his own person; and what shield, what buckler, could withstand the fall of his sword?" Four other armies set out after him in due course, travelling by land to Constantinople; for, in those days, not even the stoutest general could face the {69} horrors of a sea-voyage in the untrustworthy vessels of the Mediterranean shore. Marching through Europe in perfect order, Godfrey's troops met their first check on the borders of Hungary. Here they not only found the track marked out by the bodies of those who had perished in the previous year, but a distinct air of hostility was seen in the attitude of the people. Knowing nothing of the actual facts, Godfrey cautiously arranged for a meeting with King Carloman. Matters were explained on both sides and a mutual arrangement was made by which Godfrey's troops were allowed to pass through Hungary buying food as they went, while Baldwin, the brother of Godfrey, with his wife and children remained behind as hostages until the Crusaders should arrive at the further boundary--the River Save. "So, day by day, in silence and peace, with equal measure and just sale, did the duke and his people pass through the realms of Hungary." Once within the Emperor's domains, one would have thought the Crusaders on safe ground. But this was by no means the case. The second army of the Crusaders, which started almost at the same time as the first, was led by the brother of the French King, Hugh of Vermandois, a headstrong and self-willed prince. He chose, together with Robert of Normandy, son of the Conqueror, and some less important leaders, to make his own way through Italy in disorderly fashion; and after leaving in that pleasant land many of his followers with Duke Robert, he embarked at Bari for the East. A tempest cast him on the Austrian coast, which was under the Emperor's rule. Hugh at once despatched four and twenty knights dressed {70} in golden armour to demand a fitting reception for himself and his followers; and was answered by the arrival of an armed escort, which led him as a prisoner before the Governor. There was some excuse for the conduct of Alexios, extraordinary as it seems; for, so far, the hordes of so-called Crusaders had brought such desolation and destruction upon his land that he had come to the conclusion that the Turks, at this time apparently inactive, were safer neighbours than the troops of Christendom. But Alexios was as wily as he was timid. After a short imprisonment, Hugh was brought to Constantinople and treated as the honoured guest of the Emperor--treated indeed so well that he fell a victim to his host's perfidious charm, did homage to him, and promised to persuade the other chieftains to follow his example. This was the state of affairs when Godfrey of Boulogne appeared on the plains of Thrace, and hearing of the imprisonment of Count Hugh, he sent at once a peremptory message to demand his release. This demand met with absolute refusal, upon which Godfrey promptly gave orders to ravage the surrounding country. Immediately alarmed, as usual, by the prospect of armed conflict, Alexios implored Godfrey to desist and to meet him in friendly conference at Constantinople. To this Godfrey agreed, and was met by Hugh himself outside the city walls. The latter sang the praises of the Emperor with enthusiasm, but Godfrey was still on his guard. A warning had reached him from some French merchants living in the city that treachery was meditated; and he therefore refused either to enter within the walls or to partake of the rich food which the Emperor sent to the camp. [Illustration: _Duke Godfrey marching through Hungary_] {73} Then Alexios vainly tried to persuade the Crusader to settle his army for the winter in the luxurious quarters of the Greek nobles across the Bosphorus, where they would act as a buffer between Constantinople and hostile forces from the East, at the same time removing themselves to a safe distance from the city. This also Godfrey refused; and the alarm of the Emperor grew into panic when he realised that the army of another Crusader, Bohemond, his ancient enemy, who had already established a claim upon a large part of his Empire, was fast nearing his boundaries. It was absolutely necessary to make friends with Godfrey before the arrival of the dreaded Bohemond. As there seemed a possibility of the Crusaders, in their wrath at the refusal of supplies, attacking the city itself, a compact was made. Godfrey had no desire to use up his strength in fighting fellow-Christians, and readily accepted the Emperor's terms. The son of Alexios was sent as hostage to his camp, and the leaders, on their side, swore fealty to the Emperor for the time they were obliged to remain on his borders, and forthwith entered the city in peace and security. But Alexios was still consumed with secret terror of the vast host which had swarmed into his land; and, on the pretext of an insufficient food supply, he managed to persuade Godfrey, after a brief sojourn, to transport his troops across the Bosphorus. With his usual craft, he then arranged that the vessels which had taken them over should immediately return. Meantime the dreaded arrival of Bohemond, Prince of Tarentum, had actually taken place. A weak attempt was made to drive him back by force; but this was quickly overcome, and when Bohemond {74} sent the prisoners taken in the conflict back to the Emperor with an indignant and reproachful message, the wily Alexios promptly disowned all knowledge of the affair, professed the most affectionate regard for his ancient enemy, and sent him a pressing invitation to visit the capital city. Now Bohemond was of a very different nature from the simple and upright Godfrey of Boulogne. He was an excellent leader, bold and skilful in warfare, but his character was warped by a mean, designing, and crafty spirit which entirely incapacitated him from playing a heroic part. When met by Godfrey in Constantinople and informed by him of the terms made with Alexios, he declared at first that nothing in heaven or on earth should induce him to swear fealty to his former foe. The Emperor ceased to press the matter, and merely treated him with more than ordinary magnificence of hospitality. Then, as though by chance, the Count was one day taken by an officer to a great room in the palace, crammed with costly jewels, ornaments of gold and silver, rich silks and brocades. The man's weak point had been observed too well. "What conquests might not be made if I possessed such a treasure!" cried Bohemond. "It is your own!" replied the officer. The promise of an independent lordship near Antioch completed the bribe, and Count Bohemond was no longer to be feared. [Illustration: Map of the Crusades] Of very different stuff was Raymond, Count of Toulouse, the first to volunteer but the last of the Crusading chiefs actually to set out for the East. He was now over fifty years of age, and, declaring that that was the last journey he should ever make, he {77} determined to be well prepared. With the idea of choosing a route as yet untried by his predecessors, Raymond took his way through Lombardy into the desolate country of Dalmatia and Slavonia. "It was already winter," says a writer of the time, "when Raymond's men were toiling over the barren mountains of Dalmatia, where for three weeks we saw neither beast nor bird. For almost forty days did we struggle on through mists so thick that we could actually feel them, and brush them aside with a motion of the hand." The weak, the sick, and the old suffered terribly from the attacks of the wild natives upon their rear; the bareness of the country gave no chance of even purchasing food, much less of foraging. It was with intense relief that they entered the Emperor's domains, "for here," writes one of the travellers, "we believed that we were in our own country; for we thought that Alexios and his followers were our brothers-in-arms." In this belief the troops of Raymond found themselves mistaken, for they were harassed on all sides by the Emperor's soldiers. Alexios, as usual, disclaimed all responsibility, and begged the Count to hasten to Constantinople. There, to his disgust, the old warrior found that Godfrey, Bohemond, and the other leaders had all taken the oath of fealty, and were very anxious that he should follow their example. This Raymond emphatically refused to do. "Be it far from me," said he to Alexios, "that I should take any lord for this way save Christ only, for whose sake I have come hither. If thou art willing to take the cross also, and accompany us to Jerusalem, I and my men and all that I have will be at thy disposal." Meantime came news to the Count that the army {78} he had left when he accepted the call to Constantinople, had been attacked by the troops of the perfidious Emperor, whose aim, possibly, was to frighten Raymond into submission; but he had quite mistaken his man. Furious at this treachery, Raymond called upon his colleagues to join him in an attack upon the capital. But here he met with unexpected opposition. Bohemond, indeed, went so far as to threaten that if an open conflict took place, he would be found on the side of the Emperor, and even Godfrey urged most strongly that he should overlook everything rather than weaken their cause by fighting against fellow-Christians. Strangely enough, though Raymond accepted unwillingly the advice of Godfrey, his upright character and vigorous simplicity seem to have won the respect and affection of the Emperor more than all the rest. It is true that Raymond refused steadfastly to pay him homage, "and for that reason," says the chronicler, "the Emperor gave him few gifts"; but we read in the record of the daughter of Alexios, who gives us a vivid account of this period, "One of the Crusaders, Count Raymond, Alexios loved in a special way, because of his wisdom, sincerity, and purity of life; and also because he knew that he preferred honour and truth above all things." By this time such remnants of the army as had lingered in Italy under Robert of Normandy, together with all that was left of the rabble led by Peter the Hermit, had joined the main body of the Crusaders and were ready to advance upon the Turkish stronghold of Nicæa. The full array of the armies of the First Crusade, before they were decimated by war and famine, must {79} have constituted a truly overwhelming force. Their number must have been about six hundred thousand; in the words of the daughter of Alexios, "all Europe was loosened from its foundation and had hurled itself against Asia." The horsemen wore coats of mail, with pear-shaped shields, each with its own device, and carried a long spear and short sword or battle-axe. The foot-soldiers bore the cross-bow or long-bow, with sword, lance, and buckler. "They were covered," says a Saracen historian, "with thick strong pieces of cloth fastened together with rings, so as to resemble dense coats of mail." Such was the appearance of the host which now marched upon the stronghold of Nicæa to begin a siege which is memorable for the light it throws upon the despicable character of the Emperor Alexios. When the Crusaders first drew near to the city, says one of them, "the Turks rushed to war, exultingly dragging with them the ropes wherewith to bind us captive. But as many as descended from the hills remained in our hands; and our men, cutting off their heads, flung them into the city, a thing that wrought great terror among the Turks inside." After this defeat the Sultan David deserted the city and hastened away to rouse his countrymen to give active help at this crisis; and the Crusaders, much encouraged, renewed the siege. The great obstacle to success was the fact that the city was protected on the west by a lake, which made it impossible to surround the walls. Aid was sought of Alexios, who sent boats from which skilful archers poured their arrows against the ramparts. It was evident that these must very shortly fall. {80} Knowing this to be the case, the Emperor sent a secret envoy to offer the Turks better terms than could be expected from the Crusaders, if they would give up the city to him. Hence, just as the latter were preparing to make their last assault, they saw, with a disappointed fury that can be imagined, the Imperial flag floating from the citadel. The glory and the spoils of victory were both with Alexios, and though he tried to smooth the matter over by lavishing gifts upon the Crusaders, the feelings of the latter were truly expressed by Count Raymond when he said, "Alexios has paid the army in such wise, that, so long as ever he lives; the people will curse him and declare him a traitor." {81} CHAPTER VII The Siege of Antioch _The faithful armies sang "Hosanna to the Highest." ... Now storming fury rose And clamour, arm on armour clashing brayed Horrible discord._ MILTON: _Paradise Lost._ The city of Antioch, capital of Syria, towards which the faces of the Crusaders were now set, was one of the most famous and beautiful cities of the East. Behind it lay the rugged ranges of Lebanon; part of its wide girdle of walls and turrets was washed by the river Orontes, towards which sloped gardens fragrant with roses; and it was intersected by a spacious street adorned with double' colonnades. But it was yet more famous for its associations with St Peter, its first bishop, and for having been the birthplace of St Chrysostom, "the golden-mouthed" teacher of Eastern Christendom. A few days after the march from Nicæa to Antioch had commenced, the great army divided itself into two parts, one led by Raymond, Baldwin, and Godfrey; the other by Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of Normandy. This division suited the plans of the Sultan David, who, since the fall of Nicæa, had been watching operations from the surrounding heights. {82} No sooner was Bohemond's army seen to halt for rest and refreshment beside a river, than, with a terrific uproar, thousands of Turks hurled themselves upon them from the heights above. Hasty messages were sent to summon the other army, and meantime the Crusaders fought with desperate valour. "Even the women were a stay to us, for they carried water for our warriors to drink, and ever did they strengthen the fighters." The numbers of the foe were overwhelming, however, and only the courage and energy of the leaders prevented a panic-stricken flight. The tact of Robert of Normandy, who, at a critical moment, snatched off his helmet and cheered on his men in the thick of the fight, is said to have turned the scale of victory. Even then success seemed hopeless, but just as evening drew rapidly on, the second army came upon the scene. Seeing this, the Sultan fled, and many of his followers with him, but he left behind so rich a spoil of gold, jewels, silks, and other luxuries, that it was with difficulty the victors were induced to leave the booty and resume their march without too much encumbrance. Such was the first pitched battle between the Crescent and the Cross, of which one of the combatants writes: "Had not the Lord been with us, and sent us speedily another army, not one of our men would have escaped." And now the Crusaders were free to pass on to Antioch, though the march thither probably cost them more lives than did that battle of Dorylæum. [Illustration: _Robert of Normandy at Dorylæum_] The heat of the desert wastes during the month of July left many prostrate by the wayside, never to rise again. Terrible thirst tormented them, and the sight of {85} a welcome stream was the signal for such excesses of drinking that both men and horses died by hundreds. It was almost impossible to obtain food, for the son of Sultan David had marched before the Crusading host, destroying all supplies and leaving the towns upon the track empty and famine-stricken. At length the fertile district of Cilicia was reached, and relief was obtained from these woes. But here arose those unfortunate dissensions which were a lamentable feature both in this and later Crusades. Meantime Tancred and Baldwin with a part of the army had pushed on to Tarsus. This city, the birthplace of St Paul, though held by a small band of Turks, was largely inhabited by Christians, who eagerly claimed Tancred as their protector and lord. Just as the Turks were about to surrender to him, the forces of Baldwin, who had been exploring elsewhere, appeared on the distant heights, and being mistaken by the Turks for their allies, encouraged them to delay giving up the city. The arrival of the new-comer before the walls gave rise to a quarrel with Tancred, the heat of which was only intensified by the discovery that the unscrupulous Baldwin was busy intriguing with the inhabitants with the object of winning their allegiance. In disgust, Tancred, the weaker but more upright of the two, left him to take possession of the city and marched to Messis. But thither, too, the grasping Baldwin followed, and the sight of his tents pitched beneath the walls was the signal for a conflict between the two hosts of Crusaders which reflects little credit on either side. Finally, since reconciliation was impossible, Baldwin gladly accepted an invitation from the famous Armenian {86} city of Edessa to take up its cause against the Turks. The prince adopted him as his son, and was ill rewarded by a rebellion of his people in favour of the new-comer, which soon cost their ruler his life. Thus, while the main army was pressing on to Antioch, Baldwin, married to an Armenian princess, was busy in establishing in Edessa the first Latin kingdom of the East. On October 21st, 1097, the host of the Crusaders at length encamped around the walls of Antioch and made their preparations in anticipation of an early victory. The gates, however, were blocked by huge masses of rock from neighbouring quarries, and it seemed an easier task to break the walls than to force the gates. But both proved to be impossible, even with the aid of a new instrument of war, a huge tower, the outcome of great toil and expense, which, full of troops, was wheeled against one of the gateways. This proved a failure before the showers of Turkish arrows, and was burnt to ashes as it stood. Three months of fruitless effort passed, and the host of the Crusaders began to suffer from lack of food. They dared not venture far to look for it, for the Turks were always on the watch, and no man could with safety leave his post. Finding, moreover, that the Crusaders generally got the worst of it when the Turks made a sally from the city, the native Christians of the country transferred the provisions they had been wont to bring to the former, to those from whom they now believed they would reap the greater advantage in the near future. Then hope began to fail the besiegers, whose camp, owing to the heavy rain, had now become a fever-haunted swamp. One or two of the meaner-spirited leaders {87} tried to get quietly away with their troops; even Peter the Hermit lost heart, and would have deserted the host had he not been forcibly turned back by Tancred. Meantime the Seljukian Turks had been expelled by the Saracens from Jerusalem and Tyre, and the Caliph of the latter now sent envoys to the leaders of the Crusade, of whose evil condition he had been informed, to express his surprise that the Christians, while rightly warring against the fierce Seljuks, should desire to attack Jerusalem also. He promised, moreover, to extend his protection for a whole month to any peaceable pilgrims who should wish to visit the Holy City, on condition that the Crusaders would acknowledge his supremacy in Syria; and he warned them that if they refused his terms his whole power would forthwith be directed against them. The Caliph's envoys expected to find the camp in sorry plight; but, to their surprise, they were entertained in lordly fashion, and found every sign of prosperity and plenty. They were sent back with an absolute refusal to relinquish the right of Christendom over the whole of Palestine, and quite in ignorance of the terrible straits in which the army really stood, in spite of its outward appearance of prosperity. It was true that when the enemy attacked them in the open, the Crusaders were more than able to hold their own; it was the hopeless inaction, the dread of disaffection in the camp, and the pangs of actual famine that were sapping the courage of the besiegers; and now the news that an immense army, led by the Sultan of Persia, was coming to the relief of the city was the last and most crushing blow. At this crisis, Bohemond, whose movements had for some time been full of mystery, assembled the leaders {88} and asked for a solemn oath from them that the man who succeeded in taking the city should be its future ruler. Very unwillingly they gave their consent, upon which Bohemond revealed the fact that he had for some time past been in communication with an officer of the city guard, who was in the full confidence of the governor, and could obtain possession of Antioch whenever he wished. So, on the 2nd of June 1098, nearly six months after the beginning of the siege, a little band of Crusaders quietly approached the gate of St George and gave their signal. A rope ladder was silently lowered from the top of the wall, up which Bohemond promptly sprang. But at the summit he found himself alone; for in their distrust of him, the rest had waited to see what would happen. The sight of his safe arrival gave them confidence, and about sixty swarmed up the ladder, which then broke. Those at the top, however, undeterred by their isolated position on the walls of a hostile city, found their way in the darkness to a gate, and broke it open. In rushed the invading army with their battle-cry of "Deus vult! Deus vult!" and the city, taken quite unawares, was soon in their hands. The sun rose on the third day of June upon a city red with blood, the governor of which had paid with his head for his courage in holding out so long. Dawn also revealed the blood-red banner of Bohemond floating from the highest tower. Only the citadel, by a strange oversight on the conqueror's part, was still in the hands of a small body of Turks. The news of the fall of Antioch gave rise to general alarm throughout the East. The followers of Sultan David, their former foe, joined with those of the Sultan of Persia against the Crusaders, and led by the famous {89} general Kerboga, flung themselves against the walls of the city. Flushed with success, the victors had overlooked the fact that there was scarcely any food within the gates, and also they had allowed their means of access to the Mediterranean ports to be cut off. Within a few days the besiegers were the besieged and in far worse plight than before. Many, even of the nobles, were seized with panic, and letting themselves down by ropes from the walls, fled to the sea-coast. Even Stephen of Chârtres, son-in-law of William the Conqueror, who, through illness, had retired before the city fell, and who was now entreated to return with his troops to its aid, lost his nerve when he looked down from the hills upon the sea of tents that lay before the walls. Not only did he rapidly retreat, but meeting the Emperor Alexios marching with an army to aid the Crusaders, he actually prevailed upon the latter, not at all against his will, to retire from the hopeless conflict. With foes outside the walls, and foes holding the citadel within, the unfortunate host of Crusaders was indeed in evil case. "We who remained," writes one, "could not hold out against the arms of those within the castle, so we built a wall between ourselves and them, and watched it day and night." Despair led to loss of nerve and discipline; many of the soldiers refused to bear arms or even leave their abodes, and had to be "burnt out" by the orders of Bohemond. The destruction of a great part of the city to which this inadvertently led, did not improve matters. The situation was relieved at this apparently hopeless juncture in a most remarkable manner. Into the midst of the council at which the chiefs were hurriedly {90} considering what could best be done to prevent further demoralisation, appeared a certain priest, Peter Barthelemy, chaplain to Raymond of Toulouse, who declared unto them a marvellous dream or vision. He had, he said, been carried in his sleep by St Andrew to the Church of St Peter within the city, and had been shown there the head of the lance which had pierced the sacred side of the Saviour. This, the saint had told him, if borne at the head of the army, was certain to bring them success. Great was the power of religious faith in those days. Whether the story was true, or merely a device to drive out panic and awaken enthusiasm, matters not; the effect remains the same. Marching in solemn procession to the Church of St Peter, they made excavations at the spot indicated, at first with no success. Then as the dusk began to fall, Peter the priest himself descended barefooted and dressed only in a tunic, and after digging for some time, declared with a joyful shout that the sacred relic was discovered. "At last," says the historian, "seeing that we were fatigued, the young man who had told us of the lance leapt into the pit, all ungirt as he was, without shoes, and in his shirt. He adjured us to call upon God to render us the lance for our comfort and our victory. At last the Lord, moved by such devotion, showed us the lance. And I, who have written these things, as soon as ever the blade appeared above ground, greeted it with a kiss, nor can I tell how great joy and exultation then filled the city." Such was the effect of this discovery, that, in their certainty of victory, the Crusading chiefs forthwith sent a message to Kerboga, offering him a chance of {91} withdrawal before he was utterly demolished. Peter the Hermit was the chosen ambassador, who, in spite of the courteous hospitality with which he was received, so disgusted the leaders of the host of Islam by his haughtiness and insolence, that no such peaceful arrangement could be entertained. "So much the better," said the rank and file, who were now as keen to fight as they had before been to escape. And so, very early on a perfect June morning, the army marched out through the rose-scented air in twelve battalions, according to the number of the twelve apostles, led by Bishop Adhemar with the Holy Lance held on high. Some say that Kerboga was taken by surprise, others that he welcomed the opportunity, long hoped for, of drawing them into the open plain, and that he had planned to surround them from the rear, and cut them off from the city. However that may have been, a desperate struggle now began, which, from the overwhelming numbers of the foe, must in the ordinary course have gone against the Crusaders, weakened as they were by want of food. But it was the old story of the victory of mind over matter. When Adhemar, deserted by Godfrey and Tancred, who had been summoned to the aid of Bohemond, hard pressed by David the Sultan, found himself surrounded by the dark face of the infidel, the sight of the Holy Lance moved his handful of followers to fight with such desperate valour, that for a moment the foe fell back. Raising his eyes to the encircling mountains, the Bishop saw, or thought he saw, three radiant figures riding upon milk-white horses to their aid. "Behold, soldiers, the succour that God has provided for you!" he cried, and at once a shout went up from {92} all parts that St George, St Theodore, and St Maurice had come to their help. "Deus vult! Deus vult!" they cried, and Islam shrank before the extraordinary enthusiasm of their attack. The story of the battle is a monument to religious faith, and illustrates in a wonderful way what miraculous deeds of valour can be wrought under its influence. Ere long the Turks fled in confusion to the mountains, leaving the ground strewn with the bodies of the slain. "But us the Lord multiplied," says he who tells the tale, "so that in battle we were more than they, and returning to the city with great joy, we praised and magnified God, who gave the victory to His people." It is a pity that the sequel of the story fails to preserve this high level of enthusiasm and devotion. Had it been possible to march directly to Jerusalem, such might have been the case; but the burning heat of summer forbade such a course. Left idle in Antioch, the soldiers grew mutinous, and their leaders quarrelsome. Bohemond excited jealousy by his conquests of neighbouring cities. Hugh of Vermandois deserted with his troops and returned home. A pestilence, caused by the thousands of unburied bodies of the slain, fastened upon the Crusaders, and claimed amongst its victims the good Bishop Adhemar, the first to take up the Cross in the Holy War. Not till January 1099 did the army march out towards the South, leaving Bohemond behind as Governor of Antioch. It was upon this journey that Peter Barthelemy once more became prominent by reason of many new visions and dreams. But his master, Count Raymond, was unpopular at that time, and the occasion was seized by his {93} opponents to accuse him indirectly of fraud in the matter of the Holy Lance. Whether this was true it is impossible to say; but it must be remembered that Peter himself never ceased to affirm his sincerity, and confidently offered to go through the terrible Ordeal by Fire in proof of the latter. "Make me the biggest fire you can, and I will pass through the midst with the Lord's Lance in my hand. If it be the Lord's Lance may I pass through unharmed; if not, may I be burnt up." A vast crowd of Crusaders gathered to witness the ordeal early on the morning of Good Friday. Peter, clad only in his tunic, passed fearlessly through the midst of two blazing piles of dead olive branches, a foot apart from one another. "God aid him!" cried a thousand throats, and when he emerged, apparently unhurt, a thousand hands were stretched out to feel his limbs and flesh. For the moment faith again seemed to have triumphed, and the followers of Raymond rejoiced. But presently it was seen that the unhappy priest was in terrible suffering, some say from burns, others from the too eager handling he had received from the crowd. He died a few days later, confident in his honesty to the last, and leaving those who had scoffed and those who had believed exactly in the same frame of mind. Yet this much attacked and possibly deluded priest had done an important work; for, as far as we can see, the Holy War would have come to an abrupt end during the latter part of that remarkable siege of Antioch, had it not been for the almost miraculous spirit of zeal and devotion aroused by his alleged discovery. {94} CHAPTER VIII The Holy City is won _Jerusalem, through the clear atmosphere, rising out of the deep umbrageous valleys which surround it, is reflected in a fiery splendour in the morning sunlight_. FARRAR: _Life of Christ_. _Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem!_ PSALM cxxii. It was with high hearts that the remnant of the crusading host, now much reduced, took the road to the Holy City, the end of all their endeavours. With little difficulty they made their way along the smiling plain of the River Orontes, and then keeping close to the coast line between the mountains of Libanus and the sea, passed through the famous cities of Tyre, Sidon, and Joppa. From the last of these they turned inland, and taking possession of the little town of Ramleh, supposed to be the burial place of St George, the patron saint of England, the leaders held a council to consider their next movements. Those who cared most for the mere worldly success of the undertaking were now strongly of opinion that they should leave Jerusalem untouched for the present, and attack the true centres of the power of Islam, Babylon and Alexandria. Others reminded these men of the real object of the Crusades, and asked scoffingly how they {95} hoped to seize great and populous cities if they could not first capture the little town of Jerusalem. The worldly-minded gave way, but consoled themselves by capturing villages and farms on the route of march. The rest, more serious minded, "set their faces steadfastly to go towards Jerusalem." "And those to whom the Lord's command was dearer than lust of gain, advanced with naked feet, sighing heavily for the disdain that the others showed for the Lord's command." Whilst resting at Emmaus at nightfall of June 6, 1099, a little band of Christians living at Bethlehem crept into the camp and told the leaders a doleful story of the cruelty and oppression of Islam. The information that the birthplace of the Lord was near at hand quickened every pulse. Sleep was forgotten, and a hurried march begun which brought them in a few hours to the top of Mount Mizpeh, whence, with swelling hearts, they watched the sun rise upon the sacred walls of the Holy City. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The cry, restrained and reverent, filled the morning air, as the great host fell prostrate and kissed the hallowed soil. By its natural position the city was exceedingly difficult to take by assault, for it stood upon a rocky plateau, guarded by the two steep valleys of Kedron and Hinnon. It was, moreover, defended by about forty thousand picked Saracen warriors--a band equal in number to that of the besiegers, but possessing far greater advantages as to position and supplies. With the utmost confidence, however, the Crusaders took up their posts. Robert of Normandy being {96} stationed on the north, Godfrey of Bouillon and Tancred on the west, while Count Raymond advanced to Mount Sion on the south. It was clear from the first assault that they had undertaken no light task, and meantime the usual horrors of famine and thirst made their appearance in the camp. There was little shade in that region; the groves around had been cut down to provide wood for the "machines of war," and the chief water supply--a spring which bubbled up every other day--was soon choked by the corpses of men and beasts who had trodden one another down in the wild attempt to obtain drink. The springs further off had all been poisoned by the Saracens, and when the supplies of fruit began to fail, it seemed as though the army would never possess the strength to attack the city again. A still worse calamity was the quarrelling which now broke out again among the leaders. Tancred was bitterly censured for having set up his banner over the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem, Raymond for having taken to himself the post of honour on the sacred Mount of Sion. The rank and file, following the example of their chiefs, gave themselves over to laxity, disobedience, and personal feuds. Once again it was necessary to invigorate the faith of the Crusaders, and accordingly Peter the Hermit declared that the dead Adhemar had appeared to him with words of severe rebuke for the sins of the camp, and the promise that the city should fall if the army would march barefoot round it for the space of nine days. A council was summoned, at which the noble Tancred was the first to make up a long-standing quarrel with Count Raymond; a feeling of good-will and reconciliation was spread {97} abroad; and it was determined to make a fresh attempt in a spirit of more fervid religious zeal. On the 12th of July 1099, while the Saracens were setting up crucifixes upon the ramparts, and insulting their Christian foes by spitting and throwing mud upon them, a solemn procession, fully armed, singing psalms and litanies, made its way around the walls; and a sermon preached from the Mount of Olives by Arnulf, the future Bishop of Jerusalem, roused even the most despondent to do his best for the cause of God. On the next two days, Wednesday and Thursday, assaults were made, but without much success. On the Friday the Crusaders, having been reminded that it was the day of the Lord's Passion and Death, came to the work with new vigour, "even the women and the children," writes the historian, "were eager to do their part on that field." But when Count Raymond fought on the south of the city it seemed as though success was hopeless. His wooden tower, which protected the archers, was burnt by the throwing of flaming oil from the walls, and his men were driven into utter confusion. Suddenly, when retreat seemed inevitable, a marvellous portent was seen. On the Mount of Olives, on the further side of the city, appeared a knight in glittering armour, waving a flaming sword over Jerusalem. The rumour quickly spread that it was St George come to the aid of the Crusaders. "Deus vult! Deus vult!" they shouted, and in the vigour of their assault the outer wall was won. The explanation of the occurrence was soon clear. At the further side of the city the stone-slingers of Godfrey of Boulogne had at length driven the Saracens from the {98} ramparts. Seizing and lowering the drawbridge, and scrambling up the walls by scaling ladders, the Teuton host, headed by Bernard of St Valery, leapt upon the battlements. A certain unknown knight waved his sword in signal of victory from the top of Mount Olives, and this had been the sign which put new heart into Count Raymond's men. At the very hour at which their Saviour breathed His dying words upon the Cross, the red-cross standard was first seen to float over the walls of the Holy City. From the horrors of bloodshed that followed the capture of Jerusalem we can but turn away in disgust. "Such a slaughter of pagan folk had never been seen or heard of; none know their number save God alone." This wanton cruelty can indeed only be excused when we remember that it was the firm belief of those days that "whosoever killeth an infidel doeth God service." After that scene of slaughter and violence the leaders of the Crusaders walked, bareheaded and barefooted, dressed in long white mantles marked with the red cross, to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to offer thanks for their success. Amongst them stood Peter the Hermit, the real moving spirit of the Crusade, in spite of his mistaken zeal as a leader of men. It is said that many of the Christian inhabitants of the city recognised him as the unknown pilgrim who had promised to rouse on their behalf the nations of the west, and they clung to his raiment with tears of gratitude. It is the last glimpse we have of that enthusiastic personality, and we may be content to leave him there, at the moment when his great aim had been accomplished. [Illustration: _The Storming of Jerusalem_] A week later a meeting of the chieftains was called to elect a king of Jerusalem. None were eager to obtain a {101} post of honour so difficult to maintain, and most were anxious to return to their own dominions. The crown was first offered to Robert of Normandy, who, "impelled by sloth or fear, refused it, and so aspersed his nobility with an indelible stain." So writes an English chronicler of his day, but it must be said in Robert's defence that, even as it was, he had tarried too long to make good his claim to the kingdom of England against his grasping brother Henry, and that his fair dukedom of Normandy stood in immediate peril from the same cause. Finally, by universal consent, the crown fell to the lot of Godfrey of Boulogne, in many respects the noblest Crusader of them all. But he, with characteristic modesty, refused to wear a crown of gold in the place where his Lord had worn a crown of thorns, and so he was known only by the title of the Defender of the Holy Sepulchre. Some say that Count Raymond had previously been offered the position of king, and had refused to take it, hoping possibly that he might obtain the honour without the full responsibility. However this might be, we find him, on Godfrey's acceptance, sulkily retiring to the Tower of David, which stronghold had been seized from the Saracens by his men. At first he refused to give it up, and when forced to do so, declared with childish fury that he would go home at once. Suddenly the intelligence that a vast army of Egyptians had gathered at Ascalon recalled men from such foolish bickerings, and united them once more for a time against the common foe. Although outnumbered by ten to one, the Crusaders were again victorious, for the enemy, according to the account of an eye-witness, seemed paralysed at the very sight of the Christians, "not daring to rise up against us." But this victory only served to {102} fan the flame of the constant feud between Godfrey and Raymond. The latter had calmly accepted the allegiance of the people of Ascalon on his own responsibility. Godfrey naturally claimed the city as part of the kingdom of Jerusalem. Rumour accuses Raymond of having given back the town to the Egyptians rather than let it pass into the hands of Godfrey. He was scarcely pacified with the governorship of Laodicea, which was handed over to him when the other chieftains returned to Europe. Of those who had so gallantly turned their faces towards the East, Godfrey and Tancred remained in Jerusalem, Bohemond was ruler of Antioch, Baldwin of Edessa, Raymond of Laodicea. The reign of Godfrey, first King of Jerusalem in all but name, lasted for barely one year. Gentlest of all the Crusaders, save where the "infidels" were concerned, and noblest of the knights of the chivalry of his age, he lived long enough to win the respect, if not the affection, of even the Moslem population of his kingdom, and to settle the latter upon a system scarcely differing from that of a feudal over-lordship in France or England. His end came after an expedition undertaken to aid Tancred further up the coast. As he returned, he ate some fruit at Jaffa sent him by the Saracen ruler of Cæsarea. Immediately afterwards he was seized by sickness, and a rumour went round that the fruit had been poisoned. His one anxiety was now to return to the Holy City he had loved, and for which he had fought so well; and there he breathed his last in the July of 1100, and was laid to rest in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In spite of all the intrigues of the partisans of Bohemond, the ambitious ruler of Antioch, the followers {103} of the late king would have none but Baldwin, his brother, as his successor. The latter, therefore, was brought from Edessa, and became the first king, in name as well as in deed, of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. Let us now glance for a moment at the fate of some of those whose fortunes we have so far followed. You will remember that among those who turned recreant before the siege of Antioch was Stephen of Blois, son-in-law of the Conqueror. When he returned to his wife Adela, she, with the blood of her father hot in her veins, bade him return and fulfil his oath. About the same time that he again turned his face to the East, a crowd of unruly Lombards, more eager for mere adventure than for the cause of God, set out for the Holy Land, and after a riotous sojourn at Constantinople, crossed the Bosphorus. There they were joined by Count Stephen, who begged the Emperor Alexios to furnish them with a guide to Jerusalem. The latter at once offered them Count Raymond, of stormy memory, who was staying at Constantinople at the time. With him came the news that Bohemond of Antioch, over confident, had fallen into an ambush whilst on a foraging expedition, and was a prisoner in the hands of the Saracens. Association with Raymond for however brief a period most assuredly resulted in a quarrel, and consequently there was a sharp difference of opinion as to the most advantageous route. The Lombards would go across Asia Minor, rescue Bohemond, and possibly attack Bagdad, the centre of Moslem rule; whilst Count Stephen wished to follow the original road by way of Antioch. Raymond elected to side with the latter, and together {104} they set off upon a journey in which they were harassed hour by hour by their foes. The Lombards left without a guide, decided to follow in the rear, and had decidedly the worst of it, many of them being cut down by the Turks, who lay in ambush along the road. An engagement with the latter went against the Christians, a panic ensued, and, in the midst of the confusion, Raymond and his men rode off, and returned by sea to Constantinople, leaving his companions to their fate. With the utmost difficulty the remnant of the followers of the unfortunate Stephen made their way in the same direction. After the usual recriminations were over, Count Raymond found himself next involved with Duke William of Aquitaine, who, with a great rabble of followers, had been stirred up by the news of the taking of Jerusalem, to seek high adventure in that quarter for himself. Other smaller expeditions followed, and setting off from Constantinople, fell straight into the hands of the Turks, who beset the track to the Holy Land. Of all these so-called Crusaders, barely one thousand survived to reach Antioch in the spring of 1102, and to make their way to Jerusalem. Meantime Count Bohemond, having escaped from his two years' captivity, had not only resumed his position at Antioch, but had seized upon Raymond's territory of Laodicea as well. He was now the open and declared foe of Alexios of Constantinople, who had done his best to get the count into his hands by paying a huge ransom--a ransom which Bohemond himself had outbidden, and so won his freedom. Leaving Tancred to rule for him in Antioch, Bohemond now sailed to France, married the daughter of Philip I., with whose assistance he {105} invaded the territory of the Emperor with a large army. Alexios, as usual, gave in and bribed him into a pretence of alliance, but a year later, when Bohemond had returned to Italy to gather fresh forces, death put an end to his fiery hopes and ambitions. Meanwhile, when Bohemond on his escape was once more ruler of Antioch, Raymond, driven from Laodicea, had, as we have seen, joined the so-called "Aquitainian Crusade" for a time, and then set himself to win new territory by besieging the town of Tripoli. It is much to his credit that though, as his historian puts it, "he might have lived in abundance in his own land," he never ceased to fight while there was land to be won for Christendom. It is difficult, however, to avoid the suspicion that he was largely influenced by desire to serve his own personal ambitious ends. With but three hundred companions, Raymond attempted to carry on the siege of Tripoli; and there, an old and worn-out man, he died by the shores on which he had fought for the past six years. The unfortunate Stephen of Blois had, meanwhile, wiped off the stain of desertion by his death in battle on the side of King Baldwin, against the Saracens; and Tancred, after holding Antioch for three years subsequent to the death of Bohemond, as regent for his little son, died of a wound received in a conflict with the Moslem foe. Thus, by the year 1112, the only survivor in the East of that gallant band of crusading chieftains was Baldwin, brother of Godfrey, now King of Jerusalem. In his reign were firmly established those great Orders of Knighthood, the Knights Templars and the Hospitallers, and the whole "Kingdom of Jerusalem" {106} was settled upon a stronger basis--a strength, however, which was more apparent than real. Baldwin was a wise and skilful ruler, showing little of that mean and treacherous spirit which had distinguished his earlier career. He died in 1118, after a reign of seventeen years. {107} CHAPTER IX The Story of Bernard of Clairvaux and the Second Crusade _The rhythm of their feet, The ineffable low beat Of the vast throngs pacing slowly, Floats on the sea of Time Like a musical low chime From a far Isle, mystic, holy._ L. MORRIS, _Marching._ The First Crusade, with all its errors and shortcomings, may yet be counted as a success so far as the rescuing of Jerusalem from infidel hands was concerned. The Second Crusade is one of the great failures of history. Yet the movement is associated with the name of one of the most notable characters of his age, the monk Bernard of Clairvaux. Just as in the First Crusade, the uneducated hermit, Peter, had appealed to the popular feeling of Europe, and had stirred up the poor and ignorant to do their best for the cause of God, so St Bernard, himself the son of a noble house, made his appeal first to the wealthy, to the crowned heads of Europe and the flower of their knighthood, and afterwards, by his zeal, his self-denying life, and his religious {108} faith, to all those amongst whom he had earned the reputation of a saint. During the years in which Bernard, as Abbot of Clairvaux, was devoting his energies to raising the standard of monastic life, affairs in the East had taken a distinct turn for the worse. The Saracens had grown stronger as the Christians grew more slack and careless. Baldwin III., a boy of thirteen, had come to the throne of Jerusalem two years before the first preaching of the Second Crusade, and held the reins of government with a weak and nerveless hand. A year after his accession, the kingdom of Edessa, the first to be established by Western Christendom in the East, had fallen into the clutches of the dreaded Sultan Zeuzhi. The loss of Edessa sounded a trumpet note of alarm to the West. The hard-won success of the First Crusade was evidently trembling in the balance. Something must be done to establish and settle Christian dominion of the Holy Land upon a much firmer basis. There were other motives at work as well. France, torn by the constant quarrels between its feudal lords, who only united with one another in order to defy their sovereign, could not be pacified save by some pressing call to arms outside. But the immediate cause that led the young French king Louis to take up the Cross was the feeling aroused throughout the religious world of the West by one desperate deed. He was attacking the rebel town of Vitry, which cost him so much trouble to quell, that, in revenge, he not only destroyed the city, but set fire to a great church in which over a thousand people had taken refuge. The cries of the victims and the reproaches of his subjects combined to rouse the conscience of the king, who vowed {109} to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem as a penance for his crime. It was the Easter of 1146. On the top of the hill that overshadows the town of Vézelay, a wooden tower had been hastily raised, with a high platform in front, on which sat the beautiful proud Queen Eleanor amidst a bevy of her ladies, and the young king with the great cross upon his tunic. Suddenly there appeared in the midst of the gallant throng a thin pale-faced monk, eager and bright-eyed, followed by three bishops of the Church. Presently a vast crowd, stretching far away to the edge of the plain below the hill, was hanging breathlessly upon the words of the famous Abbot of Clairvaux, as, quietly at first, and then with the most eloquent persuasion, be bade them go forth to drive the unbeliever from the Holy Land. A roar of enthusiasm arose from the multitude before his words were done. "Crosses! Crosses!" cried the people; and when Bernard had flung to them those which lay in a great heap by his side, he tore up his own long robe to make them more. The vast multitude dispersed, with the solemn pledge of Louis of France that, after one year of preparation, the Second Crusade should march towards the East. But Bernard's aim was not yet accomplished. Conrad of Germany, whose possessions in that land were threatened on every side, held back from the Holy War. The monk followed him from place to place, persuading and threatening him in vain. At length Conrad promised to give a definite answer on a certain day, and on that occasion, when the Emperor came to Mass, Bernard preached a sermon in which he {110} described the Day of Judgment. There Conrad was depicted trembling before the judgment-seat as he was called to account for his great riches and power. "How have I, thy Lord, failed in aught of My duty towards _thee_, O man?" asks his Master. In the breathless pause that followed, the Emperor arose and cried aloud with tears, "No longer will I be ungrateful. I will serve Christ and take up His Cross whenever He shall call me!" "Praise be to God!" shouted the assembled congregation, rising to their feet, and before the service was ended, Bernard had marked the King with the Cross, fastening upon his breast the sacred emblem torn from a banner from the high altar. In the wave of enthusiasm that now swept over France and Germany as St Bernard went from town to town, preaching and exhorting, the women did not stand aloof. Queen Eleanor herself prepared to accompany her husband, Louis, and with her went a crowd of fair dames from France. With Conrad, too, marched a troop of women, bearing shields and swords, led by one known as the "golden-footed dame." The German army started first and, save for floods by which some were drowned, and lack of discipline which ruined more, reached Constantinople in comparative safety. But here the behaviour of the drunken German soldiers, who wantonly destroyed the beautiful pleasure gardens of the city, and showed themselves utterly untrustworthy, created serious ill-feeling between Conrad and the Greek Emperor Manuel. The latter succeeded in inducing Conrad to transfer his army across the Bosphorus, on the promise that he would provide them with guides through Asia Minor; but he {111} had meantime determined secretly to betray the armies of the West at the earliest opportunity. The guides supplied by him were in the pay of the Turkish Sultan of that region, and after leading the unhappy men by dangerous roads and in wrong directions, finally brought them to a barren plain, without food or water, bordered by hills amongst which lurked thousands of the enemy. The guides then fled in the darkness, leaving the army to cope with an enemy whose sudden attacks and equally sudden disappearances among the rocky hills gave the Crusaders little chance of effective retaliation. Wounded and dispirited, the unfortunate Conrad at length turned back to Nicæa, his starting-place in Asia Minor, taking with him barely one-tenth of the army which had started from Germany. Meantime, the treacherous Manuel had taken measures beforehand with regard to Louis. When the French armies reached his territory they found every city closed against them. Even when provisions might be bought, they were let down from the walls in baskets by the Greeks. This unfriendly spirit was not disregarded by the French nobles and clergy, some of whom urged their king to make war upon an Emperor whose cities were not invulnerable, and who was said to be in league with the Turks. This, however, Louis steadfastly refused, and trusted that his well-disciplined army would win the favour of the Emperor--a favour that the Germans had certainly not deserved. It seemed, indeed, as though this might happen, for when they drew near the city, a fine procession came forth to meet the King, and to conduct him with honour to the presence of the Emperor. {112} Before long "the two princes became as brothers." Manuel himself displayed to Louis the magnificent buildings of his city, and described to him the victorious march which Conrad, as he said, with his assistance, had made through Asia Minor. He offered the same aid in the way of guides to Louis, if he and his barons would pay the customary homage. With high hearts the French started for Nicæa, but they had not long encamped in that place when some ragged and blood-stained fugitives brought the news of the disaster to Conrad's troops. At once Louis hastened to meet his brother sovereign; "weeping, they fell upon each other's neck," and agreed henceforth to keep together and to aid one another. In dread of fresh attacks and more treachery, they turned from the beaten track, and passing along the coast, came at length to Ephesus. There a message reached them from Manuel, possibly repentant of his former treachery, to the effect that their further way was blocked by a huge army of Turks. Conrad, weak with wounds, then determined to return for awhile to Constantinople, but, acting on his advice, Louis, after staying to rest his troops and to let them spend their Christmas in a fertile valley hard by, moved on over the frozen hills to the River Meander, the opposite bank of which was lined with Turks. For awhile both armies marched along the banks of the river in parallel lines; then Louis discovered a ford, and thereupon made good his passage and inflicted a great defeat upon the foe. But a terrible obstacle now faced them some miles beyond Laodicea; they found the way shut in by a steep range of hills "whose summit appeared to touch the {113} heavens, whilst the torrent at its base seemed to descend to hell." Sent forward to secure the pass, Geoffrey de Rancogne struggled to the top, but instead of taking possession of it, descended the further slope, and, oblivious of the fact that the heights were thronged with Turks, bade his men pitch their tents there. The main army, thinking all was well, followed them to the summit of the narrow pass, where a tremendous precipice skirted the track. Down rushed the foe upon them, hurling them into the yawning depths. A large number of the Crusaders, pilgrims, who were quite unarmed, blocked the way when Geoffrey strove to return to the rescue; thousands of these were massacred, and Louis himself only just managed to save his life by scrambling up to a high rock, from whence his well-made armour defied the arrows of his assailants. For a while they sought to drive him from his position, but, not realising that he was the leader of the expedition, left him at nightfall to his fate. This awful disaster nearly ended the Second Crusade there and then. Rage against Geoffrey de Rancogne for his error, and dismay at the slaughter of their fellow-soldiers, put an end to discipline for the time. It was only with the utmost difficulty that Louis was able to conduct a remnant of the army to the post of Attaleia; the rest had perished either by famine or by the constant attacks of the Turks upon their line of march. At the coast it was hoped that the troops might be taken to Antioch by sea, and an attempt was made to arrange this with the Greeks who held the fort. They, however, demanded an impossible sum for the three days' voyage, and it was decided that the main army must go by land, in charge of Greek guides, while {114} Louis and his barons crossed by sea. First, however, the King bargained to pay a large sum if the Greeks would receive into the city, and care for the large number of sick and infirm pilgrims; and this was readily promised. There was no reliance to be placed, however, upon the treacherous Greeks. Scarcely had the king's ship set sail than they betrayed the whole band of sick pilgrims into the hands of the Turks, and soon afterwards led the army also into the midst of the hordes of the infidel. The helpless misery of the victims touched the hearts even of the Turks, who pitied them and gave them food, "and therefore," says the historian, "many of the Christians forsook their own religion and went over to the Turks. O kindness more cruel than Greek treachery! For, giving bread, they stole the true faith.... God may indeed pardon the German Emperor, through whose advice we met with such misfortunes, but shall He pardon the Greeks, whose cruel craft slew so many in either army?" Thus, by this twofold act of treachery, the Greeks, the representatives of Eastern Christianity, practically put an end to the Second Crusade. It was no triumphal entry that Louis of France made when, on reaching Jerusalem, he passed through the streets behind priests and bishops, who sang, "Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord." He had come empty-handed, for the bones of his troops were scattered on the hills and plains of Asia Minor. [Illustration: _King Louis surrounded by the Turks_] At Jerusalem Louis found that Conrad, travelling from Constantinople by water, had preceded him with a fairly numerous following. Feeling that something must be done towards fulfilling the aim with which they had set out, the two sovereigns joined with the young king, {117} Baldwin of Jerusalem, in an attempt to besiege Damascus, still one of the most important cities of the Holy Land. To this siege came the famous Knights of the Hospital and the Temple, and the combined troops fought with such success that the fall of the city seemed certain. Moreover, since they were attacking it from a quarter rich in orchards and springs, they had no fear of the ever-dreaded famine that had wrought such havoc in the First Crusade. Then once again discord brought disaster. Heated discussions arose as to who should rule Damascus when it was taken, and the suggestion that it should be given to the Count of Flanders at once gave offence to the "barons of Palestine,"--those who had inherited the possessions of the First Crusaders. They actually began to enter into negotiations with the citizens of Damascus, and, playing the part of traitors, persuaded Louis, Conrad, and Baldwin that they would find the walls weakest at the farther side of the city. Falling into the trap, the three kings moved their camp, and soon found themselves cut off from all supplies of food and drink, and faced by hopelessly strong fortifications. So they gave up in despair. Conrad, in deep disgust, returned to Europe at once; Louis, after a short stay at Jerusalem, returned to France by sea, with a few wretched followers, in place of the gallant army that had marched forth barely a year before. The utter failure of the Second Crusade--a failure which left countless homes in Western Europe empty and desolate--struck a heavy blow at the authority and popularity of Bernard of Clairvaux. He himself was not slow to point out the cause. "We have fallen on evil days," says he, "in which the {118} Lord, provoked by our sins, has judged the world, with justice indeed, but not with His wonted mercy. The sons of the Church have been overthrown in the desert, slain with the sword or destroyed by famine," and he goes on to say that this is due to allowing thieves and murderers to take part in an attempt which only the faithful and holy soul should be found worthy to make. The chief result of the Crusade, as far as the Holy War itself was concerned, was to weaken the position of the Christians in that region; for as Fuller quaintly remarks, "The Turks, seeing one citie both bear the brunt and batter the strength of both armies, began to conceive that their own fear was their greatest enemy; and those swords of these new pilgrimes which they dreaded in the sheath, they slighted when they saw them drawn, and they shook off the awe which had formerly possessed them of the strength of the Western Emperor." {119} CHAPTER X The Loss of Jerusalem _All Europe streaming to the mystic East: Now on their sun-smit ranks The dusky squadrons close in vulture-feast._ PALGRAVE: _Visions of England._ Most famous of the Sons of Islam who fought against Christendom is Saladin, the Saracen general who made himself master of Egypt in the days of Amalric, King of Jerusalem, and who was destined in the near future to be the conqueror of the Holy City. The time was ripe for such a conquest, for the little kingdom was torn by the jealousy and strife of two deadly rivals, Raymond of Tripoli and Guy of Lusignan. The former was for living at peace with the Saracens, at least until the coming of a new Crusade should drive the infidel from the borders of the land. The latter, moved by causes far other than religious enthusiasm, was eager to fight at once, hoping thus to obtain the upper hand over his wretched young brother-in-law, Baldwin, the leper king. With him was Reginald of Châtillon, who had spent long years in Saracen dungeons, and was furiously eager for revenge. The quarrel between Raymond and Guy and their adherents led directly to the Fall of Jerusalem, but {120} in the meantime the details are full of romantic interest. A certain Gerard, a knight of France, who had come to the Holy Land merely to make his fortune, desired to marry the Lady of Botron, a rich ward of Raymond of Tripoli. But Raymond, as was frequently the case in those feudal days, had his own profit to make by the marriage. He scornfully rejected Gerard, and gave the lady to a wealthy Italian merchant, who was glad to pay for his wife her weight in gold. In great wrath, Gerard left Tripoli, joined the Knights Templars, and in due course became Grand Master of the Order, and awaited his chance for revenge. This came in 1186, when both the leper and his little son were dead, and Raymond was known to be desirous of occupying the vacant throne. Hurriedly summoning Sibylla, wife of Guy of Lusignan, and sister of the leper king, to Jerusalem, Gerard and Reginald of Châtillon caused the gates to be shut and the walls guarded, so that none might come in or out. But amongst those inside was a spy sent by the watchful Raymond, who managed to get into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where he saw Sibylla sitting with two crowns before her. One of these was handed to her by the Patriarch of Jerusalem, who said, "Lady, you have been proclaimed queen, but since you are a woman, it is good that you have a man to help you in your rule. Take the crown you see before you and give it to him who can best help you to govern your realm." Then Sibylla beckoned to her husband, Guy, and placing the crown upon his head as he knelt before her, said, "Sire, take this, for I know not where I could bestow it better." {121} Then was Gerard, Grand Master of the Templars, heard to murmur, "This crown is well worth the marriage of Botron." Thus did Guy de Lusignan become King of Jerusalem, while Raymond of Tripoli, checkmated for the time, could only refuse him his allegiance and retire in sullen fury to his own city of Tiberias. Rumour indeed whispered that he was on no unfriendly terms with Saladin himself. But it was probably foresight as well as a sense of justice which roused him to deep wrath when Reginald of Châtillon, in time of truce, attacked a wealthy caravan passing from Damascus to Egypt, and "dishonourably carried off the merchants as prisoners, together with all their baggage." "The taking of this caravan," says the chronicler, "was the ruin of Jerusalem," for from that time dates the implacable hatred of Saladin for those who held the city. Meantime, urged on by Gerard, the Grand Master, Guy of Lusignan, meanest and weakest of kings, sought to gratify his personal spite against his former rival by besieging Tiberias, and was only prevented by a warning that this might mean an open alliance between Saladin and Raymond against himself. Raymond's patriotism, however, was greater than his desire for revenge. While absent from his own city with his troops, he heard that the Saracens had crossed the Jordan, and were advancing upon the Holy City. Hastening to Jerusalem, he at once put himself and his men at Guy's disposal in face of this pressing danger. Meantime Saladin, probably in wrath at this action of one whom he had hoped to make his ally, began to besiege Tiberias; and a message arrived in Jerusalem {122} from Raymond's wife, begging that an army might be sent to her aid. A council was hurriedly summoned to see what could be done to save the city; but Raymond, to the surprise of all, was strongly of the opinion that Tiberias should be left to its fate. "Sire," said he, "I would give you good advice if you would only trust me." "Speak your mind and fear nothing," they replied, whereupon he counselled them not to send troops out of Jerusalem, even if this should mean the loss of his own fortress. "If I lose wife, retainers and city," said he, "so be it; I will get them back when I can; but I had rather see my city overthrown than the whole land lost." Though much astonished by such disinterested advice, the council agreed to follow it, and so dispersed. But at dead of night there came secretly to the King the mischief-maker Gerard, bidding him "reject the counsel of this traitor count," and hinting that Raymond's advice had been merely to further his own ends. Guy de Lusignan was so much in the hands of the man who had made him king that he dared not refuse to listen to him, and at daybreak the order was given for the army to march out of Jerusalem in order to relieve Tiberias. In the terrible battle of Tiberias that followed, the portents were all against the Crusaders. "A fearful vision was seen by the King's chamberlain, who dreamed that an eagle flew past the Christian army bearing seven darts in its talons, and crying with a loud voice, "Woe to thee, Jerusalem." On a mound outside Tiberias had been placed a portion of the True Cross, and round this the army of Guy, unable to enter the city, rallied again and again as they were {123} dispersed by the followers of Saladin. But heat and thirst played as much havoc as did the enemy, and at close of day, the sacred relic itself, together with the King and Reginald of Châtillon, the truce-breaker, fell into the hands of the infidel. It is said that Reginald's head was struck off in the presence of Saladin, and possibly by his hand, in revenge for his past perfidy. Guy was thrown into prison, and Raymond, who had made good his escape, died of grief at the loss of all that he had held most dear. Within two months of this battle of Tiberias, Saladin was master of every important stronghold in the land, save only Tyre and Jerusalem, and these were closely besieged. The Holy City was indeed in the most perilous condition, for there were now no soldiers within the walls, and no leader to look to in all the land, save only Balian of Ibelin, and he was at this time a fugitive, who had sought protection within the walls of Tyre. Bereft of a leader, the city had well-nigh lost hope, when Balian, acting apparently in good faith, begged leave of Saladin to conduct his wife and family within the walls of Jerusalem, promising that he himself would stay there but one night, and then return to Tyre. To this Saladin agreed; but when Balian was once inside the city, the inhabitants refused to let him leave it again. The patriarch Heraclius, indeed, assured him that he could not keep his promise without committing grave sin, saying, "Great shame will it be to you and to your sons after you if you leave the Holy City in this perilous strait." So Balian remained and did his best, with only two knights to aid him, and little enough of food to feed the {124} multitudes who came in day by day from the country round, and set up their tents in the streets of the city. "The priests and clerks," says Geoffrey de Vinsauf, "discharged the duties of soldiers and fought bravely for the Lord's House ... but the people, alike ignorant and timorous, flocked in numbers round the patriarch and the queen, bitterly complaining and earnestly entreating that they might make terms of peace with the Sultan as soon as possible." Even when the city was given up on condition that Saladin would accept a ransom for the lives of the inhabitants, there came small consolation to the unhappy people. For some thousands of them could pay no ransom at all, and had nothing to hope for but the miseries of slavery. When this fact was known, it called forth all that chivalry of the infidel chieftains upon which the chroniclers love to dwell. Saphadim, the brother of Saladin, and his right hand during the siege, at once begged a thousand slaves as his share of the booty. "For what purpose do you desire them?" asked Saladin. "To do with them as I will," replied his brother, upon which the Sultan smiled and granted his request. As he expected, the unhappy captives were at once given their freedom. Then the Patriarch and Balian, who had been treated with the utmost courtesy, each begged for seven hundred souls; and when those were granted, Saladin said, "My brother has given his alms; the bishop and Balian theirs. Now will I give mine also." {125} With that he granted freedom to all aged folk within the city, "and this was the alms that Saladin made." Thus did Jerusalem fall once more into the hands of Islam, and the Crescent shone again over the Holy City, in which for eighty-eight years the Cross had reigned supreme. {126} CHAPTER XI The Story of the Third Crusade _A goodly golden chain wherewith yfere The virtues linked are in lovely wise And noble minds of yore allyed were In brave pursuit of chivalrous emprise._ SPENSER: _Faery Queene._ The news of the fate of Jerusalem moved Western Europe to such horror and dismay as had never before been known. Everywhere signs of mourning were seen; a general fast was ordered, a fast which was kept to some extent, at least, by some pious souls, until the Holy City was recovered; and Pope Clement III. set himself to act the part of a St Bernard by stirring the hearts of princes to take up the Cross in a Third Crusade. Of this Crusade it seemed at first as though the famous Emperor Frederick Barbarossa was to be the leader, though Philip of France and Henry II. of England were not long behind him in accepting the Cross. In both France and England, too, the "Saladin-tax" became the custom--each man paying a tithe, or tenth part of his income, for the maintenance of the expedition. Everywhere the enthusiasm was so great, that it was only necessary for a preacher to announce the Crusade as his text to secure a vast and eager audience. It mattered {127} nothing that his hearers did not even understand the language in which he spoke--all alike were stirred to do their part to win back what the First Crusaders, those heroes of romance, had fought for and won. But Henry of England was too fully occupied with the treason of his sons in his old age to do more than make promises of help, and at his death, it was one of the latter, the famous Richard Lion-Heart, who became the leader of the English Crusade, and finally of the whole undertaking. The Emperor Frederick, however, would not wait for him, nor for the French king, but hurried off on his toilsome journey at an age when most men would be hoping for a period of fireside ease and rest before the last long journey of all. As usual the promises of the Greek Emperor, Isaac, were not to be trusted, but the great army of Frederick Barbarossa struck such terror into the hearts of Greek and Turk alike, that he was able to move forward into Cilicia with little hindrance. But there, when bathing his heated limbs in a little river among the hills, that mighty Emperor, who had built up a famous Empire of the West, perished and "came to a pitiful end." The German host lost heart without their leader; many died through famine, and of the remainder a small part reached Antioch and placed themselves under the command of its prince, the rest going on to Tripoli. Meantime those two ill-assorted leaders, Richard of England and Philip of France, had started on their way to the East. It was clearly hopeless from the first that they would work together, for, while Richard was proud, passionate, and irritable to a degree, Philip was cold and crafty, and while Richard would eagerly make amends for an injury done, and as readily forgive one {128} done to him, Philip prided himself on never overlooking an affront. It was the quarrel of these leaders, rather than the superiority of the armies of Islam, that made the Third Crusade, as far as the taking of Jerusalem was concerned, a complete failure. They started, however, in apparent friendliness, and, with many pledges of devotion, travelled together by a new route by way of Marseilles. From thence Philip hurried on to Messina, in Sicily, but Richard's Crusaders had deviated into Portugal to give help against the Moors, and their impatient king set off alone in a small ship, coasting along the shores of Italy, until his fleet had caught him up, when he proceeded in great state to join Philip at Messina. The Crusaders stayed in Sicily for six months, by no means in the character of friendly guests. Tancred, king of the island, had forced Joanna, the sister of Richard, to become his wife; and she appealed to her brother against him. The latter promptly took up her cause, but, with an eye to his own profit, offered to give her up if Tancred would grant him a chair and table of solid gold which formed part of her dowry. On Tancred's refusal, Richard at once attacked and took Messina, which was only recovered by Tancred on payment of forty thousand ounces of gold. On the same March day that Philip at length sailed for the Holy Land, Richard was betrothed to the beautiful Berengaria of Navarre, and some ten days later set off with her and his sister for the same destination. But within two days a furious storm arose, which threw two of his ships upon the coast of Cyprus. Says Richard of Devizes, "Almost all the men of both ships got away alive to land, many of whom the hostile {129} Cypriote slew, some they took captive, some, taking refuge in a certain church, were besieged. The prince also of that island coming up, received for his share the gold and the arms; and he caused the shore to be guarded by all the armed force he could summon together, that he might not permit the fleet that followed to approach, lest the King should take again what had been thus stolen from him.... But God so willed that the cursed people should receive the reward of their evil deeds by the hand of one who would not spare. The third English ship, in which were the women, rode out at sea and watched all things, to report the misfortune to the king. A full report reached the King, who, obtaining no satisfaction from the lord of the island, came in arms to the port. The King leaped first from his galley and gave the first blow in the war, but before he could strike a second, he had three thousand of his followers with him striking away by his side.... The Cypriotes are vanquished, the city is taken, and the lord of the island is himself taken and brought to the King. He supplicates and obtains pardon; he offers homage to the King, and it is received; and he swears, though unasked, that henceforth he will hold the island of him as his liege lord, and will open all the castles of the land to him." That same night, while Isaac of Cyprus was plotting how to get rid of his new-made bonds, Guy of Lusignan, the King of Jerusalem, who had been released by Saladin on condition that he went into exile, landed on the island to bring greeting to Richard. On the next day the faithless Isaac fled. "The kings pursue him, the one by land, the other by water, and he is besieged in the castle. Its walls are cast down by engines hurling {130} huge stones; he, being overcome, promises to surrender if only he might not be put into iron fetters. "The King consented to the prayers of the supplicant, and caused silver shackles to be made for him. The prince of the pirates being thus taken, the King traversed the whole island; and the whole land was subjected to him, just like England." Before he left his new domain, Richard was married to Berengaria, his betrothed, and set off with her to the Holy Land, accompanied by Guy of Lusignan. Their destination was Acre, which, ever since Guy had been convinced by the clergy that his oath to Saladin was of no binding nature, had been besieged by him. When Richard arrived, this siege had already lasted nearly two years, and to a more cautious eye the cause of Guy of Lusignan would have appeared by no means hopeful. But there were other motives at work. Conrad of Tyre had flatly refused to admit Guy to his own city, now the only Christian stronghold in Palestine, on the plea that God had appointed him its ruler and that he meant to remain so. This laid the foundation of a fine feud between the two princes; and the fact that Philip of France had taken up the cause of Conrad was sufficient reason for Richard to ally himself with his rival. "So," says Richard of Devizes, "King Richard came to the siege of Acre, and was welcomed by the besiegers with as great joy as if it had been Christ that had come again on earth to restore the kingdom of Israel. The king of the French had arrived at Acre first, and was very highly esteemed by the natives; but on Richard's arrival he became obscured and without consideration, just as the moon is wont to relinquish her lustre at the rising of the sun." {131} In further explanation of this, he tells us how a certain Henry, Count of Champagne, who had now used up the whole of his store of provision and money, came to his king, Philip of France, for relief. The latter, trying to take a mean advantage, offered him a large sum if he would give up his rights over Champagne; to which the Count replied, "I have done what I could and what I ought; now I shall do what I am compelled by necessity. I desired to fight for my king, but he would not accept of me unless I gave up what is mine own; I will go to him who will accept me, and who is more ready to give than to receive." Richard received him with the utmost kindness and liberality, and his men, "at the report of so great a largess, took King Richard to be their general and lord; the Franks only who had followed their lord remained with their poor king of the French." This did not endear Richard any the more to Philip, but for a while these private grudges were forgotten in the assault upon the walls of Tyre. "The King of the English, unused to delay," says Richard of Devizes, "on the third day of his arrival at the siege, caused his wooden fortress, which he had called 'Mate Grifon,' where it was made in Sicily, to be built and set up; and before the dawn of the fourth day the machine stood erect by the walls of Acre, and from its height looked down upon the city lying beneath it, and there were thereon by sunrise archers casting missiles without intermission upon the Turks." While the Kings of England and France were thus engaged, Conrad and Guy were once again at variance. With Philip's promise of support at his back, Conrad now returned to Tyre and took no further part in the {132} siege. The sultry heat of the plain then struck down both Philip and Richard for awhile, but the recovery of the former led to an assault which showed the Saracens they had little hope of holding out, and Richard, determined not to be outdone, struggled back to the walls from his sick-bed, and struck them another heavy blow. Four days later a long procession of the citizens filed out from the gates, bearing a flag of truce and offering to surrender the city. Richard was for "letting the vanquished pay their heads for the ransom of their bodies," but Philip, more politic as well as more thrifty, held out for a ransom of two hundred pieces of gold, the restoration of the True Cross which Saladin had seized at the Battle of Tiberias, and the release of all Christian captives. So the two years' siege came to an end, but not without a deed which blackens the name of Richard and Philip for all time. Saladin had delayed to furnish the ransom or to give up the relics of the Cross; whereupon the King, who was in name the follower of Him who taught His people to love their enemies, had two thousand seven hundred prisoners led to the top of a hill from which all that went on could be seen in Saladin's camp; and there, at a given signal, all these innocent followers of Mohammed were cut down in cold blood. Almost at the same time, by the orders of Philip, nearly as many victims suffered on the walls of the city itself. The taking of Acre was the signal for a violent quarrel between Richard, Philip, and Leopold, Duke of Austria. [Illustration: _Richard and Philip at the Siege of Acre_] Richard Devizes tells the story thus. "The Duke of Austria, who was also one of the ancient besiegers of Acre, followed the King of the English as though he {135} would share in the possession of his portion; and because his standard was borne before him, he was thought to take to himself a part of the triumph. If not by the command, at least with the consent of the offended King, the duke's standard was cast down in the dirt, and to his reproach and ridicule, trampled under foot. The duke, though grievously enraged against the King, concealed his wrath for a time, and betook himself that night to his tent, which was set up again, and afterwards as soon as he could, returned, full of anger, to his own country." Heedless of the fact that "this quarrel might drink blood another day," Richard next came into serious collision with Philip of France. "A certain Conrad, Marquis of Montferrat, a smooth-faced man, had held Tyre, which he had seized on many years ago, to whom the King of the French sold all his captives alive, and promised the crown of the kingdom of Jerusalem, which was not yet conquered. But the King of the English withstood him, Philip, to the face." "It is not proper," said he, "for a man of your reputation to bestow or promise what is not yet obtained; and further, if the course of your journey be Christ, when you have at length taken Jerusalem from the hand of the enemy, you will, without delay or condition, restore the kingdom to Guy, the lawful King of Jerusalem. For the rest, if you recollect, you did not obtain Acre alone, so that neither should that which is the property of two be dealt out by one hand." "Oh, oh!" comments quaint Richard of Devizes, "how pure for a godly throat! The marquis, bereft of his blissful hope, returns to Tyre, and the King of the French, who had greatly desired to strengthen himself against his envied ally by means of the marquis, now {136} fell off daily, and this added to the continual irritation of his mind--that even the scullion of the King of the English fared more sumptuously than the cupbearer of the French. After some time, letters were forged in the tent of the King of the French, by which, as if they had been sent by his nobles out of France, the King was recalled to his own country." And so Philip of France, amid oaths and protestations of faith to Richard, sailed for Europe. "How faithfully he kept his oath the whole world knows. For directly he reached home, he stirred up the whole land and threw Normandy into confusion. What need for further words! Amid the curses of all, he departed, leaving his army at Acre." {137} CHAPTER XII The Adventures of Richard Lion-Heart _One who fought his fight has told the deeds Of that gay passage through the midland sea Cyprus and Sicily; And how the Lion-Heart o'er the Moslem host Triumphed in Ascalon Or Acre, by the tideless Syrian coast._ PALGRAVE: _Visions of England._ Exactly two years after the siege of Acre had commenced, the army of Richard, together with the Knights of the Temple and the Hospital, set out to conquer the territory that lay between the mountains and the sea. And "as the army marched along the sea-shore that was in its right, all the while the Turks watched its movements from the heights on the left." The progress of the Crusaders was therefore one long battle, and it was further harassed by the natural difficulties of the road. "That day," says Geoffrey de Vinsauf, an eye-witness of these things, "the army moved forward with more than wonted caution, and stopped, after a long march, impeded by the thickets and the tall and luxuriant herbage, which struck them in the face. In these maritime parts there were also a number of beasts of the forest, who leapt up between their feet from the long grass and thick copses." {138} He tells us, moreover, of the touching device employed to stir the hearts of the wearied soldiers, and to remind them of the aim of their journey. "It was the custom of the army each night before lying down to rest to depute some one to stand in the middle of the camp and cry out with a loud voice, 'Help! Help! for the Holy Sepulchre!' The rest of the army took it up and repeated the words, and stretching their hands to heaven, prayed for the mercy and assistance of God in the cause. Then the herald himself repeated in a loud voice: 'Help! Help! for the Holy Sepulchre!' and everyone repeated it after him a second and a third time. The army," he adds naïvely, "appeared to be much refreshed by crying out in this fashion." At length the preliminary skirmishes gave place to a pitched battle, of which our eye-witness gives a spirited account. "On the Saturday, the Eve of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, at earliest dawn, our men armed themselves with great care to receive the Turks, who were known to have preceded their march, and whose insolence nothing but a battle could check.... On that day the Templars formed the first rank, and after them came in due order the Bretons and men of Anjou; then followed King Guy with the men of Poitou; in the fourth line were the Normans and English who had the care of the royal standard; and last of all marched the Hospitallers: this line was composed of chosen warriors, divided into companies. "They kept together so closely that an apple, if thrown, would not have fallen to the ground without touching a man or a horse; and the army stretched from {139} the army of the Saracens to the seashore. There you might have seen standards and ensigns of various forms, and hardy warriors, fresh and full of spirits and well fitted for war. "King Richard and the Duke of Burgundy, with a chosen retinue of warriors, rode up and down, narrowly watching the position and manner of the Turks, to correct anything in their own troops if they saw occasion. "It was now nearly nine o'clock, when there appeared a large body of the Turks, ten thousand strong, coming down upon us at full charge, and throwing darts and arrows, as fast as they could, while they mingled their voices in one horrible yell. "There followed after them an infernal race of men, of black colour.... With them also were the Saracens who live in the desert, called Bedouins; they are a savage race of men, blacker than soot; they fight on foot and carry a bow, quiver and round shield, and are a light and active race. "These men dauntlessly attacked our army. They came on with irresistible charge, on horses swifter than eagles, and urged on like lightning to attack our men; and as they advanced they raised a cloud of dust, so that the sky was darkened. In front came certain of their admirals, as was their duty, with clarions and trumpets; some had horns, others had pipes and timbrels, gongs, cymbals and other instruments, producing a horrible noise and clamour. This they did to excite their spirits and courage, for the more violent the clamour became the more bold were they for the fray." So hot grew the contest, and such was the inconvenience suffered by the Crusaders because of their narrow quarters between the foe and the sea, that there {140} was nothing for it but to retreat. This of course brought the full force of the attack upon the Hospitallers, "the more so," says Geoffrey, "as they were unable to resist, but moved forward with patience under their wounds, returning not even a word for the blows which fell upon them, and advancing on their way because they were not able to bear the weight of the contest. "A cloud of dust obscured the air as our men marched on; and in addition to the heat, they had an enemy pressing them in the rear, insolent and rendered obstinate by the instigation of the devil. Still the Christians proved good men, and secure in their unconquerable spirit, kept constantly advancing, while the Turks threatened them without ceasing in the rear; but their blows fells harmless upon the defensive armour, and this caused the Turks to slacken in courage at the failure of their attempts, and they began to murmur in disappointment, crying out in their rage 'that our people were of iron and would yield to no blow.' "Then the Turks, about twenty thousand strong, rushed again upon our men pell-mell, annoying them in every possible manner, when, as if almost overcome by their savage fury, Brother Gamier, one of the Hospitallers, suddenly exclaimed with a loud voice, 'O excellent St George! Will you leave us to be thus put to confusion? The whole of Christendom is now on the point of perishing, because it fears to return a blow against this impious race.'" The King, however, had determined that no charge should be made until the army had, by retreat, obtained a better position for so doing. So, even when the Grand Master of the Hospitallers went to him, and said, "My lord the king, we are violently pressed by the enemy, {141} and are in danger of eternal infamy, as if we did not dare to return their blows. We are each of us losing our horses one after another, and why should we bear with them any further?" The King replied, "Good Master, it is you who must sustain their attack; no one could be everywhere at once." "On the Master returning, the Turks again made a fierce attack upon them from the rear, and there was not a prince or count among them but blushed with shame and said to each other, 'Why do we not charge them at full gallop? Alas! Alas! we shall for ever deserve to be called cowards, a thing which never happened to us before, for never has such a disgrace befallen so great an army, even from the unbelievers. Unless we defend ourselves by immediately charging the enemy, we shall gain everlasting scandal, and so much the greater the longer we delay to fight.'" In spite of these protests, they had all come to the conclusion that the King was right in not ordering them to charge till all were in a more advantageous position, when "the success of the affair was marred," says Geoffrey, "by two knights who were impatient of delay." Fortunately, Richard, seeing the mistake in time, gave the order, "Prepare to charge!" forthwith. "The sky grew black with the dust that was raised in the confusion of that encounter. The Turks who had purposely dismounted from their horses in order to take better aim at our men with their darts and arrows, were slain on all sides in that charge. King Richard, on seeing his army in motion and in encounter with the Turks, flew rapidly on his horse through the Hospitallers who had led the charge, and to whom he was bringing assistance with all his retinue, and broke into the Turkish infantry, {142} who were astonished at his blows and those of his men, and gave way to the right and to the left." A terrific fight ensued, ending in a triumph for the Crusaders in so far that they had scattered the foe and were able to proceed upon their march in safety. In equally vivid phrase Geoffrey describes the anger of Saladin when the news reached him of this defeat. Bitterly did he reproach and deride his men, while his "admirals" listened with heads bowed down. At last one bolder than the rest made answer, "Most sacred Sultan, saving your Majesty, this charge is unjust, for we fought with all our strength and did our best to destroy them. We met their fiercest attacks, but it was of no avail. They are armed in impenetrable armour which no weapon can pierce so that our blows fell as it were upon a rock of flint. And further, there is one among their number superior to any man we have ever seen; he always charges before the rest, slaying and destroying our men. He is the first in every enterprise, and is a most brave and excellent soldier; no one can resist him or escape out of his hands. They call him _Melech Ric_ (King Richard). Such a king as he seems born to command the whole earth; what then could we do more against so formidable an enemy?" Such is the description which Geoffrey, in his hero-worship, puts into the mouth of the vanquished leaders of the Saracens, and Saladin, no longer making light of the danger that threatened his realm, promptly destroyed all his more important fortresses, such as Joppa and Ascalon, for fear _Melech Ric_ should occupy them. [Illustration: _Richard of England utterly defeats Saladin_] Richard himself was now very anxious to get possession of Ascalon, and to re-fortify the walls. But on this point opinions were divided. The French were, as {145} usual, violently opposed to him, and wanted rather to rebuild the fort of Joppa, "because it furnished a shorter and easier route for pilgrims going to Jerusalem," and the feeling of the multitude was with them. "Foolish counsel; fatal obstinacy of those indolent men!" comments Geoffrey. "By providing for their immediate comfort and to avoid labour and expense, they did what they would afterwards repent of, for had they then saved Ascalon from the Turks, the whole land would soon have been clear of them. But the cry of the people prevailed, a collection was made, and they immediately began to rebuild the towers, and to clear out the moat of Joppa. The army remained there long, enjoying ease and pleasure ... and the whole people became corrupted; the zeal of pilgrimage waxed cold, and all their works of devotion were neglected." It was about this time that an adventure befel King Richard which nearly put an end to his career as leader of the Third Crusade. "About this time," says Geoffrey, "King Richard went out hawking with a small escort, intending, if he saw any small body of Turks, to fall upon them. "Fatigued by his ride, he fell asleep, and a troop of the enemy rushed suddenly upon him to make him prisoner. The King, awakened by the noise, had barely time to mount his bay Cyprian horse, and his attendants were still in the act of mounting, when the Turks came upon them and tried to take him; but the King, drawing his sword, rushed upon them, and they, pretending flight, drew him after them to a place where there was another body of Turks in ambush. These started up with speed, and surrounded the King in order to make him prisoner. The King defended himself bravely, and the enemy drew {146} back, though he would certainly have been captured if the Turks had known who he was. "But in the midst of the conflict, one of the King's companions, William de Pratelles, called out in the Saracen language that _he_ was the "Melech," _i.e._ the King; and the Turks, believing what he said, led him off captive to their own army. "At the news of this action our army was alarmed, and seizing their arms, came at full gallop to find the King, and when they met him returning safe, he faced about and with them pursued the Turks, who had carried off William de Pratelles thinking they had got the King. They could not, however, overtake the fugitives, and King Richard, reserved by the Divine Hand for greater things, returned to the camp, to the great joy of his soldiers, who thanked God for his preservation, but grieved for William de Pratelles, who loyally redeemed the King at the price of his own liberty." Richard was much blamed by some of his friends for his rashness on this occasion. "But," says Geoffrey the hero-worshipper, "notwithstanding these admonitions on the part of his best friends, the King's nature still broke out; in all expeditions he was the first to advance and the last to retreat; and he never failed, either by his own valour or the Divine Aid, to bring back numbers of captives, or, if they resisted, to put them to the sword." When the fortress of Joppa had been rebuilt, Richard sent a "distinguished embassy" to Saladin and Saphadim, his brother, to demand the surrender of the Holy Land once more. This was to include the whole kingdom of Syria, as well as tribute for Babylon, and to this Saladin would not agree. At the same time he appeared to {147} deal very reasonably with the embassy, sending back with them his brother Saphadim, and offering through him to give up the kingdom of Jerusalem "from the Jordan to the sea," on condition that the city Ascalon should never be rebuilt. The account of the meeting of the two great representatives of Christendom and Islam is very interesting, and the more so because Richard never came face to face with the renowned Saladin himself. "When Saphadim came with this message to the King, Richard, who had just been bled, would not converse with him on that day; but he was supplied with every kind of delicacy for his table, and entertained in the valley between the castles of the Temple and Jehoshaphat. "The next day Saphadim sent a present of seven camels and a rich tent, and coming into the King's presence, delivered Saladin's message, upon which Richard determined to have patience for a time, that he might the better make provision for the future. But, alas! he showed too little prudence in not foreseeing the deceit with which they sought to protract the time until the cities, castles and fortresses of that country were destroyed. "In short, Saphadim so cunningly beguiled the too credulous king, that one would have thought they had contracted a mutual friendship; for the King received Saphadim's gifts, and messengers were daily passing with presents to the King, much to the annoyance of his friends. But Saphadim pleaded that he wished to make peace between them, and the King thought he was adopting a wise policy, by which the bounds of Christianity would be enlarged, and a creditable peace concluded. "When, however, the King discovered that the {148} promises of Saphadim were mere words, he at once broke off the negotiations." The Saracens said in after days that Richard's friendship with Saphadim went so far that he offered him his sister Joanna in marriage; but that Joanna herself refused with scorn to marry an infidel. It was not until nearly the end of that year, when much time had been lost, that the army of Richard once more turned its face towards Jerusalem. The Templars however, tried to prevent the King from attempting the siege of the Holy City, "lest, while they were besieging Saladin and the garrison, the Turkish army which was outside among the mountains, might attack our men by surprise, and so place them between the attack of the garrison from within and the Turkish army from without." But Richard was sick and tired of inaction, and his army had been lately much depressed by the miserable weather of winter. The rain and the hail had killed many of their beasts of burden; storms had torn up the pegs of the tents, drowned the horses and spoiled all their biscuits and bacon. "Their clothes were dissolved by the wet, and the men themselves suffered from the unwonted severity of the climate." "Under all those sufferings, their only consolation arose from their zeal in the service of God, and a desire to finish their pilgrimage. Even those who were sick in bed at Joppa were carried in litters, so great was their wish to see Jerusalem." But the weather grew worse, and at length the advice of the Templars, experienced as they were in that climate, prevailed. {149} Most of the French went back to Joppa, and with much wrath on the part of Richard and deep despondency on the part of his army, a march was made instead upon the ruined town of Ascalon. At the end of January, however, "the sky became brighter," and many of the French were induced to return to Richard, and to help him to rebuild the walls. But very soon the old quarrels broke out. The Duke of Burgundy, finding himself without the means to pay his men, asked King Richard to supply him with a large sum of money, as he had done once before at Acre. When the King refused, on the ground that his previous loan had never been repaid, the duke at once left Ascalon, taking his army with him, and went back to Acre. About the same time Conrad of Tyre gave mortal offence to Richard by his refusal to come to help him to rebuild the city, and the King, in his wrath, began to make fresh attempts at peace with Saladin, on the plea that his foeman was of nobler mettle than his so-called allies. Friendly overtures went so far that "on Palm Sunday, King Richard, amid much splendour, girded with the belt of knighthood the son of Saphadim, who had been sent to him for that purpose." After Easter, came bad news from England to the King--news of the treachery of his brother John, of the seizing of the revenues, and of an empty treasury. "And if," said the prior of Hereford who brought this news, "your majesty does not take speedy counsel on these matters, and return home with all haste and avenge our wrongs on the insurgents, it will fare worse, and you will not be able to recover your kingdom without the hazard of a war." {150} When these things were laid before the leaders of the army, as a reason why Richard must speedily return to his own land, they unanimously declared that something must be done to settle affairs in Palestine by choosing a king, "one whom the army could follow and obey," and that if this were not done "they would one and all depart from the land, for they should not otherwise be able to guard against the enemy." The choice was given them between Guy of Lusignan and Conrad of Tyre, and to the secret disgust of Richard, they chose the latter, "as being much better able to defend the country." The King gave his consent, though with no good will, for the Marquis Conrad was known to be in league with Saladin, who, on his part, was inclined to treat with him against the advice of Saphadim, who would do nothing "without King Richard's consent." Conrad himself was delighted at the news that the crown was his if he would but do his best against the foe, and his followers at Tyre indulged, says Geoffrey, in a joy "the more unreasonable for being so intemperate." Then came a tragedy, swift and sudden. The marquis was returning one day in a very cheerful and pleasant humour, from an entertainment given by the Bishop of Beauvais, at which he had been a guest, and had reached the Custom House of the city, when two young men, without cloaks, suddenly rushed upon him, and having drawn their daggers, stabbed him to the heart and ran off at full speed. "The marquis instantly fell from his horse and rolled dying on the ground; one of the murderers was slain directly, but the second took shelter in a church, notwithstanding which he was captured and condemned to be dragged through the city until life should be extinct. {151} "Now while the marquis was breathing his last, the attendants who were about him, took him up in their arms, and carried him to the palace, mourning and weeping inconsolably, the more so as their joy had been, but now, so great. He enjoined his wife to attend carefully to the preservation of the city of Tyre, and to resign it to no one, save King Richard. Immediately afterwards he died, and was buried in the Hospital amidst great mourning and lamentation. Thus the cheering hopes of that desolate land were destroyed, and the former gladness was turned into intense grief. With great treachery the French now began to spread abroad a report that Richard himself "had vilely brought about the death of the marquis," an accusation for which there was no shadow of proof. Not content with this, the French army, which lived in tents outside the city sent orders to Queen Isabella, the wife of Conrad, "bidding her place the city in their charge, without delay or opposition, for the service of the King of France. But she, mindful of the dying words of her lord, replied that when King Richard came to see her, she would give it up to him and to none other, as there was no one who had laboured so much to rescue the Holy Land from the hands of the Turks." The French were very indignant at this reply, and while they were attempting to gain possession of the city, Count Henry of Champagne, the nephew of Richard, arrived unexpectedly on the scene. "And when the people saw him among them, they forthwith chose him as their prince, as if he had been sent by God; and began with much earnestness to entreat him to accept the crown of the kingdom, without {152} excuse or hesitation, and to marry the widow of the marquis, as the kingdom was hers by right of inheritance." To this Richard willingly agreed, and thus Henry became the nominal king of Jerusalem, while the Holy City remained in the hands of Islam. The sympathy of our chronicler Geoffrey is, however, entirely with the deposed Guy of Lusignan, "who," says he "now dwelt within the kingdom like a private man, not because he was undeserving, but for this only reason--that he was simple-minded and unversed in political intrigue. Thus then Guy became a king without a kingdom, until King Richard, moved with pity for him, gave him the unconditional sovereignty of the island of Cyprus." Further news of the disturbed state of his own kingdom at home now arrived for Richard, but, in spite of this, he was persuaded without much difficulty to defer his return until the Easter of the following year, by which time it was hoped that Jerusalem would have been taken. This intelligence was proclaimed throughout the army by means of a herald, "and when the army heard it, they were as delighted as a bird at dawn of day, and all immediately set themselves in readiness, packing up their luggage and preparing for the march." After a few days journey, a halt was called until Count Henry could join them with the rest of the army from Acre, and this delay enabled Richard to seize a richly loaded caravan, an event which caused something like a panic among the Turks. "Never," says one of them, "did any news so trouble the Sultan." But the English King was only too well aware of the real weakness of his army, and when the soldiers urged him to march directly upon the Holy City, he firmly refused. "If it pleases you to proceed to Jerusalem," he said {153} to the other leaders, "I will not desert you; I will be your comrade but not your commander; I will follow, not lead you. Does not Saladin know all that goes on in our camp? And do you think that our weak condition has escaped his notice?" This was the occasion of great discontent among the Crusaders. In vain did the King propose to attack the power of Islam in Cairo or Damascus; the French declared that they would march only against Jerusalem, from which they were now but four miles distant. Quarrels arose among the soldiers, some taking one side, some the other, and finally the army retreated, in separate divisions and in a very depressed state, to Joppa, and thence to Acre. We may well believe that the heaviest heart in all that company was that of the King himself. They tell us that in his pursuit of a party of Turks near Emmaus, Richard found himself upon a hill from which he could catch a glimpse of the Holy City in the distance. Turning away his eyes, he cried out with tears that he was not worthy even to look upon the spot which he had failed to wrest from the hand of the infidel; and so he retraced his steps in sadness to the sea-shore. The retreat of the army from Joppa was an opportunity not to be lost by the astute Saladin. Whilst Richard was vainly trying to patch up a truce with him from Acre, the Sultan swooped down on the unprotected walls of Joppa and took the city after a five days' siege. This news of the arrival of Saladin reached Acre just as Richard was preparing to sail to his own land. He immediately set off with fifty knights in two or three galleys and being detained by contrary winds, reached the city only to find the banners of Saladin floating from {154} the walls, and all the city save one tower in his hands. Dashing through the waves to the shore, Richard led his little band to the gates of the city, forced his way in, tore down the flag of Islam and hoisted his own in its stead. "Saladin, hearing of the King's arrival, and of his brilliant contest with the Turks, of whom he had slain all who opposed him, was seized with sudden fear, and like that timid animal the hare, put spurs to his horse, and fled before his face." Presently, however, it dawned upon him that instead of having been attacked by a great army from Acre, he had been routed by a mere handful of men, most of whom were now sleeping unprotected in camp. "But a certain Genoese was led by the divine impulse to go out early in the morning into the fields, where he was alarmed by the noise of men and horses advancing, and returned speedily, but just had time to see helmets reflecting back the light which now fell upon them. He immediately rushed with speed into the camp, calling out "To arms! To arms!" The King was awakened by the noise, and leaping startled from his bed, put on his coat of mail and summoned his men to the rescue. During the battle that followed, in which Richard is said to have performed almost incredible deeds of valour, Saphadim showed him an example of generosity and courtesy. The King had been unhorsed and was fighting desperately on foot when "a Turk advanced towards him mounted on a prancing steed. He had been sent by Saphadim, who now sent to the King as a token of his well known honourable character, two noble horses, requesting him earnestly to accept them and make use of {155} them, and if he returned safe and sound out of that battle, to remember the gifts and to recompense it in any way he pleased." This was the last battle fought and the last victory won by Richard in the Holy Land. He himself fell ill from the fatigue of that day, the French refused to fight any more under his leadership, and England and Normandy were clamouring for his return. So he employed Saphadim, always kindly disposed towards him, to intercede with Saladin for a truce; and this was finally agreed upon for the space of three years, the Christians meantime holding Joppa and Tyre, and all the land between; and all pilgrims having the right to visit Jerusalem in safety. But the Holy City remained yet in the hands of the infidel, and the Third Crusade had come to an end before its real work had been begun. Well might Richard gaze upon the land with heavy heart as he set sail for Europe. "All night the ship ran on her way by the light of the stars, and when morning dawned, the King looked back with yearning eyes upon the land he had left; and after long meditation he prayed aloud in these words. "O Holy Land, I commend thee to God, and if His heavenly grace shall grant me so long to live, that I may, in His good pleasure, afford thee assistance, I hope, as I propose, to be able to be some day a succour to thee." But though he had not yet come to the end of his adventures in connection with it, the deeds of Richard, in the Holy Land he loved, were over. He had sent on his wife and sister in front, and they had reached Sicily in safety, whilst he himself set out in a single vessel, only to meet with such stormy winds, that {156} he found himself at length a shipwrecked stranger on that strip of the Istrian coast that borders the Adriatic Sea. It was an unlucky spot for Richard. The governor of the district was Maynard, a nephew of that Conrad of Tyre of whose death the English King was held to be guilty. Nor was Vienna very far off--Vienna ruled by Leopold of Austria, his ancient foe. But Richard's beard had been allowed to grow of late, and pilgrims' dresses were not difficult to obtain for himself and his companion, Baldwin of Bethune. Making his way to the Castle of Maynard, with his usual rashness he bade Baldwin win his way to the governor by the gift of a magnificent ruby ring taken from his own finger, and ask of him a passport for the two, Baldwin and "Hugh the Merchant," as for pilgrims making their way back through the province from Jerusalem. Long did Maynard gaze upon the jewel, until at length he said "This jewel can come only from a king; and that king can only be Richard of England. Bid him come to me in peace." But Richard would not enter the lion's cage. He fled in the night to Friesach, leaving Baldwin and his other companions to be seized as hostages and kept in bonds. Travelling about the country with one knight as his comrade, together with a boy who could speak the language, Richard drew nearer and nearer to the dangerous region of Vienna. Resting in the inn of a town close by the capital, he sent the boy to buy food for their journey in the marketplace. The lad chose to swagger and boast of his master's wealth and mysterious high position, in proof {157} of which he pulled out a handful of gold coins before the bystanders. This was the cause of his immediate discomfiture, for he was seized, carried before the chief man of the district and questioned as to whom he served. He refused to disclose the name of his master, and was put to the torture. This was no light matter in those rough days, and under it the boy confessed that he was the page of Richard of England. The news was carried hotfoot to Leopold, and meantime a troop of armed men surrounded the inn where lay the unsuspecting monarch. Richard, however, was never to be caught with ease. Sword in hand he defended himself with such vigour that the men fell back. Escape was hopeless, notwithstanding this pause, and the King at length agreed to yield if their chief would come in person to take him. But this chief turned out to be Leopold of Austria himself, grimly delighted to find his former foe within his clutches. Other forces were also at work to get possession of the person of the English King. Philip of France had not forgotten his ancient grudge against him; and it was to his advantage that Richard's return to England should be hindered, since he intended meantime to annex Normandy. John, the King's brother, would now have his chance of obtaining the coveted English crown, and so it was to the interest of all his enemies to keep him safe within prison walls. But a yet more powerful enemy was in league with both, and only too ready to take revenge upon Richard for the part he had once played in taking the side of Tancred of Sicily against him. The Emperor Henry VI. son of Barbarossa, offered Leopold a bribe of £60,000 for the {158} person of the King, and Richard found himself closely confined in a lonely castle of the Tyrol, the prisoner of the Emperor. For a while no one knew of his place of concealment, nor into whose hands he had fallen. At length, says the romantic story, this was discovered by his faithful minstrel, Blondel, who travelled over Eastern Europe, searching and inquiring for his master. One day, as he sat beneath the walls of a castle keep, he began to play upon his lute one of the troubadour airs that Richard had loved to sing in former days. To his surprise, the song was softly echoed from the walls. Staying only long enough to make sure that it was his beloved master, the minstrel sped back with the news to England. This charming story may have no foundation save in the fact that the English Chancellor, William Longchamp, in his wish to leave no stone unturned in the attempt to discover the King, sent out messengers of all ranks and degrees on his behalf. Whoever found out his place of imprisonment matters little; for, directly it was known, all the powers of Christendom were set on foot to work the release of one who had done so much for the cause of God in the Holy Land. The Pope brought pressure to bear upon the Emperor; the Emperor consented to accept a ransom for his royal captive, in spite of the fact that John of England had offered him twenty thousand pounds for every month that Richard could be kept in prison; and the hard-pressed English people once more brought out their coins on behalf of a King whose eastern expeditions had already cost them dear. And thus at length the adventures of the Lion Heart in connection with the Third Crusade came to an end. {159} CHAPTER XIII The Story of Dandolo the Blind Doge; or, The Fourth and Fifth Crusades _Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! Th'octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe._ BYRON: _Childe Harold._ Richard the Lion-Heart had returned to England in 1194. The next three years of the dying century saw an attempt at an expedition sometimes known as the Fourth, more often as the "German" Crusade. Its story contains little of interest. Saladin had died before the release of Richard, and his brother Saphadim reigned in his stead, when Henry, Emperor of Germany, hoping to win the favour of his disapproving subjects, sent an expedition to the Holy Land. The Christian lords who yet held rule in Palestine had found things run so smoothly under the hand of the Sultan during the long truce, that they were in no hurry to break the peace. But the Germans did not mean to wait for their assistance, and while they were marshalling their forces, Saphadim drew first blood by a sudden and successful attack upon Joppa, once so ably held and fortified by Richard. The German Crusaders retaliated by a victory or {160} rather a series of victories, which restored to them Joppa and many other coast towns, and augured well for the future. All this, however, was undone by their own cruelty and thirst for blood. On their triumphant march to Jerusalem they were besieging a certain castle, and had succeeded in tunnelling passages through the rock upon which it stood. Hopeless of escape, the Moslem garrison offered to surrender on condition that they were allowed a safe passage into their own territory. To this the Crusaders agreed, but a certain number of them were loud in their disapproval, and began to threaten the Saracens to such an extent that the latter lost faith in the promises that had been given. Declaring that they would die rather than submit, they lined the newly-cut rock-passages and prepared to sell their lives dearly. The Crusaders, furious at their defiant message, dashed into the dark tunnels, only to fall by thousands at the hands of their unseen and desperate foes. Nightfall saw them repulsed and utterly dismayed at the unexpected resistance; discipline was gone, none knew what to do next. Then followed a disgraceful breach of honour. Their leaders stole away under cover of the darkness, and the German soldiers found themselves left at the mercy of the foe. Fortunately for them, the Saracens were too exhausted to pursue their advantage, and the Germans, leaving their baggage and even their weapons behind them, fled in disorder to Tyre. The news of the death of their Emperor recalled most of these faint-hearted Soldiers of the Cross to Germany. The remainder made one last endeavour to fortify {161} Joppa and entrench themselves within it; but, in the November of 1197, the city fell before a furious attack of the Saracens, and the greater part of the inhabitants were slaughtered. This was the sad and disgraceful end of the Fourth Crusade, which left the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem a kingdom only in name. The Fifth Crusade is remarkable for the fact that it began in an outburst of keen religious enthusiasm, and ended in a riot of cruelty, bloodshed and profanity, without ever reaching the Holy Land at all. Two very different men were responsible for stirring up this Crusade in Europe. Innocent the Third, one of the youngest, most energetic and most ambitious of popes, thought to find in it an opportunity of increasing his "temporal" as well as spiritual power. It had long been the custom for princes, going forth on perilous adventure, to leave their lands in charge of the Holy Father; and even if this were not always done, the Crusades gave many a chance of interfering with the affairs of kingdoms and dukedoms whose people were engaged in the great religious war. Apart from this, the young Pope was, like all enthusiasts in religion, deeply affected by the idea of the unhappy state of the Holy Land, and sincerely desired to stir the hearts of the princes of Europe to do their part towards restoring it to Christendom. But the princes of Europe had had enough of Crusades and they turned a deaf ear to the call. It needed another Peter the Hermit, or at least another St Bernard to stir the hearts of rich and poor to march forth once more upon a quest that had cost them already so dear. {162} Then the right man appeared upon the scene. A certain French priest, Fulk by name, in atonement for a life of carelessness and sin, began to preach the duty of taking up the Cross in the Holy War. A mere village _curé_, he was content at first to teach and speak only in his own neighbourhood, but his reputation increased, he became noted as a worker of miracles, and rumours about him ere long reached the ears of the Pope. Innocent III. quickly saw in him the instrument he needed. Throughout the streets and slums of Paris, in castle and in cottage, Fulk was encouraged to make his way, calling upon men to repent of their sins and to atone for them by taking up arms for the Cause of Christ. As usual, "the common people heard him gladly," while for a time the nobles ignored him. Then it came to pass that young Count Theobald of Champagne held a great tournament, at which assembled two thousand knights. Into the midst of that gay throng appeared on a sudden the inspired face of Fulk the priest, dressed in his threadbare cassock. His burning words carried conviction to the hearts of the knights, and Theobald himself was the first to take up the Cross. Others followed--amongst them Simon de Montfort, father of the famous "good Earl Simon" of English history--and finally nearly all that great band of knights were enlisted as Crusaders. Everywhere the same result was seen. Great sums of money were raised for the enterprise. Louis, Count of Blois, and Baldwin, Count of Flanders, joined the band of leaders, and while preparations went on apace in France, Baldwin mindful of the chief reason for past failures, sent a message to Dandolo, the blind Doge of Venice, asking him to supply flat-bottomed boats in which {163} for a certain sum of money, the Crusading armies might be transported to the Holy Land. One of those sent upon this mission was Geoffrey de Villehardouin, Marshal of Champagne, who tells the story of this, the Fifth Crusade, so vividly.[1] [1] The following extracts from Villehardouin and Joinville are quoted, by kind permission of Messrs Dent & Co., from the admirable translation of Sir Frank Marzials in the _Everyman's Library_. "The Doge of Venice," says he, "whose name was Henry Dandolo, and who was very wise and very valiant, did them (the envoys) great honour, and entertained them right willingly, marvelling, however, what might be the matter that had brought them to that country. The envoys entered the palace, which was passing rich and beautiful, and found the Doge and his council in a chamber. "There they delivered their message after this manner. 'Sire, we come to thee on the part of the high barons of France who have taken the Sign of the Cross to avenge the shame done to Jesus Christ and to reconquer Jerusalem, if so be that God will suffer it. And because they know that no people have such great power to help them as you and your people, therefore we pray you by God that you take pity on the land oversea, and the shame of Christ, and use diligence that our lords have ships for transport and battle.' "'And after what manner should we use diligence?' said the Doge. "'After all manner that you may advise and propose,' rejoined the envoys, 'in so far as what you propose may be within our means.' "'Certes,' said the Doge, 'it is a great thing that your lords require of us, and well it seems that they have in {164} view a high enterprise. We will give you our answer eight days from to-day, for it is meet so great a matter be fully pondered.'" So eight days later, when the covenant had been proposed and accepted by the council and the envoys, a "mass of the Holy Ghost was celebrated in the chapel of St Mark, 'the most beautiful chapel that there is.' To this gathered 'well ten thousand of the people,' and immediately afterwards the French envoys were bidden 'to humbly ask them to assent to the proposed covenant.' "Villehardouin himself was spokesman before that multitude, and said unto them. 'Lords, the barons of France, most high and puissant, have sent us to you, and they cry to you for mercy, that you have pity on Jerusalem, which is in bondage to the Turks, and that for God's sake, you help to avenge the shame of Christ Jesus. "And for this end they have elected to come to you, because they know full well that there is none other people having so great power on the seas as you and your people. And they commanded us to fall at your feet, and not to rise till you consent to take pity on the Holy Land which is beyond the seas.' "Then the six envoys knelt at the feet of the people, weeping many tears. And the Doge and all the others burst into tears of pity and compassion, and cried with one voice, and lifted up their hands, saying: 'We consent! We consent!' "Then was there so great a noise and tumult that it seemed as if the earth itself were falling to pieces. "And when this great tumult and passion of pity--greater did never any man see--were appeased, the Good Doge of Venice, who was very wise and valiant, {165} went up into the reading-desk, and spoke to the people, and said to them: "'Signors, behold the honour that God has done you, for the best people in the world have set aside all other people, and chosen you to join them in so high an enterprise as the deliverance of our Lord.'" Thus comes on the stage upon which was played the story of the Fifth Crusade, that curious and interesting figure, the blind old Doge, Henry Dandolo, who, for all intents and purposes, may be regarded as the leader of that expedition, so completely did he sway its designs by his counsel and action. Years before, or so the story goes, he had been sent on an embassy to Constantinople, and there had been seized and treacherously ill-used so that he became practically blind. Whether this is true or not, the fact remains that Dandolo hated the Greeks with a bitter hatred, and was ready to use any means towards their hurt or downfall. So the treaty was made, and the Crusaders promised to pay the whole expenses of the expedition, a sum amounting to eighty-five thousand pieces of silver, on condition that they were provided food and transport. And to show their goodwill, the Venetians added fifty armed galleys to the fleet, "for the love of God." Then the envoys returned rejoicing, only to meet with one piece of ill luck after another. On his journey to Champagne, Geoffrey de Villehardouin met a large company of men, amongst whom were several important barons who had taken the Cross, and who were now following Walter of Brienne on an expedition to conquer the land of his wife, the daughter of King Tancred of Sicily. {166} "Now when he told them the news how the envoys had fared, great was their joy, and much did they prize the arrangements made. And they said, 'We are already on our way; and when you come, you will find us ready.'" "But," comments Geoffrey somewhat wearily, for this was but the first of many wasteful and irregular expeditions, "events fall out as God wills, and never had they power to join the host. This was much to our loss, for they were of great prowess and valiant." And then they parted and each went on his way. The next blow hit Geoffrey very hard. He rode day by day so that he came at length, he says, to Troyes, in Champagne, and found his lord, Count Theobald, sick and languishing, and right glad was the Count at his coming. And when he had told him how he fared, Theobald was so rejoiced that he said he would mount his horse, a thing he had not done for a long time. So he rose from his bed and rode forth. "But alas: how great the pity! For never again did he bestride horse but that once." Growing worse and worse, the Count began to realise that his part in the Crusade was over. So he divided the money which would have taken him on pilgrimage among his followers and companions, giving orders that each one, on receiving it, should swear "on holy relics, to join the host at Venice." "Many there were," says Geoffrey, "who kept that oath badly and so incurred great blame." So the Count Theobald died and was buried, and the Crusaders looked about them for another chief. First they went to Odo, Duke of Burgundy, his cousin, and offered him their faith and loyalty. "But such was {167} his pleasure that he refused. And be it known to you that he might have done much better," is the terse comment of Geoffrey. Finally, Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, one of the foremost nobles in that land, a patron of poets and troubadours and a skilled soldier, received the "lordship of the host." "Whereupon the Bishop of Soissons, and Master Fulk, that holy man, and two white monks whom the Marquis had brought with him from his own land, led him into the church of Notre Dame at Soissons, and attached the Cross to his shoulder." The death of Theobald was not the last blow that fate had in store for the Crusaders, says Geoffrey. "Thus did the pilgrims make ready in all lands. Alas! A great mischance befell them in the following Lent, before they had started, for another notable chief, Count Geoffrey of Perche, fell sick, and made his will in such fashion that he directed that Stephen, his brother, should have his goods and lead his men in the host. Of this exchange the pilgrims would willingly have been quit, had God so ordered. Thus did the Count make an end and die; and much evil ensued, for he was a baron high and honoured, and a good knight. Greatly was he mourned throughout all lands." It was soon after the Easter of 1202 that the French Crusaders began their march. Fulk himself, the originator of the movement, did not accompany them, remaining behind, possibly to stir up fresh enthusiasm and supplies of money if not of men. But he was not destined to see with his bodily eyes the failure of the expedition, for he died of fever at Neuilly, while the pilgrims were still at Venice. {168} The French army marched by way of the Jura Mountains and through Lombardy, where they were joined by the Marquis of Montferrat with his troops of Lombards, Piedmontese and Savoyards, and by a small band of Germans. At the same time a fleet had started from Flanders, the leaders of which had promised Count Baldwin to join the Crusaders at Venice. "But ill did these keep the faith they had sworn to the Count, they and others like them, because they, and such others of the same sort, became fearful of the great perils that the host of Venice had undertaken." Many of the French leaders, too, failed the main body of the Crusaders in the same way; for they avoided the passage to Venice because of the danger, and went instead to Marseilles, "whereof," says Geoffrey, "they received shame and much were they blamed--and great were the mishaps that afterwards befell them." Meantime, the French army, under the Marquis of Montferrat, had arrived safely at Venice, and was rejoiced to see the fair array of ships and transports waiting to convey it to the Holy Land. But now an unexpected difficulty arose; for, of all that great number of barons who had sworn to bring their men to Venice, only a very few had arrived; and then came the disconcerting news that many of these pilgrims were travelling by other ways and from other ports. Consternation ensued among the barons, for the Venetians were naturally determined that the money stipulated for the transports should be paid at once, and this could only be done if all the barons bore their share, as they had agreed to do. {169} So envoys, amongst whom was again found Geoffrey de Villehardouin, were sent to intercept the various leaders of armies, and "to beseech them to have pity on the Holy Land beyond the sea, and show them that no other passages save that from Venice could be of profit." These envoys met with only partial success. Count Louis of Blois agreed to accompany them, but many others chose to go their own way. "And then," says Geoffrey, "was the host of those who went by Venice greatly weakened, and much evil befell them therefrom, as you shall shortly hear." The Venetians had done their part well. They "held a market" for the Crusaders, "rich and abundant, of all things needful for horses and men. And the fleet they had got ready was so goodly and fine that never did Christian man see one goodlier or finer; both galleys and transports; and sufficient for at least three times as many men as were in the host." The first difficulty arose, naturally, over the matter of payment. Each man had done what he could, but the total sum came to less than half of that which was due. Earnestly did the barons urge the need of making further payment in fulfilment of their promise. "For God's sake," said they, "let each contribute all that he has, so that we may fulfil our covenant; for better it is that we should lose all that we have than lose what we have already paid and prove false to our promises; for if this host remains here, the rescue of the land oversea comes to naught." But the other barons and the lesser folk said, "We have paid for our passages, and if they will take us, we shall go willingly, but if not, we shall inquire and look for other means of passage." {170} "They spoke thus," says Geoffrey, "because they wished that the host should fall to pieces and each return to his own land." But the finer spirits preferred to face ruin, as far as worldly prospects went, and to go penniless with the host, rather than that the expedition should fail. "For God," said they, "will doubtless repay us when it so pleases Him." So they began to give and to borrow all that they could. "Then might you have seen many a fine vessel of silver and gold borne in payment to the palace of the Doge." But still a large part of the sum required was lacking. Then the Doge, seeing their plight, made a proposal to them. To his own citizens he said, "Signors, these people cannot pay more, and in so far as they have paid at all, we have benefited by an agreement that they cannot now fulfil. But our right to keep this money would not everywhere be acknowledged, and if we so kept it, we should be greatly blamed, both us and our land. Let us therefore offer them terms. "'The King of Hungary has taken from us Zara, in Sclavonia, which is one of the strongest places in the world; and never shall we recover it with all the power that we possess, save with the help of these people. Let us therefore ask them to help us to reconquer it, and we will remit the payment of the rest of the debt, until such time as it shall please God to allow us to gain the moneys by conquest, we and they together.' "And to this the Venetians and the Crusading host agreed." A striking and pathetic scene followed. [Illustration: _The Fleet of the Fifth Crusade sets sail from Venice_] On a very high festival the church of St Mark was thronged with citizens, barons and pilgrims. Before High Mass began, the blind and aged Doge, Henry {173} Dandolo, was led up to the reading-desk, from whence he spoke thus to his people. "'Signors, you are associated with the most worthy people in the world, and for the highest enterprise ever undertaken; and I am a man, old and feeble, who should have need of rest, and I am sick in body; but I see that no one could command and lead you like myself, who am your lord. "If you will consent that I take the Sign of the Cross to guard and direct you, and that my son remain in my place to guard the land, then shall I go to live or die with you and with the pilgrims.' "And when they heard him, they cried with one voice, 'We pray you by God that you consent and do it, and that you come with us!'" "He was of a great heart," says Geoffrey, comparing him bitterly with those who had gone to other ports to escape danger. "Then he came down from the reading-desk, and went before the altar, and knelt upon his knees, greatly weeping. And they sewed the cross on to a great cotton hat which he wore, and in front because he wished that all men should see it." His example sent many of the Venetians to follow in his steps, and at the same time preparations were hurried on for the departure, for September was now nigh at hand. Just before they started, messengers appeared in their midst with an appeal that was destined to change the whole aim of the Fifth Crusade. "At that time," says Geoffrey in his terse way, "there was an emperor in Constantinople whose name was Isaac, and he had a brother, Alexios by name, whom he had {174} ransomed from captivity among the Turks. This Alexios took his brother, the Emperor, tore the eyes out of his head, and made himself emperor by the aforesaid treachery. He kept Isaac a long time in prison, together with his son Alexios. This son escaped from prison, and fled in a ship to a city on the sea, which is called Ancona. "Thence he departed to go to King Philip of Germany, who had married his sister, and so came to Verona, in Lombardy, and lodged in the town, and found there a number of pilgrims and other people who were on their way to join the host. "And those who had helped him to escape, and were with him, said, 'Sire, here is an army in Venice, quite near to us, the best and most valiant people and knights that are in the world, and they are going oversea. Cry to them therefore for mercy, that they have pity on thee and on thy father, who have been so wrongfully dispossessed. And if they be willing to help thee, thou shalt be guided by them. Perchance they will take pity on thy estate.' "So the young Alexios said he would do this right willingly, and that the advice was good." Then he sent envoys to the Marquis of Montferrat, chief of the host, and the barons agreed that if he would help them to recover the land oversea, they would help him to recover the land so wrongfully wrested from him and his father. They sent also an envoy with the prince to King Philip of Germany; and in consequence, a goodly number of German soldiers joined the host at Venice and prepared to aid them in their enterprise. And then, after long delay, the Crusading army set out from the port of Venice in the month of October, 1202. {175} CHAPTER XIV The Forsaking of the High Enterprise _'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more._ BYRON: _Childe Harold._ The Siege of Zara affords one more example of the fatal disunion which was always appearing among the ranks of the Crusaders. From the first, the Abbot de Vaux, who had to some extent taken the place of the priest Fulk (now gone to his rest), had protested against warring upon the King of Hungary, who was himself a Crusader. The Pope sent urgent messages forbidding the whole enterprise; and when he found that the Venetians paid no heed to this prohibition, the Marquis of Montferrat, leader of the host, found convenient business which would for some time detain him from leading the host against his fellow-Christians. Even when the Crusaders assembled before the city walls, there were plenty of traitors in the camp only too ready to work mischief. When the people of Zara, utterly dismayed at the sight of the great host before their walls, sent messengers to the Doge, offering to yield up city and goods, if only their lives were spared, the latter replied, quite rightly, that he must first get the consent of the counts and barons of the Crusading pilgrims before he could accept any conditions. {176} But while the Doge tried to obtain this consent, some of the discontented and disloyal members were busy talking to the envoys. "Why should you surrender your city? The pilgrims will not attack you--have no fear of them. If you can defend yourselves against the Venetians, you will be safe enough." One of them even went upon the walls of the city and made a similar declaration to the citizens. Consequently the envoys returned to those who sent them, and the negotiations were broken off. Meantime the Doge and the barons had promptly decided to accept the conditions offered, and were returning to make this known in public, when the Abbot de Vaux confronted the council with--"Lords, I forbid you on the part of the Pope of Rome to attack this city; for those within it are Christians and you are pilgrims," and then informed the Doge that the envoys had departed. Great was the wrath of Dandolo, as he declared to the counts and barons, "Signors, I had this city, by their own agreement, at my mercy, and your people have broken that agreement; you have covenanted to help me to conquer it, and I summon you to do so." "Now are we ashamed if we do not help to take the city," was the verdict of the Crusaders when the matter had been discussed, and they came to the Doge and said: "Sire, we will help you to take the city in despite of those who would let and hinder us." It was a sorry business altogether, that siege of Zara, and though we may sympathise with their reluctance to attack their fellow-Christians with the arms destined for the fall of Islam, we must remember the solemn undertaking given to the Doge in payment of a just debt. {177} Fortunately the siege lasted but five days, when the citizens, finding their position hopeless, surrendered the city on condition that their lives were spared. With great generosity the Doge divided the town into two parts, and handed one over to the French for winter quarters. The Venetians settled on the other, for it was impossible to return before Easter. Scarcely had they been lodged there three days when "there began a fray, exceeding fell and fierce, between the Venetians and the Franks ... and the fray was so fierce that there were but few streets in which battle did not rage with swords and lances and cross-bows and darts; and many people were killed and wounded." Perhaps this incident served to convince the leaders of the difficulty of inducing the quarrelsome soldiers of two nations to sit down together in peace for any considerable period, and to induce them to look with more favour upon their next visitors. These were the envoys of King Philip of Germany and the young Alexios, who came, bringing this message to the Crusaders and the Doge: "Lords," said King Philip, "I will send you the brother of my wife, and I commit him into the hands of God--may He keep him from death--and into your hands. And because you have fared forth for God, and for right, and for justice, therefore are you bound, in so far as you are able, to restore to their own inheritance those who have been unrighteously despoiled. And my wife's brother will make with you the best terms ever offered to any people, and give you the most puissant help for the recovery of the land oversea." This proposal was the occasion of much debate. The Abbot de Vaux was all for the dispersal of the host, or {178} an immediate advance upon Palestine. The other side pointed out that they would not be able to do anything, disunited as they were, if they went to Palestine, and that it was only "by way of Babylon or of Greece, that the land oversea could actually be recovered." "If we reject this covenant," they urged, "we shall be shamed to all time." So the treaty with Alexios was accepted, even by the Marquis of Montferrat, who had at first held aloof in deference to the wishes of the Pope. Innocent himself did all in his power to break down their resolve, hurling the bolt of excommunication upon the Venetians, and warning the Crusaders that the Empire of Constantinople was under his special protection. But Dandolo remained unmoved, and the Crusading chiefs, influenced by the desire for the rich booty of Constantinople, were all on his side save Simon de Montfort, who betook himself, with his men, and several of his colleagues, forthwith to the Court of Hungary. It was pointed out to the Pope that the fall of Constantinople would bring back the Eastern Church within the fold of the Western Church, and the threats of Innocent grew fainter and fainter as preparation for the attack went on apace, and the young prince Alexios himself joined the host at Zara. So, on the Eve of Pentecost, 1203, "there were all the ships assembled, and all the transports, and all the galleys of the host, and many other ships of merchants that fared with them. And the day was fine and clear, and the wind soft and favourable, and they unfurled all their sails to the breeze. "And Geoffrey, the Marshal of Champagne, who dictates this work, _and has never lied therein by one word to his knowledge_, and who was, moreover, present at all {179} the councils held--he bears witness that never was yet seen so fair a sight. Well might it appear that such a fleet would conquer and gain lands, for, far as the eye could reach, there was no space without sails, and ships, and vessels, so that the hearts of men rejoiced greatly." At the Straits of Malea they met two ships full of the pilgrims who had deserted them at Venice and taken their own way; "Who, when they saw our fleet so rich and well-appointed, conceived such shame that they dared not show themselves." From one of these a sergeant suddenly let himself down into a boat, saying to those on deck, "I am quits to you for any goods of mine that may remain in the ship, for I am going with these people, for well I deem they will conquer lands." "Much did we make of the sergeant," comments Geoffrey, quaintly, "and gladly was he received into the host. For well may it be said, that even after following a thousand crooked ways a man may find his way right in the end." And so at length they came to the port of St Stephen, from whence they had a good view of Constantinople. "Upon which they looked very earnestly, for they never thought there could be in the world so rich a city; and they marked the high walls and strong towers that enclosed it round about, and the rich palaces and mighty churches--of which there were so many that no one would have believed it who had not seen it with his eyes--and the height and length of that city which above all others was sovereign. "And be it known to you that no man there was of such hardihood, but his flesh trembled; and it was no wonder, {180} for never was so great an enterprise undertaken by any people since the Creation of the World! "Next day they took port before the magnificent royal palace that faced the city, just across the straits, and finding plenty of corn, for it was harvest time, the leaders took possession of the palace, and all were well content." It was not long before the usurping Emperor Alexios realised his peril, and sent to them envoys bearing fair messages. "Lords," said they, "the Emperor Alexios would have you know that he is well aware that you are the best people uncrowned, and come from the best land on earth. And he marvels much why, and for what purpose, you have come into his land and kingdom. For you are Christians, and he is a Christian, and well he knows that you are on your way to deliver the Holy Land oversea and the Holy Cross and the Sepulchre. "If you are poor and in want, he will right willingly give you of his food and substance, provided you depart out of his land. Neither would he otherwise wish to do you any hurt, though he has full power therein, seeing that if you were twenty times as numerous as you are, you would not be able to get away without utter discomfiture if so be that he wished to harm you." "Then arose that good knight, Conon of Bethune, and said, 'Fair sirs, you have told us that your lord marvels much why we should have entered into his kingdom and land. Into his land they have not entered, for he holds this land wrongfully and wickedly, against God and against reason. It belongs to his nephew, who sits upon a throne among us, and is the son of his brother, the Emperor Isaac. But, if he is willing to throw himself {181} upon the mercy of his nephew and to give him back his crown and empire, then will we pray his nephew to forgive him, and bestow upon him as much as will enable him to live in wealth. And if you come not as the bearer of such a message, then be not so bold as to come here again.'" Next morning the Crusaders determined to show the young Alexios to the people of the city; so the Doge of Venice and the Marquis of Montferrat entered into one galley, taking the prince with them, and the knights and barons crowded into as many other boats as they could get. They came close to the city walls and showed the youth to the Greeks, saying, "Behold your natural lord! And be it known to you that I have not come to do you harm, but have come to guard and defend you, if so be that you return to your duty. Now behold the rightful heir. If you hold with him you will be doing as you ought, and if not, we will do to you the very worst that we can." But the citizens were far too much in awe of the Emperor Alexios to show a sign of sympathy, and so they returned to the host. Then a terrible siege began, and for ten days both sides fought with might and main. One of the most interesting incidents is thus related by the eye-witness Geoffrey. "Now may you hear of a strange deed of prowess; for the Doge of Venice, who was an old man and saw naught (seeing he was blind) stood, fully armed, on the prow of his galley, and had the standard of St Mark before him; and he cried to his people to put him on land, or else that he would do justice upon their bodies with his hands. "And so they did, for the galley was run aground, {182} and they leapt therefrom, and bore the standard of St Mark before him on the land. "And when the Venetians saw the standard of St Mark on land, and the galley of their lord touching ground before them, each held himself for shamed, and they all got to the land, and those in the transports leapt forth and landed; and those in the big ships got into barges, and made for the shore, each and all as best they could. "Then might you have seen an assault, great and marvellous and to this bears witness Geoffrey de Villehardouin, who makes this book, that more than forty people told him for sooth that they saw the standard of St Mark of Venice at the top of one of the towers, and that no man knew who bore it thither. "Now hear of a strange miracle. Those that are within the city fly and abandon the walls, and the Venetians enter in, each as fast and as best he can, and seize twenty-five of the towers, and man them with their own people." That same night, after a disgraceful retreat from a conflict before the gates, the Emperor Alexios "took of his treasure as much as he could carry, and of his people as many as would go," and fled from the city. The rest of the citizens drew the poor blind Isaac from his dungeon, clothed him in the imperial robes, and seating him on a high throne, did obeisance to him; after which they hastened to tell the prince Alexios and the barons of what had happened. Great was the joy throughout the host. "Him whom God will help can no men injure," was said of young Alexios, yet with the distrust which the Greeks always inspired, the leaders hastened to send envoys to enquire {183} whether Isaac meant to ratify the covenant made by the prince, his son. With much reluctance, this was done, though the words with which the request was received might well be thought to ring false. "Certes," said the Emperor, "this covenant is very onerous, and I do not see how effect can be given to it, nevertheless, you have done us such service, both to my son and to myself, that if we bestowed upon you the whole empire, you would have deserved it well." There was now nothing else to wait for save the coronation of the new Emperor, and when once that was over, had their hearts been really set upon the cause of God, they would resolutely have turned their faces to the Holy Land. But they had already too lightly forsaken their high enterprise, and readily turned away again from its fulfilment. {184} CHAPTER XV The Story of the Latin Empire of Constantinople _Greece, change thy lords, thy state is still the same, Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame._ BYRON: _Childe Harold._ Although the usurper had fled, the position of the Emperor Isaac, and that of his son Alexios, the virtual ruler, was by no means serene. Money had to be raised in order to pay the sum promised to the Crusaders, and the taxes levied in consequence did not endear them to the Turks. They had good reason to distrust the loyalty of their subjects, and to dread what might happen if the Crusaders withdrew from the neighbourhood of the city. So the young prince Alexios, betook himself to the camp and in his father's name used his utmost powers of persuasion to induce the chieftains to remain. "You have restored to me life, honour and empire," said he "I ought to desire but one thing more, the power to fulfil my promises. But if you abandon me now and proceed to Syria, it is impossible that I should furnish you with either the money, troops or vessels that I have promised. The people of Constantinople have received me with many demonstrations of joy, but they love me {185} not the more for that. I am hated by them because you have restored to me my heritage. If you forsake me, my life or throne would probably fall a sacrifice to my enemies. I implore you, therefore, to defer your departure until the March of next year, and I will promise in return not only to provide your army with all necessary supplies till Easter, but also to engage the Venetians to support you with their fleet till Michaelmas." The usual division of opinion followed, but the supporters of the Emperor had their way, and the latter showed his gratitude by paying large sums of money to his allies, money that had to be raised by heavy taxes or by selling the treasures stored in the churches. This measure did more than anything else to inflame the Greeks against the Crusaders, for it lent colour to a report that had got about, to the effect that the ancient religion of the Greek Catholics was about to be altered in many ways, and brought into line with that of the Church of Rome. It was while the young Alexios was absent on a kind of triumphal march through his father's dominions that the suppressed fury of the citizens was kindled into a blaze by the rude behaviour of a handful of the Crusaders. There was a mosque at Constantinople, which had been built at the request of Saladin for the use of the followers of Islam. From this the worshippers were one day emerging when a band of half intoxicated Flemings and Venetians endeavoured to insult them by forcing an entry. The Mohammedans protected their building with all their energy, and their opponents promptly set it on fire. The fire spread to the neighbouring buildings, and the quarrel, at first a mere street-fight, grew fast and furious. {186} "No man could put out or abate that fire," says Geoffrey, "it waxed so great and horrible. And when the barons of the host, who were quartered on the other side of the fort, saw this, they were sore grieved and filled with pity--seeing the great churches and the rich palaces melting and falling in, and the great streets filled with merchandise burning in the flames; but they could do nothing." For two days and two nights the fire lasted, and so strong was the feeling of the city that all Latin settlers there fled with their goods and took refuge in the Crusaders' camp. Again and again the fire broke out, until from east to west its track could be marked out by one unbroken line of destruction and desolation. From the height where their camp was pitched, the Crusaders could but watch the terrible scene with dismay, knowing, as they did, that their men had been its cause. The return of Alexios did not mend matters. A silence as of death reigned in the blackened streets; looks of hatred met him wherever the people were to be accosted. Moreover, the fact that he had by no means fulfilled his promises of payment to the host led to deep distrust of him in that quarter. Envoys were sent to demand that the Emperor should keep his pledged word, and their speech to him ended with these significant words. "'Should you do so, it shall be well. If not, be it known to you that from this day forth, they will not hold you as lord or friend, but will endeavour to obtain their due by all the means in their power. And of this they now give you warning, seeing that they would not injure you, nor any one, without first defiance given; for never have they acted treacherously, nor in their land is it customary to do so.'" {187} There was but one answer to this defiance, seeing that the Emperor could not pay even if he would. He knew too well that he and his son had forfeited even the natural respect due to their position; Isaac, because he was a mere figure-head completely in the hands of Alexios, the real Emperor in all but name; and the latter because of the want of dignity he had shown even in his most friendly days, when on visiting the camp, he had permitted the rough Venetian sailors to snatch off his jewelled circlet and to force upon his head one of the dirty linen caps worn by themselves. Just at this time, too, the young prince was very much under the influence of a certain "Mourzoufle," or "He of the black eyebrows," as the nickname implies. This man, having laid his own plans in secret, strongly advised Alexios to defy the Crusaders; and so the war began with an unexpected piece of trickery on the part of the Greeks. "They took seven large ships and filled them full of big logs, and shavings and tow and resin and barrels, and then waited until such time as the wind should blow strongly from their side of the straits. And, one night, at midnight, they set fire to the ships, and unfurled their sails to the wind. And the flames blazed up high, so that it seemed as if the whole world were afire. Thus did the burning ships come towards the fleet of the pilgrims and a great cry arose in the host, and all sprang to arms on every side. It seemed as though every ship in the harbour would fall a victim to this device, but the Venetians did good service on that day, turning the burning boats out of the harbour with such skill that only one ship was utterly destroyed." From the walls of Constantinople the Greeks had {188} watched what they hoped would be a heavy blow to the Crusaders, who, bereft of their fleet, would not be able to get away either by land or sea. Great was their dismay when they perceived that the main effect was to rouse the pilgrims to take a desperate revenge upon them for their dastardly deeds. Now came forward the crafty Mourzoufle, and, whilst pretending to act as go-between for Isaac and the French barons, secretly stirred up a revolution in the city against the Emperor. Just as he had succeeded in convincing Alexios that it was unsafe for him to have anything to do with the Crusaders, a tumult broke out in the city. Crowding into the great church of St Sophia, a reckless mob pronounced that Isaac and Alexios were deposed, and elected an unknown and feeble-minded youth, named Canabus, in their place. When Alexios heard of this, he shut himself up within the royal palace and sent messengers to Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat imploring his help. But while the Marquis was generously hastening to protect him, Mourzoufle was before him, and was whispering in the ear of the young man that the appearance of Boniface meant that the Latins had seized Constantinople for their own. His allies were busy spreading a report of the assault of the city by the Crusaders, and when Montferrat thundered at the gates of the palace, he was not only refused admittance but found himself in a position of the greatest danger from the fury of the people who thronged the streets. While he was fighting his way through these, the terrified Alexios had put himself into the hands of Mourzoufle, who promised to lead him to a place of {189} safety. This turned out to be a dungeon, from which the unfortunate young prince was never again to emerge alive. Regardless of the election of poor wretched Canabus, Mourzoufle now appealed to the people to state their will, saying that until they made this known he was holding captive an Emperor whose plans were not to be trusted. A great shout from the fickle Greeks proclaimed "He of the Black Brows," as their new choice, and he was forthwith carried to St Sophia and crowned as Emperor. "When the Emperor Isaac heard that his son was taken and Mourzoufle crowned, great fear came upon him, and he fell into a sickness that lasted no long time. So he died. And the Emperor Mourzoufle caused the son, whom he had in prison to be poisoned two or three times; but it did not please God that he should thus die. Afterwards the Emperor went and strangled him, and when he had strangled him, he caused it to be reported everywhere that he had died a natural death, and had him mourned for and buried honourably as an Emperor, and made great show of grief." "But," as Geoffrey further remarks, "murder cannot be hid, and this deed of the Black-Browed only hastened on the attack which the Crusaders were about to make upon the city." The aim of this second siege of Constantinople was not merely to punish the murder of the Emperor. The Crusaders had resolved that, from henceforth, no Greek, but a Latin sovereign should rule the Eastern Empire, to be elected by an equal number of French and Venetians acting as a committee. One of the most interesting incidents of the siege is told us by another chronicler, Robert of Clari. He tells {190} us that a small troop of besiegers had come to a postern door in the city walls which had been newly bricked up. Amongst them was a clerk named Aleaume of Clari, who had done more deeds of prowess than any man in the host, "save only the Lord Peter of Bracuel." "So when they came to the postern they began to hew and pick at it very hardily; but the bolts flew at them so thick, and so many stones were hurled at them from the wall, that it seemed as if they would be buried beneath the stones. And those who were below held up targets and shields to cover them that were picking and hewing underneath; and those above threw down pots of boiling pitch and fire and large rocks, so that it was one of God's miracles that the assailants were not utterly confounded; for my Lord Peter and his men suffered more than enough of blows and grievous danger. However, so did they hack at the postern that they made a great hole therein, whereupon they all swarmed to the opening, but saw so many people above and below, that it seemed as if half the world were there, and they dared not be so bold as to enter. "Now when Aleaume, the clerk, saw that no man dared to go in; he sprang forward and said that go in he would. And there was present a knight, a brother to the clerk (his name was Robert), who forbade him and said he should not go in. And the clerk said he would, and scrambled in on his hands and feet. And when the knight saw this he took hold of him by the foot and began to drag him back. But in spite of this, the clerk went in. And when he was within, many of the Greeks ran upon him and those on the wall cast big stones on him; and the clerk drew his knife and ran at them; and he drove them before him as though they had been cattle, and cried to {191} those outside, to the Lord Peter and his folk, 'Sire, come in boldly, I see that they are falling back discomfited and flying.' When my Lord Peter heard this they entered in, and there was with him about ten knights and some sixty foot soldiers, and when those on the wall saw them they fled helter-skelter. "Now the Emperor Mourzoufle, the traitor, was near by, and he caused the silver horns to be sounded, and the cymbals, and a great noise to be made. And when he saw my Lord Peter and his men, all on foot, he made a great show of falling upon them, and spurring forward, came about half-way to where they stood. But my Lord Peter, when he saw him coming, began to encourage his people and to say, 'Now, Lord God, grant that we may do well, and the battle shall be ours. Let no one dare to think of retreat, but each bethink himself to do well.' Then Mourzoufle, seeing that they would in no wise give way, stayed where he was and then turned back to his tents." One likes to dwell upon such brave tales as this, that one may the longer defer the miserable sequel of this success. The city was taken on the Monday of the Holy Week of 1204, when Mourzoufle had shut himself within his palace as a preliminary to flight at the first opportunity. On the Tuesday, when he had fled from the Golden Gate, the Crusaders occupied the whole city "for they found none to oppose them." The bishops and clergy who were with the host had strictly charged the soldiers to respect the churches of the city, as well as the monks and nuns of the religious houses, but they had spoken in vain. The taking of the city was disgraced by the most terrible scenes of violence, cruelty, and sacrilege. The {192} beautiful church of St Sophia was defiled by drunken wretches, who drained the sacred vessels from the altar, and sang low songs where only the stately psalms and hymns of the Eastern Church had been heard. Not one sacred building was spared, but rifled of its treasures; its costly lace and beautiful carving was left bare and desolate, too often stained with the blood of the slain. No wonder that the Greeks regarded with utter horror the behaviour of their fellow Christians, who had once been so eager to urge the union of the Churches of East and West. Well might the pope exclaim, when he heard of the horrible excesses, "How shall the Greek Church return to unity and to respect for the Bishop of Rome, when they have seen in the Latins only examples of wickedness and works of darkness, for which they might justly loathe them, worse than dogs?" Nor were the churches the only objects of the spoilers. Some of the beautiful statues, the work of Greek sculptors in the best days of the art of Greece, were smashed to atoms by the rough soldiers; others, of bronze, were ruthlessly melted down into money. Many of the inhabitants of the city fled, amongst whom was the Patriarch, or Archbishop, who had scarcely time to clothe himself, and was without food or money. The misery and humiliation of the proud city of Constantine were completed when Baldwin, Count of Flanders, a brave young baron, but utterly out of sympathy with Greek ideas, was crowned Emperor. The story of the Latin empire of Constantinople scarcely belongs to that of the Crusades. It lasted for fifty-seven years (1204-1261), and was marked by the constant unrest and revolution of one part of the empire or another. Thus it never became firmly settled, for the {193} Latin Emperor had no real power in the land. A short time after his election, most of the Crusaders returned to their own homes. Two years after the taking of the city, both Boniface of Montferrat, leader of the expedition, and the brave old Dandolo, Doge of Venice, died. The latter may perhaps be blamed as being the means of turning aside the Crusaders from their original undertaking, the relief of the Holy Land; but the real blame lies with those who broke their promise to share in the expenses of the expedition and thus forced the host to do as Dandolo required of them. What then had become of those faithless remnants of the Fifth Crusade? Their story is soon told. One small army reached Palestine and strove to join Bohemond of Antioch, a descendant of the famous Crusader. Falling into an ambush of the Saracens, the whole of the force was massacred or taken prisoner, with the exception of a single knight. Another section of the Crusaders actually reached Antioch and became absorbed in the quarrels between Bohemond and the Christian prince of Armenia. Not a blow was struck for the deliverance of Jerusalem, and nothing was gained by the Crusade as far as the Holy War was concerned. On the other hand, the Fifth Crusade has an importance all its own; for the capture of Constantinople opened a door to the East that had been closed too long. Not only did it sow the seeds of that commercial prosperity which made Venice "hold the gorgeous East in fee, and be the safeguard of the West," but it enabled Western Europe to catch a glimpse of that wealth of art and literature which were stored within the city walls, and which were not to be spread broadcast over the land until the days of her fall into the hands of Islam. {194} CHAPTER XVI The Children's Crusade _The child spake nobly: strange to hear His infantine soft accents clear Charged with high meanings, did appear._ E. B. BROWNING: _A Vision of Poets._ During the ten years that followed the taking of Constantinople, Pope Innocent tried to stir up another Crusade, which he hoped should actually fulfil its high ideals. But the old enthusiasm for the Holy War had died down. The chief kingdoms of Europe were too busy quarrelling with one another to have leisure to think of the distant lands of the East. John of England was getting into trouble both with his own people and with the Pope himself; Philip Augustus of France was building up his kingdom into a great and united nation; Otho of Germany and Frederick II., grandson of Barbarossa, the Crusader, were in fierce conflict with regard to Germany. While Europe was thus absorbed in more or less selfish aims and ideals, a bitter cry for help was heard from the East. A terrible famine, followed by pestilence, both caused by the failure of the Nile to overflow its banks and fertilize the soil, had reduced the people of Palestine and Egypt to a state of absolute misery. Mothers were {195} said actually to have killed and eaten their own babes in their extremity of hunger, and hundreds of people simply lay down and died by the roadside. The extreme limit of misery and human desolation was reached when to famine and pestilence was added an earthquake which destroyed whole cities. Heavy, indeed, seemed the hand of God upon His land, and there were not wanting many who said that He was punishing it for past sins and present negligence, since Jerusalem was still in the hands of the infidel. Suddenly, while Pope Innocent was vainly trying to rouse Europe to undertake a Sixth Crusade, an astonishing movement began to be seen amongst the children of the different lands. Throughout France and Germany boy leaders drilled their little regiments, fastened on the Cross, and prepared seriously to go forth to the Holy War. At first they met with opposition, and ridicule; but such was the earnest zeal of these little people that even the most hardened onlooker ceased to jeer or hinder. Mothers, with aching hearts, saw their little ones march forth, and put out no hand to prevent them, and as the procession passed along the high roads, the children swarmed out from cottage and castle to join the ranks. From Germany a band of seven thousand children set out for the port of Genoa, from whence they hoped to embark for the Holy Land. They were led by a boy named Nicholas, who swayed them by the most extraordinary power, and was almost worshipped by his little host. But to get to Genoa, they had to cross the Alps, and there cold and hunger left thousands of the poor mites dead upon the mountain side. The remnant, a sad and sorry spectacle, ragged, starving and dirty, made its {196} way at length into Genoa. There they hoped to find friends and help to cross the sea; but the citizens of the port looked with scant favour upon the little Crusaders, and the Senate ordered that they should forthwith depart from the city. Some wealthy inhabitants, kinder of heart than the rest, adopted a few of the fairer and more attractive children; a few more struggled on to Rome to lay their cause at the feet of the Pope. The rest, heart-sick and weary, tried to struggle back to their homes. Enthusiasm was long since dead, they were laughed at, as failures, and saddest of all, when they were asked why they had left their homes, they now made weary answer that "they could not tell." Few indeed, ever saw their native land again. Another band of German boys and girls succeeded in reaching the port of Brindisi, where they were actually put on board ships bound for the East. What was their fate remains a mystery; they were never heard of more. The largest band of all started from Vendôme in France, under the leadership of a nameless shepherd-boy, who wore a little sheepskin coat and carried a banner upon which was worked a lamb. [Illustration: _The Children crossing the Alps_] He seemed to possess a magic power over his playmates, for at the sound of his clear, high young voice, hundreds and thousands of children flocked to his banner and received the cross from his hands. Not even grown persons, not even the most obstinate parent could stand against his persuasions and entreaties. Full of devotion, full of zeal, the children marched upon the long road to Marseilles, singing psalms and hymns, and crying constantly aloud-- "O Lord Christ! Restore to us thy Cross!" "You know not what is before you," said the wise {199} greybeards of the villages through which they passed. "What do you mean to do?" "To get to the Holy Land," was the invariable and undaunted answer. Weary and hungry, with their ranks much thinned by fatigue and the hardships of the way, the Child Crusade entered Marseilles with gallant hearts. For they fully expected that they would find the sea cleft asunder by a miracle, and a pathway prepared for them to the other side. When they found they were mistaken, some turned their faces homeward; but most stayed to see if by any means they could get boats to take them to the Holy Land. To them came presently two merchants, Hugh Ferrens, and William Beco, or Porcus, who had already discovered how to make a fortune by selling European children as slaves to the Saracens. Approaching the eager little ones with kindly words, they offered to lend them seven ships wherein they might be taken across the sea to their destination. Joyfully the children agreed and set forth with songs and merry cries, cheered by a vast multitude who watched them from the shore. Of that bright-faced band not one ever reached the Holy Land or returned to Europe to tell the tale. At the end of two days, two of the ships were wrecked in a terrible storm and all on board perished. The rest escaped this peril, and sailed on to Alexandria and other ports, where the poor little passengers were landed and sold as slaves to the Saracens. Twelve of these are said to have won the martyr's crown, because they preferred to die rather than renounce their faith, a few reached the Christian city of Ptolemais after a time, and told their sad story to the enraged inhabitants, the {200} rest were condemned to a life of slavery among the sons of Islam. Theirs is a sad story, yet we may find in it the awakening of that spirit of devotion which seemed to have died out in Europe. Pope Innocent, when he heard of this Crusade, might well say, "These children are a reproach to us for slumbering while they fly to the succour of the Holy Land." From that time preparations for the Sixth Crusade began in good earnest. {201} CHAPTER XVII The Story of the Emperor Frederick and the Sixth Crusade _Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by._ GOLDSMITH: _The Traveller._ The story of the Sixth Crusade may be told in two parts, one dealing with failure, the other with success. It was the tardy fruit of Pope Innocent's urgent appeal for another Holy War, a war which he himself would have led, had not death cut short his career. Curiously enough, the actual leader of the first part of the Sixth Crusade was the king of a country whose people had done their utmost to hinder and prevent the First Crusaders on their march to the Holy Land. Andrew, King of Hungary, sailed in 1216 with a large army to Asia; and with him were the Dukes of Austria and Bavaria. At Acre they were joined by other bands of Crusaders, so that in the next year four kings, of Hungary, Armenia, Cyprus, and John of Brienne, "King of Jerusalem," in name alone, were met together within the city walls. But these later Crusaders, for the most part, were made of sorry stuff. If Andrew had been a second Geoffrey {202} of Bouillon, he might well have restored the kingdom of Jerusalem. He was, however, half-hearted in the work, and would perhaps never have undertaken it had not his dying father laid upon him a solemn obligation to fulfil his own vow. Famine, too, proved a worse enemy than the Saracens, and the latter, knowing this too well, did not attempt to bring about an engagement. So the Crusaders at first contented themselves with an advance to the river Jordan, in the waters of which they bathed, and then made a peaceful expedition across the plains of Jericho and by the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Then the soldiers began to get restive, and to ask for what reason they had come so far from their western homes; so it was suddenly decided to attack the Saracen castle on Mount Tabor. The story of this attempt only serves to emphasise the weakness and inefficiency of the leaders. The castle was guarded by rocky passes and steep heights, which the Saracens defended with their usual skill and courage. But the Crusaders had actually succeeded in driving them from their posts and in forcing their way to the very gates, when panic, inexplicable but complete, seized hold upon them. They retreated in confusion and shame, undeterred by the reproaches of the Patriarch of Jerusalem, who had accompanied the expedition, bearing with him a fragment of the true Cross. Realising, perhaps, that he was not destined to be a hero, Andrew of Hungary returned home, and his example was followed by many of his fellow-pilgrims. The hopes of John of Brienne, however, were not quite dashed to the ground, for fresh troops of Crusaders from France, Italy and Germany, arrived at Acre during the {203} spring of 1218, and to these was soon added a little English army under William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury. The combined forces now determined to strike at the Sultan first through Egypt, and urged thereto by John of Brienne, sailed up the Nile to attack Damietta, one of the strong fortresses which guarded that land. The city seemed impregnable, for it was not only surrounded by three thick walls, but was also protected by a double wall on the side facing the Nile, and by a tower built in the middle of the river, from which was stretched to the ramparts an enormously strong iron chain. The story of this siege is intermingled with strange legends. A high wooden tower had been built upon two of the Crusaders' ships, from which they hoped to attack the river fortress, but this was quickly set on fire by the Saracens, while the banner of the Holy Cross was seen to drift helplessly down the stream. The terrified onlookers from the banks flung themselves on their knees and implored the help of God at this crisis; upon which it is said that the flames died down, while before the astonished eyes of the Crusaders the banner was seen to wave from the top of the tower in the river. Much encouraged, they made a fresh attack with such vigour that the enemy threw down their arms and the tower was won. The legend says that when the chief prisoners were brought into the Christian camp, they asked to be shown the troop of white clothed men bearing shining white swords, the brilliance of whose appearance they declared to have so dazzled their eyes that they could not see to fight longer; and so, says the chronicler of these things, "the Crusaders knew that the Lord Christ had sent His Angels to attack that tower." {204} While the siege of Damietta itself was still in progress, news arrived of the death of Saphadim, the Sultan, and of the accession of his two sons. The "Sword of Religion," as his Moslem followers called Saphadim, had been a wise as well as a valiant ruler; his successors were weak and incapable. Aghast at the thought of losing their famous seaport, and alarmed at the arrival of many new pilgrims, some hailing from France, others from England, the two young men at length sent messengers with an offer wrung from them, they said, "because the power of God was against them." They promised, in fact, to give up Jerusalem and the whole of Palestine to the Crusaders if the latter would agree to depart at once from Egypt. Considering that the freeing of the Holy Land from infidel rule was the only true aim of the Crusaders, we can only be amazed at finding that the offer was rejected. John of Brienne, "the King of Jerusalem," was eager enough to accept it; so too were the Knights Templars and Hospitallers mindful of their vows. But there was present in the camp a certain Cardinal Pelagius, the papal legate, who claimed, as representative of the Pope, to have the final decision in the matter; and he, fearing probably that the supreme power would fall into the hands of John of Brienne, supported by the French Crusaders and afterwards by the Knights of the Temple and Hospital, carried the day against the Sultan, and caused the siege of Damietta to be resumed. Plague had already done its work within the walls, and there remained little for the Crusaders to do. Damietta was theirs, and a sorry triumph it proved. [Illustration: _John of Brienne attacking the River Tower_] In spite of the frank opposition of John of Brienne, {207} Pelagius now determined to lead the host to the further conquest of Egypt, and a march on Cairo began. Once more the terrified Sultan offered them the same terms, and once more, being, as Philip of France contemptuously said, "so daft as to prefer a town to a kingdom," they refused to give up Damietta, and pursued their way. Too late repentance came; for the Nile rose with its usual rapidity, the sluices were opened by the Egyptians, the camp was surrounded by water, and baggage and tents were washed away. The unfortunate Crusaders, caught in a trap, were at the mercy of their foes, and were thankful when the Sultan, in pity, offered to let them go free if they would surrender Damietta. They could but agree, since they knew that it required all the little authority that the young Sultan had at his command to prevent his chieftains condemning the whole host to destruction. As it was, the latter were perishing of famine, and tears flowed down the cheeks of John of Brienne, when led as hostage to the Sultan's tent, as he remembered their distress. With that generosity which marks the whole family of Saladin, the Sultan, when he discovered the cause of his grief, at once sent the starving multitude a large store of food. Thus in darkness and disgrace ended the first part of the Sixth Crusade, which so far had gained nothing but an ill reputation for the Crusaders who had taken part in it. The leader of the second part of the Sixth Crusade was made of very different stuff from Andrew of Hungary or John of Brienne. When Frederick II., grandson of the great Barbarossa, had been summoned, some eight years before this time, from the leafy groves of his kingdom of Sicily, to be emperor in place of the rebellious Otho, he {208} had taken the cross and promised to lead an army to the Holy Land at the earliest opportunity. But Otho did not take his deposition quietly, and during the next few years Frederick had his hands too full in his own dominions to fulfil his vow. After Otho's death, two years later than that of the ambitious and energetic Pope Innocent, the new Pope, Honorius, besought the young Emperor to listen to the bitter cry for help which once more came from across the sea. At that time, however, Frederick was completely absorbed in ambitious schemes for himself and his family. The Pope's influence was strong, however, and it seemed clear that his friendship was absolutely necessary to Frederick's schemes. The position of the Emperor had never been universally acknowledged in past years, and it was now proposed that Honorius should publicly crown Frederick at St Peter's at Rome. This was done in all good faith and fellowship. "Never did Pope love Emperor as he loved his son Frederick," said Honorius as he parted from him after the coronation, with the promise ringing in his ears that the German army should be ready to start on the Crusade during the following year. But Frederick still delayed, for he saw little chance of winning the glory he coveted under present conditions in the East. He was not going to send an army thither merely to put John of Brienne back on the throne of Jerusalem. Even the news of the loss of Damietta only served to point the moral that without a huge army, for which time and money were absolutely necessary, supreme success could not be achieved. Then John of Brienne himself landed in Europe to ask in person for the help that was so long in coming. He {209} brought with him his beautiful daughter, Yolande, and her presence inspired the Pope with new hopes. He now proposed that the Emperor Frederick should marry the maiden and go forth to the Holy War as the heir of John of Brienne. The marriage took place in 1225, more than eleven years after Frederick's vow as a Crusader had first been taken. Almost immediately the Emperor showed his real motive in the marriage by declaring that as John held his royal rights only through his wife, they passed on her death to her daughter, through whom they were now held by her husband, and the Emperor therefore at once proclaimed himself "King of Jerusalem." Not even then, after the unavailing opposition of John had died away, did Frederick start upon the Crusade. In his beautiful Sicilian kingdom, surrounded by learned Jews, cultivated Saracens, Norman troubadours and Italian poets, he had become too easy-going, too tolerant of all forms of faith or of none, to have any real religious motive to stimulate his actions. He was, indeed, inclined to meet even the Sultan of Egypt himself on terms of the friendliest equality. But Honorius had been succeeded as Pope by the proud and domineering Gregory IX., to whom this spirit of dallying was loathsome. An imperative letter summoning the Emperor to fulfil his broken vow seemed at first to have some real effect, and in the August of 1227 a large army assembled at Brindisi. There the men were seized by fever, and though Frederick actually set sail with the fleet, it was only to return after three days to the harbour of Otranto, while the host dispersed. The Pope was furious, and, paying no heed to the Emperor's plea of sickness, proceeded to excommunicate, "with bell, book and candle," one whom he said had been nursed, tended, {210} and aided by the Church, only to cheat her with false hopes and trickery. A pretty quarrel now arose. Frederick appealed to the sovereigns of Europe, declaring that his illness had been real and that "the Christian charity which should hold all things together is dried at its very source." Meantime he treated the ban of excommunication with contempt. The Pope replied, in the ensuing Holy Week, by putting every place where Frederick happened to visit under an interdict, and threatening to absolve his subjects from their allegiance if this were disregarded. The Emperor took no notice, but, as though to emphasise the injustice with which he had been treated, pushed on his preparations for the Crusade. Setting out to Brindisi, he was met by papal envoys who forbade him to leave Italy until he had done penance for his offences against the Church. His only answer was to send his own messengers to Rome demanding that the interdict be removed, and meantime he set sail for Acre. All other Crusaders had gone forth with the blessing of the Pope and the Church; this, the most recent of them all, came as an outcast, with the ban of the Church upon him; and his position was bound to be affected thereby. The greater part of his army feared to serve under him, and he landed with only six hundred knights, "more like a pirate than a great king." The military orders, the Knights of the Hospital and the Temple also refused to acknowledge him, but the scattered pilgrims, eager for a leader at any price, looked upon him with favour and rallied to his standard. But upon these broken reeds Frederick had little intention of leaning. From the bigoted narrowness of {211} Templars and Hospitallers he gladly turned to the polished and cultivated Sultan, Malek-Camhel, who was quite prepared to renew friendly terms with one whom he held in much respect. For some time they dealt with trifles, comparing their respective skill in verse-making and in music. Then the Emperor sent Camhel his sword and cuirass, and the latter responded by a present of an elephant, some camels, and a quantity of the rich spices and stuffs of the East. Becoming aware, at length, that these signs of friendship were the cause of mutterings of discontent in the camps both of Islam and of the Crusaders, they at length agreed upon a truce of ten years on the following conditions. The towns of Joppa, Bethlehem and Nazareth were to be given up to the Christians and the city of Jerusalem, with one important exception. This was the site of the Temple, where now stood the Mosque of Omar, which was to be left to the Saracens. So Frederick, with his knights, went up to the Holy City, about the season of Mid-Lent, 1229, and entering the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, took the crown from the High Altar and placed it upon his own head; "but there was no prelate, nor priest, nor clerk, to sing or speak." He next visited the Mosque of Omar, and showed clearly how little he was moved in all this by love for his own faith. For when the Saracens, respecting his supposed feelings, refrained from sounding the muezzin, or bell that calls to prayer, Frederick stopped the order, saying, "You are wrong to fail in your duty to your religion for my sake. God knows, if you were to come to my country, your feelings would not be treated with such respect." {212} The terms of this treaty enraged both the Moslems against their Sultan and the Church against the Emperor. At his entrance into the city, the priests and people fled from the presence of Frederick as though from a leper. The very images of the saints in the churches were draped in black; and the triumphant message of Frederick to Gregory, claiming the gratitude of the Church for the restoration of the Holy City, was received with chilling silence. Then came the startling news that the Pope had put a large army under the leadership of John of Brienne, now the Emperor's greatest enemy, who was about to capture several of his Italian cities. Hastening to Acre, and well aware of the hostility of those who considered themselves defrauded of the chance of killing the Saracens, Frederick called a great meeting of pilgrims in the plain outside the city. To them he spoke strongly against the mischief caused by the clergy and the Templars in trying to stir up strife, and ordered all the pilgrims, who had now fulfilled their vows, to sail at once for Europe. Frederick returned to his western lands in 1229, and though he lived till 1250, he never again saw his kingdom of Jerusalem. He had never been a true Crusader at heart, and had not stayed long enough to establish his eastern domain on any firm foundation; but he had, nevertheless, accomplished within a few months what others had failed to do in as many years, and that without any attempt at bloodshed. {213} CHAPTER XVIII The Story of the Seventh Crusade _Now cluttering arms, now raging broils of war, Can pass the noise of dreadful trumpets' clang._ N. GRIMALD: _The Death of Zoroas_, 1550. The ten years' truce made by Frederick II. with the Sultan Camhel was by no means scrupulously kept by either side. The smaller Moslem states did not hesitate to attack the Christian towns whenever they saw an opportunity of so doing, and the Templars, who had been from the first entirely against the terms of the truce, continued to fight against the Sultan until, in a pitched battle, they lost their Grand Master and nearly all their adherents. This occurrence was seized upon in Europe as the opportunity to stir up a Seventh Crusade. A leader was soon found in the person of Theobald, Count of Champagne and King of Navarre, a renowned "troubadour" and one of the most skilful minstrels and accomplished knights of his day. Theobald had begun his career as a rebel to the child-king, Louis IX. of France, and aspired to become the leader of that large number of discontented barons who hoped to obtain their independence of the royal power. But the heart of the rebel was touched by the womanly devotion and courage of the young Queen-mother under {214} these trying circumstances. He became her true and loyal knight, and, in obedience to her desire, assumed the Cross and prepared for a Crusade. All his wealth, all his influence was used for this purpose, and many of the rebellious barons were prevailed upon to follow his example. Just as Theobald and his company were prepared to start from the town of Lyons, a message arrived from Pope Gregory, urging them to give up their project and return to their homes that they might hold themselves in readiness when he should call in their aid in affairs more pressing than those of the Holy Land. The chief of these was the defence of Constantinople, now ruled by Baldwin, son of John of Brienne, who had implored his aid against the attacks of Greeks and Bulgarians; another, scarcely less important, was the violent quarrel between himself and Frederick. But the French Crusaders were little in sympathy with the ambitious projects of Gregory. They had taken up the Cross with a definite aim, and remembering what had happened in the days of the Fifth Crusade, they would not be deterred by side issues. They left Europe torn with fierce political and religious conflicts only to find Syria in the same condition. The Saracen princes were waging war upon each other as well as upon the Christians, and the unhappy people of both religions had to bear the brunt. Hearing that the Sultan had already seized Jerusalem, some of the Crusaders determined to revenge themselves by an attack upon the territory round Gaza. In vain Theobald urged them to act together and not to waste their strength; they pushed on until they came to a region shut in by barren sand-hills, where they alighted {215} to rest. Suddenly the silence of the desert was broken by the shrill notes of war-music, and the shouts of the foe. Beset on all sides, a few managed to escape; the rest remained to sell their lives or freedom dearly, and incidentally to weaken the forces of Theobald of Navarre by their loss. The blow was a crushing one, and Theobald seemed now to lose all heart. A vain attempt was made to negotiate a treaty which both sides would accept. All was in confusion, and during the turmoil Theobald quietly retired from the scene with his men, and went home, confessedly a failure. The position of the Sultan himself, however, was little less difficult. He was beset by civil strife within his dominions, and when a more dreaded adversary appeared upon the scene he was in no condition to offer effective resistance. The new-comer was Richard, Earl of Cornwall, a namesake and nephew of Richard Lion-heart, whose name was still a terror to the children of Islam. The reputation of the English Earl as a redoubtable man of war had preceded him, and the Sultan showed great anxiety to come to terms. He offered almost immediately to surrender all prisoners and the Holy Land itself, and to this Richard readily agreed. For the third and last time the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem was established, and for the next two years it remained in Christian hands. Then, just as Pope Innocent IV. succeeded Gregory IX., came a terrible rumour of a new and more dangerous foe than the Saracens. "In the year 1240," says Matthew of Paris, "that human joys might not long continue, an immense horde of that detestable race of Satan, the Tartars, burst forth {216} from their mountain regions and making their way through rocks almost impregnable, rushed forth like demons loosed from hell; and over-running the country, covering the face of the earth like locusts, they ravaged the eastern countries with lamentable destruction, spreading fire and slaughter wherever they went." Descending upon the region of the Caspian lake, they drove out the no less savage shepherd people of that district, and these hurled themselves upon Syria. "Whatever stood against them was cut off by the sword or dragged into captivity; the military orders were almost exterminated in a single battle; and in the pillage of the city, in the profanation of the Holy Sepulchre, the Latins confess and regret the modesty and discipline of the Turks and Saracens." Such is the gloomy picture painted by Gibbon of this terrible invasion. Christians and Moslems for the first time fought side by side against the foe they had in common, but they could do nothing. The army left to guard Jerusalem, as well as all the inhabitants, save the old and sick, fled at sight of the savage hordes, who, nevertheless, by a cruel trick obtained their fill of slaughter. Entering the city they hoisted the Cross and the flags of the Crusaders upon the walls of the Holy City, and rang the bells of the different churches all at once. The Christians heard, paused in their headlong flight, and seeing the red cross flag streaming from the citadel, cried, "God has had mercy on us and has driven away the barbarians." Thousands of them at once returned, and directly they had entered their homes, the foemen rushed upon them from secret hiding-places and killed or threw into prison every person they found. {217} In a great pitched battle fought near Gaza the allied armies of the Moslems and the Christians were almost entirely destroyed. Amongst the prisoners was the Prince of Joppa, who was forthwith led before the walls of his own city, placed upon a cross, and threatened with instant death if he would not command his people to surrender. But this brave man only cried to the men upon the walls, "It is your duty to defend this Christian city, and mine to die for Christ," and so, rather than surrender, he suffered death at the hands of a howling mob. Nevertheless, Joppa was taken, and every other Christian city; and not until the rulers of Egypt and Syria united with each other as well as with the few Christians left, was there any hope of driving the invaders from the land. But even when this was at length accomplished the Holy City remained in the hands of Islam, and all that the Seventh Crusade had accomplished was entirely swept away. {218} CHAPTER XIX The Crusade of St Louis (The Eighth Crusade) _Some grey crusading knight austere Who bore St Louis company And came home hurt to death...._ MATTHEW ARNOLD: _A Southern Night._ A hundred years earlier, the news of the destruction of Jerusalem would have stricken all Europe with horror and roused her to action. It was not so now. That earlier fervour of religion which had sent pilgrims rejoicing to an almost certain death had died away, and had been replaced by a more practical form of faith which found its outlet in a zeal for converting the souls of men, and healing their bodies, rather than in a thirst for the blood of infidels. In the narrow dirty lanes of cities the inspired monk or eager friar was still to be found; but the followers of St Francis of Assisi or St Dominic were soldiers of the Cross in a more Christ-like, if a less military, spirit than Peter the Hermit or Bernard of Clairvaux, and stirred up the people rather to cleaner and healthier lives than to take arms for the Holy War. Amongst the sovereigns of Europe at this time, of whom Frederick II. was a fair example, there yet remained one of the old type, one who was filled with the purest zeal {219} for religion mingled with the desire to win glory as became a true knight. This was Louis IX. of France--the St Louis of the Eighth Crusade--who, if he accomplished nothing towards establishing Christian rule in the Holy Land, yet remains to us in history as an example of the very few who took up the Cross and carried on the war, inspired only by holy and unselfish motives. "Louis and his fair queen appear, indeed, as brilliant stars, shining through the blackness of a sky overcast with clouds; but they could not dispel the darkness, or lend more than a transitory gleam of brightness to illumine the gloomy prospects."[1] [1] W. E. Dutton. King Louis found a devoted hero-worshipper and chronicler in the Sire de Joinville, a great French noble, who accompanied him upon the Eighth Crusade, and whose story will often be told here in his own words. Louis IX. came to the French throne at no easy time, for he was but a boy of ten, and the powerful French barons were eager to win their independence of the royal power. But they found their match in the Queen Regent, Blanche of Castile, who, for the first time, put her dependence upon the people of her land, and trusted to them to defend their young king against the rebellion of the nobles. She also, as we have seen, won over to her side Count Theobald of Champagne, by whose help the rebels were soon forced to yield, and who, for love of her, afterwards became one of the leaders in the Seventh Crusade. The young Louis was brought up by her more as a monk than a king, and, as he grew older, his own tastes turned entirely in the same direction. "You are not a {220} king of France," cried a woman who was trying to win his favour in an unjust cause, "you are a king only of priests and monks. It is a pity that you are king of France. You ought to be turned out." "You speak truly," was the gentle answer, "it has pleased God to make me king; it had been well had He chosen some one better able to govern this kingdom rightly." Yet he was one of France's wisest rulers, taking a personal interest in the troubles of her people that was rare, indeed, in those days. "Ofttimes it happened that he would go, after his mass, and seat himself in the wood of Vincennes, and lean against an oak, and make us sit round him. And all those who had any cause in hand came and spoke to him, without hindrance of usher or any other person. Then would he ask, out of his own mouth, 'Is there anyone who has a cause in hand?' And those who had a cause stood up. Then would he say, 'Keep silence all and you shall be heard in turn, one after the other.' And when he saw that there was anything to amend in the words of those who spoke on their own behalf, or on behalf of any other person, he would himself, out of his own mouth, amend what he had said." His love of justice is seen in his answer to the Pope, when Gregory, after a second violent quarrel with the Emperor Frederick, had deposed him and offered the crown to Louis' brother. Gentle as was the King's usual speech, he replies now, "Whence is this pride and daring of the Pope, who thus disinherits a king who has no superior nor even an equal among Christians--a king not convicted of the crimes laid to his charge? To us he has not only appeared innocent, but a good neighbour; {221} we see no cause for suspicion either of his worldly loyalty or of his Catholic faith. This we know, that he has fought valiantly for our Lord Christ both by sea and land. So much religion we have not found in the Pope, who endeavoured to confound and wickedly supplant him in his absence, while he was engaged in the cause of God." There can be no doubt that it was in his character as a Crusader that Frederick mainly attracted Louis, for he had little else in common with him. For a long time the French King nursed in secret his desire to follow his hero's example, since his mother would not hear of his deserting his own kingdom. But at length the clear call came. "It happened, as God so willed, that a very grievous sickness came upon the king in Paris, and brought him to such extremity that one of the ladies who was tending him wished to draw the cloth over his face, saying he was dead; but another lady, who was on the other side of the bed, would not suffer it, saying that the soul was still in his body. And as he listened to the debate between these two ladies, Our Lord wrought within him and soon sent him health, for before that he had been dumb and could not speak. "And as soon as he could speak, he asked that they should give him the Cross, and they did so. "When the queen, his mother, heard that speech had come back to him, she made as great joy thereof as ever she could. But when she knew that he had taken the Cross--as also he himself told her--she made as great mourning as if she had seen him dead." Not even his mother's grief could hinder this ardent soldier of the Cross, whose chief wish now was to {222} persuade his nobles to follow him. At the Christmas of that year he presented each of his barons with a new robe. When these were put on, they were found to have the red cross embroidered between the shoulders. The wearers had "taken the cross," and must accompany their king. Two years were spent in preparing supplies, and at the end of the year 1248, King Louis, with the Queen, his wife, embarked and sailed to Cyprus, where he remained until the spring of 1249. On landing in Egypt at the Point of Limesol, he met with a strange occurrence. "The king," says Joinville, "landed on the day of Pentecost. After we had heard mass, a fierce and powerful wind, coming from the Egyptian side, arose in such sort, that out of two thousand eight hundred knights, whom the king was taking into Egypt, there remained no more than seven hundred whom the wind had not separated from the king's company, and carried away to Acre and other strange lands, nor did they afterwards return to the king of a long while." This sounds like a story from the "Arabian Nights," and one can understand the King's haste to escape, with the remnant left him, from the region of this mysterious wind of the desert. So he sailed to Damietta, "and we found there, arrayed on the seashore, all the power of the Sultan--a host fair to look upon, for the Sultan's arms are of gold, and when the sun struck upon them they were resplendent. The noise they made with their cymbals and horns was fearful to listen to." [Illustration: _The Landing of St Louis in Egypt_] Waiting only until he saw his ensign of St Denis safe on shore, "the king went across his ship with large steps, and would not leave from following the ensign, but leapt into the sea, which was up to his arm-pits. So he went, {225} with his shield hung to his neck, and his helmet on his head, and his lance in his hand, till he came to his people who were on the shore." Seized with panic at the sight of the many brave ships and the landing of the Crusaders, the garrison of Damietta fled without striking a blow. Says Joinville, "The Saracens sent thrice to the Sultan, by carrier-pigeons, to say that the king had landed, but never received any message in return, because the Sultan's sickness was upon him. Wherefore they thought that the Sultan was dead, and abandoned Damietta. "Then the king sent for all the prelates of the host, and all chanted with a loud voice, _Te Deum laudamus_. "Afterwards the king mounted his horse, and we all likewise, and we went and encamped before Damietta." There they remained until they were joined by the King's brother, the Count of Poitiers; and after that a march was made upon Babylon, "because, if you wanted to kill the serpent, you must first crush its head." Now when they tried to cross the delta of the Nile, which at that part of Egypt lies between four "branches" of the river, they encamped between the stream that flows to Damietta, and that which flows to Tanis, and found the whole host of the Sultan lying upon the farther side of the latter, and ready to defend the passages. The King at once gave orders to build a causeway across the river; but as fast as this was made the Saracens dug holes and let in the water which had been dammed up, thus washing away the work. They constantly harassed the camp also, and tried to cut off the French army in the rear; and when they began to use Greek fire also, the hearts of the Crusaders began somewhat to quail. {226} "The fashion of the Greek fire was such that it came frontwise as large as a bottle of verjuice, and the tail of fire that issued from it, was as large as a large lance. The noise it made in coming was like Heaven's own thunder. It had the seeming of a dragon flying through the air. It gave so great a light because of the great abundance of fire making the light, that one saw as clearly through the camp as if it had been day.... "When my Lord Walter, the good knight who was with me, saw this, he spoke thus: 'Lord, we are in the greatest peril that we have ever been in, for if they set fire to our towers and we remain here, we are but lost and burnt up; while if we leave these defences which we have been sent to guard, we are dishonoured. Wherefore none can defend us in this peril save God alone. So my advice and counsel is, that every time they hurl the fire at us, we throw ourselves on our elbows and knees, and pray to our Saviour to keep us in this peril....' "Every time that our saintly king heard them hurling the Greek fire, he would raise himself in his bed, and lift up his hands to Our Saviour, and say, weeping, 'Fair Lord God, guard me my people.' "And verily I believe that his prayers did us good service in our need. At night, every time the fire had fallen, he sent one of his chamberlains to ask how we fared, and whether the fire had done us any hurt." At length, when things were getting very serious for the Crusading army, there came a Bedouin, or Arab of the desert, to the camp, and offered to show them a ford over the river if they would pay him five hundred besants. Risky as was the undertaking--for the offer might have been a mere piece of treachery, with the object of placing the host in an entirely unprotected position, and {227} of drowning most of their number--the King decided in its favour, and determined to lead the way, with his three brothers, across the ford. "Then, as the dawn of day was appearing, we collected from all points and came to the Bedouin's ford; and when we were ready we went to the stream and our horses began to swim. When we got to the middle of the stream, we touched ground and our horses found footing; and on the other bank of the stream were full three hundred Saracens, all mounted on their horses. "Then said I (the Sire de Joinville) to my people, 'Sirs, look only to the left hand, and let each draw thither; the banks are wet and soft, and the horses are falling upon their riders and drowning them.' Thereupon we moved in such sort that we turned up the stream and found a dry way, and so passed over, thank God! that not one of us fell; and as soon as we had passed over, the Turks fled." But disaster was at hand. The Templars had been given the post of honour in the vanguard, and close after them came the Count of Artois, brother to the King, with his men. "Now it so happened that as soon as the Count of Artois had passed over the stream, he and all his people fell upon the Turks, who had fled before them. The Templars notified to him that he was doing them great despite in that, while his place was to come after them, he was going before them, and they besought him to suffer them to go before, as had been arranged by the king. Now it chanced that the Count of Artois did not venture to answer them because of my Lord Foucaud of Merle, who held the bridle of his horse; and this Foucaud of {228} Merle was a very good knight, but heard naught of what the Templars were saying to the Count, seeing that he was deaf, and was all the while crying, 'Out on them! Out on them!' "Now when the Templars saw this, they thought they would be shamed if they suffered the Count to outride them, so they struck spurs into their horses, helter-skelter, and chased the Turks, and the Turks fled before them, right through the town of Mansourah and into the fields beyond towards Babylon. "But when the Crusaders thought to return, the Turks threw beams and blocks of wood upon them in the streets, which were narrow. There were killed the Count of Artois, the Lord of Couci, who was called Raoul, and so many other knights that the number was reckoned at three hundred. The Temple, as the Master has since told me, lost there fourteen score men-at-arms, and all mounted." The whole blame of this disastrous affair must be laid at the door of the Count of Artois, in spite of Joinville's attempt to put it on the shoulders of Lord Foucaud. When the Grand Master of the Templars had warned the Count of the risk of pursuing men who had but given way to a moment's panic, the latter openly accused him of treachery. "Do you suppose," cried the Master, "that we have left our homes and our substance and taken the habit of a religious in a strange land, only to betray the Cause of God and to forfeit our salvation?" And with that he prepared to go to almost certain death. Then William Longsword, son of the Earl of Salisbury, did his best to turn the Count from such a course of destruction, and was met with insult. "See {229} how timid are these tailed English! It would be well if the army were purged of such folk!" "At least," returned Longsword, "we English to-day will be where you will not dare to touch our horses' tails." Longsword fell that day with his face to the foe, Artois, in trying to escape, and the whole force must have been destroyed had not the King's division come to the rescue, while Joinville, who tells the tale, managed to hold the bridge across to the town. Says the latter, "We were all covered with the darts that failed to hit the sergeants. Now it chanced that I found a Saracen's quilted tunic lined with tow: I turned the open side towards me and made a shield of it, which did me good service, for I was only wounded by their darts in five places, and my horse in fifteen. And it chanced again that one of my burgesses of Joinville brought me a pennon with my arms and a lance head thereto, and every time that we saw that the Turks pressed too hardly upon the sergeants, we charged them and they went flying. "The good Count of Soissons, in that point of danger, jested with me, and said, 'Seneschal, let these curs howl! We shall talk of this day yet, you and I, in ladies' chambers.'" At sunset, when the King's crossbow men came up, the Saracens fled, and Joinville, hastening to Louis, conducted him with loving care to his tent. "And as we were going, I made him take off his helmet, and lent him my steel cap, so that he might have air. "When he had passed over the river, there came to him Brother Henry, Provost of the Hospitallers, and kissed his mailed hand. The king asked if he had any tidings of the Count of Artois, his brother, and the Provost said that he had news of him indeed, for he {230} knew of a certainty that his brother, the Count of Artois, was in Paradise. "'Ah, sire,' said the Provost, 'be of good comfort therein, for never did King of France gain such honour as you have gained this day. For, in order to fight your enemies, you have passed swimmingly over a river, and you have discomfited them, and driven them from the field, and taken their war-engines and also their tents, wherein you will sleep this night.' "Then the king replied, 'Let God be worshipped for all He has given me!' but the big tears fell from his eyes." In spite of the Provost's cheering words, the King's army was still in a position of great danger. That very night an attack was made upon the camp, which was but the first of a series of attacks which cut Louis off entirely from Damietta and forced him to retreat to the "Island." "When I was laid in my bed," says Joinville, "when indeed I had good need of rest because of the wounds received the day before--no rest was vouchsafed to me. For before it was well day, a cry went through the camp, 'To arms! To arms!' I roused my chamberlain, who lay at my feet, and told him to go and see what was the matter. He came back in terror, and said, 'Up, lord, up: for here are the Saracens, who have come on foot and mounted, and discomfited the king's sergeants who kept guard over the engines, and have driven them among the ropes of our tents.' [Illustration: _The Last Fight of William Longsword_] "I got up and threw a tunic over my back and a steel cap on my head, and cried to our sergeants, 'By St Nicholas, they shall not stay here!' My knights came to me, all wounded as they were, and we drove the {233} Saracens from among the engines, and back towards a great body of mounted Turks." A day or two later, the Saracens, encouraged by the sight of the bloodstained coat of arms belonging to the Count of Artois, which they were told was that of the King, and that Louis was now dead, came together in a great battle against the French host. In this fight so many on both sides were killed that the river was full of the dead. Then a worse thing fell upon them, for, says Joinville, "because of the unhealthiness of the land--where it never rains a drop of water--there came upon us the sickness of the host, which sickness was such that the flesh of our legs dried up and the skin became spotted, black and earth colour, like an old boot; nor could anyone escape from this sickness without death." Famine followed, for the Turks had cut off all sources of supplies from Damietta; and, in desperation, an attempt to treat with the enemy was made. The conditions proposed were that Louis should give up Damietta in return for the kingdom of Jerusalem; and when the Saracens asked what pledge they offered that they should regain the port, the French offered them one of the King's brothers. They promptly replied that they would be satisfied with no one but the King himself, whereupon, "my Lord Geoffrey of Sargines, the good knight, said he would rather that the Saracens should have them all dead or captive than bear the reproach of having left the king in pledge." When Louis saw that there was no alternative but death or retreat, since none of his officers would agree that he should be given up, he once more gave the order {234} to try to return to Damietta. The King could have easily escaped thither by means of a little boat, but he would not abandon his people, many of whom were very sorely sick. But Louis himself was weak with illness, so that he could scarcely sit upon his horse; yet he persisted in trying to guard the river banks while Joinville and others got the sick men on board. What happened then was told by Louis himself to his faithful friend. "He told me that of all his knights and sergeants there only remained behind with him my Lord Geoffrey of Sargines, who brought him to a little village, and there the king was taken. And, as the king related to me, my Lord Geoffrey defended him from the Saracens as a good servitor defends his lord's drinking-cup from flies; for every time that the Saracens approached, he took his spear, which he had placed between himself and the bow of his saddle, and put it to his shoulder and ran upon them, and drove them away from the king. And then they brought the king to the little village; and they lifted him into a house, and laid him, almost as one dead, in the lap of a burgher-woman of Paris, and thought he would not live till night." Thus did Louis fall into the hands of the Saracens, and was left in sorry plight indeed. He was sufficiently conscious to beg Lord Philip de Montfort to try once again to make terms of peace, but while this was being done, "a very great mischance happened to our people. A traitor sergeant, whose name was Marcel, began to cry to our people, 'Yield, lord knights, for the king commands you; and do not cause the king to be slain!' "All thought that the king had so commanded, and gave up their swords to the Saracens. The Emir (the {235} officer of the Sultan), saw that the Saracens were bringing in our people prisoners, so he said to my Lord Philip that it was not fitting that he should grant a truce, for he saw very well that we were already fallen into his hands." Meantime Joinville and his men had fared no better by water than his comrades had by land. He himself, indeed, had the narrowest possible escape from death, and was only saved by the generosity of a Saracen, whose former dealings with Frederick II. of Germany had made him favour the Crusaders. Joinville was exceedingly weak and ill, but as his boat was in mid-stream he hoped to escape to Damietta with those of the sick whom he had been able to rescue. "My people," says he, "had put on me a jousting hauberk, so that I might not be wounded by the darts that fell into our boat. At this moment my people, who were at the hinder point of the boat, cried out to me, 'Lord, Lord, your mariners, because the Saracens are threatening them, mean to take you to the bank!' Then I had myself raised by the arms, all weak as I was, and drew my sword on them, and told them I should kill them if they took me to the bank. They answered that I must choose which I would have; whether to be taken to the bank, or anchored in mid-stream till the wind fell. I told them I liked better that they should anchor than that they should take me to the shore where there was nothing before us save death. So they anchored. "Very shortly after we saw four of the Sultan's galleys coming to us, and in them full a thousand men. Then I called together my knights and my people, and asked them which they would rather do, yield to the {236} Sultan's galleys or to those on land. We all agreed that we would rather yield to the galleys, because so we should be kept together, than to those on land, who would separate us and sell us to the Bedouins. "Then one of my cellarers said, 'Lord, I do not agree in this decision.' I asked him to what he did agree, and he said to me, 'I advise that we should all suffer ourselves to be slain, for then we shall go to Paradise.' But we heeded him not." When Joinville saw that he must be taken either way, he threw his casket of jewels into the river, and turned to find one of his mariners urging, "Lord, if you do not suffer me to say you are the king's cousin they will kill you all, and us also." So he told him he could say what he pleased. The sailor at once cried out loud, "Alas, that the king's cousin should be taken!" with the result that the Saracens on the nearest galley at once anchored near their boat. But help of an unexpected kind was at hand. A Saracen, who had lived on land in the East belonging to the Emperor Frederick, swam aboard, and throwing his arms round Joinville's waist, said, "Lord, if you do not take good heed you are but lost; for it behoves you to leap from your vessel on to the bank that rises from the keel of that galley; and if you leap, these people will not mind you, for they are thinking only of the booty to be found in your vessel." So he leapt, but so weak was he that he tottered and would have fallen into the water had not the Saracen sprung after him and held him up in his arms. A rough reception awaited him, however, for they threw him on the ground and would have killed him had {237} not the Saracen held him fast in his arms, crying "Cousin to the King!" He was certainly in sorry case, for he had no clothing save for the steel hauberk, which the Saracen knights, pitying his condition, exchanged for a fur-lined coverlet and a white belt, in which he girt himself for lack of proper clothes. Still under the protection of "his Saracen," Joinville saw with sad eyes the slaughter of the sick upon the bank and in the boats, and was himself subjected to a sore trial of faith. For his protector, who was evidently a man of some authority, tried to tempt him to embrace the religion of Islam by causing all his mariners to be brought before him, telling him that they had all denied their faith. "But I told him never to place confidence in them, for lightly as they had left us, so lightly, if time and opportunity occurred, would they leave their new masters. And he answered that he agreed with me; for that Saladin was wont to say that never did one see a bad Christian become a good Saracen, or a bad Saracen become a good Christian. "After these things he caused me to be mounted on a palfrey and to ride by his side. And we passed over a bridge of boats and went to Mansourah, where the King and his people were prisoners. And we came to the entrance of a great pavilion, where the Sultan's scribes were; and there they wrote down my name. Then my Saracen said to me, 'Lord, I shall not follow you further, for I cannot; but I pray you, lord, always to keep hold of the hand of the child you have with you, lest the Saracens should take him from you.'" Truly, in his case, for the sick and sorry Joinville, as well as for the protection he provided for the little lad, {238} the "child called Bartholomew," that unknown Saracen showed himself worthier of the name of Christian than many of those who fought under the banner of the Cross. When the French lord entered the pavilion with his little charge, he found it full of his brother barons, "who made such joy that we could not hear one another speak, for they thought they had lost me." Joy was soon turned to grief, however, for many of their number were taken by the Saracens into an adjoining courtyard and asked, "Wilt thou abjure thy faith?" "Those who would not abjure were set to one side, and their heads were cut off, and those who abjured were set on the other side." Then the Sultan sent to ask what terms they were willing to make. "Would you give, for your deliverance, any of the castles belonging to the barons oversea?" But they replied that they had no power over these castles, which belonged to their sovereign King. Then he asked if they would surrender any of the castles belonging to the Knights Templars and Hospitallers. But they answered that this could not be, for when the knights of the Temple or the Hospital were appointed to these castles, they were made to swear, on holy relics, that they would not surrender any of them for man's deliverance. "The council of the Sultan then replied that it seemed to them that we had no mind to be delivered, and that they would go and send us such as would make sport of us with their swords, as they had done of the others belonging to our host. And they went their way." With Louis himself the counsellors of the Sultan had gone still further, threatening him with torture if he did not do as they willed. "To their threats the King {239} replied that he was their prisoner, and that they could do with him according to their will." Finding that they could not terrorise the King they came back to him once more and asked how much money he was willing to pay for a ransom, besides giving up Damietta. To this Louis replied that if the Sultan would accept a reasonable sum, he would see if the Queen would pay it for their deliverance. This answer, to those who held the Eastern idea of women, was astounding, and they asked, "How is it that you will not tell us definitely that these things shall be done?" To which Louis replied, with spirit that he did not know if the Queen would consent, seeing that she was his lady, and mistress of her own actions. Then they took counsel with the Sultan, and brought back word that if the Queen would pay five hundred thousand _livres_ (about £405,000) he would release the King. "And when they had taken the oath that this should be so, the King promised that he would willingly pay the five hundred thousand _livres_ for the release of his people, and surrender Damietta for the release of his own person, seeing that it was not fitting that such as he should barter himself for coin." When the Sultan heard this, he said. "By my faith, this Frank is large-hearted not to have bargained over so great a sum! Now go and tell him that I give him a hundred thousand _livres_ towards the payment of the ransom." The prospects of the unfortunate Crusaders seemed therefore to be brightening, when, as they were being conveyed down the river to the Sultan's camp as a preliminary to being set free, all was suddenly darkened {240} again by the murder of their generous captor at the hands of some of his own traitorous Emirs. One of these, indeed, came to King Louis, with the heart of the Sultan, all reeking with blood, in his hand, and said: "What wilt thou give me? For I have slain thine enemy, who, had he lived, would have slain thee!" "But the King answered him never a word." Nothing now but death seemed the probable fate of the despairing prisoners, who meantime, were thrown into the hold of the galley and "so pressed together that my feet came against the good Count Peter of Brittany, and his came against my face." But the Saracen Emirs seem to have thought that more profit could be made out of them alive than dead, and were ready to observe the terms already proposed, if the King would renew his oath to this effect, "that if he did not observe his covenant he should be as dishonoured as a Christian who denies God and His law, and who spits upon the Cross and tramples on it." Though he fully meant to keep his word, the pious soul of Saint Louis revolted against so blasphemous a declaration, and he absolutely refused to take such an oath. They threatened him with instant death, but he replied tranquilly that he "liked better to die as a good Christian rather than to live under the wrath of God." By the exercise of further fiendish cruelty the Saracens attained their object. They took the old white haired Patriarch of Jerusalem, and tied him to the pole of the pavilion with his hands behind his back, and so tightly "that the said hands swelled to the size of his head, and that the blood started from between the nails." Then the Patriarch cried to the King, "Sire, for the love of God, swear without fear; for seeing that you intend to hold to {241} your oath, I take upon my own soul whatsoever there may be of sin in the oath that you take." It seems certain that by his firmness and courage Louis had earned the respect and admiration of the Saracens. Joinville says that they wanted to make him their Sultan, and only desisted because they said he was the most steadfast Christian that could be found. "They said that if Mohammed had suffered them to be so maltreated as the King had been, they would never have retained their belief in him; and they said further that if their people made the King to be Sultan, they would have to become Christians, or else he would put them all to death." In spite of this, however, their fate still hung in the balance, for some recalled the precept of Mohammed, "For the assurance of the faith, slay the enemy of the law." But better counsels prevailed, and on the day after Ascension Day, in the year 1250, all were released save the Count of Poitiers, who remained as hostage till the ransom should be paid. Many of the Crusading barons no sooner regained their ships than they set sail for France, but the King remained behind, to see that the ransom was paid. In connection with this ransom Joinville tells us of an incident that marks even more emphatically Louis' upright character. "When the money had been counted, there were those of the council who thought that the King should not hand it over until he had received his brother back. But the King replied that he would hand it over, seeing that he had agreed with the Saracens to do so, and as for the Saracens, if they wished to deal honestly, they would also hold to the terms of their agreement. Then Lord Philip {242} of Nemours told the King that they had miscounted, by ten thousand _livres_, to the loss of the Saracens (but without their knowledge). "At this the King was very wroth, and said it was his will that the ten thousand _livres_ should be restored, seeing he had agreed to pay two hundred thousand before he left the river. "Then I touched Lord Philip with my foot, and told the King not to believe him, seeing that the Saracens were the wiliest reckoners in the whole world. And Lord Philip said I was saying sooth, for he had only spoken in jest, and the King said such jests were unseemly and untoward. 'And I command you,' said the King to him 'by the fealty that you owe me as being my liegeman--which you are--that if these ten thousand _livres_ have not been paid, you will cause them to be paid without fail.'" Nor would Louis listen to those who advised him to leave the river on account of its proximity to the Saracens, and go to his ship, which waited for him out at sea. But he had promised his foes not to go away until the payment had been made, and no considerations of personal safety would induce him to break his word. "So soon, however, as the ransom was paid, the King, without being urged thereto, said that henceforth he was acquitted of his oaths, and that we should depart thence, and go to the ship that was on the sea. Then our galley was set in motion, and we went a full great league before we spoke to one another, because of the distress in which we were at leaving the Count of Poitiers In captivity. "Then came Lord Philip of Montfort in a galleon, and cried to the King: 'Sire! Sire! Speak to your brother, the Count of Poitiers, who is on this other ship!' Then {243} cried the King 'Light up! Light up!' and they did so. Then was there such rejoicing among us that greater could not be. The King went to the Count's ship, and we went too. A poor fisherman went and told the Countess of Poitiers that he had seen the Count released, and she caused twenty _livres_ to be given to him." Nor was Louis the only star to shine in the dark firmament of the Eighth Crusade. All those anxious weeks there lay at Damietta the poor young Queen, in terrible anxiety for the fate of her husband, and for the future of those who were with her in the city. In the midst of her grief and trouble was born her little son Tristan, the "child of sorrow," and he was but a day old when she heard that all the men of the five cities of Italy, who were with her in the city, were minded to flee away. With heroic courage she sent for them to her bedside and urged them not to leave Damietta to its fate, for if so the King would be utterly lost. To this they replied: "Lady what can we do? For we are dying of hunger in this city?" But she told them that for famine they need not depart, "for," said she "I will cause all the food in this city to be bought, and will keep you all from henceforth at the King's charges." Thus did the brave Queen keep Damietta until it had to be given up according to the terms of the treaty; upon which she went to Acre, there to await the King. The release of the prisoners was, for all practical purposes, the end of the ill-fated Eighth Crusade, but Louis could not bear to return to France without even a glimpse of the Holy Land which lay so very near his heart. His brother had deserted him, but the faithful Joinville was still at his side, and with the latter was now to be found the little child, Bartholomew, who had in so {244} strange a manner been placed under his protection. There were not wanting those who urged the King to return to France, and look after the affairs of his kingdom, but Louis was firm. The Queen Mother, Blanche, was well able to fill his place, and he was determined not to leave the kingdom of Jerusalem while any hope remained of striking a blow on its behalf. Again and again he had urged Henry III. of England to bring an army to its relief, he had even promised to give up Normandy if he would do this; and he could scarcely believe that he would persist in his refusal. If he should fail there was yet a faint hope that the Pope himself might lead an army in the cause of God; while there was the slightest chance, therefore, he would hold himself ready to act. So Louis went first to Acre to rejoin his Queen, and then set to work to rebuild the fortifications of the seaports, Cæsarea, Joppa, and Sidon, which had been destroyed by the Saracens, though they were still ruled by Christian chieftains. And then four more years passed away. It was while Louis was engaged in fortifying Joppa that he was told that the Sultan was willing that he should go to Jerusalem under a "sure and safe conduct." It was the King's dearest wish to visit the Holy Sepulchre, but after grave consideration, acting on the advice of his council, he determined not to do so. His reason was the same as that of Richard of England in the Third Crusade. "For if he, the greatest Christian King, went a pilgrimage without delivering the city from God's enemies, then would all other kings and pilgrims, coming thereafter, rest content with going on pilgrimage after the same manner as the King of France, and give no heed to the deliverance of Jerusalem." {245} A pilgrimage in sackcloth to Nazareth was all, therefore, that the king would allow himself, and meantime his hopes of aid from Europe grew fainter and fainter. Then came bad news from France. Queen Blanche, who seems to have been more to the king than wife or children, was dead, and Louis must return to his deserted kingdom. On St Mark's day (April 24th) of the year 1254, the king and queen sailed from Acre, but they were not destined to reach France without further adventures. "On the Saturday we came in sight of the Isle of Cyprus, and of a mountain in Cyprus which is called the Mountain of the Cross. That Saturday a mist rose from the land, and descended from the land to the sea; and by this our mariners thought we were further from the Isle of Cyprus than we were, because they did not see the mountain above the mist. Wherefore they sailed forward freely and so it happened that our ship struck a reef of sand below the water; and if we had not found that little sandbank where we struck, we should have struck against a great mass of sunken rocks, where our ship would have been broken in pieces, and we all shipwrecked and drowned. "As soon as our ship struck, a great cry rose in the ship, for each one cried 'Alas!' and the mariners and the rest wrung their hands because each was in fear of drowning. "When I heard this, I rose from my bed where I was lying, and went to the ship's castle with the mariners. As I came there, Brother Raymond, who was a Templar and master of the mariners, said to one of his varlets: 'Throw down the lead.' And he did so. And as soon as he had thrown it, he cried out and said. 'Alas, we are aground!' When Brother Raymond heard that, he {246} rent his clothes to the belt, and took to tearing out his beard, and to crying: 'Ay me! Ay me!'" In marked contrast to this not very helpful master of mariners stands one of Joinville's knights who "brought me, without a word, a lined overcoat of mine, and threw it on my back, for I had donned my tunic only. And I cried out to him, and said, 'what do I want with your overcoat that you bring me, when we are drowning?' And he said to me, 'By my soul, lord, I should like better to see us all drowned than that you should take some sickness from the cold, and so come to your death.'" An effort was made to get the king off the threatened ship by means of the galleys, but the latter held off; and in this they acted wisely, seeing there were full eight hundred persons on board the ship who would have jumped into the galleys to save their lives, and thus have caused the latter to sink. Morning came and found the ship fast aground, and seeing there was much damage done to her keel, the servants of the king implored him to embark in another vessel. By his decision Louis showed once again that wonderful unselfishness which forms one of his best claims to the title of Saint. After hearing the opinion of the master mariners, and his nobles, he called together the seamen and said to them. "I ask you, on your fealty, whether, if the ship were your own, and freighted with your own merchandise, you would leave her?" And they replied all together "No!" for they liked better to put their bodies in peril of drowning than to buy a new ship at great cost. {247} "Why then," asked the king, "do you advise me to leave the ship?" "Because," said they, "the stakes are not equal. For neither gold nor silver can be set against your person and the persons of your wife and children who are here; therefore we advise you not to put yourself or them in danger." Then the king said, "Lords, I have heard your opinion and that of my people, and now I will tell you mine, which is this: If I leave the ship there are in her five hundred people and more who will land in this Isle of Cyprus, for fear of peril to their body--since there is none that does not love his life as much as I love mine--and these, peradventure, will never return to their own land. Therefore I like better to place my own person, and my wife, and my children in God's hands than do this harm to the many people who are here." Their next adventure might have been more serious, at least for some of the crew. Sailing away in comparative safety in the damaged ship they came at length to the island of the sea called Pentelema, which was peopled by Saracens who were subjects of the King of Sicily and the King of Tunis. "The queen begged the king to send thither three galleys to get fruit for the children; and the king consented, and ordered the masters of the galleys to go thither, and be ready to come back to him when his ship passed before the island. The galleys entered into a little port that was on the island; and it chanced that when the king's ship passed before the port, we got no tidings of the galleys. "Then did the mariners begin to murmur among themselves. {248} "The king caused them to be summoned, and asked them what they thought of the matter. The mariners said it seemed to them that the Saracens had captured his people and his galleys. "'But we advise and counsel you, sire, not to wait for them; for you are between the kingdom of Sicily and the kingdom of Tunis, which love you not at all. If, however, you suffer us to sail forward, we shall, during the night, have delivered you from peril, for we shall have passed through the strait.' "'Truly,' said the king, 'I shall not listen to you, and leave my people in the hands of the Saracens without at least, doing all in my power to deliver them. I command you to turn your sails and we will fall upon them.' "And when the queen heard this, she began to make great lamentation and said, 'Alas! this is all my doing!' "While they were turning the sails of the king's ship and of the other ships, we saw the galleys coming from the island. When they came to the king, the king asked the mariners why they had tarried; and they replied that they could not help themselves, but that the fault lay with certain sons of burgesses of Paris, of whom there were six, who stayed eating the fruit of the gardens, wherefore they had been unable to get them off, nor could they leave them behind. "Then the king commanded that the six burghers' sons should be put into the barge a-stern; at which they began to cry and to howl, saying, 'Sire, for God's sake, take for ransom all that we have, but do not put us there, where murderers and thieves are put; for we shall be shamed to all time.' {249} "The queen and all of us did what we could to move the king; but he would listen to none of us. "So they were put into the barge, and remained there till we came to land; and they were there in such danger and distress that when the sea rose, the waves flew over their heads, and they had to sit down, lest the wind should carry them into the sea. "And it served them right; for their gluttony caused us such mischief that we were delayed for eight good days, because the king had caused the ships to turn right about." So at length Louis came to his own land of France; but his heart was full of longing for the "holy fields" of Palestine, and he was not content to live a life of luxury at the court while Jerusalem was yet in the hands of the infidel. "After the king returned from overseas, he lived in such devotion that never did he wear fur of beaver or grey squirrel, nor scarlet, nor gilded stirrups and spurs. His clothing was of camlet and blue cloth, the fur on his coverlets and clothing was deer's hide, or the skin from the hare's legs, or lambskin. He was so sober in his eating that he never ordered special meats outside what his cook prepared; what was set before him that did he eat. He put water to his wine in a glass goblet, and according to the strength of the wine he added water thereto by measure; and would hold the goblet in his hand while they mixed water with his wine behind his table. He always caused food to be given to his poor, and after they had eaten, caused money to be given to them." Thus, for the next fifteen years the king fulfilled the duties of his royal position in France; and all the while {250} the voice of the East was calling, calling with insistent voice, as news of lost cities, quarrels between those who should have united themselves against the Saracens, and invasions of new and hostile races reached his ears. {251} CHAPTER XX The Story of the Fall of Acre _"Because the chasuble is of red serge," said he, "that signifies that this Crusade shall be of little profit."_ LE SIRE DE JOINVILLE: _Memoirs of St Louis._ During the interval between the Eighth and Ninth Crusades, affairs in the Holy Land had gone from bad to worse. The knights of the Hospital and Temple spent all their time in private quarrels and combats, and the merchants of Genoa and Pisa followed their evil example. The Moguls were continually harassing both Saracens and Christians, and when they were driven out by the combined forces of the two latter, the Sultan Bibars took the opportunity to seize the few towns that were left when the Crusade was over. Nazareth was almost destroyed, Cæsarea, Joppa and Antioch fell, Acre was sorely threatened. In vain did Jerusalem call upon the Pope for help; his attention was fixed, not on Palestine but on Constantinople, where the Latin Empire had vanished, and a new Greek dynasty had been set up under Michael Palæologus. Absorbed in his desire to gain acknowledgment from this quarter, Clement IV. gave only half-hearted encouragement to a Ninth Crusade, yet he did succeed in stirring up enthusiasm in a somewhat unexpected quarter. {252} To England, still in the turmoil of the Baron's War, came the message of Clement reminding Henry III. of his old promise to take up the Cross; and the answer came, not from Henry, the inert and ineffective king, but from young prince Edward, his eldest son, moved perhaps rather by the expediency of employing his treasonable barons than by a keen desire for the freedom of Jerusalem. One there was, however, who needed no urging, and had no base motives in his longing to start upon a Ninth Crusade. Saint Louis, as we have seen, had left his heart behind him in the Holy Land, and when he summoned all his barons to Paris in the Lent of 1267, it was not hard to guess the reason. Among those who responded to the call went the Sire de Joinville, and, seeing how well he knew the mind of the king, it was no wonder that he should dream on the night of his arrival that he saw Louis on his knees, before an altar, whilst many prelates, duly vested, placed upon his shoulders a red chasuble of Rheims serge. Calling his chaplain, a very wise man, Joinville told him of the vision, and the priest at once said: "Lord, you will see that the king will take the Cross to-morrow." Joinville asked why he thought so; and he answered that it was because of the dream; for the chasuble of red serge signified the Cross; which was red with the blood that Christ shed from His side and His feet and His hands. "And because the chasuble is of Rheims serge," said he, "that signifies that the Crusade shall be of little profit, as you shall see if God gives you life," for Rheims serge was but poor and common material, and worth but very little. {253} So Joinville went to the king's chapel, and heard two knights talking there, one to the other. Then one said, "Never believe me if the king is not going to take the Cross here!" And the other made answer, "If the king takes the Cross, this will be one of the most dolorous days that ever were in France. For if we do not take the Cross we shall lose the king's favour; and if we take the Cross we shall lose God's favour, because we shall not take it for His sake but for the sake of the king." "So," adds Joinville, tersely, "it happens that on the following day the king took the Cross, and his three sons with him; and afterwards it befell that the Crusade was of little profit, according to the prophecy of my priest." With this second expedition of Louis, Joinville himself had scant sympathy. He refused to join it on the ground that he owed a higher duty to his own poor and ruined people. And he held that those who advised the King to go "seeing how weak he was of body, for he could bear neither to drive nor to ride," were guilty of mortal sin. "So great was his weakness that he suffered me to carry him in my arms from the mansion of the Count of Auxerre, where I took leave of him, to the abbey of the Franciscans. And yet, weak as he was, if he had remained in France, he might have lived longer and done much good and many good works." However that might have been, Louis' work as a Crusader was well-nigh over. He left France accompanied by the Kings of Navarre and Aragon, and by many of his barons, and by sixty thousand of his men. Driven {254} by a tempest to Sardinia, the leaders decided to turn aside to Tunis, whose king was suspected of being willing to become a Christian. Landing on the site of the ancient town of Carthage, they had but pitched their tents when a plague of sickness broke out in the camp, and the King and his son were the first to be struck down. When he knew that his end drew very near, St Louis caused himself to be laid upon a bed of ashes, in token of his penitence, and all through that last night they heard him murmur at intervals, with longing in his voice, "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" But resignation to the Will of God was not difficult to a man whose character had been formed by a life of prayer and unselfish devotion. "I will enter Thy house, O Lord, I will worship in Thy sanctuary," were the words of joy upon his lips, as he breathed his last. "And it was at the same hour that the Son of God died upon the Cross for the world's salvation," says Joinville, who adds, moreover, the following touching tribute to the good king. "A piteous thing and worthy of tears is the death of this saintly prince, who kept and guarded his realm so holily and loyally, and gave alms there so largely, and set therein so many fair foundations. And, like as the scribe who, writing his book, illuminates it with gold and azure, so did the said king illuminate his realm with the fair abbeys that he built, and the great number of alms-houses, and the houses for preachers and Franciscans, and other religious orders. And his bones were put in a casket and borne thence, and buried at St Denis, in France, where he had chosen his place of burial." {255} With St Louis died the deep religious side of the Crusades. Other kings had vague longings and desires, but none of them were driven to take part in the Holy War by the same fervent wish to lay down their lives for the Cause of God. The work was now taken up by Edward, eldest son of the English King, Henry III. With him marched the great English nobles who had so lately been involved in the Barons' War; for Edward's main motive was to keep them employed and deprive them of opportunities for further rebellion. Edward reached Tunis about seven weeks after the death of Louis, and found the camp in much disorder. The French barons were intent upon forcing the King of Tunis to pay tribute to the Sicilian sovereign, son of their late ruler, and were quite averse from proceeding at once on the Crusade. They all decided at length to go to Sicily for the winter, but the French Crusaders said openly that they wished the expedition deferred for at least four years. The death of the king and queen of Navarre and of the young queen of Louis' successor Philip the Bold, threw a gloom over their retreat, and before long all the French host returned to their native land. Edward alone remained firm to his purpose, and in the following spring, with his little force of seven thousand men, he landed in Palestine. His first act was one of terrible revenge. Marching to Nazareth he took the town and put the Saracen inhabitants to the sword. He then returned to Acre, only just in time to save the city from a Turkish raid; and there he seems to have had some curious intercourse with the Emir of Joppa, who {256} pretended that he was anxious to become converted to Christianity. But sickness fell upon Edward, and as he lay upon his bed, an assassin, sent as a bearer of letters from the Emir, gained admittance and struck the prince in the shoulder with a poisoned dagger. Weak as he was, Edward had enough strength in reserve to grapple with the fellow, wrest the dagger from him and stab him to the heart. Doubtless the skilful nursing of his devoted wife, Eleanor, restored the prince to health, whether or no the story is true that she sucked the poison from the wound at the risk of her own life. The chronicles of the time give the credit to a clever young English doctor who cut away the poisoned flesh, but, however that may be, Edward had seen enough of the Holy Land to realise that his task was both dangerous and hopeless. When, therefore, letters from England urged his return on the score of his father's failing health, he hastened to make a ten years' truce with the Sultan, and to set out upon his homeward journey. After his departure the old state of things was revived in the Holy Land. None knew who was in truth the rightful king, even in name, of the ill-fated kingdom of Jerusalem. The two great military orders of the Hospital and the Temple spent their time and energies in fighting with one another over their supposed rights; and the commercial rivalry of the Christian settlers from Genoa, Venice and Pisa, kept up a constant state of civil war which left them at the mercy of their enemies. In Acre, the one important town held by Christian rulers, so much fighting went on between the Christian inhabitants that much of the city had been quite destroyed. {257} Yet Acre was now the one hope, the one centre of Christianity in the Holy Land. To her walls had fled all those who had managed to escape when one town after another fell before the victorious march of the Sultan. And so it came about that the city was filled with a mixture of nationalities, each of which claimed to be ruled by a separate authority. It was at one time governed by no less than seventeen rulers, "whence there sprang much confusion." This wretched state of things did nothing more than stir up a feeling of mild uneasiness in Europe. Pope Gregory X., indeed, did his best to encourage a new Crusade, for he had been an eye-witness in Acre of the need of some active measure of reform. But he died before anything practical could be done. Some years later the Grand Master of the Templars made his way to the footstool of Pope Nicholas IV., and pleaded the cause of the hapless Christians. The Pope, much moved, sent seventeen hundred mercenaries, or hired soldiers, at his own cost, to the relief of Acre; but these men, finding their wages were not paid, took to plundering the Saracen traders during a time of truce, and so earned for the Christians a worse reputation than ever. These outrages, moreover, excited the indignation of the Egyptian Sultan, who prepared to attack Acre in the following spring, and meantime sent ambassadors to demand the surrender of the truce-breakers "under pain of open war." The Master of the Temple would have yielded to the justice of his demands, but the other political parties in the city were against any such idea, saying that it had always been the custom for the princes {258} of the West to disregard any truce that might be of force in the East. The views of the latter prevailed, and an embassy was sent to the Sultan, offering compensation, and assuring him that the offenders should be kept in prison till the truce had expired. The Sultan Khalil listened in grim silence, and after a while replied with much dignity, "Your words are as the honey and sugar used to conceal the presence of a deadly poison. We have ourselves kept the truce with loyal intent, but such an offence cannot be suffered to pass unpunished. You may depart in full assurance that within the time appointed I will come against your city with a mighty host and destroy all, from the least to the greatest, by the sword." Just before the return of the envoys with this threatening message, the spirits of the citizens had been much revived by the arrival in Palestine of Sir Otho de Grandison, the secretary and confidential friend of Edward I., with a small force and the information that Edward himself would shortly follow him. The message of the envoys had filled the city with panic that was but slightly leavened with hope. They saw at length that their one chance lay in united action, and they determined to fight together for their city to the last. "And surely the princes oversea will send us timely help when they hear with what peril we are encompassed," was their cry. Encouraged by their wish for unity the Patriarch sent them to their homes with the charge, "Be ye therefore constant, and ye shall behold the great help of the Lord come upon you." So at length, when it was too late, all manner of {259} energies were set to work. The city was refortified, a large store of arms was laid in, help was sent from Cyprus and the Islands of the Sea, until a force of nine hundred knights and eighteen thousand foot was within the walls. The care of the walls themselves was divided between Otho de Grandison, Henry, King of Cyprus, and the Master of the Teutonic Knights and the Masters of the Temple and the Hospital, with whom served the Masters of the Knights of the Sword and of the Knights of the Holy Ghost. "These are the men," says one of the narratives of the survivors, "by whose prudence and counsel the city was to be governed. Had they been of one heart and mind, Heaven is our witness, Acre would still rejoice in the fulness of her strength." For alas, the old discord between the Templars and the Hospitallers had broken out afresh, and there was little hope of united action within the walls. In the middle of March, the Saracens first appeared before Acre, "while making the earth to tremble at the march of their mailed men and to shake at the noise of their drums and cymbals; while the gilded shields of the soldiers flashed as the rays of the sun across the hills and their spearheads danced in the sunlight like stars in the midnight sky." The din made before the walls was incessant. "They bellowed like bulls; they barked like dogs; they roared like lions; and ever, as is their wont, they drummed their huge tom-toms with their heavy-knotted sticks." Then the war-engines were set up "which poured by day and by night a ceaseless hailstorm of stones upon the walls and city." {260} A partly successful sortie returned with some captives and the news that "the arrows were flying thicker than the flakes of snow in winter"; and on the Good Friday of the year 1291 Otho and the Templars planned a more united attack upon the Saracen camp. But this the Patriarch, acting on the advice of traitors, absolutely forbade, and so the last chance of saving the ill-fated city disappeared. Many of the citizens and some of the fighting men now fled from Acre whenever they had the opportunity, but a considerable force yet remained, quite enough indeed to hold the city had they been content to work together. This, however, seemed impossible, and Khalil went boldly on to undermine the walls. The first direct assault was aimed at that section which was guarded by Henry of Cyprus, and only the nightfall prevented the Saracens from forcing an entrance. During the hours of darkness the King of Cyprus, with all his followers, crept to the harbour and secretly sailed away to his own island. And this he did, not so much in fear as in despair of ever accomplishing aught, when the petty quarrels and rivalries within the city left him without support. This fatal policy of disunion was even more apparent during the last four days of that terrible siege. The Templars would not lift a hand to aid the Hospitallers; their bitter hostility made them more eager to fight each other than the infidel. Meantime the Saracens had bridged the moat, broken through the outer walls, and driven the defenders to the inner part of the city. The captains, who were sitting in council, hastily donned their armour and rode forth into the midst of the panic-stricken crowd. [Illustration: _The Fall of Acre_] {263} "Shame upon you!" they cried. "Fools! you are not hurt. To the battle with you, by the faith of Christ," and with Matthew de Clermont at their head, they charged upon the invaders and drove them out beyond the breach. For three days this sort of thing continued, the Crusaders patching up the breach by night that had been broken in by day. But at daybreak of Friday, May 18, Khalil made his final assault. In the midst of the deafening noise made by his drummers mounted on three hundred camels, an attack was made upon all parts of the wall at once. Within a few hours the Masters of the Temple and the Hospital, rivals in life, were united in death. Overwhelmed by their loss, the Christians gave way, and though Otho de Grandison held out for awhile, it was soon clear that further resistance was impossible. In the midst of the horror and confusion of the onrush of the Saracens through the doomed town, a terrific storm began to rage, while the sea rose to such a height that it became almost impossible to launch a boat or escape from the harbour. The Patriarch had been carried aboard his own galley against his will, and in his wish to save as many of his people as possible, he allowed the vessel to be so overcrowded that she overturned, and all on board were lost. Many, however, did escape by water, and only a few, who had no desire save for righteousness, "remained behind to sell their lives dearly or to bargain with Saracen prisoners for their own lives." Others held out in the Temple Tower, and when at length it fell, perished amid the ruins. Otho de {264} Grandison was among those who managed to escape to Sidon, and afterwards to Cyprus. So fell the last remnant of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, founded with such pride and devotion nearly two hundred years before. {265} CHAPTER XXI The Story of the Fall of Constantinople _Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great has passed away._ WORDSWORTH: _On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic._ No story of the Crusades can be complete without some account of the last scene in the drama that had been played for so many years between East and West, and which was ended for the time when Constantinople fell. Since the year 1261, the Eastern Empire had passed out of the hands of Latin rulers, and once more owned an Emperor of Greek origin, Michael Palæologus by name. But this fact brought it no accession of vigour or strength. Worn out and impoverished, and lacking a great ruler who would have held the scattered threads of Empire in a firm grasp, the power of Constantinople was bound to lie at the mercy of a determined foe. She had been already threatened, about the middle of the thirteenth century, by the dreaded Moguls, and only escaped because the latter first turned their attention to Russia. But the way to her final destruction was laid open by Michael the Emperor himself. The borders of the Greek Empire in Asia had been guarded for many years past by the natives of Bithynia, the border state, who held their lands on condition {266} that they kept the castles of the frontier in a state of defence. Their task was no easy one, for the Seljukian Turks, who ruled over the neighbouring district of Iconium, were always on the watch to enlarge their boundaries; but these border militia were very faithful to their task, and had kept the invaders at bay. Now Michael, formerly the Regent, had won the imperial throne by foul treachery towards the child Emperor, John Ducas, whose eyes he put out and whom he left to languish for thirty years in a wretched dungeon. Uneasy lies the usurper's head, and Michael could not rest until he had disarmed or got rid of all those who were suspected of loyalty towards the throne of Ducas. Among these latter were the native "militia men" of Bithynia, whom Michael now proceeded to disband. The force substituted to defend the borderland was quite inadequate for the task; and the weakest spot on the frontier was thus left practically unguarded. A few years earlier, a certain Othman, a Turk, had become the vassal of the Seljukian Sultan, and had been granted a district of the Phrygian highlands, on the very borders of the Greek Empire, on condition that he would take up arms against the Greeks. Not many years passed before Othman, through the death of the last Sultan of the Seljuk line, had stepped into his place as an independent prince and the future founder of the Ottoman Empire. He outlived Michael Palæologus and his successor, and managed before his death to push the frontiers of the Turkish Empire forward to the Sea of Marmora. His son Orkhan completed the conquest of Bithynia--a {267} comparatively easy task now that the mistaken policy of the Greek Emperors had turned the troops of "hardy mountaineers into a trembling crowd of peasants without spirit or discipline." By the year 1333, nothing remained of the Greek Empire in Asia but the town of Chalcedon and the strip of land that faced Constantinople across the straits. The rule of the Ottoman Turks over their newly-conquered territory was firm and just enough, and was strengthened by material drawn from the ranks of the vanquished inhabitants. One of their demands was that a yearly tribute of young boys should be paid to them by the Christians. At first a terrible rumour spread that these children were killed and eaten by the infidels. But what really happened was that these boys were trained very carefully as soldiers, and became the "Janissaries," or "New Soldiers" of the Ottoman army, against whom nothing could stand. They were forced, of course, to become followers of Islam, and they were appointed to all the highest offices of state. But their chief energy was reserved for the attacks made upon the land of their origin. Gradually the Ottoman Turks crept nearer and nearer the heart of the Eastern Empire. A certain crafty Prime Minister of Constantinople, John Cantacugenus, in his determination to supplant his young sovereign, a child of nine, actually called in their aid and allowed them to over-run Thrace. By the time that the usurper had won his way as joint ruler with his master, to the imperial throne, all that remained of the coveted empire was Constantinople, the towns of Adrianople and Thessalonica, and the {268} Byzantine province in the Peloponnesus. His fatal alliance with the Turks had been cemented by a marriage between the Sultan Orkhan and his daughter Theodora; and when John Palæologus, the rightful sovereign, refused to submit to this arrangement of twin rulers, Cantacugenus at once called in his son-in-law to his help. Once more the Ottomans swarmed into Thrace, and, though they found that Cantacugenus had been deposed and forced to become a monk, they were not disposed to retreat without some substantial indemnity. They seized upon and settled in a province of Thrace, and within two years had the whole district, together with the city of Adrianople, in their hands. The next step was to the threshold of Constantinople itself, but for this the Turkish chieftain Murad was content to wait awhile. The capital was bound to fall in time, and he was first of all eager to make sure of his ground in Asia Minor. During Murad's reign he extended his domain to the Balkans and up to the very walls of the imperial city; whilst the unhappy Emperor without an empire was thankful to escape for the present by acknowledging his supremacy, and even by taking up arms at his command against one of his own free towns. For the next hundred and fifty years the Ottomans were only hindered from the invasion of Christendom by the determined action of the Servians and Hungarians. And meantime the chance of freeing the Greek Empire altogether from Ottoman rule had come and gone. In 1402, when the Turkish Sultan Bajazet was pressing hard upon Constantinople, the great Tamerlane, chief {269} of the Tartar hordes, who had already conquered Persia, Turkestan, Russia, and India, came down like a thunderbolt upon the ambitious plans of Bajazet. The latter defied the conqueror, saying, "Thy armies are innumerable? Be they so! But what are the arrows of the flying Tartar against the scimitars and battle-axes of my firm and invincible Janissaries?" Alike in their religious faith and in their ambitions, these two men now became deadly rivals; but not even the "New Army" of the Ottoman could stand against the Tartar hordes. One city after another fell and was sacked; Bajazet himself was taken, and imprisoned, according to one story, in an iron cage. Another and more modern version says that the great Tamerlane treated his captive with the utmost courtesy and consideration; and on the occasion of the victorious feast after the battle, placed a crown upon his head and a sceptre in his hand, promising that he should return to the throne of his fathers with greater glory than before. But Bajazet died before his generous conqueror could carry out his promises, and Tamerlane, taking his place, demanded tribute of his sons and of Manuel of Constantinople at the same time. The two elder sons of Bajazet were now at variance over the poor remains of his empire. One of these bought the aid of Manuel by surrendering the coast of Thessaly and the seaports of the Black Sea, and the Emperor was able to keep these just so long as the war between the brothers continued to rage. Even after this had ended in the triumph over both of Mohammed, Bajazet's youngest son, Manuel could feel fairly safe, for of late years he had thrown in his {270} lot with Mohammed and was allowed to hold his possessions in peace. This period of civil war, was of course, the opportunity for the Greek ruler to have driven out the Ottomans from his former empire. But this opportunity was lost as so many others had been, and after Mohammed died in 1421, the empire was entirely surrendered to the Ottomans. Mohammed's successor, Amurath, is thus described by one of his own historians. "He was a just and valiant prince, of a great soul, patient of labours, learned, merciful, religious, charitable; a lover and encourager of the studious, and of all who excelled in any art or science; a good Emperor and a great general. "No man obtained more or greater victories than Amurath. Under his reign the soldier was ever victorious, the citizen rich and secure. If he subdued any country, his first care was to build mosques and caravanserais, hospitals and colleges. Every year he gave a thousand pieces of gold to the sons of the Prophet, and sent two thousands five hundred to the religious persons of Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem." Like the Emperor Charles V, a century later, this "perfect prince" laid down the reins of empire at the very height of his glory and "retired to the society of saints and hermits," at Magnesia. Twice he was recalled to the field of action, first by an invasion of the Hungarians, the second time by the insurrection of the "haughty Janissaries "; and with these latter, now humbled and trembling at his very look, the great Amurath remained until his death. Meantime the doomed city of Constantinople had been further weakened by internal strife. Hoping to get aid {271} from the Pope, John Palæologus, the Emperor, had publicly conformed to the Roman Church, with many of his followers. But the bulk of the inhabitants of Constantinople utterly refused to throw over the ancient faith of the Greek Church, and preferred to disown their Emperor. As one of them ominously muttered: "Better the turban of the Turk in Constantinople than the Pope's tiara." Disappointed of his hopes of any practical aid from Rome, John worked on in terrified silence while the brave King of Poland and Hungary tried in vain to drive back the triumphant Turks. He died only three years before the dreaded Amurath, and was succeeded by his brother Constantine, bearer of the honoured name of the founder of the city, but destined to be the last Christian ruler of the Eastern Empire. Before very long, Constantine found himself face to face with the young Mohammed, the son of Amurath, who was already surnamed the Conqueror. The all-absorbing desire of Mohammed was the possession of Constantinople, in order that it might be made the capital of his own Empire. Some pretence therefore must be found for a rupture with his meek vassal Constantine. At that time there dwelt within the city a certain Ottoman prince named Orkhan, much given to plots and ambitions, on whose account the Emperor was paid a considerable sum by Mohammed, on condition that he was kept from doing any harm. Very unwisely Constantine sent envoys to press for a larger payment, and even went so far as to try to blackmail the Sultan by hinting that Orkhan had the better right to the throne. The reply of Mohammed was a prompt order to his {272} engineers to construct a series of forts between Constantinople and the Black Sea, and thus to begin the siege by isolating the city from her port and food supplies. The actual excuse for warfare was provided in an attack made by some Greek soldiers on the Turks who were pulling down a beautiful old church in order to use its stones for their fort. The Greeks were promptly cut to pieces, and when Constantine dared to remonstrate, Mohammed at once declared war. In vain did the despairing Emperor seek for help from the West. Even Genoa and Venice were blind to the approaching loss of all their Eastern trade, and Rome could do little to help. When the Emperor made a strong appeal to his own subjects to rally to the protection of their city, they listened in sullen silence to the words of one who had renounced the faith of his ancestors and conformed to the Church of Rome. There was never the smallest chance of holding out against the vigorous young Sultan and his picked troops. In the spring of 1453 the actual siege began. Mohammed made use of that gunpowder which was to revolutionise all the ancient modes of warfare, and the old walls of Constantinople shuddered and fell before the shock. The besieged had their guns too, but they did more harm than good, for the walls were too narrow to hold them and were so shaken by the concussion that these weapons had to be abandoned. Yet for a time, owing largely to the courage and spirit of Constantine, the city not only held out, but succeeded in sending five vessels into the midst of the Turkish fleet, sinking and otherwise destroying all with which {273} they came into contact. For allowing this to happen, the Turkish admiral, in spite of his plea of an injured eye as the cause of the mishap, was sentenced to receive a hundred strokes from a golden rod in the presence of the angry Sultan. But this victory was quickly counterbalanced by Mohammed, who had some of his vessels brought overland across the neck that lies between the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, thus shutting out the city from the sea on both sides. After a siege of forty days the end came on May 29, 1453. A special effort was urged by the Sultan in these words: "The city and the buildings are mine, but I resign to you the captives and the spoil, the treasures of gold and beauty; be rich and happy. Many are the provinces of my Empire; the intrepid soldier who first ascends the walls of Constantinople shall be rewarded with the government of the fairest and most wealthy; and my gratitude shall accumulate his honours and fortunes above the measure of his own hopes." The answer came loud and strong from every part of the camp. "Allah is great! There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet." Within the city all was in gloom and despair. The Emperor was blamed for not surrendering earlier; many said that the "repose and security of Turkish servitude" were far preferable to this last stand for freedom. The unfortunate Constantine listened in silence, and then went to the Cathedral of St Sophia, where he partook of his last Sacrament. Rising from a brief and troubled rest at dawn, he mounted his horse to ride back to the {274} breach in the falling walls. His few faithful friends and attendants pressed round the master who they knew was going to his death. Looking gravely down upon them, "he prayed one and all to pardon him for any offence that he might knowingly or unknowingly have committed against any man." The crowd answered with cries and lamentations as he rode calmly to his fate. "The distress and fall of the last Constantine," says Gibbon, "are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars." Standing in the gap made in the wall by the Gate of St Romanus, the Emperor and his little band awaited the rush of the Janissaries. One by one his men fell behind him and at his side, until he alone remained. One more attack was made, and this time the infidels swarmed right into the town, trampling the body of the Emperor underfoot. All that long and dreadful day the wail of the captives ascended to the heavens, and when a search was made among the dead, only the golden eagles on his shoes identified the crushed and disfigured form of him who once was Constantine, last of his race. The last scene in the grim drama was played when the Sultan came to the Church of St Sophia, and, riding upon his magnificent war-horse, passed in through the eastern door and bade the Mullah pronounce the formula of the faith of Islam from the high pulpit. "Allah is great! There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet!" The words resounded through the aisles of the great eastern church, as they had echoed first in the desert of Arabia nearly nine hundred years before that day. Through well-nigh nine centuries we have traced the growth of Islam, and the part played by the Holy War {275} in hindering its progress to the West; and, having recorded this last and successful attempt of the Mohammedans at establishing themselves in Europe, we will bring our story to an end with one last glance at the effect of this great movement upon Christendom. {276} CHAPTER XXII The Effect of the Crusades Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till earth and sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border nor Breed nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth. RUDYARD KIPLING: Ballad of East and West. The sacred fire of enthusiasm for the "Cause of God" still flickered faintly in Europe during the years that immediately preceded the fall of Constantinople. Our own Henry V., during his lifetime, sent out a knight of Burgundy, Gilbert de Lannoy, to see what chances there were of the success of a new Crusade; and Henry's dying words showed that he had not forgotten his design. "Good Lord, Thou knowest that mine intent had been, and yet is, if I may live, to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem." But with the fall of Constantinople, all further hope of wresting the Holy Land from the infidel came to an end. Never again did a prince of the West set out to recover those "holy fields," and to this day they are ruled by the Sultan of Turkey. It is said of Columbus that he had in mind the idea of stirring up an Eastern War in the "Cause of God" before there had dawned upon him the vision of that Western {277} enterprise which was to open the gate to a new world. And that religious zeal did not die with the Crusades is to be seen in the constant stream of pilgrims to the Holy Land which, for a hundred years, followed the final defeat of Christendom, and which, suspended though it was during the spiritual apathy of the eighteenth century, has continued down to the present day. But the Age of Warfare was over when Constantinople fell, and with the dawn of that great awakening of thought and literature which we call the Renaissance, men turned away from bloodshed to the joys of discovery and enterprise in a new world. A little later, when the Wars of the Reformation broke out, and Europe took up the sword anew, the whole spirit of the Western world had changed. The East had lost its glamour, and the antagonism between religious and political parties had waxed so hot in Christendom that the old feud between Christian and pagan was entirely laid aside. Yet the Crusades, in spite of their apparent failure, had done a great work. First and foremost they had succeeded in deferring the rule of the Turk in Europe, and by the constant checks they offered to his progress, had prevented him from conquering anything but the merest fringe of the West. The advantage of this, apart from considerations of religion, will be seen at once if we compare the condition of the subjects of the Sultan with that of the more progressive of the Christian races of Europe. But the benefits conferred upon Europe by the Crusades are by no means only of this negative character. The Saracen of the Middle Ages was a learned and cultured gentleman, skilled in medicine, in music, and in various {278} other sciences, and, generally speaking, as much superior to the rough uneducated Crusader of the Western World as he was to the savage Ottoman Turk. Foes though they were in name, there was always a certain amount of friendly intercourse between the Crusaders and the Saracens, and the former were bound to be affected in some degree by the civilisation of the latter. Sometimes a dark-faced "leech" would return in the train of a Crusading baron to Europe, and there would teach some of his mysteries of healing to the rough-and-ready doctors of the West. To the Arabs we owe our "Arabic" system of numbers, used instead of the clumsy Roman figures, and the knowledge of the decimal notation, by which nearly every civilised country except our own reckons its money. From Architecture to Geography, all those branches of knowledge which distinguish the educated from the uneducated mind, may be traced back to the keen and subtle intelligence of the East. Next perhaps in importance comes the opening up of the East to the West for purposes of Commerce. Many a knightly Crusader thought it no shame to carry on an extensive trade in the silks and spices of Palestine in order to fill his coffers upon his return and that he might be recompensed for the expenses of his undertaking. The constant crossing and recrossing of the Mediterranean soon set on foot a steady stream of commercial enterprise between the seaports of Italy and those of Syria, and the existence of a Latin Empire of Constantinople impelled Venice, the main cause of its establishment, to still closer communication with the East. To her, as "the Southern terminus of a great land trade-route," was carried the produce of England, {279} Norway, Flanders, France and Germany as to a huge market, and she distributed it throughout the Eastern world, receiving in return the wealth of the latter to be carried back to Europe. It was only when the discovery of America opened up an entirely new field of enterprise that this great stream of commerce began to diminish. Another effect of the Crusades was upon the great world of literature. Such a unique event as a Holy War was bound to inspire the writers of history even in the days when such writers were rarely to be found. William of Tyre was only one amongst several chroniclers of the First Crusade, and the story of the Crusades of later days have been vividly told by Richard of Devizes, Villehardouin and the Sire de Joinville, many of whose telling descriptions have been quoted in the pages of this book. It was but natural that the gallant adventures of the Crusaders should form the theme of many of the epics and _chansons_ of Chivalry. Charlemagne, Roland and Bevis of Hampton may never have seen the Holy Land, but they became the heroes of Crusading exploits nevertheless; while Richard Lion-Heart and Godfrey of Boulogne, actual leaders in the Holy War, became the central figures of more or less impossible legendary adventures. Through all this stream of literature ran that quickening, inspiring spirit of hope--perhaps the greatest gift of the Crusades to a world which, in the years between the Empire of Charlemagne and the Renaissance, might easily have fallen into a deadened condition of indifference and disruption. This is scarcely the place to speak of the great unifying effect upon Europe, nor of the influence of the {280} movement upon the feudal conditions of the time; but we have seen enough to know that the Western World was decidedly the better, spiritually, mentally and physically, for that gigantic failure which we know as the Crusades. {281} List of Books Consulted The following books have been especially useful in the compilation of this little volume. My thanks are also due to Messrs Dent for permission to use some extracts from Sir Frank Marzials' charming translation of Villehardouin's Chronicle and that of the Sire de Joinville in their "Everyman" series. Archer and Kingsford. _The Crusades; the Story of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem_. Chronicles of the Crusaders by _Richard of Devizes, Geoffrey de Vinsauf and the Sire de Joinville_. F. W. Cornish. _Chivalry_. Sir G. W. Cox. _Crusades_. W. E. Dutton. _History of the Crusades_. J. F. Michaud. _History of the Crusades_. H. Stebbing. _History of Chivalry and the Crusades_. Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. {282} Index Aaron, 20 Abraham, 11, 16, 33, 29 Abu Bekr, 18, 24 Abu Talib, 12, 16, 18, 20 Acre, 130, 131, 132, 135, 136, 137, 149, 152, 153, 154, 202, 210, 212, 243, 244, 245, 251, 255, 256, 257, 259 Adam, 20 " and Eve, 11 Adela, wife of Stephen of Blois, 103 Adhemar, Bishop of Puy, 62, 91, 92 Aleaume of Clari, 190 Alexandria, 38, 199 Alexios, Emperor of the Eastern Empire, 54, 58, 64, 65, 70, 73, 74, 77, 78, 79, 103, 173, 174, 178, 180, 181, 182, 186, 187, 188 Allah, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 23, 24, 28, 29, 31, 40, 273 Amalric, King of Jerusalem, 119 Amina, 12 Amrou, 38, 39 Amurath, 270, 271 Andrew, King of Hungary, 201, 202, 207 Anjou, Men of, 138 Antioch, 74, 81, 82, 86, 88, 92, 93, 102, 103, 104, 105, 113, 127, 193, 251 Arabia, 10, 37 Aragon, King of, 253 Arnulf, 97 Artois, Count of, 227, 228, 230, 233 Ascalon, 101, 142, 145, 147, 149 Ascension Day, 241 Attaleia, 113 Austria, Duke of, 201 Ayesha, 27 Auxerre, Count of, 253 Babylon, 94, 146, 178, 225 Bagdad, 43, 54, 103 Baldwin, King of Jerusalem, 51, 68, 69, 81, 85, 86, 102, 103, 105, 108, 117, 119 " of Bethune, 156 " Count of Flanders 162, 192 " Son of John of Brienne, 214 Balian of Ibelin, 123, 124 Balkans, The, 268 Barbarossa, Emperor Frederick 126, 127 Barons' War, The, 252, 255 Barthelemy, Peter, 90, 92, 93 Bavaria, Duke of, 201 Beauvais, Bishop of, 150 Becco, William, 199 Bedouins, 139, 226, 227, 236 Berengaria of Navarre, 128, 130 Bernard of Clairvaux, 107, 108, 109, 110, 117, 161, 218 " of St Valery, 98 " the Wise, 43 Bethlehem, 95, 211 Bevis of Hampton, 279 Bibars, Sultan, 251 Blanche, Queen Regent of France, 219, 244, 245 Blondel, 158 Bohemond of Antioch, 73, 74, 77, 81, 82, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 102, 103, 104, 105, 193 Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, 167, 168, 174, 175, 178, 181, 188, 193 Brindisi, 196, 209, 210 Burgundy, Duke of, 139, 149 Byzantine, Province in the Peloponnesus, 268 Byzantine, Cæsars, 274 Cadesia, Battle of, 36 Cæsarea, 102 Cæsars, Byzantine, 274 Canabus, 188, 189 Cantacugenus, 267, 268 Charlemagne, 40, 43, 279 Charles, Emperor, 43 " V., 51, 270 Children's Crusade, The, 199 Church of the Blessed Virgin, 43 " of the Holy Sepulchre, 44, 46, 47, 98, 102, 120, 211 " of the Nativity, 96 " of St Mary, 50 " of St Peter, 90, 208 Clairvaux, Abbott of, 108, 109 Clement III., Pope, 126 " IV., Pope, 251, 252 Columbus, 276 Conon of Bethune, 180 Conrad of Germany, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 117, 130, 131, 135, 149, 150, 151, 156 Constantine, 35, 271, 272, 274 Constantinople, 35, 38, 39, 54, 58, 63, 65, 66, 68, 70, 73, 74, 77, 78, 103, 104, 110, 112, 114, 173, 178, 179, 184, 185, 187, 193, 194, 251, 265, 267, 268, 270, 271, 272, 273, 276, 277 Couci, Lord of, 238 Crusades, The, 10, 255; _First_, 10, 44, 49, 50, 55, 65, 78, 87, 107, 108, 117, 279; _Second_, 108, 109, 113, 114, 117; _Third_, 126, 128, 145, 155, 158, 244; _Fourth_, 159, 161; _Fifth_, 161, 163, 173, 193, 214; _Sixth_, 195, 200, 201; _Seventh_, 213, 217, 219; _Eighth_, 219, 243, 251; _Ninth_, 251, 255 Cypriotes, The, 129 Cyprus, Island of, 128, 152, 201, 245, 247, 259, 264 Damascus, 36, 37, 117, 121, 153 Damietta, 203, 204, 207, 208, 222, 225, 230, 233, 234, 239, 243 Dandolo, 162, 163, 165, 176, 193 David, Sultan, 66, 79, 81, 85, 88, 91 Doge of Venice, 162, 163, 164, 165, 170, 175, 176, 177, 181, 193 Dorylæum, 82 Ducas, John, 266 Edessa, 86, 103, 108 Edward I., 252, 255, 256, 258 Egypt, 13, 30, 35, 38, 43, 47, 119, 121, 194, 203, 204, 207, 217, 222, 225 El Amin, 13 Eldred, 47 Eleanor, 109, 110, 256 El Hakim, 44, 45, 54 Emir of Joppa, 255, 256 Emmaus, 95, 153 England, 47, 53, 94, 101, 102, 155, 157, 204, 244, 256, 278 Euphrates, The, 32, 38 Eustace, 68 Eve, and Adam, 11 Fall of Jerusalem, The, 119 Fatima, 14, 29 Flanders, 117, 162, 168, 192, 279 Flemings, The, 185 Forduce, 57, 58, 61, 102, 104, 108, 110, 117, 135, 162, 195, 196, 202, 204, 220, 245, 253, 279 Foucand, Lord of Merle, 227, 228 Frederick II., 194, 207, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213, 218, 220, 221, 235, 236 French Crusaders, 255 Fulk, 162, 167, 175 Gabriel, 15 Gate of St Romanus, 274 Genoa, 195, 196, 251, 256, 272 Geoffrey of Perche, 167 " de Rancogne, 113 " of Sargines, 233, 234 " de Villehardouin, 163, 164, 165, 166, 169, 170, 173, 182, 186, 189 " de Vinsauf, 124, 137, 140, 141, 142, 146, 150, 152 Gerard, Grand Master of Hospital of St John, 50, 121, 122 Gilbert de Lannoy, 276 Godfrey of Boulogne, 50, 68, 69, 70, 73, 74, 77, 81, 91, 97, 101, 102, 105, 201, 279 Godwin, Earl, 47 Golden Gate, The, 191 " Horn, The, 273 Gotschalk, German priest, 66 Grand Master, of Templars, 228, 257 Gregory IX., Pope, 209, 212, 214, 215, 220 " X., Pope, 257 Guardian of the Redeemer's Poor, 50 Guiscard, Robert, 55 Guy of Lusignan, 119, 120, 121, 123, 129, 130, 131, 135, 138, 150, 152 Hamza, 19 Harmozan, 36 Haroun-al-Raschid, 40, 43 Hegira, The, 26, 33 Helena, 35 Henry II., 126, 127 " III., 244, 252, 255 " V., 276 " VI, The Emperor, 157 " Emperor of Germany, 159 " Count of Champagne, 131, 151, 152 " King of Cyprus, 259, 260 Heraclius, 30, 35, 123 Hildebrand, 55 Hinnon, 95 Holy City, The, 10, 31, 35, 38, 43, 55, 56, 87, 94, 98, 102, 119, 121, 123, 125, 126, 148, 152, 153, 155, 211, 212, 216, 217 " Father, The, 161 " Lance, The, 91, 93 " Sepulchre, The, 35, 46, 47, 50, 51, 101, 138, 180, 216, 244 " War, The, 9, 10, 51, 53, 92, 93, 109, 118, 162, 193, 194, 195, 201, 209, 218, 255, 279 " Week, 191, 210 Hospital of St John, The, 50 Hospitallers, Knights, 50, 51, 52, 105, 117, 137, 138, 140, 141, 204, 210, 211, 229, 238, 251, 256, 260 Honorius, 208, 209 Hugh of Vermandois, 69, 70, 92 " the Merchant, 156 Hungarians, The, 268, 270 Hungary, 47, 63, 66, 67, 69, 170, 175, 201, 271 Iblis, 11 India, 13, 269 Innocent III., Pope, 161, 162, 194, 195, 200, 201, 208 Isaac, Greek Emperor, 127, 129, 173, 174, 180, 182, 183, 184, 187, 188 Isabella, Queen, 151 Ishmael, 11 Israel, 130 Israelites, 38, 61 Italy, 13, 57, 69, 78, 128, 202, 278 Jacob, 37 Jehoshaphat, 147 Jerusalem, 10, 20, 26, 34, 35, 37, 43, 47, 50, 51, 52, 56, 58, 61, 77, 87, 92, 94, 95, 98, 103, 105, 107, 108, 114, 117, 121, 122, 123, 148, 152, 153, 155, 160, 163, 164, 193, 208, 212, 214, 216, 218, 233, 244, 249, 251, 252, 254, 256, 264, 270, 276 Jews, The, 15, 26, 29, 32, 37, 38, 44, 209 Joanna, 148 John of Brienne, 201, 202, 203, 204, 207, 208, 212 " of England, 157, 158, 194 " St, Knights of, 51 Joinville, Sire de, 219, 222, 225, 227, 228, 229, 230, 235, 236, 237, 241, 243, 246, 252, 253, 254, 279 Joppa, 94, 142, 145, 146, 148, 153, 155, 159, 160, 161, 211, 217, 244, 251 Jordan, The, 121, 147, 202 Joseph, 20 Jura Mountains, 168 Kaaba, 11, 17, 19, 29, 30, 31 Kadija, 13, 14, 17, 20 Kerboga, 89, 90, 91 Khalil Sultan, 258, 263 Khosru, 34, 35, 36 Knights Hospitallers, 50, 51, 52, 105, 117, 137, 138, 140, 141, 204, 210, 211, 238, 251, 256, 260 " of St John, 51 " Templars, 51, 105, 117, 120, 137, 138, 148, 204, 210, 211, 212, 227, 228, 238, 251, 256 Laodicea, 104, 105, 112 Latins, The, 216 Lebanon, 81 Leopold, Duke of Austria, 132, 156, 157 Libanus, Mountains of, 94 Lombards, 103, 104, 168 Lombardy, 77, 168, 174 Louis, Count of Blois, 162, 169 " of France, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 117 " IX., King, 213, 219, 221, 222, 229, 233, 238, 239, 241, 242, 243, 246, 249, 253 Malek-Camhel, 211, 213 Mansourah, 228, 237 Manuel of Constantinople, 269 " Greek Emperor, 110, 111, 112 Marseilles, 128, 168, 196, 199 Matthew de Clermont, 263 " of Paris, 215 Maynard, 156 Meander, River of, 112 Mecca, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 19, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 270 Medina, 20, 23, 26 _Melech Ric_ (King Richard), 142 Middle Ages, The, 277 Mizpeh, Mount, 95 Mohammed, 12-20, 23, 24, 26-35, 39, 132, 241, 269, 270-273 Moriah, Mount, 51 Moses, 23 Mosque of Omar, 211 Murad, Turkish Chieftain, 268 Navarre, King of, 213, 253, 255 Nazareth, 211, 245, 251, 255 Nicæa, 54, 65, 66, 78, 79, 81, 111, 112 Nicephorus, 40, 43 Nicholas, 195 " IV., Pope, 257 Nile, The, 194, 203, 207, 225 Normandy, 136, 155, 157, 244 Notre Dame, Church of, 167 Odo, Duke of Burgundy, 166 Olives, Mount of, 97, 98 Omar, 36, 37, 38, 39, 211 Orkhan, 266, 268, 271 Orontes, River of, 81, 94 Othman, 39 Otho of Germany, 194, 207, 208 " de Grandison, Sir, 258, 259, 260, 263 Ottoman Empire, The, 266 Palæologus, Michael, 251, 265, 266 " John, 268, 271 Pelagius, Cardinal, 204, 207 Pentelema, Island of, 247 Persia, 12, 34, 35, 36, 269 Peter of Brittany, 240 " the Hermit, 55, 56, 57, 62, 63, 64, 65, 78, 91, 96, 98, 107, 161, 218 " Lord of Bracuel, 190, 191 Philip de Montfort, 234, 235 " of France, 52, 126, 127, 128, 130, 131, 132, 135, 136, 157, 194, 207 " of Germany, 174, 177 " of Nemours, Lord, 241, 242 " the Bold, 255 Placentia, Council of, 58 Poitiers, Count of, 225, 241, 242, 243 Poitou, Men of, 138 Poland, King of, 271 Porcus, 199 Prophet, The (Mohammed), 17, 20, 24 27, 28, 31, 32, 34 Ptolemais, City of, 199 Ramadan, 14 Ramleh, Town of, 94 Raoul, Lord of Conci, 228 Raymond, Count of Toulouse, 62, 74, 77, 78, 80, 81, 90, 92, 93, 96, 101, 102, 103, 104 Raymond, of Tripoli, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123 Red-Cross Knights, 52 Reinaldo, 65, 66 Reginald of Châtillon, 119, 120, 121, 123 Renaissance, The, 277, 279 Richard, Earl of Cornwall, 215 " of Devises, 128, 130, 132, 135, 279 " Lion Heart, 127, 128, 130, 131, 132, 135, 136, 137, 139, 141, 142, 145-159, 215, 244, 279 Robert of Clari, 189, 190 " of Normandy, 69, 78, 81, 82, 95, 101 Roderick, "last of the Goths," 39 Roland, 279 Rome, 9, 31, 34, 35, 196, 208, 210, 271 Saladin, 119, 121, 123, 124, 125, 129, 130, 132, 142, 146-150, 153, 155, 159, 185, 207, 237 Saphadim, 124, 146-150, 154, 155, 159 Seljukian Turks, The, 54, 55, 87, 266 " Sultan, The, 266 Sicily, Island of, 61, 128, 131, 155, 207, 247, 255 Simon de Montfort, 162, 178 Sion, Mount, 96 Soissons, Bishop of, 167 " Count of, 229 St Andrew, 90 St Chrysostom, 81 St Denis, 222, 254 St Dominic, 218 St Francis of Assist, 218 St George, 92, 94 St Louis, 252, 254, 255 St Mark, 181, 182, 245 St Nicholas, 230 St Paul, 85 St Peter, Church of, 81 St Sophia, Church of, 188, 189, 192, 273, 274 St Theodore, 92 Stephen of Blois, 103, 105 " of Chârtres, 89 Sweyn, Son of Godwin, 47 Syria, 13, 29, 30, 87, 146, 184, 214, 216, 217, 278 Tabor, Mount, 202 Tamerlane, Chief of Tartar hordes, 268, 269 Tancred, 81, 85, 91, 102, 104, 105, 128, 157, 165 Templars, Knights, 51, 105, 117, 120, 137, 138, 148, 204, 210, 211, 212, 227, 228, 238, 251, 256 Temple, Church, The, 53 " The, 147 Theobald of Champagne, 219 Thrace, Plains of, 70, 267, 268 Tiberias, 121, 122, 123, 132 Tower of David, The, 101 Tristan, Knight, 49 Truce of God, 46 Tunis, 247, 248, 254, 255 Turkey, Sultan of, 276 Turkestan, 54, 269 Tyre, City of, 87, 94, 123, 131, 135, 150, 151, 155, 160 Tyrol, The, 158 Urban II., Pope, 56, 57, 58, 61 Walter of Brienne, 165 Walter, Lord, 226 " the Penniless, 63-66 William de Pratelles, 146 " Longsword, 203, 228, 229 " of Tyre, 279 " Longchamp, 158 " the Conqueror, 47, 89 Yolande, Daughter of John of Brienne, 209 Zeuzhi, Sultan, 108 * * * * * TOLD THROUGH THE AGES Legends of Greece and Rome Favourite Greek Myths Stories of Robin Hood and his Merry Outlaws Stories of King Arthur and his Knights Stories from Herodotus Stories from Wagner Britain Long Ago Stories from Scottish History Stories from Greek Tragedy Stories from Dickens Stories from the Earthly Paradise Stories from the Æneid The Book of Rustem Stories from Chaucer Stories from the Old Testament Stories from the Odyssey Stories from the Iliad Told by the Northmen Stories from Don Quixote The Story of Roland Stories from Thucydides The Story of Hereward Stories from the Faerie Queene Cuchulain: The Hound of Ulster Stories from Xenophon Stories from Shakespeare Stories from Dante Famous Voyages of the Great Discoverers The Story of Napoleon Stories of Pendennis and the Charterhouse Sir Guy of Warwick Heroes of the Middle Ages The Story of the Crusades The Story of Nelson Stories from George Eliot Froissart's Chronicles Shakespeare's Stories of the English Kings Heroes of Modern Europe The Story of King Robert the Bruce Stories of the Scottish Border The Story of the French Revolution The Story of Lord Kitchener Stories of the Saints The Story of St Elizabeth of Hungary In Feudal Times The High Deeds of Finn Early English Travel and Discovery Legends of Ancient Egypt The Story of the Renaissance Boyhood Stories of Famous Men Stories from French History Stories from English History Famous English Books and their Stories Women of the Classics In the Days of the Guilds Science through the Ages _Other volumes in active preparation_ 
392	----	Gerusalemme Liberata ("Jerusalem Delivered") by Torquato Tasso (1544-1595) Published 1581 in Parma, Italy. Translated by Edward Fairfax (1560-1635); translation first published in London, 1600. FIRST BOOK THE ARGUMENT. God sends his angel to Tortosa down, Godfrey unites the Christian Peers and Knights; And all the Lords and Princes of renown Choose him their Duke, to rule the wares and fights. He mustereth all his host, whose number known, He sends them to the fort that Sion hights; The aged tyrant Juda's land that guides, In fear and trouble, to resist provides. I The sacred armies, and the godly knight, That the great sepulchre of Christ did free, I sing; much wrought his valor and foresight, And in that glorious war much suffered he; In vain 'gainst him did Hell oppose her might, In vain the Turks and Morians armed be: His soldiers wild, to brawls and mutinies prest, Reduced he to peace, so Heaven him blest. II O heavenly Muse, that not with fading bays Deckest thy brow by the Heliconian spring, But sittest crowned with stars' immortal rays In Heaven, where legions of bright angels sing; Inspire life in my wit, my thoughts upraise, My verse ennoble, and forgive the thing, If fictions light I mix with truth divine, And fill these lines with other praise than thine. III Thither thou know'st the world is best inclined Where luring Parnass most his sweet imparts, And truth conveyed in verse of gentle kind To read perhaps will move the dullest hearts: So we, if children young diseased we find, Anoint with sweets the vessel's foremost parts To make them taste the potions sharp we give; They drink deceived, and so deceived, they live. IV Ye noble Princes, that protect and save The Pilgrim Muses, and their ship defend From rock of Ignorance and Error's wave, Your gracious eyes upon this labor bend: To you these tales of love and conquest brave I dedicate, to you this work I send: My Muse hereafter shall perhaps unfold Your fights, your battles, and your combats bold. V For if the Christian Princes ever strive To win fair Greece out of the tyrants' hands, And those usurping Ismaelites deprive Of woful Thrace, which now captived stands, You must from realms and seas the Turks forth drive, As Godfrey chased them from Juda's lands, And in this legend, all that glorious deed, Read, whilst you arm you; arm you, whilst you read. VI Six years were run since first in martial guise The Christian Lords warraid the eastern land; Nice by assault, and Antioch by surprise, Both fair, both rich, both won, both conquered stand, And this defended they in noblest wise 'Gainst Persian knights and many a valiant band; Tortosa won, lest winter might them shend, They drew to holds, and coming spring attend. VII The sullen season now was come and gone, That forced them late cease from their noble war, When God Almighty form his lofty throne, Set in those parts of Heaven that purest are (As far above the clear stars every one, As it is hence up to the highest star), Looked down, and all at once this world beheld, Each land, each city, country, town and field. VIII All things he viewed, at last in Syria stayed Upon the Christian Lords his gracious eye, That wondrous look wherewith he oft surveyed Men's secret thoughts that most concealed lie He cast on puissant Godfrey, that assayed To drive the Turks from Sion's bulwarks high, And, full of zeal and faith, esteemed light All worldly honor, empire, treasure, might: IX In Baldwin next he spied another thought, Whom spirits proud to vain ambition move: Tancred he saw his life's joy set at naught, So woe-begone was he with pains of love: Boemond the conquered folk of Antioch brought, The gentle yoke of Christian rule to prove: He taught them laws, statutes and customs new, Arts, crafts, obedience, and religion true; X And with such care his busy work he plied, That to naught else his acting thoughts he bent: In young Rinaldo fierce desires he spied, And noble heart of rest impatient; To wealth or sovereign power he naught applied His wits, but all to virtue excellent; Patterns and rules of skill, and courage bold, He took from Guelpho, and his fathers old. XI Thus when the Lord discovered had, and seen The hidden secrets of each worthy's breast, Out of the hierarchies of angels sheen The gentle Gabriel called he from the rest, 'Twixt God and souls of men that righteous been Ambassador is he, forever blest, The just commands of Heaven's Eternal King, 'Twixt skies and earth, he up and down doth bring. XII To whom the Lord thus spake: "Godfredo find, And in my name ask him, why doth he rest? Why be his arms to ease and peace resigned? Why frees he not Jerusalem distrest? His peers to counsel call, each baser mind Let him stir up; for, chieftain of the rest I choose him here, the earth shall him allow, His fellows late shall be his subjects now." XIII This said, the angel swift himself prepared To execute the charge imposed aright, In form of airy members fair imbared, His spirits pure were subject to our sight, Like to a man in show and shape he fared, But full of heavenly majesty and might, A stripling seemed he thrive five winters old, And radiant beams adorned his locks of gold. XIV Of silver wings he took a shining pair, Fringed with gold, unwearied, nimble, swift; With these he parts the winds, the clouds, the air, And over seas and earth himself doth lift, Thus clad he cut the spheres and circles fair, And the pure skies with sacred feathers clift; On Libanon at first his foot he set, And shook his wings with rory May dews wet. XV Then to Tortosa's confines swiftly sped The sacred messenger, with headlong flight; Above the eastern wave appeared red The rising sun, yet scantly half in sight; Godfrey e'en then his morn-devotions said, As was his custom, when with Titan bright Appeared the angel in his shape divine, Whose glory far obscured Phoebus' shine. XVI "Godfrey," quoth he, "behold the season fit To war, for which thou waited hast so long, Now serves the time, if thou o'erslip not it, To free Jerusalem from thrall and wrong: Thou with thy Lords in council quickly sit; Comfort the feeble, and confirm the strong, The Lord of Hosts their general doth make thee, And for their chieftain they shall gladly take thee. XVII "I, messenger from everlasting Jove, In his great name thus his behests do tell; Oh, what sure hope of conquest ought thee move, What zeal, what love should in thy bosom dwell!" This said, he vanished to those seats above, In height and clearness which the rest excel, Down fell the Duke, his joints dissolved asunder, Blind with the light, and strucken dead with wonder. XVIII But when recovered, he considered more, The man, his manner, and his message said; If erst he wished, now he longed sore To end that war, whereof he Lord was made; Nor swelled his breast with uncouth pride therefore, That Heaven on him above this charge had laid, But, for his great Creator would the same, His will increased: so fire augmenteth flame. XIX The captains called forthwith from every tent, Unto the rendezvous he them invites; Letter on letter, post on post he sent, Entreatance fair with counsel he unites, All, what a noble courage could augment, The sleeping spark of valor what incites, He used, that all their thoughts to honor raised, Some praised, some paid, some counselled, all pleased. XX The captains, soldiers, all, save Boemond, came, And pitched their tents, some in the fields without, Some of green boughs their slender cabins frame, Some lodged were Tortosa's streets about, Of all the host the chief of worth and name Assembled been, a senate grave and stout; Then Godfrey, after silence kept a space, Lift up his voice, and spake with princely grace: XXI "Warriors, whom God himself elected hath His worship true in Sion to restore, And still preserved from danger, harm and scath, By many a sea and many an unknown shore, You have subjected lately to his faith Some provinces rebellious long before: And after conquests great, have in the same Erected trophies to his cross and name. XXII "But not for this our homes we first forsook, And from our native soil have marched so far: Nor us to dangerous seas have we betook, Exposed to hazard of so far sought war, Of glory vain to gain an idle smook, And lands possess that wild and barbarous are: That for our conquests were too mean a prey, To shed our bloods, to work our souls' decay. XXIII "But this the scope was of our former thought,-- Of Sion's fort to scale the noble wall, The Christian folk from bondage to have brought, Wherein, alas, they long have lived thrall, In Palestine an empire to have wrought, Where godliness might reign perpetual, And none be left, that pilgrims might denay To see Christ's tomb, and promised vows to pay. XXIV "What to this hour successively is done Was full of peril, to our honor small, Naught to our first designment, if we shun The purposed end, or here lie fixed all. What boots it us there wares to have begun, Or Europe raised to make proud Asia thrall, If our beginnings have this ending known, Not kingdoms raised, but armies overthrown? XXV "Not as we list erect we empires new On frail foundations laid in earthly mould, Where of our faith and country be but few Among the thousands stout of Pagans bold, Where naught behoves us trust to Greece untrue, And Western aid we far removed behold: Who buildeth thus, methinks, so buildeth he, As if his work should his sepulchre be. XXVI "Turks, Persians conquered, Antiochia won, Be glorious acts, and full of glorious praise, By Heaven's mere grace, not by our prowess done: Those conquests were achieved by wondrous ways, If now from that directed course we run The God of Battles thus before us lays, His loving kindness shall we lose, I doubt, And be a byword to the lands about. XXVII "Let not these blessings then sent from above Abused be, or split in profane wise, But let the issue correspondent prove To good beginnings of each enterprise; The gentle season might our courage move, Now every passage plain and open lies: What lets us then the great Jerusalem With valiant squadrons round about to hem? XXVIII "Lords, I protest, and hearken all to it, Ye times and ages, future, present, past, Hear all ye blessed in the heavens that sit, The time for this achievement hasteneth fast: The longer rest worse will the season fit, Our sureties shall with doubt be overcast. If we forslow the siege I well foresee From Egypt will the Pagans succored be." XXIX This said, the hermit Peter rose and spake, Who sate in counsel those great Lords among: "At my request this war was undertake, In private cell, who erst lived closed long, What Godfrey wills, of that no question make, There cast no doubts where truth is plain and strong, Your acts, I trust, will correspond his speech, Yet one thing more I would you gladly teach. XXX "These strifes, unless I far mistake the thing, And discords raised oft in disordered sort, Your disobedience and ill managing Of actions lost, for want of due support, Refer I justly to a further spring, Spring of sedition, strife, oppression, tort, I mean commanding power to sundry given, In thought, opinion, worth, estate, uneven. XXXI "Where divers Lords divided empire hold, Where causes be by gifts, not justice tried, Where offices be falsely bought and sold, Needs must the lordship there from virtue slide. Of friendly parts one body then uphold, Create one head, the rest to rule and guide: To one the regal power and sceptre give, That henceforth may your King and Sovereign live." XXXII And therewith stayed his speech. O gracious Muse, What kindling motions in their breasts do fry? With grace divine the hermit's talk infuse, That in their hearts his words may fructify; By this a virtuous concord they did choose, And all contentions then began to die; The Princes with the multitude agree, That Godfrey ruler of those wars should be. XXXIII This power they gave him, by his princely right, All to command, to judge all, good and ill, Laws to impose to lands subdued by might, To maken war both when and where he will, To hold in due subjection every wight, Their valors to be guided by his skill; This done, Report displays her tell-tale wings, And to each ear the news and tidings brings. XXXIV She told the soldiers, who allowed him meet And well deserving of that sovereign place. Their first salutes and acclamations sweet Received he, with love and gentle grace; After their reverence done with kind regreet Requited was, with mild and cheerful face, He bids his armies should the following day On those fair plains their standards proud display. XXXV The golden sun rose from the silver wave, And with his beams enamelled every green, When up arose each warrior bold and brave, Glistering in filed steel and armor sheen, With jolly plumes their crests adorned they have, And all tofore their chieftain mustered been: He from a mountain cast his curious sight On every footman and on every knight. XXXVI My mind, Time's enemy, Oblivion's foe, Disposer true of each noteworthy thing, Oh, let thy virtuous might avail me so, That I each troop and captain great may sing, That in this glorious war did famous grow, Forgot till now by Time's evil handling: This work, derived from my treasures dear, Let all times hearken, never age outwear. XXXVII The French came foremost battailous and bold, Late led by Hugo, brother to their King, From France the isle that rivers four infold With rolling streams descending from their spring, But Hugo dead, the lily fair of gold, Their wonted ensign they tofore them bring, Under Clotharius great, a captain good, And hardy knight ysprong of princes' blood. XXXVIII A thousand were they in strong armors clad, Next whom there marched forth another band, That number, nature, and instruction had, Like them to fight far off or charge at hand, All valiant Normans by Lord Robert lad, The native Duke of that renowned land, Two bishops next their standards proud upbare, Called Reverend William, and Good Ademare. XXXIX Their jolly notes they chanted loud and clear On merry mornings at the mass divine, And horrid helms high on their heads they bear When their fierce courage they to war incline: The first four hundred horsemen gathered near To Orange town, and lands that it confine: But Ademare the Poggian youth brought out, In number like, in hard assays as stout. XL Baldwin, his ensign fair, did next dispread Among his Bulloigners of noble fame, His brother gave him all his troops to lead, When he commander of the field became; The Count Carinto did him straight succeed, Grave in advice, well skilled in Mars his game, Four hundred brought he, but so many thrice Led Baldwin, clad in gilden arms of price. XLI Guelpho next them the land and place possest, Whose fortunes good with his great acts agree, By his Italian sire, fro the house of Est, Well could he bring his noble pedigree, A German born with rich possessions blest, A worthy branch sprung from the Guelphian tree. 'Twixt Rhene and Danubie the land contained He ruled, where Swaves and Rhetians whilom reigned. XLII His mother's heritage was this and right, To which he added more by conquest got, From thence approved men of passing might He brought, that death or danger feared not: It was their wont in feasts to spend the night, And pass cold days in baths and houses hot. Five thousand late, of which now scantly are The third part left, such is the chance of war. XLIII The nation then with crisped locks and fair, That dwell between the seas and Arden Wood, Where Mosel streams and Rhene the meadows wear, A battel soil for grain, for pasture good, Their islanders with them, who oft repair Their earthen bulwarks 'gainst the ocean flood, The flood, elsewhere that ships and barks devours, But there drowns cities, countries, towns and towers; XLIV Both in one troop, and but a thousand all, Under another Robert fierce they run. Then the English squadron, soldiers stout and tall, By William led, their sovereign's younger son, These archers be, and with them come withal, A people near the Northern Pole that wone, Whom Ireland sent from loughs and forests hoar, Divided far by sea from Europe's shore. XLV Tancredi next, nor 'mongst them all was one, Rinald except, a prince of greater might, With majesty his noble countenance shone, High were his thoughts, his heart was bold in fight, No shameful vice his worth had overgone, His fault was love, by unadvised sight, Bred in the dangers of adventurous arms, And nursed with griefs, with sorrows, woes, and harms. XLVI Fame tells, that on that ever-blessed day, When Christian swords with Persian blood were dyed, The furious Prince Tancredi from that fray His coward foes chased through forests wide, Till tired with the fight, the heat, the way, He sought some place to rest his wearied side, And drew him near a silver stream that played Among wild herbs under the greenwood shade. XLVII A Pagan damsel there unwares he met, In shining steel, all save her visage fair, Her hair unbound she made a wanton net, To catch sweet breathing from the cooling air. On her at gaze his longing looks he set, Sight, wonder; wonder, love; love bred his care; O love, o wonder; love new born, new bred, Now groan, now armed, this champion captive led. XLVIII Her helm the virgin donned, and but some wight She feared might come to aid him as they fought, Her courage earned to have assailed the knight; Yet thence she fled, uncompanied, unsought, And left her image in his heart ypight; Her sweet idea wandered through his thought, Her shape, her gesture, and her place in mind He kept, and blew love's fire with that wind. XLIX Well might you read his sickness in his eyes, Their banks were full, their tide was at the flow, His help far off, his hurt within him lies, His hopes unstrung, his cares were fit to mow; Eight hundred horse (from Champain came) he guies, Champain a land where wealth, ease, pleasure, grow, Rich Nature's pomp and pride, the Tirrhene main There woos the hills, hills woo the valleys plain. L Two hundred Greeks came next, in fight well tried, Not surely armed in steel or iron strong, But each a glaive had pendant by his side, Their bows and quivers at their shoulders hung, Their horses well inured to chase and ride, In diet spare, untired with labor long; Ready to charge, and to retire at will, Though broken, scattered, fled, they skirmish still; LI Tatine their guide, and except Tatine, none Of all the Greeks went with the Christian host; O sin, O shame, O Greece accurst alone! Did not this fatal war affront thy coast? Yet safest thou an idle looker-on, And glad attendest which side won or lost: Now if thou be a bondslave vile become, No wrong is that, but God's most righteous doom. LII In order last, but first in worth and fame, Unfeared in fight, untired with hurt or wound, The noble squadron of adventurers came, Terrors to all that tread on Asian ground: Cease Orpheus of thy Minois, Arthur shame To boast of Lancelot, or thy table round: For these whom antique times with laurel drest, These far exceed them, thee, and all the rest. LIII Dudon of Consa was their guide and lord, And for of worth and birth alike they been, They chose him captain, by their free accord, For he most acts had done, most battles seen; Grave was the man in years, in looks, in word, His locks were gray, yet was his courage green, Of worth and might the noble badge he bore, Old scars of grievous wounds received of yore. LIV After came Eustace, well esteemed man For Godfrey's sake his brother, and his own; The King of Norway's heir Gernando than, Proud of his father's title, sceptre, crown; Roger of Balnavill, and Engerlan, For hardy knights approved were and known; Besides were numbered in that warlike train Rambald, Gentonio, and the Gerrards twain. LV Ubaldo then, and puissant Rosimond, Of Lancaster the heir, in rank succeed; Let none forget Obizo of Tuscain land, Well worthy praise for many a worthy deed; Nor those three brethren, Lombards fierce and yond, Achilles, Sforza, and stern Palamede; Nor Otton's shield he conquered in those stowres, In which a snake a naked child devours. LVI Guascher and Raiphe in valor like there was. The one and other Guido, famous both, Germer and Eberard to overpass, In foul oblivion would my Muse be loth, With his Gildippes dear, Edward alas, A loving pair, to war among them go'th In bond of virtuous love together tied, Together served they, and together died. LVII In school of love are all things taught we see, There learned this maid of arms the ireful guise, Still by his side a faithful guard went she, One true-love knot their lives together ties, No would to one alone could dangerous be, But each the smart of other's anguish tries, If one were hurt, the other felt the sore, She lost her blood, he spent his life therefore. LVIII But these and all, Rinaldo far exceeds, Star of his sphere, the diamond of this ring, The nest where courage with sweet mercy breeds: A comet worthy each eye's wondering, His years are fewer than his noble deeds, His fruit is ripe soon as his blossoms spring, Armed, a Mars, might coyest Venus move, And if disarmed, then God himself of Love. LIX Sophia by Adige's flowery bank him bore, Sophia the fair, spouse to Bertoldo great, Fit mother for that pearl, and before The tender imp was weaned from the teat, The Princess Maud him took, in Virtue's lore She brought him up fit for each worthy feat, Till of these wares the golden trump he hears, That soundeth glory, fame, praise in his ears. LX And then, though scantly three times five years old, He fled alone, by many an unknown coast, O'er Aegean Seas by many a Greekish hold, Till he arrived at the Christian host; A noble flight, adventurous, brave, and bold, Whereon a valiant prince might justly boast, Three years he served in field, when scant begin Few golden hairs to deck his ivory chin. LXI The horsemen past, their void-left stations fill The bands on foot, and Reymond them beforn, Of Tholouse lord, from lands near Piraene Hill By Garound streams and salt sea billows worn, Four thousand foot he brought, well armed, and skill Had they all pains and travels to have borne, Stout men of arms and with their guide of power Like Troy's old town defenced with Ilion's tower. LXII Next Stephen of Amboise did five thousand lead, The men he prest from Tours and Blois but late, To hard assays unfit, unsure at need, Yet armed to point in well-attempted plate, The land did like itself the people breed, The soil is gentle, smooth, soft, delicate; Boldly they charge, but soon retire for doubt, Like fire of straw, soon kindled, soon burnt out. LXIII The third Alcasto marched, and with him The boaster brought six thousand Switzers bold, Audacious were their looks, their faces grim, Strong castles on the Alpine clifts they hold, Their shares and coulters broke, to armors trim They change that metal, cast in warlike mould, And with this band late herds and flocks that guide, Now kings and realms he threatened and defied. LXIV The glorious standard last to Heaven they sprad, With Peter's keys ennobled and his crown, With it seven thousand stout Camillo had, Embattailed in walls of iron brown: In this adventure and occasion, glad So to revive the Romans' old renown, Or prove at least to all of wiser thought, Their hearts were fertile land although unwrought. LXV But now was passed every regiment, Each band, each troop, each person worth regard When Godfrey with his lords to counsel went, And thus the Duke his princely will declared: "I will when day next clears the firmament, Our ready host in haste be all prepared, Closely to march to Sion's noble wall, Unseen, unheard, or undescried at all. LXVI "Prepare you then for travel strong and light, Fierce to the combat, glad to victory." And with that word and warning soon was dight, Each soldier, longing for near coming glory, Impatient be they of the morning bright, Of honor so them pricked the memory: But yet their chieftain had conceived a fear Within his heart, but kept it secret there. LXVII For he by faithful spial was assured, That Egypt's King was forward on his way, And to arrive at Gaza old procured, A fort that on the Syrian frontiers lay, Nor thinks he that a man to wars inured Will aught forslow, or in his journey stay, For well he knew him for a dangerous foe: An herald called he then, and spake him so: LXVIII "A pinnace take thee swift as shaft from bow, And speed thee, Henry, to the Greekish main, There should arrive, as I by letters know From one that never aught reports in vain, A valiant youth in whom all virtues flow, To help us this great conquest to obtain, The Prince of Danes he is, and brings to war A troop with him from under the Arctic star. LXIX "And for I doubt the Greekish monarch sly Will use with him some of his wonted craft, To stay his passage, or divert awry Elsewhere his forces, his first journey laft, My herald good and messenger well try, See that these succors be not us beraft, But send him thence with such convenient speed As with his honor stands and with our need. LXX "Return not thou, but Legier stay behind, And move the Greekish Prince to send us aid, Tell him his kingly promise doth him bind To give us succors, by his covenant made." This said, and thus instruct, his letters signed The trusty herald took, nor longer stayed, But sped him thence to done his Lord's behest, And thus the Duke reduced his thoughts to rest. LXXI Aurora bright her crystal gates unbarred, And bridegroom-like forth stept the glorious sun, When trumpets loud and clarions shrill were heard, And every one to rouse him fierce begun, Sweet music to each heart for war prepared, The soldiers glad by heaps to harness run; So if with drought endangered be their grain, Poor ploughmen joy when thunders promise rain. LXXII Some shirts of mail, some coats of plate put on, Some donned a cuirass, some a corslet bright, And halbert some, and some a habergeon, So every one in arms was quickly dight, His wonted guide each soldier tends upon, Loose in the wind waved their banners light, Their standard royal toward Heaven they spread, The cross triumphant on the Pagans dead. LXXIII Meanwhile the car that bears the lightning brand Upon the eastern hill was mounted high, And smote the glistering armies as they stand, With quivering beams which dazed the wondering eye, That Phaeton-like it fired sea and land, The sparkles seemed up to the skies to fly, The horses' neigh and clattering armors' sound Pursue the echo over dale and down. LXXIV Their general did with due care provide To save his men from ambush and from train, Some troops of horse that lightly armed ride He sent to scour the woods and forests main, His pioneers their busy work applied To even the paths and make the highways plain, They filled the pits, and smoothed the rougher ground, And opened every strait they closed found. LXXV They meet no forces gathered by their foe, No towers defenced with rampire, moat, or wall, No stream, no wood, no mountain could forslow Their hasty pace, or stop their march at all; So when his banks the prince of rivers, Po, Doth overswell, he breaks with hideous fall The mossy rocks and trees o'ergrown with age, Nor aught withstands his fury and his rage. LXXVI The King of Tripoli in every hold Shut up his men, munition and his treasure, The straggling troops sometimes assail he would, Save that he durst not move them to displeasure; He stayed their rage with presents, gifts and gold, And led them through his land at ease and leisure, To keep his realm in peace and rest he chose, With what conditions Godfrey list impose. LXXVII Those of Mount Seir, that neighboreth by east The Holy City, faithful folk each one, Down from the hill descended most and least, And to the Christian Duke by heaps they gone, And welcome him and his with joy and feast; On him they smile, on him they gaze alone, And were his guides, as faithful from that day As Hesperus, that leads the sun his way. LXXVIII Along the sands his armies safe they guide By ways secure, to them well known before, Upon the tumbling billows fraughted ride The armed ships, coasting along the shore, Which for the camp might every day provide To bring munition good and victuals store: The isles of Greece sent in provision meet, And store of wine from Scios came and Crete. LXXIX Great Neptune grieved underneath the load Of ships, hulks, galleys, barks and brigantines, In all the mid-earth seas was left no road Wherein the Pagan his bold sails untwines, Spread was the huge Armado, wide and broad, From Venice, Genes, and towns which them confines, From Holland, England, France and Sicil sent, And all for Juda ready bound and bent. LXXX All these together were combined, and knit With surest bonds of love and friendship strong, Together sailed they fraught with all things fit To service done by land that might belong, And when occasion served disbarked it, Then sailed the Asian coasts and isles along; Thither with speed their hasty course they plied, Where Christ the Lord for our offences died. LXXXI The brazen trump of iron-winged fame, That mingleth faithful troth with forged lies, Foretold the heathen how the Christians came, How thitherward the conquering army hies, Of every knight it sounds the worth and name, Each troop, each band, each squadron it descries, And threat'neth death to those, fire, sword and slaughter, Who held captived Israel's fairest daughter. LXXXII The fear of ill exceeds the evil we fear, For so our present harms still most annoy us, Each mind is prest and open every ear To hear new tidings though they no way joy us, This secret rumor whispered everywhere About the town, these Christians will destroy us, The aged king his coming evil that knew, Did cursed thoughts in his false heart renew. LXXXIII This aged prince ycleped Aladine, Ruled in care, new sovereign of this state, A tyrant erst, but now his fell engine His graver are did somewhat mitigate, He heard the western lords would undermine His city's wall, and lay his towers prostrate, To former fear he adds a new-come doubt, Treason he fears within, and force without. LXXXIV For nations twain inhabit there and dwell Of sundry faith together in that town, The lesser part on Christ believed well, On Termagent the more and on Mahown, But when this king had made this conquest fell, And brought that region subject to his crown, Of burdens all he set the Paynims large, And on poor Christians laid the double charge. LXXXV His native wrath revived with this new thought, With age and years that weakened was of yore, Such madness in his cruel bosom wrought, That now than ever blood he thirsteth more? So stings a snake that to the fire is brought, Which harmless lay benumbed with cold before, A lion so his rage renewed hath, Though fame before, if he be moved to wrath. LXXXVI "I see," quoth he, "some expectation vain, In these false Christians, and some new content, Our common loss they trust will be their gain, They laugh, we weep; they joy while we lament; And more, perchance, by treason or by train, To murder us they secretly consent, Or otherwise to work us harm and woe, To ope the gates, and so let in our foe. LXXXVII "But lest they should effect their cursed will, Let us destroy this serpent on his nest; Both young and old, let us this people kill, The tender infants at their mothers' breast, Their houses burn, their holy temples fill With bodies slain of those that loved them best, And on that tomb they hold so much in price, Let's offer up their priests in sacrifice." LXXXVIII Thus thought the tyrant in his traitorous mind, But durst not follow what he had decreed, Yet if the innocents some mercy find, From cowardice, not truth, did that proceed, His noble foes durst not his craven kind Exasperate by such a bloody deed. For if he need, what grace could then be got, If thus of peace he broke or loosed the knot? LXXXIX His villain heart his cursed rage restrained, To other thoughts he bent his fierce desire, The suburbs first flat with the earth he plained, And burnt their buildings with devouring fire, Loth was the wretch the Frenchman should have gained Or help or ease, by finding aught entire, Cedron, Bethsaida, and each watering else Empoisoned he, both fountains, springs, and wells. XC So wary wise this child of darkness was; The city's self he strongly fortifies, Three sides by site it well defenced has, That's only weak that to the northward lies; With mighty bars of long enduring brass, The steel-bound doors and iron gates he ties, And, lastly, legions armed well provides Of subjects born, and hired aid besides. SECOND BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Ismeno conjures, but his charms are vain; Aladine will kill the Christians in his ire: Sophronia and Olindo would be slain To save the rest, the King grants their desire; Clorinda hears their fact and fortunes plain, Their pardon gets and keeps them from the fire: Argantes, when Aletes' speeches are Despised, defies the Duke to mortal war. I While thus the tyrant bends his thoughts to arms, Ismeno gan tofore his sight appear, Ismen dead bones laid in cold graves that warms And makes them speak, smell, taste, touch, see, and hear; Ismen with terror of his mighty charms, That makes great Dis in deepest Hell to fear, That binds and looses souls condemned to woe, And sends the devils on errands to and fro. II A Christian once, Macon he now adores, Nor could he quite his wonted faith forsake, But in his wicked arts both oft implores Help from the Lord, and aid from Pluto black; He, from deep caves by Acheron's dark shores, Where circles vain and spells he used to make, To advise his king in these extremes is come, Achitophel so counselled Absalom. III "My liege," he says, "the camp fast hither moves, The axe is laid unto this cedar's root, But let us work as valiant men behoves, For boldest hearts good fortune helpeth out; Your princely care your kingly wisdom proves, Well have you labored, well foreseen about; If each perform his charge and duty so, Nought but his grave here conquer shall your foe. IV "From surest castle of my secret cell I come, partaker of your good and ill, What counsel sage, or magic's sacred spell May profit us, all that perform I will: The sprites impure from bliss that whilom fell Shall to your service bow, constrained by skill; But how we must begin this enterprise, I will your Highness thus in brief advise. V "Within the Christian's church from light of skies, An hidden alter stands, far out of sight, On which the image consecrated lies Of Christ's dear mother, called a virgin bright, An hundred lamps aye burn before her eyes, She in a slender veil of tinsel dight, On every side great plenty doth behold Of offerings brought, myrrh, frankincense and gold. VI "This idol would I have removed away From thence, and by your princely hand transport, In Macon's sacred temple safe it lay, Which then I will enchant in wondrous sort, That while the image in that church doth stay, No strength of arms shall win this noble fort, Of shake this puissant wall, such passing might Have spells and charms, if they be said aright." VII Advised thus, the king impatient Flew in his fury to the house of God, The image took, with words unreverent Abused the prelates, who that deed forbode, Swift with his prey, away the tyrant went, Of God's sharp justice naught he feared the rod, But in his chapel vile the image laid, On which the enchanter charms and witchcraft said. VIII When Phoebus next unclosed his wakeful eye, Up rose the sexton of that place profane, And missed the image, where it used to lie, Each where he sough in grief, in fear, in vain; Then to the king his loss he gan descry, Who sore enraged killed him for his pain; And straight conceived in his malicious wit, Some Christian bade this great offence commit. IX But whether this were act of mortal hand, Or else the Prince of Heaven's eternal pleasure, That of his mercy would this wretch withstand, Nor let so vile a chest hold such a treasure, As yet conjecture hath not fully scanned; By godliness let us this action measure, And truth of purest faith will fitly prove That this rare grace came down from Heaven above. X With busy search the tyrant gan to invade Each house, each hold, each temple and each tent To them the fault or faulty one bewrayed Or hid, he promised gifts or punishment, His idle charms the false enchanter said, But in this maze still wandered and miswent, For Heaven decreed to conceal the same, To make the miscreant more to feel his shame. XI But when the angry king discovered not What guilty hand this sacrilege had wrought, His ireful courage boiled in vengeance hot Against the Christians, whom he faulters thought; All ruth, compassion, mercy he forgot, A staff to beat that dog he long had sought, "Let them all die," quoth he, "kill great and small, So shall the offender perish sure withal. XII "To spill the wine with poison mixed with spares? Slay then the righteous with the faulty one, Destroy this field that yieldeth naught but tares, With thorns this vineyard all is over-gone, Among these wretches is not one, that cares For us, our laws, or our religion; Up, up, dear subjects, fire and weapon take, Burn, murder, kill these traitors for my sake." XIII This Herod thus would Bethlem's infants kill, The Christians soon this direful news receave, The trump of death sounds in their hearing shrill, Their weapon, faith; their fortress, was the grave; They had no courage, time, device, or will, To fight, to fly, excuse, or pardon crave, But stood prepared to die, yet help they find, Whence least they hope, such knots can Heaven unbind. XIV Among them dwelt, her parents' joy and pleasure, A maid, whose fruit was ripe, not over-yeared, Her beauty was her not esteemed treasure; The field of love with plough of virtue eared, Her labor goodness; godliness her leisure; Her house the heaven by this full moon aye cleared, For there, from lovers' eyes withdrawn, alone With virgin beams this spotless Cynthia shone. XV But what availed her resolution chaste, Whose soberest looks were whetstones to desire? Nor love consents that beauty's field lie waste, Her visage set Olindo's heart on fire, O subtle love, a thousand wiles thou hast, By humble suit, by service, or by hire, To win a maiden's hold, a thing soon done, For nature framed all women to be won. XVI Sophronia she, Olindo hight the youth, Both or one town, both in one faith were taught, She fair, he full of bashfulness and truth, Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought, He durst not speak by suit to purchase ruth, She saw not, marked not, wist not what he sought, Thus loved, thus served he long, but not regarded, Unseen, unmarked, unpitied, unrewarded. XVII To her came message of the murderment, Wherein her guiltless friends should hopeless starve, She that was noble, wise, as fair and gent, Cast how she might their harmless lives preserve, Zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment, From maiden shame yet was she loth to swerve: Yet had her courage ta'en so sure a hold, That boldness, shamefaced; shame had made her bold. XVIII And forth she went, a shop for merchandise Full of rich stuff, but none for sale exposed, A veil obscured the sunshine of her eyes, The rose within herself her sweetness closed, Each ornament about her seemly lies, By curious chance, or careless art, composed; For what the most neglects, most curious prove, So Beauty's helped by Nature, Heaven, and Love. XIX Admired of all, on went this noble maid, Until the presence of the king she gained, Nor for he swelled with ire was she afraid, But his fierce wrath with fearless grace sustained, "I come," quoth she, "but be thine anger stayed, And causeless rage 'gainst faultless souls restrained-- I come to show thee, and to bring thee both, The wight whose fact hath made thy heart so wroth." XX Her molest boldness, and that lightning ray Which her sweet beauty streamed on his face, Had struck the prince with wonder and dismay, Changed his cheer, and cleared his moody grace, That had her eyes disposed their looks to play, The king had snared been in love's strong lace; But wayward beauty doth not fancy move, A frown forbids, a smile engendereth love. XXI It was amazement, wonder and delight, Although not love, that moved his cruel sense; "Tell on," quoth he, "unfold the chance aright, Thy people's lives I grant for recompense." Then she, "Behold the faulter here in sight, This hand committed that supposed offence, I took the image, mine that fault, that fact, Mine be the glory of that virtuous act." XXII This spotless lamb thus offered up her blood, To save the rest of Christ's selected fold, O noble lie! was ever truth so good? Blest be the lips that such a leasing told: Thoughtful awhile remained the tyrant wood, His native wrath he gan a space withhold, And said, "That thou discover soon I will, What aid? what counsel had'st thou in that ill?" XXIII "My lofty thoughts," she answered him, "envied Another's hand should work my high desire, The thirst of glory can no partner bide, With mine own self I did alone conspire." "On thee alone," the tyrant then replied, "Shall fall the vengeance of my wrath and ire." "'Tis just and right," quoth she, "I yield consent, Mine be the honor, mine the punishment." XXIV The wretch of new enraged at the same, Asked where she hid the image so conveyed: "Not hid," quoth she, "but quite consumed with flame, The idol is of that eternal maid, For so at least I have preserved the same, With hands profane from being eft betrayed. My Lord, the thing thus stolen demand no more, Here see the thief that scorneth death therefor. XXV "And yet no theft was this, yours was the sin, I brought again what you unjustly took." This heard, the tyrant did for rage begin To whet his teeth, and bend his frowning look, No pity, youth; fairness, no grace could win; Joy, comfort, hope, the virgin all forsook; Wrath killed remorse, vengeance stopped mercy's breath Love's thrall to hate, and beauty's slave to death. XXVI Ta'en was the damsel, and without remorse, The king condemned her guiltless to the fire, Her veil and mantle plucked they off by force, And bound her tender arms in twisted wire: Dumb was the silver dove, while from her corse These hungry kites plucked off her rich attire, And for some deal perplexed was her sprite, Her damask late, now changed to purest white. XXVII The news of this mishap spread far and near, The people ran, both young and old, to gaze; Olindo also ran, and gan to fear His lady was some partner in this case; But when he found her bound, stript from her gear, And vile tormentors ready saw in place, He broke the throng, and into presence brast; And thus bespake the king in rage and haste: XXXVIII "Not so, not so this grief shall bear away From me the honor of so noble feat, She durst not, did not, could not so convey The massy substance of that idol great, What sleight had she the wardens to betray? What strength to heave the goddess from her seat? No, no, my Lord, she sails but with my wind." Ah, thus he loved, yet was his love unkind! XXIX He added further: "Where the shining glass, Lets in the light amid your temple's side, By broken by-ways did I inward pass, And in that window made a postern wide, Nor shall therefore this ill-advised lass Usurp the glory should this fact betide, Mine be these bonds, mine be these flames so pure, O glorious death, more glorious sepulture!" XXX Sophronia raised her modest looks from ground, And on her lover bent her eyesight mild, "Tell me, what fury? what conceit unsound Presenteth here to death so sweet a child? Is not in me sufficient courage found, To bear the anger of this tyrant wild? Or hath fond love thy heart so over-gone? Wouldst thou not live, nor let me die alone?" XXXI Thus spake the nymph, yet spake but to the wind, She could not alter his well-settled thought; O miracle! O strife of wondrous kind! Where love and virtue such contention wrought, Where death the victor had for meed assigned; Their own neglect, each other's safety sought; But thus the king was more provoked to ire, Their strife for bellows served to anger's fire. XXXII He thinks, such thoughts self-guiltiness finds out, They scorned his power, and therefore scorned the pain, "Nay, nay," quoth he, "let be your strife and doubt, You both shall win, and fit reward obtain." With that the sergeants hent the young man stout, And bound him likewise in a worthless chain; Then back to back fast to a stake both ties, Two harmless turtles dight for sacrifice. XXXIII About the pile of fagots, sticks and hay, The bellows raised the newly-kindled flame, When thus Olindo, in a doleful lay, Begun too late his bootless plaints to frame: "Be these the bonds? Is this the hoped-for day, Should join me to this long-desired dame? Is this the fire alike should burn our hearts? Ah, hard reward for lovers' kind desarts! XXXIV "Far other flames and bonds kind lovers prove, But thus our fortune casts the hapless die, Death hath exchanged again his shafts with love, And Cupid thus lets borrowed arrows fly. O Hymen, say, what fury doth thee move To lend thy lamps to light a tragedy? Yet this contents me that I die for thee, Thy flames, not mine, my death and torment be. XXXV "Yet happy were my death, mine ending blest, My torments easy, full of sweet delight, It this I could obtain, that breast to breast Thy bosom might receive my yielded sprite; And thine with it in heaven's pure clothing drest, Through clearest skies might take united flight." Thus he complained, whom gently she reproved, And sweetly spake him thus, that so her loved: XXXVI "Far other plaints, dear friend, tears and laments The time, the place, and our estates require; Think on thy sins, which man's old foe presents Before that judge that quits each soul his hire, For his name suffer, for no pain torments Him whose just prayers to his throne aspire: Behold the heavens, thither thine eyesight bend, Thy looks, sighs, tears, for intercessors send." XXXVII The Pagans loud cried out to God and man, The Christians mourned in silent lamentation, The tyrant's self, a thing unused, began To feel his heart relent, with mere compassion, But not disposed to ruth or mercy than He sped him thence home to his habitation: Sophronia stood not grieved nor discontented, By all that saw her, but herself, lamented. XXXVIII The lovers standing in this doleful wise, A warrior bold unwares approached near, In uncouth arms yclad and strange disguise, From countries far, but new arrived there, A savage tigress on her helmet lies, The famous badge Clorinda used to bear; That wonts in every warlike stowre to win, By which bright sign well known was that fair inn. XXXIX She scorned the arts these silly women use, Another thought her nobler humor fed, Her lofty hand would of itself refuse To touch the dainty needle or nice thread, She hated chambers, closets, secret news, And in broad fields preserved her maidenhead: Proud were her looks, yet sweet, though stern and stout, Her dam a dove, thus brought an eagle out. XL While she was young, she used with tender hand The foaming steed with froary bit to steer, To tilt and tourney, wrestle in the sand, To leave with speed Atlanta swift arear, Through forests wild, and unfrequented land To chase the lion, boar, or rugged bear, The satyrs rough, the fauns and fairies wild, She chased oft, oft took, and oft beguiled. XLI This lusty lady came from Persia late, She with the Christians had encountered eft, And in their flesh had opened many a gate, By which their faithful souls their bodies left, Her eye at first presented her the state Of these poor souls, of hope and help bereft, Greedy to know, as is the mind of man, Their cause of death, swift to the fire she ran. XLII The people made her room, and on them twain Her piercing eyes their fiery weapons dart, Silent she saw the one, the other 'plain, The weaker body lodged the nobler heart: Yet him she saw lament, as if his pain Were grief and sorrow for another's smart, And her keep silence so, as if her eyes Dumb orators were to entreat the skies. XLIII Clorinda changed to ruth her warlike mood, Few silver drops her vermeil cheeks depaint; Her sorrow was for her that speechless stood, Her silence more prevailed than his complaint. She asked an aged man, seemed grave and good, "Come say me, sir," quoth she, "what hard constraint Would murder here love's queen and beauty's king? What fault or fare doth to this death them bring?" XLIV Thus she inquired, and answer short he gave, But such as all the chance at large disclosed, She wondered at the case, the virgin brave, That both were guiltless of the fault supposed, Her noble thought cast how she might them save, The means on suit or battle she reposed. Quick to the fire she ran, and quenched it out, And thus bespake the sergeants and the rout: XLV "Be there not one among you all that dare In this your hateful office aught proceed, Till I return from court, nor take you care To reap displeasure for not making speed." To do her will the men themselves prepare, In their faint hearts her looks such terror breed; To court she went, their pardon would she get, But on the way the courteous king she met. XLVI "Sir King," quoth she, "my name Clorinda hight, My fame perchance has pierced your ears ere now, I come to try my wonted power and might, And will defend this land, this town, and you, All hard assays esteem I eath and light, Great acts I reach to, to small things I bow, To fight in field, or to defend this wall, Point what you list, I naught refuse at all." XLVII To whom the king, "What land so far remote From Asia's coasts, or Phoebus' glistering rays, O glorious virgin, that recordeth not Thy fame, thine honor, worth, renown, and praise? Since on my side I have thy succors got, I need not fear in these my aged days, For in thine aid more hope, more trust I have, Than in whole armies of these soldiers brave. XLVIII "Now, Godfrey stays too long; he fears, I ween; Thy courage great keeps all our foes in awe; For thee all actions far unworthy been, But such as greatest danger with them draw: Be you commandress therefore, Princess, Queen Of all our forces: be thy word a law." This said, the virgin gan her beaver vail, And thanked him first, and thus began her tale. XLIX "A thing unused, great monarch, may it seem, To ask reward for service yet to come; But so your virtuous bounty I esteem, That I presume for to intreat this groom And silly maid from danger to redeem, Condemned to burn by your unpartial doom, I not excuse, but pity much their youth, And come to you for mercy and for ruth. L "Yet give me leave to tell your Highness this, You blame the Christians, them my thoughts acquite, Nor be displeased, I say you judge amiss, At every shot look not to hit the white, All what the enchanter did persuade you, is Against the lore of Macon's sacred rite, For us commandeth mighty Mahomet No idols in his temple pure to set. LI "To him therefore this wonder done refar, Give him the praise and honor of the thing, Of us the gods benign so careful are Lest customs strange into their church we bring: Let Ismen with his squares and trigons war, His weapons be the staff, the glass, the ring; But let us manage war with blows like knights, Our praise in arms, our honor lies in fights." LII The virgin held her peace when this was said; And though to pity he never framed his thought, Yet, for the king admired the noble maid, His purpose was not to deny her aught: "I grant them life," quoth he, "your promised aid Against these Frenchmen hath their pardon bought: Nor further seek what their offences be, Guiltless, I quit; guilty, I set them free." LIII Thus were they loosed, happiest of humankind, Olindo, blessed be this act of thine, True witness of thy great and heavenly mind, Where sun, moon, stars, of love, faith, virtue, shine. So forth they went and left pale death behind, To joy the bliss of marriage rites divine, With her he would have died, with him content Was she to live that would with her have brent. LIV The king, as wicked thoughts are most suspicious, Supposed too fast this tree of virtue grew, O blessed Lord! why should this Pharaoh vicious, Thus tyrannize upon thy Hebrews true? Who to perform his will, vile and malicious, Exiled these, and all the faithful crew, All that were strong of body, stout of mind, But kept their wives and children pledge behind. LV A hard division, when the harmless sheep Must leave their lambs to hungry wolves in charge, But labor's virtues watching, ease her sleep, Trouble best wind that drives salvation's barge, The Christians fled, whither they took no keep, Some strayed wild among the forests large, Some to Emmaus to the Christian host, And conquer would again their houses lost. LVI Emmaus is a city small, that lies From Sion's walls distant a little way, A man that early on the morn doth rise, May thither walk ere third hour of the day. Oh, when the Christian lord this town espies How merry were their hearts? How fresh? How gay? But for the sun inclined fast to west, That night there would their chieftain take his rest. LVII Their canvas castles up they quickly rear, And build a city in an hour's space. When lo, disguised in unusual gear, Two barons bold approachen gan the place; Their semblance kind, and mild their gestures were, Peace in their hands, and friendship in their face, From Egypt's king ambassadors they come, Them many a squire attends, and many a groom. LVIII The first Aletes, born in lowly shed, Of parents base, a rose sprung from a brier, That now his branches over Egypt spread, No plant in Pharaoh's garden prospered higher; With pleasing tales his lord's vain ears he fed, A flatterer, a pick-thank, and a liar: Cursed be estate got with so many a crime, Yet this is oft the stair by which men climb. LIX Argantes called is that other knight, A stranger came he late to Egypt land, And there advanced was to honor's height, For he was stout of courage, strong of hand, Bold was his heart, and restless was his sprite, Fierce, stern, outrageous, keen as sharpened brand, Scorner of God, scant to himself a friend, And pricked his reason on his weapon's end. LX These two entreatance made they might be heard, Nor was their just petition long denied; The gallants quickly made their court of guard, And brought them in where sate their famous guide, Whose kingly look his princely mind declared, Where noblesse, virtue, troth, and valor bide. A slender courtesy made Argantes bold, So as one prince salute another wold; LXI Aletes laid his right hand on his heart, Bent down his head, and cast his eyes full low, And reverence made with courtly grace and art, For all that humble lore to him was know; His sober lips then did he softly part, Whence of pure rhetoric, whole streams outflow, And thus he said, while on the Christian lords Down fell the mildew of his sugared words: LXII "O only worthy, whom the earth all fears, High God defend thee with his heavenly shield, And humble so the hearts of all thy peers, That their stiff necks to thy sweet yoke may yield: These be the sheaves that honor's harvest bears, The seed thy valiant acts, the world the field, Egypt the headland is, where heaped lies Thy fame, worth, justice, wisdom, victories. LXIII "These altogether doth our sovereign hide In secret store-house of his princely thought, And prays he may in long accordance bide, With that great worthy which such wonders wrought, Nor that oppose against the coming tide Of proffered love, for that he is not taught Your Christian faith, for though of divers kind, The loving vine about her elm is twined. LXIV "Receive therefore in that unconquered hand The precious handle of this cup of love, If not religion, virtue be the band 'Twixt you to fasten friendship not to move: But for our mighty king doth understand, You mean your power 'gainst Juda land to prove, He would, before this threatened tempest fell, I should his mind and princely will first tell. LXV "His mind is this, he prays thee be contented To joy in peace the conquests thou hast got, Be not thy death, or Sion's fall lamented, Forbear this land, Judea trouble not, Things done in haste at leisure be repented: Withdraw thine arms, trust not uncertain lot, For oft to see what least we think betide; He is thy friend 'gainst all the world beside. LXVI "True labour in the vineyard of thy Lord, Ere prime thou hast the imposed day-work done, What armies conquered, perished with thy sword? What cities sacked? what kingdoms hast thou won? All ears are mazed while tongues thine acts record, Hands quake for fear, all feet for dread do run, And though no realms you may to thraldom bring, No higher can your praise, your glory spring. LXVII "Thy sign is in his Apogaeon placed, And when it moveth next, must needs descend, Chance in uncertain, fortune double faced, Smiling at first, she frowneth in the end: Beware thine honor be not then disgraced, Take heed thou mar not when thou think'st to mend, For this the folly is of Fortune's play, 'Gainst doubtful, certain; much, 'gainst small to lay. LXVIII "Yet still we sail while prosperous blows the wind, Till on some secret rock unwares we light, The sea of glory hath no banks assigned, They who are wont to win in every fight Still feed the fire that so inflames thy mind To bring more nations subject to thy might; This makes thee blessed peace so light to hold, Like summer's flies that fear not winter's cold. LXIX "They bid thee follow on the path, now made So plain and easy, enter Fortune's gate, Nor in thy scabbard sheathe that famous blade, Till settled by thy kingdom, and estate, Till Macon's sacred doctrine fall and fade, Till woeful Asia all lie desolate. Sweet words I grant, baits and allurements sweet, But greatest hopes oft greatest crosses meet. LXX "For, if thy courage do not blind thine eyes, If clouds of fury hide not reason's beams, Then may'st thou see this desperate enterprise. The field of death, watered with danger's streams; High state, the bed is where misfortune lies, Mars most unfriendly, when most kind he seems, Who climbeth high, on earth he hardest lights, And lowest falls attend the highest flights. LXXI "Tell me if, great in counsel, arms and gold, The Prince of Egypt war 'gainst you prepare, What if the valiant Turks and Persians bold, Unite their forces with Cassanoe's heir? Oh then, what marble pillar shall uphold The falling trophies of your conquest fair? Trust you the monarch of the Greekish land? That reed will break; and breaking, wound your hand. LXXII "The Greekish faith is like that half-cut tree By which men take wild elephants in Inde, A thousand times it hath beguiled thee, As firm as waves in seas, or leaves in wind. Will they, who erst denied you passage free, Passage to all men free, by use and kind, Fight for your sake? Or on them do you trust To spend their blood, that could scarce spare their dust? LXXIII "But all your hope and trust perchance is laid In these strong troops, which thee environ round; Yet foes unite are not so soon dismayed As when their strength you erst divided found: Besides, each hour thy bands are weaker made With hunger, slaughter, lodging on cold ground, Meanwhile the Turks seek succors from our king, Thus fade thy helps, and thus thy cumbers spring. LXXIV "Suppose no weapon can thy valor's pride Subdue, that by no force thou may'st be won, Admit no steel can hurt or wound thy side, And be it Heaven hath thee such favor done: 'Gainst Famine yet what shield canst thou provide? What strength resist? What sleight her wrath can shun? Go, shake the spear, and draw thy flaming blade, And try if hunger so be weaker made. LXXV "The inhabitants each pasture and each plain Destroyed have, each field to waste is laid, In fenced towers bestowed is their grain Before thou cam'st this kingdom to invade, These horse and foot, how canst them sustain? Whence comes thy store? whence thy provision made? Thy ships to bring it are, perchance, assigned, Oh, that you live so long as please the wind! LXXVI "Perhaps thy fortune doth control the wind, Doth loose or bind their blasts in secret cave, The sea, pardie, cruel and deaf by kind, Will hear thy call, and still her raging wave: But if our armed galleys be assigned To aid those ships which Turks and Persians have, Say then, what hope is left thy slender fleet? Dare flocks of crows, a flight of eagles meet? LXXVII "My lord, a double conquest must you make, If you achieve renown by this emprize: For if our fleet your navy chase or take, For want of victuals all your camp then dies; Of if by land the field you once forsake, Then vain by sea were hope of victories. Nor could your ships restore your lost estate: For steed once stolen, we shut the door too late. LXXVIII "In this estate, if thou esteemest light The proffered kindness of the Egyptian king, Then give me leave to say, this oversight Beseems thee not, in whom such virtues spring: But heavens vouchsafe to guide my mind aright, To gentle thoughts, that peace and quiet bring, So that poor Asia her complaints may cease, And you enjoy your conquests got, in peace. LXXIX "Nor ye that part in these adventures have, Part in his glory, partners in his harms, Let not blind Fortune so your minds deceive, To stir him more to try these fierce alarms, But like the sailor 'scaped from the wave From further peril that his person arms By staying safe at home, so stay you all, Better sit still, men say, than rise to fall." LXXX This said Aletes: and a murmur rose That showed dislike among the Christian peers, Their angry gestures with mislike disclose How much his speech offends their noble ears. Lord Godfrey's eye three times environ goes, To view what countenance every warrior bears, And lastly on the Egyptian baron stayed, To whom the duke thus for his answer said: LXXXI "Ambassador, full both of threats and praise, Thy doubtful message hast thou wisely told, And if thy sovereign love us as he says, Tell him he sows to reap an hundred fold, But where thy talk the coming storm displays Of threatened warfare from the Pagans bold: To that I answer, as my cousin is, In plainest phrase, lest my intent thou miss. LXXXII "Know, that till now we suffered have much pain, By lands and seas, where storms and tempests fall, To make the passage easy, safe, and plain That leads us to this venerable wall, That so we might reward from Heaven obtain, And free this town from being longer thrall; Nor is it grievous to so good an end Our honors, kingdoms, lives and goods to spend. LXXXIII "Nor hope of praise, nor thirst of worldly good, Enticed us to follow this emprise, The Heavenly Father keep his sacred brood From foul infection of so great a vice: But by our zeal aye be that plague withstood, Let not those pleasures us to sin entice. His grace, his mercy, and his powerful hand Will keep us safe from hurt by sea and land. LXXXIV "This is the spur that makes our coursers run; This is our harbor, safe from danger's floods; This is our bield, the blustering winds to shun: This is our guide, through forests, deserts, woods; This is our summer's shade, our winter's sun: This is our wealth, our treasure, and our goods: This is our engine, towers that overthrows, Our spear that hurts, our sword that wounds our foes. LXXXV "Our courage hence, our hope, our valor springs, Not from the trust we have in shield or spear, Not from the succors France or Grecia brings, On such weak posts we list no buildings rear: He can defend us from the power of kings, From chance of war, that makes weak hearts to fear; He can these hungry troops with manna feed, And make the seas land, if we passage need. LXXXVI "But if our sins us of his help deprive, Of his high justice let no mercy fall; Yet should our deaths us some contentment give, To die, where Christ received his burial, So might we die, not envying them that live; So would we die, not unrevenged all: Nor Turks, nor Christians, if we perish such, Have cause to joy, or to complain too much. LXXXVII "Think not that wars we love, and strife affect, Or that we hate sweet peace, or rest denay, Think not your sovereign's friendship we reject, Because we list not in our conquests stay: But for it seems he would the Jews protect, Pray him from us that thought aside to lay, Nor us forbid this town and realm to gain, And he in peace, rest, joy, long more may reign." LXXXVIII This answer given, Argantes wild drew nar, Trembling for ire, and waxing pale for rage, Nor could he hold, his wrath increased so far, But thus inflamed bespake the captain sage: "Who scorneth peace shall have his fill of war, I thought my wisdom should thy fury 'suage, But well you show what joy you take in fight, Which makes you prize our love and friendship light." LXXXIX This said, he took his mantle's foremost part, And gan the same together fold and wrap; Then spake again with fell and spiteful heart, So lions roar enclosed in train or trap, "Thou proud despiser of inconstant mart, I bring thee war and peace closed in this lap, Take quickly one, thou hast no time to muse; If peace, we rest, we fight, if war thou choose." XC His semblance fierce and speechless proud, provoke The soldiers all, "War, war," at once to cry, Nor could they tarry till their chieftain spoke, But for the knight was more inflamed hereby, His lap he opened and spread forth his cloak: "To mortal wars," he says, "I you defy;" And this he uttered with fell rage and hate, And seemed of Janus' church to undo the gate. XCI It seemed fury, discord, madness fell Flew from his lap, when he unfolds the same; His glaring eyes with anger's venom swell, And like the brand of foul Alecto flame, He looked like huge Tiphoius loosed from hell Again to shake heaven's everlasting frame, Or him that built the tower of Shinaar, Which threat'neth battle 'gainst the morning star. XCII Godfredo then: "Depart, and bid your king Haste hitherward, or else within short while,-- For gladly we accept the war you bring,-- Let him expect us on the banks of Nile." He entertained them then with banqueting, And gifts presented to those Pagans vile; Aletes had a helmet, rich and gay, Late found at Nice among the conquered prey. XCIII Argant a sword, whereof the web was steel, Pommel, rich stone; hilt gold; approved by touch With rarest workmanship all forged weel, The curious art excelled the substance much: Thus fair, rich, sharp, to see, to have, to feel, Glad was the Paynim to enjoy it such, And said, "How I this gift can use and wield, Soon shall you see, when first we meet in field." XCIV Thus took they congee, and the angry knight Thus to his fellow parleyed on the way, "Go thou by day, but let me walk by night, Go thou to Egypt, I at Sion stay, The answer given thou canst unfold aright, No need of me, what I can do or say, Among these arms I will go wreak my spite; Let Paris court it, Hector loved to fight." XCV Thus he who late arrived a messenger Departs a foe, in act, in word, in thought, The law of nations or the lore of war, If he transgresses or no, he recketh naught, Thus parted they, and ere he wandered far The friendly star-light to the walls him brought: Yet his fell heart thought long that little way, Grieved with each stop, tormented with each stay. XCVI Now spread the night her spangled canopy, And summoned every restless eye to sleep; On beds of tender grass the beasts down lie, The fishes slumbered in the silent deep, Unheard were serpent's hiss and dragon's cry, Birds left to sing, and Philomen to weep, Only that noise heaven's rolling circles kest, Sung lullaby to bring the world to rest. XCVII Yet neither sleep, nor ease, nor shadows dark, Could make the faithful camp or captain rest, They longed to see the day, to hear the lark Record her hymns and chant her carols blest, They yearned to view the walls, the wished mark To which their journeys long they had addressed; Each heart attends, each longing eye beholds What beam the eastern window first unfolds. THIRD BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The camp at great Jerusalem arrives: Clorinda gives them battle, in the breast Of fair Erminia Tancred's love revives, He jousts with her unknown whom he loved best; Argant th' adventurers of their guide deprives, With stately pomp they lay their Lord in chest: Godfrey commands to cut the forest down, And make strong engines to assault the town. I The purple morning left her crimson bed, And donned her robes of pure vermilion hue, Her amber locks she crowned with roses red, In Eden's flowery gardens gathered new. When through the camp a murmur shrill was spread, Arm, arm, they cried; arm, arm, the trumpets blew, Their merry noise prevents the joyful blast, So hum small bees, before their swarms they cast. II Their captain rules their courage, guides their heat, Their forwardness he stayed with gentle rein; And yet more easy, haply, were the feat To stop the current near Charybdis main, Or calm the blustering winds on mountains great, Than fierce desires of warlike hearts restrain; He rules them yet, and ranks them in their haste, For well he knows disordered speed makes waste. III Feathered their thoughts, their feet in wings were dight, Swiftly they marched, yet were not tired thereby, For willing minds make heaviest burdens light. But when the gliding sun was mounted high, Jerusalem, behold, appeared in sight, Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy, Jerusalem with merry noise they greet, With joyful shouts, and acclamations sweet. IV As when a troop of jolly sailors row Some new-found land and country to descry, Through dangerous seas and under stars unknowe, Thrall to the faithless waves, and trothless sky, If once the wished shore begun to show, They all salute it with a joyful cry, And each to other show the land in haste, Forgetting quite their pains and perils past. V To that delight which their first sight did breed, That pleased so the secret of their thought A deep repentance did forthwith succeed That reverend fear and trembling with it brought, Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispreed Upon that town where Christ was sold and bought, Where for our sins he faultless suffered pain, There where he died and where he lived again. VI Soft words, low speech, deep sobs, sweet sighs, salt tears Rose from their hearts, with joy and pleasure mixed; For thus fares he the Lord aright that fears, Fear on devotion, joy on faith is fixed: Such noise their passions make, as when one hears The hoarse sea waves roar, hollow rocks betwixt; Or as the wind in holts and shady greaves, A murmur makes among the boughs and leaves. VII Their naked feet trod on the dusty way, Following the ensample of their zealous guide, Their scarfs, their crests, their plumes and feathers gay, They quickly doffed, and willing laid aside, Their molten hearts their wonted pride allay, Along their watery cheeks warm tears down slide, And then such secret speech as this, they used, While to himself each one himself accused. VIII "Flower of goodness, root of lasting bliss, Thou well of life, whose streams were purple blood That flowed here, to cleanse the soul amiss Of sinful men, behold this brutish flood, That from my melting heart distilled is, Receive in gree these tears, O Lord so good, For never wretch with sin so overgone Had fitter time or greater cause to moan." IX This while the wary watchman looked over, From tops of Sion's towers, the hills and dales, And saw the dust the fields and pastures cover, As when thick mists arise from moory vales. At last the sun-bright shields he gan discover, And glistering helms for violence none that fails, The metal shone like lightning bright in skies, And man and horse amid the dust descries. X Then loud he cries, "O what a dust ariseth! O how it shines with shields and targets clear! Up, up, to arms, for valiant heart despiseth The threatened storm of death and danger near. Behold your foes;" then further thus deviseth, "Haste, haste, for vain delay increaseth fear, These horrid clouds of dust that yonder fly, Your coming foes does hide, and hide the sky." XI The tender children, and the fathers old, The aged matrons, and the virgin chaste, That durst not shake the spear, nor target hold, Themselves devoutly in their temples placed; The rest, of members strong and courage bold, On hardy breasts their harness donned in haste, Some to the walls, some to the gates them dight, Their king meanwhile directs them all aright. XII All things well ordered, he withdrew with speed Up to a turret high, two ports between, That so he might be near at every need, And overlook the lands and furrows green. Thither he did the sweet Erminia lead, That in his court had entertained been Since Christians Antioch did to bondage bring, And slew her father, who thereof was king. XIII Against their foes Clorinda sallied out, And many a baron bold was by her side, Within the postern stood Argantes stout To rescue her, if ill mote her betide: With speeches brave she cheered her warlike rout, And with bold words them heartened as they ride, "Let us by some brave act," quoth she, "this day Of Asia's hopes the groundwork found and lay." XIV While to her folk thus spake the virgin brave, Thereby behold forth passed a Christian band Toward the camp, that herds of cattle drave, For they that morn had forayed all the land; The fierce virago would that booty save, Whom their commander singled hand for hand, A mighty man at arms, who Guardo hight, But far too weak to match with her in fight. XV They met, and low in dust was Guardo laid, 'Twixt either army, from his sell down kest, The Pagans shout for joy, and hopeful said, Those good beginnings would have endings blest: Against the rest on went the noble maid, She broke the helm, and pierced the armed breast, Her men the paths rode through made by her sword, They pass the stream where she had found the ford. XVI Soon was the prey out of their hands recovered, By step and step the Frenchmen gan retire, Till on a little hill at last they hovered, Whose strength preserved them from Clorinda's ire: When, as a tempest that hath long been covered In watery clouds breaks out with sparkling fire, With his strong squadron Lord Tancredi came, His heart with rage, his eyes with courage flame. XVII Mast great the spear was which the gallant bore That in his warlike pride he made to shake, As winds tall cedars toss on mountains hoar: The king, that wondered at his bravery, spake To her, that near him seated was before, Who felt her heart with love's hot fever quake, "Well shouldst thou know," quoth he, "each Christian knight, By long acquaintance, though in armor dight. XVIII "Say, who is he shows so great worthiness, That rides so rank, and bends his lance so fell?" To this the princess said nor more nor less, Her heart with sighs, her eyes with tears, did swell; But sighs and tears she wisely could suppress, Her love and passion she dissembled well, And strove her love and hot desire to cover, Till heart with sighs, and eyes with tears ran over: XIX At last she spoke, and with a crafty sleight Her secret love disguised in clothes of hate: "Alas, too well," she says, "I know that knight, I saw his force and courage proved late, Too late I viewed him, when his power and might Shook down the pillar of Cassanoe's state; Alas what wounds he gives! how fierce, how fell! No physic helps them cure, nor magic's spell. XX "Tancred he hight, O Macon, would he wear My thrall, ere fates him of this life deprive, For to his hateful head such spite I bear, I would him reave his cruel heart on live." Thus said she, they that her complainings hear In other sense her wishes credit give. She sighed withal, they construed all amiss, And thought she wished to kill, who longed to kiss. XXI This while forth pricked Clorinda from the throng And 'gainst Tancredi set her spear in rest, Upon their helms they cracked their lances long, And from her head her gilden casque he kest, For every lace he broke and every thong, And in the dust threw down her plumed crest, About her shoulders shone her golden locks, Like sunny beams, on alabaster rocks. XXII Her looks with fire, her eyes with lightning blaze, Sweet was her wrath, what then would be her smile? Tancred, whereon think'st thou? what dost thou gaze? Hast thou forgot her in so short a while? The same is she, the shape of whose sweet face The God of Love did in thy heart compile, The same that left thee by the cooling stream, Safe from sun's heat, but scorched with beauty's beam. XXIII The prince well knew her, though her painted shield And golden helm he had not marked before, She saved her head, and with her axe well steeled Assailed the knight; but her the knight forbore, 'Gainst other foes he proved him through the field, Yet she for that refrained ne'er the more, But following, "Turn thee," cried, in ireful wise; And so at once she threats to kill him twice. XXIV Not once the baron lifts his armed hand To strike the maid, but gazing on her eyes, Where lordly Cupid seemed in arms to stand, No way to ward or shun her blows he tries; But softly says, "No stroke of thy strong hand Can vanquish Tancred, but thy conquest lies In those fair eyes, which fiery weapons dart, That find no lighting place except this heart." XXV At last resolved, although he hoped small grace, Yet ere he did to tell how much he loved, For pleasing words in women's ears find place, And gentle hearts with humble suits are moved: "O thou," quoth he, "withhold thy wrath a space, For if thou long to see my valor proved, Were it not better from this warlike rout Withdrawn, somewhere, alone to fight it out? XXVI "So singled, may we both our courage try:" Clorinda to that motion yielded glad, And helmless to the forestward gan hie, Whither the prince right pensive wend and sad, And there the virgin gan him soon defy. One blow she strucken, and he warded had, When he cried, "Hold, and ere we prove our might, First hear thou some conditions of the fight." XXVII She stayed, and desperate love had made him bold; "Since from the fight thou wilt no respite give, The covenants be," he said, "that thou unfold This wretched bosom, and my heart out rive, Given thee long since, and if thou, cruel, would I should be dead, let me no longer live, But pierce this breast, that all the world may say, The eagle made the turtle-dove her prey. XXVIII "Save with thy grace, or let thine anger kill, Love hath disarmed my life of all defence; An easy labor harmless blood to spill, Strike then, and punish where is none offence." This said the prince, and more perchance had will To have declared, to move her cruel sense. But in ill time of Pagans thither came A troop, and Christians that pursued the same. XXIX The Pagans fled before their valiant foes, For dread or craft, it skills not that we know, A soldier wild, careless to win or lose, Saw where her locks about the damsel flew, And at her back he proffereth as he goes To strike where her he did disarmed view: But Tancred cried, "Oh stay thy cursed hand," And for to ward the blow lift up his brand. XXX But yet the cutting steel arrived there, Where her fair neck adjoined her noble head, Light was the wound, but through her amber hair The purple drops down railed bloody red, So rubies set in flaming gold appear: But Lord Tancredi, pale with rage as lead, Flew on the villain, who to flight him bound; The smart was his, though she received the wound. XXXI The villain flies, he, full of rage and ire, Pursues, she stood and wondered on them both, But yet to follow them showed no desire, To stray so far she would perchance be loth, But quickly turned her, fierce as flaming fire, And on her foes wreaked her anger wroth, On every side she kills them down amain, And now she flies, and now she turns again. XXXII As the swift ure by Volga's rolling flood Chased through the plains the mastiff curs toforn, Flies to the succor of some neighbor wood, And often turns again his dreadful horn Against the dogs imbrued in sweat and blood, That bite not, till the beast to flight return; Or as the Moors at their strange tennice run, Defenced, the flying balls unhurt to shun: XXXIII So ran Clorinda, so her foes pursued, Until they both approached the city's wall, When lo! the Pagans their fierce wrath renewed, Cast in a ring about they wheeled all, And 'gainst the Christians' backs and sides they showed Their courage fierce, and to new combat fall, When down the hill Argantes came to fight, Like angry Mars to aid the Trojan knight. XXXIV Furious, tofore the foremost of his rank, In sturdy steel forth stept the warrior bold, The first he smote down from his saddle sank, The next under his steel lay on the mould, Under the Saracen's spear the worthies shrank, No breastplate could that cursed tree outhold, When that was broke his precious sword he drew, And whom he hit, he felled, hurt, or slew. XXXV Clorinda slew Ardelio; aged knight, Whose graver years would for no labor yield, His age was full of puissance and might Two sons he had to guard his noble eild, The first, far from his father's care and sight, Called Alicandro wounded lay in field, And Poliphern the younger, by his side, Had he not nobly fought had surely died. XXXVI Tancred by this, that strove to overtake The villain that had hurt his only dear, From vain pursuit at last returned back, And his brave troop discomfit saw well near, Thither he spurred, and gan huge slaughter make, His shock no steed, his blow no knight could bear, For dead he strikes him whom he lights upon, So thunders break high trees on Lebanon. XXXVII Dudon his squadron of adventurers brings, To aid the worthy and his tired crew, Before the residue young Rinaldo flings As swift as fiery lightning kindled new, His argent eagle with her silver wings In field of azure, fair Erminia knew, "See there, sir King," she says, "a knight as bold And brave, as was the son of Peleus old. XXXVIII "He wins the prize in joust and tournament, His acts are numberless, though few his years, If Europe six likes him to war had sent Among these thousand strong of Christian peers, Syria were lost, lost were the Orient, And all the lands the Southern Ocean wears, Conquered were all hot Afric's tawny kings, And all that dwells by Nilus' unknown springs. XXXIX "Rinaldo is his name, his armed fist Breaks down stone walls, when rams and engines fail, But turn your eyes because I would you wist What lord that is in green and golden mail, Dudon he hight who guideth as him list The adventurers' troop whose prowess seld doth fail, High birth, grave years, and practise long in war, And fearless heart, make him renowned far. XL "See that big man that all in brown is bound, Gernando called, the King of Norway's son, A prouder knight treads not on grass or ground, His pride hath lost the praise his prowess won; And that kind pair in white all armed round, Is Edward and Gildippes, who begun Through love the hazard of fierce war to prove, Famous for arms, but famous more for love." XLI While thus they tell their foemen's worthiness, The slaughter rageth in the plain at large. Tancred and young Rinaldo break the press, They bruise the helm, and press the sevenfold targe; The troop by Dudon led performed no less, But in they come and give a furious charge: Argantes' self fell at one single blow, Inglorious, bleeding lay, on earth full low: XLII Nor had the boaster ever risen more, But that Rinaldo's horse e'en then down fell, And with the fall his leg opprest so sore, That for a space there must be algates dwell. Meanwhile the Pagan troops were nigh forlore, Swiftly they fled, glad they escaped so well, Argantes and with him Clorinda stout, For bank and bulwark served to save the rout. XLIII These fled the last, and with their force sustained The Christians' rage, that followed them so near; Their scattered troops to safety well they trained, And while the residue fled, the brunt these bear; Dudon pursued the victory he gained, And on Tigranes nobly broke his spear, Then with his sword headless to ground him cast, So gardeners branches lop that spring too fast. XLIV Algazar's breastplate, of fine temper made, Nor Corban's helmet, forged by magic art, Could save their owners, for Lord Dudon's blade Cleft Corban's head, and pierced Algazar's heart, And their proud souls down to the infernal shade, From Amurath and Mahomet depart; Not strong Argantes thought his life was sure, He could not safely fly, nor fight secure. XLV The angry Pagan bit his lips for teen, He ran, he stayed, he fled, he turned again, Until at last unmarked, unviewed, unseen, When Dudon had Almansor newly slain, Within his side he sheathed his weapon keen, Down fell the worthy on the dusty plain, And lifted up his feeble eyes uneath, Opprest with leaden sleep, of iron death. XLVI Three times he strove to view Heaven's golden ray, And raised him on his feeble elbow thrice, And thrice he tumbled on the lowly lay, And three times closed again his dying eyes, He speaks no word, yet makes his signs to pray; He sighs, he faints, he groans, and then he dies; Argantes proud to spoil the corpse disdained, But shook his sword with blood of Dudon stained. XLVII And turning to the Christian knights, he cried: "Lordlings, behold, this bloody reeking blade Last night was given me by your noble guide, Tell him what proof thereof this day is made, Needs must this please him well that is betide, That I so well can use this martial trade, To whom so rare a gift he did present, Tell him the workman fits the instrument. XLVIII "If further proof thereof he long to see, Say it still thirsts, and would his heart-blood drink; And if he haste not to encounter me, Say I will find him when he least doth think." The Christians at his words enraged be, But he to shun their ire doth safely shrink Under the shelter of the neighbor wall, Well guarded with his troops and soldiers all. XLIX Like storms of hail the stones fell down from high, Cast from their bulwarks, flankers, ports and towers, The shafts and quarries from their engines fly, As thick as falling drops in April showers: The French withdrew, they list not press too nigh, The Saracens escaped all the powers, But now Rinaldo from the earth upleapt, Where by the leg his steed had long him kept; L He came and breathed vengeance from his breast 'Gainst him that noble Dudon late had slain; And being come thus spoke he to the rest, "Warriors, why stand you gazing here in vain? Pale death our valiant leader had opprest, Come wreak his loss, whom bootless you complain. Those walls are weak, they keep but cowards out No rampier can withstand a courage stout. LI "Of double iron, brass or adamant, Or if this wall were built of flaming fire, Yet should the Pagan vile a fortress want To shroud his coward head safe from mine ire; Come follow then, and bid base fear avaunt, The harder work deserves the greater hire;" And with that word close to the walls he starts, Nor fears he arrows, quarries, stones or darts. LII Above the waves as Neptune lift his eyes To chide the winds, that Trojan ships opprest, And with his countenance calmed seas, winds and skies; So looked Rinaldo, when he shook his crest Before those walls, each Pagan fears and flies His dreadful sight, or trembling stayed at least: Such dread his awful visage on them cast. So seem poor doves at goshawks' sight aghast. LIII The herald Ligiere now from Godfrey came, To will them stay and calm their courage hot; "Retire," quoth he, "Godfrey commands the same; To wreak your ire this season fitteth not;" Though loth, Rinaldo stayed, and stopped the flame, That boiled in his hardy stomach hot; His bridled fury grew thereby more fell, So rivers, stopped, above their banks do swell. LIV The hands retire, not dangered by their foes In their retreat, so wise were they and wary, To murdered Dudon each lamenting goes, From wonted use of ruth they list not vary. Upon their friendly arms they soft impose The noble burden of his corpse to carry: Meanwhile Godfredo from a mountain great Beheld the sacred city and her seat. LV Hierusalem is seated on two hills Of height unlike, and turned side to side, The space between, a gentle valley fills, From mount to mount expansed fair and wide. Three sides are sure imbarred with crags and hills, The rest is easy, scant to rise espied: But mighty bulwarks fence that plainer part, So art helps nature, nature strengtheneth art. LVI The town is stored of troughs and cisterns, made To keep fresh water, but the country seems Devoid of grass, unfit for ploughmen's trade, Not fertile, moist with rivers, wells and streams; There grow few trees to make the summer's shade, To shield the parched land from scorching beams, Save that a wood stands six miles from the town,' With aged cedars dark, and shadows brown. LVII By east, among the dusty valleys, glide The silver streams of Jordan's crystal flood; By west, the Midland Sea, with bounders tied Of sandy shores, where Joppa whilom stood; By north Samaria stands, and on that side The golden calf was reared in Bethel wood; Bethlem by south, where Christ incarnate was, A pearl in steel, a diamond set in brass. LVIII While thus the Duke on every side descried The city's strength, the walls and gates about, And saw where least the same was fortified, Where weakest seemed the walls to keep him out; Ermina as he armed rode, him spied, And thus bespake the heathen tyrant stout, "See Godfrey there, in purple clad and gold, His stately port, and princely look behold. LIX "Well seems he born to be with honor crowned, So well the lore he knows of regiment, Peerless in fight, in counsel grave and sound, The double gift of glory excellent, Among these armies is no warrior found Graver in speech, bolder in tournament. Raymond pardie in counsel match him might; Tancred and young Rinaldo like in fight." LX To whom the king: "He likes me well therefore, I knew him whilom in the court of France When I from Egypt went ambassador, I saw him there break many a sturdy lance, And yet his chin no sign of manhood bore; His youth was forward, but with governance, His words, his actions, and his portance brave, Of future virtue, timely tokens gave. LXI "Presages, ah too true:" with that a space He sighed for grief, then said, "Fain would I know The man in red, with such a knightly grace, A worthy lord he seemeth by his show, How like to Godfrey looks he in the face, How like in person! but some-deal more low." "Baldwin," quoth she, "that noble baron hight, By birth his brother, and his match in might. LXII "Next look on him that seems for counsel fit, Whose silver locks betray his store of days, Raymond he hight, a man of wondrous wit, Of Toulouse lord, his wisdom is his praise; What he forethinks doth, as he looks for, hit, His stratagems have good success always: With gilded helm beyond him rides the mild And good Prince William, England's king's dear child. LXIII "With him is Guelpho, as his noble mate, In birth, in acts, in arms alike the rest, I know him well, since I beheld him late, By his broad shoulders and his squared breast: But my proud foe that quite hath ruinate My high estate, and Antioch opprest, I see not, Boemond, that to death did bring Mine aged lord, my father, and my king." LXIV Thus talked they; meanwhile Godfredo went Down to the troops that in the valley stayed, And for in vain he thought the labor spent, To assail those parts that to the mountains laid, Against the northern gate his force he bent, Gainst it he camped, gainst it his engines played; All felt the fury of his angry power, That from those gates lies to the corner tower. LXV The town's third part was this, or little less, Fore which the duke his glorious ensigns spread, For so great compass had that forteress, That round it could not be environed With narrow siege--nor Babel's king I guess That whilom took it, such an army led-- But all the ways he kept, by which his foe Might to or from the city come or go. LXVI His care was next to cast the trenches deep, So to preserve his resting camp by night, Lest from the city while his soldiers sleep They might assail them with untimely flight. This done he went where lords and princes weep With dire complaints about the murdered knight, Where Dudon dead lay slaughtered on the ground. And all the soldiers sat lamenting round. LXVII His wailing friends adorned the mournful bier With woful pomp, whereon his corpse they laid, And when they saw the Bulloigne prince draw near, All felt new grief, and each new sorrow made; But he, withouten show or change of cheer, His springing tears within their fountains stayed, His rueful looks upon the corpse he cast Awhile, and thus bespake the same at last; LXVIII "We need not mourn for thee, here laid to rest, Earth is thy bed, and not the grave the skies Are for thy soul the cradle and the nest, There live, for here thy glory never dies: For like a Christian knight and champion blest Thou didst both live and die: now feed thine eyes With thy Redeemer's sight, where crowned with bliss Thy faith, zeal, merit, well-deserving is. LXIX "Our loss, not thine, provokes these plaints and tears: For when we lost thee, then our ship her mast, Our chariot lost her wheels, their points our spears, The bird of conquest her chief feather cast: But though thy death far from our army hears Her chiefest earthly aid, in heaven yet placed Thou wilt procure its help Divine, so reaps He that sows godly sorrow, joy by heaps. LXX "For if our God the Lord Armipotent Those armed angels in our aid down send That were at Dothan to his prophet sent, Thou wilt come down with them, and well defend Our host, and with thy sacred weapons bent Gainst Sion's fort, these gates and bulwarks rend, That so by hand may win this hold, and we May in these temples praise our Christ for thee." LXXI Thus he complained; but now the sable shade Ycleped night, had thick enveloped The sun in veil of double darkness made; Sleep, eased care; rest, brought complaint to bed: All night the wary duke devising laid How that high wall should best be battered, How his strong engines he might aptly frame, And whence get timber fit to build the same. LXXII Up with the lark the sorrowful duke arose, A mourner chief at Dudon's burial, Of cypress sad a pile his friends compose Under a hill o'ergrown with cedars tall, Beside the hearse a fruitful palm-tree grows, Ennobled since by this great funeral, Where Dudon's corpse they softly laid in ground, The priest sung hymns, the soldiers wept around. LXXIII Among the boughs, they here and there bestow Ensigns and arms, as witness of his praise, Which he from Pagan lords, that did them owe, Had won in prosperous fights and happy frays: His shield they fixed on the hole below, And there this distich under-writ, which says, "This palm with stretched arms, doth overspread The champion Dudon's glorious carcase dead." LXXIV This work performed with advisement good, Godfrey his carpenters, and men of skill In all the camp, sent to an aged wood, With convoy meet to guard them safe from ill. Within a valley deep this forest stood, To Christian eyes unseen, unknown, until A Syrian told the duke, who thither sent Those chosen workmen that for timber went. LXXV And now the axe raged in the forest wild, The echo sighed in the groves unseen, The weeping nymphs fled from their bowers exiled, Down fell the shady tops of shaking treen, Down came the sacred palms, the ashes wild, The funeral cypress, holly ever green, The weeping fir, thick beech, and sailing pine, The married elm fell with his fruitful vine. LXXVI The shooter grew, the broad-leaved sycamore, The barren plantain, and the walnut sound, The myrrh, that her foul sin doth still deplore, The alder owner of all waterish ground, Sweet juniper, whose shadow hurteth sore, Proud cedar, oak, the king of forests crowned; Thus fell the trees, with noise the deserts roar; The beasts, their caves, the birds, their nests forlore. FOURTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Satan his fiends and spirits assembleth all, And sends them forth to work the Christians woe, False Hidraort their aid from hell doth call, And sends Armida to entrap his foe: She tells her birth, her fortune, and her fall, Asks aid, allures and wins the worthies so That they consent her enterprise to prove; She wins them with deceit, craft, beauty, love. I While thus their work went on with lucky speed, And reared rams their horned fronts advance, The Ancient Foe to man, and mortal seed, His wannish eyes upon them bent askance; And when he saw their labors well succeed, He wept for rage, and threatened dire mischance. He choked his curses, to himself he spake, Such noise wild bulls that softly bellow make. II At last resolving in his damned thought To find some let to stop their warlike feat, He gave command his princes should be brought Before the throne of his infernal seat. O fool! as if it were a thing of naught God to resist, or change his purpose great, Who on his foes doth thunder in his ire, Whose arrows hailstones he and coals of fire. III The dreary trumpet blew a dreadful blast, And rumbled through the lands and kingdoms under, Through wasteness wide it roared, and hollows vast, And filled the deep with horror, fear and wonder, Not half so dreadful noise the tempests cast, That fall from skies with storms of hail and thunder, Not half so loud the whistling winds do sing, Broke from the earthen prisons of their King. IV The peers of Pluto's realm assembled been Amid the palace of their angry King, In hideous forms and shapes, tofore unseen, That fear, death, terror and amazement bring, With ugly paws some trample on the green, Some gnaw the snakes that on their shoulders hing, And some their forked tails stretch forth on high, And tear the twinkling stars from trembling sky. V There were Silenus' foul and loathsome route, There Sphinxes, Centaurs, there were Gorgons fell, There howling Scillas, yawling round about, There serpents hiss, there seven-mouthed Hydras yell, Chimera there spues fire and brimstone out, And Polyphemus blind supporteth hell, Besides ten thousand monsters therein dwells Misshaped, unlike themselves, and like naught else. VI About their princes each took his wonted seat On thrones red-hot, ybuilt of burning brass, Pluto in middest heaved his trident great, Of rusty iron huge that forged was, The rocks on which the salt sea billows beat, And Atlas' tops, the clouds in height that pass, Compared to his huge person mole-hills be, So his rough front, his horns so lifted he. VII The tyrant proud frowned from his lofty cell, And with his looks made all his monsters tremble, His eyes, that full of rage and venom swell, Two beacons seem, that men to arms assemble, His feltered locks, that on his bosom fell, On rugged mountains briars and thorns resemble, His yawning mouth, that foamed clotted blood, Gaped like a whirlpool wide in Stygian flood. VIII And as Mount Etna vomits sulphur out, With cliffs of burning crags, and fire and smoke, So from his mouth flew kindled coals about, Hot sparks and smells that man and beast would choke, The gnarring porter durst not whine for doubt; Still were the Furies, while their sovereign spoke, And swift Cocytus stayed his murmur shrill, While thus the murderer thundered out his will: IX "Ye powers infernal, worthier far to sit About the sun, whence you your offspring take, With me that whilom, through the welkin flit, Down tumbled headlong to this empty lake; Our former glory still remember it, Our bold attempts and war we once did make Gainst him, that rules above the starry sphere, For which like traitors we lie damned here. X "And now instead of clear and gladsome sky, Of Titan's brightness, that so glorious is, In this deep darkness lo we helpless lie, Hopeless again to joy our former bliss, And more, which makes my griefs to multiply, That sinful creature man, elected is; And in our place the heavens possess he must, Vile man, begot of clay, and born of dust. XI "Nor this sufficed, but that he also gave His only Son, his darling to be slain, To conquer so, hell, death, sin and the grave, And man condemned to restore again, He brake our prisons and would algates save The souls there here should dwell in woe and pain, And now in heaven with him they live always With endless glory crowned, and lasting praise. XII "But why recount I thus our passed harms? Remembrance fresh makes weakened sorrows strong, Expulsed were we with injurious arms From those due honors, us of right belong. But let us leave to speak of these alarms, And bend our forces gainst our present wrong: Ah! see you not, how he attempted hath To bring all lands, all nations to his faith? XIII "Then, let us careless spend the day and night, Without regard what haps, what comes or goes, Let Asia subject be to Christians' might, A prey he Sion to her conquering foes, Let her adore again her Christ aright, Who her before all nations whilom chose; In brazen tables he his lore ywrit, And let all tongues and lands acknowledge it. XIV "So shall our sacred altars all be his, Our holy idols tumbled in the mould, To him the wretched man that sinful is Shall pray, and offer incense, myrrh and gold; Our temples shall their costly deckings miss, With naked walls and pillars freezing cold, Tribute of souls shall end, and our estate, Or Pluto reign in kingdoms desolate. XV "Oh, he not then the courage perished clean, That whilom dwelt within your haughty thought, When, armed with shining fire and weapons keen, Against the angels of proud Heaven we fought, I grant we fell on the Phlegrean green, Yet good our cause was, though our fortune naught; For chance assisteth oft the ignobler part, We lost the field, yet lost we not our heart. XVI "Go then, my strength, my hope, my Spirits go, These western rebels with your power withstand, Pluck up these weeds, before they overgrow The gentle garden of the Hebrews' land, Quench out this spark, before it kindles so That Asia burn, consumed with the brand. Use open force, or secret guile unspied; For craft is virtue gainst a foe defied. XVII "Among the knights and worthies of their train, Let some like outlaws wander uncouth ways, Let some be slain in field, let some again Make oracles of women's yeas and nays, And pine in foolish love, let some complain On Godfrey's rule, and mutinies gainst him raise, Turn each one's sword against his fellow's heart, Thus kill them all or spoil the greatest part." XVIII Before his words the tyrant ended had, The lesser devils arose with ghastly roar, And thronged forth about the world to gad, Each land they filled, river, stream and shore, The goblins, fairies, fiends and furies mad, Ranged in flowery dales, and mountains hoar, And under every trembling leaf they sit, Between the solid earth and welkin flit. XIX About the world they spread forth far and wide, Filling the thoughts of each ungodly heart With secret mischief, anger, hate and pride, Wounding lost souls with sin's empoisoned dart. But say, my Muse, recount whence first they tried To hurt the Christian lords, and from what part, Thou knowest of things performed so long agone, This latter age hears little truth or none. XX The town Damascus and the lands about Ruled Hidraort, a wizard grave and sage, Acquainted well with all the damned rout Of Pluto's reign, even from his tender age; Yet of this war he could not figure out The wished ending, or success presage, For neither stars above, nor powers of hell, Nor skill, nor art, nor charm, nor devil could tell. XXI And yet he thought,--Oh, vain conceit of man, Which as thou wishest judgest things to come!-- That the French host to sure destruction ran, Condemned quite by Heaven's eternal doom: He thinks no force withstand or vanquish can The Egyptian strength, and therefore would that some Both of the prey and glory of the fight Upon this Syrian folk would haply light. XXII But for he held the Frenchmen's worth in prize, And feared the doubtful gain of bloody war, He, that was closely false and slyly war, Cast how he might annoy them most from far: And as he gan upon this point devise,-- As counsellors in ill still nearest are,-- At hand was Satan, ready ere men need, If once they think, to make them do, the deed. XXIII He counselled him how best to hunt his game, What dart to cast, what net, what toil to pitch, A niece he had, a nice and tender dame, Peerless in wit, in nature's blessings rich, To all deceit she could her beauty frame, False, fair and young, a virgin and a witch; To her he told the sum of this emprise, And praised her thus, for she was fair and wise: XXIV "My dear, who underneath these locks of gold, And native brightness of thy lovely hue, Hidest grave thoughts, ripe wit, and wisdom old, More skill than I, in all mine arts untrue, To thee my purpose great I must unfold, This enterprise thy cunning must pursue, Weave thou to end this web which I begin, I will the distaff hold, come thou and spin. XXV "Go to the Christians' host, and there assay All subtle sleights that women use in love, Shed brinish tears, sob, sigh, entreat and pray, Wring thy fair hands, cast up thine eyes above, For mourning beauty hath much power, men say, The stubborn hearts with pity frail to move; Look pale for dread, and blush sometime for shame, In seeming truth thy lies will soonest frame. XXVI "Take with the bait Lord Godfrey, if thou may'st; Frame snares of look, strains of alluring speech; For if he love, the conquest then thou hast, Thus purposed war thou may'st with ease impeach, Else lead the other Lords to deserts waste, And hold them slaves far from their leader's reach:" Thus taught he her, and for conclusion, saith, "All things are lawful for our lands and faith." XXVII The sweet Armida took this charge on hand, A tender piece, for beauty, sex and age, The sun was sunken underneath the land, When she began her wanton pilgrimage, In silken weeds she trusteth to withstand, And conquer knights in warlike equipage, Of their night ambling dame the Syrians prated, Some good, some bad, as they her loved or hated. XXVIII Within few days the nymph arrived there Where puissant Godfrey had his tents ypight; Upon her strange attire, and visage clear, Gazed each soldier, gazed every knight: As when a comet doth in skies appear, The people stand amazed at the light; So wondered they and each at other sought, What mister wight she was, and whence ybrought. XXIX Yet never eye to Cupid's service vowed Beheld a face of such a lovely pride; A tinsel veil her amber locks did shroud, That strove to cover what it could not hide, The golden sun behind a silver cloud, So streameth out his beams on every side, The marble goddess, set at Cnidos, naked She seemed, were she unclothed, or that awaked. XXX The gamesome wind among her tresses plays, And curleth up those growing riches short; Her spareful eye to spread his beams denays, But keeps his shot where Cupid keeps his fort; The rose and lily on her cheek assays To paint true fairness out in bravest sort, Her lips, where blooms naught but the single rose, Still blush, for still they kiss while still they close. XXXI Her breasts, two hills o'erspread with purest snow, Sweet, smooth and supple, soft and gently swelling, Between them lies a milken dale below, Where love, youth, gladness, whiteness make their dwelling, Her breasts half hid, and half were laid to show, So was the wanton clad, as if this much Should please the eye, the rest unseen, the touch. XXXII As when the sunbeams dive through Tagus' wave, To spy the store-house of his springtime gold, Love-piercing thought so through her mantle drave, And in her gentle bosom wandered bold; It viewed the wondrous beauty virgins have, And all to fond desire with vantage told, Alas! what hope is left, to quench his fire That kindled is by sight, blown by desire. XXXIII Thus passed she, praised, wished, and wondered at, Among the troops who there encamped lay, She smiled for joy, but well dissembled that, Her greedy eye chose out her wished prey; On all her gestures seeming virtue sat, Toward the imperial tent she asked the way: With that she met a bold and lovesome knight, Lord Godfrey's youngest brother, Eustace hight. XXXIV This was the fowl that first fell in the snare, He saw her fair, and hoped to find her kind; The throne of Cupid had an easy stair, His bark is fit to sail with every wind, The breach he makes no wisdom can repair: With reverence meet the baron low inclined, And thus his purpose to the virgin told, For youth, use, nature, all had made him bold. XXXV "Lady, if thee beseem a stile so low, In whose sweet looks such sacred beauty shine,-- For never yet did Heaven such grace bestow On any daughter born of Adam's line-- Thy name let us, though far unworthy, know, Unfold thy will, and whence thou art in fine, Lest my audacious boldness learn too late What honors due become thy high estate." XXXVI "Sir Knight," quoth she, "your praises reach too high Above her merit you commenden so, A hapless maid I am, both born to die And dead to joy, that live in care and woe, A virgin helpless, fugitive pardie, My native soil and kingdom thus forego To seek Duke Godfrey's aid, such store men tell Of virtuous ruth doth in his bosom dwell. XXXVII "Conduct me then that mighty duke before, If you be courteous, sir, as well you seem." "Content," quoth he, "since of one womb ybore, We brothers are, your fortune good esteem To encounter me whose word prevaileth more In Godfrey's hearing than you haply deem: Mine aid I grant, and his I promise too, All that his sceptre, or my sword, can do." XXXVIII He led her easily forth when this was said, Where Godfrey sat among his lords and peers, She reverence did, then blushed, as one dismayed To speak, for secret wants and inward fears, It seemed a bashful shame her speeches stayed, At last the courteous duke her gently cheers; Silence was made, and she began her tale, They sit to hear, thus sung this nightingale: XXXIX "Victorious prince, whose honorable name Is held so great among our Pagan kings, That to those lands thou dost by conquest tame That thou hast won them some content it brings; Well known to all is thy immortal fame, The earth, thy worth, thy foe, thy praises sings, And Paynims wronged come to seek thine aid, So doth thy virtue, so thy power persuade. XL "And I though bred in Macon's heathenish lore, Which thou oppressest with thy puissant might, Yet trust thou wilt an helpless maid restore, And repossess her in her father's right: Others in their distress do aid implore Of kin and friends; but I in this sad plight Invoke thy help, my kingdom to invade, So doth thy virtue, so my need persuade. XLI "In thee I hope, thy succors I invoke, To win the crown whence I am dispossest; For like renown awaiteth on the stroke To cast the haughty down or raise the opprest; Nor greater glory brings a sceptre broke, Than doth deliverance of a maid distrest; And since thou canst at will perform the thing, More is thy praise to make, than kill a king. XLII "But if thou would'st thy succors due excuse, Because in Christ I have no hope nor trust, Ah yet for virtue's sake, thy virtue use! Who scorneth gold because it lies in dust? Be witness Heaven, if thou to grant refuse, Thou dost forsake a maid in cause most just, And for thou shalt at large my fortunes know, I will my wrongs and their great treasons show. XLIII "Prince Arbilan that reigned in his life On fair Damascus, was my noble sire, Born of mean race he was, yet got to wife The Queen Chariclia, such was the fire Of her hot love, but soon the fatal knife Had cut the thread that kept their joys entire, For so mishap her cruel lot had cast, My birth, her death; my first day, was her last. XLIV "And ere five years were fully come and gone Since his dear spouse to hasty death did yield, My father also died, consumed with moan, And sought his love amid the Elysian fields, His crown and me, poor orphan, left alone, Mine uncle governed in my tender eild; For well he thought, if mortal men have faith, In brother's breast true love his mansion hath. XLV "He took the charge of me and of the crown, And with kind shows of love so brought to pass That through Damascus great report was blown How good, how just, how kind mine uncle was; Whether he kept his wicked hate unknown And hid the serpent in the flowering grass, On that true faith did in his bosom won, Because he meant to match me with his son. XLVI "Which son, within short while, did undertake Degree of knighthood, as beseemed him well, Yet never durst he for his lady's sake Break sword or lance, advance in lofty sell; As fair he was, as Citherea's make, As proud as he that signoriseth hell, In fashions wayward, and in love unkind, For Cupid deigns not wound a currish mind. XLVII "This paragon should Queen Armida wed, A goodly swain to be a princess' fere, A lovely partner of a lady's bed, A noble head a golden crown to wear: His glosing sire his errand daily said, And sugared speeches whispered in mine ear To make me take this darling in mine arms, But still the adder stopt her ears from charms. XLVIII "At last he left me with a troubled grace, Through which transparent was his inward spite, Methought I read the story in his face Of these mishaps that on me since have light, Since that foul spirits haunt my resting-place, And ghastly visions break any sleep by night, Grief, horror, fear my fainting soul did kill, For so my mind foreshowed my coming ill. XLIX "Three times the shape of my dear mother came, Pale, sad, dismayed, to warn me in my dream, Alas, how far transformed from the same Whose eyes shone erst like Titan's glorious beam: 'Daughter,' she says, 'fly, fly, behold thy dame Foreshows the treasons of thy wretched eame, Who poison gainst thy harmless life provides:' This said, to shapeless air unseen she glides. L "But what avail high walls or bulwarks strong, Where fainting cowards have the piece to guard? My sex too weak, mine age was all to young, To undertake alone a work so hard, To wander wild the desert woods among, A banished maid, of wonted ease debarred, So grievous seemed, that liefer were my death, And there to expire where first I drew my breath. LI "I feared deadly evil if long I stayed, And yet to fly had neither will nor power, Nor durst my heart declare it waxed afraid, Lest so I hasten might my dying hour: Thus restless waited I, unhappy maid, What hand should first pluck up my springing flower, Even as the wretch condemned to lose his life Awaits the falling of the murdering knife. LII "In these extremes, for so my fortune would Perchance preserve me to my further ill, One of my noble father's servants old, That for his goodness bore his child good will, With store of tears this treason gan unfold, And said; my guardian would his pupil kill, And that himself, if promise made be kept, Should give me poison dire ere next I slept. LIII "And further told me, if I wished to live, I must convey myself by secret flight, And offered then all succours he could give To aid his mistress, banished from her right. His words of comfort, fear to exile drive, The dread of death, made lesser dangers light: So we concluded, when the shadows dim Obscured the earth I should depart with him. LIV "Of close escapes the aged patroness, Blacker than erst, her sable mantle spread, When with two trusty maids, in great distress, Both from mine uncle and my realm I fled; Oft looked I back, but hardly could suppress Those streams of tears, mine eyes uncessant shed, For when I looked on my kingdom lost, It was a grief, a death, an hell almost. LV "My steeds drew on the burden of my limbs, But still my locks, my thoughts, drew back as fast, So fare the men, that from the heaven's brims, Far out to sea, by sudden storm are cast; Swift o'er the grass the rolling chariot swims, Through ways unknown, all night, all day we haste, At last, nigh tired, a castle strong we fand, The utmost border of my native land. LVI "The fort Arontes was, for so the knight Was called, that my deliverance thus had wrought, But when the tyrant saw, by mature flight I had escaped the treasons of his thought, The rage increased in the cursed wight Gainst me, and him, that me to safety brought, And us accused, we would have poisoned Him, but descried, to save our lives we fled. LVII "And that in lieu of his approved truth, To poison him I hired had my guide, That he despatched, mine unbridled youth Might rage at will, in no subjection tied, And that each night I slept--O foul untruth!-- Mine honor lost, by this Arontes' side: But Heaven I pray send down revenging fire, When so base love shall change my chaste desire. LVIII "Not that he sitteth on my regal throne, Nor that he thirst to drink my lukewarm blood, So grieveth me, as this despite alone, That my renown, which ever blameless stood, Hath lost the light wherewith it always shone: With forged lies he makes his tale so good, And holds my subjects' hearts in such suspense, That none take armor for their queen's defence. LIX "And though he do my regal throne possess, Clothed in purple, crowned with burnished gold; Yet is his hate, his rancor, ne'er the less, Since naught assuageth malice when 'tis old: He threats to burn Arontes' forteress, And murder him unless he yield the hold, And me and mine threats not with war, but death, Thus causeless hatred, endless is uneath. LX "And so he trusts to wash away the stain, And hide his shameful fact with mine offence, And saith he will restore the throne again To his late honor and due excellence, And therefore would I should be algates slain, For while I live, his right is in suspense, This is the cause my guiltless life is sought, For on my ruin is his safety wrought. LXI "And let the tyrant have his heart's desire, Let him perform the cruelty he meant, My guiltless blood must quench the ceaseless fire On which my endless tears were bootless spent, Unless thou help; to thee, renowned Sire, I fly, a virgin, orphan, innocent, And let these tears that on thy feet distil, Redeem the drops of blood, he thirsts to spill. LXII "By these thy glorious feet, that tread secure On necks of tyrants, by thy conquests brave, By that right hand, and by those temples pure Thou seek'st to free from Macon's lore, I crave Help for this sickness none but thou canst cure, My life and kingdom let thy mercy save From death and ruin: but in vain I prove thee, If right, if truth, if justice cannot move thee. LXIII "Thou who dost all thou wishest, at thy will, And never willest aught but what is right, Preserve this guiltless blood they seek to spill; Thine be my kingdom, save it with thy might: Among these captains, lords, and knights of skill, Appoint me ten, approved most in fight, Who with assistance of my friends and kin, May serve my kingdom lost again to win. LXIV "For lo a knight, that had a gate to ward, A man of chiefest trust about his king, Hath promised so to beguile the guard That me and mine he undertakes to bring Safe, where the tyrant haply sleepeth hard He counselled me to undertake this thing, Of these some little succor to intreat, Whose name alone accomplish can the feat." LXV This said, his answer did the nymph attend, Her looks, her sighs, her gestures all did pray him: But Godfrey wisely did his grant suspend, He doubts the worst, and that awhile did stay him, He knows, who fears no God, he loves no friend, He fears the heathen false would thus betray him: But yet such ruth dwelt in his princely mind, That gainst his wisdom, pity made him kind. LXVI Besides the kindness of his gentle thought, Ready to comfort each distressed wight, The maiden's offer profit with it brought; For if the Syrian kingdom were her right, That won, the way were easy, which he sought, To bring all Asia subject to his might: There might he raise munition, arms and treasure To work the Egyptian king and his displeasure. LXVII Thus was his noble heart long time betwixt Fear and remorse, not granting nor denying, Upon his eyes the dame her lookings fixed, As if her life and death lay on his saying, Some tears she shed, with sighs and sobbings mixed, As if her hopes were dead through his delaying; At last her earnest suit the duke denayed, But with sweet words thus would content the maid: LXVIII "If not in service of our God we fought, In meaner quarrel if this sword were shaken, Well might thou gather in thy gentle thought, So fair a princess should not be forsaken; But since these armies, from the world's end brought, To free this sacred town have undertaken, It were unfit we turned our strength away, And victory, even in her coming, stay. LXIX "I promise thee, and on my princely word The burden of thy wish and hope repose, That when this chosen temple of the Lord, Her holy doors shall to his saints unclose In rest and peace; then this victorious sword Shall execute due vengeance on thy foes; But if for pity of a worldly dame I left this work, such pity were my shame." LXX At this the princess bent her eyes to ground, And stood unmoved, though not unmarked, a space, The secret bleeding of her inward wound Shed heavenly dew upon her angel's face, "Poor wretch," quoth she, "in tears and sorrows drowned, Death be thy peace, the grave thy resting-place, Since such thy hap, that lest thou mercy find The gentlest heart on earth is proved unkind. LXXI "Where none attends, what boots it to complain? Men's froward hearts are moved with women's tears As marble stones are pierced with drops of rain, No plaints find passage through unwilling ears: The tyrant, haply, would his wraith restrain Heard he these prayers ruthless Godfrey hears, Yet not thy fault is this, my chance, I see, Hath made even pity, pitiless in thee. LXXII "So both thy goodness, and good hap, denayed me, Grief, sorrow, mischief, care, hath overthrown me, The star that ruled my birthday hath betrayed me, My genius sees his charge, but dares not own me, Of queen-like state, my flight hath disarrayed me, My father died, ere he five years had known me, My kingdom lost, and lastly resteth now, Down with the tree sith broke is every bough. LXXIII "And for the modest lore of maidenhood, Bids me not sojourn with these armed men, O whither shall I fly, what secret wood Shall hide me from the tyrant? or what den, What rock, what vault, what cave can do me good? No, no, where death is sure, it resteth then To scorn his power and be it therefore seen, Armida lived, and died, both like a queen." LXXIV With that she looked as if a proud disdain Kindled displeasure in her noble mind, The way she came she turned her steps again, With gesture sad but in disdainful kind, A tempest railed down her cheeks amain, With tears of woe, and sighs of anger's wind; The drops her footsteps wash, whereon she treads, And seems to step on pearls, or crystal beads. LXXV Her cheeks on which this streaming nectar fell, Stilled through the limbeck of her diamond eyes, The roses white and red resembled well, Whereon the rory May-dew sprinkled lies When the fair morn first blusheth from her cell, And breatheth balm from opened paradise; Thus sighed, thus mourned, thus wept this lovely queen, And in each drop bathed a grace unseen. LXXVI Thrice twenty Cupids unperceived flew To gather up this liquor, ere it fall, And of each drop an arrow forged new, Else, as it came, snatched up the crystal ball, And at rebellious hearts for wildfire threw. O wondrous love! thou makest gain of all; For if she weeping sit, or smiling stand, She bends thy bow, or kindleth else thy brand. LXXVII This forged plaint drew forth unfeigned tears From many eyes, and pierced each worthy's heart; Each one condoleth with her that her hears, And of her grief would help her bear the smart: If Godfrey aid her not, not one but swears Some tigress gave him suck on roughest part Midst the rude crags, on Alpine cliffs aloft: Hard is that heart which beauty makes not soft. LXXVIII But jolly Eustace, in whose breast the brand Of love and pity kindled had the flame, While others softly whispered underhand, Before the duke with comely boldness came: "Brother and lord," quoth he, "too long you stand In your first purpose, yet vouchsafe to frame Your thoughts to ours, and lend this virgin aid: Thanks are half lost when good turns are delayed. LXXIX "And think not that Eustace's talk assays To turn these forces from this present war, Or that I wish you should your armies raise From Sion's walls, my speech tends not so far: But we that venture all for fame and praise, That to no charge nor service bounden are, Forth of our troop may ten well spared be To succor her, which naught can weaken thee. LXXX "And know, they shall in God's high service fight, That virgins innocent save and defend: Dear will the spoils be in the Heaven's sight, That from a tyrant's hateful head we rend: Nor seemed I forward in this lady's right, With hope of gain or profit in the end; But for I know he arms unworthy bears, To help a maiden's cause that shuns or fears. LXXXI "Ah! be it not pardie declared in France, Or elsewhere told where courtesy is in prize, That we forsook so fair a chevisance, For doubt or fear that might from fight arise; Else, here surrender I both sword and lance, And swear no more to use this martial guise; For ill deserves he to be termed a knight, That bears a blunt sword in a lady's right." LXXXII Thus parleyed he, and with confused sound, The rest approved what the gallant said, Their general their knights encompassed round, With humble grace, and earnest suit they prayed: "I yield," quoth he, "and it be happy found, What I have granted, let her have your aid: Yours be the thanks, for yours the danger is, If aught succeed, as much I fear, amiss. LXXXIII "But if with you my words may credit find, Oh temper then this heat misguides you so!" Thus much he said, but they with fancy blind, Accept his grant, and let his counsel go. What works not beauty, man's relenting mind Is eath to move with plaints and shows of woe: Her lips cast forth a chain of sugared words, That captive led most of the Christian lords. LXXXIV Eustace recalled her, and bespake her thus: "Beauty's chief darling, let those sorrows be, For such assistance shall you find in us As with your need, or will, may best agree:" With that she cheered her forehead dolorous, And smiled for joy, that Phoebus blushed to see, And had she deigned her veil for to remove, The God himself once more had fallen in love. LXXXV With that she broke the silence once again, And gave the knight great thanks in little speech, She said she would his handmaid poor remain, So far as honor's laws received no breach. Her humble gestures made the residue plain, Dumb eloquence, persuading more than speech: Thus women know, and thus they use the guise, To enchant the valiant, and beguile the wise. LXXXVI And when she saw her enterprise had got Some wished mean of quick and good proceeding, She thought to strike the iron that was hot, For every action hath his hour of speeding: Medea or false Circe changed not So far the shapes of men, as her eyes spreading Altered their hearts, and with her syren's sound In lust, their minds, their hearts, in love she drowned. LXXXVII All wily sleights that subtle women know, Hourly she used, to catch some lover new. None kenned the bent of her unsteadfast bow, For with the time her thoughts her looks renew, From some she cast her modest eyes below, At some her gazing glances roving flew, And while she thus pursued her wanton sport, She spurred the slow, and reined the forward short. LXXXVIII If some, as hopeless that she would be won, Forebore to love, because they durst not move her, On them her gentle looks to smile begun, As who say she is kind if you dare prove her On every heart thus shone this lustful sun, All strove to serve, to please, to woo, to love her, And in their hearts that chaste and bashful were, Her eye's hot glance dissolved the frost of fear. LXXXIX On them who durst with fingering bold assay To touch the softness of her tender skin, She looked as coy, as if she list not play, And made as things of worth were hard to win; Yet tempered so her deignful looks alway, That outward scorn showed store of grace within: Thus with false hope their longing hearts she fired, For hardest gotten things are most desired. XC Alone sometimes she walked in secret where, To ruminate upon her discontent, Within her eyelids sate the swelling tear, Not poured forth, though sprung from sad lament, And with this craft a thousand souls well near In snares of foolish ruth and love she hent, And kept as slaves, by which we fitly prove That witless pity breedeth fruitless love. XCI Sometimes, as if her hope unloosed had The chains of grief, wherein her thoughts lay fettered, Upon her minions looked she blithe and glad, In that deceitful lore so was she lettered; Not glorious Titan, in his brightness clad, The sunshine of her face in lustre bettered: For when she list to cheer her beauties so, She smiled away the clouds of grief and woe. XCII Her double charm of smiles and sugared words, Lulled on sleep the virtue of their senses, Reason shall aid gainst those assaults affords, Wisdom no warrant from those sweet offences; Cupid's deep rivers have their shallow fords, His griefs, bring joys; his losses, recompenses; He breeds the sore, and cures us of the pain: Achilles' lance that wounds and heals again. XCIII While thus she them torments twixt frost and fire, Twixt joy and grief, twixt hope and restless fear, The sly enchantress felt her gain the nigher, These were her flocks that golden fleeces bear: But if someone durst utter his desire, And by complaining make his griefs appear, He labored hard rocks with plaints to move, She had not learned the gamut then of love. XCIV For down she bet her bashful eyes to ground, And donned the weed of women's modest grace, Down from her eyes welled the pearls round, Upon the bright enamel of her face; Such honey drops on springing flowers are found When Phoebus holds the crimson morn in chase; Full seemed her looks of anger, and of shame; Yet pity shone transparent through the same. XCV If she perceived by his outward cheer, That any would his love by talk bewray, Sometimes she heard him, sometimes stopped her ear, And played fast and loose the livelong day: Thus all her lovers kind deluded were, Their earnest suit got neither yea nor nay; But like the sort of weary huntsmen fare, That hunt all day, and lose at night the hare. XCVI These were the arts by which she captived A thousand souls of young and lusty knights; These were the arms wherewith love conquered Their feeble hearts subdued in wanton fights: What wonder if Achilles were misled, Of great Alcides at their ladies' sights, Since these true champions of the Lord above Were thralls to beauty, yielden slaves to lore. FIFTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Gernando scorns Rinaldo should aspire To rule that charge for which he seeks and strives, And slanders him so far, that in his ire The wronged knight his foe of life deprives: Far from the camp the slayer doth retire, Nor lets himself be bound in chains or gyves: Armide departs content, and from the seas Godfrey hears news which him and his displease. I While thus Armida false the knights misled In wandering errors of deceitful love, And thought, besides the champions promised, The other lordlings in her aid to move, In Godfrey's thought a strong contention bred Who fittest were this hazard great to prove; For all the worthies of the adventures' band Were like in birth, in power, in strength of hand. II But first the prince, by grave advice, decreed They should some knight choose at their own election, That in his charge Lord Dudon might succeed, And of that glorious troop should take protection; So none should grieve, displeased with the deed, Nor blame the causer of their new subjection: Besides, Godfredo showed by this device, How much he held that regiment in price. III He called the worthies then, and spake them so: "Lordlings, you know I yielded to your will, And gave you license with this dame to go, To win her kingdom and that tyrant kill: But now again I let you further know, In following her it may betide yon ill; Refrain therefore, and change this forward thought For death unsent for, danger comes unsought. IV "But if to shun these perils, sought so far, May seem disgraceful to the place yon hold; If grave advice and prudent counsel are Esteemed detractors from your courage bold; Then know, I none against his will debar, Nor what I granted erst I now withhold; But he mine empire, as it ought of right, Sweet, easy, pleasant, gentle, meek and light. V "Go then or tarry, each as likes him best, Free power I grant you on this enterprise; But first in Dudon's place, now laid in chest, Choose you some other captain stout and wise; Then ten appoint among the worthiest, But let no more attempt this hard emprise, In this my will content you that I have, For power constrained is but a glorious slave." VI Thus Godfrey said, and thus his brother spake, And answered for himself and all his peers: "My lord, as well it fitteth thee to make These wise delays and cast these doubts and fears, So 'tis our part at first to undertake; Courage and haste beseems our might and years; And this proceeding with so grave advice, Wisdom, in you, in us were cowardice. VII "Since then the feat is easy, danger none, All set in battle and in hardy fight, Do thou permit the chosen ten to gone And aid the damsel:" thus devised the knight, To make men think the sun of honor shone There where the lamp of Cupid gave the light: The rest perceive his guile, and it approve, And call that knighthood which was childish love. VIII But loving Eustace, that with jealous eye Beheld the worth of Sophia's noble child, And his fair shape did secretly envy, Besides the virtues in his breast compiled, And, for in love he would no company, He stored his mouth with speeches smoothly filed, Drawing his rival to attend his word; Thus with fair sleight he laid the knight abord: IX "Of great Bertoldo thou far greater heir, Thou star of knighthood, flower of chivalry, Tell me, who now shall lead this squadron fair, Since our late guide in marble cold doth lie? I, that with famous Dudon might compare In all, but years, hoar locks, and gravity, To whom should I, Duke Godfrey's brother, yield, Unless to thee, the Christian army's shield? X "Thee whom high birth makes equal with the best Thine acts prefer both me and all beforn; Nor that in fight thou both surpass the rest, And Godfrey's worthy self, I hold in scorn; Thee to obey then am I only pressed; Before these worthies be thine eagle borne; This honor haply thou esteemest light, Whose day of glory never yet found night. XI "Yet mayest thou further by this means display The spreading wings of thy immortal fame; I will procure it, if thou sayest not nay, And all their wills to thine election frame: But for I scantly am resolved which way To bend my force, or where employ the same, Leave me, I pray, at my discretion free To help Armida, or serve here with thee." XII This last request, for love is evil to hide, Empurpled both his cheeks with scarlet red; Rinaldo soon his passions had descried, And gently smiling turned aside his head, And, for weak Cupid was too feeble eyed To strike him sure, the fire in him was dead; So that of rivals was he naught afraid, Nor cared he for the journey or the maid. XIII But in his noble thought revolved he oft Dudon's high prowess, death and burial, And how Argantes bore his plumes aloft, Praising his fortunes for that worthy's fall; Besides, the knight's sweet words and praises soft To his due honor did him fitly call, And made his heart rejoice, for well he knew, Though much he praised him, all his words were true. XIV "Degrees," quoth he, "of honors high to hold, I would them first deserve, and the desire; And were my valor such as you have told, Would I for that to higher place aspire: But if to honors due raise me you would, I will not of my works refuse the hire; And much it glads me, that my power and might Ypraised is by such a valiant knight. XV "I neither seek it nor refuse the place, Which if I get, the praise and thanks be thine." Eustace, this spoken, hied thence apace To know which way his fellows' hearts incline: But Prince Gernando coveted the place, Whom though Armida sought to undermine, Gainst him yet vain did all her engines prove, His pride was such, there was no place for love. XVI Gernando was the King of Norway's son, That many a realm and region had to guide, And for his elders lands and crowns had won. His heart was puffed up with endless pride: The other boasts more what himself had done Than all his ancestors' great acts beside; Yet his forefathers old before him were Famous in war and peace five hundred years. XVII This barbarous prince, who only vainly thought That bliss in wealth and kingly power doth lie, And in respect esteemed all virtue naught Unless it were adorned with titles high, Could not endure, that to the place he sought A simple knight should dare to press so nigh; And in his breast so boiled fell despite, That ire and wrath exiled reason quite. XVIII The hidden devil, that lies in close await To win the fort of unbelieving man, Found entry there, where ire undid the gate, And in his bosom unperceived ran; It filled his heart with malice, strife and hate, It made him rage, blaspheme, swear, curse and ban, Invisible it still attends him near, And thus each minute whispereth in his ear. XIX What, shall Rinaldo match thee? dares he tell Those idle names of his vain pedigree? Then let him say, if thee he would excel, What lands, what realms his tributaries be: If his forefathers in the graves that dwell, Were honored like thine that live, let see: Oh how dares one so mean aspire so high, Born in that servile country Italy? XX Now, if he win, or if he lose the day, Yet is his praise and glory hence derived, For that the world will, to his credit, say, Lo, this is he that with Gernando strived. The charge some deal thee haply honor may, That noble Dudon had while here he lived; But laid on him he would the office shame, Let it suffice, he durst desire the same. XXI If when this breath from man's frail body flies The soul take keep, or know the things done here, Oh, how looks Dudon from the glorious skies? What wrath, what anger in his face appear, On this proud youngling while he bends his eyes, Marking how high he doth his feathers rear? Seeing his rash attempt, how soon he dare, Though but a boy, with his great worth compare. XXII He dares not only, but he strives and proves, Where chastisement were fit there wins he praise: One counsels him, his speech him forward moves; Another fool approveth all he says: If Godfrey favor him more than behoves, Why then he wrongeth thee an hundred ways; Nor let thy state so far disgraced be, Now what thou art and canst, let Godfrey see. XXIII With such false words the kindled fire began To every vein his poisoned heart to reach, It swelled his scornful heart, and forth it ran At his proud looks, and too audacious speech; All that he thought blameworthy in the man, To his disgrace that would be each where preach; He termed him proud and vain, his worth in fight He called fool-hardise, rashness, madness right. XXIV All that in him was rare or excellent, All that was good, all that was princely found, With such sharp words as malice could invent, He blamed, such power has wicked tongue to wound. The youth, for everywhere those rumors went, Of these reproaches heard sometimes the sound; Nor did for that his tongue the fault amend, Until it brought him to his woful end. XXV The cursed fiend that set his tongue at large, Still bred more fancies in his idle brain, His heart with slanders new did overcharge, And soothed him still in his angry vein; Amid the camp a place was broad and large, Where one fair regiment might easily train; And there in tilt and harmless tournament Their days of rest the youths and gallants spent. XXVI There, as his fortune would it should betide, Amid the press Gernando gan retire, To vomit out his venom unespied, Wherewith foul envy did his heart inspire. Rinaldo heard him as he stood beside, And as he could not bridle wrath and ire, "Thou liest," cried he loud, and with that word About his head he tossed his flaming sword. XXVII Thunder his voice, and lightning seemed his brand, So fell his look, and furious was his cheer, Gernando trembled, for he saw at hand Pale death, and neither help nor comfort near, Yet for the soldiers all to witness stand He made proud sign, as though he naught did fear, But bravely drew his little-helping blade, And valiant show of strong resistance made. XXVIII With that a thousand blades of burnished steel Glistered on heaps like flames of fire in sight, Hundreds, that knew not yet the quarrel weel, Ran thither, some to gaze and some to fight: The empty air a sound confused did feel Of murmurs low, and outcries loud on height, Like rolling waves and Boreas' angry blasts When roaring seas against the rocks he casts. XXIX But not for this the wronged warrior stayed His just displeasure and incensed ire, He cared not what the vulgar did or said, To vengeance did his courage fierce aspire: Among the thickest weapons way he made, His thundering sword made all on heaps retire, So that of near a thousand stayed not one, But Prince Gernando bore the brunt alone. XXX His hand, too quick to execute his wrath, Performed all, as pleased his eye and heart, At head and breast oft times he strucken hath, Now at the right, now at the other part: On every side thus did he harm and scath, And oft beguile his sight with nimble art, That no defence the prince of wounds acquits, Where least he thinks, or fears, there most he hits. XXXI Nor ceased be, till in Gernando's breast He sheathed once or twice his furious blade; Down fell the hapless prince with death oppressed, A double way to his weak soul was made; His bloody sword the victor wiped and dressed, Nor longer by the slaughtered body stayed, But sped him thence, and soon appeased hath His hate, his ire, his rancor and his wrath. XXXII Called by the tumult, Godfrey drew him near, And there beheld a sad and rueful sight, The signs of death upon his face appear, With dust and blood his locks were loathly dight, Sighs and complaints on each side might he hear, Made for the sudden death of that great knight: Amazed, he asked who durst and did so much; For yet he knew not whom the fault would touch. XXXIII Arnoldo, minion of the Prince thus slain, Augments the fault in telling it, and saith, This Prince murdered, for a quarrel vain, By young Rinaldo in his desperate wrath, And with that sword that should Christ's law maintain, One of Christ's champions bold he killed hath, And this he did in such a place and hour, As if he scorned your rule, despised your power. XXXIV And further adds, that he deserved death By law, and law should inviolate, That none offence could greater be uneath, And yet the place the fault did aggravate: If he escapes, that mischief would take breath, And flourish bold in spite of rule and state; And that Gernando's friends would venge the wrong, Although to justice that did first belong, XXXV And by that means, should discord, hate and strife Raise mutinies, and what therefore ensueth: Lastly he praised the dead, and still had rife All words he thought could vengeance move or rut Against him Tancred argued for life, With honest reasons to excuse the youth: The Duke heard all, but with such sober cheer, As banished hope, and still increased fear. XXXVI "Great Prince," quoth Tancred; "set before thine eyes Rinaldo's worth and courage what it is, How much our hope of conquest in him lies; Regard that princely house and race of his; He that correcteth every fault he spies, And judgeth all alike, doth all amiss; For faults, you know, are greater thought or less, As is the person's self that doth transgress." XXXVII Godfredo answered him; "If high and low Of sovereign power alike should feel the stroke, Then, Tancred, ill you counsel us, I trow; If lords should know no law, as erst you spoke, How vile and base our empire were you know, If none but slaves and peasants bear the yoke; Weak is the sceptre and the power is small That such provisos bring annexed withal. XXXVIII "But mine was freely given ere 'twas sought, Nor that it lessened be I now consent; Right well know I both when and where I ought To give condign reward and punishment, Since you are all in like subjection brought, Both high and low obey, and be content." This heard, Tancredi wisely stayed his words, Such weight the sayings have of kings and lords. XXXIX Old Raymond praised his speech, for old men think They ever wisest seem when most severe, "'Tis best," quoth he, "to make these great ones shrink, The people love him whom the nobles fear: There must the rule to all disorders sink, Where pardons more than punishments appear; For feeble is each kingdom, frail and weak, Unless his basis be this fear I speak." XL These words Tancredi heard and pondered well, And by them wist how Godfrey's thoughts were bent, Nor list he longer with these old men dwell, But turned his horse and to Rinaldo went, Who, when his noble foe death-wounded fell, Withdrew him softly to his gorgeous tent; There Tancred found him, and at large declared The words and speeches sharp which late you heard. XLI And said, "Although I wot the outward show Is not true witness of the secret thought, For that some men so subtle are, I trow, That what they purpose most appeareth naught; Yet dare I say Godfredo means, I know, Such knowledge hath his looks and speeches wrought, You shall first prisoner be, and then be tried As he shall deem it good and law provide." XLII With that a bitter smile well might you see Rinaldo cast, with scorn and high disdain, "Let them in fetters plead their cause," quoth he, "That are base peasants, born of servile stain, I was free born, I live and will die free Before these feet be fettered in a chain: These hands were made to shake sharp spears and swords, Not to be tied in gyves and twisted cords. XLIII "If my good service reap this recompense, To be clapt up in close and secret mew, And as a thief be after dragged from thence, To suffer punishment as law finds due; Let Godfrey come or send, I will not hence Until we know who shall this bargain rue, That of our tragedy the late done fact May be the first, and this the second, act. XLIV "Give me mine arms," he cried; his squire them brings, And clad his head, and dressed in iron strong, About his neck his silver shield he flings, Down by his side a cutting sword there hung; Among this earth's brave lords and mighty kings, Was none so stout, so fierce, so fair, so young, God Mars he seemed descending from his sphere, Or one whose looks could make great Mars to fear. XLV Tancredi labored with some pleasing speech His spirits fierce and courage to appease; "Young Prince, thy valor," thus he gan to preach, "Can chastise all that do thee wrong, at ease, I know your virtue can your enemies teach, That you can venge you when and where you please: But God forbid this day you lift your arm To do this camp and us your friends such harm. XLVI "Tell me what will you do? why would you stain Your noble hands in our unguilty blood? By wounding Christians, will you again Pierce Christ, whose parts they are and members good? Will you destroy us for your glory vain, Unstayed as rolling waves in ocean flood? Far be it from you so to prove your strength, And let your zeal appease your rage at length. XLVII "For God's love stay your heat, and just displeasure, Appease your wrath, your courage fierce assuage, Patience, a praise; forbearance, is a treasure; Suffrance, an angel's is; a monster, rage; At least you actions by example measure, And think how I in mine unbridled age Was wronged, yet I would not revengement take On all this camp, for one offender's sake. XLVIII "Cilicia conquered I, as all men wot, And there the glorious cross on high I reared, But Baldwin came, and what I nobly got Bereft me falsely when I least him feared; He seemed my friend, and I discovered not His secret covetise which since appeared; Yet strive I not to get mine own by fight, Or civil war, although perchance I might. XLIX "If then you scorn to be in prison pent, If bonds, as high disgrace, your hands refuse; Or if your thoughts still to maintain are bent Your liberty, as men of honor use: To Antioch what if forthwith you went? And leave me here your absence to excuse, There with Prince Boemond live in ease and peace, Until this storm of Godfrey's anger cease. L "For soon, if forces come from Egypt land, Or other nations that us here confine, Godfrey will beaten be with his own wand, And feel he wants that valor great of thine, Our camp may seem an arm without a hand, Amid our troops unless thy eagle shine:" With that came Guelpho and those words approved, And prayed him go, if him he feared or loved. LI Their speeches soften much the warrior's heart, And make his wilful thoughts at last relent, So that he yields, and saith he will depart, And leave the Christian camp incontinent. His friends, whose love did never shrink or start, Preferred their aid, what way soe'er he went: He thanked them all, but left them all, besides Two bold and trusty squires, and so he rides. LII He rides, revolving in his noble spright Such haughty thoughts as fill the glorious mind; On hard adventures was his whole delight, And now to wondrous acts his will inclined; Alone against the Pagans would he fight, And kill their kings from Egypt unto Inde, From Cynthia's hills and Nilus' unknown spring He would fetch praise and glorious conquest bring. LIII But Guelpho, when the prince his leave had take And now had spurred his courser on his way, No longer tarriance with the rest would make, But tastes to find Godfredo, if he may: Who seeing him approaching, forthwith spake, "Guelpho," quoth he, "for thee I only stay, For thee I sent my heralds all about, In every tent to seek and find thee out." LIV This said, he softly drew the knight aside Where none might hear, and then bespake him thus: "How chanceth it thy nephew's rage and pride, Makes him so far forget himself and us? Hardly could I believe what is betide, A murder done for cause so frivolous, How I have loved him, thou and all can tell; But Godfrey loved him but whilst he did well. LV "I must provide that every one have right, That all be heard, each cause be well discussed, As far from partial love as free from spite, I hear complaints, yet naught but proves I trust: Now if Rinaldo weigh our rule too light, And have the sacred lore of war so brust, Take you the charge that he before us come To clear himself and hear our upright dome. LVI "But let him come withouten bond or chain, For still my thoughts to do him grace are framed; But if our power he haply shall disdain, As well I know his courage yet untamed, To bring him by persuasion take some pain: Else, if I prove severe, both you be blamed, That forced my gentle nature gainst my thought To rigor, lest our laws return to naught." LVII Lord Guelpho answered thus: "What heart can bear Such slanders false, devised by hate and spite? Or with stayed patience, reproaches hear, And not revenge by battle or by fight? The Norway Prince hath bought his folly dear, But who with words could stay the angry knight? A fool is he that comes to preach or prate When men with swords their right and wrong debate. LVIII "And where you wish he should himself submit To hear the censure of your upright laws; Alas, that cannot be, for he is flit Out if this camp, withouten stay or pause, There take my gage, behold I offer it To him that first accused him in this cause, Or any else that dare, and will maintain That for his pride the prince was justly slain. LIX "I say with reason Lord Gernando's pride He hath abated, if he have offended Gainst your commands, who are his lord and guide, Oh pardon him, that fault shall be amended." "If he be gone," quoth Godfrey, "let him ride And brawl elsewhere, here let all strife be ended: And you, Lord Guelpho, for your nephew's sake, Breed us no new, nor quarrels old awake." LX This while, the fair and false Armida strived To get her promised aid in sure possession, The day to end, with endless plaint she derived; Wit, beauty, craft for her made intercession: But when the earth was once of light deprived, And western seas felt Titan's hot impression, 'Twixt two old knights, and matrons twain she went, Where pitched was her fair and curious tent. LXI But this false queen of craft and sly invention,-- Whose looks, love's arrows were; whose eyes his quivers; Whose beauty matchless, free from reprehension, A wonder left by Heaven to after-livers,-- Among the Christian lord had bred contention Who first should quench his flames in Cupid's rivers, While all her weapons and her darts rehearsed, Had not Godfredo's constant bosom pierced. LXII To change his modest thought the dame procureth, And proffereth heaps of love's enticing treasure: But as the falcon newly gorged endureth Her keeper lure her oft, but comes at leisure; So he, whom fulness of delight assureth What long repentance comes of love's short pleasure, Her crafts, her arts, herself and all despiseth, So base affections fall, when virtue riseth. LXIII And not one foot his steadfast foot was moved Out of that heavenly path, wherein he paced, Yet thousand wiles and thousand ways she proved, To have that castle fair of goodness raised: She used those looks and smiles that most behoved To melt the frost which his hard heart embraced, And gainst his breast a thousand shot she ventured, Yet was the fort so strong it was not entered. LXIV The dame who thought that one blink of her eye Could make the chastest heart feel love's sweet pain, Oh, how her pride abated was hereby! When all her sleights were void, her crafts were vain, Some other where she would her forces try, Where at more ease she might more vantage gain, As tired soldiers whom some fort keeps out, Thence raise their siege, and spoil the towns about. LXV But yet all ways the wily witch could find Could not Tancredi's heart to loveward move, His sails were filled with another wind, He list no blast of new affection prove; For, as one poison doth exclude by kind Another's force, so love excludeth love: These two alone nor more nor less the dame Could win, the rest all burnt in her sweet flame. LXVI The princess, though her purpose would not frame, As late she hoped, and as still she would, Yet, for the lords and knights of greatest name Became her prey, as erst you heard it told, She thought, ere truth-revealing time or frame Bewrayed her act, to lead them to some hold, Where chains and band she meant to make them prove, Composed by Vulcan not by gentle love. LXVII The time prefixed at length was come and past, Which Godfrey had set down to lend her aid, When at his feet herself to earth she cast, "The hour is come, my Lord," she humbly said, "And if the tyrant haply hear at last, His banished niece hath your assistance prayed, He will in arms to save his kingdom rise, So shall we harder make this enterprise. LXVIII "Before report can bring the tyrant news, Or his espials certify their king, Oh let thy goodness these few champions choose, That to her kingdom should thy handmaid bring; Who, except Heaven to aid the right refuse, Recover shall her crown, from whence shall spring Thy profit; for betide thee peace or war, Thine all her cities, all her subjects are." LXIX The captain sage the damsel fair assured, His word was passed and should not be recanted, And she with sweet and humble grace endured To let him point those ten, which late he granted: But to be one, each one fought and procured, No suit, no entreaty, intercession wanted; There envy each at others' love exceeded, And all importunate made, more than needed. LXX She that well saw the secret of their hearts, And knew how best to warm them in their blood, Against them threw the cursed poisoned darts Of jealousy, and grief at others' good, For love she wist was weak without those arts, And slow; for jealousy is Cupid's food; For the swift steed runs not so fast alone, As when some strain, some strive him to outgone. LXXI Her words in such alluring sort she framed, Her looks enticing, and her wooing smiles, That every one his fellows' favors blamed, That of their mistress he received erewhiles: This foolish crew of lovers unashamed, Mad with the poison of her secret wiles, Ran forward still, in this disordered sort, Nor could Godfredo's bridle rein them short. LXXII He that would satisfy each good desire, Withouten partial love, of every knight, Although he swelled with shame, with grief and ire To see these fellows and these fashions light; Yet since by no advice they would retire, Another way he sought to set them right: "Write all your names," quoth he, "and see whom chance Of lot, to this exploit will first advance." LXXIII Their names were writ, and in an helmet shaken, While each did fortune's grace and aid implore; At last they drew them, and the foremost taken The Earl of Pembroke was, Artemidore, Doubtless the county thought his bread well baken; Next Gerrard followed, then with tresses hoar Old Wenceslaus, that felt Cupid's rage Now in his doating and his dying age. LXXIV Oh how contentment in their foreheads shined! Their looks with joy; thoughts swelled with secret pleasure, These three it seemed good success designed To make the lords of love and beauty's treasure: Their doubtful fellows at their hap repined, And with small patience wait Fortune's leisure, Upon his lips that read the scrolls attending, As if their lives were on his words depending. LXXV Guasco the fourth, Ridolpho him succeeds, Then Ulderick whom love list so advance, Lord William of Ronciglion next he reads, Then Eberard, and Henry born in France, Rambaldo last, whom wicked lust so leads That he forsook his Saviour with mischance; This wretch the tenth was who was thus deluded, The rest to their huge grief were all excluded. LXXVI O'ercome with envy, wrath and jealousy, The rest blind Fortune curse, and all her laws, And mad with love, yet out on love they cry, That in his kingdom let her judge their cause: And for man's mind is such, that oft we try Things most forbidden, without stay or pause, In spite of fortune purposed many a knight To follow fair Armida when 'twas night. LXXVII To follow her, by night or else by day, And in her quarrel venture life and limb. With sighs and tears she gan them softly pray To keep that promise, when the skies were dim, To this and that knight did she plain and say, What grief she felt to part withouten him: Meanwhile the ten had donned their armor best, And taken leave of Godfrey and the rest. LXXVIII The duke advised them every one apart, How light, how trustless was the Pagan's faith, And told what policy, what wit, what art, Avoids deceit, which heedless men betray'th; His speeches pierce their ear, but not their heart, Love calls it folly, whatso wisdom saith: Thus warned he leaves them to their wanton guide, Who parts that night; such haste had she to ride. LXXIX The conqueress departs, and with her led These prisoners, whom love would captive keep, The hearts of those she left behind her bled, With point of sorrow's arrow pierced deep. But when the night her drowsy mantle spread, And filled the earth with silence, shade and sleep, In secret sort then each forsook his tent, And as blind Cupid led them blind they went. LXXX Eustatio first, who scantly could forbear, Till friendly night might hide his haste and shame, He rode in post, and let his breast him bear As his blind fancy would his journey frame, All night he wandered and he wist not where; But with the morning he espied the dame, That with her guard up from a village rode Where she and they that night had made abode. LXXXI Thither he galloped fast, and drawing near Rambaldo knew the knight, and loudly cried, "Whence comes young Eustace, and what seeks he here?" "I come," quoth he, "to serve the Queen Armide, If she accept me, would we all were there Where my good-will and faith might best be tried." "Who," quoth the other, "choseth thee to prove This high exploit of hers?" He answered, "Love." LXXXII "Love hath Eustatio chosen, Fortune thee, In thy conceit which is the best election?" "Nay, then, these shifts are vain," replied he, "These titles false serve thee for no protection, Thou canst not here for this admitted be Our fellow-servant, in this sweet subjection." "And who," quoth Eustace, angry, "dares deny My fellowship?" Rambaldo answered, "I." LXXXIII And with that word his cutting sword he drew, That glittered bright, and sparkled flaming fire; Upon his foe the other champion flew, With equal courage, and with equal ire. The gentle princess, who the danger knew, Between them stepped, and prayed them both retire. "Rambald," quoth she, "why should you grudge or plain, If I a champion, you an helper gain? LXXXIV "If me you love, why wish you me deprived In so great need of such a puissant knight? But welcome Eustace, in good time arrived, Defender of my state, my life, my right. I wish my hapless self no longer lived, When I esteem such good assistance light." Thus talked they on, and travelled on their way Their fellowship increasing every day. LXXXV From every side they come, yet wist there none Of others coming or of others' mind, She welcomes all, and telleth every one, What joy her thoughts in his arrival find. But when Duke Godfrey wist his knights were gone, Within his breast his wiser soul divined Some hard mishap upon his friends should light, For which he sighed all day, and wept all night. LXXXVI A messenger, while thus he mused, drew near, All soiled with dust and sweat, quite out of breath, It seemed the man did heavy tidings bear, Upon his looks sate news of loss and death: "My lord," quoth he, "so many ships appear At sea, that Neptune bears the load uneath, From Egypt come they all, this lets thee weet William Lord Admiral of the Genoa fleet, LXXXVII "Besides a convoy coming from the shore With victual for this noble camp of thine Surprised was, and lost is all that store, Mules, horses, camels laden, corn and wine; Thy servants fought till they could fight no more, For all were slain or captives made in fine: The Arabian outlaws them assailed by night, When least they feared, and least they looked for fight. LXXXVIII "Their frantic boldness doth presume so far, That many Christians have they falsely slain, And like a raging flood they spared are, And overflow each country, field and plain; Send therefore some strong troops of men of war, To force them hence, and drive them home again, And keep the ways between these tents of thine And those broad seas, the seas of Palestine." LXXXIX From mouth to mouth the heavy rumor spread Of these misfortunes, which dispersed wide Among the soldiers, great amazement bred; Famine they doubt, and new come foes beside: The duke, that saw their wonted courage fled, And in the place thereof weak fear espied, With merry looks these cheerful words he spake, To make them heart again and courage take. XC "You champions bold, with me that 'scaped have So many dangers, and such hard assays, Whom still your God did keep, defend and save In all your battles, combats, fights and frays, You that subdued the Turks and Persians brave, That thirst and hunger held in scorn always, And vanquished hills, and seas, with heat and cold, Shall vain reports appal your courage bold? XCI "That Lord who helped you out at every need, When aught befell this glorious camp amiss, Shall fortune all your actions well to speed, On whom his mercy large extended is; Tofore his tomb, when conquering hands you spreed, With what delight will you remember this? Be strong therefore, and keep your valors high To honor, conquest, fame and victory." XCII Their hopes half dead and courage well-nigh lost, Revived with these brave speeches of their guide; But in his breast a thousand cares he tost, Although his sorrows he could wisely hide; He studied how to feed that mighty host, In so great scarceness, and what force provide He should against the Egyptian warriors sly, And how subdue those thieves of Araby. SIXTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Argantes calls the Christians out to just: Otho not chosen doth his strength assay, But from his saddle tumbleth in the dust, And captive to the town is sent away: Tancred begins new fight, and when both trust To win the praise and palm, night ends the fray: Erminia hopes to cure her wounded knight, And from the city armed rides by night. I But better hopes had them recomforted That lay besieged in the sacred town; With new supply late were they victualled, When night obscured the earth with shadows brown; Their armes and engines on the walls they spread, Their slings to cast, and stones to tumble down; And all that side which to the northward lies, High rampiers and strong bulwarks fortifies. II Their wary king commands now here now there, To build this tower, to make that bulwark strong, Whether the sun, the moon, or stars appear, To give them time to work, no time comes wrong: In every street new weapons forged were, By cunning smiths, sweating with labor long; While thus the careful prince provision made, To him Argantes came, and boasting said: III "How long shall we, like prisoners in chains, Captived lie inclosed within this wall? I see your workmen taking endless pains To make new weapons for no use at all; Meanwhile these western thieves destroy the plains, Your towns are burnt, your forts and castles fall, Yet none of us dares at these gates out-peep, Or sound one trumpet shrill to break their sleep. IV "Their time in feasting and good cheer they spend, Nor dare we once their banquets sweet molest, The days and night likewise they bring to end, In peace, assurance, quiet, ease and rest; But we must yield whom hunger soon will shend, And make for peace, to save our lives, request, Else, if th' Egyptian army stay too long, Like cowards die within this fortress strong. V "Yet never shall my courage great consent So vile a death should end my noble days, Nor on mine arms within these walls ypent To-morrow's sun shall spread his timely rays: Let sacred Heavens dispose as they are bent Of this frail life, yet not withouten praise Of valor, prowess, might, Argantes shall Inglorious die, or unrevenged fall. VI "But if the roots of wonted chivalry Be not quite dead your princely breast within, Devise not how with frame and praise to die, But how to live, to conquer and to win; Let us together at these gates outfly, And skirmish bold and bloody fight begin; For when last need to desperation driveth, Who dareth most he wisest counsel giveth. VII "But if in field your wisdom dare not venture To hazard all your troops to doubtful fight, Then bind yourself to Godfrey by indenture, To end your quarrels by one single knight: And for the Christian this accord shall enter With better will, say such you know your right That he the weapons, place and time shall choose, And let him for his best, that vantage use. VIII "For though your foe had hands, like Hector strong, With heart unfeared, and courage stern and stout, Yet no misfortune can your justice wrong, And what that wanteth, shall this arm help out, In spite of fate shall this right hand ere long, Return victorious: if hereof you doubt, Take it for pledge, wherein if trust you have, It shall yourself defend and kingdom save." IX "Bold youth," the tyrant thus began to speak, "Although I withered seem with age and years, Yet are not these old arms so faint and weak, Nor this hoar head so full of doubts and fears But whenas death this vital thread shall break, He shall my courage hear, my death who hears: And Aladine that lived a king and knight, To his fair morn will have an evening bright. X "But that which yet I would have further blazed, To thee in secret shall be told and spoken, Great Soliman of Nice, so far ypraised, To be revenged for his sceptre broken, The men of arms of Araby hath raised, From Inde to Africk, and, when we give token, Attends the favor of the friendly night To victual us, and with our foes to fight. XI "Now though Godfredo hold by warlike feat Some castles poor and forts in vile oppression, Care not for that; for still our princely seat, This stately town, we keep in our possession, But thou appease and calm that courage great, Which in thy bosom make so hot impression; And stay fit time, which will betide ere long, To increase thy glory, and revenge our wrong." XII The Saracen at this was inly spited, Who Soliman's great worth had long envied, To hear him praised thus he naught delighted, Nor that the king upon his aid relied: "Within your power, sir king," he says, "united Are peace and war, nor shall that be denied; But for the Turk and his Arabian band, He lost his own, shall he defend your land? XIII "Perchance he comes some heavenly messenger, Sent down to set the Pagan people free, Then let Argantes for himself take care, This sword, I trust, shall well safe-conduct me: But while you rest and all your forces spare, That I go forth to war at least agree; Though not your champion, yet a private knight, I will some Christian prove in single fight." XIV The king replied, "Though thy force and might Should be reserved to better time and use; Yet that thou challenge some renowned knight, Among the Christians bold I not refuse." The warrior breathing out desire of fight, An herald called, and said, "Go tell those news To Godfrey's self, and to the western lords, And in their hearings boldly say these words: XV "Say that a knight, who holds in great disdain To be thus closed up in secret mew, Will with his sword in open field maintain, If any dare deny his words for true, That no devotion, as they falsely feign, Hath moved the French these countries to subdue; But vile ambition, and pride's hateful vice, Desire of rule, and spoil, and covetice. XVI "And that to fight I am not only prest With one or two that dare defend the cause, But come the fourth or fifth, come all the rest, Come all that will, and all that weapon draws, Let him that yields obey the victor's hest, As wills the lore of mighty Mars his laws:" This was the challenge that fierce Pagan sent, The herald donned his coat-of-arms, and went. XVII And when the man before the presence came Of princely Godfrey, and his captains bold: "My Lord," quoth he, "may I withouten blame Before your Grace, my message brave unfold?" "Thou mayest," he answered, "we approve the same; Withouten fear, be thine ambassage told." "Then," quoth the herald, "shall your highness see, If this ambassage sharp or pleasing be." XVIII The challenge gan he then at large expose, With mighty threats, high terms and glorious words; On every side an angry murmur rose, To wrath so moved were the knights and lords. Then Godfrey spake, and said, "The man hath chose An hard exploit, but when he feels our swords, I trust we shall so far entreat the knight, As to excuse the fourth or fifth of fight. XIX "But let him come and prove, the field I grant, Nor wrong nor treason let him doubt or fear, Some here shall pay him for his glorious vaunt, Without or guile, or vantage, that I swear. The herald turned when he had ended scant, And hasted back the way he came whileare, Nor stayed he aught, nor once forslowed his pace, Till he bespake Argantes face to face. XX "Arm you, my lord," he said, "your bold defies By your brave foes accepted boldly been, This combat neither high nor low denies, Ten thousand wish to meet you on the green; A thousand frowned with angry flaming eyes, And shaked for rage their swords and weapons keen; The field is safely granted by their guide," This said, the champion for his armor cried. XXI While he was armed, his heart for ire nigh brake, So yearned his courage hot his foes to find: The King to fair Clorinda present spake; "If he go forth, remain not you behind, But of our soldiers best a thousand take, To guard his person and your own assigned; Yet let him meet alone the Christian knight, And stand yourself aloof, while they two fight." XXII Thus spake the King, and soon without abode The troop went forth in shining armor clad, Before the rest the Pagan champion rode, His wonted arms and ensigns all he had: A goodly plain displayed wide and broad, Between the city and the camp was spread, A place like that wherein proud Rome beheld The forward young men manage spear and shield. XXIII There all alone Argantes took his stand, Defying Christ and all his servants true, In stature, stomach, and in strength of hand, In pride, presumption, and in dreadful show, Encelade like, on the Phlegrean strand, Or that huge giant Jesse's infant slew; But his fierce semblant they esteemed light, For most not knew, or else not feared his might. XXIV As yet not one had Godfrey singled out To undertake this hardy enterprise, But on Prince Tancred saw he all the rout Had fixed their wishes, and had cast their eyes, On him he spied them gazing round about, As though their honor on his prowess lies, And now they whispered louder what they meant, Which Godfrey heard and saw, and was content. XXV The rest gave place; for every one descried To whom their chieftain's will did most incline, "Tancred," quoth he, "I pray thee calm the pride, Abate the rage of yonder Saracine:" No longer would the chosen champion bide, His face with joy, his eyes with gladness shine, His helm he took, and ready steed bestrode, And guarded with his trusty friends forth rode. XXVI But scantly had he spurred his courser swift Near to the plain, where proud Argantes stayed, When unawares his eyes he chanced to lift, And on the hill beheld the warlike maid, As white as snow upon the Alpine clift The virgin shone in silver arms arrayed, Her vental up so high, that he descried Her goodly visage, and her beauty's pride. XXVII He saw not where the Pagan stood, and stared, As if with looks he would his foeman kill, But full of other thoughts he forward fared, And sent his looks before him up the hill, His gesture such his troubled soul declared, At last as marble rock he standeth still, Stone cold without; within, burnt with love's flame, And quite forgot himself, and why he came. XXVIII The challenger, that yet saw none appear That made or sign or show he came to just, "How long," cried he, "shall I attend you here? Dares none come forth? dares none his fortune trust?" The other stood amazed, love stopped his ear, He thinks on Cupid, think of Mars who lust; But forth stert Otho bold, and took the field, A gentle knight whom God from danger shield. XXIX This youth was one of those, who late desired With that vain-glorious boaster to have fought, But Tancred chosen, he and all retired; Now when his slackness he awhile admired, And saw elsewhere employed was his thought, Nor that to just, though chosen, once he proffered, He boldly took that fit occasion offered. XXX No tiger, panther, spotted leopard, Runs half so swift, the forests wild among, As this young champion hasted thitherward, Where he attending saw the Pagan strong: Tancredi started with the noise he heard, As waked from sleep, where he had dreamed long, "Oh stay," he cried, "to me belongs this war!" But cried too late, Otho was gone too far. XXXI Then full of fury, anger and despite, He stayed his horse, and waxed red for shame, The fight was his, but now disgraced quite Himself he thought, another played his game; Meanwhile the Saracen did hugely smite On Otho's helm, who to requite the same, His foe quite through his sevenfold targe did bear, And in his breastplate stuck and broke his spear. XXXII The encounter such, upon the tender grass, Down from his steed the Christian backward fell; Yet his proud foe so strong and sturdy was, That he nor shook, nor staggered in his sell, But to the knight that lay full low, alas, In high disdain his will thus gan he tell, "Yield thee my slave, and this thine honor be, Thou may'st report thou hast encountered me." XXXIII "Not so," quoth he, "pardy it's not the guise Of Christian knights, though fall'n, so soon to yield; I can my fall excuse in better wise, And will revenge this shame, or die in field." The great Circassian bent his frowning eyes, Like that grim visage in Minerva's shield, "Then learn," quoth he, "what force Argantes useth Against that fool that proffered grace refuseth." XXXIV With that he spurred his horse with speed and haste, Forgetting what good knights to virtue owe, Otho his fury shunned, and, as he passed, At his right side he reached a noble blow, Wide was the wound, the blood outstreamed fast, And from his side fell to his stirrup low: But what avails to hurt, if wounds augment Our foe's fierce courage, strength and hardiment? XXXV Argantes nimbly turned his ready steed, And ere his foe was wist or well aware, Against his side he drove his courser's head, What force could he gainst so great might prepare? Weak were his feeble joints, his courage dead, His heart amazed, his paleness showed his care, His tender side gainst the hard earth he cast, Shamed, with the first fall; bruised, with the last. XXXVI The victor spurred again his light-foot steed, And made his passage over Otho's heart, And cried, "These fools thus under foot I tread, That dare contend with me in equal mart." Tancred for anger shook his noble head, So was he grieved with that unknightly part; The fault was his, he was so slow before, With double valor would he salve that sore. XXXVII Forward he galloped fast, and loudly cried: "Villain," quoth he, "thy conquest is thy shame, What praise? what honor shall this fact betide? What gain? what guerdon shall befall the same? Among the Arabian thieves thy face go hide, Far from resort of men of worth and fame, Or else in woods and mountains wild, by night, On savage beasts employ thy savage might." XXXVIII The Pagan patience never knew, nor used, Trembling for ire, his sandy locks he tore, Out from his lips flew such a sound confused, As lions make in deserts thick, which roar; Or as when clouds together crushed and bruised, Pour down a tempest by the Caspian shore; So was his speech imperfect, stopped, and broken, He roared and thundered when he should have spoken. XXXIX But when with threats they both had whetted keen Their eager rage, their fury, spite and ire, They turned their steeds and left large space between To make their forces greater, 'proaching nigher, With terms that warlike and that worthy been: O sacred Muse, my haughty thoughts inspire, And make a trumpet of my slender quill To thunder out this furious combat shrill. XL These sons of Mavors bore, instead of spears, Two knotty masts, which none but they could lift, Each foaming steed so fast his master bears, That never beast, bird, shaft flew half so swift; Such was their fury, as when Boreas tears The shattered crags from Taurus' northern clift, Upon their helms their lances long they broke, And up to heaven flew splinters, sparks and smoke. XLI The shock made all the towers and turrets quake, And woods and mountains all nigh hand resound; Yet could not all that force and fury shake The valiant champions, nor their persons wound; Together hurtled both their steeds, and brake Each other's neck, the riders lay on ground: But they, great masters of war's dreadful art, Plucked forth their swords and soon from earth up start. XLII Close at his surest ward each warrior lieth, He wisely guides his hand, his foot, his eye, This blow he proveth, that defence he trieth, He traverseth, retireth, presseth nigh, Now strikes he out, and now he falsifieth, This blow he wardeth, that he lets slip by, And for advantage oft he lets some part Discovered seem; thus art deludeth art. XLIII The Pagan ill defenced with sword or targe, Tancredi's thigh, as he supposed, espied And reaching forth gainst it his weapon large, Quite naked to his foe leaves his left-side; Tancred avoideth quick his furious charge, And gave him eke a wound deep, sore and wide; That done, himself safe to his ward retired, His courage praised by all, his skill admired. XLIV The proud Circassian saw his streaming blood, Down from his wound, as from a fountain, running, He sighed for rage, and trembled as he stood, He blamed his fortune, folly, want of cunning; He lift his sword aloft, for ire nigh wood, And forward rushed: Tancred his fury shunning, With a sharp thrust once more the Pagan hit, To his broad shoulder where his arm is knit. XLV Like as a bear through pierced with a dart Within the secret woods, no further flieth, But bites the senseless weapon mad with smart, Seeking revenge till unrevenged she dieth; So mad Argantes fared, when his proud heart Wound upon wound, and shame on shame espieth, Desire of vengeance so o'ercame his senses, That he forgot all dangers, all defences. XLVI Uniting force extreme, with endless wrath, Supporting both with youth and strength untired, His thundering blows so fast about he layeth, That skies and earth the flying sparkles fired; His foe to strike one blow no leisure hath, Scantly he breathed, though he oft desired, His warlike skill and cunning all was waste, Such was Argantes' force, and such his haste. XLVII Long time Tancredi had in vain attended When this huge storm should overblow and pass, Some blows his mighty target well defended, Some fell beside, and wounded deep the grass; But when he saw the tempest never ended, Nor that the Paynim's force aught weaker was, He high advanced his cutting sword at length, And rage to rage opposed, and strength to strength. XLVIII Wrath bore the sway, both art and reason fail, Fury new force, and courage new supplies, Their armors forged were of metal frail, On every side thereof, huge cantels flies, The land was strewed all with plate and mail. That, on the earth; on that, their warm blood lies. And at each rush and every blow they smote Thunder the noise, the sparks, seemed lightning hot. XLIX The Christian people and the Pagans gazed, On this fierce combat wishing oft the end, Twixt hope and fear they stood long time amazed, To see the knights assail, and eke defend, Yet neither sign they made, nor noise they raised, But for the issue of the fight attend, And stood as still, as life and sense they wanted, Save that their hearts within their bosoms panted. L Now were they tired both, and well-nigh spent, Their blows show greater will than power to wound; But Night her gentle daughter Darkness, sent, With friendly shade to overspread the ground, Two heralds to the fighting champions went, To part the fray, as laws of arms them bound Aridens born in France, and wise Pindore, The man that brought the challenge proud before. LI These men their sceptres interpose, between The doubtful hazards of uncertain fight; For such their privilege hath ever been, The law of nations doth defend their right; Pindore began, "Stay, stay, you warriors keen, Equal your honor, equal is your might; Forbear this combat, so we deem it best, Give night her due, and grant your persons rest. LII "Man goeth forth to labor with the sun, But with the night, all creatures draw to sleep, Nor yet of hidden praise in darkness won The valiant heart of noble knight takes keep:" Argantes answered him, "The fight begun Now to forbear, doth wound my heart right deep: Yet will I stay, so that this Christian swear, Before you both, again to meet me here." LIII "I swear," quoth Tancred, "but swear thou likewise To make return thy prisoner eke with thee; Else for achievement of this enterprise, None other time but this expect of me;" Thus swore they both; the heralds both devise, What time for this exploit should fittest be: And for their wounds of rest and cure had need, To meet again the sixth day was decreed. LIV This fight was deep imprinted in their hearts That saw this bloody fray to ending brought, An horror great possessed their weaker parts, Which made them shrink who on their combat thought: Much speech was of the praise and high desarts Of these brave champions that so nobly fought; But which for knightly worth was most ypraised, Of that was doubt and disputation raised. LV All long to see them end this doubtful fray, And as they favor, so they wish success, These hope true virtue shall obtain the day, Those trust on fury, strength and hardiness; But on Erminia most this burden lay, Whose looks her trouble and her fear express; For on this dangerous combat's doubtful end Her joy, her comfort, hope and life depend. LVI Her the sole daughter of that hapless king, That of proud Antioch late wore the crown, The Christian soldiers to Tancredi bring, When they had sacked and spoiled that glorious town; But he, in whom all good and virtue spring, The virgin's honor saved, and her renown; And when her city and her state was lost, Then was her person loved and honored most. LVII He honored her, served her, and leave her gave, And willed her go whither and when she list, Her gold and jewels had he care to save, And them restored all, she nothing missed, She, that beheld this youth and person brave, When, by this deed, his noble mind she wist, Laid ope her heart for Cupid's shaft to hit, Who never knots of love more surer knit. LVIII Her body free, captivated was her heart, And love the keys did of that prison bear, Prepared to go, it was a death to part From that kind Lord, and from that prison dear, But thou, O honor, which esteemed art The chiefest virtue noble ladies wear, Enforcest her against her will, to wend To Aladine, her mother's dearest friend. LIX At Sion was this princess entertained, By that old tyrant and her mother dear, Whose loss too soon the woful damsel plained, Her grief was such, she lived not half the year, Yet banishment, nor loss of friends constrained The hapless maid her passions to forbear, For though exceeding were her woe and grief, Of all her sorrows yet her love was chief. LX The silly maid in secret longing pined, Her hope a mote drawn up by Phoebus' rays, Her love a mountain seemed, whereon bright shined Fresh memory of Tancred's worth and praise, Within her closet if her self she shrined, A hotter fire her tender heart assays: Tancred at last, to raise her hope nigh dead, Before those walls did his broad ensign spread. LXI The rest to view the Christian army feared, Such seemed their number, such their power and might, But she alone her troubled forehead cleared, And on them spread her beauty shining bright; In every squadron when it first appeared, Her curious eye sought out her chosen knight; And every gallant that the rest excels, The same seems him, so love and fancy tells. LXII Within the kingly palace builded high, A turret standeth near the city's wall, From which Erminia might at ease descry The western host, the plains and mountains all, And there she stood all the long day to spy, From Phoebus' rising to his evening fall, And with her thoughts disputed of his praise, And every thought a scalding sigh did raise. LXIII From hence the furious combat she surveyed, And felt her heart tremble with fear and pain, Her secret thoughts thus to her fancy said, Behold thy dear in danger to be slain; So with suspect, with fear and grief dismayed, Attended she her darling's loss or gain, And ever when the Pagan lift his blade, The stroke a wound in her weak bosom made. LXIV But when she saw the end, and wist withal Their strong contention should eftsoons begin, Amazement strange her courage did appal, Her vital blood was icy cold within; Sometimes she sighed, sometimes tears let fall, To witness what distress her heart was in; Hopeless, dismayed, pale, sad, astonished, Her love, her fear; her fear, her torment bred. LXV Her idle brain unto her soul presented Death in an hundred ugly fashions painted, And if she slept, then was her grief augmented, With such sad visions were her thoughts acquainted; She saw her lord with wounds and hurts tormented, How he complained, called for her help, and fainted, And found, awaked from that unquiet sleeping, Her heart with panting sore; eyes, red with weeping. LXVI Yet these presages of his coming ill, Not greatest cause of her discomfort were, She saw his blood from his deep wounds distil, Nor what he suffered could she bide or bear: Besides, report her longing ear did fill, Doubling his danger, doubling so her fear, That she concludes, so was her courage lost, Her wounded lord was weak, faint, dead almost. LXVII And for her mother had her taught before The secret virtue of each herb that springs, Besides fit charms for every wound or sore Corruption breedeth or misfortune brings,-- An art esteemed in those times of yore, Beseeming daughters of great lords and kings-- She would herself be surgeon to her knight, And heal him with her skill, or with her sight. LXVIII Thus would she cure her love, and cure her foe She must, that had her friends and kinsfolk slain: Some cursed weeds her cunning hand did know, That could augment his harm, increase his pain; But she abhorred to be revenged so, No treason should her spotless person stain, And virtueless she wished all herbs and charms Wherewith false men increase their patients' harms. LXIX Nor feared she among the bands to stray Of armed men, for often had she seen The tragic end of many a bloody fray; Her life had full of haps and hazards been, This made her bold in every hard assay, More than her feeble sex became, I ween; She feared not the shake of every reed, So cowards are courageous made through need. LXX Love, fearless, hardy, and audacious love, Emboldened had this tender damsel so, That where wild beasts and serpents glide and move Through Afric's deserts durst she ride or go, Save that her honor, she esteemed above Her life and body's safety, told her no; For in the secret of her troubled thought, A doubtful combat, love and honor fought. LXXI "O spotless virgin," Honor thus begun, "That my true lore observed firmly hast, When with thy foes thou didst in bondage won, Remember then I kept thee pure and chaste, At liberty now, where wouldest thou run, To lay that field of princely virtue waste, Or lose that jewel ladies hold so dear? Is maidenhood so great a load to bear? LXXII "Or deem'st thou it a praise of little prize, The glorious title of a virgin's name? That thou will gad by night in giglot wise, Amid thine armed foes, to seek thy shame. O fool, a woman conquers when she flies, Refusal kindleth, proffers quench the flame. Thy lord will judge thou sinnest beyond measure, If vainly thus thou waste so rich a treasure." LXXIII The sly deceiver Cupid thus beguiled The simple damsel, with his filed tongue: "Thou wert not born," quoth he, "in desert wild The cruel bears and savage beasts among, That you shouldest scorn fair Citherea's child, Or hate those pleasures that to youth belong, Nor did the gods thy heart of iron frame; To be in love is neither sin nor shame. LXXIV "Go then, go, whither sweet desire inviteth, How can thy gentle knight so cruel be? Love in his heart thy grief and sorrows writeth, For thy laments how he complaineth, see. Oh cruel woman, whom no care exciteth To save his life, that saved and honored thee! He languished, one foot thou wilt not move To succor him, yet say'st thou art in love. LXXV "No, no, stay here Argantes' wounds to cure, And make him strong to shed thy darling's blood, Of such reward he may himself assure, That doth a thankless woman so much good: Ah, may it be thy patience can endure To see the strength of this Circassian wood, And not with horror and amazement shrink, When on their future fight thou hap'st to think? LXXVI "Besides the thanks and praises for the deed, Suppose what joy, what comfort shalt thou win, When thy soft hand doth wholesome plaisters speed, Upon the breaches in his ivory skin, Thence to thy dearest lord may health succeed, Strength to his limbs, blood to his cheeks so thin, And his rare beauties, now half dead and more, Thou may'st to him, him to thyself restore. LXXVII "So shall some part of his adventures bold And valiant acts henceforth be held as thine; His dear embracements shall thee straight enfold, Together joined in marriage rites divine: Lastly high place of honor shalt thou hold Among the matrons sage and dames Latine, In Italy, a land, as each one tells, Where valor true, and true religion dwells." LXXVIII With such vain hopes the silly maid abused, Promised herself mountains and hills of gold; Yet were her thoughts with doubts and fears confused How to escape unseen out of that hold, Because the watchman every minute used To guard the walls against the Christians bold, And in such fury and such heat of war, The gates or seld or never opened are. LXXIX With strong Clorinda was Erminia sweet In surest links of dearest friendship bound, With her she used the rising sun to greet, And her, when Phoebus glided under ground, She made the lovely partner of her sheet; In both their hearts one will, one thought was found; Nor aught she hid from that virago bold, Except her love, that tale to none she told. LXXX That kept she secret, if Clorinda heard Her make complaints, or secretly lament, To other cause her sorrow she referred: Matter enough she had of discontent, Like as the bird that having close imbarred Her tender young ones in the springing bent, To draw the searcher further from her nest, Cries and complains most where she needeth least. LXXXI Alone, within her chamber's secret part, Sitting one day upon her heavy thought, Devising by what means, what sleight, what art, Her close departure should be safest wrought, Assembled in her unresolved heart An hundred passions strove and ceaseless fought; At last she saw high hanging on the wall Clorinda's silver arms, and sighed withal: LXXXII And sighing, softly to herself she said, "How blessed is this virgin in her might? How I envy the glory of the maid, Yet envy not her shape, or beauty's light; Her steps are not with trailing garments stayed, Nor chambers hide her valor shining bright; But armed she rides, and breaketh sword and spear, Nor is her strength restrained by shame or fear. LXXXIII "Alas, why did not Heaven these members frail With lively force and vigor strengthen so That I this silken gown and slender veil Might for a breastplate and an helm forego? Then should not heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor hail, Nor storms that fall, nor blustering winds that blow Withhold me, but I would both day and night, In pitched field, or private combat fight. LXXXIV "Nor haddest thou, Argantes, first begun With my dear lord that fierce and cruel fight, But I to that encounter would have run, And haply ta'en him captive by my might; Yet should he find, our furious combat done, His thraldom easy, and his bondage light; For fetters, mine embracements should he prove; For diet, kisses sweet; for keeper, love. LXXXV "Or else my tender bosom opened wide, And heart though pierced with his cruel blade, The bloody weapon in my wounded side Might cure the wound which love before had made; Then should my soul in rest and quiet slide Down to the valleys of the Elysian shade, And my mishap the knight perchance would move, To shed some tears upon his murdered love. LXXXVI "Alas! impossible are all these things, Such wishes vain afflict my woful sprite, Why yield I thus to plaints and sorrowings, As if all hope and help were perished quite? My heart dares much, it soars with Cupid's wings, Why use I not for once these armors bright? I may sustain awhile this shield aloft, Though I be tender, feeble, weak and soft. LXXXVII "Love, strong, bold, mighty never-tired love, Supplieth force to all his servants true; The fearful stags he doth to battle move, Till each his horns in others' blood imbrue; Yet mean not I the haps of war to prove, A stratagem I have devised new, Clorinda-like in this fair harness dight, I will escape out of the town this night. LXXXVIII "I know the men that have the gate to ward, If she command dare not her will deny, In what sort else could I beguile the guard? This way is only left, this will I try: O gentle love, in this adventure hard Thine handmaid guide, assist and fortify! The time, the hour now fitteth best the thing, While stout Clorinda talketh with the king." LXXXIX Resolved thus, without delay she went, As her strong passion did her rashly guide, And those bright arms, down from the rafter hent, Within her closet did she closely hide; That might she do unseen, for she had sent The rest, on sleeveless errands from her side, And night her stealths brought to their wished end, Night, patroness of thieves, and lovers' friend. XC Some sparkling fires on heaven's bright visage shone; His azure robe the orient blueness lost, When she, whose wit and reason both were gone, Called for a squire she loved and trusted most, To whom and to a maid, a faithful one, Part of her will she told, how that in post She would depart from Juda's king, and feigned That other cause her sudden flight constrained. XCI The trusty squire provided needments meet, As for their journey fitting most should be; Meanwhile her vesture, pendant to her feet, Erminia doft, as erst determined she, Stripped to her petticoat the virgin sweet So slender was, that wonder was to see; Her handmaid ready at her mistress' will, To arm her helped, though simple were her skill. XCII The rugged steel oppressed and offended Her dainty neck, and locks of shining gold; Her tender arm so feeble was, it bended When that huge target it presumed to hold, The burnished steel bright rays far off extended, She feigned courage, and appeared bold; Fast by her side unseen smiled Venus' son, As erst he laughed when Alcides spun. XCIII Oh, with what labor did her shoulders bear That heavy burthen, and how slow she went! Her maid, to see that all the coasts were clear, Before her mistress, through the streets was sent; Love gave her courage, love exiled fear, Love to her tired limbs new vigor lent, Till she approached where the squire abode, There took they horse forthwith and forward rode. XCIV Disguised they went, and by unused ways, And secret paths they strove unseen to gone, Until the watch they meet, which sore affrays Their soldiers new, when swords and weapons shone Yet none to stop their journey once essays, But place and passage yielded every one; For that bright armor, and that helmet bright, Were known and feared, in the darkest night. XCV Erminia, though some deal she were dismayed, Yet went she on, and goodly countenance bore, She doubted lest her purpose were bewrayed, Her too much boldness she repented sore; But now the gate her fear and passage stayed, The heedless porter she beguiled therefore, "I am Clorinda, ope the gate," she cried, "Where as the king commands, this late I ride." XCVI Her woman's voice and terms all framed been, Most like the speeches of the princess stout, Who would have thought on horseback to have seen That feeble damsel armed round about? The porter her obeyed, and she, between Her trusty squire and maiden, sallied out, And through the secret dales they silent pass, Where danger least, least fear, least peril was. XCVII But when these fair adventurers entered were Deep in a vale, Erminia stayed her haste, To be recalled she had no cause to fear, This foremost hazard had she trimly past; But dangers new, tofore unseen, appear, New perils she descried, new doubts she cast. The way that her desire to quiet brought, More difficult now seemed than erst she thought. XCVIII Armed to ride among her angry foes, She now perceived it were great oversight, Yet would she not, she thought, herself disclose, Until she came before her chosen knight, To him she purposed to present the rose Pure, spotless, clean, untouched of mortal wight, She stayed therefore, and in her thoughts more wise, She called her squire, whom thus she gan advise. XCIX "Thou must," quoth she, "be mine ambassador, Be wise, be careful, true, and diligent, Go to the camp, present thyself before The Prince Tancredi, wounded in his tent; Tell him thy mistress comes to cure his sore, If he to grant her peace and rest consent Gainst whom fierce love such cruel war hath raised, So shall his wounds be cured, her torments eased. C "And say, in him such hope and trust she hath, That in his powers she fears no shame nor scorn, Tell him thus much, and whatso'er he saith, Unfold no more, but make a quick return, I, for this place is free from harm and scath, Within this valley will meanwhile sojourn." Thus spake the princess: and her servant true To execute the charge imposed, flew; CI And was received, he so discreetly wrought, First of the watch that guarded in their place, Before the wounded prince then was he brought, Who heard his message kind, with gentle grace, Which told, he left him tossing in his thought A thousand doubts, and turned his speedy pace To bring his lady and his mistress word, She might be welcome to that courteous lord. CII But she, impatient, to whose desire Grievous and harmful seemed each little stay, Recounts his steps, and thinks, now draws he nigher, Now enters in, now speaks, now comes his way; And that which grieved her most, the careful squire Less speedy seemed than e'er before that day; Lastly she forward rode with love to guide, Until the Christian tents at hand she spied. CIII Invested in her starry veil, the night In her kind arms embraced all this round, The silver moon from sea uprising bright Spread frosty pearl upon the candid ground: And Cynthia-like for beauty's glorious light The love-sick nymph threw glittering beams around, And counsellors of her old love she made Those valleys dumb, that silence, and that shade. CIV Beholding then the camp, quoth she, "O fair And castle-like pavilions, richly wrought! From you how sweet methinketh blows the air, How comforts it my heart, my soul, my thought? Through heaven's fair face from gulf of sad despair My tossed bark to port well-nigh is brought: In you I seek redress for all my harms, Rest, midst your weapons; peace, amongst your arms. CV "Receive me, then, and let me mercy find, As gentle love assureth me I shall, Among you had I entertainment kind When first I was the Prince Tancredi's thrall: I covet not, led by ambition blind You should me in my father's throne install, Might I but serve in you my lord so dear, That my content, my joy, my comfort were." CVI Thus parleyed she, poor soul, and never feared The sudden blow of Fortune's cruel spite, She stood where Phoebe's splendent beam appeared Upon her silver armor double bright, The place about her round she shining cleared With that pure white wherein the nymph was dight: The tigress great, that on her helmet laid, Bore witness where she went, and where she stayed. CVII So as her fortune would, a Christian band Their secret ambush there had closely framed, Led by two brothers of Italia land, Young Poliphern and Alicandro named, These with their forces watched to withstand Those that brought victuals to their foes untamed, And kept that passage; them Erminia spied, And fled as fast as her swift steed could ride. CVIII But Poliphern, before whose watery eyes, His aged father strong Clorinda slew, When that bright shield and silver helm he spies, The championess he thought he saw and knew; Upon his hidden mates for aid he cries Gainst his supposed foe, and forth he flew, As he was rash, and heedless in his wrath, Bending his lance, "Thou art but dead," he saith. CIX As when a chased hind her course doth bend To seek by soil to find some ease or goad; Whether from craggy rock the spring descend, Or softly glide within the shady wood; If there the dogs she meet, where late she wend To comfort her weak limbs in cooling flood, Again she flies swift as she fled at first, Forgetting weakness, weariness and thirst. CX So she, that thought to rest her weary sprite, And quench the endless thirst of ardent love With dear embracements of her lord and knight, But such as marriage rites should first approve, When she beheld her foe, with weapon bright Threatening her death, his trusty courser move, Her love, her lord, herself abandoned, She spurred her speedy steed, and swift she fled. CXI Erminia fled, scantly the tender grass Her Pegasus with his light footsteps bent, Her maiden's beast for speed did likewise pass; Yet divers ways, such was their fear, they went: The squire who all too late returned, alas. With tardy news from Prince Tancredi's tent, Fled likewise, when he saw his mistress gone, It booted not to sojourn there alone. CXII But Alicandro wiser than the rest, Who this supposed Clorinda saw likewise, To follow her yet was he nothing pressed, But in his ambush still and close he lies, A messenger to Godfrey he addressed, That should him of this accident advise, How that his brother chased with naked blade Clorinda's self, or else Clorinda's shade. CXIII Yet that it was, or that it could be she, He had small cause or reason to suppose, Occasion great and weighty must it be Should make her ride by night among her foes: What Godfrey willed that observed he, And with his soldiers lay in ambush close: These news through all the Christian army went, In every cabin talked, in every tent. CXIV Tancred, whose thoughts the squire had filled with doubt By his sweet words, supposed now hearing this, Alas! the virgin came to seek me out, And for my sake her life in danger is; Himself forthwith he singled from the rout, And rode in haste, though half his arms he miss; Among those sandy fields and valleys green, To seek his love, he galloped fast unseen. SEVENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. A shepherd fair Erminia entertains, Whom whilst Tancredi seeks in vain to find, He is entrapped in Armida's trains: Raymond with strong Argantes is assigned To fight, an angel to his aid he gains: Satan that sees the Pagan's fury blind, And hasty wrath turn to his loss and harm, Doth raise new tempest, uproar and alarm. I Erminia's steed this while his mistress bore Through forests thick among the shady treen, Her feeble hand the bridle reins forlore, Half in a swoon she was, for fear I ween; But her fleet courser spared ne'er the more, To bear her through the desert woods unseen Of her strong foes, that chased her through the plain, And still pursued, but still pursued in vain. II Like as the weary hounds at last retire, Windless, displeased, from the fruitless chase, When the sly beast tapished in bush and brier, No art nor pains can rouse out of his place: The Christian knights so full of shame and ire Returned back, with faint and weary pace: Yet still the fearful dame fled swift as wind, Nor ever stayed, nor ever looked behind. III Through thick and thin, all night, all day, she drived, Withouten comfort, company, or guide, Her plaints and tears with every thought revived, She heard and saw her griefs, but naught beside: But when the sun his burning chariot dived In Thetis' wave, and weary team untied, On Jordan's sandy banks her course she stayed At last, there down she light, and down she laid. IV Her tears, her drink; her food, her sorrowings, This was her diet that unhappy night: But sleep, that sweet repose and quiet brings, To ease the griefs of discontented wight, Spread forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings, In his dull arms folding the virgin bright; And Love, his mother, and the Graces kept Strong watch and ward, while this fair lady slept. V The birds awaked her with their morning song, Their warbling music pierced her tender ear, The murmuring brooks and whistling winds among The rattling boughs and leaves, their parts did bear; Her eyes unclosed beheld the groves along Of swains and shepherd grooms that dwellings were; And that sweet noise, birds, winds and waters sent, Provoked again the virgin to lament. VI Her plaints were interrupted with a sound, That seemed from thickest bushes to proceed, Some jolly shepherd sung a lusty round, And to his voice he tuned his oaten reed; Thither she went, an old man there she found, At whose right hand his little flock did feed, Sat making baskets, his three sons among, That learned their father's art, and learned his song. VII Beholding one in shining Arms appear, The seely man and his were sore dismay'd; But sweet Erminia comforted their fear, Her vental up, her visage open laid; You happy folk, of heav'n beloved dear, Work on, quoth she, upon your harmless trade; These dreadful arms, I bear, no warfare bring To your sweet toil, nor those sweet tunes you sing. VIII "But, father, since this land, these towns and towers Destroyed are with sword, with fire and spoil, How may it be unhurt that you and yours In safety thus apply your harmless toil?" "My son," quoth he, "this poor estate of ours Is ever safe from storm of warlike broil; This wilderness doth us in safety keep, No thundering drum, no trumpet breaks our sleep. IX "Haply just Heaven's defence and shield of right Doth love the innocence of simple swains, The thunderbolts on highest mountains light, And seld or never strike the lower plains; So kings have cause to fear Bellona's might, Not they whose sweat and toil their dinner gains, Nor ever greedy soldier was enticed By poverty, neglected and despised. X "O poverty, chief of the heavenly brood, Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crown: No wish for honor, thirst of others' good, Can move my heart, contented with mine own: We quench our thirst with water of this flood, Nor fear we poison should therein be thrown; These little flocks of sheep and tender goats Give milk for food, and wool to make us coats. XI "We little wish, we need but little wealth, From cold and hunger us to clothe and feed; These are my sons, their care preserves from stealth Their father's flocks, nor servants more I need: Amid these groves I walk oft for my health, And to the fishes, birds, and beasts give heed, How they are fed, in forest, spring and lake, And their contentment for example take. XII "Time was, for each one hath his doating time, These silver locks were golden tresses then, That country life I hated as a crime, And from the forest's sweet contentment ran, And there became the mighty caliph's man, and though I but a simple gardener were, Yet could I mark abuses, see and hear. XIII "Enticed on with hope of future gain, I suffered long what did my soul displease; But when my youth was spent, my hope was vain. I felt my native strength at last decrease; I gan my loss of lusty years complain, And wished I had enjoyed the country's peace; I bade the court farewell, and with content My latter age here have I quiet spent." XIV While thus he spake, Erminia hushed and still His wise discourses heard, with great attention, His speeches grave those idle fancies kill Which in her troubled soul bred such dissension; After much thought reformed was her will, Within those woods to dwell was her intention, Till Fortune should occasion new afford, To turn her home to her desired lord. XV She said therefore, "O shepherd fortunate! That troubles some didst whilom feel and prove, Yet livest now in this contented state, Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move, To entertain me as a willing mate In shepherd's life which I admire and love; Within these pleasant groves perchance my heart, Of her discomforts, may unload some part. XVI "If gold or wealth, of most esteemed dear, If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize, Such store thereof, such plenty have I here, As to a greedy mind might well suffice:" With that down trickled many a silver tear, Two crystal streams fell from her watery eyes; Part of her sad misfortunes then she told, And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old. XVII With speeches kind, he gan the virgin dear Toward his cottage gently home to guide; His aged wife there made her homely cheer, Yet welcomed her, and placed her by her side. The princess donned a poor pastoral's gear, A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied; But yet her gestures and her looks, I guess, Were such as ill beseemed a shepherdess. XVIII Not those rude garments could obscure and hide The heavenly beauty of her angel's face, Nor was her princely offspring damnified Or aught disparaged by those labors base; Her little flocks to pasture would she guide, And milk her goats, and in their folds them place, Both cheese and butter could she make, and frame Herself to please the shepherd and his dame. XIX But oft, when underneath the greenwood shade Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus' scorching rays, Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made, And them engraved in bark of beech and bays; She told how Cupid did her first invade, How conquered her, and ends with Tancred's praise: And when her passion's writ she over read, Again she mourned, again salt tears she shed. XX "You happy trees forever keep," quoth she, "This woful story in your tender rind, Another day under your shade maybe Will come to rest again some lover kind; Who if these trophies of my griefs he see, Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind;" With that she sighed and said, "Too late I prove There is no troth in fortune, trust in love. XXI "Yet may it be, if gracious heavens attend The earnest suit of a distressed wight, At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send To these huge deserts that unthankful knight, That when to earth the man his eyes shall bend, And sees my grave, my tomb, and ashes light, My woful death his stubborn heart may move, With tears and sorrows to reward my love. XXII "So, though my life hath most unhappy been, At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest, My ashes cold shall, buried on this green, Enjoy that good this body ne'er possessed." Thus she complained to the senseless treen, Floods in her eyes, and fires were in her breast; But he for whom these streams of tears she shed, Wandered far off, alas, as chance him led. XXIII He followed on the footsteps he had traced, Till in high woods and forests old he came, Where bushes, thorns and trees so thick were placed, And so obscure the shadows of the same, That soon he lost the tract wherein he paced; Yet went he on, which way he could not aim, But still attentive was his longing ear If noise of horse or noise of arms he hear. XXIV If with the breathing of the gentle wind, An aspen leaf but shaked on the tree, If bird or beast stirred in the bushes blind, Thither he spurred, thither he rode to see: Out of the wood by Cynthia's favor kind, At last, with travel great and pains, got he, And following on a little path, he heard A rumbling sound, and hasted thitherward. XXV It was a fountain from the living stone, That poured down clear streams in noble store, Whose conduit pipes, united all in one, Throughout a rocky channel ghastly roar; Here Tancred stayed, and called, yet answered none, Save babbling echo, from the crooked shore; And there the weary knight at last espies The springing daylight red and white arise. XXVI He sighed sore, and guiltless heaven gan blame, That wished success to his desire denied, And sharp revenge protested for the same, If aught but good his mistress fair betide; Then wished he to return the way he came, Although he wist not by what path to ride, And time drew near when he again must fight With proud Argantes, that vain-glorious knight. XXVII His stalwart steed the champion stout bestrode And pricked fast to find the way he lost, But through a valley as he musing rode, He saw a man that seemed for haste a post, His horn was hung between his shoulders broad, As is the guise with us: Tancredi crossed His way, and gently prayed the man to say, To Godfrey's camp how he should find the way. XXVIII "Sir," in the Italian language answered he, "I ride where noble Boemond hath me sent:" The prince thought this his uncle's man should be, And after him his course with speed he bent, A fortress stately built at last they see, Bout which a muddy stinking lake there went, There they arrived when Titan went to rest His weary limbs in night's untroubled nest. XXIX The courier gave the fort a warning blast; The drawbridge was let down by them within: "If thou a Christian be," quoth he, "thou mayest Till Phoebus shine again, here take thine inn, The County of Cosenza, three days past, This castle from the Turks did nobly win." The prince beheld the piece, which site and art Impregnable had made on every part. XXX He feared within a pile so fortified Some secret treason or enchantment lay, But had he known even there he should have died, Yet should his looks no sign of fear betray; For wheresoever will or chance him guide, His strong victorious hand still made him way: Yet for the combat he must shortly make, No new adventures list he undertake. XXXI Before the castle, in a meadow plain Beside the bridge's end, he stayed and stood, Nor was entreated by the speeches vain Of his false guide, to pass beyond the flood. Upon the bridge appeared a warlike swain, From top to toe all clad in armor good, Who brandishing a broad and cutting sword, Thus threatened death with many an idle word. XXXII "O thou, whom chance or will brings to the soil, Where fair Armida doth the sceptre guide, Thou canst not fly, of arms thyself despoil, And let thy hands with iron chains be tied; Enter and rest thee from thy weary toil. Within this dungeon shalt thou safe abide, And never hope again to see the day, Or that thy hair for age shall turn to gray; XXXIII "Except thou swear her valiant knights to aid Against those traitors of the Christian crew." Tancred at this discourse a little stayed, His arms, his gesture, and his voice he knew: It was Rambaldo, who for that false maid Forsook his country and religion true, And of that fort defender chief became, And those vile customs stablished in the same. XXXIV The warrior answered, blushing red for shame, "Cursed apostate, and ungracious wight, I am that Tancred who defend the name Of Christ, and have been aye his faithful knight; His rebel foes can I subdue and tame, As thou shalt find before we end this fight; And thy false heart cleft with this vengeful sword, Shall feel the ire of thy forsaken Lord." XXXV When that great name Rambaldo's ears did fill, He shook for fear and looked pale for dread, Yet proudly said, "Tancred, thy hap was ill To wander hither where thou art but dead, Where naught can help, thy courage, strength and skill; To Godfrey will I send thy cursed head, That he may see, how for Armida's sake, Of him and of his Christ a scorn I make." XXXVI This said, the day to sable night was turned, That scant one could another's arms descry, But soon an hundred lamps and torches burned, That cleared all the earth and all the sky; The castle seemed a stage with lights adorned, On which men play some pompous tragedy; Within a terrace sat on high the queen, And heard, and saw, and kept herself unseen. XXXVII The noble baron whet his courage hot, And busked him boldly to the dreadful fight; Upon his horse long while he tarried not, Because on foot he saw the Pagan knight, Who underneath his trusty shield was got, His sword was drawn, closed was his helmet bright, Gainst whom the prince marched on a stately pace, Wrath in his voice, rage in his eyes and face. XXXVIII His foe, his furious charge not well abiding, Traversed his ground, and stated here and there, But he, though faint and weary both with riding, Yet followed fast and still oppressed him near, And on what side he felt Rambaldo sliding, On that his forces most employed were; Now at his helm, not at his hauberk bright, He thundered blows, now at his face and sight. XXXIX Against those members battery chief he maketh, Wherein man's life keeps chiefest residence; At his proud threats the Gascoign warrior quaketh, And uncouth fear appalled every sense, To nimble shifts the knight himself betaketh, And skippeth here and there for his defence: Now with his rage, now with his trusty blade, Against his blows he good resistance made. XL Yet no such quickness for defence he used, As did the prince to work him harm and scathe; His shield was cleft in twain, his helmet bruised, And in his blood his other arms did bathe; On him he heaped blows, with thrusts confused, And more or less each stroke annoyed him hath; He feared, and in his troubled bosom strove Remorse of conscience, shame, disdain and love. XLI At last so careless foul despair him made, He meant to prove his fortune ill or good, His shield cast down, he took his helpless blade In both his hands, which yet had drawn no blood, And with such force upon the prince he laid, That neither plate nor mail the blow withstood, The wicked steel seized deep in his right side, And with his streaming blood his bases dyed: XLII Another stroke he lent him on the brow, So great that loudly rung the sounding steel; Yet pierced he not the helmet with the blow, Although the owner twice or thrice did reel. The prince, whose looks disdainful anger show, Now meant to use his puissance every deal, He shaked his head and crashed his teeth for ire, His lips breathed wrath, eyes sparkled shining fire. XLIII The Pagan wretch no longer could sustain The dreadful terror of his fierce aspect, Against the threatened blow he saw right plain No tempered armor could his life protect, He leapt aside, the stroke fell down in vain, Against a pillar near a bridge erect. Thence flaming fire and thousand sparks outstart, And kill with fear the coward Pagan's heart. XLIV Toward the bridge the fearful Paynim fled, And in swift flight, his hope of life reposed; Himself fast after Lord Tancredi sped, And now in equal pace almost they closed, When all the burning lamps extinguished The shining fort his goodly splendor losed, And all those stars on heaven's blue face that shone With Cynthia's self, dispeared were and gone. XLV Amid those witchcrafts and that ugly shade, No further could the prince pursue the chase, Nothing he saw, yet forward still he made, With doubtful steps, and ill assured pace; At last his foot upon a threshold trad, And ere he wist, he entered had the place; With ghastly noise the door-leaves shut behind, And closed him fast in prison dark and blind. XLVI As in our seas in the Commachian Bay, A silly fish, with streams enclosed, striveth, To shun the fury and avoid the sway Wherewith the current in that whirlpool driveth, Yet seeketh all in vain, but finds no way Out of that watery prison, where she diveth: For with such force there be the tides in brought, There entereth all that will, thence issueth naught: XLVII This prison so entrapped that valiant knight; Of which the gate was framed by subtle train, To close without the help of human wight, So sure none could undo the leaves again; Against the doors he bended all his might, But all his forces were employed in vain, At last a voice gan to him loudly call, "Yield thee," quoth it, "thou art Armida's thrall." XLVIII "Within this dungeon buried shalt thou spend The res'due of thy woful days and years;" The champion list not more with words contend, But in his heart kept close his griefs and fears, He blamed love, chance gan he reprehend, And gainst enchantment huge complaints he rears. "It were small loss," softly he thus begun, "To lose the brightness of the shining sun; XLIX "But I, alas, the golden beam forego Of my far brighter sun; nor can I say If these poor eyes shall e'er be blessed so, As once again to view that shining ray:" Then thought he on his proud Circassian foe, And said, "Ah! how shall I perform that fray? He, and the world with him, will Tancred blame, This is my grief, my fault, mine endless shame." L While those high spirits of this champion good, With love and honor's care are thus oppressed, While he torments himself, Argantes wood, Waxed weary of his bed and of his rest, Such hate of peace, and such desire of blood, Such thirst of glory, boiled in his breast; That though he scant could stir or stand upright, Yet longed he for the appointed day to fight. LI The night which that expected day forewent, Scantly the Pagan closed his eyes to sleep, He told how night her sliding hours spent, And rose ere springing day began to peep; He called for armor, which incontinent Was brought by him that used the same to keep, That harness rich old Aladine him gave, A worthy present for a champion brave. LII He donned them on, not long their riches eyed, Nor did he aught with so great weight incline, His wonted sword upon his thigh he tied, The blade was old and tough, of temper fine. As when a comet far and wide descried, In scorn of Phoebus midst bright heaven doth shine, And tidings sad of death and mischief brings To mighty lords, to monarchs, and to kings: LIII So shone the Pagan in bright armor clad, And rolled his eyes great swollen with ire and blood, His dreadful gestures threatened horror sad, And ugly death upon his forehead stood; Not one of all his squires the courage had To approach their master in his angry mood, Above his head he shook his naked blade, And gainst the subtle air vain battle made. LIV "The Christian thief," quoth he, "that was so bold To combat me in hard and single fight, Shall wounded fall inglorious on the mould, His locks with clods of blood and dust bedight, And living shall with watery eyes behold How from his back I tear his harness bright, Nor shall his dying words me so entreat, But that I'll give his flesh to dogs for meat." LV Like as a bull when, pricked with jealousy, He spies the rival of his hot desire, Through all the fields doth bellow, roar and cry, And with his thundering voice augments his ire, And threatening battle to the empty sky, Tears with his horn each tree, plant, bush and brier, And with his foot casts up the sand on height, Defying his strong foe to deadly fight: LVI Such was the Pagan's fury, such his cry. A herald called he then, and thus he spake; "Go to the camp, and in my name, defy The man that combats for his Jesus' sake;" This said, upon his steed he mounted high, And with him did his noble prisoner take, The town he thus forsook, and on the green He ran, as mad or frantic he had been. LVII A bugle small he winded loud and shrill, That made resound the fields and valleys near, Louder than thunder from Olympus hill Seemed that dreadful blast to all that hear; The Christian lords of prowess, strength and skill, Within the imperial tent assembled were, The herald there in boasting terms defied Tancredi first, and all that durst beside. LVIII With sober chear Godfredo look'd about, And viewed at leisure every lord and knight; But yet for all his looks not one stepped out, With courage bold, to undertake the fight: Absent were all the Christian champions stout, No news of Tancred since his secret flight; Boemond far off, and banished from the crew Was that strong prince who proud Gernando slew: LIX And eke those ten which chosen were by lot, And all the worthies of the camp beside, After Armida false were followed hot, When night were come their secret flight to hide; The rest their hands and hearts that trusted not, Blushed for shame, yet silent still abide; For none there was that sought to purchase fame In so great peril, fear exiled shame. LX The angry duke their fear discovered plain, By their pale looks and silence from each part, And as he moved was with just disdain, These words he said, and from his seat upstart: "Unworthy life I judge that coward swain To hazard it even now that wants the heart, When this vile Pagan with his glorious boast Dishonors and defies Christ's sacred host. LXI "But let my camp sit still in peace and rest, And my life's hazard at their ease behold. Come bring me here my fairest arms and best;" And they were brought sooner than could be told. But gentle Raymond in his aged breast, Who had mature advice, and counsel old, Than whom in all the camp were none or few Of greater might, before Godfredo drew, LXII And gravely said, "Ah, let it not betide, On one man's hand to venture all this host! No private soldier thou, thou art our guide, If thou miscarry, all our hope were lost, By thee must Babel fall, and all her pride; Of our true faith thou art the prop and post, Rule with thy sceptre, conquer with thy word, Let others combat make with spear and sword. LXIII "Let me this Pagan's glorious pride assuage, These aged arms can yet their weapons use, Let others shun Bellona's dreadful rage, These silver locks shall not Raymondo scuse: Oh that I were in prime of lusty age, Like you that this adventure brave refuse, And dare not once lift up your coward eyes, Gainst him that you and Christ himself defies! LXIV "Or as I was when all the lords of fame And Germain princes great stood by to view, In Conrad's court, the second of that name, When Leopold in single fight I slew; A greater praise I reaped by the same, So strong a foe in combat to subdue, Than he should do who all alone should chase Or kill a thousand of these Pagans base. LXV "Within these arms, had I that strength again, This boasting Paynim had not lived till now, Yet in this breast doth courage still remain; For age or years these members shall not bow; And if I be in this encounter slain, Scotfree Argantes shall not scape, I vow; Give me mine arms, this battle shall with praise Augment mine honor, got in younger days." LXVI The jolly baron old thus bravely spake, His words are spurs to virtue; every knight That seemed before to tremble and to quake, Now talked bold, example hath such might; Each one the battle fierce would undertake, Now strove they all who should begin the fight; Baldwin and Roger both, would combat fain, Stephen, Guelpho, Gernier and the Gerrards twain; LXVII And Pyrrhus, who with help of Boemond's sword Proud Antioch by cunning sleight opprest; The battle eke with many a lowly word, Ralph, Rosimond, and Eberard request, A Scotch, an Irish, and an English lord, Whose lands the sea divides far from the rest, And for the fight did likewise humbly sue, Edward and his Gildippes, lovers true. LXVIII But Raymond more than all the rest doth sue Upon that Pagan fierce to wreak his ire, Now wants he naught of all his armors due Except his helm that shone like flaming fire. To whom Godfredo thus; "O mirror true Of antique worth! thy courage doth inspire New strength in us, of Mars in thee doth shine The art, the honor and the discipline. LXIX "If ten like thee of valor and of age, Among these legions I could haply find, I should the best of Babel's pride assuage, And spread our faith from Thule to furthest Inde; But now I pray thee calm thy valiant rage, Reserve thyself till greater need us bind, And let the rest each one write down his name, And see whom Fortune chooseth to this game,-- LXX "Or rather see whom God's high judgement taketh, To whom is chance, and fate, and fortune slave." Raymond his earnest suit not yet forsaketh, His name writ with the residue would he have, Godfrey himself in his bright helmet shaketh The scrolls, with names of all the champions brave: They drew, and read the first whereon they hit, Wherein was "Raymond, Earl of Tholouse," writ. LXXI His name with joy and mighty shouts they bless; The rest allow his choice, and fortune praise, New vigor blushed through those looks of his; It seemed he now resumed his youthful days, Like to a snake whose slough new changed is, That shines like gold against the sunny rays: But Godfrey most approved his fortune high, And wished him honor, conquest, victory. LXXII Then from his side he took his noble brand, And giving it to Raymond, thus he spake: "This is the sword wherewith in Saxon land, The great Rubello battle used to make, From him I took it, fighting hand to hand, And took his life with it, and many a lake Of blood with it I have shed since that day, With thee God grant it proves as happy may." LXXIII Of these delays meanwhile impatient, Argantes threateneth loud and sternly cries, "O glorious people of the Occident! Behold him here that all your host defies: Why comes not Tancred, whose great hardiment, With you is prized so dear? Pardie he lies Still on his pillow, and presumes the night Again may shield him from my power and might. LXXIV "Why then some other come, by band and band, Come all, come forth on horseback, come on foot, If not one man dares combat hand to hand, In all the thousands of so great a rout: See where the tomb of Mary's Son doth stand, March thither, warriors hold, what makes you doubt? Why run you not, there for your sins to weep Or to what greater need these forces keep?" LXXV Thus scorned by that heathen Saracine Were all the soldiers of Christ's sacred name: Raymond, while others at his words repine, Burst forth in rage, he could not bear this shame: For fire of courage brighter far doth shine If challenges and threats augment the same; So that, upon his steed he mounted light, Which Aquilino for his swiftness hight. LXXVI This jennet was by Tagus bred; for oft The breeder of these beasts to war assigned, When first on trees burgeon the blossoms soft Pricked forward with the sting of fertile kind, Against the air casts up her head aloft And gathereth seed so from the fruitful wind And thus conceiving of the gentle blast, A wonder strange and rare, she foals at last. LXXVII And had you seen the beast, you would have said The light and subtile wind his father was; For if his course upon the sands he made No sign was left what way the beast did pass; Or if he menaged were, or if he played, He scantly bended down the tender grass: Thus mounted rode the Earl, and as he went, Thus prayed, to Heaven his zealous looks upbent. LXXVIII "O Lord, that diddest save, keep and defend Thy servant David from Goliath's rage, And broughtest that huge giant to his end, Slain by a faithful child of tender age; Like grace, O Lord, like mercy now extend! Let me this vile blasphemous pride assuage, That all the world may to thy glory know, Old men and babes thy foes can overthrow!" LXXIX Thus prayed the County, and his prayers dear Strengthened with zeal, with godliness and faith, Before the throne of that great Lord appear, In whose sweet grace is life, death in his wrath, Among his armies bright and legions clear, The Lord an angel good selected hath, To whom the charge was given to guard the knight, And keep him safe from that fierce Pagan's might. LXXX The angel good, appointed for the guard Of noble Raymond from his tender eild, That kept him then, and kept him afterward, When spear and sword he able was to wield, Now when his great Creator's will he heard, That in this fight he should him chiefly shield, Up to a tower set on a rock he flies, Where all the heavenly arms and weapons lies: LXXXI There stands the lance wherewith great Michael slew The aged dragon in a bloody fight, There are the dreadful thunders forged new, With storms and plagues that on poor sinners light; The massy trident mayest thou pendant view There on a golden pin hung up on height, Wherewith sometimes he smites this solid land, And throws down towns and towers thereon which stand. LXXXII Among the blessed weapons there which stands Upon a diamond shield his looks he bended, So great that it might cover all the lands, Twixt Caucasus and Atlas hills extended; With it the lord's dear flocks and faithful bands, The holy kings and cities are defended, The sacred angel took this target sheen, And by the Christian champion stood unseen. LXXXIII But now the walls and turrets round about, Both young and old with many thousands fill; The king Clorinda sent and her brave rout, To keep the field, she stayed upon the hill: Godfrey likewise some Christian bands sent out Which armed, and ranked in good array stood still, And to their champions empty let remain Twixt either troop a large and spacious plain. LXXXIV Argantes looked for Tancredi bold, But saw an uncouth foe at last appear, Raymond rode on, and what he asked him, told, Better by chance, "Tancred is now elsewhere, Yet glory not of that, myself behold Am come prepared, and bid thee battle here, And in his place, or for myself to fight, Lo, here I am, who scorn thy heathenish might." LXXXV The Pagan cast a scornful smile and said, "But where is Tancred, is he still in bed? His looks late seemed to make high heaven afraid; But now for dread he is or dead or fled; But whe'er earth's centre or the deep sea made His lurking hole, it should not save his head." "Thou liest," he says, "to say so brave a knight Is fled from thee, who thee exceeds in might." LXXXVI The angry Pagan said, "I have not spilt My labor then, if thou his place supply, Go take the field, and let's see how thou wilt Maintain thy foolish words and that brave lie;" Thus parleyed they to meet in equal tilt, Each took his aim at other's helm on high, Even in the fight his foe good Raymond hit, But shaked him not, he did so firmly sit. LXXXVII The fierce Circassian missed of his blow, A thing which seld befell the man before, The angel, by unseen, his force did know, And far awry the poignant weapon bore, He burst his lance against the sand below, And bit his lips for rage, and cursed and swore, Against his foe returned he swift as wind, Half mad in arms a second match to find. LXXXVIII Like to a ram that butts with horned head, So spurred he forth his horse with desperate race: Raymond at his right hand let slide his steed, And as he passed struck at the Pagan's face; He turned again, the earl was nothing dread, Yet stept aside, and to his rage gave place, And on his helm with all his strength gan smite, Which was so hard his courtlax could not bite. LXXXIX The Saracen employed his art and force To grip his foe within his mighty arms, But he avoided nimbly with his horse, He was no prentice in those fierce alarms, About him made he many a winding course, No strength, nor sleight the subtle warrior harms, His nimble steed obeyed his ready hand, And where he stept no print left in the sand. XC As when a captain doth besiege some hold, Set in a marsh or high up on a hill, And trieth ways and wiles a thousandfold, To bring the piece subjected to his will; So fared the County with the Pagan bold; And when he did his head and breast none ill, His weaker parts he wisely gan assail, And entrance searched oft 'twixt mail and mail. XCI At last he hit him on a place or twain, That on his arms the red blood trickled down, And yet himself untouched did remain, No nail was broke, no plume cut from his crown; Argantes raging spent his strength in vain, Waste were his strokes, his thrusts were idle thrown, Yet pressed he on, and doubled still his blows, And where he hits he neither cares nor knows. XCII Among a thousand blows the Saracine At last struck one, when Raymond was so near, That not the swiftness of his Aquiline Could his dear lord from that huge danger bear: But lo, at hand unseen was help divine, Which saves when worldly comforts none appear, The angel on his targe received that stroke, And on that shield Argantes' sword was broke. XCIII The sword was broke, therein no wonder lies If earthly tempered metal could not hold Against that target forged above the skies, Down fell the blade in pieces on the mould; The proud Circassian scant believed his eyes, Though naught were left him but the hilts of gold, And full of thoughts amazed awhile he stood, Wondering the Christian's armor was so good. XCIV The brittle web of that rich sword he thought, Was broke through hardness of the County's shield; And so thought Raymond, who discovered naught What succor Heaven did for his safety yield: But when he saw the man gainst whom he fought Unweaponed, still stood he in the field; His noble heart esteemed the glory light, At such advantage if he slew the knight. XCV "Go fetch," he would have said, "another blade," When in his heart a better thought arose, How for Christ's glory he was champion made, How Godfrey had him to this combat chose, The army's honor on his shoulder laid To hazards new he list not that expose; While thus his thoughts debated on the case, The hilts Argantes hurled at his face. XCVI And forward spurred his mounture fierce withal, Within his arms longing his foe to strain, Upon whose helm the heavy blow did fall, And bent well-nigh the metal to his brain: But he, whose courage was heroical, Leapt by, and makes the Pagan's onset vain, And wounds his hand, which he outstretched saw, Fiercer than eagles' talon, lions' paw. XCVII Now here, now there, on every side he rode, With nimble speed, and spurred now out, now in, And as he went and came still laid on load Where Lord Argantes' arms were weak and thin; All that huge force which in his arms abode, His wrath, his ire, his great desire to win, Against his foe together all he bent, And heaven and fortune furthered his intent. XCVIII But he, whose courage for no peril fails, Well armed, and better hearted, scorns his power. Like a tall ship when spent are all her sails, Which still resists the rage of storm and shower, Whose mighty ribs fast bound with bands and nails, Withstand fierce Neptune's wrath, for many an hour, And yields not up her bruised keel to winds, In whose stern blast no ruth nor grace she finds: XCIX Argantes such thy present danger was, When Satan stirred to aid thee at thy need, In human shape he forged an airy mass, And made the shade a body seem indeed; Well might the spirit for Clorinda pass, Like her it was, in armor and in weed, In stature, beauty, countenance and face, In looks, in speech, in gesture, and in pace. C And for the spirit should seem the same indeed, From where she was whose show and shape it had, Toward the wall it rode with feigned speed, Where stood the people all dismayed and sad, To see their knight of help have so great need, And yet the law of arms all help forbad. There in a turret sat a soldier stout To watch, and at a loop-hole peeped out; CI The spirit spake to him, called Oradine, The noblest archer then that handled bow, "O Oradine," quoth she, "who straight as line Can'st shoot, and hit each mark set high or low, If yonder knight, alas! be slain in fine, As likest is, great ruth it were you know, And greater shame, if his victorious foe Should with his spoils triumphant homeward go. CII "Now prove thy skill, thine arrow's sharp head dip In yonder thievish Frenchman's guilty blood, I promise thee thy sovereign shall not slip To give thee large rewards for such a good;" Thus said the spirit; the man did laugh and skip For hope of future gain, nor longer stood, But from his quiver huge a shaft he hent, And set it in his mighty bow new bent, CIII Twanged the string, out flew the quarrel long, And through the subtle air did singing pass, It hit the knight the buckles rich among, Wherewith his precious girdle fastened was, It bruised them and pierced his hauberk strong, Some little blood down trickled on the grass; Light was the wound; the angel by unseen, The sharp head blunted of the weapon keen. CIV Raymond drew forth the shaft, as much behoved, And with the steel, his blood out streaming came, With bitter words his foe he then reproved, For breaking faith, to his eternal shame. Godfrey, whose careful eyes from his beloved Were never turned, saw and marked the same, And when he viewed the wounded County bleed, He sighed, and feared, more perchance than need; CV And with his words, and with his threatening eyes, He stirred his captains to revenge that wrong; Forthwith the spurred courser forward hies, Within their rests put were their lances long, From either side a squadron brave out flies, And boldly made a fierce encounter strong, The raised dust to overspread begun Their shining arms, and far more shining sun. CVI Of breaking spears, of ringing helm and shield, A dreadful rumor roared on every side, There lay a horse, another through the field Ran masterless, dismounted was his guide; Here one lay dead, there did another yield, Some sighed, some sobbed, some prayed, and some cried; Fierce was the fight, and longer still it lasted, Fiercer and fewer, still themselves they wasted. CVII Argantes nimbly leapt amid the throng, And from a soldier wrung an iron mace, And breaking through the ranks and ranges long, Therewith he passage made himself and place, Raymond he sought, the thickest press among. To take revenge for late received disgrace, A greedy wolf he seemed, and would assuage With Raymond's blood his hunger and his rage. CVIII The way he found not easy as he would, But fierce encounters put him oft to pain, He met Ormanno and Rogero bold, Of Balnavile, Guy, and the Gerrards twain; Yet nothing might his rage and haste withhold, These worthies strove to stop him, but in vain, With these strong lets increased still his ire, Like rivers stopped, or closely smouldered fire. CIX He slew Ormanno, and wounded Guy, and laid Rogero low, among the people slain, On every side new troops the man invade, Yet all their blows were waste, their onsets vain, But while Argantes thus his prizes played, And seemed alone this skirmish to sustain, The duke his brother called and thus he spake, "Go with thy troop, fight for thy Saviour's sake; CX "There enter in where hottest is the fight, Thy force against the left wing strongly bend." This said, so brave an onset gave the knight, That many a Paynim bold there made his end: The Turks too weak seemed to sustain his might, And could not from his power their lives defend, Their ensigns rent, and broke was their array, And men and horse on heaps together lay. CXI O'erthrown likewise away the right wing ran, Nor was there one again that turned his face, Save bold Argantes, else fled every man, Fear drove them thence on heaps, with headlong chase: He stayed alone, and battle new began, Five hundred men, weaponed with sword and mace, So great resistance never could have made, As did Argantes with his single blade: CXII The strokes of swords and thrusts of many a spear, The shock of many a joust he long sustained, He seemed of strength enough this charge to bear, And time to strike, now here, now there, he gained His armors broke, his members bruised were, He sweat and bled, yet courage still he feigned; But now his foes upon him pressed so fast, That with their weight they bore him back at last. CXIII His back against this storm at length he turned, Whose headlong fury bore him backward still, Not like to one that fled, but one that mourned Because he did his foes no greater ill, His threatening eyes like flaming torches burned, His courage thirsted yet more blood to spill, And every way and every mean he sought, To stay his flying mates, but all for naught. CXIV This good he did, while thus he played his part, His bands and troops at ease, and safe, retired; Yet coward dread lacks order, fear wants art, Deaf to attend, commanded or desired. But Godfrey that perceived in his wise heart, How his bold knights to victory aspired, Fresh soldiers sent, to make more quick pursuit, And help to gather conquest's precious fruit. CXV But this, alas, was not the appointed day, Set down by Heaven to end this mortal war: The western lords this time had borne away The prize, for which they travelled had so far, Had not the devils, that saw the sure decay Of their false kingdom by this bloody war, At once made heaven and earth with darkness blind, And stirred up tempests, storms, and blustering wind. CXVI Heaven's glorious lamp, wrapped in an ugly veil Of shadows dark, was hid from mortal eye, And hell's grim blackness did bright skies assail; On every side the fiery lightnings fly, The thunders roar, the streaming rain and hail Pour down and make that sea which erst was dry. The tempests rend the oaks and cedars brake, And make not trees but rocks and mountains shake. CXVII The rain, the lightning, and the raging wind, Beat in the Frenchmen's eyes with hideous force, The soldiers stayed amazed in heart and mind, The terror such that stopped both man and horse. Surprised with this evil no way they find, Whither for succor to direct their course, But wise Clorinda soon the advantage spied, And spurring forth thus to her soldiers cried: CXVIII "You hardy men at arms behold," quoth she, "How Heaven, how Justice in our aid doth fight, Our visages are from this tempest free, Our hands at will may wield our weapons bright, The fury of this friendly storm you see Upon the foreheads of our foes doth light, And blinds their eyes, then let us take the tide, Come, follow me, good fortune be our guide." CXIX This said, against her foes on rode the dame, And turned their backs against the wind and rain; Upon the French with furious rage she came, And scorned those idle blows they struck in vain; Argantes at the instant did the same, And them who chased him now chased again, Naught but his fearful back each Christian shows Against the tempest, and against their blows. CXX The cruel hail, and deadly wounding blade, Upon their shoulders smote them as they fled, The blood new spilt while thus they slaughter made, The water fallen from skies had dyed red, Among the murdered bodies Pyrrhus laid, And valiant Raiphe his heart blood there out bled, The first subdued by strong Argantes' might, The second conquered by that virgin knight. CXXI Thus fled the French, and then pursued in chase The wicked sprites and all the Syrian train: But gainst their force and gainst their fell menace Of hail and wind, of tempest and of rain, Godfrey alone turned his audacious face, Blaming his barons for their fear so vain, Himself the camp gate boldly stood to keep, And saved his men within his trenches deep. CXXII And twice upon Argantes proud he flew, And beat him backward, maugre all his might, And twice his thirsty sword he did imbrue, In Pagan's blood where thickest was the fight; At last himself with all his folk withdrew, And that day's conquest gave the virgin bright, Which got, she home retired and all her men, And thus she chased this lion to his den. CXXIII Yet ceased not the fury and the ire Of these huge storms, of wind, of rain and hail, Now was it dark, now shone the lightning fire, The wind and water every place assail, No bank was safe, no rampire left entire, No tent could stand, when beam and cordage fail, Wind, thunder, rain, all gave a dreadful sound, And with that music deafed the trembling ground. EIGHTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. A messenger to Godfrey sage doth tell The Prince of Denmark's valour, death and end: The Italians, trusting signs untrue too well, Think their Rinaldo slain: the wicked fiend Breeds fury in their breasts, their bosoms swell With ire and hate, and war and strife forth send: They threaten Godfrey; he prays to the Lord, And calms their fury with his look and word. I Now were the skies of storms and tempests cleared, Lord Aeolus shut up his winds in hold, The silver-mantled morning fresh appeared, With roses crowned, and buskined high with gold; The spirits yet which had these tempests reared, Their malice would still more and more unfold; And one of them that Astragor was named, His speeches thus to foul Alecto framed. II "Alecto, see, we could not stop nor stay The knight that to our foes new tidings brings, Who from the hands escaped, with life away, Of that great prince, chief of all Pagan kings: He comes, the fall of his slain lord to say, Of death and loss he tells, and such sad things, Great news he brings, and greatest dangers is, Bertoldo's son shall be called home for this. III "Thou knowest what would befall, bestir thee than; Prevent with craft, what force could not withstand, Turn to their evil the speeches of the man, With his own weapon wound Godfredo's hand; Kindle debate, infect with poison wan The English, Switzer, and Italian band, Great tumult move, make brawls and quarrels rife, Set all the camp on uproar and at strife. IV "This act beseems thee well, and of the deed Much may'st thou boast before our lord and king." Thus said the sprite. Persuasion small did need, The monster grants to undertake the thing. Meanwhile the knight, whose coming thus they dread, Before the camp his weary limbs doth bring, And well-nigh breathless, "Warriors bold," he cried, "Who shall conduct me to your famous guide?" V An hundred strove the stranger's guide to be, To hearken news the knights by heaps assemble, The man fell lowly down upon his knee, And kissed the hand that made proud Babel tremble; "Right puissant lord, whose valiant acts," quoth he, "The sands and stars in number best resemble, Would God some gladder news I might unfold," And there he paused, and sighed; then thus he told: VI "Sweno, the King of Denmark's only heir, The stay and staff of his declining eild, Longed to be among these squadrons fair Who for Christ's faith here serve with spear and shield; No weariness, no storms of sea or air, No such contents as crowns and sceptres yield, No dear entreaties of so kind a sire, Could in his bosom quench that glorious fire. VII "He thirsted sore to learn this warlike art Of thee, great lord and master of the same; And was ashamed in his noble heart, That never act he did deserved fame; Besides, the news and tidings from each part Of young Rinaldo's worth and praises came: But that which most his courage stirred hath, Is zeal, religion, godliness, and faith. VIII "He hasted forward, then without delay, And with him took of knights a chosen band, Directly toward Thrace we took the way, To Byzance old, chief fortress of that land, There the Greek monarch gently prayed him stay, And there an herald sent from you we fand, How Antioch was won, who first declared, And how defended nobly afterward. IX "Defended gainst Corbana, valiant knight, That all the Persian armies had to guide, And brought so many soldiers bold to fight, That void of men he left that kingdom wide; He told thine acts, thy wisdom and thy might, And told the deeds of many a lord beside, His speech at length to young Rinaldo passed, And told his great achievements, first and last: X "And how this noble camp of yours, of late Besieged had this town, and in what sort, And how you prayed him to participate Of the last conquest of this noble fort. In hardy Sweno opened was the gate Of worthy anger by this brave report, So that each hour seemed five years long, Till he were fighting with these Pagans strong. XI "And while the herald told your fights and frays, Himself of cowardice reproved he thought, And him to stay that counsels him, or prays, He hears not, or, else heard, regardeth naught, He fears no perils but whilst he delays, Lest this last work without his help be wrought: In this his doubt, in this his danger lies, No hazard else he fears, no peril spies. XII "Thus hasting on, he hasted on his death, Death that to him and us was fatal guide. The rising morn appeared yet aneath, When he and we were armed, and fit to ride, The nearest way seemed best, o'er hold and heath We went, through deserts waste, and forests wide, The streets and ways he openeth as he goes, And sets each land free from intruding foes. XIII "Now want of food, now dangerous ways we find, Now open war, now ambush closely laid; Yet passed we forth, all perils left behind, Our foes or dead or run away afraid, Of victory so happy blew the wind, That careless all the heedless to it made: Until one day his tents he happed to rear, To Palestine when we approached near. XIV "There did our scouts return and bring us news, That dreadful noise of horse and arms they hear, And that they deemed by sundry signs and shows There was some mighty host of Pagans near. At these sad tidings many changed their hues, Some looked pale for dread, some shook for fear, Only our noble lord was altered naught, In look, in face, in gesture, or in thought. XV "But said, 'A crown prepare you to possess Of martyrdom, or happy victory; For this I hope, for that I wish no less, Of greater merit and of greater glory. Brethren, this camp will shortly be, I guess, A temple, sacred to our memory, To which the holy men of future age, To view our graves shall come in pilgrimage.' XVI "This said, he set the watch in order right To guard the camp, along the trenches deep, And as he armed was, so every knight He willed on his back his arms to keep. Now had the stillness of the quiet night Drowned all the world in silence and in sleep, When suddenly we heard a dreadful sound, Which deafed the earth, and tremble made the ground. XVII "'Arm, arm,' they cried; Prince Sweno at the same, Glistering in shining steel leaped foremost out, His visage shone, his noble looks did flame, With kindled brand of courage bold and stout, When lo, the Pagans to assault us came, And with huge numbers hemmed us round about, A forest thick of spears about us grew, And over us a cloud of arrows flew: XVIII "Uneven the fight, unequal was the fray, Our enemies were twenty men to one, On every side the slain and wounded lay Unseen, where naught but glistering weapons shone: The number of the dead could no man say, So was the place with darkness overgone, The night her mantle black upon its spreads, Hiding our losses and our valiant deeds. XIX "But hardy Sweno midst the other train, By his great acts was well descried I wot, No darkness could his valor's daylight stain, Such wondrous blows on every side he smote; A stream of blood, a bank of bodies slain, About him made a bulwark, and a mote, And when soe'er he turned his fatal brand, Dread in his looks and death sate in his hand. XX "Thus fought we till the morning bright appeared, And strewed roses on the azure sky, But when her lamp had night's thick darkness cleared, Wherein the bodies dead did buried lie, Then our sad cries to heaven for grief we reared, Our loss apparent was, for we descry How all our camp destroyed was almost, And all our people well-nigh slain and lost; XXI "Of thousands twain an hundred scant survived. When Sweno murdered saw each valiant knight, I know not if his heart in sunder rived For dear compassion of that woful sight; He showed no change, but said: 'Since so deprived We are of all our friends by chance of fight, Come follow them, the path to heaven their blood Marks out, now angels made, of martyrs good.' XXII "This said, and glad I think of death at hand, The signs of heavenly joy shone through his eyes, Of Saracens against a mighty band, With fearless heart and constant breast he flies; No steel could shield them from his cutting brand But whom he hits without recure he dies, He never struck but felled or killed his foe And wounded was himself from top to toe. XXIII "Not strength, but courage now, preserved on live This hardy champion, fortress of our faith, Strucken he strikes, still stronger more they strive, The more they hurt him, more he doth them scathe, When toward him a furious knight gan drive, Of members huge, fierce looks, and full of wrath, That with the aid of many a Pagan crew, After long fight, at last Prince Sweno slew. XXIV "Ah, heavy chance! Down fell the valiant youth, Nor mongst us all did one so strong appear As to revenge his death: that this is truth, By his dear blood and noble bones I swear, That of my life I had not care nor ruth, No wounds I shunned, no blows I would off bear, And had not Heaven my wished end denied, Even there I should, and willing should, have died. XXV "Alive I fell among my fellows slain, Yet wounded so that each one thought me dead, Nor what our foes did since can I explain, So sore amazed was my heart and head; But when I opened first mine eyes again, Night's curtain black upon the earth was spread, And through the darkness to my feeble sight, Appeared the twinkling of a slender light. XXVI "Not so much force or judgement in me lies As to discern things seen and not mistake, I saw like them who ope and shut their eyes By turns, now half asleep, now half awake; My body eke another torment tries, My wounds began to smart, my hurts to ache; For every sore each member pinched was With night's sharp air, heaven's frost and earth's cold grass. XXVII "But still the light approached near and near, And with the same a whispering murmur run, Till at my side arrived both they were, When I to spread my feeble eyes begun: Two men behold in vestures long appear, With each a lamp in hand, who said, 'O son In that dear Lord who helps his servants, trust, Who ere they ask, grants all things to the just.' XXVIII "This said, each one his sacred blessings flings Upon my corse, with broad our-stretched hand, And mumbled hymns and psalms and holy things, Which I could neither hear nor understand; 'Arise,' quoth they, with that as I had wings, All whole and sound I leaped up from the land. Oh miracle, sweet, gentle, strange and true! My limbs new strength received, and vigor new. XXIX "I gazed on them like one whose heart denieth To think that done, he sees so strangely wrought; Till one said thus, 'O thou of little faith, What doubts perplex thy unbelieving thought? Each one of us a living body hath, We are Christ's chosen servants, fear us naught, Who to avoid the world's allurements vain, In wilful penance, hermits poor remain. XXX "'Us messengers to comfort thee elect That Lord hath sent that rules both heaven and hell; Who often doth his blessed will effect, By such weak means, as wonder is to tell; He will not that this body lie neglect, Wherein so noble soul did lately dwell To which again when it uprisen is It shall united be in lasting bliss. XXXI "'I say Lord Sweno's corpse, for which prepared A tomb there is according to his worth, By which his honor shall be far declared, And his just praises spread from south to north:" But lift thine eyes up to the heavens ward, Mark yonder light that like the sun shines forth That shall direct thee with those beams so clear, To find the body of thy master dear.' XXXII "With that I saw from Cynthia's silver face, Like to a falling star a beam down slide, That bright as golden line marked out the place, And lightened with clear streams the forest wide; So Latmos shone when Phoebe left the chase, And laid her down by her Endymion's side, Such was the light that well discern I could, His shape, his wounds, his face, though dead, yet bold. XXXIII "He lay not grovelling now, but as a knight That ever had to heavenly things desire, So toward heaven the prince lay bolt upright, Like him that upward still sought to aspire, His right hand closed held his weapon bright, Ready to strike and execute his ire, His left upon his breast was humbly laid, That men might know, that while he died he prayed. XXXIV "Whilst on his wounds with bootless tears I wept, That neither helped him, nor eased my care, One of those aged fathers to him stepped, And forced his hand that needless weapon spare: 'This sword,' quoth he, 'hath yet good token kept, That of the Pagans' blood he drunk his share, And blusheth still he could not save his lord, Rich, strong and sharp, was never better sword. XXXV "'Heaven, therefore, will not, though the prince be slain, Who used erst to wield this precious brand That so brave blade unused should remain; But that it pass from strong to stronger hand, Who with like force can wield the same again, And longer shall in grace of fortune stand, And with the same shall bitter vengeance take On him that Sweno slew, for Sweno's sake. XXXVI "'Great Solyman killed Sweno, Solyman For Sweno's sake, upon this sword must die. Here, take the blade, and with it haste thee than Thither where Godfrey doth encamped lie, And fear not thou that any shall or can Or stop thy way, or lead thy steps awry; For He that doth thee on this message send, Thee with His hand shall guide, keep and defend. XXXVII "'Arrived there it is His blessed will, With true report that thou declare and tell The zeal, the strength, the courage and the skill In thy beloved lord that late did dwell, How for Christ's sake he came his blood to spill, And sample left to all of doing well, That future ages may admire his deed, And courage take when his brave end they read. XXXVIII "'It resteth now, thou know that gentle knight That of this sword shall be thy master's heir, It is Rinaldo young, with whom in might And martial skill no champion may compare, Give it to him and say, "The Heavens bright Of this revenge to him commit the care." While thus I listened what this old man said, A wonder new from further speech us stayed; XXXIX "For there whereas the wounded body lay, A stately tomb with curious work, behold, And wondrous art was built out of the clay, Which, rising round, the carcass did enfold; With words engraven in the marble gray, The warrior's name, his worth and praise that told, On which I gazing stood, and often read That epitaph of my dear master dead. XL "'Among his soldiers,' quoth the hermit, 'here Must Sweno's corpse remain in marble chest, While up to heaven are flown their spirits dear, To live in endless joy forever blest, His funeral thou hast with many a tear Accompanied, it's now high time to rest, Come be my guest, until the morning ray Shall light the world again, then take thy way.' XLI "This said, he led me over holts and hags, Through thorns and bushes scant my legs I drew Till underneath a heap of stones and crags At last he brought me to a secret mew; Among the bears, wild boars, the wolves and stags, There dwelt he safe with his disciple true, And feared no treason, force, nor hurt at all, His guiltless conscience was his castle's wall. XLII "My supper roots; my bed was moss and leaves; But weariness in little rest found ease: But when the purple morning night bereaves Of late usurped rule on lands and seas, His loathed couch each wakeful hermit leaves, To pray rose they, and I, for so they please, I congee took when ended was the same, And hitherward, as they advised me, came." XLIII The Dane his woful tale had done, when thus The good Prince Godfrey answered him, "Sir knight, Thou bringest tidings sad and dolorous, For which our heavy camp laments of right, Since so brave troops and so dear friends to us, One hour hath spent, in one unlucky fight; And so appeared hath thy master stout, As lightning doth, now kindled, now quenched out. XLIV "But such a death and end exceedeth all The conquests vain of realms, or spoils of gold, Nor aged Rome's proud stately capital, Did ever triumph yet like theirs behold; They sit in heaven on thrones celestial, Crowned with glory, for their conquest bold, Where each his hurts I think to other shows, And glories in those bloody wounds and blows. XLV "But thou who hast part of thy race to run, With haps and hazards of this world ytost, rejoice, for those high honors they have won, Which cannot be by chance or fortune crossed: But for thou askest for Bertoldo's son, Know, that he wandereth, banished from this host, And till of him new tidings some man tell, Within this camp I deem it best thou dwell." XLVI These words of theirs in many a soul renewed The sweet remembrance of fair Sophia's child, Some with salt tears for him their cheeks bedewed, Lest evil betide him mongst the Pagans wild, And every one his valiant prowess showed, And of his battles stories long compiled, Telling the Dane his acts and conquests past, Which made his ears amazed, his heart aghast. XLVII Now when remembrance of the youth had wrought A tender pity in each softened mind, Behold returned home with all they caught The bands that were to forage late assigned, And with them in abundance great they brought Both flocks and herds of every sort and kind. And corn, although not much, and hay to feed Their noble steeds and coursers when they need. XLVIII They also brought of misadventure sad Tokens and signs, seemed too apparent true, Rinaldo's armor, frushed and hacked they had, Oft pierced through, with blood besmeared new; About the camp, for always rumors bad Are farthest spread, these woful tidings flew. Thither assembled straight both high and low, Longing to see what they were loth to know. XLIX His heavy hauberk was both seen and known, And his brand shield, wherein displayed flies The bird that proves her chickens for her own By looking gainst the sun with open eyes; That shield was to the Pagans often shown, In many a hard and hardy enterprise, But now with many a gash and many a stroke They see, and sigh to see it, frushed and broke. L While all his soldiers whispered under hand, And here and there the fault and cause do lay, Godfrey before him called Aliprand Captain of those that brought of late this prey, A man who did on points of virtue stand, Blameless in words, and true whate'er he say, "Say," quoth the duke, "where you this armor had, Hide not the truth, but tell it good or bad." LI He answered him, "As far from hence think I As on two days a speedy post well rideth, To Gaza-ward a little plain doth lie, Itself among the steepy hills which hideth, Through it slow falling from the mountains high, A rolling brook twixt bush and bramble glideth, Clad with thick shade of boughs of broad-leaved treen, Fit place for men to lie in wait unseen. LII "Thither, to seek some flocks or herds, we went Perchance close hid under the green-wood shaw, And found the springing grass with blood besprent, A warrior tumbled in his blood we saw, His arms though dusty, bloody, hacked and rent, Yet well we knew, when near the corse we draw; To which, to view his face, in vain I started, For from his body his fair head was parted; LIII "His right hand wanted eke, with many a wound The trunk through pierced was from back to breast, A little by, his empty helm we found The silver eagle shining on his crest; To spy at whom to ask we gazed round, A churl then toward us his steps addressed, But when us armed by the corse he spied, He ran away his fearful face to hide: LIV "But we pursued him, took him, spake him fair, Till comforted at last he answer made, How that, the day before, he saw repair A band of soldiers from that forest shade, Of whom one carried by the golden hair A head but late cut off with murdering blade, The face was fair and young, and on the chin No sign of heard to bud did yet begin. LV "And how in sindal wrapt away he bore That head with him hung at his saddle-bow. And how the murtherers by the arms they wore, For soldiers of our camp he well did know; The carcass I disarmed and weeping sore, Because I guessed who should that harness owe, Away I brought it, but first order gave, That noble body should be laid in grave. LVI "But if it be his trunk whom I believe, A nobler tomb his worth deserveth well." This said, good Aliprando took his leave, Of certain troth he had no more to tell, Sore sighed the duke, so did these news him grieve, Fears in his heart, doubts in his bosom dwell, He yearned to know, to find and learn the truth, And punish would them that had slain the youth. LVII But now the night dispread her lazy wings O'er the broad fields of heaven's bright wilderness, Sleep, the soul's rest, and ease of careful things, Buried in happy peace both more and less, Thou Argillan alone, whom sorrow stings, Still wakest, musing on great deeds I guess, Nor sufferest in thy watchful eyes to creep The sweet repose of mild and gentle sleep. LVIII This man was strong of limb, and all his 'says Were bold, of ready tongue, and working sprite, Near Trento born, bred up in brawls and frays, In jars, in quarrels, and in civil fight, For which exiled, the hills and public ways He filled with blood, and robberies day and night Until to Asia's wars at last he came, And boldly there he served, and purchased fame. LIX He closed his eyes at last when day drew near. Yet slept he not, but senseless lay opprest With strange amazedness and sudden fear Which false Alecto breathed in his breast, His working powers within deluded were, Stone still he quiet lay, yet took no rest, For to his thought the fiend herself presented, And with strange visions his weak brain tormented. LX A murdered body huge beside him stood, Of head and right hand both but lately spoiled, His left hand bore the head, whose visage good, Both pale and wan, with dust and gore defoiled, Yet spake, though dead, with whose sad words the blood Forth at his lips in huge abundance boiled, "Fly, Argillan, from this false camp fly far, Whose guide, a traitor; captains, murderers are. LXI "Godfrey hath murdered me by treason vile, What favor then hope you my trusty friends? His villain heart is full of fraud and guile, To your destruction all his thoughts he bends, Yet if thou thirst of praise for noble stile, If in thy strength thou trust, thy strength that ends All hard assays, fly not, first with his blood Appease my ghost wandering by Lethe flood; LXII "I will thy weapon whet, inflame thine ire, Arm thy right hand, and strengthen every part." This said; even while she spake she did inspire With fury, rage, and wrath his troubled heart: The man awaked, and from his eyes like fire The poisoned sparks of headstrong madness start, And armed as he was, forth is he gone, And gathered all the Italian bands in one. LXIII He gathered them where lay the arms that late Were good Rinaldo's; then with semblance stout And furious words his fore-conceived hate In bitter speeches thus he vomits out; "Is not this people barbarous and ingrate, In whom truth finds no place, faith takes no rout? Whose thirst unquenched is of blood and gold, Whom no yoke boweth, bridle none can hold. LXIV "So much we suffered have these seven years long, Under this servile and unworthy yoke, That thorough Rome and Italy our wrong A thousand years hereafter shall be spoke: I count not how Cilicia's kingdom strong, Subdued was by Prince Tancredi's stroke, Nor how false Baldwin him that land bereaves Of virtue's harvest, fraud there reaped the sheaves: LXV "Nor speak I how each hour, at every need, Quick, ready, resolute at all assays, With fire and sword we hasted forth with speed, And bore the brunt of all their fights and frays; But when we had performed and done the deed, At ease and leisure they divide the preys, We reaped naught but travel for our toil, Theirs was the praise, the realms, the gold, the spoil. LXVI "Yet all this season were we willing blind, Offended unrevenged, wronged but unwroken, Light griefs could not provoke our quiet mind, But now, alas! the mortal blow is stroken, Rinaldo have they slain, and law of kind, Of arms, of nations, and of high heaven broken, Why doth not heaven kill them with fire and thunder? To swallow them why cleaves not earth asunder? LXVII "They have Rinaldo slain, the sword and shield Of Christ's true faith, and unrevenged he lies; Still unrevenged lieth in the field His noble corpse to feed the crows and pies: Who murdered him? who shall us certain yield? Who sees not that, although he wanted eyes? Who knows not how the Italian chivalry Proud Godfrey and false Baldwin both envy LXVIII "What need we further proof? Heaven, heaven, I swear, Will not consent herein we be beguiled, This night I saw his murdered sprite appear, Pale, sad and wan, with wounds and blood defiled, A spectacle full both of grief and fear; Godfrey, for murdering him, the ghost reviled. I saw it was no dream, before mine eyes, Howe'er I look, still, still methinks it flies. LXIX "What shall we do? shall we be governed still By this false hand, contaminate with blood? Or else depart and travel forth, until To Euphrates we come, that sacred flood, Where dwells a people void of martial skill, Whose cities rich, whose land is fat and good, Where kingdoms great we may at ease provide, Far from these Frenchmen's malice, from their pride; LXX "Then let us go, and no revengement take For this brave knight, though it lie in our power: No, no, that courage rather newly wake, Which never sleeps in fear and dread one hour, And this pestiferous serpent, poisoned snake, Of all our knights that hath destroyed the flower, First let us slay, and his deserved end Example make to him that kills his friend. LXXI "I will, I will, if your courageous force, Dareth so much as it can well perform, Tear out his cursed heart without remorse, The nest of treason false and guile enorm." Thus spake the angry knight with headlong course; The rest him followed with a furious storm, "Arm, arm." they cried, to arms the soldiers ran. And as they run, "Arm, arm," cried every man. LXXII Mongst them Alecto strowed wasteful fire, Envenoming the hearts of most and least, Folly, disdain, madness, strife, rancor, ire, Thirst to shed blood, in every breast increased, This ill spread far, and till it set on fire With rage the Italian lodgings, never ceased, From thence unto the Switzers' camp it went, And last infected every English tent. LXXIII Not public loss of their beloved knight, Alone stirred up their rage and wrath untamed, But fore-conceived griefs, and quarrels light, The ire still nourished, and still inflamed, Awaked was each former cause of spite, The Frenchmen cruel and unjust they named, And with bold threats they made their hatred known, Hate seld kept close, and oft unwisely shown: LXXIV Like boiling liquor in a seething pot, That fumeth, swelleth high, and bubbleth fast, Till o'er the brims among the embers hot, Part of the broth and of the scum is cast, Their rage and wrath those few appeased not In whom of wisdom yet remained some taste, Camillo, William, Tancred were away, And all whose greatness might their madness stay. LXXV Now headlong ran to harness in this heat These furious people, all on heaps confused, The roaring trumpets battle gan to threat, As it in time of mortal war is used, The messengers ran to Godfredo great, And bade him arm, while on this noise he mused, And Baldwin first well clad in iron hard, Stepped to his side, a sure and faithful guard. LXXVI Their murmurs heard, to heaven he lift his een, As was his wont, to God for aid he fled; "O Lord, thou knowest this right hand of mine Abhorred ever civil blood to shed, Illumine their dark souls with light divine, Repress their rage, by hellish fury bred, The innocency of my guiltless mind Thou knowest, and make these know, with fury blind." LXXVII Tis said he felt infused in each vein, A sacred heat from heaven above distilled, A heat in man that courage could constrain That his brave look with awful boldness filled. Well guarded forth he went to meet the train Of those that would revenge Rinaldo killed; And though their threats he heard, and saw them bent To arms on every side, yet on he went. LXXVIII Above his hauberk strong a coat he ware, Embroidered fair with pearl and richest stone, His hands were naked, and his face was bare, Wherein a lamp of majesty bright shone; He shook his golden mace, wherewith he dare Resist the force of his rebellious foe: Thus he appeared, and thus he gan them teach, In shape an angel, and a God in speech: LXXIX "What foolish words? what threats be these I hear? What noise of arms? who dares these tumults move? Am I so honored? stand you so in fear? Where is your late obedience? where your love? Of Godfrey's falsehood who can witness bear? Who dare or will these accusations prove? Perchance you look I should entreaties bring, Sue for your favors, or excuse the thing. LXXX "Ah, God forbid these lands should hear or see Him so disgraced at whose great name they quake; This sceptre and my noble acts for me A true defence before the world can make: Yet for sharp justice governed shall be With clemency, I will no vengeance take For this offence, but for Rinaldo's love, I pardon you, hereafter wiser prove. LXXXI "But Argillano's guilty blood shall wash This stain away, who kindled this debate, And led by hasty rage and fury rash, To these disorders first undid the gate;" While thus he spoke, the lightning beams did flash Out of his eyes of majesty and state, That Argillan,--who would have thought it?--shook For fear and terror, conquered with his look. LXXXII The rest with indiscreet and foolish wrath Who threatened late with words of shame and pride, Whose hands so ready were to harm and scath, And brandished bright swords on every side; Now hushed and still attend what Godfrey saith, With shame and fear their bashful looks they hide, And Argillan they let in chains be bound, Although their weapons him environed round. LXXXIII So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, And beats his tail with courage proud and wroth, If his commander come, who first took pain To tame his youth, his lofty crest down goeth, His threats he feareth, and obeys the rein Of thralldom base, and serviceage, though loth, Nor can his sharp teeth nor his armed paws, Force him rebel against his ruler's laws. LXXXIV Fame as a winged warrior they beheld, With semblant fierce and furious look that stood, And in his left hand had a splendent shield Wherewith he covered safe their chieftain good, His other hand a naked sword did wield, From which distilling fell the lukewarm blood, The blood pardie of many a realm and town, Whereon the Lord his wrath had poured down. LXXXV Thus was the tumult, without bloodshed, ended. Their arms laid down, strife into exile sent. Godfrey his thoughts to greater actions bended. And homeward to his rich pavilion went, For to assault the fortress he intended Before the second or third day were spent; Meanwhile his timber wrought he oft surveyed Whereof his ram and engines great he made. NINTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Alecto false great Solyman doth move By night the Christians in their tents to kill: But God who their intents saw from above, Sends Michael down from his sacred hill: The spirits foul to hell the angels drove; The knights delivered from the witch, at will Destroy the Pagans, scatter all their host: The Soldan flies when all his bands are lost. I The grisly child of Erebus the grim, Who saw these tumults done and tempest spent, Gainst stream of grace who ever strove to swim And all her thoughts against Heaven's wisdom bent, Departed now, bright Titan's beams were dim And fruitful lands waxed barren as she went. She sought the rest of her infernal crew, New storms to raise, new broils, and tumults new. II She, that well wist her sisters had enticed, By their false arts, far from the Christian host, Tancred, Rinaldo, and the rest, best prized For martial skill, for might esteemed most, Said, of these discords and these strifes advised, "Great Solyman, when day his light hath lost, These Christians shall assail with sudden war, And kill them all while thus they strive and jar." III With that where Solyman remained she flew, And found him out with his Arabian bands, Great Solyman, of all Christ's foes untrue, Boldest of courage, mightiest of his hands, Like him was none of all that earth-bred crew That heaped mountains on the Aemonian sands, Of Turks he sovereign was, and Nice his seat, Where late he dwelt, and ruled that kingdom great. IV The lands forenenst the Greekish shore he held, From Sangar's mouth to crooked Meander's fall, Where they of Phrygia, Mysia, Lydia dwelled, Bithynia's towns, and Pontus' cities all: But when the hearts of Christian princes swelled, And rose in arms to make proud Asia thrall, Those lands were won where he did sceptre wield And he twice beaten was in pitched field. V When Fortune oft he had in vain assayed, And spent his forces, which availed him naught, To Egypt's king himself he close conveyed, Who welcomed him as he could best have thought, Glad in his heart, and inly well apayed, That to his court so great a lord was brought: For he decreed his armies huge to bring To succor Juda land and Juda's king. VI But, ere he open war proclaimed, he would That Solyman should kindle first the fire, And with huge sums of false enticing gold The Arabian thieves he sent him forth to hire, While he the Asian lords and Morians hold Unites; the Soldan won to his desire Those outlaws, ready aye for gold to fight, The hope of gain hath such alluring might. VII Thus made their captain to destroy and burn, In Juda land he entered is so far, That all the ways whereby he should return By Godfrey's people kept and stopped are, And now he gan his former losses mourn, This wound had hit him on an elder scar, On great adventures ran his hardy thought, But naught assured, he yet resolved on naught. VIII To him Alecto came, and semblant bore Of one whose age was great, whose looks were grave, Whose cheeks were bloodless, and whose locks were hoar Mustaches strouting long and chin close shave, A steepled turban on her head she wore, Her garment wide, and by her side, her glaive, Her gilden quiver at her shoulders hung, And in her hand a bow was, stiff and strong. IX "We have." Quoth she, "through wildernesses gone, Through sterile sands, strange paths, and uncouth ways, Yet spoil or booty have we gotten none, Nor victory deserving fame or praise, Godfrey meanwhile to ruin stick and stone Of this fair town, with battery sore assays; And if awhile we rest, we shall behold This glorious city smoking lie in mould. X "Are sheep-cotes burnt, or preys of sheep or kine, The cause why Solyman these bands did arm? Canst thou that kingdom lately lost of thine Recover thus, or thus redress thy harm? No, no, when heaven's small candles next shall shine, Within their tents give them a bold alarm; Believe Araspes old, whose grave advice Thou hast in exile proved, and proved in Nice. XI "He feareth naught, he doubts no sudden broil From these ill-armed and worse-hearted bands, He thinks this people, used to rob and spoil, To such exploit dares not lift up their hands; Up then and with thy courage put to foil This fearless camp, while thus secure it stands." This said, her poison in his breast she hides, And then to shapeless air unseen she glides. XII The Soldan cried, "O thou which in my thought Increased hast my rage and fury so, Nor seem'st a wight of mortal metal wrought, I follow thee, whereso thee list to go, Mountains of men by dint of sword down brought Thou shalt behold, and seas of red blood flow Where'er I go; only be thou my guide When sable night the azure skies shall hide." XIII When this was said, he mustered all his crew, Reproved the cowards, and allowed the bold: His forward camp, inspired with courage new, Was ready dight to follow where he would: Alecto's self the warning trumpet blew And to the wind his standard great unrolled, Thus on they marched, and thus on they went, Of their approach their speed the news prevent. XIV Alecto left them, and her person dight Like one that came some tidings new to tell: It was the time, when first the rising night Her sparkling diamonds poureth forth to sell, When, into Sion come, she marched right Where Juda's aged tyrant used to dwell, To whom of Solyman's designment bold, The place, the manner, and the time she told. XV Their mantle dark, the grisly shadows spread, Stained with spots of deepest sanguine hue, Warm drops of blood, on earth's black visage shed, Supplied the place of pure and precious dew, The moon and stars for fear of sprites were fled, The shrieking goblins eachwhere howling flew, The furies roar, the ghosts and fairies yell, The earth was filled with devils, and empty hell. XVI The Soldan fierce, through all this horror, went Toward the camp of his redoubted foes, The night was more than half consumed and spent; Now headlong down the western hill she goes, When distant scant a mile from Godfrey's tent He let his people there awhile repose, And victualled them, and then he boldly spoke These words which rage and courage might provoke: XVII "See there a camp, full stuffed of spoils and preys, Not half so strong as false report recordeth; See there the storehouse, where their captain lays Our treasures stolen, where Asia's wealth he hoardeth; Now chance the ball unto our racket plays, Take then the vantage which good luck affordeth; For all their arms, their horses, gold and treasure Are ours, ours without loss, harm or displeasure. XVIII "Nor is this camp that great victorious host That slew the Persian lords, and Nice hath won: For those in this long war are spent and lost, These are the dregs, the wine is all outrun, And these few left, are drowned and dead almost In heavy sleep, the labor half is done To send them headlong to Avernus deep, For little differs death and heavy sleep. XIX "Come, come, this sword the passage open shall Into their camp, and on their bodies slain We will pass o'er their rampire and their wall; This blade, as scythes cut down the fields of grain, Shall cut them so, Christ's kingdom now shall fall, Asia her freedom, you shall praise obtain." Thus he inflamed his soldiers to the fight, And led them on through silence of the night. XX The sentinel by starlight, lo, descried This mighty Soldan and his host draw near, Who found not as he hoped the Christians' guide Unware, ne yet unready was his gear: The scouts, when this huge army they descried, Ran back, and gan with shouts the 'larum rear; The watch stert up and drew their weapons bright, And busked them bold to battle and to fight. XXI The Arabians wist they could not come unseen, And therefore loud their jarring trumpets sound, Their yelling cries to heaven upheaved been, The horses thundered on the solid ground, The mountains roared, and the valley green, The echoes sighed from the caves around, Alecto with her brand, kindled in hell, Tokened to them in David's tower that dwell. XXII Before the rest forth pricked the Soldan fast, Against the watch, not yet in order just, As swift as hideous Boreas' hasty blast From hollow rocks when first his storms outburst, The raging floods, that trees and rocks down cast, Thunders, that towns and towers drive to dust: Earthquakes, to tear the world in twain that threat, Are naught, compared to his fury great. XXIII He struck no blow, but that his foe he hit; And never hit, but made a grievous wound: And never wounded, but death followed it; And yet no peril, hurt or harm he found, No weapon on his hardened helmet bit, No puissant stroke his senses once astound, Yet like a bell his tinkling helmet rung, And thence flew flames of fire and sparks among. XXIV Himself well nigh had put the watch to flight, A jolly troop of Frenchmen strong and stout, When his Arabians came by heaps to fight, Covering, like raging floods, the fields about; The beaten Christians run away full light, The Pagans, mingled with the flying rout, Entered their camp, and filled, as they stood, Their tents with ruin, slaughter, death and blood. XXV High on the Soldan's helm enamelled laid An hideous dragon, armed with many a scale, With iron paws, and leathern wings displayed, Which twisted on a knot her forked tail, With triple tongue it seemed she hissed and brayed, About her jaws the froth and venom trail, And as he stirred, and as his foes him hit, So flames to cast and fire she seemed to spit. XXVI With this strange light, the Soldan fierce appeared Dreadful to those that round about him been, As to poor sailors, when huge storms are reared, With lightning flash the rafting seas are seen; Some fled away, because his strength they feared, Some bolder gainst him bent their weapons keen, And forward night, in evils and mischiefs pleased, Their dangers hid, and dangers still increased. XXVII Among the rest that strove to merit praise, Was old Latinus, born by Tiber's bank, To whose stout heart in fights and bloody frays, For all his eild, base fear yet never sank; Five sons he had, the comforts of his days, That from his side in no adventure shrank, But long before their time, in iron strong They clad their members, tender, soft and young. XXVIII The bold ensample of their father's might Their weapons whetted and their wrath increased, "Come let us go," quoth he, "where yonder knight Upon our soldiers makes his bloody feast, Let not their slaughter once your hearts affright, Where danger most appears, there fear it least, For honor dwells in hard attempts, my sons, And greatest praise, in greatest peril, wons." XXIX Her tender brood the forest's savage queen, Ere on their crests their rugged manes appear, Before their mouths by nature armed been, Or paws have strength a silly lamb to tear, So leadeth forth to prey, and makes them keen, And learns by her ensample naught to fear The hunter, in those desert woods that takes The lesser beasts whereon his feast he makes. XXX The noble father and his hardy crew Fierce Solyman on every side invade, At once all six upon the Soldan flew, With lances sharp, and strong encounters made, His broken spear the eldest boy down threw, And boldly, over-boldly, drew his blade, Wherewith he strove, but strove therewith in vain, The Pagan's steed, unmarked, to have slain. XXXI But as a mountain or a cape of land Assailed with storms and seas on every side, Doth unremoved, steadfast, still withstand Storm, thunder, lightning, tempest, wind, and tide: The Soldan so withstood Latinus' band, And unremoved did all their justs abide, And of that hapless youth, who hurt his steed, Down to the chin he cleft in twain the head. XXXII Kind Aramante, who saw his brother slain, To hold him up stretched forth his friendly arm, Oh foolish kindness, and oh pity vain, To add our proper loss, to other's harm! The prince let fall his sword, and cut in twain About his brother twined, the child's weak arm. Down from their saddles both together slide, Together mourned they, and together died. XXXIII That done, Sabino's lance with nimble force He cut in twain, and 'gainst the stripling bold He spurred his steed, that underneath his horse The hardy infant tumbled on the mould, Whose soul, out squeezed from his bruised corpse, With ugly painfulness forsook her hold, And deeply mourned that of so sweet a cage She left the bliss, and joys of youthful age. XXXIV But Picus yet and Lawrence were on live, Whom at one birth their mother fair brought out, A pair whose likeness made the parents strive Oft which was which, and joyed in their doubt: But what their birth did undistinguished give, The Soldan's rage made known, for Picus stout Headless at one huge blow he laid in dust, And through the breast his gentle brother thrust. XXXV Their father, but no father now, alas! When all his noble sons at once were slain, In their five deaths so often murdered was, I know not how his life could him sustain, Except his heart were forged of steel or brass, Yet still he lived, pardie, he saw not plain Their dying looks, although their deaths he knows, It is some ease not to behold our woes. XXXVI He wept not, for the night her curtain spread Between his cause of weeping and his eyes, But still he mourned and on sharp vengeance fed, And thinks he conquers, if revenged he dies; He thirsts the Soldan's heathenish blood to shed, And yet his own at less than naught doth prize, Nor can he tell whether he liefer would, Or die himself, or kill the Pagan bold. XXXVII At last, "Is this right hand," quoth he, "so weak, That thou disdain'st gainst me to use thy might? Can it naught do? can this tongue nothing speak That may provoke thine ire, thy wrath and spite?" With that he struck, his anger great to wreak, A blow, that pierced the mail and metal bright, And in his flank set ope a floodgate wide, Whereat the blood out streamed from his side. XXXVIII Provoked with his cry, and with that blow, The Turk upon him gan his blade discharge, He cleft his breastplate, having first pierced through, Lined with seven bulls' hides, his mighty targe, And sheathed his weapons in his guts below; Wretched Latinus at that issue large, And at his mouth, poured out his vital blood, And sprinkled with the same his murdered brood. XXXIX On Apennine like as a sturdy tree, Against the winds that makes resistance stout, If with a storm it overturned be, Falls down and breaks the trees and plants about; So Latine fell, and with him felled he And slew the nearest of the Pagans' rout, A worthy end, fit for a man of fame, That dying, slew; and conquered, overcame. XL Meanwhile the Soldan strove his rage To satisfy with blood of Christian spilled, The Arabians heartened by their captain stern, With murder every tent and cabin filled, Henry the English knight, and Olipherne, O fierce Draguto, by thy hands were killed! Gilbert and Philip were by Ariadene Both slain, both born upon the banks of Rhone. XLI Albazar with his mace Ernesto slew, Under Algazel Engerlan down fell, But the huge murder of the meaner crew, Or manner of their deaths, what tongue can tell? Godfrey, when first the heathen trumpets blew, Awaked, which heard, no fear could make him dwell, But he and his were up and armed ere long, And marched forward with a squadron strong. XLII He that well heard the rumor and the cry, And marked the tumult still grow more and more, The Arabian thieves he judged by and by Against his soldiers made this battle sore; For that they forayed all the countries nigh, And spoiled the fields, the duke knew well before, Yet thought he not they had the hardiment So to assail him in his armed tent. XLIII All suddenly he heard, while on he went, How to the city-ward, "Arm, arm!" they cried, The noise upreared to the firmament, With dreadful howling filled the valleys wlde: This was Clorinda, whom the king forth sent To battle, and Argantes by her side. The duke, this heard, to Guelpho turned, and prayed Him his lieutenant be, and to him said: XLIV "You hear this new alarm from yonder part, That from the town breaks out with so much rage, Us needeth much your valor and your art To calm their fury, and their heat to 'suage; Go thither then, and with you take some part Of these brave soldiers of mine equipage, While with the residue of my champions bold I drive these wolves again out of our fold." XLV They parted, this agreed on them between, By divers paths, Lord Guelpho to the hill, And Godfrey hasted where the Arabians keen His men like silly sheep destroy and kill; But as he went his troops increased been, From every part the people flocked still, That now grown strong enough, he 'proached nigh Where the fierce Turk caused many a Christian die. XLVI So from the top of Vesulus the cold, Down to the sandy valleys, tumbleth Po, Whose streams the further from the fountain rolled Still stronger wax, and with more puissance go; And horned like a bull his forehead bold He lifts, and o'er his broken banks doth flow, And with his horns to pierce the sea assays, To which he proffereth war, not tribute pays. XLVII The duke his men fast flying did espy, And thither ran, and thus, displeased, spake, "What fear is this? Oh, whither do you fly? See who they be that this pursuit do make, A heartless band, that dare no battle try, Who wounds before dare neither give nor take, Against them turn your stern eye's threatening sight, An angry look will put them all to flight." XLVIII This said, he spurred forth where Solyman Destroyed Christ's vineyard like a savage boar, Through streams of blood, through dust and dirt he ran, O'er heaps of bodies wallowing in their gore, The squadrons close his sword to ope began, He broke their ranks, behind, beside, before, And, where he goes, under his feet he treads The armed Saracens, and barbed steeds. XLIX This slaughter-house of angry Mars he passed, Where thousands dead, half-dead, and dying were. The hardy Soldan saw him come in haste, Yet neither stepped aside nor shrunk for fear, But busked him bold to fight, aloft he cast His blade, prepared to strike, and stepped near, These noble princes twain, so Fortune wrought From the world's end here met, and here they fought: L With virtue, fury; strength with courage strove, For Asia's mighty empire, who can tell With how strange force their cruel blows they drove? How sore their combat was? how fierce, how fell? Great deeds they wrought, each other's harness clove; Yet still in darkness, more the ruth, they dwell. The night their acts her black veil covered under, Their acts whereat the sun, the world might wonder. LI The Christians by their guide's ensample hearted, Of their best armed made a squadron strong, And to defend their chieftain forth they started: The Pagans also saved their knight from wrong, Fortune her favors twixt them evenly parted, Fierce was the encounter, bloody, doubtful, long; These won, those lost; these lost, those won again; The loss was equal, even the numbers slain. LII With equal rage, as when the southern wind, Meeteth in battle strong the northern blast, The sea and air to neither is resigned, But cloud gainst cloud, and wave gainst wave they cast: So from this skirmish neither part declined, But fought it out, and kept their footings fast, And oft with furious shock together rush, And shield gainst shield, and helm gainst helm they crush. LIII The battle eke to Sionward grew hot, The soldiers slain, the hardy knights were killed, Legions of sprites from Limbo's prisons got, The empty air, the hills and valleys filled, Hearting the Pagans that they shrinked not, Till where they stood their dearest blood they spilled; And with new rage Argantes they inspire, Whose heat no flames, whose burning need no fire. LIV Where he came in he put to shameful flight The fearful watch, and o'er the trenches leaped, Even with the ground he made the rampire's height, And murdered bodies in the ditch unheaped, So that his greedy mates with labor light, Amid the tents, a bloody harvest reaped: Clorinda went the proud Circassian by, So from a piece two chained bullets fly. LV Now fled the Frenchmen, when in lucky hour Arrived Guelpho, and his helping band, He made them turn against this stormy shower, And with bold face their wicked foes withstand. Sternly they fought, that from their wounds downpour The streams of blood and run on either hand: The Lord of heaven meanwhile upon this fight, From his high throne bent down his gracious sight. LVI From whence with grace and goodness compassed round, He ruleth, blesseth, keepeth all he wrought, Above the air, the fire, the sea and ground, Our sense, our wit, our reason and our thought, Where persons three, with power and glory crowned, Are all one God, who made all things of naught, Under whose feet, subjected to his grace, Sit nature, fortune, motion, time and place. LVII This is the place, from whence like smoke and dust Of this frail world the wealth, the pomp and power, He tosseth, tumbleth, turneth as he lust, And guides our life, our death, our end and hour: No eye, however virtuous, pure and just, Can view the brightness of that glorious bower, On every side the blessed spirits be, Equal in joys, though differing in degree. LVIII With harmony of their celestial song The palace echoed from the chambers pure, At last he Michael called, in harness strong Of never yielding diamonds armed sure, "Behold," quoth he, "to do despite and wrong To that dear flock my mercy hath in cure, How Satan from hell's loathsome prison sends His ghosts, his sprites, his furies and his fiends. LIX "Go bid them all depart, and leave the care Of war to soldiers, as doth best pertain: Bid them forbear to infect the earth and air; To darken heaven's fair light, bid them refrain; Bid them to Acheron's black flood repair, Fit house for them, the house of grief and pain: There let their king himself and them torment, So I command, go tell them mine intent." LX This said, the winged warrior low inclined At his Creator's feet with reverence due; Then spread his golden feathers to the wind, And swift as thought away the angel flew, He passed the light, and shining fire assigned The glorious seat of his selected crew, The mover first, and circle crystalline, The firmament, where fixed stars all shine; LXI Unlike in working then, in shape and show, At his left hand, Saturn he left and Jove, And those untruly errant called I trow, Since he errs not, who them doth guide and move: The fields he passed then, whence hail and snow, Thunder and rain fall down from clouds above, Where heat and cold, dryness and moisture strive, Whose wars all creatures kill, and slain, revive. LXII The horrid darkness, and the shadows dun Dispersed he with his eternal wings, The flames which from his heavenly eyes outrun Beguiled the earth and all her sable things; After a storm so spreadeth forth the sun His rays and binds the clouds in golden strings, Or in the stillness of a moonshine even A falling star so glideth down from Heaven. LXIII But when the infernal troop he 'proached near, That still the Pagans' ire and rage provoke, The angel on his wings himself did bear, And shook his lance, and thus at last he spoke: "Have you not learned yet to know and fear The Lord's just wrath, and thunder's dreadful stroke? Or in the torments of your endless ill, Are you still fierce, still proud, rebellious still? LXIV "The Lord hath sworn to break the iron bands The brazen gates of Sion's fort which close, Who is it that his sacred will withstands? Against his wrath who dares himself oppose? Go hence, you cursed, to your appointed lands, The realms of death, of torments, and of woes, And in the deeps of that infernal lake Your battles fight, and there your triumphs make. LXV "There tyrannize upon the souls you find Condemned to woe, and double still their pains; Where some complain, where some their teeth do grind, Some howl, and weep, some clank their iron chains:" This said they fled, and those that stayed behind, With his sharp lance he driveth and constrains; They sighing left the lands, his silver sheep Where Hesperus doth lead, doth feed, and keep. LXVI And toward hell their lazy wings display, To wreak their malice on the damned ghosts; The birds that follow Titan's hottest ray, Pass not in so great flocks to warmer coasts, Nor leaves in so great numbers fall away When winter nips them with his new-come frosts; The earth delivered from so foul annoy, Recalled her beauty, and resumed her joy. LXVII But not for this in fierce Argantes' breast Lessened the rancor and decreased the ire, Although Alecto left him to infest With the hot brands of her infernal fire, Round his armed head his trenchant blade he blest, And those thick ranks that seemed moist entire He breaks; the strong, the high, the weak, the low, Were equalized by his murdering blow. LXVIII Not far from him amid the blood and dust, Heads, arms, and legs, Clorinda strewed wide Her sword through Berengarius' breast she thrust, Quite through the heart, where life doth chiefly bide, And that fell blow she struck so sure and just, That at his back his life and blood forth glide; Even in the mouth she smote Albinus then, And cut in twain the visage of the man. LXIX Gernier's right hand she from his arm divided, Whereof but late she had received a wound; The hand his sword still held, although not guided, The fingers half alive stirred on the ground; So from a serpent slain the tail divided Moves in the grass, rolleth and tumbleth round, The championess so wounded left the knight, And gainst Achilles turned her weapon bright. LXX Upon his neck light that unhappy blow, And cut the sinews and the throat in twain, The head fell down upon the earth below, And soiled with dust the visage on the plain; The headless trunk, a woful thing to know, Still in the saddle seated did remain; Until his steed, that felt the reins at large, With leaps and flings that burden did discharge. LXXI While thus this fair and fierce Bellona slew The western lords, and put their troops to flight, Gildippes raged mongst the Pagan crew, And low in dust laid many a worthy knight: Like was their sex, their beauty and their hue, Like was their youth, their courage and their might; Yet fortune would they should the battle try Of mightier foes, for both were framed to die. LXXII Yet wished they oft, and strove in vain to meet, So great betwixt them was the press and throng, But hardy Guelpho gainst Clorinda sweet Ventured his sword to work her harm and wrong, And with a cutting blow so did her greet, That from her side the blood streamed down along; But with a thrust an answer sharp she made, And 'twixt his ribs colored somedeal her blade. LXXIII Lord Guelpho struck again, but hit her not, For strong Osmida haply passed by, And not meant him, another's wound he got, That cleft his front in twain above his eye: Near Guelpho now the battle waxed hot, For all the troops he led gan thither hie, And thither drew eke many a Paynim knight, That fierce, stern, bloody, deadly waxed the fight. LXXIV Meanwhile the purple morning peeped o'er The eastern threshold to our half of land, And Argillano in this great uproar From prison loosed was, and what he fand, Those arms he hent, and to the field them bore, Resolved to take his chance what came to hand, And with great acts amid the Pagan host Would win again his reputation lost. LXXV As a fierce steed 'scaped from his stall at large, Where he had long been kept for warlike need, Runs through the fields unto the flowery marge Of some green forest where he used to feed, His curled mane his shoulders broad doth charge And from his lofty crest doth spring and spreed, Thunder his feet, his nostrils fire breathe out, And with his neigh the world resounds about. LXXVI So Argillan rushed forth, sparkled his eyes, His front high lifted was, no fear therein, Lightly he leaps and skips, it seems he flies, He left no sign in dust imprinted thin, And coming near his foes, he sternly cries, As one that forced not all their strength a pin, "You outcasts of the world, you men of naught What hath in you this boldness newly wrought? LXXVII "Too weak are you to bear a helm or shield Unfit to arm your breast in iron bright, You run half-naked trembling through the field, Your blows are feeble, and your hope in flight, Your facts and all the actions that you wield, The darkness hides, your bulwark is the night, Now she is gone, how will your fights succeed? Now better arms and better hearts you need." LXXVIII While thus he spoke, he gave a cruel stroke Against Algazel's throat with might and main; And as he would have answered him, and spoke, He stopped his words, and cut his jaws in twain; Upon his eyes death spread his misty cloak, A chilling frost congealed every vein, He fell, and with his teeth the earth he tore, Raging in death, and full of rage before. LXXIX Then by his puissance mighty Saladine, Proud Agricalt and Muleasses died, And at one wondrous blow his weapon fine, Did Adiazel in two parts divide, Then through the breast he wounded Ariadine, Whom dying with sharp taunts he gan deride, He lifting up uneath his feeble eyes, To his proud scorns thus answereth, ere he dies: LXXX "Not thou, whoe'er thou art, shall glory long Thy happy conquest in my death, I trow, Like chance awaits thee from a hand more strong, Which by my side will shortly lay thee low:" He smiled, and said, "Of mine hour short or long Let heaven take care; but here meanwhile die thou, Pasture for wolves and crows," on him his foot He set, and drew his sword and life both out. LXXXI Among this squadron rode a gentle page, The Soldan's minion, darling, and delight, On whose fair chin the spring-time of his age Yet blossomed out her flowers, small or light; The sweat spread on his cheeks with heat and rage Seemed pearls or morning dews on lilies white, The dust therein uprolled adorned his hair, His face seemed fierce and sweet, wrathful and fair. LXXXII His steed was white, and white as purest snow That falls on tops of aged Apennine, Lightning and storm are not so 'swift I trow As he, to run, to stop, to turn and twine; A dart his right hand shaked, prest to throw; His cutlass by his thigh, short, hooked, fine, And braving in his Turkish pomp he shone, In purple robe, o'erfret with gold and stone. LXXXIII The hardy boy, while thirst of warlike praise Bewitched so his unadvised thought, Gainst every band his childish strength assays, And little danger found, though much he sought, Till Argillan, that watched fit time always In his swift turns to strike him as he fought, Did unawares his snow-white courser slay, And under him his master tumbling lay: LXXXIV And gainst his face, where love and pity stand, To pray him that rich throne of beauty spare, The cruel man stretched forth his murdering hand, To spoil those gifts, whereof he had no share: It seemed remorse and sense was in his brand Which, lighting flat, to hurt the lad forbare; But all for naught, gainst him the point he bent That, what the edge had spared, pierced and rent. LXXXV Fierce Solyman that with Godfredo strived Who first should enter conquest's glorious gate, Left off the fray and thither headlong drived, When first he saw the lad in such estate; He brake the press, and soon enough arrived To take revenge, but to his aid too late, Because he saw his Lesbine slain and lost, Like a sweet flower nipped with untimely frost. LXXXVI He saw wax dim the starlight of his eyes, His ivory neck upon his shoulders fell, In his pale looks kind pity's image lies, That death even mourned, to hear his passing bell. His marble heart such soft impression tries, That midst his wrath his manly tears outwell, Thou weepest, Solyman, thou that beheld Thy kingdoms lost, and not one tear could yield. LXXXVII But when the murderer's sword he hapt to view Dropping with blood of his Lesbino dead, His pity vanished, ire and rage renew, He had no leisure bootless tears to shed; But with his blade on Argillano flew, And cleft his shield, his helmet, and his head, Down to his throat; and worthy was that blow Of Solyman, his strength and wrath to show: LXXXVIII And not content with this, down from his horse He lights, and that dead carcass rent and tore, Like a fierce dog that takes his angry course To bite the stone which had him hit before. Oh comfort vain for grief of so great force, To wound the senseless earth that feels no sore! But mighty Godfrey 'gainst the Soldan's train Spent not, this while, his force and blows in vain. LXXXIX A thousand hardy Turks affront he had In sturdy iron armed from head to foot, Resolved in all adventures good or bad, In actions wise, in execution stout, Whom Solyman into Arabia lad, When from his kingdom he was first cast out, Where living wild with their exiled guide To him in all extremes they faithful bide; XC All these in thickest order sure unite, For Godfrey's valor small or nothing shrank, Corcutes first he on the face did smite, Then wounded strong Rosteno in the flank, At one blow Selim's head he stroke off quite, Then both Rossano's arms, in every rank The boldest knights, of all that chosen crew, He felled, maimed, wounded, hurt and slew. XCI While thus he killed many a Saracine And all their fierce assaults unhurt sustained, Ere fortune wholly from the Turks decline, While still they hoped much, though small they gained, Behold a cloud of dust, wherein doth shine Lightning of war in midst thereof contained, Whence unawares burst forth a storm of swords, Which tremble made the Pagan knights and lords. XCII These fifty champions were, mongst whom there stands, In silver field, the ensign of Christ's death, If I had mouths and tongues as Briareus hands, If voice as iron tough, if iron breath, What harm this troop wrought to the heathen bands, What knights they slew, I could recount uneath In vain the Turks resist, the Arabians fly; If they fly, they are slain; if fight, they die. XCIII Fear, cruelty, grief, horror, sorrow, pain, Run through the field, disguised in divers shapes, Death might you see triumphant on the plain, Drowning in blood him that from blows escapes. The king meanwhile with parcel of his train Comes hastily out, and for sure conquest gapes, And from a bank whereon he stood, beheld The doubtful hazard of that bloody field. XCIV But when he saw the Pagans shrink away, He sounded the retreat, and gan desire His messengers in his behalf to pray Argantes and Clorinda to retire; The furious couple both at once said nay, Even drunk with shedding blood, and mad with ire, At last they went, and to recomfort thought And stay their troops from flight, but all for nought. XCV For who can govern cowardice or fear? Their host already was begun to fly, They cast their shields and cutting swords arrear, As not defended but made slow thereby, A hollow dale the city's bulwarks near From west to south outstretched long doth lie, Thither they fled, and in a mist of dust, Toward the walls they run, they throng, they thrust. XCVI While down the bank disordered thus they ran, The Christian knights huge slaughter on them made; But when to climb the other hill they gan, Old Aladine came fiercely to their aid: On that steep brae Lord Guelpho would not than Hazard his folk, but there his soldiers stayed, And safe within the city's walls the king. The relics small of that sharp fight did bring: XCVII Meanwhile the Soldan in this latest charge Had done as much as human force was able, All sweat and blood appeared his members large, His breath was short, his courage waxed unstable, His arm grew weak to bear his mighty targe, His hand to rule his heavy sword unable, Which bruised, not cut, so blunted was the blade It lost the use for which a sword was made. XCVIII Feeling his weakness, he gan musing stand, And in his troubled thought this question tossed, If he himself should murder with his hand, Because none else should of his conquest boast, Or he should save his life, when on the land Lay slain the pride of his subdued host, "At last to fortune's power," quoth he, "I yield, And on my flight let her her trophies build. XCIX "Let Godfrey view my flight, and smile to see This mine unworthy second banishment, For armed again soon shall he hear of me, From his proud head the unsettled crown to rent, For, as my wrongs, my wrath etern shall be, At every hour the bow of war new bent, I will rise again, a foe, fierce, bold, Though dead, though slain, though burnt to ashes cold." TENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Ismen from sleep awakes the Soldan great, And into Sion brings the Prince by night Where the sad king sits fearful on his seat, Whom he emboldeneth and excites to fight; Godfredo hears his lords and knights repeat How they escaped Armida's wrath and spite: Rinaldo known to live, Peter foresays His Offspring's virtue, good deserts, and praise. I A gallant steed, while thus the Soldan said, Came trotting by him, without lord or guide, Quickly his hand upon the reins he laid, And weak and weary climbed up to ride; The snake that on his crest hot fire out-braid Was quite cut off, his helm had lost the pride, His coat was rent, his harness hacked and cleft, And of his kingly pomp no sign was left. II As when a savage wolf chased from the fold, To hide his head runs to some holt or wood, Who, though he filled have while it might hold His greedy paunch, yet hungreth after food, With sanguine tongue forth of his lips out-rolled About his jaws that licks up foam and blood; So from this bloody fray the Soldan hied, His rage unquenched, his wrath unsatisfied. III And, as his fortune would, he scaped free From thousand arrows which about him flew, From swords and lances, instruments that be Of certain death, himself he safe withdrew, Unknown, unseen, disguised, travelled he, By desert paths and ways but used by few, And rode revolving in his troubled thought What course to take, and yet resolved on naught. IV Thither at last he meant to take his way, Where Egypt's king assembled all his host, To join with him, and once again assay To win by fight, by which so oft he lost: Determined thus, he made no longer stay, But thitherward spurred forth his steed in post, Nor need he guide, the way right well he could, That leads to sandy plains of Gaza old. V Nor though his smarting wounds torment him oft, His body weak and wounded back and side, Yet rested he, nor once his armor doffed, But all day long o'er hills and dales doth ride: But when the night cast up her shade aloft And all earth's colors strange in sables dyed, He light, and as he could his wounds upbound, And shook ripe dates down from a palm he found. VI On them he supped, and amid the field To rest his weary limbs awhile he sought, He made his pillow of his broken shield To ease the griefs of his distempered thought, But little ease could so hard lodging yield, His wounds so smarted that he slept right naught, And, in his breast, his proud heart rent in twain, Two inward vultures, Sorrow and Disdain. VII At length when midnight with her silence deep Did heaven and earth hushed, still, and quiet make, Sore watched and weary, he began to steep His cares and sorrows in oblivion's lake, And in a little, short, unquiet sleep Some small repose his fainting spirits take; But, while he slept, a voice grave and severe At unawares thus thundered in his ear: VIII "O Solyman! thou far-renowned king, Till better season serve, forbear thy rest; A stranger doth thy lands in thraldom bring, Nice is a slave, by Christian yoke oppressed; Sleepest thou here, forgetful of this thing, That here thy friends lie slain, not laid in chest, Whose bones bear witness of thy shame and scorn! And wilt thou idly here attend the morn?" IX The king awoke, and saw before his eyes A man whose presence seemed grave and old, A writhen staff his steps unstable guies, Which served his feeble members to uphold. "And what art thou?" the prince in scorn replies, "What sprite to vex poor passengers so bold, To break their sleep? or what to thee belongs My shame, my loss, my vengeance or my wrongs." X "I am the man of thine intent," quoth he, "And purpose new that sure conjecture hath, And better than thou weenest know I thee: I proffer thee my service and my faith. My speeches therefore sharp and biting be, Because quick words the whetstones are of wrath,-- Accept in gree, my lord, the words I spoke, As spurs thine ire and courage to provoke. XI "But now to visit Egypt's mighty king, Unless my judgment fall, you are prepared, I prophesy, about a needless thing You suffer shall a voyage long and hard: For though you stay, the monarch great will bring His new assembled host to Juda-ward, No place of service there, no cause of fight, Nor gainst our foes to use your force and might. XII "But if you follow me, within this wall With Christian arms hemmed in on every side, Withouten battle, fight, or stroke at all, Even at noonday, I will you safely guide, Where you delight, rejoice, and glory shall In perils great to see your prowess tried. That noble town you may preserve and shield, Till Egypt's host come to renew the field." XIII While thus he parleyed, of this aged guest The Turk the words and looks did both admire, And from his haughty eyes and furious breast He laid apart his pride, his rage and ire, And humbly said, "I willing am and prest To follow where thou leadest, reverend sire, And that advice best fits my angry vein That tells of greatest peril, greatest pain." XIV The old man praised his words, and for the air His late received wounds to worse disposes, A quintessence therein he poured fair, That stops the bleeding, and incision closes: Beholding then before Apollo's chair How fresh Aurora violets strewed and roses, "It's time," he says, "to wend, for Titan bright To wonted labor summons every wight." XV And to a chariot, that beside did stand, Ascended he, and with him Solyman, He took the reins, and with a mastering hand Ruled his steeds, and whipped them now and than, The wheels or horses' feet upon the land Had left no sign nor token where they ran, The coursers pant and smoke with lukewarm sweat And, foaming cream, their iron mouthfuls eat. XVI The air about them round, a wondrous thing, Itself on heaps in solid thickness drew, The chariot hiding and environing, The subtle mist no mortal eye could view; And yet no stone from engine cast or sling Could pierce the cloud, it was of proof so true; Yet seen it was to them within which ride, And heaven and earth without, all clear beside. XVII His beetle brows the Turk amazed bent, He wrinkled up his front, and wildly stared Upon the cloud and chariot as it went, For speed to Cynthia's car right well compared: The other seeing his astonishment How he bewondered was, and how he fared, All suddenly by name the prince gan call, By which awaked thus he spoke withal: XVIII "Whoe'er thou art above all worldly wit That hast these high and wondrous marvels brought, And know'st the deep intents which hidden sit In secret closet of man's private thought, If in thy skilful heart this lot be writ, To tell the event of things to end unbrought; Then say, what issue and what ends the stars Allot to Asia's troubles, broils and wars. XIX "But tell me first thy name, and by what art Thou dost these wonders strange, above our skill; For full of marvel is my troubled heart, Tell then and leave me not amazed still." The wizard smiled and answered, "In some part Easy it is to satisfy thy will, Ismen I hight, called an enchanter great, Such skill have I in magic's secret feat; XX "But that I should the sure events unfold Of things to come, or destinies foretell, Too rash is your desire, your wish too bold, To mortal heart such knowledge never fell; Our wit and strength on us bestowed I hold, To shun the evils and harms, mongst which we dwell, They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies. XXI "That puissant arm of thine that well can rend From Godfrey's brow the new usurped crown, And not alone protect, save and defend From his fierce people, this besieged town, Gainst fire and sword with strength and courage bend, Adventure, suffer, trust, tread perils down, And to content, and to encourage thee, Know this, which as I in a cloud foresee: XXII "I guess, before the over-gliding sun Shall many years mete out by weeks and days, A prince that shall in fertile Egypt won, Shall fill all Asia with his prosperous frays, I speak not of his acts in quiet done, His policy, his rule, his wisdom's praise, Let this suffice, by him these Christians shall In fight subdued fly, and conquered fall. XXIII "And their great empire and usurped state Shall overthrown in dust and ashes lie, Their woful remnant in an angle strait Compassed with sea themselves shall fortify, From thee shall spring this lord of war and fate." Whereto great Solyman gan thus reply: "O happy man to so great praise ybore!" Thus he rejoiced, but yet envied more; XXIV And said, "Let chance with good or bad aspect Upon me look as sacred Heaven's decree, This heart to her I never will subject, Nor ever conquered shall she look on me; The moon her chariot shall awry direct Ere from this course I will diverted be." While thus he spake, it seemed he breathed fire, So fierce his courage was, so hot his ire. XXV Thus talked they, till they arrived been Nigh to the place where Godfrey's tents were reared, There was a woful spectacle yseen, Death in a thousand ugly forms appeared, The Soldan changed hue for grief and teen, On that sad book his shame and loss he lead, Ah, with what grief his men, his friends he found; And standards proud, inglorious lie on ground! XXVI And saw one visage of some well-known friend. In foul despite, a rascal Frenchman tread, And there another ragged peasant rend The arms and garments from some champion dead, And there with stately pomp by heaps they wend, And Christians slain roll up in webs of lead; Lastly the Turks and slain Arabians, brought On heaps, he saw them burn with fire to naught. XXVII Deeply he sighed, and with naked sword Out of the coach he leaped in the mire, But Ismen called again the angry lord, And with grave words appeased his foolish ire. The prince content remounted at his sword, Toward a hill on drove the aged sire, And hasting forward up the bank they pass, Till far behind the Christian leaguer was. XXVIII There they alight and took their way on foot, The empty chariot vanished out of sight, Yet still the cloud environed them about. At their left hand down went they from the height Of Sion's Hill, till they approached the route On that side where to west he looketh right, There Ismen stayed, and his eyesight bent Upon the bushy rocks, and thither went. XXIX A hollow cave was in the craggy stone, Wrought out by hand a number years tofore, And for of long that way had walked none, The vault was hid with plants and bushes hoar, The wizard stooping in thereat to gone, The thorns aside and scratching brambles bore, His right hand sought the passage through the cleft, And for his guide he gave the prince his left: XXX "What," quoth the Soldan, "by what privy mine, What hidden vault behoves it me to creep? This sword can find a better way than thine, Although our foes the passage guard and keep." "Let not," quoth he, "thy princely foot repine To tread this secret path, though dark and deep; For great King Herod used to tread the same, He that in arms had whilom so great fame. XXXI "This passage made he, when he would suppress His subjects' pride, and them in bondage hold; By this he could from that small forteress Antonia called, of Antony the bold, Convey his folk unseen of more and less Even to the middest of the temple old, Thence, hither; where these privy ways begin, And bring unseen whole armies out and in. XXXII "But now saye I in all this world lives none That knows the secret of this darksome place, Come then where Aladine sits on his throne, With lords and princes set about his grace; He feareth more than fitteth such an one, Such signs of doubt show in his cheer and face; Fitly you come, hear, see, and keep you still, Till time and season serve, then speak your fill." XXXIII This said, that narrow entrance passed the knight, So creeps a camel through a needle's eye, And through the ways as black as darkest night He followed him that did him rule and guie; Strait was the way at first, withouten light, But further in, did further amplify; So that upright walked at ease the men Ere they had passed half that secret den, XXXIV A privy door Ismen unlocked at last, And up they clomb a little-used stair, Thereat the day a feeble beam in cast, Dim was the light, and nothing clear the air; Out of the hollow cave at length they passed Into a goodly hall, high, broad and fair, Where crowned with gold, and all in purple clad Sate the sad king, among his nobles sad. XXXV The Turk, close in his hollow cloud imbarred, Unseen, at will did all the prease behold, These heavy speeches of the king he heard, Who thus from lofty siege his pleasure told; "My lords, last day our state was much impaired, Our friends were slain, killed were our soldiers bold, Great helps and greater hopes are us bereft, Nor aught but aid from Egypt land is left: XXXVI "And well you see far distant is that aid, Upon our heels our danger treadeth still, For your advice was this assembly made, Each what he thinketh speak, and what he will." A whisper soft arose when this was said, As gentle winds the groves with murmur fill, But with bold face, high looks and merry cheer, Argantes rose, the rest their talk forbear. XXXVII "O worthy sovereign," thus began to say The hardy young man to the tyrant wise, "What words be these? what fears do you dismay? Who knows not this, you need not our advice! But on your hand your hope of conquest lay, And, for no loss true virtue damnifies, Make her our shield, pray her us succors give, And without her let us not wish to live. XXXVIII "Nor say I this for that I aught misdeem That Egypt's promised succors fail us might, Doubtful of my great master's words to seem To me were neither lawful, just, nor right! I speak these words, for spurs I them esteem To waken up each dull and fearful sprite, And make our hearts resolved to all assays, To win with honor, or to die with praise." XXXIX Thus much Argantes said, and said no more, As if the case were clear of which he spoke. Orcano rose, of princely stem ybore, Whose presence 'mongst them bore a mighty stroke, A man esteemed well in arms of yore, But now was coupled new in marriage yoke; Young babes he had, to fight which made him loth, He was a husband and a father both. XL "My lord," quoth he, "I will not reprehend The earnest zeal of this audacious speech, From courage sprung, which seld is close ypend In swelling stomach without violent breach: And though to you our good Circassian friend In terms too bold and fervent oft doth preach, Yet hold I that for good, in warlike feat For his great deeds respond his speeches great. XLI "But if it you beseem, whom graver age And long experience hath made wise and sly, To rule the heat of youth and hardy rage, Which somewhat have misled this knight awry, In equal balance ponder then and gauge Your hopes far distant, with your perils nigh; This town's old walls and rampires new compare With Godfrey's forces and his engines rare. XLII "But, if I may say what I think unblamed, This town is strong, by nature, site and art, But engines huge and instruments are framed Gainst these defences by our adverse part, Who thinks him most secure is eathest shamed; I hope the best, yet fear unconstant mart, And with this siege if we be long up pent, Famine I doubt, our store will all be spent. XLIII "For all that store of cattle and of grain Which yesterday within these walls you brought, While your proud foes triumphant through the plain On naught but shedding blood, and conquest thought, Too little is this city to sustain, To raise the siege unless some means be sought; And it must last till the prefixed hour That it be raised by Egypt's aid and power. XLIV "But what if that appointed day they miss? Or else, ere we expect, what if they came? The victory yet is not ours for this, Oh save this town from ruin, us from shame! With that same Godfrey still our warfare is, These armies, soldiers, captains are the same Who have so oft amid the dusty plain Turks, Persians, Syrians and Arabians slain. XLV "And thou Argantes wotest what they be; Oft hast thou fled from that victorious host, Thy shoulders often hast thou let them see, And in thy feet hath been thy safeguard most; Clorinda bright and I fled eke with thee, None than his fellows had more cause to boast, Nor blame I any; for in every fight We showed courage, valor, strength and might. XLVI "And though this hardy knight the certain threat Of near-approaching death to hear disdain; Yet to this state of loss and danger great, From this strong foe I see the tokens plain; No fort how strong soe'er by art or seat, Can hinder Godfrey why he should not reign: This makes me say,--to witness heaven I bring, Zeal to this state, love to my lord and king-- XLVII "The king of Tripoli was well advised To purchase peace, and so preserve his crown: But Solyman, who Godfrey's love despised, Is either dead or deep in prison thrown; Else fearful is he run away disguised, And scant his life is left him for his own, And yet with gifts, with tribute, and with gold, He might in peace his empire still have hold." XLVIII Thus spake Orcanes, and some inkling gave In doubtful words of that he would have said; To sue for peace or yield himself a slave He durst not openly his king persuade: But at those words the Soldan gan to rave, And gainst his will wrapt in the cloud he stayed, Whom Ismen thus bespake, "How can you bear These words, my lord? or these reproaches hear?" XLIX "Oh, let me speak," quoth he, "with ire and scorn I burn, and gains, my will thus hid I stay!" This said, the smoky cloud was cleft and torn, Which like a veil upon them stretched lay, And up to open heaven forthwith was borne, And left the prince in view of lightsome day, With princely look amid the press he shined, And on a sudden, thus declared his mind. L "Of whom you speak behold the Soldan here, Neither afraid nor run away for dread, And that these slanders, lies and fables were, This hand shall prove upon that coward's head, I, who have shed a sea of blood well near, And heaped up mountains high of Christians dead, I in their camp who still maintained the fray, My men all murdered, I that run away. LI "If this, or any coward vile beside, False to his faith and country, dares reply; And speak of concord with yon men of pride, By your good leave, Sir King, here shall he die, The lambs and wolves shall in one fold abide, The doves and serpents in one nest shall lie, Before one town us and these Christians shall In peace and love unite within one wall." LII While thus he spoke, his broad and trenchant sword His hand held high aloft in threatening guise; Dumb stood the knights, so dreadful was his word; A storm was in his front, fire in his eyes, He turned at last to Sion's aged lord, And calmed his visage stern in humbler wise: "Behold," quoth he, "good prince, what aid I bring, Since Solyman is joined with Juda's king." LIII King Aladine from his rich throne upstart And said, "Oh how I joy thy face to view, My noble friend! it lesseneth in some part My grief, for slaughter of my subjects true; My weak estate to stablish come thou art, And mayest thine own again in time renew, If Heavens consent:" with that the Soldan bold In dear embracements did he long enfold. LIV Their greetings done, the king resigned his throne To Solyman, and set himself beside, In a rich seat adorned with gold and stone, And Ismen sage did at his elbow bide, Of whom he asked what way they two had gone, And he declared all what had them betide: Clorinda bright to Solyman addressed Her salutations first, then all the rest. LV Among them rose Ormusses' valiant knight, Whom late the Soldan with a convoy sent, And when most hot and bloody was the fight, By secret paths and blind byways he went, Till aided by the silence and the night Safe in the city's walls himself he pent, And there refreshed with corn and cattle store The pined soldiers famished nigh before. LVI With surly countenance and disdainful grace, Sullen and sad, sat the Circassian stout, Like a fierce lion grumbling in his place, His fiery eyes that turns and rolls about; Nor durst Orcanes view the Soldan's face, But still upon the floor did pore and tout: Thus with his lords and peers in counselling, The Turkish monarch sat with Juda's king. LVII Godfrey this while gave victory the rein, And following her the straits he opened all; Then for his soldiers and his captains slain, He celebrates a stately funeral, And told his camp within a day or twain He would assault the city's mighty wall, And all the heathen there enclosed doth threat, With fire and sword, with death and danger great. LVIII And for he had that noble squadron known, In the last fight which brought him so great aid, To be the lords and princes of his own Who followed late the sly enticing maid, And with them Tancred, who had late been thrown In prison deep, by that false witch betrayed, Before the hermit and some private friends, For all those worthies, lords and knights, he sends; LIX And thus he said, "Some one of you declare Your fortunes, whether good or to be blamed, And to assist us with your valors rare In so great need, how was your coming framed?" They blush, and on the ground amazed stare, For virtue is of little guilt ashamed, At last the English prince with countenance bold, The silence broke, and thus their errors told: LX "We, not elect to that exploit by lot, With secret flight from hence ourselves withdrew, Following false Cupid, I deny it not, Enticed forth by love and beauty's hue; A jealous fire burnt in our stomachs hot, And by close ways we passed least in view, Her words, her looks, alas I know too late, Nursed our love, our jealousy, our hate. LXI "At last we gan approach that woful clime, Where fire and brimstone down from Heaven was sent To take revenge for sin and shameful crime Gainst kind commit, by those who nould repent; A loathsome lake of brimstone, pitch and lime, O'ergoes that land, erst sweet and redolent, And when it moves, thence stench and smoke up flies Which dim the welkin and infect the skies. LXII "This is the lake in which yet never might Aught that hath weight sink to the bottom down, But like to cork or leaves or feathers light, Stones, iron, men, there fleet and never drown; Therein a castle stands, to which by sight But o'er a narrow bridge no way is known, Hither us brought, here welcomed us the witch, The house within was stately, pleasant, rich. LXIII "The heavens were clear, and wholsome was the air, High trees, sweet meadows, waters pure and good; For there in thickest shade of myrtles fair A crystal spring poured out a silver flood; Amid the herbs, the grass and flowers rare, The falling leaves down pattered from the wood, The birds sung hymns of love; yet speak I naught Of gold and marble rich, and richly wrought. LXIV "Under the curtain of the greenwood shade, Beside the brook upon the velvet grass, In massy vessel of pure silver made, A banquet rich and costly furnished was, All beasts, all birds beguiled by fowler's trade, All fish were there in floods or seas that pass, All dainties made by art, and at the table An hundred virgins served, for husbands able. LXV "She with sweet words and false enticing smiles, Infused love among the dainties set, And with empoisoned cups our souls beguiles, And made each knight himself and God forget: She rose and turned again within short whiles, With changed looks where wrath and anger met, A charming rod, a book with her she brings, On which she mumbled strange and secret things. LXVI "She read, and change I felt my will and thought, I longed to change my life, and place of biding, That virtue strange in me no pleasure wrought, I leapt into the flood myself there hiding, My legs and feet both into one were brought, Mine arms and hands into my shoulders sliding, My skin was full of scales, like shields of brass, Now made a fish, where late a knight I was. LXVII "The rest with me like shape, like garments wore, And dived with me in that quicksilver stream, Such mind, to my remembrance, then I bore, As when on vain and foolish things men dream; At last our shade it pleased her to restore, Then full of wonder and of fear we seem, And with an ireful look the angry maid Thus threatened us, and made us thus afraid. LXVIII "'You see,' quoth she, 'my sacred might and skill, How you are subject to my rule and power, In endless thraldom damned if I will I can torment and keep you in this tower, Or make you birds, or trees on craggy hill, To bide the bitter blasts of storm and shower; Or harden you to rocks on mountains old, Or melt your flesh and bones to rivers cold: LXIX "'Yet may you well avoid mine ire and wrath, If to my will your yielding hearts you bend, You must forsake your Christendom and faith, And gainst Godfredo false my crown defend.' We all refused, for speedy death each prayeth, Save false Rambaldo, he became her friend, We in a dungeon deep were helpless cast, In misery and iron chained fast. LXX "Then, for alone they say falls no mishap, Within short while Prince Tancred thither came, And was unwares surprised in the trap: But there short while we stayed, the wily dame In other folds our mischiefs would upwrap. From Hidraort an hundred horsemen came, Whose guide, a baron bold to Egypt's king, Should us disarmed and bound in fetters bring. LXXI "Now on our way, the way to death we ride, But Providence Divine thus for us wrought, Rinaldo, whose high virtue is his guide To great exploits, exceeding human thought, Met us, and all at once our guard defied, And ere he left the fight to earth them brought. And in their harness armed us in the place, Which late were ours, before our late disgrace. LXXII "I and all these the hardy champion knew, We saw his valor, and his voice we heard; Then is the rumor of his death untrue, His life is safe, good fortune long it guard, Three times the golden sun hath risen new, Since us he left and rode to Antioch-ward; But first his armors, broken, hacked and cleft, Unfit for service, there he doft and left." LXXIII Thus spake the Briton prince, with humble cheer The hermit sage to heaven cast up his eyne, His color and his countenance changed were, With heavenly grace his looks and visage shine, Ravished with zeal his soul approached near The seat of angels pure, and saints divine, And there he learned of things and haps to come, To give foreknowledge true, and certain doom. LXXIV At last he spoke, in more than human sound, And told what things his wisdom great foresaw, And at his thundering voice the folk around Attentive stood, with trembling and with awe: "Rinaldo lives," he said, "the tokens found From women's craft their false beginnings draw, He lives, and heaven will long preserve his days, To greater glory, and to greater praise. LXXV "These are but trifles yet, though Asia's kings Shrink at his name, and tremble at his view, I well foresee he shall do greater things, And wicked emperors conquer and subdue; Under the shadow of his eagle's wings Shall holy Church preserve her sacred crew, From Caesar's bird he shall the sable train Pluck off, and break her talons sharp in twain. LXXVI "His children's children at his hardiness And great attempts shall take example fair, From emperors unjust in all distress They shall defend the state of Peter's chair, To raise the humble up, pride to suppress, To help the innocents shall be their care. This bird of east shall fly with conquest great, As far as moon gives light or sun gives heat; LXXVII "Her eyes behold the truth and purest light, And thunders down in Peter's aid she brings, And where for Christ and Christian faith men fight, There forth she spreadeth her victorious wings, This virtue nature gives her and this might; Then lure her home, for on her presence hings The happy end of this great enterprise, So Heaven decrees, and so command the skies." LXXVIII These words of his of Prince Rinaldo's death Out of their troubled hearts, the fear had rased; In all this joy yet Godfrey smiled uneath. In his wise thought such care and heed was placed. But now from deeps of regions underneath Night's veil arose, and sun's bright lustre chased, When all full sweetly in their cabins slept, Save he, whose thoughts his eyes still open kept. ELEVENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. With grave procession, songs and psalms devout Heaven's sacred aid the Christian lords invoke; That done, they scale the wall which kept them out: The fort is almost won, the gates nigh broke: Godfrey is wounded by Clorinda stout, And lost is that day's conquest by the stroke; The angel cures him, he returns to fight, But lost his labor, for day lost his light. I The Christian army's great and puissant guide, To assault the town that all his thoughts had bent, Did ladders, rams, and engines huge provide, When reverend Peter to him gravely went, And drawing him with sober grace aside, With words severe thus told his high intent; "Right well, my lord, these earthly strengths you move, But let us first begin from Heaven above: II "With public prayer, zeal and faith devout, The aid, assistance, and the help obtain Of all the blessed of the heavenly rout, With whose support you conquest sure may gain; First let the priests before thine armies stout With sacred hymns their holy voices strain. And thou and all thy lords and peers with thee, Of godliness and faith examples be." III Thus spake the hermit grave in words severe: Godfrey allowed his counsel, sage, and wise, "Of Christ the Lord," quoth he, "thou servant dear, I yield to follow thy divine advice, And while the princes I assemble here, The great procession, songs and sacrifice, With Bishop William, thou and Ademare, With sacred and with solemn pomp prepare." IV Next morn the bishops twain, the heremite, And all the clerks and priests of less estate, Did in the middest of the camp unite Within a place for prayer consecrate, Each priest adorned was in a surplice white, The bishops donned their albes and copes of state, Above their rochets buttoned fair before, And mitres on their heads like crowns they wore. V Peter alone, before, spread to the wind The glorious sign of our salvation great, With easy pace the choir come all behind, And hymns and psalms in order true repeat, With sweet respondence in harmonious kind Their humble song the yielding air doth beat, "Lastly, together went the reverend pair Of prelates sage, William and Ademare, VI The mighty duke came next, as princes do, Without companion, marching all alone, The lords and captains then came two and two, With easy pace thus ordered, passing through The trench and rampire, to the fields they gone, No thundering drum, no trumpet shrill they hear, Their godly music psalms and prayers were. VII To thee, O Father, Son, and sacred Sprite, One true, eternal, everlasting King; To Christ's dear mother, Mary, vlrgin bright, Psalms of thanksgiving and of praise they sing; To them that angels down from heaven to fight Gainst the blasphemous beast and dragon bring; To him also that of our Saviour good, Washed the sacred font in Jordan's flood. VIII Him likewise they invoke, called the Rock Whereon the Lord, they say, his Church did rear, Whose true successors close or else unlock The blessed gates of grace and mercy dear; And all the elected twelve the chosen flock, Of his triumphant death who witness bear; And them by torment, slaughter, fire and sword Who martyrs died to confirm his word; IX And them also whose books and writings tell What certain path to heavenly bliss us leads; And hermits good, and ancresses that dwell Mewed up in walls, and mumble on their beads, And virgin nuns in close and private cell, Where, but shrift fathers, never mankind treads: On these they called, and on all the rout Of angels, martyrs, and of saints devout. X Singing and saying thus, the camp devout Spread forth her zealous squadrons broad and wide'; Toward mount Olivet went all this route, So called of olive trees the hills which hide, A mountain known by fame the world throughout, Which riseth on the city's eastern side, From it divided by the valley green Of Josaphat, that fills the space between. XI Hither the armies went, and chanted shrill, That all the deep and hollow dales resound; From hollow mounts and caves in every hill, A thousand echoes also sung around, It seemed some clever, that sung with art and skill, Dwelt in those savage dens and shady ground, For oft resounds from the banks they hear, The name of Christ and of his mother dear. XII Upon the walls the Pagans old and young Stood hushed and still, amated and amazed, At their grave order and their humble song, At their strange pomp and customs new they gazed: But when the show they had beholden long, An hideous yell the wicked miscreants raised, That with vile blasphemies the mountain hoar, The woods, the waters, and the valleys roar. XIII But yet with sacred notes the hosts proceed, Though blasphemies they hear and cursed things; So with Apollo's harp Pan tunes his reed, So adders hiss where Philomela sings; Nor flying darts nor stones the Christians dreed, Nor arrows shot, nor quarries cast from slings; But with assured faith, as dreading naught, The holy work begun to end they brought. XIV A table set they on the mountain's height To minister thereon the sacrament, In golden candlesticks a hallowed light At either end of virgin wax there brent; In costly vestments sacred William dight, With fear and trembling to the altar went, And prayer there and service loud begins, Both for his own and all the army's sins. XV Humbly they heard his words that stood him nigh, The rest far off upon him bent their eyes, But when he ended had the service high, "You servants of the Lord depart," he cries: His hands he lifted then up to the sky, And blessed all those warlike companies; And they dismissed returned the way they came, Their order as before, their pomp the same. XVI Within their camp arrived, this voyage ended, Toward his tent the duke himself withdrew, Upon their guide by heaps the bands attended, Till his pavilion's stately door they view, There to the Lord his welfare they commended, And with him left the worthies of the crew, Whom at a costly and rich feast he placed, And with the highest room old Raymond graced. XVII Now when the hungry knights sufficed are With meat, with drink, with spices of the best, Quoth he, "When next you see the morning star, To assault the town be ready all and prest: To-morrow is a day of pains and war, This of repose, of quiet, peace, and rest; Go, take your ease this evening, and this night, And make you strong against to-morrow's fight." XVIII They took their leave, and Godfrey's heralds rode To intimate his will on every side, And published it through all the lodgings broad, That gainst the morn each should himself provide; Meanwhile they might their hearts of cares unload, And rest their tired limbs that eveningtide; Thus fared they till night their eyes did close, Night friend to gentle rest and sweet repose. XIX With little sign as yet of springing day Out peeped, not well appeared the rising morn, The plough yet tore not up the fertile lay, Nor to their feed the sheep from folds return, The birds sate silent on the greenwood spray Amid the groves unheard was hound and horn, When trumpets shrill, true signs of hardy fights, Called up to arms the soldiers, called the knights: XX "Arm, arm at once!" an hundred squadrons cried, And with their cry to arm them all begin. Godfrey arose, that day he laid aside His hauberk strong he wonts to combat in, And donned a breastplate fair, of proof untried, Such one as footmen use, light, easy, thin. Scantly the warlord thus clothed had his gromes, When aged Raymond to his presence comes. XXI And furnished to us when he the man beheld, By his attire his secret thought he guessed, "Where is," quoth he, "your sure and trusty shield? Your helm, your hauberk strong? where all the rest? Why be you half disarmed? why to the field Approach you in these weak defences dressed? I see this day you mean a course to run, Wherein may peril much, small praise be won. XXII "Alas, do you that idle prise expect, To set first foot this conquered wall above? Of less account some knight thereto object Whose loss so great and harmful cannot prove; My lord, your life with greater care protect, And love yourself because all us you love, Your happy life is spirit, soul, and breath Of all this camp, preserve it then from death." XXIII To this he answered thus, "You know," he said, "In Clarimont by mighty Urban's hand When I was girded with this noble blade, For Christ's true faith to fight in every land, To God even then a secret vow I made, Not as a captain here this day to stand And give directions, but with shield and sword To fight, to win, or die for Christ my Lord. XXIV "When all this camp in battle strong shall be Ordained and ordered, well disposed all, And all things done which to the high degree And sacred place I hold belongen shall; Then reason is it, nor dissuade thou me, That I likewise assault this sacred wall, Lest from my vow to God late made I swerve: He shall this life defend, keep and preserve." XXV Thus he concludes, and every hardy knight His sample followed, and his brethren twain, The other princes put on harness light, As footmen use: but all the Pagan train Toward that side bent their defensive might Which lies exposed to view of Charles's wain And Zephyrus' sweet blasts, for on that part The town was weakest, both by side and art. XXVI On all parts else the fort was strong by site, With mighty hills defenced from foreign rage, And to this part the tyrant gan unite His subjects born and bands that serve for wage, From this exploit he spared nor great nor lite, The aged men, and boys of tender age, To fire of angry war still brought new fuel, Stones, darts, lime, brimstone and bitumen cruel. XXVII All full of arms and weapons was the wall, Under whose basis that fair plain doth run, There stood the Soldan like a giant tall, So stood at Rhodes the Coloss of the sun, Waist high, Argantes showed himself withal, At whose stern looks the French to quake begun, Clorinda on the corner tower alone, In silver arms like rising Cynthia shone. XXVIII Her rattling quiver at her shoulders hung, Therein a flash of arrows feathered weel. In her left hand her bow was bended strong, Therein a shaft headed with mortal steel, So fit to shoot she singled forth among Her foes who first her quarries' strength should feel, So fit to shoot Latona's daughter stood When Niobe she killed and all her brood. XXIX The aged tyrant tottered on his feet From gate to gate, from wall to wall he flew, He comforts all his bands with speeches sweet, And every fort and bastion doth review, For every need prepared in every street New regiments he placed and weapons new. The matrons grave within their temples high To idols false for succors call and cry, XXX "O Macon, break in twain the steeled lance On wicked Godfrey with thy righteous hands, Against thy name he doth his arm advance, His rebel blood pour out upon these sands;" These cries within his ears no enterance Could find, for naught he hears, naught understands. While thus the town for her defence ordains, His armies Godfrey ordereth on the plains; XXXI His forces first on foot he forward brought, With goodly order, providence and art, And gainst these towers which to assail he thought, In battles twain his strength he doth depart, Between them crossbows stood, and engines wrought To cast a stone, a quarry, or a dart, From whence like thunder's dint or lightnings new Against the bulwark stones and lances flew. XXXII His men at arms did back his bands on foot, The light horse ride far off and serve for wings, He gave the sign, so mighty was the rout Of those that shot with bows and cast with slings, Such storms of shafts and stones flew all about, That many a Pagan proud to death it brings, Some died, some at their loops durst scant outpeep, Some fled and left the place they took to keep. XXXIII The hardy Frenchmen, full of heat and haste, Ran boldly forward to the ditches large, And o'er their heads an iron pentice vast They built, by joining many a shield and targe, Some with their engines ceaseless shot and cast, And volleys huge of arrows sharp discharge, Upon the ditches some employed their pain To fill the moat and even it with the plain. XXXIV With slime or mud the ditches were not soft, But dry and sandy, void of waters clear, Though large and deep the Christians fill them oft, With rubbish, fagots, stones, and trees they bear: Adrastus first advanced his crest aloft, And boldly gan a strong scalado rear, And through the falling storm did upward climb Of stones, darts, arrows, fire, pitch and lime: XXXV The hardy Switzer now so far was gone That half way up with mickle pain he got, A thousand weapons he sustained alone, And his audacious climbing ceased not; At last upon him fell a mighty stone, As from some engine great it had been shot, It broke his helm, he tumbled from the height, The strong Circassian cast that wondrous weight; XXXVI Not mortal was the blow, yet with the fall On earth sore bruised the man lay in a swoon. Argantes gan with boasting words to call, "Who cometh next? this first is tumbled down, Come, hardy soldiers, come, assault this wall, I will not shrink, nor fly, nor hide my crown, If in your trench yourselves for dread you hold, There shall you die like sheep killed in their fold." XXXVII Thus boasted he; but in their trenches deep, The hidden squadrons kept themselves from scath, The curtain made of shields did well off keep Both darts and shot, and scorned all their wrath. But now the ram upon the rampiers steep, On mighty beams his head advanced hath, With dreadful horns of iron tough tree great, The walls and bulwarks trembled at his threat. XXXVIII An hundred able men meanwhile let fall The weights behind, the engine tumbled down And battered flat the battlements and wall: So fell Taigetus hill on Sparta town, It crushed the steeled shield in pieces small, And beat the helmet to the wearers' crown, And on the ruins of the walls and stones, Dispersed left their blood their brains and bones. XXXIX The fierce assailants kept no longer close Undcr the shelter of their target fine, But their bold fronts to chance of war expose, And gainst those towers let their virtue shine, The scaling ladders up to skies arose, The ground-works deep some closely undermine, The walls before the Frenchmen shrink and shake, And gaping sign of headlong falling make: XL And fallen they had, so far the strength extends Of that fierce ram and his redoubted stroke, But that the Pagan's care the place defends And saved by warlike skill the wall nigh broke: For to what part soe'er the engine bends, Their sacks of wool they place the blow to choke, Whose yielding breaks the strokes thereon which light, So weakness oft subdues the greatest might. XLI While thus the worthies of the western crew Maintained their brave assault and skirmish hot, Her mighty bow Clorinda often drew, And many a sharp and deadly arrow shot; And from her bow no steeled shaft there flew But that some blood the cursed engine got, Blood of some valiant knight or man of fame, For that proud shootress scorned weaker game. XLII The first she hit among the Christian peers Was the bold son of England's noble king, Above the trench himself he scantly rears, But she an arrow loosed from the string, The wicked steel his gauntlet breaks and tears, And through his right hand thrust the piercing sting; Disabled thus from fight, he gan retire, Groaning for pain, but fretting more for ire. XLIII Lord Stephen of Amboise on the ditch's brim, And on a ladder high, Clotharius died, From back to breast an arrow pierced him, The other was shot through from side to side: Then as he managed brave his courser trim, On his left arm he hit the Flemings' guide, He stopped, and from the wound the reed out-twined, But left the iron in his flesh behind. XLIV As Ademare stood to behold the fight High on the bank, withdrawn to breathe a space, A fatal shaft upon his forehead light, His hand he lifted up to feel the place, Whereon a second arrow chanced right, And nailed his hand unto his wounded face, He fell, and with his blood distained the land, His holy blood shed by a virgin's hand. XLV While Palamede stood near the battlement, Despising perils all, and all mishap, And upward still his hardy footings bent, On his right eye he caught a deadly clap, Through his right eye Clorinda's seventh shaft went, And in his neck broke forth a bloody gap; He underneath that bulwark dying fell, Which late to scale and win he trusted well. XLVI Thus shot the maid: the duke with hard assay And sharp assault, meanwhile the town oppressed, Against that part which to his campward lay An engine huge and wondrous he addressed, A tower of wood built for the town's decay As high as were the walls and bulwarks best, A turret full of men and weapons pent, And yet on wheels it rolled, moved, and went. XLVII This rolling fort his nigh approaches made, And darts and arrows spit against his foes, As ships are wont in fight, so it assayed With the strong wall to grapple and to close, The Pagans on each side the piece invade, And all their force against this mass oppose, Sometimes the wheels, sometimes the battlement With timber, logs and stones, they broke and rent, XLVIII So thick flew stones and darts, that no man sees The azure heavens, the sun his brightness lost, The clouds of weapons, like to swarms of bees, Move the air, and there each other crossed: And look how falling leaves drop down from trees, When the moist sap is nipped with timely frost, Or apples in strong winds from branches fall; The Saracens so tumbled from the wall. XLIX For on their part the greatest slaughter light, They had no shelter gainst so sharp a shower, Some left on live betook themselves to flight, So feared they this deadly thundering tower: But Solyman stayed like a valiant knight, And some with him, that trusted in his power, Argantes with a long beech tree in hand, Ran thither, this huge engine to withstand: L With this he pushed the tower, and back it drives The length of all his tree, a wondrous way, The hardy virgin by his side arrives, To help Argantes in this hard assay: The band that used the ram, this season strives To cut the cords, wherein the woolpacks lay, Which done, the sacks down in the trenches fall, And to the battery naked left the wall. LI The tower above, the ram beneath doth thunder, What lime and stone such puissance could abide? The wall began, new bruised and crushed asunder, Her wounded lap to open broad and wide, Godfrey himself and his brought safely under The shattered wall, where greatest breach he spied, Himself he saves behind his mighty targe, A shield not used but in some desperate charge. LII From hence he sees where Solyman descends, Down to the threshold of the gaping breach, And there it seems the mighty prince intends Godfredo's hoped entrance to impeach: Argantes, and with him the maid, defends The walls above, to which the tower doth reach, His noble heart, when Godfrey this beheld, With courage new with wrath and valor swelled. LIII He turned about and to good Sigiere spake, Who bare his greatest shield and mighty bow, "That sure and trusty target let me take, Impenetrable is that shield I know, Over these ruins will I passage make, And enter first, the way is eath and low, And time requires that by some noble feat I should make known my strength and puissance great." LIV He scant had spoken, scant received the charge, When on his leg a sudden shaft him hit, And through that part a hole made wide and large, Where his strong sinews fastened were and knit. Clorinda, thou this arrow didst discharge, And let the Pagans bless thy hand for it, For by that shot thou savedst them that day From bondage vile, from death and sure decay. LV The wounded duke, as though he felt no pain, Still forward went, and mounted up the breach His high attempt at first he nould refrain, And after called his lords with cheerful speech; But when his leg could not his weight sustain, He saw his will did far his power outreach, And more he strove his grief increased the more, The bold assault he left at length therefore: LVI And with his hand he beckoned Guelpho near, And said, "I must withdraw me to my tent, My place and person in mine absence bear, Supply my want, let not the fight relent, I go, and will ere long again be here; I go and straight return:" this said, he went, On a light steed he leaped, and o'er the green He rode, but rode not, as he thought, unseen. LVII When Godfrey parted, parted eke the heart, The strength and fortune of the Christian bands, Courage increased in their adverse part, Wrath in their hearts, and vigor in their hands: Valor, success, strength, hardiness and art, Failed in the princes of the western lands, Their swords were blunt, faint was their trumpet's blast, Their sun was set, or else with clouds o'ercast. LVIII Upon the bulwarks now appeared bold That fearful band that late for dread was fled! The women that Clorinda's strength behold, Their country's love to war encouraged, They weapons got, and fight like men they would, Their gowns tucked up, their locks were loose and spread, Sharp darts they cast, and without dread or fear, Exposed their breasts to save their fortress dear. LIX But that which most dismayed the Christian knights, And added courage to the Pagans most, Was Guelpho's sudden fall in all men's sights, Who tumbled headlong down, his footing lost, A mighty stone upon the worthy lights, But whence it came none wist, nor from what coast; And with like blow, which more their hearts dismayed, Beside him low in dust old Raymond laid: LX And Eustace eke within the ditches large, To narrow shifts and last extremes they drive, Upon their foes so fierce the Pagans charge, And with good-fortune so their blows they give, That whom they hit, in spite of helm or targe, They deeply wound, or else of life deprive. At this their good success Argantes proud, Waxing more fell, thus roared and cried aloud: LXI "This is not Antioch, nor the evening dark Can help your privy sleights with friendly shade, The sun yet shines, your falsehood can we mark, In other wise this bold assault is made; Of praise and glory quenched is the spark That made you first these eastern lands invade, Why cease you now? why take you not this fort? What! are you weary for a charge so short?" LXII Thus raged he, and in such hellish sort Increased the fury in the brain-sick knight, That he esteemed that large and ample fort Too strait a field, wherein to prove his might, There where the breach had framed a new-made port, Himself he placed, with nimble skips and light, He cleared the passage out, and thus he cried To Solyman, that fought close by his side: LXIII "Come, Solyman, the time and place behold, That of our valors well may judge the doubt, What sayest thou? amongst these Christians bold, First leap he forth that holds himself most stout:" While thus his will the mighty champion told, Both Solyman and he at once leaped out, Fury the first provoked, disdain the last, Who scorned the challenge ere his lips it passed. LXIV Upon their foes unlooked-for they flew, Each spited other for his virtue's sake, So many soldiers this fierce couple slew, So many shields they cleft and helms they break, So many ladders to the earth they threw, That well they seemed a mount thereof to make, Or else some vamure fit to save the town, Instead of that the Christians late beat down. LXV The folk that strove with rage and haste before Who first the wall and rampire should ascend, Retire, and for that honor strive no more, Scantly they could their limbs and lives defend, They fled, their engines lost the Pagans tore In pieces small, their rams to naught they rend, And all unfit for further service make With so great force and rage their beams they brake. LXVI The Pagans ran transported with their ire, Now here, now there, and woful slaughters wrought, At last they called for devouring fire, Two burning pines against the tower they brought, So from the palace of their hellish sire, When all this world they would consume to naught, The fury sisters come with fire in hands, Shaking their snaky locks and sparkling brands: LXVII But noble Tancred, who this while applied Grave exhortations to his bold Latines, When of these knights the wondrous acts he spied, And saw the champions with their burning pines, He left his talk, and thither forthwith hied, To stop the rage of those fell Saracines. And with such force the fight he there renewed, That now they fled and lost who late pursued. LXVIII Thus changed the state and fortune of the fray, Meanwhile the wounded duke, in grief and teen, Within his great pavilion rich and gay, Good Sigiere and Baldwin stood between; His other friends whom his mishap dismay, With grief and tears about assembled been: He strove in haste the weapon out to wind, And broke the reed, but left the head behind. LXIX He bade them take the speediest way they might, Of that unlucky hurt to make him sound, And to lay ope the depth thereof to sight, He willed them open, search and lance the wound, "Send me again," quoth he, "to end this fight, Before the sun be sunken under ground;" And leaning on a broken spear, he thrust His leg straight out, to him that cure it must. LXX Erotimus, born on the banks of Po, Was he that undertook to cure the knight, All what green herbs or waters pure could do, He knew their power, their virtue, and their might, A noble poet was the man also, But in this science had a more delight, He could restore to health death-wounded men, And make their names immortal with his pen. LXXI The mighty duke yet never changed cheer, But grieved to see his friends lamenting stand; The leech prepared his cloths and cleansing gear, And with a belt his gown about him band, Now with his herbs the steely head to tear Out of the flesh he proved, now with his hand, Now with his hand, now with his instrument He shaked and plucked it, yet not forth it went. LXXII His labor vain, his art prevailed naught, His luck was ill, although his skill were good, To such extremes the wounded prince he brought, That with fell pain he swooned as he stood: But the angel pure, that kept him, went and sought Divine dictamnum, out of Ida wood, This herb is rough, and bears a purple flower, And in his budding leaves lies all his power. LXXIII Kind nature first upon the craggy clift Bewrayed this herb unto the mountain goat, That when her sides a cruel shaft hath rift, With it she shakes the reed out of her coat; This in a moment fetched the angel swift, And brought from Ida hill, though far remote, The juice whereof in a prepared bath Unseen the blessed spirit poured hath. LXXIV Pure nectar from that spring of Lydia than, And panaces divine therein he threw, The cunning leech to bathe the wound began, And of itself the steely head outflew; The bleeding stanched, no vermile drop outran, The leg again waxed strong with vigor new: Erotimus cried out, "This hurt and wound No human art or hand so soon makes sound: LXXV "Some angel good I think come down from skies Thy surgeon is, for here plain tokens are Of grace divine which to thy help applies, Thy weapon take and haste again to war." In precious cloths his leg the chieftain ties, Naught could the man from blood and fight debar; A sturdy lance in his right hand he braced, His shield he took, and on his helmet laced: LXXVI And with a thousand knights and barons bold, Toward the town he hasted from his camp, In clouds of dust was Titan's face enrolled, Trembled the earth whereon the worthies stamp, His foes far off his dreadful looks behold, Which in their hearts of courage quenched the lamp, A chilling fear ran cold through every vein, Lord Godfrey shouted thrice and all his train: LXXVII Their sovereign's voice his hardy people knew, And his loud cries that cheered each fearful heart; Thereat new strength they took and courage new, And to the fierce assault again they start. The Pagans twain this while themselves withdrew Within the breach to save that battered part, And with great loss a skirmish hot they hold Against Tancredi and his squadron bold. LXXVIII Thither came Godfrey armed round about In trusty plate, with fierce and dreadful look; At first approach against Argantes stout Headed with poignant steel a lance he shook, No casting engine with such force throws out A knotty spear, and as the way it took, It whistled in the air, the fearless knight Opposed his shield against that weapon's might. LXXIX The dreadful blow quite through his target drove, And bored through his breastplate strong and thick, The tender skin it in his bosom rove, The purple-blood out-streamed from the quick; To wrest it out the wounded Pagan strove And little leisure gave it there to stick; At Godfrey's head the lance again he cast, And said, "Lo, there again thy dart thou hast." LXXX The spear flew back the way it lately came, And would revenge the harm itself had done, But missed the mark whereat the man did aim, He stepped aside the furious blow to shun: But Sigiere in his throat received the same, The murdering weapon at his neck out-run, Nor aught it grieved the man to lose his breath, Since in his prince's stead he suffered death. LXXXI Even then the Soldan struck with monstrous main The noble leader of the Norman band, He reeled awhile and staggered with the pain, And wheeling round fell grovelling on the sand: Godfrey no longer could the grief sustain Of these displeasures, but with flaming brand, Up to the breach in heat and haste he goes, And hand to hand there combats with his foes; LXXXII And there great wonders surely wrought he had, Mortal the fight, and fierce had been the fray, But that dark night, from her pavilion sad, Her cloudy wings did on the earth display, Her quiet shades she interposed glad To cause the knights their arms aside to lay; Godfrey withdrew, and to their tents they wend, And thus this bloody day was brought to end. LXXXIII The weak and wounded ere he left the field, The godly duke to safety thence conveyed, Nor to his foes his engines would he yield, In them his hope to win the fortress laid; Then to the tower he went, and it beheeld, The tower that late the Pagan lords dismayed But now stood bruised, broken, cracked and shivered, From some sharp storm as it were late delivered. LXXXIV From dangers great escaped, but late it was, And now to safety brought well-nigh it seems, But as a ship that under sail doth pass The roaring billows and the raging streams, And drawing nigh the wished port, alas, Breaks on some hidden rocks her ribs and beams; Or as a steed rough ways that well hath passed, Before his inn stumbleth and falls at last: LXXXV Such hap befell that tower, for on that side Gainst which the Pagans' force and battery bend, Two wheels were broke whereon the piece should ride, The maimed engine could no further wend, The troop that guarded it that part provide To underprop with posts, and it defend Till carpenters and cunning workmen came Whose skill should help and rear again the same. LXXXVI Thus Godfrey bids, and that ere springing-day, The cracks and bruises all amend they should, Each open passage, and each privy way About the piece, he kept with soldiers bold: But the loud rumor, both of that they say, And that they do, is heard within the hold, A thousand lights about the tower they view, And what they wrought all night both saw and knew. TWELFTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Clorinda hears her eunuch old report Her birth, her offspring, and her native land; Disguised she fireth Godfrey's rolling fort. The burned piece falls smoking on the sand: With Tancred long unknown in desperate sort She fights, and falls through pierced with his brand: Christened she dies; with sighs, with plaints and tears. He wails her death; Argant revengement swears. I Now in dark night was all the world embarred; But yet the tired armies took no rest, The careful French kept heedful watch and ward, While their high tower the workmen newly dressed, The Pagan crew to reinforce prepared The weakened bulwarks, late to earth down kest, Their rampiers broke and bruised walls to mend, Lastly their hurts the wounded knights attend. II Their wounds were dressed, part of the work was brought To wished end, part left to other days, A dull desire to rest deep midnight wrought, His heavy rod sleep on their eyelids lays: Yet rested not Clorinda's working thought, Which thirsted still for fame and warlike praise, Argantes eke accompanied the maid From place to place, which to herself thus said: III "This day Argantes strong, and Solyman, Strange things have done, and purchased great renown, Among our foes out of the walls they ran, Their rams they broke and rent their engines down: I used my bow, of naught else boast I can, My self stood safe meanwhile within this town, And happy was my shot, and prosperous too, But that was all a woman's hand could do. IV "On birds and beasts in forests wild that feed It were more fit mine arrows to bestow, Than for a feeble maid in warlike deed With strong and hardy knights herself to show. Why take I not again my virgin's weed, And spend my days in secret cell unknow?" Thus thought, thus mused, thus devised the maid, And turning to the knight, at last thus said: V "My thoughts are full, my lord, of strange desire Some high attempt of war to undertake, Whether high God my mind therewith inspire Or of his will his God mankind doth make, Among our foes behold the light and fire, I will among them wend, and burn or break The tower, God grant therein I have my will And that performed, betide me good or ill. VI "But if it fortune such my chance should be, That to this town I never turn again, Mine eunuch, whom I dearly love, with thee I leave my faithful maids, and all my train, To Egypt then conducted safely see Those woful damsels and that aged swain, Help them, my lord, in that distressed case, Their feeble sex, his age, deserveth grace." VII Argantes wondering stood, and felt the effect Of true renown pierce through his glorious mind, "And wilt thou go," quoth he, "and me neglect, Disgraced, despised, leave in this fort behind? Shall I while these strong walls my life protect Behold thy flames and fires tossed in the wind, No, no, thy fellow have I been in arms, And will be still, in praise, in death, in harms. VIII "This heart of mine death's bitter stroke despiseth, For praise this life, for glory take this breath." "My soul and more," quoth she, "thy friendship prizeth, For this thy proffered aid required uneath, I but a woman am, no loss ariseth To this besieged city by my death, But if, as God forbid, this night thou fall, Ah! who shall then, who can, defend this wall!" IX "Too late these 'scuses vain," the knight replied, "You bring; my will is firm, my mind is set, I follow you whereso you list me guide, Or go before if you my purpose let." This said, they hasted to the palace wide About their prince where all his lords were met, Clorinda spoke for both, and said, "Sir king, Attend my words, hear, and allow the thing: X "Argantes here, this bold and hardy knight, Will undertake to burn the wondrous tower, And I with him, only we stay till night Bury in sleep our foes at deadest hour." The king with that cast up his hands on height, The tears for joy upon his cheeks down pour. "Praised," quoth he, "be Macon whom we serve, This land I see he keeps and will preserve: XI "Nor shall so soon this shaken kingdom fall, While such unconquered hearts my state defend: But for this act what praise or guerdon shall I give your virtues, which so far extend? Let fame your praises sound through nations all, And fill the world therewith to either end, Take half my wealth and kingdom for your meed? You are rewarded half even with the deed." XII Thus spake the prince, and gently 'gan distrain, Now him, now her, between his friendly arms: The Soldan by, no longer could refrain That noble envy which his bosom warms, "Nor I," quoth he, "bear this broad sword in vain, Nor yet am unexpert in night alarms, Take me with you: ah." Quoth Clorinda, "no! Whom leave we here of prowess if you go?" XIII This spoken, ready with a proud refuse Argantes was his proffered aid to scorn, Whom Aladine prevents, and with excuse To Solyman thus gan his speeches torn: "Right noble prince, as aye hath been your use Your self so still you bear and long have borne, Bold in all acts, no danger can affright Your heart, nor tired is your strength with fight. XIV "If you went forth great things perform you would, In my conceit yet far unfit it seems That you, who most excel in courage bold, At once should leave this town in these extremes, Nor would I that these twain should leave this hold, My heart their noble lives far worthier deems, If this attempt of less importance were, Or weaker posts so great a weight could bear. XV "But for well-guarded is the mighty tower With hardy troops and squadrons round about, And cannot harmed be with little power, Nor fit the time to send whole armies out, This pair who passed have many a dreadful stowre, And proffer now to prove this venture stout, Alone to this attempt let them go forth, Alone than thousands of more price and worth. XVI "Thou, as it best beseems a mighty king, With ready bands besides the gate attend, That when this couple have performed the thing, And shall again their footsteps homeward bend, From their strong foes upon them following Thou may'st them keep, preserve, save and defend:" Thus said the king, "The Soldan must consent," Silent remained the Turk, and discontent. XVII Then Ismen said, "You twain that undertake This hard attempt, awhile I pray you stay, Till I a wildfire of fine temper make, That this great engine burn to ashes may; Haply the guard that now doth watch and wake, Will then lie tumbled sleeping on the lay;" Thus they conclude, and in their chambers sit, To wait the time for this adventure fit. XVIII Clorinda there her silver arms off rent, Her helm, her shield, her hauberk shining bright, An armor black as jet or coal she hent, Wherein withouten plume herself she dight; For thus disguised amid her foes she meant To pass unseen, by help of friendly night, To whom her eunuch, old Arsetes, came, That from her cradle nursed and kept the dame. XIX This aged sire had followed far and near, Through lands and seas, the strong and hardy maid, He saw her leave her arms and wonted gear, Her danger nigh that sudden change foresaid: By his white locks from black that changed were In following her, the woful man her prayed, By all his service and his taken pain, To leave that fond attempt, but prayed in vain. XX "At last," quoth he, "since hardened to thine ill, Thy cruel heart is to thy loss prepared, That my weak age, nor tears that down distil, Not humble suit, nor plaint, thou list regard; Attend awhile, strange things unfold I will, Hear both thy birth and high estate declared; Follow my counsel, or thy will that done," She sat to hear, the eunuch thus begun: XXI "Senapus ruled, and yet perchance doth reign In mighty Ethiop, and her deserts waste, The lore of Christ both he and all his train Of people black, hath kept and long embraced, To him a Pagan was I sold for gain, And with his queen, as her chief eunuch, placed; Black was this queen as jet, yet on her eyes Sweet loveliness, in black attired, lies. XXII "The fire of love and frost of jealousy, Her husband's troubled soul alike torment, The tide of fond suspicion flowed high, The foe to love and plague to sweet content, He mewed her up from sight of mortal eye, Nor day he would his beams on her had bent: She, wise and lowly, by her husband's pleasure, Her joy, her peace, her will, her wish did measure. XXIII "Her prison was a chamber, painted round With goodly portraits and with stories old, As white as snow there stood a virgin bound, Besides a dragon fierce, a champion bold The monster did with poignant spear through wound, The gored beast lay dead upon the mould; The gentle queen before this image laid. She plained, she mourned, she wept, she sighed, she prayed: XXIV "At last with child she proved, and forth she brought, And thou art she, a daughter fair and bright, In her thy color white new terror wrought, She wondered on thy face with strange affright, But yet she purposed in her fearful thought To hide thee from the king, thy father's sight, Lest thy bright hue should his suspect approve, For seld a crow begets a silver dove. XXV "And to her spouse to show she was disposed A negro's babe late born, in room of thee, And for the tower wherein she lay enclosed, Was with her damsels only wond and me, To me, on whose true faith she most reposed, She gave thee, ere thou couldest christened be, Nor could I since find means thee to baptize, In Pagan lands thou knowest it's not the guise. XXVI "To me she gave thee, and she wept withal, To foster thee in some far distant place. Who can her griefs and plaints to reckoning call, How oft she swooned at the last embrace: Her streaming tears amid her kisses fall, Her sighs, her dire complaints did interlace? And looking up at last, 'O God,' quoth she, 'Who dost my heart and inward mourning see, XXVII "'If mind and body spotless to this day, If I have kept my bed still undefiled, Not for myself a sinful wretch I pray, That in thy presence am an abject vilde, Preserve this babe, whose mother must denay To nourish it, preserve this harmless child, Oh let it live, and chaste like me it make, But for good fortune elsewhere sample take. XXVIII "'Thou heavenly soldier which delivered hast That sacred virgin from the serpent old, If on thine altars I have offerings placed, And sacrificed myrrh, frankincense and gold, On this poor child thy heavenly looks down cast, With gracious eye this silly babe behold;' This said, her strength and living sprite was fled, She sighed, she groaned, she swooned in her bed. XXIX "Weeping I took thee, in a little chest, Covered with herbs and leaves, I brought thee out So secretly, that none of all the rest Of such an act suspicion had or doubt, To wilderness my steps I first addressed, Where horrid shades enclosed me round about, A tigress there I met, in whose fierce eyes Fury and wrath, rage, death and terror lies: XXX "Up to a tree I leaped, and on the grass, Such was my sudden fear, I left thee lying, To thee the beast with furious course did pass, With curious looks upon thy visage prying, All suddenly both meek and mild she was, With friendly cheer thy tender body eying: At last she licked thee, and with gesture mild About thee played, and thou upon her smiled. XXXI "Her fearful muzzle full of dreadful threat, In thy weak hand thou took'st withouten dread; The gentle beast with milk-outstretched teat, As nurses' custom, proffered thee to feed. As one that wondereth on some marvel great, I stood this while amazed at the deed. When thee she saw well filled and satisfied, Unto the woods again the tigress hied. XXXII "She gone, down from the tree I came in haste, And took thee up, and on my journey wend, Within a little thorp I stayed at last, And to a nurse the charge of thee commend, And sporting with thee there long time I passed, Till term of sixteen months were brought to end, And thou begun, as little children do, With half clipped words to prattle, and to go. XXXIII "But having passed the August of mine age, When more than half my tap of life was run, Rich by rewards given by your mother sage, For merits past, and service yet undone, I longed to leave this wandering pilgrimage, And in my native soil again to won, To get some seely home I had desire, Loth still to warm me at another's fire. XXXIV "To Egypt-ward, where I was born, I went, And bore thee with me, by a rolling flood, Till I with savage thieves well-nigh was hent; Before the brook, the thieves behind me stood: Thee to forsake I never could consent, And gladly would I 'scape those outlaws wood, Into the flood I leaped far from the brim, My left hand bore thee, with the right I swim. XXXV "Swift was the current, in the middle stream A whirlpool gaped with devouring jaws, The gulf, on such mishap ere I could dream, Into his deep abyss my carcass draws, There I forsook thee, the wild waters seem To pity thee, a gentle wind there blows Whose friendly puffs safe to the shore thee drive, Where wet and weary I at last arrive: XXXVI "I took thee up, and in my dream that night, When buried was the world in sleep and shade, I saw a champion clad in armor bright That o'er my head shaked a flaming blade, He said, 'I charge thee execute aright, That charge this infant's mother on thee laid, Baptize the child, high Heaven esteems her dear, And I her keeper will attend her near: XXXVII "'I will her keep, defend, save and protect, I made the waters mild, the tigress tame, O wretch that heavenly warnings dost reject!' The warrior vanished having said the same. I rose and journeyed on my way direct When blushing morn from Tithon's bed forth came, But for my faith is true and sure I ween, And dreams are false, you still unchristened been. XXXVIII "A Pagan therefore thee I fostered have, Nor of thy birth the truth did ever tell, Since you increased are in courage brave, Your sex and nature's-self you both excel, Full many a realm have you made bond and slave, Your fortunes last yourself remember well, And how in peace and war, in joy and teen, I have your servant, and your tutor been. XXXIX "Last morn, from skies ere stars exiled were, In deep and deathlike sleep my senses drowned, The self-same vision did again appear, With stormy wrathful looks, and thundering sound, 'Villain,' quoth he, 'within short while thy dear Must change her life, and leave this sinful ground, Thine be the loss, the torment, and the care,' This said, he fled through skies, through clouds and air. XL "Hear then my joy, my hope, my darling, hear, High Heaven some dire misfortune threatened hath, Displeased pardie, because I did thee lere A lore repugnant to thy parents' faith; Ah, for my sake, this bold attempt forbear; Put off these sable arms, appease thy wrath." This said, he wept, she pensive stood and sad, Because like dream herself but lately had. XLI With cheerful smile she answered him at last, "I will this faith observe, it seems me true, Which from my cradle age thou taught me hast; I will not change it for religion new, Nor with vain shows of fear and dread aghast This enterprise forbear I to pursue, No, not if death in his most dreadful face Wherewith he scareth mankind, kept the place." XLII Approachen gan the time, while thus she spake, Wherein they ought that dreadful hazard try; She to Argantes went, who should partake Of her renown and praise, or with her die. Ismen with words more hasty still did make Their virtue great, which by itself did fly, Two balls he gave them made of hollow brass, Wherein enclosed fire, pitch, and brimstone was. XLIII And forth they went, and over dale and hill They hasted forward with a speedy pace, Unseen, unmarked, undescried, until Beside the engine close themselves they place, New courage there their swelling hearts did fill, Rage in their breasts, fury shown in their face, They yearned to blow the fire, and draw the sword. The watch descried them both, and gave the word. XLIV Silent they passed on, the watch begun To rear a huge alarm with hideous cries, Therewith the hardy couple forward run To execute their valiant enterprise: So from a cannon or a roaring gun At once the noise, the flame, and bullet flies, They run, they give the charge, begin the fray, And all at once their foes break, spoil and slay. XLV They passed first through thousand thousand blows, And then performed their designment bold, A fiery ball each on the engine throws, The stuff was dry, the fire took quickly hold, Furious upon the timber-work it grows, How it increased cannot well be told, How it crept up the piece, and how to skies The burning sparks and towering smoke upflies. XLVI A mass of solid fire burning bright Rolled up in smouldering fumes, there bursteth out, And there the blustering winds add strength and might And gather close the sparsed flames about: The Frenchmen trembled at the dreadful light, To arms in haste and fear ran all the rout, Down fell the piece dreaded so much in war, Thus what long days do make one hour doth mar. XLVII Two Christian bands this while came to the place With speedy haste, where they beheld the fire, Argantes to them cried with scornful grace, "Your blood shall quench these flames, and quench mine ire:" This said, the maid and he with sober pace Drew back, and to the banks themselves retire, Faster than brooks which falling showers increase Their foes augment, and faster on them press. XLVIII The gilden port was opened, and forth stepped With all his soldiers bold, the Turkish king, Ready to aid the two his force he kept, When fortune should them home with conquest bring, Over the bars the hardy couple leapt And after them a band of Christians fling, Whom Solyman drove back with courage stout, And shut the gate, but shut Clorinda out. XLIX Alone was she shut forth, for in that hour Wherein they closed the port, the virgin went, And full of heat and wrath, her strength and power Gainst Arimon, that struck her erst, she bent, She slew the knight, nor Argant in that stowre Wist of her parting, or her fierce intent, The fight, the press, the night, and darksome skies Care from his heart had ta'en, sight from his eyes. L But when appeased was her angry mood, Her fury calmed, and settled was her head, She saw the gates were shut, and how she stood Amid her foes, she held herself for dead; While none her marked at last she thought it good, To save her life, some other path to tread, She feigned her one of them, and close her drew Amid the press that none her saw or knew: LI Then as a wolf guilty of some misdeed Flies to some grove to hide himself from view, So favored with the night, with secret speed Dissevered from the press the damsel flew: Tancred alone of her escape took heed, He on that quarter was arrived new, When Arimon she killed he thither came, He saw it, marked it, and pursued the dame. LII He deemed she was some man of mickle might, And on her person would he worship win, Over the hills the nymph her journey dight Toward another port, there to get in: With hideous noise fast after spurred the knight, She heard and stayed, and thus her words begin, "What haste hast thou? ride softly, take thy breath, What bringest thou?" He answered, "War and death." LIII "And war and death," quoth she, "here mayest thou get If thou for battle come," with that she stayed: Tancred to ground his foot in haste down set, And left his steed, on foot he saw the maid, Their courage hot, their ire and wrath they whet, And either champion drew a trenchant blade, Together ran they, and together stroke, Like two fierce bulls whom rage and love provoke. LIV Worthy of royal lists and brightest day, Worthy a golden trump and laurel crown, The actions were and wonders of that fray Which sable knight did in dark bosom drown: Yet night, consent that I their acts display And make their deeds to future ages known, And in records of long enduring story Enrol their praise, their fame, their worth and glory. LV They neither shrunk, nor vantage sought of ground, They traverse not, nor skipped from part to part, Their blows were neither false nor feigned found, The night, their rage would let them use no art, Their swords together clash with dreadful sound, Their feet stand fast, and neither stir nor start, They move their hands, steadfast their feet remain, Nor blow nor loin they struck, or thrust in vain. LVI Shame bred desire a sharp revenge to take, And vengeance taken gave new cause of shame: So that with haste and little heed they strake, Fuel enough they had to feed the flame; At last so close their battle fierce they make, They could not wield their swords, so nigh they came, They used the hilts, and each on other rushed, And helm to helm, and shield to shield they crushed. LVII Thrice his strong arms he folds about her waist, And thrice was forced to let the virgin go, For she disdained to be so embraced, No lover would have strained his mistress so: They took their swords again, and each enchased Deep wounds in the soft flesh of his strong foe, Till weak and weary, faint, alive uneath, They both retired at once, at once took breath. LVIII Each other long beheld, and leaning stood Upon their swords, whose points in earth were pight, When day-break, rising from the eastern flood, Put forth the thousand eyes of blindfold night; Tancred beheld his foe's out-streaming blood, And gaping wounds, and waxed proud with the sight, Oh vanity of man's unstable mind, Puffed up with every blast of friendly wind! LIX Why joy'st thou, wretch? Oh, what shall be thy gain? What trophy for this conquest is't thou rears? Thine eyes shall shed, in case thou be not slain, For every drop of blood a sea of tears: The bleeding warriors leaning thus remain, Each one to speak one word long time forbears, Tancred the silence broke at last, and said, For he would know with whom this fight he made: LX "Evil is our chance and hard our fortune is Who here in silence, and in shade debate, Where light of sun and witness all we miss That should our prowess and our praise dilate: If words in arms find place, yet grant me this, Tell me thy name, thy country, and estate; That I may know, this dangerous combat done, Whom I have conquered, or who hath me won." LXI "What I nill tell, you ask," quoth she, "in vain, Nor moved by prayer, nor constrained by power, But thus much know, I am one of those twain Which late with kindled fire destroyed the tower." Tancred at her proud words swelled with disdain, "That hast thou said," quoth he, "in evil hour; Thy vaunting speeches, and thy silence both, Uncivil wretch, hath made my heart more wroth." LXII Ire in their chafed breasts renewed the fray, Fierce was the fight, though feeble were their might, Their strength was gone, their cunning was away, And fury in their stead maintained the fight, Their swords both points and edges sharp embay In purple blood, whereso they hit or light, And if weak life yet in their bosoms lie, They lived because they both disdained to die. LXIII As Aegean seas when storms be calmed again That rolled their tumbling waves with troublous blasts, Do yet of tempests past some shows retain, And here and there their swelling billows casts; So, though their strength were gone and might were vain, Of their first fierceness still the fury lasts, Wherewith sustained, they to their tackling stood, And heaped wound on wound, and blood on blood. LXIV But now, alas, the fatal hour arrives That her sweet life must leave that tender hold, His sword into her bosom deep he drives, And bathed in lukewarm blood his iron cold, Between her breasts the cruel weapon rives Her curious square, embossed with swelling gold, Her knees grow weak, the pains of death she feels, And like a falling cedar bends and reels. LXV The prince his hand upon her shield doth stretch, And low on earth the wounded damsel layeth, And while she fell, with weak and woful speech, Her prayers last and last complaints she sayeth, A spirit new did her those prayers teach, Spirit of hope, of charity, and faith; And though her life to Christ rebellious were, Yet died she His child and handmaid dear. LXVI "Friend, thou hast won, I pardon thee, nor save This body, that all torments can endure, But save my soul, baptism I dying crave, Come wash away my sins with waters pure:" His heart relenting nigh in sunder rave, With woful speech of that sweet creature, So that his rage, his wrath, and anger died, And on his cheeks salt tears for ruth down slide. LXVII With murmur loud down from the mountain's side A little runnel tumbled near the place, Thither he ran and filled his helmet wide, And quick returned to do that work of grace, With trembling hands her beaver he untied, Which done he saw, and seeing, knew her face, And lost therewith his speech and moving quite, Oh woful knowledge, ah unhappy sight! LXVIII He died not, but all his strength unites, And to his virtues gave his heart in guard, Bridling his grief, with water he requites The life that he bereft with iron hard, And while the sacred words the knight recites, The nymph to heaven with joy herself prepared; And as her life decays her joys increase, She smiled and said, "Farewell, I die in peace." LXIX As violets blue mongst lilies pure men throw, So paleness midst her native white begun; Her looks to heaven she cast, their eyes I trow Downward for pity bent both heaven and sun, Her naked hand she gave the knight, in show Of love and peace, her speech, alas, was done, And thus the virgin fell on endless sleep,-- Love, Beauty, Virtue, for your darling weep! LXX But when he saw her gentle soul was went, His manly courage to relent began, Grief, sorrow, anguish, sadness, discontent, Free empire got and lordship on the man, His life within his heart they close up pent, Death through his senses and his visage ran: Like his dead lady, dead seemed Tancred good, In paleness, stillness, wounds and streams of blood. LXXI And his weak sprite, to be unbodied From fleshly prison free that ceaseless strived, Had followed her fair soul but lately fled Had not a Christian squadron there arrived, To seek fresh water thither haply led, And found the princess dead, and him deprived Of signs of life; yet did the knight remain On live, nigh dead, for her himself had slain. LXXII Their guide far off the prince knew by his shield, And thither hasted full of grief and fear, Her dead, him seeming so, he there beheld, And for that strange mishap shed many a tear; He would not leave the corpses fair in field For food to wolves, though she a Pagan were, But in their arms the soldiers both uphent, And both lamenting brought to Tancred's tent. LXXIII With those dear burdens to their camp they pass, Yet would not that dead seeming knight awake, At last he deeply groaned, which token was His feeble soul had not her flight yet take: The other lay a still and heavy mass, Her spirit had that earthen cage forsake; Thus were they brought, and thus they placed were In sundry rooms, yet both adjoining near. LXXIV All skill and art his careful servants used To life again their dying lord to bring, At last his eyes unclosed, with tears suffused, He felt their hands and heard their whispering, But how he thither came long time he mused, His mind astonished was with everything; He gazed about, his squires in fine he knew, Then weak and woful thus his plaints out threw: LXXV "What, live I yet? and do I breathe and see Of this accursed day the hateful light? This spiteful ray which still upbraideth me With that accursed deed I did this night, Ah, coward hand, afraid why should'st thou be; Thou instrument of death, shame and despite, Why should'st thou fear, with sharp and trenchant knife, To cut the thread of this blood-guilty life? LXXVI "Pierce through this bosom, and my cruel heart In pieces cleave, break every string and vein; But thou to slaughters vile which used art, Think'st it were pity so to ease my pain: Of luckless love therefore in torments' smart A sad example must I still remain, A woful monster of unhappy love, Who still must live, lest death his comfort prove: LXXVII "Still must I live in anguish, grief, and care; Furies my guilty conscience that torment, The ugly shades, dark night, and troubled air In grisly forms her slaughter still present, Madness and death about my bed repair, Hell gapeth wide to swallow up this tent; Swift from myself I run, myself I fear, Yet still my hell within myself I bear. LXXVIII "But where, alas, where be those relics sweet, Wherein dwelt late all love, all joy, all good? My fury left them cast in open street, Some beast hath torn her flesh and licked her blood, Ah noble prey! for savage beast unmeet, Ah sweet! too sweet, and far too precious food, Ah, seely nymph! whom night and darksome shade To beasts, and me, far worse than beasts, betrayed. LXXIX "But where you be, if still you be, I wend To gather up those relics dear at least, But if some beast hath from the hills descend, And on her tender bowels made his feast, Let that fell monster me in pieces rend, And deep entomb me in his hollow chest: For where she buried is, there shall I have A stately tomb, a rich and costly grave." LXXX Thus mourned the knight, his squires him told at last, They had her there for whom those tears he shed; A beam of comfort his dim eyes outcast, Like lightning through thick clouds of darkness spread, The heavy burden of his limbs in haste, With mickle pain, he drew forth of his bed, And scant of strength to stand, to move or go, Thither he staggered, reeling to and fro. LXXXI When he came there, and in her breast espied His handiwork, that deep and cruel wound, And her sweet face with leaden paleness dyed, Where beauty late spread forth her beams around, He trembled so, that nere his squires beside To hold him up, he had sunk down to ground, And said, "O face in death still sweet and fair! Thou canst not sweeten yet my grief and care: LXXXII "O fair right hand, the pledge of faith and love? Given me but late, too late, in sign of peace, How haps it now thou canst not stir nor move? And you, dear limbs, now laid in rest and ease, Through which my cruel blade this flood-gate rove, Your pains have end, my torments never cease, O hands, O cruel eyes, accursed alike! You gave the wound, you gave them light to strike. LXXXIII "But thither now run forth my guilty blood, Whither my plaints, my sorrows cannot wend." He said no more, but, as his passion wood Inforced him, he gan to tear and rend His hair, his face, his wounds, a purple flood Did from each side in rolling streams descend, He had been slain, but that his pain and woe Bereft his senses, and preserved him so. LXXXIV Cast on his bed his squires recalled his sprite To execute again her hateful charge, But tattling fame the sorrows of the knight And hard mischance had told this while at large: Godfrey and all his lords of worth and might, Ran thither, and the duty would discharge Of friendship true, and with sweet words the rage Of bitter grief and woe they would assuage. LXXXV But as a mortal wound the more doth smart The more it searched is, handled or sought; So their sweet words to his afflicted heart More grief, more anguish, pain and torment brought But reverend Peter that would set apart Care of his sheep, as a good shepherd ought, His vanity with grave advice reproved And told what mourning Christian knights behoved: LXXXVI "O Tancred, Tancred, how far different From thy beginnings good these follies be? What makes thee deaf? what hath thy eyesight blent? What mist, what cloud thus overshadeth thee? This is a warning good from heaven down sent, Yet His advice thou canst not hear nor see Who calleth and conducts thee to the way From which thou willing dost and witting stray: LXXXVII "To worthy actions and achievements fit For Christian knights He would thee home recall; But thou hast left that course and changed it, To make thyself a heathen damsel's thrall; But see, thy grief and sorrow's painful fit Is made the rod to scourge thy sins withal, Of thine own good thyself the means He makes, But thou His mercy, goodness, grace forsakes. LXXXVIII "Thou dost refuse of heaven the proffered And gainst it still rebel with sinful ire, Oh wretch! Oh whither doth thy rage thee chase? Refrain thy grief, bridle thy fond desire, At hell's wide gate vain sorrow doth thee place, Sorrow, misfortune's son, despair's foul fire: Oh see thine evil, thy plaint and woe refrain, The guides to death, to hell, and endless pain." LXXXIX This said, his will to die the patient Abandoned, that second death he feared, These words of comfort to his heart down went, And that dark night of sorrow somewhat cleared; Yet now and then his grief deep sighs forth sent, His voice shrill plaints and sad laments oft reared, Now to himself, now to his murdered love, He spoke, who heard perchance from heaven above. XC Till Phoebus' rising from his evening fall To her, for her, he mourns, he calls, he cries; The nightingale so when her children small Some churl takes before their parents' eyes, Alone, dismayed, quite bare of comforts all, Tires with complaints the seas, the shores, the skies, Till in sweet sleep against the morning bright She fall at last; so mourned, so slept the knight. XCI And clad in starry veil, amid his dream, For whose sweet sake he mourned, appeared the maid, Fairer than erst, yet with that heavenly beam. Not out of knowledge was her lovely shade, With looks of ruth her eyes celestial seem To pity his sad plight, and thus she said, "Behold how fair, how glad thy love appears, And for my sake, my dear, forbear these tears. XCII "Thine be the thanks, my soul thou madest flit At unawares out of her earthly nest, Thine be the thanks, thou hast advanced it In Abraham's dear bosom long to rest, There still I love thee, there for Tancred fit A seat prepared is among the blest; There in eternal joy, eternal light, Thou shalt thy love enjoy, and she her knight; XCIII "Unless thyself, thyself heaven's joys envy, And thy vain sorrow thee of bliss deprive, Live, know I love thee, that I nill deny, As angels, men: as saints may wights on live:" This said, of zeal and love forth of her eye An hundred glorious beams bright shining drive, Amid which rays herself she closed from sigh, And with new joy, new comfort left her knight. XCIV Thus comforted he waked, and men discreet In surgery to cure his wounds were sought, Meanwhile of his dear love the relics sweet, As best he could, to grave with pomp he brought: Her tomb was not of varied Spartan greet, Nor yet by cunning hand of Scopas wrought, But built of polished stone, and thereon laid The lively shape and portrait of the maid. XCV With sacred burning lamps in order long And mournful pomp the corpse was brought to ground Her arms upon a leafless pine were hung, The hearse, with cypress; arms, with laurel crowned: Next day the prince, whose love and courage strong Drew forth his limbs, weak, feeble, and unsound, To visit went, with care and reverence meet, The buried ashes of his mistress sweet: XCVI Before her new-made tomb at last arrived, The woful prison of his living sprite, Pale, cold, sad, comfortless, of sense deprived, Upon the marble gray he fixed his sight, Two streams of tears were from his eyes derived: Thus with a sad "Alas!" began the knight, "O marble dear on my dear mistress placed! My flames within, without my tears thou hast. XCVII "Not of dead bones art thou the mournful grave, But of quick love the fortress and the hold, Still in my heart thy wonted brands I have More bitter far, alas! but not more cold; Receive these sighs, these kisses sweet receive, In liquid drops of melting tears enrolled, And give them to that body pure and chaste, Which in thy bosom cold entombed thou hast. XCVIII "For if her happy soul her eye doth bend On that sweet body which it lately dressed, My love, thy pity cannot her offend, Anger and wrath is not in angels blessed, She pardon will the trespass of her friend, That hope relieves me with these griefs oppressed, This hand she knows hath only sinned, not I, Who living loved her, and for love now die: XCIX "And loving will I die, oh happy day Whene'er it chanceth! but oh far more blessed If as about thy polished sides I stray, My bones within thy hollow grave might rest, Together should in heaven our spirits stay, Together should our bodies lie in chest; So happy death should join what life doth sever, O Death, O Life! sweet both, both blessed ever." C Meanwhile the news in that besieged town Of this mishap was whispered here and there, Forthwith it spread, and for too true was known, Her woful loss was talked everywhere, Mingled with cries and plaints to heaven upthrown, As if the city's self new taken were With conquering foes, or as if flame and fire, Nor house, nor church, nor street had left entire. CI But all men's eyes were on Arsetes bent, His sighs were deep, his looks full of despair, Out of his woful eyes no tear there went, His heart was hardened with his too much care, His silver locks with dust he foul besprent, He knocked his breast, his face he rent and tare, And while the press flocked to the eunuch old, Thus to the people spake Argantes bold: CII "I would, when first I knew the hardy maid Excluded was among her Christian foes, Have followed her to give her timely aid, Or by her side this breath and life to lose, What did I not, or what left I unsaid To make the king the gates again unclose? But he denied, his power did aye restrain My will, my suit was waste, my speech was vain: CIII "Ah, had I gone, I would from danger free Have brought to Sion that sweet nymph again, Or in the bloody fight, where killed was she, In her defence there nobly have been slain: But what could I do more? the counsels be Of God and man gainst my designments plain, Dead is Clorinda fair, laid in cold grave, Let me revenge her whom I could not save. CIV "Jerusalem, hear what Argantes saith, Hear Heaven, and if he break his oath and word, Upon this head cast thunder in thy wrath: I will destroy and kill that Christian lord Who this fair dame by night thus murdered hath, Nor from my side I will ungird this sword Till Tancred's heart it cleave, and shed his blood, And leave his corpse to wolves and crows for food." CV This said, the people with a joyful shout Applaud his speeches and his words approve, And calmed their grief in hope the boaster stout Would kill the prince, who late had slain his love. O promise vain! it otherwise fell out: Men purpose, but high gods dispose above, For underneath his sword this boaster died Whom thus he scorned and threatened in his pride. THIRTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Ismeno sets to guard the forest old The wicked sprites, whose ugly shapes affray And put to flight the men, whose labor would To their dark shades let in heaven's golden ray: Thither goes Tancred hardy, faithful, bold, But foolish pity lets him not assay His strength and courage: heat the Christian power Annoys, whom to refresh God sends a shower. I But scant, dissolved into ashes cold, The smoking tower fell on the scorched grass, When new device found out the enchanter old By which the town besieged secured was, Of timber fit his foes deprive he would, Such terror bred that late consumed mass: So that the strength of Sion's walls to shake, They should no turrets, rams, nor engines make. II From Godfrey's camp a grove a little way Amid the valleys deep grows out of sight, Thick with old trees whose horrid arms display An ugly shade, like everlasting night; There when the sun spreads forth his clearest ray, Dim, thick, uncertain, gloomy seems the light; As when in evening, day and darkness strive Which should his foe from our horizon drive. III But when the sun his chair in seas doth steep, Night, horror, darkness thick the place invade, Which veil the mortal eyes with blindness deep And with sad terror make weak hearts afraid, Thither no groom drives forth his tender sheep To browse, or ease their faint in cooling shade, Nor traveller nor pilgrim there to enter, So awful seems that forest old, dare venture. IV United there the ghosts and goblins meet To frolic with their mates in silent night, With dragons' wings some cleave the welkin fleet, Some nimbly run o'er hills and valleys light, A wicked troop, that with allurements sweet Draws sinful man from that is good and right, And there with hellish pomp their banquets brought They solemnize, thus the vain Parians thought. V No twist, no twig, no bough nor branch, therefore, The Saracens cut from that sacred spring; But yet the Christians spared ne'er the more The trees to earth with cutting steel to bring: Thither went Ismen old with tresses hoar, When night on all this earth spread forth her wing, And there in silence deaf and mirksome shade His characters and circles vain he made: VI He in the circle set one foot unshod, And whispered dreadful charms in ghastly wise, Three times, for witchcraft loveth numbers odd, Toward the east he gaped, westward thrice, He struck the earth thrice with his charmed rod Wherewith dead bones he makes from grave to rise, And thrice the ground with naked foot he smote, And thus he cried loud, with thundering note: VII "Hear, hear, you spirits all that whilom fell, Cast down from heaven with dint of roaring thunder; Hear, you amid the empty air that dwell And storms and showers pour on these kingdoms under; Hear, all you devils that lie in deepest hell And rend with torments damned ghosts asunder, And of those lands of death, of pain and fear, Thou monarch great, great Dis, great Pluto, hear! VIII "Keep you this forest well, keep every tree, Numbered I give you them and truly told; As souls of men in bodies clothed be So every plant a sprite shall hide and hold, With trembling fear make all the Christians flee, When they presume to cut these cedars old:" This said, his charms he gan again repeat, Which none can say but they that use like feat. IX At those strange speeches, still night's splendent fires Quenched their lights, and shrunk away for doubt, The feeble moon her silver beams retires, And wrapt her horns with folding clouds about, Ismen his sprites to come with speed requires, "Why come you not, you ever damned rout? Why tarry you so long? pardie you stay Till stronger charms and greater words I say. X "I have not yet forgot for want of use, What dreadful terms belong this sacred feat, My tongue, if still your stubborn hearts refuse, That so much dreaded name can well repeat, Which heard, great Dis cannot himself excuse, But hither run from his eternal seat, O great and fearful!"--More he would have said, But that he saw the sturdy sprites obeyed. XI Legions of devils by thousands thither come, Such as in sparsed air their biding make, And thousands also which by Heavenly doom Condemned lie in deep Avernus lake, But slow they came, displeased all and some Because those woods they should in keeping take, Yet they obeyed and took the charge in hand, And under every branch and leaf they stand. XII When thus his cursed work performed was, The wizard to his king declared the feat, "My lord, let fear, let doubt and sorrow pass, Henceforth in safety stands your regal seat, Your foe, as he supposed, no mean now has To build again his rams and engines great:" And then he told at large from part to part, All what he late performed by wondrous art. XIII "Besides this help, another hap," quoth he, "Will shortly chance that brings not profit small. Within few days Mars and the Sun I see Their fiery beams unite in Leo shall; And then extreme the scorching heat will be, Which neither rain can quench nor dews that fall, So placed are the planets high and low, That heat, fire, burning all the heavens foreshow: XIV "So great with us will be the warmth therefore, As with the Garamants or those of Inde; Yet nill it grieve us in this town so sore, We have sweet shade and waters cold by kind: Our foes abroad will be tormented more, What shield can they or what refreshing find? Heaven will them vanquish first, then Egypt's crew Destroy them quite, weak, weary, faint and few: XV "Thou shalt sit still and conquer; prove no more The doubtful hazard of uncertain fight. But if Argantes bold, that hates so sore All cause of quiet peace, though just and right, Provoke thee forth to battle, as before, Find means to calm the rage of that fierce knight, For shortly Heaven will send thee ease and peace, And war and trouble mongst thy foes increase." XVI The king assured by these speeches fair, Held Godfrey's power, his might and strength in scorn, And now the walls he gan in part repair, Which late the ram had bruised with iron horn, With wise foresight and well advised care He fortified each breach and bulwark torn, And all his folk, men, women, children small, With endless toil again repaired the wall. XVII But Godfrey nould this while bring forth his power To give assault against that fort in vain, Till he had builded new his dreadful tower, And reared high his down-fallen rams again: His workmen therefore he despatched that hour To hew the trees out of the forest main, They went, and scant the wood appeared in sight When wonders new their fearful hearts affright: XVIII As silly children dare not bend their eye Where they are told strange bugbears haunt the place, Or as new monsters, while in bed they lie, Their fearful thoughts present before their face; So feared they, and fled, yet wist not why, Nor what pursued them in that fearful chase. Except their fear perchance while thus they fled, New chimeras, sphinxes, or like monsters bred: XIX Swift to the camp they turned back dismayed, With words confused uncertain tales they told, That all which heard them scorned what they said And those reports for lies and fables hold. A chosen crew in shining arms arrayed Duke Godfrey thither sent of soldiers bold, To guard the men and their faint arms provoke To cut the dreadful trees with hardy stroke: XX These drawing near the wood where close ypent The wicked sprites in sylvan pinfolds were, Their eyes upon those shades no sooner bent But frozen dread pierced through their entrails dear; Yet on they stalked still, and on they went, Under bold semblance hiding coward fear, And so far wandered forth with trembling pace, Till they approached nigh that enchanted place: XXI When from the grove a fearful sound outbreaks, As if some earthquake hill and mountain tore, Wherein the southern wind a rumbling makes, Or like sea waves against the scraggy shore; There lions grumble, there hiss scaly snakes, There howl the wolves, the rugged bears there roar, There trumpets shrill are heard and thunders fell, And all these sounds one sound expressed well. XXII Upon their faces pale well might you note A thousand signs of heart-amating fear, Their reason gone, by no device they wot How to press nigh, or stay still where they were, Against that sudden dread their breasts which smote, Their courage weak no shield of proof could bear, At last they fled, and one than all more bold, Excused their flight, and thus the wonders told: XXIII "My lord, not one of us there is, I grant, That dares cut down one branch in yonder spring, I think there dwells a sprite in every plant, There keeps his court great Dis infernal king, He hath a heart of hardened adamant That without trembling dares attempt the thing, And sense he wanteth who so hardy is To hear the forest thunder, roar and hiss." XXIV This said, Alcasto to his words gave heed, Alcasto leader of the Switzers grim, A man both void of wit and void of dreed, Who feared not loss of life nor loss of limb. No savage beasts in deserts wild that feed Nor ugly monster could dishearten him, Nor whirlwind, thunder, earthquake, storm, or aught That in this world is strange or fearful thought. XXV He shook his head, and smiling thus gan say, "The hardiness have I that wood to fell, And those proud trees low in the dust to lay Wherein such grisly fiends and monsters dwell; No roaring ghost my courage can dismay, No shriek of birds, beast's roar, or dragon's yell; But through and through that forest will I wend, Although to deepest hell the paths descend." XXVI Thus boasted he, and leave to go desired, And forward went with joyful cheer and will, He viewed the wood and those thick shades admired, He heard the wondrous noise and rumbling shrill; Yet not one foot the audacious man retired, He scorned the peril, pressing forward still, Till on the forest's outmost marge he stepped, A flaming fire from entrance there him kept. XXVII The fire increased, and built a stately wall Of burning coals, quick sparks, and embers hot, And with bright flames the wood environed all, That there no tree nor twist Alcasto got; The higher stretched the flames seemed bulwarks tall, Castles and turrets full of fiery shot, With slings and engines strong of every sort;-- What mortal wight durst scale so strange a fort? XXVIII Oh what strange monsters on the battlement In loathsome forms stood to defend the place? Their frowning looks upon the knight they bent, And threatened death with shot, with sword and mace: At last he fled, and though but slow he went, As lions do whom jolly hunters chase; Yet fled the man and with sad fear withdrew, Though fear till then he never felt nor knew. XXIX That he had fled long time he never wist, But when far run he had discoverd it, Himself for wonder with his hand he blist, A bitter sorrow by the heart him bit, Amazed, ashamed, disgraced, sad, silent, trist, Alone he would all day in darkness sit, Nor durst he look on man of worth or fame, His pride late great, now greater made his shame. XXX Godfredo called him, but he found delays And causes why he should his cabin keep, At length perforce he comes, but naught he says, Or talks like those that babble in their sleep. His shamefacedness to Godfrey plain bewrays His flight, so does his sighs and sadness deep: Whereat amazed, "What chance is this?" quoth he. "These witchcrafts strange or nature's wonders be. XXXI "But if his courage any champion move To try the hazard of this dreadful spring, I give him leave the adventure great to prove, Some news he may report us of the thing:" This said, his lords attempt the charmed grove, Yet nothing back but fear and flight they bring, For them inforced with trembling to retire, The sight, the sound, the monsters and the fire. XXXII This happed when woful Tancred left his bed To lay in marble cold his mistress dear, The lively color from his cheek was fled, His limbs were weak his helm or targe to bear; Nathless when need to high attempts him led, No labor would he shun, no danger fear, His valor, boldness, heart and courage brave, To his faint body strength and vigor gave. XXXIII To this exploit forth went the venturous knight, Fearless, yet heedful; silent, well advised, The terrors of that forest's dreadful sight, Storms, earthquakes, thunders, cries, he all despised: He feared nothing, yet a motion light, That quickly vanished, in his heart arised When lo, between him and the charmed wood, A fiery city high as heaven up stood. XXXIV The knight stepped back and took a sudden pause, And to himself, "What help these arms?" quoth he, "If in this fire, or monster's gaping jaws I headlong cast myself, what boots it me? For common profit, or my country's cause, To hazard life before me none should be: But this exploit of no such weight I hold, For it to lose a prince or champion bold. XXXV But if I fly, what will the Pagans say? If I retire, who shall cut down this spring? Godfredo will attempt it every day. What if some other knight perform the thing? These flames uprisen to forestall my way Perchance more terror far than danger bring. But hap what shall;" this said, he forward stepped, And through the fire, oh wondrous boldness, leapt! XXXVI He bolted through, but neither warmth nor heat! He felt, nor sign of fire or scorching flame; Yet wist he not in his dismayed conceit, If that were fire or no through which he came; For at first touch vanished those monsters great, And in their stead the clouds black night did frame And hideous storms and showers of hail and rain; Yet storms and tempests vanished straight again. XXXVII Amazed but not afraid the champion good Stood still, but when the tempest passed he spied, He entered boldly that forbidden wood, And of the forest all the secrets eyed, In all his walk no sprite or phantasm stood That stopped his way or passage free denied, Save that the growing trees so thick were set, That oft his sight, and passage oft they let. XXXVIII At length a fair and spacious green he spied, Like calmest waters, plain, like velvet, soft, Wherein a cypress clad in summer's pride, Pyramid-wise, lift up his tops aloft; In whose smooth bark upon the evenest side, Strange characters he found, and viewed them oft, Like those which priests of Egypt erst instead Of letters used, which none but they could read. XXXIX Mongst them he picked out these words at last, Writ in the Syriac tongue, which well he could, "Oh hardy knight, who through these woods hast passed: Where Death his palace and his court doth hold! Oh trouble not these souls in quiet placed, Oh be not cruel as thy heart is bold, Pardon these ghosts deprived of heavenly light, With spirits dead why should men living fight?" XL This found he graven in the tender rind, And while he mused on this uncouth writ, Him thought he heard the softly whistling wind His blasts amid the leaves and branches knit And frame a sound like speech of human kind, But full of sorrow grief and woe was it, Whereby his gentle thoughts all filled were With pity, sadness, grief, compassion, fear. XLI He drew his sword at last, and gave the tree A mighty blow, that made a gaping wound, Out of the rift red streams he trickling see That all bebled the verdant plain around, His hair start up, yet once again stroke he, He nould give over till the end he found Of this adventure, when with plaint and moan, As from some hollow grave, he heard one groan. XLII "Enough, enough!" the voice lamenting said, "Tancred, thou hast me hurt, thou didst me drive Out of the body of a noble maid Who with me lived, whom late I kept on live, And now within this woful cypress laid, My tender rind thy weapon sharp doth rive, Cruel, is't not enough thy foes to kill, But in their graves wilt thou torment them still? XLIII "I was Clorinda, now imprisoned here, Yet not alone within this plant I dwell, For every Pagan lord and Christian peer, Before the city's walls last day that fell, In bodies new or graves I wot not clear, But here they are confined by magic's spell, So that each tree hath life, and sense each bough, A murderer if thou cut one twist art thou." XLIV As the sick man that in his sleep doth see Some ugly dragon, or some chimera new, Though he suspect, or half persuaded be, It is an idle dream, no monster true, Yet still he fears, he quakes, and strives to flee, So fearful is that wondrous form to view; So feared the knight, yet he both knew and thought All were illusions false by witchcraft wrought: XLV But cold and trembling waxed his frozen heart, Such strange effects, such passions it torment, Out of his feeble hand his weapon start, Himself out of his wits nigh, after went: Wounded he saw, he thought, for pain and smart, His lady weep, complain, mourn, and lament, Nor could he suffer her dear blood to see, Or hear her sighs that deep far fetched be. XLVI Thus his fierce heart which death had scorned oft, Whom no strange shape or monster could dismay, With feigned shows of tender love made soft, A spirit false did with vain plaints betray; A whirling wind his sword heaved up aloft, And through the forest bare it quite away. O'ercome retired the prince, and as he came, His sword he found, and repossessed the same, XLVII Yet nould return, he had no mind to try His courage further in those forests green; But when to Godfrey's tent he proached nigh, His spirits waked, his thoughts composed been, "My Lord." quoth he, "a witness true am I Of wonders strange, believe it scant though seen, What of the fire, the shades, the dreadful sound You heard, all true by proof myself have found; XLVIII "A burning fire, so are those deserts charmed, Built like a battled wall to heaven was reared; Whereon with darts and dreadful weapons armed, Of monsters foul mis-shaped whole bands appeared; But through them all I passed, unhurt, unharmed, No flame or threatened blow I felt or feared, Then rain and night I found, but straight again To day, the night, to sunshine turned the rain. XLIX "What would you more? each tree through all that wood Hath sense, hath life, hath speech, like human kind, I heard their words as in that grove I stood, That mournful voice still, still I bear in mind: And, as they were of flesh, the purple blood At every blow streams from the wounded rind; No, no, not I, nor any else, I trow, Hath power to cut one leaf, one branch, one bough." L While thus he said, the Christian's noble guide Felt uncouth strife in his contentious thought, He thought, what if himself in perzon tried Those witchcrafts strange, and bring those charms to naught, For such he deemed them, or elsewhere provide For timber easier got though further sought, But from his study he at last abraid, Called by the hermit old that to him said: LI "Leave off thy hardy thought, another's hands Of these her plants the wood dispoilen shall, Now, now the fatal ship of conquest lands, Her sails are struck, her silver anchors fall, Our champion broken hath his worthless bands, And looseth from the soil which held him thrall, The time draws nigh when our proud foes in field Shall slaughtered lie, and Sion's fort shall yield." LII This said, his visage shone with beams divine, And more than mortal was his voice's sound, Godfredo's thought to other acts incline, His working brain was never idle found. But in the Crab now did bright Titan shine, And scorched with scalding beams the parched ground, And made unfit for toil or warlike feat His soldiers, weak with labor, faint with sweat: LIII The planets mild their lamps benign quenched out, And cruel stars in heaven did signorize, Whose influence cast fiery flames about And hot impressions through the earth and skies, The growing heat still gathered deeper rout, The noisome warmth through lands and kingdoms flies, A harmful night a hurtful day succeeds, And worse than both next morn her light outspreads. LIV When Phoebus rose he left his golden weed, And donned a gite in deepest purple dyed, His sanguine beams about his forehead spread, A sad presage of ill that should betide, With vermeil drops at even his tresses bleed, Foreshows of future heat, from the ocean wide When next he rose, and thus increased still Their present harms with dread of future ill, LV While thus he bent gainst earth his scorching rays, He burnt the flowers, burnt his Clytie dear, The leaves grew wan upon the withered sprays, The grass and growing herbs all parched were, Earth cleft in rifts, in floods their streams decays, The barren clouds with lightning bright appear, And mankind feared lest Climenes' child again Had driven awry his sire's ill-guided wain. LVI As from a furnace flew the smoke to skies, Such smoke as that when damned Sodom brent, Within his caves sweet Zephyr silent lies, Still was the air, the rack nor came nor went, But o'er the lands with lukewarm breathing flies The southern wind, from sunburnt Afric sent, Which thick and warm his interrupted blasts Upon their bosoms, throats, and faces casts. LVII Nor yet more comfort brought the gloomy night, In her thick shades was burning heat uprolled, Her sable mantle was embroidered bright With blazing stars and gliding fires for gold, Nor to refresh, sad earth, thy thirsty sprite, The niggard moon let fall her May dews cold, And dried up the vital moisture was, In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass. LVIII Sleep to his quiet dales exiled fled From these unquiet nights, and oft in vain The soldiers restless sought the god in bed, But most for thirst they mourned and most complain; For Juda's tyrant had strong poison shed, Poison that breeds more woe and deadly pain, Than Acheron or Stygian waters bring, In every fountain, cistern, well and spring: LIX And little Siloe that his store bestows Of purest crystal on the Christian bands, The pebbles naked in his channel shows And scantly glides above the scorched sands, Nor Po in May when o'er his banks he flows, Nor Ganges, waterer of the Indian lands, Nor seven-mouthed Nile that yields all Egypt drink, To quench their thirst the men sufficient think. LX He that the gliding rivers erst had seen Adown their verdant channels gently rolled, Or falling streams which to the valleys green Distilled from tops of Alpine mountains cold, Those he desired in vain, new torments been, Augmented thus with wish of comforts old, Those waters cool he drank in vain conceit, Which more increased his thirst, increased his heat. LXI The sturdy bodies of the warriors strong, Whom neither marching far, nor tedious way, Nor weighty arms which on their shoulders hung, Could weary make, nor death itself dismay; Now weak and feeble cast their limbs along, Unwieldly burdens, on the burned clay, And in each vein a smouldering fire there dwelt, Which dried their flesh and solid bones did melt. LXII Languished the steed late fierce, and proffered grass, His fodder erst, despised and from him cast, Each step he stumbled, and which lofty was And high advanced before now fell his crest, His conquests gotten all forgotten pass, Nor with desire of glory swelled his breast, The spoils won from his foe, his late rewards, He now neglects, despiseth, naught regards. LXIII Languished the faithful dog, and wonted care Of his dear lord and cabin both forgot, Panting he laid, and gathered fresher air To cool the burning in his entrails hot: But breathing, which wise nature did prepare To suage the stomach's heat, now booted not, For little ease, alas, small help, they win That breathe forth air and scalding fire suck in. LXIV Thus languished the earth, in this estate Lay woful thousands of the Christians stout, The faithful people grew nigh desperate Of hoped conquest, shameful death they doubt, Of their distress they talk and oft debate, These sad complaints were heard the camp throughout: "What hope hath Godfrey? shall we still here lie Till all his soldiers, all our armies die? LXV "Alas, with what device, what strength, thinks he To scale these walls, or this strong fort to get? Whence hath he engines new? doth he not see, How wrathful Heaven gainst us his sword doth whet? These tokens shown true signs and witness be Our angry God our proud attempts doth let, And scorching sun so hot his beams outspreads, That not more cooling Inde nor Aethiop needs. LXVI "Or thinks he it an eath or little thing That us despised, neglected, and disdained, Like abjects vile, to death he thus should bring, That so his empire may be still maintained? Is it so great a bliss to be a king, When he that wears the crown with blood is stained And buys his sceptre with his people's lives? See whither glory vain, fond mankind drives. LXVII "See, see the man, called holy, just, and good, That courteous, meek, and humble would be thought, Yet never cared in what distress we stood If his vain honor were diminished naught, When dried up from us his spring and flood His water must from Jordan streams be brought, And how he sits at feasts and banquets sweet And mingleth waters fresh with wines of Crete." LXVIII The French thus murmured, but the Greekish knight Tatine, that of this war was weary grown: "Why die we here," quoth he, "slain without fight, Killed, not subdued, murdered, not overthrown? Upon the Frenchmen let the penance light Of Godfrey's folly, let me save mine own," And as he said, without farewell, the knight And all his comet stole away by night. LXIX His bad example many a troop prepares To imitate, when his escape they know, Clotharius his band, and Ademare's, And all whose guides in dust were buried low, Discharged of duty's chains and bondage snares, Free from their oath, to none they service owe, But now concluded all on secret flight, And shrunk away by thousands every night. LXX Godfredo this both heard, and saw, and knew, Yet nould with death them chastise though he mought, But with that faith wherewith he could renew The steadfast hills and seas dry up to naught He prayed the Lord upon his flock to rue, To ope the springs of grace and ease this drought, Out of his looks shone zeal, devotion, faith, His hands and eyes to heaven he heaves, and saith: LXXI "Father and Lord, if in the deserts waste Thou hadst compassion on thy children dear, The craggy rock when Moses cleft and brast, And drew forth flowing streams of waters clear, Like mercy, Lord, like grace on us down cast; And though our merits less than theirs appear, Thy grace supply that want, for though they be Thy first-born son, thy children yet are we." LXXII These prayers just, from humble hearts forth sent, Were nothing slow to climb the starry sky, But swift as winged bird themselves present Before the Father of the heavens high: The Lord accepted them, and gently bent Upon the faithful host His gracious eye, And in what pain and what distress it laid, He saw, and grieved to see, and thus He said: LXXIII "Mine armies dear till now have suffered woe, Distress and danger, hell's infernal power Their enemy hath been, the world their foe, But happy be their actions from this hour: What they begin to blessed end shall go, I will refresh them with a gentle shower; Rinaldo shall return, the Egyptian crew They shall encounter, conquer, and subdue." LXXIV At these high words great heaven began to shake, The fixed stars, the planets wandering still, Trembled the air, the earth and ocean quake, Spring, fountain, river, forest, dale and hill; From north to east, a lightning flash outbrake, And coming drops presaged with thunders shrill: With joyful shouts the soldiers on the plain, These tokens bless of long-desired rain. LXXV A sudden cloud, as when Helias prayed, Not from dry earth exhaled by Phoebus' beams, Arose, moist heaven his windows open laid, Whence clouds by heaps out rush, and watery streams, The world o'erspread was with a gloomy shade, That like a dark mirksome even it seems; The crashing rain from molten skies down fell, And o'er their banks the brooks and fountains swell. LXXVI In summer season, when the cloudy sky Upon the parched ground doth rain down send, As duck and mallard in the furrows dry With merry noise the promised showers attend, And spreading broad their wings displayed lie To keep the drops that on their plumes descend, And where the streams swell to a gathered lake, Therein they dive, and sweet refreshing take: LXXVII So they the streaming showers with shouts and cries Salute, which heaven shed on the thirsty lands, The falling liquor from the dropping skies He catcheth in his lap, he barehead stands, And his bright helm to drink therein unties, In the fresh streams he dives his sweaty hands, Their faces some, and some their temples wet, And some to keep the drops large vessels set. LXXVIII Nor man alone to ease his burning sore, Herein doth dive and wash, and hereof drinks, But earth itself weak, feeble, faint before, Whose solid limbs were cleft with rifts and chinks, Received the falling showers and gathered store Of liquor sweet, that through her veins down sinks, And moisture new infused largely was In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass. LXXIX Earth, like the patient was, whose lively blood Hath overcome at last some sickness strong, Whose feeble limbs had been the bait and food Whereon this strange disease depastured long, But now restored, in health and welfare stood, As sound as erst, as fresh, as fair, as young; So that forgetting all his grief and pain, His pleasant robes and crowns he takes again. LXXX Ceased the rain, the sun began to shine, With fruitful, sweet, benign, and gentle ray, Full of strong power and vigor masculine, As be his beams in April or in May. O happy zeal! who trusts in help divine The world's afflictions thus can drive away, Can storms appease, and times and seasons change, And conquer fortune, fate, and destiny strange. FOURTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The Lord to Godfrey in a dream doth show His will; Rinaldo must return at last; They have their asking who for pardon sue: Two knights to find the prince are sent in haste, But Peter, who by vision all foreknew, Sendeth the searchers to a wizard, placed Deep in a vault, who first at large declares Armida's trains, then how to shun those snares. I Now from the fresh, the soft and tender bed Of her still mother, gentle night out flew, The fleeting balm on hills and dales she shed, With honey drops of pure and precious dew, And on the verdure of green forests spread The virgin primrose and the violet blue, And sweet-breathed Zephyr on his spreading wings, Sleep, ease, repose, rest, peace and quiet brings. II The thoughts and troubles of broad-waking day, They softly dipped in mild Oblivion's lake; But he whose Godhead heaven and earth doth sway, In his eternal light did watch and wake, And bent on Godfrey down the gracious ray Of his bright eye, still ope for Godfrey's sake, To whom a silent dream the Lord down sent. Which told his will, his pleasure and intent. III Far in the east, the golden gate beside Whence Phoebus comes, a crystal port there is, And ere the sun his broad doors open wide The beam of springing day uncloseth this, Hence comes the dreams, by which heaven's sacred guide Reveals to man those high degrees of his, Hence toward Godfrey ere he left his bed A vision strange his golden plumes bespread. IV Such semblances, such shapes, such portraits fair, Did never yet in dream or sleep appear, For all the forms in sea, in earth or air, The signs in heaven, the stars in every sphere All that was wondrous, uncouth, strange and rare, All in that vision well presented were. His dream had placed him in a crystal wide, Beset with golden fires, top, bottom, side, V There while he wondereth on the circles vast, The stars, their motions, course and harmony, A knight, with shining rays and fire embraced, Presents himself unwares before his eye, Who with a voice that far for sweetness passed All human speech, thus said, approaching nigh: "What, Godfrey, knowest thou not thy Hugo here? Come and embrace thy friend and fellow dear!" VI He answered him, "Thy glorious shining light Which in thine eyes his glistering beams doth place, Estranged hath from my foreknowledge quite Thy countenance, thy favor, and thy face:" This said, three times he stretched his hands outright And would in friendly arms the knight embrace, And thrice the spirit fled, that thrice he twined Naught in his folded arms but air and wind. VII Lord Hugo smiled, "Not as you think," quoth he, "I clothed am in flesh and earthly mould, My spirit pure, and naked soul, you see, A citizen of this celestial hold: This place is heaven, and here a room for thee Prepared is among Christ's champions bold:" "Ah when," quoth he, "these mortal bonds unknit, Shall I in peace, in ease and rest there sit?" VIII Hugo replied, "Ere many years shall run, Amid the saints in bliss here shalt thou reign; But first great wars must by thy hand be done, Much blood be shed, and many Pagans slain, The holy city by assault be won, The land set free from servile yoke again, Wherein thou shalt a Christian empire frame, And after thee shall Baldwin rule the same. IX "But to increase thy love and great desire To heavenward, this blessed place behold, These shining lamps, these globes of living fire, How they are turned, guided, moved and rolled; The angels' singing hear, and all their choir; Then bend thine eyes on yonder earth and mould, All in that mass, that globe and compass see, Land, sea, spring, fountain, man, beast, grass and tree. X "How vile, how small, and of how slender price, Is their reward of goodness, virtue's gain! A narrow room our glory vain upties, A little circle doth our pride contain, Earth like an isle amid the water lies, Which sea sometime is called, sometime the main, Yet naught therein responds a name so great, It's but a lake, a pond, a marish strait." XI Thus said the one, the other bended down His looks to ground, and half in scorn he smiled, He saw at once earth, sea, flood, castle, town, Strangely divided, strangely all compiled, And wondered folly man so far should drown, To set his heart on things so base and vild, That servile empire searcheth and dumb fame, And scorns heaven's bliss, yet proffereth heaven the same. XII Wherefore he answered, "Since the Lord not yet Will free my spirit from this cage of clay, Lest worldly error vain my voyage let, Teach me to heaven the best and surest way:" Hugo replied, "Thy happy foot is set In the true path, nor from this passage stray, Only from exile young Rinaldo call, This give I thee in charge, else naught at all. XIII "For as the Lord of hosts, the King of bliss, Hath chosen thee to rule the faithful band; So he thy stratagems appointed is To execute, so both shall win this land: The first is thine, the second place is his, Thou art this army's head, and he the hand, No other champion can his place supply, And that thou do it doth thy state deny. XIV "The enchanted forest, and her charmed treen, With cutting steel shall he to earth down hew, And thy weak armies which too feeble been To scale again these walls reinforced new, And fainting lie dispersed on the green, Shall take new strength new courage at his view, The high-built towers, the eastern squadrons all, Shall conquered be, shall fly, shall die, shall fall." XV He held his peace; and Godfrey answered so: "Oh, how his presence would recomfort me! You that man's hidden thoughts perceive and know: If I say truth, or if I love him, see. But say, what messengers shall for him go? What shall their speeches, what their errand be? Shall I entreat, or else command the man? With credit neither well perform I can." XVI "The eternal Lord," the other knight replied, "That with so many graces hath thee blest, Will, that among the troops thou hast to guide, Thou honored be and feared of most and least: Then speak not thou lest blemish some betide Thy sacred empire if thou make request; But when by suit thou moved art to ruth, Then yield, forgive, and home recall the youth. XVII "Guelpho shall pray thee, God shall him inspire, To pardon this offence, this fault commit By hasty wrath, by rash and headstrong ire, To call the knight again; yield thou to it: And though the youth, enwrapped in fond desire, Far hence in love and looseness idle sit, Year fear it not, he shall return with speed, When most you wish him and when most you need. XVIII "Your hermit Peter, to whose sapient heart High Heaven his secrets opens, tells and shews, Your messengers direct can to that part, Where of the prince they shall hear certain news, And learn the way, the manner, and the art To bring him back to these thy warlike crews, That all thy soldiers, wandered and misgone, Heaven may unite again and join in one. XIX "But this conclusion shall my speeches end: Know that his blood shall mixed be with thine, Whence barons bold and worthies shall descend, That many great exploits shall bring to fine." This said, he vanished from his sleeping friend, Like smoke in wind, or mist in Titan's shine; Sleep fled likewise, and in his troubled thought, With wonder, pleasure; joy, with marvel fought. XX The duke looked up, and saw the azure sky With argent beams of silver morning spread, And started up, for praise axed virtue lie In toil and travel, sin and shame in bed: His arms he took, his sword girt to his thigh, To his pavilion all his lords them sped, And there in council grave the princes sit, For strength by wisdom, war is ruled by wit. XXI Lord Guelpho there, within whose gentle breast Heaven had infused that new and sudden thought, His pleasing words thus to the duke addressed: "Good prince, mild, though unasked, kind, unbesought, Oh let thy mercy grant my just request, Pardon this fault by rage not malice wrought; For great offence, I grant, so late commit, My suit too hasty is, perchance unfit. XXII But since to Godfrey meek benign and kind, For Prince Rinaldo bold, I humbly sue, And that the suitor's self is not behind Thy greatest friends in state or friendship true; I trust I shall thy grace and mercy find Acceptable to me and all this crew; Oh call him home, this trespass to amend, He shall his blood in Godfrey's service spend. XXIII "And if not he, who else dares undertake Of this enchanted wood to cut one tree? Gainst death and danger who dares battle make, With so bold face, so fearless heart as he? Beat down these walls, these gates in pieces break, Leap o'er these rampires high, thou shalt him see, Restore therefore to this desirous band Their wish, their hope, their strength, their shield, their hand; XXIV "To me my nephew, to thyself restore A trusty help, when strength of hand thou needs, In idleness let him consume no more, Recall him to his noble acts and deeds! Known be his worth as was his strength of yore Wher'er thy standard broad her cross outspreads, Oh, let his fame and praise spread far and wide, Be thou his lord, his teacher and his guidel" XXV Thus he entreated, and the rest approve His words, with friendly murmurs whispered low. Godfrey as though their suit his mind did move To that whereon he never thought tell now, "How can my heart," quoth he, "if you I love, To your request and suit but bend and bow? Let rigor go, that right and justice be Wherein you all consent and all agree. XXVI "Rinaldo shall return; let him restrain Henceforth his headstrong wrath and hasty ire, And with his hardy deeds let him take pain To correspond your hope and my desire: Guelpho, thou must call home the knight again, See that with speed he to these tents retire, The messengers appoint as likes thy mind, And teach them where they should the young man find." XXVII Up start the Dane that bare Prince Sweno's brand, "I will," quoth he, "that message undertake, I will refuse no pains by sea or land, To give the knight this sword, kept for his sake." This man was bold of courage, strong of hand, Guelpho was glad he did the proffer make: "Thou shalt," quoth he, "Ubaldo shalt thou have To go with thee, a knight, stout, wise, and grave." XXVIII Ubaldo in his youth had known and seen The fashions strange of many an uncouth land, And travelled over all the realms between The Arctic circle and hot Meroe's strand, And as a man whose wit his guide had been, Their customs use he could, tongues understand, Forthy when spent his youthful seasons were Lord Guelpho entertained and held him dear. XXIX To these committed was the charge and care To find and bring again the champion bold, Guelpho commands them to the fort repair, Where Boemond doth his seat and sceptre hold, For public fame said that Bertoldo's heir There lived, there dwelt, there stayed; the hermit old, That knew they were misled by false report, Among them came, and parleyed in this sort: XXX "Sir knights," quoth he, "if you intend to ride, And follow each report fond people say, You follow but a rash and truthless guide That leads vain men amiss and makes them stray; Near Ascalon go to the salt seaside, Where a swift brook fails in with hideous sway, An aged sire, our friend, there shall you find, All what he saith, that do, that keep in mind. XXXI "Of this great voyage which you undertake, Much by his skill, and much by mine advise Hath he foreknown, and welcome for my sake You both shall be, the man is kind and wise." Instructed thus no further question make The twain elected for this enterprise, But humbly yielded to obey his word, For what the hermit said, that said the Lord. XXXII They took their leave, and on their journey went, Their will could brook no stay, their zeal, no let; To Ascalon their voyage straight they bent, Whose broken shores with brackish waves are wet, And there they heard how gainst the cliffs, besprent With bitter foam, the roaring surges bet, A tumbling brook their passage stopped and stayed, Which late-fall'n rain had proud and puissant made, XXXIII So proud that over all his banks he grew, And through the fields ran swift as shaft from bow, While here they stopped and stood, before them drew An aged sire, grave and benign in show, Crowned with a beechen garland gathered new, Clad in a linen robe that raught down low, In his right hand a rod, and on the flood Against the stream he marched, and dry shod yode. XXXIV As on the Rhene, when winter's freezing cold Congeals the streams to thick and hardened glass, The beauties fair of shepherds' daughters bold With wanton windlays run, turn, play and pass; So on this river passed the wizard old, Although unfrozen soft and swift it was, And thither stalked where the warriors stayed, To whom, their greetings done, he spoke and said: XXXV "Great pains, great travel, lords, you have begun, And of a cunning guide great need you stand, Far off, alas! is great Bertoldo's son, Imprisoned in a waste and desert land, What soil remains by which you must not run, What promontory, rock, sea, shore or sand Your search must stretch before the prince be found, Beyond our world, beyond our half of ground! XXXVI But yet vouchsafe to see my cell I pray, In hidden caves and vaults though builded low, Great wonders there, strange things I will bewray, Things good for you to hear, and fit to know:" This said, he bids the river make them way, The flood retired, backward gan to flow, And here and there two crystal mountains rise, So fled the Red Sea once, and Jordan thrice. XXXVII He took their hands, and led them headlong down Under the flood, through vast and hollow deeps, Such light they had as when through shadows brown Of thickest deserts feeble Cynthia peeps, Their spacious caves they saw all overflown, There all his waters pure great Neptune keeps, And thence to moisten all the earth he brings Seas, rivers, floods, lakes, fountains, wells and springs: XXXVIII Whence Ganges, Indus, Volga, Ister, Po, Whence Euphrates, whence Tigris' spring they view, Whence Tanais, whence Nilus comes also, Although his head till then no creature knew, But under these a wealthy stream doth go, That sulphur yields and ore, rich, quick and new, Which the sunbeams doth polish, purge and fine, And makes it silver pure, and gold divine. XXXIX And all his banks the rich and wealthy stream Hath fair beset with pearl and precious stone Like stars in sky or lamps on stage that seem, The darkness there was day, the night was gone, There sparkled, clothed in his azure-beam, The heavenly sapphire, there the jacinth shone, The carbuncle there flamed, the diamond sheen, There glistered bright, there smiled the emerald green. XL Amazed the knights amid these wonders passed, And fixed so deep the marvels in their thought, That not one word they uttered, till at last Ubaldo spake, and thus his guide besought: "O father, tell me by what skill thou hast These wonders done? and to what place us brought? For well I know not if I wake or sleep, My heart is drowned in such amazement deep." XLI "You are within the hollow womb," quoth he, "Of fertile earth, the nurse of all things made, And but you brought and guided are by me, Her sacred entrails could no wight invade; My palace shortly shall you splendent see, With glorious light, though built in night and shade. A Pagan was I born, but yet the Lord To grace, by baptism, hath my soul restored. XLII "Nor yet by help of devil, or aid from hell, I do this uncouth work and wondrous feat, The Lord forbid I use or charm or spell To raise foul Dis from his infernal seat: But of all herbs, of every spring and well, The hidden power I know and virtue great, And all that kind hath hid from mortal sight, And all the stars, their motions, and their might. XLIII "For in these caves I dwell not buried still From sight of Heaven, but often I resort To tops of Lebanon or Carmel hill, And there in liquid air myself disport, There Mars and Venus I behold at will! As bare as erst when Vulcan took them short, And how the rest roll, glide and move, I see, How their aspects benign or froward be." XLIV "And underneath my feet the clouds I view, Now thick, now thin, now bright with Iris' bow, The frost and snow, the rain, the hail, the dew, The winds, from whence they come and whence they blow, How Jove his thunder makes and lightning new, How with the bolt he strikes the earth below, How comate, crinite, caudate stars are framed I knew; my skill with pride my heart inflamed. XLV "So learned, cunning, wise, myself I thought, That I supposed my wit so high might climb To know all things that God had framed or wrought, Fire, air, sea, earth, man, beast, sprite, place and time; But when your hermit me to baptism brought, And from my soul had washed the sin and crime, Then I perceived my sight was blindness still, My wit was folly, ignorance my skill. XLVI "Then saw I, that like owls in shining sun, So gainst the beams of truth our souls are blind, And at myself to smile I then begun, And at my heart, puffed up with folly's wind, Yet still these arts, as I before had done, I practised, such was the hermit's mind: Thus hath he changed my thoughts, my heart, my will, And rules mine art, my knowledge, and my skill. XLVII "In him I rest, on him my thoughts depend, My lord, my teacher, and my guide is he, This noble work he strives to bring to end, He is the architect, the workmen we, The hardy youth home to this camp to send From prison strong, my care, my charge shall be; So He commands, and me ere this foretold Your coming oft, to seek the champion bold." XLVIII While this he said, he brought the champions twain Down to a vault, wherein he dwells and lies, It was a cave, high, wide, large, ample, plain, With goodly rooms, halls, chambers, galleries, All what is bred in rich and precious vein Of wealthy earth, and hid from mortal eyes, There shines, and fair adorned was every part With riches grown by kind, not framed by art: XLIX An hundred grooms, quick, diligent and neat, Attendance gave about these strangers bold, Against the wall there stood a cupboard great Of massive plate, of silver, crystal, gold. But when with precious wines and costly meat They filled were, thus spake the wizard old: "Now fits the time, sir knights, I tell and show What you desire to hear, and long to know. L "Armida's craft, her sleight and hidden guile You partly wot, her acts and arts untrue, How to your camp she came, and by what wile The greatest lords and princes thence she drew; You know she turned them first to monsters vile, And kept them since closed up in secret mew, Lastly, to Gaza-ward in bonds them sent, Whom young Rinaldo rescued as they went. LI "What chanced since I will at large declare, To you unknown, a story strange and true. When first her prey, got with such pain and care, Escaped and gone the witch perceived and knew, Her hands she wrung for grief, her clothes she tare, And full of woe these heavy words outthrew: 'Alas! my knights are slain, my prisoners free, Yet of that conquest never boast shall he, LII "'He in their place shall serve me, and sustain Their plagues, their torments suffer, sorrows bear, And they his absence shall lament in vain, And wail his loss and theirs with many a tear:' Thus talking to herself she did ordain A false and wicked guile, as you shall hear; Thither she hasted where the valiant knight Had overcome and slain her men in fight. LIII "Rinaldo there had dolt and left his own, And on his back a Pagan's harness tied, Perchance he deemed so to pass unknown, And in those arms less noted false to ride. A headless corse in fight late overthrown, The witch in his forsaken arms did hide, And by a brook exposed it on the sand Whither she wished would come a Christian band: LIV "Their coming might the dame foreknow right well, For secret spies she sent forth thousand ways, Which every day news from the camp might tell, Who parted thence, booties to search or preys: Beside, the sprites conjured by sacred spell, All what she asks or doubts, reveals and says, The body therefore placed she in that part That furthered best her sleight, her craft and art; LV "And near the corpse a varlet false and sly She left, attired in shepherd's homely weed, And taught him how to counterfeit and lie As time required, and he performed the deed; With him your soldiers spoke, of jealousy And false suspect mongst them he strewed the seed, That since brought forth the fruit of strife and jar, Of civil brawls, contention, discord, war. LVI "And as she wished so the soldiers thought By Godfrey's practice that the prince was slain, Yet vanished that suspicion false to naught When truth spread forth her silver wings again Her false devices thus Armida wrought, This was her first deceit, her foremost train; What next she practised, shall you hear me tell, Against our knight, and what thereof befell. LVII "Armida hunted him through wood and plain, Till on Orontes' flowery banks he stayed, There, where the stream did part and meet again And in the midst a gentle island made, A pillar fair was pight beside the main, Near which a little frigate floating laid, The marble white the prince did long behold, And this inscription read, there writ in gold: LVIII "'Whoso thou art whom will or chance doth bring With happy steps to flood Orontes' sides, Know that the world hath not so strange a thing, Twixt east and west, as this small island hides, Then pass and see, without more tarrying.' The hasty youth to pass the stream provides, And for the cogs was narrow, small and strait, Alone he rowed, and bade his squires there wait; LIX "Landed he stalks about, yet naught he sees But verdant groves, sweet shades, and mossy rocks With caves and fountains, flowers, herbs and trees, So that the words he read he takes for mocks: But that green isle was sweet at all degrees, Wherewith enticed down sits he and unlocks His closed helm, and bares his visage fair, To take sweet breath from cool and gentle air. LX "A rumbling sound amid the waters deep Meanwhile he heard, and thither turned his sight, And tumbling in the troubled stream took keep How the strong waves together rush and fight, Whence first he saw, with golden tresses, peep The rising visage of a virgin bright, And then her neck, her breasts, and all, as low As he for shame could see, or she could show. LXI "So in the twilight does sometimes appear A nymph, a goddess, or a fairy queen, And though no siren but a sprite this were Yet by her beauty seemed it she had been One of those sisters false which haunted near The Tyrrhene shores and kept those waters sheen, Like theirs her face, her voice was, and her sound, And thus she sung, and pleased both skies and ground: LXII "'Ye happy youths, who April fresh and May Attire in flowering green of lusty age, For glory vain, or virtue's idle ray, Do not your tender limbs to toil engage; In calm streams, fishes; birds, in sunshine play, Who followeth pleasure he is only sage, So nature saith, yet gainst her sacred will Why still rebel you, and why strive you still? LXIII "'O fools who youth possess, yet scorn the same, A precious, but a short-abiding treasure, Virtue itself is but an idle name, Prized by the world 'bove reason all and measure, And honor, glory, praise, renown and fame, That men's proud harts bewitch with tickling pleasure, An echo is, a shade, a dream, a flower, With each wind blasted, spoiled with every shower. LXIV "'But let your happy souls in joy possess The ivory castles of your bodies fair, Your passed harms salve with forgetfulness, Haste not your coming evils with thought and care, Regard no blazing star with burning tress, Nor storm, nor threatening sky, nor thundering air, This wisdom is, good life, and worldly bliss, Kind teacheth us, nature commands us this.' LXV "Thus sung the spirit false, and stealing sleep, To which her tunes enticed his heavy eyes, By step and step did on his senses creep, Still every limb therein unmoved lies, Not thunders loud could from this slumber deep, Of quiet death true image, make him rise: Then from her ambush forth Armida start, Swearing revenge, and threatening torments smart. LXVI "But when she looked on his face awhile, And saw how sweet he breathed, how still he lay, How his fair eyes though closed seemed to smile, At first she stayed, astound with great dismay, Then sat her down, so love can art beguile, And as she sat and looked, fled fast away Her wrath, that on his forehead gazed the maid, As in his spring Narcissus tooting laid; LXVII "And with a veil she wiped now and then From his fair cheeks the globes of silver sweat, And cool air gathered with a trembling fan, To mitigate the rage of melting heat, Thus, who would think it, his hot eye-glance can Of that cold frost dissolve the hardness great Which late congealed the heart of that fair dame, Who late a foe, a lover now became. LXVIII "Of woodbines, lilies, and of roses sweet, Which proudly flowered through that wanton plain, All platted fast, well knit, and joined meet, She framed a soft but surely holding chain, Wherewith she bound his neck his hands and feet; Thus bound, thus taken, did the prince remain, And in a coach which two old dragons drew, She laid the sleeping knight, and thence she flew: LXIX "Nor turned she to Damascus' kingdoms large, Nor to the fort built in Asphalte's lake, But jealous of her dear and precious charge, And of her love ashamed, the way did take, To the wide ocean whither skiff or barge From us doth seld or never voyage make, And there to frolic with her love awhile, She chose a waste, a sole and desert isle. LXX "An isle that with her fellows bears the name Of Fortunate, for temperate air and mould, There in a mountain high alight the dame, A hill obscured with shades of forests old, Upon whose sides the witch by art did frame Continual snow, sharp frost and winter cold, But on the top, fresh, pleasant, sweet and green, Beside a lake a palace built this queen. LXXI "There in perpetual sweet and flowering spring, She lives at ease, and joys her lord at will; The hardy youth from this strange prison bring Your valors must, directed by my skill, And overcome each monster and each thing, That guards the palace or that keeps the hill, Nor shall you want a guide, or engines fit, To bring you to the mount, or conquer it. LXXII "Beside the stream, yparted shall you find A dame, in visage young, but old in years, Her curled locks about her front are twined, A party-colored robe of silk she wears: This shall conduct you swift as air or wind, Or that flit bird that Jove's hot weapon bears, A faithful pilot, cunning, trusty, sure, As Tiphys was, or skilful Palinure. LXXIII "At the hill's foot, whereon the witch doth dwell, The serpents hiss, and cast their poison vilde, The ugly boars do rear their bristles fell, There gape the bears, and roar the lions wild; But yet a rod I have can easily quell Their rage and wrath, and make them meek and mild. Yet on the top and height of all the hill, The greatest danger lies, and greatest ill: LXXIV "There welleth out a fair, clear, bubbling spring, Whose waters pure the thirsty guests entice, But in those liquors cold the secret sting Of strange and deadly poison closed lies, One sup thereof the drinker's heart doth bring To sudden joy, whence laughter vain doth rise, Nor that strange merriment once stops or stays, Till, with his laughter's end, he end his days: LXXV "Then from those deadly, wicked streams refrain Your thirsty lips, despise the dainty cheer You find exposed upon the grassy plain, Nor those false damsels once vouchsafe to hear, That in melodious tunes their voices strain, Whose faces lovely, smiling, sweet, appear; But you their looks, their voice, their songs despise, And enter fair Armida's paradise. LXXVI "The house is builded like a maze within, With turning stairs, false doors and winding ways, The shape whereof plotted in vellum thin I will you give, that all those sleights bewrays, In midst a garden lies, where many a gin And net to catch frail hearts, false Cupid lays; There in the verdure of the arbors green, With your brave champion lies the wanton queen. LXXVII "But when she haply riseth from the knight, And hath withdrawn her presence from the place, Then take a shield I have of diamonds bright, And hold the same before the young man's face, That he may glass therein his garments light, And wanton soft attire, and view his case, That with the sight shame and disdain may move His heart to leave that base and servile love. LXXVIII "Now resteth naught that needful is to tell, But that you go secure, safe, sure and bold, Unseen the palace may you enter well, And pass the dangers all I have foretold, For neither art, nor charm, nor magic spell, Can stop your passage or your steps withhold, Nor shall Armida, so you guarded be, Your coming aught foreknow or once foresee: LXXIX "And eke as safe from that enchanted fort You shall return and scape unhurt away; But now the time doth us to rest exhort, And you must rise by peep of springing day." This said, he led them through a narrow port, Into a lodging fair wherein they lay, There glad and full of thoughts he left his guests, And in his wonted bed the old man rests. FIFTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The well instructed knights forsake their host, And come where their strange bark in harbor lay, And setting sail behold on Egypt's coast The monarch's ships and armies in array: Their wind and pilot good, the seas in post They pass, and of long journeys make short way: The far-sought isle they find; Armida's charms They scorn, they shun her sleights, despise her arms. I The rosy-fingered morn with gladsome ray Rose to her task from old Tithonus' lap When their grave host came where the warriors lay, And with him brought the shield, the rod, the map. "Arise," quoth he, "ere lately broken day, In his bright arms the round world fold or wrap, All what I promised, here I have them brought, Enough to bring Armida's charms to naught." II They started up, and every tender limb In sturdy steel and stubborn plate they dight, Before the old man stalked, they followed him Through gloomy shades of sad and sable night, Through vaults obscure again and entries dim, The way they came their steps remeasured right; But at the flood arrived, "Farewell," quoth he, "Good luck your aid, your guide good fortune be." III The flood received them in his bottom low And lilt them up above his billows thin; The waters so east up a branch or bough, By violence first plunged and dived therein: But when upon the shore the waves them throw, The knights for their fair guide to look begin, And gazing round a little bark they spied, Wherein a damsel sate the stern to guide. IV Upon her front her locks were curled new, Her eyes were courteous, full of peace and love; In look a saint, an angel bright in show, So in her visage grace and virtue strove; Her robe seemed sometimes red and sometimes blue, And changed still as she did stir or move; That look how oft man's eye beheld the same So oft the colors changed, went and came. V The feathers so, that tender, soft, and plain, About the dove's smooth neck close couched been, Do in one color never long remain, But change their hue gainst glimpse of Phoebus' sheen; And now of rubies bright a vermeil chain, Now make a carknet rich of emeralds green; Now mingle both, now alter, turn and change To thousand colors, rich, pure, fair, and strange. VI "Enter this boat, you happy men," she says, "Wherein through raging waves secure I ride, To which all tempest, storm, and wind obeys, All burdens light, benign is stream and tide: My lord, that rules your journeys and your ways, Hath sent me here, your servant and your guide." This said, her shallop drove she gainst the sand, And anchor cast amid the steadfast land. VII They entered in, her anchors she upwound, And launched forth to sea her pinnace flit, Spread to the wind her sails she broad unbound, And at the helm sat down to govern it, Swelled the flood that all his banks he drowned To bear the greatest ship of burthen fit; Yet was her fatigue little, swift and light, That at his lowest ebb bear it he might. VIII Swifter than thought the friendly wind forth bore The sliding boat upon the rolling wave, With curded foam and froth the billows hoar About the cable murmur roar and rave; At last they came where all his watery store The flood in one deep channel did engrave, And forth to greedy seas his streams he sent, And so his waves, his name, himself he spent. IX The wondrous boat scant touched the troubled main But all the sea still, hushed and quiet was, Vanished the clouds, ceased the wind and rain, The tempests threatened overblow and pass, A gentle breathing air made even and plain The azure face of heaven's smooth looking-glass, And heaven itself smiled from the skies above With a calm clearness on the earth his love. X By Ascalon they sailed, and forth drived, Toward the west their speedy course they frame, In sight of Gaza till the bark arrived, A little port when first it took that name; But since, by others' loss so well it thrived A city great and rich that it became, And there the shores and borders of the land They found as full of armed men as sand. XI The passengers to landward turned their sight, And there saw pitched many a stately tent, Soldier and footman, captain, lord and knight, Between the shore and city, came and went: Huge elephants, strong camels, coursers light, With horned hoofs the sandy ways outrent, And in the haven many a ship and boat, With mighty anchors fastened, swim and float; XII Some spread their sails, some with strong oars sweep The waters smooth, and brush the buxom wave, Their breasts in sunder cleave the yielding deep, The broken seas for anger foam and rave, When thus their guide began, "Sir knights, take keep How all these shores are spread with squadrons brave And troops of hardy knights, yet on these sands The monarch scant hath gathered half his bands. XIII "Of Egypt only these the forces are, And aid from other lands they here attend, For twixt the noon-day sun and morning star, All realms at his command do bow and bend; So that I trust we shall return from far, And bring our journey long to wished end, Before this king or his lieutenant shall These armies bring to Zion's conquered wall." XIV While thus she said, as soaring eagles fly Mongst other birds securely through the air, And mounting up behold with wakeful eye, The radiant beams of old Hyperion's hair, Her gondola so passed swiftly by Twixt ship and ship, withouten fear or care Who should her follow, trouble, stop or stay, And forth to sea made lucky speed and way. XV Themselves fornenst old Raffia's town they fand, A town that first to sailors doth appear As they from Syria pass to Egypt land: The sterile coasts of barren Rhinocere They passed, and seas where Casius hill doth stand That with his trees o'erspreads the waters near, Against whose roots breaketh the brackish wave Where Jove his temple, Pompey hath his grave: XVI Then Damiata next, where they behold How to the sea his tribute Nilus pays By his seven mouths renowned in stories old, And by an hundred more ignoble ways: They pass the town built by the Grecian bold, Of him called Alexandria till our days, And Pharaoh's tower and isle removed of yore Far from the land, now joined to the shore: XVII Both Crete and Rhodes they left by north unseen, And sailed along the coasts of Afric lands, Whose sea towns fair, but realms more inward been All full of monsters and of desert sands: With her five cities then they left Cyrene, Where that old temple of false Hammon stands: Next Ptolemais, and that sacred wood Whence spring the silent streams of Lethe flood. XVIII The greater Syrte, that sailors often cast In peril great of death and loss extreme, They compassed round about, and safely passed, The Cape Judeca and flood Magra's stream; Then Tripoli, gainst which is Malta placed, That low and hid, to lurk in seas doth seem: The little Syrte then, and Alzerhes isle, Where dwelt the folk that Lotos ate erewhile. XIX Next Tunis on the crooked shore they spied, Whose bay a rock on either side defends, Tunis all towns in beauty, wealth and pride Above, as far as Libya's bounds extends; Gainst which, from fair Sicilia's fertile side, His rugged front great Lilybaeum bends. The dame there pointed out where sometime stood Rome's stately rival whilom, Carthage proud; XX Great Carthage low in ashes cold doth lie, Her ruins poor the herbs in height scant pass, So cities fall, so perish kingdoms high, Their pride and pomp lies hid in sand and grass: Then why should mortal man repine to die, Whose life, is air; breath, wind; and body, glass? From thence the seas next Bisert's walls they cleft, And far Sardinia on their right hand left. XXI Numidia's mighty plains they coasted then, Where wandering shepherds used their flocks to feed, Then Bugia and Argier, the infamous den Of pirates false, Oran they left with speed, All Tingitan they swiftly overren, Where elephants and angry lions breed, Where now the realms of Fez and Maroc be, Gainst which Granada's shores and coasts they see. XXII Now are they there, where first the sea brake in By great Alcides' help, as stories feign, True may it be that where those floods begin It whilom was a firm and solid main Before the sea there through did passage win And parted Afric from the land of Spain, Abila hence, thence Calpe great upsprings, Such power hath time to change the face of things. XXIII Four times the sun had spread his morning ray Since first the dame launched forth her wondrous barge And never yet took port in creek or bay, But fairly forward bore the knights her charge; Now through the strait her jolly ship made way, And boldly sailed upon the ocean large; But if the sea in midst of earth was great, Oh what was this, wherein earth hath her seat? XXIV Now deep engulphed in the mighty flood They saw not Gades, nor the mountains near, Fled was the land, and towns on land that stood, Heaven covered sea, sea seemed the heavens to bear. "At last, fair lady," quoth Ubaldo good, "That in this endless main dost guide us here, If ever man before here sailed tell, Or other lands here be wherein men dwell." XXV "Great Hercules," quoth she, "when he had quailed The monsters fierce in Afric and in Spain, And all along your coasts and countries sailed, Yet durst he not assay the ocean main, Within his pillars would he have impaled The overdaring wit of mankind vain, Till Lord Ulysses did those bounders pass, To see and know he so desirous was. XXVI "He passed those pillars, and in open wave Of the broad sea first his bold sails untwined, But yet the greedy ocean was his grave, Naught helped him his skill gainst tide and wind; With him all witness of his voyage brave Lies buried there, no truth thereof we find, And they whom storm hath forced that way since, Are drowned all, or unreturned from thence: XXVII "So that this mighty sea is yet unsought, Where thousand isles and kingdoms lie unknown, Not void of men as some have vainly thought, But peopled well, and wonned like your own; The land is fertile ground, but scant well wrought, Air wholesome, temperate sun, grass proudly grown." "But," quoth Ubaldo, "dame, I pray thee teach Of that hid world, what be the laws and speech?" XXVIII "As diverse be their nations," answered she, "Their tongues, their rites, their laws so different are; Some pray to beasts, some to a stone or tree, Some to the earth, the sun, or morning star; Their meats unwholesome, vile, and hateful be, Some eat man's flesh, and captives ta'en in war, And all from Calpe's mountain west that dwell, In faith profane, in life are rude and fell." XXIX "But will our gracious God," the knight replied, "That with his blood all sinful men hath bought, His truth forever and his gospel hide From all those lands, as yet unknown, unsought?" "Oh no," quoth she, "his name both far and wide Shall there be known, all learning thither brought, Nor shall these long and tedious ways forever Your world and theirs, their lands, your kingdoms sever. XXX "The time shall come that sailors shall disdain To talk or argue of Alcides' streat, And lands and seas that nameless yet remain, Shall well be known, their boundaries, site and seat, The ships encompass shall the solid main, As far as seas outstretch their waters great, And measure all the world, and with the sun About this earth, this globe, this compass, run. XXXI "A knight of Genes shall have the hardiment Upon this wondrous voyage first to wend, Nor winds nor waves, that ships in sunder rent, Nor seas unused, strange clime, or pool unkenned, Nor other peril nor astonishment That makes frail hearts of men to bow and bend, Within Abilas' strait shall keep and hold The noble spirit of this sailor bold. XXXII "Thy ship, Columbus, shall her canvas wing Spread o'er that world that yet concealed lies, That scant swift fame her looks shall after bring, Though thousand plumes she have, and thousand eyes; Let her of Bacchus and Alcides sing, Of thee to future age let this suffice, That of thine acts she some forewarning give, Which shall in verse and noble story live." XXXIII Thus talking, swift twixt south and west they run, And sliced out twixt froth and foam their way; At once they saw before, the setting sun; Behind, the rising beam of springing day; And when the morn her drops and dews begun To scatter broad upon the flowering lay, Far off a hill and mountain high they spied, Whose top the clouds environ, clothe and hide; XXXIV And drawing near, the hill at ease they view, When all the clouds were molten, fallen and fled, Whose top pyramid-wise did pointed show, High, narrow, sharp, the sides yet more outspread, Thence now and then fire, flame and smoke outflew, As from that hill, whereunder lies in bed Enceladus, whence with imperious sway Bright fire breaks out by night, black smoke by day. XXXV About the hill lay other islands small, Where other rocks, crags, cliffs, and mountains stood, The Isles Fortunate these elder time did call, To which high Heaven they reigned so kind and good, And of his blessings rich so liberal, That without tillage earth gives corn for food, And grapes that swell with sweet and precious wine There without pruning yields the fertile vine. XXXVI The olive fat there ever buds and flowers, The honey-drops from hollow oaks distil, The falling brook her silver streams downpours With gentle murmur from their native hill, The western blast tempereth with dews and showers The sunny rays, lest heat the blossoms kill, The fields Elysian, as fond heathen sain, Were there, where souls of men in bliss remain. XXXVII To these their pilot steered, "And now," quoth she, "Your voyage long to end is brought well-near, The happy Isles of Fortune now you see, Of which great fame, and little truth, you hear, Sweet, wholesome, pleasant, fertile, fat they be, Yet not so rich as fame reports they were." This said, toward an island fresh she bore, The first of ten, that lies next Afric's shore; XXXVIII When Charles thus, "If, worthy governess, To our good speed such tarriance be no let, Upon this isle that Heaven so fair doth bless, To view the place, on land awhile us set, To know the folk and what God they confess, And all whereby man's heart may knowledge get, That I may tell the wonders therein seen Another day, and say, there have I been." XXXIX She answered him, "Well fits this high desire Thy noble heart, yet cannot I consent; For Heaven's decree, firm, stable, and entire, Thy wish repugns, and gainst thy will is bent, Nor yet the time hath Titan's gliding fire Met forth, prefixed for this discoverment, Nor is it lawful of the ocean main That you the secrets know, or known explain. XL "To you withouten needle, map or card It's given to pass these seas, and there arrive Where in strong prison lies your knight imbarred, And of her prey you must the witch deprive: If further to aspire you be prepared, In vain gainst fate and Heaven's decree you strive." While thus she said, the first seen isle gave place, And high and rough the second showed his face. XLI They saw how eastward stretched in order long, The happy islands sweetly flowering lay; And how the seas betwixt those isles enthrong, And how they shouldered land from land away: In seven of them the people rude among The shady trees their sheds had built of clay, The rest lay waste, unless wild beasts unseen, Or wanton nymphs, roamed on the mountains green. XLII A secret place they found in one of those, Where the cleft shore sea in his bosom takes, And 'twixt his stretched arms doth fold and close An ample bay, a rock the haven makes, Which to the main doth his broad back oppose, Whereon the roaring billow cleaves and breaks, And here and there two crags like turrets high, Point forth a port to all that sail thereby: XLIII The quiet seas below lie safe and still, The green wood like a garland grows aloft, Sweet caves within, cool shades and waters shrill, Where lie the nymphs on moss and ivy soft; No anchor there needs hold her frigate still, Nor cable twisted sure, though breaking oft: Into this desert, silent, quiet, glad, Entered the dame, and there her haven made. XLIV "The palace proudly built," quoth she, "behold, That sits on top of yonder mountain's height, Of Christ's true faith there lies the champion bold In idleness, love, fancy, folly light; When Phoebus shall his rising beams unfold, Prepare you gainst the hill to mount upright, Nor let this stay in your bold hearts breed care, For, save that one, all hours unlucky are; XLV "But yet this evening, if you make good speed, To that hill's foot with daylight might you pass." Thus said the dame their guide, and they agreed, And took their leave and leaped forth on the grass; They found the way that to the hill doth lead, And softly went that neither tired was, But at the mountain's foot they both arrived, Before the sun his team in waters dived. XLVI They saw how from the crags and clefts below His proud and stately pleasant top grew out, And how his sides were clad with frost and snow, The height was green with herbs and flowerets sout, Like hairy locks the trees about him grow, The rocks of ice keep watch and ward about, The tender roses and the lilies new, Thus art can nature change, and kind subdue. XLVII Within a thick, a dark and shady plot, At the hill's foot that night the warriors dwell, But when the sun his rays bright, shining, hot, Dispread of golden light the eternal well, "Up, up," they cried, and fiercely up they got, And climbed boldly gainst the mountain fell; But forth there crept, from whence I cannot say, An ugly serpent which forestalled their way. XLVIII Armed with golden scales his head and crest He lifted high, his neck swelled great with ire, Flamed his eyes, and hiding with his breast All the broad path, he poison breathed and fire, Now reached he forth in folds and forward pressed, Now would he back in rolls and heaps retire, Thus he presents himself to guard the place, The knights pressed forward with assured pace: XLIX Charles drew forth his brand to strike the snake; Ubaldo cried, "Stay, my companion dear, Will you with sword or weapon battle make Against this monster that affronts us here?" This said, he gan his charmed rod to shake, So that the serpent durst not hiss for fear, But fled, and dead for dread fell on the grass, And so the passage plain, eath, open was. L A little higher on the way they met A lion fierce that hugely roared and cried, His crest he reared high, and open set Of his broad-gaping jaws the furnace wide, His stern his back oft smote, his rage to whet, But when the sacred staff he once espied A trembling fear through his bold heart was spread, His native wrath was gone, and swift he fled. LI The hardy couple on their way forth wend, And met a host that on them roar and gape, Of savage beasts, tofore unseen, unkend, Differing in voice, in semblance, and in shape; All monsters which hot Afric doth forthsend, Twixt Nilus, Atlas, and the southern cape, Were all there met, and all wild beasts besides Hyrcania breeds, or Hyrcane forest hides. LII But yet that fierce, that strange and savage host Could not in presence of those worthies stand, But fled away, their heart and courage lost, When Lord Ubaldo shook his charming wand. No other let their passage stopped or crossed; Till on the mountain's top themselves they land, Save that the ice, the frost, and drifted snow, Oft made them feeble, weary, faint and slow. LIII But having passed all that frozen ground, And overgone that winter sharp and keen, A warm, mild, pleasant, gentle sky they found, That overspread a large and ample green, The winds breathed spikenard, myrrh, and balm around, The blasts were firm, unchanged, stable been, Not as elsewhere the winds now rise now fall, And Phoebus there aye shines, sets not at all. LIV Not as elsewhere now sunshine bright now showers, Now heat now cold, there interchanged were, But everlasting spring mild heaven down pours,-- In which nor rain, nor storm, nor clouds appear,-- Nursing to fields, their grass; to grass, his flowers; To flowers their smell; to trees, the leaves they bear: There by a lake a stately palace stands, That overlooks all mountains, seas and lands: LV The passage hard against the mountain steep These travellers had faint and weary made, That through those grassy plains they scantly creep; They walked, they rested oft, they went, they stayed, When from the rocks, that seemed for joy to weep, Before their feet a dropping crystal played Enticing them to drink, and on the flowers The plenteous spring a thousand streams down pours, LVI All which, united in the springing grass, Ate forth a channel through the tender green And underneath eternal shade did pass, With murmur shrill, cold, pure, and scantly seen; Yet so transparent, that perceived was The bottom rich, and sands that golden been, And on the brims the silken grass aloft Proffered them seats, sweet, easy, fresh and soft. LVII "See here the stream of laughter, see the spring," Quoth they, "of danger and of deadly pain, Here fond desire must by fair governing Be ruled, our lust bridled with wisdom's rein, Our ears be stopped while these Sirens sing, Their notes enticing man to pleasure vain." Thus passed they forward where the stream did make An ample pond, a large and spacious lake. LVIII There on a table was all dainty food That sea, that earth, or liquid air could give, And in the crystal of the laughing flood They saw two naked virgins bathe and dive, That sometimes toying, sometimes wrestling stood, Sometimes for speed and skill in swimming strive, Now underneath they dived, now rose above, And ticing baits laid forth of lust and love. LIX These naked wantons, tender, fair and white, Moved so far the warriors' stubborn hearts, That on their shapes they gazed with delight; The nymphs applied their sweet alluring arts, And one of them above the waters quite, Lift up her head, her breasts and higher parts, And all that might weak eyes subdue and take, Her lower beauties veiled the gentle lake. LX As when the morning star, escaped and fled From greedy waves, with dewy beams up flies, Or as the Queen of Love, new born and bred Of the Ocean's fruitful froth, did first arise: So vented she her golden locks forth shed Round pearls and crystal moist therein which lies: But when her eyes upon the knights she cast, She start, and feigned her of their sight aghast. LXI And her fair locks, that in a knot were tied High on her crown, she 'gan at large unfold; Which falling long and thick and spreading wide, The ivory soft and white mantled in gold: Thus her fair skin the dame would clothe and hide, And that which hid it no less fair was hold; Thus clad in waves and locks, her eyes divine, From them ashamed did she turn and twine. LXII Withal she smiled and she blushed withal, Her blush, her smilings, smiles her blushing graced: Over her face her amber tresses fall, Whereunder Love himself in ambush placed: At last she warbled forth a treble small, And with sweet looks her sweet songs interlaced; "Oh happy men I that have the grace," quoth she, "This bliss, this heaven, this paradise to see. LXIII "This is the place wherein you may assuage Your sorrows past, here is that joy and bliss That flourished in the antique golden age, Here needs no law, here none doth aught amiss: Put off those arms and fear not Mars his rage, Your sword, your shield, your helmet needless is; Then consecrate them here to endless rest, You shall love's champions be, and soldiers blest. LXIV "The fields for combat here are beds of down, Or heaped lilies under shady brakes; But come and see our queen with golden crown, That all her servants blest and happy makes, She will admit you gently for her own, Numbered with those that of her joy partakes: But first within this lake your dust and sweat Wash off, and at that table sit and eat." LXV While thus she sung, her sister lured them nigh With many a gesture kind and loving show, To music's sound as dames in court apply Their cunning feet, and dance now swift now slow: But still the knights unmoved passed by, These vain delights for wicked charms they know, Nor could their heavenly voice or angel's look, Surprise their hearts, if eye or ear they took. LXVI For if that sweetness once but touched their hearts, And proffered there to kindle Cupid's fire, Straight armed Reason to his charge up starts, And quencheth Lust, and killeth fond Desire; Thus scorned were the dames, their wiles and arts And to the palace gates the knights retire, While in their stream the damsels dived sad, Ashamed, disgraced, for that repulse they had. SIXTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The searchers pass through all the palace bright Where in sweet prison lies Rinaldo pent, And do so much, that full of rage and spite, With them he goes sad, shamed, discontent: With plaints and prayers to retain her knight Armida strives; he hears, but thence he went, And she forlorn her palace great and fair Destroys for grief, and flies thence through the air. I The palace great is builded rich and round, And in the centre of the inmost hold There lies a garden sweet, on fertile ground, Fairer than that where grew the trees of gold: The cunning sprites had buildings reared around With doors and entries false a thousandfold, A labyrinth they made that fortress brave, Like Daedal's prison, or Porsenna's grave. II The knights passed through the castle's largest gate, Though round about an hundred ports there shine, The door-leaves framed of carved silver-plate, Upon their golden hinges turn and twine. They stayed to view this work of wit and state. The workmanship excelled the substance fine, For all the shapes in that rich metal wrought, Save speech, of living bodies wanted naught. III Alcides there sat telling tales, and spun Among the feeble troops of damsels mild, He that the fiery gates of hell had won And heaven upheld; false Love stood by and smiled: Armed with his club fair Iole forth run, His club with blood of monsters foul defiled, And on her back his lion's skin had she, Too rough a bark for such a tender tree. IV Beyond was made a sea, whose azure flood The hoary froth crushed from the surges blue, Wherein two navies great well ranged stood Of warlike ships, fire from their arms outflew, The waters burned about their vessels good, Such flames the gold therein enchased threw, Caesar his Romans hence, the Asian kings Thence Antony and Indian princes brings. V The Cyclades seemed to swim amid the main, And hill gainst hill, and mount gainst mountain smote, With such great fury met those armies twain; Here burnt a ship, there sunk a bark or boat, Here darts and wild-fire flew, there drowned or slain Of princes dead the bodies fleet and float; Here Caesar wins, and yonder conquered been The Eastern ships, there fled the Egyptian queen: VI Antonius eke himself to flight betook, The empire lost to which he would aspire, Yet fled not he nor fight for fear forsook, But followed her, drawn on by fond desire: Well might you see within his troubled look, Strive and contend, love, courage, shame and ire; Oft looked he back, oft gazed he on the fight, But oftener on his mistress and her flight. VII Then in the secret creeks of fruitful Nile, Cast in her lap, he would sad death await, And in the pleasure of her lovely smile Sweeten the bitter stroke of cursed fate: All this did art with curious hand compile In the rich metal of that princely gate. The knights these stories viewed first and last, Which seen, they forward pressed, and in they passed: VIII As through his channel crooked Meander glides With turns and twines, and rolls now to, now fro, Whose streams run forth there to the salt sea sides Here back return and to their springward go: Such crooked paths, such ways this palace hides; Yet all the maze their map described so, That through the labyrinth they got in fine, As Theseus did by Ariadne's line. IX When they had passed all those troubled ways, The garden sweet spread forth her green to show, The moving crystal from the fountains plays, Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs and flowerets new, Sunshiny hills, dales hid from Phoebus' rays, Groves, arbors, mossy caves, at once they view, And that which beauty moat, most wonder brought, Nowhere appeared the art which all this wrought. X So with the rude the polished mingled was That natural seemed all and every part, Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass, And imitate her imitator art: Mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass, The trees no whirlwind felt, nor tempest smart, But ere the fruit drop off, the blossom comes, This springs, that falls, that ripeneth and this blooms. XI The leaves upon the self-same bough did hide Beside the young the old and ripened fig, Here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side, The apples new and old grew on one twig, The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide That bended underneath their clusters big, The grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour, There purple ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour. XII The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade, Sung merry notes on every branch and bough, The wind that in the leaves and waters played With murmur sweet, now sung, and whistled now; Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made, And while they sung, it rumbled soft and low; Thus were it hap or cunning, chance or art, The wind in this strange music bore his part. XIII With party-colored plumes' and purple bill, A wondrous bird among the rest there flew, That in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill, Her leden was like human language true; So much she talked, and with such wit and skill, That strange it seemed how much good she knew, Her feathered fellows all stood hush to hear, Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were. XIV "The gently budding rose," quoth she, "behold, That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams, Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfold In their dear leaves, and less seen, fairer seems, And after spreads them forth more broad and bold, Then languisheth and dies in last extremes, Nor seems the same, that decked bed and bower Of many a lady late, and paramour; XV "So, in the passing of a day, doth pass The bud and blossom of the life of man, Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the grass Cut down, becometh withered, pale and wan: Oh gather then the rose while time thou hast Short is the day, done when it scant began, Gather the rose of love, while yet thou mayest, Loving, be loved; embracing, be embraced." XVI He ceased, and as approving all he spoke, The choir of birds their heavenly tunes renew, The turtles sighed, and sighs with kisses broke, The fowls to shades unseen by pairs withdrew; It seemed the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak, And all the gentle trees on earth that grew, It seemed the land, the sea, and heaven above, All breathed out fancy sweet, and sighed out love. XVII Through all this music rare, and strong consent Of strange allurements, sweet bove mean and measure, Severe, firm, constant, still the knights forthwent, Hardening their hearts gainst false enticing pleasure, Twixt leaf and leaf their sight before they sent, And after crept themselves at ease and leisure, Till they beheld the queen, set with their knight Besides the lake, shaded with boughs from sight: XVIII Her breasts were naked, for the day was hot, Her locks unbound waved in the wanton wind; Some deal she sweat, tired with the game you wot, Her sweat-drops bright, white, round, like pearls of Ind; Her humid eyes a fiery smile forthshot That like sunbeams in silver fountains shined, O'er him her looks she hung, and her soft breast The pillow was, where he and love took rest. XIX His hungry eyes upon her face he fed, And feeding them so, pined himself away; And she, declining often down her head, His lips, his cheeks, his eyes kissed, as he lay, Wherewith he sighed, as if his soul had fled From his frail breast to hers, and there would stay With her beloved sprite: the armed pair These follies all beheld and this hot fare. XX Down by the lovers' side there pendent was A crystal mirror, bright, pure, smooth, and neat, He rose, and to his mistress held the glass, A noble page, graced with that service great; She, with glad looks, he with inflamed, alas, Beauty and love beheld, both in one seat; Yet them in sundry objects each espies, She, in the glass, he saw them in her eyes: XXI Her, to command; to serve, it pleased the knight; He proud of bondage; of her empire, she; "My dear," he said, "that blessest with thy sight Even blessed angels, turn thine eyes to me, For painted in my heart and portrayed right Thy worth, thy beauties and perfections be, Of which the form; the shape and fashion best, Not in this glass is seen, but in my breast. XXII "And if thou me disdain, yet be content At least so to behold thy lovely hue, That while thereon thy looks are fixed and bent Thy happy eyes themselves may see and view; So rare a shape no crystal can present, No glass contain that heaven of beauties true; Oh let the skies thy worthy mirror be! And in dear stars try shape and image see." XXIII And with that word she smiled, and ne'ertheless Her love-toys still she used, and pleasures bold! Her hair, that done, she twisted up in tress, And looser locks in silken laces rolled, Her curles garlandwise she did up-dress, Wherein, like rich enamel laid on gold, The twisted flowers smiled, and her white breast The lilies there that spring with roses dressed. XXIV The jolly peacock spreads not half so fair The eyed feathers of his pompous train; Nor golden Iris so bends in the air Her twenty-colored bow, through clouds of rain; Yet all her ornaments, strange, rich and rare, Her girdle did in price and beauty stain, Nor that, with scorn, which Tuscan Guilla lost, Igor Venus Ceston, could match this for cost. XXV Of mild denays, of tender scorns, of sweet Repulses, war, peace, hope, despair, joy, fear, Of smiles, jests, mirth, woe, grief, and sad regreet, Sighs, sorrows, tears, embracements, kisses dear, That mixed first by weight and measure meet, Then at an easy fire attempered were, This wondrous girdle did Armida frame, And, when she would be loved, wore the same. XXVI But when her wooing fit was brought to end, She congee took, kissed him, and went her way; For once she used every day to wend Bout her affairs, her spells and charms to say: The youth remained, yet had no power to bend One step from thence, but used there to stray Mongst the sweet birds, through every walk and grove Alone, save for an hermit false called Love. XXVII And when the silence deep and friendly shade Recalled the lovers to their wonted sport, In a fair room for pleasure built, they laid, And longest nights with joys made sweet and short. Now while the queen her household things surveyed, And left her lord her garden and disport, The twain that hidden in the bushes were Before the prince in glistering arms appear: XXVIII As the fierce steed for age withdrawn from war Wherein the glorious beast had always wone, That in vile rest from fight sequestered far, Feeds with the mares at large, his service done, If arms he see, or hear the trumpet's jar, He neigheth loud and thither fast doth run, And wiseth on his back the armed knight, Longing for jousts, for tournament and fight: XXIX So fared Rinaldo when the glorious light Of their bright harness glistered in his eyes, His noble sprite awaked at that sight His blood began to warm, his heart to rise, Though, drunk with ease, devoid of wonted might On sleep till then his weakened virtue lies. Ubaldo forward stepped, and to him hield Of diamonds clear that pure and precious shield. XXX Upon the targe his looks amazed he bent, And therein all his wanton habit spied, His civet, balm, and perfumes redolent, How from his locks they smoked and mantle wide, His sword that many a Pagan stout had shent, Bewrapped with flowers, hung idly by his side, So nicely decked that it seemed the knight Wore it for fashion's sake but not for fight. XXXI As when, from sleep and idle dreams abraid, A man awaked calls home his wits again; So in beholding his attire he played, But yet to view himself could not sustain, His looks he downward cast and naught he said, Grieved, shamed, sad, he would have died fain, And oft he wished the earth or ocean wide Would swallow him, and so his errors hide. XXXII Ubaldo took the time, and thus begun, "All Europe now and Asia be in war, And all that Christ adore and fame have won, In battle strong, in Syria fighting are; But thee alone, Bertoldo's noble son, This little corner keeps, exiled far From all the world, buried in sloth and shame, A carpet champion for a wanton dame. XXXIII "What letharge hath in drowsiness up-penned Thy courage thus? what sloth doth thee infect? Up, up, our camp and Godfrey for thee send, Thee fortune, praise and victory expect, Come, fatal champion, bring to happy end This enterprise begun, all that sect Which oft thou shaken hast to earth full low With thy sharp brand strike down, kill, overthrow." XXXIV This said, the noble infant stood a space Confused, speechless, senseless, ill-ashamed; But when that shame to just disdain gave place, To fierce disdain, from courage sprung untamed, Another redness blushed through his face, Whence worthy anger shone, displeasure flamed, His nice attire in scorn he rent and tore, For of his bondage vile that witness bore; XXXV That done, he hasted from the charmed fort, And through the maze passed with his searchers twain. Armida of her mount and chiefest port Wondered to find the furious keeper slain, Awhile she feared, but she knew in short, That her dear lord was fled, then saw she plain, Ah, woful sight! how from her gates the man In haste, in fear, in wrath, in anger ran. XXXVI "Whither, O cruel! leavest thou me alone?" She would have cried, her grief her speeches stayed, So that her woful words are backward gone, And in her heart a bitter echo made; Poor soul, of greater skill than she was one Whose knowledge from her thus her joy conveyed, This wist she well, yet had desire to prove If art could keep, if charms recall her love. XXXVII All what the witches of Thessalia land, With lips unpure yet ever said or spake, Words that could make heaven's rolling circles stand, And draw the damned ghosts from Limbo lake, All well she knew, but yet no time she fand To use her knowledge or her charms to make, But left her arts, and forth she ran to prove If single beauty were best charm for love. XXXVIII She ran, nor of her honor took regard, Oh where be all her vaunts and triumphs now? Love's empire great of late she made or marred, To her his subjects humbly bend and bow, And with her pride mixed was a scorn so hard, That to be loved she loved, yet whilst they woo Her lovers all she hates; that pleased her will To conquer men, and conquered so, to kill. XXXIX But now herself disdained, abandoned, Ran after him; that from her fled in scorn, And her despised beauty labored With humble plaints and prayers to adorn: She ran and hasted after him that fled, Through frost and snow, through brier, bush and thorn, And sent her cries on message her before, That reached not him till he had reached the shore. XL "Oh thou that leav'st but half behind," quoth she, "Of my poor heart, and half with thee dost carry, Oh take this part, or render that to me, Else kill them both at once, ah tarry, tarry: Hear my last words, no parting kiss of thee I crave, for some more fit with thee to marry Keep them, unkind; what fear'st thou if thou stay? Thou may'st deny, as well as run away." XLI At this Rinaldo stopped, stood still, and stayed, She came, sad, breathless, weary, faint and weak, So woe-begone was never nymph or maid And yet her beauty's pride grief could not break, On him she looked, she gazed, but naught she said, She would not, could not, or she durst not speak, At her he looked not, glanced not, if he did, Those glances shamefaced were, close, secret, hid. XLII As cunning singers, ere they strain on high, In loud melodious tunes, their gentle voice, Prepare the hearers' ears to harmony With feignings sweet, low notes and warbles choice: So she, not having yet forgot pardie Her wonted shifts and sleights in Cupid's toys, A sequence first of sighs and sobs forthcast, To breed compassion dear, then spake at last: XLIII "Suppose not, cruel, that I come to vow Or pray, as ladies do their loves and lords; Such were we late, if thou disdain it now, Or scorn to grant such grace as love affords, At least yet as an enemy listen thou: Sworn foes sometimes will talk and chaffer words, For what I ask thee, may'st thou grant right well, And lessen naught thy wrath and anger fell. XLIV "If me thou hate, and in that hate delight, I come not to appease thee, hate me still, It's like for like; I bore great hate and spite Gainst Christians all, chiefly I wish thee ill: I was a Pagan born, and all my might Against Godfredo bent, mine art and skill: I followed thee, took thee, and bore thee far, To this strange isle, and kept thee safe from war. XLV "And more, which more thy hate may justly move, More to thy loss, more to thy shame and grief, I thee inchanted, and allured to love, Wicked deceit, craft worthy sharp reprief; Mine honor gave I thee all gifts above, And of my beauties made thee lord and chief, And to my suitors old what I denayed, That gave I thee, my lover new, unprayed. XLVI "But reckon that among, my faults, and let Those many wrongs provoke thee so to wrath, That hence thou run, and that at naught thou set This pleasant house, so many joys which hath; Go, travel, pass the seas, fight, conquest get, Destroy our faith, what shall I say, our faith? Ah no! no longer ours; before thy shrine Alone I pray, thou cruel saint of mine; XLVII "All only let me go with thee, unkind, A small request although I were thy foe, The spoiler seldom leaves the prey behind, Who triumphs lets his captives with him go; Among thy prisoners poor Armida bind, And let the camp increase thy praises so, That thy beguiler so thou couldst beguile, And point at me, thy thrall and bondslave vile. XLVIII "Despised bondslave, since my lord doth hate These locks, why keep I them or hold them dear? Come cut them off, that to my servile state My habit answer may, and all my gear: I follow thee in spite of death and fate, Through battles fierce where dangers most appear, Courage I have, and strength enough perchance, To lead thy courser spare, and bear thy lance: XLIX "I will or bear, or be myself, thy shield, And to defend thy life, will lose mine own: This breast, this bosom soft shall be thy bield Gainst storms of arrows, darts and weapons thrown; Thy foes, pardie, encountering thee in field, Will spare to strike thee, mine affection known, Lest me they wound, nor will sharp vengeance take On thee, for this despised beauty's sake. L "O wretch! dare I still vaunt, or help invoke From this poor beauty, scorned and disdained?" She said no more, her tears her speeches broke, Which from her eyes like streams from springs down rained: She would have caught him by the hand or cloak, But he stepped backward, and himself restrained, Conquered his will, his heart ruth softened not, There plaints no issue, love no entrance got. LI Love entered not to kindle in his breast, Which Reason late had quenched, his wonted flame; Yet entered Pity in the place at least, Love's sister, but a chaste and sober dame, And stirred him so, that hardly he suppressed The springing tears that to his eyes up came; But yet even there his plaints repressed were, And, as he could, he looked, and feigned cheer. LII "Madam," quoth he, "for your distress I grieve, And would amend it, if I might or could. From your wise heart that fond affection drive: I cannot hate nor scorn you though I would, I seek no vengeance, wrongs I all forgive, Nor you my servant nor my foe I hold, Truth is, you erred, and your estate forgot, Too great your hate was, and your love too hot. LIII "But those are common faults, and faults of kind, Excused by nature, by your sex and years; I erred likewise, if I pardon find None can condemn you, that our trespass hears; Your dear remembrance will I keep in mind, In joys, in woes, in comforts, hopes and fears, Call me your soldier and your knight, as far As Christian faith permits, and Asia's war. LIV "Ah, let our faults and follies here take end, And let our errors past you satisfy, And in this angle of the world ypend, Let both the fame and shame thereof now die, From all the earth where I am known and kenned, I wish this fact should still concealed lie: Nor yet in following me, poor knight, disgrace Your worth, your beauty, and your princely race. LV "Stay here in peace, I go, nor wend you may With me, my guide your fellowship denies, Stay here or hence depart some better way, And calm your thoughts, you are both sage and wise." While thus he spoke, her passions found no stay, But here and there she turned and rolled her eyes, And staring on his face awhile, at last Thus in foul terms, her bitter wrath forth brast: LVI "Of Sophia fair thou never wert the child, Nor of the Azzain race ysprung thou art, The mad sea-waves thee hare, some tigress wild On Caucasus' cold crags nursed thee apart; Ah, cruel man l in whom no token mild Appears, of pity, ruth, or tender heart, Could not my griefs, my woes, my plaints, and all One sigh strain from thy breast, one tear make fall? LVII "What shall I say, or how renew my speech? He scorns me, leaves me, bids me call him mine: The victor hath his foe within his reach; Yet pardons her, that merits death and pine; Hear how he counsels me; how he can preach, Like chaste Xenocrates, gainst love divine; O heavens, O gods! why do these men of shame, Thus spoil your temples and blaspheme your name? LVIII "Go cruel, go, go with such peace, such rest, Such joy, such comfort, as thou leavest me here: My angry soul discharged from this weak breast, Shall haunt thee ever, and attend thee near, And fury-like in snakes and firebrands dressed, Shall aye torment thee, whom it late held dear: And if thou 'scape the seas, the rocks, and sands And come to fight among the Pagan bands, LIX "There lying wounded, mongst the hurt and slain, Of these my wrongs thou shalt the vengeance bear, And oft Armida shalt thou call in vain, At thy last gasp; this hope I soon to hear:" Here fainted she, with sorrow, grief and pain, Her latest words scant well expressed were, But in a swoon on earth outstretched she lies, Stiff were her frozen limbs, closed were her eyes. LX Thou closed thine eyes, Armida, heaven envied Ease to thy grief, or comfort to thy woe; Ah, open then again, see tears down slide From his kind eyes, whom thou esteem'st thy foe, If thou hadst heard, his sighs had mollified Thine anger, hard he sighed and mourned so; And as he could with sad and rueful look His leave of thee and last farewell he took. LXI What should he do? leave on the naked sand This woful lady half alive, half dead? Kindness forbade, pity did that withstand; But hard constraint, alas! did thence him lead; Away he went, the west wind blew from land Mongst the rich tresses of their pilot's head, And with that golden sail the waves she cleft, To land he looked, till land unseen he left. LXII Waked from her trance, foresaken, speechless, sad, Armida wildly stared and gazed about, "And is he gone," quoth she, "nor pity had To leave me thus twixt life and death in doubt? Could he not stay? could not the traitor-lad From this last trance help or recall me out? And do I love him still, and on this sand Still unrevenged, still mourn, still weeping stand? LXIII "Fie no! complaints farewell! with arms and art I will pursue to death this spiteful knight, Not earth's low centre, nor sea's deepest part, Not heaven, nor hell, can shield him from my might, I will o'ertake him, take him, cleave his heart, Such vengeance fits a wronged lover's spite, In cruelty that cruel knight surpass I will, but what avail vain words, alas? LXIV "O fool! thou shouldest have been cruel than, For then this cruel well deserved thine ire, When thou in prison hadst entrapped the man, Now dead with cold, too late thou askest fire; But though my wit, my cunning nothing can, Some other means shall work my heart's desire, To thee, my beauty, thine be all these wrongs, Vengeance to thee, to thee revenge belongs. LXV "Thou shalt be his reward, with murdering brand That dare this traitor of his head deprive, O you my lovers, on this rock doth stand The castle of her love for whom you strive, I, the sole heir of all Damascus land, For this revenge myself and kingdom give, If by this price my will I cannot gain, Nature gives beauty; fortune, wealth in vain. LXVI "But thee, vain gift, vain beauty, thee I scorn, I hate the kingdom which I have to give, I hate myself, and rue that I was born, Only in hope of sweet revenge I live." Thus raging with fell ire she gan return From that bare shore in haste, and homeward drive, And as true witness of her frantic ire, Her locks waved loose, face shone, eyes sparkled fire. LXVII When she came home, she called with outcries shrill, A thousand devils in Limbo deep that won, Black clouds the skies with horrid darkness fill, And pale for dread became the eclipsed sun, The whirlwind blustered big on every hill, And hell to roar under her feet begun, You might have heard how through the palace wide, Some spirits howled, some barked, some hissed, some cried. LXVIII A shadow, blacker than the mirkest night, Environed all the place with darkness sad, Wherein a firebrand gave a dreadful light, Kindled in hell by Tisiphone the mad; Vanished the shade, the sun appeared in sight, Pale were his beams, the air was nothing glad, And all the palace vanished was and gone, Nor of so great a work was left one stone. LXIX As oft the clouds frame shapes of castles great Amid the air, that little time do last, But are dissolved by wind or Titan's heat, Or like vain dreams soon made, and sooner past: The palace vanished so, nor in his seat Left aught but rocks and crags, by kind there placed; She in her coach which two old serpents drew, Sate down, and as she used, away she flew. LXX She broke the clouds, and cleft the yielding sky, And bout her gathered tempest, storm and wind, The lands that view the south pole flew she by, And left those unknown countries far behind, The Straits of Hercules she passed, which lie Twixt Spain and Afric, nor her flight inclined To north or south, but still did forward ride O'er seas and streams, till Syria's coasts she spied. LXXI Now she went forward to Damascus fair, But of her country dear she fled the sight, And guided to Asphaltes' lake her chair, Where stood her castle, there she ends her flight, And from her damsels far, she made repair To a deep vault, far from resort and light, Where in sad thoughts a thousand doubts she cast, Till grief and shame to wrath gave place at last. LXXII "I will not hence," quoth she, "till Egypt's lord In aid of Zion's king his host shall move; Then will I use all helps that charms afford, And change my shape or sex if so behove: Well can I handle bow, or lance, or sword, The worthies all will aid me, for my love: I seek revenge, and to obtain the same, Farewell, regard of honor; farewell, shame. LXXIII "Nor let mine uncle and protector me Reprove for this, he most deserves the blame, My heart and sex, that weak and tender be, He bent to deeds that maidens ill became; His niece a wandering damsel first made he, He spurred my youth, and I cast off my shame, His be the fault, if aught gainst mine estate I did for love, or shall commit for hate." LXXIV This said, her knights, her ladies, pages, squires She all assembleth, and for journey fit In such fair arms and vestures them attires As showed her wealth, and well declared her wit; And forward marched, full of strange desires, Nor rested she by day or night one whit, Till she came there, where all the eastern bands, Their kings and princes, lay on Gaza's sands. SEVENTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Egypt's great host in battle-ray forth brought, The Caliph sends with Godfrey's power to fight; Armida, who Rinaldo's ruin sought, To them adjoins herself and Syria's might. To satisfy her cruel will and thought, She gives herself to him that kills her knight: He takes his fatal arms, and in his shield His ancestors and their great deeds beheld. I Gaza the city on the frontier stands Of Juda's realm, as men to Egypt ride, Built near the sea, beside it of dry sands Huge wildernesses lie and deserts wide Which the strong winds lift from the parched lands And toss like roaring waves in roughest tide, That from those storms poor passengers almost No refuge find, but there are drowned and lost. II Within this town, won from the Turks of yore Strong garrison the king of Egypt placed, And for it nearer was, and fitted more That high emprise to which his thoughts he cast, He left great Memphis, and to Gaza bore His regal throne, and there, from countries vast Of his huge empire all the puissant host Assembled he, and mustered on the coast. III Come say, my Muse, what manner times these were, And in those times how stood the state of things, What power this monarch had, what arms they bear, What nations subject, and what friends he brings; From all lands the southern ocean near, Or morning star, came princes, dukes and kings, And only thou of half the world well-nigh The armies, lords, and captains canst descry. IV When Egypt from the Greekish emperor Rebelled first, and Christ's true faith denied, Of Mahomet's descent a warrior There set his throne and ruled that kingdom wide, Caliph he hight, and Caliphs since that hour Are his successors named all beside: So Nilus old his kings long time had seen That Ptolemies and Pharaohs called had been. V Established was that kingdom in short while, And grew so great, that over Asia's lands And Lybia's realms it stretched many a mile, From Syria's coasts as far as Cirene sands, And southward passed gainst the course of Nile, Through the hot clime where burnt Syene stands, Hence bounded in with sandy deserts waste, And thence with Euphrates' rich flood embraced. VI Maremma, myrrh and spices that doth bring, And all the rich red sea it comprehends, And to those lands, toward the morning spring That lie beyond that gulf, it far extends; Great is that empire, greater by the king That rules it now, whose worth the land amends, And makes more famous, lord thereof by blood, By wisdom, valor, and all virtues good. VII With Turks and Persians war he oft did wage, And oft he won, and sometimes lost the field, Nor could his adverse fortune aught assuage His valor's heat or make his proud heart yield, But when he grew unfit for war through age, He sheathed his sword and laid aside his shield: But yet his warlike mind he laid not down, Nor his great thirst of rule, praise and renown, VIII But by his knights still cruel wars maintained. So wise his words, so quick his wit appears, That of the kingdom large o'er which he reigned, The charge seemed not too weighty for his years; His greatness Afric's lesser kings constrained To tremble at his name, all Ind him fears, And other realms that would his friendship hold; Some armed soldiers sent, some gifts, some gold. IX This mighty prince assembled had the flower Of all his realms, against the Frenchmen stout, To break their rising empire and their power, Nor of sure conquest had he fear or doubt: To him Armida came, even at the hour When in the plains, old Gaza's walls without, The lords and leaders all their armies bring In battle-ray, mustered before their king. X He on his throne was set, to which on height Who clomb an hundred ivory stairs first told, Under a pentise wrought of silver bright, And trod on carpets made of silk and gold; His robes were such as best beseemen might A king, so great, so grave, so rich, so old, And twined of sixty ells of lawn and more A turban strange adorned his tresses hoar. XI His right hand did his precious sceptre wield, His beard was gray, his looks severe and grave, And from his eyes, not yet made dim with eild, Sparkled his former worth and vigor brave, His gestures all the majesty upheild And state, as his old age and empire crave, So Phidias carved, Apelles so, pardie, Erst painted Jove, Jove thundering down from sky. XII On either side him stood a noble lord, Whereof the first held in his upright hand Of severe justice the unpartial sword; The other bare the seal, and causes scanned, Keeping his folk in peace and good accord, And termed was lord chancellor of the land; But marshal was the first, and used to lead His armies forth to war, oft with good speed. XIII Of bold Circassians with their halberts long, About his throne his guards stood in a ring, All richly armed in gilden corslets strong, And by their sides their crooked swords down hing: Thus set, thus seated, his grave lords among, His hosts and armies great beheld the king, And every band as by his throne it went, Their ensigns low inclined, and arms down bent: XIV Their squadrons first the men of Egypt show, In four troops, and each his several guide, Of the high country two, two of the low Which Nile had won out of the salt seaside, His fertile slime first stopped the waters' flow, Then hardened to firm land the plough to bide, So Egypt still increased, within far placed That part is now where ships erst anchor cast. XV The foremost band the people were that dwelled In Alexandria's rich and fertile plain, Along the western shore, whence Nile expelled The greedy billows of the swelling main; Araspes was their guide, who more excelled In wit and craft than strength or warlike pain, To place an ambush close, or to devise A treason false, was none so sly, so wise. XVI The people next that gainst the morning rays Along the coasts of Asia have their seat, Arontes led them, whom no warlike praise Ennobled, but high birth and titles great, His helm ne'er made him sweat in toilsome frays, Nor was his sleep e'er broke with trumpet's threat, But from soft ease to try the toil of fight His fond ambition brought this carpet knight. XVII The third seemed not a troop or squadron small, But an huge host; nor seemed it so much grain In Egypt grew as to sustain them all; Yet from one town thereof came all that train, A town in people to huge shires equal, That did a thousand streets and more contain, Great Caire it hight, whose commons from each side Came swarming out to war, Campson their guide. XVIII Next under Gazel marched they that plough The fertile lands above that town which lie Up to the place where Nilus tumbling low Falls from his second cataract from high; The Egyptians weaponed were with sword and bow, No weight of helm or hauberk list they try, And richly armed, in their strong foes no dreed Of death but great desire of spoil they breed. XIX The naked folk of Barca these succeed, Unarmed half, Alarcon led that band, That long in deserts lived, in extreme need, On spoils and preys purchased by strength of hand. To battle strong unfit, their king did lead His army next brought from Zumara land. Then he of Tripoli, for sudden fight And skirmish short, both ready, bold, and light. XX Two captains next brought forth their bands to show Whom Stony sent and Happy Araby, Which never felt the cold of frost and snow, Or force of burning heat, unless fame lie, Where incense pure and all sweet odors grow, Where the sole phoenix doth revive, not die, And midst the perfumes rich and flowerets brave Both birth and burial, cradle hath and grave. XXI Their clothes not rich, their garments were not gay, But weapons like the Egyptian troops they had, The Arabians next that have no certain stay, No house, no home, no mansion good or bad, But ever, as the Scythian hordes stray, From place to place their wandering cities gad: These have both voice and stature feminine, Hair long and black, black face, and fiery eyne. XXII Long Indian canes, with iron armed, they bear, And as upon their nimble steeds they ride, Like a swift storm their speedy troops appear, If winds so fast bring storms from heavens wide: By Syphax led the first Arabians were; Aldine the second squadron had no guide, And Abiazar proud, brought to the fight The third, a thief, a murderer, not a knight. XXIII The islanders came then their prince before Whose lands Arabia's gulf enclosed about, Wherein they fish and gather oysters store, Whose shells great pearls rich and round pour out; The Red Sea sent with them from his left shore, Of negroes grim a black and ugly rout; These Agricalt and those Osmida brought, A man that set law, faith and truth at naught. XXIV The Ethiops next which Meroe doth breed, That sweet and gentle isle of Meroe, Twixt Nile and Astrabore that far doth spread, Where two religions are, and kingdoms three, These Assimiro and Canario led, Both kings, both Pagans, and both subjects be To the great Caliph, but the third king kept Christ's sacred faith, nor to these wars outstepped. XXV After two kings, both subjects also, ride, And of two bands of archers had the charge, The first Soldan of Ormus placed in the wide Huge Persian Bay, a town rich, fair, and large: The last of Boecan, which at every tide The sea cuts off from Persia's southern marge, And makes an isle; but when it ebbs again, The passage there is sandy, dry and plain. XXVI Nor thee, great Altamore, in her chaste bed Thy loving queen kept with her dear embrace, She tore her locks, she smote her breast, and shed Salt tears to make thee stay in that sweet place, "Seem the rough seas more calm, cruel," she said, "Than the mild looks of thy kind spouse's face? Or is thy shield, with blood and dust defiled, A dearer armful than thy tender child?" XXVII This was the mighty king of Samarcand, A captain wise, well skilled in feats of war, In courage fierce, matchless for strength of hand, Great was his praise, his force was noised far; His worth right well the Frenchmen understand, By whom his virtues feared and loved are: His men were armed with helms and hauberks strong, And by their sides broad swords and maces hong. XXVIII Then from the mansions bright of fresh Aurore Adrastus came, the glorious king of Ind, A snake's green skin spotted with black he wore, That was made rich by art and hard by kind, An elephant this furious giant bore, He fierce as fire, his mounture swift as wind; Much people brought he from his kingdoms wide, Twixt Indus, Ganges, and the salt seaside. XXIX The king's own troop come next, a chosen crew, Of all the camp the strength, the crown, the flower, Wherein each soldier had with honors due Rewarded been, for service ere that hour; Their arms were strong for need, and fair for show, Upon fierce steeds well mounted rode this power, And heaven itself with the clear splendor shone Of their bright armor, purple, gold and stone. XXX Mongst these Alarco fierce, and Odemare The muster master was, and Hidraort, And Rimedon, whose rashness took no care To shun death's bitter stroke, in field or fort, Tigranes, Rapold stem, the men that fare By sea, that robbed in each creek and port, Ormond, and Marlabust the Arabian named, Because that land rebellious he reclaimed. XXXI There Pirga, Arimon, Orindo are, Brimarte the scaler, and with him Suifant The breaker of wild horses brought from far; Then the great wresteler strong Aridamant, And Tisapherne, the thunderbolt of war, Whom none surpassed, whom none to match durst vaunt At tilt, at tourney, or in combat brave, With spear or lance, with sword, with mace or glaive. XXXII A false Armenian did this squadron guide, That in his youth from Christ's true faith and light To the blind lore of Paganism did slide, That Clement late, now Emireno, hight; Yet to his king he faithful was, and tried True in all causes, his in wrong and right: A cunning leader and a soldier bold, For strength and courage, young; for wisdom, old. XXXIII When all these regiments were passed and gone, Appeared Armide, and came her troop to show; Set in a chariot bright with precious stone, Her gown tucked up, and in her hand a bow; In her sweet face her new displeasures shone, Mixed with the native beauties there which grow, And quickened so her looks that in sharp wise It seems she threats and yet her threats entice. XXXIV Her chariot like Aurora's glorious wain, With carbuncles and jacinths glistered round: Her coachman guided with the golden rein Four unicorns, by couples yoked and bound; Of squires and lovely ladies hundreds twain, Whose rattling quivers at their backs resound, On milk-white steeds, wait on the chariot bright, Their steeds to manage, ready; swift, to flight. XXXV Followed her troop led forth by Aradin, Which Hidraort from Syria's kingdom sent, As when the new-born phoenix doth begin To fly to Ethiop-ward, at the fair bent Of her rich wings strange plumes and feathers thin Her crowns and chains with native gold besprent, The world amazed stands; and with her fly An host of wondering birds, that sing and cry: XXXVI So passed Armida, looked on, gazed on, so, A wondrous dame in habit, gesture, face; There lived no wight to love so great a foe But wished and longed those beauties to embrace, Scant seen, with anger sullen, sad for woe, She conquered all the lords and knights in place, What would she do, her sorrows passed, think you, When her fair eyes, her looks and smiles shall woo? XXXVII She passed, the king commanded Emiren Of his rich throne to mount the lofty stage, To whom his host, his army, and his men, He would commit, now in his graver age. With stately grace the man approached then; His looks his coming honor did presage: The guard asunder cleft and passage made, He to the throne up went, and there he stayed. XXXVIII To earth he cast his eyes, and bent his knee: To whom the king thus gan his will explain, "To thee this sceptre, Emiren, to thee These armies I commit, my place sustain Mongst them, go set the king of Judah free, And let the Frenchmen feel my just disdain, Go meet them, conquer them, leave none alive; Or those that scape from battle, bring captive." XXXIX Thus spake the tyrant, and the sceptre laid With all his sovereign power upon the knight: "I take this sceptre at your hand," he said, "And with your happy fortune go to fight, And trust, my lord, in your great virtue's aid To venge all Asia's harms, her wrongs to right, Nor e'er but victor will I see your face; Our overthrow shall bring death, not disgrace. XL "Heavens grant if evil, yet no mishap I dread, Or harm they threaten against this camp of thine, That all that mischief fall upon my head, Theirs be the conquest, and the danger mine; And let them safe bring home their captain dead, Buried in pomp of triumph's glorious shine." He ceased, and then a murmur loud up went, With noise of joy and sound of instrument. XLI Amid the noise and shout uprose the king, Environed with many a noble peer That to his royal tent the monarch bring, And there he feasted them and made them cheer, To him and him he talked, and carved each thing, The greatest honored, meanest graced were; And while this mirth, this joy and feast doth last, Armida found fit time her nets to cast: XLII But when the feast was done, she, that espied All eyes on her fair visage fixed and bent, And by new notes and certain signs described, How love's empoisoned fire their entrails brent, Arose, and where the king sate in his pride, With stately pace and humble gestures, went; And as she could in looks in voice she strove Fierce, stern, bold, angry, and severe to prove. XLIII "Great Emperor, behold me here," she said. "For thee, my country, and my faith to fight, A dame, a virgin, but a royal maid; And worthy seems this war a princess hight, For by the sword the sceptre is upstayed, This hand can use them both with skill and might, This hand of mine can strike, and at each blow Thy foes and ours kill, wound, and overthrow. XLIV "Nor yet suppose this is the foremost day Wherein to war I bent my noble thought, But for the surety of thy realms, and stay Of our religion true, ere this I wrought: Yourself best know if this be true I say, Or if my former deeds rejoiced you aught, When Godfrey's hardy knights and princes strong I captive took, and held in bondage long. XLV "I took them, bound them, and so sent them bound To thee, a noble gift, with whom they had Condemned low in dungeon under ground Forever dwelt, in woe and torment sad: So might thine host an easy way have found To end this doubtful war, with conquest glad, Had not Rinaldo fierce my knights all slain, And set those lords, his friends, at large again. XLVI "Rinaldo is well known," and there a long And true rehearsal made she of his deeds, "This is the knight that since hath done me wrong, Wrong yet untold, that sharp revengement needs: Displeasure therefore, mixed with reason strong, This thirst of war in me, this courage breeds; Nor how he injured me time serves to tell, Let this suffice, I seek revengement fell, XLVII "And will procure it, for all shafts that fly Light not in vain; some work the shooter's will, And Jove's right hand with thunders cast from sky Takes open vengeance oft for secret ill: But if some champion dare this knight defy To mortal battle, and by fight him kill, And with his hateful head will me present, That gift my soul shall please, my heart content: XLVIII "So please, that for reward enjoy he shall, The greatest gift I can or may afford, Myself, my beauty, wealth, and kingdoms all, To marry him, and take him for my lord, This promise will I keep whate'er befall, And thereto bind myself by oath and word: Now he that deems this purchase worth his pain, Let him step forth and speak, I none disdain." XLIX While thus the princess said, his hungry eyne Adrastus fed on her sweet beauty's light, "The gods forbid," quoth he, "one shaft of thine Should be discharged gainst that discourteous knight, His heart unworthy is, shootress divine, Of thine artillery to feel the might; To wreak thine ire behold me prest and fit, I will his head cut off, and bring thee it. L "I will his heart with this sharp sword divide, And to the vultures cast his carcass out." Thus threatened he, but Tisapherne envied To hear his glorious vaunt and boasting stout, And said, "But who art thou, that so great pride Thou showest before the king, me, and this rout? Pardie here are some such, whose worth exceeds Thy vaunting much yet boast not of their deeds." LI The Indian fierce replied, "I am the man Whose acts his words and boasts have aye surpassed; But if elsewhere the words thou now began Had uttered been, that speech had been thy last." Thus quarrelled they; the monarch stayed them than, And 'twixt the angry knights his sceptre cast: Then to Armida said, "Fair Queen, I see Thy heart is stout, thy thoughts courageous be; LII "Thou worthy art that their disdain and ire At thy commands these knights should both appease, That gainst thy foe their courage hot as fire Thou may'st employ, both when and where you please, There all their power and force, and what desire They have to serve thee, may they show at ease." The monarch held his peace when this was said, And they new proffer of their service made. LIII Nor they alone, but all that famous were In feats of arms boast that he shall be dead, All offer her their aid, all say and swear, To take revenge on his condemned head: So many arms moved she against her dear, And swore her darling under foot to tread, But he, since first the enchanted isle he left, Safe in his barge the roaring waves still cleft. LIV By the same way returned the well-taught boat By which it came, and made like haste, like speed; The friendly wind, upon her sail that smote, So turned as to return her ship had need: The youth sometimes the Pole or Bear did note, Or wandering stars which dearest nights forthspread: Sometimes the floods, the hills, or mountains steep, Whose woody fronts o'ershade the silent deep. LV Now of the camp the man the state inquires, Now asks the customs strange of sundry lands; And sailed, till clad in beams and bright attires The fourth day's sun on the eastern threshold stands: But when the western seas had quenched those fires, Their frigate struck against the shore and sands; Then spoke their guide, "The land of Palestine This is, here must your journey end and mine." LVI The knights she set upon the shore all three, And vanished thence in twinkling of an eye, Uprose the night in whose deep blackness be All colors hid of things in earth or sky, Nor could they house, or hold, or harbor see, Or in that desert sign of dwelling spy, Nor track of man or horse, or aught that might Inform them of some path or passage right. LVII When they had mused what way they travel should, From the west shore their steps at last they twined, And lo, far off at last their eyes behold Something, they wist not what, that clearly shined With rays of silver and with beams of gold Which the dark folds of night's black mantle lined. Forward they went and marched against the light, To see and find the thing that shone so bright. LVIII High on a tree they saw an armor new, That glistered bright gainst Cynthia's silver ray, Therein, like stars in skies, the diamonds show Fret in the gilden helm and hauberk gay, The mighty shield all scored full they view Of pictures fair, ranged in meet array; To keep them sate an aged man beside, Who to salute them rose, when them he spied. LIX The twain who first were sent in this pursuit Of their wise friend well knew the aged face: But when the wizard sage their first salute Received and quitted had with kind embrace, To the young prince, that silent stood and mute, He turned his speech, "In this unused place For you alone I wait, my lord," quoth he, "My chiefest care your state and welfare be. LX "For, though you wot it not, I am your friend, And for your profit work, as these can tell, I taught them how Armida's charms to end, And bring you thither from love's hateful cell, Now to my words, though sharp perchance, attend, Nor be aggrieved although they seem too fell, But keep them well in mind, till in the truth A wise and holier man instruct thy youth. LXI "Not underneath sweet shades and fountains shrill, Among the nymphs, the fairies, leaves and flowers; But on the steep, the rough and craggy hill Of virtue stands this bliss, this good of ours: By toil and travel, not by sitting still In pleasure's lap, we come to honor's bowers; Why will you thus in sloth's deep valley lie? The royal eagles on high mountains fly. LXII "Nature lifts up thy forehead to the skies, And fills thy heart with high and noble thought, That thou to heavenward aye shouldst lift thine eyes, And purchase fame by deeds well done and wrought; She gives thee ire, by which not courage flies To conquests, not through brawls and battles fought For civil jars, nor that thereby you might Your wicked malice wreak and cursed spite. LXIII "But that your strength spurred forth with noble wrath, With greater fury might Christ's foes assault, And that your bridle should with lesser scath Each secret vice, and kill each inward fault; For so his godly anger ruled hath Each righteous man beneath heaven's starry vault, And at his will makes it now hot, now cold, Now lets it run, now doth it fettered hold." LXIV Thus parleyed he; Rinaldo, hushed and still, Great wisdom heard in those few words compiled, He marked his speech, a purple blush did fill His guilty checks, down went his eyesight mild. The hermit by his bashful looks his will Well understood, and said, "Look up, my child, And painted in this precious shield behold The glorious deeds of thy forefathers old. LXV "Thine elders' glory herein see and know, In virtue's path how they trod all their days, Whom thou art far behind, a runner slow In this true course of honor, fame and praise: Up, up, thyself incite by the fair show Of knightly worth which this bright shield bewrays, That be thy spur to praise!" At last the knight Looked up, and on those portraits bent his sight. LXVI The cunning workman had in little space Infinite shapes of men there well expressed, For there described was the worthy race And pedigree of all of the house of Est: Come from a Roman spring o'er all the place Flowed pure streams of crystals east and west, With laurel crowned stood the princes old, Their wars the hermit and their battles told. LXVII He showed them Caius first, when first in prey To people strange the falling empire went, First Prince of Est, that did the sceptre sway O'er such as chose him lord by tree consent; His weaker neighbors to his rule obey, Need made them stoop, constraint doth force content; After, when Lord Honorius called the train Of savage Goths into his land again, LXVIII And when all Italy did burn and flame With bloody war, by this fierce people mad, When Rome a captive and a slave became, And to be quite destroyed was most afraid, Aurelius, to his everlasting fame, Preserved in peace the folk that him obeyed: Next whom was Forest, who the rage withstood Of the bold Huns, and of their tyrant proud. LXIX Known by his look was Attila the fell, Whose dragon eyes shone bright with anger's spark, Worse faced than a dog, who viewed him well Supposed they saw him grin and heard him bark; But when in single fight he lost the bell, How through his troops he fled there might you mark, And how Lord Forest after fortified Aquilea's town, and how for it he died. LXX For there was wrought the fatal end and fine, Both of himself and of the town he kept: But his great son renowned Acarine, Into his father's place and honor stepped: To cruel fate, not to the Huns, Altine Gave place, and when time served again forth leapt, And in the vale of Po built for his seat Of many a village a small city great; LXXI Against the swelling flood he banked it strong, And thence uprose the fair and noble town Where they of Est should by succession long Command, and rule in bliss and high renown: Gainst Odoacer then he fought, but wrong Oft spoileth right, fortune treads courage down, For there he died for his dear country's sake, And of his father's praise did so partake. LXXII With him died Alforisio, Azzo was With his dear brother into exile sent, But homeward they in arms again repass-- The Herule king oppressed--from banishment. His front through pierced with a dart, alas, Next them, of Est the Epaminondas went, That smiling seemed to cruel death to yield, When Totila was fled, and safe his shield. LXXIII Of Boniface I speak; Valerian, His son, in praise and power succeeded him, Who durst sustain, in years though scant a man, Of the proud Goths an hundred squadrons trim: Then he that gainst the Sclaves much honor wan, Ernesto, threatening stood with visage grim; Before him Aldoard, the Lombard stout Who from Monselce boldly erst shut out. LXXIV There Henry was and Berengare the bold That served great Charles in his conquest high, Who in each battle give the onset would, A hardy soldier and a captain sly; After, Prince Lewis did he well uphold Against his nephew, King of Italy, He won the field and took that king on live: Next him stood Otho with his children five. LXXV Of Almeric the image next they view, Lord Marquis of Ferrara first create, Founder of many churches, that upthrew His eyes, like one that used to contemplate; Gainst him the second Azzo stood in rew, With Berengarius that did long debate, Till after often change of fortune stroke, He won, and on all Italy laid the yoke. LXXVI Albert his son the Germans warred among, And there his praise and fame was spread so wide, That having foiled the Danes in battle strong, His daughter young became great Otho's bride. Behind him Hugo stood with warfare long, That broke the horn of all the Romans' pride, Who of all Italy the marquis hight, And Tuscan whole possessed as his right. LXXVII After Tebaldo, puissant Boniface And Beatrice his dear possessed the stage; Nor was there left heir male of that great race, To enjoy the sceptre, state and heritage; The Princess Maud alone supplied the place, Supplied the want in number, sex and age; For far above each sceptre, throne and crown, The noble dame advanced her veil and gown. LXXVIII With manlike vigor shone her noble look, And more than manlike wrath her face o'erspread, There the fell Normans, Guichard there forsook The field, till then who never feared nor fled; Henry the Fourth she beat, and from him took His standard, and in Church it offered; Which done, the Pope back to the Vatican She brought, and placed in Peter's chair again. LXXIX As he that honored her and held her dear, Azzo the Fifth stood by her lovely side; But the fourth Azzo's offspring far and near Spread forth, and through Germania fructified; Sprung from the branch did Guelpho bold appear, Guelpho his son by Cunigond his bride, And in Bavaria's field transplanted new The Roman graft flourished, increased and grew. LXXX A branch of Est there in the Guelfian tree Engrafted was, which of itself was old, Whereon you might the Guelfoes fairer see, Renew their sceptres and their crowns of gold, Of which Heaven's good aspects so bended be That high and broad it spread and flourished bold, Till underneath his glorious branches laid Half Germany, and all under his shade. LXXXI This regal plant from his Italian rout Sprung up as high, and blossomed fair above, Fornenst Lord Guelpho, Bertold issued out, With the sixth Azzo whom all virtues love; This was the pedigree of worthies stout, Who seemed in that bright shield to live and move. Rinaldo waked up and cheered his face, To see these worthies of his house and race. LXXXII To do like acts his courage wished and sought, And with that wish transported him so far That all those deeds which filled aye his thought, Towns won, forts taken, armies killed in war, As if they were things done indeed and wrought, Before his eyes he thinks they present are, He hastily arms him, and with hope and haste, Sure conquest met, prevented and embraced. LXXXIII But Charles, who had told the death and fall Of the young prince of Danes, his late dear lord, Gave him the fatal weapon, and withal, "Young knight," quoth he, "take with good luck this sword, Your just, strong, valiant hand in battle shall Employ it long, for Christ's true faith and word, And of his former lord revenge the wrongs, Who loved you so, that deed to you belongs." LXXXIV He answered, "God for his mercy's sake, Grant that this hand which holds this weapon good For thy dear master may sharp vengeance take, May cleave the Pagan's heart, and shed his blood." To this but short reply did Charles make, And thanked him much, nor more on terms they stood: For lo, the wizard sage that was their guide On their dark journey hastes them forth to ride. LXXXV "High time it is," quoth he, "for you to wend Where Godfrey you awaits, and many a knight, There may we well arrive ere night doth end, And through this darkness can I guide you right." This said, up to his coach they all ascend, On his swift wheels forth rolled the chariot light, He gave his coursers fleet the rod and rein, And galloped forth and eastward drove amain; LXXXVI While silent so through night's dark shade they fly, The hermit thus bespake the young man stout: "Of thy great house, thy race, thine offspring high, Here hast thou seen the branch, the bole, the root, And as these worthies born to chivalry And deeds of arms it hath tofore brought out, So is it, so it shall be fertile still, Nor time shall end, nor age that seed shall kill. LXXXVII "Would God, as drawn from the forgetful lap Of antique time, I have thine elders shown; That so I could the catalogue unwrap Of thy great nephews yet unborn, unknown, That ere this light they view, their fate and hap I might foretell, and how their chance is thrown, That like thine elders so thou mightst behold Thy children, many, famous, stout and bold. LXXXVIII "But not by art or skill, of things future Can the plain truth revealed be and told, Although some knowledge doubtful, dark, obscure We have of coming haps in clouds uprolled; Nor all which in this cause I know for sure Dare I foretell: for of that father old, The hermit Peter, learned I much, and he Withouten veil heaven's secrets great doth see. LXXXIX "But this, to him revealed by grace divine, By him to me declared, to thee I say, Was never race Greek, barbarous, or Latine, Great in times past, or famous at this day, Richer in hardy knights than this of thine; Such blessings Heaven shall on thy children lay That they in fame shall pass, in praise o'ercome, The worthies old of Sparta, Carthage, Rome. XC "But mongst the rest I chose Alphonsus bold, In virtue first, second in place and name, He shall be born when this frail world grows old, Corrupted, poor, and bare of men of fame, Better than he none shall, none can, or could, The sword or sceptre use or guide the same, To rule in peace or to command in fight, Thine offspring's glory and thy house's light. XCI "His younger age foretokens true shall yield Of future valor, puissance, force and might, From him no rock the savage beast shall shield; At tilt or tourney match him shall no knight: After, he conquer shall in pitched field Great armies and win spoils in single fight, And on his locks, rewards for knightly praise, Shall garlands wear of grass, of oak, of bays. XCII "His graver age, as well that eild it fits, Shall happy peace preserve and quiet blest, And from his neighbors strong mongst whom he sits Shall keep his cities safe in wealth and rest, Shall nourish arts and cherish pregnant wits, Make triumphs great, and feast his subjects best, Reward the good, the evil with pains torment, Shall dangers all foresee, and seen, prevent. XCIII "But if it hap against those wicked bands That sea and earth invest with blood and war, And in these wretched times to noble lands Give laws of peace false and unjust that are, That he be sent, to drive their guilty hands From Christ's pure altars and high temples far, Oh, what revenge, what vengeance shall he bring On that false sect, and their accursed king! XCIV "Too late the Moors, too late the Turkish king, Gainst him should arm their troops and legions bold For he beyond great Euphrates should bring, Beyond the frozen tops of Taurus cold, Beyond the land where is perpetual spring, The cross, the eagle white, the lily of gold, And by baptizing of the Ethiops brown Of aged Nile reveal the springs unknown." XCV Thus said the hermit, and his prophecy The prince accepted with content and pleasure, The secret thought of his posterity Of his concealed joys heaped up the measure. Meanwhile the morning bright was mounted high, And changed Heaven's silver wealth to golden treasure, And high above the Christian tents they view How the broad ensigns trembled, waved and blew, XCVI When thus again their leader sage begun, "See how bright Phoebus clears the darksome skies, See how with gentle beams the friendly sun The tents, the towns, the hills and dales descries, Through my well guiding is your voyage done, From danger safe in travel off which lies, Hence without fear of harm or doubt of foe March to the camp, I may no nearer go." XCVII Thus took he leave, and made a quick return, And forward went the champions three on foot, And marching right against the rising morn A ready passage to the camp found out, Meanwhile had speedy fame the tidings borne That to the tents approached these barons stout, And starting from his throne and kingly seat To entertain them, rose Godfredo great. EIGHTEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The charms and spirits false therein which lie Rinaldo chaseth from the forest old; The host of Egypt comes; Vafrin the spy Entereth their camp, stout, crafty, wise and bold; Sharp is the fight about the bulwarks high And ports of Zion, to assault the hold: Godfrey hath aid from Heaven, by force the town Is won, the Pagans slain, walls beaten down. I Arrived where Godfrey to embrace him stood, "My sovereign lord," Rinaldo meekly said, "To venge my wrongs against Gernando proud My honor's care provoked my wrath unstayed; But that I you displeased, my chieftain good, My thoughts yet grieve, my heart is still dismayed, And here I come, prest all exploits to try To make me gracious in your gracious eye." II To him that kneeled, folding his friendly arms About his neck, the duke this answer gave: "Let pass such speeches sad, of passed harms. Remembrance is the life of grief; his grave, Forgetfulness; and for amends, in arms Your wonted valor use and courage brave; For you alone to happy end must bring The strong enchantments of the charmed spring. III "That aged wood whence heretofore we got, To build our scaling engines, timber fit, Is now the fearful seat, but how none wot, Where ugly fiends and damned spirits sit; To cut one twist thereof adventureth not The boldest knight we have, nor without it This wall can battered be: where others doubt There venture thou, and show thy courage stout." IV Thus said he, and the knight in speeches few Proffered his service to attempt the thing, To hard assays his courage willing flew, To him praise was no spur, words were no sting; Of his dear friends then he embraced the crew To welcome him which came; for in a ring About him Guelpho, Tancred and the rest Stood, of the camp the greatest, chief and best. V When with the prince these lords had iterate Their welcomes oft, and oft their dear embrace, Toward the rest of lesser worth and state, He turned, and them received with gentle grace; The merry soldiers bout him shout and prate, With cries as joyful and as cheerful face As if in triumph's chariot bright as sun, He had returned Afric or Asia won. VI Thus marched to his tent the champion good, And there sat down with all his friends around; Now of the war he asked, now of the wood, And answered each demand they list propound; But when they left him to his ease, up stood The hermit, and, fit time to speak once found, "My lord," he said, "your travels wondrous are, Far have you strayed, erred, wandered far. VII "Much are you bound to God above, who brought You safe from false Armida's charmed hold, And thee a straying sheep whom once he bought Hath now again reduced to his fold, And gainst his heathen foes these men of naught Hath chosen thee in place next Godfrey bold; Yet mayest thou not, polluted thus with sin, In his high service war or fight begin. VIII "The world, the flesh, with their infection vile Pollute the thoughts impure, thy spirit stain; Not Po, not Ganges, not seven-mouthed Nile, Not the wide seas, can wash thee clean again, Only to purge all faults which thee defile His blood hath power who for thy sins was slain: His help therefore invoke, to him bewray Thy secret faults, mourn, weep, complain and pray." IX This said, the knight first with the witch unchaste His idle loves and follies vain lamented; Then kneeling low with heavy looks downcast, His other sins confessed and all repented, And meekly pardon craved for first and last. The hermit with his zeal was well contented, And said, "On yonder hill next morn go pray That turns his forehead gainst the morning ray. X "That done, march to the wood, whence each one brings Such news of furies, goblins, fiends, and sprites, The giants, monsters, and all dreadful things Thou shalt subdue, which that dark grove unites: Let no strange voice that mourns or sweetly sings, Nor beauty, whose glad smile frail hearts delights, Within thy breast make ruth or pity rise, But their false looks and prayers false despise." XI Thus he advised him, and the hardy knight Prepared him gladly to this enterprise, Thoughtful he passed the day, and sad the night; And ere the silver morn began to rise, His arms he took, and in a coat him dight Of color strange, cut in the warlike guise; And on his way sole, silent, forth he went Alone, and left his friends, and left his tent. XII It was the time when gainst the breaking day Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined, For in the east appeared the morning gray And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, When to Mount Olivet he took his way, And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine, This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine. XIII Thus to himself he thought, how many bright And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high, Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, Her fixed and wandering stars the azure sky, So framed all by their Creator's might That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land. XIV Thus as he mused, to the top he went, And there kneeled down with reverence and fear, His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent, His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were: "The sins and errors, which I now repent, Of mine unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy mercy fall, And purge my faults and mine offences all." XV Thus prayed he, with purple wings upflew In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, Begilding with the radiant beams she threw His helm, his harness, and the mountain green; Upon his breast and forehead gently blew The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen, And o'er his head let down from clearest skies A cloud of pure and precious clew there flies. XVI The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem, And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled And thence, of purest white, bright rays outstream; So cheered are the flowers late withered With the sweet comfort of the morning beam, And so, returned to youth, a serpent old Adorns herself in new and native gold. XVII The lovely whiteness of his changed weed, The Prince perceived well, and long admired; Toward the forest marched he on with speed, Resolved, as such adventures great required; Thither he came whence shrinking back for dread Of that strange desert's sight the first retired, But not to him fearful or loathsome made That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade: XVIII Forward he passed, mid in the grove before He heard a sound that strange, sweet, pleasing was; There rolled a crystal brook with gentle roar, There sighed the winds as through the leaves they pass, There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore, There sung the swan, and singing died, alas! There lute, harp, cittern, human voice he heard, And all these sounds one sound right well declared. XIX A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard, The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent; Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward, Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent: Whereat amazed he stayed, and well prepared For his defence, heedful and slow forth went: Nor in his way his passage aught withstood, Except a quiet, still, transparent flood. XX On the green banks which that fair stream inbound, Flowers and odors sweetly smiled and smelled, Which reaching out his stretched arms around, All the large desert in his bosom held, And through the grove one channel passage found; That in the wood; in that, the forest dwelled: Trees clad the streams; streams green those trees aye made And so exchanged their moisture and their shade. XXI The knight some way sought out the flood to pass, And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appeared, A bridge of gold, a huge and weighty mass, On arches great of that rich metal reared; When through that golden way he entered was, Down fell the bridge, swelled the stream, and weared The work away, nor sign left where it stood, And of a river calm became a flood. XXII He turned, amazed to see it troubled so, Like sudden brooks increased with molten snow, The billows fierce that tossed to and fro, The whirlpools sucked down to their bosoms low; But on he went to search for wonders mo, Through the thick trees there high and broad which grow, And in that forest huge and desert wide, The more he sought, more wonders still he spied. XXIII Whereso he stepped, it seemed the joyful ground Renewed the verdure of her flowery weed, A fountain here, a wellspring there he found; Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread The aged wood o'er and about him round Flourished with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed, And on the boughs and branches of those treen, The bark was softened, and renewed the green. XXIV The manna on each leaf did pearled lie, The honey stilled from the tender rind; Again he heard that wondrous harmony, Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind, The human voices sung a triple high, To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind, But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were, Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear. XXV He looked, he listened, yet his thoughts denied To think that true which he both heard and see, A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, And thither by a beaten path went he: The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, Higher than pine or palm or cypress tree: And far above all other plants was seen That forest's lady and that desert's queen. XXVI Upon the trees his eyes Rinaldo bent, And there a marvel great and strange began; An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, And from his fertile hollow womb forth ran, Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, A nymph, for age able to go to man, An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight. XXVII Such as on stages play, such as we see The Dryads painted whom wild Satyrs love, Whose arms half-naked, locks untrussed be, With buskins laced on their legs above, And silken robes tucked short above their knee; Such seemed the sylvan daughters of this grove, Save that instead of shafts and boughs of tree, She bore a lute, a harp, or cittern she. XXVIII And wantonly they cast them in a ring, And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, Rinaldo round about environing, As centres are with their circumference; The tree they compassed eke, and gan to sing, That woods and streams admired their excellence; "Welcome, dear lord, welcome to this sweet grove, Welcome our lady's hope, welcome her love. XXIX "Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sick For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distressed; Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick, Fit dwelling for sad folk with grief oppressed, See with thy coming how the branches quick Revived are, and in new blosoms dressed:" This was their song, and after, from it went First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent. XXX If antique times admired Silenus old That oft appeared set on his lazy ass, How would they wonder if they had behold Such sights as from the myrtle high did pass? Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, That like in shape, in face and beauty was To sweet Armide; Rinaldo thinks he spies Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes. XXXI On him a sad and smiling look she cast, Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays: "And art thou come," quoth she, "returned at last To her from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways? Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrows past? To ease my widow nights and careful days? Or comest thou to work me grief and harm? Why nilt thou speak?--why not thy face disarm? XXXII "Com'st thou a friend or foe? I did not frame That golden bridge to entertain my foe, Nor opened flowers and fountains as you came, To welcome him with joy that brings me woe: Put off thy helm, rejoice me with the flame Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow. Kiss me, embrace me, if you further venture, Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath to enter." XXXIII Thus as she woos she rolls her rueful eyes With piteous look, and changeth oft her cheer, An hundred sighs from her false heart upflies, She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear; The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies, What stony heart resists a woman's tear? But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind, Drew forth his sword and from her careless twined. XXXIV Toward the tree he marched, she thither start, Before him stepped, embraced the plant and cried, "Ah, never do me such a spiteful part, To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride, Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; For through this breast, and through this heart unkind To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find." XXXV He lift his brand, nor cared though oft she prayed, And she her form to other shape did change; Such monsters huge when men in dreams are laid Oft in their idle fancies roam and range: Her body swelled, her face obscure was made, Vanished her garments, her face and vestures strange, A giantess before him high she stands, Like Briareus armed with an hundred hands. XXXVI With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, She threatened death, she roared, cried and fought, Each other nymph in armor likewise dight, A Cyclops great became: he feared them naught, But on the myrtle smote with all his might, That groaned like living souls to death nigh brought, The sky seemed Pluto's court, the air seemed hell, Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell. XXXVII Lightened the heavens above, the earth below Roared loud, that thundered, and this shook; Blustered the tempests strong, the whirlwinds blow, The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look; But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow, Nor of that fury heed or care he took, Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended; Then fled the spirits all, the charms all ended. XXXVIII The heavens grew clear, the air waxed calm and still, The wood returned to his wonted state, Of withcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill; Of horror full, but horror there innate; He further proved if aught withstood his will To cut those trees as did the charms of late, And finding naught to stop him, smiled, and said, "O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!" XXXIX From thence home to the campward turned the knight, The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat, "Now of the wood the charms have lost their might, The sprites are conquered, ended is the feat, See where he comes!" In glistering white all dight Appeared the man, bold, stately, high and great, His eagle's silver wings to shine begun With wondrous splendor gainst the golden sun. XL The camp received him with a joyful cry, A cry the dales and hills about that flied; Then Godfrey welcomed him with honors high, His glory quenched all spite, all envy killed: "To yonder dreadful grove," quoth he, "went I, And from the fearful wood, as me you willed, Have driven the sprites away, thither let be Your people sent, the way is safe and free." XLI Sent were the workmen thither, thence they brought Timber enough, by good advice select, And though by skilless builders framed and wrought Their engines rude and rams were late elect, Yet now the forts and towers from whence they fought Were framed by a cunning architect, William, of all the Genoese lord and guide, Which late ruled all the seas from side to side; XLII But forced to retire from him at last, The Pagan fleet the seas moist empire won, His men with all their stuff and store in haste Home to the camp with their commander run, In skill, in wit, in cunning him surpassed Yet never engineer beneath the sun, Of carpenters an hundred large he brought, That what their lord devised made and wrought. XLIII This man began with wondrous art to make, Not rams, not mighty brakes, not slings alone, Wherewith the firm and solid walls to shake, To cast a dart, or throw a shaft or stone; But framed of pines and firs, did undertake To build a fortress huge, to which was none Yet ever like, whereof he clothed the sides Against the balls of fire with raw bull's hides. XLIV In mortices and sockets framed just, The beams, the studs and puncheons joined he fast; To beat the city's wall, beneath forth brust A ram with horned front, about her waist A bridge the engine from her side out thrust, Which on the wall when need she cast; And from her top a turret small up stood, Strong, surely armed, and builded of like wood. XLV Set on an hundred wheels the rolling mass, On the smooth lands went nimbly up and down, Though full of arms and armed men it was, Yet with small pains it ran, as it had flown: Wondered the camp so quick to see it pass, They praised the workmen and their skill unknown, And on that day two towers they builded more, Like that which sweet Clorinda burned before. XLVI Yet wholly were not from the Saracines Their works concealed and their labors hid, Upon that wall which next the camp confines They placed spies, who marked all they did: They saw the ashes wild and squared pines, How to the tents, trailed from the grove, they slid: And engines huge they saw, yet could not tell How they were built, their forms they saw not well. XLVII Their engines eke they reared, and with great art Repaired each bulwark, turret, port and tower, And fortified the plain and easy part, To bide the storm of every warlike stoure, Till as they thought no sleight or force of Mart To undermine or scale the same had power; And false Ismeno gan new balls prepare Of wicked fire, wild, wondrous, strange and rare. XLVIII He mingled brimstone with bitumen fell Fetched from that lake where Sodom erst did sink, And from that flood which nine times compassed hell Some of the liquor hot he brought, I think, Wherewith the quenchless fire he tempered well, To make it smoke and flame and deadly stink: And for his wood cut down, the aged sire Would thus revengement take with flame and fire. XLIX While thus the camp, and thus the town were bent, These to assault, these to defend the wall, A speedy dove through the clear welkin went, Straight o'er the tents, seen by the soldiers all; With nimble fans the yielding air she rent, Nor seemed it that she would alight or fall, Till she arrived near that besieged town, Then from the clouds at last she stooped down: L But lo, from whence I nolt, a falcon came, Armed with crooked bill and talons long, And twixt the camp and city crossed her game, That durst nor bide her foe's encounter strong; But right upon the royal tent down came, And there, the lords and princes great among, When the sharp hawk nigh touched her tender head In Godfrey's lap she fell, with fear half dead: LI The duke received her, saved her, and spied, As he beheld the bird, a wondrous thing, About her neck a letter close was tied, By a small thread, and thrust under her wing, He loosed forth the writ and spread it wide, And read the intent thereof, "To Judah's king," Thus said the schedule, "honors high increase, The Egyptian chieftain wisheth health and peace: LII "Fear not, renowned prince, resist, endure Till the third day, or till the fourth at most, I come, and your deliverance will procure, And kill your coward foes and all their host." This secret in that brief was closed up sure, Writ in strange language, to the winged post Given to transport; for in their warlike need The east such message used, oft with good speed. LIII The duke let go the captive dove at large, And she that had his counsel close betrayed, Traitress to her great Lord, touched not the marge Of Salem's town, but fled far thence afraid. The duke before all those which had or charge Or office high, the letter read, and said: "See how the goodness of the Lord foreshows The secret purpose of our crafty foes. LIV "No longer then let us protract the time, But scale the bulwark of this fortress high, Through sweat and labor gainst those rocks sublime Let us ascend, which to the southward lie; Hard will it be that way in arms to climb, But yet the place and passage both know I, And that high wall by site strong on that part, Is least defenced by arms, by work and art. LV "Thou, Raymond, on this side with all thy might Assault the wall, and by those crags ascend, My squadrons with mine engines huge shall fight And gainst the northern gate my puissance bend, That so our foes, beguiled with the sight, Our greatest force and power shall there attend, While my great tower from thence shall nimbly slide, And batter down some worse defended side; LVI "Camillo, thou not far from me shalt rear Another tower, close to the walls ybrought." This spoken, Raymond old, that sate him near, And while he talked great things tossed in his thought, Said, "To Godfredo's counsel, given us here, Naught can be added, from it taken naught: Yet this I further wish, that some were sent To spy their camp, their secret and intent, LVII "That may their number and their squadrons brave Describe, and through their tents disguised mask." Quoth Tancred, "Lo, a subtle squire I have, A person fit to undertake this task, A man quick, ready, bold, sly to deceive, To answer, wise, and well advised to ask; Well languaged, and that with time and place, Can change his look, his voice, his gait, his grace." LVIII Sent for, he came, and when his lord him told What Godfrey's pleasure was and what his own, He smiled and said forthwith he gladly would. "I go," quoth he, "careless what chance be thrown, And where encamped be these Pagans bold, Will walk in every tent a spy unknown, Their camp even at noon-day I enter shall, And number all their horse and footmen all; LIX "How great, how strong, how armed this army is, And what their guide intends, I will declare, To me the secrets of that heart of his And hidden thoughts shall open lie and bare." Thus Vafrine spoke, nor longer stayed on this, But for a mantle changed the coat he ware, Naked was his neck, and bout his forehead bold, Of linen white full twenty yards he rolled. LX His weapons were a Syrian bow and quiver, His gestures barbarous, like the Turkish train, Wondered all they that heard his tongue deliver Of every land the language true and plain: In Tyre a born Phoenician, by the river Of Nile a knight bred in the Egyptian main, Both people would have thought him; forth he rides On a swift steed, o'er hills and dales that glides. LXI But ere the third day came the French forth sent Their pioneers to even the rougher ways, And ready made each warlike instrument, Nor aught their labor interrupts or stays; The nights in busy toll they likewise spent And with long evenings lengthened forth short days, Till naught was left the hosts that hinder might To use their utmost power and strength in fight. LXII That day, which of the assault the day forerun, The godly duke in prayer spent well-nigh, And all the rest, because they had misdone, The sacrament receive and mercy cry; Then oft the duke his engines great begun To show where least he would their strength apply; His foes rejoiced, deluded in that sort, To see them bent against their surest port: LXIII But after, aided by the friendly night, His greatest engine to that side he brought Where plainest seemed the wall, where with their might The flankers least could hurt them as they fought; And to the southern mountain's greatest height To raise his turret old Raymondo sought; And thou Camillo on that part hadst thine, Where from the north the walls did westward twine. LXIV But when amid the eastern heaven appeared The rising morning bright as shining glass, The troubled Pagans saw, and seeing feared, How the great tower stood not where late it was, And here and there tofore unseen was reared Of timber strong a huge and fearful mass, And numberless with beams, with ropes and strings, They view the iron rams, the barks and slings. LXV The Syrian people now were no whit slow, Their best defences to that side to bear, Where Godfrey did his greatest engine show, From thence where late in vain they placed were: But he who at his back right well did know The host of Egypt to be proaching near, To him called Guelpho, and the Roberts twain, And said, "On horseback look you still remain, LXVI "And have regard, while all our people strive To scale this wall, where weak it seems and thin, Lest unawares some sudden host arrive, And at our backs unlooked-for war begin." This said, three fierce assaults at once they give, The hardy soldiers all would die or win, And on three parts resistance makes the king, And rage gainst strength, despair gainst hope doth bring. LXVII Himself upon his limbs with feeble eild That shook, unwieldy with their proper weight, His armor laid and long unused shield, And marched gainst Raymond to the mountain's height; Great Solyman gainst Godfrey took the field; Fornenst Camillo stood Argantes straight Where Tancred strong he found, so fortune will That this good prince his wonted foe shall kill. LXVIII The archers shot their arrows sharp and keen, Dipped in the bitter juice of poison strong, The shady face of heaven was scantly seen, Hid with the clouds of shafts and quarries long; Yet weapons sharp with greater fury been Cast from the towers the Pagan troops among, For thence flew stones and clifts of marble rocks, Trees shod with iron, timber, logs and blocks. LXIX A thunderbolt seemed every stone, it brake His limbs and armors on whom so it light, That life and soul it did not only take But all his shape and face disfigured quite; The lances stayed not in the wounds they make, But through the gored body took their flight, From side to side, through flesh, through skin and rind They flew, and flying, left sad death behind. LXX But yet not all this force and fury drove The Pagan people to forsake the wall, But to revenge these deadly blows they strove, With darts that fly, with stones and trees that fall; For need so cowards oft courageous prove, For liberty they fight, for life and all, And oft with arrows, shafts, and stones that fly, Give bitter answer to a sharp reply. LXXI This while the fierce assailants never cease, But sternly still maintain a threefold charge, And gainst the clouds of shafts draw nigh at ease, Under a pentise made of many a targe, The armed towers close to the bulwarks press, And strive to grapple with the battled marge, And launch their bridges out, meanwhile below With iron fronts the rams the walls down throw. LXXII Yet still Rinaldo unresolved went, And far unworthy him this service thought, If mongst the common sort his pains he spent; Renown so got the prince esteemed naught: His angry looks on every side he bent, And where most harm, most danger was, he fought, And where the wall high, strong and surest was, That part would he assault, and that way pass. LXXIII And turning to the worthies him behind, All hardy knights, whom Dudon late did guide, "Oh shame," quoth he, "this wall no war doth find, When battered is elsewhere each part, each side; All pain is safety to a valiant mind, Each way is eath to him that dares abide, Come let us scale this wall, though strong and high, And with your shields keep off the darts that fly." LXXIV With him united all while thus he spake, Their targets hard above their heads they threw, Which joined in one an iron pentise make That from the dreadful storm preserved the crew. Defended thus their speedy course they take, And to the wall without resistance drew, For that strong penticle protected well The knights, from all that flew and all that fell. LXXV Against the fort Rinaldo gan uprear A ladder huge, an hundred steps of height, And in his arm the same did easily bear And move as winds do reeds or rushes light, Sometimes a tree, a rock, a dart or spear, Fell from above, yet forward clomb the knight, And upward fearless pierced, careless still, Though Mount Olympus fell, or Ossa hill: LXXVI A mount of ruins, and of shafts a wood Upon his shoulders and his shield he bore, One hand the ladder held whereon he stood, The other bare his targe his face before; His hardy troop, by his example good Provoked, with him the place assaulted sore, And ladders long against the wall they clap, Unlike in courage yet, unlike in hap: LXXVII One died, another fell; he forward went, And these he comforts, and he threateneth those, Now with his hand outstretched the battlement Well-nigh he reached, when all his armed foes Ran thither, and their force and fury bent To throw him headlong down, yet up he goes, A wondrous thing, one knight whole armed bands Alone, and hanging in the air, withstands: LXXVIII Withstands, and forceth his great strength so far, That like a palm whereon huge weight doth rest, His forces so resisted stronger are, His virtues higher rise the more oppressed, Till all that would his entrance bold debar, He backward drove, upleaped and possessed The wall, and safe and easy with his blade, To all that after came, the passage made. LXXIX There killing such as durst and did withstand, To noble Eustace that was like to fall He reached forth his friendly conquering hand, And next himself helped him to mount the wall. This while Godfredo and his people land Their lives to greater harms and dangers thrall, For there not man with man, nor knight with knight Contend, but engines there with engines fight. LXXX For in that place the Paynims reared a post, Which late had served some gallant ship for mast, And over it another beam they crossed, Pointed with iron sharp, to it made fast With ropes which as men would the dormant tossed, Now out, now in, now back, now forward cast. In his swift pulleys oft the men withdrew The tree, and oft the riding-balk forth threw: LXXXI The mighty beam redoubted oft his blows, And with such force the engine smote and hit, That her broad side the tower wide open throws, Her joints were broke, her rafters cleft and split; But yet gainst every hap whence mischief grows, Prepared the piece, gainst such extremes made fit, Launch forth two scythes, sharp, cutting, long and broad And cut the ropes whereon the engine rode: LXXXII As an old rock, which age or stormy wind Tears from some craggy hill or mountain steep, Doth break, doth bruise, and into dust doth grind Woods, houses, hamlets, herds, and folds of sheep, So fell the beam, and down with it all kind Of arms, of weapons, and of men did sweep, Wherewith the towers once or twice did shake, Trembled the walls, the hills and mountains quake. LXXXIII Victorious Godfrey boldly forward came, And had great hope even then the place to win; But lo, a fire, with stench, with smoke and flame Withstood his passage, stopped his entrance in: Such burning Aetna yet could never frame, When from her entrails hot her fires begin, Nor yet in summer on the Indian plain, Such vapors warm from scorching air down rain. LXXXIV There balls of wildfire, there fly burning spears, This flame was black, that blue, this red as blood; Stench well-nigh choked them, noise deafs their ears, Smoke blinds their eyes, fire kindleth on the wood; Nor those raw hides which for defence it wears Could save the tower, in such distress it stood; For now they wrinkle, now it sweats and fries, Now burns, unless some help come down from skies. LXXXV The hardy duke before his folk abides, Nor changed he color, countenance or place, But comforts those that from the scaldered hides With water strove the approaching flames to chase: In these extremes the prince and those he guides Half roasted stood before fierce Vulcan's face, When lo, a sudden and unlooked-for blast The flames against the kindlers backward cast: LXXXVI The winds drove back the fire, where heaped lie The Pagans' weapons, where their engines were, Which kindling quickly in that substance dry, Burnt all their store and all their warlike gear: O glorious captain! whom the Lord from high Defends, whom God preserves, and holds so dear; For thee heaven fights, to thee the winds, from far, Called with thy trumpet's blast, obedient are! LXXXVII But wicked Ismen to his harm that saw How the fierce blast drove back the fire and flame, By art would nature change, and thence withdraw Those noisome winds, else calm and still the same; 'Twixt two false wizards without fear or awe Upon the walls in open sight he came, Black, grisly, loathsome, grim and ugly faced, Like Pluto old, betwixt two furies placed; LXXXVIII And now the wretch those dreadful words begun, Which trouble make deep hell and all her flock, Now trembled is the air, the golden sun His fearful beams in clouds did close and lock, When from the tower, which Ismen could not shun, Out fled a mighty stone, late half a rock, Which light so just upon the wizards three, That driven to dust their bones and bodies be. LXXXIX To less than naught their members old were torn, And shivered were their heads to pieces small, As small as are the bruised grains of corn When from the mill dissolved to meal they fall; Their damned souls, to deepest hell down borne Far from the joy and light celestial, The furies plunged in the infernal lake: O mankind, at their ends ensample take! XC This while the engine which the tempest cold Had saved from burning with his friendly blast, Approached had so near the battered hold That on the walls her bridge at ease she cast: But Solyman ran thither fierce and bold, To cut the plank whereon the Christians passed. And had performed his will, save that upreared High in the skies a turret new appeared; XCI Far in the air up clomb the fortress tall, Higher than house, than steeple, church or tower; The Pagans trembled to behold the wall And city subject to her shot and power; Yet kept the Turk his stand, though on him fall Of stones and darts a sharp and deadly shower, And still to cut the bridge he hopes and strives, And those that fear with cheerful speech revives. XCII The angel Michael, to all the rest Unseen, appeared before Godfredo's eyes, In pure and heavenly armor richly dressed, Brighter than Titan's rays in clearest skies; "Godfrey," quoth he, "this is the moment blest To free this town that long in bondage lies, See, see what legions in thine aid I bring, For Heaven assists thee, and Heaven's glorious King: XCIII "Lift up thine eyes, and in the air behold The sacred armies, how they mustered be, That cloud of flesh in which for times of old All mankind wrapped is, I take from thee, And from thy senses their thick mist unfold, That face to face thou mayest these spirits see, And for a little space right well sustain Their glorious light and view those angels plain. XCIV "Behold the souls of every lord and knight That late bore arms and died for Christ's dear sake, How on thy side against this town they fight, And of thy joy and conquest will partake: There where the dust and smoke blind all men's sight, Where stones and ruins such an heap do make, There Hugo fights, in thickest cloud imbarred, And undermines that bulwark's groundwork hard. XCV "See Dudon yonder, who with sword and fire Assails and helps to scale the northern port, That with bold courage doth thy folk inspire And rears their ladders gainst the assaulted fort: He that high on the mount in grave attire Is clad, and crowned stands in kingly sort, Is Bishop Ademare, a blessed spirit, Blest for his faith, crowned for his death and merit. XCVI "But higher lift thy happy eyes, and view Where all the sacred hosts of Heaven appear." He looked, and saw where winged armies flew, Innumerable, pure, divine and clear; A battle round of squadrons three they show And all by threes those squadrons ranged were, Which spreading wide in rings still wider go, Moved with a stone calm water circleth so. XCVII With that he winked, and vanished was and gone; That wondrous vision when he looked again, His worthies fighting viewed he one by one, And on each side saw signs of conquest plain, For with Rinaldo gainst his yielding lone, His knights were entered and the Pagans slain, This seen, the duke no longer stay could brook, But from the bearer bold his ensign took: XCVIII And on the bridge he stepped, but there was stayed By Solyman, who entrance all denied, That narrow tree to virtue great was made, The field as in few blows right soon was tried, "Here will I give my life for Sion's aid, Here will I end my days," the Soldan cried, "Behind me cut or break this bridge, that I May kill a thousand Christians first, then die." XCIX But thither fierce Rinaldo threatening went, And at his sight fled all the Soldan's train, "What shall I do? If here my life be spent, I spend and spill," quoth he, "my blood in vain!" With that his steps from Godfrey back he bent, And to him let the passage free remain, Who threatening followed as the Soldan fled, And on the walls the purple Cross dispread: C About his head he tossed, he turned, he cast, That glorious ensign, with a thousand twines, Thereon the wind breathes with his sweetest blast, Thereon with golden rays glad Phoebus shines, Earth laughs for joy, the streams forbear their haste, Floods clap their hands, on mountains dance the pines, And Sion's towers and sacred temples smile For their deliverance from that bondage vile. CI And now the armies reared the happy cry Of victory, glad, joyful, loud, and shrill. The hills resound, the echo showereth high, And Tancred bold, that fights and combats still With proud Argantes, brought his tower so nigh, That on the wall, against the boaster's will, In his despite, his bridge he also laid, And won the place, and there the cross displayed. CII But on the southern hill, where Raymond fought Against the townsmen and their aged king, His hardy Gascoigns gained small or naught; Their engine to the walls they could not bring, For thither all his strength the prince had brought, For life and safety sternly combating, And for the wall was feeblest on that coast, There were his soldiers best, and engines most. CIII Besides, the tower upon that quarter found Unsure, uneasy, and uneven the way, Nor art could help, but that the rougher ground The rolling mass did often stop and stay; But now of victory the joyful sound The king and Raymond heard amid their fray; And by the shout they and their soldiers know, The town was entered on the plain below. CIV Which heard, Raymondo thus bespake this crew, "The town is won, my friends, and doth it yet Resist? are we kept out still by these few? Shall we no share in this high conquest get?" But from that part the king at last withdrew, He strove in vain their entrance there to let, And to a stronger place his folk he brought, Where to sustain the assault awhile he thought. CV The conquerors at once now entered all, The walls were won, the gates were opened wide, Now bruised, broken down, destroyed fall The ports and towers that battery durst abide; Rageth the sword, death murdereth great and small, And proud 'twixt woe and horror sad doth ride. Here runs the blood, in ponds there stands the gore, And drowns the knights in whom it lived before. NINETEENTH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. Tancred in single combat kills his foe, Argantes strong: the king and Soldan fly To David's tower, and save their persons so; Erminia well instructs Vafrine the spy, With him she rides away, and as they go Finds where her lord for dead on earth doth lie; First she laments, then cures him: Godfrey hears Ormondo's treason, and what marks he bears. I Now death or fear or care to save their lives From their forsaken walls the Pagans chase: Yet neither force nor fear nor wisdom drives The constant knight Argantes from his place; Alone against ten thousand foes he strives, Yet dreadless, doubtless, careless seemed his face, Nor death, nor danger, but disgrace he fears, And still unconquered, though o'erset, appears. II But mongst the rest upon his helmet gay With his broad sword Tancredi came and smote: The Pagan knew the prince by his array, By his strong blows, his armor and his coat; For once they fought, and when night stayed that fray, New time they chose to end their combat hot, But Tancred failed, wherefore the Pagan knight Cried, "Tancred, com'st thou thus, thus late to fight? III "Too late thou com'st, and not alone to war, But yet the fight I neither shun nor fear, Although from knighthood true thou errest far, Since like an engineer thou dost appear, That tower, that troop, thy shield and safety are, Strange kind of arms in single fight to bear; Yet shalt thou not escape, O conqueror strong Of ladies fair, sharp death, to avenge that wrong." IV Lord Tancred smiled, with disdain and scorn, And answerd thus, "To end our strife," quoth he, "Behold at last I come, and my return, Though late, perchance will be too soon for thee; For thou shalt wish, of hope and help forlorn, Some sea or mountain placed twixt thee and me, And well shalt know before we end this fray No fear of cowardice hath caused my stay. V "But come aside, thou by whose prowess dies The monsters, knights and giants in all lands, The killer of weak women thee defies." This said, he turned to his fighting bands, And bids them all retire. "Forbear," he cries, "To strike this knight, on him let none lay hands; For mine he is, more than a common foe, By challenge new and promise old also." VI "Descend," the fierce Circassian gan reply, "Alone, or all this troop for succor take To deserts waste, or place frequented high, For vantage none I will the fight forsake:" Thus given and taken was the bold defy, And through the press, agreed so, they brake, Their hatred made them one, and as they went, Each knight his foe did for despite defend: VII Great was his thirst of praise, great the desire That Tancred had the Pagan's blood to spill, Nor could that quench his wrath or calm his ire If other hand his foe should foil or kill. He saved him with his shield, and cried "Retire!" To all he met, "and do this knight none ill:" And thus defending gainst his friends his foe, Through thousand angry weapons safe they go. VII They left the city, and they left behind Godfredo's camp, and far beyond it passed, And came where into creeks and bosoms blind A winding hill his corners turned and cast, A valley small and shady dale they find Amid the mountains steep so laid and placed As if some theatre or closed place Had been for men to fight or beasts to chase. IX There stayed the champions both with rueful eyes, Argantes gan the fortress won to view; Tancred his foe withouten shield espies, And said, "Whereon doth thy sad heart devise? Think'st thou this hour must end thy life untrue? If this thou fear, and dost foresee thy fate, Thy fear is vain, thy foresight comes too late." X "I think," quoth he, "on this distressed town, The aged Queen of Judah's ancient land, Now lost, now sacked, spoiled and trodden down, Whose fall in vain I strived to withstand, A small revenge for Sion's fort o'erthrown, That head can be, cut off by my strong hand." This said, together with great heed they flew, For each his foe for bold and hardy knew. XI Tancred of body active was and light, Quick, nimble, ready both of hand and foot; But higher by the head, the Pagan knight Of limbs far greater was, of heart as stout: Tancred laid low and traversed in his fight, Now to his ward retired, now struck out, Oft with his sword his foe's fierce blows he broke, And rather chose to ward-than bear his stroke. XII But bold and bolt upright Argantes fought, Unlike in gesture, like in skill and art, His sword outstretched before him far he brought, Nor would his weapon touch, but pierce his heart, To catch his point Prince Tancred strove and sought, But at his breast or helm's unclosed part He threatened death, and would with stretched-out brand His entrance close, and fierce assaults withstand. XIII With a tall ship so doth a galley fight, When the still winds stir not the unstable main; Where this in nimbleness as that in might Excels; that stands, this goes and comes again, And shifts from prow to poop with turnings light; Meanwhile the other doth unmoved remain, And on her nimble foe approaching nigh, Her weighty engines tumbleth down from high. XIV The Christian sought to enter on his foe, Voiding his point, which at his breast was bent; Argantes at his face a thrust did throw, Which while the Prince awards and doth prevent, His ready hand the Pagan turned so, That all defence his quickness far o'erwent, And pierced his side, which done, he said and smiled, "The craftsman is in his own craft beguiled." XV Tancredi bit his lip for scorn and shame, Nor longer stood on points of fence and skill, But to revenge so fierce and fast he came As if his hand could not o'ertake his will, And at his visor aiming just, gan frame To his proud boast an answer sharp, but still Argantes broke the thrust; and at half-sword, Swift, hardy, bold, in stepped the Christian lord. XVI With his left foot fast forward gan he stride, And with his left the Pagan's right arm bent, With his right hand meanwhile the man's right side He cut, he wounded, mangled, tore and rent. "To his victorious teacher," Tancred cried, "His conquered scholar hath this answer sent;" Argantes chafed, struggled, turned and twined, Yet could not so his captive arm unbind: XVII His sword at last he let hang by the chain, And griped his hardy foe in both his hands, In his strong arms Tancred caught him again, And thus each other held and wrapped in bands. With greater might Alcides did not strain The giant Antheus on the Lybian sands, On holdfast knots their brawny arms they cast, And whom he hateth most, each held embraced: XVIII Such was their wrestling, such their shocks and throws That down at once they tumbled both to ground, Argantes,--were it hap or skill, who knows, His better hand loose and in freedom found; But the good Prince, his hand more fit for blows, With his huge weight the Pagan underbound; But he, his disadvantage great that knew, Let go his hold, and on his feet up flew: XIX Far slower rose the unwieldy Saracine, And caught a rap ere he was reared upright. But as against the blustering winds a pine Now bends his top, now lifts his head on height, His courage so, when it 'gan most decline, The man reinforced, and advanced his might, And with fierce change of blows renewed the fray, Where rage for skill, horror for art, bore sway. XX The purple drops from Tancred's sides down railed, But from the Pagan ran whole streams of blood, Wherewith his force grew weak, his courage quailed As fires die which fuel want or food. Tancred that saw his feeble arm now failed To strike his blows, that scant he stirred or stood, Assuaged his anger, and his wrath allayed, And stepping back, thus gently spoke and said: XXI "Yield, hardy knight, and chance of war or me Confess to have subdued thee in this fight, I will no trophy, triumph, spoil of thee, Nor glory wish, nor seek a victor's right More terrible than erst;" herewith grew he And all awaked his fury, rage and might, And said, "Dar'st thou of vantage speak or think, Or move Argantes once to yield or shrink? XXII "Use, use thy vantage, thee and fortune both I scorn, and punish will thy foolish pride:" As a hot brand flames most ere it forth go'th, And dying blazeth bright on every side; So he, when blood was lost, with anger wroth, Revived his courage when his puissance died, And would his latest hour which now drew nigh, Illustrate with his end, and nobly die. XXIII He joined his left hand to her sister strong, And with them both let fall his weighty blade. Tancred to ward his blow his sword up slung, But that it smote aside, nor there it stayed, But from his shoulder to his side along It glanced, and many wounds at once it made: Yet Tancred feared naught, for in his heart Found coward dread no place, fear had no part. XXIV His fearful blow he doubled, but he spent His force in waste, and all his strength in vain; For Tancred from the blow against him bent, Leaped aside, the stroke fell on the plain. With thine own weight o'erthrown to earth thou went, Argantes stout, nor could'st thyself sustain, Thyself thou threwest down, O happy man, Upon whose fall none boast or triumph can! XXV His gaping wounds the fall set open wide, The streams of blood about him made a lake, Helped with his left hand, on one knee he tried To rear himself, and new defence to make: The courteous prince stepped back, and "Yield thee!" cried, No hurt he proffered him, no blow he strake. Meanwhile by stealth the Pagan false him gave A sudden wound, threatening with speeches brave: XXVI Herewith Tancredi furious grew, and said, "Villain, dost thou my mercy so despise?" Therewith he thrust and thrust again his blade, And through his ventil pierced his dazzled eyes, Argantes died, yet no complaint he made, But as he furious lived he careless dies; Bold, proud, disdainful, fierce and void of fear His motions last, last looks, last speeches were. XXVII Tancred put up his sword, and praises glad Gave to his God that saved him in this fight; But yet this bloody conquest feebled had So much the conqueror's force, strength and might, That through the way he feared which homeward led He had not strength enough to walk upright; Yet as he could his steps from thence he bent, And foot by foot a heavy pace forth-went; XXVIII His legs could bear him but a little stound, And more he hastes, more tired, less was his speed, On his right hand, at last, laid on the ground He leaned, his hand weak like a shaking reed, Dazzled his eyes, the world on wheels ran round, Day wrapped her brightness up in sable weed; At length he swooned, and the victor knight Naught differed from his conquered foe in fight. XXIX But while these lords their private fight pursue, Made fierce and cruel through their secret hate, The victor's ire destroyed the faithless crew From street to street, and chased from gate to gate. But of the sacked town the image true Who can describe, or paint the woful state, Or with fit words this spectacle express Who can? or tell the city's great distress? XXX Blood, murder, death, each street, house, church defiled, There heaps of slain appear, there mountains high; There underneath the unburied hills up-piled Of bodies dead, the living buried lie; There the sad mother with her tender child Doth tear her tresses loose, complain and fly, And there the spoiler by her amber hair Draws to his lust the virgin chaste and fair. XXXI But through the way that to the west-hill yood Whereon the old and stately temple stands, All soiled with gore and wet with lukewarm blood Rinaldo ran, and chased the Pagan bands; Above their heads he heaved his curtlax good, Life in his grace, and death lay in his hands, Nor helm nor target strong his blows off bears, Best armed there seemed he no arms that wears; XXXII For gainst his armed foes he only bends His force, and scorns the naked folk to wound; Them whom no courage arms, no arms defends, He chased with his looks and dreadful sound: Oh, who can tell how far his force extends? How these he scorns, threats those, lays them on ground? How with unequal harm, with equal fear Fled all, all that well armed or naked were: XXXIII Fast fled the people weak, and with the same A squadron strong is to the temple gone Which, burned and builded oft, still keeps the name Of the first founder, wise King Solomon; That prince this stately house did whilom frame Of cedar trees, of gold and marble stone; Now not so rich, yet strong and sure it was, With turrets high, thick walls, and doors of brass. XXXIV The knight arrived where in warklike sort The men that ample church had fortified. And closed found each wicket, gate and port, And on the top defences ready spied, He left his frowning looks, and twice that fort From his high top down to the groundwork eyed, And entrance sought, and twice with his swift foot The mighty place he measured about. XXXV Like as a wolf about the closed fold Rangeth by night his hoped prey to get, Enraged with hunger and with malice old Which kind 'twixt him and harmless sheep hath set: So searched he high and low about that hold, Where he might enter without stop or let, In the great court he stayed, his foes above Attend the assault, and would their fortune prove. XXXVI There lay by chance a posted tree thereby, Kept for some needful use, whate'er it were, The armed galleys not so thick nor high Their tall and lofty masts at Genes uprear; This beam the knight against the gates made fly From his strong hands all weights which lift and bear, Like a light lance that tree he shook and tossed, And bruised the gate, the threshold and the post. XXXVII No marble stone, no metal strong outbore The wondrous might of that redoubled blow, The brazen hinges from the wall it tore, It broke the locks, and laid the doors down low, No iron ram, no engine could do more, Nor cannons great that thunderbolts forth throw, His people like a flowing stream inthrong, And after them entered the victor strong; XXXVIII The woful slaughter black and loathsome made That house, sometime the sacred house of God, O heavenly justice, if thou be delayed, On wretched sinners sharper falls thy rod! In them this place profaned which invade Thou kindled ire, and mercy all forbode, Until with their hearts' blood the Pagans vile This temple washed which they did late defile. XXXIX But Solyman this while himself fast sped Up to the fort which David's tower is named, And with him all the soldiers left he led, And gainst each entrance new defences framed: The tyrant Aladine eke thither fled, To whom the Soldan thus, far off, exclaimed, Thyself, within this fortress safe uplock: XL "For well this fortress shall thee and thy crown Defend, awhile here may we safe remain." "Alas!" quoth he, "alas, for this fair town, Which cruel war beats down even with the plain, My life is done, mine empire trodden down, I reigned, I lived, but now nor live nor reign; For now, alas! behold the fatal hour That ends our life, and ends our kingly power." XLI "Where is your virtue, where your wisdom grave, And courage stout?" the angry Soldan said, "Let chance our kingdoms take which erst she gave, Yet in our hearts our kingly worth is laid; But come, and in this fort your person save, Refresh your weary limbs and strength decayed:" Thus counselled he, and did to safety bring Within that fort the weak and aged king. XLII His iron mace in both his hands he hent, And on his thigh his trusty sword he tied, And to the entrance fierce and fearless went, And kept the strait, and all the French defied: The blows were mortal which he gave or lent, For whom he hit he slew, else by his side Laid low on earth, that all fled from the place Where they beheld that great and dreadful mace. XLIII But old Raymondo with his hardy crew By chance came thither, to his great mishap; To that defended path the old man flew, And scorned his blows and him that kept the gap, He struck his foe, his blow no blood forth drew, But on the front with that he caught a rap, Which in a swoon, low in the dust him laid, Wide open, trembling, with his arms displayed. XLIV The Pagans gathered heart at last, though fear Their courage weak had put to flight but late, So that the conquerors repulsed were, And beaten back, else slain before the Gate: The Soldan, mongst the dead beside him near That saw Lord Raymond lie in such estate, Cried to his men, "Within these bars," quoth he, "Come draw this knight, and let him captive be." XLV Forward they rushed to execute his word, But hard and dangerous that emprise they found, For none of Raymond's men forsook their lord, But to their guide's defence they flocked round, Thence fury fights, hence pity draws the sword, Nor strive they for vile cause or on light ground, The life and freedom of that champion brave, Those spoil, these would preserve, those kill, these save. XLVI But yet at last if they had longer fought The hardy Soldan would have won the field; For gainst his thundering mace availed naught Or helm of temper fine or sevenfold shield: But from each side great succor now was brought To his weak foes, now fit to faint and yield, And both at once to aid and help the same The sovereign Duke and young Rinaldo came. XLVII As when a shepherd, raging round about That sees a storm with wind, hail, thunder, rain, When gloomy clouds have day's bright eye put out, His tender flocks drives from the open plain To some thick grove or mountain's shady foot, Where Heaven's fierce wrath they may unhurt sustain, And with his hook, his whistle and his cries Drives forth his fleecy charge, and with them flies: XLVIII So fled the Soldan, when he gan descry This tempest come from angry war forthcast, The armor clashed and lightened gainst the sky, And from each side swords, weapons, fire outbrast: He sent his folk up to the fortress high, To shun the furious storm, himself stayed last, Yet to the danger he gave place at length, For wit, his courage; wisdom ruled his strength. XLIX But scant the knight was safe the gate within, Scant closed were the doors, when having broke The bars, Rinaldo doth assault begin Against the port, and on the wicket stroke His matchless might, his great desire to win, His oath and promise, doth his wrath provoke, For he had sworn, nor should his word be vain, To kill the man that had Prince Sweno slain. L And now his armed hand that castle great Would have assaulted, and had shortly won, Nor safe pardie the Soldan there a seat Had found his fatal foes' sharp wrath to shun, Had not Godfredo sounded the retreat; For now dark shades to shroud the earth begun, Within the town the duke would lodge that night, And with the morn renew the assault and fight. LI With cheerful look thus to his folk he said, "High God hath holpen well his children dear, This work is done, the rest this night delayed Doth little labor bring, less doubt, no fear, This tower, our foe's weak hope and latest aid, We conquer will, when sun shall next appear: Meanwhile with love and tender ruth go see And comfort those which hurt and wounded be; LII "Go cure their wounds which boldly ventured Their lives, and spilt their bloods to get this hold, That fitteth more this host for Christ forth led, Than thirst of vengeance, or desire of gold; Too much, ah, too much blood this day is shed! In some we too much haste to spoil behold, But I command no more you spoil and kill, And let a trumpet publish forth my will." LIII This said, he went where Raymond panting lay, Waked from the swoon wherein he late had been. Nor Solyman with countenance less gay Bespake his troops, and kept his grief unseen; "My friends, you are unconquered this day, In spite of fortune still our hope is green, For underneath great shows of harm and fear, Our dangers small, our losses little were: LIV "Burnt are your houses, and your people slain, Yet safe your town is, though your walls be gone, For in yourselves and in your sovereign Consists your city, not in lime and stone; Your king is safe, and safe is all his train In this strong fort defended from their fone, And on this empty conquest let them boast, Till with this town again, their lives be lost; LV "And on their heads the loss at last will light, For with good fortune proud and insolent, In spoil and murder spend they day and night, In riot, drinking, lust and ravishment, And may amid their preys with little fight At ease be overthrown, killed, slain and spent, If in this carelessness the Egyptian host Upon them fall, which now draws near this coast. LVI "Meanwhile the highest buildings of this town We may shake down with stones about their ears, And with our darts and spears from engines thrown, Command that hill Christ's sepulchre that bears:" Thus comforts he their hopes and hearts cast down, Awakes their valors, and exiles their fears. But while the things hapt thus, Vafrino goes Unknown, amid ten thousand armed foes. LVII The sun nigh set had brought to end the day, When Vafrine went the Pagan host to spy, He passed unknown a close and secret way; A traveller, false, cunning, crafty, sly, Past Ascalon he saw the morning gray Step o'er the threshold of the eastern sky, And ere bright Titan half his course had run, That camp, that mighty host to show begun. LVIII Tents infinite, and standards broad he spies, This red, that white, that blue, this purple was, And hears strange tongues, and stranger harmonies Of trumpets, clarions, and well-sounding brass: The elephant there brays, the camel cries. The horses neigh as to and fro they pass: Which seen and heard, he said within his thought, Hither all Asia is, all Afric, brought. LIX He viewed the camp awhile, her site and seat, What ditch, what trench it had, what rampire strong, Nor close, nor secret ways to work his feat He longer sought, nor hid him from the throng; But entered through the gates, broad, royal, great, And oft he asked, and answered oft among, In questions wise, in answers short and sly; Bold was his look, eyes quick, front lifted high: LX On every side he pried here and there, And marked each way, each passage and each tent: The knights he notes, their steeds, and arms they bear, Their names, their armor, and their government; And greater secrets hopes to learn, and hear, Their hidden purpose, and their close intent: So long he walked and wandered, till he spied The way to approach the great pavilions' side: LXI There as he looked he saw the canvas rent, Through which the voice found eath and open way From the close lodgings of the regal tent And inmost closet where the captain lay; So that if Emireno spake, forth went The sound to them that listen what they say, There Vafrine watched, and those that saw him thought To mend the breach that there he stood and wrought. LXII The captain great within bare-headed stood, His body armed and clad in purple weed, Two pages bore his shield and helmet good, He leaning on a bending lance gave heed To a big man whose looks were fierce and proud, With whom he parleyed of some haughty deed, Godfredo's name as Vafrine watched he heard, Which made him give more heed, take more regard: LXIII Thus spake the chieftain to that surly sir, "Art thou so sure that Godfrey shall be slain?" "I am," quoth he, "and swear ne'er to retire, Except he first be killed, to court again. I will prevent those that with me conspire: Nor other guerdon ask I for my pain But that I may hang up his harness brave At Gair, and under them these words engrave: LXIV "'These arms Ormondo took in noble fight From Godfrey proud, that spoiled all Asia's lands, And with them took his life, and here on high, In memory thereof, this trophy stands.'" The duke replied, "Ne'er shall that deed, bold knight, Pass unrewarded at our sovereign's hands, What thou demandest shall he gladly grant, Nor gold nor guerdon shalt thou wish or want. LXV "Those counterfeited armors then prepare, Because the day of fight approacheth fast." "They ready are," quoth he; then both forbare From further talk, these speeches were the last. Vafrine, these great things heard, with grief and care Remained astound, and in his thoughts oft cast What treason false this was, how feigned were Those arms, but yet that doubt he could not clear. LXVI From thence he parted, and broad waking lay All that long night, nor slumbered once nor slept: But when the camp by peep of springing day Their banner spread, and knights on horseback leapt, With them he marched forth in meet array, And where they pitched lodged, and with them kept, And then from tent to tent he stalked about, To hear and see, and learn this secret out; LXVII Searching about, on a rich throne he fand Armida set with dames and knights around, Sullen she sat, and sighed, it seemed she scanned Some weighty matters in her thoughts profounds, Her rosy cheek leaned on her lily hand, Her eyes, love's twinkling stars, she bent to ground, Weep she, or no, he knows not, yet appears Her humid eyes even great with child with tears. LXVIII He saw before her set Adrastus grim, That seemed scant to live, move, or respire, So was he fixed on his mistress trim, So gazed he, and fed his fond desire; But Tisiphern beheld now her now him, And quaked sometime for love, sometime for ire, And in his cheeks the color went and came, For there wrath's fire now burnt, now shone love's flame. LXIX Then from the garland fair of virgins bright, Mongst whom he lay enclosed, rose Altamore, His hot desire he hid and kept from sight, His looks were ruled by Cupid's crafty lore, His left eye viewed her hand, her face, his right Both watched her beauties hid and secret store, And entrance found where her thin veil bewrayed The milken-way between her breasts that laid. LXX Her eyes Armida lift from earth at last, And cleared again her front and visage sad, Midst clouds of woe her looks which overcast She lightened forth a smile, sweet, pleasant, glad; "My lord," quoth she, "your oath and promise passed, Hath freed my heart of all the griefs it had, That now in hope of sweet revenge it lives, Such joy, such ease, desired vengeance gives." LXXI "Cheer up thy looks," answered the Indian king, "And for sweet beauty's sake, appease thy woe, Cast at your feet ere you expect the thing, I will present the head of thy strong foe; Else shall this hand his person captive bring And cast in prison deep;" he boasted so. His rival heard him well, yet answered naught, But bit his lips, and grieved in secret thought. LXXII To Tisipherne the damsel turning right, "And what say you, my noble lord?" quoth she. He taunting said, "I that am slow to fight Will follow far behind, the worth to see Of this your terrible and puissant knight," In scornful words this bitter scoff gave he. "Good reason," quoth the king, "thou come behind, Nor e'er compare thee with the Prince of Ind." LXXIII Lord Tisiphernes shook his head, and said, "Oh, had my power free like my courage been, Or had I liberty to use this blade, Who slow, who weakest is, soon should be seen, Nor thou, nor thy great vaunts make me afraid, But cruel love I fear, and this fair queen." This said, to challenge him the king forth leapt, But up their mistress start, and twixt them stepped: LXXIV "Will you thus rob me of that gift," quoth she, "Which each hath vowed to give by word and oath? You are my champions, let that title be The bond of love and peace between you both; He that displeased is, is displeased with me, For which of you is grieved, and I not wroth?" Thus warned she them, their hearts, for ire nigh broke, In forced peace and rest thus bore love's yoke. LXXV All this heard Vafrine as he stood beside, And having learned the truth, he left the tent, That treason was against the Christian's guide Contrived, he wist, yet wist not how it went, By words and questions far off, he tried To find the truth; more difficult, more bent Was he to know it, and resolved to die, Or of that secret close the intent to spy. LXXVI Of sly intelligence he proved all ways, All crafts, all wiles, that in his thoughts abide, Yet all in vain the man by wit assays, To know that false compact and practice hid: But chance, what wisdom could not tell, bewrays, Fortune of all his doubt the knots undid, So that prepared for Godfrey's last mishap At ease he found the net, and spied the trap. LXXVII Thither he turned again where seated was, The angry lover, 'twixt her friends and lords, For in that troop much talk he thought would pass, Each great assembly store of news affords, He sided there a lusty lovely lass, And with some courtly terms the wench he boards, He feigns acquaintance, and as bold appears As he had known that virgin twenty years. LXXVIII He said, "Would some sweet lady grace me so, To chose me for her champion, friend and knight, Proud Godfrey's or Rinaldo's head, I trow, Should feel the sharpness of my curtlax bright; Ask me the head, fair mistress, of some foe, For to your beauty wooed is my might;" So he began, and meant in speeches wise Further to wade, but thus he broke the ice. LXXIX Therewith he smiled, and smiling gan to frame His looks so to their old and native grace, That towards him another virgin came, Heard him, beheld him, and with bashful face Said, "For thy mistress choose no other dame But me, on me thy love and service place, I take thee for my champion, and apart Would reason with thee, if my knight thou art." LXXX Withdrawn, she thus began, "Vafrine, pardie, I know thee well, and me thou knowest of old," To his last trump this drove the subtle spy, But smiling towards her he turned him bold, "Ne'er that I wot I saw thee erst with eye, Yet for thy worth all eyes should thee behold, Thus much I know right well, for from the same Which erst you gave me different is my name. LXXXI "My mother bore me near Bisertus wall, Her name was Lesbine, mine is Almansore!" "I knew long since," quoth she, "what men thee call, And thine estate, dissemble it no more, From me thy friend hide not thyself at all, If I betray thee let me die therefore, I am Erminia, daughter to a prince, But Tancred's slave, thy fellow-servant since; LXXXII "Two happy months within that prison kind, Under thy guard rejoiced I to dwell, And thee a keeper meek and good did find, The same, the same I am; behold me well." The squire her lovely beauty called to mind, And marked her visage fair: "From thee expel All fear," she says, "for me live safe and sure, I will thy safety, not thy harm procure. LXXXIII "But yet I pray thee, when thou dost return, To my dear prison lead me home again; For in this hateful freedom even and morn I sigh for sorrow, mourn and weep for pain: But if to spy perchance thou here sojourn, Great hap thou hast to know these secrets plain, For I their treasons false, false trains can say, Which few beside can tell, none will betray." LXXXIV On her he gazed, and silent stood this while, Armida's sleights he knew, and trains unjust, Women have tongues of craft, and hearts of guile, They will, they will not, fools that on them trust, For in their speech is death, hell in their smile; At last he said, "If hence depart you lust, I will you guide; on this conclude we here, And further speech till fitter time forbear." LXXXV Forthwith, ere thence the camp remove, to ride They were resolved, their flight that season fits, Vafrine departs, she to the dames beside Returns, and there on thorns awhile she sits, Of her new knight she talks, till time and tide To scape unmarked she find, then forth she gets, Thither where Vafrine her unseen abode, There took she horse, and from the camp they rode. LXXXVI And now in deserts waste and wild arrived, Far from the camp, far from resort and sight, Vafrine began, "Gainst Godfrey's life contrived The false compacts and trains unfold aright:" Then she those treasons, from their spring derived, Repeats, and brings their hid deceits to light, "Eight knights," she says, "all courtiers brave, there are, But Ormond strong the rest surpasseth far: LXXXVII "These, whether hate or hope of gain them move, Conspired have, and framed their treason so, That day when Emiren by fight shall prove To win lost Asia from his Christian foe, These, with the cross scored on their arms above, And armed like Frenchmen will disguised go, Like Godfrey's guard that gold and white do wear, Such shall their habit be, and such their gear: LXXXVIII "Yet each will bear a token in his crest, That so their friends for Pagans may them know: But in close fight when all the soldiers best Shall mingled be, to give the fatal blow They will keep near, and pierce Godfredo's breast, While of his faithful guard they bear false show, And all their swords are dipped in poison strong, Because each wound shall bring sad death ere long. LXXXIX "And for their chieftain wist I knew your guise, What garments, ensigns, and what arms you carry, Those feigned arms he forced me to devise, So that from yours but small or naught they vary; But these unjust commands my thoughts despise, Within their camp therefore I list not tarry, My heart abhors I should this hand defile With spot of treason, or with act of guile. XC "This is the cause, but not the cause alone:" And there she ceased, and blushed, and on the main Cast down her eyes, these last words scant outgone, She would have stopped, nor durst pronounce them plain. The squire what she concealed would know, as one That from her breast her secret thoughts could strain, "Of little faith," quoth he, "why would'st thou hide Those causes true, from me thy squire and guide?" XCI With that she fetched a sigh, sad, sore and deep, And from her lips her words slow trembling came, "Fruitless," she said, "untimely, hard to keep, Vain modesty farewell, and farewell shame, Why hope you restless love to bring on sleep? Why strive you fires to quench, sweet Cupid's flame? No, no, such cares, and such respects beseem Great ladies, wandering maids them naught esteem. XCII "That night fatal to me and Antioch town, Then made a prey to her commanding foe, My loss was greater than was seen or known, There ended not, but thence began my woe: Light was the loss of friends, of realm or crown; But with my state I lost myself also, Ne'er to be found again, for then I lost My wit, my sense, my heart, my soul almost. XCIII "Through fire and sword, through blood and death, Vafrine, Which all my friends did burn, did kill, did chase, Thou know'st I ran to thy dear lord and mine, When first he entered had my father's place, And kneeling with salt ears in my swollen eyne; 'Great prince,' quoth I, 'grant mercy, pity, grace, Save not my kingdom, not my life I said, But save mine honor, let me die a maid.' XCIV "He lift me by the trembling hand from ground, Nor stayed he till my humble speech was done; But said, 'A friend and keeper hast thou found, Fair virgin, nor to me in vain you run:' A sweetness strange from that sweet voice's sound Pierced my heart, my breast's weak fortress won, Which creeping through my bosom soft became A wound, a sickness, and a quenchless flame. XCV "He visits me, with speeches kind and grave He sought to ease my grief, and sorrows' smart. He said, 'I give thee liberty, receive All that is thine, and at thy will depart:' Alas, he robbed me when he thought he gave, Free was Erminia, but captived her heart, Mine was the body, his the soul and mind, He gave the cage but kept the bird behind. XCVI "But who can hide desire, or love suppress? Oft of his worth with thee in talk I strove, Thou, by my trembling fit that well could'st guess What fever held me, saidst, 'Thou art in love;' But I denied, for what can maids do less? And yet my sighs thy sayings true did prove, Instead of speech, my looks, my tears, mine eyes, Told in what flame, what fire thy mistress fries. XCVII "Unhappy silence, well I might have told My woes, and for my harms have sought relief, Since now my pains and plaints I utter bold, Where none that hears can help or ease my grief. From him I parted, and did close upfold My wounds within my bosom, death was chief Of all my hopes and helps, till love's sweet flame Plucked off the bridle of respect and shame, XCVIII "And caused me ride to seek my lord and knight, For he that made me sick could make me sound: But on an ambush I mischanced to light Of cruel men, in armour clothed round, Hardly I scaped their hand by mature flight. And fled to wilderness and desert ground, And there I lived in groves and forests wild, With gentle grooms and shepherds' daughters mild. XCIX "But when hot love which fear had late suppressed, Revived again, there nould I longer sit, But rode the way I came, nor e'er took rest, Till on like danger, like mishap I hit, A troop to forage and to spoil addressed, Encountered me, nor could I fly from it: Thus was I ta'en, and those that had me caught, Egyptians were, and me to Gaza brought, C "And for a present to their captain gave, Whom I entreated and besought so well, That he mine honor had great care to save, And since with fair Armida let me dwell. Thus taken oft, escaped oft I have, Ah, see what haps I passed, what dangers fell, So often captive, free so oft again, Still my first bands I keep, still my first chain. CI "And he that did this chain so surely bind About my heart, which none can loose but he, Let him not say, 'Go, wandering damsel, find Some other home, thou shalt not bide with me,' But let him welcome me with speeches kind, And in my wonted prison set me free:" Thus spake the princess, thus she and her guide Talked day and night, and on their journey ride. CII Through the highways Vafrino would not pass, A path more secret, safe and short, he knew, And now close by the city's wall he was, When sun was set, night in the east upflew, With drops of blood besmeared he found the grass, And saw where lay a warrior murdered new, That all be-bled the ground, his face to skies He turns, and seems to threat, though dead he lies: CIII His harness and his habit both betrayed He was a Pagan; forward went the squire, And saw whereas another champion laid Dead on the land, all soiled with blood and mire, "This was some Christian knight," Vafrino said: And marking well his arms and rich attire, He loosed his helm, and saw his visage plain, And cried, "Alas, here lies Tancredi slain!" CIV The woful virgin tarried, and gave heed To the fierce looks of that proud Saracine, Till that high cry, full of sad fear and dread, Pierced through her heart with sorrow, grief and pine, At Tancred's name thither she ran with speed, Like one half mad, or drunk with too much wine, And when she saw his face, pale, bloodless, dead, She lighted, nay, she stumbled from her steed: CV Her springs of tears she looseth forth, and cries, "Hither why bring'st thou me, ah, Fortune blind? Where dead, for whom I lived, my comfort lies, Where war for peace, travail for rest I find; Tancred, I have thee, see thee, yet thine eyes Looked not upon thy love and handmaid kind, Undo their doors, their lids fast closed sever, Alas, I find thee for to lose thee ever. CVI "I never thought that to mine eyes, my dear, Thou couldst have grievous or unpleasant been; But now would blind or rather dead I were, That thy sad plight might be unknown, unseen! Alas! where is thy mirth and smiling cheer? Where are thine eyes' clear beams and sparkles sheen? Of thy fair cheek where is the purple red, And forehead's whiteness? are all gone, all dead? CVII "Though gone, though dead, I love thee still, behold; Death wounds, but kills not love; yet if thou live, Sweet soul, still in his breast, my follies bold Ah, pardon love's desires, and stealths forgive; Grant me from his pale mouth some kisses cold, Since death doth love of just reward deprive; And of thy spoils sad death afford me this, Let me his mouth, pale, cold and bloodless, kiss; CVIII "O gentle mouth! with speeches kind and sweet Thou didst relieve my grief, my woe and pain, Ere my weak soul from this frail body fleet, Ah, comfort me with one dear kiss or twain! Perchance if we alive had happed to meet, They had been given which now are stolen, O vain, O feeble life, betwixt his lips out fly, Oh, let me kiss thee first, then let me die! CIX "Receive my yielding spirit, and with thine Guide it to heaven, where all true love hath place:" This said, she sighed, and tore her tresses fine, And from her eyes two streams poured on his face, The man revived, with those showers divine Awaked, and opened his lips a space; His lips were open; but fast shut his eyes, And with her sighs, one sigh from him upflies. CX The dame perceived that Tancred breathed and sighed, Which calmed her grief somedeal and eased her fears: "Unclose thine eyes," she says, "my lord and knight, See my last services, my plaints and tears, See her that dies to see thy woful plight, That of thy pain her part and portion bears; Once look on me, small is the gift I crave, The last which thou canst give, or I can have." CXI Tancred looked up, and closed his eyes again, Heavy and dim, and she renewed her woe. Quoth Vafrine, "Cure him first, and then complain, Medicine is life's chief friend; plaint her most foe:" They plucked his armor off, and she each vein, Each joint, and sinew felt, and handled so, And searched so well each thrust, each cut and wound, That hope of life her love and skill soon found. CXII From weariness and loss of blood she spied His greatest pains and anguish most proceed, Naught but her veil amid those deserts wide She had to bind his wounds, in so great need, But love could other bands, though strange, provide, And pity wept for joy to see that deed, For with her amber locks cut off, each wound She tied: O happy man, so cured so bound! CXIII For why her veil was short and thin, those deep And cruel hurts to fasten, roll and blind, Nor salve nor simple had she, yet to keep Her knight on live, strong charms of wondrous kind She said, and from him drove that deadly sleep, That now his eyes he lifted, turned and twined, And saw his squire, and saw that courteous dame In habit strange, and wondered whence she came. CXIV He said, "O Vafrine, tell me, whence com'st thou? And who this gentle surgeon is, disclose;" She smiled, she sighed, she looked she wist not how, She wept, rejoiced, she blushed as red as rose. "You shall know all," she says, "your surgeon now Commands you silence, rest and soft repose, You shall be sound, prepare my guerdon meet," His head then laid she in her bosom sweet. CXV Vafrine devised this while how he might bear His master home, ere night obscured the land, When lo, a troop of soldiers did appear, Whom he descried to be Tancredi's band, With him when he and Argant met they were; But when they went to combat hand for hand, He bade them stay behind, and they obeyed, But came to seek him now, so long he stayed. CXVI Besides them, many followed that enquest, But these alone found out the rightest way, Upon their friendly arms the men addressed A seat whereon he sat, he leaned, he lay: Quoth Tancred, "Shall the strong Circassian rest In this broad field, for wolves and crows a prey? Ah no, defraud not you that champion brave Of his just praise, of his due tomb and grave: CXVII "With his dead bones no longer war have I, Boldly he died and nobly was he slain, Then let us not that honor him deny Which after death alonely doth remain:" The Pagan dead they lifted up on high, And after Tancred bore him through the plain. Close by the virgin chaste did Vafrine ride, As he that was her squire, her guard, her guide. CXVIII "Not home," quoth Tancred, "to my wonted tent, But bear me to this royal town, I pray, That if cut short by human accident I die, there I may see my latest day, The place where Christ upon his cross was rent To heaven perchance may easier make the way, And ere I yield to Death's and Fortune's rage, Performed shall be my vow and pilgrimage." CXIX Thus to the city was Tancredi borne, And fell on sleep, laid on a bed of down. Vafrino where the damsel might sojourn A chamber got, close, secret, near his own; That done he came the mighty duke beforn, And entrance found, for till his news were known, Naught was concluded mongst those knights and lords, Their counsel hung on his report and words. CXX Where weak and weary wounded Raymond laid, Godfrey was set upon his couch's side, And round about the man a ring was made Of lords and knights that filled the chamber wide; There while the squire his late discovery said, To break his talk, none answered, none replied, "My lord," he said, "at your command I went And viewed their camp, each cabin, booth and tent; CXXI "But of that mighty host the number true Expect not that I can or should descry, All covered with their armies might you view The fields, the plains, the dales and mountains high, I saw what way soe'er they went and drew, They spoiled the land, drunk floods and fountains dry, For not whole Jordan could have given them drink, Nor all the grain in Syria, bread, I think. CXXII "But yet amongst them many bands are found Both horse and foot, of little force and might, That keep no order, know no trumpet's sound, That draw no sword, but far off shoot and fight, But yet the Persian army doth abound With many a footman strong and hardy knight, So doth the King's own troop which all is framed Of soldiers old, the Immortal Squadron named. CXXIII "Immortal called is that band of right, For of that number never wanteth one, But in his empty place some other knight Steps in, when any man is dead or gone: This army's leader Emireno hight, Like whom in wit and strength are few or none, Who hath in charge in plain and pitched field, To fight with you, to make you fly or yield. CXXIV "And well I know their army and their host Within a day or two will here arrive: But thee Rinaldo it behoveth most To keep thy noble head, for which they strive, For all the chief in arms or courage boast They will the same to Queen Armida give, And for the same she gives herself in price, Such hire will many hands to work entice. CXXV "The chief of these that have thy murder sworn, Is Altamore, the king of Samarcand! Adrastus then, whose realm lies near the morn, A hardy giant, bold, and strong of hand, This king upon an elephant is borne, For under him no horse can stir or stand; The third is Tisipherne, as brave a lord As ever put on helm or girt on sword." CXXVI This said, from young Rinaldo's angry eyes, Flew sparks of wrath, flames in his visage shined, He longed to be amid those enemies, Nor rest nor reason in his heart could find. But to the Duke Vafrine his talk applies, "The greatest news, my lord, are yet behind, For all their thoughts, their crafts and counsels tend By treason false to bring thy life to end." CXXVII Then all from point to point he gan expose The false compact, how it was made and wrought, The arms and ensigns feigned, poison close, Ormondo's vaunt, what praise, what thank he sought, And what reward, and satisfied all those That would demand, inquire, or ask of aught. Silence was made awhile, when Godfrey thus,-- "Raymondo, say, what counsel givest thou us?" CXXVIII "Not as we purposed late, next morn," quoth he, "Let us not scale, but round besiege this tower, That those within may have no issue free To sally out, and hurt us with their power, Our camp well rested and refreshed see, Provided well gainst this last storm and shower, And then in pitched field, fight, if you will; If not, delay and keep this fortress still. CXXIX "But lest you be endangered, hurt, or slain, Of all your cares take care yourself to save, By you this camp doth live, doth win, doth reign, Who else can rule or guide these squadrons brave? And for the traitors shall be noted plain, Command your guard to change the arms they have, So shall their guile be known, in their own net So shall they fall, caught in the snare they set." CXXX "As it hath ever," thus the Duke begun, "Thy counsel shows thy wisdom and thy love, And what you left in doubt shall thus be done, We will their force in pitched battle prove; Closed in this wall and trench, the fight to shun, Doth ill this camp beseem, and worse behove, But we their strength and manhood will assay, And try, in open field and open day. CXXXI "The fame of our great conquests to sustain, Or bide our looks and threats, they are not able, And when this army is subdued and slain Then is our empire settled, firm and stable, The tower shall yield, or but resist in vain, For fear her anchor is, despair her cable." Thus he concludes, and rolling down the west Fast set the stars, and called them all to rest. TWENTIETH BOOK THE ARGUMENT. The Pagan host arrives, and cruel fight Makes with the Christians and their faithful power; The Soldan longs in field to prove his might, With the old king quits the besieged tower; Yet both are slain, and in eternal night A famous hand gives each his fatal hour; Rinald appeased Armida; first the field The Christians win, then praise to God they yield. I The sun called up the world from idle sleep, And of the day ten hours were gone and past When the bold troop that had the tower to keep Espied a sudden mist, that overcast The earth with mirksome clouds and darkness deep, And saw it was the Egyptian camp at last Which raised the dust, for hills and valleys broad That host did overspread and overload. II Therewith a merry shout and joyful cry The Pagans reared from their besieged hold; The cranes from Thrace with such a rumor fly, His hoary frost and snow when Hyems old Pours down, and fast to warmer regions hie, From the sharp winds, fierce storms and tempests cold; And quick, and ready this new hope and aid, Their hands to shoot, their tongues to threaten made. III From whence their ire, their wrath and hardy threat Proceeds, the French well knew, and plain espied, For from the walls and ports the army great They saw; her strength, her number, pomp, and pride, Swelled their breasts with valor's noble heat; Battle and fight they wished, "Arm, arm!" they cried; The youth to give the sign of fight all prayed Their Duke, and were displeased because delayed IV Till morning next, for he refused to fight; Their haste and heat he bridled, but not brake, Nor yet with sudden fray or skirmish light Of these new foes would he vain trial make. "After so many wars," he says, "good right It is, that one day's rest at least you take," For thus in his vain foes he cherish would The hope which in their strength they have and hold. V To see Aurora's gentle beam appear, The soldiers armed, prest and ready lay, The skies were never half so fair and clear As in the breaking of that blessed day, The merry morning smiled, and seemed to wear Upon her silver crown sun's golden ray, And without cloud heaven his redoubled light Bent down to see this field, this fray, this fight. VI When first he saw the daybreak show and shine, Godfrey his host in good array brought out, And to besiege the tyrant Aladine Raymond he left, and all the faithful rout That from the towns was come of Palestine To serve and succor their deliverer stout, And with them left a hardy troop beside Of Gascoigns strong, in arms well proved, oft tried. VII Such was Godfredo's countenance, such his cheer, That from his eye sure conquest flames and streams, Heaven's gracious favors in his looks appear, And great and goodly more than erst he seems; His face and forehead full of noblesse were, And on his cheek smiled youth's purple beams, And in his gait, his grace, his acts, his eyes, Somewhat, far more than mortal, lives and lies. VIII He had not marched far ere he espied Of his proud foes the mighty host draw nigh; A hill at first he took and fortified At his left hand which stood his army by, Broad in the front behind more strait uptied His army ready stood the fight to try, And to the middle ward well armed he brings His footmen strong, his horsemen served for wings. IX To the left wing, spread underneath the bent Of the steep hill that saved their flank and side, The Roberts twain, two leaders good, he sent; His brother had the middle ward to guide; To the right wing himself in person went Down, where the plain was dangerous, broad and wide, And where his foes with their great numbers would Perchance environ round his squadrons bold. X There all his Lorrainers and men of might, All his best armed he placed, and chosen bands, And with those horse some footmen armed light, That archers were, used to that service, stands; The adventurers then, in battle and in fight Well tried, a squadron famous through all lands, On the right hand he set, somedeal aside, Rinaldo was their leader, lord and guide. XI To whom the Duke, "In thee our hope is laid Of victory, thou must the conquest gain, Behind this mighty wing, so far displayed, Thou with thy noble squadron close remain; And when the Pagans would our backs invade, Assail them then, and make their onset vain; For if I guess aright, they have in mind To compass us, and charge our troops behind." XII Then through his host, that took so large a scope, He rode, and viewed them all, both horse and foot; His face was bare, his helm unclosed and ope, Lightened his eyes, his looks bright fire shot out; He cheers the fearful, comforts them that hope, And to the bold recounts his boasting stout, And to the valiant his adventures hard, These bids he look for praise, those for reward. XIII At last he stayed where of his squadrons bold And noblest troops assembled was best part; There from a rising bank his will he told, And all that heard his speech thereat took heart: And as the mountain snow from mountains cold Runs down in streams with eloquence and art, So from his lips his words and speeches fell, Shrill, speedy, pleasant, sweet, and placed well. XIV "My hardy host, you conquerors of the East, You scourge wherewith Christ whips his heathen fone, Of victory behold the latest feast, See the last day for which you wished alone; Not without cause the Saracens most and least Our gracious Lord hath gathered here in one, For all your foes and his assembled are, That one day's fight may end seven years of war. XV "This fight shall bring us many victories, The danger none, the labor will be small, Let not the number of your enemies Dismay your hearts, grant fear no place at all; For strife and discord through their army flies, Their bands ill ranked themselves entangle shall, And few of them to strike or fight shall come, For some want strength, some heart, some elbow-room. XVI "This host, with whom you must encounter now, Are men half naked, without strength or skill, From idleness, or following the plough, Late pressed forth to war against their will, Their swords are blunt, shields thin, soon pierced through, Their banners shake, their bearers shrink, for ill Their leaders heard, obeyed, or followed be, Their loss, their flight, their death I will foresee. XVII "Their captain clad in purple, armed in gold, That seems so fierce, so hardy, stout and strong, The Moors or weak Arabians vanquish could, Yet can he not resist your valors long. What can he do, though wise, though sage, though bold, In that confusion, trouble, thrust and throng? Ill known he is, and worse he knows his host, Strange lords ill feared are, ill obeyed of most. XVIII "But I am captain of this chosen crew, With whom I oft have conquered, triumphed oft, Your lands and lineages long since I knew, Each knight obeys my rule, mild, easy, soft, I know each sword, each dart, each shaft I view, Although the quarrel fly in skies aloft, Whether the same of Ireland be, or France, And from what bow it comes, what hand perchance. XIX "I ask an easy and a usual thing, As you have oft, this day, so win the field, Let zeal and honor be your virtue's sting, Your lives, my fame, Christ's faith defend and shield, To earth these Pagans slain and wounded bring, Tread on their necks, make them all die or yield,-- What need I more exhort you? from your eyes I see how victory, how conquest flies." XX Upon the captain, when his speech was done, It seemed a lamp and golden light down came, As from night's azure mantle oft doth run Or fall, a sliding star, or shining flame; But from the bosom of the burning sun Proceeded this, and garland-wise the same Godfredo's noble head encompassed round, And, as some thought, foreshowed he should be crowned. XXI Perchance, if man's proud thought or saucy tongue Have leave to judge or guess at heavenly things, This was the angel which had kept him long, That now came down, and hid him with his wings. While thus the Duke bespeaks his armies strong, And every troop and band in order brings. Lord Emiren his host disposed well, And with bold words whet on their courage fell; XXII The man brought forth his army great with speed, In order good, his foes at hand he spied, Like the new moon his host two horns did spreed, In midst the foot, the horse were on each side, The right wing kept he for himself to lead, Great Altamore received the left to guide, The middle ward led Muleasses proud, And in that battle fair Armida stood. XXIII On the right quarter stood the Indian grim, With Tisipherne and all the king's own band; But when the left wing spread her squadrons trim O'er the large plain, did Altamoro stand, With African and Persian kings with him, And two that came from Meroe's hot sand, And all his crossbows and his slings he placed, Where room best served to shoot, to throw, to cast. XXIV Thus Emiren his host put in array, And rode from band to band, from rank to rank, His truchmen now, and now himself, doth say, What spoil his folk shall gain, what praise, what thank. To him that feared, "Look up, ours is the day," He says, "Vile fear to bold hearts never sank, How dareth one against an hundred fight? Our cry, our shade, will put them all to flight." XXV But to the bold, "Go, hardy knight," he says, "His prey out of this lion's paws go tear:" To some before his thoughts the shape he lays, And makes therein the image true appear, How his sad country him entreats and prays, His house, his loving wife, and children dear: "Suppose," quoth he, "thy country doth beseech And pray thee thus, suppose this is her speech. XXVI "Defend my laws, uphold my temples brave, My blood from washing of my streets withhold, From ravishing my virgins keep, and save Thine ancestors' dead bones and ashes cold! To thee thy fathers dear and parents grave Show their uncovered heads, white, hoary, old, To thee thy wife--her breasts with tears o'erspread-- Thy sons, their cradles, shows, thy marriage bed." XXVII To all the rest, "You for her honor's sake Whom Asia makes her champions, by your might Upon these thieves, weak, feeble, few, must take A sharp revenge, yet just, deserved and right." Thus many words in several tongues he spake, And all his sundry nations to sharp fight Encouraged, but now the dukes had done Their speeches all, the hosts together run. XXVIII It was a great, a strange and wondrous sight, When front to front those noble armies met, How every troop, how in each troop each knight Stood prest to move, to fight, and praise to get, Loose in the wind waved their ensigns light, Trembled the plumes that on their crests were set; Their arms, impresses, colors, gold and stone, Against the sunbeams smiled, flamed, sparkled, shone. XXIX Of dry topped oaks they seemed two forests thick, So did each host with spears and pikes abound, Bent were their bows, in rests their lances stick, Their hands shook swords, their slings held cobbles round: Each steed to run was ready, prest and quick, At his commander's spur, his hand, his sound, He chafes, he stamps, careers, and turns about, He foams, snorts, neighs, and fire and smoke breathes out. XXX Horror itself in that fair fight seemed fair, And pleasure flew amid sad dread and fear; The trumpets shrill, that thundered in the air, Were music mild and sweet to every ear: The faithful camp, though less, yet seemed more rare In that strange noise, more warlike, shrill and clear, In notes more sweet, the Pagan trumpets jar, These sung, their armors shined, these glistered far. XXXI The Christian trumpets give the deadly call, The Pagans answer, and the fight accept; The godly Frenchmen on their knees down fall To pray, and kissed the earth, and then up leapt To fight, the land between was vanished all, In combat close each host to other stepped; For now the wings had skirmish hot begun, And with their battles forth the footmen run. XXXII But who was first of all the Christian train, That gave the onset first, first won renown? Gildippes thou wert she, for by thee slain The King of Orms, Hircano, tumbled down, The man's breastbone thou clov'st and rent in twain, So Heaven with honor would thee bless and crown, Pierced through he fell, and falling hard withal His foe praised for her strength and for his fall. XXXIII Her lance thus broke, the hardy dame forth drew With her strong hand a fine and trenchant blade, And gainst the Persians fierce and bold she flew, And in their troop wide streets and lanes she made, Even in the girdling-stead divided new In pieces twain, Zopire on earth she laid; And then Alarco's head she swept off clean, Which like a football tumbled on the green. XXXIV A blow felled Artaxerxes, with a thrust Was Argeus slain, the first lay in a trance, Ismael's left hand cut off fell in the dust, For on his wrist her sword fell down by chance: The hand let go the bridle where it lust, The blow upon the courser's ears did glance, Who felt the reins at large, and with the stroke Half mad, the ranks disordered, troubled, broke. XXXV All these, and many mo, by time forgot, She slew and wounded, when against her came The angry Persians all, cast on a knot, For on her person would they purchase fame: But her dear spouse and husband wanted not In so great need, to aid the noble dame; Thus joined, the haps of war unhurt they prove, Their strength was double, double was their love. XXXVI The noble lovers use well might you see, A wondrous guise, till then unseen, unheard, To save themselves forgot both he and she, Each other's life did keep, defend, and guard; The strokes that gainst her lord discharged be, The dame had care to bear, to break, to ward, His shield kept off the blows bent on his dear, Which, if need be, his naked head should bear. XXXVII So each saved other, each for other's wrong Would vengeance take, but not revenge their own: The valiant Soldan Artabano strong Of Boecan Isle, by her was overthrown, And by his hand, the bodies dead among, Alvante, that durst his mistress wound, fell down, And she between the eyes hit Arimont, Who hurt her lord, and cleft in twain his front. XXXVIII But Altamore who had that wing to lead Far greater slaughter on the Christians made; For where he turned his sword, or twined his steed, He slew, or man and beast on earth down laid, Happy was he that was at first struck dead, That fell not down on live, for whom his blade Had speared, the same cast in the dusty street His horse tore with his teeth, bruised with his feet. XXXIX By this brave Persian's valor, killed and slain Were strong Brunello and Ardonia great; The first his head and helm had cleft in twain, The last in stranger-wise he did intreat, For through his heart he pierced, and his seat, Where laughter hath his fountain and his seat, So that, a dreadful thing, believed uneath, He laughed for pain, and laughed himself to death. XL Nor these alone with that accursed knife, Of this sweet light and breath deprived lie; But with that cruel weapon lost their life Gentonio, Guascar, Rosimond, and Guy; Who knows how many in that fatal strife He slew? what knights his courser fierce made die? The names and countries of the people slain Who tells? their wounds and deaths who can explain? XLI With this fierce king encounter durst not one. Not one durst combat him in equal field, Gildippes undertook that task alone; No doubt could make her shrink, no danger yield, By Thermodont was never Amazone, Who managed steeled axe, or carried shield, That seemed so bold as she, so strong, so light, When forth she run to meet that dreadful knight. XLII She hit him, where with gold and rich anmail, His diadem did on his helmet flame, She broke and cleft the crown, and caused him veil His proud and lofty top, his crest down came, Strong seemed her arm that could so well assail: The Pagan shook for spite and blushed for shame, Forward he rushed, and would at once requite Shame with disgrace, and with revenge despite. XLIII Right on the front he gave that lady kind A blow so huge, so strong, so great, so sore, That out of sense and feeling, down she twined: But her dear knight his love from ground upbore, Were it their fortune, or his noble mind, He stayed his hand and strook the dame no more: A lion so stalks by, and with proud eyes Beholds, but scorns to hurt a man that lies. XLIV This while Ormondo false, whose cruel hand Was armed and prest to give the trait'rous blow, With all his fellows mongst Godfredo's band Entered unseen, disguised that few them know: The thievish wolves, when night o'ershades the land, That seem like faithful dogs in shape and show, So to the closed folds in secret creep, And entrance seek; to kill some harmless sheep. XLV He proached nigh, and to Godfredo's side The bloody Pagan now was placed near: But when his colors gold and white he spied, And saw the other signs that forged were, "See, see, this traitor false!" the captain cried, "That like a Frenchman would in show appear, Behold how near his mates and he are crept!" This said, upon the villain forth he leapt; LXVI Deadly he wounded him, and that false knight Nor strikes nor wards nor striveth to be gone; But, as Medusa's head were in his sight, Stood like a man new turned to marble stone, All lances broke, unsheathed all weapons bright, All quivers emptied were on them alone, In parts so many were the traitors cleft, That those dead men had no dead bodies left. LXVII When Godfrey was with Pagan blood bespread, He entered then the fight and that was past Where the bold Persian fought and combated, Where the close ranks he opened, cleft and brast; Before the knight the troops and squadrons fled, As Afric dust before the southern blast; The Duke recalled them, in array them placed, Stayed those that fled, and him assailed that chased. LXVIII The champions strong there fought a battle stout, Troy never saw the like by Xanthus old: A conflict sharp there was meanwhile on foot Twixt Baldwin good and Muleasses bold: The horsemen also near the mountains rout, And in both wings, a furious skirmish hold, And where the barbarous duke in person stood, Twixt Tisiphernes and Adrastus proud; XLIX With Emiren Robert the Norman strove, Long time they fought, yet neither lost nor won; The other Robert's helm the Indian clove, And broke his arms, their fight would soon be done: From place to place did Tisiphernes rove, And found no match, against him none dust run, But where the press was thickest thither flew The knight, and at each stroke felled, hurt, or slew. L Thus fought they long, yet neither shrink nor yield, In equal balance hung their hope and fear: All full of broken lances lay the field, All full of arms that cloven and shattered were; Of swords, some to the body nail the shield, Some cut men's throats, and some their bellies tear; Of bodies, some upright, some grovelling lay, And for themselves eat graves out of the clay. LI Beside his lord slain lay the noble steed, There friend with friend lay killed like lovers true, There foe with foe, the live under the dead, The victor under him whom late he slew: A hoarse unperfect sound did eachwhere spread, Whence neither silence, nor plain outcries flew: There fury roars, ire threats, and woe complains, One weeps, another cries, he sighs for pains. LII The arms that late so fair and glorious seem, Now soiled and slubbered, sad and sullen grow, The steel his brightness lost, the gold his beam; The colors had no pride nor beauty's show; The plumes and feathers on their crests that stream, Are strowed wide upon the earth below: The hosts both clad in blood, in dust and mire, Had changed their cheer, their pride, their rich attire. LIII But now the Moors, Arabians, Ethiops black, Of the left wing that held the utmost marge, Spread forth their troops, and purposed at the back And side their heedless foes to assail and charge: Slingers and archers were not slow nor slack To shoot and cast, when with his battle large Rinaldo came, whose fury, haste and ire, Seemed earthquake, thunder, tempest, storm and fire. LIV The first he met was Asimire, his throne That set in Meroe's hot sunburnt land, He cut his neck in twain, flesh, skin and bone, The sable head down tumbled on the sand; But when by death of this black prince alone The taste of blood and conquest once he fand, Whole squadrons then, whole troops to earth he brought, Things wondrous, strange, incredible he wrought. LV He gave more deaths than strokes, and yet his blows Upon his feeble foes fell oft and thick, To move three tongues as a fierce serpent shows, Which rolls the one she hath swift, speedy, quick, So thinks each Pagan; each Arabian trows He wields three swords, all in one hilt that stick; His readiness their eyes so blinded hath, Their dread that wonder bred, fear gave it faith. LVI The Afric tyrants and the negro kings Fell down on heaps, drowned each in other's blood, Upon their people ran the knights he brings, Pricked forward by their guide's example good, Killed were the Pagans, broke their bows and slings: Some died, some fell; some yielded, none withstood: A massacre was this, no fight; these put Their foes to death, those hold their throats to cut. LVII Small while they stood, with heart and hardy face, On their bold breasts deep wounds and hurts to bear, But fled away, and troubled in the chase Their ranks disordered be with too much fear: Rinaldo followed them from place to place, Till quite discomfit and dispersed they were. That done, he stays, and all his knights recalls, And scorns to strike his foe that flies or falls. LVIII Like as the wind stopped by some wood or hill, Grows strong and fierce, tears boughs and trees in twain, But with mild blasts, more temperate, gentle, still, Blows through the ample field or spacious plain; Against the rocks as sea-waves murmur shrill, But silent pass amid the open main: Rinaldo so, when none his force withstood, Assuaged his fury, calmed his angry mood; LIX He scorned upon their fearful backs that fled To wreak his ire and spend his force in vain, But gainst the footmen strong his troops he led, Whose side the Moors had open left and plain, The Africans that should have succored That battle, all were run away or slain, Upon their flank with force and courage stout His men at arms assailed the bands on foot: LX He brake their pikes, and brake their close array, Entered their battle, felled them down around, So wind or tempest with impetuous sway The ears of ripened corn strikes flat to ground: With blood, arms, bodies dead, the hardened clay Plastered the earth, no grass nor green was found; The horsemen running through and through their bands, Kill, murder, slay, few scape, not one withstands. LXI Rinaldo came where his forlorn Armide Sate on her golden chariot mounted high, A noble guard she had on every side Of lords, of lovers, and much chivalry: She knew the man when first his arms she spied, Love, hate, wrath, sweet desire strove in her eye, He changed somedeal his look and countenance bold, She changed from frost to fire, from heat to cold. LXII The prince passed by the chariot of his dear Like one that did his thoughts elsewhere bestow, Yet suffered not her knights and lovers near Their rival so to scape withouten blow, One drew his sword, another couched his spear, Herself an arrow sharp set in her bow, Disdain her ire new sharped and kindled hath, But love appeased her, love assuaged her wrath. LXIII Love bridled fury, and revived of new His fire, not dead, though buried in displeasure, Three times her angry hand the bow updrew, And thrice again let slack the string at leisure; But wrath prevailed at last, the reed outflew, For love finds mean, but hatred knows no measure, Outflew the shaft, but with the shaft, this charm, This wish she sent: Heaven grant it do no harm: LXIV She bids the reed return the way it went, And pierce her heart which so unkind could prove, Such force had love, though lost and vainly spent, What strength hath happy, kind and mutual love? But she that gentle thought did straight repent, Wrath, fury, kindness, in her bosom strove, She would, she would not, that it missed or hit, Her eyes, her heart, her wishes followed it. LXV But yet in vain the quarrel lighted not, For on his hauberk hard the knight it hit, Too hard for woman's shaft or woman's shot, Instead of piercing, there it broke and split; He turned away, she burnt with fury hot, And thought he scorned her power, and in that fit Shot oft and oft, her shafts no entrance found, And while she shot, love gave her wound on wound. LXVI "And is he then unpierceable," quoth she, "That neither force nor foe he needs regard? His limbs, perchance, armed with that hardness be, Which makes his heart so cruel and so hard, No shot that flies from eye or hand I see Hurts him, such rigor doth his person guard, Armed, or disarmed; his foe or mistress kind Despised alike, like hate, like scorn I find. LXVII "But what new form is left, device or art, By which, to which exchanged, I might find grace? For in my knights, and all that take my part, I see no help; no hope, no trust I place; To his great prowess, might, and valiant heart, All strength is weak, all courage vile and base." This said she, for she saw how through the field Her champions fly, faint, tremble, fall and yield. LXVIII Nor left alone can she her person save, But to be slain or taken stands in fear, Though with a bow a javelin long she have, Yet weak was Phebe's bow, blunt Pallas' spear. But, as the swan, that sees the eagle brave Threatening her flesh and silver plumes to tear, Falls down, to hide her mongst the shady brooks: Such were her fearful motions, such her looks. LXIX But Altamore, this while that strove and sought From shameful flight his Persian host to stay, That was discomfit and destroyed to nought, Whilst he alone maintained the fight and fray, Seeing distressed the goddess of his thought, To aid her ran, nay flew, and laid away All care both of his honor and his host: If she were safe, let all the world be lost. LXX To the ill-guarded chariot swift he flew, His weapon made him way with bloody war: Meanwhile Lord Godfrey and Rinaldo slew His feeble bands, his people murdered are, He saw their loss, but aided not his crew, A better lover than a leader far, He set Armida safe, then turned again With tardy succor, for his folk were slain. LXXI And on that side the woful prince beheld The battle lost, no help nor hope remained; But on the other wing the Christians yield, And fly, such vantage there the Egyptians gained, One of the Roberts was nigh slain in field; The other by the Indian strong constrained To yield himself his captive and his slave; Thus equal loss and equal foil they have. LXXII Godfredo took the time and season fit To bring again his squadrons in array, And either camp well ordered, ranged and knit, Renewed the furious battle, fight and fray, New streams of blood were shed, new swords them hit; New combats fought, new spoils were borne away, And unresolved and doubtful, on each side, Did praise and conquest, Mars and Fortune ride. LXXIII Between the armies twain while thus the fight Waxed sharp, hot, cruel, though renewed but late, The Soldan clomb up to the tower's height, And saw far off their strife and fell debate, As from some stage or theatre the knight Saw played the tragedy of human state, Saw death, blood, murder, woe and horror strange, And the great acts of fortune, chance, and change. LXXIV At first astonished and amazed he stood Then burnt with wrath, and self-consuming ire, Swelled his bosom like a raging flood, To be amid that battle; such desire, Such haste he had; he donned his helmet good, His other arms he had before entire, "Up, up!" he cried, "no more, no more, within This fortress stay, come follow, die or win." LXXV Whether the same were Providence divine That made him leave the fortress he possessed, For that the empire proud of Palestine This day should fall, to rise again more blessed; Or that he breaking felt the fatal line Of life, and would meet death with constant breast, Furious and fierce he did the gates unbar, And sudden rage brought forth, and sudden war. LXXVI Nor stayed he till the folk on whom he cried Assemble might, but out alone he flies, A thousand foes the man alone defied, And ran among a thousand enemies: But with his fury called from every side, The rest run out, and Aladine forth hies, The cowards had no fear, the wise no care, This was not hope, nor courage, but despair. LXXVII The dreadful Turk with sudden blows down cast The first he met, nor gave them time to plain Or pray, in murdering them he made such haste That dead they fell ere one could see them slain; From mouth to mouth, from eye to eye forth passed The fear and terror, that the faithful train Of Syrian folk, not used to dangerous fight, Were broken, scattered, and nigh put to flight. LXXVIII But with less terror, and disorder less, The Gascoigns kept array, and kept their ground, Though most the loss and peril them oppress, Unwares assailed they were, unready found. No ravening tooth or talon hard I guess Of beast or eager hawk, doth slay and wound So many sheep or fowls, weak, feeble, small, As his sharp sword killed knights and soldiers tall. LXXIX It seemed his thirst and hunger 'suage he would With their slain bodies, and their blood poured out, With him his troops and Aladino old Slew their besiegers, killed the Gascoign rout: But Raymond ran to meet the Soldan bold, Nor to encounter him had fear or doubt, Though his right hand by proof too well he know, Which laid him late for dead at one huge blow. LXXX They met, and Raymond fell amid the field, This blow again upon his forehead light, It was the fault and weakness of his eild, Age is not fit to bear strokes of such might, Each one lift up his sword, advanced his shield, Those would destroy, and these defend the knight. On went the Soldan, for the man he thought Was slain, or easily might be captive brought. LXXXI Among the rest he ran, he raged, he smote, And in small space, small time, great wonders wrought And as his rage him led and fury hot, To kill and murder, matter new he sought: As from his supper poor with hungry throat A peasant hastes, to a rich feast ybrought; So from this skirmish to the battle great He ran, and quenched with blood his fury's heat. LXXXII Where battered was the wall he sallied out, And to the field in haste and heat he goes, With him went rage and fury, fear and doubt Remained behind, among his scattered foes: To win the conquest strove his squadron stout, Which he unperfect left; yet loth to lose The day, the Christians fight, resist and die, And ready were to yield, retire and fly. LXXXIII The Gascoign bands retired, but kept array, The Syrian people ran away outright, The fight was near the place where Tancred lay, His house was full of noise and great affright, He rose and looked forth to see the fray, Though every limb were weak, faint, void of might; He saw the country lie, his men o'erthrown, Some beaten back, some killed, some felled down. LXXXIV Courage in noble hearts that ne'er is spent, Yet fainted not, though faint were every limb, But reinforced each member cleft and rent, And want of blood and strength supplied in him; In his left hand his heavy shield he hent, Nor seemed the weight too great, his curtlax trim His right hand drew, nor for more arms he stood Or stayed, he needs no more whose heart is good: LXXXV But coming forth, cried, "Whither will you run, And leave your leader to his foes in prey? What! shall these heathen of his armor won, In their vile temples hang up trophies gay? Go home to Gascoign then, and tell his son That where his father died, you ran away:" This said, against a thousand armed foes, He did his breast weak, naked, sick, oppose. LXXXVI And with his heavy, strong and mighty targe, That with seven hard bulls' hides was surely lined, And strengthened with a cover thick and large Of stiff and well-attempered steel behind, He shielded Raymond from the furious charge, From swords, from darts, from weapons of each kind, And all his foes drove back with his sharp blade, That sure and safe he lay, as in a shade. LXXXVII Thus saved, thus shielded, Raymond 'gan respire, He rose and reared himself in little space, And in his bosom burned the double fire Of vengeance; wrath his heart; shame filled his face; He looked around to spy, such was his ire, The man whose stroke had laid him in that place, Whom when he sees not, for disdain he quakes, And on his people sharp revengement takes. LXXXVIII The Gascoigns turn again, their lord in haste To venge their loss his hand recorded brings, The troop that durst so much now stood aghast, For where sad fear grew late, now boldness springs, Now followed they that fled, fled they that chased; So in one hour altereth the state of things, Raymond requites his loss, shame, hurt and all, And with an hundred deaths revenged one fall. LXXXIX Whilst Raymond wreaked thus his just disdain On the proud-heads of captains, lords and peers, He spies great Sion's king amid the train, And to him leaps, and high his sword he rears, And on his forehead strikes, and strikes again, Till helm and head he breaks, he cleaves, he tears; Down fell the king, the guiltless land he bit, That now keeps him, because he kept not it. XC Their guides, one murdered thus, the other gone, The troops divided were, in diverse thought, Despair made some run headlong gainst their fone, To seek sharp death that comes uncalled, unsought; And some, that laid their hope on flight alone, Fled to their fort again; yet chance so wrought, That with the flyers in the victors pass, And so the fortress won and conquered was. XCI The hold was won, slain were the men that fled, In courts, halls, chambers high; above, below, Old Raymond fast up to the leads him sped, And there, of victory true sign and show, His glorious standard to the wind he spread, That so both armies his success might know. But Solyman saw not the town was lost, For far from thence he was, and near the host; XCII Into the field he came, the lukewarm blood Did smoke and flow through all the purple field, There of sad death the court and palace stood, There did he triumphs lead, and trophies build; An armed steed fast by the Soldan yood, That had no guide, nor lord the reins to wield, The tyrant took the bridle, and bestrode The courser's empty back, and forth he rode. XCIII Great, yet but short and sudden was the aid That to the Pagans, faint and weak, he brought, A thunderbolt he was, you would have said, Great, yet that comes and goes as swift as thought And of his coming swift and flight unstayed Eternal signs in hardest rocks hath wrought, For by his hand a hundred knights were slain, But time forgot hath all their names but twain; XCIV Gildippes fair, and Edward thy dear lord, Your noble death, sad end, and woful fate, If so much power our vulgar tongue afford, To all strange wits, strange ears let me dilate, That ages all your love and sweet accord, Your virtue, prowess, worth may imitate, And some kind servant of true love that hears, May grace your death, my verses, with some tears. XCV The noble lady thither boldly flew, Where first the Soldan fought, and him defied, Two mighty blows she gave the Turk untrue, One cleft his shield, the other pierced his side; The prince the damsel by her habit knew, "See, see this mankind strumpet, see," he cried, "This shameless whore, for thee fit weapons were Thy neeld and spindle, not a sword and spear." XCVI This said, full of disdain, rage and despite, A strong, a fierce, a deadly stroke he gave, And pierced her armor, pierced her bosom white, Worthy no blows, but blows of love to have: Her dying hand let go the bridle quite, She faints, she falls, 'twixt life and death she strave, Her lord to help her came, but came too late, Yet was not that his fault, it was his fate. XCVII What should he do? to diverse parts him call Just ire and pity kind, one bids him go And succor his dear lady, like to fall, The other calls for vengeance on his foe; Love biddeth both, love says he must do all, And with his ire joins grief, with pity woe. What did he then? with his left hand the knight Would hold her up, revenge her with his right. XCVIII But to resist against a knight so bold Too weak his will and power divided were; So that he could not his fair love uphold, Nor kill the cruel man that slew his dear. His arm that did his mistress kind enfold, The Turk cut off, pale grew his looks and cheer, He let her fall, himself fell by her side, And, for he could not save her, with her died. XCIX As the high elm, whom his dear vine hath twined Fast in her hundred arms and holds embraced, Bears down to earth his spouse and darling kind If storm or cruel steel the tree down cast, And her full grapes to naught doth bruise and grind, Spoils his own leaves, faints, withers, dies at last, And seems to mourn and die, not for his own, But for her death, with him that lies o'erthrown: C So fell he mourning, mourning for the dame Whom life and death had made forever his; They would have spoke, but not one word could frame, Deep sobs their speech, sweet sighs their language is, Each gazed on other's eyes, and while the same Is lawful, join their hands, embrace and kiss: And thus sharp death their knot of life untied, Together fainted they, together died. CI But now swift fame her nimble wings dispread, And told eachwhere their chance, their fate, their fall, Rinaldo heard the case, by one that fled From the fierce Turk and brought him news of all. Disdain, good-will, woe, wrath the champion led To take revenge; shame, grief, for vengeance call; But as he went, Adrastus with his blade Forestalled the way, and show of combat made. CII The giant cried, "By sundry signs I note That whom I wish, I search, thou, thou art he, I marked each worthy's shield, his helm, his coat, And all this day have called and cried for thee, To my sweet saint I have thy head devote, Thou must my sacrifice, my offering be, Come let us here our strength and courage try, Thou art Armida's foe, her champion I." CIII Thus he defied him, on his front before, And on his throat he struck him, yet the blow His helmet neither bruised, cleft nor tore, But in his saddle made him bend and bow; Rinaldo hit him on the flank so sore, That neither art nor herb could help him now; Down fell the giant strong, one blow such power, Such puissance had; so falls a thundered tower. CIV With horror, fear, amazedness and dread, Cold were the hearts of all that saw the fray, And Solyman, that viewed that noble deed, Trembled, his paleness did his fear bewray; For in that stroke he did his end areed, He wist not what to think, to do, to say, A thing in him unused, rare and strange, But so doth heaven men's hearts turn, alter, change. CV As when the sick or frantic men oft dream In their unquiet sleep and slumber short, And think they run some speedy course, and seem To move their legs and feet in hasty sort, Yet feel their limbs far slower than the stream Of their vain thoughts that bears them in this sport, And oft would speak, would cry, would call or shout, Yet neither sound, nor voice, nor word send out: CVI So run to fight the angry Soldan would, And did enforce his strength, his might, his ire, Yet felt not in himself his courage old, His wonted force, his rage and hot desire, His eyes, that sparkled wrath and fury bold, Grew dim and feeble, fear had quenched that fire, And in his heart an hundred passions fought, Yet none on fear or base retire he thought. CVII While unresolved he stood, the victor knight Arrived, and seemed in quickness, haste and speed, In boldness, greatness, goodliness and might, Above all princes born of human seed: The Turk small while resists, not death nor fight Made him forget his state or race, through dreed, He fled no strokes, he fetched no groan nor sigh, Bold were his motions last, proud, stately, high. CVIII Now when the Soldan, in these battles past That Antheus-like oft fell oft rose again, Evermore fierce, more fell, fell down at last To lie forever, when this prince was slain, Fortune, that seld is stable, firm or fast, No longer durst resist the Christian train, But ranged herself in row with Godfrey's knights, With them she serves, she runs, she rides, she fights. CIX The Pagan troops, the king's own squadron fled, Of all the east, the strength, the pride, the flower, Late called Immortal, now discomfited, It lost that title proud, and lost all power; To him that with the royal standard fled, Thus Emireno said, with speeches sour, "Art not thou he to whom to bear I gave My king's great banner, and his standard brave? CX "This ensign, Rimedon, I gave not thee To be the witness of thy fear and flight, Coward, dost thou thy lord and captain see In battle strong, and runn'st thyself from fight? What seek'st thou? safety? come, return with me, The way to death is path to virtue right, Here let him fight that would escape; for this The way to honor, way to safety is." CXI The man returned and swelled with scorn and shame, The duke with speeches grave exhorts the rest; He threats, he strikes sometime, till back they came, And rage gainst force, despair gainst death addressed. Thus of his broken armies gan he frame A battle now, some hope dwelt in his breast, But Tisiphernes bold revived him most, Who fought and seemed to win, when all was lost; CXII Wonders that day wrought noble Tisipherne, The hardy Normans all he overthrew; The Flemings fled before the champion stern, Gernier, Rogero, Gerard bold he slew; His glorious deeds to praise and fame etern His life's short date prolonged, enlarged and drew, And then, as he that set sweet life at nought, The greatest peril, danger, most he sought. CXIII He spied Rinaldo, and although his field Of azure purple now and sanguine shows, And though the silver bird amid his shield Were armed gules; yet he the champion knows. And says, "Here greatest peril is, heavens yield Strength to my courage, fortune to my blows, That fair Armida her revenge may see, Help, Macon, for his arms I vow to thee." CXIV Thus prayed he, but all his vows were vain, Mahound was deaf, or slept in heavens above, And as a lion strikes him with his train, His native wrath to quicken and to move, So he awaked his fury and disdain, And sharped his courage on the whetstone love; Himself he saved behind his mighty targe, And forward spurred his steed and gave the charge. CXV The Christian saw the hardy warrior come, And leaped forth to undertake the fight, The people round about gave place and room, And wondered on that fierce and cruel sight, Some praised their strength, their skill and courage some, Such and so desperate blows struck either knight, That all that saw forgot both ire and strife, Their wounds, their hurts, forgot both death and life. CXVI One struck, the other did both strike and wound, His arms were surer, and his strength was more; From Tisipheme the blood streamed down around; His shield was deft, his helm was rent and tore. The dame, that saw his blood besmear the ground, His armor broke, limbs weak, wounds deep and sore, And all her guard dead, fled, and overthrown, Thought, now her field lay waste, her hedge lay down: CXVII Environed with so brave a troop but late, Now stood she in her chariot all alone, She feared bondage, and her life did hate, All hope of conquest and revenge was gone, Half mad and half amazed from where she sate, She leaped down, and fled from friends' and fone, On a swift horse she mounts, and forth she rides Alone, save for disdain and love, her guides. CXVIII In days of old, Queen Cleopatra so Alone fled from the fight and cruel fray, Against Augustus great his happy foe, Leaving her lord to loss and sure decay. And as that lord for love let honor go, Followed her flying sails and lost the day: So Tisipherne the fair and fearful dame Would follow, but his foe forbids the same. CXIX But when the Pagan's joy and comfort fled, It seemed the sun was set, the day was night, Gainst the brave prince with whom he combated He turned, and on the forehead struck the knight: When thunders forged are in Typhoius' bed, Not Brontes' hammer falls so swift, so right; The furious stroke fell on Rinaldo's crest, And made him bend his head down to his breast. CXX The champion in his stirrups high upstart, And cleft his hauberk hard and tender side, And sheathed his weapon in the Pagan's heart, The castle where man's life and soul do bide; The cruel sword his breast and hinder part With double wound unclosed, and opened wide; And two large doors made for his life and breath, Which passed, and cured hot love with frozen death. CXXI This done, Rinaldo stayed and looked around, Where he should harm his foes, or help his friends; Nor of the Pagans saw he squadron sound: Each standard falls, ensign to earth descends; His fury quiet then and calm he found, There all his wrath, his rage, and rancor ends, He called to mind how, far from help or aid, Armida fled, alone, amazed, afraid: CXXII Well saw he when she fled, and with that sight The prince had pity, courtesy and care; He promised her to be her friend and knight When erst he left her in the island bare: The way she fled he ran and rode aright, Her palfrey's feet signs in the grass outware: But she this while found out an ugly shade, Fit place for death, where naught could life persuade. CXXIII Well pleased was she with those shadows brown, And yet displeased with luck, with life, with love; There from her steed she lighted, there laid down Her bow and shafts, her arms that helpless prove. "There lie with shame," she says, "disgraced, o'erthrown, Blunt are the weapons, blunt the arms I move, Weak to revenge my harms, or harm my foe, My shafts are blunt, ah, love, would thine were so! CXXIV Alas, among so many, could not one, Not one draw blood, one wound or rend his skin? All other breasts to you are marble stone, Dare you then pierce a woman's bosom thin? See, see, my naked heart, on this alone Employ your force this fort is eath to win, And love will shoot you from his mighty bow, Weak is the shot that dripile falls in snow. CXXV "I pardon will your fear and weakness past, Be strong, mine arrows, cruel, sharp, gainst me, Ah, wretch, how is thy chance and fortune cast, If placed in these thy good and comfort be? But since all hope is vain all help is waste, Since hurts ease hurts, wounds must cure wounds in thee; Then with thine arrow's stroke cure stroke of love, Death for thy heart must salve and surgeon prove. CXXVI "And happy me if, being dead and slain, I bear not with me this strange plague to hell: Love, stay behind, come thou with me disdain, And with my wronged soul forever dwell; Or else with it turn to the world again And vex that knight with dreams and visions fell, And tell him, when twixt life and death I strove My last wish, was revenge--last word, was love." CXXVII And with that word half mad, half dead, she seems, An arrow, poignant, strong and sharp she took, When her dear knight found her in these extremes, Now fit to die, and pass the Stygian brook, Now prest to quench her own and beauty's beams; Now death sat on her eyes, death in her look, When to her back he stepped, and stayed her arm Stretched forth to do that service last, last harm. CXXVIII She turns and, ere she knows, her lord she spies, Whose coming was unwished, unthought, unknown, She shrieks, and twines away her sdainful eyes From his sweet face, she falls dead in a swoon, Falls as a flower half cut, that bending lies: He held her up, and lest she tumble down, Under her tender side his arm he placed, His hand her girdle loosed, her gown unlaced; CXXIX And her fair face, fair bosom he bedews With tears, tears of remorse, of ruth, of sorrow. As the pale rose her color lost renews With the fresh drops fallen from the silver morrow, So she revives, and cheeks empurpled shows Moist with their own tears and with tears they borrow; Thrice looked she up, her eyes thrice closed she; As who say, "Let me die, ere look on thee." CXXX And his strong arm, with weak and feeble hand She would have thrust away, loosed and untwined: Oft strove she, but in vain, to break that band, For he the hold he got not yet resigned, Herself fast bound in those dear knots she fand, Dear, though she feigned scorn, strove and repined: At last she speaks, she weeps, complains and cries; Yet durst not, did not, would not see his eyes. CXXXI "Cruel at thy departure, at return As cruel, say, what chance thee hither guideth, Would'st thou prevent her death whose heart forlorn For thee, for thee death's strokes each hour divideth? Com'st thou to save my life? alas, what scorn, What torment for Armida poor abideth? No, no, thy crafts and sleights I well descry, But she can little do that cannot die. CXXXII "Thy triumph is not great nor well arrayed Unless in chains thou lead a captive dame: A dame now ta'en by force, before betrayed, This is thy greatest glory, greatest fame: Time was that thee of love and life I prayed, Let death now end my love, my life, my shame. Yet let not thy false hand bereave this breath, For if it were thy gift, hateful were death. CXXXIII "Cruel, myself an hundred ways can find, To rid me from thy malice, from thy hate, If weapons sharp, if poisons of all kind, If fire, if strangling fail, in that estate, Yet ways enough I know to stop this wind: A thousand entries hath the house of fate. Ah, leave these flatteries, leave weak hope to move, Cease, cease, my hope is dead, dead is my love." CXXXIV Thus mourned she, and from her watery eyes Disdain and love dropped down, rolled up in tears; From his pure fountains ran two streams likewise, Wherein chaste pity and mild ruth appears: Thus with sweet words the queen he pacifies, "Madam, appease your grief, your wrath, your fears, For to be crowned, not scorned, your life I save; Your foe nay, but your friend, your knight, your slave. CXXXV "But if you trust no speech, no oath, no word; Yet in mine eyes, my zeal, my truth behold: For to that throne, whereof thy sire was lord, I will restore thee, crown thee with that gold, And if high Heaven would so much grace afford As from thy heart this cloud this veil unfold Of Paganism, in all the east no dame Should equalize thy fortune, state and fame." CXXXVI Thus plaineth he, thus prays, and his desire Endears with sighs that fly and tears that fall; That as against the warmth of Titan's fire, Snowdrifts consume on tops of mountains tall, So melts her wrath; but love remains entire. "Behold," she says, "your handmaid and your thrall: My life, my crown, my wealth use at your pleasure;" Thus death her life became, loss proved her tensure. CXXXVII This while the captain of the Egyptian host,-- That saw his royal standard laid on ground, Saw Rimedon, that ensign's prop and post, By Godfrey's noble hand killed with one wound, And all his folk discomfit, slain and lost, No coward was in this last battle found, But rode about and sought, nor sought in vain, Some famous hand of which he might be slain; CXXXVIII Against Lord Godfrey boldly out he flew, For nobler foe he wished not, could not spy, Of desperate courage showed he tokens true, Where'er he joined, or stayed, or passed by, And cried to the Duke as near he drew, "Behold of thy strong hand I come to die, Yet trust to overthrow thee with my fall, My castle's ruins shall break down thy wall." CXXXIX This said, forth spurred they both, both high advance Their swords aloft, both struck at once, both hit, His left arm wounded had the knight of France, His shield was pierced, his vantbrace cleft and split, The Pagan backward fell, half in a trance, On his left ear his foe so hugely smit, And as he sought to rise, Godfredo's sword Pierced him through, so died that army's lord. CXL Of his great host, when Emiren was dead, Fled the small remnant that alive remained; Godfrey espied as he turned his steed, Great Altamore on foot, with blood all stained, With half a sword, half helm upon his head, Gainst whom a hundred fought, yet not one gained. "Cease, cease this strife," he cried: "and thou, brave knight, Yield, I am Godfrey, yield thee to my might!" CXLI He that till then his proud and haughty heart To act of humbleness did never bend, When that great name he heard, from the north part Of our wide world renowned to Aethiop's end, Answered, "I yield to thee, thou worthy art, I am thy prisoner, fortune is thy friend: On Altamoro great thy conquest bold Of glory shall be rich, and rich of gold: CXLII "My loving queen, my wife and lady kind Shall ransom me with jewels, gold and treasure." "God shield," quoth Godfrey, "that my noble mind Should praise and virtue so by profit measure, All that thou hast from Persia and from Inde Enjoy it still, therein I take no pleasure; I set no rent on life, no price on blood, I fight, and sell not war for gold or good." CXLIII This said, he gave him to his knights to keep And after those that fled his course he bent; They to their rampiers fled and trenches deep, Yet could not so death's cruel stroke prevent: The camp was won, and all in blood doth steep The blood in rivers streamed from tent to tent, It soiled, defiled, defaced all the prey, Shields, helmets, armors, plumes and feathers gay. CXLIV Thus conquered Godfrey, and as yet the sun Dived not in silver waves his golden wain, But daylight served him to the fortress won With his victorious host to turn again, His bloody coat he put not off, but run To the high temple with his noble train, And there hung up his arms, and there he bows His knees, there prayed, and there performed his vows. 
2762	----	The Brethren by H. Rider Haggard Dedication R.M.S. Mongolia, 12th May, 1904 Mayhap, Ella, here too distance lends its enchantment, and these gallant brethren would have quarrelled over Rosamund, or even had their long swords at each other's throat. Mayhap that Princess and heroine might have failed in the hour of her trial and never earned her saintly crown. Mayhap the good horse "Smoke" would have fallen on the Narrow Way, leaving false Lozelle a victor, and Masouda, the royal-hearted, would have offered up a strangely different sacrifice upon the altars of her passionate desire. Still, let us hold otherwise, though we grow grey and know the world for what it is. Let us for a little time think as we thought while we were young; when faith knew no fears for anything and death had not knocked upon our doors; when you opened also to my childish eyes that gate of ivory and pearl which leads to the blessed kingdom of Romance. At the least I am sure, and I believe that you, my sister, will agree with me, that, above and beyond its terrors and its pitfalls, Imagination has few finer qualities, and none, perhaps, more helpful to our hearts, than those which enable us for an hour to dream that men and women, their fortunes and their fate, are as we would fashion them. H. Rider Haggard. To Mrs. Maddison Green. Contents: Author's Note Prologue Chapter One: By the Waters of Death Creek Chapter Two: Sir Andrew D'Arcy Chapter Three: The Knighting of the Brethren Chapter Four: The Letter of Saladin Chapter Five: The Wine Merchant Chapter Six: The Christmas Feast at Steeple Chapter Seven: The Banner of Saladin Chapter Eight: The Widow Masouda Chapter Nine: The Horses Flame and Smoke Chapter Ten: On Board the Galley Chapter Eleven: The City of Al-je-bal Chapter Twelve: The Lord of Death Chapter Thirteen: The Embassy Chapter Fourteen: The Combat on the Bridge Chapter Fifteen: The Flight to Emesa Chapter Sixteen: The Sultan Saladin Chapter Seventeen: The Brethren Depart from Damascus Chapter Eighteen: Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine Chapter Nineteen: Before the Walls of Ascalon Chapter Twenty: The Luck of the Star of Hassan Chapter Twenty-One: What Befell Godwin Chapter Twenty-Two: At Jerusalem Chapter Twenty-Three: Saint Rosamund Chapter Twenty-Four: The Dregs of the Cup "Two lovers by the maiden sate, Without a glance of jealous hate; The maid her lovers sat between, With open brow and equal mien;--It is a sight but rarely spied, Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride." Scott AUTHOR'S NOTE: Standing a while ago upon the flower-clad plain above Tiberius, by the Lake of Galilee, the writer gazed at the double peaks of the Hill of Hattin. Here, or so tradition says, Christ preached the Sermon on the Mount--that perfect rule of gentleness and peace. Here, too--and this is certain--after nearly twelve centuries had gone by, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, whom we know as the Sultan Saladin, crushed the Christian power in Palestine in perhaps the most terrible battle which that land of blood has known. Thus the Mount of the Beatitudes became the Mount of Massacre. Whilst musing on these strangely-contrasted scenes enacted in one place there arose in his mind a desire to weave, as best he might, a tale wherein any who are drawn to the romance of that pregnant and mysterious epoch, when men by thousands were glad to lay down their lives for visions and spiritual hopes, could find a picture, however faint and broken, of the long war between Cross and Crescent waged among the Syrian plains and deserts. Of Christian knights and ladies also, and their loves and sufferings in England and the East; of the fearful lord of the Assassins whom the Franks called Old Man of the Mountain, and his fortress city, Masyaf. Of the great-hearted, if at times cruel Saladin and his fierce Saracens; of the rout at Hattin itself, on whose rocky height the Holy Rood was set up as a standard and captured, to be seen no more by Christian eyes; and of the Iast surrender, whereby the Crusaders lost Jerusalem forever. Of that desire this story is the fruit. PROLOGUE Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the king Strong to Aid, Sovereign of the East, sat at night in his palace at Damascus and brooded on the wonderful ways of God, by Whom he had been lifted to his high estate. He remembered how, when he was but small in the eyes of men, Nour-ed-din, king of Syria, forced him to accompany his uncle, Shirkuh, to Egypt, whither he went, "like one driven to his death," and how, against his own will, there he rose to greatness. He thought of his father, the wise Ayoub, and the brethren with whom he was brought up, all of them dead now save one; and of his sisters, whom he had cherished. Most of all did he think of her, Zobeide, who had been stolen away by the knight whom she loved even to the loss of her own soul--yes, by the English friend of his youth, his father's prisoner, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, who, led astray by passion, had done him and his house this grievous wrong. He had sworn, he remembered, that he would bring her back even from England, and already had planned to kill her husband and capture her when he learned her death. She had left a child, or so his spies told him, who, if she still lived, must be a woman now--his own niece, though half of noble English blood. Then his mind wandered from this old, half-forgotten story to the woe and blood in which his days were set, and to the last great struggle between the followers of the prophets Jesus and Mahomet, that Jihad [Holy War] for which he made ready--and he sighed. For he was a merciful man, who loved not slaughter, although his fierce faith drove him from war to war. Salah-ed-din slept and dreamed of peace. In his dream a maiden stood before him. Presently, when she lifted her veil, he saw that she was beautiful, with features like his own, but fairer, and knew her surely for the daughter of his sister who had fled with the English knight. Now he wondered why she visited him thus, and in his vision prayed Allah to make the matter clear. Then of a sudden he saw this same woman standing before him on a Syrian plain, and on either side of her a countless host of Saracens and Franks, of whom thousands and tens of thousands were appointed to death. Lo! he, Salah-ed-din, charged at the head of his squadrons, scimitar aloft, but she held up her hand and stayed him. "What do you hear, my niece?" he asked. "I am come to save the lives of men through you," she answered; "therefore was I born of your blood, and therefore I am sent to you. Put up your sword, King, and spare them." "Say, maiden, what ransom do you bring to buy this multitude from doom? What ransom, and what gift?" "The ransom of my own blood freely offered, and Heaven's gift of peace to your sinful soul, O King." And with that outstretched hand she drew down his keen-edged scimitar until it rested on her breast. Salah-ed-din awoke, and marvelled on his dream, but said nothing of it to any man. The next night it returned to him, and the memory of it went with him all the day that followed, but still he said nothing. When on the third night he dreamed it yet again, even more vividly, then he was sure that this thing was from God, and summoned his holy Imauns and his Diviners, and took counsel with them. These, after they had listened, prayed and consulted, spoke thus: "O Sultan, Allah has warned you in shadows that the woman, your niece, who dwells far away in England, shall by her own nobleness and sacrifice, in some time to come, save you from shedding a sea of blood, and bring rest upon the land. We charge you, therefore, draw this lady to your court, and keep her ever by your side, since if she escape you, her peace goes with her." Salah-ed-din said that this interpretation was wise and true, for thus also he had read his dream. Then he summoned a certain false knight who bore the Cross upon his breast, but in secret had accepted the Koran, a Frankish spy of his, who came from that country where dwelt the maiden, his niece, and from him learned about her, her father, and her home. With him and another spy who passed as a Christian palmer, by the aid of Prince Hassan, one of the greatest and most trusted of his Emirs, he made a cunning plan for the capture of the maiden if she would not come willingly, and for her bearing away to Syria. Moreover--that in the eyes of all men her dignity might be worthy of her high blood and fate--by his decree he created her, the niece whom he had never seen, Princess of Baalbec, with great possessions--a rule that her grandfather, Ayoub, and her uncle, Izzeddin, had held before her. Also he purchased a stout galley of war, manning it with proved sailors and with chosen men-at-arms, under the command of the Prince Hassan, and wrote a letter to the English lord, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, and to his daughter, and prepared a royal gift of jewels, and sent them to the lady, his niece, far away in England, and with it the Patent of her rank. Her he commanded this company to win by peace, or force, or fraud, as best they might, but that without her not one of them should dare to look upon his face again. And with these he sent the two Frankish spies, who knew the place where the lady lived, one of whom, the false knight, was a skilled mariner and the captain of the ship. These things did Yusuf Salah-ed-din, and waited patiently till it should please God to accomplish the vision with which God had filled his soul in sleep. Chapter One: By The Waters of Death Creek From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf, his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips, notwithstanding his father's Norman blood. At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the slow grace which marked her every movement. "Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?" she asked in her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent, seemed quite different to that of any other woman. "I think so, Rosamund," he answered. "It would serve to pass the time, and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we rode so far to seek, the time--is somewhat long." "Shame on you, Wulf," she said, smiling. "Look upon yonder sea and sky, at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple--" "I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your back and at Godwin's left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father's effigy upon his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword, the same cold, silent face staring at the sky." "Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes--that is, if the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire," interrupted his brother. Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his blue eyes. "No, I think not," he answered; "the deeds you may do, and greater, but surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk's cowl at the last--unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two--for I have been wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth--a maid's thoughts are her own--but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and should be skimmed." Rosamund sighed. "I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of strange learning--" "And women are men's slaves!" interrupted Wulf. "Still, it is natural that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins, and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess"--and he bowed the knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his earnest reverence--"say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?" She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen. Presently she answered him with another question. "And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D'Arcy and a Christian maid?" "The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill either, and for the second--why, faiths can be changed." Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time. "Wulf, Wulf," he said sternly, "keep watch upon your tongue, for there are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth--" "There, at least, we agree," broke in Wulf. "Better than aught else on the earth," repeated Godwin; "but, by the Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet." "Or any of his followers," muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately, perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said, "You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty and wisdom." "Oh, cease mocking, Wulf," she answered, laying her hand lightly on the tunic that hid his shirt of mail. "Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad, the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother--who, indeed, in such a case would do right to slay me." "Well, if it were," answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he spoke, "I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so very hard to choose between death and duty?" "I know not," she replied; "but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than life." "What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or--love?" "Tell me," said Rosamund, changing her tone, "what is that boat rowing round the river's mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though those within it watched us." "Fisher-folk," answered Wulf carelessly. "I saw their nets." "Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords." "Fish," said Wulf; "we are at peace in Essex." Although Rosamund did not look convinced, he went on: "Now for Godwin's thoughts-- what were they?" "Brother, if you would know, of the East also--the East and its wars." "Which have brought us no great luck," answered Wulf, "seeing that our sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his heart, which lies at Stangate yonder." "How better could he die," asked Godwin, "than fighting for the Cross of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!" "Aye, he died well--he died well," said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and his hand creeping to his sword hilt. "But, brother, there is peace at Jerusalem, as in Essex." "Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter--he whom we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months gone--told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin, sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle's wish we have done these many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red upon the holy sands of Palestine?" Now it was Wulf's turn to take fire. "By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!"--and he looked at Rosamund, who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes--"go when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death." And suddenly his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a field--"A D'Arcy! a D'Arcy! Meet D'Arcy, meet Death!" Then he sheathed his sword again and added in a shamed voice, "Are we children that we fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!" Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said: "So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that will part us. But"--and her voice broke somewhat--"such is the woman's lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not why"--and she shivered a little--"it comes into my heart that Heaven often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the sunlight. I am afraid--of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first, my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home." "Our journey?" said Wulf anxiously. "What is there for you to fear in a nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?" "I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple, but yonder," and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky. "Well answered," said Godwin, "in this ancient place, whence so many have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without count." Then they turned and entered the old church--one of the first that ever was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad, the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day. Here they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their horses, which were tied in the shed hard by. Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at Steeple--one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of Stangate on his right. It was this latter path they chose, since at low tide the going there is good for horses--which, even in the summer, that of the inland track was not. Also they wished to be at home by supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, the father of Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and perhaps come out to seek them. For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry of curlew and the lap of the turning tide. No human being did they see, indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and again by fishermen. At length, just as the sun began to sink, they approached the shore of Death Creek--a sheet of tidal water which ran a mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three hundred yards in breadth. They were well mounted, all three of them. Indeed, Rosamund's horse, a great grey, her father's gift to her, was famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear of shouting men or flashing steel. Now the ground lay thus. Some seventy yards from the shore of Death Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path, beyond which were a swamp and the broad river. Between this tongue and the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands. It was an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which could lie alongside of it even at low tide. This mole had been much destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level. Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick eyes of Wulf, who rode first--for here the path along the border of the swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file--caught sight of a large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole. "Your fishermen have landed, Rosamund," he said, "and doubtless gone up to Bradwell." "That is strange," she answered anxiously, "since here no fishermen ever come." And she checked her horse as though to turn. "Whether they come or not, certainly they have gone," said Godwin, craning forward to look about him; "so, as we have nothing to fear from an empty boat, let us push on." On they rode accordingly, until they came to the root of the stone quay or pier, when a sound behind them caused them to look back. Then they saw a sight that sent the blood to their hearts, for there behind them, leaping down one by one on to that narrow footway, were men armed with naked swords, six or eight of them, all of whom, they noted, had strips of linen pierced with eyelet holes tied beneath their helms or leather caps, so as to conceal their faces. "A snare! a snare!" cried Wulf, drawing his sword. "Swift! follow me up the Bradwell path!" and he struck the spurs into his horse. It bounded forward, to be dragged next second with all the weight of his powerful arm almost to its haunches. "God's mercy!" he cried, "there are more of them!" And more there were, for another band of men armed and linen-hooded like the first, had leapt down on to that Bradwell path, amongst them a stout man, who seemed to be unarmed, except for a long, crooked knife at his girdle and a coat of ringed mail, which showed through the opening of his loose tunic. "To the boat!" shouted Godwin, whereat the stout man laughed--a light, penetrating laugh, which even then all three of them heard and noted. Along the quay they rode, since there was nowhere else that they could go, with both paths barred, and swamp and water on one side of them, and a steep, wooded bank upon the other. When they reached it, they found why the man had laughed, for the boat was made fast with a strong chain that could not be cut; more, her sail and oars were gone. "Get into it," mocked a voice; "or, at least, let the lady get in; it will save us the trouble of carrying her there." Now Rosamund turned very pale, while the face of Wulf went red and white, and he gripped his sword-hilt. But Godwin, calm as ever, rode forward a few paces, and said quietly: "Of your courtesy, say what you need of us. If it be money, we have none--nothing but our arms and horses, which I think may cost you dear." Now the man with the crooked knife advanced a little, accompanied by another man, a tall, supple-looking knave, into whose ear he whispered. "My master says," answered the tall man, "that you have with you that which is of more value than all the king's gold--a very fair lady, of whom someone has urgent need. Give her up now, and go your way with your arms and horses, for you are gallant young men, whose blood we do not wish to shed." At this it was the turn of the brethren to laugh, which both of them did together. "Give her up," answered Godwin, "and go our ways dishonoured? Aye, with our breath, but not before. Who then has such urgent need of the lady Rosamund?" Again there was whispering between the pair. "My master says," was the answer, "he thinks that all who see her will have need of her, since such loveliness is rare. But if you wish a name, well, one comes into his mind; the name of the knight Lozelle." "The knight Lozelle!" murmured Rosamund, turning even paler than before, as well she might. For this Lozelle was a powerful man and Essex-born. He owned ships of whose doings upon the seas and in the East evil tales were told, and once had sought Rosamund's hand in marriage, but being rejected, uttered threats for which Godwin, as the elder of the twins, had fought and wounded him. Then he vanished--none knew where. "Is Sir Hugh Lozelle here then?" asked Godwin, "masked like you common cowards? If so, I desire to meet him, to finish the work I began in the snow last Christmas twelvemonths." "Find that out if you can," answered the tall man. But Wulf said, speaking low between his clenched teeth: "Brother, I see but one chance. We must place Rosamund between us and charge them." The captain of the band seemed to read their thoughts, for again he whispered into the ear of his companion, who called out: "My master says that if you try to charge, you will be fools, since we shall stab and ham-string your horses, which are too good to waste, and take you quite easily as you fall. Come then, yield, as you can do without shame, seeing there is no escape, and that two men, however brave, cannot stand against a crowd. He gives you one minute to surrender." Now Rosamund spoke for the first time. "My cousins," she said, "I pray you not to let me fall living into the hands of Sir Hugh Lozelle, or of yonder men, to be taken to what fate I know not. Let Godwin kill me, then, to save my honour, as but now he said he would to save my soul, and strive to cut your way through, and live to avenge me." The brethren made no answer, only they looked at the water and then at one another, and nodded. It was Godwin who spoke again, for now that it had come to this struggle for life and their lady, Wulf, whose tongue was commonly so ready, had grown strangely silent, and fierce-faced also. "Listen, Rosamund, and do not turn your eyes," said Godwin. "There is but one chance for you, and, poor as it is, you must choose between it and capture, since we cannot kill you. The grey horse you ride is strong and true. Turn him now, and spur into the water of Death Creek and swim it. It is broad, but the incoming tide will help you, and perchance you will not drown." Rosamund listened and moved her head backwards towards the boat. Then Wulf spoke--few words and sharp: "Begone, girl! we guard the boat." She heard, and her dark eyes filled with tears, and her stately head sank for a moment almost to her horse's mane. "Oh, my knights! my knights! And would you die for me? Well, if God wills it, so it must be. But I swear that if you die, that no man shall be aught to me who have your memory, and if you live--" And she looked at them confusedly, then stopped. "Bless us, and begone," said Godwin. So she blessed them in words low and holy; then of a sudden wheeled round the great grey horse, and striking the spur into its flank, drove straight at the deep water. A moment the stallion hung, then from the low quay-end sprang out wide and clear. Deep it sank, but not for long, for presently its rider's head rose above the water, and regaining the saddle, from which she had floated, Rosamund sat firm and headed the horse straight for the distant bank. Now a shout of wonderment went up from the woman thieves, for this was a deed that they had never thought a girl would dare. But the brethren laughed as they saw that the grey swam well, and, leaping from their saddles, ran forward a few paces--eight or ten--along the mole to where it was narrowest, as they went tearing the cloaks from their shoulders, and, since they had none, throwing them over their left arms to serve as bucklers. The band cursed sullenly, only their captain gave an order to his spokesman, who cried aloud: "Cut them down, and to the boat! We shall take her before she reaches shore or drowns." For a moment they wavered, for the tall twin warriors who barred the way had eyes that told of wounds and death. Then with a rush they came, scrambling over the rough stones. But here the causeway was so narrow that while their strength lasted, two men were as good as twenty, nor, because of the mud and water, could they be got at from either side. So after all it was but two to two, and the brethren were the better two. Their long swords flashed and smote, and when Wulf's was lifted again, once more it shone red as it had been when he tossed it high in the sunlight, and a man fell with a heavy splash into the waters of the creek, and wallowed there till he died. Godwin's foe was down also, and, as it seemed, sped. Then, at a muttered word, not waiting to be attacked by others, the brethren sprang forward. The huddled mob in front of them saw them come, and shrank back, but before they had gone a yard, the swords were at work behind. They swore strange oaths, they caught their feet among the rocks, and rolled upon their faces. In their confusion three of them were pushed into the water, where two sank in the mud and were drowned, the third only dragging himself ashore, while the rest made good their escape from the causeway. But two had been cut down, and three had fallen, for whom there was no escape. They strove to rise and fight, but the linen masks flapped about their eyes, so that their blows went wide, while the long swords of the brothers smote and smote again upon their helms and harness as the hammers of smiths smite upon an anvil, until they rolled over silent and stirless. "Back!" said Godwin; "for here the road is wide; and they will get behind us." So back they moved slowly, with their faces to the foe, stopping just in front of the first man whom Godwin had seemed to kill, and who lay face upwards with arms outstretched. "So far we have done well," said Wulf, with a short laugh. "Are you hurt?" "Nay," answered his brother, "but do not boast till the battle is over, for many are left and they will come on thus no more. Pray God they have no spears or bows." Then he turned and looked behind him, and there, far from the shore now, swam the grey horse steadily, and there upon its back sat Rosamund. Yes, and she had seen, since the horse must swim somewhat sideways with the tide, for look, she took the kerchief from her throat and waved it to them. Then the brethren knew that she was proud of their great deeds, and thanked the saints that they had lived to do even so much as this for her dear sake. Godwin was right. Although their leader commanded them in a stern voice, the band sank from the reach of those awful swords, and, instead, sought for stones to hurl at them. But here lay more mud than pebbles, and the rocks of which the causeway was built were too heavy for them to lift, so that they found but few, which when thrown either missed the brethren or did them little hurt. Now, after some while, the man called "master" spoke through his lieutenant, and certain of them ran into the thorn thicket, and thence appeared again bearing the long oars of the boat. "Their counsel is to batter us down with the oars. What shall we do now, brother?" asked Godwin. "What we can," answered Wulf. "It matters little if Rosamund is spared by the waters, for they will scarcely take her now, who must loose the boat and man it after we are dead." As he spoke Wulf heard a sound behind him, and of a sudden Godwin threw up his arms and sank to his knees. Round he sprang, and there upon his feet stood that man whom they had thought dead, and in his hand a bloody sword. At him leapt Wulf, and so fierce were the blows he smote that the first severed his sword arm and the second shore through cloak and mail deep into the thief's side; so that this time he fell, never to stir again. Then he looked at his brother and saw that the blood was running down his face and blinding him. "Save yourself, Wulf, for I am sped," murmured Godwin. "Nay, or you could not speak." And he cast his arm round him and kissed him on the brow. Then a thought came into his mind, and lifting Godwin as though he were a child, he ran back to where the horses stood, and heaved him onto the saddle. "Hold fast!" he cried, "by mane and pommel. Keep your mind, and hold fast, and I will save you yet." Passing the reins over his left arm, Wulf leapt upon the back of his own horse, and turned it. Ten seconds more, and the pirates, who were gathering with the oars where the paths joined at the root of the causeway, saw the two great horses thundering down upon them. On one a sore wounded man, his bright hair dabbled with blood, his hands gripping mane and saddle, and on the other the warrior Wulf, with starting eyes and a face like the face of a flame, shaking his red sword, and for the second time that day shouting aloud: "A D'Arcy! a D'Arcy! Contre D'Arcy, contre Mort!" They saw, they shouted, they massed themselves together and held up the oars to meet them. But Wulf spurred fiercely, and, short as was the way, the heavy horses, trained to tourney, gathered their speed. Now they were on them. The oars were swept aside like reeds; all round them flashed the swords, and Wulf felt that he was hurt, he knew not where. But his sword flashed also, one blow--there was no time for more--yet the man beneath it sank like an empty sack. By St. Peter! They were through, and Godwin still swayed upon the saddle, and yonder, nearing the further shore, the grey horse with its burden still battled in the tide. They were through! they were through! while to Wulf's eyes the air swam red, and the earth seemed as though it rose up to meet them, and everywhere was flaming fire. But the shouts had died away behind them, and the only sound was the sound of the galloping of their horses' hoofs. Then that also grew faint and died away, and silence and darkness fell upon the mind of Wulf. Chapter Two: Sir Andew D'Arcy Godwin dreamed that he was dead, and that beneath him floated the world, a glowing ball, while he was borne to and fro through the blackness, stretched upon a couch of ebony. There were bright watchers by his couch also, watchers twain, and he knew them for his guardian angels, given him at birth. Moreover, now and again presences would come and question the watchers who sat at his head and foot. One asked: "Has this soul sinned?" And the angel at his head answered: "It has sinned." Again the voice asked: "Did it die shriven of its sins?" The angel answered: "It died unshriven, red sword aloft, fighting a good fight." "Fighting for the Cross of Christ?" "Nay; fighting for a woman." "Alas! poor soul, sinful and unshriven, who died fighting for a woman's love. How shall such a one find mercy?" wailed the questioning voice, growing ever fainter, till it was lost far, far away. Now came another visitor. It was his father--the warrior sire whom he had never seen, who fell in Syria. Godwin knew him well, for the face was the face carven on the tomb in Stangate church, and he wore the blood-red cross upon his mail, and the D'Arcy Death's-head was on his shield, and in his hand shone a naked sword. "Is this the soul of my son?" he asked of the whiterobed watchers. "If so, how died he?" Then the angel at his foot answered: "He died, red sword aloft, fighting a good fight." "Fighting for the Cross of Christ?" "Nay; fighting for a woman." "Fighting for a woman's love who should have fallen in the Holy War? Alas! poor son; alas! poor son! Alas! that we must part again forever!" and his voice, too, passed away. Lo! a Glory advanced through the blackness, and the angels at head and foot stood up and saluted with their flaming spears. "How died this child of God?" asked a voice, speaking out of the Glory, a low and awful voice. "He died by the sword," answered the angel. "By the sword of the children of the enemy, fighting in the war of Heaven?" Then the angels were silent. "What has Heaven to do with him, if he fought not for Heaven?" asked the voice again. "Let him be spared," pleaded the guardians, "who was young and brave, and knew not. Send him back to earth, there to retrieve his sins and be our charge once more." "So be it," said the voice. "Knight, live on, but live as a knight of Heaven if thou wouldst win Heaven." "Must he then put the woman from him?" asked the angels. "It was not said," answered the voice speaking from the Glory. And all that wild vision vanished. Then a space of oblivion, and Godwin awoke to hear other voices around him, voices human, well-beloved, remembered; and to see a face bending over him--a face most human, most well-beloved, most remembered--that of his cousin Rosamund. He babbled some questions, but they brought him food, and told him to sleep, so he slept. Thus it went on, waking and sleep, sleep and waking, till at length one morning he woke up truly in the little room that opened out of the solar or sitting place of the Hall of Steeple, where he and Wulf had slept since their uncle took them to his home as infants. More, on the trestle bed opposite to him, his leg and arm bandaged, and a crutch by his side, sat Wulf himself, somewhat paler and thinner than of yore, but the same jovial, careless, yet at times fierce-faced Wulf. "Do I still dream, my brother, or is it you indeed?" A happy smile spread upon the face of Wulf, for now he knew that Godwin was himself again. "Me sure enough," he answered. "Dream-folk don't have lame legs; they are the gifts of swords and men." "And Rosamund? What of Rosamund? Did the grey horse swim the creek, and how came we here? Tell me quick--I faint for news!" "She shall tell you herself." And hobbling to the curtained door, he called, "Rosamund, my--nay, our--cousin Rosamund, Godwin is himself again. Hear you, Godwin is himself again, and would speak with you!" There was a swift rustle of robes and a sound of quick feet among the rushes that strewed the floor, and then--Rosamund herself, lovely as ever, but all her stateliness forgot in joy. She saw him, the gaunt Godwin sitting up upon the pallet, his grey eyes shining in the white and sunken face. For Godwin's eyes were grey, while Wulf's were blue, the only difference between them which a stranger would note, although in truth Wulf's lips were fuller than Godwin's, and his chin more marked; also he was a larger man. She saw him, and with a little cry of delight ran and cast her arms about him, and kissed him on the brow. "Be careful," said Wulf roughly, turning his head aside, "or, Rosamund, you will loose the bandages, and bring his trouble back again; he has had enough of blood-letting." "Then I will kiss him on the hand--the hand that saved me," she said, and did so. More, she pressed that poor, pale hand against her heart. "Mine had something to do with that business also but I don't remember that you kissed it, Rosamund. Well, I will kiss him too, and oh! God be praised, and the holy Virgin, and the holy Peter, and the holy Chad, and all the other holy dead folk whose names I can't recall, who between them, with the help of Rosamund here, and the prayers of the Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and of Matthew, the village priest, have given you back to us, my brother, my most beloved brother." And he hopped to the bedside, and throwing his long, sinewy arms about Godwin embraced him again and again. "Be careful," said Rosamund drily, "or, Wulf, you will disturb the bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting." Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there came the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a tall and noble-looking knight entered the little place. The man was old, but looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him. His snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter Rosamund. For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D'Arcy. Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting. The old man looked at him, and there was pride in his eye. "So you will live after all, my nephew," he said, "and for that I thank the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man--a worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D'Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon. Yes, one of the best of them." "Speak not so, my uncle," said Godwin; "or at least, here is a worthier,"--and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers. "It was Wulf who bore me through. Oh, I remember as much as that--how he lifted me onto the black horse and bade me to cling fast to mane and pommel. Ay, and I remember the charge, and his cry of 'Contre D'Arcy, contre Mort!' and the flashing of swords about us, and after that--nothing." "Would that I had been there to help in that fight," said Sir Andrew D'Arcy, tossing his white hair. "Oh, my children, it is hard to be sick and old. A log am I--naught but a rotting log. Still, had I only known--" "Father, father," said Rosamund, casting her white arm about his neck. "You should not speak thus. You have done your share." "Yes, my share; but I should like to do more. Oh, St. Andrew, ask it for me that I may die with sword aloft and my grandsire's cry upon my lips. Yes, yes; thus, not like a worn-out war-horse in his stall. There, pardon me; but in truth, my children, I am jealous of you. Why, when I found you lying in each other's arms I could have wept for rage to think that such a fray had been within a league of my own doors and I not in it." "I know nothing of all that story," said Godwin. "No, in truth, how can you, who have been senseless this month or more? But Rosamund knows, and she shall tell it you. Speak on, Rosamund. Lay you back, Godwin, and listen." "The tale is yours, my cousins, and not mine," said Rosamund. "You bade me take the water, and into it I spurred the grey horse, and we sank deep, so that the waves closed above my head. Then up we came, I floating from the saddle, but I regained it, and the horse answered to my voice and bridle, and swam out for the further shore. On it swam, somewhat slantwise with the tide, so that by turning my head I could see all that passed upon the mole. I saw them come at you, and men fall before your swords; I saw you charge them, and run back again. Lastly, after what seemed a very long while, when I was far away, I saw Wulf lift Godwin into the saddle--I knew it must be Godwin, because he set him on the black horse--and the pair of you galloped down the quay and vanished. "By then I was near the home shore, and the grey grew very weary and sank deep in the water. But I cheered it on with my voice, and although twice its head went beneath the waves, in the end it found a footing, though a soft one. After resting awhile, it plunged forward with short rushes through the mud, and so at length came safe to land, where it stood shaking with fear and weariness. So soon as the horse got its breath again, I pressed on, for I saw them loosing the boat, and came home here as the dark closed in, to meet your uncle watching for me at the gate. Now, father, do you take up the tale." "There is little more to tell," said Sir Andrew. "You will remember, nephews, that I was against this ride of Rosamund's to seek flowers, or I know not what, at St. Peter's shrine, nine miles away, but as the maid had set her heart on it, and there are but few pleasures here, why, I let her go with the pair of you for escort. You will mind also that you were starting without your mail, and how foolish you thought me when I called you back and made you gird it on. Well, my patron saint--or yours--put it into my head to do so, for had it not been for those same shirts of mail, you were both of you dead men to-day. But that morning I had been thinking of Sir Hugh Lozelle--if such a false, pirate rogue can be called a knight, not but that he is stout and brave enough--and his threats after he recovered from the wound you gave him, Godwin; how that he would come back and take your cousin for all we could do to stay him. True, we heard that he had sailed for the East to war against Saladin--or with him, for he was ever a traitor--but even if this were so, men return from the East. Therefore I bade you arm, having some foresight of what was to come, for doubtless this onslaught must have been planned by him." "I think so," said Wulf, "for, as Rosamund here knows, the tall knave who interpreted for the foreigner whom he called his master, gave us the name of the knight Lozelle as the man who sought to carry her off." "Was this master a Saracen?" asked Sir Andrew, anxiously. "Nay, uncle, how can I tell, seeing that his face was masked like the rest and he spoke through an interpreter? But I pray you go on with the story, which Godwin has not heard." "It is short. When Rosamund told her tale of which I could make little, for the girl was crazed with grief and cold and fear, save that you had been attacked upon the old quay, and she had escaped by swimming Death Creek--which seemed a thing incredible--I got together what men I could. Then bidding her stay behind, with some of them to guard her, and nurse herself, which she was loth to do, I set out to find you or your bodies. It was dark, but we rode hard, having lanterns with us, as we went rousing men at every stead, until we came to where the roads join at Moats. There we found a black horse--your horse, Godwin--so badly wounded that he could travel no further, and I groaned, thinking that you were dead. Still we went on, till we heard another horse whinny, and presently found the roan also riderless, standing by the path-side with his head down. "'A man on the ground holds him!' cried one, and I sprang from the saddle to see who it might be, to find that it was you, the pair of you, locked in each other's arms and senseless, if not dead, as well you might be from your wounds. I bade the country-folk cover you up and carry you home, and others to run to Stangate and pray the Prior and the monk Stephen, who is a doctor, come at once to tend you, while we pressed onwards to take vengeance if we could. We reached the quay upon the creek, but there we found nothing save some bloodstains and--this is strange--your sword, Godwin, the hilt set between two stones, and on the point a writing." "What was the writing?" asked Godwin. "Here it is," answered his uncle, drawing a piece of parchment from his robe. "Read it, one of you, since all of you are scholars and my eyes are bad." Rosamund took it and read what was written, hurriedly but in a clerkly hand, and in the French tongue. It ran thus: "The sword of a brave man. Bury it with him if he be dead, and give it back to him if he lives, as I hope. My master would wish me to do this honour to a gallant foe whom in that case he still may meet. (Signed) Hugh Lozelle, or Another." "Another, then; not Hugh Lozelle," said Godwin, "since he cannot write, and if he could, would never pen words so knightly." "The words may be knightly, but the writer's deeds were base enough," replied Sir Andrew; "nor, in truth do I understand this scroll." "The interpreter spoke of the short man as his master," suggested Wulf. "Ay, nephew; but him you met. This writing speaks of a master whom Godwin may meet, and who would wish the writer to pay him a certain honour." "Perhaps he wrote thus to blind us." "Perchance, perchance. The matter puzzles me. Moreover, of whom these men were I have been able to learn nothing. A boat was seen passing towards Bradwell--indeed, it seems that you saw it, and that night a boat was seen sailing southwards down St. Peter's sands towards a ship that had anchored off Foulness Point. But what that ship was, whence she came, and whither she went, none know, though the tidings of this fray have made some stir." "Well," said Wulf, "at the least we have seen the last of her crew of women-thieves. Had they meant more mischief, they would have shown themselves again ere now." Sir Andrew looked grave as he answered. "So I trust, but all the tale is very strange. How came they to know that you and Rosamund were riding that day to St. Peter's-on-the-Wall, and so were able to waylay you? Surely some spy must have warned them, since that they were no common pirates is evident, for they spoke of Lozelle, and bade you two begone unharmed, as it was Rosamund whom they needed. Also, there is the matter of the sword that fell from the hand of Godwin when he was hurt, which was returned in so strange a fashion. I have known many such deeds of chivalry done in the East by Paynim men--" "Well, Rosamund is half an Eastern," broke in Wulf carelessly; "and perhaps that had something to do with it all." Sir Andrew started, and the colour rose to his pale face. Then in a tone in which he showed he wished to speak no more of this matter, he said: "Enough, enough. Godwin is very weak, and grows weary, and before I leave him I have a word to say that it may please you both to hear. Young men, you are of my blood, the nearest to it except Rosamund--the sons of that noble knight, my brother. I have ever loved you well, and been proud of you, but if this was so in the past, how much more is it thus to-day, when you have done such high service to my house? Moreover, that deed was brave and great; nothing more knightly has been told of in Essex this many a year, and those who wrought it should no longer be simple gentlemen, but very knights. This boon it is in my power to grant to you according to the ancient custom. Still, that none may question it, while you lay sick, but after it was believed that Godwin would live, which at first we scarcely dared to hope, I journeyed to London and sought audience of our lord the king. Having told him this tale, I prayed him that he would be pleased to grant me his command in writing that I should name you knights. "My nephews, he was so pleased, and here I have the brief sealed with the royal signet, commanding that in his name and my own I should give you the accolade publicly in the church of the Priory at Stangate at such season as may be convenient. Therefore, Godwin, the squire, haste you to get well that you may become Sir Godwin the knight; for you, Wulf, save for the hurt to your leg, are well enough already." Now Godwin's white face went red with pride, and Wulf dropped his bold eyes and looked modest as a girl. "Speak you," he said to his brother, "for my tongue is blunt and awkward." "Sir," said Godwin in a weak voice, "we do not know how to thank you for so great an honour, that we never thought to win till we had done more famous deeds than the beating off of a band of robbers. Sir, we have no more to say, save that while we live we will strive to be worthy of our name and of you." "Well spoken," said his uncle, adding as though to himself, "this man is courtly as he is brave." Wulf looked up, a flash of merriment upon his open face. "I, my uncle, whose speech is, I fear me, not courtly, thank you also. I will add that I think our lady cousin here should be knighted too, if such a thing were possible for a woman, seeing that to swim a horse across Death Creek was a greater deed than to fight some rascals on its quay." "Rosamund?" answered the old man in the same dreamy voice. "Her rank is high enough--too high, far too high for safety." And turning, he left the little chamber. "Well, cousin," said Wulf, "if you cannot be a knight, at least you can lessen all this dangerous rank of yours by becoming a knight's wife." Whereat Rosamund looked at him with indignation which struggled with a smile in her dark eyes, and murmuring that she must see to the making of Godwin's broth, followed her father from the place. "It would have been kinder had she told us that she was glad," said Wulf when she was gone. "Perhaps she would," answered his brother, "had it not been for your rough jests, Wulf, which might have a meaning in them." "Nay, I had no meaning. Why should she not become a knight's wife?" "Ay, but what knight's? Would it please either of us, brother, if, as may well chance, he should be some stranger?" Now Wulf swore a great oath, then flushed to the roots of his fair hair, and was silent. "Ah!" said Godwin; "you do not think before you speak, which it is always well to do." "She swore upon the quay yonder"--broke in Wulf. "Forget what she swore. Words uttered in such an hour should not be remembered against a maid." "God's truth, brother, you are right, as ever! My tongue runs away with me, but still I can't put those words out of my mind, though which of us--" "Wulf!" "I mean to say that we are in Fortune's path to-day, Godwin. Oh, that was a lucky ride! Such fighting as I have never seen or dreamed of. We won it too! And now both of us are alive, and a knighthood for each!" "Yes, both of us alive, thanks to you, Wulf--nay, it is so, though you would never have done less. But as for Fortune's path, it is one that has many rough turns, and perhaps before all is done she may lead us round some of them." "You talk like a priest, not like a squire who is to be knighted at the cost of a scar on his head. For my part I will kiss Fortune while I may, and if she jilts me afterwards--" "Wulf," called Rosamund from without the curtain, "cease talking of kissing at the top of your voice, I pray you, and leave Godwin to sleep, for he needs it." And she entered the little chamber, bearing a bowl of broth in her hand. Thereon, saying that ladies should not listen to what did not concern them, Wulf seized his crutch and hobbled from the place. Chapter Three: The Knighting of the Brethren Another month had gone by, and though Godwin was still somewhat weak and suffered from a headache at times, the brethren had recovered from their wounds. On the last day of November, about two o'clock in the afternoon, a great procession might have been seen wending its way from the old Hall at Steeple. In it rode many knights fully armed, before whom were borne their banners. These went first. Then came old Sir Andrew D'Arcy, also fully armed, attended by squires and retainers. He was accompanied by his lovely daughter, the lady Rosamund, clad in beautiful apparel under her cloak of fur, who rode at his right hand on that same horse which had swum Death Creek. Next appeared the brethren, modestly arrayed as simple gentlemen, followed each of them by his squire, scions of the noble houses of Salcote and of Dengie. After them rode yet more knights, squires, tenants of various degree, and servants, surrounded by a great number of peasantry and villeins, who walked and ran with their women folk and children. Following the road through the village, the procession turned to the left at the great arch which marked the boundary of the monk's lands, and headed for Stangate Abbey, some two miles away, by the path that ran between the arable land and the Salt marshes, which are flooded at high tide. At length they came to the stone gate of the Abbey, that gave the place its name of Stangate. Here they were met by a company of the Cluniac monks, who dwelt in this wild and lonely spot upon the water's edge, headed by their prior, John Fitz Brien. He was a venerable, white-haired man, clad in wide-sleeved, black robes, and preceded by a priest carrying a silver cross. Now the procession separated, Godwin and Wulf, with certain of the knights and their esquires, being led to the Priory, while the main body of it entered the church, or stood about outside its door. Arrived in the house, the two knights elect were taken to a room where their hair was cut and their chins were shaved by a barber who awaited them. Then, under the guidance of two old knights named Sir Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci, they were conducted to baths surrounded with rich cloths. Into these, having been undressed by the squires, they entered and bathed themselves, while Sir Anthony and Sir Roger spoke to them through the cloths of the high duties of their vocation, ending by pouring water over them, and signing their bare bodies with the sign of the Cross. Next they were dressed again, and preceded by minstrels, led to the church, at the porch of which they and their esquires were given wine to drink. Here, in the presence of all the company, they were clothed first in white tunics, to signify the whiteness of their hearts; next in red robes, symbolical of the blood they might be called upon to shed for Christ; and lastly, in long black cloaks, emblems of the death that must be endured by all. This done, their armour was brought in and piled before them upon the steps of the altar, and the congregation departed homeward, leaving them with their esquires and the priest to spend the long winter night in orisons and prayers. Long, indeed, it was, in that lonesome, holy place, lit only by a lamp which swung before the altar. Wulf prayed and prayed until he could pray no more, then fell into a half dreamful state that was haunted by the face of Rosamund, where even her face should have been forgotten. Godwin, his elbow resting against the tomb that hid his father's heart, prayed also, until even his earnestness was outworn, and he began to wonder about many things. That dream of his, for instance, in his sickness, when he had seemed to be dead, and what might be the true duty of man. To be brave and upright? Surely. To fight for the Cross of Christ against the Saracen? Surely, if the chance came his way. What more? To abandon the world and to spend his life muttering prayers like those priests in the darkness behind him? Could that be needful or of service to God or man? To man, perhaps, because such folk tended the sick and fed the poor. But to God? Was he not sent into the world to bear his part in the world--to live his full life? This would mean a half-life--one into which no woman might enter, to which no child might be added, since to monks and even to certain brotherhoods, all these things, which Nature decreed and Heaven had sanctified, were deadly sin. It would mean, for instance, that he must think no more of Rosamund. Could he do this for the sake of the welfare of his soul in some future state? Why, at the thought of it even, in that solemn place and hour of dedication, his spirit reeled, for then and there for the first time it was borne in upon him that he loved this woman more than all the world beside--more than his life, more, perhaps, than his soul. He loved her with all his pure young heart--so much that it would be a joy to him to die for her, not only in the heat of battle, as lately had almost chanced on the Death Creek quay, but in cold blood, of set purpose, if there came need. He loved her with body and with spirit, and, after God, here to her he consecrated his body and his spirit. But what value would she put upon the gift? What if some other man--? By his side, his elbows resting on the altar rails, his eyes fixed upon the beaming armour that he would wear in battle, knelt Wulf, his brother--a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless, noble, open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love. And he also loved Rosamund. Of this Godwin was sure. And, oh! did not Rosamund love Wulf? Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals. Yes; even then and there, black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him so sore that, cold as was the place, the sweat poured from his brow and body. Should he abandon hope? Should he fly the battle for fear that he might be defeated? Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and honour, and if he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave knight should--without bitterness, but without shame. Let destiny direct the matter. It was in the hands of destiny, and stretching out his arm, he threw it around the neck of his brother, who knelt beside him, and let it rest there, until the head of the weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like the head of an infant upon its mother's breast. "Oh Jesu," Godwin moaned in his poor heart, "give me strength to fight against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the brother whom I love. Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he should be preferred before me. Make me a perfect knight--strong to suffer and endure, and, if need be, to rejoice even in the joy of my supplanter." At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through the eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the long church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that only its transepts remained in shadow. Then came a sound of chanting, and at the western door entered the Prior, wearing all his robes, attended by the monks and acolytes, who swung censers. In the centre of the nave he halted and passed to the confessional, calling on Godwin to follow. So he went and knelt before the holy man, and there poured out all his heart. He confessed his sins. They were but few. He told him of the vision of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who once, as a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed blood, but to fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim, ending with a cry of-- "Give me counsel, O my father. Give me counsel." "Your own heart is your best counsellor," was the priest's answer. "Go as it guides you, knowing that, through it, it is God who guides. Nor fear that you will fail. But if love and the joys of life should leave you, then come back, and we will talk again. Go on, pure knight of Christ, fearing nothing and sure of the reward, and take with you the blessing of Christ and of his Church." "What penance must I bear, father?" "Such souls as yours inflict their own penance. The saints forbid that I should add to it," was the gentle answer. Then with a lightened heart Godwin returned to the altar rails, while his brother Wulf was summoned to take his place in the confessional. Of the sins that he had to tell we need not speak. They were such as are common to young men, and none of them very grievous. Still, before he gave him absolution, the good Prior admonished him to think less of his body and more of his spirit; less of the glory of feats of arms and more of the true ends to which he should enter on them. He bade him, moreover, to take his brother Godwin as an earthly guide and example, since there lived no better or wiser man of his years, and finally dismissed him, prophesying that if he would heed these counsels, he would come to great glory on earth and in heaven. "Father, I will do my best," answered Wulf humbly; "but there cannot be two Godwins; and, father, sometimes I fear me that our paths will cross, since two men cannot win one woman." "I know the trouble," answered the Prior anxiously, "and with less noble-natured men it might be grave. But if it should come to this, then must the lady judge according to the wishes of her own heart, and he who loses her must be loyal in sorrow as in joy. Be sure that you take no base advantage of your brother in the hour of temptation, and bear him no bitterness should he win the bride." "I think I can be sure of that," said Wulf; "also that we, who have loved each other from birth, would die before we betrayed each other." "I think so also," answered the Prior; "but Satan is very strong." Then Wulf also returned to the altar rails, and the full Mass was sung, and the Sacrament received by the two neophytes, and the offerings made all in their appointed order. Next they were led back to the Priory to rest and eat a little after their long night's vigil in the cold church, and here they abode awhile, thinking their own thoughts, seated alone in the Prior's chamber. At length Wulf, who seemed to be ill at ease, rose and laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder, saying: "I can be silent no more; it was ever thus: that which is in my mind must out of it. I have words to say to you." "Speak on, Wulf," said Godwin. Wulf sat himself down again upon his stool, and for a while stared hard at nothing, for he did not seem to find it easy to begin this talk. Now Godwin could read his brother's mind like a book, but Wulf could not always read Godwin's, although, being twins who had been together from birth, their hearts were for the most part open to each other without the need of words. "It is of our cousin Rosamund, is it not?" asked Godwin presently. "Ay. Who else?" "And you would tell me that you love her, and that now you are a knight--almost--and hard on five-and twenty years of age, you would ask her to become your affianced wife?" "Yes, Godwin; it came into my heart when she rode the grey horse into the water, there upon the pier, and I thought that I should never see her any more. I tell you it came into my heart that life was not worth living nor death worth dying without her." "Then, Wulf," answered Godwin slowly, "what more is there to say? Ask on, and prosper. Why not? We have some lands, if not many, and Rosamund will not lack for them. Nor do I think that our uncle would forbid you, if she wills it, seeing that you are the properest man and the bravest in all this country side." "Except my brother Godwin, who is all these things, and good and learned to boot, which I am not," replied Wulf musingly. Then there was silence for a while, which he broke. "Godwin, our ill-luck is that you love her also, and that you thought the same thoughts which I did yonder on the quay-head." Godwin flushed a little, and his long fingers tightened their grip upon his knee. "It is so," he said quietly. "To my grief it is so. But Rosamund knows nothing of this, and should never know it if you will keep a watch upon your tongue. Moreover, you need not be jealous of me, before marriage or after." "What, then, would you have me do?" asked Wulf hotly. "Seek her heart, and perchance--though this I doubt--let her yield it to me, she thinking that you care naught for her?" "Why not?" asked Godwin again, with a sigh; "it might save her some pain and you some doubt, and make my own path clearer. Marriage is more to you than to me, Wulf, who think sometimes that my sword should be my spouse and duty my only aim." "Who think, having a heart of gold, that even in such a thing as this you will not bar the path of the brother whom you love. Nay, Godwin, as I am a sinful man, and as I desire her above all things on earth, I will play no such coward's game, nor conquer one who will not lift his sword lest he should hurt me. Sooner would I bid you all farewell, and go to seek fortune or death in the wars without word spoken." "Leaving Rosamund to pine, perchance. Oh, could we be sure that she had no mind toward either of us, that would be best--to begone together. But, Wulf, we cannot be sure, since at times, to be honest, I have thought she loves you." "And at times, to be honest, Godwin, I have been sure that she loves you, although I should like to try my luck and hear it from her lips, which on such terms I will not do." "What, then, is your plan, Wulf?" "My plan is that if our uncle gives us leave, we should both speak to her--you first, as the elder, setting out your case as best you can, and asking her to think of it and give you your answer within a day. Then, before that day is done I also should speak, so that she may know all the story, and play her part in it with opened eyes, not deeming, as otherwise she might, that we know each other's minds, and that you ask because I have no will that way." "It is very fair," replied Godwin; "and worthy of you, who are the most honest of men. Yet, Wulf, I am troubled. See you, my brother, have ever brethren loved each other as we do? And now must the shadow of a woman fall upon and blight that love which is so fair and precious?" "Why so?" asked Wulf. "Come, Godwin, let us make a pact that it shall not be thus, and keep it by the help of heaven. Let us show the world that two men can love one woman and still love each other, not knowing as yet which of them she will choose--if, indeed, she chooses either. For, Godwin, we are not the only gentlemen whose eyes have turned, or yet may turn, towards the high-born, rich, and lovely lady Rosamund. Is it your will that we should make such a pact?" Godwin thought a little, then answered: "Yes; but if so, it must be one so strong that for her sake and for both our sakes we cannot break it and live with honour." "So be it," said Wulf; "this is man's work, not child's make-believe." Then Godwin rose, and going to the door, bade his squire, who watched without, pray the Prior John to come to them as they sought his counsel in a matter. So he came, and, standing before him with downcast head, Godwin told him all the tale, which, indeed, he who knew so much already, was quick to understand, and of their purpose also; while at a question from the prior, Wulf answered that it was well and truly said, nothing having been kept back. Then they asked him if it was lawful that they should take such an oath, to which he replied that he thought it not only lawful, but very good. So in the end, kneeling together hand in hand before the Rood that stood in the chamber, they repeated this oath after him, both of them together. "We brethren, Godwin and Wulf D'Arcy, do swear by the holy Cross of Christ, and by the patron saint of this place, St. Mary Magdalene, and our own patron saints, St. Peter and St. Chad, standing in the presence of God, of our guardian angels, and of you, John, that being both of us enamoured of our cousin, Rosamund D'Arcy, we will ask her to wife in the manner we have agreed, and no other. That we will abide by her decision, should she choose either of us, nor seek to alter it by tempting her from her troth, or in any fashion overt or covert. That he of us whom she refuses will thenceforth be a brother to her and no more, however Satan may tempt his heart otherwise. That so far as may be possible to us, who are but sinful men, we will suffer neither bitterness nor jealousy to come between our love because of this woman, and that in war or peace we will remain faithful comrades and brethren. Thus we swear with a true heart and purpose, and in token thereof, knowing that he who breaks this oath will be a knight dishonoured and a vessel fit for the wrath of God, we kiss this Rood and one another." This, then, these brethren said and did, and with light minds and joyful faces received the blessing of the Prior, who had christened them in infancy, and went down to meet the great company that had ridden forth to lead them back to Steeple, where their knighting should be done. So to Steeple, preceded by the squires, who rode before them bareheaded, carrying their swords by the scabbarded points, with their gold spurs hanging from the hilts, they came at last. Here the hall was set for a great feast, a space having been left between the tables and the dais, to which the brethren were conducted. Then came forward Sir Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci in full armour, and presented to Sir Andrew D'Arcy, their uncle, who stood upon the edge of the dais, also in his armour, their swords and spurs, of which he gave back to them two of the latter, bidding them affix these upon the candidates' right heels. This done, the Prior John blessed the swords, after which Sir Andrew girded them about the waists of his nephews, saying: "Take ye back the swords that you have used so well." Next, he drew his own silver-hilted blade that had been his father's and his grandfather's, and whilst they knelt before him, smote each of them three blows upon the right shoulder, crying with a loud voice: "In the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I knight ye. Be ye good knights." Thereafter came forward Rosamund as their nearest kinswoman, and, helped by other ladies, clad upon them their hauberks, or coats of mail, their helms of steel, and their kite-shaped shields, emblazoned with a skull, the cognizance of their race. This done, with the musicians marching before them, they walked to Steeple church--a distance of two hundred paces from the Hall, where they laid their swords upon the altar and took them up again, swearing to be good servants of Christ and defenders of the Church. As they left its doors, who should meet them but the cook, carrying his chopper in his hand and claiming as his fee the value of the spurs they wore, crying aloud at the same time: "If either of you young knights should do aught in despite of your honour and of the oaths that you have sworn--from which may God and his saints prevent you!--then with my chopper will I hack these spurs from off your heels." Thus at last the long ceremony was ended, and after it came a very great feast, for at the high table were entertained many noble knights and ladies, and below, in the hall their squires, and other gentlemen, and outside all the yeomanry and villagers, whilst the children and the aged had food and drink given to them in the nave of the church itself. When the eating at length was done, the centre of the hall was cleared, and while men drank, the minstrels made music. All were very merry with wine and strong ale, and talk arose among them as to which of these brethren--Sir Godwin or Sir Wulf--was the more brave, the more handsome, and the more learned and courteous. Now a knight--it was Sir Surin de Salcote--seeing that the argument grew hot and might lead to blows, rose and declared that this should be decided by beauty alone, and that none could be more fitted to judge than the fair lady whom the two of them had saved from woman-thieves at the Death Creek quay. They all called, "Ay, let her settle it," and it was agreed that she would give the kerchief from her neck to the bravest, a beaker of wine to the handsomest, and a Book of Hours to the most learned. So, seeing no help for it, since except her father, the brethren, the most of the other ladies and herself, who drank but water, gentle and simple alike, had begun to grow heated with wine, and were very urgent, Rosamund took the silk kerchief from her neck. Then coming to the edge of the dais, where they were seated in the sight of all, she stood before her cousins, not knowing, poor maid, to which of them she should offer it. But Godwin whispered a word to Wulf, and both of them stretching out their right hands, snatched an end of the kerchief which she held towards them, and rending it, twisted the severed halves round their sword hilts. The company laughed at their wit, and cried: "The wine for the more handsome. They cannot serve that thus." Rosamund thought a moment; then she lifted a great silver beaker, the largest on the board, and having filled it full of wine, once more came forward and held it before them as though pondering. Thereon the brethren, as though by a single movement, bent forward and each of them touched the beaker with his lips. Again a great laugh went up, and even Rosamund smiled. "The book! the book!" cried the guests. "They dare not rend the holy book!" So for the third time Rosamund advanced, bearing the missal. "Knights," she said, "you have torn my kerchief and drunk my wine. Now I offer this hallowed writing--to him who can read it best." "Give it to Godwin," said Wulf. "I am a swordsman, not a clerk." "Well said! well said!" roared the company. "The sword for us--not the pen!" But Rosamund turned on them and answered: "He who wields sword is brave, and he who wields pen is wise, but better is he who can handle both sword and pen--like my cousin Godwin, the brave and learned." "Hear her! hear her!" cried the revellers, knocking their horns upon the board, while in the silence that followed a woman's voice said, "Sir Godwin's luck is great, but give me Sir Wulf's strong arms." Then the drinking began again, and Rosamund and the ladies slipped away, as well they might--for the times were rough and coarse. On the morrow, after most of the guests were gone, many of them with aching heads, Godwin and Wulf sought their uncle, Sir Andrew, in the solar where he sat alone, for they knew Rosamund had walked to the church hard by with two of the serving women to make it ready for the Friday's mass, after the feast of the peasants that had been held in the nave. Coming to his oaken chair by the open hearth which had a chimney to it--no common thing in those days--they knelt before him. "What is it now, my nephews?" asked the old man, smiling. "Do you wish that I should knight you afresh?" "No, sir," answered Godwin; "we seek a greater boon." "Then you seek in vain, for there is none." "Another sort of boon," broke in Wulf. Sir Andrew pulled his beard, and looked at them. Perhaps the Prior John had spoken a word to him, and he guessed what was coming. "Speak," he said to Godwin. "The gift is great that I would not give to either of you if it be within my power." "Sir," said Godwin, "we seek the leave to ask your daughter's hand in marriage." "What! the two of you?" "Yes, sir; the two of us." Then Sir Andrew, who seldom laughed, laughed outright. "Truly," he said, "of all the strange things I have known, this is the strangest--that two knights should ask one wife between them." "It seems strange, sir; but when you have heard our tale you will understand." So he listened while they told him all that had passed between them and of the solemn oath which they had sworn. "Noble in this as in other things," commented Sir Andrew when they had done; "but I fear that one of you may find that vow hard to keep. By all the saints, nephews, you were right when you said that you asked a great boon. Do you know, although I have told you nothing of it, that, not to speak of the knave Lozelle, already two of the greatest men in this land have sought my daughter Rosamund in marriage?" "It may well be so," said Wulf. "It is so, and now I will tell you why one or other of the pair is not her husband, which in some ways I would he were. A simple reason. I asked her, and she had no mind to either, and as her mother married where her heart was, so I have sworn that the daughter should do, or not at all--for better a nunnery than a loveless bridal. "Now let us see what you have to give. You are of good blood--that of Uluin by your mother, and mine, also on one side her own. As squires to your sponsors of yesterday, the knights Sir Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci, you bore yourselves bravely in the Scottish War; indeed, your liege king Henry remembered it, and that is why he granted my prayer so readily. Since then, although you loved the life little, because I asked it of you, you have rested here at home with me, and done no feats of arms, save that great one of two months gone which made you knights, and, in truth, gives you some claim on Rosamund. "For the rest, your father being the younger son, your lands are small, and you have no other gear. Outside the borders of this shire you are unknown men, with all your deeds to do--for I will not count those Scottish battles when you were but boys. And she whom you ask is one of the fairest and noblest and most learned ladies in this land, for I, who have some skill in such things, have taught her myself from childhood. Moreover, as I have no other heir, she will be wealthy. Well, what more have you to offer for all this?" "Ourselves," answered Wulf boldly. "We are true knights of whom you know the best and worst, and we love her. We learned it for once and for all on Death Creek quay, for till then she was our sister and no more." "Ay," added Godwin, "when she swore herself to us and blessed us, then light broke on both." "Stand up," said Sir Andrew, "and let me look at you." So they stood side by side in the full light of the blazing fire, for little other came through those narrow windows. "Proper men; proper men," said the old knight; "and as like to one another as two grains of wheat from the same sample. Six feet high, each of you, and broad chested, though Wulf is larger made and the stronger of the two. Brown and waving-haired both, save for that line of white where the sword hit yours, Godwin--Godwin with grey eyes that dream and Wulf with the blue eyes that shine like swords. Ah! your grandsire had eyes like that, Wulf; and I have been told that when he leapt from the tower to the wall at the taking of Jerusalem, the Saracens did not love the light which shone in them--nor, in faith, did I, his son, when he was angry. Proper men, the pair of you; but Sir Wulf most warriorlike, and Sir Godwin most courtly." "Now which do you think would please a woman most?" "That, sir, depends upon the woman," answered Godwin, and straightway his eyes began to dream. "That, sir, we seek to learn before the day is out, if you give us leave," added Wulf; "though, if you would know, I think my chance a poor one." "Ah, well; it is a very pretty riddle. But I do not envy her who has its answering, for it might well trouble a maid's mind, neither is it certain when all is done that she will guess best for her own peace. Would it not be wiser, then, that I should forbid them to ask this riddle?" he added as though to himself and fell to thinking while they trembled, seeing that he was minded to refuse their suit. At length he looked up again and said: "Nay, let it go as God wills Who holds the future in His hand. Nephews, because you are good knights and true, either of whom would ward her well--and she may need warding--because you are my only brother's sons, whom I have promised him to care for; and most of all because I love you both with an equal love, have your wish, and go try your fortunes at the hands of my daughter Rosamund in the fashion you have agreed. Godwin, the elder, first, as is his right; then Wulf. Nay, no thanks; but go swiftly, for I whose hours are short wish to learn the answer to this riddle." So they bowed and went, walking side by side. At the door of the hall, Wulf stopped and said: "Rosamund is in the church. Seek her there, and--oh! I would that I could wish you good fortune; but, Godwin, I cannot. I fear me that this may be the edge of that shadow of woman's love whereof you spoke, falling cold upon my heart." "There is no shadow; there is light, now and always, as we have sworn that it should be," answered Godwin. Chapter Four: The Letter of Saladin Twas past three in the afternoon, and snow clouds were fast covering up the last grey gleam of the December day, as Godwin, wishing that his road was longer, walked to Steeple church across the meadow. At the door of it he met the two serving women coming out with brooms in their hands, and bearing between them a great basket filled with broken meats and foul rushes. Of them he asked if the Lady Rosamund were still in the church, to which they answered, curtseying: "Yes, Sir Godwin; and she bade us desire of you that you would come to lead her to the Hall when she had finished making her prayers before the altar." "I wonder," mused Godwin, "whether I shall ever lead her from the altar to the Hall, or whether--I shall bide alone by the altar?" Still he thought it a good omen that she had bidden him thus, though some might have read it otherwise. Godwin entered the church, walking softly on the rushes with which its nave was strewn, and by the light of the lamp that burnt there always, saw Rosamund kneeling before a little shrine, her gracious head bowed upon her hands, praying earnestly. Of what, he wondered--of what? Still, she did not hear him; so, coming into the chancel, he stood behind her and waited patiently. At length, with a deep sigh, Rosamund rose from her knees and turned, and he noted by the light of the lamp that there were tear-stains upon her face. Perhaps she, too, had spoken with the Prior John, who was her confessor also. Who knows? At the least, when her eyes fell upon Godwin standing like a statue before her, she started, and there broke from her lips the words: "Oh, how swift an answer!" Then, recovering herself, added, "To my message, I mean, cousin." "I met the women at the door," he said. "It is kind of you to come," Rosamund went on; "but, in truth, since that day on Death Creek I fear to walk a bow-shot's length alone or in the company of women only. With you I feel safe." "Or with Wulf?" "Yes; or with Wulf," she repeated; "that is, when he is not thinking of wars and adventures far away." By now they had reached the porch of the church, to find that the snow was falling fast. "Let us bide here a minute," he said; "it is but a passing cloud." So they stayed there in the gloom, and for a while there was silence between them. Then he spoke. "Rosamund, my cousin and lady, I come to put a question to you, but first--why you will understand afterwards--it is my duty to ask that you will give me no answer to that question until a full day has passed." "Surely, Godwin, that is easy to promise. But what is this wonderful question which may not be answered?" "One short and simple. Will you give yourself to me in marriage, Rosamund?" She leaned back against the wall of the porch. "My father--" she began. "Rosamund, I have his leave." "How can I answer since you yourself forbid me?" "Till this time to-morrow only. Meanwhile, I pray you hear me, Rosamund. I am your cousin, and we were brought up together--indeed, except when I was away at the Scottish war, we have never been apart. Therefore, we know each other well, as well as any can who are not wedded. Therefore, too, you will know that I have always loved you, first as a brother loves his sister, and now as a man loves a woman." "Nay, Godwin, I knew it not; indeed, I thought that, as it used to be, your heart was other--where." "Other--where? What lady--?" "Nay, no lady; but in your dreams." "Dreams? Dreams of what?" "I cannot say. Perchance of things that are not here--things higher than the person of a poor maid." "Cousin, in part you are right, for it is not only the maid whom I love, but her spirit also. Oh, in truth, you are to me a dream--a symbol of all that is noble, high and pure. In you and through you, Rosamund, I worship the heaven I hope to share with you." "A dream? A symbol? Heaven? Are not these glittering garments to hang about a woman's shape? Why, when the truth came out you would find her but a skull in a jewelled mask, and learn to loath her for a deceit that was not her own, but yours. Godwin, such trappings as your imagination pictures could only fit an angel's face." "They fit a face that will become an angel's." "An angel's? How know you? I am half an Eastern; the blood runs warm in me at times. I, too, have my thoughts and visions. I think that I love power and imagery and the delights of life--a different life from this. Are you sure, Godwin, that this poor face will be an angel's?" "I wish I were as sure of other things. At least I'll risk it." "Think of your soul, Godwin. It might be tarnished. You would not risk that for me, would you?" He thought. Then answered: "No; since your soul is a part of mine, and I would not risk yours, Rosamund." "I like you for that answer," she said. "Yes; more than for all you have said before, because I know that it is true. Indeed, you are an honourable knight, and I am proud--very proud--that you should love me, though perhaps it would have been better otherwise." And ever so little she bent the knee to him. "Whatever chances, in life or death those words will make me happy, Rosamund." Suddenly she caught his arm. "Whatever chances? Ah! what is about to chance? Great things, I think, for you and Wulf and me. Remember, I am half an Eastern, and we children of the East can feel the shadow of the future before it lays its hands upon us and becomes the present. I fear it, Godwin--I tell you that I fear it." "Fear it not, Rosamund. Why should you fear? On God's knees lies the scroll of our lives, and of His purposes. The words we see and the words we guess may be terrible, but He who wrote it knows the end of the scroll, and that it is good. Do not fear, therefore, but read on with an untroubled heart, taking no thought for the morrow." She looked at him wonderingly, and asked, "Are these the words of a wooer or of a saint in wooer's weeds? I know not, and do you know yourself? But you say you love me and that you would wed me, and I believe it; also that the woman whom Godwin weds will be fortunate, since such men are rare. But I am forbid to answer till to-morrow. Well, then I will answer as I am given grace. So till then be what you were of old, and--the snow has ceased; guide me home, my cousin Godwin." So home they went through the darkness and the cold, moaning wind, speaking no word, and entered the wide hall, where a great fire built in its centre roared upwards towards an opening in the roof, whence the smoke escaped, looking very pleasant and cheerful after the winter night without. There, standing in front of the fire, also pleasant and cheerful to behold, although his brow seemed somewhat puckered, was Wulf. At the sight of him Godwin turned back through the great door, and having, as it were, stood for one moment in the light, vanished again into the darkness, closing the door behind him. But Rosamund walked on towards the fire. "You seem cold, cousin," said Wulf, studying her. "Godwin has kept you too long to pray with him in church. Well, it is his custom, from which I myself have suffered. Be seated on this settle and warm yourself." She obeyed without a word, and opening her fur cloak, stretched out her hands towards the flame, which played upon her dark and lovely face. Wulf looked round him. The hall was empty. Then he looked at Rosamund. "I am glad to find this chance of speaking with you alone, Cousin, since I have a question to ask of you; but I must pray of you to give me no answer to it until four-and-twenty hours be passed." "Agreed," she said. "I have given one such promise; let it serve for both; now for your question." "Ah!" replied Wulf cheerfully; "I am glad that Godwin went first, since it saves me words, at which he is better than I am." "I do not know that, Wulf; at least, you have more of them," answered Rosamund, with a little smile. "More perhaps, but of a different quality--that is what you mean. Well, happily here mere words are not in question." "What, then, are in question, Wulf?" "Hearts. Your heart and my heart--and, I suppose, Godwin's heart, if he has one--in that way." "Why should not Godwin have a heart?" "Why? Well, you see just now it is my business to belittle Godwin. Therefore I declare--which you, who know more about it, can believe or not as it pleases you--that Godwin's heart is like that of the old saint in the reliquary at Stangate--a thing which may have beaten once, and will perhaps beat again in heaven, but now is somewhat dead--to this world." Rosamund smiled, and thought to herself that this dead heart had shown signs of life not long ago. But aloud she said: "If you have no more to say to me of Godwin's heart, I will begone to read with my father, who waits for me." "Nay, I have much more to say of my own." Then suddenly Wulf became very earnest--so earnest that his great frame shook, and when he strove to speak he could but stammer. At length it all came forth in a flood of burning words. "I love you, Rosamund! I love you--all of you, as I have ever loved you--though I did not know it till the other day--that of the fight, and ever shall love you--and I seek you for my wife. I know that I am only a rough soldier-man, full of faults, not holy and learned like Godwin. Yet I swear that I would be a true knight to you all my life, and, if the saints give me grace and strength, do great deeds in your honour and watch you well. Oh! what more is there to say?" "Nothing, Wulf," answered Rosamund, lifting her downcast eyes. "You do not wish that I should answer you, so I will thank you--yes, from my heart, though, in truth, I am grieved that we can be no more brother and sister, as we have been this many a year--and be going." "Nay, Rosamund, not yet. Although you may not speak, surely you might give me some little sign, who am in torment, and thus must stay until this time to-morrow. For instance, you might let me kiss your hand--the pact said nothing about kissing." "I know naught of this pact, Wulf," answered Rosamund sternly, although a smile crept about the corners of her mouth, "but I do know that I shall not suffer you to touch my hand." "Then I will kiss your robe," and seizing a corner of her cloak, he pressed it to his lips. "You are strong--I am weak, Wulf, and cannot wrench my garment from you, but I tell you that this play advantages you nothing." He let the cloak fall. "Your pardon. I should have remembered that Godwin would never have presumed so far." "Godwin," she said, tapping her foot upon the ground, "if he gave a promise, would keep it in the spirit as well as in the letter." "I suppose so. See what it is for an erring man to have a saint for a brother and a rival! Nay, be not angry with me, Rosamund, who cannot tread the path of saints." "That I believe, but at least, Wulf, there is no need to mock those who can." "I mock him not. I love him as well as--you do." And he watched her face. It never changed, for in Rosamund's heart were hid the secret strength and silence of the East, which can throw a mask impenetrable over face and features. "I am glad that you love him, Wulf. See to it that you never forget your love and duty." "I will; yes--even if you reject me for him." "Those are honest words, such as I looked to hear you speak," she replied in a gentle voice. "And now, dear Wulf, farewell, for I am weary--" "To-morrow--" he broke in. "Ay," she answered in a heavy voice. "To-morrow I must speak, and--you must listen." The sun had run his course again, and once more it was near four o'clock in the afternoon. The brethren stood by the great fire in the hall looking at each other doubtfully--as, indeed, they had looked through all the long hours of the night, during which neither of them had closed an eye. "It is time," said Wulf, and Godwin nodded. As he spoke a woman was seen descending from the solar, and they knew her errand. "Which?" asked Wulf, but Godwin shook his head. "Sir Andrew bids me say that he would speak with you both," said the woman, and went her way. "By the saints, I believe it's neither!" exclaimed Wulf, with a little laugh. "It may be thus," said Godwin, "and perhaps that would be best for all." "I don't think so," answered Wulf, as he followed him up the steps of the solar. Now they had passed the passage and closed the door, and before them was Sir Andrew seated in his chair by the fire, but not alone, for at his side, her hand resting upon his shoulder, stood Rosamund. They noted that she was clad in her richest robes, and a bitter thought came into their minds that this might be to show them how beautiful was the woman whom both of them must lose. As they advanced they bowed first to her and then to their uncle, while, lifting her eyes from the ground, she smiled a little in greeting. "Speak, Rosamund," said her father. "These knights are in doubt and pain." "Now for the coup de grace," muttered Wulf. "My cousins," began Rosamund in a low, quiet voice, as though she were saying a lesson, "as to the matter of which you spoke to me yesterday, I have taken counsel with my father and with my own heart. You did me great honour, both of you, in asking me to be the wife of such worthy knights, with whom I have been brought up and have loved since childhood as a sister loves her brothers. I will be brief as I may. Alas! I can give to neither of you the answer which you wish." "Coup de grace indeed," muttered Wulf, "through hauberk, gambeson, and shirt, right home to the heart." But Godwin only turned a trifle paler and said nothing. Now there was silence for a little space, while from beneath his bushy eyebrows the old knight watched their faces, on which the light of the tapers fell. Then Godwin spoke: "We thank you, Cousin. Come, Wulf, we have our answer; let us be going." "Not all of it," broke in Rosamund hastily, and they seemed to breathe again. "Listen," she said; "for if it pleases you, I am willing to make a promise which my father has approved. Come to me this time two years, and if we all three live, should both of you still wish for me to wife, that there may be no further space of pain or waiting, I will name the man whom I shall choose, and marry him at once." "And if one of us is dead?" asked Godwin. "Then," replied Rosamund, "if his name be untarnished, and he has done no deed that is not knightly, will forthwith wed the other." "Pardon me--" broke in Wulf. She held up her hand and stopped him, saying: "You think this a strange saying, and so, perhaps, it is; but the matter is also strange, and for me the case is hard. Remember, all my life is at stake, and I may desire more time wherein to make my choice, that between two such men no maiden would find easy. We are all of us still young for marriage, for which, if God guards our lives, there will be time and to spare. Also in two years I may learn which of you is in truth the worthier knight, who to-day both seem so worthy." "Then is neither of us more to you than the other?" asked Wulf outright. Rosamund turned red, and her bosom heaved as she replied: "I will not answer that question." "And Wulf should not have asked it," said Godwin. "Brother, I read Rosamund's saying thus: Between us she finds not much to choose, or if she does in her secret heart, out of her kindness--since she is determined not to marry for a while--she will not suffer us to see it and thereby bring grief on one of us. So she says, 'Go forth, you knights, and do deeds worthy of such a lady, and perchance he who does the highest deeds shall receive the great reward.' For my part, I find this judgment wise and just, and I am content to abide its issue. Nay, I am even glad of it, since it gives us time and opportunity to show our sweet cousin here, and all our fellows, the mettle whereof we are made, and strive to outshine each other in the achievement of great feats which, as always, we shall attempt side by side." "Well spoken," said Sir Andrew. "And you, Wulf?" Then Wulf, feeling that Rosamund was watching his face beneath the shadow of her long eyelashes, answered: "Before Heaven, I am content also, for whatever may be said against it, now at least there will be two years of war in which one or both of us well may fall, and for that while at least no woman can come between our brotherhood. Uncle, I crave your leave to go serve my liege in Normandy." "And I also," said Godwin. "In the spring; in the spring," replied Sir Andrew hastily; "when King Henry moves his power. Meanwhile, bide you here in all good fellowship, for, who knows--much may happen between now and then, and perhaps your strong arms will be needed as they were not long ago. Moreover, I look to all three of you to hear no more of this talk of love and marriage, which, in truth, disturbs my mind and house. For good or ill, the matter is now settled for two years to come, by which time it is likely I shall be in my grave and beyond all troubling. "I do not say that things have gone altogether as I could have wished, but they are as Rosamund wishes, and that is enough for me. On which of you she looks with the more favour I do not know, and be you content to remain in ignorance of what a father does not think it wise to seek to learn. A maid's heart is her own, and her future lies in the hand of God and His saints, where let it bide, say I. Now we have done with all this business. Rosamund, dismiss your knights, and be you all three brothers and sister once more till this time two years, when those who live will find an answer to the riddle." So Rosamund came forward, and without a word gave her right hand to Godwin and her left to Wulf, and suffered that they should press their lips upon them. So for a while this was the end of their asking of her in marriage. The brethren left the solar side by side as they had come into it, but changed men in a sense, for now their lives were afire with a great purpose, which bade them dare and do and win. Yet they were lighter-hearted than when they entered there, since at least neither had been scorned, while both had hope, and all the future, which the young so seldom fear, lay before them. As they descended the steps their eyes fell upon the figure of a tall man clad in a pilgrim's cape, hood and low-crowned hat, of which the front was bent upwards and laced, who carried in his hand a palmer's staff, and about his waist the scrip and water-bottle. "What do you seek, holy palmer?" asked Godwin, coming towards him. "A night's lodging in my uncle's house?" The man bowed; then, fixing on him a pair of beadlike brown eyes, which reminded Godwin of some he had seen, he knew not when or where, answered in the humble voice affected by his class: "Even so, most noble knight. Shelter for man and beast, for my mule is held without. Also--a word with the lord, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, for whom I have a message." "A mule?" said Wulf. "I thought that palmers always went afoot?" "True, Sir Knight; but, as it chances, I have baggage. Nay, not my own, whose earthly gear is all upon my back--but a chest, that contains I know not what, which I am charged to deliver to Sir Andrew D'Arcy, the owner of this hall, or should he be dead, then to the lady Rosamund, his daughter." "Charged? By whom?" asked Wulf. "That, sir," said the palmer, bowing, "I will tell to Sir Andrew, who, I understand, still lives. Have I your leave to bring in the chest, and if so, will one of your servants help me, for it is heavy?" "We will help you," said Godwin. And they went with him into the courtyard, where by the scant light of the stars they saw a fine mule in charge of one of the serving men, and bound upon its back a long-shaped package sewn over with sacking. This the palmer unloosed, and taking one end, while Wulf, after bidding the man stable the mule, took the other, they bore it into the hall, Godwin going before them to summon his uncle. Presently he came and the palmer bowed to him. "What is your name, palmer, and whence is this box?" asked the old knight, looking at him keenly. "My name, Sir Andrew, is Nicholas of Salisbury, and as to who sent me, with your leave I will whisper in your ear." And, leaning forward, he did so. Sir Andrew heard and staggered back as though a dart had pierced him. "What?" he said. "Are you, a holy palmer, the messenger of--" and he stopped suddenly. "I was his prisoner," answered the man, "and he--who at least ever keeps his word--gave me my life--for I had been condemned to die--at the price that I brought this to you, and took back your answer, or hers, which I have sworn to do." "Answer? To what?" "Nay, I know nothing save that there is a writing in the chest. Its purport I am not told, who am but a messenger bound by oath to do certain things. Open the chest, lord, and meanwhile, if you have food, I have travelled far and fast." Sir Andrew went to a door, and called to his men-servants, whom he bade give meat to the palmer and stay with him while he ate. Then he told Godwin and Wulf to lift the box and bring it to the solar, and with it hammer and chisel, in case they should be needed, which they did, setting it upon the oaken table. "Open," said Sir Andrew. So they ripped off the canvas, two folds of it, revealing within a box of dark, foreign looking wood bound with iron bands, at which they laboured long before they could break them. At length it was done, and there within was another box beautifully made of polished ebony, and sealed at the front and ends with a strange device. This box had a lock of silver, to which was tied a silver key. "At least it has not been tampered with," said Wulf, examining the unbroken seals, but Sir Andrew only repeated: "Open, and be swift. Here, Godwin, take the key, for my hand shakes with cold." The lock turned easily, and the seals being broken, the lid rose upon its hinges, while, as it did so, a scent of precious odours filled the place. Beneath, covering the contents of the chest, was an oblong piece of worked silk, and lying on it a parchment. Sir Andrew broke the thread and seal, and unrolled the parchment. Within it was written over in strange characters. Also, there was a second unsealed roll, written in a clerkly hand in Norman French, and headed, "Translation of this letter, in case the knight, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, has forgotten the Arabic tongue, or that his daughter, the lady Rosamund, has not yet learned the same." Sir Andrew glanced at both headings, then said: "Nay, I have not forgotten Arabic, who, while my lady lived, spoke little else with her, and who taught it to our daughter. But the light is bad, and, Godwin, you are scholarly; read me the French. We can compare them afterwards." At this moment Rosamund entered the solar from her chamber, and seeing the three of them so strangely employed, said: "Is it your will that I go, father?" "No, daughter. Since you are here, stay here. I think that this matter concerns you as well as me. Read on, Godwin." So Godwin read: "In the Name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate! I, Salah-ed-din, Yusuf ibn Ayoub, Commander of the Faithful, cause these words to be written, and seal them with my own hand, to the Frankish lord, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, husband of my sister by another mother, Sitt Zobeide, the beautiful and faithless, on whom Allah has taken vengeance for her sin. Or if he be dead also, then to his daughter and hers, my niece, and by blood a princess of Syria and Egypt, who among the English is named the lady Rose of the World. "You, Sir Andrew, will remember how, many years ago, what we were friends, you, by an evil chance, became acquainted with my sister Zobeide, while you were a prisoner and sick in my father's house. How, too, Satan put it into her heart to listen to your words of love, so that she became a Cross-worshipper, and was married to you after the Frankish custom, and fled with you to England. You will remember also, although at the time we could not recapture her from your vessel, how I sent a messenger to you, saying that soon or late I would yet tear her from your arms and deal with her as we deal with faithless women. But within six years of that time sure news reached me that Allah had taken her, therefore I mourned for my sister and her fate awhile, and forgot her and you. "Know that a certain knight named Lozelle, who dwelt in the part of England where you have your castle, has told me that Zobeide left a daughter, who is very beautiful. Now my heart, which loved her mother, goes out towards this niece whom I have never seen, for although she is your child and a Cross-worshipper at least--save in the matter of her mother's theft--you were a brave and noble knight, of good blood, as, indeed, I remember your brother was also, he who fell in the fight at Harenc. "Learn now that, having by the will of Allah come to great estate here at Damascus and throughout the East, I desire to lift your daughter up to be a princess of my house. Therefore I invite her to journey to Damascus, and you with her, if you live. Moreover, lest you should fear some trap, on behalf of myself, my successors and councillors, I promise in the Name of God, and by the word of Salah-ed-din, which never yet was broken, that although I trust the merciful God may change her heart so that she enters it of her own will, I will not force her to accept the Faith or to bind herself in any marriage which she does not desire. Nor will I take vengeance upon you, Sir Andrew, for what you have done in the past, or suffer others to do so, but will rather raise you to great honour and live with you in friendship as of yore. "But if my messenger returns and tells me that my niece refuses this, my loving offer, then I warn her that my arm is long, and I will surely take her as I can. "Therefore, within a year of the day that I receive the answer of the lady, my niece, who is named Rose of the World, my emissaries will appear wherever she may be, married or single, to lead her to me, with honour if she be willing, but still to lead her to me if she be unwilling. Meanwhile, in token of my love, I send certain gifts of precious things, and with them my patent of her title as Princess, and Lady of the City of Baalbec, which title, with its revenue and prerogatives, are registered in the archives of my empire in favour of her and her lawful heirs, and declared to be binding upon me and my successors forever. "The bearer of this letter and of my gifts is a certain Cross-worshipper named Nicholas, to whom let your answer be handed for delivery to me. This devoir he is under oath to perform and will perform it, for he knows that if he fails therein, then that he must die. "Signed by Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, at Damascus, and sealed with his seal, in the spring season of the year of the Hegira 581. "Take note also that this writing having been read to me by my secretary before I set my name and seal thereunto, I perceive that you, Sir Andrew, or you, Lady Rose of the World, may think it strange that I should be at such pains and cost over a maid who is not of my religion and whom I never saw, and may therefore doubt my honesty in the matter. Know then the true reason. Since I heard that you, Lady Rose of the World, lived, I have thrice been visited by a dream sent from God concerning you, and in it I saw your face. "Now this was the dream--that the oath I made as regards your mother is binding as regards you also; further, that in some way which is not revealed to me, your presence here will withhold me from the shedding of a sea of blood, and save the whole world much misery. Therefore it is decreed that you must come and bide in my house. That these things are so, Allah and His Prophet be my witnesses." Chapter Five: The Wine Merchant Godwin laid down the letter, and all of them stared at one another in amazement. "Surely," said Wulf, "this is some fool's trick played off upon our uncle as an evil jest." By way of answer Sir Andrew bade him lift the silk that hid the contents of the coffer and see what lay there. Wulf did so, and next moment threw back his head like a man whom some sudden light had blinded, as well he might, for from it came such a flare of gems as Essex had rarely seen before. Red, green and blue they sparkled; and among them were the dull glow of gold and the white sheen of pearls. "Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!" said Rosamund. "Ay," muttered Godwin; "beautiful enough to maze a woman's mind till she knows not right from wrong." Wulf said nothing, but one by one drew its treasures from the chest--coronet, necklace of pearls, breast ornaments of rubies, girdle of sapphires, jewelled anklets, and with them veil, sandals, robes and other garments of gold-embroidered purple silk. Moreover, among these, also sealed with the seals of Salah-ed-din, his viziers, officers of state, and secretaries, was that patent of which the letter spoke, setting out the full titles of the Princess of Baalbec; the extent and boundaries of her great estates, and the amount of her annual revenue, which seemed more money than they had ever heard of. "I was wrong," said Wulf. "Even the Sultan of the East could not afford a jest so costly." "Jest?" broke in Sir Andrew; "it is no jest, as I was sure from the first line of that letter. It breathes the very spirit of Saladin, though he be a Saracen, the greatest man on all the earth, as I, who was a friend of his youth, know well. Ay, and he is right. In a sense I sinned against him as his sister sinned, our love compelling us. Jest? Nay, no jest, but because a vision of the night, which he believes the voice of God, or perhaps some oracle of the magicians has deeply stirred that great soul of his and led him on to this wild adventure." He paused awhile, then looked up and said, "Girl, do you know what Saladin has made of you? Why, there are queens in Europe who would be glad to own that rank and those estates in the rich lands above Damascus. I know the city and the castle of which he speaks. It is a mighty place upon the banks of Litani and Orontes, and after its military governor--for that rule he would not give a Christian--you will be first in it, beneath the seal of Saladin--the surest title in all the earth. Say, will you go and queen it there?" Rosamund gazed at the gleaming gems and the writings that made her royal, and her eyes flashed and her breast heaved, as they had done by the church of St. Peter on the Essex coast. Thrice she looked while they watched her, then turned her head as from the bait of some great temptation and answered one word only--"Nay." "Well spoken," said her father, who knew her blood and its longings. "At least, had the 'nay' been 'yea,' you must have gone alone. Give me ink and parchment, Godwin." They were brought, and he wrote: "To the Sultan Saladin, from Andrew D'Arcy and his daughter Rosamund. "We have received your letter, and we answer that where we are there we will bide in such state as God has given us. Nevertheless, we thank you, Sultan, since we believe you honest, and we wish you well, except in your wars against the Cross. As for your threats, we will do our best to bring them to nothing. Knowing the customs of the East, we do not send back your gifts to you, since to do so would be to offer insult to one of the greatest men in all the world; but if you choose to ask for them, they are yours--not ours. Of your dream we say that it was but an empty vision of the night which a wise man should forget.--Your servant and your niece." Then he signed, and Rosamund signed after him, and the writing was done up, wrapped in silk, and sealed. "Now," said Sir Andrew, "hide away this wealth, since were it known that we had such treasures in the place, every thief in England would be our visitor, some of them bearing high names, I think." So they laid the gold-embroidered robes and the priceless sets of gems back in their coffer, and having locked it, hid it away in the great iron-bound chest that stood in Sir Andrew's sleeping chamber. When everything was finished, Sir Andrew said: "Listen now, Rosamund, and you also, my nephews. I have never told you the true tale of how the sister of Saladin, who was known as Zobeide, daughter of Ayoub, and afterwards christened into our faith by the name of Mary, came to be my wife. Yet you should learn it, if only to show how evil returns upon a man. After the great Nur-ed-din took Damascus, Ayoub was made its governor; then some three-and-twenty years ago came the capture of Harenc, in which my brother fell. Here I was wounded and taken prisoner. They bore me to Damascus, where I was lodged in the palace of Ayoub and kindly treated. Here too it was, while I lay sick, that I made friends with the young Saladin, and with his sister Zobeide, whom I met secretly in the gardens of the palace. The rest may be guessed. Although she numbered but half my years, she loved me as I loved her, and for my sake offered to change her faith and fly with me to England if opportunity could be found, which was hard. "Now, as it chanced, I had a friend, a dark and secret man named Jebal, the young sheik of a terrible people, whose cruel rites no Christian understands. They are the subjects of one Mahomet, in Persia, and live in castles at Masyaf, on Lebanon. This man had been in alliance with the Franks, and once in a battle I saved his life from the Saracens at the risk of my own, whereon he swore that did I summon him from the ends of the earth he would come to me if I needed help. Moreover, he gave me his signet-ring as a token, and, by virtue of it, so he said, power in his dominions equal to his own, though these I never visited. You know it," and holding up his hand, Sir Andrew showed them a heavy gold ring, in which was set a black stone, with red veins running across the stone in the exact shape of a dagger, and beneath the dagger words cut in unknown characters. "So in my plight I bethought me of Jebal, and found means to send him a letter sealed with his ring. Nor did he forget his promise, for within twelve days Zobeide and I were galloping for Beirut on two horses so swift that all the cavalry of Ayoub could not overtake them. We reached the city, and there were married, Rosamund. There too your mother was baptised a Christian. Thence, since it was not safe for us to stay in the East, we took ship and came safe home, bearing this ring of Jebal with us, for I would not give it up, as his servants demanded that I should do, except to him alone. But before that vessel sailed, a man disguised as a fisherman brought me a message from Ayoub and his son Saladin, swearing that they would yet recapture Zobeide, the daughter of one of them and sister of the other. "That is the story, and you see that their oath has not been forgotten, though when in after years they learned of my wife's death, they let the matter lie. But since then Saladin, who in those days was but a noble youth, has become the greatest sultan that the East has ever known, and having been told of you, Rosamund, by that traitor Lozelle, he seeks to take you in your mother's place, and, daughter, I tell you that I fear him." "At least we have a year or longer in which to prepare ourselves, or to hide," said Rosamund. "His palmer must travel back to the East before my uncle Saladin can have our answer." "Ay," said Sir Andrew; "perhaps we have a year." "What of the attack on the quay?" asked Godwin, who had been thinking. "The knight Lozelle was named there. Yet if Saladin had to do with it, it seems strange that the blow should have come before the word." Sir Andrew brooded a while, then said: "Bring in this palmer. I will question him." So the man Nicholas, who was found still eating as though his hunger would never be satisfied, was brought in by Wulf. He bowed low before the old knight and Rosamund, studying them the while with his sharp eyes, and the roof and the floor, and every other detail of the chamber. For those eyes of his seemed to miss nothing. "You have brought me a letter from far away, Sir Palmer, who are named Nicholas," said Sir Andrew. "I have brought you a chest from Damascus, Sir Knight, but of its contents I know nothing. At least you will bear me witness that it has not been tampered with," answered Nicholas. "I find it strange," went on the old knight, "that one in your holy garb should be chosen as the messenger of Saladin, with whom Christian men have little to do." "But Saladin has much to do with Christian men, Sir Andrew. Thus he takes them prisoner even in times of peace, as he did me." "Did he, then, take the knight Lozelle prisoner?" "The knight Lozelle?" repeated the palmer. "Was he a big, red-faced man, with a scar upon his forehead, who always wore a black cloak over his mail?" "That might be he." "Then he was not taken prisoner, but he came to visit the Sultan at Damascus while I lay in bonds there, for I saw him twice or thrice, though what his business was I do not know. Afterwards he left, and at Jaffa I heard that he had sailed for Europe three months before I did." Now the brethren looked at each other. So Lozelle was in England. But Sir Andrew made no comment, only he said: "Tell me your story, and be careful that you speak the truth." "Why should I not, who have nothing to hide?" answered Nicholas. "I was captured by some Arabs as I journeyed to the Jordan upon a pilgrimage, who, when they found that I had no goods to be robbed of, would have killed me. This, indeed, they were about to do, had not some of Saladin's soldiers come by and commanded them to hold their hands and give me over to them. They did so, and the soldiers took me to Damascus. There I was imprisoned, but not close, and then it was that I saw Lozelle, or, at least, a Christian man who had some such name, and, as he seemed to be in favour with the Saracens, I begged him to intercede for me. Afterwards I was brought before the court of Saladin, and having questioned me, the Sultan himself told me that I must either worship the false prophet or die, to which you can guess my answer. So they led me away, as I thought, to death, but none offered to do me hurt. "Three days later Saladin sent for me again, and offered to spare my life if I would swear an oath, which oath was that I should take a certain package and deliver it to you, or to your daughter named the Lady Rosamund here at your hall of Steeple, in Essex, and bring back the answer to Damascus. Not wishing to die, I said that I would do this, if the Sultan passed his word, which he never breaks, that I should be set free afterwards." "And now you are safe in England, do you purpose to return to Damascus with the answer, and, if so, why?" "For two reasons, Sir Andrew. First, because I have sworn to do so, and I do not break my word any more than does Saladin. Secondly, because I continue to wish to live, and the Sultan promised me that if I failed in my mission, he would bring about my death wherever I might be, which I am sure he has the power to do by magic or otherwise. Well, the rest of the tale is short. The chest was handed over to me as you see it, and with it money sufficient for my faring to and fro and something to spare. Then I was escorted to Joppa, where I took passage on a ship bound to Italy, where I found another ship named the Holy Mary sailing for Calais, which we reached after being nearly cast away. Thence I came to Dover in a fishing boat, landing there eight days ago, and having bought a mule, joined some travellers to London, and so on here." "And how will you return?" The palmer shrugged his shoulders. "As best I may, and as quickly. Is your answer ready, Sir Andrew?" "Yes; it is here," and he handed him the roll, which Nicholas hid away in the folds of his great cloak. Then Sir Andrew added, "You say you know nothing of all the business in which you play this part?" "Nothing; or, rather, only this--the officer who escorted me to Jaffa told me that there was a stir among the learned doctors and diviners at the court because of a certain dream which the Sultan had dreamed three times. It had to do with a lady who was half of the blood of Ayoub and half English, and they said that my mission was mixed up with this matter. Now I see that the noble lady before me has eyes strangely like those of the Sultan Saladin." And he spread out his hands and ceased. "You seem to see a good deal, friend Nicholas." "Sir Andrew, a poor palmer who wishes to preserve his throat unslit must keep his eyes open. Now I have eaten well, and I am weary. Is there any place where I may sleep? I must be gone at daybreak, for those who do Saladin's business dare not tarry, and I have your letter." "There is a place," answered Sir Andrew. "Wulf, take him to it, and to-morrow, before he leaves, we will speak again. Till then, farewell, holy Nicholas." With one more searching glance the palmer bowed and went. When the door closed behind him Sir Andrew beckoned Godwin to him, and whispered: "To-morrow, Godwin, you must take some men and follow this Nicholas to see where he goes and what he does, for I tell you I do not trust him--ay, I fear him much! These embassies to and from Saracens are strange traffic for a Christian man. Also, though he says his life hangs on it, I think that were he honest, once safe in England here he would stop, since the first priest would absolve him of an oath forced from him by the infidel." "Were he dishonest would he not have stolen those jewels?" asked Godwin. "They are worth some risk. What do you think, Rosamund?" "I?" she answered. "Oh, I think there is more in this than any of us dream. "I think," she added in a voice of distress and with an involuntary wringing motion of the hands, "that for this house and those who dwell in it time is big with death, and that sharp-eyed palmer is its midwife. How strange is the destiny that wraps us all about! And now comes the sword of Saladin to shape it, and the hand of Saladin to drag me from my peaceful state to a dignity which I do not seek; and the dreams of Saladin, of whose kin I am, to interweave my life with the bloody policies of Syria and the unending war between Cross and Crescent, that are, both of them, my heritage." Then, with a woeful gesture, Rosamund turned and left them. Her father watched her go, and said: "The maid is right. Great business is afoot in which all of us must bear our parts. For no little thing would Saladin stir thus--he who braces himself as I know well, for the last struggle in which Christ or Mahomet must go down. Rosamund is right. On her brow shines the crescent diadem of the house of Ayoub, and at her heart hangs the black cross of the Christian and round her struggle creeds and nations. What, Wulf, does the man sleep already?" "Like a dog, for he seems outworn with travel." "Like a dog with one eye open, perhaps. I do not wish that he should give us the slip during the night, as I want more talk with him and other things, of which I have spoken to Godwin." "No fear of that, uncle. I have locked the stable door, and a sainted palmer will scarcely leave us the present of such a mule." "Not he, if I know his tribe," answered Sir Andrew. "Now let us sup and afterwards take counsel together, for we shall need it before all is done." An hour before the dawn next morning Godwin and Wulf were up, and with them certain trusted men who had been warned that their services would be needed. Presently Wulf, bearing a lantern in his hand, came to where his brother stood by the fire in the hall. "Where have you been?" Godwin asked. "To wake the palmer?" "No. To place a man to watch the road to Steeple Hill, and another at the Creek path; also to feed his mule, which is a very fine beast--too good for a palmer. Doubtless he will be stirring soon, as he said that he must be up early." Godwin nodded, and they sat together on the bench beside the fire, for the weather was bitter, and dozed till the dawn began to break. Then Wulf rose and shook himself, saying: "He will not think it uncourteous if we rouse him now," and walking to the far end of the hall, he drew a curtain and called out, "Awake, holy Nicholas! awake! It is time for you to say your prayers, and breakfast will soon be cooking." But no Nicholas answered. "Of a truth," grumbled Wulf, as he came back for his lantern, "that palmer sleeps as though Saladin had already cut his throat." Then having lit it, he returned to the guest place. "Godwin," he called presently, "come here. The man has gone!" "Gone?" said Godwin as he ran to the curtain. "Gone where?" "Back to his friend Saladin, I think," answered Wulf. "Look, that is how he went." And he pointed to the shutter of the sleeping-place, that stood wide open, and to an oaken stool beneath, by means of which the sainted Nicholas had climbed up to and through the narrow window slit. "He must be without, grooming the mule which he would never have left," said Godwin. "Honest guests do not part from their hosts thus," answered Wulf; "but let us go and see." So they ran to the stable and found it locked and the mule safe enough within. Nor--though they looked--could they find any trace of the palmer--not even a footstep, since the ground was frostbound. Only on examining the door of the stable they discovered that an attempt had been made to lift the lock with some sharp instrument. "It seems that he was determined to be gone, either with or without the beast," said Wulf. "Well, perhaps we can catch him yet," and he called to the men to saddle up and ride with him to search the country. For three hours they hunted far and wide, but nothing did they see of Nicholas. "The knave has slipped away like a night hawk, and left as little trace," reported Wulf. "Now, my uncle, what does this mean?" "I do not know, save that it is of a piece with the rest, and that I like it little," answered the old knight anxiously. "Here the value of the beast was of no account, that is plain. What the man held of account was that he should be gone in such a fashion that none could follow him or know whither he went. The net is about us, my nephews, and I think that Saladin draws its string." Still less pleased would Sir Andrew have been, could he have seen the palmer Nicholas creeping round the hall while all men slept, ere he girded up his long gown and ran like a hare for London. Yet he had done this by the light of the bright stars, taking note of every window slit in it, more especially of those of the solar; of the plan of the outbuildings also, and of the path that ran to Steeple Creek some five hundred yards away. From that day forward fear settled on the place--fear of some blow that none were able to foresee, and against which they could not guard. Sir Andrew even talked of leaving Steeple and of taking up his abode in London, where he thought that they might be safer, but such foul weather set in that it was impossible to travel the roads, and still less to sail the sea. So it was arranged that if they moved at all--and there were many things against it, not the least of which were Sir Andrew's weak health and the lack of a house to go to--it should not be till after New Year's Day. Thus the time went on, and nothing happened to disturb them. The friends of whom the old knight took counsel laughed at his forebodings. They said that so long as they did not wander about unguarded, there was little danger of any fresh attack upon them, and if one should by chance be made, with the aid of the men they had they could hold the Hall against a company until help was summoned. Moreover, at heart, none of them believed that Saladin or his emissaries would stir in this business before the spring, or more probably until another year had passed. Still, they always set guards at night, and, besides themselves, kept twenty men sleeping at the Hall. Also they arranged that on the lighting of a signal fire upon the tower of Steeple Church their neighbours should come to succour them. So the time went on towards Christmas, before which the weather changed and became calm, with sharp frost. It was on the shortest day that Prior John rode up to the Hall and told them that he was going to Southminster to buy some wine for the Christmas feast. Sir Andrew asked what wine there was at Southminster. The Prior answered that he had heard that a ship, laden amongst other things with wine of Cyprus of wonderful quality, had come into the river Crouch with her rudder broken. He added that as no shipwrights could be found in London to repair it till after Christmas, the chapman, a Cypriote, who was in charge of the wine, was selling as much as he could in Southminster and to the houses about at a cheap rate, and delivering it by means of a wain that he had hired. Sir Andrew replied that this seemed a fair chance to get fine liquor, which was hard to come by in Essex in those times. The end of it was that he bade Wulf, whose taste in strong drink was nice, to ride with the Prior into Southminster, and if he liked the stuff to buy a few casks of it for them to make merry with at Christmas--although he himself, because of his ailments, now drank only water. So Wulf went, nothing loth. In this dark season of the year when there was no fishing, it grew very dull loitering about the Hall, and since he did not read much, like Godwin, sitting for long hours by the fire at night watching Rosamund going to and fro upon her tasks, but not speaking with her overmuch. For notwithstanding all their pretense of forgetfulness, some sort of veil had fallen between the brethren and Rosamund, and their intercourse was not so open and familiar as of old. She could not but remember that they were no more her cousins only, but her lovers also, and that she must guard herself lest she seemed to show preference to one above the other. The brethren for their part must always bear in mind also that they were bound not to show their love, and that their cousin Rosamund was no longer a simple English lady, but also by creation, as by blood, a princess of the East, whom destiny might yet lift beyond the reach of either of them. Moreover, as has been said, dread sat upon that rooftree like a croaking raven, nor could they escape from the shadow of its wing. Far away in the East a mighty monarch had turned his thoughts towards this English home and the maid of his royal blood who dwelt there, and who was mingled with his visions of conquest and of the triumph of his faith. Driven on by no dead oath, by no mere fancy or imperial desire, but by some spiritual hope or need, he had determined to draw her to him, by fair means if he could; if not, by foul. Already means both foul and fair had failed, for that the attack at Death Creek quay had to do with this matter they could no longer doubt. It was certain also that others would be tried again and again till his end was won or Rosamund was dead--for here, if even she would go back upon her word, marriage itself could not shield her. So the house was sad, and saddest of all seemed the face of the old knight, Sir Andrew, oppressed as he was with sickness, with memories and fears. Therefore, Wulf could find pleasure even in an errand to Southminster to buy wine, of which, in truth, he would have been glad to drink deeply, if only to drown his thoughts awhile. So away he rode up Steeple Hill with the Prior, laughing as he used to do before Rosamund led him to gather flowers at St. Peter's-on-the-Wall. Asking where the foreign merchant dwelt who had wine to sell, they were directed to an inn near the minster. Here in a back room they found a short, stout man, wearing a red cloth cap, who was seated on a pillow between two kegs. In front of him stood a number of folk, gentry and others, who bargained with him for his wine and the silks and embroideries that he had to sell, giving the latter to be handled and samples of the drink to all who asked for them. "Clean cups," he said, speaking in bad French, to the drawer who stood beside him. "Clean cups, for here come a holy man and a gallant knight who wish to taste my liquor. Nay, fellow, fill them up, for the top of Mount Trooidos in winter is not so cold as this cursed place, to say nothing of its damp, which is that of a dungeon," and he shivered, drawing his costly shawl closer round him. "Sir Abbot, which will you taste first--the red wine or the yellow? The red is the stronger but the yellow is the more costly and a drink for saints in Paradise and abbots upon earth. The yellow from Kyrenia? Well, you are wise. They say it was my patron St. Helena's favourite vintage when she visited Cyprus, bringing with her Disma's cross." "Are you a Christian then?" asked the Prior. "I took you for a Paynim." "Were I not a Christian would I visit this foggy land of yours to trade in wine--a liquor forbidden to the Moslems?" answered the man, drawing aside the folds of his shawl and revealing a silver crucifix upon his broad breast. "I am a merchant of Famagusta in Cyprus, Georgios by name, and of the Greek Church which you Westerners hold to be heretical. But what do you think of that wine, holy Abbot?" The Prior smacked his lips. "Friend Georgios, it is indeed a drink for the saints," he answered. "Ay, and has been a drink for sinners ere now--for this is the very tipple that Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, drank with her Roman lover Antony, of whom you, being a learned man, may have heard. And you, Sir Knight, what say you of the black stuff--'Mavro,' we call it--not the common, but that which has been twenty years in cask?" "I have tasted worse," said Wulf, holding out his horn to be filled again. "Ay, and will never taste better if you live as long as the Wandering Jew. Well, sirs, may I take your orders? If you are wise you will make them large, since no such chance is likely to come your way again, and that wine, yellow or red, will keep a century." Then the chaffering began, and it was long and keen. Indeed, at one time they nearly left the place without purchasing, but the merchant Georgios called them back and offered to come to their terms if they would take double the quantity, so as to make up a cartload between them, which he said he would deliver before Christmas Day. To this they consented at length, and departed homewards made happy by the gifts with which the chapman clinched his bargain, after the Eastern fashion. To the Prior he gave a roll of worked silk to be used as an edging to an altar cloth or banner, and to Wulf a dagger handle, quaintly carved in olive wood to the fashion of a rampant lion. Wulf thanked him, and then asked him with a somewhat shamed face if he had more embroidery for sale, whereat the Prior smiled. The quick-eyed Cypriote saw the smile, and inquired if it might be needed for a lady's wear, at which some neighbours present in the room laughed outright. "Do not laugh at me, gentlemen," said the Eastern; "for how can I, a stranger, know this young knight's affairs, and whether he has mother, or sisters, or wife, or lover? Well here are broideries fit for any of them." Then bidding his servant bring a bale, he opened it, and began to show his goods, which, indeed, were very beautiful. In the end Wulf purchased a veil of gauze-like silk worked with golden stars as a Christmas gift for Rosamund. Afterwards, remembering that even in such a matter he must take no advantage of his brother, he added to it a tunic broidered with gold and silver flowers such as he had never seen--for they were Eastern tulips and anemones, which Godwin would give her also if he wished. These silks were costly, and Wulf turned to the Prior to borrow money, but he had no more upon him. Georgios said, however, that it mattered nothing, as he would take a guide from the town and bring the wine in person, when he could receive payment for the broideries, of which he hoped to sell more to the ladies of the house. He offered also to go with the Prior and Wulf to where his ship lay in the river, and show them many other goods aboard of her, which, he explained to them, were the property of a company of Cyprian merchants who had embarked upon this venture jointly with himself. This they declined, however, as the darkness was not far off; but Wulf added that he would come after Christmas with his brother to see the vessel that had made so great a voyage. Georgios replied that they would be very welcome, but if he could make shift to finish the repairs to his rudder, he was anxious to sail for London while the weather held calm, for there he looked to sell the bulk of his cargo. He added that he had expected to spend Christmas at that city, but their helm having gone wrong in the rough weather, they were driven past the mouth of the Thames, and had they not drifted into that of the Crouch, would, he thought, have foundered. So he bade them farewell for that time, but not before he had asked and received the blessing of the Prior. Thus the pair of them departed, well pleased with their purchases and the Cypriote Georgios, whom they found a very pleasant merchant. Prior John stopped to eat at the Hall that night, when he and Wulf told of all their dealings with this man. Sir Andrew laughed at the story, showing them how they had been persuaded by the Eastern to buy a great deal more wine than they needed, so that it was he and not they who had the best of the bargain. Then he went on to tell tales of the rich island of Cyprus, where he had landed many years before and stayed awhile, and of the gorgeous court of its emperor, and of its inhabitants. These were, he said, the cunningest traders in the world--so cunning, indeed, that no Jew could overmatch them; bold sailors, also, which they had from the Phoenicians of Holy Writ, who, with the Greeks, were their forefathers, adding that what they told him of this Georgios accorded well with the character of that people. Thus it came to pass that no suspicion of Georgios or his ship entered the mind of any one of them, which, indeed, was scarcely strange, seeing how well his tale held together, and how plain were the reasons of his presence and the purpose of his dealings in wines and silks. Chapter Six: The Christmas Feast at Steeple The fourth day after Wulf's visit to Southminster was Christmas morning, and the weather being bad, Sir Andrew and his household did not ride to Stangate, but attended mass in Steeple Church. Here, after service, according to his custom on this day, he gave a largesse to his tenants and villeins, and with it his good wishes and a caution that they should not become drunk at their Yuletide feast, as was the common habit of the time. "We shall not get the chance," said Wulf, as they walked to the Hall, "since that merchant Georgios has not delivered the wine, of which I hoped to drink a cup to-night." "Perhaps he has sold it at a better price to someone else; it would be like a Cypriote," answered Sir Andrew, smiling. Then they went into the hall, and as had been agreed between them, together the brethren gave their Christmas gifts to Rosamund. She thanked them prettily enough, and much admired the beauty of the work. When they told her that it had not yet been paid for, she laughed and said that, however they were come by, she would wear both tunic and veil at their feast, which was to be held at nightfall. About two o'clock in the afternoon a servant came into the hall to say that a wain drawn by three horses and accompanied by two men, one of whom led the horses, was coming down the road from Steeple village. "Our merchant--and in time after all," said Wulf, and, followed by the others, he went out to meet them. Georgios it was, sure enough, wrapped in a great sheepskin cloak such as Cypriotes wear in winter, and seated on the head of one of his own barrels. "Your pardon, knights," he said as he scrambled nimbly to the ground. "The roads in this country are such that, although I have left nearly half my load at Stangate, it has taken me four long hours to come from the Abbey here, most of which time we spent in mud-holes that have wearied the horses and, as I fear, strained the wheels of this crazy wagon. Still, here we are at last, and, noble sir," he added, bowing to Sir Andrew, "here too is the wine that your son bought of me." "My nephew," interrupted Sir Andrew. "Once more your pardon. I thought from their likeness to you that these knights were your sons." "Has he bought all that stuff?" asked Sir Andrew--for there were five tubs on the wagon, besides one or two smaller kegs and some packages wrapped in sheepskin. "No, alas!" answered the Cypriote ruefully, and shrugging his shoulders. "Only two of the Mavro. The rest I took to the Abbey, for I understood the holy Prior to say he would purchase six casks, but it seems that it was but three he needed." "He said three," put in Wulf. "Did he, sir? Then doubtless the error was mine, who speak your tongue but ill. So I must drag the rest back again over those accursed roads," and he made another grimace. "Yet I will ask you, sir," he added to Sir Andrew, "to lighten the load a little by accepting this small keg of the old sweet vintage that grows on the slopes of Trooidos." "I remember it well," said Sir Andrew, with a smile; "but, friend, I do not wish to take your wine for nothing." At these words the face of Georgios beamed. "What, noble sir," he exclaimed, "do you know my land of Cyprus? Oh, then indeed I kiss your hands, and surely you will not affront me by refusing this little present? Indeed, to be frank, I can afford to lose its price, who have done a good trade, even here in Essex." "As you will," said Sir Andrew. "I thank you, and perhaps you have other things to sell." "I have indeed; a few embroideries if this most gracious lady would be pleased to look at them. Some carpets also, such as the Moslems used to pray on in the name of their false prophet, Mahomet," and, turning, he spat upon the ground. "I see that you are a Christian," said Sir Andrew. "Yet, although I fought against them, I have known many a good Mussulman. Nor do I think it necessary to spit at the name of Mahomet, who to my mind was a great man deceived by the artifice of Satan." "Neither do I," said Godwin reflectively. "Its true servants should fight the enemies of the Cross and pray for their souls, not spit at them." The merchant looked at them curiously, fingering the silver crucifix that hung upon his breast. "The captors of the Holy City thought otherwise," he said, "when they rode into the Mosque El Aksa up to their horses' knees in blood, and I have been taught otherwise. But the times grow liberal, and, after all, what right has a poor trader whose mind, alas! is set more on gain than on the sufferings of the blessed Son of Mary," and he crossed himself, "to form a judgment upon such high matters? Pardon me, I accept your reproof, who perhaps am bigoted." Yet, had they but known it, this "reproof" was to save the life of many a man that night. "May I ask help with these packages?" he went on, "as I cannot open them here, and to move the casks? Nay, the little keg I will carry myself, as I hope that you will taste of it at your Christmas feast. It must be gently handled, though I fear me that those roads of yours will not improve its quality." Then twisting the tub from the end of the wain onto his shoulder in such a fashion that it remained upright, he walked off lightly towards the open door of the hall. "For one not tall that man is strangely strong," thought Wulf, who followed with a bale of carpets. Then the other casks of wine were stowed away in the stone cellar beneath the hall. Leaving his servant--a silent, stupid-looking, dark-eyed fellow named Petros--to bait the horses, Georgios entered the hall and began to unpack his carpets and embroideries with all the skill of one who had been trained in the bazaars of Cairo, Damascus, or Nicosia. Beautiful things they were which he had to show; broideries that dazzled the eye, and rugs of many hues, yet soft and bright as an otter's pelt. As Sir Andrew looked at them, remembering long dead days, his face softened. "I will buy that rug," he said, "for of a truth it might be one on which I lay sick many a year ago in the house of Ayoub at Damascus. Nay, I haggle not at the price. I will buy it." Then he fell to thinking how, whilst lying on such a rug (indeed, although he knew it not, it was the same), looking through the rounded beads of the wooden lattice-work of his window, he had first seen his Eastern wife walking in the orange garden with her father Ayoub. Afterwards, still recalling his youth, he began to talk of Cyprus, and so time went on until the dark was falling. Now Georgios said that he must be going, as he had sent back his guide to Southminster, where the man desired to eat his Christmas feast. So the reckoning was paid--it was a long one--and while the horses were harnessed to the wain the merchant bored holes in the little cask of wine and set spigots in them, bidding them all be sure to drink of it that night. Then calling down good fortune on them for their kindness and liberality, he made his salaams in the Eastern fashion, and departed, accompanied by Wulf. Within five minutes there was a sound of shouting, and Wulf was back again saying that the wheel of the wain had broken at the first turn, so that now it was lying upon its side in the courtyard. Sir Andrew and Godwin went out to see to the matter, and there they found Georgios wringing his hands, as only an Eastern merchant can, and cursing in some foreign tongue. "Noble knights," he said, "what am I to do? Already it is nearly dark, and how I shall find my way up yonder steep hill I know not. As for the priceless broideries, I suppose they must stay here for the night, since that wheel cannot be mended till to-morrow--" "As you had best do also," said Sir Andrew kindly. "Come, man, do not grieve; we are used to broken axles here in Essex, and you and your servant may as well eat your Christmas dinners at Steeple as in Southminster." "I thank you, Sir knight; I thank you. But why should I, who am but a merchant, thrust myself upon your noble company? Let me stop outside with my man, Petros, and dine with your people in that barn, where I see they are making ready their food." "By no means," answered Sir Andrew. "Leave your servant with my people, who will look after him, and come you into the hall, and tell me some more of Cyprus till our food is ready, which will be soon. Do not fear for your goods; they shall be placed under cover." "All unworthy as I am, I obey," answered the obsequious Georgios. "Petros, do you understand? This noble lord gives us hospitality for the night. His people will show you where to eat and sleep, and help you with your horses." This man, who, he explained, was a Cypriote--a fisherman in summer and a muleteer in winter--bowed, and fixing his dark eyes upon those of his master, spoke in some foreign tongue. "You hear what he says, the silly fellow?" said Georgios. "What? You do not understand Greek--only Arabic? Well, he asks me to give him money to pay for his dinner and his night's lodging. You must forgive him, for he is but a simple peasant, and cannot believe that anyone may be lodged and fed without payment. I will explain to him, the pig!" And explain he did in shrill, high notes, of which no one else could understand a word. "There, Sir Knight, I do not think he will offend you so again. Ah! look. He is walking off--he is sulky. Well, let him alone; he will be back for his dinner, the pig! Oh, the wet and the wind! A Cypriote does not mind them in his sheepskins, in which he will sleep even in the snow." So, Georgios still declaiming upon the shortcomings of his servant, they went back into the hall. Here the conversation soon turned upon other matters, such as the differences between the creeds of the Greek and Latin churches--a subject upon which he seemed to be an expert--and the fear of the Christians in Cyprus lest Saladin should attempt to capture that island. At length five o'clock came, and Georgios having first been taken to the lavatory--it was but a stone trough--to wash his hands, was led to the dinner, or rather to the supper-table, which stood upon a dais in front of the entrance to the solar. Here places were laid for six--Sir Andrew, his nephews, Rosamund, the chaplain, Matthew, who celebrated masses in the church and ate at the hall on feast-days, and the Cypriote merchant, Georgios himself. Below the dais, and between it and the fire, was another table, at which were already gathered twelve guests, being the chief tenants of Sir Andrew and the reeves of his outlying lands. On most days the servants of the house, with the huntsmen, swineherds, and others, sat at a third table beyond the fire. But as nothing would stop these from growing drunken on the good ale at a feast, and though many ladies thought little of it, there was no sin that Rosamund hated so much as this, now their lord sent them to eat and drink at their ease in the barn which stood in the courtyard with its back to the moat. When all had taken their seats, the chaplain said grace, and the meal began. It was rude but very plentiful. First, borne in by the cook on a wooden platter, came a great codfish, whereof he helped portions to each in turn, laying them on their "trenchers"--that is, large slices of bread--whence they ate them with the spoons that were given to each. After the fish appeared the meats, of which there were many sorts, served on silver spits. These included fowls, partridges, duck, and, chief of all, a great swan, that the tenants greeted by knocking their horn mugs upon the table; after which came the pastries, and with them nuts and apples. For drink, ale was served at the lower table. On the dais however, they drank some of the black wine which Wulf had bought--that is, except Sir Andrew and Rosamund, the former because he dared not, and the latter because she had always hated any drink but water--a dislike that came to her, doubtless, with her Eastern blood. Thus they grew merry since their guest proved himself a cheerful fellow, who told them many stories of love and war, for he seemed to know much of loves, and to have been in sundry wars. At these even Sir Andrew, forgetting his ailments and forebodings, laughed well, while Rosamund, looking more beautiful than ever in the gold-starred veil and the broidered tunic which the brethren had given her, listened to them, smiling somewhat absently. At last the feast drew towards its end, when suddenly, as though struck by a sudden recollection, Georgios exclaimed: "The wine! The liquid amber from Trooidos! I had forgotten it. Noble knight, have I your leave to draw?" "Ay, excellent merchant," answered Sir Andrew. "Certainly you can draw your own wine." So Georgios rose, and took a large jug and a silver tankard from the sideboard where such things were displayed. With these he went to the little keg which, it will be remembered, had been stood ready upon the trestles, and, bending over it while he drew the spigots, filled the vessels to the brim. Then he beckoned to a reeve sitting at the lower table to bring him a leather jack that stood upon the board. Having rinsed it out with wine, he filled that also, handing it with the jug to the reeve to drink their lord's health on this Yule night. The silver vessel he bore back to the high table, and with his own hand filled the horn cups of all present, Rosamund alone excepted, for she would touch none, although he pressed her hard and looked vexed at her refusal. Indeed, it was because it seemed to pain the man that Sir Andrew, ever courteous, took a little himself, although, when his back was turned, he filled the goblet up with water. At length, when all was ready, Georgios charged, or seemed to charge, his own horn, and, lifting it, said: "Let us drink, everyone of us here, to the noble knight, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, to whom I wish, in the phrase of my own people, that he may live for ever. Drink, friends, drink deep, for never will wine such as this pass your lips again." Then, lifting his beaker, he appeared to drain it in great gulps--an example which all followed, even Sir Andrew drinking a little from his cup, which was three parts filled with water. There followed a long murmur of satisfaction. "Wine! It is nectar!" said Wulf. "Ay," put in the chaplain, Matthew; "Adam might have drunk this in the Garden," while from the lower table came jovial shouts of praise of this smooth, creamlike vintage. Certainly that wine was both rich and strong. Thus, after his sup of it, a veil as it were seemed to fall on the mind of Sir Andrew and to cover it up. It lifted again, and lo! his brain was full of memories and foresights. Circumstances which he had forgotten for many years came back to him altogether, like a crowd of children tumbling out to play. These passed, and he grew suddenly afraid. Yet what had he to fear that night? The gates across the moat were locked and guarded. Trusty men, a score or more of them, ate in his outbuildings within those gates; while others, still more trusted, sat in his hall; and on his right hand and on his left were those two strong and valiant knights, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf. No, there was nothing to fear--and yet he felt afraid. Suddenly he heard a voice speak. It was Rosamund's; and she said: "Why is there such silence, father? A while ago I heard the servants and bondsmen carousing in the barn; now they are still as death. Oh, and look! Are all here drunken? Godwin--" But as she spoke Godwin's head fell forward on the board, while Wulf rose, half drew his sword, then threw his arm about the neck of the priest, and sank with him to the ground. As it was with these, so it seemed with all, for folk rocked to and fro, then sank to sleep, everyone of them, save the merchant Georgios, who rose to call another toast. "Stranger," said Sir Andrew, in a heavy voice, "your wine is very strong." "It would seem so, Sir Knight," he answered; "but I will wake them from their wassail." Springing from the dais lightly as a cat, he ran down the hall crying, "Air is what they need. Air!" Now coming to the door, he threw it wide open, and drawing a silver whistle from his robe, blew it long and loud. "What," he laughed, "do they still sleep? Why, then, I must give a toast that will rouse them all," and seizing a horn mug, he waved it and shouted: "Arouse you, ye drunkards, and drink to the lady Rose of the World, princess of Baalbec, and niece to my royal master, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, who sends me to lead her to him!" "Oh, father," shrieked Rosamund, "the wine was drugged and we are betrayed!" As the words passed her lips there rose a sound of running feet, and through the open door at the far end of the hall burst in a score or over of armed men. Then at last Sir Andrew saw and understood. With a roar of rage like that of a wounded lion, he seized his daughter and dragged her back with him down the passage into the solar where a fire burned and lights had been lit ready for their retiring, flinging to and bolting the door behind them. "Swift!" he said, as he tore his gown from him, "there is no escape, but at least I can die fighting for you. Give me my mail." She snatched his hauberk from the wall, and while they thundered at the door, did it on to him--ay, and his steel helm also, and gave him his long sword and his shield. "Now," he said, "help me." And they thrust the oak table forward, and overset it in front of the door, throwing the chairs and stools on either side, that men might stumble on them. "There is a bow," he said, "and you can use it as I have taught you. Get to one side and out of reach of the sword sweeps, and shoot past me as they rush; it may stay one of them. Oh, that Godwin and Wulf were here, and we would still teach these Paynim dogs a lesson!" Rosamund made no answer but there came into her mind a vision of the agony of Godwin and of Wulf should they ever wake again to learn what had chanced to her and them. She looked round. Against the wall stood a little desk, at which Godwin was wont to write, and on it lay pen and parchment. She seized them, and as the door gave slowly inwards, scrawled: "Follow me to Saladin. In that hope I live on.--Rosamund." Then as the stout door at length crashed in Rosamund turned what she had written face downwards on the desk, and seizing the bow, set an arrow to its string. Now it was down and on rushed the mob up the six feet of narrow passage. At the end of it, in front of the overturned table, they halted suddenly. For there before them, skull-emblazoned, shield on arm, his long sword lifted, and a terrible wrath burning in his eyes, stood the old knight, like a wolf at bay, and by his side, bow in hand, the beauteous lady Rosamund, clad in all her festal broideries. "Yield you!" cried a voice. By way of answer the bowstring twanged, and an arrow sped home to its feathers through the throat of the speaker, so that he went down, grabbing at it, and spoke no more for ever. As he fell clattering to the floor, Sir Andrew cried in a great voice: "We yield not to pagan dogs and poisoners. A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy! Meet D'Arcy, meet Death!" Thus for the last time did old Sir Andrew utter the warcry of his race, which he had feared would never pass his lips again. His prayer had been heard, and he was to die as he had desired. "Down with him! seize the Princess!" said a voice. It was that of Georgios, no longer humble with a merchant's obsequious whine, but speaking in tones of cold command and in Arabic. For a moment the swarthy mob hung back, as well they might in face of that glittering sword. Then with a cry of "Salah-ed-din! Salah-ed-din!" on they surged, with flashing spears and scimitars. The overthrown table was in front of them, and one leapt upon its edge, but as he leapt, the old knight, all his years and sickness forgotten now, sprang forward and struck downwards, so heavy a blow that in the darkling mouth of the passage the sparks streamed out, and where the Saracen's head had been, appeared his heels. Back Sir Andrew stepped again to win space for his sword-play, while round the ends of the table broke two fierce-faced men. At one of them Rosamund shot with her bow, and the arrow pierced his thigh, but as he fell he struck with his keen scimitar and shore the end off the bow, so that it was useless. The second man caught his foot in the bar of the oak chair which he did not see, and went down prone, while Sir Andrew, taking no heed of him, rushed with a shout at the crowd who followed, and catching their blows upon his shield, rained down others so desperate that, being hampered by their very number, they gave before him, and staggered back along the passage. "Guard your right, father!" cried Rosamund. He sprang round, to see the Saracen, who had fallen, on his feet again. At him he went, nor did the man wait the onset, but turned to fly, only to find his death, for the great sword caught him between neck and shoulders. Now a voice cried: "We make poor sport with this old lion, and lose men. Keep clear of his claws, and whelm him with spear casts." But Rosamund, who understood their tongue, sprang in front of him, and answered in Arabic: "Ay, through my breast; and go, tell that tale to Saladin!" Then, clear and calm was heard the command of Georgios. "He who harms a hair of the Princess dies. Take them both living if you may, but lay no hand on her. Stay, let us talk." So they ceased from their onslaught and began to consult together. Rosamund touched her father and pointed to the man who lay upon the floor with an arrow through his thigh. He was struggling to his knee, raising the heavy scimitar in his hand. Sir Andrew lifted his sword as a husbandman lifts a stick to kill a rat, then let it fall again, saying: "I fight not with the wounded. Drop that steel, and get you back to your own folk." The fellow obeyed him--yes, and even touched the floor with his forehead in salaam as he crawled away, for he knew that he had been given his life, and that the deed was noble towards him who had planned a coward's stroke. Then Georgios stepped forward, no longer the same Georgios who had sold poisoned wine and Eastern broideries, but a proud-looking, high-browed Saracen clad in the mail which he wore beneath his merchant's robe, and in place of the crucifix wearing on his breast a great star-shaped jewel, the emblem of his house and rank. "Sir Andrew," he said, "hearken to me, I pray you. Noble was that act," and he pointed to the wounded man being dragged away by his fellows, "and noble has been your defence--well worthy of your lineage and your knighthood. It is a tale that my master," and he bowed as he said the word, "will love to hear if it pleases Allah that we return to him in safety. Also you will think that I have played a knave's trick upon you, overcoming the might of those gallant knights, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf, not with sword blows but with drugged wine, and treating all your servants in like fashion, since not one of them can shake off its fumes before to-morrow's light. So indeed it is--a very scurvy trick which I shall remember with shame to my life's end, and that perchance may yet fall back upon my head in blood and vengeance. Yet bethink you how we stand, and forgive us. We are but a little company of men in your great country, hidden, as it were, in a den of lions, who, if they saw us, would slay us without mercy. That, indeed, is a small thing, for what are our lives, of which your sword has taken tithe, and not only yours, but those of the twin brethren on the quay by the water?" "I thought it," broke in Sir Andrew contemptuously. "Indeed, that deed was worthy of you--twenty or more men against two." Georgios held up his hand. "Judge us not harshly," he said, speaking slowly, who, for his own ends wished to gain time, "you who have read the letter of our lord. See you, these were my commands: To secure the lady Rose of the World as best I might, but if possible without bloodshed. Now I was reconnoitring the country with a troop of the sailors from my ship who are but poor fighters, and a few of my own people, when my spies brought me word that she had ridden out attended by only two men, and surely I thought that already she was in my hands. But the knights foiled me by strategy and strength, and you know the end of it. So afterwards my messenger presented the letter, which, indeed, should have been done at first. The letter failed also, for neither you, nor the Princess"--and he bowed to Rosamund--"could be bought. More, the whole country was awakened; you were surrounded with armed men, the knightly brethren kept watch and ward over you, and you were about to fly to London, where it would have been hard to snare you. Therefore, because I must, I--who am a prince and an emir, who also, although you remember it not, have crossed swords with you in my youth; yes, at Harenc--became a dealer in drugged wine. "Now hearken. Yield you, Sir Andrew, who have done enough to make your name a song for generations, and accept the love of Salah-ed-din, whose word you have, the word that, as you know well, cannot be broken, which I, the lord El-Hassan--for no meaner man has been sent upon this errand--plight to you afresh. Yield you, and save your life, and live on in honour, clinging to your own faith, till Azrael takes you from the pleasant fields of Baalbec to the waters of Paradise--if such there be for infidels, however gallant. "For know, this deed must be done. Did we return without the princess Rose of the World, we should die, every one of us, and did we offer her harm or insult, then more horribly than I can tell you. This is no fancy of a great king that drives him on to the stealing of a woman, although she be of his own high blood. The voice of God has spoken to Salah-ed-din by the mouth of his angel Sleep. Thrice has Allah spoken in dreams, telling him who is merciful, that through your daughter and her nobleness alone can countless lives be saved; therefore, sooner than she should escape him, he would lose even the half of all his empire. Outwit us, defeat us now, capture us, cause us to be tortured and destroyed, and other messengers would come to do his bidding-- indeed, they are already on the way. Moreover, it is useless to shed more blood, seeing it is written in the Books that this lady, Rose of the World, must return to the East where she was begot, there to fulfil her destiny and save the lives of men." "Then, emir El-Hassan, I shall return as a spirit," said Rosamund proudly. "Not so, Princess," he answered, bowing, "for Allah alone has power over your life, and it is otherwise decreed. Sir Andrew, the time grows short, and I must fulfil my mission. Will you take the peace of Salah-ed-din, or force his servants to take your life?" The old knight listened, resting on his reddened sword; then he lifted his head, and spoke: "I am aged and near my death, wine-seller Georgios, or prince El-Hassan, whichever you may be. In my youth I swore to make no pact with Paynims, and in my eld I will not break that vow. While I can lift sword I will defend my daughter, even against the might of Saladin. Get to your coward's work again, and let things go as God has willed them." "Then, Princess," answered El-Hassan, "bear me witness throughout the East that I am innocent of your father's blood. On his own head be it, and on yours," and for the second time he blew upon the whistle that hung around his neck. Chapter Seven: The Banner of Saladin As the echoes of Hassan's whistle died away there was a crash amongst the wooden shutters of the window behind them, and down into the room leaped a long, lithe figure, holding an axe aloft. Before Sir Andrew could turn to see whence the sound came, that axe dealt him a fearful blow between the shoulders which, although the ringed mail remained unshorn, shattered his spine beneath. Down he fell, rolled on to his back, and lay there, still able to speak and without pain, but helpless as a child. For he was paralysed, and never more would move hand or foot or head. In the silence that followed he spoke in a heavy voice, letting his eyes rest upon the man who had struck him down. "A knightly blow, truly; one worthy of a Christian born who does murder for Paynim pay! Traitor to God and man, who have eaten my bread and now slaughter me like an ox on my hearth-stone, may your own end be even worse, and at the hands of those you serve." The palmer Nicholas, for it was he, although he no longer wore the palmer's robe, slunk away muttering, and was lost among the crowd in the passage. Then, with a sudden and a bitter cry, Rosamund swooped forward, as a bird swoops, snatched up the sword her sire would never lift again, and setting its hilt upon the floor, cast herself forward. But its point never touched her breast, for the emir sprang swiftly and struck the steel aside; then, as she fell, caught her in his arms. "Lady," he said, loosing her very gently. "Allah does not need you yet. I have told you that it is not fated. Now will you pass me your word--for being of the blood of Salah-ed-din and D'Arcy, you, too, cannot lie--that neither now nor afterwards you will attempt to harm yourself? If not, I must bind you, which I am loth to do--it is a sacrilege to which I pray you will not force me." "Promise, Rosamund," said the hollow voice of her father, "and go to fulfil your fate. Self-murder is a crime, and the man is right; it is decreed. I bid you promise." "I obey and promise," said Rosamund. "It is your hour, my lord Hassan." He bowed deeply and answered: "I am satisfied, and henceforth we are your servants. Princess, the night air is bitter; you cannot travel thus. In which chamber are your garments?" She pointed with her finger. A man took a taper, and, accompanied by two others, entered the place, to return presently with their arms full of all the apparel they could find. Indeed, they even brought her missal and the silver crucifix which hung above her bed and with it her leathern case of trinkets. "Keep out the warmest cloak," said Hassan, "and tie the rest up in those carpets." So the rugs that Sir Andrew had bought that day from the merchant Georgios were made to serve as travelling bags to hold his daughter's gear. Thus even in this hour of haste and danger thought was taken for her comfort. "Princess," said Hassan, bowing, "my master, your uncle, sent you certain jewels of no mean value. Is it your wish that they should accompany you?" Without lifting her eyes from her dying father's face, Rosamund answered heavily: "Where they are, there let them bide. What have I to do with jewels?" "Your will is my law," he said, "and others will be found for you. Princess, all is ready; we wait your pleasure." "My pleasure? Oh, God, my pleasure?" exclaimed Rosamund in the same drear voice, still staring at her father, who lay before her on the ground. "I cannot help it," said Hassan, answering the question in her eyes, and there was grief in his tone. "He would not come, he brought it on himself; though in truth I wish that accursed Frank had not struck so shrewdly. If you ask it, we will bear him with you; but, lady, it is idle to hide the truth--he is sped. I have studied medicine, and I know." "Nay," said Sir Andrew from the floor, "leave me here. Daughter, we must part awhile. As I stole his child from Ayoub, so Ayoub's son steals my child from me. Daughter, cling to the faith--that we may meet again." "To the death," she answered. "Be comforted," said Hassan. "Has not Salah-ed-din passed his word that except her own will or that of Allah should change her heart, a Cross-worshipper she may live and die? Lady, for your own sake as well as ours, let this sad farewell be brief. Begone, my servants, taking these dead and wounded with you. There are things it is not fitting that common eyes should see." They obeyed, and the three of them remained alone together. Then Rosamund knelt down beside her father, and they whispered into each other's ears. Hassan turned his back upon them, and threw the corner of his cloak over his head and eyes that he might neither see nor hear their voices in this dread and holy hour of parting. It would seem that they found some kind of hope and consolation in it--at least when Rosamund kissed him for the last time, Sir Andrew smiled and said: "Yes, yes; it may all be for the best. God will guard you, and His will be done. But I forgot. Tell me, daughter, which?" Again she whispered into his ear, and when he had thought a moment, he answered: "Maybe you are right. I think that is wisest for all. And now on the three of you--aye, and on your children's children's children--let my blessing rest, as rest it shall. Come hither, Emir." Hassan heard him through his cloak, and, uncovering, came. "Say to Saladin, your master, that he has been too strong for me, and paid me back in my own coin. Well, had it been otherwise, my daughter and I must soon have parted, for death drew near to me. At least it is the decree of God, to which I bow my head, trusting there may be truth in that dream of his, and that our sorrows, in some way unforeseen, will bring blessings to our brethren in the East. But to Saladin say also that whatever his bigot faith may teach, for Christian and for Paynim there is a meeting-place beyond the grave. Say that if aught of wrong or insult is done towards this maiden, I swear by the God who made us both that there I will hold him to account. Now, since it must be so, take her and go your way, knowing that my spirit follows after you and her; yes, and that even in this world she will find avengers." "I hear your words, and I will deliver them," answered Hassan. "More, I believe that they are true, and for the rest you have the oath of Salah-ed-din--ay, and my oath while she is in my charge. Therefore, Sir Andrew D'Arcy, forgive us, who are but the instruments of Allah, and die in peace." "I, who have so much to be forgiven, forgive you," answered the old knight slowly. Then his eyes fixed themselves upon his daughter's face with one long, searching look, and closed. "I think that he is dead," said Hassan. "May God, the Merciful and Compassionate, rest his soul!" And taking a white garment from the wall, he flung it over him, adding, "Lady, come." Thrice Rosamund looked at the shrouded figure on the floor; once she wrung her hands and seemed about to fall. Then, as though a thought struck her, she lifted her father's sword from where it lay, and gathering her strength, drew herself up and passed like a queen down the blood-stained passage and the steps of the solar. In the hall beneath waited the band of Hassan, who bowed as she came--a vision of despairing loveliness, that held aloft a red and naked sword. There, too, lay the drugged men fallen this way and that, and among them Wulf across the table, and Godwin on the dais. Rosamund spoke. "Are these dead or sleeping?" "Have no fear," answered Hassan. "By my hope of paradise, they do but sleep, and will awake ere morning." Rosamund pointed to the renegade Nicholas--he that had struck down her father from behind--who, an evil look upon his face, stood apart from the Saracens, holding in his hand a lighted torch. "What does this man with the torch?" she asked. "If you would know, lady," Nicholas answered with a sneer, "I wait till you are out of it to fire the hall." "Prince Hassan," said Rosamund, "is this a deed that great Saladin would wish, to burn drugged men beneath their own roof? Now, as you shall answer to him, in the name of Saladin I, a daughter of his House, command you, strike the fire from that man's hand, and in my hearing give your order that none should even think of such an act of shame." "What?" broke in Nicholas, "and leave knights like these, whose quality you know"--and he pointed to the brethren--"to follow in our path, and take our lives in vengeance? Why, it is madness!" "Are you master here, traitor, or am I?" asked Hassan in cold contempt. "Let them follow if they will, and I for one shall rejoice to meet foes so brave in open battle, and there give them their revenge. Ali," he added, addressing the man who had been disguised as a merchant's underling, and who had drugged the men in the barn as his master had drugged those in the hall, and opened the moat gate to the band, "Ali, stamp upon the torch and guard that Frank till we reach the boat lest the fool should raise the country on us with his fires. Now, Princess, are you satisfied?" "Ay, having your word," she answered. "One moment, I pray you. I would leave a token to my knights." Then, while they watched her with wondering eyes, she unfastened the gold cross and chain that hung upon her bosom, and slipping the cross from the chain, went to where Godwin lay, and placed it on his breast. Next, with a swift movement, she wound the chain about the silver hilt of Sir Andrew's sword, and passing to Wulf, with one strong thrust, drove the point between the oak boards of the table, so that it stood before him--at once a cross, a brand of battle, and a lady's token. "His grandsire bore it," she said in Arabic, "when he leapt on to the walls of Jerusalem. It is my last gift to him." But the Saracens muttered and turned pale at these words of evil omen. Then taking the hand of Hassan, who stood searching her white, inscrutable face, with never a word or a backward look, she swept down the length of the long hall, and out into the night beyond. "It would have been well to take my counsel and fire the place, or at least to cut the throats of all within it," said the man Nicholas to his guard Ali as they followed with the rest. "If I know aught of these brethren, cross and sword will soon be hard upon our track, and men's lives must pay the price of such soft folly." And he shivered as though in fear. "It may be so, Spy," answered the Saracen, looking at him with sombre, contemptuous eyes. "It may be that your life will pay the price." Wulf was dreaming, dreaming that he stood on his head upon a wooden plank, as once he had seen a juggler do, which turned round one way while he turned round the other, till at length some one shouted at him, and he tumbled off the board and hurt himself. Then he awoke to hear a voice shouting surely enough--the voice of Matthew, the chaplain of Steeple Church. "Awake!" said the voice. "In God's name, I conjure you, awake!" "What is it?" he said, lifting his head sleepily, and becoming conscious of a dull pain across his forehead. "It is that death and the devil have been here, Sir Wulf." "Well, they are often near together. But I thirst. Give me water." A serving-woman, pallid, dishevelled, heavy-eyed, who was stumbling to and fro, lighting torches and tapers, for it was still dark, brought it to him in a leathern jack, from which he drank deeply. "That is better," he said. Then his eye fell upon the bloody sword set point downwards in the wood of the table before him, and he exclaimed, "Mother of God! what is that? My uncle's silver-hilted sword, red with blood, and Rosamund's gold chain upon the hilt! Priest, where is the lady Rosamund?" "Gone," answered the chaplain in a voice that sounded like a groan. "The women woke and found her gone, and Sir Andrew lies dead or dying in the solar--but now I have shriven him--and oh! we have all been drugged. Look at them!" and he waved his hand towards the recumbent forms. "I say that the devil has been here." Wulf sprang to his feet with an oath. "The devil? Ah! I have it now. You mean the Cyprian chapman Georgios. He who sold wine." "He who sold drugged wine," echoed the chaplain, "and has stolen away the lady Rosamund." Then Wulf seemed to go mad. "Stolen Rosamund over our sleeping carcases! Stolen Rosamund with never a blow struck by us to save her! O, Christ, that such a thing should be! O, Christ, that I should live to hear it!" And he, the mighty man, the knight of skill and strength, broke down and wept like a very child. But not for long, for presently he shouted in a voice of thunder: "Awake, ye drunkards! Awake, and learn what has chanced to us. Your lady Rosamund has been raped away while we were lost in sleep!" At the sound of that great voice a tall form arose from the floor, and staggered towards him, holding a gold cross in its hand. "What awful words are those my brother?" asked Godwin, who, pale and dull-eyed, rocked to and fro before him. Then he, too, saw the red sword and stared, first at it and next at the gold cross in his hand. "My uncle's sword, Rosamund's chain, Rosamund's cross! Where, then, is Rosamund?" "Gone! gone! gone!" cried Wulf. "Tell him, priest." So the chaplain told him all he knew. "Thus have we kept our oaths," went on Wulf. "Oh, what can we do now, save die for very shame?" "Nay," answered Godwin, dreamingly; "we can live on to save her. See, these are her tokens--the cross for me, the blood-stained sword for you, and about its hilt the chain, a symbol of her slavery. Now both of us must bear the cross; both of us must wield the sword, and both of us must cut the chain, or if we fail, then die." "You rave," said Wulf; "and little wonder. Here, drink water. Would that we had never touched aught else, as she did, and desired that we should do. What said you of my uncle, priest? Dead, or only dying? Nay, answer not, let us see. Come, brother." Now together they ran, or rather reeled, torch in hand, along the passage. Wulf saw the bloodstains on the floor and laughed savagely. "The old man made a good fight," he said, "while, like drunken brutes, we slept." They were there, and before them, beneath the white, shroud-like cloak, lay Sir Andrew, the steel helm on his head, and his face beneath it even whiter than the cloak. At the sound of their footsteps he opened his eyes. "At length, at length," he muttered. "Oh, how many years have I waited for you? Nay, be silent, for I do not know how long my strength will last, but listen--kneel down and listen." So they knelt on either side of him, and in quick, fierce words he told them all--of the drugging, of the fight, of the long parley carried on to give the palmer knave time to climb to the window; of his cowardly blow, and of what chanced afterwards. Then his strength seemed to fail him, but they poured drink down his throat, and it came back again. "Take horse swiftly," he gasped, pausing now and again to rest, "and rouse the countryside. There is still a chance. Nay, seven hours have gone by; there is no chance. Their plans were too well laid; by now they will be at sea. So hear me. Go to Palestine. There is money for your faring in my chest, but go alone, with no company, for in time of peace these would betray you. Godwin, draw off this ring from my finger, and with it as a token, find out Jebal, the black sheik of the Mountain Tribe at Masyaf on Lebanon. Bid him remember the vow he made to Andrew D'Arcy, the English knight. If any can aid you, it will be Jebal, who hates the Houses of Nur-ed-din and of Ayoub. So, I charge you, let nothing--I say nothing--turn you aside from seeking him. "Afterwards act as God shall guide you. If they still live, kill that traitor Nicholas and Hugh Lozelle, but, save in open war, spare the Emir Hassan, who did but do his duty as an Eastern reads it, and shown some mercy, for he could have slain or burnt us all. This riddle has been hard for me; yet now, in my dying hour, I seem to see its answer. I think that Saladin did not dream in vain. Keep brave hearts, for I think also that at Masyaf you will find friends, and that things will yet go well, and our sorrows bear good fruit. "What is that you said? She left you my father's sword, Wulf? Then wield it bravely, winning honour for our name. She left you the cross, Godwin? Wear it worthily, winning glory for the Lord, and salvation to your soul. Remember what you have sworn. Whate'er befall, bear no bitterness to one another. Be true to one another, and to her, your lady, so that when at the last you make your report to me before high Heaven, I may have no cause to be ashamed of you, my nephews, Godwin and Wulf." For a moment the dying man was silent, until his face lit up as with a great gladness, and he cried in a loud, clear voice, "Beloved wife, I hear you! O, God, I come!" Then though his eyes stayed open, and the smile still rested on his face, his jaw fell. Thus died Sir Andrew D'Arcy. Still kneeling on either side of him, the brethren watched the end, and, as his spirit passed, bowed their heads in prayer. "We have seen a great death," said Godwin presently. "Let us learn a lesson from it, that when our time comes we may die like him." "Ay," answered Wulf, springing to his feet, "but first let us take vengeance for it. Why, what is this? Rosamund's writing! Read it, Godwin." Godwin took the parchment and read: "Follow me to Saladin. In that hope I live on." "Surely we will follow you, Rosamund," he cried aloud. "Follow you through life to death or victory." Then he threw down the paper, and calling for the chaplain to come to watch the body, they ran into the hall. By this time about half of the folk were awake from their drugged sleep, whilst others who had been doctored by the man Ali in the barn staggered into the hall--wild-eyed, white-faced, and holding their hands to their heads and hearts. They were so sick and bewildered, indeed, that it was difficult to make them understand what had chanced, and when they learned the truth, the most of them could only groan. Still, a few were found strong enough in wit and body to grope their way through the darkness and the falling snow to Stangate Abbey, to Southminster, and to the houses of their neighbours, although of these there were none near, praying that every true man would arm and ride to help them in the hunt. Also Wulf, cursing the priest Matthew and himself that he had not thought of it before, called him from his prayers by their dead uncle, and charged him to climb the church tower as swiftly as he could, and set light to the beacon that was laid ready there. Away he went, taking flint, steel, and tinder with him, and ten minutes later the blaze was flaring furiously above the roof of Steeple Church, warning all men of the need for help. Then they armed, saddled such horses as they had, amongst them the three that had been left there by the merchant Georgios, and gathered all of them who were not too sick to ride or run, in the courtyard of the Hall. But as yet their haste availed them little, for the moon was down. Snow fell also, and the night was still black as death--so black that a man could scarcely see the hand he held before his face. So they must wait, and wait they did, eating their hearts out with grief and rage, and bathing their aching brows in icy water. At length the dawn began to break, and by its first grey light they saw men mounted and afoot feeling their way through the snow, shouting to each other as they came to know what dreadful thing had happened at Steeple. Quickly the tidings spread among them that Sir Andrew was slain, and the lady Rosamund snatched away by Paynims, while all who feasted in the place had been drugged with poisoned wine by a man whom they believed to be a merchant. So soon as a band was got together--perhaps thirty men in all--and there was light to stir by, they set out and began to search, though where to look they knew not, for the snow had covered up all traces of their foes. "One thing is certain," said Godwin, "they must have come by water." "Ay," answered Wulf, "and landed near by, since, had they far to go, they would have taken the horses, and must run the risk also of losing their path in the darkness. To the Staithe! Let us try Steeple Staithe." So on they went across the meadow to the creek. It lay but three bow-shots distant. At first they could see nothing, for the snow covered the stones of the little pier, but presently a man cried out that the lock of the water house, in which the brethren kept their fishing-boat, was broken, and next minute, that the boat was gone. "She was small; she would hold but six men," cried a voice. "So great a company could never have crowded into her." "Fool!" one answered, "there may have been other boats." So they looked again, and beneath the thin coating of rime, found a mark in the mud by the Staithe, made by the prow of a large boat, and not far from it a hole in the earth into which a peg had been driven to make her fast. Now the thing seemed clear enough, but it was to be made yet clearer, for presently, even through the driving snow, the quick eye of Wulf caught sight of some glittering thing which hung to the edge of a clump of dead reeds. A man with a lance lifted it out at his command, and gave it to him. "I thought so," he said in a heavy voice; "it is a fragment of that star-wrought veil which was my Christmas gift to Rosamund, and she has torn it off and left it here to show us her road. To St. Peter's-on-the-Wall! To St. Peter's, I say, for there the boats or ship must pass, and maybe that in the darkness they have not yet won out to sea." So they turned their horses' heads, and those of them that were mounted rode for St. Peter's by the inland path that runs through Steeple St. Lawrence and Bradwell town, while those who were not, started to search along the Saltings and the river bank. On they galloped through the falling snow, Godwin and Wulf leading the way, whilst behind them thundered an ever-gathering train of knights, squires and yeomen, who had seen the beacon flare on Steeple tower, or learned the tale from messengers--yes, and even of monks from Stangate and traders from Southminster. Hard they rode, but the lanes were heavy with fallen snow and mud beneath, and the way was far, so that an hour had gone by before Bradwell was left behind, and the shrine of St. Chad lay but half a mile in front. Now of a sudden the snow ceased, and a strong northerly wind springing up, drove the thick mist before it and left the sky hard and blue behind. Still riding in this mist, they pressed on to where the old tower loomed in front of them, then drew rein and waited. "What is that?" said Godwin presently, pointing to a great, dim thing upon the vapour-hidden sea. As he spoke a strong gust of wind tore away the last veils of mist, revealing the red face of the risen sun, and not a hundred yards away from them--for the tide was high--the tall masts of a galley creeping out to sea beneath her banks of oars. As they stared the wind caught her, and on the main-mast rose her bellying sail, while a shout of laughter told them that they themselves were seen. They shook their swords in the madness of their rage, knowing well who was aboard that galley; while to the fore peak ran up the yellow flag of Saladin, streaming there like gold in the golden sunlight. Nor was this all, for on the high poop appeared the tall shape of Rosamund herself, and on one side of her, clad now in coat of mail and turban, the emir Hassan, whom they had known as the merchant Georgios, and on the other, a stout man, also clad in mail, who at that distance looked like a Christian knight. Rosamund stretched out her arms towards them. Then suddenly she sprang forward as though she would throw herself into the sea, had not Hassan caught her by the arm and held her back, whilst the other man who was watching slipped between her and the bulwark. In his fury and despair Wulf drove his horse into the water till the waves broke about his middle, and there, since he could go no further, sat shaking his sword and shouting: "Fear not! We follow! we follow!" in such a voice of thunder, that even through the wind and across the everwidening space of foam his words may have reached the ship. At least Rosamund seemed to hear them, for she tossed up her arms as though in token. But Hassan, one hand pressed upon his heart and the other on his forehead, only bowed thrice in courteous farewell. Then the great sail filled, the oars were drawn in, and the vessel swept away swiftly across the dancing waves, till at length she vanished, and they could only see the sunlight playing on the golden banner of Saladin which floated from her truck. Chapter Eight: The Widow Masouda Many months had gone by since the brethren sat upon their horses that winter morning, and from the shrine of St. Peter's-on-the-Wall, at the mouth of the Blackwater in Essex, watched with anguished hearts the galley of Saladin sailing southwards; their love and cousin, Rosamund, standing a prisoner on the deck. Having no ship in which to follow her--and this, indeed, it would have been too late to do--they thanked those who had come to aid them, and returned home to Steeple, where they had matters to arrange. As they went they gathered from this man and that tidings which made the whole tale clear to them. They learned, for instance, then and afterwards, that the galley which had been thought to be a merchantman put into the river Crouch by design, feigning an injury to her rudder, and that on Christmas eve she had moved up with the tide, and anchored in the Blackwater about three miles from its mouth. Thence a great boat, which she towed behind her, and which was afterwards found abandoned, had rowed in the dusk, keeping along the further shore to avoid observation, to the mouth of Steeple Creek, which she descended at dark, making fast to the Staithe, unseen of any. Her crew of thirty men or more, guided by the false palmer Nicholas, next hid themselves in the grove of trees about fifty yards from the house, where traces of them were found afterwards, waiting for the signal, and, if that were necessary, ready to attack and burn the Hall while all men feasted there. But it was not necessary, since the cunning scheme of the drugged wine, which only an Eastern could have devised, succeeded. So it happened that the one man they had to meet in arms was an old knight, of which doubtless they were glad, as their numbers being few, they wished to avoid a desperate battle, wherein many must fall, and, if help came, they might be all destroyed. When it was over they led Rosamund to the boat, felt their way down the creek, towing behind them the little skiff which they had taken from the water-house--laden with their dead and wounded. This, indeed, proved the most perilous part of their adventures, since it was very dark, and came on to snow; also twice they grounded upon mud banks. Still guided by Nicholas, who had studied the river, they reached the galley before dawn, and with the first light weighed anchor, and very cautiously rowed out to sea. The rest is known. Two days later, since there was no time to spare, Sir Andrew was buried with great pomp at Stangate Abbey, in the same tomb where lay the heart of his brother, the father of the brethren, who had fallen in the Eastern wars. After he had been laid to rest amidst much lamentation and in the presence of a great concourse of people, for the fame of these strange happenings had travelled far and wide, his will was opened. Then it was found that with the exception of certain sums of money left to his nephews, a legacy to Stangate Abbey, and another to be devoted to masses for the repose of his soul, with some gifts to his servants and the poor, all his estate was devised to his daughter Rosamund. The brethren, or the survivor of them, however, held it in trust on her behalf, with the charge that they should keep watch and ward over her, and manage her lands till she took a husband. These lands, together with their own, the brethren placed in the hands of Prior John of Stangate, in the presence of witnesses, to administer for them subject to the provisions of the will, taking a tithe of the rents and profits for his pains. The priceless jewels also that had been sent by Saladin were given into his keeping, and a receipt with a list of the same signed in duplicate, deposited with a clerk at Southminster. This, indeed, was necessary, seeing that none save the brethren and the Prior knew of these jewels, of which, being of so great a value, it was not safe to speak. Their affairs arranged, having first made their wills in favour of each other with remainder to their heirs-at-law, since it was scarcely to be hoped that both of them would return alive from such a quest, they received the Communion, and with it his blessing from the hands of the Prior John. Then early one morning, before any were astir, they rode quietly away to London. On the top of Steeple Hill, sending forward the servant who led the mule laden with their baggage--that same mule which had been left by the spy Nicholas--the brethren turned their horses' heads to look in farewell on their home. There to the north of them lay the Blackwater, and to the west the parish of Mayland, towards which the laden barges crept along the stream of Steeple Creek. Below was the wide, flat, plain outlined with trees, and in it, marked by the plantation where the Saracens had hid, the Hall and church of Steeple, the home in which they had grown from childhood to youth, and from youth to man's estate in the company of the fair, lost Rosamund, who was the love of both, and whom both went forth to seek. That past was all behind them, and in front a dark and troublous future, of which they could not read the mystery nor guess the end. Would they ever look on Steeple Hall again? Were they who stood there about to match their strength and courage against all the might of Saladin, doomed to fail or gloriously to succeed? Through the darkness that shrouded their forward path shone one bright star of love--but for which of them did that star shine, or was it perchance for neither? They knew not. How could they know aught save that the venture seemed very desperate. Indeed, the few to whom they had spoken of it thought them mad. Yet they remembered the last words of Sir Andrew, bidding them keep a high heart, since he believed that things would yet go well. It seemed to them, in truth, that they were not quite alone--as though his brave spirit companioned them on their search, guiding their feet, with ghostly counsel which they could not hear. They remembered also their oaths to him, to one another, and to Rosamund; and in silent token that they would keep them to the death, pressed each other's hands. Then, turning their horses southwards, they rode forward with light hearts, not caring what befell, if only at the last, living or dead, Rosamund and her father should, in his own words, find no cause to be ashamed of them. Through the hot haze of a July morning a dromon, as certain merchant vessels of that time were called, might have been seen drifting before a light breeze into St. George's Bay at Beirut, on the coast of Syria. Cyprus, whence she had sailed last, was not a hundred miles away, yet she had taken six days to do the journey, not on account of storms--of which there were none at this time of year, but through lack of wind to move her. Still, her captain and the motley crowd of passengers--for the most part Eastern merchants and their servants, together with a number of pilgrims of all nations--thanked God for so prosperous a voyage--for in those times he who crossed the seas without shipwreck was very fortunate. Among these passengers were Godwin and Wulf, travelling, as their uncle had bidden them, unattended by squires or by servants. Upon the ship they passed themselves off as brothers named Peter and John of Lincoln, a town of which they knew something, having stayed there on their way to the Scottish wars; simple gentlemen of small estate, making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in penitence for their sins and for the repose of the souls of their father and mother. At this tale their fellow-passengers, with whom they had sailed from Genoa, to which place they travelled overland, shrugged their shoulders. For these brethren looked what they were, knights of high degree; and considering their great stature, long swords, and the coats of mail they always wore beneath their gambesons, none believed them but plain gentlefolk bent on a pious errand. Indeed, they nicknamed them Sir Peter and Sir John, and as such they were known throughout the voyage. The brethren were seated together in a little place apart in the bow of the ship, and engaged, Godwin in reading from an Arabic translation of the Gospels made by some Egyptian monk, and Wulf in following it with little ease in the Latin version. Of the former tongue, indeed, they had acquired much in their youth, since they learned it from Sir Andrew with Rosamund, although they could not talk it as she did, who had been taught to lisp it as an infant by her mother. Knowing, too, that much might hang upon a knowledge of this tongue, they occupied their long journey in studying it from such books as they could get; also in speaking it with a priest, who had spent many years in the East, and instructed them for a fee, and with certain Syrian merchants and sailors. "Shut the book, brother," said Wulf; "there is Lebanon at last," and he pointed to the great line of mountains revealing themselves dimly through their wrappings of mist. "Glad I am to see them, who have had enough of these crooked scrolls and learnings." "Ay," said Godwin, "the Promised Land." "And the Land of Promise for us," answered his brother. "Well, thank God that the time has come to act, though how we are to set about it is more than I can say." "Doubtless time will show. As our uncle bade, we will seek out this Sheik Jebal---" "Hush!" said Wulf, for just then some merchants, and with them a number of pilgrims, their travel-worn faces full of rapture at the thought that the terrors of the voyage were done, and that they were about to set foot upon the ground their Lord had trodden, crowded forward to the bow to obtain their first view of it, and there burst into prayers and songs of thanksgiving. Indeed, one of these men--a trader known as Thomas of Ipswich--was, they found, standing close to them, and seemed as though he listened to their talk. The brethren mingled with them while this same Thomas of Ipswich, who had visited the place before, or so it seemed, pointed out the beauties of the city, of the fertile country by which it was surrounded, and of the distant cedar-clad mountains where, as he said, Hiram, King of Tyre, had cut the timber for Solomon's Temple. "Have you been on them?" asked Wulf. "Ay, following my business," he answered, "so far." And he showed them a great snow-capped peak to the north. "Few ever go further." "Why not?" asked Godwin. "Because there begins the territory of the Sheik Al-je-bal"--and he looked at them meaningly--"whom," he added, "neither Christian nor Saracen visit without an invitation, which is seldom given." Again they inquired why not. "Because," answered the trader, still watching them, "most men love their lives, and that man is the lord of death and magic. Strange things are to be seen in his castle, and about it lie wonderful gardens inhabited by lovely women that are evil spirits, who bring the souls of men to ruin. Also, this Old Man of the Mountain is a great murderer, of whom even all the princes of the East are terrified, for he speaks a word to his fedais--or servants--who are initiated, and they go forth and bring to death any whom he hates. Young men, I like you well, and I say to you, be warned. In this Syria there are many wonders to be seen; leave those of Masyaf and its fearful lord alone if you desire to look again upon--the towers of Lincoln." "Fear not; we will," answered Godwin, "who come to seek holy places--not haunts of devils." "Of course we will," added Wulf. "Still, that country must be worth travelling in." Then boats came out to greet them from the shore--for at that time Beirut was in the hands of the Franks--and in the shouting and confusion which followed they saw no more of this merchant Thomas. Nor did they seek him out again, since they thought it unwise to show themselves too curious about the Sheik Al-je-bal. Indeed, it would have been useless, since that trader was ashore two full hours before they were suffered to leave the ship, from which he departed alone in a private boat. At length they stood in the motley Eastern crowd upon the quay, wondering where they could find an inn that was quiet and of cheap charges, since they did not wish to be considered persons of wealth or importance. As they lingered here, somewhat bewildered, a tall, veiled woman whom they had noted watching them, drew near, accompanied by a porter, who led a donkey. This man, without more ado, seized their baggage, and helped by other porters began to fasten it upon the back of the donkey with great rapidity, and when they would have forbidden him, pointed to the veiled woman. "Your pardon," said Godwin to her at length and speaking in French, "but this man--" "Loads up your baggage to take it to my inn. It is cheap, quiet and comfortable--things which I heard you say you required just now, did I not?" she answered in a sweet voice, also speaking in good French. Godwin looked at Wulf, and Wulf at Godwin, and they began to discuss together what they should do. When they had agreed that it seemed not wise to trust themselves to the care of a strange woman in this fashion, they looked up to see the donkey laden with their trunks being led away by the porter. "Too late to say no, I fear me," said the woman with a laugh, "so you must be my guests awhile if you would not lose your baggage. Come, after so long a journey you need to wash and eat. Follow me, sirs, I pray you." Then she walked through the crowd, which, they noted, parted for her as she went, to a post where a fine mule was tied. Loosing it, she leaped to the saddle without help, and began to ride away, looking back from time to time to see that they were following her, as, indeed, they must. "Whither go we, I wonder," said Godwin, as they trudged through the sands of Beirut, with the hot sun striking on their heads. "Who can tell when a strange woman leads?" replied Wulf, with a laugh. At last the woman on the mule turned through a doorway in a wall of unburnt brick, and they found themselves before the porch of a white, rambling house which stood in a large garden planted with mulberries, oranges and other fruit trees that were strange to them, and was situated on the borders of the city. Here the woman dismounted and gave the mule to a Nubian who was waiting. Then, with a quick movement she unveiled herself, and turned towards them as though to show her beauty. Beautiful she was, of that there could be no doubt, with her graceful, swaying shape, her dark and liquid eyes, her rounded features and strangely impassive countenance. She was young also--perhaps twenty-five, no more--and very fair-skinned for an Eastern. "My poor house is for pilgrims and merchants, not for famous knights; yet, sirs, I welcome you to it," she said presently, scanning them out of the corners of her eyes. "We are but squires in our own country, who make the pilgrimage," replied Godwin. "For what sum each day will you give us board and a good room to sleep in?" "These strangers," she said in Arabic to the porter, "do not speak the truth." "What is that to you?" he answered, as he busied himself in loosening the baggage. "They will pay their score, and all sorts of mad folk come to this country, pretending to be what they are not. Also you sought them--why, I know not--not they you." "Mad or sane, they are proper men," said the impassive woman, as though to herself, then added in French, "Sirs, I repeat, this is but a humble place, scarce fit for knights like you, but if you will honour it, the charge is--so much." "We are satisfied," said Godwin, "especially," he added, with a bow and removing the cap from his head, "as, having brought us here without leave asked, we are sure that you will treat us who are strangers kindly." "As kindly as you wish--I mean as you can pay for," said the woman. "Nay, I will settle with the porter; he would cheat you." Then followed a wrangle five minutes long between this curious, handsome, still-faced woman and the porter who, after the eastern fashion, lashed himself into a frenzy over the sum she offered, and at length began to call her by ill names. She stood looking at him quite unmoved, although Godwin, who understood all, but pretended to understand nothing, wondered at her patience. Presently, however, in a perfect foam of passion he said, or rather spat out: "No wonder, Masouda the Spy, that after hiring me to do your evil work, you take the part of these Christian dogs against a true believer, you child of Al-je-bal!" Instantly the woman seemed to stiffen like a snake about to strike. "Who is he?" she said coldly. "Do you mean the lord--who kills?" And she looked at him--a terrible look. At that glance all the anger seemed to go out of the man. "Your pardon, widow Masouda," he said. "I forgot that you are a Christian, and naturally side with Christians. The money will not pay for the wear of my ass's hoofs, but give it me, and let me go to pilgrims who will reward me better." She gave him the sum, adding in her quiet voice: "Go; and if you love life, keep better watch over your words." Then the porter went, and now so humble was his mien that in his dirty turban and long, tattered robe he looked, Wulf thought, more like a bundle of rags than a man mounted on the donkey's back. Also it came into his mind that their strange hostess had powers not possessed by innkeepers in England. When she had watched him through the gate, Masouda turned to them and said in French: "Forgive me, but here in Beirut these Saracen porters are extortionate, especially towards us Christians. He was deceived by your appearance. He thought that you were knights, not simple pilgrims as you avow yourselves, who happen to be dressed and armed like knights beneath your gambesons; and," she added, fixing her eyes upon the line of white hair on Godwin's head where the sword had struck him in the fray on Death Creek quay, "show the wounds of knights, though it is true that a man might come by such in any brawl in a tavern. Well, you are to pay me a good price, and you shall have my best room while it pleases you to honour me with your company. Ah! your baggage. You do not wish to leave it. Slave, come here." With startling suddenness the Nubian who had led away the mule appeared, and took up some of the packages. Then she led them down a passage into a large, sparsely-furnished room with high windows, in which were two beds laid on the cement floor, and asked them if it pleased them. They said: "Yes; it will serve." Reading what passed in their minds, she added: "Have no fear for your baggage. Were you as rich as you say you are poor, and as noble as you say you are humble, both it and you are safe in the inn of the widow Masouda, O my guests--but how are you named?" "Peter and John." "O, my guests, Peter and John, who have come to visit the land of Peter and John and other holy founders of our faith--" "And have been so fortunate as to be captured on its shore by the widow Masouda," answered Godwin, bowing again. "Wait to speak of the fortune until you have done with her, Sir--is it Peter, or John?" she replied, with something like a smile upon her handsome face. "Peter," answered Godwin. "Remember the pilgrim with the line of white hair is Peter." "You need it to distinguish you apart, who, I suppose, are twins. Let me see--Peter has a line of white hair and grey eyes. John has blue eyes. John also is the greater warrior, if a pilgrim can be a warrior--look at his muscles; but Peter thinks the more. It would be hard for a woman to choose between Peter and John, who must both of them be hungry, so I go to prepare their food." "A strange hostess," said Wulf, laughing, when she had left the room; "but I like her, though she netted us so finely. I wonder why? What is more, brother Godwin, she likes you, which is as well, since she may be useful. But, friend Peter, do not let it go too far, since, like that porter, I think also that she may be dangerous. Remember, he called her a spy, and probably she is one." Godwin turned to reprove him, when the voice of the widow Masouda was heard without saying: "Brothers Peter and John, I forgot to caution you to speak low in this house, as there is lattice-work over the doors to let in the air. Do not be afraid. I only heard the voice of John, not what he said." "I hope not," muttered Wulf, and this time he spoke very low indeed. Then they undid their baggage, and having taken from it clean garments, washed themselves after their long journey with the water that had been placed ready for them in great jars. This, indeed, they needed, for on that crowded dromon there was little chance of washing. By the time they had clothed themselves afresh, putting on their shirts of mail beneath their tunics, the Nubian came and led them to another room, large and lighted with high-set lattices, where cushions were piled upon the floor round a rug that also was laid upon the floor. Motioning them to be seated on the cushions, he went away, to return again presently, accompanied by Masouda bearing dishes upon brass platters. These she placed before them, bidding them eat. What that food was they did not know, because of the sauces with which it had been covered, until she told them that it was fish. After the fish came flesh, and after the flesh fowls, and after the fowls cakes and sweetmeats and fruits, until, ravenous as they were, who for days had fed upon salted pork and biscuits full of worms washed down with bad water, they were forced to beg her to bring no more. "Drink another cup of wine at least," she said, smiling and filling their mugs with the sweet vintage of Lebanon--for it seemed to please her to see them eat so heartily of her fare. They obeyed, mixing the wine with water. While they drank she asked them suddenly what were their plans, and how long they wished to stay in Beirut. They answered that for the next few days they had none, as they needed to rest, to see the town and its neighbourhood, and to buy good horses--a matter in which perhaps she could help them. Masouda nodded again, and asked whither they wished to ride on horses. "Out yonder," said Wulf, waving his hand towards the mountains. "We desire to look upon the cedars of Lebanon and its great hills before we go on towards Jerusalem." "Cedars of Lebanon?" she replied. "That is scarcely safe for two men alone, for in those mountains are many wild beasts and wilder people who rob and kill. Moreover, the lord of those mountains has just now a quarrel with the Christians, and would take any whom he found prisoners." "How is that lord named?" asked Godwin. "Sinan," she answered, and they noted that she looked round quickly as she spoke the word. "Oh," he said, "we thought the name was Jebal." Now she stared at him with wide, wondering eyes, and replied: "He is so called also; but, Sir Pilgrims, what know you of the dread lord Al-je-bal?" "Only that he lives at a place called Masyaf, which we wish to visit." Again she stared. "Are you mad?" she queried, then checked herself, and clapped her hands for the slave to remove the dishes. While this was being done they said they would like to walk abroad. "Good," answered Masouda, "the man shall accompany you--nay, it is best that you do not go alone, as you might lose your way. Also, the place is not always safe for strangers, however humble they may seem," she added with meaning. "Would you wish to visit the governor at the castle, where there are a few English knights, also some priests who give advice to pilgrims?" "We think not," answered Godwin; "we are not worthy of such high company. But, lady, why do you look at us so strangely?" "I am wondering, Sir Peter and Sir John, why you think it worth while to tell lies to a poor widow? Say, in your own country did you ever hear of certain twin brethren named--oh, how are they named?--Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf, of the house of D'Arcy, which has been told of in this land?" Now Godwin's jaw dropped, but Wulf laughed out loud, and seeing that they were alone in the room, for the slave had departed, asked in his turn: "Surely those twins would be pleased to find themselves so famous. But how did you chance to hear of them, O widowed hostess of a Syrian inn?" "I? Oh, from a man on the dromon who called here while I made ready your food, and told me a strange story that he had learned in England of a band sent by Salah-ed-din--may his name be accursed!--to capture a certain lady. Of how the brethren named Godwin and Wulf fought all that band also--ay, and held them off--a very knightly deed he said it was--while the lady escaped; and of how afterwards they were taken in a snare, as those are apt to be who deal with the Sultan, and this time the lady was snatched away." "A wild tale truly," said Godwin. "But did this man tell you further whether that lady has chanced to come to Palestine?" She shook her head. "Of that he told me nothing, and I have heard nothing. Now listen, my guests. You think it strange that I should know so much, but it is not strange, since here in Syria, knowledge is the business of some of us. Did you then believe, O foolish children, that two knights like you, who have played a part in a very great story, whereof already whispers run throughout the East, could travel by land and sea and not be known? Did you then think that none were left behind to watch your movements and to make report of them to that mighty one who sent out the ship of war, charged with a certain mission? Well, what he knows I know. Have I not said it is my business to know? Now, why do I tell you this? Well, perhaps because I like such knights as you are, and I like that tale of two men who stood side by side upon a pier while a woman swam the stream behind them, and afterwards, sore wounded, charged their way through a host of foes. In the East we love such deeds of chivalry. Perhaps also because I would warn you not to throw away lives so gallant by attempting to win through the guarded gates of Damascus upon the maddest of all quests. "What, you still stare at me and doubt? Good, I have been telling you lies. I was not awaiting you upon the quay, and that porter with whom I seemed to quarrel was not charged to seize your baggage and bring it to my house. No spies watched your movements from England to Beirut. Only since you have been at dinner I visited your room and read some writings which, foolishly, you and John have left among your baggage, and opened some books in which other names than Peter and John were written, and drew a great sword from its scabbard on which was engraved a motto: 'Meet D'Arcy, meet Death!' and heard Peter call John Wulf, and John call Peter Godwin, and so forth." "It seems," said Wulf in English, "that we are flies in a web, and that the spider is called the widow Masouda, though of what use we are to her I know not. Now, brother, what is to be done? Make friends with the spider?" "An ill ally," answered Godwin. Then looking her straight in the face he asked, "Hostess, who know so much, tell me why, amongst other names, did that donkey driver call you 'daughter of Al-je-bal'?" She started, and answered: "So you understand Arabic? I thought it. Why do you ask? What does it matter to you?" "Not much, except that, as we are going to visit Al-je-bal, of course we think ourselves fortunate to have met his daughter." "Going to visit Al-je-bal? Yes, you hinted as much upon the ship, did you not? Perhaps that is why I came to meet you. Well, your throats will be cut before ever you reach the first of his castles." "I think not," said Godwin, and, putting his hand into his breast, he drew thence a ring, with which he began to play carelessly. "Whence that ring?" she said, with fear and wonder in her eyes. "It is--" and she ceased. "From one to whom it was given and who has charged us with a message. Now, hostess, let us be plain with one another. You know a great deal about us, but although it has suited us to call ourselves the pilgrims Peter and John, in all this there is nothing of which we need be ashamed, especially as you say that our secret is no secret, which I can well believe. Now, this secret being out, I propose that we remove ourselves from your roof, and go to stay with our own people at the castle, where, I doubt not, we shall be welcome, telling them that we would bide no longer with one who is called a spy, whom we have discovered also to be a 'daughter of Al-je-bal.' After which, perhaps, you will bide no longer in Beirut, where, as we gather, spies and the 'daughters of Al-je-bal' are not welcome." She listened with an impassive face, and answered: "Doubtless you have heard that one of us who was so named was burned here recently as a witch?" "Yes," broke in Wulf, who now learned this fact for the first time, "we heard that." "And think to bring a like fate upon me. Why, foolish men, I can lay you both dead before ever those words pass your lips." "You think you can," said Godwin, "but for my part I am sure that this is not fated, and am sure also that you do not wish to harm us any more than we wish to harm you. To be plain, then, it is necessary for us to visit Al-je-bal. As chance has brought us together--if it be chance--will you aid us in this, as I think you can, or must we seek other help?" "I do not know. I will tell you after four days. If you are not satisfied with that, go, denounce me, do your worst, and I will do mine, for which I should be sorry." "Where is the security that you will not do it if we are satisfied?" asked Wulf bluntly. "You must take the word of a 'daughter of Al-je-bal.' I have none other to offer," she replied. "That may mean death," said Wulf. "You said just now that was not fated, and although I have sought your company for my own reasons, I have no quarrel with you--as yet. Choose your own path. Still, I tell you that if you go, who, chancing to know Arabic, have learned my secret, you die, and that if you stay you are safe--at least while you are in this house. I swear it on the token of Al-je-bal," and bending forward she touched the ring in Godwin's hand, "but remember that for the future I cannot answer." Godwin and Wulf looked at each other. Then Godwin replied: "I think that we will trust you, and stay," words at which she smiled a little as though she were pleased, then said: "Now, if you wish to walk abroad, guests Peter and John, I will summon the slave to guide you, and in four days we will talk more of this matter of your journey, which, until then, had best be forgotten." So the man came, armed with a sword, and led them out, clad in their pilgrims' robes, through the streets of this Eastern town, where everything was so strange, that for awhile they forgot their troubles in studying the new life about them. They noted, moreover, that though they went into quarters where no Franks were to be seen, and where fierce-looking servants of the Prophet stared at them sourly, the presence of this slave of Masouda seemed to be sufficient to protect them from affront, since on seeing him even the turbaned Saracens nudged each other and turned aside. In due course they came to the inn again, having met no one whom they knew, except two pilgrims who had been their fellow-passengers on the dromon. These men were astonished when they said that they had been through the Saracen quarter of the city, where, although this town was in the hands of the Christians, it was scarcely thought safe for Franks to venture without a strong guard. When the brethren were back in their chamber, seated at the far end of it, and speaking very low, lest they should be overheard, they consulted together long and earnestly as to what they should do. This was clear--they and something of their mission were known, and doubtless notice of their coming would soon be given to the Sultan Saladin. From the king and great Christian lords in Jerusalem they could expect little help, since to give it might be to bring about an open rupture with Saladin, such as the Franks dreaded, and for which they were ill prepared. Indeed, if they went to them, it seemed likely that they would be prevented from stirring in this dangerous search for a woman who was the niece of Saladin, and for aught they knew thrown into prison, or shipped back to Europe. True, they might try to find their way to Damascus alone, but if the Sultan was warned of their coming, would he not cause them to be killed upon the road, or cast into some dungeon where they would languish out their lives? The more they spoke of these matters the more they were perplexed, till at length Godwin said: "Brother, our uncle bade us earnestly to seek out this Al-je-bal, and though it seems that to do so is very dangerous, I think that we had best obey him who may have been given foresight at the last. When all paths are full of thorns what matter which you tread?" "A good saying," answered Wulf. "I am weary of doubts and troublings. Let us follow our uncle's will, and visit this Old Man of the Mountains, to do which I think the widow Masouda is the woman to help us. If we die on that journey, well, at least we shall have done our best." Chapter Nine: The Horses Flame and Smoke On the following morning, when they came into the eating-room of the inn, Godwin and Wulf found they were no longer alone in the house, for sundry other guests sat there partaking of their morning meal. Among them were a grave merchant of Damascus, another from Alexandria in Egypt, a man who seemed to be an Arab chief, a Jew of Jerusalem, and none other than the English trader Thomas of Ipswich, their fellow-passenger, who greeted them warmly. Truly they seemed a strange and motley set of men. Considering them as the young and stately widow Masouda moved from one to the other, talking to each in turn while she attended to their wants, it came into Godwin's mind that they might be spies meeting there to gain or exchange information, or even to make report to their hostess, in whose pay perhaps they were. Still if so, of this they showed no sign. Indeed, for the most part they spoke in French, which all of them understood, on general matters, such as the heat of the weather, the price of transport animals or merchandise, and the cities whither they purposed to travel. The trader Thomas, it appeared, had intended to start for Jerusalem that morning with his goods. But the riding mule he had bought proved to be lame from a prick in the hoof, nor were all his hired camels come down from the mountains, so that he must wait a few days, or so he said. Under these circumstances, he offered the brethren his company in their ramblings about the town. This they thought it wise not to refuse, although they felt little confidence in the man, believing that it was he who had found out their story and true names and revealed them to Masouda, either through talkativeness or with a purpose. However these things might be, this Thomas proved of service to them, since, although he was but just landed, he seemed to know all that had passed in Syria since he left it, and all that was passing then. Thus he told them how Guy of Lusignan had just made himself king in Jerusalem on the death of the child Baldwin, and how Raymond of Tripoli refused to acknowledge him and was about to be besieged in Tiberias. How Saladin also was gathering a great host at Damascus to make war upon the Christians, and many other things, false and true. In his company, then, and sometimes in that of the other guests-- none of whom showed any curiosity concerning them, though whether this was from good manners or for other reasons they could not be sure--the brethren passed the hours profitably enough. It was on the third morning of their stay that their hostess Masouda, with whom as yet they had no further private talk, asked them if they had not said that they wished to buy horses. On their answering "Yes," she added that she had told a certain man to bring two for them to look at, which were now in the stable beyond the garden. Thither they went, accompanied by Masouda, to find a grave Arab, wrapped in a garment of camel's hair and carrying a spear in his hand, standing at the door of the cave which served the purpose of a stable, as is common in the East where the heat is so great. As they advanced towards him, Masouda said: "If you like the horses, leave me to bargain, and seem to understand nothing of my talk." The Arab, who took no notice of them, saluted Masouda, and said to her in Arabic: "Is it then for Franks that I have been ordered to bring the two priceless ones?" "What is that to you, my Uncle, Son of the Sand?" she asked. "Let them be led forth that I may know whether they are those for which I sent." The man turned and called into the door of the cave. "Flame, come hither!" As he spoke, there was a sound of hoofs, and through the low archway leapt the most beautiful horse that ever their eyes had seen. It was grey in colour, with flowing mane and tail, and on its forehead was a black star; not over tall, but with a barrel-like shape of great strength, small-headed, large-eyed; wide-nostriled, big-boned, but fine beneath the knee, and round-hoofed. Out it sprang snorting; then seeing its master, the Arab, checked itself and stood still by him as though it had been turned to stone. "Come hither, Smoke," called the Arab again, and another horse appeared and ranged itself by the first. In size and shape it was the same, but the colour was coal-black and the star upon its forehead white. Also the eye was more fiery. "These are the horses," said the Arab, Masouda translating. "They are twins, seven years old and never backed until they were rising six, cast at a birth by the swiftest mare in Syria, and of a pedigree that can be counted for a hundred years." "Horses indeed!" said Wulf. "Horses indeed! But what is the price of them?" Masouda repeated the question in Arabic, whereon the man replied in the same tongue with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "Be not foolish. You know this is no question of price, for they are beyond price. Say what you will." "He says," said Masouda, "that it is a hundred gold pieces for the pair. Can you pay as much?" The brethren looked at each other. The sum was large. "Such horses have saved men's lives ere now," added Masouda, "and I do not think that I can ask him to take less, seeing that, did he but know it, in Jerusalem they could be sold for thrice as much. But if you wish, I could lend you money, since doubtless you have jewels or other articles of value you could give as security--that ring in your breast, for instance, Peter." "We have the gold itself," answered Wulf, who would have paid to his last piece for those horses. "They buy," said Masouda. "They buy, but can they ride?" asked the Arab. "These horses are not for children or pilgrims. Unless they can ride well they shall not have them--no, not even if you ask it of me." Godwin said that he thought so--at least, they would try. Then the Arab, leaving the horses standing there, went into the stable, and with the help of two of the inn servants, brought out bridles and saddles unlike any they had seen. They were but thickly-quilted pads stretching far back upon the horses' loins, with strong hide girths strapped with wool and chased stirrups fashioned like half hoofs. The bits also were only snaffles without curbs. When all was ready and the stirrups had been let down to the length they desired, the Arab motioned to them to mount. As they prepared to do so, however, he spoke some word, and suddenly those meek, quiet horses were turned into two devils, which reared up on their hind legs and threatened them with their teeth and their front hoofs, that were shod with thin plates of iron. Godwin stood wondering, but Wulf, who was angry at the trick, got behind the horses, and watching his chance, put his hands upon the flanks of the stallion named Smoke, and with one spring leapt into the saddle. Masouda smiled, and even the Arab muttered "Good," while Smoke, feeling himself backed, came to the ground again and became quiet as a sheep. Then the Arab spoke to the horse Flame, and Godwin was allowed to vault into the saddle also. "Where shall we go?" he asked. Masouda said they would show them, and, accompanied by her and the Arab, they walked the horses until they were quite clear of the town, to find themselves on a road that had the sea to the left, and to the right a stretch of flat land, some of it cultivated, above which rose the steep and stony sides of hills. Here on this road the brethren trotted and cantered the horses to and fro, till they began to be at home in their strange saddles who from childhood had ridden barebacked in the Essex marshes, and to learn what pressure on the bit was needed to check or turn them. When they came back to where the pair stood, Masouda said that if they were not afraid the seller wished to show them that the horses were both strong and swift. "We fear no ride that he dares to take himself," answered Wulf angrily, whereon the Arab smiled grimly and said something in a low voice to Masouda. Then, placing his hand upon Smoke's flank, he leapt up behind Wulf, the horse never stirring. "Say, Peter, are you minded to take a companion for this ride?" asked Masouda; and as she spoke a strange look came into her eyes, a wild look that was new to the brethren. "Surely," answered Godwin, "but where is the companion?" Her reply was to do as the Arab had done, and seating herself straddle-legged behind Godwin, to clasp him around the middle. "Truly you look a pretty pilgrim now, brother," said Wulf, laughing aloud, while even the grave Arab smiled and Godwin muttered between his teeth the old proverb "Woman on croup, devil on bow." But aloud he said, "I am indeed honoured; yet, friend Masouda, if harm should come of this, do not blame me." "No harm will come--to you, friend Peter; and I have been so long cooped in an inn that I, who am desert-born, wish for a gallop on the mountains with a good horse beneath me and a brave knight in front. Listen, you brethren; you say you do not fear; then leave your bridles loose, and where'er we go and whate'er we meet seek not to check or turn the horses Flame and Smoke. Now, Son of the Sand, we will test these nags of which you sing so loud a song. Away, and let the ride be fast and far!" "On your head be it then, daughter," answered the old Arab. "Pray Allah that these Franks can sit a horse!" Then his sombre eyes seemed to take fire, and gripping the encircling saddle girth, he uttered some word of command, at which the stallions threw up their heads and began to move at a long, swinging gallop towards the mountains a mile away. At first they went over cultivated land off which the crops had been already cut, taking two or three ditches and a low wall in their stride so smoothly that the brethren felt as though they were seated upon swallows. Then came a space of sandy sward, half a mile or more, where their pace quickened, after which they began to breast the long slope of a hill, picking their way amongst its stones like cats. Ever steeper it grew, till in places it was so sheer that Godwin must clutch the mane of Flame, and Masouda must cling close to Godwin's middle to save themselves from slipping off behind. Yet, notwithstanding the double weights they bore, those gallant steeds never seemed to falter or to tire. At one spot they plunged through a mountain stream. Godwin noted that not fifty yards to their right this stream fell over a little precipice cutting its way between cliffs which were full eighteen feet from bank to bank, and thought to himself that had they struck it lower down, that ride must have ended. Beyond the stream lay a hundred yards or so of level ground, and above it still steeper country, up which they pushed their way through bushes, till at length they came to the top of the mountain and saw the plain they had left lying two miles or more below them. "These horses climb hills like goats," Wulf said; "but one thing is certain: we must lead them down." Now on the top of the mountain was a stretch of land almost flat and stoneless, over which they cantered forward, gathering speed as the horses recovered their wind till the pace grew fast. Suddenly the stallions threw themselves on to their haunches and stopped, as well they might, for they were on the verge of a chasm, at whose far foot a river brawled in foam. For a moment they stood; then, at some word from the Arab, wheeled round, and, bearing to the left, began to gallop back across the tableland, until they approached the edge of the mountainside, where the brethren thought that they would stop. But Masouda cried to the Arab, and the Arab cried to the horses, and Wulf cried to Godwin in the English tongue, "Show no fear, brother. Where they go, we can go." "Pray God that the girths may hold," answered Godwin, leaning back against the breast of Masouda behind him. As he spoke they began to descend the hill, slowly at first, afterwards faster and yet more fast, till they rushed downwards like a whirlwind. How did those horses keep their footing? They never knew, and certainly none that were bred in England could have done so. Yet never falling, never stumbling even, on they sped, taking great rocks in their stride, till at length they reached the level piece of land above the stream, or rather above the cleft full eighteen feet in width at the foot of which that stream ran. Godwin saw and turned cold. Were these folk mad that they would put double-laden horses at such a jump? If they hung back, if they missed their stride, if they caught hoof or sprang short, swift death was their portion. But the old Arab seated behind Wulf only shouted aloud, and Masouda only tightened her round arms about Godwin's middle and laughed in his ear. The horses heard the shout, and seeming to see what was before them, stretched out their long necks and rushed forward over the flat ground. Now they were on the edge of the terrible place, and, like a man in a dream, Godwin noted the sharp, sheer lips of the cliff, the gulf between them, and the white foam of the stream a score of yards beneath. Then he felt the brave horse Flame gather itself together and next instant fly into the air like a bird. Also--and was this dream indeed, or even as they sped over that horrible pit did he feel a woman's lips pressed upon his cheek? He was not sure. Who could have been at such a time, with death beneath them? Perchance it was the wind that kissed him, or a lock of her loose hair which struck across his face. Indeed, at the moment he thought of other things than women's lips--those of the black and yawning gulf, for instance. They swooped through the air, the white foam vanished, they were safe. No; the hind feet of Flame had missed their footing, they fell, they were lost. A struggle. How tight those arms clung about him. How close that face was pressed against his own. Lo! it was over. They were speeding down the hill, and alongside of the grey horse Flame raced the black horse Smoke. Wulf on its back, with eyes that seemed to be starting from his head, was shouting, "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy!" and behind him, turban gone, and white burnous floating like a pennon on the air, the grim-visaged Arab, who also shouted. Swifter and yet swifter. Did ever horses gallop so fast? Swifter and yet swifter, till the air sang past them and the ground seemed to fly away beneath. The slope was done. They were on the flat; the flat was past, they were in the fields; the fields were left behind; and, behold! side by side, with hanging heads and panting flanks, the horses Smoke and Flame stood still upon the road, their sweating hides dyed red in the light of the sinking sun. The grip loosened from about Godwin's middle. It had been close; on Masouda's round and naked arms were the prints of the steel shirt beneath his tunic, for she slipped to the ground and stood looking at them. Then she smiled one of her slow, thrilling smiles, gasped and said: "You ride well, pilgrim Peter, and pilgrim John rides well also, and these are good horses; and, oh! that ride was worth the riding, even though death had been its end. Son of the Sand, my Uncle, what say you?" "That I grow old for such gallops--two on one horse, with nothing to win." "Nothing to win?" said Masouda. "I am not so sure!" and she looked at Godwin. "Well, you have sold your horses to pilgrims who can ride, and they have proved them, and I have had a change from my cooking in the inn, to which I must now get me back again." Wulf wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head, and muttered: "I always heard the East was full of madmen and devils; now I know that it is true." But Godwin said nothing. They led the horses back to the inn, where the brethren groomed them down under the direction of the Arab, that the gallant beasts might get used to them, which, after carrying them upon that fearful ride, they did readily enough. Then they fed them with chopped barley, ear and straw together, and gave them water to drink that had stood in the sun all day to warm, in which the Arab mixed flour and some white wine. Next morning at the dawn they rose to see how Flame and Smoke fared after that journey. Entering the stable, they heard the sound of a man weeping, and hidden in the shadow, saw by the low light of the morning that it was the old Arab, who stood with his back to them, an arm around the neck of each horse, which he kissed from time to time. Moreover, he talked aloud in his own tongue to them, calling them his children, and saying that rather would he sell his wife and his sister to the Franks. "But," he added, "she has spoken--why, I know not--and I must obey. Well, at least they are gallant men and worthy of such steeds. Half I hoped that you and the three of us and my niece Masouda, the woman with the secret face and eyes that have looked on fear, might perish in the cleft of the stream; but it was not willed of Allah. So farewell, Flame, and farewell, Smoke, children of the desert, who are swifter than arrows, for never more shall I ride you in battle. Well, at least I have others of your matchless blood." Then Godwin touched Wulf on the shoulder, and they crept away from the stable without the Arab knowing that they had been there, for it seemed shameful to pry upon his grief. When they reached their room again Godwin asked Wulf: "Why does this man sell us those noble steeds?" "Because his niece Masouda has bid him so to do," he answered. "And why has she bidden him?" "Ah!" replied Wulf. "He called her 'the woman with the secret face and eyes that have looked on fear,' didn't he? Well, for reasons that have to do with his family perhaps, or with her secrets, or us, with whom she plays some game of which we know neither the beginning nor the end. But, Brother Godwin, you are wiser than I. Why do you ask me these riddles? For my part, I do not wish to trouble my head about them. All I know is that the game is a brave one, and I mean to go through with it, especially as I believe that this playing will lead us to Rosamund." "May it lead us nowhere worse," answered Godwin with something like a groan, for he remembered that dream of his which he dreamed in mid-air between the edges of black rock with the bubbling foam beneath. But to Wulf he said nothing of this dream. When the sun was fully up they prepared to go out again, taking with them the gold to pay the Arab; but on opening the door of their room they met Masouda, apparently about to knock upon it. "Whither go you, friends Peter and John, and so early?" she asked, looking at them with a smile upon her beautiful face that was so thrilling and seemed to hide so much mystery. Godwin thought to himself that it was like another smile, that on the face of the woman-headed, stone sphinx which they had seen set up in the market place of Beirut. "To visit our horses and pay your uncle, the Arab, his money," answered Wulf. "Indeed! I thought I saw you do the first an hour ago, and as for the second, it is useless; Son of the Sand has gone." "Gone! With the horses?" "Nay, he has left them behind." "Did you pay him, then, lady?" asked Godwin. It was easy to see that Masouda was pleased at this courteous word, for her voice, which in general seemed a little hard, softened as she answered, for the first time giving him his own title. "Why do you call me 'lady,' Sir Godwin D'Arcy, who am but an inn-keeper, for whom sometimes men find hard names? Well, perhaps I was a lady once before I became an inn-keeper; but now I am--the widow Masouda, as you are the pilgrim Peter. Still, I thank you for this--bad guess of yours." Then stepping back a foot or two towards the door, which she had closed behind her, she made him a curtsey so full of dignity and grace that any who saw it must be sure that, wherever she might dwell, Masouda was not bred in inns. Godwin returned the bow, doffing his cap. Their eyes met and in hers he learned that he had no treachery to fear from this woman, whatever else he might have to fear. Indeed, from that moment, however black and doubtful seemed the road, he would have trusted his life to her; for this was the message written there, a message which she meant that he should read. Yet at his heart he felt terribly afraid. Wulf, who saw something of all this and guessed more, also was afraid. He wondered what Rosamund would have thought of it, if she had seen that strange and turbulent look in the eyes of this woman who had been a lady and was an inn-keeper; of one whom men called Spy, and daughter of Satan, and child of Al-je-bal. To his fancy that look was like a flash of lightning upon a dark night, which for a second illumines some magical, unguessed landscape, after which comes the night again, blacker than before. Now the widow Masouda was saying in her usual somewhat hard voice: "No; I did not pay him. At the last he would take no money; but, having passed it, neither would he break his word to knights who ride so well and boldly. So I made a bargain with him on behalf of both of you, which I expect that you will keep, since my good faith is pledged, and this Arab is a chief and my kinsman. It is this, that if you and these horses should live, and the time comes when you have no more need of them, you will cause it to be cried in the market-place of whatever town is nearest to you, by the voice of the public crier, that for six days they stand to be returned to him who lent them. Then if he comes not they can be sold, which must not be sold or given away to any one without this proclamation. Do you consent?" "Ay," answered both of them, but Wulf added: "Only we should like to know why the Arab, Son-of-the-Sand, who is your kinsman, trusts his glorious horses to us in this fashion." "Your breakfast is served, my guests," answered Masouda in tones that rang like the clash of metal, so steely were they. Whereon Wulf shook his head and followed her into the eating-room, which was now empty again as it had been on the afternoon of their arrival. Most of that day they spent with their horses. In the evening, this time unaccompanied by Masouda, they rode out for a little way, though rather doubtfully, since they were not sure that these beasts which seemed to be almost human would not take the bits between their teeth and rush with them back to the desert whence they came. But although from time to time they looked about them for their master, the Arab, whinnying as they looked, this they did not do, or show vice of any kind; indeed, two Iadies' palfreys could not have been more quiet. So the brethren brought them home again, groomed, fed and fondled them, while they pricked their ears, sniffing them all over, as though they knew that these were their new lords and wished to make friends of them. The morrow was a Sunday, and, attended by Masouda's slave, without whom she would not suffer them to walk in the town, the brethren went to mass in the big church which once had been a mosque, wearing pilgrim's robes over their mail. "Do you not accompany us, who are of the faith?" asked Wulf. "Nay," answered Masouda, "I am in no mood to make confession. This day I count my beads at home." So they went alone, and mingling with a crowd of humble persons at the back of the church, which was large and dim, watched the knights and priests of various nations struggling for precedence of place beneath the dome. Also they heard the bishop of the town preach a sermon from which they learnt much. He spoke at length of the great coming war with Saladin, whom he named Anti-Christ. Moreover, he prayed them all to compose their differences and prepare for that awful struggle, lest in the end the Cross of their Master should be trampled under foot of the Saracen, His soldiers slain, His fanes desecrated, and His people slaughtered or driven into the sea--words of warning that were received in heavy silence. "Four full days have gone by. Let us ask our hostess if she has any news for us," said Wulf as they walked back to the inn. "Ay, we will ask her," answered Godwin. As it chanced, there was no need, for when they entered their chamber they found Masouda standing in the centre of it, apparently lost in thought. "I have come to speak with you," she said, looking up. "Do you still wish to visit the Sheik Al-je-bal?" They answered "Yes." "Good. I have leave for you to go; but I counsel you not to go, since it is dangerous. Let us be open with one another. I know your object. I knew it an hour before ever you set foot upon this shore, and that is why you were brought to my house. You would seek the help of the lord Sinan against Salah-ed-din, from whom you hope to rescue a certain great lady of his blood who is your kinswoman and whom both of you--desire in marriage. You see, I have learned that also. Well, this land is full of spies, who travel to and from Europe and make report of all things to those who pay them enough. For instance--I can say it, as you will not see him again--the trader Thomas, with whom you stayed in this house, is such a spy. To him your story has been passed on by other spies in England, and he passed it on to me." "Are then you a spy also, as the porter called you?" asked Wulf outright. "I am what I am," she answered coldly. "Perhaps I also have sworn oaths and serve as you serve. Who my master is or why I do so is naught to you. But I like you well, and we have ridden together-- a wild ride. Therefore I warn you, though perhaps I should not say so much, that the lord Al-je-bal is one who takes payment for what he gives, and that this business may cost you your lives." "You warned us against Saladin also," said Godwin, "so what is left to us if we may dare a visit to neither?" She shrugged her shoulders. "To take service under one of the great Frankish lords and wait a chance that will never come. Or, better still, to sew some cockle shells into your hats, go home as holy men who have made the pilgrimage, marry the richest wives that you can find, and forget Masouda the widow, and Al-je-bal and Salah-ed-din and the lady about whom he has dreamed a dream. Only then," she added in a changed voice, "remember, you must leave the horses Flame and Smoke behind you." "We wish to ride those horses," said Wulf lightly, and Godwin turned on her with anger in his eyes. "You seem to know our story," he said, "and the mission to which we are sworn. What sort of knights do you think us, then, that you offer us counsel which is fitter for those spies from whom you learn your tidings? You talk of our lives. Well, we hold our lives in trust, and when they are asked of us we will yield them up, having done all that we may do." "Well spoken," answered Masouda. "Ill should I have thought of you had you said otherwise. But why would you go to Al-je-bal?" "Because our uncle at his death bade us so to do without fail, and having no other counsel we will take that of his spirit, let come what may." "Well spoken again! Then to Al-je-bal you shall go, and let come what come may--to all three of us!" "To all three of us?" said Wulf. "What, then, is your part in this matter?" "I do not know, but perhaps more than you think. At least, I must be your guide." "Do you mean to betray us?" asked Wulf bluntly. She drew herself up and looked him in the eyes till he grew red, then said: "Ask your brother if he thinks that I mean to betray you. No; I mean to save you, if I can, and it comes into my mind that before all is done you will need saving, who speak so roughly to those who would befriend you. Nay, answer not; it is not strange that you should doubt. Pilgrims to the fearful shrine of Al-je-bal, if it pleases you, we will ride at nightfall. Do not trouble about food and such matters. I will make preparation, but we go alone and secretly. Take only your arms and what garments you may need; the rest I will store, and for it give you my receipt. Now I go to make things ready. See, I pray of you, that the horses Flame and Smoke are saddled by sunset." At sundown, accordingly, the brethren stood waiting in their room. They were fully armed beneath their rough pilgrims' robes, even to the bucklers which had been hidden in their baggage. Also the saddle-bags of carpet which Masouda had given them were packed with such things as they must take, the rest having been handed over to her keeping. Presently the door opened, and a young man stood before them clothed in the rough camel-hair garment, or burnous, which is common in the East. "What do you want?" asked Godwin. "I want you, brothers Peter and John," was the reply, and they saw that the slim young man was Masouda. "What! you English innocents, do you not know a woman through a camel-hair cloak?" she added as she led the way to the stable. "Well, so much the better, for it shows that my disguise is good. Henceforth be pleased to forget the widow Masouda and, until we reach the land of Al-je-bal, to remember that I am your servant, a halfbreed from Jaffa named David, of no religion--or of all." In the stable the horses stood saddled, and near to them another--a good Arab--and two laden Cyprian mules, but no attendant was to be seen. They brought them out and mounted, Masouda riding like a man and leading the mules, of which the head of one was tied to the tail of the other. Five minutes later they were clear of Beirut, and through the solemn twilight hush, followed the road whereon they had tried the horses, towards the Dog River, three leagues away, which Masouda said they would reach by moonrise. Soon it grew very dark, and she rode alongside of them to show them the path, but they did not talk much. Wulf asked her who would take care of the inn while she was absent, to which she answered sharply that the inn would take care of itself, and no more. Picking their way along the stony road at a slow amble, they crossed the bed of two streams then almost dry, till at length they heard running water sounding above that of the slow wash of the sea to their left, and Masouda bade them halt. So they waited, until presently the moon rose in a clear sky, revealing a wide river in front, the pale ocean a hundred feet beneath them to the left, and to the right great mountains, along the face of which their path was cut. So bright was it that Godwin could see strange shapes carven on the sheer face of the rock, and beneath them writing which he could not read. "What are these?" he asked Masouda. "The tablets of kings," she answered, "whose names are written in your holy book, who ruled Syria and Egypt thousands of years ago. They were great in their day when they took this land, greater even than Salah-ed-din, and now these seals which they set upon this rock are all that is left of them." Godwin and Wulf stared at the weather-worn sculptures, and in the silence of that moonlit place there arose in their minds a vision of the mighty armies of different tongues and peoples who had stood in their pride on this road and looked upon yonder river and the great stone wolf that guarded it, which wolf, so said the legend, howled at the approach of foes. But now he howled no more, for he lay headless beneath the waters, and there he lies to this day. Well, they were dead, everyone of them, and even their deeds were forgotten; and oh! how small the thought of it made them feel, these two young men bent upon a desperate quest in a strange and dangerous land. Masouda read what was passing in their hearts, and as they came to the brink of the river, pointed to the bubbles that chased each other towards the sea, bursting and forming again before their eyes. "Such are we," she said briefly; "but the ocean is always yonder, and the river is always here, and of fresh bubbles there will always be a plenty. So dance on life's water while you may, in the sunlight, in the moonlight, beneath the storm, beneath the stars, for ocean calls and bubbles burst. Now follow me, for I know the ford, and at this season the stream is not deep. Pilgrim Peter, ride you at my side in case I should be washed from the saddle; and pilgrim John, come you behind, and if they hang back, prick the mules with your sword point." Thus, then, they entered the river, which many might have feared to do at night, and, although once or twice the water rose to their saddles and the mules were stubborn in the swift stream, in the end gained the further bank in safety. Thence they pursued their path through mountains till at length the sun rose and they found themselves in a lonely land where no one was to be seen. Here they halted in a grove of oaks, off-saddled their animals, tethered and fed them with barley which they had brought upon a mule, and ate of the food that Masouda had provided. Then, having secured the beasts, they lay down to sleep, all three of them, since Masouda said that here there was nothing to fear; and being weary, slept on till the heat of noon was past, when once more they fed the horses and mules, and having dined themselves, set forward upon their way. Now their road--if road it could be called, for they could see none--ran ever upwards through rough, mountainous country, where seemed to dwell neither man nor beast. At sunset they halted again, and at moonrise went forward till the night turned towards morning, when they came to a place where was a little cave. Before they reached this spot of a sudden the silence of those lonely hills was broken by a sound of roaring, not very near to them, but so loud and so long that it echoed and reechoed from the cliff. At it the horses Flame and Smoke pricked their ears and trembled, while the mules strove to break away and run back. "What is that?" asked Wulf, who had never heard its like. "Lions," answered Masouda. "We draw near the country where there are many of them, and therefore shall do well to halt presently, since it is best to pass through that land in daylight." So when they came to the cave, having heard no more of the lion, or lions, they unsaddled there, purposing to put the horses into it, where they would be safe from the attack of any such ravening beast. But when they tried to do this, Smoke and Flame spread out their nostrils, and setting their feet firm before them, refused to enter the place, about which there was an evil smell. "Perhaps jackals have been here," said Masouda. "Let us tether them all in the open." This then they did, building a fire in front of them with dry wood that lay about in plenty, for here grew sombre cedar trees. The brethren sat by this fire; but, the night being hot, Masouda laid herself down about fifteen paces away under a cedar tree, which grew almost in front of the mouth of the cave, and slept, being tired with long riding. Wulf slept also, since Godwin had agreed to keep watch for the first part of the night. For an hour or more he sat close by the horses, and noted that they fed uneasily and would not lie down. Soon, however, he was lost in his own thoughts, and, as he heard no more of the lions, fell to wondering over the strangeness of their journey and of what the end of it might be. He wondered also about Masouda, who she was, how she came to know so much, why she befriended them if she really was a friend, and other things--for instance, of that leap over the sunken stream; and whether--no, surely he had been mistaken, her eyes had never looked at him like that. Why, he was sleeping at his post, and the eyes in the darkness yonder were not those of a woman. Women's eyes were not green and gold; they did not grow large, then lessen and vanish away. Godwin sprang to his feet. As he thought, they were no eyes. He had dreamed, that was all. So he took cedar boughs and threw them on to the fire, where soon they flared gloriously, which done he sat himself down again close to Wulf, who was lost in heavy slumber. The night was very still and the silence so deep that it pressed upon him like a weight. He could bear it no longer, and rising, began to walk up and down in front of the cave, drawing his sword and holding it in his hand as sentries do. Masouda lay upon the ground, with her head pillowed on a saddle-bag, and the moonlight fell through the cedar boughs upon her face. Godwin stopped to look at it, and wondered that he had never noted before how beautiful she was. Perhaps it was but the soft and silvery light which clothed those delicate features with so much mystery and charm. She might be dead, not sleeping; but even as he thought this, life came into her face, colour stole up beneath the pale, olive-hued skin, the red lips opened, seeming to mutter some words, and she stretched out her rounded arms as though to clasp a vision of her dream. Godwin turned aside; it seemed not right to watch her thus, although in truth he had only come to know that she was safe. He went back to the fire, and lifting a cedar bough, which blazed like a torch in his left hand, was about to lay it down again on the centre of the flame, when suddenly he heard the sharp and terrible cry of a woman in an agony of pain or fear, and at the same moment the horses and mules began to plunge and snort. In an instant, the blazing bough still in his hand, he was back by the cave, and lo! there before him, the form of Masouda, hanging from its jaws, stood a great yellow beast, which, although he had never seen its like, he knew must be a lioness. It was heading for the cave, then catching sight of him, turned and bounded away in the direction of the fire, purposing to reenter the wood beyond. But the woman in its mouth cumbered it, and running swiftly, Godwin came face to face with the brute just opposite the fire. He hurled the burning bough at it, whereon it dropped Masouda, and rearing itself straight upon its hind legs, stretched out its claws, and seemed about to fall on him. For this Godwin did not wait. He was afraid, indeed, who had never before fought lions, but he knew that he must do or die. Therefore he charged straight at it, and with all the strength of his strong arm drove his long sword into the yellow breast, till it seemed to him that the steel vanished and he could see nothing but the hilt. Then a shock, a sound of furious snarling, and down he went to earth beneath a soft and heavy weight, and there his senses left him. When they came back again something soft was still upon his face; but this proved to be only the hand of Masouda, who bathed his brow with a cloth dipped in water, while Wulf chafed his hands. Godwin sat up, and in the light of the new risen sun, saw a dead lioness lying before him, its breast still transfixed with his own sword. "So I saved you," he said faintly. "Yes, you saved me," answered Masouda, and kneeling down she kissed his feet; then rising again, with her long, soft hair wiped away the blood that was running from a wound in his arm. Chapter Ten: On Board the Galley Rosamund was led from the Hall of Steeple across the meadow down to the quay at Steeple Creek, where a great boat waited--that of which the brethren had found the impress in the mud. In this the band embarked, placing their dead and wounded, with one or two to tend them, in the fishing skiff that had belonged to her father. This skiff having been made fast to the stern of the boat, they pushed off, and in utter silence rowed down the creek till they reached the tidal stream of the Blackwater, where they turned their bow seawards. Through the thick night and the falling snow slowly they felt their way along, sometimes rowing, sometimes drifting, while the false palmer Nicholas steered them. The journey proved dangerous, for they could scarcely see the shore, although they kept as close to it as they dared. The end of it was that they grounded on a mud bank, and, do what they would, could not thrust themselves free. Now hope rose in the heart of Rosamund, who sat still as a statue in the middle of the boat, the prince Hassan at her side and the armed men--twenty or thirty of them--all about her. Perhaps, she thought, they would remain fast there till daybreak, and be seen and rescued when the brethren woke from their drugged sleep. But Hassan read her mind, and said to her gently enough: "Be not deceived, lady, for I must tell you that if the worst comes to the worst, we shall place you in the little skiff and go on, leaving the rest to take their chance." As it happened, at the full tide they floated off the bank and drifted with the ebb down towards the sea. At the first break of dawn she looked up, and there, looming large in the mist, lay a galley, anchored in the mouth of the river. Giving thanks to Allah for their safe arrival, the band brought her aboard and led her towards the cabin. On the poop stood a tall man, who was commanding the sailors that they should get up the anchor. As she came he advanced to her, bowing and saying: "Lady Rosamund, thus you find me once more, who doubtless you never thought to see again." She looked at him in the faint light and her blood went cold. It was the knight Lozelle. "You here, Sir Hugh?" she gasped. "Where you are, there I am," he answered, with a sneer upon his coarse, handsome face. "Did I not swear that it should be so, beauteous Rosamund, after your saintly cousin worsted me in the fray?" "You here?" she repeated, "you, a Christian knight, and in the pay of Saladin!" "In the pay of anyone who leads me to you, Rosamund." Then, seeing the emir Hassan approach, he turned to give some orders to the sailors, and she passed on to the cabin and in her agony fell upon her knees. When Rosamund rose from them she felt that the ship was moving, and, desiring to look her last on Essex land, went out again upon the poop, where Hassan and Sir Hugh placed themselves, one upon either side of her. Then it was that she saw the tower of St. Peter's-on-the-Wall and her cousins seated on horseback in front of it, the light of the risen sun shining upon their mail. Also she saw Wulf spur his horse into the sea, and faintly heard his great cry of "Fear not! We follow, we follow!" A thought came to her, and she sprang towards the bulwark; but they were watching and held her, so that all that she could do was to throw up her arms in token. Now the wind caught the sail and the ship went forward swiftly, so that soon she lost sight of them. Then in her grief and rage Rosamund turned upon Sir Hugh Lozelle and beat him with bitter words till he shrank before her. "Coward and traitor!" she said. "So it was you who planned this, knowing every secret of our home, where often you were a guest! You who for Paynim gold have murdered my father, not daring to show your face before his sword, but hanging like a thief upon the coast, ready to receive what braver men had stolen. Oh! may God avenge his blood and me on you, false knight--false to Him and me and faith and honour--as avenge He will! Heard you not what my kinsman called to me? 'We follow. We follow!' Yes, they follow, and their swords--those swords you feared to look on--shall yet pierce your heart and give up your soul to your master Satan," and she paused, trembling with her righteous wrath, while Hassan stared at her and muttered: "By Allah, a princess indeed! So have I seen Salah-ed-din look in his rage. Yes, and she has his very eyes." But Sir Hugh answered in a thick voice. "Let them follow--one or both. I fear them not and out there my foot will not slip in the snow." "Then I say that it shall slip in the sand or on a rock," she answered, and turning, fled to the cabin and cast herself down and wept till she thought that her heart would break. Well might Rosamund weep whose beloved sire was slain, who was torn from her home to find herself in the power of a man she hated. Yet there was hope for her. Hassan, Eastern trickster as he might be, was her friend; and her uncle, Saladin, at least, would never wish that she should be shamed. Most like he knew nothing of this man Lozelle, except as one of those Christian traitors who were ever ready to betray the Cross for gold. But Saladin was far away and her home lay behind her, and her cousins and lovers were eating out their hearts upon that fading shore. And she--one woman alone--was on this ship with the evil man Lozelle, who thus had kept his promise, and there were none save Easterns to protect her, none save them--and God, Who had permitted that such things should be. The ship swayed, she grew sick and faint. Hassan brought her food with his own hands, but she loathed it who only desired to die. The day turned to night, the night turned to day again, and always Hassan brought her food and strove to comfort her, till at length she remembered no more. Then came a long, long sleep, and in the sleep dreams of her father standing with his face to the foe and sweeping them down with his long sword as a sickle sweeps corn--of her father felled by the pilgrim knave, dying upon the floor of his own house, and saying "God will guard you. His will be done." Dreams of Godwin and Wulf also fighting to save her, plighting their troths and swearing their oaths, and between the dreams blackness. Rosamund awoke to feel the sun streaming warmly through the shutter of her cabin, and to see a woman who held a cup in her hand, watching her--a stout woman of middle age with a not unkindly face. She looked about her and remembered all. So she was still in the ship. "Whence come you?" she asked the woman. "From France, lady. This ship put in at Marseilles, and there I was hired to nurse one who lay sick, which suited me very well, as I wished to go to Jerusalem to seek my husband, and good money was offered me. Still, had I known that they were all Saracens on this ship, I am not sure that I should have come--that is, except the captain, Sir Hugh, and the palmer Nicholas; though what they, or you either, are doing in such company I cannot guess." "What is your name?" asked Rosamund idly. "Marie--Marie Bouchet. My husband is a fishmonger, or was, until one of those crusading priests got hold of him and took him off to kill Paynims and save his soul, much against my will. Well, I promised him that if he did not return in five years I would come to look for him. So here I am, but where he may be is another matter." "It is brave of you to go," said Rosamund, then added by an afterthought, "How long is it since we left Marseilles?" Marie counted on her fat fingers, and answered: "Five--nearly six weeks. You have been wandering in your mind all that time, talking of many strange things, and we have called at three ports. I forget their names, but the last one was an island with a beautiful harbour. Now, in about twenty days, if all goes well, we should reach another island called Cyprus. But you must not talk so much, you must sleep. The Saracen called Hassan, who is a clever doctor, told me so." So Rosamund slept, and from that time forward, floating on the calm Mediterranean sea, her strength began to come back again rapidly, who was young and strong in body and constitution. Three days later she was helped to the deck, where the first man she saw was Hassan, who came forward to greet her with many Eastern salutations and joy written on his dark, wrinkled face. "I give thanks to Allah for your sake and my own," he said. "For yours that you still live whom I thought would die, and for myself that had you died your life would have been required at my hands by Salah-ed-din, my master." "If so, he should have blamed Azrael, not you," answered Rosamund, smiling; then suddenly turned cold, for before her was Sir Hugh Lozelle, who also thanked Heaven that she had recovered. She listened to him coldly, and presently he went away, but soon was at her side again. Indeed, she could never be free of him, for whenever she appeared on deck he was there, nor could he be repelled, since neither silence nor rebuff would stir him. Always he sat near, talking in his false, hateful voice, and devouring her with the greedy eyes which she could feel fixed upon her face. With him often was his jackal, the false palmer Nicholas, who crawled about her like a snake and strove to flatter her, but to this man she would never speak a word. At last she could bear it no longer, and when her health had returned to her, summoned Hassan to her cabin. "Tell me, prince," she said, "who rules upon this vessel?" "Three people," he answered, bowing. "The knight, Sir Hugh Lozelle, who, as a skilled navigator, is the captain and rules the sailors; I, who rule the fighting men; and you, Princess, who rule us all." "Then I command that the rogue named Nicholas shall not be allowed to approach me. Is it to be borne that I must associate with my father's murderer?" "I fear that in that business we all had a hand, nevertheless your order shall be obeyed. To tell you the truth, lady, I hate the fellow, who is but a common spy." "I desire also," went on Rosamund, "to speak no more with Sir Hugh Lozelle." "That is more difficult," said Hassan, "since he is the captain whom my master ordered me to obey in all things that have to do with the ship." "I have nothing to do with the ship," answered Rosamund; "and surely the princess of Baalbec, if so I am, may choose her own companions. I wish to see more of you and less of Sir Hugh Lozelle." "I am honoured," replied Hassan, "and will do my best." For some days after this, although he was always watching her, Lozelle approached Rosamund but seldom, and whenever he did so he found Hassan at her side, or rather standing behind her like a guard. At length, as it chanced, the prince was taken with a sickness from drinking bad water which held him to his bed for some days, and then Lozelle found his opportunity. Rosamund strove to keep her cabin to avoid him, but the heat of the summer sun in the Mediterranean drove her out of it to a place beneath an awning on the poop, where she sat with the woman Marie. Here Lozelle approached her, pretending to bring her food or to inquire after her comfort, but she would answer him nothing. At length, since Marie could understand what he said in French, he addressed her in Arabic, which he spoke well, but she feigned not to understand him. Then he used the English tongue as it was talked among the common people in Essex, and said: "Lady, how sorely you misjudge me. What is my crime against you? I am an Essex man of good lineage, who met you in Essex and learnt to love you there. Is that a crime, in one who is not poor, who, moreover, was knighted for his deeds by no mean hand? Your father said me nay, and you said me nay, and, stung by my disappointment and his words--for he called me sea-thief and raked up old tales that are not true against me--I talked as I should not have done, swearing that I would wed you yet in spite of all. For this I was called to account with justice, and your cousin, the young knight Godwin, who was then a squire, struck me in the face. Well, he worsted and wounded me, fortune favouring him, and I departed with my vessel to the East, for that is my business, to trade between Syria and England. "Now, as it chanced, there being peace at the time between the Sultan and the Christians, I visited Damascus to buy merchandise. Whilst I was there Saladin sent for me and asked if it were true that I belonged to a part of England called Essex. When I answered yes, he asked if I knew Sir Andrew D'Arcy and his daughter. Again I said yes, whereon he told me that strange tale of your kinship to him, of which I had heard already; also a still stranger tale of some dream that he had dreamed concerning you, which made it necessary that you should be brought to his court, where he was minded to raise you to great honour. In the end, he offered to hire my finest ship for a large sum, if I would sail it to England to fetch you; but he did not tell me that any force was to be used, and I, on my part, said that I would lift no hand against you or your father, nor indeed have I done so." "Who remembered the swords of Godwin and Wulf," broke in Rosamund scornfully, "and preferred that braver men should face them." "Lady," answered Lozelle, colouring, "hitherto none have accused me of a lack of courage. Of your courtesy, listen, I pray you. I did wrong to enter on this business; but lady, it was love for you that drove me to it, for the thought of this long voyage in your company was a bait I could not withstand." "Paynim gold was the bait you could not withstand--that is what you mean. Be brief, I pray you. I weary. "Lady, you are harsh and misjudge me, as I will show," and he looked about him cautiously. "Within a week from now, if all goes well, we cast anchor at Limazol in Cyprus, to take in food and water before we run to a secret port near Antioch, whence you are to be taken overland to Damascus, avoiding all cities of the Franks. Now, the Emperor Isaac of Cyprus is my friend, and over him Saladin has no power. Once in his court, you would be safe until such time as you found opportunity to return to England. This, then, is my plan--that you should escape from the ship at night as I can arrange." "And what is your payment," she asked, "who are a merchant knight?" "My payment, lady, is--yourself. In Cyprus we will be wed--oh! think before you answer. At Damascus many dangers await you; with me you will find safety and a Christian husband who loves you well--so well that for your sake he is willing to lose his ship and, what is more, to break faith with Saladin, whose arm is long." "Have done," she said coldly. "Sooner will I trust myself to an honest Saracen than to you, Sir Hugh, whose spurs, if you met your desert, should be hacked from your heels by scullions. Yes, sooner would I take death for my lord than you, who for your own base ends devised the plot that brought my father to his murder and me to slavery. Have done, I say, and never dare again to speak of love to me," and rising, she walked past him to her cabin. But Lozelle looking after her muttered to himself, "Nay, fair lady, I have but begun; nor will I forget your bitter words, for which you shall pay the merchant knight in kisses." From her cabin Rosamund sent a message to Hassan, saying that she would speak with him. He came, still pale with illness, and asked her will, whereon she told him what had passed between Lozelle and herself, demanding his protection against this man. Hassan's eyes flashed. "Yonder he stands," he said, "alone. Will you come with me and speak to him?" She bowed her head, and giving her his hand, he led her to the poop. "Sir captain," he began, addressing Lozelle, "the Princess here tells me a strange story--that you have dared to offer your love to her, by Allah! to her, a niece of Salah-ed-din." "What of it, Sir Saracen?" answered Lozelle, insolently. "Is not a Christian knight fit mate for the blood of an Eastern chief? Had I offered her less than marriage, you might have spoken." "You!" answered Hassan, with rage in his low voice, "you, huckstering thief and renegade, who swear by Mahomet in Damascus and by your prophet Jesus in England--ay, deny it not, I have heard you, as I have heard that rogue, Nicholas, your servant. You, her fit mate? Why, were it not that you must guide this ship, and that my master bade me not to quarrel with you till your task was done, I would behead you now and cut from your throat the tongue that dared to speak such words," and as he spoke he gripped the handle of his scimitar. Lozelle quailed before his fierce eyes, for well he knew Hassan, and knew also that if it came to fighting his sailors were no match for the emir and his picked Saracens. "When our duty is done you shall answer for those words," he said, trying to look brave. "By Allah! I hold you to the promise," replied Hassan. "Before Salah-ed-din I will answer for them when and where you will, as you shall answer to him for your treachery." "Of what, then, am I accused?" asked Lozelle. "Of loving the lady Rosamund, as do all men--perhaps yourself, old and withered as you are, among them?" "Ay, and for that crime I will repay you, old and withered as I am, Sir Renegade. But with Salah-ed-din you have another score to settle--that by promising her escape you tried to seduce her from this ship, where you were sworn to guard her, saying that you would find her refuge among the Greeks of Cyprus." "Were this true," replied Lozelle, "the Sultan might have cause of complaint against me. But it is not true. Hearken, since speak I must. The lady Rosamund prayed me to do this deed, and I told her that for my honour's sake it is not possible, although it was true that I loved her now as always, and would dare much for her. Then she said that if I did but save her from you Saracens, I should not go without my reward, since she would wed me. Again, although it cost me sore, I answered that it might not be, but when once I had brought my ship to land, I was her true knight, and being freed of my oath, would do my best to save her." "Princess, you hear," said Hassan, turning to Rosamund. "What say you?" "I say," she answered coldly, "that this man lies to save himself. I say, moreover, that I answered to him, that sooner would I die than that he should lay a finger on me." "I hold also that he lies," said Hassan. "Nay; unclasp that dagger if you would live to see another sun. Here, I will not fight with you, but Salah-ed-din shall learn all this case when we reach his court, and judge between the word of the princess of Baalbec and of his hired servant, the false Frank and pirate, Sir Hugh Lozelle." "Let him learn it--when we reach his court," answered Lozelle, with meaning; then added, "Have you aught else to say to me, prince Hassan? Because if not, I must be attending to the business of my ship, which you suppose that I was about to abandon to win a lady's smile." "Only this, that the ship is the Sultan's and not yours, for he bought it from you, and that henceforth this lady will be guarded day and night, and doubly guarded when we come to the shores of Cyprus, where it seems that you have friends. Understand and remember." "I understand, and certainly I will remember," replied Lozelle, and so they parted. "I think," said Rosamund, when he had gone, "that we shall be fortunate if we land safe in Syria." "That was in my mind, also, lady. I think, too, that I have forgot my wisdom, but my heart rose against this man, and being still weak from sickness, I lost my judgment and spoke what was in my heart, who would have done better to wait. Now, perhaps, it will be best to kill him, if it were not that he alone has the skill to navigate the ship, which is a trade that he has followed from his youth. Nay, let it go as Allah wills. He is just, and will bring the matter to judgment in due time." "Yes, but to what judgment?" asked Rosamund. "I hope to that of the sword," answered Hassan, as he bowed and left her. From that time forward armed men watched all the night through before Rosamund's cabin, and when she walked the deck armed men walked after her. Nor was she troubled by Lozelle, who sought to speak with her no more, or to Hassan either. Only with the man Nicholas he spoke much. At length upon one golden evening--for Lozelle was a skilful pilot, one of the best, indeed, who sailed those seas--they came to the shores of Cyprus, and cast anchor. Before them, stretched along the beach, lay the white town of Limazol, with palm trees standing up amidst its gardens, while beyond the fertile plain rose the mighty mountain range of Trooidos. Sick and weary of the endless ocean, Rosamund gazed with rapture at this green and beauteous shore, the home of so much history, and sighed to think that on it she might set no foot. Lozelle saw her look and heard her sigh, and as he climbed into the boat which had come out to row him into the harbour, mocked her, saying: "Will you not change your mind, lady, and come with me to visit my friend, the Emperor Isaac? I swear that his court is gay, not packed full of sour Saracens or pilgrims thinking of their souls. In Cyprus they only make pilgrimages to Paphos yonder, where Venus was born from out the foam, and has reigned since the beginning of the world--ay, and will reign until its end." Rosamund made no answer, and Lozelle, descending into the boat, was rowed shorewards through the breakers by the dark-skinned, Cyprian oarsmen, who wore flowers in their hair and sang as they laboured at the oars. For ten whole days they rolled off Limazol, although the weather was fair and the wind blew straight for Syria. When Rosamund asked why they bided there so long, Hassan stamped his foot and said it was because the Emperor refused to supply them with more food or water than was sufficient for their daily need, unless he, Hassan, would land and travel to an inland town called Nicosia, where his court lay, and there do homage to him. This, scenting a trap, he feared to do, nor could they put out to sea without provisions. "Cannot Sir Hugh Lozelle see to it?" asked Rosamund. "Doubtless, if he will," answered Hassan, grinding his teeth; "but he swears that he is powerless." So there they bode day after day, baked by the sweltering summer sun and rocked to and fro on the long ocean rollers till their hearts grew sick within them, and their bodies also, for some of them were seized with a fever common to the shores of Cyprus, of which two died. Now and again some officer would come off from the shore with Lozelle and a little food and water, and bargain with them, saying that before their wants were supplied the prince Hassan must visit the Emperor and bring with him the fair lady who was his passenger, whom he desired to see. Hassan would answer no, and double the guard about Rosamund, for at nights boats appeared that cruised round them. In the daytime also bands of men, fantastically dressed in silks, and with them women, could be seen riding to and fro upon the shore and staring at them, as though they were striving to make up their minds to attack the ship. Then Hassan armed his grim Saracens and bade them stand in line upon the bulwarks, drawn scimitar in hand, a sight that seemed to frighten the Cypriotes--at least they always rode away towards the great square tower of Colossi. At length Hassan would bear it no more. One morning Lozelle came off from Limazol, where he slept at night, bringing with him three Cyprian lords, who visited the ship--not to bargain as they pretended, but to obtain sight of the beauteous princess Rosamund. Thereon the common talk began of homage that must be paid before food was granted, failing which the Emperor would bid his seamen capture the ship. Hassan listened a while, then suddenly issued an order that the lords should be seized. "Now," he said to Lozelle, "bid your sailors haul up the anchor, and let us begone for Syria." "But," answered the knight, "we have neither food nor water for more than one day." "I care not," answered Hassan, "as well die of thirst and starvation on the sea as rot here with fever. What we can bear these Cyprian gallants can bear also. Bid the sailors lift the anchor and hoist the sail, or I loose my scimitars among them." Now Lozelle stamped and foamed, but without avail, so he turned to the three lords, who were pale with fear, and said: "Which will you do: find food and water for this ship, or put to sea without them, which is but to die?" They answered that they would go ashore and supply all that was needful. "Nay," said Hassan, "you bide here until it comes." In the end, then, this happened, for one of the lords chanced to be a nephew of the Emperor, who, when he learned that he was captive, sent supplies in plenty. Thus it came about that the Cyprian lords having been sent back with the last empty boat, within two days they were at sea again. Now Rosamund missed the hated face of the spy, Nicholas, and told Hassan, who made inquiry, to find--or so said Lozelle--that he went ashore and vanished there on the first day of their landing in Cyprus, though whether he had been killed in some brawl, or fallen sick, or hidden himself away, he did not know. Hassan shrugged his shoulders, and Rosamund was glad enough to be rid of him, but in her heart she wondered for what evil purpose Nicholas had left the ship. When the galley was one day out from Cyprus steering for the coast of Syria, they fell into a calm such as is common in those seas in summer. This calm lasted eight whole days, during which they made but little progress. At length, when all were weary of staring at the oil-like sea, a wind sprang up that grew gradually to a gale blowing towards Syria, and before it they fled along swiftly. Worse and stronger grew that gale, till on the evening of the second day, when they seemed in no little danger of being pooped, they saw a great mountain far away, at the sight of which Lozelle thanked God aloud. "Are those the mountains near Antioch?" asked Hassan. "Nay," he answered, "they are more than fifty miles south of them, between Ladikiya and Jebela. There, by the mercy of Heaven, is a good haven, for I have visited it, where we can lie till this storm is past." "But we are steering for Darbesak, not for a haven near Jebela, which is a Frankish port," answered Hassan, angrily. "Then put the ship about and steer there yourself," said Lozelle, "and I promise you this, that within two hours every one of you will be dead at the bottom of the sea." Hassan considered. It was true, for then the waves would strike them broadside on, and they must fill and sink. "On your head be it," he answered shortly. The dark fell, and by the light of the great lantern at their prow they saw the white seas hiss past as they drove shorewards beneath bare masts. For they dared hoist no sail. All that night they pitched and rolled, till the stoutest of them fell sick, praying God and Allah that they might have light by which to enter the harbour. At length they saw the top of the loftiest mountain grow luminous with the coming dawn, although the land itself was still lost in shadow, and saw also that it seemed to be towering almost over them. "Take courage," cried Lozelle, "I think that we are saved," and he hoisted a second lantern at his masthead--why, they did not know. After this the sea began to fall, only to grow rough again for a while as they crossed some bar, to find themselves in calm water, and on either side of them what appeared in the dim, uncertain light to be the bush-clad banks of a river. For a while they ran on, till Lozelle called in a loud voice to the sailors to let the anchor go, and sent a messenger to say that all might rest now, as they were safe. So they laid them down and tried to sleep. But Rosamund could not sleep. Presently she rose, and throwing on her cloak went to the door of the cabin and looked at the beauty of the mountains, rosy with the new-born light, and at the misty surface of the harbour. It was a lonely place--at least, she could see no town or house, although they were lying not fifty yards from the tree-hidden shore. As she stood thus, she heard the sound of boats being rowed through the mist, and perceived three or four of these approaching the ship in silence, perceived also that Lozelle, who stood alone upon the deck, was watching their approach. Now the first boat made fast and a man in the prow rose up and began to speak to Lozelle in a low voice. As he did so the hood fell back from his head, and Rosamund saw the face. It was that of the spy Nicholas! For a moment she stood amazed, for they had left this man in Cyprus; then understanding came to her and she cried aloud: "Treachery! Prince Hassan, there is treachery." As the words left her lips fierce, wild-looking men began to scramble aboard at the low waist of the galley, to which boat after boat made fast. The Saracens also tumbled from the benches where they slept and ran aft to the deck where Rosamund was, all except one of them who was cut off in the prow of the ship. Prince Hassan appeared, too, scimitar in hand, clad in his jewelled turban and coat of mail, but without his cloak, shouting orders as he came, while the hired crew of the ship flung themselves upon their knees and begged for mercy. To him Rosamund cried out that they were betrayed and by Nicholas, whom she had seen. Then a great man, wearing a white burnous and holding a naked sword in his hand, stepped forward and said in Arabic: "Yield you now, for you are outnumbered and your captain is captured," and he pointed to Lozelle, who was being held by two men while his arms were bound behind him. "In whose name do you bid me yield?" asked the prince, glaring about him like a lion in a trap. "In the dread name of Sinan, in the name of the lord Al-je-bal, O servant of Salah-ed-din." At these words a groan of fear went up even from the brave Saracens, for now they learned that they had to do with the terrible chief of the Assassins. "Is there then war between the Sultan and Sinan?" asked Hassan. "Ay, there is always war. Moreover, you have one with you," and he pointed to Rosamund, "who is dear to Salah-ed-din, whom, therefore, my master desires as a hostage." "How knew you that?" said Hassan, to gain time while his men formed up. "How does the lord Sinan know all things?" was the answer; "Come, yield, and perhaps he will show you mercy." "Through spies," hissed Hassan, "such spies as Nicholas, who has come from Cyprus before us, and that Frankish dog who is called a knight," and he pointed to Lozelle. "Nay, we yield not, and here, Assassins, you have to do not with poisons and the knife, but with bare swords and brave men. Ay, and I warn you--and your lord--that Salah-ed-din will take vengeance for this deed." "Let him try it if he wishes to die, who hitherto has been spared," answered the tall man quietly. Then he said to his followers, "Cut them down, all save the women"--for the Frenchwoman, Marie, was now clinging to the arm of Rosamund--"and emir Hassan, whom I am commanded to bring living to Masyaf." "Back to your cabin, lady," said Hassan, "and remember that whate'er befalls, we have done our best to save you. Ay, and tell it to my lord, that my honour may be clean in his eyes. Now, soldiers of Salah-ed-din, fight and die as he has taught you how. The gates of Paradise stand open, and no coward will enter there." They answered with a fierce, guttural cry. Then, as Rosamund fled to the cabin, the fray began, a hideous fray. On came the Assassins with sword and dagger, striving to storm the deck. Again and again they were beaten back, till the waist seemed full of their corpses, as man by man they fell beneath the curved scimitars, and again and again they charged these men who, when their master ordered, knew neither fear nor pity. But more boatloads came from the shore, and the Saracens were but few, worn also with storm and sickness, so at last Rosamund, peeping beneath her hand, saw that the poop was gained. Here and there a man fought on until he fell beneath the cruel knives in the midst of the circle of the dead, among them the warrior-prince Hassan. Watching him with fascinated eyes as he strove alone against a host, Rosamund was put in mind of another scene, when her father, also alone, had striven thus against that emir and his soldiers, and even then she bethought her of the justice of God. See! his foot slipped on the blood-stained deck. He was down, and ere he could rise again they had thrown cloaks over him, these fierce, silent men, who even with their lives at stake, remembered the command of their captain, to take him living. So living they took him, with not a wound upon his skin, who when he struck them down, had never struck back at him lest the command of Sinan should be broken. Rosamund noted it, and remembering that his command was also that she should be brought to him unharmed, knew that she had no violence to fear at the hands of these cruel murderers. From this thought, and because Hassan still lived, she took such comfort as she might. "It is finished," said the tall man, in his cold voice. "Cast these dogs into the sea who have dared to disobey the command of Al-je-bal." So they took them up, dead and living together, and threw them into the water, where they sank, nor did one of the wounded Saracens pray them for mercy. Then they served their own dead likewise, but those that were only wounded they took ashore. This done, the tall man advanced to the cabin and said: "Lady, come, we are ready to start upon our journey." Having no choice, Rosamund obeyed him, remembering as she went how from a scene of battle and bloodshed she had been brought aboard that ship to be carried she knew not whither, which now she left in a scene of battle and bloodshed to be carried she knew not whither. "Oh!" she cried aloud, pointing to the corpses they hurled into the deep, "ill has it gone with these who stole me, and ill may it go with you also, servant of Al-je-bal." But the tall man answered nothing, as followed by the weeping Marie and the prince Hassan, he led her to the boat. Soon they reached the shore, and here they tore Marie from her, nor did Rosamund ever learn what became of her, or whether or no this poor woman found her husband whom she had dared so much to seek. Chapter Eleven: The City of Al-Je-Bal "I pray you have done," said Godwin, "it is but a scratch from the beast's claws. I am ashamed that you should put your hair to such vile uses. Give me a little water." He asked it of Wulf, but Masouda rose without a word and fetched the water, in which she mingled wine. Godwin drank of it and his faintness left him, so that he was able to stand up and move his arms and legs. "Why," he said, "it is nothing; I was only shaken. That lioness did not hurt me at all." "But you hurt the lioness," said Wulf, with a laugh. "By St. Chad a good thrust!" and he pointed to the long sword driven up to the hilt in the brute's breast. "Why, I swear I could not have made a better myself." "I think it was the lion that thrust," answered Godwin. "I only held the sword straight. Drag it out, brother, I am still too weak." So Wulf set his foot upon the breast of the lion and tugged and tugged until at length he loosened the sword, saying as he strained at it: "Oh! what an Essex hog am I, who slept through it all, never waking until Masouda seized me by the hair, and I opened my eyes to see you upon the ground with this yellow beast crouched on the top of you like a hen on a nest egg. I thought that it was alive and smote it with my sword, which, had I been fully awake, I doubt if I should have found the courage to do. Look," and he pushed the lioness's head with his foot, whereon it twisted round in such a fashion that they perceived for the first time that it only hung to the shoulders by a thread of skin. "I am glad you did not strike a little harder," said Godwin, "or I should now be in two pieces and drowned in my own blood, instead of in that of this dead brute," and he looked ruefully at his burnous and hauberk, that were soaked with gore. "Yes," said Wulf, "I never thought of that. Who would, in such a hurry?" "Lady Masouda," asked Godwin, "when last I saw you you were hanging from those jaws. Say, are you hurt?" "Nay," she answered, "for I wear mail like you, and the teeth glanced on it so that she held me by the cloak only. Come, let us skin the beast, and take its pelt as a present to the lord Al-je-bal." "Good," said Godwin, "and I give you the claws for a necklace." "Be sure that I will wear them," she answered, and helped Wulf to flay the lioness while he sat by resting. When it was done Wulf went to the little cave and walked into it, to come out again with a bound. "Why!" he said, "there are more of them in there. I saw their eyes and heard them snarl. Now, give me a burning branch and I will show you, brother, that you are not the only one who can fight a lion." "Let be, you foolish man," broke in Masouda. "Doubtless those are her cubs, and if you kill them, her mate will follow us for miles; but if they are left safe he will stay to feed them. Come, let us begone from this place as swiftly as we can." So having shown them the skin of the lion, that they might know it was but a dead thing, at the sight of which they snorted and trembled, they packed it upon one of the mules and rode off slowly into a valley some five miles away, where was water but no trees. Here, since Godwin needed rest, they stopped all that day and the night which followed, seeing no more of lions, though they watched for them sharply enough. The next morning, having slept well, he was himself again, and they started forward through a broken country towards a deep cleft, on either side of which stood a tall mountain. "This is Al-je-bal's gateway," said Masouda, "and tonight we should sleep in the gate, whence one day's ride brings us to his city." So on they rode till at length, perched upon the sides of the cleft, they saw a castle, a great building, with high walls, to which they came at sunset. It seemed that they were expected in this place, for men hastened to meet them, who greeted Masouda and eyed the brethren curiously, especially after they had heard of the adventure with the lion. These took them, not into the castle, but to a kind of hostelry at its back, where they were furnished with food and slept the night. Next morning they went on again to a hilly country with beautiful and fertile valleys. Through this they rode for two hours, passing on their way several villages, where sombre-eyed people were labouring in the fields. From each village, as they drew near to it, horsemen would gallop out and challenge them, whereon Masouda rode forward and spoke with the leader alone. Then he would touch his forehead with his hand and bow his head and they rode on unmolested. "See," she said, when they had thus been stopped for the fourth time, "what chance you had of winning through to Masyaf unguarded. Why, I tell you, brethren, that you would have been dead before ever you passed the gates of the first castle." Now they rode up a long slope, and at its crest paused to look upon a marvellous scene. Below them stretched a vast plain, full of villages, cornfields, olive-groves, and vineyards. In the centre of this plain, some fifteen miles away, rose a great mountain, which seemed to be walled all about. Within the wall was a city of which the white, flat-roofed houses climbed the slopes of the mountain, and on its crest a level space of land covered with trees and a great, many-towered castle surrounded by more houses. "Behold the home of Al-je-bal, Lord of the Mountain," said Masouda, "where we must sleep to-night. Now, brethren, listen to me. Few strangers who enter that castle come thence living. There is still time; I can pass you back as I passed you hither. Will you go on?" "We will go on," they answered with one breath. "Why? What have you to gain? You seek a certain maiden. Why seek her here whom you say has been taken to Salah-ed-din? Because the Al-je-bal in bygone days swore to befriend one of your blood. But that Al-je-bal is dead, and another of his line rules who took no such oath. How do you know that he will befriend you--how that he will not enslave or kill you? I have power in this land, why or how does not matter, and I can protect you against all that dwell in it--as I swear I will, for did not one of you save my life?" and she glanced at Godwin, "except my lord Sinan, against whom I have no power, for I am his slave." "He is the enemy of Saladin, and may help us for his hate's sake." "Yes, he is the enemy of Salah-ed-din now more than ever. He may help you or he may not. Also," she added with meaning, "you may not wish the help he offers. Oh!" and there was a note of entreaty in her voice, "think, think! For the last time, I pray you think!" "We have thought," answered Godwin solemnly; "and, whatever chances, we will obey the command of the dead." She heard and bowed her head in assent, then said, looking up again: "So be it. You are not easily turned from your purpose, and I like that spirit well. But hear my counsel. While you are in this city speak no Arabic and pretend to understand none. Also drink nothing but water, which is good here, for the lord Sinan sets strange wines before his guests, that, if they pass the lips, produce visions and a kind of waking madness in which you might do deeds whereof you were afterwards ashamed. Or you might swear oaths that would sit heavy on your souls, and yet could not be broken except at the cost of life." "Fear not," answered Wulf. "Water shall be our drink, who have had enough of drugged wines," for he remembered the Christmas feast in the Hall at Steeple. "You, Sir Godwin," went on Masouda, "have about your neck a certain ring which you were mad enough to show to me, a stranger--a ring with writing on it which none can read save the great men that in this land are called the dais. Well, as it chances, the secret is safe with me; but be wise; say nothing of that ring and let no eye see it." "Why not?" asked Godwin. "It is the token of our dead uncle to the Al-je-bal." She looked round her cautiously and replied: "Because it is, or was once, the great Signet, and a day may come when it will save your lives. Doubtless when the lord who is dead thought it gone forever he caused another to be fashioned, so like that I who have had both in my hand could not tell the two apart. To him who holds that ring all gates are open; but to let it be known that you have its double means death. Do you understand?" They nodded, and Masouda continued: "Lastly--though you may think that this seems much to ask--trust me always, even if I seem to play you false, who for your sakes," and she sighed, "have broken oaths and spoken words for which the punishment is to die by torment. Nay, thank me not, for I do only what I must who am a slave--a slave." "A slave to whom?" asked Godwin, staring at her. "To the Lord of all the Mountains," she answered, with a smile that was sweet yet very sad; and without another word spurred on her horse. "What does she mean," asked Godwin of Wulf, when she was out of hearing, "seeing that if she speaks truth, for our sakes, in warning us against him, Masouda is breaking her fealty to this lord?" "I do not know, brother, and I do not seek to know. All her talk may be a part of a plot to blind us, or it may not. Let well alone and trust in fortune, say I." "A good counsel," answered Godwin, and they rode forward in silence. They crossed the plain, and towards evening came to the wall of the outer city, halting in front of its great gateway. Here, as at the first castle, a band of solemn-looking mounted men came out to meet them, and, having spoken a few words with Masouda, led them over the drawbridge that spanned the first rock-cut moat, and through triple gates of iron into the city. Then they passed up a street very steep and narrow, from the roofs and windows of the houses on either side of which hundreds of people--many of whom seemed to be engaged at their evening prayer--watched them go by. At the head of this street they reached another fortified gateway, on the turrets of which, so motionless that at first they took them to be statues cut in stone, stood guards wrapped in long white robes. After parley, this also was opened to them, and again they rode through triple doors. Then they saw all the wonder of that place, for between the outer city where they stood and the castle, with its inner town which was built around and beneath it yawned a vast gulf over ninety feet in depth. Across this gulf, built of blocks of stone, quite unrailed, and not more than three paces wide, ran a causeway some two hundred yards in length, which causeway was supported upon arches reared up at intervals from the bottom of the gulf. "Ride on and have no fear," said Masouda. "Your horses are trained to heights, and the mules and mine will follow." So Godwin, showing nothing in his face of the doubt that he felt in his heart, patted Flame upon the neck, and, after hanging back a little, the horse started lifting its hoofs high and glancing from side to side at the terrible gulf beneath. Where Flame went Smoke knew that it could go, and came on bravely, but snorting a little, while the mules, that did not fear heights so long as the ground was firm beneath their feet, followed. Only Masouda's horse was terrified, backed, and strove to wheel round, till she drove the spur into it, when of a sudden it started and came over at a gallop. At length they were across, and, passing under another gateway which had broad terraces on either side of it, rode up the long street beyond and entered a great courtyard, around which stood the castle, a vast and frowning fortress. Here a white-robed officer came forward, greeting them with a low bow, and with him servants who assisted them to dismount. These men took the horses to a range of stables on one side of the courtyard, whither the brethren followed to see their beasts groomed and fed. Then the officer, who had stood patiently by the while, conducted them through doorways and down passages to the guest chambers, large, stone-roofed rooms, where they found their baggage ready for them. Here Masouda said that she would see them again on the following morning, and departed in company with the officer. Wulf looked round the great vaulted chamber, which, now that the dark had fallen, was lit by flickering lamps set in iron brackets upon the wall, and said: "Well, for my part, I had rather pass the night in a desert among the lions than in this dismal place." Scarcely were the words out of his lips when curtains swung aside and beautiful women entered, clad in gauzy veils and bearing dishes of food. These they placed upon the ground before them, inviting them to eat with nods and smiles, while others brought basins of scented water, which they poured over their hands. Then they sat down and ate the food that was strange to them, but very pleasant to the taste; and while they ate, women whom they could not see sang sweet songs, and played upon harps and lutes. Wine was offered to them also; but of this, remembering Masouda's words, they would not drink, asking by signs for water, which was brought after a little pause. When their meal was done, the beautiful women bore away the dishes, and black slaves appeared. These men led them to baths such as they had never seen, where they washed first in hot water, then in cold. Afterwards they were rubbed with spicy-smelling oils, and having been wrapped in white robes, conducted back to their chamber, where they found beds spread for them. On these, being very weary, they lay down, when the strange, sweet music broke out afresh, and to the sound of it they fell asleep. When they awoke it was to see the light streaming through the high, latticed windows. "Did you sleep well, Godwin?" asked Wulf. "Well enough," answered his brother, "only I dreamed that throughout the night people came and looked at me." "I dreamed that also," said Wulf; "moreover, I think that it was not all a dream, since there is a coverlet on my bed which was not there when I went to sleep." Godwin looked at his own, where also was another coverlet added, doubtless as the night grew colder in that high place. "I have heard of enchanted castles," he said; "now I think that we have found one." "Ay," replied Wulf, "and it is well enough while it lasts." They rose and dressed themselves, putting on clean garments and their best cloaks, that they had brought with them on the mules, after which the veiled women entered the room with breakfast, and they ate. When this was finished, having nothing else to do, they made signs to one of the women that they wished for cloths wherewith to clean their armour, for, as they had been bidden, they pretended to understand no word of Arabic. She nodded, and presently returned with a companion carrying leathers and paste in a jar. Nor did they leave them, but, sitting upon the ground, whether the brethren willed it or no, took the shirts of mail and rubbed them till they shone like silver, while Godwin and Wulf polished their helms, spurs, and bucklers, cleansing their swords and daggers also, and sharpening them with a stone which they carried for that purpose. Now as these women worked, they began to talk to each other in a low voice, and some of their talk, though not all, the brethren understood. "A handsome pair truly," said the first. "We should be fortunate if we had such men for husbands, although they are Franks and infidels." "Ay," answered the other; "and from their likeness they must be twins. Now which of them would you choose?" Then for a long while they discussed them, comparing them feature by feature and limb by limb, until the brethren felt their faces grow red beneath the sunburn and scrubbed furiously at their armour to show a reason for it. At length one of the women said: "It was cruel of the lady Masouda to bring these birds into the Master's net. She might have warned them." "Masouda was ever cruel," answered the other, "who hates all men, which is unnatural. Yet I think if she loved a man she would love him well, and perhaps that might be worse for him than her hate." "Are these knights spies?" asked the first. "I suppose so," was the answer, "silly fellows who think that they can spy upon a nation of spies. They would have done better to keep to fighting, at which, doubtless, they are good enough. What will happen to them?" "What always happens, I suppose--a pleasant time at first; then, if they can be put to no other use, a choice between the faith and the cup. Or, perhaps, as they seem men of rank, they may be imprisoned in the dungeon tower and held to ransom. Yes, yes; it was cruel of Masouda to trick them so, who may be but travellers after all, desiring to see our city." Just then the curtain was drawn, and through it entered Masouda herself. She was dressed in a white robe that had a dagger worked in red over the left breast, and her long black hair fell upon her shoulders, although it was half hid by the veil, open in front, which hung from her head. Never had they seen her look so beautiful as she seemed thus. "Greetings, brothers Peter and John. Is this fit work for pilgrims?" she said in French, pointing to the long swords which they were sharpening. "Ay," answered Wulf, as they rose and bowed to her, "for pilgrims to this--holy city." The women who were cleaning the mail bowed also, for it seemed that here Masouda was a person of importance. She took the hauberks from their hands. "Ill cleansed," she said sharply. "I think that you girls talk better than you work. Nay, they must serve. Help these lords to don them. Fools, that is the shirt of the grey-eyed knight. Give it me; I will be his squire," and she snatched the hauberk from their hands, whereat, when her back was turned, they glanced at one another. "Now," she said, when they were fully armed and had donned their mantles, "you brethren look as pilgrims should. Listen, I have a message for you. The Master"--and she bowed her head, as did the women, guessing of whom she spoke--"will receive you in an hour's time, till when, if it please you, we can walk in the gardens, which are worth your seeing." So they went out with her, and as they passed towards the curtain she whispered: "For your lives' sake, remember all that I have told you--above everything, about the wine and the ring, for if you dream the drink-dream you will be searched. Speak no word to me save of common matters." In the passage beyond the curtain white-robed guards were standing, armed with spears, who turned and followed them without a word. First they went to the stables to visit Flame and Smoke, which whinnied as they drew near. These they found well-fed and tended--indeed, a company of grooms were gathered round them, discussing their points and beauty, who saluted as the owners of such steeds approached. Leaving the stable, they passed through an archway into the famous gardens, which were said to be the most beautiful in all the East. Beautiful they were indeed, planted with trees, shrubs, and flowers such as are seldom seen, while between fern-clad rocks flowed rills which fell over deep cliffs in waterfalls of foam. In places the shade of cedars lay so dense that the brightness of day was changed to twilight, but in others the ground was open and carpeted with flowers which filled the air with perfume. Everywhere grew roses, myrtles, and trees laden with rich fruits, while from all sides came the sound of cooing doves and the voices of many bright-winged birds which flashed from palm to palm. On they walked, down the sand-strewn paths for a mile or more, accompanied by Masouda and the guard. At length, passing through a brake of whispering, reed-like plants, of a sudden they came to a low wall, and saw, yawning black and wide at their very feet, that vast cleft which they had crossed before they entered the castle. "It encircles the inner city, the fortress, and its grounds," said Masouda; "and who lives to-day that could throw a bridge across it? Now come back." So, following the gulf round, they returned to the castle by another path, and were ushered into an ante-room, where stood a watch of twelve men. Here Masouda left them in the midst of the men, who stared at them with stony eyes. Presently she returned, and beckoned to them to follow her. Walking down a long passage they came to curtains, in front of which were two sentries, who drew these curtains as they approached. Then, side by side, they entered a great hall, long as Stangate Abbey church, and passed through a number of people, all crouched upon the ground. Beyond these the hall narrowed as a chancel does. Here sat and stood more people, fierce-eyed, turbaned men, who wore great knives in their girdles. These, as they learned afterwards, were called the fedai, the sworn assassins, who lived but to do the command of their lord the great Assassin. At the end of this chancel were more curtains, beyond which was a guarded door. It opened, and on its further side they found themselves in full sunlight on an unwalled terrace, surrounded by the mighty gulf into which it was built out. On the right and left edges of this terrace sat old and bearded men, twelve in number, their heads bowed humbly and their eyes fixed upon the ground. These were the dais or councillors. At the head of the terrace, under an open and beautifully carved pavilion of wood, stood two gigantic soldiers, having the red dagger blazoned on their white robes. Between them was a black cushion, and on the cushion a black heap. At first, staring out of the bright sunlight at this heap in the shadow, the brethren wondered what it might be. Then they caught sight of the glitter of eyes, and knew that the heap was a man who wore a black turban on his head and a black, bell-shaped robe clasped at the breast with a red jewel. The weight of the man had sunk him down deep into the soft cushion, so that there was nothing of him to be seen save the folds of the bell-shaped cloak, the red jewel, and the head. He looked like a coiled-up snake; the dark and glittering eyes also were those of a snake. Of his features, in the deep shade of the canopy and of the wide black turban, they could see nothing. The aspect of this figure was so terrible and inhuman that the brethren trembled at the sight of him. They were men and he was a man, but between that huddled, beady-eyed heap and those two tall Western warriors, clad in their gleaming mail and coloured cloaks, helm on brow, buckler on arm, and long sword at side, the contrast was that of death and life. Chapter Twelve: The Lord of Death Masouda ran forward and prostrated herself at full length, but Godwin and Wulf stared at the heap, and the heap stared at them. Then, at some motion of his chin, Masouda arose and said: "Strangers, you stand in the presence of the Master, Sinan, Lord of Death. Kneel, and do homage to the Master." But the brethren stiffened their backs and would not kneel. They lifted their hands to their brows in salute, but no more. Then from between the black turban and the black cloak came a hollow voice, speaking in Arabic, and saying: "Are these the men who brought me the lion's skin? Well, what seek ye, Franks?" They stood silent. "Dread lord," said Masouda, "these knights are but now come from England over sea, and do not understand our tongue." "Set out their story and their request," said Al-je-bal, "that we may judge of them." "Dread lord," answered Masouda, "as I sent you word, they say that they are the kin of a certain knight who in battle saved the life of him who ruled before you, but is now an inhabitant of Paradise." "I have heard that there was such a knight," said the voice. "He was named D'Arcy, and he bore the same cognizance on his shield--the sign of a skull." "Lord, these brethren are also named D'Arcy, and now they come to ask your help against Salah-ed-din." At that name the heap stirred as a snake stirs when it hears danger, and the head erected itself a little beneath the great turban. "What help, and why?" asked the voice. "Lord, Salah-ed-din has stolen a woman of their house who is his niece, and these knights, her brothers, ask you to aid them to recover her." The beady eyes instantly became interested. "Report has been made to me of that story," said the voice; "but what sign do these Franks show? He who went before me gave a ring, and with it certain rights in this land, to the knight D'Arcy who befriended him in danger. Where is that sacred ring, with which he parted in his foolishness?" Masouda translated, and seeing the warning in her eyes and remembering her words, the brethren shook their heads, while Wulf answered: "Our uncle, the knight Sir Andrew, was cut down by the soldiers of Salah-ed-din, and as he died bade us seek you out. What time had he to tell us of any ring?" The head sank upon the breast. "I hoped," said Sinan to Masouda, "that they had the ring, and it was for this reason, woman, that I allowed you to lead these knights hither, after you had reported of them and their quest to me from Beirut. It is not well that there should be two holy Signets in the world, and he who went before me, when he lay dying, charged me to recover his if that were possible. Let them go back to their own land and return to me with the ancient ring, and I will help them." Masouda translated the last sentence only, and again the brethren shook their heads. This time it was Godwin who spoke. "Our land is far away, O lord, and where shall we find this long-lost ring? Let not our journey be in vain. O mighty One, give us justice against Salah-ed-din." "All my years have I sought justice on Salah-ed-din," answered Sinan, "and yet he prevails against me. Now I make you an offer. Go, Franks, and bring me his head, or at least put him to death as I shall show you how, and we will talk again." When they heard this saying Wulf said to Godwin, in English: "I think that we had best go; I do not like this company." But Godwin made no answer. As they stood silent thus, not knowing what to say, a man entered through the door, and, throwing himself on his hands and knees, crawled towards the cushion through the double line of councillors or dais. "Your report?" said Sinan in Arabic. "Lord," answered the man, "I acquaint you that your will has been done in the matter of the vessel." Then he went on speaking in a low voice, so rapidly that the brethren could scarcely hear and much less understand him. Sinan listened, then said: "Let the fedai enter and make his own report, bringing with him his prisoners." Now one of the dais, he who sat nearest the canopy, rose and pointing towards the brethren, said. "Touching these Franks, what is your will?" The beady eyes, which seemed to search out their souls, fixed themselves upon them and for a long while Sinan considered. They trembled, knowing that he was passing some judgment concerning them in his heart, and that on his next words much might hang--even their lives. "Let them stay here," he said at length. "I may have questions to ask them." For a time there was silence. Sinan, Lord of Death, seemed to be lost in thought under the black shade of his canopy; the double line of dais stared at nothingness across the passage way; the giant guards stood still as statues; Masouda watched the brethren from beneath her long eye-lashes, while the brethren watched the sharp edge of the shadow of the canopy on the marble floor. They strove to seem unconcerned, but their hearts were beating fast within them who felt that great things were about to happen, though what these might be they knew not. So intense was the silence, so dreadful seemed that inhuman, snake-like man, so strange his aged, passionless councillors, and the place of council surrounded by a dizzy gulf, that fear took hold of them like the fear of an evil dream. Godwin wondered if Sinan could see the ring upon his breast, and what would happen to him if he did see it; while Wulf longed to shout aloud, to do anything that would break this deathly, sunlit quiet. To them those minutes seemed like hours; indeed, for aught they knew, they might have been hours. At length there was a stir behind the brethren, and at a word from Masouda they separated, falling apart a pace or two, and stood opposite each other and sideways to Sinan. Standing thus, they saw the curtains drawn. Through them came four men, carrying a stretcher covered with a cloth, beneath which they could see the outline of a form, that lay there stirless. The four men brought the stretcher to the front of the canopy, set it on the ground, prostrated themselves, and retired, walking backwards down the length of the terrace. Again there was silence, while the brethren wondered whose corpse it was that lay beneath the cloth, for a corpse it must surely be; though neither the Lord of the Mountain nor his dais and guards seemed to concern themselves in the matter. Again the curtains parted, and a procession advanced up the terrace. First came a great man clad in a white robe blazoned with the bleeding dagger, after whom walked a tall woman shrouded in a long veil, who was followed by a thick-set knight clad in Frankish armour and wearing a cape of which the cowl covered his head as though to keep the rays of the sun from beating on his helm. Lastly walked four guards. Up the long place they marched, through the double line of dais, while with a strange stirring in their breasts the brethren watched the shape and movements of the veiled woman who stepped forward rapidly, not seeing them, for she turned her head neither to the right nor left. The leader of the little band reached the space before the canopy, and, prostrating himself by the side of the stretcher, lay still. She who walked behind him stopped also, and, seeing the black heap upon the cushion, shuddered. "Woman, unveil," commanded the voice of Sinan. She hesitated, then swiftly undid some fastening, so that her drapery fell from her head. The brethren stared, rubbed their eyes, and stared again. Before them stood Rosamund! Yes, it was Rosamund, worn with sickness, terrors, and travel, Rosamund herself beyond all doubt. At the sight of her pale, queenly beauty the heap on the cushion stirred beneath his black cloak, and the beady eyes were filled with an evil, eager light. Even the dais seemed to wake from their contemplation, and Masouda bit her red lip, turned pale beneath her olive skin, and watched with devouring eyes, waiting to read this woman's heart. "Rosamund!" cried the brethren with one voice. She heard. As they sprang towards her she glanced wildly from face to face, then with a low cry flung an arm about the neck of each and would have fallen in the ecstacy of her joy had they not held her. Indeed, her knees touched the ground. As they stooped to lift her it flashed into Godwin's mind that Masouda had told Sinan that they were her brethren. The thought was followed by another. If this were so, they might be left with her, whereas otherwise that black-robed devil-- "Listen," he whispered in English; "we are not your cousins--we are your brothers, your half-brothers, and we know no Arabic." She heard and Wulf heard, but the watchers thought that they were but welcoming each other, for Wulf began to talk also, random words in French, such as "Greeting, sister!" "Well found, sister!" and kissed her on the forehead. Rosamund opened her eyes, which had closed, and, gaining her feet, gave one hand to each of the brethren. Then the voice of Masouda was heard interpreting the words of Sinan. "It seems, lady, that you know these knights." "I do--well. They are my brothers, from whom I was stolen when they were drugged and our father was killed." "How is that, lady, seeing that you are said to be the niece of Salah-ed-din? Are these knights, then, the nephews of Salah-ed-din?" "Nay," answered Rosamund, "they are my father's sons, but of another wife." The answer appeared to satisfy Sinan, who fixed his eyes upon the pale beauty of Rosamund and asked no more questions. While he remained thus thinking, a noise arose at the end of the terrace, and the brethren, turning their heads, saw that the thick-set knight was striving to thrust his way through the guards who stood by the curtains and barred his path with the shafts of their spears. Then it came into Godwin's mind that just before Rosamund unveiled he had seen this knight suddenly turn and walk down the terrace. The lord Sinan looked up at the sound and made a sign. Thereon two of the dais sprang to their feet and ran towards the curtain, where they spoke with the knight, who turned and came back with them, though slowly, as one who is unwilling. Now his hood had fallen from his head, and Godwin and Wulf stared at him as he advanced, for surely they knew those great shoulders, those round black eyes, those thick lips, and that heavy jowl. "Lozelle! It is Lozelle!" said Godwin. "Ay," echoed Rosamund, "it is Lozelle, the double traitor, who betrayed me first to the soldiers of Saladin, and, because I would have none of his love, next to this lord Sinan." Wulf heard, and, as Lozelle drew near to them, sprang forward with an oath and struck him across the face with his mailed hand. Instantly guards thrust themselves between them, and Sinan asked through Masouda: "Why do you dare to strike this Frank in my presence?" "Because, lord," answered Wulf, "he is a rogue who has brought all these troubles on our house. I challenge him to meet me in battle to the death." "And I also," said Godwin. "I am ready," shouted Lozelle, stung to fury by the blow. "Then, dog, why did you try to run away when you saw our faces?" asked Wulf. Masouda held up her hand and began to interpret, addressing Lozelle, and speaking in the first person as the "mouth" of Sinan. "I thank you for your service who have served me before. Your messenger came, a Frank whom I knew in old days. As you had arranged it should be, I sent one of my fedais with soldiers to kill the men of Salah-ed-din on the ship and capture this lady who is his niece, all of which it seems has been done. The bargain that your messenger made was that the lady should be given over to you--" Here Godwin and Wulf ground their teeth and glared at him. "But these knights say that you stole her, their kinswoman, from them, and one of them has struck you and challenged you to single combat, which challenge you have accepted. I sanction the combat gladly, who have long desired to see two knights of the Franks fight in tourney according to their custom. I will set the course, and you shall be given the best horse in my kingdom; this knight shall ride his own. These are the conditions--the course shall be on the bridge between the inner and outer gates of the castle city, and the fight, which must be to the death, shall take place on the night of the full moon--that is, three days from now. If you are victor, we will talk of the matter of the lady for whom you bargained as a wife." "My lord, my lord," answered Lozelle, "who can lay a lance on that terrible place in moonlight? Is it thus that you keep faith with me?" "I can and will!" cried Wulf. "Dog, I would fight you in the gates of hell, with my soul on the hazard." "Keep faith with yourself," said Sinan, "who said that you accepted the challenge of this knight and made no conditions, and when you have proved upon his body that his quarrel is not just, then speak of my faith with you. Nay, no more words; when this fight is done we will speak again, and not before. Let him be led to the outer castle and there given of our best. Let my great black horse be brought to him that he may gallop it to and fro upon the bridge, or where he will within the circuit of the walls, by day or by night; but see that he has no speech with this lady whom he has betrayed into my power, or with these knights his foes, nor suffer him to come into my presence. I will not talk with a man who has been struck in the face until he has washed away the blow in blood." As Masouda finished translating, and before Lozelle could answer, the lord Sinan moved his head, whereon guards sprang forward and conducted Lozelle from the terrace. "Farewell, Sir Thief," cried Wulf after him, "till we meet again upon the narrow bridge and there settle our account. You have fought Godwin, perhaps you will have better luck with Wulf." Lozelle glared back at him, and, finding no answer, went on his way. "Your report," said Sinan, addressing the tall fedai who all this while had lain upon his face before him, still as the form that was stretched upon the bier. "There should have been another prisoner, the great emir Hassan. Also, where is the Frankish spy?" The fedai rose and spoke. "Lord," he said, "I did your bidding. The knight who has gone steered the ship into the bay, as had been arranged. I attacked with the daylight. The soldiers of Salah-ed-din fought bravely, for the lady here saw us, and gave them time to gather, and we lost many men. We overcame and killed them all, except the prince Hassan, whom we took prisoner. I left some men to watch the ship. The crew we spared, as they were the servants of the Frank Lozelle, setting them loose upon the beach, together with a Frankish woman, who was the servant of the lady here, to find their way to the nearest city. This woman I would have killed, but the lady your captive begged for her life, saying she had come from the land of the Franks to seek her husband; so, having no orders, let her go. Yesterday morning we started for Masyaf, the prince Hassan riding in a litter together with that Frankish spy who was here a while ago, and told you of the coming of the ship. At night they slept in the same tent; I left the prince bound and set a guard, but in the morning when we looked we found him gone--how, I know not--and lying in the tent the Frankish spy, dead, with a knife-wound through his heart. Behold!" and withdrawing the cloth from the stretcher he revealed the stiff form of the spy Nicholas, who lay there dead, a look of terror frozen on his face. "At least this one has come to an end he deserved," muttered Wulf to Godwin. "So, having searched without avail, I came on here with the lady your prisoner and the Frank Lozelle. I have spoken." Now when he had heard this report, forgetting his calm, Sinan arose from the cushion and stepped forward two paces. There he halted, with fury in his glittering eyes, looking like a man clothed in a black bell. For a moment he stroked his beard, and the brethren noted that on the first finger of his right hand was a ring so like to that which hung about the neck of Godwin that none could have told them apart. "Man," Sinan said in a low voice, "what have you done? You have left the emir Hassan go, who is the most trusted friend and general of the Sultan of Damascus. By now he is there, or near it, and within six days we shall see the army of Salah-ed-din riding across the plain. Also you have not killed the crew and the Frankish woman, and they too will make report of the taking of the ship and the capture of this lady, who is of the house of Salah-ed-din and whom he seeks more earnestly than all the kingdom of the Franks. What have you to say?" "Lord," answered the tall fedai, and his hand trembled as he spoke, "most mighty lord, I had no orders as to the killing of the crew from your lips, and the Frank Lozelle told me that he had agreed with you that they should be spared." "Then, slave, he lied. He agreed with me through that dead spy that they should be slain, and do you not know that if I give no orders in such a case I mean death, not life? But what of the prince Hassan?" "Lord, I have nothing to say. I think he must have bribed the spy named Nicholas"--and he pointed to the corpse--"to cut his bonds, and afterwards killed the man for vengeance sake, for by the body we found a heavy purse of gold. That he hated him as he hated yonder Lozelle I know, for he called them dogs and traitors in the boat; and since he could not strike them, his hands being bound, he spat in their faces, cursing them in the name of Allah. That is why, Lozelle being afraid to be near him, I set the spy Nicholas, who was a bold fellow, as a watch over him, and two soldiers outside the tent, while Lozelle and I watched the lady." "Let those soldiers be brought," said Sinan, "and tell their story." They were brought and stood by their captain, but they had no story to tell. They swore that they had not slept on guard, nor heard a sound, yet when morning came the prince was gone. Again the Lord of Death stroked his black beard. Then he held up the Signet before the eyes of the three men, saying: "You see the token. Go." "Lord," said the fedai, "I have served you well for many years." "Your service is ended. Go!" was the stern answer. The fedai bowed his head in salute, stood for a moment as though lost in thought, then, turning suddenly, walked with a steady step to the edge of the abyss and leapt. For an instant the sunlight shone on his white and fluttering robe, then from the depths of that darksome place floated up the sound of a heavy fall, and all was still. "Follow your captain to Paradise," said Sinan to the two soldiers, whereon one of them drew a knife to stab himself, but a dai sprang up, saying: "Beast, would you shed blood before your lord? Do you not know the custom? Begone!" So the poor men went, the first with a steady step, and the second, who was not so brave, reeling over the edge of the precipice as one might who is drunken. "It is finished," said the dais, clapping their hands gently. "Dread lord, we thank thee for thy justice." But Rosamund turned sick and faint, and even the brethren paled. This man was terrible indeed--if he were a man and not a devil--and they were in his power. How long would it be, they wondered, before they also were bidden to walk that gulf? Only Wulf swore in his heart that if he went by this road Sinan should go with him. Then the corpse of the false palmer was borne away to be thrown to the eagles which always hovered over that house of death, and Sinan, having reseated himself upon the cushion, began to talk again through his "mouth" Masouda, in a low, quiet voice, as though nothing had happened to anger him. "Lady," he said to Rosamund, "your story is known to me. Salah-ed-din seeks you, nor is it wonderful"--here his eyes glittered with a new and horrible light--"that he should desire to see such loveliness at his court, although the Frank Lozelle swore through yonder dead spy that you are precious in his eyes because of some vision that has come to him. Well, this heretic sultan is my enemy whom Satan protects, for even my fedais have failed to kill him, and perhaps there will be war on account of you. But have no fear, for the price at which you shall be delivered to him is higher than Salah-ed-din himself would care to pay, even for you. So, since this castle is impregnable, here you may dwell at peace, nor shall any desire be denied you. Speak, and your wishes are fulfilled." "I desire," said Rosamund in a low, steady voice, "protection against Sir Hugh Lozelle and all men." "It is yours. The Lord of the Mountain covers you with his own mantle." "I desire," she went on, "that my brothers here may lodge with me, that I may not feel alone among strange people." He thought awhile, and answered: "Your brethren shall lodge near you in the guest castle. Why not, since from them you cannot need protection? They shall meet you at the feast and in the garden. But, lady, do you know it? They came here upon faith of some old tale of a promise made by him who went before me to ask my help to recover you from Salah-ed-din, unwitting that I was your host, not Salah-ed-din. That they should meet you thus is a chance which makes even my wisdom wonder, for in it I see omens. Now she whom they wished to rescue from Salah-ed-din, these tall brethren of yours might wish to rescue from Al-je-bal. Understand then, all of you, that from the Lord of Death there is but one escape. Yonder runs its path," and he pointed to the dizzy place whence his three servants had leapt to their doom. "Knights," he went on, addressing Godwin and Wulf, "lead your sister hence. This evening I bid her, and you to my banquet. Till then, farewell. Woman," he added to Masouda, "accompany them. You know your duties; this lady is in your charge. Suffer that no strange man comes near her--above all, the Frank Lozelle. Dais take notice and let it be proclaimed--To these three is given the protection of the Signet in all things, save that they must not leave my walls except under sanction of the Signet--nay, in its very presence." The dais rose, bowed, and seated themselves again. Then, guided by Masouda and preceded and followed by guards, the brethren and Rosamund walked down the terrace through the curtains into the chancel-like place where men crouched upon the ground; through the great hall were more men crouched upon the ground; through the ante-chamber where, at a word from Masouda, the guards saluted; through passages to that place where they had slept. Here Masouda halted and said: "Lady Rose of the World, who are fitly so named, I go to prepare your chamber. Doubtless you will wish to speak awhile with these your--brothers. Speak on and fear not, for it shall be my care that you are left alone, if only for a little while. Yet walls have ears, so I counsel you use that English tongue which none of us understand in the land of Al-je-bal--not even I." Then she bowed and went. Chapter Thirteen: The Embassy The brethren and Rosamund looked at each other, for having so much to say it seemed that they could not speak at all. Then with a low cry Rosamund said: "Oh! let us thank God, Who, after all these black months of travel and of danger, has thus brought us together again," and, kneeling down there together in the guest-hall of the lord of Death, they gave thanks earnestly. Then, moving to the centre of the chamber where they thought that none would hear them, they began to speak in low voices and in English. "Tell you your tale first, Rosamund," said Godwin. She told it as shortly as she could, they listening without a word. Then Godwin spoke and told her theirs. Rosamund heard it, and asked a question almost in a whisper. "Why does that beautiful dark-eyed woman befriend you?" "I do not know," answered Godwin, "unless it is because of the accident of my having saved her from the lion." Rosamund looked at him and smiled a little, and Wulf smiled also. Then she said: "Blessings be on that lion and all its tribe! I pray that she may not soon forget the deed, for it seems that our lives hang upon her favour. How strange is this story, and how desperate our case! How strange also that you should have come on hither against her counsel, which, seeing what we have, I think was honest?" "We were led," answered Godwin. "Your father had wisdom at his death, and saw what we could not see." "Ay," added Wulf, "but I would that it had been into some other place, for I fear this lord Al-je-bal at whose nod men hurl themselves to death." "He is hateful," answered Rosamund, with a shudder; "worse even than the knight Lozelle; and when he fixes his eyes on me, my heart grows sick. Oh! that we could escape this place!" "An eel in an osier trap has more chance of freedom," said Wulf gloomily. "Let us at least be thankful that we are caged together--for how long, I wonder?" As he spoke Masouda appeared, attended by waiting women, and, bowing to Rosamund, said: "It is the will of the Master, lady, that I lead you to the chambers that have been made ready for you, there to rest until the hour of the feast. Fear not; you shall meet your brethren then. You knights have leave, if it so pleases you, to exercise your horses in the gardens. They stand saddled in the courtyard, to which this woman will bring you," and she pointed to one of those two maids who had cleaned the armour, "and with them are guides and an escort." "She means that we must go," muttered Godwin, adding aloud, "farewell, sister, until tonight." So they parted, unwillingly enough. In the courtyard they found the horses, Flame and Smoke, as they had been told, also a mounted escort of four fierce-looking fedais and an officer. When they were in the saddle, this man, motioning to them to follow him, passed by an archway out of the courtyard into the gardens. Hence ran a broad road strewn with sand, along which he began to gallop. This road followed the gulf which encircled the citadel and inner town of Masyaf, that was, as it were, an island on a mountain top with a circumference of over three miles. As they went, the gulf always on their right hand, holding in their horses to prevent their passing that of their guide, swift as it was, they saw another troop approaching them. This was also preceded by an officer of the Assassins, as these servants of Al-je-bal were called by the Franks, and behind him, mounted on a splendid coalblack steed and followed by guards, rode a mail-clad Frankish knight. "It is Lozelle," said Wulf, "upon the horse that Sinan promised him." At the sight of the man a fury took hold of Godwin. With a shout of warning he drew his sword. Lozelle saw, and out leapt his blade in answer. Then sweeping past the officers who were with them and reining up their steeds, in a second they were face to face. Lozelle struck first and Godwin caught the stroke upon his buckler, but before he could return it the fedais of either party rushed between them and thrust them asunder. "A pity," said Godwin, as they dragged his horse away. "Had they left us alone I think, brother, I might have saved you a moonlight duel." "That I do not want to miss, but the chance at his head was good if those fellows would have let you take it," answered Wulf reflectively. Then the horses began to gallop again, and they saw no more of Lozelle. Now, skirting the edge of the town, they came to the narrow, wall-less bridge that spanned the gulf between it and the outer gate and city. Here the officer wheeled his horse, and, beckoning to them to follow, charged it at full gallop. After him went the brethren--Godwin first, then Wulf. In the deep gateway on the further side they reined up. The captain turned, and began to gallop back faster than he had come--as fast, indeed, as his good beast would travel. "Pass him!" cried Godwin, and shaking the reins loose upon the neck of Flame he called to it aloud. Forward it sprang, with Smoke at its heels. Now they had overtaken the captain, and now even on that narrow way they had swept past him. Not an inch was there to spare between them and the abyss, and the man, brave as he was, expecting to be thrust to death, clung to his horse's mane with terror in his eyes. On the city side the brethren pulled up laughing among the astonished fedais who had waited for them there. "By the Signet," cried the officer, thinking that the knights could not understand, "these are not men; they are devils, and their horses are goats of the mountains. I thought to frighten them, but it is I who was frightened, for they swept past me like eagles of the air." "Gallant riders and swift, well-trained steeds," answered one of the fedais, with admiration in his voice. "The fight at the full moon will be worth our seeing." Then once more they took the sand-strewn road and galloped on. Thrice they passed round the city thus, the last time by themselves, for the captain and the fedais were far outstripped. Indeed it was not until they had unsaddled Flame and Smoke in their stalls that these appeared, spurring their foaming horses. Taking no heed of them, the brethren thrust aside the grooms, dressed their steeds down, fed and watered them. Then having seen them eat, there being no more to do, they walked back to the guest-house, hoping to find Rosamund. But they found no Rosamund, so sat down together and talked of the wonderful things that had befallen them, and of what might befall them in the future; of the mercy of Heaven also which had brought them all three together safe and sound, although it was in this house of hell. So the time passed on, till about the hour of sunset the women servants came and led them to the bath, where the black slaves washed and perfumed them, clothing them in fresh robes above their armour. When they came out the sun was down, and the women, bearing torches in their hands, conducted them to a great and gorgeous hall which they had not seen before, built of fretted stone and having a carved and painted roof. Along one side of this hall, that was lit with cressets, were a number of round-headed open arches supported by elegant white columns, and beyond these a marble terrace with flights of steps which led to the gardens beneath. On the floor of this hall, each seated upon his cushion beside low tables inlaid with pearl sat the guests, a hundred or more, all dressed in white robes on which the red dagger was blazoned, and all as silent as though they were asleep. When the brethren reached the place the women left them, and servants with gold chains round their necks escorted them to a dais in the middle of the hall where were many cushions, as yet unoccupied, arranged in a semicircle, of which the centre was a divan higher and more gorgeous than the rest. Here places were pointed out to them opposite the divan, and they took their stand by them. They had not long to wait, for presently there was a sound of music, and, heralded by troops of singing women, the lord Sinan approached, walking slowly down the length of the great hall. It was a strange procession, for after the women came the aged, white robed dais, then the lord Al-je-bal himself, clad now in his blood-red, festal robe, and wearing jewels on his turban. Around him marched four slaves, black as ebony, each of whom held a flaming torch on high, while behind followed the two gigantic guards who had stood sentry over him when he sat under the canopy of justice. As he advanced down the hall every man in it rose and prostrated himself, and so remained until their lord was seated, save only the two brethren, who stood erect like the survivors among the slain of a battle. Settling himself among the cushions at one end of the divan, he waved his hand, whereon the feasters, and with them Godwin and Wulf, sat themselves down. Now there was a pause, while Sinan glanced along the hall impatiently. Soon the brethren saw why, since at the end opposite to that by which he had entered appeared more singing women, and after them, also escorted by four black torch-bearers, only these were women, walked Rosamund and, behind her, Masouda. Rosamund it was without doubt, but Rosamund transformed, for now she seemed an Eastern queen. Round her head was a coronet of gems from which hung a veil, but not so as to hide her face. Jewelled, too, were her heavy plaits of hair, jewelled the rose-silk garments that she wore, the girdle at her waist, her naked, ivory arms and even the slippers on her feet. As she approached in her royal-looking beauty all the guests at that strange feast stared first at her and next at each other. Then as though by a single impulse they rose and bowed. "What can this mean?" muttered Wulf to Godwin as they did likewise. But Godwin made no answer. On came Rosamund, and now, behold! the lord Al-je-bal rose also and, giving her his hand, seated her by him on the divan. "Show no surprise, Wulf," muttered Godwin, who had caught a warning look in the eyes of Masouda as she took up her position behind Rosamund. Now the feast began. Slaves running to and fro, set dish after dish filled with strange and savoury meats, upon the little inlaid tables, those that were served to Sinan and his guests fashioned, all of them, of silver or of gold. Godwin and Wulf ate, though not for hunger's sake, but of what they ate they remembered nothing who were watching Sinan and straining their ears to catch all he said without seeming to take note or listen. Although she strove to hide it and to appear indifferent, it was plain to them that Rosamund was much afraid. Again and again Sinan presented to her choice morsels of food, sometimes on the dishes and sometimes with his fingers, and these she was obliged to take. All the while also he devoured her with his fierce eyes so that she shrank away from him to the furthest limit of the divan. Then wine, perfumed and spiced, was brought in golden cups, of which, having drunk, he offered to Rosamund. But she shook her head and asked Masouda for water, saying that she touched nothing stronger, and it was given her, cooled with snow. The brethren asked for water also, whereon Sinan looked at them suspiciously and demanded the reason. Godwin replied through Masouda that they were under an oath to touch no wine till they returned to their own country, having fulfilled their mission. To this he answered meaningly that it was good and right to keep oaths, but he feared that theirs would make them water-drinkers for the rest of their lives, a saying at which their hearts sank. Now the wine that he had drunk took hold of Sinan, and he began to talk who without it was so silent. "You met the Frank Lozelle to-day," he said to Godwin, through Masouda, "when riding in my gardens, and drew your sword on him. Why did you not kill him? Is he the better man?" "It seems not, as once before I worsted him and I sit here unhurt, lord," answered Godwin. "Your servants thrust between and separated us." "Ay," replied Sinan, "I remember; they had orders. Still, I would that you had killed him, the unbelieving dog, who has dared to lift his eyes to this Rose of Roses, your sister. Fear not," he went on, addressing Rosamund, "he shall offer you no more insult, who are henceforth under the protection of the Signet," and stretching out his thin, cruel-looking hand, on which gleamed the ring of power, he patted her on the arm. All of these things Masouda translated, while Rosamund dropped her head to hide her face, though on it were not the blushes that he thought, but loathing and alarm. Wulf glared at the Al-je-bal, whose head by good fortune was turned away, and so fierce was the rage swelling in his heart that a mist seemed to gather before his eyes, and through it this devilish chief of a people of murderers, clothed in his robe of flaming red, looked like a man steeped in blood. The thought came to him suddenly that he would make him what he looked, and his hand passed to his sword-hilt. But Godwin saw the terror in Masouda's eyes, saw Wulf's hand also, and guessed what was about to chance. With a swift movement of his arm he struck a golden dish from the table to the marble floor, then said, in a clear voice in French: "Brother, be not so awkward; pick up that dish and answer the lord Sinan as is your right--I mean, touching the matter of Lozelle." Wulf stooped to obey, and his mind cleared which had been so near to madness. "I wish it not, lord," he said, "who, if I can, have your good leave to slay this fellow on the third night from now. If I fail, then let my brother take my place, but not before." "Yes, I forgot," said Sinan. "So I decreed, and that will be a fight I wish to see. If he kills you then your brother shall meet him. And if he kills you both, then perhaps I, Sinan, will meet him--in my own fashion. Sweet lady, knowing where the course is laid, say, do you fear to see this fray?" Rosamund's face paled, but she answered proudly: "Why should I fear what my brethren do not fear? They are brave knights, bred to arms, and God, in Whose hand are all our destinies--even yours, O Lord of Death--He will guard the right." When this speech was translated to him Sinan quailed a little. Then he answered: "Lady, know that I am the Voice and Prophet of Allah--ay, and his sword to punish evil-doers and those who do not believe. Well, if what I hear is true, your brethren are skilled horsemen who even dared to pass my servant on the narrow bridge, so victory may rest with them. Tell me which of them do you love the least, for he shall first face the sword of Lozelle." Now as Rosamund prepared herself to answer Masouda scanned her face through her half-closed eyes. But whatever she may have felt within, it remained calm and cold as though it were cut in stone. "To me they are as one man," she said. "When one speaks, both speak. I love them equally." "Then, Guest of my heart, it shall go as I have said. Brother Blue-eyes shall fight first, and if he falls then Brother Grey-eyes. The feast is ended, and it is my hour for prayer. Slaves, bid the people fill their cups. Lady, I pray of you, stand forward on the dais." She obeyed, and at a sign the black slave-women gathered behind her with their flaming torches. Then Sinan rose also, and cried with a loud voice: "Servants of Al-je-bal, pledge, I command you, this Flower of flowers, the high-born Princess of Baalbec, the niece of the Sultan, Salah-ed-din, whom men call the Great," and he sneered, "though he be not so great as I, this Queen of maids who soon--" Then, checking himself, he drank off his wine, and with a low bow presented the empty, jewelled cup to Rosamund. All the company drank also, and shouted till the hall rang, for her loveliness as she stood thus in the fierce light of the torches, aflame as these men were with the vision-breeding wine of Al-je-bal, moved them to madness. "Queen! Queen!" they shouted. "Queen of our Master and of us all!" Sinan heard and smiled. Then, motioning for silence, he took the hand of Rosamund, kissed it, and turning, passed from the hall preceded by his singing women and surrounded by the dais and guards. Godwin and Wulf stepped forward to speak with Rosamund, but Masouda interposed herself between them, saying in a cold, clear voice: "It is not permitted. Go, knights, and cool your brows in yonder garden, where sweet water runs. Your sister is my charge. Fear not, for she is guarded." "Come," said Godwin to Wulf; "we had best obey." So together they walked through the crowd of those feasters that remained, for most of them had already left the hall, who made way, not without reverence, for the brethren of this new star of beauty, on to the terrace, and from the terrace into the gardens. Here they stood awhile in the sweet freshness of the night, which was very grateful after the heated, perfume-laden air of the banquet; then began to wander up and down among the scented trees and flowers. The moon, floating in a cloudless sky, was almost at its full, and by her light they saw a wondrous scene. Under many of the trees and in tents set about here and there, rugs were spread, and to them came men who had drunk of the wine of the feast, and cast themselves down to sleep. "Are they drunk?" asked Wulf. "It would seem so," answered Godwin. Yet these men appeared to be mad rather than drunk, for they walked steadily enough, but with wide-set, dreamy eyes; nor did they seem to sleep upon the rugs, but lay there staring at the sky and muttering with their lips, their faces steeped in a strange, unholy rapture. Sometimes they would rise and walk a few paces with outstretched arms, till the arms closed as though they clasped something invisible, to which they bent their heads to babble awhile. Then they walked back to their rugs again, where they remained silent. As they lay thus, white-veiled women appeared, who crouched by the heads of these sleepers, murmuring into their ears, and when from time to time they sat up, gave them to drink from cups they carried, after partaking of which they lay down again and became quite senseless. Only the women would move on to others and serve them likewise. Some of them approached the brethren with a slow, gliding motion, and offered them the cup; but they walked forward, taking no notice, whereupon the girls left them, laughing softly, and saying such things as "Tomorrow we shall meet," or "Soon you will be glad to drink and enter into Paradise." "When the time comes doubtless we shall be glad, who have dwelt here," answered Godwin gravely, but as he spoke in French they did not understand him. "Step out, brother," said Wulf, "for at the very sight of those rugs I grow sleepy, and the wine in the cups sparkles as bright as their bearers' eyes." So they walked on towards the sound of a waterfall, and, when they came to it, drank, and bathed their faces and heads. "This is better than their wine," said Wulf. Then, catching sight of more women flitting round them, looking like ghosts amid the moonlit glades, they pressed forward till they reached an open sward where there were no rugs, no sleepers, and no cupbearers. "Now," said Wulf, halting, "tell me what does all this mean?" "Are you deaf and blind?" asked Godwin. "Cannot you see that yonder fiend is in love with Rosamund, and means to take her, as he well may do?" Wulf groaned aloud, then answered: "I swear that first I will send his soul to hell, even though our own must keep it company." "Ay," answered Godwin, "I saw; you went near to it tonight. But remember, that is the end for all of us. Let us wait then to strike until we must--to save her from worse things." "Who knows that we may find another chance? Meanwhile, meanwhile--" and again he groaned. "Among those ornaments that hung about the waist of Rosamund I saw a jewelled knife," answered Godwin, sadly. "She can be trusted to use it if need be, and after that we can be trusted to do our worst. At least, I think that we should die in a fashion that would be remembered in this mountain." As they spoke they had loitered towards the edge of the glade, and halting there stood silent, till presently from under the shadow of a cedar tree appeared a solitary, white robed woman. "Let us be going," said Wulf; "here is another of them with her accursed cup." But before they could turn the woman glided up to them and suddenly unveiled. It was Masouda. "Follow me, brothers Peter and John," she said in a laughing whisper. "I have words to say to you. What! you will not drink? Well, it is wisest." And emptying the cup upon the ground she flitted ahead of them. Silently as a wraith she went, now appearing in the open spaces, now vanishing, beneath the dense gloom of cedar boughs, till she reached a naked, lonely rock which stood almost upon the edge of the gulf. Opposite to this rock was a great mound such as ancient peoples reared over the bodies of their dead, and in the mound, cunningly hidden by growing shrubs, a massive door. Masouda took a key from her girdle, and, having looked around to see that they were alone, unlocked it. "Enter," she said, pushing them before her. They obeyed, and through the darkness within heard her close the door. "Now we are safe awhile," she said with a sigh, "or, at least, so I think. But I will lead you to where there is more light." Then, taking each of them by the hand, she went forward along a smooth incline, till presently they saw the moonlight, and by it discovered that they stood at the mouth of a cave which was fringed with bushes. Running up from the depths of the gulf below to this opening was a ridge or shoulder of rock, very steep and narrow. "See the only road that leads from the citadel of Masyaf save that across the bridge," said Masouda. "A bad one," answered Wulf, staring downward. "Ay, yet horses trained to rocks can follow it. At its foot is the bottom of the gulf, and a mile or more away to the left a deep cleft which leads to the top of the mountain and to freedom. Will you not take it now? By tomorrow's dawn you might be far away." "And where would the lady Rosamund be?" asked Wulf. "In the harem of the lord Sinan--that is, very soon," she answered, coolly. "Oh, say it not!" he exclaimed, clasping her arm, while Godwin leaned back against the wall of the cave. "Why should I hide the truth? Have you no eyes to see that he is enamoured of her loveliness--like others? Listen; a while ago my master Sinan chanced to lose his queen--how, we need not ask, but it is said that she wearied him. Now, as he must by law, he mourns for her a month, from full moon to full moon. But on the day after the full moon--that is, the third morning from now--he may wed again, and I think there will be a marriage. Till then, however, your sister is as safe as though she yet sat at home in England before Salah-ed-din dreamed his dream." "Therefore," said Godwin, "within that time she must either escape or die." "There is a third way," answered Masouda, shrugging her shoulders. "She might stay and become the wife of Sinan." Wulf muttered something between his teeth, then stepped towards her threateningly, saying: "Rescue her, or--" "Stand back, pilgrim John," she said, with a laugh. "If I rescue her, which indeed would be hard, it will not be for fear of your great sword." "What, then, will avail, Masouda?" asked Godwin in a sad voice. "To promise you money would be useless, even if we could." "I am glad that you spared me that insult," she replied with flashing eyes, "for then there had been an end. Yet," she added more humbly, "seeing my home and business, and what I appear to be," and she glanced at her dress and the empty cup in her hand, "it had not been strange. Now hear me, and forget no word. At present you are in favour with Sinan, who believes you to be the brothers of the lady Rosamund, not her lovers; but from the moment he learns the truth your doom is sealed. Now what the Frank Lozelle knows, that the Al-je-bal may know at any time--and will know, if these should meet. "Meanwhile, you are free; so to-morrow, while you ride about the garden, as you will do, take note of the tall rock that stands without, and how to reach it from any point, even in the dark. To-morrow, also, when the moon is up, they will lead you to the narrow bridge, to ride your horses to and fro there, that they may learn not to fear it in that light. When you have stabled them go into the gardens and come hither unobserved, as the place being so far away you can do. The guards will let you pass, thinking only that you desire to drink a cup of wine with some fair friend, as is the custom of our guests. Enter this cave--here is the key," and she handed it to Wulf, "and if I be not there, await me. Then I will tell you my plan, if I have any, but until then I must scheme and think. Now it grows late--go." "And you, Masouda," said Godwin, doubtfully; "how will you escape this place?" "By a road you do not know of, for I am mistress of the secrets of this city. Still, I thank you for your thought of me. Go, I say, and lock the door behind you." So they went in silence, doing as she bade them, and walked back through the gardens, that now seemed empty enough, to the stable-entrance of the guest-house, where the guards admitted them without question. That night the brethren slept together in one bed, fearing that if they lay separate they might be searched in their sleep and not awake. Indeed, it seemed to them that, as before, they heard footsteps and voices in the darkness. Next morning, when they had breakfasted, they loitered awhile, hoping to win speech with Rosamund, or sight of her, or at the least that Masouda would come to them; but they saw no Rosamund, and no Masouda came. At length an officer appeared, and beckoned to them to follow him. So they followed, and were led through the halls and passages to the terrace of justice, where Sinan, clad in his black robe, sat as before beneath a canopy in the midst of the sun-lit marble floor. There, too, beside him, also beneath the canopy and gorgeously apparelled, sat Rosamund. They strove to advance and speak with her, but guards came between them, pointing out a place where they must stand a few yards away. Only Wulf said in a loud voice, in English: "Tell us, Rosamund, is it well with you?" Lifting her pale face, she smiled and nodded. Then, at the bidding of Sinan, Masouda commanded them to be silent, saying that it was not lawful for them to speak to the Lord of the Mountain, or his Companion, unless they were first bidden so to do. So, having learnt what they wished to know, they were silent. Now some of the dais drew near the canopy, and consulted with their master on what seemed to be a great matter, for their faces were troubled. Presently he gave an order, whereon they resumed their seats and messengers left the terrace. When they appeared again, in their company were three noble-looking Saracens, who were accompanied by a retinue of servants and wore green turbans, showing that they were descendants of the Prophet. These men, who seemed weary with long travel, marched up the terrace with a proud mien, not looking at the dais or any one until they saw the brethren standing side by side, at whom they stared a little. Next they caught sight of Rosamund sitting in the shadow of the canopy, and bowed to her, but of the Al-je-bal they took no notice. "Who are you, and what is your pleasure?" asked Sinan, after he had eyed them awhile. "I am the ruler of this country. These are my ministers," and he pointed to the dais, "and here is my sceptre," and he touched the bloodred dagger broidered on his robe of black. Now that Sinan had declared himself the embassy bowed to him, courteously enough. Then their spokesman answered him. "That sceptre we know; it has been seen afar. Twice already we have cut down its bearers even in the tent of our master. Lord of Murder, we acknowledge the emblem of murder, and we bow to you whose title is the Great Murderer. As for our mission, it is this. We are the ambassadors of Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, Sultan of the East; in these papers signed with his signet are our credentials, if you would read them." "So," answered Sinan, "I have heard of that chief. What is his will with me?" "This, Al-je-bal. A Frank in your pay, and a traitor, has betrayed to you a certain lady, niece of Salah-ed-din, the princess of Baalbec, whose father was a Frankish noble named D'Arcy, and who herself is named Rose of the World. The Sultan, Salah-ed-din, having been informed of this matter by his servant, the prince Hassan, who escaped from your soldiers, demands that this lady, his niece, be delivered to him forthwith, and with her the head of the Frank Lozelle." "The head of the Frank Lozelle he may have if he will after to-morrow night. The lady I keep," snarled Sinan. "What then?" "Then, Al-je-bal, in the name of Salah-ed-din, we declare war on you--war till this high place of yours is pulled stone from stone; war till your tribe be dead, till the last man, woman, and child be slain, until your carcass is tossed to the crows to feed on." Now Sinan rose in fury and rent at his beard. "Go back," he said, "and tell that dog you name a sultan, that low as he is, the humble-born son of Ayoub, I, Al-je-bal, do him an honour that he does not observe. My queen is dead, and two days from now, when my month of mourning is expired, I shall take to wife his niece, the princess of Baalbec, who sits here beside me, my bride-elect." At these words Rosamund, who had been listening intently, started like one who has been stung by a snake, put her hands before her face and groaned. "Princess," said the ambassador, who was watching her, "you seem to understand our language; is this your will, to mate your noble blood with that of the heretic chief of the Assassins ?" "Nay, nay!" she cried. "It is no will of mine, who am a helpless prisoner and by faith a Christian. If my uncle Salah-ed-din is indeed as great as I have heard, then let him show his power and deliver me, and with me these my brethren, the knights Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf." "So you speak Arabic," said Sinan. "Good; our loving converse will be easier, and for the rest--well, the whims of women change. Now, you messengers of Salah-ed-din, begone, lest I send you on a longer journey, and tell your master that if he dares to lift his standards against my walls my fedais shall speak with him. By day and by night, not for one moment shall he be safe. Poison shall lurk in his cup and a dagger in his bed. Let him kill a hundred of them, and another hundred shall appear. His most trusted guards shall be his executioners. The women in his harem shall bring him to his doom--ay, death shall be in the very air he breathes. If he would escape it, therefore, let him hide himself within the walls of his city of Damascus, or amuse himself with wars against the mad Cross-worshippers, and leave me to live in peace with this lady whom I have chosen." "Great words, worthy of the Great Assassin," said the ambassador. "Great words in truth, which shall be followed by great deeds. What chance has this lord of yours against a nation sworn to obey to the death? You smile? Then come hither you--and you." And he summoned two of his dais by name. They rose and bowed before him. "Now, my worthy servants," he said, "show these heretic dogs how you obey, that their master may learn the power of your master. You are old and weary of life. Begone, and await me in Paradise." The old men bowed again, trembling a little. Then, straightening themselves, without a word they ran side by side and leapt into the abyss. "Has Salah-ed-din servants such as these?" asked Sinan in the silence that followed. "Well, what they have done, all would do, if I bid them slay him. Back, now; and, if you will, take these Franks with you, who are my guests, that they may bear witness of what you have seen, and of the state in which you left their sister. Translate to the knights, woman." So Masouda translated. Then Godwin answered through her. "We understand little of this matter, who are ignorant of your tongue, but, O Al-je-bal, ere we leave your sheltering roof we have a quarrel to settle with the man Lozelle. After that, with your permission, we will go, but not before." Now Rosamund sighed as if in relief, and Sinan answered: "As you will; so be it," adding, "Give these envoys food and drink before they go." But their spokesman answered: "We partake not of the bread and salt of murderers, lest we should become of their fellowship. Al-je-bal, we depart, but within a week we appear again in the company of ten thousand spears, and on one of them shall your head be set. Your safe-conduct guards us till the sunset. After that, do your worst, as we do ours. High Princess, our counsel to you is that you slay yourself and so gain immortal honour." Then, bowing to her one by one, they turned and marched down the terrace followed by their servants. Now Sinan waved his hand and the court broke up, Rosamund leaving it first, accompanied by Masouda and escorted by guards, after which the brethren were commanded to depart also. So they went, talking earnestly of all these things, but save in God finding no hope at all. Chapter Fourteen: The Combat on the Bridge "Saladin will come," said Wulf the hopeful, and from the high place where they stood he pointed to the plain beneath, across which a band of horsemen moved at full gallop. "Look; yonder goes his embassy." "Ay," answered Godwin, "he will come, but, I fear me, too late." "Yes, brother, unless we go to meet him. Masouda has promised." "Masouda," sighed Godwin. "Ah! to think that so much should hang upon the faithfulness of one woman." "It does not hang on her," said Wulf; "it hangs on Fate, who writes with her finger. Come, let us ride." So, followed by their escort, they rode in the gardens, taking note, without seeming to do so, of the position of the tall rock, and of how it could be approached from every side. Then they went in again and waited for some sign or word of Rosamund, but in vain. That night there was no feast, and their meal was brought to them in the guest-house. While they sat at it Masouda appeared for a moment to tell them that they had leave to ride the bridge in the moonlight, and that their escort would await them at a certain hour. The brethren asked if their sister Rosamund was not coming to dine with them. Masouda answered that as the queen-elect of the Al-je-bal it was not lawful that she should eat with any other men, even her brothers. Then as she passed out, stumbling as though by accident, she brushed against Godwin, and muttered: "Remember, to-night," and was gone. When the moon had been up an hour the officer of their escort appeared, and led them to their horses, which were waiting, and they rode away to the castle bridge. As they approached it they saw Lozelle departing on his great black stallion, which was in a lather of foam. It seemed that he also had made trial of that perilous path, for the people, of whom there were many gathered there, clapped their hands and shouted, "Well ridden, Frank! well ridden!" Now, Godwin leading on Flame, they faced the bridge and walked their horses over it. Nor did these hang back, although they snorted a little at the black gulf on either side. Next they returned at a trot, then over again, and yet again at a canter and a gallop, sometimes together and sometimes singly. Lastly, Wulf made Godwin halt in the middle of the bridge and galloped down upon him at speed, till within a lance's length. Then suddenly he checked his horse, and while his audience shouted, wheeled it around on its hind legs, its forehoofs beating the air, and galloped back again, followed by Godwin. "All went well," Wulf said as they rode to the castle, "and nobler or more gentle horses were never crossed by men. I have good hopes for to-morrow night." "Ay, brother, but I had no sword in my hand. Be not over confident, for Lozelle is desperate and a skilled fighter, as I know who have stood face to face with him. More over, his black stallion is well trained, and has more weight than ours. Also, yonder is a fearsome place on which to ride a course, and one of which none but that devil Sinan would have thought." "I shall do my best," answered Wulf, "and if I fall, why, then, act upon your own counsel. At least, let him not kill both of us." Having stabled their horses the brethren wandered into the garden, and, avoiding the cup-bearing women and the men they plied with their drugged drink, drew by a roundabout road to the tall rock. Then, finding themselves alone, they unlocked the door, and slipping through it, locked it again on the further side and groped their way to the moonlit mouth of the cave. Here they stood awhile studying the descent of the gulf as best they could in that light, till suddenly Godwin, feeling a hand upon his shoulder, started round to find himself face to face with Masouda. "How did you come?" he asked. "By a road in which is your only hope," she answered. "Now, Sir Godwin, waste no words, for my time is short, but if you think that you can trust me--and this is for you to judge--give me the Signet which hangs about your neck. If not, go back to the castle and do your best to save the lady Rosamund and yourselves." Thrusting down his hand between his mail shirt and his breast, Godwin drew out the ancient ring, carved with the mysterious signs and veined with the emblem of the dagger, and handed it to Masouda. "You trust indeed," she said with a little laugh, as, after scanning it closely by the light of the moon and touching her forehead with it, she hid it in her bosom. "Yes, lady," he answered, "I trust you, though why you should risk so much for us I do not know." "Why? Well, perhaps for hate's sake, for Sinan does not rule by love; perhaps because, being of a wild blood, I am willing to set my life at hazard, who care not if I win or die; perhaps because you saved me from the lioness. What is it to you, Sir Godwin, why a certain woman-spy of the Assassins, whom in your own land you would spit on, chooses to do this or that?" She ceased and stood before him with heaving breast and flashing eyes, a mysterious white figure in the moonlight, most beautiful to see. Godwin felt his heart stir and the blood flow to his brow, but before he could speak Wulf broke in, saying: "You bade us spare words, lady Masouda, so tell us what we must do." "This," she answered, becoming calm again. "Tomorrow night about this hour you fight Lozelle upon the narrow way. That is certain, for all the city talks of it, and, whatever chances, Al-je-bal will not deprive them of the spectacle of this fray to the death. Well, you may fall, though that man at heart is a coward, which you are not, for here courage alone will avail nothing, but rather skill and horsemanship and trick of war. If so, then Sir Godwin fights him, and of this business none can tell the end. Should both of you go down, then I will do my best to save your lady and take her to Salah-ed-din, with whom she will be safe, or if I cannot save her I will find her a means to save herself by death." "You swear that?" said Wulf. "I have said it; it is enough," she answered impatiently. "Then I face the bridge and the knave Lozelle with a light heart," said Wulf again, and Masouda went on. "Now if you conquer, Sir Wulf, or if your fall and your brother conquers, both of you--or one of you, as it may happen--must gallop back at full speed toward the stable gate that lies more than a mile from the castle bridge. Mounted as you are, no horse can keep pace with you, nor must you stop at the gate, but ride on, ride like the wind till you reach this place. The gardens will be empty of feasters and of cup-bearers, who with every soul within the city will have gathered on the walls and on the house-tops to see the fray. There is but one fear--by then a guard may be set before this mound, seeing that Salah-ed-din has declared war upon Al-je-bal, and though yonder road is known to few, it is a road, and sentries may watch here. If so, you must cut them down or be cut down, and bring your story to an end. Sir Godwin, here is another key that you may use if you are alone. Take it." He did so, and she continued: "Now if both of you, or one of you, win through to this cave, enter with your horses, lock the door, bar it, and wait. It may be I will join you here with the princess. But if I do not come by the dawn and you are not discovered and overwhelmed--which should not be, seeing that one man can hold that door against many--then know that the worst has happened, and fly to Salah-ed-din and tell him of this road, by which he may take vengeance upon his foe Sinan. Only then, I pray you, doubt not that I have done my best, who if I fail must die--most horribly. Now, farewell, until we meet again or--do not meet again. Go; you know the road." They turned to obey, but when they had gone a few paces Godwin looked round and saw Masouda watching them. The moonlight shone full upon her face, and by it he saw also that tears were running from her dark and tender eyes. Back he came again, and with him Wulf, for that sight drew them. Down he bent before her till his knee touched the ground, and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and said in his gentle voice: "Henceforth through life, through death, we serve two ladies," and what he did Wulf did also. "Mayhap," she answered sadly; "two ladies--but one love." Then they went, and, creeping through the bushes to the path, wandered about awhile among the revellers and came to the guest-house safely. Once more it was night, and high above the mountain fortress of Masyaf shone the full summer moon, lighting crag and tower as with some vast silver lamp. Forth from the guest-house gate rode the brethren, side by side upon their splendid steeds, and the moon-rays sparkled on their coats of mail, their polished bucklers, blazoned with the cognizance of a grinning skull, their close-fitting helms, and the points of the long, tough lances that had been given them. Round them rode their escort, while in front and behind went a mob of people. The nation of the Assassins had thrown off its gloom this night, for the while it was no longer oppressed even by the fear of attack from Saladin, its mighty foe. To death it was accustomed; death was its watchword; death in many dreadful forms its daily bread. From the walls of Masyaf, day by day, fedais went out to murder this great one, or that great one, at the bidding of their lord Sinan. For the most part they came not back again; they waited week by week, month by month, year by year, till the moment was ripe, then gave the poisoned cup or drove home the dagger, and escaped or were slain. Death waited them abroad, and if they failed, death waited them at home. Their dreadful caliph was himself a sword of death. At his will they hurled themselves from towers or from precipices; to satisfy his policy they sacrificed their wives and children. And their reward--in life, the drugged cup and voluptuous dreams; after it, as they believed, a still more voluptuous paradise. All forms of human agony and doom were known to this people; but now they were promised an unfamiliar sight, that of Frankish knights slaying each other in single combat beneath the silent moon, tilting at full gallop upon a narrow place where many might hesitate to walk, and--oh, joy!--falling perchance, horse and rider together, into the depths below. So they were happy, for to them this was a night of festival, to be followed by a morrow of still greater festival, when their sultan and their god took to himself this stranger beauty as a wife. Doubtless, too, he would soon weary of her, and they would be called together to see her cast from some topmost tower and hear her frail bones break on the cruel rocks below, or--as had happened to the last queen--to watch her writhe out her life in the pangs of poison upon a charge of sorcery. It was indeed a night of festival, a night filled full of promise of rich joys to come. On rode the brethren, with stern, impassive faces, but wondering in their hearts whether they would live to see another dawn. The shouting crowd surged round them, breaking through the circle of their guards. A hand was thrust up to Godwin; in it was a letter, which he took and read by the bright moonlight. It was written in English, and brief: "I cannot speak with you. God be with you both, my brothers, God and the spirit of my father. Strike home, Wulf, strike home, Godwin, and fear not for me who will guard myself. Conquer or die, and in life or death, await me. To-morrow, in the flesh, or in the spirit, we will talk--Rosamund." Godwin handed the paper to Wulf, and, as he did so, saw that the guards had caught its bearer, a withered, grey-haired woman. They asked her some questions, but she shook her head. Then they cast her down, trampled the life out of her beneath their horses' hoofs, and went on laughing. The mob laughed also. "Tear that paper up," said Godwin. Wulf did so, saying: "Our Rosamund has a brave heart. Well, we are of the same blood, and will not fail her." Now they were come to the open space in front of the narrow bridge, where, tier on tier, the multitude were ranged, kept back from its centre by lines of guards. On the flat roofed houses also they were crowded thick as swarming bees, on the circling walls, and on the battlements that protected the far end of the bridge, and the houses of the outer city. Before the bridge was a low gateway, and upon its roof sat the Al-je-bal, clad in his scarlet robe of festival, and by his side, the moonlight gleaming on her jewels, Rosamund. In front, draped in a rich garment, a dagger of gems in her dark hair, stood the interpreter or "mouth" Masouda, and behind were dais and guards. The brethren rode to the space before the arch and halted, saluting with their pennoned spears. Then from the further side advanced another procession, which, opening, revealed the knight Lozelle riding on his great black horse, and a huge man and a fierce he seemed in his armour. "What!" he shouted, glowering at them. "Am I to fight one against two? Is this your chivalry?" "Nay, nay, Sir Traitor," answered Wulf. "Nay, nay betrayer of Christian maids to the power of the heathen dog; you have fought Godwin, now it is the turn of Wulf. Kill Wulf and Godwin remains. Kill Godwin and God remains. Knave, you look your last upon the moon." Lozelle heard, and seemed to go mad with rage, or fear, or both. "Lord Sinan," he shouted in Arabic, "this is murder. Am I, who have done you so much service, to be butchered for your pleasure by the lovers of that woman, whom you would honour with the name of wife?" Sinan heard, and stared at him with dull, angry eyes. "Ay, you may stare," went on the maddened Lozelle, "but it is true--they are her lovers, not her brothers. Would men take so much pains for a sister's sake, think you? Would they swim into this net of yours for a sister's sake?" Sinan held up his hand for silence. "Let the lots be cast," he said, "for whatever these men are, this fight must go on, and it shall be fair." So a dai, standing by himself, cast lots upon the ground, and having read them, announced that Lozelle must run the first course from the further side of the bridge. Then one took his bridle to lead him across. As he passed the brethren he grinned in their faces and said: "At least this is sure, you also look your last upon the moon. I am avenged already. The bait that hooked me is a meal for yonder pike, and he will kill you both before her eyes to whet his appetite." But the brethren answered nothing. The black horse of Lozelle grew dim in the distance of the moonlit bridge, and vanished beneath the farther archway that led to the outer city. Then a herald cried, Masouda translating his words, which another herald echoed from beyond the gulf. "Thrice will the trumpets blow. At the third blast of the trumpets the knights shall charge and meet in the centre of the bridge. Thenceforward they may fight as it pleases them, ahorse, or afoot, with lance, with sword, or with dagger, but to the vanquished no mercy will be shown. If he be brought living from the bridge, living he shall be cast into the gulf. Hear the decree of the Al-je-bal!" Then Wulf's horse was led forward to the entrance of the bridge, and from the further side was led forward the horse of Lozelle. "Good luck, brother," said Godwin, as he passed him. "Would that I rode this course instead of you." "Your turn may come, brother," answered the grim Wulf, as he set his lance in rest. Now from some neighbouring tower pealed out the first long blast of trumpets, and dead silence fell on all the multitude. Grooms came forward to look to girth and bridle and stirrup strap, but Wulf waved them back. "I mind my own harness," he said. The second blast blew, and he loosened the great sword in its scabbard, that sword which had flamed in his forbear's hand upon the turrets of Jerusalem. "Your gift," he cried back to Rosamund, and her answer came clear and sweet: "Bear it like your fathers, Wulf. Bear it as it was last borne in the hall at Steeple." Then there was another silence--a silence long and deep. Wulf looked at the white and narrow ribbon of the bridge, looked at the black gulf on either side, looked at the blue sky above, in which floated the great globe of the golden moon. Then he leant forward and patted Smoke upon the neck. For the third time the trumpets blew, and from either end of that bridge, two hundred paces long, the knights flashed towards each other like living bolts of steel. The multitude rose to watch; even Sinan rose. Only Rosamund sat still, gripping the cushions with her hands. Hollow rang the hoofs of the horses upon the stonework, swifter and swifter they flew, lower and lower bent the knights upon their saddles. Now they were near, and now they met. The spears seemed to shiver, the horses to hustle together on the narrow way and overhang its edge, then on came the black horse towards the inner city, and on sped Smoke towards the further gulf. "They have passed! They have passed!" roared the multitude. Look! Lozelle approached, reeling in his saddle, as well he might, for the helm was torn from his head and blood ran from his skull where the lance had grazed it. "Too high, Wulf; too high," said Godwin sadly. "But oh! if those laces had but held!" Soldiers caught the horse and turned it. "Another helm!" cried Lozelle. "Nay," answered Sinan; "yonder knight has lost his shield. New lances--that is all." So they gave him a fresh lance, and, presently, at the blast of the trumpets again the horses were seen speeding together over the narrow way. They met, and lo! Lozelle, torn from his saddle, but still clinging to the reins, was flung backwards, far backwards, to fall on the stonework of the bridge. Down, too, beneath the mighty shock went his black horse, a huddled heap, and lay there struggling. "Wulf will fall over him!" cried Rosamund. But Smoke did not fall; the stallion gathered itself together--the moonlight shone so clear that every watcher saw it--and since stop it could not, leapt straight over the fallen black horse--ay, and over the rider beyond--and sped on in its stride. Then the black found its feet again and galloped forward to the further gate, and Lozelle also found his feet and turned to run. "Stand! Stand, coward!" yelled ten thousand voices, and, hearing them, he drew his sword and stood. Within three great strides Wulf dragged his charger to its haunches, then wheeled it round. "Charge him!" shouted the multitude; but Wulf remained seated, as though unwilling to attack a horseless man. Next he sprang from his saddle, and accompanied by the horse Smoke, which followed him as a dog follows its master, walked slowly towards Lozelle, as he walked casting away his lance and drawing the great, cross-hilted sword. Again the silence fell, and through it rang the cry of Godwin: "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy!" "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy!" came back Wulf's answer from the bridge, and his voice echoed thin and hollow in the spaces of the gulf. Yet they rejoiced to hear it, for it told them that he was sound and strong. Wulf had no shield and Lozelle had no helm--the fight was even. They crouched opposite each other, the swords flashed aloft in the moonlight; from far away came the distant clank of steel, a soft, continual clamour of iron on iron. A blow fell on Wulf's mail, who had nought wherewith to guard himself, and he staggered back. Another blow, another, and another, and back, still back he reeled--back to the edge of the bridge, back till he struck against the horse that stood behind him, and, resting there a moment, as it seemed, regained his balance. Then there was a change. Look, he rushed forward, wielding the great blade in both hands. The stroke lit upon Lozelle's shield and seemed to shear it in two, for in that stillness all could hear the clang of its upper half as it fell upon the stones. Beneath the weight of it he staggered, sank to his knee, gained his feet again, and in his turn gave back. Yes, now it was Lozelle who rocked and reeled. Ay, by St. Chad! Lozelle who went down beneath that mighty blow which missed the head but fell upon his shoulder, and lay there like a log, till presently the moonlight shone upon his mailed hand stretched upward in a prayer for mercy. From house-top and terrace wall, from soaring gates and battlements, the multitude of the people of the Assassins gathered on either side the gulf broke into a roar that beat up the mountain sides like a voice of thunder. And the roar shaped itself to these words: "Kill him! kill him! kill him!" Sinan held up his hand, and a sudden silence fell. Then he, too, screamed in his thin voice: "Kill him! He is conquered!" But the great Wulf only leaned upon the cross-handle of his brand, and looked at the fallen foe. Presently he seemed to speak with him; then Lozelle lifted the blade that lay beside him and gave it to him in token of surrender. Wulf handled it awhile, shook it on high in triumph, and whirled it about his head till it shone in the moonlight. Next, with a shout he cast it from him far into the gulf, where it was seen for a moment, an arc of gleaming light, and the next was gone. Now, taking no more heed of the conquered knight, Wulf turned and began to walk towards his horse. Scarcely was his back towards him when Lozelle was on his feet again, a dagger in his hand. "Look behind you!" yelled Godwin; but the spectators, pleased that the fight was not yet done, broke into a roar of cheers. Wulf heard and swung round. As he faced Lozelle the dagger struck him on the breast, and well must it have been for him that his mail was good. To use his sword he had neither space nor time, but ere the next stroke could fall Wulf's arms were about Lozelle, and the fight for life begun. To and fro they reeled and staggered, whirling round and round, till none could tell which of them was Wulf or which his foe. Now they were on the edge of the abyss, and, in that last dread strain for mastery, seemed to stand there still as stone. Then one man began to bend down. See! his head hung over. Further and further he bent, but his arms could not be loosened. "They will both go!" cried the multitude in their joy. Look! A dagger flashed. Once, twice, thrice it gleamed, and those wrestlers fell apart, while from deep down in the gulf came the thud of a fallen body. "Which--oh, which?" cried Rosamund from her battlement. "Sir Hugh Lozelle," answered Godwin in a solemn voice. Then the head of Rosamund fell forward on her breast, and for a while she seemed to sleep. Wulf went to his horse, turned it about on the bridge, and throwing his arm around its neck, rested for a space. Then he mounted and walked slowly towards the inner gate. Pushing through the guard and officers, Godwin rode out to meet him. "Bravely done, brother," he said, when they came face to face. "Say, are you hurt?" "Bruised and shaken--no more," answered Wulf. "A good beginning, truly. Now for the rest," said Godwin. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and added, "See, they are leading Rosamund away, but Sinan remains, to speak with you doubtless, for Masouda beckons." "What shall we do?" asked Wulf. "Make a plan, brother, for my head swims." "Hear what he has to say. Then, as your horse is not wounded either, ride for it when I give the signal as Masouda bade us. There is no other way. Pretend that you are wounded." So, Godwin leading, while the multitude roared a welcome to the conquering Wulf who had borne himself so bravely for their pleasure, they rode to the mouth of the bridge and halted in the little space before the archway. There Al-je-bal spoke by Masouda. "A noble fray," he said. "I did not think that Franks could fight so well; Say, Sir Knight, will you feast with me in my palace?" "I thank you, lord," answered Wulf, "but I must rest while my brother tends my hurts," and he pointed to blood upon his mail. "To-morrow, if it pleases you." Sinan stared at them and stroked his beard, while they trembled, waiting for the word of fate. It came. "Good. So be it. To-morrow I wed the lady Rose of Roses, and you two--her brothers--shall give her to me, as is fitting," and he sneered. "Then also you shall receive the reward of valour--a great reward, I promise you." While he spoke Godwin, staring upward, had noted a little wandering cloud floating across the moon. Slowly it covered it, and the place grew dim. "Now," he whispered, and bowing to the Al-je-bal, they pushed their horses through the open gate where the mob closed in on them, thus for a little while holding back the escort from following on their heels. They spoke to Flame and Smoke, and the good horses plunged onward side by side, separating the crowd as the prows of boats separate the water. In ten paces it grew thin, in thirty it was behind them, for all folk were gathered about the archway where they could see, and none beyond. Forward they cantered, till the broad road turned to the left, and in that faint light they were hidden. "Away!" said Godwin, shaking his reins. Forward leapt the horses at speed. Again Godwin turned, taking that road which ran round the city wall and through the gardens, leaving the guest-castle to the left, whereas their escort followed that whereby they had come, which passed along the main street of the inner town, thinking that they were ahead of them. Three minutes more and they were in the lonely gardens, in which that night no women wandered and no neophytes dreamed in the pavilions. "Wulf," said Godwin, as they swept forward, skimming the turf like swallows, "draw your sword and be ready. Remember the secret cave may be guarded, and, if so, we must kill or be killed." Wulf nodded, and next instant two long blades flashed in the moonlight, for the little cloud had passed away. Within a hundred paces of them rose the tall rock, but between it and the mound were two mounted guards. These heard the beating of horses' hoofs, and wheeling about, stared to see two armed knights sweeping down upon them like a whirlwind. They called to them to stop, hesitating, then rode forward a few paces, as though wondering whether this were not a vision. In a moment the brethren were on them. The soldiers lifted their lances, but ere they could thrust the sword of Godwin had caught one between neck and shoulder and sunk to his breast bone, while the sword of Wulf, used as a spear, had pierced the other through and through, so that those men fell dead by the door of the mound, never knowing who had slain them. The brethren pulled upon their bridles and spoke to Flame and Smoke, halting them within a score of yards. Then they wheeled round and sprang from their saddles. One of the dead guards still held his horses's reins, and the other beast stood by snorting. Godwin caught it before it stirred, then, holding all four of them, threw the key to Wulf and bade him unlock the door. Soon it was done, although he staggered at the task; then he held the horses, while one by one Godwin led them in, and that without trouble, for the beasts thought that this was but a cave-hewn stable of a kind to which they were accustomed. "What of the dead men?" said Wulf. "They had best keep us company," answered Godwin, and, running out, he carried in first one and then the other. "Swift!" he said, as he threw down the second corpse. "Shut the door. I caught sight of horsemen riding through the trees. Nay, they saw nothing." So they locked the massive door and barred it, and with beating hearts waited in the dark, expecting every moment to hear soldiers battering at its timbers. But no sound came; the searchers, if such they were, had passed on to seek elsewhere. Now while Wulf made shift to fasten up the horses near the mouth of the cave, Godwin gathered stones as large as he could lift, and piled them up against the door, till they knew that it would take many men an hour or more to break through. For this door was banded with iron and set fast in the living rock. Chapter Fifteen: The Flight to Emesa Then came the weariest time of waiting the brethren had ever known, or were to know, although at first they did not feel it so long and heavy. Water trickled from the walls of this cave, and Wulf, who was parched with thirst, gathered it in his hands and drank till he was satisfied. Then he let it run upon his head to cool its aching; and Godwin bathed such of his brother's hurts and bruises as could be come at, for he did not dare to remove the hauberk, and so gave him comfort. When this was done, and he had looked to the saddles and trappings of the horses, Wulf told of all that had passed between him and Lozelle on the bridge. How at the first onset his spear had caught in the links of and torn away the head-piece of his foe, who, if the lacings had not burst, would have been hurled to death, while that of Lozelle struck his buckler fair and shattered on it, rending it from his arm. How they pushed past each other, and for a moment the fore hoofs of Smoke hung over the abyss, so that he thought he was surely sped: How at the next course Lozelle's spear passed beneath his arm, while his, striking full upon Sir Hugh's breast, brought down the black horse and his rider as though a thunderbolt had smitten them, and how Smoke, that could not check its furious pace, leapt over them, as a horse leaps a-hunting: How he would not ride down Lozelle, but dismounted to finish the fray in knightly fashion, and, being shieldless, received the full weight of the great sword upon his mail, so that he staggered back and would have fallen had he not struck against the horse. Then he told of the blows that followed, and of his last that wounded Lozelle, shearing through his mail and felling him as an ox is felled by the butcher: How also, when he sprang forward to kill him, this mighty and brutal man had prayed for mercy, prayed it in the name of Christ and of their own mother, whom as a child he knew in Essex: How he could not slaughter him, being helpless, but turned away, saying that he left him to be dealt with by Al-je-bal, whereupon this traitorous dog sprang up and strove to knife him. He told also of their last fearful struggle, and how, shaken as he was by the blow upon his back, although the point of the dagger had not pierced his mail, he strove with Lozelle, man to man; till at length his youth, great natural strength, and the skill he had in wrestling, learnt in many a village bout at home, enabled him to prevail, and, while they hung together on the perilous edge of the gulf, to free his right hand, draw his poniard, and make an end. "Yet," added Wulf, "never shall I forget the look of that man's eyes as he fell backwards, or the whistling scream which came from his pierced throat." "At least there is a rogue the less in the world, although he was a brave one in his own knavish fashion," answered Godwin. "Moreover, my brother," he added, placing his arm about Wulf's neck, "I am glad it fell to you to fight him, for at the last grip your might overcame, where I, who am not so strong, should have failed. Further, I think you did well to show mercy, as a good knight should; that thereby you have gained great honour, and that if his spirit can see through the darkness, our dead uncle is proud of you now, as I am, my brother." "I thank you," replied Wulf simply; "but, in this hour of torment, who can think of such things as honour gained?" Then, lest he should grow stiff, who was sorely bruised beneath his mail, they began to walk up and down the cave from where the horses stood to where the two dead Assassins lay by the door, the faint light gleaming upon their stern, dark features. Ill company they seemed in that silent, lonely place. The time crept on; the moon sank towards the mountains. "What if they do not come?" asked Wulf. "Let us wait to think of it till dawn," answered Godwin. Again they walked the length of the cave and back. "How can they come, the door being barred?" asked Wulf. "How did Masouda come and go?" answered Godwin. "Oh, question me no more; it is in the hand of God." "Look," said Wulf, in a whisper. "Who stand yonder at the end of the cave--there by the dead men?" "Their spirits, perchance," answered Godwin, drawing his sword and leaning forward. Then he looked, and true enough there stood two figures faintly outlined in the gloom. They glided towards them, and now the level moonlight shone upon their white robes and gleamed in the gems they wore. "I cannot see them," said a voice. "Oh, those dead soldiers--what do they portend?" "At least yonder stand their horses," answered another voice. Now the brethren guessed the truth, and, like men in a dream, stepped forward from the shadow of the wall. "Rosamund!" they said. "Oh Godwin! oh Wulf!" she cried in answer. "Oh, Jesu, I thank Thee, I thank Thee--Thee, and this brave woman!" and, casting her arms about Masouda, she kissed her on the face. Masouda pushed her back, and said, in a voice that was almost harsh: "It is not fitting, Princess, that your pure lips should touch the cheek of a woman of the Assassins." But Rosamund would not be repulsed. "It is most fitting," she sobbed, "that I should give you thanks who but for you must also have become 'a woman of the Assassins,' or an inhabitant of the House of Death." Then Masouda kissed her back, and, thrusting her away into the arms of Wulf, said roughly: "So, pilgrims Peter and John, your patron saints have brought you through so far; and, John, you fight right well. Nay, do not stop for our story, if you wish us to live to tell it. What! You have the soldiers' horses with your own? Well done! I did not credit you with so much wit. Now, Sir Wulf, can you walk? Yes; so much the better; it will save you a rough ride, for this place is steep, though not so steep as one you know of. Now set the princess upon Flame, for no cat is surer-footed than that horse, as you may remember, Peter. I who know the path will lead it. John, take you the other two; Peter, do you follow last of all with Smoke, and, if they hang back, prick them with your sword. Come, Flame, be not afraid, Flame. Where I go, you can come," and Masouda thrust her way through the bushes and over the edge of the cliff, talking to the snorting horse and patting its neck. A minute more, and they were scrambling down a mountain ridge so steep that it seemed as though they must fall and be dashed to pieces at the bottom. Yet they fell not, for, made as it had been to meet such hours of need, this road was safer than it appeared, with ridges cut in the rock at the worst places. Down they went, and down, till at length, panting, but safe, they stood at the bottom of the darksome gulf where only the starlight shone, for here the rays of the low moon could not reach. "Mount," said Masouda. "Princess, stay you on Flame; he is the surest and the swiftest. Sir Wulf, keep your own horse Smoke; your brother and I will ride those of the soldiers. Though not very swift, doubtless they are good beasts, and accustomed to such roads." Then she leapt to the saddle as a woman born in the desert can, and pushed her horse in front. For a mile or more Masouda led them along the rocky bottom of the gulf, where because of the stones they could only travel at a foot pace, till they came to a deep cleft on the left hand, up which they began to ride. By now the moon was quite behind the mountains, and such faint light as came from the stars began to be obscured with drifting clouds. Still, they stumbled on till they reached a little glade where water ran and grass grew. "Halt," said Masouda. "Here we must wait till dawn for in this darkness the horses cannot keep their footing on the stones. Moreover, all about us lie precipices, over one of which we might fall." "But they will pursue us," pleaded Rosamund. "Not until they have light to see by," answered Masouda, "or at least we must take the risk, for to go forward would be madness. Sit down and rest a while, and let the horses drink a little and eat a mouthful of grass, holding their reins in our hands, for we and they may need all our strength before to-morrow's sun is set. Sir Wulf, say, are you much hurt?" "But very little," he answered in a cheerful voice; "a few bruises beneath my mail--that is all, for Lozelle's sword was heavy. Tell us, I pray you, what happened after we rode away from the castle bridge." "This, knights. The princess here, being overcome, was escorted by the slaves back to her chambers, but Sinan bade me stay with him awhile that he might speak to you through me. Do you know what was in his mind? To have you killed at once, both of you, whom Lozelle had told him were this lady's lovers, and not her brothers. Only he feared that there might be trouble with the people, who were pleased with the fighting, so held his hand. Then he bade you to the supper, whence you would not have returned; but when Sir Wulf said that he was hurt, I whispered to him that what he wished to do could best be done on the morrow at the wedding-feast when he was in his own halls, surrounded by his guards. "'Ay,' he answered, 'these brethren shall fight with them until they are driven into the gulf. It will be a goodly sight for me and my queen to see.'" "Oh! horrible, horrible!" said Rosamund; while Godwin muttered: "I swear that I would have fought, not with his guards, but with Sinan only." "So he suffered you to go, and I left him also. Before I went he spoke to me, bidding me bring the princess to him privately within two hours after we had supped, as he wished to speak to her alone about the ceremony of her marriage on the morrow, and to make her gifts. I answered aloud that his commands should be obeyed, and hurried to the guest-castle. There I found your lady recovered from her faintness, but mad with fear, and forced her to eat and drink. "The rest is short. Before the two hours were gone a messenger came, saying that the Al-je-bal bade me do what he had commanded. "'Return,' I answered; 'the princess adorns herself. We follow presently alone, as it is commanded.' "Then I threw this cloak about her and bade her be brave, and, if we failed, to choose whether she would take Sinan or death for lord. Next, I took the ring you had, the Signet of the dead Al-je-bal, who gave it to your kinsman, and held it before the slaves, who bowed and let me pass. We came to the guards, and to them again I showed the ring. They bowed also, but when they saw that we turned down the passage to the left and not to the right, as we should have done to come to the doors of the inner palace, they would have stopped us. "'Acknowledge the Signet,' I answered. 'Dogs, what is it to you which road the Signet takes?' Then they also let us pass. "Now, following the passage, we were out of the guest house and in the gardens, and I led her to what is called the prison tower, whence runs the secret way. Here were more guards whom I bade open in the name of Sinan. "They said: 'We obey not. This place is shut save to the Signet itself.' "'Behold it!' I answered. The officer looked and said: 'It is the very Signet, sure enough, and there is no other.' "Yet he paused, studying the black stone veined with the red dagger and the ancient writing on it. "'Are you, then, weary of life?' I asked. 'Fool, the Al-je-bal himself would keep a tryst within this house, which he enters secretly from the palace. Woe to you if he does not find his lady there!' "'It is the Signet that he must have sent, sure enough,' the captain said again, 'to disobey which is death.' "'Yes, open, open,' whispered his companions. "So they opened, though doubtfully, and we entered, and I barred the door behind us. Then, to be short, through the darkness of the tower basement, guiding ourselves by the wall, we crept to the entrance of that way of which I know the secret. Ay, and along all its length and through the rock door of escape at the end of which I set so that none can turn it, save skilled masons with their tools, and into the cave where we found you. It was no great matter, having the Signet, although without the Signet it had not been possible to-night, when every gate is guarded." "No great matter!" gasped Rosamund. "Oh, Godwin and Wulf! if you could know how she thought of and made ready everything; if you could have seen how all those cruel men glared at us, searching out our very souls! If you could have heard how high she answered them, waving that ring before their eyes and bidding them to obey its presence, or to die!" "Which they surely have done by now," broke in Masouda quietly, "though I do not pity them, who were wicked. Nay; thank me not; I have done what I promised to do, neither less nor more, and--I love danger and a high stake. Tell us your story, Sir Godwin." So, seated there on the grass in the darkness, he told them of their mad ride and of the slaying of the guards, while Rosamund raised her hands and thanked Heaven for its mercies, and that they were without those accursed walls. "You may be within them again before sunset," said Masouda grimly. "Yes," answered Wulf, "but not alive. Now what plan have you? To ride for the coast towns?" "No," replied Masouda; "at least not straight, since to do so we must pass through the country of the Assassins, who by this day's light will be warned to watch for us. We must ride through the desert mountain lands to Emesa, many miles away, and cross the Orontes there, then down into Baalbec, and so back to Beirut." "Emesa?" said Godwin. "Why Saladin holds that place, and of Baalbec the lady Rosamund is princess." "Which is best?" asked Masouda shortly. "That she should fall into the hands of Salah-ed-din, or back into those of the master of the Assassins? Choose which you wish." "I choose Salah-ed-din," broke in Rosamund, "for at least he is my uncle, and will do me no wrong." Nor, knowing the case, did the others gainsay her. Now at length the summer day began to break, and while it was still too dark to travel, Godwin and Rosamund let the horses graze, holding them by their bridles. Masouda, also, taking off the hauberk of Wulf, doctored his bruises as best she could with the crushed leaves of a bush that grew by the stream, having first washed them with water, and though the time was short, eased him much. Then, so soon as the dawn was grey, having drunk their fill and, as they had nothing else, eaten some watercress that grew in the stream, they tightened their saddle girths and started. Scarcely had they gone a hundred yards when, from the gulf beneath, that was hidden in grey mists, they heard the sound of horse's hoofs and men's voices. "Push on," said Masouda, "Al-je-bal is on our tracks." Upwards they climbed through the gathering light, skirting the edge of dreadful precipices which in the gloom it would have been impossible to pass, till at length they reached a great table land, that ran to the foot of some mountains a dozen miles or more away. Among those mountains soared two peaks, set close together. To these Masouda pointed, saying that their road ran between them, and that beyond lay the valley of the Orontes. While she spoke, far behind them they heard the sound of men shouting, although they could see nothing because of the dense mist. "Push on," said Masouda; "there is no time to spare," and they went forward, but only at a hand gallop, for the ground was still rough and the light uncertain. When they had covered some six miles of the distance between them and the mountain pass, the sun rose suddenly and sucked up the mist. This was what they saw. Before them lay a flat, sandy plain; behind, the stony ground that they had traversed, and riding over it, two miles from them, some twenty men of the Assassins. "They cannot catch us," said Wulf; but Masouda pointed to the right, where the mist still hung, and said: "Yonder I see spears." Presently it thinned, and there a league away they saw a great body of mounted soldiers--perhaps there were four hundred. "Look," she said; "they have come round during the night, as I feared they would. Now we must cross the path before them or be taken," and she struck her horse fiercely with a stick she had cut at the stream. Half a mile further on a shout from the great body of men to their right, which was answered by another shout from those behind, told them that they were seen. "On!" said Masouda. "The race will be close." So they began to gallop their best. Two miles were done, but although that behind was far off, the great cloud of dust to their right grew ever nearer till it seemed as though it must reach the mouth of the mountain pass before them. Then Godwin spoke: "Wulf and Rosamund ride on. Your horses are swift and can outpace them. At the crest of the mountain pass wait a while to breathe the beasts, and see if we come. If not, ride on again, and God be with you." "Ay," said Masouda, "ride and head for the Emesa bridge--it can be seen from far--and there yield yourselves to the officers of Salah-ed-din." They hung back, but in a stern voice Godwin repeated: "Ride, I command you both." "For Rosamund's sake, so be it," answered Wulf. Then he called to Smoke and Flame, and they stretched themselves out upon the sand and passed thence swifter than swallows. Soon Godwin and Masouda, toiling behind, saw them enter the mouth of the pass. "Good," she said. "Except those of their own breed, there are no horses in Syria that can catch those two. They will come to Emesa, have no fear." "Who was the man who brought them to us?" asked Godwin, as they galloped side by side, their eyes fixed upon the ever-nearing cloud of dust, in which the spear points sparkled. "My father's brother--my uncle, as I called him," she answered. "He is a sheik of the desert, who owns the ancient breed that cannot be bought for gold." "Then you are not of the Assassins, Masouda?" "No; I may tell you, now that the end seems near. My father was an Arab, my mother a noble Frank, a French woman, whom he found starving in the desert after a fight, and took to his tent and made his wife. The Assassins fell upon us and killed him and her, and captured me as a child of twelve. Afterwards, when I grew older, being beautiful in those days, I was taken to the harem of Sinan, and, although in secret I had been bred up a Christian by my mother, they swore me of his accursed faith. Now you will understand why I hate him so sorely who murdered my father and my mother, and made me what I am; why I hold myself so vile also. Yes, I have been forced to serve as his spy or be killed, who, although he believed me his faithful slave, desired first to be avenged upon him." "I do not hold you vile," panted Godwin, as he spurred his labouring steed. "I hold you most noble." "I rejoice to hear it before we die," she answered, looking him in the eyes in such a fashion that he dropped his head before her burning gaze, "who hold you dear, Sir Godwin, for whose sake I have dared these things, although I am nought to you. Nay, speak not; the lady Rosamund has told me all that story--except its answer." Now they were off the sand over which they had been racing side by side, and beginning to breast the mountain slope, nor was Godwin sorry that the clatter of their horses' hoofs upon the stones prevented further speech between them. So far they had outpaced the Assassins, who had a longer and a rougher road to travel; but the great cloud of dust was not seven hundred yards away, and in front of it, shaking their spears, rode some of the best mounted of their soldiers. "These horses still have strength; they are better than I thought them," cried Masouda. "They will not gain on us across the mountains, but afterwards--" For the next league they spoke no more, who must keep their horses from falling as they toiled up the steep path. At length they reached the crest, and there, on the very top of it, saw Wulf and Rosamund standing by Flame and Smoke. "They rest," Godwin said, then he shouted, "Mount! mount! The foe is close." So they climbed to their saddles again, and, all four of them together began to descend the long slope that stretched to the plain two leagues beneath. Far off across this plain ran a broad silver streak, beyond which from that height they could see the walls of a city. "The Orontes!" cried Masouda. "Cross that, and we are safe." But Godwin looked first at his horse, then at Masouda, and shook his head. Well might he do so, for, stout-hearted as they were, the beasts were much distressed that had galloped so far without drawing rein. Down the steep road they plunged, panting; indeed at times it was hard to keep them on their feet. "They will reach the plain--no more," said Godwin, and Masouda nodded. The descent was almost done, and not a mile behind them the white-robed Assassins streamed endlessly. Godwin plied his spurs and Masouda her whip, although with little hope, for they knew that the end was near. Down the last declivity they rushed, till suddenly, as they reached its foot, Masouda's horse reeled, stopped, and sank to the ground, while Godwin's pulled up beside it. "Ride on!" he cried to Rosamund and Wulf in front; but they would not. He stormed at them, but they replied: "Nay, we will die together." Masouda looked at the horses Flame and Smoke, which seemed but little troubled. "So be it," she said; "they have carried double before, and must again. Mount in front of the lady, Sir Godwin; and, Sir Wulf, give me your hand, and you will learn what this breed can do." So they mounted. Forward started Flame and Smoke with a long, swinging gallop, while from the Assassins above, who thought that they held them, went up a shout of rage and wonder. "Their horses are also tired, and we may beat them yet," called the dauntless Masouda. But Godwin and Wulf looked sadly at the ten miles of plain between them and the river bank. On they went, and on. A quarter of it was done. Half of it was done, but now the first of the fedai hung upon their flanks not two hundred yards behind. Little by little this distance lessened. At length they were scarcely fifty yards away, and one of them flung a spear. In her terror Rosamund sobbed aloud. "Spur the horses, knights," cried Masouda, and for the first time they spurred them. At the sting of the steel Flame and Smoke sprang forward as though they had but just left their stable door, and the gap between pursuers and pursued widened. Two more miles were done, and scarce seven furlongs from them they saw the broad mouth of the bridge, while the towers of Emesa beyond seemed so close that in this clear air they could discern the watchmen outlined against the sky. Then they descended a little valley, and lost sight of bridge and town. At the rise of the opposing slope the strength of Flame and Smoke at last began to fail beneath their double burdens. They panted and trembled; and, save in short rushes, no longer answered to the spur. The Assassins saw, and came on with wild shouts. Nearer and nearer they drew, and the sound of their horses hoofs beating on the sand was like the sound of thunder. Now once more they were fifty yards away, and now but thirty, and again the spears began to flash, though none struck them. Masouda screamed to the horses in Arabic, and gallantly did they struggle, plunging up the hill with slow, convulsive bounds. Godwin and Wulf looked at each other, then, at a signal, checked their speed, leapt to earth, and, turning, drew their swords. "On!" they cried, and lightened of their weight, once more the reeling horses plunged forward. The Assassins were upon them. Wulf struck a mighty blow and emptied the saddle of the first, then was swept to earth. As he fell from behind him he heard a scream of joy, and struggling to his knees, looked round. Lo! from over the crest of the rise rushed squadron upon squadron of turbaned cavalry, who, as they came, set their lances in rest, and shouted: "Salah-ed-din! Salah-ed-din!" The Assassins saw also, and turned to fly--too late! "A horse! A horse!" screamed Godwin in Arabic; and presently-- how he never knew--found himself mounted and charging with the Saracens. To Wulf, too, a horse was brought, but he could not struggle to its saddle. Thrice he strove, then fell backwards and lay upon the sand, waving his sword and shouting where he lay, while Masouda stood by him, a dagger in her hand, and with her Rosamund upon her knees. Now the pursuers were the pursued, and dreadful was the reckoning that they must pay. Their horses were outworn and could not fly at speed. Some of the fedai were cut down upon them. Some dismounted, and gathering themselves in little groups, fought bravely till they were slain, while a few were taken prisoners. Of all that great troup of men not a score won back alive to Masyaf to make report to their master of how the chase of his lost bride had ended. A while later and Wulf from his seat upon the ground saw Godwin riding back towards him, his red sword in his hand. With him rode a sturdy, bright-eyed man gorgeously apparelled, at the sight of whom Rosamund sprang to her feet; then, as he dismounted, ran forward and with a little cry cast her arms about him. "Hassan! Prince Hassan! Is it indeed you? Oh, God be praised!" she gasped, then, had not Masouda caught her, would have fallen. The Emir looked at her, her long hair loose, her face stained, her veil torn, but still clad in the silk and gleaming gems with which she had been decked as the bride-elect of Al-je-bal. Then low to the earth he bent his knee, while the grave Saracens watched, and taking the hem of her garment, he kissed it. "Allah be praised indeed!" he said. "I, His unworthy servant, thank Him from my heart, who never thought to see you living more. Soldiers, salute. Before you stands the lady Rose of the World, princess of Baalbec and niece of your lord, Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful." Then in stately salutation to this dishevelled, outworn, but still queenly woman, uprose hand, and spear, and scimitar, while Wulf cried from where he lay: "Why, it is our merchant of the drugged wine--none other! Oh! Sir Saracen, does not the memory of that chapman's trick shame you now?" The emir Hassan heard and grew red, muttering in his beard: "Like you, Sir Wulf, I am the slave of Fate, and must obey. Be not bitter against me till you know all." "I am not bitter," answered Wulf, "but I always pay for my drink, and we will settle that score yet, as I have sworn." "Hush!" broke in Rosamund. "Although he stole me, he is also my deliverer and friend through many a peril, and, had it not been for him, by now--" and she shuddered. "I do not know all the story, but, Princess, it seems that you should thank not me, but these goodly cousins of yours and those splendid horses," and Hassan pointed to Smoke and Flame, which stood by quivering, with hollow flanks and drooping heads. "There is another whom I must thank also, this noble woman, as you will call her also when you hear the story," said Rosamund, flinging her arm about the neck of Masouda. "My master will reward her," said Hassan. "But oh! lady, what must you think of me who seemed to desert you so basely? Yet I reasoned well. In the castle of that son of Satan, Sinan," and he spat upon the ground, "I could not have aided you, for there he would only have butchered me. But by escaping I thought that I might help, so I bribed the Frankish knave with the priceless Star of my House," and he touched the great jewel that he wore in his turban, "and with what money I had, to loose my bonds, and while he pouched the gold I stabbed him with his own knife and fled. But this morning I reached yonder city in command of ten thousand men, charged to rescue you if I could; if not, to avenge you, for the ambassadors of Salah-ed-din informed me of your plight. An hour ago the watchmen on the towers reported that they saw two horses galloping across the plain beneath a double burden, pursued by soldiers whom from their robes they took to be Assassins. So, as I have a quarrel with the Assassins, I crossed the bridge, formed up five hundred men in a hollow, and waited, never guessing that it was you who fled. You know the rest--and the Assassins know it also, for," he added grimly, "you have been well avenged." "Follow it up," said Wulf, "and the vengeance shall be better, for I will show you the secret way into Masyaf--or, if I cannot, Godwin will--and there you may hurl Sinan from his own towers." Hassan shook his head and answered: "I should like it well, for with this magician my master also has an ancient quarrel. But he has other feuds upon his hands," and he looked meaningly at Wulf and Godwin, "and my orders were to rescue the princess and no more. Well, she has been rescued, and some hundreds of heads have paid the price of all that she has suffered. Also, that secret way of yours will be safe enough by now. So there I let the matter bide, glad enough that it has ended thus. Only I warn you all--and myself also--to walk warily, since, if I know aught of him, Sinan's fedais will henceforth dog the steps of every one of us, striving to bring us to our ends by murder. Now here come litters; enter them, all of you, and be borne to the city, who have ridden far enough to-day. Fear not for your horses; they shall be led in gently and saved alive, if skill and care can save them. I go to count the slain, and will join you presently in the citadel." So the bearers came and lifted up Wulf, and helped Godwin from his horse--for now that all was over he could scarcely stand--and with him Rosamund and Masouda. Placing them in the litters, they carried them, escorted by cavalry, across the bridge of the Orontes into the city of Emesa, where they lodged them in the citadel. Here also, after giving them a drink of barley gruel, and rubbing their backs and legs with ointment, they led the horses Smoke and Flame, slowly and with great trouble, for these could hardly stir, and laid them down on thick beds of straw, tempting them with food, which after awhile they ate. The four--Rosamund, Masouda, Godwin, and Wulf--ate also of some soup with wine in it, and after the hurts of Wulf had been tended by a skilled doctor, went to their beds, whence they did not rise again for two days. Chapter Sixteen: The Sultan Saladin In the third morning Godwin awoke to see the ray of sunrise streaming through the latticed window. They fell upon another bed near-by where Wulf still lay sleeping, a bandage on his head that had been hurt in the last charge against the Assassins, and other bandages about his arms and body, which were much bruised in the fight upon the dreadful bridge. Wondrous was it to Godwin to watch him lying there sleeping healthily, notwithstanding his injuries, and to think of what they had gone through together with so little harm; to think, also, of how they had rescued Rosamund out of the very mouth of that earthly hell of which he could see the peaks through the open window-place--out of the very hands of that fiend, its ruler. Reckoning the tale day by day, he reflected on their adventures since they landed at Beirut, and saw how Heaven had guided their every step. In face of the warnings that were given them, to visit the Al-je-bal in his stronghold had seemed a madness. Yet there, where none could have thought that she would be, they had found Rosamund. There they had been avenged upon the false knight Sir Hugh Lozelle, who had betrayed her, first to Saladin, then to Sinan, and sent him down to death and judgment; and thence they had rescued Rosamund. Oh, how wise they had been to obey the dying words of their uncle, Sir Andrew, who doubtless was given foresight at the end! God and His saints had helped them, who could not have helped themselves, and His minister had been Masouda. But for Masouda, Rosamund would by now be lost or dead, and they, if their lives were still left to them, would be wanderers in the great land of Syria, seeking for one who never could be found. Why had Masouda done these things, again and again putting her own life upon the hazard to save theirs and the honour of another woman? As he asked himself the question Godwin felt the red blood rise to his face. Because she hated Sinan, who had murdered her parents and degraded her, she said; and doubtless that had to do with the matter. But it was no longer possible to hide the truth. She loved him, and had loved him from the first hour when they met. He had always suspected it--in that wild trial of the horses upon the mountain side, when she sat with her arms about him and her face pressed against his face; when she kissed his feet after he had saved her from the lion, and many another time. But as they followed Wulf and Rosamund up the mountain pass while the host of the Assassins thundered at their heels, and in broken gasps she had told him of her sad history, then it was that he grew sure. Then, too, he had said that he held her not vile, but noble, as indeed he did; and, thinking their death upon them, she had answered that she held him dear, and looked on him as a woman looks upon her only love--a message in her eyes that no man could fail to read. Yet if this were so, why had Masouda saved Rosamund, the lady to whom she knew well that he was sworn? Reared among those cruel folk who could wade to their desire through blood and think it honour, would she not have left her rival to her doom, seeing that oaths do not hold beyond the grave? An answer came into the heart of Godwin, at the very thought of which he turned pale and trembled. His brother was also sworn to Rosamund, and she in her soul must be sworn to one of them. Was it not to Wulf, Wulf who was handsomer and more strong than he, to Wulf, the conqueror of Lozelle? Had Rosamund told Masouda this? Nay, surely not. Yet women can read each other's hearts, piercing veils through which no man may see, and perchance Masouda had read the heart of Rosamund. She stood behind her during the dreadful duel at the gate, and watched her face when Wulf's death seemed sure; she might have heard words that broke in agony from her lips in those moments of torment. Oh, without doubt it was so, and Masouda had protected Rosamund because she knew that her love was for Wulf and not for him. The thought was very bitter, and in its pain Godwin groaned aloud, while a fierce jealousy of the brave and handsome knight who slept at his side, dreaming, doubtless, of the fame that he had won and the reward by which it would be crowned, gripped his vitals like the icy hand of death. Then Godwin remembered the oath that they two had sworn far away in the Priory at Stangate, and the love passing the love of woman which he bore towards this brother, and the duty of a Christian warrior whereto he was vowed, and hiding his face in his pillow he prayed for strength. It would seem that it came to him--at least, when he lifted his head again the jealousy was gone, and only the great grief remained. Fear remained also--for what of Masouda? How should he deal with her? He was certain that this was no fancy which would pass--until her life passed with it, and, beautiful as she was, and noble as she was, he did not wish her love. He could find no answer to these questions, save this--that things must go on as they were decreed. For himself, he, Godwin, would strive to do his duty, to keep his hands clean, and await the end, whatever that might be. Wulf woke up, stretched his arms, exclaimed because that action hurt him, grumbled at the brightness of the light upon his eyes, and said that he was very hungry. Then he arose, and with the help of Godwin, dressed himself, but not in his armour. Here, with the yellow-coated soldiers of Saladin, grave-faced and watchful, pacing before their door--for night and day they were trebly guarded lest Assassins should creep in--there was no need for mail. In the fortress of Masyaf, indeed, where they were also guarded, it had been otherwise. Wulf heard the step of the sentries on the cemented pavement without, and shook his great shoulders as though he shivered. "That sound makes my backbone cold," he said. "For a moment, as my eyes opened, I thought that we were back again in the guest chambers of Al-je-bal, where folk crept round us as we slept and murderers marched to and fro outside the curtains, fingering their knife-points. Well, whatever there is to come, thank the Saints, that is done with. I tell you, brother, I have had enough of mountains, and narrow bridges, and Assassins. Henceforth, I desire to live upon a flat with never a hill in sight, amidst honest folk as stupid as their own sheep, who go to church on Sundays and get drunk, not with hachich, but on brown ale, brought to them by no white-robed sorceress, but by a draggle-tailed wench in a tavern, with her musty bedstraw still sticking in her hair. Give me the Saltings of Essex with the east winds blowing over them, and the primroses abloom upon the bank, and the lanes fetlock deep in mud, and for your share you may take all the scented gardens of Sinan and the cups and jewels of his ladies, with the fightings and adventures of the golden East thrown in." "I never sought these things, and we are a long way from Essex," answered Godwin shortly. "No," said Wulf, "but they seem to seek you. What news of Masouda? Have you seen her while I slept, which has been long?" "I have seen no one except the apothecary who tended you, the slaves who brought us food, and last evening the prince Hassan, who came to see how we fared. He told me that, like yourself, Rosamund and Masouda slept." "I am glad to hear it," answered Wulf, "for certainly their rest was earned. By St. Chad! what a woman is this Masouda! A heart of fire and nerves of steel! Beautiful, too--most beautiful; and the best horsewoman that ever sat a steed. Had it not been for her--By Heaven! when I think of it I feel as though I loved her--don't you?" "No," said Godwin, still more shortly. "Ah, well, I daresay she can love enough for two who does nothing by halves, and, all things considered," he added, with one of his great laughs, "I am glad it is I of whom she thinks so little--yes, I who adore her as though she were my patron saint. Hark! the guards challenge," and, forgetting where he was, he snatched at his sword. Then the door opened, and through it appeared the emir Hassan, who saluted them in the name of Allah, searching them with his quiet eyes. "Few would judge, to look at you, Sir Knights," he said with a smile, "that you have been the guests of the Old Man of the Mountain, and left his house so hastily by the back door. Three days more and you will be as lusty as when we met beyond the seas upon the wharf by a certain creek. Oh, you are brave men, both of you, though you be infidels, from which error may the Prophet guide you; brave men, the flower of knighthood. Ay, I, Hassan, who have known many Frankish knights, say it from my heart," and, placing his hand to his turban, he bowed before them in admiration that was not feigned. "We thank you, Prince, for your praise," said Godwin gravely, but Wulf stepped forward, took his hand, and shook it. "That was an ill trick, Prince, which you played us yonder in England," he said, "and one that brought as good a warrior as ever drew a sword--our uncle Sir Andrew D'Arcy--to an end sad as it was glorious. Still, you obeyed your master, and because of all that has happened since, I forgive you, and call you friend, although should we ever meet in battle I still hope to pay you for that drugged wine." Here Hassan bowed, and said softly: "I admit that the debt is owing; also that none sorrow more for the death of the noble lord D'Arcy than I, your servant, who, by the will of God, brought it upon him. When we meet, Sir Wulf, in war--and that, I think, will be an ill hour for me--strike, and strike home; I shall not complain. Meanwhile, we are friends, and in very truth all that I have is yours. But now I come to tell you that the princess Rose of the World--Allah bless her footsteps!--is recovered from her fatigues, and desires that you should breakfast with her in an hour's time. Also the doctor waits to tend your bruises, and slaves to lead you to the bath and clothe you. Nay, leave your hauberk; here the faith of Salah-ed-din and of his servants is your best armour." "Still, I think that we will take them," said Godwin, "for faith is a poor defence against the daggers of these Assassins, who dwell not so far away." "True," answered Hassan; "I had forgotten." So thus they departed. An hour later they were led to the hall, where presently came Rosamund, and with her Masouda and Hassan. She was dressed in the rich robes of an Eastern lady, but the gems with which she had been adorned as the bride elect of Al-je-bal were gone; and when she lifted her veil the brethren saw that though her face was still somewhat pallid, her strength had come back to her, and the terror had left her eyes. She greeted them with sweet and gentle words, thanking first Godwin and then Wulf for all that they had done, and turning to Masouda, who stood by, stately, and watchful, thanked her also. Then they sat down, and ate with light hearts and a good appetite. Before their meal was finished, the guard at the door announced that messengers had arrived from the Sultan. They entered, grey-haired men clad in the robes of secretaries, whom Hassan hastened to greet. When they were seated and had spoken with him awhile, one of them drew forth a letter, which Hassan, touching his forehead with it in token of respect, gave to Rosamund. She broke its seal, and, seeing that it was in Arabic, handed it to her cousin, saying: "Do you read it, Godwin, who are more learned than I." So he read aloud, translating the letter sentence by sentence. This was its purport: "Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the Strong-to-aid, to his niece beloved, Rose of the World, princess of Baalbec:-- "Our servant, the emir Hassan, has sent us tidings of your rescue from the power of the accursed lord of the Mountain, Sinan, and that you are now safe in our city of Emesa, guarded by many thousands of our soldiers, and with you a woman named Masouda, and your kinsmen, the two Frankish knights, by whose skill in arms and courage you were saved. Now this is to command you to come to our court at Damascus so soon as you may be fit to travel, knowing that here you will be received with love and honour. Also I invite your kinsmen to accompany you, since I knew their father, and would welcome knights who have done such great deeds, and the woman Masouda with them. Or, if they prefer it, all three of them may return to their own lands and peoples. "Hasten, my niece, lady Rose of the World, hasten, for my spirit seeks you, and my eyes desire to look upon you. In the name of Allah, greeting." "You have heard," said Rosamund, as Godwin finished reading the scroll. "Now, my cousins, what will you do?" "What else but go with you, whom we have come so far to seek?" answered Wulf, and Godwin nodded his head in assent. "And you, Masouda?" "I, lady? Oh, I go also, since were I to return yonder," and she nodded towards the mountains, "my greeting would be one that I do not wish." "Do you note their words, prince Hassan?" asked Rosamund. "I expected no other," he answered with a bow. "Only, knights, you must give me a promise, for even in the midst of my army such is needful from men who can fly like birds out of the fortress of Masyaf and from the knives of the Assassins--who are mounted, moreover, on the swiftest horses in Syria that have been trained to carry a double burden," and he looked at them meaningly. "It is that upon this journey you will not attempt to escape with the princess, whom you have followed from over-sea to rescue her out of the hand of Salah-ed-din." Godwin drew from his tunic the cross which Rosamund had left him in the hall at Steeple, and saying: "I swear upon this holy symbol that during our journey to Damascus I will attempt no escape with or without my cousin Rosamund," he kissed it. "And I swear the same upon my sword," added Wulf, laying his hand upon the silver hilt of the great blade which had been his forefather's. "A security that I like better," said Hassan with a smile, "but in truth, knights, your word is enough for me." Then he looked at Masouda and went on, still smiling: "Nay it is useless; for women who have dwelt yonder oaths have no meaning. Lady, we must be content to watch you, since my lord has bidden you to his city, which, fair and brave as you are, to be plain, I would not have done." Then he turned to speak to the secretaries, and Godwin, who was noting all, saw Masouda's dark eyes follow him and in them a very strange light. "Good," they seemed to say; "as you have written, so shall you read." That same afternoon they started for Damascus, a great army of horsemen. In its midst, guarded by a thousand spears, Rosamund was borne in a litter. In front of her rode Hassan, with his yellow-robed bodyguard; at her side, Masouda; and behind--for, notwithstanding his hurts, Wulf would not be carried--the brethren, mounted upon ambling palfreys. After them, led by slaves, came the chargers, Flame and Smoke, recovered now, but still walking somewhat stiffly, and then rank upon rank of turbaned Saracens. Through the open curtains of her litter Rosamund beckoned to the brethren, who pushed alongside of her. "Look," she said, pointing with her hand. They looked, and there, bathed in the glory of the sinking sun, saw the mountains crowned far, far away with the impregnable city and fortress of Masyaf, and below it the slopes down which they had ridden for their lives. Nearer to them flashed the river bordered by the town of Emesa. Set at intervals along its walls were spears, looking like filaments against the flaming, sunset sky, and on each of them a black dot, which was the head of an Assassin, while from the turrets above, the golden banner of Saladin fluttered in the evening wind. Remembering all that she had undergone in that fearful home of devil-worshippers, and the fate from which she had been snatched, Rosamund shuddered. "It burns like a city in hell," she said, staring at Masyaf, environed by that lurid evening light and canopied with black, smoke-like clouds. "Oh! such I think will be its doom." "I trust so," answered Wulf fervently. "At least, in this world and the next we have done with it." "Yes," added Godwin in his thoughtful voice; "still, out of that evil place we won good, for there we found Rosamund, and there, my brother, you conquered in such a fray as you can never hope to fight again, gaining great glory, and perhaps much more." Then reining in his horse, Godwin fell back behind the litter, while Wulf wondered, and Rosamund watched him with dreaming eyes. That evening they camped in the desert, and next morning, surrounded by wandering tribes of Bedouins mounted on their camels, marched on again, sleeping that night in the ancient fortress of Baalbec, whereof the garrison and people, having been warned by runners of the rank and titles of Rosamund came out to do her homage as their lady. Hearing of it, she left her litter, and mounting a splendid horse which they had sent her as a present, rode to meet them, the brethren, in full armour and once more bestriding Flame and Smoke, beside her, and a guard of Saladin's own Mameluks behind. Solemn, turbaned men, who had been commanded so to do by messengers from the Sultan, brought her the keys of the gates on a cushion, minstrels and soldiers marched before her, whilst crowding the walls and running alongside came the citizens in their thousands. Thus she went on, through the open gates, past the towering columns of ruined temples once a home of the worship of heathen gods, through courts and vaults to the citadel surrounded by its gardens that in dead ages had been the Acropolis of forgotten Roman emperors. Here in the portico Rosamund turned her horse, and received the salutations of the multitude as though she also were one of the world's rulers. Indeed, it seemed to the brethren watching her as she sat upon the great white horse and surveyed the shouting, bending crowd with flashing eyes, splendid in her bearing and beautiful to see, a prince at her stirrup and an army at her back, that none of those who had trod that path before her could have seemed greater or more glorious in the hour of their pride than did this English girl, who by the whim of Fate had suddenly been set so high. Truly by blood and nature she was fitted to be a queen. Yet as Rosamund sat thus the pride passed from her face, and her eyes fell. "Of what are you thinking?" asked Godwin at her side. "That I would we were back among the summer fields at Steeple," she answered, "for those who are lifted high fall low. Prince Hassan, give the captains and people my thanks and bid them be gone. I would rest." Thus for the first and last time did Rosamund behold her ancient fief of Baalbec, which her grandsire, the great Ayoub, had ruled before her. That night there was feasting in the mighty, immemorial halls, and singing and minstrelsy and the dancing of fair women and the giving of gifts. For Baalbec, where birth and beauty were ever welcome, did honour to its lady, the favoured niece of the mighty Salah-ed-din. Yet there were some who murmured that she would bring no good fortune to the Sultan or this his city, who was not all of the blood of Ayoub, but half a Frank, and a Cross worshipper, though even these praised her beauty and her royal bearing. The brethren they praised also, although these were unbelievers, and the tale of how Wulf had fought the traitor knight upon the Narrow Way, and of how they had led their kinswoman from the haunted fortress of Masyaf, was passed from mouth to mouth. At dawn the next day, on orders received from the Sultan, they left Baalbec, escorted by the army and many of the notables of the town. That afternoon they drew rein upon the heights which overlook the city of Damascus, Bride of the Earth, set amidst its seven streams and ringed about with gardens, one of the most beautiful and perhaps the most ancient city in the world. Then they rode down to the bounteous plain, and as night fell, having passed the encircling gardens, were escorted through the gates of Damascus, outside of which most of the army halted and encamped. Along the narrow streets, bordered by yellow, flat-roofed houses, they rode slowly, looking now at the motley, many-coloured crowds, who watched them with grave interest, and now at the stately buildings, domed mosques and towering minarets, which everywhere stood out against the deep blue of the evening sky. Thus at length they came to an open space planted like a garden, beyond which was seen a huge and fantastic castle that Hassan told them was the palace of Salah-ed-din. In its courtyard they were parted, Rosamund being led away by officers of state, whilst the brethren were taken to chambers that had been prepared, where, after they had bathed, they were served with food. Scarcely had they eaten it when Hassan appeared, and bade them follow him. Passing down various passages and across a court they came to some guarded doors, where the soldiers demanded that they should give up their swords and daggers. "It is not needful," said Hassan, and they let them go by. Next came more passages and a curtain, beyond which they found themselves in a small, domed room, lit by hanging silver lamps and paved in tesselated marbles, strewn with rich rugs and furnished with cushioned couches. At a sign from Hassan the brethren stood still in the centre of this room, and looked about them wondering. The place was empty and very silent; they felt afraid--of what they knew not. Presently curtains upon its further side opened and through them came a man turbaned and wrapped in a dark robe, who stood awhile in the shadow, gazing at them beneath the lamps. The man was not very tall, and slight in build, yet about him was much majesty, although his garb was such as the humblest might have worn. He came forward, lifting his head, and they saw that his features were small and finely cut; that he was bearded, and beneath his broad brow shone thoughtful yet at times piercing eyes which were brown in hue. Now the prince Hassan sank to his knees and touched the marble with his forehead, and, guessing that they were in the presence of the mighty monarch Saladin, the brethren saluted in their western fashion. Presently the Sultan spoke in a low, even voice to Hassan, to whom he motioned that he should rise, saying: "I can see that you trust these knights, Emir," and he pointed to their great swords. "Sire," was the answer, "I trust them as I trust myself. They are brave and honourable men, although they be infidels." The Sultan stroked his beard. "Ay," he said, "infidels. It is a pity, yet doubtless they worship God after their own fashion. Noble to look on also, like their father, whom I remember well, and, if all I hear is true, brave indeed. Sir Knights, do you understand my language?" "Sufficiently to speak it, lord," answered Godwin, "who have learned it since childhood, yet ill enough." "Good. Then tell me, as soldiers to a soldier, what do you seek from Salah-ed-din?" "Our cousin, the lady Rosamund, who, by your command, lord, was stolen from our home in England." "Knights, she is your cousin, that I know, as surely as I know that she is my niece. Tell me now, is she aught more to you?" and he searched them with those piercing eyes. Godwin looked at Wulf, who said in English: "Speak the whole truth, brother. From that man nothing can be hid." Then Godwin answered: "Sire, we love her, and are affianced to her." The Sultan stared at them in surprise. "What! Both of you?" he asked. "Yes, both." "And does she love you both?" "Yes," replied Godwin, "both, or so she says." Saladin stroked his beard and considered them, while Hassan smiled a little. "Then, knights," he said presently, "tell me, which of you does she love best?" "That, sire, is known to her alone. When the time comes, she will say, and not before." "I perceive," said Saladin, "that behind this riddle hides a story. If it is your good pleasure, be seated, and set it out to me." So they sat down on the divan and obeyed, keeping nothing back from the beginning to the end, nor, although the tale was long, did the Sultan weary of listening. "A great story, truly," he said, when at length they had finished, "and one in which I seem to see the hand of Allah. Sir Knights, you will think that I have wronged you--ay, and your uncle, Sir Andrew, who was once my friend, although an older man than I, and who, by stealing away my sister, laid the foundations of this house of love and war and woe, and perchance of happiness unforeseen. "Now listen. The tale that those two Frankish knaves, the priest and the false knight Lozelle, told to you was true. As I wrote to your uncle in my letter, I dreamed a dream. Thrice I dreamed it; that this niece of mine lived, and that if I could bring her here to dwell at my side she should save the shedding of much blood by some noble deed of hers--ay, of the blood of tens of thousands; and in that dream I saw her face. Therefore I stretched out my arm and took her from far away. And now, through you--yes, through you--she has been snatched from the power of the great Assassin, and is safe in my court, and therefore henceforth I am your friend." "Sire, have you seen her?" asked Godwin. "Knights, I have seen her, and the face is the face of my dreams, and therefore I know full surely that in those dreams God spoke. Listen, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf," Saladin went on in a changed voice, a stern, commanding voice. "Ask of me what you will, and, Franks though you are, it shall be given you for your service's sake--wealth, lands, titles, all that men desire and I can grant--but ask not of me my niece, Rose of the World, princess of Baalbec, whom Allah has brought to me for His own purposes. Know, moreover, that if you strive to steal her away you shall certainly die; and that if she escapes from me and I recapture her, then she shall die. These things I have told her already, and I swear them in the name of Allah. Here she is, and in my house she must abide until the vision be fulfilled." Now in their dismay the brethren looked at each other, for they seemed further from their desire than they had been even in the castle of Sinan. Then a light broke upon the face of Godwin, and he stood up and answered: "Dread lord of all the East, we hear you and we know our risk. You have given us your friendship; we accept it, and are thankful, and seek no more. God, you say, has brought our lady Rosamund to you for His own purposes, of which you have no doubt since her face is the very face of your dreams. Then let His purposes be accomplished according to His will, which may be in some way that we little guess. We abide His judgment Who has guided us in the past, and will guide us in the future." "Well spoken," replied Saladin. "I have warned you, my guests, therefore blame me not if I keep my word; but I ask no promise from you who would not tempt noble knights to lie. Yes, Allah has set this strange riddle; by Allah let it be answered in His season." Then he waved his hand to show that the audience was ended. Chapter Seventeen: The Brethren Depart from Damascus At the court of Saladin Godwin and Wulf were treated with much honour. A house was given them to dwell in, and a company of servants to minister to their comfort and to guard them. Mounted on their swift horses, Flame and Smoke, they were taken out into the desert to hunt, and, had they so willed, it would have been easy for them to out-distance their retinue and companions and ride away to the nearest Christian town. Indeed, no hand would have been lifted to stay them who were free to come or go. But whither were they to go without Rosamund? Saladin they saw often, for it pleased him to tell them tales of those days when their father and uncle were in the East, or to talk with them of England and the Franks, and even now and again to reason with Godwin on matters of religion. Moreover, to show his faith in them, he gave them the rank of officers of his own bodyguard, and when, wearying of idleness, they asked it of him, allowed them to take their share of duty in the guarding of his palace and person. This, at a time when peace still reigned between Frank and Saracen, the brethren were not ashamed to do, who received no payment for their services. Peace reigned indeed, but Godwin and Wulf could guess that it would not reign for long. Damascus and the plain around it were one great camp, and every day new thousands of wild tribesmen poured in and took up the quarters that had been prepared for them. They asked Masouda, who knew everything, what it meant. She answered: "It means the jihad, the Holy War, which is being preached in every mosque throughout the East. It means that the great struggle between Cross and Crescent is at hand, and then, pilgrims Peter and John, you will have to choose your standard." "There can be little doubt about that," said Wulf. "None," replied Masouda, with one of her smiles, "only it may pain you to have to make war upon the princess of Baalbec and her uncle, the Commander of the Faithful." Then she went, still smiling. For this was the trouble of it: Rosamund, their cousin and their love, had in truth become the princess of Baalbec--for them. She lived in great state and freedom, as Saladin had promised that she should live in his letter to Sir Andrew D'Arcy. No insult or violence were offered to her faith; no suitor was thrust upon her. But she was in a land where women do not consort with men, especially if they be high-placed. As a princess of the empire of Saladin, she must obey its rules, even to veiling herself when she went abroad, and exchanging no private words with men. Godwin and Wulf prayed Saladin that they might be allowed to speak with her from time to time, but he only answered shortly: "Sir Knights, our customs are our customs. Moreover, the less you see of the princess of Baalbec the better I think it will be for her, for you, whose blood I do not wish to have upon my hands, and for myself, who await the fulfilment of that dream which the angel brought." Then the brethren left his presence sore at heart, for although they saw her from time to time at feasts and festivals, Rosamund was as far apart from them as though she sat in Steeple Hall--ay, and further. Also they came to see that of rescuing her from Damascus there was no hope at all. She dwelt in her own palace, whereof the walls were guarded night and day by a company of the Sultan's Mameluks, who knew that they were answerable for her with their lives. Within its walls, again, lived trusted eunuchs, under the command of a cunning fellow named Mesrour, and her retinue of women, all of them spies and watchful. How could two men hope to snatch her from the heart of such a host and to spirit her out of Damascus and through its encircling armies? One comfort, however, was left to them. When she reached the court Rosamund had prayed of the Sultan that Masouda should not be separated from her, and this because of the part she had played in his niece's rescue from the power of Sinan, he had granted, though doubtfully. Moreover, Masouda, being a person of no account except for her beauty, and a heretic, was allowed to go where she would and to speak with whom she wished. So, as she wished to speak often with Godwin, they did not lack for tidings of Rosamund. From her they learned that in a fashion the princess was happy enough--who would not be that had just escaped from Al-je-bal?--yet weary of the strange Eastern life, of the restraints upon her, and of her aimless days; vexed also that she might not mix with the brethren. Day by day she sent them her greetings, and with them warnings to attempt nothing--not even to see her--since there was no hope that they would succeed. So much afraid of them was the Sultan, Rosamund said, that both she and they were watched day and night, and of any folly their lives would pay the price. When they heard all this the brethren began to despair, and their spirits sank so low that they cared not what should happen to them. Then it was that a chance came to them of which the issue was to make them still more admired by Saladin and to lift Masouda to honour. One hot morning they were seated in the courtyard of their house beside the fountain, staring at the passers-by through the bars of the bronze gates and at the sentries who marched to and fro before them. This house was in one of the principal thoroughfares of Damascus, and in front of it flowed continually an unending, many-coloured stream of folk. There were white-robed Arabs of the desert, mounted on their grumbling camels; caravans of merchandise from Egypt or elsewhere; asses laden with firewood or the grey, prickly growth of the wild thyme for the bakers' ovens; water-sellers with their goatskin bags and chinking brazen cups; vendors of birds or sweetmeats; women going to the bath in closed and curtained litters, escorted by the eunuchs of their households; great lords riding on their Arab horses and preceded by their runners, who thrust the crowd asunder and beat the poor with rods; beggars, halt, maimed, and blind, beseeching alms; lepers, from whom all shrank away, who wailed their woes aloud; stately companies of soldiers, some mounted and some afoot; holy men, who gave blessings and received alms; and so forth, without number and without end. Godwin and Wulf, seated in the shade of the painted house, watched them gloomily. They were weary of this ever-changing sameness, weary of the eternal glare and glitter of this unfamiliar life, weary of the insistent cries of the mullahs on the minarets, of the flash of the swords that would soon be red with the blood of their own people; weary, too, of the hopeless task to which they were sworn. Rosamund was one of this multitude; she was the princess of Baalbec, half an Eastern by her blood, and growing more Eastern day by day--or so they thought in their bitterness. As well might two Saracens hope to snatch the queen of England from her palace at Westminster, as they to drag the princess of Baalbec out of the power of a monarch more absolute than any king of England. So they sat silent since they had nothing to say, and stared now at the passing crowd, and now at the thin stream of water falling continually into the marble basin. Presently they heard voices at the gate, and, looking up, saw a woman wrapped in a long cloak, talking with the guard, who with a laugh thrust out his arm, as though to place it round her. Then a knife flashed, and the soldier stepped back, still laughing, and opened the wicket. The woman came in. It was Masouda. They rose and bowed to her, but she passed before them into the house. Thither they followed, while the soldier at the gate laughed again, and at the sound of his mockery Godwin's cheek grew red. Even in the cool, darkened room she noticed it, and said, bitterly enough: "What does it matter? Such insults are my daily bread whom they believe--" and she stopped. "They had best say nothing of what they believe to me," muttered Godwin. "I thank you," Masouda answered, with a sweet, swift smile, and, throwing off her cloak, stood before them unveiled, clad in the white robes that befitted her tall and graceful form so well, and were blazoned on the breast with the cognizance of Baalbec. "Well for you," she went on, "that they hold me to be what I am not, since otherwise I should win no entry to this house." "What of our lady Rosamund?" broke in Wulf awkwardly, for, like Godwin, he was pained. Masouda laid her hand upon her breast as though to still its heaving, then answered: "The princess of Baalbec, my mistress, is well and as ever, beautiful, though somewhat weary of the pomp in which she finds no joy. She sent her greetings, but did not say to which of you they should be delivered, so, pilgrims, you must share them." Godwin winced, but Wulf asked if there were any hope of seeing her, to which Masouda answered: "None," adding, in a low voice, "I come upon another business. Do you brethren wish to do Salah-ed-din a service?" "I don't know. What is it?" asked Godwin gloomily. "Only to save his life--for which he may be grateful, or may not, according to his mood." "Speak on," said Godwin, "and tell us how we two Franks can save the life of the Sultan of the East." "Do you still remember Sinan and his fedais? Yes--they are not easily forgotten, are they? Well, to-night he has plotted to murder Salah-ed-din, and afterwards to murder you if he can, and to carry away your lady Rosamund if he can, or, failing that, to murder her also. Oh! the tale is true enough. I have it from one of them under the Signet--surely that Signet has served us well--who believes, poor fool, that I am in the plot. Now, you are the officers of the bodyguard who watch in the ante-chamber to-night, are you not? Well, when the guard is changed at midnight, the eight men who should replace them at the doors of the room of Salah-ed-din will not arrive; they will be decoyed away by a false order. In their stead will come eight murderers, disguised in the robes and arms of Mameluks. They look to deceive and cut you down, kill Salah-ed-din, and escape by the further door. Can you hold your own awhile against eight men, think you?" "We have done so before and will try," answered Wulf. "But how shall we know that they are not Mameluks?" "Thus--they will wish to pass the door, and you will say, 'Nay, sons of Sinan,' whereon they will spring on you to kill you. Then be ready and shout aloud." "And if they overcome us," asked Godwin, "then the Sultan would be slain?" "Nay, for you must lock the door of the chamber of Salah-ed-din and hide away the key. The sound of the fighting will arouse the outer guard ere hurt can come to him. Or," she added, after thinking awhile, "perhaps it will be best to reveal the plot to the Sultan at once." "No, no," answered Wulf; "let us take the chance. I weary of doing nothing here. Hassan guards the outer gate. He will come swiftly at the sound of blows." "Good," said Masouda; "I will see that he is there and awake. Now farewell, and pray that we may meet again. I say nothing of this story to the princess Rosamund until it is done with." Then throwing her cloak about her shoulders, she turned and went. "Is that true, think you?" asked Wulf of Godwin. "We have never found Masouda to be a liar," was his answer. "Come; let us see to our armour, for the knives of those fedai are sharp." It was near midnight, and the brethren stood in the small, domed ante-chamber, from which a door opened into the sleeping rooms of Saladin. The guard of eight Mameluks had left them, to be met by their relief in the courtyard, according to custom, but no relief had as yet appeared in the ante-chamber. "It would seem that Masouda's tale is true," said Godwin, and going to the door he locked it, and hid the key beneath a cushion. Then they took their stand in front of the locked door, before which hung curtains, standing in the shadow with the light from the hanging silver lamps pouring down in front of them. Here they waited awhile in silence, till at length they heard the tramp of men, and eight Mameluks, clad in yellow above their mail, marched in and saluted. "Stand!" said Godwin, and they stood a minute, then began to edge forward. "Stand!" said both the brethren again, but still they edged forward. "Stand, sons of Sinan!" they said a third time, drawing their swords. Then with a hiss of disappointed rage the fedai came at them. "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy! Help for the Sultan!" shouted the brethren, and the fray began. Six of the men attacked them, and while they were engaged with these the other two slipped round and tried the door, only to find it fast. Then they also turned upon the brethren, thinking to take the key from off their bodies. At the first rush two of the fedai went down beneath the sweep of the long swords, but after that the murderers would not come close, and while some engaged them in front, others strove to pass and stab them from behind. Indeed, a blow from one of their long knives fell upon Godwin's shoulder, but the good mail turned it. "Give way," he cried to Wulf, "or they will best us." So suddenly they gave way before them till their backs were against the door, and there they stood, shouting for help and sweeping round them with their swords into reach of which the fedai dare not come. Now from without the chamber rose a cry and tumult, and the sound of heavy blows falling upon the gates that the murderers had barred behind them, while upon the further side of the door, which he could not open, was heard the voice of the Sultan demanding to know what passed. The fedai heard these sounds also, and read in them their doom. Forgetting caution in their despair and rage, they hurled themselves upon the brethren, for they thought that if they could get them down they might still break through the door and slay Salah-ed-din before they themselves were slain. But for awhile the brethren stopped their rush with point and buckler, wounding two of them sorely; and when at length they closed in upon them, the gates were burst, and Hassan and the outer guard were at hand. A minute later and, but little hurt, Godwin and Wulf were leaning on their swords, and the fedai, some of them dead or wounded and some of them captive, lay before them on the marble floor. Moreover, the door had been opened, and through it came the Sultan in his nightgear. "What has chanced?" he asked, looking at them doubtfully. "Only this, lord," answered Godwin; "these men came to kill you and we held them off till help arrived." "Kill me! My own guard kill me?" "They are not your guard; they are fedai, disguised as your guard, and sent by Al-je-bal, as he promised." Now Salah-ed-din turned pale, for he who feared nothing else was all his life afraid of the Assassins and their lord, who thrice had striven to murder him. "Strip the armour from those men," went on Godwin, "and I think that you will find truth in my words, or, if not, question such of them as still live." They obeyed, and there upon the breast of one of them, burnt into his skin, was the symbol of the blood-red dagger. Now Saladin saw, and beckoned the brethren aside. "How knew you of this?" he asked, searching them with his piercing eyes. "Masouda, the lady Rosamund's waiting woman, warned us that you, lord, and we, were to be murdered tonight by eight men, so we made ready." "Why, then, did you not tell me?" "Because," answered Wulf, "we were not sure that the news was true, and did not wish to bring false tidings and be made foolish. Because, also, my brother and I thought that we could hold our own awhile against eight of Sinan's rats disguised as soldiers of Saladin." "You have done it well, though yours was a mad counsel," answered the Sultan. Then he gave his hand first to one and next to the other, and said, simply: "Sir Knights, Salah-ed-din owes his life to you. Should it ever come about that you owe your lives to Salah-ed-din, he will remember this." Thus this business ended. On the morrow those of the fedai who remained alive were questioned, and confessing freely that they had been sent to murder Salah-ed-din who had robbed their master of his bride, the two Franks who had carried her off, and the woman Masouda who had guided them, they were put to death cruelly enough. Also many others in the city were seized and killed on suspicion, so that for awhile there was no more fear from the Assassins. Now from that day forward Saladin held the brethren in great friendship, and pressed gifts upon them and offered them honours. But they refused them all, saying that they needed but one thing of him, and he knew what it was--an answer at which his face sank. One morning he sent for them, and, except for the presence of prince Hassan, the most favourite of his emirs, and a famous imaum, or priest of his religion, received them alone. "Listen," he said briefly, addressing Godwin. "I understand that my niece, the princess of Baalbec, is beloved by you. Good. Subscribe the Koran, and I give her to you in marriage, for thus also she may be led to the true faith, whom I have sworn not to force thereto, and I gain a great warrior and Paradise a brave soul. The imaum here will instruct you in the truth." Thus he spoke, but Godwin only stared at him with eyes set wide in wonderment, and answered: "Sire, I thank you, but I cannot change my faith to win a woman, however dearly I may love her." "So I thought," said Saladin with a sigh, "though indeed it is sad that superstition should thus blind so brave and good a man. Now, Sir Wulf, it is your turn. What say you to my offer? Will you take the princess and her dominions with my love thrown in as a marriage portion?" Wulf thought a moment, and as he thought there arose in his mind a vision of an autumn afternoon that seemed years and years ago, when they two and Rosamund had stood by the shrine of St. Chad on the shores of Essex, and jested of this very matter of a change of faith. Then he answered, with one of his great laughs: "Ay, sire, but on my own terms, not on yours, for if I took these I think that my marriage would lack blessings. Nor, indeed, would Rosamund wish to wed a servant of your Prophet, who if it pleased him might take other wives." Saladin leant his head upon his hand, and looked at them with disappointed eyes, yet not unkindly. "The knight Lozelle was a Cross-worshipper," he said, "but you two are very different from the knight Lozelle, who accepted the Faith when it was offered to him--" "To win your trade," said Godwin, bitterly. "I know not," answered Saladin, "though it is true the man seems to have been a Christian among the Franks, who here was a follower of the Prophet. At least, he is dead at your hands, and though he sinned against me and betrayed my niece to Sinan, peace be with his soul. Now I have one more thing to say to you. That Frank, Prince Arnat of Karak, whom you call Reginald de Chatillon--accursed be his name!--" and he spat upon the ground, "has once more broken the peace between me and the king of Jerusalem, slaughtering my merchants, and stealing my goods. I will suffer this shame no more, and very shortly I unfurl my standards, which shall not be folded up again until they float upon the mosque of Omar and from every tower top in Palestine. Your people are doomed. I, Yusuf Salah-ed-din," and he rose as he said the words, his very beard bristling with wrath, "declare the Holy War, and will sweep them to the sea. Choose now, you brethren. Do you fight for me or against me? Or will you give up your swords and bide here as my prisoners?" "We are the servants of the Cross," answered Godwin, "and cannot lift steel against it and thereby lose our souls." Then he spoke with Wulf, and added, "As to your second question, whether we should bide here in chains. It is one that our lady Rosamund must answer, for we are sworn to her service. We demand to see the princess of Baalbec." "Send for her, Emir," said Saladin to the prince Hassan, who bowed and departed. A while later Rosamund came, looking beautiful but, as they saw when she threw back her veil, very white and weary. She bowed to Saladin, and the brethren, who were not allowed to touch her hand, bowed to her, devouring her face with eager eyes. "Greeting, my uncle," she said to the Sultan, "and to you, my cousins, greeting also. What is your pleasure with me?" Saladin motioned to her to be seated and bade Godwin set out the case, which he did very clearly, ending: "Is it your wish, Rosamund, that we stay in this court as prisoners, or go forth to fight with the Franks in the great war that is to be?" Rosamund looked at them awhile, then answered: "To whom were you sworn the first? Was it to the service of our Lord, or to the service of a woman? I have said." "Such words as we expected from you, being what you are," exclaimed Godwin, while Wulf nodded his head in assent, and added: "Sultan, we ask your safe conduct to Jerusalem, and leave this lady in your charge, relying on your plighted word to do no violence to her faith and to protect her person." "My safe conduct you have," replied Saladin, "and my friendship also. Nor, indeed, should I have thought well of you had you decided otherwise. Now, henceforth we are enemies in the eyes of all men, and I shall strive to slay you as you will strive to slay me. But as regards this lady, have no fear. What I have promised shall be fulfilled. Bid her farewell, whom you will see no more." "Who taught your lips to say such words, O Sultan?" asked Godwin. "Is it given to you to read the future and the decrees of God?" "I should have said," answered Saladin, "'Whom you will see no more if I am able to keep you apart.' Can you complain who, both of you, have refused to take her as a wife?" Here Rosamund looked up wondering, and Wulf broke in: "Tell her the price. Tell her that she was asked to wed either of us who would bow the knee to Mahomet, and to be the head of his harem, and I think that she will not blame us." "Never would I have spoken again to him who answered otherwise," exclaimed Rosamund, and Saladin frowned at the words. "Oh! my uncle," she went on, "you have been kind to me and raised me high, but I do not seek this greatness, nor are your ways my ways, who am of a faith that you call accursed. Let me go, I beseech you, in care of these my kinsmen." "And your lovers," said Saladin bitterly. "Niece, it cannot be. I love you well, but did I know even that your life must pay the price of your sojourn here, here you still should stay, since, as my dream told me, on you hang the lives of thousands, and I believe that dream. What, then, is your life, or the lives of these knights, or even my life, that any or all of them should turn the scale against those of thousands. Oh! everything that my empire can give is at your feet, but here you stay until the dream be accomplished, and," he added, looking at the brethren, "death shall be the portion of any who would steal you from my hand." "Until the dream be accomplished?" said Rosamund catching at the words. "Then, when it is accomplished, shall I be free?" "Ay," answered the Sultan; "free to come or to go, unless you attempt escape, for then you know your certain doom." "It is a decree. Take note, my cousins, it is a decree. And you, prince Hassan, remember it also. Oh! I pray with all my soul I pray, that it was no lying spirit who brought you that dream, my uncle, though how I shall bring peace, who hitherto have brought nothing except war and bloodshed, I know not. Now go, my cousins but, if you will, leave me Masouda, who has no other friends. Go, and take my love and blessing with you, ay, and the blessing of Jesu and His saints which shall protect you in the hour of battle, and bring us together again." So spoke Rosamund and threw her veil before her face that she might hide her tears. Then Godwin and Wulf stepped to where she stood by the throne of Saladin, bent the knee before her, and, taking her hand, kissed it in farewell, nor did the Sultan say them nay. But when she was gone and the brethren were gone, he turned to the emir Hassan and to the great imaum who had sat silent all this while, and said: "Now tell me, you who are old and wise, which of those men does the lady love? Speak, Hassan, you who know her well." But Hassan shook his head. "One or the other. Both or neither--I know not," he answered. "Her counsel is too close for me." Then Saladin turned to the imaum--a cunning, silent man. "When both the infidels are about to die before her face, as I still hope to see them do, we may learn the answer. But unless she wills it, never before," he replied, and the Sultan noted his saying. Next morning, having been warned that they would pass there by Masouda, Rosamund, watching through the lattice of one of her palace windows, saw the brethren go by. They were fully armed and, mounted on their splendid chargers Flame and Smoke, looked glorious men as, followed by their escort of swarthy, turbaned Mameluks, they rode proudly side by side, the sunlight glinting on their mail. Opposite to her house they halted awhile, and, knowing that Rosamund watched, although they could not see her, drew their swords and lifted them in salute. Then sheathing them again, they rode forward in silence, and soon were lost to sight. Little did Rosamund guess how different they would appear when they three met again. Indeed, she scarcely dared to hope that they would ever meet, for she knew well that even if the war went in favour of the Christians she would be hurried away to some place where they would never find her. She knew well also that from Damascus her rescue was impossible, and that although Saladin loved them, as he loved all who were honest and brave, he would receive them no more as friends, for fear lest they should rob him of her, whom he hoped in some way unforeseen would enable him to end his days in peace. Moreover, the struggle between Cross and Crescent would be fierce and to the death, and she was sure that where was the closest fighting there in the midst of it would be found Godwin and Wulf. Well might it chance, therefore, that her eyes had looked their last upon them. Oh! she was great. Gold was hers, with gems more than she could count, and few were the weeks that did not bring her added wealth or gifts. She had palaces to dwell in--alone; gardens to wander in--alone; eunuchs and slaves to rule over--alone. But never a friend had she, save the woman of the Assassins, to whom she clung because she, Masouda, had saved her from Sinan, and who clung to her, why, Rosamund could not be sure, for there was a veil between their spirits. They were gone--they were gone! Even the sound of their horses' hoofs had died away, and she was desolate as a child lost in a city full of folk. Oh! and her heart was filled with fears for them, and most of all for one of them. If he should not come back into it, what would her life be? Rosamund bowed her head and wept; then, hearing a sound behind her, turned to see that Masouda was weeping also. "Why do you weep?" she asked. "The maid should copy her mistress," answered Masouda with a hard laugh; "but, lady, why do you weep? At least you are beloved, and, come what may, nothing can take that from you. You are not of less value than the good horse between the rider's knees, or the faithful hound that runs at his side." A thought rose in Rosamund's mind--a new and terrible thought. The eyes of the two women met, and those of Rosamund asked, "Which?" anxiously as once in the moonlight she had asked it with her voice from the gate above the Narrow Way. Between them stood a table inlaid with ivory and pearl, whereon the dust from the street had gathered through the open lattice. Masouda leaned over, and with her forefinger wrote a single Arabic letter in the dust upon the table, then passed her hand across it. Rosamund's breast heaved twice or thrice and was still. Then she asked: "Why did not you who are free go with him?" "Because he prayed me to bide here and watch over the lady whom he loved. So to the death--I watch." Slowly Masouda spoke, and the heavy words seemed like blood dropping from a death wound. Then she sank forward into the arms of Rosamund. Chapter Eighteen: Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine Many a day had gone by since the brethren bade farewell to Rosamund at Damascus. Now, one burning July night, they sat upon their horses, the moonlight gleaming on their mail. Still as statues they sat, looking out from a rocky mountain top across that grey and arid plain which stretches from near Nazareth to the lip of the hills at whose foot lies Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee. Beneath them, camped around the fountain of Seffurieh, were spread the hosts of the Franks to which they did sentinel; thirteen hundred knights, twenty thousand foot, and hordes of Turcopoles--that is, natives of the country, armed after the fashion of the Saracens. Two miles away to the southeast glimmered the white houses of Nazareth, set in the lap of the mountains. Nazareth, the holy city, where for thirty years lived and toiled the Saviour of the world. Doubtless, thought Godwin, His feet had often trod that mountain whereon they stood, and in the watered vales below His hands had sped the plow or reaped the corn. Long, long had His voice been silent, yet to Godwin's ears it still seemed to speak in the murmur of the vast camp, and to echo from the slopes of the Galilean hills, and the words it said were: "I bring not peace, but a sword." To-morrow they were to advance, so rumour said, across yonder desert plain and give battle to Saladin, who lay with all his power by Hattin, above Tiberias. Godwin and his brother thought that it was a madness; for they had seen the might of the Saracens and ridden across that thirsty plain beneath the summer sun. But who were they, two wandering, unattended knights, that they should dare to lift up their voices against those of the lords of the land, skilled from their birth in desert warfare? Yet Godwin's heart was troubled and fear took hold of him, not for himself, but for all the countless army that lay asleep yonder, and for the cause of Christendom, which staked its last throw upon this battle. "I go to watch yonder; bide you here," he said to Wulf, and, turning the head of Flame, rode some sixty yards over a shoulder of the rock to the further edge of the mountain which looked towards the north. Here he could see neither the camp, nor Wulf, nor any living thing, but indeed was utterly alone. Dismounting, and bidding the horse stand, which it would do like a dog, he walked forward a few steps to where there was a rock, and, kneeling down, began to pray with all the strength of his pure, warrior heart. "O Lord," he prayed, "Who once wast man and a dweller in these mountains, and knowest what is in man, hear me. I am afraid for all the thousands who sleep round Nazareth; not for myself, who care nothing for my life, but for all those, Thy servants and my brethren. Yes, and for the Cross upon which Thou didst hang, and for the faith itself throughout the East. Oh! give me light! Oh! let me hear and see, that I may warn them, unless my fears are vain!" So he murmured to Heaven above and beat his hands against his brow, praying, ever praying, as he had never prayed before, that wisdom and vision might be given to his soul. It seemed to Godwin that a sleep fell on him--at least, his mind grew clouded and confused. Then it cleared again, slowly, as stirred water clears, till it was bright and still; yet another mind to that which was his servant day by day which never could see or hear those things he saw and heard in that strange hour. Lo! he heard the spirits pass, whispering as they went; whispering, and, as it seemed to him, weeping also for some great woe which was to be; weeping yonder over Nazareth. Then like curtains the veils were lifted from his eyes, and as they swung aside he saw further, and yet further. He saw the king of the Franks in his tent beneath, and about him the council of his captains, among them the fierce-eyed master of the Templars, and a man whom he had seen in Jerusalem where they had been dwelling, and knew for Count Raymond of Tripoli, the lord of Tiberias. They were reasoning together, till, presently, in a rage, the Master of the Templars drew his sword and dashed it down upon the table. Another veil was lifted, and lo! he saw the camp of Saladin, the mighty, endless camp, with its ten thousand tents, amongst which the Saracens cried to Allah through all the watches of the night. He saw the royal pavilion, and in it the Sultan walked to and fro alone--none of his emirs, not even his son, were with him. He was lost in thought, and Godwin read his thought. It was: "Behind me the Jordan and the Sea of Galilee, into which, if my flanks were turned, I should be driven, I and all my host. In front the territories of the Franks, where I have no friend; and by Nazareth their great army. Allah alone can help me. If they sit still and force me to advance across the desert and attack them before my army melts away, then I am lost. If they advance upon me round the Mountain Tabor and by the watered land, I may be lost. But if--oh! if Allah should make them mad, and they should strike straight across the desert--then, then they are lost, and the reign of the Cross in Syria is forever at an end. I will wait here. I will wait here. . ." Look! near to the pavilion of Saladin stood another tent, closely guarded, and in it on a cushioned bed lay two women. One was Rosamund, but she slept sound; and the other was Masouda, and she was waking, for her eyes met his in the darkness. The last veil was withdrawn, and now Godwin saw a sight at which his soul shivered. A fire-blackened plain, and above it a frowning mountain, and that mountain thick, thick with dead, thousands and thousands and thousands of dead, among which the hyenas wandered and the night-birds screamed. He could see their faces, many of them he knew again as those of living men whom he had met in Jerusalem and elsewhere, or had noted with the army. He could hear also the moanings of the few who were yet alive. About that field--yes, and in the camp of Saladin, where lay more dead--his body seemed to wander searching for something, he knew not what, till it came to him that it was the corpse of Wulf for which he sought and found it not--nay, nor his own either. Then once more he heard the spirits pass--a very great company, for to them were gathered all those dead--heard them pass away, wailing, ever more faintly wailing for the lost cause of Christ, wailing over Nazareth. Godwin awoke from his dream trembling, mounted his horse, and rode back to Wulf. Beneath, as before, lay the sleeping camp, yonder stretched the brown desert, and there sat Wulf watching both. "Tell me," asked Godwin, "how long is it since I left you?" "Some few minutes--ten perhaps," answered his brother. "A short while to have seen so much," replied Godwin. Then Wulf looked at him curiously and asked: "What have you seen?" "If I told you, Wulf, you would not believe." "Tell me, and I will say." So Godwin told him all, and at the end asked him, "What think you?" Wulf considered awhile, and answered: "Well, brother, you have touched no wine to-day, so you are not drunk, and you have done nothing foolish, so you are not mad. Therefore it would seem that the saints have been talking to you, or, at least, so I should think of any other man whom I knew to be as good as you are. Yet it is folk like you that see visions, and those visions are not always true, for sometimes, I believe, the devil is their showman. Our watch is ended, for I hear the horses of the knights who come to relieve us. Listen; this is my counsel. In the camp yonder is our friend with whom we travelled from Jerusalem, Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth, who marches with the host. Let us go to him and lay this matter before him, for he is a holy man and learned; no false, self-seeking priest." Godwin nodded in assent, and presently, when the other knights were come and they had made their report to them, they rode off together to the tent of Egbert, and, leaving their horses in charge of a servant, entered. Egbert was an Englishman who had spent more than thirty years of his life in the East, whereof the suns had tanned his wrinkled face to the hue of bronze, that seemed the darker in contrast with his blue eyes and snow-white hair and beard. Entering the tent, they found him at his prayers before a little image of the Virgin, and stood with bowed heads until he had finished. Presently he rose, and greeting them with a blessing, asked them what they needed. "Your counsel, holy father," answered Wulf. "Godwin, set out your tale." So, having seen that the tent flap was closed and that none lingered near, Godwin told him his dream. The old man listened patiently, nor did he seem surprised at this strange story, since in those days men saw--or thought they saw--many such visions, which were accepted by the Church as true. When he had finished Godwin asked of him as he had asked of Wulf: "What think you, holy father? Is this a dream, or is it a message? And if so, from whom comes the message?" "Godwin D'Arcy," he answered, "in my youth I knew your father. It was I who shrove him when he lay dying of his wounds, and a nobler soul never passed from earth to heaven. After you had left Damascus, when you were the guest of Saladin, we dwelt together in the same lodging in Jerusalem, and together we travelled here, during all which time I learned to know you also as the worthy son of a worthy sire--no dissolute knight, but a true servant of the Church. It well may be that to such a one as you foresight has been given, that through you those who rule us may be warned, and all Christendom saved from great sorrow and disgrace. Come; let us go to the king, and tell this story, for he still sits in council yonder." So they went out together and rode to the royal tent. Here the bishop was admitted, leaving them without. Presently he returned and beckoned to them, and as they passed, the guards whispered to them: "A strange council, sirs, and a fateful!" Already it was near midnight, but still the great pavilion was crowded with barons and chief captains who sat in groups, or sat round a narrow table made of boards placed upon trestles. At the head of that table sat the king, Guy of Lusignan, a weak-faced man, clad in splendid armour. On his right was the white-haired Count Raymond of Tripoli, and on his left the black-bearded, frowning Master of the Templars, clad in his white mantle on the left breast of which the red cross was blazoned. Words had been running high, their faces showed it, but just then a silence reigned as though the disputants were weary, and the king leaned back in his chair, passing his hand to and fro across his forehead. He looked up, and seeing the bishop, asked peevishly: "What is it now? Oh! I remember, some tale from those tall twin knights. Well, bring them forward and speak it out, for we have no time to lose." So the three of them came forward and at Godwin's prayer the bishop Egbert told of the vision that had come to him not more than an hour ago while he kept watch upon the mountain top. At first one or two of the barons seemed disposed to laugh, but when they looked at Godwin's high and spiritual face, their laughter died away, for it did not seem wonderful to them that such a man should see visions. Indeed, as the tale of the rocky hill and the dead who were stretched upon it went on, they grew white with fear, and whitest of them all was the king, Guy of Lusignan. "Is all this true, Sir Godwin?" he asked, when the bishop had finished. "It is true, my lord king," answered Godwin. "His word is not enough," broke in the Master of the Templars. "Let him swear to it on the Holy Rood, knowing that if he lies it will blast his soul to all eternity." And the council muttered, "Ay, let him swear." Now there was an annexe to the tent, rudely furnished as a chapel, and at the end of this annexe a tall, veiled object. Rufinus, the bishop of Acre, who was clad in the armour of a knight, went to the object, and drawing the veil, revealed a broken, blackened cross, set around with jewels, that stood about the height of a man above the ground, for all the lower part was gone. At the sight of it Godwin and every man present there fell upon his knees, for since St. Helena found it, over seven centuries before, this had been accounted the most precious relic in all Christendom; the very wood upon which the Saviour suffered, as, indeed, it may have been. Millions had worshipped it, tens of thousands had died for it, and now, in the hour of this great struggle between Christ and the false prophet it was brought from its shrine that the host which escorted it might prove invincible in battle. Soldiers who fought around the very Cross could not be defeated, they said, for, if need were, legions of angels would come to aid them. Godwin and Wulf stared at the relic with wonder, fear, and adoration. There were the nail marks, there was the place where the scroll of Pilate had been affixed above the holy head--almost could they seem to see that Form divine and dying. "Now," broke in the voice of the Master of the Templars, "let Sir Godwin D'Arcy swear to the truth of his tale upon this Rood." Rising from his knees Godwin advanced to the Cross, and laying his hand upon the wood, said: "Upon the very Rood I swear that not much more than an hour ago I saw the vision which has been told to the king's highness and to all; that I believe this vision was sent to me in answer to my prayer to preserve our host and the holy city from the power of the Saracen, and that it is a true foreshadowing of what will come about should we advance upon the Sultan. I can say no more. I swear, knowing that if I lie eternal damnation is my doom." The bishop drew back the covering over the Cross, and in silence the council took their seats again about the table. Now the king was very pale, and fearful; indeed a gloom lay upon all of them. "It would seem," he said, "that here a messenger has been sent to us from heaven. Dare we disobey his message?" The Grand Templar lifted his rugged, frowning face. "A messenger from heaven, said you, king? To me he seems more like a messenger from Saladin. Tell us, Sir Godwin, were not you and your brother once the Sultan's guests at Damascus?" "That is so, my lord Templar. We left before the war was declared." "And," went on the Master, "were you not officers of the Sultan's bodyguard?" Now all looked intently at Godwin, who hesitated a little, foreseeing how his answer would be read, whereon Wulf spoke in his loud voice: "Ay, we acted as such for awhile, and--doubtless you have heard the story--saved Saladin's life when he was attacked by the Assassins." "Oh!" said the Templar with bitter sarcasm, "you saved Saladin's life, did you? I can well believe it. You, being Christians, who above everything should desire the death of Saladin, saved his life! Now, Sir Knights, answer me one more question--" "Sir Templar, with my tongue or with my sword?" broke in Wulf, but the king held up his hand and bade him be silent. "A truce to your tavern ruffling, young sir, and answer," went on the Templar. "Or, rather, do you answer, Sir Godwin. Is your cousin, Rosamund, the daughter of Sir Andrew D'Arcy, a niece of Saladin, and has she been created by him princess of Baalbec, and is she at this moment in his city of Damascus?" "She is his niece," answered Godwin quietly; "she is the princess of Baalbec, but at this moment she is not in Damascus." "How do you know that, Sir Godwin?" "I know it because in the vision of which you have been told I saw her sleeping in a tent in the camp of Saladin." Now the council began to laugh, but Godwin, with a set, white face, went on: "Ay, my lord Templar, and near that very blazoned tent I saw scores of the Templars and of the Hospitallers lying dead. Remember it when the dreadful hour comes and you see them also." Now the laughter died away, and a murmur of fear ran round the board, mixed with such words as "Wizardry." "He has learnt it from the Paynims." "A black sorcerer, without doubt." Only the Templar, who feared neither man nor spirit, laughed, and gave him the lie with his eyes. "You do not believe me," said Godwin, "nor will you believe me when I say that while I was on guard on yonder hill-top I saw you wrangling with the Count of Tripoli--ay, and draw your sword and dash it down in front of him upon this very table." Now again the council stared and muttered, for they too had seen this thing; but the Master answered: "He may have learnt it otherwise than from an angel. Folk have been in and out of this tent. My lord king, have we more time to waste upon these visions of a knight of whom all we know for certain is, that like his brother, he has been in the service of Saladin, which they left, he says, in order to fight against him in this war. It may be so; it is not for us to judge; though were the times different I would inform against Sir Godwin D'Arcy as a sorcerer, and one who has been in traitorous communication with our common foe." "And I would thrust the lie down your throat with my sword's point!" shouted Wulf. But Godwin only shrugged: his shoulders and said nothing, and the Master went on, taking no heed. "King, we await your word, and it must be spoken soon, for in four hours it will be dawn. Do we march against Saladin like bold, Christian men, or do we bide here like cowards?" Then Count Raymond of Tripoli rose, and said: "Before you answer, king, hear me, if it be for the last time, who am old in war and know the Saracens. My town of Tiberias is sacked; my vassals have been put to the sword by thousands; my wife is imprisoned in her citadel, and soon must yield, if she be not rescued. Yet I say to you, and to the barons here assembled, better so than that you should advance across the desert to attack Saladin. Leave Tiberias to its fate and my wife with it, and save your army, which is the last hope of the Christians of the East. Christ has no more soldiers in these lands, Jerusalem has no other shield. The army of the Sultan is larger than yours; his cavalry are more skilled. Turn his flank--or, better still, bide here and await his attack, and victory will be to the soldiers of the Cross. Advance and the vision of that knight at whom you scoff will come true, and the cause of Christendom be lost in Syria. I have spoken, and for the last time." "Like his friend the knight of Visions," sneered the Grand Master, "the count Raymond is an old ally of Saladin. Will you take such coward council? On--on! and smite these heathen dogs, or be forever shamed. On, in the name of the Cross! The Cross is with us!" "Ay," answered Raymond, "for the last time." Then there arose a tumult through which every man shouted to his fellow, some saying one thing and some another, while the king sat at the head of the board, his face hidden in his hands. Presently he lifted it, and said: "I command that we march at dawn. If the count Raymond and these brethren think the words unwise, let them leave us and remain here under guard until the issue be known." Now followed a great silence, for all there knew that the words were fateful, in the midst of which Count Raymond said: "Nay, I go with you," while Godwin echoed, "And we go also to show whether or not we are the spies of Saladin." Of these speeches none of them seemed to take heed, for all were lost in their own thoughts. One by one they rose, bowed to the king, and left the tent to give their commands and rest awhile, before it was time to ride. Godwin and Wulf went also, and with them the bishop of Nazareth, who wrung his hands and seemed ill at ease. But Wulf comforted him, saying: "Grieve no more, father; let us think of the joy of battle, not of the sorrow by which it may be followed." "I find no joy in battles," answered the holy Egbert. When they had slept awhile, Godwin and Wulf rose and fed their horses. After they had washed and groomed them, they tested and did on their armour, then took them down to the spring to drink their fill, as their masters did. Also Wulf, who was cunning in war, brought with him four large wineskins which he had provided against this hour, and filling them with pure water, fastened two of them with thongs behind the saddle of Godwin and two behind his own. Further, he filled the water-bottles at their saddle-bows, saying: "At least we will be among the last to die of thirst." Then they went back and watched the host break its camp, which it did with no light heart, for many of them knew of the danger in which they stood; moreover, the tale of Godwin's vision had been spread abroad. Not knowing where to go, they and Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth--who was unarmed and rode upon a mule, for stay behind he would not--joined themselves to the great body of knights who followed the king. As they did so, the Templars, five hundred strong, came up, a fierce and gallant band, and the Master, who was at their head, saw the brethren and called out, pointing to the wineskins which were hung behind their saddles: "What do these water-carriers here among brave knights who trust in God alone?" Wulf would have answered, but Godwin bade him be silent, saying: "Fall back; we will find less ill-omened company." So they stood on one side and bowed themselves as the Cross went by, guarded by the mailed bishop of Acre. Then came Reginald of Chatillon, Saladin's enemy, the cause of all this woe, who saw them and cried: "Sir Knights, whatever they may say, I know you for brave men, for I have heard the tale of your doings among the Assassins. There is room for you among my suite--follow me." "As well him as another," said Godwin. "Let us go where we are led." So they followed him. By the time that the army reached Kenna, where once the water was made wine, the July sun was already hot, and the spring was so soon drunk dry that many men could get no water. On they pushed into the desert lands below, which lay between them and Tiberias, and were bordered on the right and left by hills. Now clouds of dust were seen moving across the plains, and in the heart of them bodies of Saracen horsemen, which continually attacked the vanguard under Count Raymond, and as continually retreated before they could be crushed, slaying many with their spears and arrows. Also these came round behind them, and charged the rearguard, where marched the Templars and the light-armed troops named Turcopoles, and the band of Reginald de Chatillon, with which rode the brethren. From noon till near sundown the long harassed line, broken now into fragments, struggled forward across the rough, stony plain, the burning heat beating upon their armour till the air danced about it as it does before a fire. Towards evening men and horses became exhausted, and the soldiers cried to their captains to lead them to water. But in that place there was no water. The rearguard fell behind, worn out with constant attacks that must be repelled in the burning heat, so that there was a great gap between it and the king who marched in the centre. Messages reached them to push on, but they could not, and at length camp was pitched in the desert near a place called Marescalcia, and upon this camp Raymond and his vanguard were forced back. As Godwin and Wulf rode up, they saw him come in bringing his wounded with him, and heard him pray the king to push on and at all hazards to cut his way through to the lake, where they might drink--ay, and heard the king say that he could not, since the soldiers would march no more that day. Then Raymond wrung his hands in despair and rode back to his men, crying aloud: "Alas! alas! Oh! Lord God, alas! We are dead, and Thy Kingdom is lost." That night none slept, for all were athirst, and who can sleep with a burning throat? Now also Godwin and Wulf were no longer laughed at because of the water-skins they carried on their horses. Rather did great nobles come to them, and almost on their knees crave for the boon of a single cup. Having watered their horses sparingly from a bowl, they gave what they could, till at length only two skins remained, and one of these was spilt by a thief, who crept up and slashed it with his knife that he might drink while the water ran to waste. After this the brethren drew their swords and watched, swearing that they would kill any man who so much as touched the skin which was left. All that long night through there arose a confused clamour from the camp, of which the burden seemed to be, "Water! Give us water!" while from without came the shouts of the Saracens calling upon Allah. Here, too, the hot ground was covered with scrub dried to tinder by the summer drought, and to this the Saracens set fire so that the smoke rolled down on the Christian host and choked them, and the place became a hell. Day dawned at last; and the army was formed up in order of battle, its two wings being thrown forward. Thus they struggled on, those of them that were not too weak to stir, who were slaughtered as they lay. Nor as yet did the Saracens attack them, since they knew that the sun was stronger than all their spears. On they laboured towards the northern wells, till about mid-day the battle began with a flight of arrows so thick that for awhile it hid the heavens. After this came charge and counter-charge, attack and repulse, and always above the noise of war that dreadful cry for water. What chanced Godwin and Wulf never knew, for the smoke and dust blinded them so that they could see but a little way. At length there was a last furious charge, and the knights with whom they were clove the dense mass of Saracens like a serpent of steel, leaving a broad trail of dead behind them. When they pulled rein and wiped the sweat from their eyes it was to find themselves with thousands of others upon the top of a steep hill, of which the sides were thick with dry grass and bush that already was being fired. "The Rood! The Rood! Rally round the Rood!" said a voice, and looking behind them they saw the black and jewelled fragment of the true Cross set upon a rock, and by it the bishop of Acre. Then the smoke of the burning grass rose up and hid it from their sight. Now began one of the most hideous fights that is told of in the history of the world. Again and again the Saracens attacked in thousands, and again and again they were driven back by the desperate valour of the Franks, who fought on, their jaws agape with thirst. A blackbearded man stumbled up to the brethren, his tongue protruding from his lips, and they knew him for the Master of the Templars. "For the love of Christ, give me to drink," he said, recognizing them as the knights at whom he had mocked as water-carriers. They gave him of the little they had left, and while they and their horses drank the rest themselves, saw him rush down the hill refreshed, shaking his red sword. Then came a pause, and they heard the voice of the bishop of Nazareth, who had clung to them all this while, saying, as though to himself: "And here it was that the Saviour preached the Sermon on the Mount. Yes, He preached the words of peace upon this very spot. Oh! it cannot be that He will desert us--it cannot be." While the Saracens held off, the soldiers began to put up the king's pavilion, and with it other tents, around the rock on which stood the Cross. "Do they mean to camp here?" asked Wulf bitterly. "Peace," answered Godwin; "they hope to make a wall about the Rood. But it is of no avail, for this is the place of my dream." Wulf shrugged his shoulders. "At least, let us die well," he said. Then the last attack began. Up the hillside rose dense volumes of smoke, and with the smoke came the Saracens. Thrice they were driven back; thrice they came on. At the fourth onset few of the Franks could fight more, for thirst had conquered them on this waterless hill of Hattin. They lay down upon the dry grass with gaping jaws and protruding tongues, and let themselves be slain or taken prisoners. A great company of Saracen horsemen broke through the ring and rushed at the scarlet tent. It rocked to and fro, then down it fell in a red heap, entangling the king in its folds. At the foot of the Cross, Rufinus, the bishop of Acre, still fought on bravely. Suddenly an arrow struck him in the throat, and throwing his arms wide, he fell to earth. Then the Saracens hurled themselves upon the Rood, tore it from its place, and with mockery and spittings bore it down the hill towards their camp, as ants may be seen carrying a little stick into their nest, while all who were left alive of the Christian army stared upwards, as though they awaited some miracle from Heaven. But no angels appeared in the brazen sky, and knowing that God had deserted them, they groaned aloud in their shame and wretchedness. "Come," said Godwin to Wulf in a strange, quiet voice. "We have seen enough. It is time to die. Look! yonder below us are the Mameluks, our old regiment, and amongst them Saladin, for I see his banner. Having had water, we and our horses are still fresh and strong. Now, let us make an end of which they will tell in Essex yonder. Charge for the flag of Saladin!" Wulf nodded, and side by side they sped down the hill. Scimitars flashed at them, arrows struck upon their mail and the shields blazoned with the Death's-head D'Arcy crest. Through it all they went unscathed, and while the army of the Saracens stared, at the foot of the Horn of Hattin turned their horses' heads straight for the royal standard of Saladin. On they struggled, felling or riding down a foe at every stride. On, still on, although Flame and Smoke bled from a score of wounds. They were among the Mameluks, where their line was thin; by Heaven! they were through them, and riding straight at the well-known figure of the Sultan, mounted on his white horse with his young son and his emir, the prince Hassan, at his side. "Saladin for you, Hassan for me," shouted Wulf. Then they met, and all the host of Islam cried out in dismay as they saw the Commander of the Faithful and his horse borne to the earth before the last despairing charge of these mad Christian knights. Another instant, and the Sultan was on his feet again, and a score of scimitars were striking at Godwin. His horse Flame sank down dying, but he sprang from the saddle, swinging the long sword. Now Saladin recognized the crest upon his buckler, and cried out: "Yield you, Sir Godwin! You have done well--yield you!" But Godwin, who would not yield, answered: "When I am dead--not before." Thereupon Saladin spoke a word, and while certain of his Mameluks engaged Godwin in front, keeping out of reach of that red and terrible sword, others crept up behind, and springing on him, seized his arms and dragged him to the ground, where they bound him fast. Meanwhile Wulf had fared otherwise, for it was his horse Smoke, already stabbed to the vitals, that fell as he plunged on prince Hassan. Yet he also arose but little hurt, and cried out: "Thus, Hassan, old foe and friend, we meet at last in war. Come, I would pay the debt I owe you for that drugged wine, man to man and sword to sword." "Indeed, it is due, Sir Wulf," answered the prince, laughing. "Guards, touch not this brave knight who has dared so much to reach me. Sultan, I ask a boon. Between Sir Wulf and me there is an ancient quarrel that can only be washed away in blood. Let it be decided here and now, and let this be your decree--that if I fall in fair fight, none shall set upon my conqueror, and no vengeance shall be taken for my blood." "Good," said Saladin. "Then Sir Wulf shall be my prisoner and no more, as his brother is already. I owe it to the men who saved my life when we were friends. Give the Frank to drink that the fight may be fair." So they gave Wulf a cup of which he drank, and when he had done it was handed to Godwin. For even the Mameluks knew and loved these brethren who had been their officers, and praised the fierce charge that they had dared to make alone. Hassan sprang to the ground, saying: "Your horse is dead, Sir Wulf, so we must fight afoot." "Generous as ever," laughed Wulf. "Even the poisoned wine was a gift!" "If so, for the last time, I fear me," answered Hassan with a smile. Then they faced each other, and oh! the scene was strange. Up on the slopes of Hattin the fight still raged. There amidst the smoke and fires of the burning grass little companies of soldiers stood back to back while the Saracens wheeled round them, thrusting and cutting at them till they fell. Here and there knights charged singly or in groups, and so came to death or capture. About the plain hundreds of foot soldiers were being slaughtered, while their officers were taken prisoners. Towards the camp of Saladin a company advanced with sounds of triumph, carrying aloft a black stump which was the holy Rood, while others drove or led mobs of prisoners, among them the king and his chosen knights. The wilderness was red with blood, the air was rent with shouts of victory and cries of agony or despair. And there, in the midst of it all, ringed round with grave, courteous Saracens, stood the emir, clad above his mail in his white robe and jewelled turban, facing the great Christian knight, with harness hacked and reddened, the light of battle shining in his fierce eyes, and a smile upon his stained features. For those who watched the battle was forgotten--or, rather, its interest was centred on this point. "It will be a good fight," said one of them to Godwin, whom they had suffered to rise, "for though your brother is the younger and the heavier man, he is hurt and weary, whereas the emir is fresh and unwounded. Ah! they are at it!" Hassan had struck first and the blow went home. Falling upon the point of Wulf's steel helm, the heavy, razoredged scimitar glanced from it and shore away the links from the flap which hung upon his shoulder, causing the Frank to stagger. Again he struck, this time upon the shield, and so heavily that Wulf came to his knees. "Your brother is sped," said the Saracen captain to Godwin, but Godwin only answered: "Wait." As he spoke Wulf twisted his body out of reach of a third blow, and while Hassan staggered forward with the weight of the missed stroke, placed his hand upon the ground, and springing to his feet, ran backwards six or eight paces. "He flies!" cried the Saracens; but again Godwin said, "Wait." Nor was there long to wait. For now, throwing aside his buckler and grasping the great sword in both his hands, with a shout of "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy!" Wulf leapt at Hassan as a wounded lion leaps. The sword wheeled and fell, and lo! the shield of the Saracen was severed in two. Again it fell, and his turbaned helm was cloven. A third time, and the right arm and shoulder with the scimitar that grasped it seemed to spring from his body, and Hassan sank dying to the ground. Wulf stood and looked at him, while a murmur of grief went up from those who watched, for they loved this emir. Hassan beckoned to the victor with his left hand, and throwing down his sword to show that he feared no treachery, Wulf came to him and knelt beside him. "A good stroke," Hassan said faintly, "that could shear the double links of Damascus steel as though it were silk. Well, as I told you long ago, I knew that the hour of our meeting in war would be an ill hour for me, and my debt is paid. Farewell, brave knight. Would I could hope that we should meet in Paradise! Take that star jewel, the badge of my House, from my turban and wear it in memory of me. Long, long and happy be your days." Then, while Wulf held him in his arms, Saladin came up and spoke to him, till he fell back and was dead. Thus died Hassan, and thus ended the battle of Hattin, which broke the power of the Christians in the East. Chapter Nineteen: Before the Walls of Ascalon When Hassan was dead, at a sign from Saladin a captain of the Mameluks named Abdullah unfastened the jewel from the emir's turban and handed it to Wulf. It was a glorious star-shaped thing, made of great emeralds set round with diamonds, and the captain Abdullah, who like all Easterns loved such ornaments, looked at it greedily, and muttered: "Alas! that an unbeliever should wear the enchanted Star, the ancient Luck of the House of Hassan!" a saying that Wulf remembered. He took the jewel, then turned to Saladin and said, pointing to the dead body of Hassan: "Have I your peace, Sultan, after such a deed?" "Did I not give you and your brother to drink?" asked Saladin with meaning. "Whoever dies, you are safe. There is but one sin which I will not pardon you--you know what it is," and he looked at them. "As for Hassan, he was my beloved friend and servant, but you slew him in fair fight, and his soul is now in Paradise. None in my army will raise a blood feud against you on that score." Then dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, he turned to receive a great body of Christian prisoners that, panting and stumbling like over-driven sheep, were being thrust on towards the camp with curses, blows and mockery by the victorious Saracens. Among them the brethren rejoiced to see Egbert, the gentle and holy bishop of Nazareth, whom they had thought dead. Also, wounded in many places, his hacked harness hanging about him like a beggar's rags, there was the black-browed Master of the Templars, who even now could be fierce and insolent. "So I was right," he mocked in a husky voice, "and here you are, safe with your friends the Saracens, Sir Knights of the visions and the water-skins--" "From which you were glad enough to drink just now," said Godwin. "Also," he added sadly, "all the vision is not done." And turning, he looked towards a blazoned tent which with the Sultan's great pavilion, and not far behind it, was being pitched by the Arab camp-setters. The Master saw and remembered Godwin's vision of the dead Templars. "Is it there that you mean to murder me, traitor and wizard?" he asked. Then rage took hold of Godwin and he answered him: "Were it not for your plight, here and now I would thrust those words down your throat, as, should we both live, I yet shall hope to do. You call us traitors. Is it the work of traitors to have charged alone through all this host until our horses died beneath us?"--he pointed to where Smoke and Flame lay with glazing eyes--"to have unhorsed Saladin and to have slain this prince in single combat?" and he turned to the body of the emir Hassan, which his servants were carrying away. "You speak of me as wizard and murderer," he went on, "because some angel brought me a vision which, had you believed it, Templar, would have saved tens of thousands from a bloody death, the Christian kingdom from destruction, and yonder holy thing from mockery," and with a shudder he glanced at the Rood which its captors had set up upon a rock not far away with a dead knight tied to its black arms. "You, Sir Templar, are the murderer who by your madness and ambition have brought ruin on the cause of Christ, as was foretold by the count Raymond." "That other traitor who also has escaped," snarled the Master. Then Saracen guards dragged him away, and they were parted. By now the pavilion was up and Saladin entered it, saying: "Bring before me the king of the Franks and prince Arnat, he who is called Reginald of Chatillon." Then a thought struck him, and he called to Godwin and Wulf, saying: "Sir Knights, you know our tongue; give up your swords to the officer--they shall be returned to you--and come, be my interpreters." So the brethren followed him into the tent, where presently were brought the wretched king and the grey-haired Reginald de Chatillon, and with them a few other great knights who, even in the midst of their misery, stared at Godwin and Wulf in wonderment. Saladin read the look, and explained lest their presence should be misunderstood: "King and nobles, be not mistaken. These knights are my prisoners, as you are, and none have shown themselves braver to-day, or done me and mine more damage. Indeed, had it not been for my guards, within the hour I should have fallen beneath the sword of Sir Godwin. But as they know Arabic, I have asked them to render my words into your tongue. Do you accept them as interpreters? If not, others must be found." When they had translated this, the king said that he accepted them, adding to Godwin: "Would that I had also accepted you two nights gone as an interpreter of the will of Heaven!" The Sultan bade his captains be seated, and seeing their terrible thirst, commanded slaves to bring a great bowl of sherbet made of rose-water cooled with snow, and with his own hand gave it to king Guy. He drank in great gulps, then passed the bowl to Reginald de Chatillon, whereon Saladin cried out to Godwin: "Say to the king it is he and not I who gives this man to drink. There is no bond of salt between me and the prince Arnat." Godwin translated, sorrowfully enough, and Reginald, who knew the habits of the Saracens, answered: "No need to explain, Sir Knight, those words are my death-warrant. Well, I never expected less." Then Saladin spoke again. "Prince Arnat, you strove to take the holy city of Mecca and to desecrate the tomb of the Prophet, and then I swore to kill you. Again, when in a time of peace a caravan came from Egypt and passed by Esh-Shobek, where you were, forgetting your oath, you fell upon them and slew them. They asked for mercy in the name of Allah, saying that there was truce between Saracen and Frank. But you mocked them, telling them to seek aid from Mahomet, in whom they trusted. Then for the second time I swore to kill you. Yet I give you one more chance. Will you subscribe the Koran and embrace the faith of Islam? Or will you die?" Now the lips of Reginald turned pale, and for a moment he swayed upon his seat. Then his courage came back to him, and he answered in a strong voice: "Sultan, I will have none of your mercy at such a price, nor do I bow the knee to your dog of a false prophet, who perish in the faith of Christ, and, being weary of the world, am content to go to Him." Saladin sprang to his feet, his very beard bristling with wrath, and drawing his sabre, shouted aloud: "You scorn Mahomet! Behold! I avenge Mahomet upon you! Take him away!" And he struck him with the flat of his scimitar. Then Mameluks leapt upon the prince. Dragging him to the entrance of the tent, they forced him to his knees and there beheaded him in sight of the soldiers and of the other prisoners. Thus, bravely enough, died Reginald de Chatillon, whom the Saracens called prince Arnat. In the hush that followed this terrible deed king Guy said to Godwin: "Ask the Sultan if it is my turn next." "Nay," answered Saladin; "kings do not kill kings, but that truce-breaker has met with no more than his deserts." Then came a scene still more dreadful. Saladin went to the door of his tent, and standing over the body of Reginald, bade them parade the captive Templars and Hospitallers before him. They were brought to the number of over two hundred, for it was easy to distinguish them by the red and white crosses on their breasts. "These also are faith-breakers," he shouted, "and of their unclean tribes will I rid the world. Ho! my emirs and doctors of the law," and he turned to the great crowd of his captains about him, "take each of you one of them and kill him." Now the emirs hung back, for though fanatics they were brave, and loved not this slaughter of defenceless men, and even the Mameluks murmured aloud. But Saladin cried again: "They are worthy of death, and he who disobeys my command shall himself be slain." "Sultan," said Godwin, "we cannot witness such a crime; we ask that we may die with them." "Nay," he answered; "you have eaten of my salt, and to kill you would be murder. Get you to the tent of the princess of Baalbec yonder, for there you will see nothing of the death of these Franks, your fellow-worshippers." So the brethren turned, and led by a Mameluk, fled aghast for the first time in their lives, past the long lines of Templars and Hospitallers, who in the last red light of the dying day knelt upon the sand and prayed, while the emirs came up to kill them. They entered the tent, none forbidding them, and at the end of it saw two women crouched together on some cushions, who rose, clinging to each other. Then the women saw also and sprang forward with a cry of joy, saying: "So you live--you live!" "Ay, Rosamund," answered Godwin, "to see this shame--would God that we did not--whilst others die. They murder the knights of the holy Orders. To your knees and pray for their passing souls." So they knelt down and prayed till the tumult died away, and they knew that all was done. "Oh, my cousins," said Rosamund, as she staggered to her feet at length, "what a hell of wickedness and bloodshed is this in which we dwell! Save me from it if you love me--I beseech you save me!" "We will do our best," they answered; "but let us talk no more of these things which are the decree of God--lest we should go mad. Tell us your story." But Rosamund had little to tell, except that she had been well treated, and always kept by the person of the Sultan, marching to and fro with his army, for he awaited the fulfilment of his dream concerning her. Then they told her all that had chanced to them; also of the vision of Godwin and its dreadful accomplishment, and of the death of Hassan beneath the sword of Wulf. At that story Rosamund wept and shrank from him a little, for though it was this prince who had stolen her from her home, she loved Hassan. Yet when Wulf said humbly: "The fault is not mine; it was so fated. Would that I had died instead of this Saracen!" Rosamund answered: "No, no; I am proud that you should have conquered." But Wulf shook his head, and said: "I am not proud. Although weary with that awful battle, I was still the younger and stronger man, though at first he well-nigh mastered me by his skill and quickness. At least we parted friends. Look, he gave me this," and he showed her the great emerald badge which the dying prince had given him. Masouda, who all this while had sat very quiet, came forward and looked at it. "Do you know," she asked, "that this jewel is very famous, not only for its value, but because it is said to have belonged to one of the children of the prophet, and to bring good fortune to its owner?" Wulf smiled. "It brought little to poor Hassan but now, when my grandsire's sword shore the Damascus steel as though it were wet clay." "And sent him swift to Paradise, where he would be, at the hands of a gallant foe," answered Masouda. "Nay, all his life this emir was happy and beloved, by his sovereign, his wives, his fellows and his servants, nor do I think that he would have desired another end whose wish was to die in battle with the Franks. At least there is scarce a soldier in the Sultan's army who would not give all he has for yonder trinket, which is known throughout the land as the Star of Hassan. So beware, Sir Wulf, lest you be robbed or murdered, although you have eaten the salt of Salah-ed-din." "I remember the captain Abdullah looking at it greedily and lamenting that the Luck of the House of Hassan should pass to an unbeliever," said Wulf. "Well, enough of this jewel and its dangers; I think Godwin has words to say." "Yes," said Godwin. "We are here in your tent through the kindness of Saladin, who did not wish us to witness the death of our comrades, but to-morrow we shall be separated again. Now if you are to escape--" "I will escape! I must escape, even if I am recaptured and die for it," broke in Rosamund passionately. "Speak low," said Masouda. "I saw the eunuch Mesrour pass the door of the tent, and he is a spy--they all are spies." "If you are to escape," repeated Godwin in a whisper, "it must be within the next few weeks while the army is on the march. The risk is great to all of us--even to you, and we have no plan. But, Masouda, you are clever; make one, and tell it to us." She lifted her head to speak, when suddenly a shadow fell upon them. It was that of the head eunuch, Mesrour, a fat, cunning-faced man, with a cringing air. Low he bowed before them, saying: "Your pardon, O Princess. A messenger has come from Salah-ed-din demanding the presence of these knights at the banquet that he has made ready for his noble prisoners." "We obey," said Godwin, and rising they bowed to Rosamund and to Masouda, then turned to go, leaving the star jewel where they had been seated. Very skilfully Mesrour covered it with a fold of his robe, and under shelter of the fold slipped down his hand and grasped it, not knowing that although she seemed to be turned away, Masouda was watching him out of the corner of her eye. Waiting till the brethren reached the tent door, she called out: "Sir Wulf, are you already weary of the enchanted Star of Fortune, or would you bequeath it to us?" Now Wulf came back, saying heavily: "I forgot the thing--who would not at such a time? Where is it? I left it on the cushion." "Try the hand of Mesrour," said Masouda, whereat with a very crooked smile the eunuch produced it, and said: "I wished to show you, Sir Knight, that you must be careful with such gems as these, especially in a camp where there are many dishonest persons." "I thank you," answered Wulf as he took it; "you have shown me." Then, followed by the sound of Masouda's mocking laughter, they left the tent. The Sultan's messenger led them forward, across ground strewn with the bodies of the murdered Templars and Hospitallers, lying as Godwin had seen them in his dream on the mountain top near Nazareth. Over one of these corpses Godwin stumbled in the gloom, so heavily, that he fell to his knees. He searched the face in the starlight, to find it was that of a knight of the Hospitallers of whom he had made a friend at Jerusalem--a very good and gentle Frenchman, who had abandoned high station and large lands to join the order for the love of Christ and charity. Such was his reward on earth--to be struck down in cold blood, like an ox by its butcher. Then, muttering a prayer for the repose of this knight's soul, Godwin rose and, filled with horror, followed on to the royal pavilion, wondering why such things were. Of all the strange feasts that they ever ate the brethren found this the strangest and the most sad. Saladin was seated at the head of the table with guards and officers standing behind him, and as each dish was brought he tasted it and no more, to show that it was not poisoned. Not far from him sat the king of Jerusalem and his brother, and all down the board great captive nobles, to the number of fifty or more. Sorry spectacles were these gallant knights in their hewn and blood-stained armour, pale-faced, too, with eyes set wide in horror at the dread deeds they had just seen done. Yet they ate, and ate ravenously, for now that their thirst was satisfied, they were mad with hunger. Thirty thousand Christians lay dead on the Horn and plain of Hattin; the kingdom of Jerusalem was destroyed, and its king a prisoner. The holy Rood was taken as a trophy. Two hundred knights of the sacred Orders lay within a few score of yards of them, butchered cruelly by those very emirs and doctors of the law who stood grave and silent behind their master's seat, at the express command of that merciless master. Defeated, shamed, bereaved--yet they ate, and, being human, could take comfort from the thought that having eaten, by the law of the Arabs, at least their lives were safe. Saladin called Godwin and Wulf to him that they might interpret for him, and gave them food, and they also ate who were compelled to it by hunger. "Have you seen your cousin, the princess?" he asked; "and how found you her?" he asked presently. Then, remembering over what he had fallen outside her tent, and looking at those miserable feasters, anger took hold of Godwin, and he answered boldly: "Sire, we found her sick with the sights and sounds of war and murder; shamed to know also that her uncle, the conquering sovereign of the East, had slaughtered two hundred unarmed men." Wulf trembled at his words, but Saladin listened and showed no anger. "Doubtless," he answered, "she thinks me cruel, and you also think me cruel--a despot who delights in the death of his enemies. Yet it is not so, for I desire peace and to save life, not to destroy it. It is you Christians who for hard upon a hundred years have drenched these sands with blood, because you say that you wish to possess the land where your prophet lived and died more than eleven centuries ago. How many Saracens have you slain? Hundreds of thousands of them. Moreover, with you peace is no peace. Those Orders that I destroyed tonight have broken it a score of times. Well, I will bear no more. Allah has given me and my army the victory, and I will take your cities and drive the Franks back into the sea. Let them seek their own lands and worship God there after their own fashion, and leave the East in quiet. "Now, Sir Godwin, tell these captives for me that tomorrow I send those of them who are unwounded to Damascus, there to await ransom while I besiege Jerusalem and the other Christian cities. Let them have no fear; I have emptied the cup of my anger; no more of them shall die, and a priest of their faith, the bishop of Nazareth, shall stay with their sick in my army to minister to them after their own rites." So Godwin rose and told them, and they answered not a word, who had lost all hope and courage. Afterwards he asked whether he and his brother were also to be sent to Damascus. Saladin replied, "No; he would keep them for awhile to interpret, then they might go their ways without ransom." On the morrow, accordingly, the captives were sent to Damascus, and that day Saladin took the castle of Tiberias, setting at liberty Eschiva, the wife of Raymond, and her children. Then he moved on to Acre, which he took, relieving four thousand Moslem captives, and so on to other towns, all of which fell before him, till at length he came to Ascalon, which he besieged in form, setting up his mangonels against its walls. The night was dark outside of Ascalon, save when the flashes of lightning in the storm that rolled down from the mountains to the sea lit it up, showing the thousands of white tents set round the city, the walls and the sentries who watched upon them, the feathery palms that stood against the sky, the mighty, snow-crowned range of Lebanon, and encircling all the black breast of the troubled ocean. In a little open space of the garden of an empty house that stood without the walls, a man and a woman were talking, both of them wrapped in dark cloaks. They were Godwin and Masouda. "Well," said Godwin eagerly, "is all ready?" She nodded and answered: "At length, all. To-morrow afternoon an assault will be made upon Ascalon, but even if it is taken the camp will not be moved that night. There will be great confusion, and Abdullah, who is somewhat sick, will be the captain of the guard over the princess's tent. He will allow the soldiers to slip away to assist in the sack of the city, nor will they betray him. At sunset but one eunuch will be on watch--Mesrour; and I will find means to put him to sleep. Abdullah will bring the princess to this garden disguised as his young son, and there you two and I shall meet them." "What then?" asked Godwin. "Do you remember the old Arab who brought you the horses Flame and Smoke, and took no payment for them, he who was named Son of the Sand? Well, as you know, he is my uncle, and he has more horses of that breed. I have seen him, and he is well pleased at the tale of Flame and Smoke and the knights who rode them, and more particularly at the way in which they came to their end, which he says has brought credit to their ancient blood. At the foot of this garden is a cave, which was once a sepulchre. There we shall find the horses--four of them--and with them my uncle, Son of the Sand, and by the morning light we will be a hundred miles away and lie hid with his tribe until we can slip to the coast and board a Christian ship. Does it please you?" "Very well; but what is Abdullah's price?" "One only--the enchanted star, the Luck of the House of Hassan; for nothing else will he take such risks. Will Sir Wulf give it?" "Surely," answered Godwin with a laugh. "Good. Then it must be done to-night. When I return I will send Abdullah to your tent. Fear not; if he takes the jewel he will give the price, since otherwise he thinks it will bring him ill fortune." "Does the lady Rosamund know?" asked Godwin again. She shook her head. "Nay, she is mad to escape; she thinks of little else all day long. But what is the use of telling her till the time comes? The fewer in such a plot the better, and if anything goes wrong, it is well that she should be innocent, for then--" "Then death, and farewell to all things," said Godwin; "nor indeed should I grieve to say them good-bye. But, Masouda, you run great peril. Tell me now, honestly, why do you do this?" As he spoke the lightning flashed and showed her face as she stood there against a background of green leaves and red lily flowers. There was a strange look upon it--a look that made Godwin feel afraid, he knew not of what. "Why did I take you into my inn yonder in Beirut when you were the pilgrims Peter and John? Why did I find you the best horses in Syria and guide you to the Al-je-bal? Why did I often dare death by torment for you there? Why did I save the three of you? And why, for all this weary while, have I--who, after all, am nobly born--become the mock of soldiers and the tire-woman of the princess of Baalbec? "Shall I answer?" she went on, laughing. "Doubtless in the beginning because I was the agent of Sinan, charged to betray such knights as you are into his hands, and afterwards because my heart was filled with pity and love for--the lady Rosamund." Again the lightning flashed, and this time that strange look had spread from Masouda's face to the face of Godwin. "Masouda," he said in a whisper, "oh! think me no vain fool, but since it is best perhaps that both should know full surely, tell me, is it as I have sometimes--" "Feared?" broke in Masouda with her little mocking laugh. "Sir Godwin, it is so. What does your faith teach--the faith in which I was bred, and lost, but that now is mine again--because it is yours? That men and women are free, or so some read it. Well, it or they are wrong. We are not free. Was I free when first I saw your eyes in Beirut, the eyes for which I had been watching all my life, and something came from you to me, and I--the cast-off plaything of Sinan--loved you, loved you, loved you--to my own doom? Yes, and rejoiced that it was so, and still rejoice that it is so, and would choose no other fate, because in that love I learned that there is a meaning in this life, and that there is an answer to it in lives to be, otherwhere if not here. Nay, speak not. I know your oath, nor would I tempt you to its breaking. But, Sir Godwin, a woman such as the lady Rosamund cannot love two men," and as she spoke Masouda strove to search his face while the shaft went home. But Godwin showed neither surprise nor pain. "So you know what I have known for long," he said, "so long that my sorrow is lost in the hope of my brother's joy. Moreover, it is well that she should have chosen the better knight." "Sometimes," said Masouda reflectively, "sometimes I have watched the lady Rosamund, and said to myself, 'What do you lack? You are beautiful, you are highborn, you are learned, you are brave, and you are good.' Then I have answered, 'You lack wisdom and true sight, else you would not have chosen Wulf when you might have taken Godwin. Or perchance your eyes are blinded also.'" "Speak not thus of one who is my better in all things, I pray you," said Godwin in a vexed voice. "By which you mean, whose arm is perhaps a little stronger, and who at a pinch could cut down a few more Saracens. Well, it takes more than strength to make a man--you must add spirit." "Masouda," went on Godwin, taking no note of her words, "although we may guess her mind, our lady has said nothing yet. Also Wulf may fall, and then I fill his place as best I can. I am no free man, Masouda." "The love-sick are never free," she answered. "I have no right to love the woman who loves my brother; to her are due my friendship and my reverence--no more." "She has not declared that she loves your brother; we may guess wrongly in this matter. They are your words--not mine." "And we may guess rightly. What then?" "Then," answered Masouda, "there are many knightly Orders, or monasteries, for those who desire such places--as you do in your heart. Nay, talk no more of all these things that may or may not be. Back to your tent, Sir Godwin, where I will send Abdullah to you to receive the jewel. So, farewell, farewell." He took her outstretched hand, hesitated a moment, then lifted it to his lips, and went. It was cold as that of a corpse, and fell against her side again like the hand of a corpse. Masouda shrank back among the flowers of the garden as though to hide herself from him and all the world. When he had gone a few paces, eight or ten perhaps, Godwin turned and glanced behind him, and at that moment there came a great blaze of lightning. In its fierce and fiery glare he saw Masouda standing with outstretched arms, pale, upturned face, closed eyes, and parted lips. Illumined by the ghastly sheen of the levin her face looked like that of one new dead, and the tall red lilies which climbed up her dark, pall-like robe to her throat--yes, they looked like streams of fresh-shed blood. Godwin shuddered a little and went his way, but as she slid thence into the black, embracing night, Masouda said to herself: "Had I played a little more upon his gentleness and pity, I think that he would have offered me his heart--after Rosamund had done with it and in payment for my services. Nay, not his heart, for he has none on earth, but his hand and loyalty. And, being honourable, he would have kept his promise, and I, who have passed through the harem of Al-je-bal, might yet have become the lady D'Arcy, and so lived out my life and nursed his babes. Nay, Sir Godwin; when you love me--not before; and you will never love me--until I am dead." Snatching a bloom of the lilies into her hand, the hand that he had kissed, Masouda pressed it convulsively against her breast, till the red juice ran from the crushed flower and stained her like a wound. Then she glided away, and was lost in the storm and the darkness. Chapter Twenty: The Luck of the Star of Hassan An hour later the captain Abdullah might have been seen walking carelessly towards the tent where the brethren slept. Also, had there been any who cared to watch, something else might have been seen in that low moonlight, for now the storm and the heavy rain which followed it had passed. Namely, the fat shape of the eunuch Mesrour, slipping after him wrapped in a dark camel-hair cloak, such as was commonly worn by camp followers, and taking shelter cunningly behind every rock and shrub and rise of the ground. Hidden among some picketed dromedaries, he saw Abdullah enter the tent of the brethren, then, waiting till a cloud crossed the moon, Mesrour ran to it unseen, and throwing himself down on its shadowed side, lay there like a drunken man, and listened with all his ears. But the thick canvas was heavy with wet, nor would the ropes and the trench that was dug around permit him, who did not love to lie in the water, to place his head against it. Also, those within spoke low, and he could only hear single words, such as "garden," "the star," "princess." So important did these seem to him, however, that at length Mesrour crept under the cords, and although he shuddered at its cold, drew his body into the trench of water, and with the sharp point of his knife cut a little slit in the taut canvas. To this he set his eye, only to find that it served him nothing, for there was no light in the tent. Still, men were there who talked in the darkness. "Good," said a voice--it was that of one of the brethren, but which he could not tell, for even to those who knew them best they seemed to be the same. "Good; then it is settled. To-morrow, at the hour arranged, you bring the princess to the place agreed upon, disguised as you have said. In payment for this service I hand you the Luck of Hassan which you covet. Take it; here it is, and swear to do your part, since otherwise it will bring no luck to you, for I will kill you the first time we meet--yes, and the other also." "I swear it by Allah and his prophet," answered Abdullah in a hoarse, trembling voice. "It is enough; see that you keep the oath. And now away; it is not safe that you should tarry here." Then came the sound of a man leaving the tent. Passing round it cautiously, he halted, and opening his hand, looked at its contents to make sure that no trick had been played upon him in the darkness. Mesrour screwed his head round to look also, and saw the light gleam faintly on the surface of the splendid jewel, which he, too, desired so eagerly. In so doing his foot struck a stone, and instantly Abdullah glanced down to see a dead or drunken man lying almost at his feet. With a swift movement he hid the jewel and started to walk away. Then bethinking him that it would be well to make sure that this fellow was dead or sleeping, he turned and kicked the prostrate Mesrour upon the back and with all his strength. Indeed, he did this thrice, putting the eunuch to the greatest agony. "I thought I saw him move," Abdullah muttered after the third kick; "it is best to make sure," and he drew his knife. Now, had not terror paralysed him, Mesrour would have cried out, but fortunately for himself, before he found his voice Abdullah had buried the knife three inches deep in his fat thigh. With an effort Mesrour bore this also, knowing that if he showed signs of life the next stroke would be in his heart. Then, satisfied that this fellow, whoever he might be, was either a corpse or insensible, Abdullah drew out the knife, wiped it on his victim's robe, and departed. Not long afterwards Mesrour departed also, towards the Sultan's house, bellowing with rage and pain and vowing vengeance. It was not long delayed. That very night Abdullah was seized and put to the question. In his suffering he confessed that he had been to the tent of the brethren and received from one of them the jewel which was found upon him, as a bribe to bring the princess to a certain garden outside the camp. But he named the wrong garden. Further, when they asked which of the brethren it was who bribed him, he said he did not know, as their voices were alike, and their tent was in darkness; moreover, that he believed there was only one man in it--at least he heard or saw no other. He added that he was summoned to the tent by an Arab man whom he had never seen before, but who told him that if he wished for what he most desired and good fortune, he was to be there at a certain hour after sunset. Then he fainted, and was put back in prison till the morning by the command of Saladin. When the morning came Abdullah was dead, who desired no more torments with doom at the end of them, having made shift to strangle himself with his robe. But first he had scrawled upon the wall with a piece of charcoal: "May that accursed Star of Hassan which tempted me bring better luck to others, and may hell receive the soul of Mesrour." Thus died Abdullah, as faithful as he could be in such sore straits, since he had betrayed neither Masouda nor his son, both of whom were in the plot, and said that only one of the brethren was present in the tent, whereas he knew well that the two of them were there and which of these spoke and gave him the jewel. Very early that morning the brethren, who were lying wakeful, heard sounds without their tent, and looking out saw that it was surrounded by Mameluks. "The plot is discovered," said Godwin to Wulf quietly, but with despair in his face. "Now, my brother, admit nothing, even under torture, lest others perish with us." "Shall we fight?" asked Wulf as they threw on their mail. But Godwin answered: "Nay, it would serve us nothing to kill a few brave men." Then an officer entered the tent, and commanded them to give up their swords and to follow him to Saladin to answer a charge that had been laid against them both, nor would he say any more. So they went as prisoners, and after waiting awhile, were ushered into a large room of the house where Saladin lodged, which was arranged as a court with a dais at one end. Before this they were stood, till presently the Sultan entered through the further door, and with him certain of his emirs and secretaries. Also Rosamund, who looked very pale, was brought there, and in attendance on her Masouda, calm-faced as ever. The brethren bowed to them, but Saladin, whose eyes were full of rage, took no notice of their salutation. For a moment there was silence, then Saladin bade a secretary read the charge, which was brief. It was that they had conspired to steal away the princess of Baalbec. "Where is the evidence against us?" asked Godwin boldly. "The Sultan is just, and convicts no man save on testimony." Again Saladin motioned to the secretary, who read the words that had been taken down from the lips of the captain Abdullah. They demanded to be allowed to examine the captain Abdullah, and learned that he was already dead. Then the eunuch Mesrour was carried forward, for walk he could not, owing to the wound that Abdullah had given him, and told all his tale, how he had suspected Abdullah, and, following him, had heard him and one of the brethren speaking in the tent, and the words that passed, and afterwards seen Abdullah with the jewel in his hand. When he had finished Godwin asked which of them he had heard speaking with Abdullah, and he answered that he could not say, as their voices were so alike, but one voice only had spoken. Then Rosamund was ordered to give her testimony, and said, truly enough, that she knew nothing of the plot and had not thought of this flight. Masouda also swore that she now heard of it for the first time. After this the secretary announced that there was no more evidence, and prayed of the Sultan to give judgment in the matter. "Against which of us," asked Godwin, "seeing that both the dead and the living witness declared they heard but one voice, and whose that voice was they did not know? According to your own law, you cannot condemn a man against whom there is no good testimony." "There is testimony against one of you," answered Saladin sternly, "that of two witnesses, as is required, and, as I have warned you long ago, that man shall die. Indeed, both of you should die, for I am sure that both are guilty. Still, you have been put upon your trial according to the law, and as a just judge I will not strain the law against you. Let the guilty one die by beheading at sundown, the hour at which he planned to commit his crime. The other may go free with the citizens of Jerusalem who depart to-night, bearing my message to the Frankish leaders in that holy town." "Which of us, then, is to die, and which to go free?" asked Godwin. "Tell us, that he who is doomed may prepare his soul." "Say you, who know the truth," answered Saladin. "We admit nothing," said Godwin; "yet, if one of us must die, I as the elder claim that right." "And I claim it as the younger. The jewel was Hassan's gift to me; who else could give it to Abdullah?" added Wulf, speaking for the first time, whereat all the Saracens there assembled, brave men who loved a knightly deed, murmured in admiration, and even Saladin said: "Well spoken, both of you. So it seems that both must die." Then Rosamund stepped forward and threw herself upon her knees before him, exclaiming: "Sire, my uncle, such is not your justice, that two should be slain for the offence of one, if offence there be. If you know not which is guilty, spare them both, I beseech you." He stretched out his hand and raised her from her knees: then thought awhile, and said: "Nay, plead not with me, for however much you love him the guilty man must suffer, as he deserves. But of this matter Allah alone knows the truth, therefore let it be decided by Allah," and he rested his head upon his hand, looking at Wulf and Godwin as though to read their souls. Now behind Saladin stood that old and famous imaum who had been with him and Hassan when he commanded the brethren to depart from Damascus, who all this while had listened to everything that passed with a sour smile. Leaning forward, he whispered in his master's ear, who considered a moment, then answered him: "It is good. Do so." So the imaum left the court, and returned presently carrying two small boxes of sandalwood tied with silk and sealed, so like each other that none could tell them apart, which boxes he passed continually from his right hand to his left and from his left hand to his right, then gave them to Saladin. "In one of these," said the Sultan, "is that jewel known as the enchanted Star and the Luck of the House of Hassan, which the prince presented to his conqueror on the day of Hattin, and for the desire of which my captain Abdullah became a traitor and was brought to death. In the other is a pebble of the same weight. Come, my niece, take you these boxes and give them to your kinsmen, to each the box you will. The jewel that is called the Star of Hassan is magical, and has virtue, so they say. Let it choose, therefore, which of these knights is ripe for death, and let him perish in whose box the Star is found." "Now," muttered the imaum into the ear of his master, "now at length we shall learn which it is of these two men that the lady loves." "That is what I seek to know," answered Saladin in the same low voice. As she heard this decree Rosamund looked round wildly and pleaded: "Oh! be not so cruel. I beseech you spare me this task. Let it be another hand that is chosen to deal death to one of those of my own blood with whom I have dwelt since childhood. Let me not be the blind sword of fate that frees his spirit, lest it should haunt my dreams and turn all my world to woe. Spare me, I beseech you." But Saladin looked at her very sternly and answered: "Princess, you know why I have brought you to the East and raised you to great honour here, why also I have made you my companion in these wars. It is for my dream's sake, the dream which told me that by some noble act of yours you should save the lives of thousands. Yet I am sure that you desire to escape, and plots are made to take you from me, though of these plots you say that you and your woman"--and he looked darkly at Masouda--"know nothing. But these men know, and it is right that you, for whose sake if not by whose command the thing was done, should mete out its reward, and that the blood of him whom you appoint, which is spilt for you, should be on your and no other head. Now do my bidding." For a moment Rosamund stared at the boxes, then suddenly she closed her eyes, and taking them up at hazard, stretched out her arms, leaning forward over the edge of the dais. Thereon, calmly enough the brethren took, each of them, the box that was nearest to him, that in Rosamund's left hand falling to Godwin and that in her right to Wulf. Then she opened her eyes again, stood still, and watched. "Cousin," said Godwin, "before we break this cord that is our chain of doom, know well that, whatever chances, we blame you not at all. It is God Who acts through you, and you are as innocent of the death of either of us as of that plot whereof we stand accused." Then he began to unknot the silk which was bound about his box. Wulf, knowing that it would tell all the tale, did not trouble himself as yet, but looked around the room, thinking that, whether he lived or died, never would he see a stranger sight. Every eye in it was fixed upon the box in Godwin's hand; even Saladin stared as though it held his own destiny. No; not every one, for those of the old imaum were fixed upon the face of Rosamund, which was piteous to see, for all its beauty had left it, and even her parted lips were ashy. Masouda alone still stood upright and unmoved, as though she watched some play, but he noted that her rich-hued cheek grew pale and that beneath her robe her hand was pressed upon her heart. The silence also was intense, and broken only by the little grating noise of Godwin's nails as, having no knife to cut it, he patiently untied the silk. "Trouble enough about one man's life in a land where lives are cheap!" exclaimed Wulf, thinking aloud, and at the sound of his voice all men started, as though it had thundered suddenly in a summer sky. Then with a laugh he tore the silk about his box asunder with his strong fingers, and breaking the seal, shook out its contents. Lo! there on the floor before him, gleaming green and white with emerald and diamond, lay the enchanted Star of Hassan. Masouda saw, and the colour crept back to her cheek. Rosamund saw also, and nature was too strong for her, for in one bitter cry the truth broke from her lips at last: "Not Wulf! Not Wulf!" she wailed, and sank back senseless into Masouda's arms. "Now, sire," said the old imaum with a chuckle, "you know which of those two the lady loves. Being a woman, as usual she chooses badly, for the other has the finer spirit." "Yes, I know now," said Saladin, "and I am glad to know, for the matter has vexed me much." But Wulf, who had paled for a moment, flushed with joy as the truth came home to him, and he understood the end of all their doubts. "This Star is well named 'The Luck,'" he said, as bending down he took it from the floor and fastened it to his cloak above his heart, "nor do I hold it dearly earned." Then he turned to his brother, who stood by him white and still, saying: "Forgive me, Godwin, but such is the fortune of love and war. Grudge it not to me, for when I am sped tonight this Luck--and all that hangs to it--will be yours." So that strange scene ended. The afternoon drew towards evening, and Godwin stood before Saladin in his private chamber. "What seek you now?" said the Sultan sternly. "A boon," answered Godwin. "My brother is doomed to die before nightfall. I ask to die instead of him." "Why, Sir Godwin?" "For two reasons, sire. As you learned to-day, at length the riddle is answered. It is Wulf who is beloved of the lady Rosamund, and therefore to kill him would be a crime. Further, it is I and not he whom the eunuch heard bargaining with the captain Abdullah in the tent--I swear it. Take your vengeance upon me, and let him go to fulfil his fate." Saladin pulled at his beard, then answered: "If this is to be so, time is short, Sir Godwin. What farewells have you to make? You say that you would speak with my niece Rosamund? Nay, the princess you shall not see, and indeed cannot, for she lies swooning in her chamber. Do you desire to meet your brother for the last time?" "No, sire, for then he might learn the truth and--" "Refuse this sacrifice, Sir Godwin, which perchance will be scarcely to his liking." "I wish to say good-bye to Masouda, she who is waiting woman to the princess." "That you cannot do, for, know, I mistrust this Masouda, and believe that she was at the bottom of your plot. I have dismissed her from the person of the princess and from my camp, which she is to leave--if she has not already left--with some Arabs who are her kin. Had it not been for her services in the land of the Assassins and afterwards, I should have put her to death." "Then," said Godwin with a sigh, "I desire only to see Egbert the bishop, that he may shrive me according to our faith and make note of my last wishes." "Good; he shall be sent to you. I accept your statement that you are the guilty man and not Sir Wulf, and take your life for his. Leave me now, who have greater matters on my mind. The guard will seek you at the appointed time." Godwin bowed and walked away with a steady step while Saladin, looking after him, muttered: "The world could ill spare so brave and good a man." Two hours later guards summoned Godwin from the place where he was prisoned, and, accompanied by the old bishop who had shriven him, he passed its door with a happy countenance, such as a bridegroom might have worn. In a fashion, indeed, he was happy, whose troubles were done with, who had few sins to mourn, whose faith was the faith of a child, and who laid down his life for his friend and brother. They took him to a vault of the great house where Saladin was lodged--a large, rough place, lit with torches, in which waited the headsman and his assistants. Presently Saladin entered, and, looking at him curiously, said: "Are you still of the same mind, Sir Godwin?" "I am." "Good. Yet I have changed mine. You shall say farewell to your cousin, as you desired. Let the princess of Baalbec be brought hither, sick or well, that she may see her work. Let her come alone." "Sire," pleaded Godwin, "spare her such a sight." But he pleaded in vain, for Saladin answered only, "I have said." A while passed, and Godwin, hearing the sweep of robes, looked up, and saw the tall shape of a veiled woman standing in the corner of the vault where the shadow was so deep that the torchlight only glimmered faintly upon her royal ornaments. "They told me that you were sick, princess, sick with sorrow, as well you may be, because the man you love was about to die for you," said Saladin in a slow voice. "Now I have had pity on your grief, and his life has been bought with another life, that of the knight who stands yonder." The veiled form started wildly, then sank back against the wall. "Rosamund," broke in Godwin, speaking in French, "I beseech you, be silent and do not unman me with words or tears. It is best thus, and you know that it is best. Wulf you love as he loves you, and I believe that in time you will be brought together. Me you do not love, save as a friend, and never have. Moreover, I tell you this that it may ease your pain and my conscience; I no longer seek you as my wife, whose bride is death. I pray you, give to Wulf my love and blessing, and to Masouda, that truest and most sweet woman, say, or write, that I offer her the homage of my heart; that I thought of her in my last moments, and that my prayer is we may meet again where all crooked paths are straightened. Rosamund, farewell; peace and joy go with you through many years, ay, and with your children's children. Of Godwin I only ask you to remember this, that he lived serving you, and so died." She heard and stretched out her arms, and, none forbidding him, Godwin walked to where she stood. Without lifting her veil she bent forward and kissed him, first upon the brow and next upon the lips; then with a low, moaning cry, she turned and fled from that gloomy place, nor did Saladin seek to stay her. Only to himself the Sultan wondered how it came about that if it was Wulf whom Rosamund loved, she still kissed Godwin thus upon the lips. As he walked back to the death-place Godwin wondered also, first that Rosamund should have spoken no single word, and secondly because she had kissed him thus, even in that hour. Why or wherefore he did not know, but there rose in his mind a memory of that wild ride down the mountain steeps at Beirut, and of lips which then had touched his cheek, and of the odour of hair that then was blown about his breast. With a sigh he thrust the thought aside, blushing to think that such memories should come to him who had done with earth and its delights, knelt down before the headsman, and, turning to the bishop, said: "Bless me, father, and bid them strike." Then it was that he heard a well-known footstep, and looked up to see Wulf staring at him. "What do you here, Godwin?" asked Wulf. "Has yonder fox snared both of us?" and he nodded at Saladin. "Let the fox speak," said the Sultan with a smile. "Know, Sir Wulf, that your brother was about to die in your place, and of his own wish. But I refuse such sacrifice who yet have made use of it to teach my niece, the princess, that should she continue in her plottings to escape, or allow you to continue in them, certainly it will bring you to your deaths, and, if need be, her also. Knights, you are brave men whom I prefer to kill in war. Good horses stand without; take them as my gift, and ride with these foolish citizens of Jerusalem. We may meet again within its streets. Nay, thank me not. I thank you who have taught Salah-ed-din how perfect a thing can be the love of brothers." The brethren stood awhile bewildered, for it is a strange thing thus to come back from death to life. Each of them had made sure that he must die within some few minutes, and pass through the blackness which walls man in, to find he knew not what. And now, behold! the road that led to that blackness turned again at its very edge, and ran forward through the familiar things of earth to some end unknown. They were brave, both of them, and accustomed to face death daily, as in such a place and time all men must be; moreover, they had been shriven, and looked to see the gates of Paradise open on their newborn sight. Yet, since no man loves that journey, it was very sweet to know it done with for a while, and that they still might hope to dwell in this world for many years. Little wonder, then, that their brains swam, and their eyes grew dim, as they passed from the shadow to the light again. It was Wulf who spoke the first. "A noble deed, Godwin, yet one for which I should not have thanked you had it been accomplished, who then must have lived on by grace of your sacrifice. Sultan, we are grateful for your boon of life, though had you shed this innocent blood surely it would have stained your soul. May we bid farewell to our cousin Rosamund before we ride?" "Nay," answered Saladin; "Sir Godwin has done that already--let it serve for both. To-morrow she shall learn the truth of the story. Now go, and return no more." "That must be as fate wills," answered Godwin, and they bowed and went. Outside that gloomy place of death their swords were given them, and two good horses, which they mounted. Hence guides led them to the embassy from Jerusalem that was already in the saddle, who were very glad to welcome two such knights to their company. Then, having bid farewell to the bishop Egbert, who wept for joy at their escape, escorted for a while by Saladin's soldiers, they rode away from Ascalon at the fall of night. Soon they had told each other all there was to tell. When he heard of the woe of Rosamund Wulf well-nigh shed tears. "We have our lives," he said, "but how shall we save her? While Masouda stayed with her there was some hope, but now I can see none." "There is none, except in God," answered Godwin, "Who can do all things--even free Rosamund and make her your wife. Also, if Masouda is at liberty, we shall hear from her ere long; so let us keep a good heart." But though he spoke thus, the soul of Godwin was oppressed with a fear which he could not understand. It seemed as though some great terror came very close to him, or to one who was near and dear. Deeper and deeper he sank into that pit of dread of he knew not what, until at length he could have cried aloud, and his brow was bathed with a sweat of anguish. Wulf saw his face in the moonlight, and asked: "What ails you, Godwin? Have you some secret wound?" "Yes, brother," he answered, "a wound in my spirit. Ill fortune threatens us--great ill fortune." "That is no new thing," said Wulf, "in this land of blood and sorrows. Let us meet it as we have met the rest." "Alas! brother," exclaimed Godwin, "I fear that Rosamund is in sore danger--Rosamund or another." "Then," answered Wulf, turning pale, "since we cannot, let us pray that some angel may deliver her." "Ay," said Godwin, and as they rode through the desert sands beneath the silent stars, they prayed to the Blessed Mother, and to their saints, St. Peter and St. Chad--prayed with all their strength. Yet the prayer availed not. Sharper and sharper grew Godwin's agony, till, as the slow hours went by, his very soul reeled beneath this spiritual pain, and the death which he had escaped seemed a thing desirable. The dawn was breaking, and at its first sign the escort of Saladin's soldiers had turned and left them, saying that now they were safe in their own country. All night they had ridden fast and far. The plain was behind them, and their road ran among hills. Suddenly it turned, and in the flaming lights of the new-born day showed them a sight so beautiful that for a moment all that little company drew rein to gaze. For yonder before them, though far away as yet, throned upon her hills, stood the holy city of Jerusalem. There were her walls and towers, and there, stained red as though with the blood of its worshippers, soared the great cross upon the mosque of Omar--that cross which was so soon to fall. Yes, yonder was the city for which throughout the ages men had died by tens and hundreds of thousands, and still must die until the doom was done. Saladin had offered to spare her citizens if they consented to surrender, but they would not. This embassy had told him that they had sworn to perish with the holy Places, and now, looking at it in its splendour, they knew that the hour was near, and groaned aloud. Godwin groaned also, but not for Jerusalem. Oh! now the last terror was upon him. Blackness surged round him, and in the blackness swords, and a sound as of a woman's voice murmuring his name. Clutching the pommel of his saddle, he swayed to and fro, till suddenly the anguish passed. A strange wind seemed to blow about him and lift his hair; a deep, unearthly peace sank into his spirit; the world seemed far away and heaven very near. "It is over," he said to Wulf. "I fear that Rosamund is dead." "If so, we must make haste to follow her," answered Wulf with a sob. Chapter Twenty-One: What Befell Godwin At the village of Bittir, some seven miles from Jerusalem, the embassy dismounted to rest, then again they pressed forward down the valley in the hope of reaching the Zion Gate before the mid-day heat was upon them. At the end of this valley swelled the shoulder of a hill whence the eye could command its length, and on the crest of that shoulder appeared suddenly a man and a woman, seated on beautiful horses. The company halted, fearing lest these might herald some attack and that the woman was a man disguised to deceive them. While they waited thus irresolute, the pair upon the hill turned their horses' heads, and notwithstanding its steepness, began to gallop towards them very swiftly. Wulf looked at them curiously and said to Godwin: "Now I am put in mind of a certain ride which once we took outside the walls of Beirut. Almost could I think that yonder Arab was he who sat behind my saddle, and yonder woman she who rode with you, and that those two horses were Flame and Smoke reborn. Note their whirlwind pace, and strength, and stride." Almost as he finished speaking the strangers pulled up their steeds in front of the company, to whom the man bowed his salutations. Then Godwin saw his face, and knew him at once as the old Arab called Son of the Sand, who had given them the horses Flame and Smoke. "Sir," said the Arab to the leader of the embassy, "I have come to ask a favour of yonder knights who travel with you, which I think that they, who have ridden my horses, will not refuse me. This woman," and he pointed to the closely-veiled shape of his companion, "is a relative of mine whom I desire to deliver to friends in Jerusalem, but dare not do so myself because the hilldwellers between here and there are hostile to my tribe. She is of the Christian faith and no spy, but cannot speak your language. Within the south gate she will be met by her relatives. I have spoken." "Let the knights settle it," said the commander, shrugging his shoulders impatiently and spurring his horse. "Surely we will take her," said Godwin, "though what we shall do with her if her friends are wanting I do not know. Come, lady, ride between us." She turned her head to the Arab as though in question, and he repeated the words, whereon she fell into the place that was shown to her between and a little behind the brethren. "Perhaps," went on the Arab to Godwin, "by now you have learned more of our tongue than you knew when we met in past days at Beirut, and rode the mountain side on the good horses Flame and Smoke. Still, if so, I pray you of your knightly courtesy disturb not this woman with your words, nor ask her to unveil her face, since such is not the custom of her people. It is but an hour's journey to the city gate during which you will be troubled with her. This is the payment that I ask of you for the two good horses which, as I am told, bore you none so ill upon the Narrow Way and across plain and mountain when you fled from Sinan, also on the evil day of Hattin when you unhorsed Salah-ed-din and slew Hassan." "It shall be as you wish," said Godwin; "and, Son of the Sand, we thank you for those horses." "Good. When you want more, let it be known in the market places that you seek me," and he began to turn his horse's head. "Stay," said Godwin. "What do you know of Masouda, your niece? Is she with you?" "Nay," answered the Arab in a low voice, "but she bade me be in a certain garden of which you have heard, near Ascalon, at an appointed hour, to take her away, as she is leaving the camp of Salah-ed-din. So thither I go. Farewell." Then with a reverence to the veiled lady, he shook his reins and departed like an arrow by the road along which they had come. Godwin gave a sigh of relief. If Masouda had appointed to meet her uncle the Arab, at least she must be safe. So it was no voice of hers which seemed to whisper his name in the darkness of the night when terror had ahold of him--terror, born perhaps of all that he had endured and the shadow of death through which he had so lately passed. Then he looked up, to find Wulf staring back at the woman behind him, and reproved him, saying that he must keep to the spirit of the bargain as well as to the letter, and that if he might not speak he must not look either. "That is a pity," answered Wulf, "for though she is so tied up, she must be a tall and noble lady by the way she sits her horse. The horse, too, is noble, own cousin or brother to Smoke, I think. Perhaps she will sell it when we get to Jerusalem." Then they rode on, and because they thought their honour in it, neither spoke nor looked more at the companion of this adventure, though, had they known it, she looked hard enough at them. At length they reached the gate of Jerusalem, which was crowded with folk awaiting the return of their ambassadors. They all passed through, and the embassy was escorted thence by the chief people, most of the multitude following them to know if they brought peace or war. Now Godwin and Wulf stared at each other, wondering whither they were to go and where to find the relatives of their veiled companion, of whom they saw nothing. Out of the street opened an archway, and beyond this archway was a garden, which seemed to be deserted. They rode into it to take counsel, and their companion followed, but, as always, a little behind them. "Jerusalem is reached, and we must speak to her now," said Wulf, "if only to ask her whither she wishes to be taken." Godwin nodded, and they wheeled their horses round. "Lady," he said in Arabic, "we have fulfilled our charge. Be pleased to tell us where are those kindred to whom we must lead you." "Here," answered a soft voice. They stared about the deserted garden in which stones and sacks of earth had been stored ready for a siege, and finding no one, said: "We do not see them." Then the lady let slip her cloak, though not her veil revealing the robe beneath. "By St. Peter!" said Godwin. "I know the broidery on that dress. Masouda! Say, is it you, Masouda?" As he spoke the veil fell also, and lo! before them was a woman like to Masouda and yet not Masouda. The hair was dressed like hers; the ornaments and the necklace made of the claws of the lion which Godwin killed were hers; the skin was of the same rich hue; there even was the tiny mole upon her cheek, but as the head was bent they could not see her eyes. Suddenly, with a little moan she lifted it, and looked at them. "Rosamund! It is Rosamund herself!" gasped Wulf. "Rosamund disguised as Masouda!" And he fell rather than leapt from his saddle and ran to her, murmuring, "God! I thank Thee!" Now she seemed to faint and slid from her horse into his arms, and lay there a moment, while Godwin turned aside his head. "Yes," said Rosamund, freeing herself, "it is I and no other, yet I rode with you all this way and neither of you knew me." "Have we eyes that can pierce veils and woollen garments?" asked Wulf indignantly; but Godwin said in a strange, strained voice: "You are Rosamund disguised as Masouda. Who, then, was that woman to whom I bade farewell before Saladin while the headsman awaited me; a veiled woman who wore the robes and gems of Rosamund?" "I know not, Godwin," she answered, "unless it were Masouda clad in my garments as I left her. Nor do I know anything of this story of the headsman who awaited you. I thought--I thought it was for Wulf that he waited--oh! Heaven, I thought that." "Tell us your tale," said Godwin hoarsely. "It is short," she answered. "After the casting of the lot, of which I shall dream till my death-day, I fainted. When I found my senses again I thought that I must be mad, for there before me stood a woman dressed in my garments, whose face seemed like my face, yet not the same. "'Have no fear,' she said; 'I am Masouda, who, amongst many other things, have learned how to play a part. Listen; there is no time to lose. I have been ordered to leave the camp; even now my uncle the Arab waits without, with two swift horses. You, Princess, will leave in my place. Look, you wear my robes and my face--almost; and are of my height, and the man who guides you will know no difference. I have seen to that, for although a soldier of Salah-ed-din, he is of my tribe. I will go with you to the door, and there bid you farewell before the eunuchs and the guards with weeping, and who will guess that Masouda is the princess of Baalbec and that the princess of Baalbec is Masouda?' "'And whither shall I go?' I asked. "'My uncle, Son of the Sand, will give you over to the embassy which rides to Jerusalem, or failing that, will take you to the city, or failing that, will hide you in the mountains among his own people. See, here is a letter that he must read; I place it in your breast.' "'And what of you, Masouda?' I asked again. "'Of me? Oh! it is all planned, a plan that cannot fail,' she answered. 'Fear not; I escape to-night--I have no time to tell you how--and will join you in a day or two. Also, I think that you will find Sir Godwin, who will bring you home to England.' "'But Wulf? What of Wulf?' I asked again. 'He is doomed to die, and I will not leave him.' "'The living and the dead can keep no company,' she answered. 'Moreover, I have seen him, and all this is done by his most urgent order. If you love him, he bids that you will obey.'" "I never saw Masouda! I never spoke such words! I knew nothing of this plot!" exclaimed Wulf, and the brethren looked at each other with white faces. "Speak on," said Godwin; "afterwards we can debate." "Moreover," continued Rosamund, bowing her head, "Masouda added these words, 'I think that Sir Wulf will escape his doom. If you would see him again, obey his word, for unless you obey you can never hope to look upon him living. Go, now, before we are both discovered, which would mean your death and mine, who, if you go, am safe.'" "How knew she that I should escape?" asked Wulf. "She did not know it. She only said she knew to force Rosamund away," answered Godwin in the same strained voice. "And then?" "And then--oh! having Wulf's express commands, then I went, like one in a dream. I remember little of it. At the door we kissed and parted weeping, and while the guard bowed before her, she blessed me beneath her breath. A soldier stepped forward and said, 'Follow me, daughter of Sinan,' and I followed him, none taking any note, for at that hour, although perhaps you did not see it in your prisons, a strange shadow passed across the sun, of which all folk were afraid, thinking that it portended evil, either to Saladin or Ascalon.* [* The eclipse, which overshadowed Palestine and caused much terror at Jerusalem on 4th September, 1187, the day of the surrender of Ascalon. -Author] "In the gloom we came to a place, where was an old Arab among some trees, and with him two led horses. The soldier spoke to the Arab, and I gave him Masouda's letter, which he read. Then he put me on one of the led horses and the soldier mounted the other, and we departed at a gallop. All that evening and last night we rode hard, but in the darkness the soldier left us, and I do not know whither he went. At length we came to that mountain shoulder and waited there, resting the horses and eating food which the Arab had with him, till we saw the embassy, and among them two tall knights. "'See,' said the old Arab, 'yonder come the brethren whom you seek. See and give thanks to Allah and to Masouda, who has not lied to you, and to whom I must now return.' "Oh! my heart wept as though it would burst, and I wept in my joy--wept and blessed God and Masouda. But the Arab, Son of the Sand, told me that for my life's sake I must be silent and keep myself close veiled and disguised even from you until we reached Jerusalem, lest perhaps if they knew me the embassy might refuse escort to the princess of Baalbec and niece of Saladin, or even give me up to him. "Then I promised and asked, 'What of Masouda?' He said that he rode back at speed to save her also, as had been arranged, and that was why he did not take me to Jerusalem himself. But how that was to be done he was not sure as yet; only he was sure that she was hidden away safely, and would find a way of escape when she wished it. And--and--you know the rest, and here, by the grace of God, we three are together again." "Ay," said Godwin, "but where is Masouda, and what will happen to her who has dared to venture such a plot as this? Oh! know you what this woman did? I was condemned to die in place of Wulf--how, does not matter; you will learn it afterwards--and the princess of Baalbec was brought to say me farewell. There, under the very eyes of Saladin, Masouda played her part and mimicked you so well that the Sultan was deceived, and I, even I, was deceived. Yes, when for the first and last time I embraced her, I was deceived, although, it is true, I wondered. Also since then a great fear has been with me, although here again I was deceived, for I thought I feared--for you. "Now, hark you, Wulf; take Rosamund and lodge her with some lady in this city, or, better still, place her in sanctuary with the nuns of the Holy Cross, whence none will dare to drag her, and let her don their habit. The abbess may remember you, for we have met her, and at least she will not refuse Rosamund a refuge." "Yes, yes; I mind me she asked us news of folk in England. But you? Where do you go, Godwin?" said his brother. "I? I ride back to Ascalon to find Masouda." "Why?" asked Wulf. "Cannot Masouda save herself, as she told her uncle, the Arab, she would do? And has he not returned thither to take her away?" "I do not know," answered Godwin; "but this I do know, that for the sake of Rosamund, and perhaps for my sake also, Masouda has run a fearful risk. Bethink you, what will be the mood of Saladin when at length he finds that she upon whom he had built such hopes has gone, leaving a waiting woman decked out in her attire." "Oh!" broke in Rosamund. "I feared it, but I awoke to find myself disguised, and she persuaded me that all was well; also that this was done by the will of Wulf, whom she thought would escape." "That is the worst of if," said Godwin. "To carry out her plan she held it necessary to lie, as I think she lied when she said that she believed we should both escape, though it is true that so it came about. I will tell you why she lied. It was that she might give her life to set you free to join me in Jerusalem." Now Rosamund, who knew the secret of Masouda's heart, looked at him strangely, wondering within herself how it came about that, thinking Wulf dead or about to die, she should sacrifice herself that she, Rosamund, might be sent to the care of Godwin. Surely it could not be for love of her, although they loved each other well. From love of Godwin then? How strange a way to show it! Yet now she began to understand. So true and high was this great love of Masouda's that for Godwin's sake she was ready to hide herself in death, leaving him--now that, as she thought, his rival was removed--to live on with the lady whom he loved; ay, and at the price of her own life giving that lady to his arms. Oh! how noble must she be who could thus plan and act, and, whatever her past had been, how pure and high of soul! Surely, if she lived, earth had no grander woman; and if she were dead, heaven had won a saint indeed. Rosamund looked at Godwin, and Godwin looked at Rosamund, and there was understanding in their eyes, for now both of them saw the truth in all its glory and all its horror. "I think that I should go back also," said Rosamund. "That shall not be," answered Wulf. "Saladin would kill you for this flight, as he has sworn." "That cannot be," added Godwin. "Shall the sacrifice of blood be offered in vain? Moreover it is our duty to prevent you." Rosamund looked at him again and stammered: "If--if--that dreadful thing has happened, Godwin--if the sacrifice--oh! what will it serve?" "Rosamund, I know not what has chanced; I go to see. I care not what may chance; I go to meet it. Through life, through death, and if there be need, through all the fires of hell, I ride on till I find Masouda, and kneel to her in homage--" "And in love," exclaimed Rosamund, as though the words broke from her lips against her will. "Mayhap," Godwin answered, speaking more to himself than to her. Then seeing the look upon his face, the set mouth and the flashing eyes, neither of them sought to stay him further. "Farewell, my liege-lady and cousin Rosamund," Godwin said; "my part is played. Now I leave you in the keeping of God in heaven and of Wulf on earth. Should we meet no more, my counsel is that you two wed here in Jerusalem and travel back to Steeple, there to live in peace, if it may be so. Brother Wulf, fare you well also. We part to-day for the first time, who from our birth have lived together and loved together and done many a deed together, some of which we can look back upon without shame. Go on your course rejoicing, taking the love and gladness that Heaven has given you and living a good and Christian knight, mindful of the end which draws on apace, and of eternity beyond." "Oh! Godwin, speak not thus," said Wulf, "for in truth it breaks my heart to hear such fateful words. Moreover, we do not part thus easily. Our lady here will be safe enough among the nuns--more safe than I can keep her. Give me an hour, and I will set her there and join you. Both of us owe a debt to Masouda, and it is not right that it should be paid by you alone." "Nay," answered Godwin; "look upon Rosamund, and think what is about to befall this city. Can you leave her at such a time?" Then Wulf dropped his head, and trusting himself to speak no more words, Godwin mounted his horse, and, without so much as looking back, rode into the narrow street and out through the gateway, till presently he was lost in the distance and the desert. Wulf and Rosamund watched him go in silence, for they were choked with tears. "Little did I look to part with my brother thus," said Wulf at length in a thick and angry voice. "By God's Wounds! I had more gladly died at his side in battle than leave him to meet his doom alone." "And leave me to meet my doom alone," murmured Rosamund; then added, "Oh! I would that I were dead who have lived to bring all this woe upon you both, and upon that great heart, Masouda. I say, Wulf, I would that I were dead." "Like enough the wish will be fulfilled before all is done," answered Wulf wearily, "only then I pray that I may be dead with you, for now, Rosamund, Godwin has gone, forever as I fear, and you alone are left to me. Come; let us cease complaining, since to dwell upon these griefs cannot help us, and be thankful that for a while, at least, we are free. Follow me, Rosamund, and we will ride to this nunnery to find you shelter, if we may." So they rode on through the narrow streets that were crowded with scared people, for now the news was spread that the embassy had rejected the terms of Saladin. He had offered to give the city food and to suffer its inhabitants to fortify the walls, and to hold them till the following Whitsuntide if, should no help reach them, they would swear to surrender then. But they had answered that while they had life they would never abandon the place where their God had died. So now war was before them--war to the end; and who were they that must bear its brunt? Their leaders were slain or captive, their king a prisoner, their soldiers skeletons on the field of Hattin. Only the women and children, the sick, the old, and the wounded remained--perhaps eighty thousand souls in all--but few of whom could bear arms. Yet these few must defend Jerusalem against the might of the victorious Saracen. Little wonder that they wailed in the streets till the cry of their despair went up to heaven, for in their hearts all of them knew that the holy place was doomed and their lives were forfeited. Pushing their path through this sad multitude, who took little note of them, at length they came to the nunnery on the sacred Via Dolorosa, which Wulf had seen when Godwin and he were in Jerusalem after they had been dismissed by Saladin from Damascus. Its door stood in the shadow of that arch where the Roman Pilate had uttered to all generations the words "Behold the man!" Here the porter told him that the nuns were at prayer in their chapel. Wulf replied that he must see the lady abbess upon a matter which would not delay, and they were shown into a cool and lofty room. Presently the door opened, and through it came the abbess in her white robes--a tall and stately Englishwoman, of middle age, who looked at them curiously. "Lady Abbess," said Wulf, bowing low, "my name is Wulf D'Arcy. Do you remember me?" "Yes. We met in Jerusalem--before the battle of Hattin," she answered. "Also I know something of your story in this land--a very strange one." "This lady," went on Wulf, "is the daughter and heiress of Sir Andrew D'Arcy, my dead uncle, and in Syria the princess of Baalbec and the niece of Saladin." The abbess started, and asked: "Is she, then, of their accursed faith, as her garb would seem to show?" "Nay, mother," said Rosamund, "I am a Christian, if a sinful one, and I come here to seek sanctuary, lest when they know who I am and he clamours at their gates, my fellow Christians may surrender me to my uncle, the Sultan." "Tell me the story," said the abbess; and they told her briefly, while she listened, amazed. When they had finished, she said: "Alas! my daughter, how can we save you, whose own lives are at stake? That belongs to God alone. Still, what we can we will do gladly, and here, at least, you may rest for some short while. At the most holy altar of our chapel you shall be given sanctuary, after which no Christian man dare lay a hand upon you, since to do so is a sacrilege that would cost him his soul. Moreover, I counsel that you be enrolled upon our books as a novice, and don our garb. Nay," she added with a smile, noting the look of alarm on the face of Wulf, "the lady Rosamund need not wear it always, unless such should be her wish. Not every novice proceeds to the final vows." "Long have I been decked in gold-embroidered silks and priceless gems," answered Rosamund, "and now I seem to desire that white robe of yours more than anything on earth." So they led Rosamund to the chapel, and in sight of all their order and of priests who had been summoned, at the altar there, upon that holy spot where they said that once Christ had answered Pilate, they placed her hand and gave her sanctuary, and threw over her tired head the white veil of a novice. There, too, Wulf left her, and riding away, reported himself to Balian of Ibelin, the elected commander of the city, who was glad enough to welcome so stout a knight where knights were few. Oh! weary, weary was that ride of Godwin's beneath the sun, beneath the stars. Behind him, the brother who had been his companion and closest friend, and the woman whom he had loved in vain; and in front, he knew not what. What went he forth to seek? Another woman, who had risked her life for them all because she loved him. And if he found her, what then? Must he wed her, and did he wish this? Nay, he desired no woman on the earth; yet what was right that he would do. And if he found her not, what then? Well, at least he would give himself up to Saladin, who must think ill of them by whom he had dealt well, and tell him that of this plot they had no knowledge. Indeed, to him he would go first, if it were but to beg forgiveness for Masouda should she still be in his hands. Then--for he could not hope to be believed or pardoned a second time--then let death come, and he would welcome it, who greatly longed for peace. It was evening, and Godwin's tired horse stumbled slowly through the great camp of the Saracens without the walls of fallen Ascalon. None hindered him, for having been so long a prisoner he was known by many, while others thought that he was but one of the surrendered Christian knights. So he came to the great house where Saladin lodged, and bade the guard take his name to the Sultan, saying that he craved audience of him. Presently he was admitted, and found Saladin seated in council among his ministers. "Sir Godwin," he said sternly, "seeing how you have dealt by me, what brings you back into my camp? I gave you brethren your lives, and you have robbed me of one whom I would not lose." "We did not rob you, sire," answered Godwin, "who knew nothing of this plot. Nevertheless, as I was sure that you would think thus, I am come from Jerusalem, leaving the princess and my brother there, to tell the truth and to surrender myself to you, that I may bear in her place any punishment which you think fit to inflict upon the woman Masouda." "Why should you bear it?" asked Saladin. "Because, Sultan," answered Godwin sadly, and with bent head, "whatever she did, she did for love of me, though without my knowledge. Tell me, is she still here, or has she fled?" "She is still here," answered Saladin shortly. "Would you wish to see her?" Godwin breathed a sigh of relief. At least, Masouda still lived, and the terror that had struck him in the night was but an evil dream born of his own fears and sufferings. "I do," he answered, "once, if no more. I have words to say to her." "Doubtless she will be glad to learn how her plot prospered," said Saladin, with a grim smile. "In truth it was well laid and boldly executed." Calling to one of his council, that same old imaum who had planned the casting of the lots, the Sultan spoke with him aside. Then he said: "Let this knight be led to the woman Masouda. Tomorrow we will judge him." Taking a silver lamp from the wall, the imaum beckoned to Godwin, who bowed to the Sultan and followed. As he passed wearily through the throng in the audience room, it seemed to Godwin that the emirs and captains gathered there looked at him with pity in their eyes. So strong was this feeling in him that he halted in his walk, and asked: "Tell me, lord, do I go to my death?" "All of us go thither," answered Saladin in the silence, "but Allah has not written that death is yours to-night." They passed down long passages; they came to a door which the imaum, who hobbled in front, unlocked. "She is under ward then?" said Godwin. "Ay," was the answer, "under ward. Enter," and he handed him the lamp. "I remain without." "Perchance she sleeps, and I shall disturb her," said Godwin, as he hesitated upon the threshold. "Did you not say she loved you? Then doubtless, even if she sleeps, she, who has dwelt at Masyaf will not take your visit ill, who have ridden so far to find her," said the imaum with a sneering laugh. "Enter, I say." So Godwin took the lamp and went in, and the door was shut behind him. Surely the place was familiar to him? He knew that arched roof and these rough, stone walls. Why, it was here that he had been brought to die, and through that very door the false Rosamund had come to bid him farewell, who now returned to greet her in this same darksome den. Well, it was empty--doubtless she would soon come, and he waited, looking at the door. It did not stir; he heard no footsteps; nothing broke that utter silence. He turned again and stared about him. Something glinted on the ground yonder, towards the end of the vault, just where he had knelt before the executioner. A shape lay there; doubtless it was Masouda, imprisoned and asleep. "Masouda," he said, and the sounding echoes from the arched walls answered back, "Masouda!" He must awaken her; there was no choice. Yes, it was she, asleep, and she still wore the royal robes of Rosamund, and a clasp of Rosamund's still glittered on her breast. How sound Masouda slept! Would she never wake? He knelt down beside her and put out his hand to lift the long hair that hid her face. Now it touched her, and lo! the head fell over. Then, with horror in his heart, Godwin held down the lamp and looked. Oh! those robes were red, and those lips were ashen. It was Masouda, whose spirit had passed him in the desert; Masouda, slain by the headsman's sword! This was the evil jest that had been played upon him, and thus--thus they met again. Godwin rose to his feet and stood over her still shape as a man stands in a dream, while words broke from his lips and a fountain in his heart was unsealed. "Masouda," he whispered, "I know now that I love you and you only, henceforth and forever, O woman with a royal heart. Wait for me, Masouda, wherever you may dwell." While the whispered words left his lips, it seemed to Godwin that once more, as when he rode with Wulf from Ascalon, the strange wind blew about his brow, bringing with it the presence of Masouda, and that once more the unearthly peace sank into his soul. Then all was past and over, and he turned to see the old imaum standing at his side. "Did I not tell you that you would find her sleeping?" he said, with his bitter, chuckling laugh. "Call on her, Sir Knight; call on her! Love, they say, can bridge great gulfs--even that between severed neck and bosom." With the silver lamp in his hand Godwin smote, and the man went down like a felled ox, leaving him once more in silence and in darkness. For a moment Godwin stood thus, till his brain was filled with fire, and he too fell--fell across the corpse of Masouda, and there lay still. Chapter Twenty-two: At Jerusalem Godwin knew that he lay sick, but save that Masouda seemed to tend him in his sickness he knew no more, for all the past had gone from him. There she was always, clad in a white robe, and looking at him with eyes full of ineffable calm and love, and he noted that round her neck ran a thin, red line, and wondered how it came there. He knew also that he travelled while he was ill, for at dawn he would hear the camp break up with a mighty noise, and feel his litter lifted by slaves who bore him along for hours across the burning sand, till at length the evening came, and with a humming sound, like the sound of hiving bees, the great army set its bivouac. Then came the night and the pale moon floating like a boat upon the azure sea above, and everywhere the bright, eternal stars, to which went up the constant cry of "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is the greatest, there is none but He." "It is a false god," he would say. "Tell them to cry upon the Saviour of the World." Then the voice of Masouda would seem to answer: "Judge not. No god whom men worship with a pure and single heart is wholly false. Many be the ladders that lead to heaven. Judge not, you Christian knight." At length that journey was done, and there arose new noises as of the roar of battle. Orders were given and men marched out in thousands; then rose that roar, and they marched back again, mourning their dead. At last came a day when, opening his eyes, Godwin turned to rest them on Masouda, and lo! she was gone, and in her accustomed place there sat a man whom he knew well--Egbert, once bishop of Nazareth, who gave him to drink of sherbet cooled with snow. Yes, the Woman had departed and the Priest was there. "Where am I?" he asked. "Outside the walls of Jerusalem, my son, a prisoner in the camp of Saladin," was the answer. "And where is Masouda, who has sat by me all these days?" "In heaven, as I trust," came the gentle answer, "for she was a brave lady. It is I who have sat by you." "Nay," said Godwin obstinately, "it was Masouda." "If so," answered the bishop again, "it was her spirit, for I shrove her and have prayed over her open grave--her spirit, which came to visit you from heaven, and has gone back to heaven now that you are of the earth again." Then Godwin remembered the truth, and groaning, fell asleep. Afterwards, as he grew stronger, Egbert told him all the story. He learned that when he was found lying senseless on the body of Masouda the emirs wished Saladin to kill him, if for no other reason because he had dashed out the eye of the holy imaum with a lamp. But the Sultan, who had discovered the truth, would not, for he said that it was unworthy of the imaum to have mocked his grief, and that Sir Godwin had dealt with him as he deserved. Also, that this Frank was one of the bravest of knights, who had returned to bear the punishment of a sin which he did not commit, and that, although he was a Christian, he loved him as a friend. So the imaum lost both his eye and his vengeance. Thus it had come about that the bishop Egbert was ordered to nurse him, and, if possible to save his life; and when at last they marched upon Jerusalem, soldiers were told off to bear his litter, and a good tent was set apart to cover him. Now the siege of the holy city had begun, and there was much slaughter on both sides. "Will it fall?" asked Godwin. "I fear so, unless the saints help them," answered Egbert. "Alas! I fear so." "Will not Saladin be merciful?" he asked again. "Why should he be merciful, my son, since they have refused his terms and defied him? Nay, he has sworn that as Godfrey took the place nigh upon a hundred years ago and slaughtered the Mussulmen who dwelt there by thousands, men, women, and children together, so will he do to the Christians. Oh! why should he spare them? They must die! They must die!" and wringing his hands Egbert left the tent. Godwin lay still, wondering what the answer to this riddle might be. He could think of one, and one only. In Jerusalem was Rosamund, the Sultan's niece, whom he must desire to recapture, above all things, not only because she was of his blood, but since he feared that if he did not do so his vision concerning her would come to nothing. Now what was this vision? That through Rosamund much slaughter should be spared. Well, if Jerusalem were saved, would not tens of thousands of Moslem and Christian lives be saved also? Oh! surely here was the answer, and some angel had put it into his heart, and now he prayed for strength to plant it in the heart of Saladin, for strength and opportunity. This very day Godwin found the opportunity. As he lay dozing in his tent that evening, being still too weak to rise, a shadow fell upon him, and opening his eyes he saw the Sultan himself standing alone by his bedside. Now he strove to rise to salute him, but in a kind voice Saladin bade him lie still, and seating himself, began to talk. "Sir Godwin," he said, "I am come to ask your pardon. When I sent you to visit that dead woman, who had suffered justly for her crime, I did an act unworthy of a king. But my heart was bitter against her and you, and the imaum, he whom you smote, put into my mind the trick that cost him his eye and almost cost a worn-out and sorrowful man his life. I have spoken." "I thank you, sire, who were always noble," answered Godwin. "You say so. Yet I have done things to you and yours that you can scarcely hold as noble," said Saladin. "I stole your cousin from her home, as her mother had been stolen from mine, paying back ill with ill, which is against the law, and in his own hall my servants slew her father and your uncle, who was once my friend. Well, these things I did because a fate drove me on--the fate of a dream, the fate of a dream. Say, Sir Godwin, is that story which they tell in the camps true, that a vision came to you before the battle of Hattin, and that you warned the leaders of the Franks not to advance against me?" "Yes, it is true," answered Godwin, and he told the vision, and of how he had sworn to it on the Rood. "And what did they say to you?" "They laughed at me, and hinted that I was a sorcerer, or a traitor in your pay, or both." "Blind fools, who would not hear the truth when it was sent to them by the pure mouth of a prophet," muttered Saladin. "Well, they paid the price, and I and my faith are the gainers. Do you wonder, then, Sir Godwin, that I also believe my vision which came to me thrice in the night season, bringing with it the picture of the very face of my niece, the princess of Baalbec?" "I do not wonder," answered Godwin. "Do you wonder also that I was mad with rage when I learned that at last yonder brave dead woman had outwitted me and all my spies and guards, and this after I had spared your lives? Do you wonder that I am still so wroth, believing as I do that a great occasion has been taken from me?" "I do not wonder. But, Sultan, I who have seen a vision speak to you who also have seen a vision--a prophet to a prophet. And I tell you that the occasion has not been taken--it has been brought, yes, to your very door, and that all these things have happened that it might thus be brought." "Say on," said Saladin, gazing at him earnestly. "See now, Salah-ed-din, the princess Rosamund is in Jerusalem. She has been led to Jerusalem that you may spare it for her sake, and thus make an end of bloodshed and save the lives of folk uncounted." "Never!" said the Sultan, springing up. "They have rejected my mercy, and I have sworn to sweep them away, man, woman, and child, and be avenged upon all their unclean and faithless race." "Is Rosamund unclean that you would be avenged upon her? Will her dead body bring you peace? If Jerusalem is put to the sword, she must perish also." "I will give orders that she is to be saved--that she may be judged for her crime by me," he added grimly. "How can she be saved when the stormers are drunk with slaughter, and she but one disguised woman among ten thousand others?" "Then," he answered, stamping his foot, "she shall be brought or dragged out of Jerusalem before the slaughter begins." "That, I think, will not happen while Wulf is there to protect her," said Godwin quietly. "Yet I say that it must be so--it shall be so." Then, without more words, Saladin left the tent with a troubled brow. Within Jerusalem all was misery, all was despair. There were crowded thousands and tens of thousands of fugitives, women and children, many of them, whose husbands and fathers had been slain at Hattin or elsewhere. The fighting men who were left had few commanders, and thus it came about that soon Wulf found himself the captain of very many of them. First Saladin attacked from the west between the gates of Sts. Stephen and of David, but here stood strong fortresses called the Castle of the Pisans and the Tower of Tancred, whence the defenders made sallies upon him, driving back his stormers. So he determined to change his ground, and moved his army to the east, camping it near the valley of the Kedron. When they saw the tents being struck the Christians thought that he was abandoning the siege, and gave thanks to God in all their churches; but lo! next morning the white array of these appeared again on the east, and they knew that their doom was sealed. There were in the city many who desired to surrender to the Sultan, and fierce grew the debates between them and those who swore that they would rather die. At length it was agreed that an embassy should be sent. So it came under safe conduct, and was received by Saladin in presence of his emirs and counsellors. He asked them what was their wish, and they replied that they had come to discuss terms. Then he answered thus: "In Jerusalem is a certain lady, my niece, known among us as the princess of Baalbec, and among the Christians as Rosamund D'Arcy, who escaped thither a while ago in the company of the knight, Sir Wulf D'Arcy, whom I have seen fighting bravely among your warriors. Let her be surrendered to me that I may deal with her as she deserves, and we will talk again. Till then I have no more to say." Now most of the embassy knew nothing of this lady, but one or two said they thought that they had heard of her, but had no knowledge of where she was hidden. "Then return and search her out," said Saladin, and so dismissed them. Back came the envoys to the council and told what Saladin had said. "At least," exclaimed Heraclius the Patriarch, "in this matter it is easy to satisfy the Sultan. Let his niece be found and delivered to him. Where is she?" Now one declared that was known by the knight, Sir Wulf D'Arcy, with whom she had entered the city. So he was sent for, and came with armour rent and red sword in hand, for he had just beaten back an attack upon the barbican, and asked what was their pleasure. "We desire to know, Sir Wulf," said the patriarch, "where you have hidden away the lady known as the princess of Baalbec, whom you stole from the Sultan?" "What is that to your Holiness?" asked Wulf shortly. "A great deal, to me and to all, seeing that Saladin will not even treat with us until she is delivered to him." "Does this council, then, propose to hand over a Christian lady to the Saracens against her will?" asked Wulf sternly. "We must," answered Heraclius. "Moreover, she belongs to them." "She does not belong," answered Wulf. "She was kidnapped by Saladin in England, and ever since has striven to escape from him." "Waste not our time," exclaimed the patriarch impatiently. "We understand that you are this woman's lover, but however that may be, Saladin demands her, and to Saladin she must go. So tell us where she is without more ado, Sir Wulf." "Discover that for yourself, Sir Patriarch," replied Wulf in fury. "Or, if you cannot, send one of your own women in her place." Now there was a murmur in the council, but of wonder at his boldness rather than of indignation, for this patriarch was a very evil liver. "I care not if I speak the truth," went on Wulf, "for it is known to all. Moreover, I tell this man that it is well for him that he is a priest, however shameful, for otherwise I would cleave his head in two who has dared to call the lady Rosamund my lover." Then, still shaking with wrath, the great knight turned and stalked from the council chamber. "A dangerous man," said Heraclius, who was white to the lips; "a very dangerous man. I propose that he should be imprisoned." "Ay," answered the lord Balian of Ibelin, who was in supreme command of the city, "a very dangerous man--to his foes, as I can testify. I saw him and his brother charge through the hosts of the Saracens at the battle of Hattin, and I have seen him in the breach upon the wall. Would that we had more such dangerous men just now!" "But he has insulted me," shouted the patriarch, "me and my holy office." "The truth should be no insult," answered Balian with meaning. "At least, it is a private matter between you and him on account of which we cannot spare one of our few captains. Now as regards this lady, I like not the business--" As he spoke a messenger entered the room and said that the hiding-place of Rosamund had been discovered. She had been admitted a novice into the community of the Virgins of the Holy Cross, who had their house by the arch on the Via Dolorosa. "Now I like it still less," Balian went on, "for to touch her would be sacrilege." "His Holiness, Heraclius, will give us absolution," said a mocking voice. Then another leader rose--he was one of the party who desired peace--and pointed out that this was no time to stand on scruples, for the Sultan would not listen to them in their sore plight unless the lady were delivered to him to be judged for her offence. Perhaps, being his own niece, she would, in fact, suffer no harm at his hands, and whether this were so or not, it was better that one should endure wrong, or even death, than many. With such words he over-persuaded the most of them, so that in the end they rose and went to the convent of the Holy Cross, where the patriarch demanded admission for them, which, indeed, could not be refused. The stately abbess received them in the refectory, and asked their pleasure. "Daughter," said the patriarch, "you have in your keeping a lady named Rosamund D'Arcy, with whom we desire to speak. Where is she?" "The novice Rosamund," answered the abbess, "prays by the holy altar in the chapel." Now one murmured, "She has taken sanctuary," but the patriarch said: "Tell us, daughter, does she pray alone?" "A knight guards her prayers," was the answer. "Ah! as I thought, he has been beforehand with us. Also, daughter, surely your discipline is somewhat lax if you suffer knights thus to invade your chapel. But lead us thither." "The dangers of the times and of the lady must answer for it," the abbess replied boldly, as she obeyed. Presently they were in the great, dim place, where the lamps burned day and night. There by the altar, built, it was said, upon the spot where the Lord stood to receive judgment, they saw a kneeling woman, who, clad in the robe of a novice, grasped the stonework with her hands. Without the rails, also kneeling, was the knight Wulf, still as a statue on a sepulchre. Hearing them, he rose, turned him about, and drew his great sword. "Sheathe that sword," commanded Heraclius. "When I became a knight," answered Wulf, "I swore to defend the innocent from harm and the altars of God from sacrilege at the hands of wicked men. Therefore I sheathe not my sword." "Take no heed of him," said one; and Heraclius, standing back in the aisle, addressed Rosamund: "Daughter," he cried, "with bitter grief we are come to ask of you a sacrifice, that you should give yourself for the people, as our Master gave Himself for the people. Saladin demands you as a fugitive of his blood, and until you are delivered to him he will not treat with us for the saving of the city. Come forth, then, we pray you." Now Rosamund rose and faced them, with her hand resting upon the altar. "I risked my life and I believe another gave her life," she said, "that I might escape from the power of the Moslems. I will not come forth to return to them." "Then, our need being sore, we must take you," answered Heraclius sullenly. "What!" she cried. "You, the patriarch of this sacred city, would tear me from the sanctuary of its holiest altar? Oh! then, indeed shall the curse fall upon it and you. Hence, they say, our sweet Lord was haled to sacrifice by the command of an unjust judge, and thereafter Jerusalem was taken by the sword. Must I too be dragged from the spot that His feet have hallowed, and even in these weeds"--and she pointed to her white robe--"thrown as an offering to your foes, who mayhap will bid me choose between death and the Koran? If so, I say assuredly that offering will be made in vain, and assuredly your streets shall run red with the blood of those who tore me from my sanctuary." Now they consulted together, some taking one side and some the other, but the most of them declared that she must be given up to Saladin. "Come of your own will, I pray you," said the patriarch, "since we would not take you by force." "By force only will you take me," answered Rosamund. Then the abbess spoke. "Sirs, will you commit so great a crime? Then I tell you that it cannot go without its punishment. With this lady I say"--and she drew up her tall shape--"that it shall be paid for in your blood, and mayhap in the blood of all of us. Remember my words when the Saracens have won the city, and are putting its children to the sword." "I absolve you from the sin," shouted the patriarch, "if sin it is." "Absolve yourself," broke in Wulf sternly, "and know this. I am but one man, but I have some strength and skill. If you seek but to lay a hand upon the novice Rosamund to hale her away to be slain by Saladin, as he has sworn that he would do should she dare to fly from him, before I die there are those among you who have looked the last upon the light." Then, standing there before the altar rails, he lifted his great blade and settled the skull-blazoned shield upon his arm. Now the patriarch raved and stormed, and one among them cried that they would fetch bows and shoot Wulf down from a distance. "And thus," broke in Rosamund, "add murder to sacrilege! Oh! sirs, bethink what you do--ay, and remember this, that you do it all in vain. Saladin has promised you nothing, except that if you deliver me to him, he will talk with you, and then you may find that you have sinned for nothing. Have pity on me and go your ways, leaving the issue in the hand of God." "That is true," cried some. "Saladin made no promises." Now Balian, the guardian of the city, who had followed them to the chapel and standing in the background heard what passed there, stepped forward and said: "My lord Patriarch, I pray you let this thing be, since from such a crime no good could come to us or any. That altar is the holiest and most noted place of sanctuary in all Jerusalem. Will you dare to tear a maiden from it whose only sin is that she, a Christian, has escaped the Saracens by whom she was stolen? Do you dare to give her back to them and death, for such will be her doom at the hands of Saladin? Surely that would be the act of cowards, and bring upon us the fate of cowards. Sir Wulf, put up your sword and fear nothing. If there is any safety in Jerusalem, your lady is safe. Abbess, lead her to her cell." "Nay," answered the abbess with fine sarcasm, "it is not fitting that we should leave this place before his Holiness." "Then you have not long to wait," shouted the patriarch in fury. "Is this a time for scruples about altars? Is this a time to listen to the prayers of a girl or to threats of a single knight, or the doubts of a superstitious captain? Well, take your way and let your lives pay its cost. Yet I say that if Saladin asked for half the noble maidens in the city, it would be cheap to let him have them in payment for the blood of eighty thousand folk," and he stalked towards the door. So they went away, all except Wulf, who stayed to make sure that they were gone, and the abbess, who came to Rosamund and embraced her, saying that for the while the danger was past, and she might rest quiet. "Yes, mother," answered Rosamund with a sob, "but oh! have I done right? Should I not have surrendered myself to the wrath of Saladin if the lives of so many hang upon it? Perhaps, after all, he would forget his oath and spare my life, though at best I should never be suffered to escape again while there is a castle in Baalbec or a guarded harem in Damascus. Moreover, it is hard to bid farewell to all one loves forever," and she glanced towards Wulf, who stood out of hearing. "Yes," answered the abbess, "it is hard, as we nuns know well. But, daughter, that sore choice has not yet been thrust upon you. When Saladin says that he sets you against the lives of all this cityful, then you must judge." "Ay," repeated Rosamund, "then I--must judge." The siege went on; from terror to terror it went on. The mangonels hurled their stones unceasingly, the arrows flew in clouds so that none could stand upon the walls. Thousands of the cavalry of Saladin hovered round St. Stephen's Gate, while the engines poured fire and bolts upon the doomed town, and the Saracen miners worked their way beneath the barbican and the wall. The soldiers within could not sally because of the multitude of the watching horsemen; they could not show themselves, since he who did so was at once destroyed by a thousand darts, and they could not build up the breaches of the crumbling wall. As day was added to day, the despair grew ever deeper. In every street might be met long processions of monks bearing crosses and chanting penitential psalms and prayers, while in the house-doors women wailed to Christ for mercy, and held to their breasts the children which must so soon be given to death, or torn from them to deck some Mussulman harem. The commander Balian called the knights together in council, and showed them that Jerusalem was doomed. "Then," said one of the leaders, "let us sally out and die fighting in the midst of foes." "Ay," added Heraclius, "and leave our children and our women to death and dishonour. Then that surrender is better, since there is no hope of succour." "Nay," answered Balian, "we will not surrender. While God lives, there is hope." "He lived on the day of Hattin, and suffered it," said Heraclius; and the council broke up, having decided nothing. That afternoon Balian stood once more before Saladin and implored him to spare the city. Saladin led him to the door of the tent and pointed to his yellow banners floating here and there upon the wall, and to one that at this moment rose upon the breach itself. "Why should I spare what I have already conquered, and what I have sworn to destroy?" he asked. "When I offered you mercy you would have none of it. Why do you ask it now?" Then Balian answered him in those words that will ring through history forever. "For this reason, Sultan. Before God, if die we must, we will first slaughter our women and our little children, leaving you neither male nor female to enslave. We will burn the city and its wealth; we will grind the holy Rock to powder and make of the mosque el-Aksa, and the other sacred places, a heap of ruins. We will cut the throats of the five thousand followers of the Prophet who are in our power, and then, every man of us who can bear arms, we will sally out into the midst of you and fight on till we fall. So I think Jerusalem shall cost you dear." The Sultan stared at him and stroked his beard. "Eighty thousand lives," he muttered; "eighty thousand lives, besides those of my soldiers whom you will slay. A great slaughter--and the holy city destroyed forever. Oh! it was of such a massacre as this that once I dreamed." Then Saladin sat still and thought a while, his head bowed upon his breast. Chapter Twenty-Three: Saint Rosamund From the day when he saw Saladin Godwin began to grow strong again, and as his health came back, so he fell to thinking. Rosamund was lost to him and Masouda was dead, and at times he wished that he were dead also. What more had he to do with his life, which had been so full of sorrow, struggle and bloodshed? Go back to England to live there upon his lands, and wait until old age and death overtook him? The prospect would have pleased many, but it did not please Godwin, who felt that his days were not given to him for this purpose, and that while he lived he must also labour. As he sat thinking thus, and was very unhappy, the aged bishop Egbert, who had nursed him so well, entered his tent, and, noting his face, asked: "What ails you, my son?" "Would you wish to hear?" said Godwin. "Am I not your confessor, with a right to hear?" answered the gentle old man. "Show me your trouble." So Godwin began at the beginning and told it all--how as a lad he had secretly desired to enter the Church; how the old prior of the abbey at Stangate counselled him that he was too young to judge; how then the love of Rosamund had entered into his life with his manhood, and he had thought no more of religion. He told him also of the dream that he had dreamed when he lay wounded after the fight on Death Creek; of the vows which he and Wulf had vowed at the time of their knighting, and of how by degrees he had learned that Rosamund's love was not for him. Lastly, he told him of Masouda, but of her Egbert, who had shriven her, knew already. The bishop listened in silence till he had finished. Then he looked up, saying: "And now?" "Now," answered Godwin, "I know not. Yet it seems to me that I hear the sound of my own feet walking upon cloister stones, and of my own voice lifted up in prayer before the altar." "You are still young to talk thus, and though Rosamund be lost to you and Masouda dead, there are other women in the world," said Egbert. Godwin shook his head. "Not for me, my father." "Then there are the knightly Orders, in which you might rise high." Again he shook his head. "The Templars and the Hospitallers are crushed. Moreover, I watched them in Jerusalem and the field, and love them not. Should they change their ways, or should I be needed to fight against the Infidel, I can join them by dispensation in days to come. But counsel me--what shall I do now?" "Oh! my son," the old bishop said, his face lighting up, "if God calls you, come to God. I will show you the road." "Yes, I will come," Godwin answered quietly. "I will come, and, unless the Cross should once more call me to follow it in war, I will strive to spend the time that is left to me in His service and that of men. For I think, my father, that to this end I was born." Three days later Godwin was ordained a priest, there in the camp of Saladin, by the hand of the bishop Egbert, while around his tent the servants of Mahomet, triumphant at the approaching downfall of the Cross, shouted that God is great and Mahomet His only prophet. * * * Saladin lifted his head and looked at Balian. "Tell me," he said, "what of the princess of Baalbec, whom you know as the lady Rosamund D'Arcy? I told you that I would speak no more with you of the safety of Jerusalem until she was delivered to me for judgment. Yet I see her not." "Sultan," answered Balian, "we found this lady in the convent of the Holy Cross, wearing the robe of a novice of that order. She had taken the sanctuary there by the altar which we deem so sacred and inviolable, and refused to come." Saladin laughed. "Cannot all your men-at-arms drag one maiden from an altar stone?--unless, indeed, the great knight Wulf stood before it with sword aloft," he added. "So he stood," answered Balian, "but it was not of him that we thought, though assuredly he would have slain some of us. To do this thing would have been an awful crime, which we were sure must bring down the vengeance of our God upon us and upon the city." "What of the vengeance of Salah-ed-din?" "Sore as is our case, Sultan, we still fear God more than Saladin." "Ay, Sir Balian, but Salah-ed-din may be a sword in the hand of God." "Which sword, Sultan, would have fallen swiftly had we done this deed." "I think that it is about to fall," said Saladin, and again was silent and stroked his beard. "Listen, now," he said at length. "Let the princess, my niece, come to me and ask it of my grace, and I think that I will grant you terms for which, in your plight, you may be thankful." "Then we must dare the great sin and take her," answered Balian sadly, "having first slain the knight Wulf, who will not let her go while he is alive." "Nay, Sir Balian, for that I should be sorry, nor will I suffer it, for though a Christian he is a man after my own heart. This time I said 'Let her come to me,' not 'Let her be brought.' Ay, come of her own free will, to answer to me for her sin against me, understanding that I promise her nothing, who in the old days promised her much, and kept my word. Then she was the princess of Baalbec, with all the rights belonging to that great rank, to whom I had sworn that no husband should be forced upon her, nor any change of faith. Now I take back these oaths, and if she comes, she comes as an escaped Cross-worshipping slave, to whom I offer only the choice of Islam or of a shameful death." "What high-born lady would take such terms?" asked Balian in dismay. "Rather, I think, would she choose to die by her own hand than by that of your hangman, since she can never abjure her faith." "And thereby doom eighty thousand of her fellow Christians, who must accompany her to that death," answered Saladin sternly. "Know, Sir Balian, I swear it before Allah and for the last time, that if my niece Rosamund does not come, of her own free will, unforced by any, Jerusalem shall be put to sack." "Then the fate of the holy city and all its inhabitants hangs upon the nobleness of a single woman?" stammered Balian. "Ay, upon the nobleness of a single woman, as my vision told me it should be. If her spirit is high enough, Jerusalem may yet be saved. If it be baser than I thought, as well may chance, then assuredly with her it is doomed. I have no more to say, but my envoys shall ride with you bearing a letter, which with their own hands they must present to my niece, the princess of Baalbec. Then she can return with them to me, or she can bide where she is, when I shall know that I saw but a lying vision of peace and mercy flowing from her hands, and will press on this war to its bloody end." Within an hour Balian rode to the city under safe conduct, taking with him the envoys of Saladin and the letter, which they were charged to deliver to Rosamund. It was night, and in their lamp-lit chapel the Virgins of the Holy Cross upon bended knees chanted the slow and solemn Miserere. From their hearts they sang, to whom death and dishonour were so near, praying their Lord and the merciful Mother of God to have pity, and to spare them and the inhabitants of the hallowed town where He had dwelt and suffered, and to lead them safe through the shadow of a fate as awful as His own. They knew that the end was near, that the walls were tottering to their fall, that the defenders were exhausted, and that soon the wild soldiers of Saladin would be surging through the narrow streets. Then would come the sack and the slaughter, either by the sword of the Saracens, or, perchance, if these found time and they were not forgotten, more mercifully at the hands of Christian men, who thus would save them from the worst. Their dirge ended, the abbess rose and addressed them. Her bearing was still proud, but her voice quavered. "My daughters in the Lord," she said, "the doom is almost at our door, and we must brace our hearts to meet it. If the commanders of the city do what they have promised, they will send some here to behead us at the last, and so we shall pass happily to glory and be ever with the Lord. But perchance they will forget us, who are but a few among eighty thousand souls, of whom some fifty thousand must thus be killed. Or their arms may grow weary, or themselves they may fall before ever they reach this house--and what, my daughters, shall we do then?" Now some of the nuns clung together and sobbed in their affright, and some were silent. Only Rosamund drew herself to her full height, and spoke proudly. "My Mother," she said, "I am a newcomer among you, but I have seen the slaughter of Hattin, and I know what befalls Christian women and children among the unbelievers. Therefore I ask your leave to say my say." "Speak," said the abbess. "This is my counsel," went on Rosamund, "and it is short and plain. When we know that the Saracens are in the city, let us set fire to this convent and get us to our knees and so perish." "Well spoken; it is best," muttered several. But the abbess answered with a sad smile: "High counsel indeed, such as might be looked for from high blood. Yet it may not be taken, since self-slaughter is a deadly sin." "I see little difference between it," said Rosamund, "and the stretching out of our necks to the swords of friends. Yet, although for others I cannot judge, for myself I do judge who am bound by no final vows. I tell you that rather than fall into the hands of the Paynims, I will dare that sin and leave them nothing but the vile mould which once held the spirit of a woman." And she laid her hand upon the dagger hilt that was hidden in her robe. Then again the abbess spoke. "To you, daughter, I cannot forbid the deed, but to those who have fully sworn to obey me I do forbid it, and to them I show another if a more piteous way of escape from the last shame of womanhood. Some of us are old and withered, and have naught to fear but death, but others are still young and fair. To these I say, when the end is nigh, let them take steel and score face and bosom and seat themselves here in this chapel, red with their own blood and made loathsome to the sight of man. Then will the end come upon them quickly, and they will pass hence unstained to be the brides of Heaven." Now a great groan of horror went up from those miserable women, who already saw themselves seated in stained robes, and hideous to behold, there in the carved chairs of their choir, awaiting death by the swords of furious and savage men, as in a day to come their sisters of the Faith were to await it in the doomed convent of the Virgins of St. Clare at Acre.* [* Those who are curious to know the story of the end of those holy heroines, the Virgins of St. Clare, I think in the year 1291, may read it in my book, "A Winter Pilgrimage," pp. 270 and 271--AUTHOR.] Yet one by one, except the aged among them, they came up to the abbess and swore that they would obey her in this as in everything, while the abbess said that herself she would lead them down that dreadful road of pain and mutilation. Yes, save Rosamund, who declared that she would die undisfigured as God had made her, and two other novices, they swore it one by one, laying their hands upon the altar. Then again they got them to their knees and sang the Miserere. Presently, above their mournful chant, the sound of loud, insistent knockings echoed down the vaulted roofs. They sprang up screaming: "The Saracens are here! Give us knives! Give us knives!" Rosamund drew the dagger from its sheath. "Wait awhile," cried the abbess. "These may be friends, not foes. Sister Ursula, go to the door and seek tidings." The sister, an aged woman, obeyed with tottering steps, and, reaching the massive portal, undid the guichet, or lattice, and asked with a quavering voice: "Who are you that knock?" while the nuns within held their breath and strained their ears to catch the answer. Presently it came, in a woman's silvery tones, that sounded strangely still and small in the spaces of that tomb-like church. "I am the Queen Sybilla, with her ladies." "And what would you with us, O Queen? The right of sanctuary?" "Nay; I bring with me some envoys from Saladin, who would have speech with the lady named Rosamund D'Arcy, who is among you." Now at these words Rosamund fled to the altar, and stood there, still holding the naked dagger in her hand. "Let her not fear," went on the silvery voice, "for no harm shall come to her against her will. Admit us, holy Abbess, we beseech you in the name of Christ." Then the abbess said, "Let us receive the queen with such dignity as we may." Motioning to the nuns to take their appointed seats. in the choir she placed herself in the great chair at the head of them, whilst behind her at the raised altar stood Rosamund, the bare knife in her hand. The door was opened, and through it swept a strange procession. First came the beauteous queen wearing her insignia of royalty, but with a black veil upon her head. Next followed ladies of her court--twelve of them--trembling with fright but splendidly apparelled, and after these three stern and turbaned Saracens clad in mail, their jewelled scimitars at their sides. Then appeared a procession of women, most of them draped in mourning, and leading scared children by the hand; the wives, sisters, and widows of nobles, knights and burgesses of Jerusalem. Last of all marched a hundred or more of captains and warriors, among them Wulf, headed by Sir Balian and ended by the patriarch Heraclius in his gorgeous robes, with his attendant priests and acolytes. On swept the queen, up the length of the long church, and as she came the abbess and her nuns rose and bowed to her, while one offered her the chair of state that was set apart to be used by the bishop in his visitations. But she would have none of it. "Nay," said the queen, "mock me with no honourable seat who come here as a humble suppliant, and will make my prayer upon my knees." So down she went upon the marble floor, with all her ladies and the following women, while the solemn Saracens looked at her wondering and the knights and nobles massed themselves behind. "What can we give you, O Queen," asked the abbess, "who have nothing left save our treasure, to which you are most welcome, our honour, and our lives?" "Alas!" answered the royal lady. "Alas, that I must say it! I come to ask the life of one of you." "Of whom, O Queen?" Sybilla lifted her head, and with her outstretched arm pointed to Rosamund, who stood above them all by the high altar. For a moment Rosamund turned pale, then spoke in a steady voice: "Say, what service can my poor life be to you, O Queen, and by whom is it sought?" Thrice Sybilla strove to answer, and at last murmured: "I cannot. Let the envoys give her the letter, if she is able to read their tongue." "I am able," answered Rosamund, and a Saracen emir drew forth a roll and laid it against his forehead, then gave it to the abbess, who brought it to Rosamund. With her dagger blade she cut its silk, opened it, and read aloud, always in the same quiet voice, translating as she read:-- "In the name of Allah the One, the All-merciful, to my niece, aforetime the princess of Baalbec, Rosamund D'Arcy by name, now a fugitive hidden in a convent of the Franks in the city el-Kuds Esh-sherif, the holy city of Jerusalem: "Niece,--All my promises to you I have performed, and more, since for your sake I spared the lives of your cousins, the twin knights. But you have repaid me with ingratitude and trickery, after the manner of those of your false and accursed faith, and have fled from me. I promised you also, again and yet again, that if you attempted this thing, death should be your portion. No longer, therefore, are you the princess of Baalbec, but only an escaped Christian slave, and as such doomed to die whenever my sword reaches you. "Of my vision concerning you, which caused me to bring you to the East from England, you know well. Repeat it in your heart before you answer. That vision told me that by your nobleness and sacrifice you should save the lives of many. I demanded that you should be brought back to me, and the request was refused--why, it matters not. Now I understand the reason--that this was so ordained. I demand no more that force should be used to you. I demand that you shall come of your own free will, to suffer the bitter and shameful reward of your sin. Or, if you so desire, bide where you are of your own free will, and be dealt with as God shall decree. This hangs upon your judgment. If you come and ask it of me, I will consider the question of the sparing of Jerusalem and its inhabitants. If you refuse to come, I will certainly put every one of them to the sword, save such of the women and children as may be kept for slaves. Decide, then, Niece, and quickly, whether you will return with my envoys, or bide where they find you.-- "Yusuf Salah-ed-din." Rosamund finished reading, and the letter fluttered from her hand down to the marble floor. Then the queen said: "Lady, we ask this sacrifice of you in the name of these and all their fellows," and she pointed to the women and the children behind her. "And my life?" mused Rosamund aloud. "It is all I have. When I have paid it away I shall be beggared," and her eyes wandered to where the tall shape of Wulf stood by a pillar of the church. "Perchance Saladin will be merciful," hazarded the queen. "Why should he be merciful," answered Rosamund, "who has always warned me that if I escaped from him and was recaptured, certainly I must die? Nay, he will offer me Islam, or death, which means--death by the rope--or in some worse fashion." "But if you stay here you must die," pleaded the queen, "or at best fall into the hands of the soldiers. Oh! lady, your life is but one life, and with it you can buy those of eighty thousand souls." "Is that so sure?" asked Rosamund. "The Sultan has made no promise; he says only that, if I pray it of him, he will consider the question of the sparing of Jerusalem." "But--but," went on the queen, "he says also that if you do not come he will surely put Jerusalem to the sword, and to Sir Balian he said that if you gave yourself up he thought he might grant terms which we should be glad to take. Therefore we dare to ask of you to give your life in payment for such a hope. Think, think what otherwise must be the lot of these"--and again she pointed to the women and children--"ay, and your own sisterhood and of all of us. Whereas, if you die, it will be with much honour, and your name shall be worshipped as a saint and martyr in every church in Christendom. "Oh! refuse not our prayer, but show that you indeed are great enough to step forward to meet the death which comes to every one of us, and thereby earn the blessings of half the world and make sure your place in heaven, nigh to Him Who also died for men. Plead with her, my sisters--plead with her!" Then the women and the children threw themselves down before her, and with tears and sobbing prayed her that she would give up her life for theirs. Rosamund looked at them and smiled, then said in a clear voice: "What say you, my cousin and betrothed, Sir Wulf D'Arcy? Come hither, and, as is fitting in this strait, give me your counsel." So the grey-eyed, war-worn Wulf strode up the aisle, and, standing by the altar rails, saluted her. "You have heard," said Rosamund. "Your counsel. Would you have me die?" "Alas!" he answered in a hoarse voice. "It is hard to speak. Yet, they are many--you are but one." Now there was a murmur of applause. For it was known that this knight loved his lady dearly, and that but the other day he had stood there to defend her to the death against those who would give her up to Saladin. Now Rosamund laughed out, and the sweet sound of her laughter was strange in that solemn place and hour. "Ah, Wulf!" she said. "Wulf, who must ever speak the truth, even when it costs him dear. Well, I would not have it otherwise. Queen, and all you foolish people, I did but try your tempers. Could you, then, think me so base that I would spare to spend this poor life of mine, and to forego such few joys as God might have in store for me on earth, when those of tens of thousands may hang upon the issue? Nay, nay; it is far otherwise." Then Rosamund sheathed the dagger that all this while she had held in her hand, and, lifting the letter from the floor, touched her brow with it in signal of obedience, saying in Arabic to the envoys: "I am the slave of Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful. I am the small dust beneath his feet. Take notice, Emirs, that in presence of all here gathered, of my own free will I, Rosamund D'Arcy, aforetime princess and sovereign lady of Baalbec, determine to accompany you to the Sultan's camp, there to make prayer for the sparing of the lives of the citizens of Jerusalem, and afterwards to suffer the punishment of death in payment of my flight, according to my royal uncle's high decree. One request I make only, if he be pleased to grant it--that my body be brought back to Jerusalem for burial before this altar, where of my own act I lay down my life. Emirs, I am ready." Now the envoys bowed before her in grave admiration, and the air grew thick with blessings. As Rosamund stepped down from the altar the queen threw her arms about her neck and kissed her, while lords and knights, women and children, pressed their lips upon her hands, upon the hem of her white robe, and even on her feet, calling her "Saint" and "Deliverer." "Alas!" she answered, waving them back. "As yet I am neither of these things, though the latter of them I hope to be. Come; let us be going." "Ay," echoed Wulf, stepping to her side, "let us be going." Rosamund started at the words, and all there stared. "Listen, Queen, Emirs, and People," he went on. "I am this lady's kinsman and her betrothed knight, sworn to serve her to the end. If she be guilty of a crime against the Sultan, I am more guilty, and on me also shall fall his vengeance. Let us be going." "Wulf, Wulf," she said, "it shall not be. One life is asked--not both." "Yet, lady, both shall be given that the measure of atonement may run over, and Saladin moved to mercy. Nay, forbid me not. I have lived for you, and for you I die. Yes, if they hold me by force, still I die, if need be, on my own sword. When I counselled you just now, I counselled myself also. Surely you never dreamed that I would suffer you to go alone, when by sharing it I could make your doom easier." "Oh, Wulf!" she cried. "You will but make it harder." "No, no; faced hand in hand, death loses half its terrors. Moreover, Saladin is my friend, and I also would plead with him for the people of Jerusalem." Then he whispered in her ear, "Sweet Rosamund, deny me not, lest you should drive me to madness and self-murder, who will have no more of earth without you." Now, her eyes full of tears and shining with love, Rosamund murmured back: "You are too strong for me. Let it befall as God wills." Nor did the others attempt to stay him any more. Going to the abbess, Rosamund would have knelt before her, but it was the abbess who knelt and called her blessed, and kissed her. The sisters also kissed her one by one in farewell. Then a priest was brought--not the patriarch, of whom she would have none, but another, a holy man. To him apart at the altar, first Rosamund and then Wulf made confession of their sins, receiving absolution and the sacrament in that form in which it was given to the dying; while, save the emirs, all in the church knelt and prayed as for souls that pass. The solemn ritual was ended. They rose, and, followed by two of the envoys--for already the third had departed under escort to the court of Saladin to give him warning--the queen, her ladies and all the company, walked from the church and through the convent halls out into the narrow Street of Woe. Here Wulf, as her kinsman, took Rosamund by the hand, leading her as a man leads his sister to her bridal. Without it was bright moonlight, moonlight clear as day, and by now tidings of this strange story had spread through all Jerusalem, so that its narrow streets were crowded with spectators, who stood also upon every roof and at every window. "The lady Rosamund!" they shouted. "The blessed Rosamund, who goes to a martyr's death to save us. The pure Saint Rosamund and her brave knight Wulf!" And they tore flowers and green leaves from the gardens and threw them in their path. Down the long, winding streets, with bent heads and humble mien, companioned ever by the multitude, through which soldiers cleared the way, they walked thus, while women held up their children to touch the robe of Rosamund or to look upon her face. At length the gate was reached, and while it was unbarred they halted. Then came forward Sir Balian of Ibelin, bareheaded, and said: "Lady, on behalf of the people of Jerusalem and of the whole of Christendom, I give you honour and thanks, and to you also, Sir Wulf D'Arcy, the bravest and most faithful of all knights." A company of priests also, headed by a bishop, advanced chanting and swinging censers, and blessed them solemnly in the name of the Church and of Christ its Master. "Give us not praise and thanks, but prayers," answered Rosamund; "prayers that we may succeed in our mission, to which we gladly offer up our lives, and afterwards, when we are dead, prayers for the welfare of our sinful souls. But should we fail, as it may chance, then remember of us only that we did our best. Oh! good people, great sorrows have come upon this land, and the Cross of Christ is veiled with shame. Yet it shall shine forth once more, and to it through the ages shall all men bow the knee. Oh! may you live! May no more death come among you! It is our last petition, and with it, this--that when at length you die we may meet again in heaven! Now fare you well." Then they passed through the gate, and as the envoys declared that none might accompany them further, walked forward followed by the sound of the weeping of the multitude towards the camp of Saladin, two strange and lonesome figures in the moonlight. At last these lamentations could be heard no more, and there, on the outskirts of the Moslem lines, an escort met them, and bearers with a litter. But into this Rosamund would not enter, so they walked onwards up the hill, till they came to the great square in the centre of the camp upon the Mount of Olives, beyond the grey trees of the Garden of Gethsemane. There, awaiting them at the head of the square, sat Saladin in state, while all about, rank upon rank, in thousands and tens of thousands, was gathered his vast army, who watched them pass in silence. Thus they came into the presence of the Sultan and knelt before him, Rosamund in her novice's white robe, and Wulf in his battered mail. Chapter Twenty Four: The Dregs of the Cup Saladin looked at them, but gave them no greeting. Then he spoke: "Woman, you have had my message. You know that your rank is taken from you, and that with it my promises are at an end; you know also that you come hither to suffer the death of faithless women. Is it so?" "I know all these things, great Salah-ed-din," answered Rosamund. "Tell me, then, do you come of your own free will, unforced by any, and why does the knight Sir Wulf, whose life I spared and do not seek, kneel at your side?" "I come of my own free will, Salah-ed-din, as your emirs can tell you; ask them. For the rest, my kinsman must answer for himself." "Sultan," said Wulf, "I counselled the lady Rosamund that she should come--not that she needed such counsel--and, having given it, I accompanied her by right of blood and of Justice, since her offence against you is mine also. Her fate is my fate." "I have no quarrel against you whom I forgave, therefore you must take your own way to follow the path she goes." "Doubtless," answered Wulf, "being a Christian among many sons of the Prophet, it will not be hard to find a friendly scimitar to help me on that road. I ask of your goodness that her fate may be my fate." "What!" said Saladin. "You are ready to die with her, although you are young and strong, and there are so many other women in the world?" Wulf smiled and nodded his head. "Good. Who am I that I should stand between a fool and his folly? I grant the boon. Your fate shall be her fate; Wulf D'Arcy, you shall drink of the cup of my slave Rosamund to its last bitterest dregs." "I desire no less," said Wulf coolly. Now Saladin looked at Rosamund and asked, "Woman, why have you come here to brave my vengeance? Speak on if you have aught to ask." Then Rosamund rose from her knees, and, standing before him, said: "I am come, O my mighty lord, to plead for the people of Jerusalem, because it was told me that you would listen to no other voice than that of this your slave. See, many moons ago, you had a vision concerning me. Thrice you dreamed in the night that I, the niece whom you had never seen, by some act of mine should be the means of saving much life and a way of peace. Therefore you tore me from my home and brought my father to a bloody death, as you are about to bring his daughter; and after much suffering and danger I fell into your power, and was treated with great honour. Still I, who am a Christian, and who grew sick with the sight of the daily slaughter and outrage of my kin, strove to escape from you, although you had warned me that the price of this crime was death; and in the end, through the wit and sacrifice of another woman, I did escape. "Now I return to pay that price, and behold! your vision is fulfilled--or, at the least, you can fulfil it if God should touch your heart with grace, seeing that of my own will I am come to pray you, Salah-ed-din, to spare the city, and for its blood to accept mine as a token and an offering. "Oh, my lord! as you are great, be merciful. What will it avail you in the day of your own judgment that you have added another eighty thousand to the tally of your slain, and with them many more thousands of your own folk, since the warriors of Jerusalem will not die unavenged? Give them their lives and let them go free, and win thereby the gratitude of mankind and the forgiveness of God above." So Rosamund spoke, and stretching out her arms towards him, was silent. "These things I offered to them, and they were refused," answered Saladin. "Why should I grant them now that they are conquered?" "My lord, Strong-to-Aid," said Rosamund, "do you, who are so brave, blame yonder knights and soldiers because they fought on against desperate odds? Would you not have called them cowards if they had yielded up the city where their Saviour died and struck no blow to save it? Oh! I am outworn! I can say no more; but once again, most humbly and on my knees, I beseech you speak the word of mercy, and let not your triumph be dyed red with the blood of women and of little children." Then casting herself upon her face, Rosamund clasped the hem of his royal robe with her hands, and pressed it to her forehead. So for a while she lay there in the shimmering moonlight, while utter silence fell upon all that vast multitude of armed men as they waited for the decree of fate to be uttered by the conqueror's lips. But Saladin sat still as a statue, gazing at the domes and towers of Jerusalem outlined against the deep blue sky. "Rise," he said at length, "and know, niece, that you have played your part in a fashion worthy of my race, and that I, Salah-ed-din, am proud of you. Know also that I will weigh your prayer as I have weighed that of none other who breathes upon the earth. Now I must take counsel with my own heart, and to-morrow it shall be granted--or refused. To you, who are doomed to die, and to the knight who chooses to die with you, according to the ancient law and custom, I offer the choice of Islam, and with it life and honour." "We refuse," answered Rosamund and Wulf with one voice. The Sultan bowed his head as though he expected no other answer, and glanced round, as all thought to order the executioners to do their office. But he said only to a captain of his Mameluks: "Take them; keep them under guard and separate them, till my word of death comes to you. Your life shall answer for their safety. Give them food and drink, and let no harm touch them until I bid you." The Mameluk bowed and advanced with his company of soldiers. As they prepared to go with them, Rosamund asked: "Tell me of your grace, what of Masouda, my friend?" "She died for you; seek her beyond the grave," answered Saladin, whereat Rosamund hid her face with her hands and sighed. "And what of Godwin, my brother?" cried Wulf; but no answer was given him. Now Rosamund turned; stretching out her arms towards Wulf, she fell upon his breast. There, then, in the presence of that countless army, they kissed their kiss of betrothal and farewell. They spoke no word, only ere she went Rosamund lifted her hand and pointed upwards to the sky. Then a murmur rose from the multitude, and the sound of it seemed to shape itself into one word: "Mercy!" Still Saladin made no sign, and they were led away to their prisons. Among the thousands who watched this strange and most thrilling scene were two men wrapped in long cloaks, Godwin and the bishop Egbert. Thrice did Godwin strive to approach the throne. But it seemed that the soldiers about him had their commands, for they would not suffer him to stir or speak; and when, as Rosamund passed, he strove to break a way to her, they seized and held him. Yet as she went by he cried: "The blessing of Heaven be upon you, pure saint of God--on you and your true knight." Catching the tones of that voice above the tumult, Rosamund stopped and looked around her, but saw no one, for the guard hemmed her in. So she went on, wondering if perchance it was Godwin's voice which she had heard, or whether an angel, or only some Frankish prisoner had spoken. Godwin stood wringing his hands while the bishop strove to comfort him, saying that he should not grieve, since such deaths as those of Rosamund and Wulf were most glorious, and more to be desired than a hundred lives. "Ay, ay," answered Godwin, "would that I could go with them!" "Their work is done, but not yours," said the bishop gently. "Come to our tent and let us to our knees. God is more powerful than the Sultan, and mayhap He will yet find a way to save them. If they are still alive tomorrow at the dawn we will seek audience of Saladin to plead with him." So they entered the tent and prayed there, as the inhabitants of Jerusalem prayed behind their shattered walls, that the heart of Saladin might be moved to spare them all. While they knelt thus the curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and an emir stood before them. "Rise," he said, "both of you, and follow me. The Sultan commands your presence." Egbert and Godwin went, wondering, and were led through the pavilion to the royal sleeping place, which guards closed behind them. On a silken couch reclined Saladin, the light from the lamp falling on his bronzed and thoughtful face. "I have sent for you two Franks," he said, "that you may bear a message from me to Sir Balian of Ibelin and the inhabitants of Jerusalem. This is the message:--Let the holy city surrender to-morrow and all its population acknowledge themselves my prisoners. Then for forty days I will hold them to ransom, during which time none shall be harmed. Every man who pays ten pieces of gold shall go free, and two women or ten children shall be counted as one man at a like price. Of the poor, seven thousand shall be set free also, on payment of thirty thousand bezants. Such who remain or have no money for their ransom--and there is still much gold in Jerusalem--shall become my slaves. These are my terms, which I grant at the dying prayer of my niece, the lady Rosamund, and to her prayer alone. Deliver them to Sir Balian, and bid him wait on me at the dawn with his chief notables, and answer whether he is willing to accept them on behalf of the people. If not, the assault goes on until the city is a heap of ruins covering the bones of its children." "We bless you for this mercy," said the bishop Egbert, "and we hasten to obey. But tell us, Sultan, what shall we do? Return to the camp with Sir Balian?" "If he accepts my terms, nay, for in Jerusalem you will be safe, and I give you your freedom without ransom." "Sire," said Godwin, "ere I go, grant me leave to bid farewell to my brother and my cousin Rosamund." "That for the third time you may plot their escape from my vengeance?" said Saladin. "Nay, bide in Jerusalem and await my word; you shall meet them at the last, no more." "Sire," pleaded Godwin, "of your mercy spare them, for they have played a noble part. It is hard that they should die who love each other and are so young and fair and brave." "Ay," answered Saladin, "a noble part; never have I seen one more noble. Well, it fits them the better for heaven, if Cross-worshippers enter there. Have done; their doom is written and my purpose cannot be turned, nor shall you see them till the last, as I have said. But if it pleases you to write them a letter of farewell and to send it back by the embassy, it shall be delivered to them. Now go, for greater matters are afoot than this punishment of a pair of lovers. A guard awaits you." So they went, and within an hour stood before Sir Balian and gave him the message of Saladin, whereat he rose and blessed the name of Rosamund. While he called his counsellors from their sleep and bade his servants saddle horses, Godwin found pen and parchment, and wrote hurriedly: "To Wulf, my brother, and Rosamund, my cousin and his betrothed,--I live, though well-nigh I died by dead Masouda--Jesus rest her gallant and most beloved soul! Saladin will not suffer me to see you, though he has promised that I shall be with you at the last, so watch for me then. I still dare to hope that it may please God to change the Sultan's heart and spare you. If so, this is my prayer and desire--that you two should wed as soon as may be, and get home to England, where, if I live, I hope to visit you in years to come. Till then seek me not, who would be lonely a while. But if it should be fated otherwise, then when my sins are purged I will seek you among the saints, you who by your noble deed have earned the sure grace of God. "The embassy rides. I have no time for more, though there is much to say. Farewell.--Godwin." The terms of Saladin had been accepted. With rejoicing because their lives were spared, but with woe and lamentation because the holy city had fallen again into the hands of the Moslem, the people of Jerusalem made ready to leave the streets and seek new homes elsewhere. The great golden cross was torn from the mosque el-Aksa, and on every tower and wall floated the yellow banners of Saladin. All who had money paid their ransoms, and those who had none begged and borrowed it as they could, and if they could not, gave themselves over to despair and slavery. Only the patriarch Heraclius, forgetting the misery of these wretched ones, carried off his own great wealth and the gold plate of the churches. Then Saladin showed his mercy, for he freed all the aged without charge, and from his own treasure paid the ransom of hundreds of ladies whose husbands and fathers had fallen in battle, or lay in prison in other cities. So for forty days, headed by Queen Sybilla and her ladies, that sad procession of the vanquished marched through the gates, and there were many of them who, as they passed the conqueror seated in state, halted to make a prayer to him for those who were left behind. A few also who remembered Rosamund, and that it was because of her sacrifice that they continued to look upon the sun, implored him that if they were not already dead, he would spare her and her brave knight. At length it was over, and Saladin took possession of the city. Having purged the Great Mosque, washing it with rose-water, he worshipped in it after his own fashion, and distributed the remnant of the people who could pay no ransom as slaves among his emirs and followers. Thus did the Crescent triumph aver the Cross in Jerusalem, not in a sea of blood, as ninety years before the Cross had triumphed over the Crescent within its walls, but with what in those days passed for gentleness, peace, and mercy. For it was left to the Saracens to teach something of their own doctrines to the followers of Christ. During all those forty days Rosamund and Wulf lay in their separate prisons, awaiting their doom of death. The letter of Godwin was brought to Wulf, who read it and rejoiced to learn that his brother lived. Then it was taken from him to Rosamund, who, although she rejoiced also, wept over it, and wondered a little what it might mean. Of one thing she was sure from its wording--that they had no hope of life. They knew that Jerusalem had fallen, for they heard the shouts of triumph of the Moslems, and from far away, through their prison bars could see the endless multitude of fugitives passing the ancient gates laden with baggage, and leading their children by the hand, to seek refuge in the cities of the coast. At this sight, although it was so sad, Rosamund was happy, knowing also that now she would not suffer in vain. At length the camp broke up, Saladin and many of the soldiers entering Jerusalem; but still the pair were left languishing in their dismal cells, which were fashioned from old tombs. One evening, while Rosamund was kneeling; at prayer before she sought her bed, the door of the place was opened, and there appeared a glittering captain and a guard of soldiers, who saluted her and bade her follow him. "Is it the end?" she asked. "Lady," he answered, "it is the end." So she bowed her head meekly and followed. Without a litter was ready, in which they placed her and bore her through the bright moonlight into the city of Jerusalem and along the Way of Sorrow, till they halted at a great door, which she knew again, for by it stood the ancient arch. "They have brought me back to the Convent of the Holy Cross to kill me where I asked that I might be buried," she murmured to herself as she descended from the litter. Then the doors were thrown open, and she entered the great courtyard of the convent, and saw that it was decorated as though for a festival, for about it and in the cloisters round hung many lamps. More; these cloisters and the space in front of them were crowded with Saracen lords, wearing their robes of state, while yonder sat Saladin and his court. "They would make a brave show of my death," thought Rosamund again. Then a little cry broke from her lips, for there, in front of the throne of Saladin, the moonlight and the lamp-blaze shining on his armour, stood a tall Christian knight. At that cry he turned his head, and she grew sure that it was Wulf, wasted somewhat and grown pale, but still Wulf. "So we are to die together," she whispered to herself, then walked forward with a proud step amidst the deep silence, and, having bowed to Saladin, took the hand of Wulf and held it. The Sultan looked at them and said: "However long it may be delayed, the day of fate must break at last. Say, Franks, are you prepared to drink the dregs of that cup I promised you?" "We are prepared," they answered with one voice. "Do you grieve now that you laid down your lives to save those of all Jerusalem?" he asked again. "Nay," Rosamund answered, glancing at Wulf's face; "we rejoice exceedingly that God has been so good to us." "I too rejoice," said Saladin; "and I too thank Allah Who in bygone days sent me that vision which has given me back the holy city of Jerusalem without bloodshed. Now all is accomplished as it was fated. Lead them away." For a moment they clung together, then emirs took Wulf to the right and Rosamund to the left, and she went with a pale face and high head to meet her executioner, wondering if she would see Godwin ere she died. They led her to a chamber where women waited but no swordsman that she could see, and shut the door upon her. "Perchance I am to be strangled by these women," thought Rosamund, as they came towards her, "so that the blood royal may not be shed." Yet it was not so, for with gentle hands, but in silence, they unrobed her, and washed her with scented waters and braided her hair, twisting it up with pearls and gems. Then they clad her in fine linen, and put over it gorgeous, broidered garments, and a royal mantle of purple, and her own jewels which she had worn in bygone days, and with them others still more splendid, and threw about her head a gauzy veil worked with golden stars. It was just such a veil as Wulf's gift which she had worn on the night when Hassan dragged her from her home at Steeple. She noted it and smiled at the sad omen, then said: "Ladies, why should I mock my doom with these bright garments?" "It is the Sultan's will," they answered; "nor shall you rest to-night less happily because of them." Now all was ready, and the door opened and she stepped through it, a radiant thing, glittering in the lamplight. Then trumpets blew and a herald cried: "Way! Way there! Way for the high sovereign lady and princess of Baalbec!" Thus followed by the train of honourable women who attended her, Rosamund glided forward to the courtyard, and once more bent the knee to Saladin, then stood still, lost in wonder. Again the trumpets blew, and on the right a herald cried, "Way! Way there! Way for the brave and noble Frankish knight, Sir Wulf D'Arcy!" Lo! attended by emirs and notables, Wulf came forth, clad in splendid armour inlaid with gold, wearing on his shoulder a mantel set with gems and on his breast the gleaming Star of the Luck of Hassan. To Rosamund he strode and stood by her, his hands resting on the hilt of his long sword. "Princess," said Saladin, "I give you back your rank and titles, because you have shown a noble heart; and you, Sir Wulf, I honour also as best I may, but to my decree I hold. Let them go together to the drinking of the cup of their destiny as to a bridal bed." Again the trumpets blew and the heralds called, and they led them to the doors of the chapel, which at their knocking were thrown wide. From within came the sound of women's voices singing, but it was no sad song they sang. "The sisters of the Order are still there," said Rosamund to Wulf, "and would cheer us on our road to heaven." "Perchance," he answered. "I know not. I am amazed." At the door the company of Moslems left them, but they crowded round the entrance as though to watch what passed. Now down the long aisle walked a single whiterobed figure. It was the abbess. "What shall we do, Mother?" said Rosamund to her. "Follow me, both of you," she said, and they followed her through the nave to the altar rails, and at a sign from her knelt down. Now they saw that on either side of the altar stood a Christian priest. The priest to the right--it was the bishop Egbert--came forward and began to read over them the marriage service of their faith. "They'd wed us ere we die," whispered Rosamund to Wulf. "So be it," he answered; "I am glad." "And I also, beloved," she whispered back. The service went on--as in a dream, the service went on, while the white-robed sisters sat in their carven chairs and watched. The rings that were handed to them had been interchanged; Wulf had taken Rosamund to wife, Rosamund had taken Wulf to husband, till death did them part. Then the old bishop withdrew to the altar, and another hooded monk came forward and uttered over them the benediction in a deep and sonorous voice, which stirred their hearts most strangely, as though some echo reached them from beyond the grave. He held his hands above them in blessing and looked upwards, so that his hood fell back, and the light of the altar lamp fell upon his face. It was the face of Godwin, and on his head was the tonsure of a monk. Once more they stood before Saladin, and now their train was swelled by the abbess and sisters of the Holy Cross. "Sir Wulf D'Arcy," said the Sultan, "and you, Rosamund, my niece, princess of Baalbec, the dregs of your cup, sweet or bitter, or bitter-sweet, are drunk; the doom which I decreed for you is accomplished, and, according to your own rites, you are man and wife till Allah sends upon you that death which I withhold. Because you showed mercy upon those doomed to die and were the means of mercy, I also give you mercy, and with it my love and honour. Now bide here if you will in my freedom, and enjoy your rank and wealth, or go hence if you will, and live out your lives across the sea. The blessing of Allah be upon you, and turn your souls light. This is the decree of Yusuf Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, Conqueror and Caliph of the East." Trembling, full of joy and wonder, they knelt before him and kissed his hand. Then, after a few swift words between them, Rosamund spoke. "Sire, that God whom you have invoked, the God of Christian and of Moslem, the God of all the world, though the world worship Him in many ways and shapes, bless and reward you for this royal deed. Yet listen to our petition. It may be that many of our faith still lie unransomed in Jerusalem. Take my lands and gems, and let them be valued, and their price given to pay for the liberty of some poor slaves. It is our marriage offering. As for us, we will get us to our own country." "So be it," answered Saladin. "The lands I will take and devote the sum of them as you desire--yes, to the last bezant. The jewels also shall be valued, but I give them back to you as my wedding dower. To these nuns further I grant permission to bide here in Jerusalem to nurse the Christian sick, unharmed and unmolested, if so they will, and this because they sheltered you. Ho! minstrels and heralds lead this new-wed pair to the place that has been prepared for them." Still trembling and bewildered, they turned to go, when lo! Godwin stood before them smiling, and kissed them both upon the cheek, calling them "Beloved brother and sister." "And you, Godwin?" stammered Rosamund. "I, Rosamund, have also found my bride, and she is named the Church of Christ." "Do you, then, return to England, brother?" asked Wulf. "Nay," Godwin answered, in a fierce whisper and with flashing eyes, "the Cross is down, but not forever. That Cross has Richard of England and many another servant beyond the seas, and they will come at the Church's call. Here, brother, before all is done, we may meet again in war. Till then, farewell." So spoke Godwin and then was gone. 
6350	----	[Illustration: "SO GILBERT FIRST MET THE QUEEN"] VIA CRUCIS A Romance of the Second Crusade BY F. MARION CRAWFORD LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "So Gilbert first met the Queen" "Perhaps that is one reason why I like you" "Crosses! Give us Crosses!" Beatrix and Gilbert "He ... held, while earth and sky whirled with him" The Knighting of Gilbert "For a space Gilbert answered nothing" The Way of the Cross CHAPTER I The sun was setting on the fifth day of May, in the year of our Lord's grace eleven hundred and forty-five. In the little garden between the outer wall of the manor and the moat of Stoke Regis Manor, a lady slowly walked along the narrow path between high rose bushes trained upon the masonry, and a low flower-bed, divided into many little squares, planted alternately with flowers and sweet herbs on one side, and bordered with budding violets on the other. From the line where the flowers ended, spiked rushes grew in sharp disorder to the edge of the deep green water in the moat. Beyond the water stretched the close-cropped sward; then came great oak trees, shadowy still in their spring foliage; and then, corn-land and meadow-land, in long, green waves of rising tilth and pasture, as far as a man could see. The sun was setting, and the level rays reddened the lady's golden hair, and fired the softness of her clear blue eyes. She walked with a certain easy undulation, in which there were both strength and grace; and though she could barely have been called young, none would have dared to say that she was past maturity. Features which had been coldly perfect and hard in early youth, and which might grow sharp in old age, were smoothed and rounded in the full fruit-time of life's summer. As the gold deepened in the mellow air, and tinged the lady's hair and eyes, it wrought in her face changes of which she knew nothing. The beauty of a white marble statue suddenly changed to burnished gold might be beauty still, but of different expression and meaning. There is always something devilish in the too great profusion of precious metal--something that suggests greed, spoil, gain, and all that he lives for who strives for wealth; and sometimes, by the mere absence of gold or silver, there is dignity, simplicity, even solemnity. Above the setting sun, tens of thousands of little clouds, as light and fleecy as swan's-down, some dazzling bright, some rosy-coloured, some, far to eastward, already purple, streamed across the pale sky in the mystic figure of a vast wing, as if some great archangel hovered below the horizon, pointing one jewelled pinion to the firmament, the other down and unseen in his low flight. Just above the feathery oak trees, behind which the sun had dipped, long streamers of red and yellow and more imperial purple shot out to right and left. Above the moat's broad water, the quick dark May-flies chased one another, in dashes of straight lines, through the rosy haze, and as the sinking sun shot a last farewell glance between the oak trees on the knoll, the lady stood still and turned her smooth features to the light. There was curiosity in her look, expectation, and some anxiety, but there was no longing. A month, had passed since Raymond Warde had ridden away with his half-dozen squires and servants to do homage to the Empress Maud. Her court was, indeed, little more than a show, and Stephen ruled in wrongful possession of the land; but here and there a sturdy and honest knight was still to be found, who might, perhaps, be brought to do homage for his lands to King Stephen, but who would have felt that he was a traitor, and no true man, had he not rendered the homage of fealty to the unhappy lady who was his rightful sovereign. And one of these was Raymond Warde, whose great-grandfather had ridden with Robert the Devil to Jerusalem, and had been with him when he died in Nicaea; and his grandsire had been in the thick of the press at Hastings, with William of Normandy, wherefore he had received the lands and lordship of Stoke Regis in Hertfordshire; and his name is on Battle Abbey Roll to this day. During ten years Stephen of Blois had reigned over England with varying fortune, alternately victor and vanquished, now holding his great enemy, Robert of Gloucester, a prisoner and hostage, now himself in the Empress's power, loaded with chains and languishing in the keep of Bristol Castle. Yet of late the tide had turned in his favour; and though Gloucester still kept up the show of warfare for his half-sister's sake,--as indeed he fought for her so long as he had breath,--the worst of the civil war was over; the partisans of the Empress had lost faith in her sovereignty, and her cause was but lingering in the shadow of death. The nobles of England had judged Stephen's character from the hour in which King Henry died, and they knew him to be a brave soldier, a desperate fighter, an indulgent man, and a weak ruler. Finding themselves confronted by a usurper who had no great talent to recommend him, nor much political strength behind his brilliant personal courage, their first instinct was to refuse submission to his authority, and to drive him out as an impostor. It was not until they had been chilled and disappointed by the scornful coldness of the Empress Queen's imperious bearing that they saw how much pleasanter it would be to rule Stephen than to serve Maud. Yet Gloucester was powerful, and with his feudal retainers and devoted followers and a handful of loyal independent knights, he was still able to hold Oxford, Gloucester, and the northernmost part of Berkshire for his sister. Now, in the early spring of this present year, the great earl had gone forth, with his followers and a host of masons and labouring men, to build a new castle on the height by Faringdon, where good King Alfred had carved the great white horse by tearing the turf from the gravel hill, for an everlasting record of victory. Broadly and boldly Gloucester had traced the outer wall and bastions, the second wall within that, and the vast fortress which was to be thus trebly protected. The building was to be the work of weeks, not months, and, if it were possible, of days rather than of weeks. The whole was to be a strong outpost for a fresh advance, and neither gold nor labour was to be spared in the execution of the plan. Gloucester pitched his sister's camp and his own tent upon the grassy eminence that faced the castle. Thence he himself directed and commanded, and thence the Empress Maud, sitting beneath the lifted awning of her imperial tent, could see the grey stones rising, course upon course, string upon string, block upon block, at a rate that reminded her of that Eastern trick which she had seen at the Emperor's court, performed by a turbaned juggler from the East, who made a tree grow from the seed to the leafy branch and full ripe fruit while the dazed courtiers who looked on could count fivescore. Thither, as to a general trysting-place, the few loyal knights and barons went up to do homage to their sovereign lady, and to grasp the hand of the bravest and gentlest man who trod English ground; and thither, with the rest, Raymond Warde was gone, with his only son, Gilbert, then but eighteen years of age, whom this chronicle chiefly concerns; and Raymond's wife, the Lady Goda, was left in the manor house of Stoke Regis under the guard of a dozen men-at-arms, mostly stiff-jointed veterans of King Henry's wars, and under the more effectual protection of several hundred sturdy bondsmen and yeomen, devoted, body and soul, to their master and ready to die for his blood or kin. For throughout Hertfordshire and Essex and Kent there dwelt no Norman baron nor any earl who was beloved of his Saxon people as was the Lord of Stoke; wherefore his lady felt herself safe in his absence, though she knew well enough that only a small part of that devotion was for herself. There are people who seem able to go through life, with profit to themselves, if not to others, by a sort of vicarious grace arising out of the devotion wasted on them by their nearest and dearest, and dependent upon the success, the honour, and the reputation of those who cherish them. The Lady Goda set down to her own full credit the faithful attachment which her husband's Saxon swains not only felt for him, but owed him in return for his unchanging kindness and impartial justice; and she took the desert to herself, as such people will, with a whole-souled determination to believe that it was all her due though she knew that she deserved none of it. She had married Raymond Warde without loving him, being ambitious of his name and honours, when his future had seemed brilliant in the days of good King Henry. She had borne him an only son, who worshipped her with a chivalric devotion that was almost childlike in its blindness; but the most that she could feel, in return, was a sort of motherly vanity in his outward being; and this he accepted as love, though it was as far from that as devotion to self is from devotion to another--as greed is far from generosity. She had not been more than sixteen years of age when she had married, being the youngest of many sisters, left almost dowerless when their father had departed on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, from which he had never returned. Raymond Warde had loved her for her beauty, which was real, and for her character, which was entirely the creation of his own imagination; and with the calm, unconscious fatuity which so often underlies the characters of honest and simple men, he had continued throughout his married life to believe that his wife's affection, if neither very deep nor very high, was centred upon himself and upon Gilbert. Any man a whit less true and straightforward would have found out the utter emptiness of such belief within a year. Goda had been bitterly disappointed by the result of her marriage, so far as her real tastes and ambitions were concerned. She had dreamt of a court; she was condemned to the country. She loved gayety; she was relegated to dulness. Moreover the Lord of Stoke was strong rather than attractive, imposing rather than seductive, and he had never dreamed of that small coin of flattery which greedy and dissatisfied natures require at all costs when their real longings are unfed. It is their nature to give little; it is their nature and their delight to ask much, and to take all that is within their reach. So it came to pass that Goda took her husband's loving generosity and her son's devotion as matters foregone and of course, which were her due, and which might stay hunger, though they could not satisfy her vanity's large appetite; and she took, besides, such other things, both good and bad, as she found in her path, especially and notably the heart of Arnold de Curboil, a widowed knight, cousin to that Archbishop of Canterbury who had crowned Stephen king, after swearing allegiance to Maud. This Arnold, who had followed his great cousin in supporting King Stephen's cause, had received for his service broad lands, both farm and forest, in Hertfordshire, bordering upon the hereditary estates of the Wardes; and in the turmoil and chaos of the long civil war, his word, at first without Raymond's knowledge, had more than once saved the latter's little castle from siege and probable destruction. Warde, in his loyalty to the rightful sovereign, had, indeed, rather drawn back from the newcomer's friendship than made advances to win it; but Raymond had yielded in the end to his wife's sarcasms and to his own sense of obligation, as he began to find out how, again and again, in the turning tides of civil strife, his neighbour, though of opposite conviction, served him by protecting his bondsmen, his neat cattle, and his growing crops from pillage and destruction. Raymond did not trace such acts of neighbourly kindness to the day when, hawking with his lady and little Gilbert, then hardly big enough to sit upon a horse, they had been overtaken by a winter storm not far from Arnold's lands, and when Arnold himself, returning from a journey, had bidden them take shelter in a small outlying manor house, where he was to spend the night, and whither his servants had brought his little daughter Beatrix to meet her father. Raymond had accepted the offer for his wife's sake, and the two families had made acquaintance on that evening, by the blazing fire in the little hall. Before supper, the men had talked together with that sort of cheery confidence which exists almost before the first meeting between men who are neighbours and of the same rank, and the Lady Goda had put in a word now and then, as she sat in the high-backed chair, drying the bright blue cloth skirt of her gown before the crackling logs; and meanwhile, too, young Gilbert, who had his mother's hair and his father's deep-set eyes, walked round and round the solemn little dark-faced girl, who sat upon a settle by herself, clad in a green cloth dress which was cut in the fashion for grown-up women, and having two short stiff plaits of black hair hanging down behind the small coverchief that was tied under her fat chin. And as the boy in his scarlet doublet and green cloth hose walked backward and forward, stopping, moving away, then standing still to show off his small hunting-knife, drawing it half out of its sheath, and driving it home again with a smart push of the palm of his hand, the little girl's round black eyes followed all his movements with silent and grave curiosity. She was brotherless, he had no sisters, and both had been brought up without companions, so that each was an absolute novelty to the other; and when Gilbert threw his round cap, spinning on itself, up to the brown rafters of the dim fire-lit chamber and caught it upon one finger as it came down again, the little Beatrix laughed aloud. This seemed to him nothing less than an invitation, and he immediately sat down beside her on the settle, holding his cap in his hand, and began to ask her how she was called, and whether she lived in that place all the year round; and before long they were good friends, and were talking of plovers' eggs and kingfishers' nests, and of the time when they should each have a hawk of their own, and a horse, and each a hound and a footman. When supper was over and a serving-woman had taken the little Beatrix away to sleep in the women's upper chamber, and when the steward of the manor farm, and his wife and the retainers and servants, who had eaten and drunk their fill at the lower end of the hall, were all gone to their quarters in the outbuildings,--and when a bed had been made for Gilbert, in a corner near the great chimney-piece, by filling with fresh straw a large linen sack which was laid upon the chest in which the bag was kept during the daytime, and was then covered with a fine Holland sheet and two thick woollen blankets, under which the boy was asleep in five minutes,--then the two knights and the lady were left to themselves in their great carved chairs before the fire. But the Lord of Stoke, who was a strong man and heavy, and had eaten well and had drunk both ale and Gascony wine at supper, stretched out his feet to the fire-dogs, and rested his elbows upon the arms of his chair, and matched his hands together by the thumbs and by the forefingers, and by the other fingers, one by one; and little by little the musical, false voice of his lady, and the singularly gentle and unctuous tones of his host, Arnold de Curboil, blended together and lost themselves, just as the gates of dreamland softly closed behind him. The Lady Goda, who had been far too tired to think of riding home that night, was not in the least sleepy, and, moreover, she was profoundly interested in what Sir Arnold had to say, while he was much too witty to say anything which should not interest her. He talked of the court, and of the fashions, and of great people whom he knew intimately and whom the Lady Goda longed to know; and from time to time he managed to convey to her the idea that the beauties of King Stephen's court would stand in a poor comparison with her, if her husband could be induced to give up his old-fashioned prejudices and his allegiance to the Empress Maud. Lady Goda had once been presented to the Empress, who had paid very little attention to her, compared with the interest she showed in Sir Raymond himself. At the feast which had followed the formal audience, she had been placed between a stout German widow lady and an Italian abbot from Normandy, who had talked to each other across her, in dog-Latin, in a way which had seemed to her very unmannerly; and the German lady had eaten pieces of game-pie with her knife, instead of using her fingers, as a lady should, before forks were invented. On the following morning the Lady Goda had been taken away again by her husband, and her experiences of court life had been brought to an abrupt close. If the great Earl Robert of Gloucester had deigned to bestow a word upon her, instead of looking through her with his beautiful calm blue eyes at an imaginary landscape beyond, her impressions of life at the Empress's court might have been very different, and she might ever afterwards have approved her husband's loyalty. But although she had bestowed unusual pains upon the arrangement of her splendid golden hair, and had boxed the ears of a clumsy tirewoman with so much vivacity that her own hand ached perceptibly three hours afterwards, yet the great earl paid no more attention to her than if she had been a Saxon dairy-maid. These things, combined with the fact that she unexpectedly found the ladies of the Empress's court wearing pocket sleeves, shaped like overgrown mandolins, and almost dragging on the rushes as they walked, whereas her own were of the old-fashioned open cut, had filled her soul with bitterness against the legitimate heir to King Henry's throne and had made the one-sided barrier between herself and her husband--which she could see so plainly, but which was quite invisible to him--finally and utterly impassable. He not only bored her himself, but he had given her over to be bored by others, and from that day no such thing as even the mildest affection for him was to be thought of on her side. It was no wonder that she listened with breathless interest to all Sir Arnold told her, and watched with delight the changing expression of his smooth face, contrasted at every point with the bold, grave features of the Lord of Stoke, solemnly asleep beside her. And Curboil, on his side, was not only flattered, as every man is when a beautiful woman listens to him long and intently, but he saw also that her beauty was of an unusual and very striking kind. Too straight, too cold, too much like marble, yet with hair almost too golden and a mouth like a small red wound; too much of every quality to be natural, and yet without fault or flaw, and too vivid not to delight the tired taste of the man of pleasure of that day, who had seen the world from London to Rome and from Rome to the imperial court of Henry the Fifth. And she, on her side, saw in him the type to which she would naturally have been attracted had she been perfectly free to make her choice of a husband. Contrasted with the man of action, of few words, of few feelings and strong ones, she saw the many-sided man of the world, whose mere versatility was a charm, and the thought of whose manifold experiences had in it a sort of mysterious fascination. Arnold de Curboil was above all a man of tact and light touch, accustomed to the society of women and skilled in the art of appealing to that unsatisfied vanity which is the basis of most imperfect feminine characters. There was nothing weak about him, and he was at least as brave as most men, besides being more skilful than the majority in the use of weapons. His small, well-shaped, olive-tinted hand could drive a sword with a quicker thrust than Raymond Warde's, and with as sure an aim, though there might not be the same massive strength behind it. In the saddle he had not the terrible grip of the knee which could make a strong horse shrink and quiver and groan aloud; but few riders of his day were more profoundly skilled in the art of showing a poor mount to good advantage, and of teaching a good one to use his own powers to the utmost. When Warde had ridden a horse six months, the beast was generally gone in the fore quarters, and broken-winded, if not dead outright; but in the same time Curboil would have ridden the same horse twice as far, and would have doubled his value. And so in many other ways, with equal chances, the one seemed to squander where the other turned everything to his own advantage. Standing Sir Arnold was scarcely of medium height, but seated, he was not noticeably small; and, like many men of short stature, he bestowed a constant and thoughtful care upon his person and appearance, which resulted in a sort of permanent compensation. His dark beard was cut to a point, and so carefully trimmed as to remind one of those smoothly clipped trees representing peacocks and dragons, which have been the delight of the Italian gardener ever since the days of Pliny. He wore his hair neither long nor short, but the silky locks were carefully parted in the middle and smoothed back in rich dark waves. There was something almost irritating in their unnatural smoothness, in the perfect transparency of the man's healthy olive complexion, in the mouselike sleekness of his long arching eyebrows, and in the perfect self-satisfaction and confidence of his rather insolent reddish-brown eyes. His straight round throat, well proportioned, well set upon his shoulders, and transparently smooth as his own forehead, was thrown into relief by the exquisite gold embroidery that edged the shirt of finest Flemish linen. He wore a close-fitting tunic of fine scarlet cloth, with tight sleeves slightly turned back to display his shapely wrists; it was gathered to his waist by a splendid sword-belt, made of linked and enamelled plates of silver, the work of a skilled Byzantine artist, each plate representing in rich colours a little scene from the life and passion of Christ. The straight cross-hilted sword stood leaning against the wall near the great chimney-piece, but the dagger was still at the belt, a marvel of workmanship, a wonder of temper, a triumph of Eastern art, when almost all art was Eastern. The hilt of solid gold, eight-sided and notched, was cross-chiselled in a delicate but deep design, picked out with rough gems, set with cunning irregularity; the guard, a hollowed disk of steel, graven and inlaid in gold with Kufic characters; the blade, as long as a man's arm from the elbow to the wrist-joint, forged of steel and silver by a smith of Damascus, well balanced, slender, with deep blood-channels scored on each side to within four fingers of the thrice-hardened point, that could prick as delicately as a needle or pierce fine mail like a spike driven by a sledge-hammer. The tunic fell in folds to the knee, and the close-fitted cloth hose were of a rich dark brown. Sir Arnold wore short riding-boots of dark purple leather, having the tops worked round with a fine scarlet lacing; but the spur-leathers were of the same colour as the boot and the spurs themselves of steel, small, sharp, unornamented, and workmanlike. Six years had passed since that evening, and still, when the Lady Goda closed her eyes and thought of Sir Arnold, she saw him as she had seen him then, with every line of his expression, every detail of his dress, sitting beside her in the warm firelight, leaning forward a little in his chair, and talking to her in a tone of voice that was meant to be monotonous to the sleeper's ear, but not by any means to her own. Between Warde and Curboil the acquaintance had matured--had been in a measure forced in its growth by circumstances and mutual obligations; but it had never ripened into the confidence of friendship on Warde's side, while on Sir Arnold's it had been but a well-played comedy to hide his rising hatred for the Lady Goda's husband. And she, on her side, played her part as well. An alliance in which ambition had held the place of heart could not remain an alliance at all when ambition had been altogether disappointed. She hated her husband for having disappointed her; she despised him for having made nothing of his many gifts and chances, for clinging to an old cause, for being old-fashioned, for having seen much and taken nothing--which makes 'rich eyes and poor hands'--for being slow, good-natured, kind-hearted, and a prey to all who wished to get anything from him. She reflected with bitterness that for a matter of seven or eight years of waiting, and a turn of chance which would have meant happiness instead of misery, she might have had the widowed Sir Arnold for a husband and have been the Archbishop of Canterbury's cousin, high in favour with the winning side in the civil war and united to a man who would have known how to flatter her cold nature into a fiction of feeling, instead of wasting on her the almost exaggerated respect with which a noble passion envelops its object, but which, to most women, becomes in the end unspeakably wearisome. Many a time during those six years had she and Sir Arnold met and talked as on the first night. Once, when the Empress Maud had taken King Stephen prisoner, and things looked ill for his followers, Warde had insisted that his neighbour should come over to Stoke Regis, as being a safer place than his own castle; and once again, when Stephen had the upper hand, and Sir Raymond was fighting desperately under Gloucester, his wife had taken her son, and the priest, and some of her women, and had ridden over to ask protection of Sir Arnold, leaving the manor to take care of itself. At first Curboil had constantly professed admiration for Warde's mental and physical gifts; but little by little, tactfully feeling his distance, he had made the lady meet his real intention half way by confiding to him all that she suffered, or fancied that she suffered--which with some women is the same thing--in being bound for life to a man who had failed to give her what her ambition craved. Then, one day, the key-word had been spoken. After that, they never ceased to hope that Raymond Warde might come to an untimely end. During these years Gilbert had grown from a boy to a man, unsuspicious, worshipping his mother as a kind of superior being, but loving his father with all that profound instinct of mutual understanding which makes both love and hatred terrible within the closer degrees of consanguinity. As time went by and the little Beatrix grew tall and straight and pale, Gilbert loved her quite naturally, as she loved him--two young people of one class, without other companions, and very often brought together for days at a time in the isolated existence of mediaeval castles. Perhaps Gilbert never realized just how much of his affection for his mother was the result of her willingness to let him fall in love with Beatrix. But the possibility of discussing the marriage was another excuse for those long conversations with Sir Arnold, which had now become a necessary part of Goda's life, and it made the frequent visits and meetings in the hawking season seem quite natural to the unsuspecting Sir Raymond. In hunting with Sir Arnold, he had more than one narrow escape. Once, when almost at close quarters with an old boar, he was stooping down to meet the tusker with a low thrust. His wife and Sir Arnold were some twenty paces behind him, and all three had become separated from the huntsmen. Seeing the position and the solitude, the Lady Goda turned her meaning eyes to her companion. An instant later Sir Arnold's boar-spear flew like a cloth-yard arrow, straight at Sir Raymond's back. But in that very instant, too, as the boar rushed upon him, Warde sprang to one side, and, almost dropping to his knee, ran the wild beast through with his hunting sword. The spear flew harmless over his head, unseen and unheard, and lost itself in the dead leaves twenty yards beyond him. On another day, Raymond, riding along, hawk on wrist, ten lengths before the others, as was his wont, did not notice that they gradually fell behind, until he halted in a narrow path of the forest, looked round, and found himself alone. He turned his horse's head and rode back a few yards, when suddenly three masked men, whom he took for robbers, sprang up in his path and fell upon him with long knives. But they had misreckoned their distance by a single yard, and their time by one second, and when they were near enough to strike, his sword was already in his hand. The first man fell dead; the second turned and fled, with a deep flesh wound in his shoulder; the third followed without striking a blow; and Sir Raymond rode on unhurt, meditating upon the uncertainty of the times. When he rejoined his wife and friend, he found them dismounted and sitting side by side on a fallen tree, talking low and earnestly, while the footmen and falconers were gathered together in a little knot at some distance. As they heard his voice, Goda started with a little cry, and Arnold's dark face turned white; but by the time he was beside them, they were calm again, and smiled, and they asked him whether he had lost his way. Raymond said nothing of what had happened to him, fearing to startle the delicate nerves of his lady; but late on the following night, when Sir Arnold was alone in his bedchamber, a man ghastly white from loss of blood lifted the heavy curtain and told his story in a low voice. CHAPTER II Now Raymond and his son had gone over into Berkshire, to the building of the great castle at Faringdon, as has been said; and for a while Sir Arnold remained in his hold, and very often he rode over alone to Stoke, and spent many hours with the Lady Goda, both in the hall and in the small garden by the moat. The priest, and the steward, and the men-at-arms, and the porter, were all used to see him there often enough, when Sir Raymond was at home, and they thought no evil because he came now to bear the lonely lady company; for the manners of those days were simple. But on a morning at the end of April, there came a messenger from King Stephen, bidding all earls, barons, bannerets, and knights, upon their oath of fealty, join him with their fighting men in Oxford. For form's sake, the messenger came to Stoke Regis, as not admitting that any Norman knight should not be on the king's side; and the drawbridge being down, he rode under the gateway, and when the trumpeter who was with him had blown three blasts, he delivered his message. Then the steward, bowing deeply, answered that his lord was absent on a journey; and the messenger turned and rode away, without bite or sup. But, riding on to Stortford Castle, he found Sir Arnold, and delivered the king's bidding with more effect, and was hospitably treated with meat and drink. Sir Arnold armed himself slowly in full mail, saving his head, for the weather was strangely warm, and he would ride in his hat rather than wear the heavy steel cap with the broad nose-guard. Before an hour had passed he was mounted, with his men, and his footmen were marching before and behind him on the broad Hertford road. But he had sent a messenger secretly to the Lady Goda, to tell her that he was gone; and after that she heard nothing for many days. In the morning, and after dinner, and before sunset, she came every day to the little garden under the west wall of the manor, and looked long toward the road--not that she wished Sir Raymond back, nor that she cared when Gilbert came, but she well knew that the return of either would mean that the fighting was over, and that Sir Arnold, too, would be at leisure to go home. On that fifth of May, as the sun was going down, she stood still and looked out toward the road for the tenth time since Curboil had gone to join the king. The sun sank lower, and still she saw nothing; and she felt the chill of the damp evening air, and would have turned to go in, but something held her. Far up the road, on the brow of the rising ground, she saw a tiny spark, a little dancing flame like the corpse-candles that run along the graves on a summer's night--first one, then all at once three, then, as it seemed to her, a score at least, swaying a little above a compact dark mass against the red sky. The lights were like little stars rising and falling on the horizon, and always just above a low, black cloud. A moment more, and the evening breeze out of the west brought a long-drawn harmony of chanting to the Lady Goda's ear, the high sweet notes of youthful voices sustained by the rich counterpoint of many grown men's tones. She started, and held her breath, shivered a little, and snatched at the rose bush beside her, so that the thorns struck through the soft green gauntlet and pricked her, though she felt nothing. There was death in the air; there was death in the moving lights; there was death in the minor wail of the monks' voices. In the first moment of imperfect understanding, it was Arnold whom they were bringing home to her, slain in battle by her lawful husband, or by Gilbert, her son; it was Arnold whom they were bringing back to her who loved him, that she might wash his wounds with her tears, and dry his damp brow with her glorious hair. Wide-eyed and silent, as the train came near, she moved along by the moat to meet the procession at the drawbridge, not understanding yet, but not letting one movement of the men, one flicker of the lights, one quaver of the deep chant, escape her reeling senses. Then all at once she was aware that Gilbert walked bareheaded before the bier, half wrapped in a long black cloak that swept the greensward behind him. As she turned the last bastion before reaching the drawbridge, the funeral was moving along by the outer edge of the moat, and between the procession and her there was only the broad water, reflecting the lights of the moving tapers, the dark cowls of the monks, the white surplices of the song-boys. They moved slowly, and she, as in a dream, followed them on the other side with little steps, wondering, fearing, starting now with a wild thrill of liberty at last, now struggling with a half conventional, half hysterical sob that rose in her throat at the thought of death so near. She had lived with him, she had played the long comedy of love with him, she had loathed him in her heart, she had smiled at him with well-trained eyes; and now she was free to choose, free to love, free to be Arnold's wife. And yet she had lived with the dead man; and in the far-off past there were little tender lights of happiness, half real, half played, but never forgotten, upon which she had once taught her thoughts to dwell tenderly and sadly. She had loved the dead man in the first days of marriage, as well as her cold and unawakened nature could love at all--if not for himself, at least for the hopes of vanity built on his name. She had hated him in secret, but she could not have hated him so heartily had there not once been a little love to turn so fiercely sour. She could not have trained her eyes to smile at him so gently had she not once smiled for his own sake. And so, when they brought him dead to the gate of his own house, his wife had still some shreds of memories for weeds to eke out a show of sorrow. She passed through the postern in the small round tower beside the gateway, knowing that when she came out under the portcullis, the funeral train would be just reaching the other end of the bridge. The little vaulted room in the lower story of the tower was not four steps in width across, from door to door; but it was almost dark, and there the Lady Goda stopped one moment before she went out to meet the mourners. Standing still in the dimness, she pressed her gloved hands to her eyes with all her might, as though to concentrate her thoughts and her strength. Then she threw back her arms, and looked up through the gloom, and almost laughed; and she felt something just below her heart that stifled her like a great joy. Then all at once she was calm, and touched her eyes again with her gloved hands, but gently now, as though smoothing them and preparing them to look upon what they must see presently. She opened the little door, and was suddenly standing in the midst of the frightened herd of retainers and servants, while the last strains of the dirge came echoing under the deep archway. At that instant another sound startled the air--the deep bell-note of the great bloodhounds, chained in the courtyard from sunrise to sunset; and it sank to a wail, and the wail broke to a howl, dismal, ear-rending, wild. Before it had died away, one of the Saxon bondwomen shrieked aloud, and the next took up the cry, and then another, as a likewake dirge, till every stone in the shadowy manor seemed to have a voice, and every voice was weeping for the dead lord. And many of the women fell upon their knees, and some of the men, too, while others drew up their hoods, and stood with bent heads and folded hands against the rough walls. Slowly and solemnly they bore him in and set the bier down under the mid-arch. Then Gilbert Warde looked up and faced his mother; but he stood aside, that she might see her husband; and the monks and song-boys stood back also, with their wax torches, which cast a dancing glare through the dim twilight. Gilbert's face was white and stern; but the Lady Goda was pale, too, and her heart fluttered, for she had to play the last act of her married life before many who would watch her narrowly. For one moment she hesitated whether to scream or to faint in honour of her dead husband. Then, with the instinct of the born and perfect actress, she looked wildly from her son's face to the straight, still length that lay beneath the pall. She raised one hand to her forehead, pressing back her golden hair with a gesture half mad, half dazed, then seemed to stagger forward two steps, and fell upon the body, in a storm of tears. Gilbert went to the bier, and lifted one of his mother's gloved hands from the covered face, and it dropped from his fingers as if lifeless. He lifted the black cloth pall, and turned it back as far as he could without disturbing the woman's prostrate figure; and there lay the Lord of Stoke, in his mail, as he had fallen in fight, in his peaked steel helmet, the straight, fine, ring-mail close-drawn round his face and chin, the silky brown hair looking terribly alive against the dead face. But across the eyes and the forehead below the helmet there was laid a straight black band, and upon his breast the great mailed hands clasped the cross-hilted sword that lay lengthwise with his body. Gilbert, bareheaded and unarmed, gazed down into his father's face for a while, then suddenly looked up and spoke to all the people who thronged the gateway. "Men of Stoke," he said, "here lies the body of Sir Raymond Warde, your liege lord, my father. He fell in the fight before Faringdon Castle, and this is the third day since he was slain; for the way was long, and we were not suffered to pass unmolested. The castle was but half built, and we were encamped about it with the Earl of Gloucester, when the king came suddenly from Oxford with a great host; and they fell upon us unawares at early morning, when we had but just heard the mass and most of us were but half armed, or not at all. So we fought as we could, and many fell, and not a few we killed with our hands. And I, with a helmet on my head and a gambison but half buckled upon my body, and my hands bare, was fighting with a full-armed Frenchman and was hard pressed. But I smote him in the neck, so that he fell upon one knee and reeled. And even in that moment I saw this sight. A score of paces from me, my father and Sir Arnold de Curboil met face to face, suddenly and without warning, their swords lifted in the act to strike; but when my father saw his friend before him, he dropped his sword-arm and smiled, and would have turned away to fight another; but Sir Arnold smiled also, and lowered not his hand, but smote my father by the point, unguarded, and thrust his sword through head and hood of mail at one stroke, treacherously. And so my father, your liege lord, fell dead unshriven, by his friend's hand; and may the curse of man and the damnation of Almighty God be upon his murderer's head, now and after I shall have killed him. For, as I would have sprung forward, the Frenchman, who was but stunned, sprang to his feet and grappled with me; and by the time he had no breath left, and the light broke in his eyes, Sir Arnold was gone, and our fight was lost. So we made a truce to bury our dead, and brought them away, each his own." When he had spoken there was silence for many moments, broken only by the Lady Goda's unceasing sobs. In the court within, and on the bridge without, the air grew purple, and dark, and misty; for the sun had long gone down, and the light from the wax torches, leaping, flaming and flickering in the evening breeze, grew stronger and yellower under the gateway than the twilight without. The dark-robed monks looked gravely on, waiting till they should be told to pass into the chapel--men of all ages and looks, red and pale, thin and stout, dark and fair, but all having that something in their faces that marks the churchman from century to century. Between them and the dead knight, Gilbert stood still with bent head and downcast eyes, with pale face and set lips, looking at his mother's bright hair, and at her clutching hands, and listening to the painfully drawn breath, broken continually by her agonized weeping. Suddenly the bloodhounds' bay broke out again, fierce and deep; and on the instant a high young voice rang from the court through the deep arch. "Burn the murderer! To Stortford, and burn him out!" Gilbert looked up quickly, peering into the gloom whence the voice had spoken. He did not see how, at the words, his mother started back from the corpse, steadied herself with one hand, and fixed her eyes in the same direction; but before he could answer, the cry was taken up by a hundred throats. "Burn the traitor! burn the murderer! To Stortford! Fagots! Fagots and pitch!" High, low, hoarse, clear, the words followed one another in savage yells; and here and there among the rough men there were eyes that gleamed in the dark like a dog's. Then through the din came a rattling of bolts and a creaking of hinges, as the grooms tore open the stable doors to bring out the horses and saddle them for the raid; and one called for a light and another warned men from his horse's heels. The Lady Goda was on her feet, her hands stretched out imploringly to her son, turning to him instinctively and for the first time, as to the head of the house. She spoke to him, too; but he neither heard nor saw, for in his own heart a new horror had possession, beside which what had gone before was as nothing. He thought of Beatrix. "Hold!" he cried. "Let no man stir, for no man shall pass out who would burn Stortford. Sir Arnold de Curboil is the king's man, and the king has the power in England; so that if we should burn down Stortford Castle to-night, he would burn Stoke Manor to-morrow over my mother's head. Between Arnold de Curboil and me there is death. To-morrow I shall ride out to find him, and kill him in fair fight. But let there be no raiding, no harrying, and no burning, as if we were Stephen's French robbers, or King David's red-haired Scots. Take up the bier; and you," he said, turning to the monks and song-men, "take up your chant, that we may lay him in the chapel and say prayers for his unshriven soul." The Lady Goda's left hand had been pressed to her heart as though she were in fear and pain; but as her son spoke, it fell by her side, and her face grew calm before she remembered that it should grow sad. Until to-day her son had been in her eyes but a child, subject to his father, subject to herself, subject to the old manor-priest who had taught him the little he knew. Now, on a sudden, he was full-grown and strong; more than that, he was master in his father's place, and at a word from him, men-at-arms and bondsmen would have gone forth on the instant to slay the man she loved, and to burn and to harry all that was his. She was grateful to him for not having spoken that word; and since Gilbert meant to meet Curboil in a single combat, she felt no fear for her lover, the most skilled man at fence in all Essex and Hertfordshire, and she felt sure, likewise, that for his reputation as a knight he would not kill a youth but half his age. While she was thinking of these things, the monks had begun to chant again; the confusion was ended in the courtyard; the squires took up the bier, and the procession moved slowly across the broad paved space to the chapel opposite the main gate. An hour later Sir Raymond's dead body lay before the altar, whereon burned many waxen tapers. Alone, upon the lowest step, Gilbert was kneeling, with joined hands and uplifted eyes, motionless as a statue. He had taken the long sword from the dead man's breast, and had set it up against the altar, straight and bare. It was hacked at the edges, and there were dark stains upon it from its master's last day's work. In the simple faith of a bloody age, Gilbert Warde was vowing, by all that he and his held sacred, before God's altar, upon God's Sacred Body, upon his father's unburied corpse, that before the blade should be polished again, it should be black with the blood of his father's murderer. And as he knelt there, his lady mother, now clad all in black, entered the chapel and moved slowly towards the altar-steps. She meant to kneel beside her son; but when she was yet three paces from him, a great terror at her own falseness descended into her heart, and she sank upon her knees in the aisle. CHAPTER III Very early in the morning, Gilbert Warde was riding along the straight road between Sheering Abbey and Stortford Castle. He rode in his tunic and hose and russet boots, with his father's sword by his side; for he meant not to do murder, but to fight his enemy to death, in all the honour of even chance. He judged that Sir Arnold must have returned from Faringdon; and if Gilbert met him now, riding over his own lands in the May morning, he would be unmailed and unsuspecting of attack. And should they not meet, Gilbert meant to ride up to the castle gate, and ask for the baron, and courteously propose to him that they should ride together into the wood. And, indeed, Gilbert hoped that it might turn out so; for, once under the gateway, he might hope to see Beatrix for a moment; and two weeks had passed, and terrible things had happened, since he had last set eyes upon her face. He met no one in the road; but in the meadow before the castle half a dozen Saxon grooms, in loose hose and short homespun tunics, were exercising some of Curboil's great Normandy horses. The baron himself was not in sight, and the grooms told Gilbert that he was within. The drawbridge was down, and Gilbert halted just before entering the gate, calling loudly for the porter. But instead of the latter, Sir Arnold himself appeared at that moment within the courtyard, feeding a brace of huge mastiffs with gobbets of red raw meat from a wooden bowl, carried by a bare-legged stable-boy with a shock of almost colourless flaxen hair, and a round, red face, pierced by two little round blue eyes. Gilbert called again, and the knight instantly turned and came towards him, beating down with his hands the huge dogs that sprang up at him in play and seemed trying to drive him back. Sir Arnold was smooth, spotless and carefully dressed as ever, and came forward with a well-composed smile in which hospitality was skilfully blended with sympathy and concern. Gilbert, who was as thorough a Norman in every instinct and thought as any whose fathers had held lands from the Conqueror, did his best to be suave and courteous on his side. Dismounting, he said quietly that he desired to speak with Sir Arnold alone upon a matter of weight, and as the day was fair, he proposed that they should ride together for a little way into the greenwood. Sir Arnold barely showed a slight surprise, and readily assented. Gilbert, intent upon his purpose, noticed that the knight had no weapon. "It were as well that you took your sword with you, Sir Arnold," he said, somewhat emphatically. "No one is safe from highwaymen in these times." The knight met Gilbert's eyes, and the two looked at each other steadily for a moment; then Curboil sent the stable-boy to fetch his sword from the hall, and himself went out upon the drawbridge and called to one of the grooms to bring in a horse. In less than half an hour from the time when Gilbert had reached the castle, he and his enemy were riding quietly side by side in a little glade in Stortford wood. Gilbert drew rein and walked his horse, and Sir Arnold instantly did the same. Then Gilbert spoke. "Sir Arnold de Curboil, it is now full three days since I saw you treacherously kill my father." Sir Arnold started and turned half round in the saddle, his olive skin suddenly white with anger; but the soft fresh colour in Gilbert's cheek never changed. "Treacherously!" cried the knight, with indignation and with a questioning tone. "Foully," answered Gilbert, with perfect calm. "I was not twenty paces from you when you met, and had I not been hampered by a Frenchman of your side, who was unreasonably slow in dying, I should have either saved my father's life or ended yours, as I mean to now." Thereupon Gilbert brought his horse to a stand and prepared to dismount, for the sward was smooth and hard and there was room enough to fight. Sir Arnold laughed aloud as he sat still in the saddle, watching the younger man. "So you have brought me here to kill me!" he said as his mirth subsided. Gilbert's foot was already on the ground, but he paused in the act of dismounting. "If you do not like the spot," he answered coolly, "we can ride farther." "No, I am satisfied," answered the knight; but before he had spoken the last word he broke into a laugh again. They tied up their horses to trees at a little distance, out of reach of one another, and Gilbert was the first to return to the ring of open ground. As he walked, he drew his father's sword from its sheath, slipped the scabbard from the belt, and threw it to the edge of the grass. Sir Arnold was before him a moment later; but his left hand only rested on the pommel of his sheathed weapon, and he was still smiling as he stopped before his young adversary. "I should by no means object to fighting you," he said, "if I had killed your father in treachery. But I did not. I saw you as well as you saw me. Your Frenchman, as you call him, hindered your sight. Your father was either beside himself with rage, or did not know me in my mail. He dropped his point one instant, and then flew at me like a bloodhound, so that I barely saved myself by slaying him against my will. I will not fight you unless you force me to it; and you had better not, for if you do, I shall lay you by the heels in two passes." "Bragging and lying are well coupled," answered Gilbert, falling into guard. "Draw before I shall have counted three, or I will skewer you like a trussed fowl. One--two--" Before the next word could pass his lips, Sir Arnold's sword was out, keen and bright as if it had just left the armourer's hands, clashing upon Gilbert's hacked and blood-rusted blade. Sir Arnold was a brave man, but he was also cautious. He expected to find in Gilbert a beginner of small skill and reckless bravery, who would expose himself for the sake of bringing in a sweeping blow in carte, or attempting a desperate thrust. Consequently he did not attempt to put his bragging threat into practice, for Gilbert was taller than he, stronger, and more than twenty years younger. Unmailed, as he stood in his tunic and hose, one vigorous sword-stroke of the furious boy might break down his guard and cut him half in two. But in one respect Curboil was mistaken. Gilbert, though young, was one of those naturally gifted fencers in whom the movements of wrist and arm are absolutely simultaneous with the perception of the eye, and not divided by any act of reasoning or thought. In less than half a minute Sir Arnold knew that he was fighting for his life; the full minute had not passed before he felt Gilbert's jagged blade deep in the big muscles of his sword arm, and his own weapon, running past his adversary, fell from his powerless hand. In those days it was no shame to strike a disarmed foe, in a duel to the death. As Sir Arnold felt the rough steel wrenched from the flesh-wound, he knew that the next stroke would kill him. Quick as light, his left hand snatched the long dagger from its sheath at his left side, and Gilbert, raising his blade to strike, felt as if an icicle had pierced his breast; his arm trembled in the air, and lost its hold upon the hilt; a scarlet veil descended before his eyes, and the bright blood gushed from his mouth as he fell straight backward upon the green turf. Sir Arnold stepped back and stood looking at the fallen figure curiously, drawing his lids down, as some short-sighted men do. Then, as the sobbing breast ceased to heave and the white hands lay quite still upon the sward, he shrugged his shoulders, and began to take care of his own wound by twisting a leathern thong from Gilbert's saddle very tight upon his upper arm, using a stout oak twig for a lever. Then he plucked a handful of grass with his left hand and tried to hold his dagger in his right in order to clean the reddened steel. But his right hand was useless; so he knelt on one knee beside the body, and ran the poniard two or three times through the skirt of Gilbert's dark tunic, and returned it to its sheath. He picked up his sword, too, and succeeded in sheathing it. He mounted his horse, leaving Gilbert's tethered to the tree, cast one more glance at the motionless figure on the grass, and rode away towards Stortford Castle. CHAPTER IV Two months after Sir Arnold de Curboil had left Gilbert Warde in the forest, believing him to be dead, the ghostly figure of a tall, wafer-thin youth, leaning on the shoulders of two grey brothers, was led out into the warm shadows of the cloister in Sheering Abbey. One of the friars carried a brown leathern cushion, the other a piece of stiff parchment for a fan, and when they reached the first stone seat, they installed the sick man as comfortably as they could. Three travelling monks, tramping homeward by the short forest path from Harlow to Sheering, had found Gilbert lying in his blood, not ten minutes after the knight had ridden away. Not knowing who he was, they had brought him to the abbey, where he was at once recognized by the monks who had formed the funeral procession on the previous evening, and by others who had seen him. The brother whose duty it was to tend the sick, an old soldier with the scars of a dozen deep wounds in him, and by no means a despicable surgeon, pronounced Gilbert's condition almost hopeless, and assured the abbot that it would be certain death to the young Lord of Stoke to send him back to his home. He was therefore laid upon a new bed in an upper chamber that had fair arched windows to the west, and there the brothers expected that Gilbert Warde would before long breathe his last and end his race and name. The abbot sent a messenger to Stoke Regis to inform the Lady Goda of her son's condition, and on the following day she came to see him, but he did not know her, for he was in a fever; and three days passed, and she came again, but he was asleep, and the nursing brother would not disturb him. After that she sent messengers to inquire about his state, but she herself did not come again, whereat the abbot and many of the monks marvelled for a while, but afterwards they understood. Gilbert lived, and the desperate wound slowly healed, for he was strong and young, and his blood was untainted; but when at last he was allowed to stand upon his feet, he seemed to be little more than a fine-drawn shadow. They dressed him first in a novice's frock, because it was easier for him to wear, and at last he was well enough to be carried down from his room, and to sit for an hour upon the stone bench in the cloister. One of the brothers sat down beside him and slowly fanned his face with a stiff sheet of yellow parchment, such as the monks used for binding their books; the other went away to his work. Gilbert leaned back and closed his eyes, drinking in the sun-sweetened air and the scent of the flowers that grew in the cloister garden; and the indescribable sense of peace descended upon his body and soul which comes to men wrested from death, when danger is passed and their strength is slowly growing again within them. It is impossible for any young man of sensitive and believing mind to spend two months in a great religious institution of his own faith without feeling himself drawn to the religious life. Lying in his room, alone for many hours of the day, alone in waking watches of the night, though a brother was always within call, Gilbert had followed with a sick man's second sight the lives of the two hundred monks who dwelt in Sheering Abbey. By asking questions, he knew how they rose at dawn, and trooped into the dim abbey church to early mass, and went to their daily work, the lay-brethren and novices in the field, the learned fathers in the library and the writing-room. He could follow their daily round of prayer and work, and his heart was with them in both. Bloodless and emaciated as he lay there, the life of love and war which had once seemed to him the only one worth living, faded away into the dimness of an undesired impossibility. He had failed, too, in his first great deed of arms; his father's murderer was alive, and he himself had most narrowly escaped death. It seemed to him that his thin white hands, which could hardly pull the blanket to his chin when he felt cold, could never again have strength to grasp sword-hilt or hold bridle, and in the blank collapse of his physical existence the image of himself as a monk, young, ascetic and holy in his life, presented itself with a marvellous and luring attraction. He made the nursing brother teach him prayers from the offices of the night and day, and he repeated them at the right hours, feeling that he was taking a real part in the monastic existence. Gradually, too, as he caught the spirit of the place, the gospel of forgiveness, ever the stumbling-block of fighting men, appeared to him as something that could be practised without dishonour, and the determination to kill Sir Arnold gave way to a sort of attempt at repentance for having even wished to be revenged upon him. One thing troubled him constantly and was altogether beyond his comprehension. His mother seemed to have forgotten his very existence, and he had not consciously seen her since he had been wounded. He asked questions every day, and begged the abbot himself to send word to the Lady Goda asking her to ride over to the abbey. The abbot smiled, nodded, and seemed to promise; but if the message was ever sent, it elicited no answer, and after a time, as Gilbert grew steadily better, not even a messenger came from Stoke Regis to ask about him. Now Gilbert had worshipped his mother as a sort of superior being, and, like his father, had deceived himself with the belief that she was devoted to him; so that, as time went on, and he was utterly neglected by her, the conviction was forced upon him that something terrible and unforeseen had happened. Yet the abbot would tell him nothing, nor the brothers who tended him; to the best of their knowledge, they said, the Lady of Stoke was well. "Before long," Gilbert would answer, "I shall be able to go home and see for myself." And at this the abbot smiled and nodded, and began to talk of the weather, which was hot. But to-day, since he had been allowed to leave his room, Gilbert was determined to force an explanation. It lacked yet an hour of midday and dinner-time when the abbot came sauntering along the cloister, followed at a respectful distance by a couple of monks, who walked side by side with downcast eyes and hands hidden in their sleeves, their cord girdles bobbing and swinging rhythmically as they walked. As he came up to Gilbert, the nursing brother rose and hid his hands in his grey woollen sleeves. Gilbert opened his eyes at the sound of the abbot's footsteps, and made a movement as though he would have risen to greet the lordly churchman, who had so often visited him in his room, and for whom he felt a natural sympathy, as for a man of his own race and breeding; for Lambert, Abbot of Sheering, came of the great Norman house of Clare, which had taken Stephen's side in the Civil War, a fact which did not prevent the aristocratic abbot from talking with gentle satire and occasional bitter sarcasm about the emptiness of Stephen's claims. He laid his hand on Gilbert's sleeve to make him keep his seat, and sat down beside him on the bench. He waved the monks away, and they retired to the other end of the cloister, where they all three sat down together in silence. The abbot, a delicately made man, with high Norman features, a colourless beard, once fair, and very bright blue eyes, laid one of his beautiful hands kindly upon Gilbert's. "You are saved," he said cheerfully. "We have done our part; youth and sunshine will do the rest; you will grow strong very quickly, now, and in a week you will be asking for your horse. They found him beside you, and he has been well cared for." "Next week, then," said Gilbert, "I will ride over to Stoke and see my mother. But I think I shall come back and stay with you again--if you will have me." Gilbert smiled as he spoke the last words; but the abbot's face was grave and his brows were drawn together, as though he were in some trouble. "Better stay with us altogether," he said, shaking his head and looking away. Gilbert sat motionless for a few seconds, as if the remark had made no impression upon him; then, realizing that the words contained some special meaning, he started slightly and turned his hollow eyes to the speaker's face. "And not go to see my mother?" His voice expressed the utmost surprise. "Not--not at present," answered the abbot, taken off his guard by the directness of the question. Weak as he was, Gilbert half rose from his seat, and his thin fingers nervously grasped his companion's arm. He would have spoken, but a sort of confusion came over him, as if he could not decide which of many questions to ask first, and before words could form themselves, the abbot was speaking to him with gentle authority. "Listen to me," he said; "sit quietly beside me and hear what I have to say, for you are a man, now, and it is better that you should know it all at once, and from me, than get it distorted, in miserable morsels, from the gossip of the brothers within the next day or two." He paused a moment, holding the young man's hand soothingly while keeping him in his seat and making him feel that he must stay there. "What is it?" asked Gilbert, nervously, with half closed eyes. "Tell me quickly." "An evil thing," answered the churchman, "--a sad thing, and one of those that change men's lives." Again Gilbert started in his seat, more violently this time than before, and there was the broken ring of genuine fear in his voice. "My mother is dead!" he cried. "No, not that. She is in no danger. She is well. She is more than well; she is happy." Gilbert was staring almost stupidly at his companion, not in the least understanding that there could be any evil news about his mother if all these things were true. And yet it seemed strange that the abbot should lay stress upon the Lady Goda's happiness, when Gilbert had been at death's door for many weeks, and when, as he well knew, she was without news of him. "Happy!" he echoed, half dazed. "Too happy," answered the prelate. "Your mother was married when you had been scarcely a month here with us." Gilbert stared into the older man's face for one moment after he had ceased speaking, and then sank back against the wall behind him with something between a groan and a sigh. One word had struck the ground from under his feet; the next was to pierce his soul. "Who is her husband?" he asked under his breath. Before the abbot answered, his grasp tightened upon Gilbert's hands with a friendly grip that was meant to inspire courage. "Your mother has married Sir Arnold de Curboil." Gilbert sprang to his feet, as though he had been struck in the face by an enemy. A moment earlier he could not have risen without help; a moment later he fell backward into the abbot's arms. Nothing that he had felt in his whole short life--not all the joys and fears of childhood, which, after all, contains the greatest joys and fears in life, compounded with the clash of his first fighting day and the shock of seeing his father killed before his eyes--not all these together could be compared with what he felt at that plain statement of the dishonour done upon his house and upon his father's memory. Yet he was not unconscious. "Now, by the Sacred Blood--" Before he could pronounce the solemn vow of revenge that was on his lips, the abbot's delicate hand was almost crushing his mouth with open palm to stop the words. "Arnold de Curboil, perjured to God, false to his king, the murderer of his friend, the seducer of his friend's wife, is fit for my prayers," said the abbot, "not for your steel. Swear no great oaths that you will kill him; still less swear that you will be avenged upon your mother; but if you must needs swear something, vow rather that you will leave them to their fate and never willingly cross their path again. And indeed, whether you promise that or not, you must needs keep away from them until you can claim your own with the chance of getting it back." "My own!" exclaimed Gilbert. "Is Stoke not mine? Am I not my father's son?" "Curboil has got Stoke Regis by treachery, as he got your mother. As soon as he had married her he took her with him to London, and they two did homage to King Stephen, and the Lady Goda made apology before the king's court because her former husband had been faithful to the Empress Maud; and she besought the king to bestow the lordship of Stoke Regis, with the manor house and all things thereto appertaining, upon their present lord, Sir Arnold de Curboil, disinheriting you, her son, both because you are true to the Empress, and because, as she did swear, you tried to slay Sir Arnold by stealth in Stortford woods. So you have neither kith nor kin, nor lands nor goods, beyond your horse and your sword; wherefore I say, it were as well for you to stay with us altogether." Gilbert was silent for some time after the abbot had ceased speaking. He seemed to be utterly overcome by the news that he was disinherited, and his hands lay upon his knees, loosely weak and expressive of utter hopelessness. Very slowly he raised his face at last and turned his eyes upon the only friend that seemed left to him in his destitution. "So I am an outcast," he said, "an exile, a beggar--" "Or a monk," suggested the churchman, with a smile. "Or an adventurer," said Gilbert, smiling also, but more bitterly. "Most of our ancestors were that," retorted the abbot, "and they have picked up a fair living by it," he added. "Let me see: Normandy, Maine, Aquitaine, Gascony--and England. Not a bad inheritance for a handful of pirates matched against the world." "Yes, but the handful of pirates were Normans," said Gilbert, as if that statement alone should have explained the conquest of the universe. "But the world is half won," he concluded, with a rather hopeless sigh. "There is enough to fight for yet," answered the abbot, gravely. "The Holy Land is not half conquered, and until all Palestine and Syria shall be one Christian kingdom under one Christian king, there is earth for Norman feet to tread, and flesh for Norman swords to hack." Gilbert's expression changed a little, and a light came into his eyes. "The Holy Land--Jerusalem!" The words came slowly, each with its dream. "But the times are too old. Who should preach another crusade in our day?" "The man whose word is a lash, a sword, and a crown--the man who rules the world to-day." "And who is that?" asked Gilbert. "A Frenchman," answered the abbot--"Bernard of Clairvaux, the greatest man, the greatest thinker, the greatest preacher, and the greatest saint of these late days." "I have heard of him," Gilbert answered, with a sick man's disappointment at not learning anything new. Then he smiled faintly. "If he is a miracle-worker, he might find me a good subject." "You have a home here, Gilbert Warde, and friends," said the abbot, gravely. "Stay while you will, and when you are ready for the world again you shall not lack for a coat of mail, a spare mount, and a purse of gold with which to begin your life." "I thank you," said Gilbert, feebly, but very gratefully. "I feel as if my life were not beginning, but ending. I have lost my inheritance, my home, and my mother in one hour. It is enough, for it is all, and with it is taken love also." "Love?" The abbot seemed surprised. "Can a man marry his mother's husband's child?" asked Gilbert bitterly, almost contemptuously. "No," answered the abbot; "that would be within the forbidden degrees of affinity." For a long time Gilbert sat still in mournful silence. Then, seeing that he was very tired, the abbot beckoned to the brothers, who came and led him back to the stairs, and carried him up to his room. But, when he was gone, the Abbot of Sheering walked thoughtfully up and down the cloister for a long time, even until the refectory bell began to ring for dinner, and he could hear the shuffling steps of the two hundred hungry monks hurrying to their food, through the distant staircases and corridors. CHAPTER V An autumn morning at dawn, the beach at Dover, the tide at flood, and a hundred half naked sailors launching a long, black Norman sea-boat bows on, over chocks through the low surf to the grey swell beyond. The little vessel had been beached by the stern, with a slack chain hooked to her sides at the water-line, and a long hawser rove through a rough fiddle-block of enormous size, and leading to a capstan set far above high-water mark and made fast by the bight of a chain to an anchor buried in the sand up to the heavy wooden stock. And now a big old man with streaming grey beard, and a skin like a salted ox-hide, was slacking the turns of the hawser from the capstan-drum as the boat moved slowly down over the well-greased chocks, stopping short now and then of her own accord, and refusing to move on till twenty stout sailors on each side, their legs half buried in the sand, their broad shoulders flattened under the planking, their thick brown hands planted upon their thighs, like so many Atlases, each bearing a world, had succeeded, by alternately straining and yielding, in making the little vessel rock on her keel, and start again toward the water's edge. On board, the master stood at the stern, ready to ship the long rudder as soon as she had taken the water. Two men in the bows took in the slack of the cable, by which the anchor had been dropped some fifty yards out, so as to keep her head straight when she should leave the temporary ways. By the mast, for the vessel had but one, stood Gilbert Warde, watching all that was done, with the profoundly ignorant interest which landsmen always show in nautical matters. It seemed very slow to him, and he wondered why the man with the long beard, far up the beach, did not let go, so that the boat might launch herself. And while he was trying to solve the problem, something happened which he could not understand: a chorus of wild yells went up from the sailors under the sides, the master in the stern threw up one hand and shouted, the old man let go and yelled back an answer, Gilbert heard a rattling of chains, and then all at once the boat gathered way, and shot like an arrow through the low curling surf, far out upon the heaving grey water beyond, while the two men in the bows got in the slack of the cable, hand over hand, like madmen, panting audibly, till at last the vessel swung off by her head and rode quietly at her anchor. An hour later, with twenty sweeps swinging rhythmically in the tholes, and a fair southwesterly breeze, the sharp-cut boat was far out in the English Channel, and before night, the wind holding fair and freshening, the master dropped anchor almost under the shadow of the Count of Flanders' castle at Calais. So Gilbert Warde left England, a wanderer, disinherited of all that should have been his, owing all that he had to Lambert de Clare, Abbot of Sheering, in the shape of mail and other armour, with such fine clothes as a young nobleman should have with him on a journey, two horses, and a purse of which the contents should last him several months on his travels. For attendants he had with him a fair-haired Saxon lad who had run away from Stoke to Sheering, and had refused to leave Gilbert, whom he looked upon as his lawful master; and there was with him, too, a dark-skinned youth of his own age, a foundling, christened Dunstan by the monks after a saint of their order, brought up and taught at the abbey, who seemed to know neither whose child he was nor whence he came, but could by no means be induced to enter the novitiate so long as the world had room for wanderers and adventurers. He was a gifted fellow, quick to learn and tenacious to remember, speaking Latin and Norman French and English Saxon as well as any monk in the abbey, quick of hand and light of foot, with daring black eyes in which the pupils could hardly be found, while the whites were of a cold, blue grey and often bloodshot; and he had short, straight black hair, and a face that made one think of a young falcon. He had begged so hard to be allowed to go with Gilbert, and it was so evident that he was not born to wear out a church pavement with his knees, that the abbot had given his consent. During the last weeks before Gilbert's departure, when he was hourly gaining strength and could no longer bear to be shut up within the walls of the convent, he had made a companion of Dunstan, walking and riding with him, for the fellow could ride, and sometimes entering into long arguments with him about matters of belief and conscience and honour, and the two had become attached to each other by their unlikeness; not precisely as friends and equals, yet by no means as master and man; it was rather the sort of relation which often existed between knight and squire, though the two were of the same age, and though Gilbert had no immediate prospect of winning knightly spurs. It would have been hard, however, to admit that Dunstan could ever develop into a knight himself. There were strange little blanks in his ideas of chivalry, curious, unfeeling spots in his moral organization, which indicated another race, another inheritance of thought, the traditions of a world older and less simple than the one in which Gilbert had been brought up. For Gilbert was the type of noble youth in the days when the light of chivalry had dawned upon an age of violence, but was not yet fully risen. God, honour, woman--these made up the simple trinity of a knight's belief and reverence, from the moment when the Church began to make an order of fighting men, with ceremonies and obligations of their own, thereby forever binding together the great conceptions of true Christianity and true nobility. In the absence of anything like real learning among the laymen of those days, education in its simplest and most original sense played a very large part in life, and Gilbert had acquired that sort of culture in its highest and best form. The object of mere instruction is to impart learning for some distinct purpose, but most chiefly, perhaps, in order that it may be a means of earning a livelihood. The object of education is to make men, to produce the character of the man of honour, to give men the inward grace of the gentleman, which cannot manifest itself outwardly save in good manners, modesty of bearing, and fearlessness; and such things in earlier days were profoundly associated in the minds of men with the inward principles and the outward rites of Christianity. It was the perfect simplicity, and in a measure the ample harmony, of beliefs, principles, and rules of action that made life possible at all at a time when the modern art of government was in its earliest infancy, when the idea of a constitution had been lost in the chaos of the dark ages, and when the direction of kingdoms, principalities, and societies was a purely personal matter, wholly dependent upon individual talent or caprice, virtue or vice, charity or greed. Without some such foundation in the character of the times, society, the world, and the Church must have fallen a prey to the devouring ambitions of that most horrible of human monsters, the princely unbeliever of the middle ages, who flourished again and again, sporadically, from England to Constantinople, from Paris to Rome, but who almost invariably ended in disastrous failure, overcome and trodden down by the steadily advancing morality of mankind. Such men were John the Twelfth, of the evil race of Theodora in Rome, and the Jewish Pierleone who lived a hundred years later, and King John of England, and last and greatest of all, perhaps, as he was most certainly the worst, Caesar Borgia. To be a gentleman when Henry Plantagenet was a boy of twelve, and Gilbert Warde was going to the Duke of Normandy's court, implied not many gifts, few principles, and two or three accomplishments at most; but it meant the possession of those simple requirements in their very best accepted form, and that species of thoroughness in a few matters which has been at the root of social superiority in all ages. We have heard of amateur artists, amateur soldiers, amateur statesmen; but no one has ever heard of an amateur gentleman. Gilbert Warde knew little Latin beyond the few prayers taught him by the manor priest at Stoke; but in the efficacy of those prayers he believed with all his heart and soul. The Norman French language of the nobles in England was no longer that of their more refined cousins over the water; but though his tongue betrayed him for an Englishman, Gilbert had the something which was of more worth among his equals than a French accent--the grace, the unaffected ease, the straightforward courtesy, which are bred in bone and blood, like talent or genius, but which reach perfection only in the atmosphere to which they belong, and among men and women who have them in the same degree. Possessing belief and good manners, the third essential was skill in arms, and, as has been seen, Gilbert was a match for a swordsman of considerable reputation. The only absolutely necessary accomplishment for a gentleman in his day was a thorough knowledge of the chase as a fine art in all its branches, from falconry to boar-hunting, and in this respect Gilbert was at least the equal of the average young noble. In spite of his youth, he was therefore thoroughly equipped for the world; and besides the advantages here set forth, he had the very great one of feeling that, although he might be going among strangers, he was going to meet men all brought up to act and think like himself, in the belief that their ways of acting and thinking were very much better than those of other people. But as he rode along the dunes, he was not reflecting upon his own gifts or prospects. His life was strange to him by its sudden and complete change, from an existence of more or less peaceful enjoyment, in which the certainty of fortune, local dignity, and unthwarted love made the idea of ambition look empty and foolish, to the state of possessing only a pair of good horses, good weapons, and a little ready money, with which to lay siege to the universe. Yet even that wide difference of conditions was insignificant beside the deeper and sadder misfortunes upon which the young man brooded as he rode, and which had already embittered his young existence by the destruction of his highest and most beautiful illusion and of his dearest and happiest hope. In the fall of his mother's image from the altar upon which he had set it, there was the absolute destruction of his own past childhood as it had always appeared to him. In the fearful illumination of her true nature, in the broad glare of evil, the little good there might have been had faded to nothing. It was not possible that she who had married her husband's murderer within the month could ever have felt one sincere impulse of love for Raymond Warde, nor that she could ever have known the slightest real affection for the son whom she had first left to his fate, and then treacherously cheated of his birthright. The temple where she had been was still in his heart and mourned her in emptiness. For nothing else had taken the place of her there; she was not transformed, she was gone, and had taken with her a lifetime of tender and gentle memories. When his inward eyes sought her they found nothing, and their light was quenched in her darkness. She was not as his father was, dead in fact, but dead in honour. There he lay, as Gilbert had last looked upon his white face and stiff, mailed form, himself still, himself as he had been in life and as he was thereafter, in that place of peace and refreshment where brave men rest. In the quiet features was reflected forever the truth whereby his life had been lived; in the crossed hands upon the breast was the last outward symbol and sign of the simple faith that had been life's guide; in the strong, straight outlines of a strength splendid in death was the record of strong deeds well done. Alive, he had been to his son the man of all others; dead, he was still the man of men, without peer and without like. It mattered not that he was silent, for he had spoken the truth; that he was as motionless as a stone, for the cold hand had been swift to thrust and smite, and had dealt unforgotten blows in a good cause; that he was deaf, for he had heard the cry of the weak, and had forborne; that he was blind, for his eyes had seen the light of victory and had looked unflinching upon an honourable death. Loyal, true, brave, strong, he lay in his son's heart, still at all points himself. And Gilbert turned his mind's eyes to the darkness on the other side, and many a time, as the unwept tears burned in his brain, he wished that his mother were lying there too, beside his father, dead in the body but alive forever to him in that which is undying in woman; to be cherished still, still honoured; to be loved, and still obeyed in the memory of precept and teaching; to be his mother always, and he to be in thought her child, even until the grey years should be upon him, and the Bridge of Fear in sight. Instead, as his thoughts went back to his home, the woman herself faced him, not as he had always seen her, but as she had been sometimes seen by others. The deed she had done--the greatest, the worst, the most irrevocable--was in her face, and Gilbert's unconscious memory brought back the details his love of her had once rejected. The cold face was as hard as flint, the deep blue eyes were untrue and unbelieving, the small red lips were scornfully parted to show the cruel little teeth, and there were dashes of flame in the russet hair. Better she had been dead, better a thousand times that she had come to the sharp end before her time, than that such a face should be her son's only memory of his mother. The lines of the image had been etched in the weak places of his heart with the keen point of his first grief, and the biting acid of a new and unnatural hate was eating them deeper day by day. And when, in spite of himself, his mind dwelt upon her and understood that he was cursing her who had borne him, he turned back in sheer despair to the thought of a religious life. But though it drew him and appealed to all in his nature which had been uppermost when death had almost tripped him into his grave, it spoke but half a language now, and was less than half convincing. He could understand well enough that the monastery might hold the only life for men who had fought through many failures, from light to darkness, from happiness to sorrow--men who loved nothing, hoped nothing, hated nothing any longer, in the great democracy of despair. They sought peace as the only earthly good they might enjoy, and there was peace in the cloister. Hope being dead in life, they tasted refreshment in the hope of a life to come. The convent was good enough for the bankrupt of love and war. But there must be another rule for those in whom youth was wounded but not dead, whose hearts were offended but not slain, whose blood was still strong and hot for good and evil, for men whose battles were before them still. There must be a remedy against fate which should not be an offence to God, a struggle against God's will which should not be a revolt, a life in which virtue should not mean a prison for soul and body, nor the hope of salvation a friar's cell. Like many enthusiasts, knowing nothing of the world save by guesswork, and full of an inborn belief in the existence of perfection, Gilbert dreamed of realizing the harmony of two opposites--the religious life and the life of the world. Such dreams seemed not so wild in those days, when the very idea of knighthood was based upon them, and when many brave and true men came near to making them seem anything but fanciful, and practised virtue in a rough-and-ready fashion which would not pass muster in modern society, though it might in heaven. The religious idea had taken hold of Gilbert strongly, and before he had left the abbey he had fallen into the habit of attending most of the offices in the choir, still wearing the novice's frock which had been at first but an invalid's robe. And now that he was out in the world to seek his fortunes, tunic and hose, spur and glove, seemed strange to him, and he would have felt more at home in a friar's hood. So he felt that in his life he should never again quite lose the monastic instinct, and that it was well for him that he could not. He stood on that perilous thin ridge between past and future to which almost every man of heart is sooner or later led by fate, where every step may mean a fall, and where to fall is almost to be lost. The things he had lived for, the things he had hoped, the things he had loved, had been taken from him violently, and all at once. There was neither clue, nor guide, nor hope, and on each side of him yawned the hideous attraction of despair. Even the recollections of a first love were veiled by what he understood to be the irrevocable interdiction of the Church, and, in his strongly spiritual mood, to think of Beatrix appeared to him like a temptation to mortal sin. In leaving England, without any definite aim, but with a vague intention of making his way to Jerusalem, he had obeyed the Abbot of Sheering rather than followed friendly advice, and his obedience had savoured strongly of the monastic rule. Lambert de Clare, a man of the world before he had become a churchman, and a man of heart before he was a ruler of monks, had understood Gilbert's state well enough, and had forced the best remedy upon him. The cure for a broken heart, if there be any, is not in solitude and prayer, but in facing the wounds and stings of the world's life; and the abbot had almost forcibly thrust his young friend out to live like other men of his order, while suggesting a pilgrimage to the Holy Land as a means of satisfying his religious cravings. As for the material help which Gilbert had received, it was no shame, in an age not sordid, for a penniless gentleman to accept both gifts and money from a rich and powerful person like the Abbot of Sheering, in the certainty of carving out such fortune with his own hands as should enable him amply to repay the loan. So far as his immediate destination was concerned, the abbot, who considered his house to be vastly superior to political dissension, and secretly laughed at his cousins for supporting King Stephen's upstart cause, had advised Gilbert to make his way directly to the court of Geoffrey Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy, and Grand Seneschal of France, the husband of the Empress Maud, rightful Queen of England. Thither he was riding, therefore, with Dunstan on his left hand, mounted upon his second horse, while Alric, the sturdy little Saxon groom and archer, rode behind them on a stout mule laden with Gilbert's possessions. CHAPTER VI Those were the early days of Geoffrey's lordship in Normandy. Twice and three times he came up from Anjou with his men-at-arms and his footmen to take possession of his wife's lawful inheritance. Again and again he was repulsed and driven back to his own dominions, but at the last he prevailed, and the iron will of the man whose royal race was to give England fourteen kings, forced Normandy to submission, and thereafter he ruled in peace. Yet he was not so strongly established but that he desired sound friendships and strong alliances to support him, and at the same time he was anxious to obtain help for his wife in her prolonged struggle for the English crown. In his office of Grand Seneschal of France he generally caused himself to be represented by a deputy; but he had lately determined to make a journey to Paris, in the hope of winning over the young King Louis, and perhaps the beautiful Queen Eleanor, who was feudal sovereign, in her own right, of Guienne, Poitou and Aquitaine, and in reality a more powerful personage than the King himself. So it fell out that before Gilbert reached his destination he met a great and splendid train riding toward him on the highroad, two hundred horse, at the very least, and as many footmen, followed by a long line of sumpter mules. The road was narrow at that place, so that Gilbert, with his two men, saw that it would be impossible to pass, and though it was not natural to him to cede the right of way to any one, he understood that, in the face of what was a little army, it would be the part of wisdom to draw aside. A thick growth of thorn bushes made a natural hedge at that part of the road, and Gilbert and his companions were obliged almost to back into the briers, as four handsomely dressed outriders trotted past abreast, not without a glance of rather supercilious inquiry, for they did not fail to see that Gilbert was a stranger in their country; and, for a traveller, his retinue was anything but imposing. He, however, barely glanced at them as they passed him, for his eyes were fixed upon the advancing cavalcade, a river of rich and splendid colour flowing toward him between soft green banks. They were men who rode in peace; for though a standard rose in the middle rank, it was furled and cased in leather, and the horsemen who surrounded it were dressed in tunic and hose--crimson, green, rich dark brown, with the glint of gold, the sheen of silver, the lightning of steel, relieving the deep hues of dark cloth and velvet here and there. A length behind the furled flag rode a man and a boy, side by side, and the next riders followed two or three lengths behind them. The man, mounted on a huge white Norman weight-carrier, kept the off side of the road, his great beast trotting leisurely with a long pounding step, and an occasional lazy shake of the big white head with the iron-grey forelock and the well-combed mane. The rider sat square and upright in the saddle, the plain leathern bridle neither too short nor too long in the light strong hand, that just moved perceptibly with the horse's step. He was a man evidently of good height, but not over tall, of surpassing beauty of form, young in figure, but past middle age if one judged by his hard features and already furrowed brow; his deep grey eyes looked steadily ahead from beneath black eyebrows which contrasted oddly with hair that was already iron-grey. There was something immovable and fateful about the clean-shaven jaw, the broad flat chin, the wide strong mouth--something strangely durable that contrasted with the rich softness of his splendid dress, as though the man, and what the man meant, were to outlive the fashions of the world. The boy who rode by his near side, a lad of little more than twelve years, was both like him and unlike. Sturdy, broad, short-legged, square beyond his age, any one could see that he was never to inherit his father's beauty of proportion and grace of bearing; but there was something in his face that promised all his father's strength and an even greater independence. The grey eyes were the same, but nearer together, and almost sinister in their gaze, even at that age; the nose was already long and rather flat than sharp, and the large straight lips, even and close set, would have seemed strong even in a grown man's face. The boy sat upon his small grey Andalusian horse as if he had lived a lifetime in the saddle, but his twelve-year-old hand was heavier on the bridle than ever his father's had been. There was something in the bearing of the two, father and son, so kingly and high that Gilbert, who had been brought up in Norman courtesy, involuntarily rose in the saddle as much as his long stirrups would allow, and lifted his cap from his head, supposing, as was natural, that he was saluting the lord of the lands through which he was travelling. The other returned the salutation with a wave of the hand, looked sharply at Gilbert, and then, to the latter's surprise, drew rein, the lad beside him ranging back half a length so as not to be in the way between the other two. For a few seconds neither said a word. Then the elder man, as though expecting something of which the younger was not aware, smiled kindly and spoke. His voice was strong and manly, but clear and sweet. "You are strange here, sir," he said, with something more like an assertion than a question in his turn. "From England, sir," answered Gilbert, bowing slightly in the saddle. The elder man looked hard at him and knit his brows. Few English gentlemen had refused allegiance to King Stephen. "From England? And what may you be doing in Normandy, young sir? Stephen's friends find little friendship here." "I am not of them, sir," answered Gilbert, drawing himself up somewhat haughtily. "I am rather of those who would shorten Stephen's reign by the length of his life, and his body by a head." The broad, handsome face of the man with whom he was speaking relaxed into a smile, and his son, who had at first eyed Gilbert with distrust, threw back his head and laughed. "Then I suppose that you are for the Empress," said the man. "But if you are, why are you not in Gloucester?" "Sir," answered Gilbert, "being made homeless and landless by Stephen, I chose rather to cut a fortune out of the world than to beg one of the Queen, who has none left to give." "You could fight for her," suggested the other. "Ay, sir; and I have, and will again, if such gentlemen of Normandy as you will cross the water and fight also. But as the matter stands to-day, whosoever shall break the truce shall break his own neck, without serving the Empress. And meanwhile I ride to the Duke of Normandy's court, and if I may serve him, I will, but if not, I shall go farther." "And who are you, sir, that seek the Duke?" "I am Gilbert Warde, and my fathers held Stoke Regis in Hertfordshire from Duke William. But Stephen took it when I was lying ill of a wound in Sheering Abbey and bestowed it upon another. And you, sir? I crave your name." "Geoffrey Plantagenet," answered the Duke, quietly. "And this is my son Henry, who by the grace of God shall yet be King of England." Gilbert started at the name, and then noticed for the first time that both father and son wore in their velvet caps a short dry sprig of the broom-plant. He sprang to the ground and came forward on foot, bareheaded, and stood beside the Duke's near stirrup. "Your pardon, my lord," he said; "I should have known you." "That might have been hard," answered Geoffrey, "since you had never seen me. But as you were on your way to find me and wished to serve me, mount again and ride with us to Paris, whither we go." So Gilbert mounted, and would have fallen back in the train among the young squires, behind the five ranks of knights who rode after the Duke. But Geoffrey would not let him take his place at once, for he was glad to have news of the long struggle in England, the end of which was to set a Plantagenet upon the throne; and he asked many questions which the young man answered as well as he could, though some of them were not easy; and the boy Henry listened with grave face and unwinking eyes to all that was said. "If I had been in my mother's place," he said at last, in a pause, "I would have cut off Stephen's head in Bristol Castle." "And let your uncle Gloucester be put to death by Stephen's wife?" Geoffrey looked at his son curiously. "She would not have done it," answered Henry. "There could have been no more war, with Stephen dead. But if she had killed my uncle, well, what of that? The crown of England is worth one life, at least!" Gilbert heard and wondered at the boy's hardness, but held his peace. He was surprised also that the Duke should say nothing, and the speech of the one and the silence of the other clearly foreshadowed the kingdom for one or both. But the boy's words seemed heartless and not altogether knightly to Warde, who was himself before all things a man of heart; and the first impression made on him by the precocious lad was more or less a wrong one, since Henry afterwards turned out a just and kind man, though often stern and unforgetful of offence. And Gilbert was very far from guessing that the young prince was suddenly attracted to him in the strongest possible way, and that in the first meeting he had unconsciously laid the foundations of a real friendship. After a time, as the Duke asked no more questions, Gilbert took it for granted that he was no longer wanted, and fell back to his proper place among the riders. The young squires received him with cordiality and not without a certain respect for one who, though not even a knight, had been so much honoured by their sovereign. And Gilbert himself, though he felt at home amongst them at first, as a man feels with his own kind, yet felt that he was divided from them by the depth of his own misfortunes. One of them spoke of his home at Bayeux, and of his father, and Gilbert's face grew grave; another told how his mother had herself embroidered in gold the fine linen collar that showed above his low-cut tunic. Gilbert bit his lips, and looked away at the rolling green country. And one, again, asked Gilbert where his home might be. "Here," answered Warde, striking the pommel of his saddle with his right hand and laughing rather harshly. He was older than most of them, for they ranged from fourteen to eighteen years, and were chiefly beardless boys who had never seen fight, whose fathers had fought Geoffrey Plantagenet until they had recognized that he was the master, as the great Duke William had been in his day, and then, being beaten, had submitted whole-heartedly and all at once, as brave men do, and had forthwith sent their sons to learn arms and manners at Geoffrey's court. So none of these youths had slain a man with his own hand, as Gilbert had at Faringdon, nor had any of them faced an enemy with plain steel in a quarrel, as Gilbert had faced Sir Arnold de Curboil. Though Gilbert told little of his story and less of his deeds, they saw that he was older than they, they felt that he had seen more than they had, and they guessed that his hand was harder and heavier than theirs. As the day wore, and they rode, and halted, and dined together in the vast outer hall of a monastery which they reached soon after midday, the young men who sat beside Gilbert noticed that he could repeat the Latin words of the long grace as well as any monk, and one laughed and asked where he had got so much scholarship. "I lay two months in an abbey," answered Gilbert, "healing of a wound, and the nursing brother taught me the monks' ways." "And how came you by such a wound?" asked the young squire. "By steel," answered Gilbert, and smiled, but he would say no more. And after that, two or three asked questions of Gilbert's man Dunstan, and he, being proud of his master, told all he knew, so that his hearers marvelled that such a fighter had not yet obtained knighthood, and they foretold that if Long Gilbert, as they named him for his height, would stay in the Duke's service, he should not be a squire many weeks. And on the next day and the days following it was clear to them all that Gilbert was in the way of fortune by the hand of favour; for as the company rode along in the early morning by dewy lanes, where Michaelmas daisies were blooming, a groom came riding back to say that the young Henry--the Count, as they began to call him about that time--wished the company of Master Warde, to tell him more of England. So Gilbert cantered forward and took his place beside the young prince, and for more than an hour answered questions of all sorts about English men, English trees, English cattle, and English dogs. "It will all be mine before long," said the boy, laughing, "but as I have never seen it, I want your eyes." And every day thereafter, in the morning and afternoon, Gilbert was sent for to tell the lad stories about England; and he talked as if he were speaking to a grown man and said many things about his own country which had long been in his heart, in the strong, good language of a man in earnest. Henry listened, and asked questions, and listened again, and remembered what he heard, not for a day only, nor a week, but for a lifetime, and in the boy the king was growing hour by hour. Sometimes, while they talked, the Duke listened and said a few words himself, but more often he rode on out of the train alone, in deep thought, or called one of the older knights to his side; and when Gilbert's quick ear caught fragments of their conversation, they were generally talking of country matters--crops, horse-breeding, or the price of grain. So they rode, and in due time they came to fields of mud left by a subsiding river, and here and there green hillocks rose out of the dreary expanse, and on them were built castles of grey stone. But in the flats there were mud hovels of brickmakers and of people living miserably by the river; and then all at once the ground rose a little to the bank, with a street, and houses of brick and stone; and between these, upon an island, Gilbert, rising in his stirrups to see over the heads of his companions, descried the castle of the King of France, with its towers and battlements, its great drawbridge, and its solid grey walls, in those days one of the strongest holds in all the world. Then they all halted, and the Duke's herald rode forward to the gate, and the King's herald was seen within, and there was a great blowing of horns and a sound of loud, high voices reciting formal speeches in a monotone. After that there was a silence, and horns again, and more recitation, and a final blast, after which the Duke's herald came back, and the King's herald came out upon the drawbridge, followed by men in rich clothes of white cloth, embroidered with gold lilies that shone in the autumn sun, like little tongues of flame; and the Duke's standard was unfurled to the river breeze, and the goodly train rode slowly over the drawbridge at the end of the solid wooden causeway which spanned the main width of the stream, and so, by the main gate, into the great court of honour. And Gilbert rode close behind young Henry, who called him his chancellor in jest, and would not let him ride out of his sight. Within the court were great buildings reared against the outer walls; but in the midst was the King's hall and dwelling, and in the porch at the head of the steps which led to the main door, the King and Queen were waiting in state, in their robes of ceremony, with all their household about them, to receive their Grand Seneschal and brother sovereign, Geoffrey Plantagenet. But Gilbert, looking boldly before him, saw that the King of France was a fair, pale man with a yellow beard, strong and knightly, but with dull and lifeless blue eyes; and Gilbert looked at the lady who sat beside him, and he saw that the Queen of France was the most beautiful woman in the world; and when his eyes had seen her it was long before he looked away. He saw a being so unlike all he had known before, that his idea of woman changed from that hour for his whole life--a most perfect triplicity of beauty, grace and elastic strength. Some have doubtless possessed each separate perfection, but the names of those who had all three are as unforgotten as those of conquerors and supreme poets. Gilbert's eyes fixed themselves, and for a moment he was in a sort of waking trance, during which he could not for his life have described one feature of the Queen's face; but when she spoke to him, his heart leapt and his eyelids quivered, and her image was fixed upon his memory forever. Young though he was, it would have been contrary to his grave and rather melancholy disposition to lose his heart at first sight to any woman, and it was neither love, nor love's forerunner, that overcame him as he gazed at the Queen. It was a purely visual impression, like that of being dazzled by a bright light, or made giddy by sudden motion. She was as tall as the King, but whereas he was heavily and awkwardly built, her faultless proportion made an ungraceful movement an impossibility, and the rhythmic ease of her slightest gesture expressed an unfaltering bodily energy which no sudden fatigue nor stress of long weariness could bring down. When she moved, Gilbert wished that he might never see her in repose, yet as soon as the motion ceased, it seemed a crime upon beauty to disturb her rest. Her face and her throat, uncovered to the strong morning light, were of a texture as richly clear as the tinted leaves of young orange-blossoms in May; and like the flowers themselves, it seemed to rejoice in air and sun, in dew and rain, perfected, not marred, by the touch of heat and cold. The straight white throat rose like a column from the neck to the delicate lobe of the faultless ear, and a generously modelled line sprang in a clean curve of beauty to the sudden rounding of the ivory chin, cleft in the midst by nature's supreme touch. Low on her forehead the heavy waves of her hair were drawn back to each side under the apple-green silk coverchief that was kept in place by the crown of state. But she wore no wimple, and the broad waves flowed down upon her shoulders and hung behind her like a heavy mantle. And they were of that marvellous living hue, that the westering sun casts through oak leaves upon an ancient wall in autumn. All in her face was of light, from her hair to her white forehead; from her forehead to her radiant eyes, deeper than sapphires, brighter than mountain springs; from the peach-blossom bloom of her cheeks to the living coral of her lips. She wore a close-fitting upper garment of fine green cloth, embroidered with a small design in silver thread, in which the heraldic cross of Aquitaine alternated with a conventional flower. The girdle of fine green leather, richly embroidered in gold, followed exactly the lower line of this close garment round the hips, and the long end fell straight from the knot almost to the ground. The silken skirt in many folds was of the same colour as the rest, but without embroidery. The mantle of state, of a figured cloth of gold lined with straw-coloured silk, hung in wide folds from her shoulders, her hair falling over it, and it was loosely held in place by a twisted cord of gold thread across her breast. Contrary to the fashion of the day, her sleeves were tight and closed at the wrists, and green gloves encased her hands, and were embroidered on the back with the cross of Aquitaine. Gilbert was standing two steps behind young Henry, who was on his father's left, and was consequently directly opposite to the Queen, as the boy bent one knee, and taking her gloved hand, touched the embroidery with his lips. Gilbert was hardly aware that she was looking into his eyes, while his own were riveted on her face, and when she spoke, he started in surprise. "And who is this?" she asked, smiling, as she saw what an effect her beauty produced upon the young man. Henry turned half round, with a step backward, and took Gilbert's hand. "This is my friend," he said, dragging him forward; "and if you like me, you shall please to like him, too, and tell the King to knight him at once." "You have a strong recommendation to grace, sir," said the Queen. She looked down at the imperious boy's square face and laughed; but looking up and meeting Gilbert's eyes again, the ring of her laugh changed oddly and died away in a short silence. It was long since she had looked upon so goodly a man; she was weary of her monkish husband, and she was the grand-daughter of William of Aquitaine, giant, troubadour, and lover. It was no wonder that there was light in her eyes, and life in every fibre of her beautiful body. "I think I shall like your friend," she said, speaking to Henry, but still looking at the man. And so Gilbert first met the Queen; and as she held out her hand to him and he took it, kneeling on one knee, she unconsciously drew young Henry close to her, and her arm was round his neck, and her hand pressed his shoulder in a very gentle way, so that he looked up into her face. But if any one had told her then that she should love the man in vain, that she should be divided from the fair-haired King beside her and become the wife of the broad-faced, rough-fisted little boy whose curly head barely reached her shoulder, the prophet might have fared ill, as readers of the future often do. But meanwhile the King stood talking quietly with Duke Geoffrey, who presently crossed to salute the Queen, not dreaming what strange spirits had taken possession of the hearts of three persons in one moment. For the third was Henry himself. When the Queen gave her right hand to his father her other was still on the boy's shoulder, and when she would have withdrawn it he caught it with both his own and held it there; and suddenly the blood sprang up in his cheeks even to the roots of his hair, and for the first and last time in his life Henry Plantagenet was almost ridiculous, and wished that he might hide his head. Yet he would not loose his hold on the Queen's hand. CHAPTER VII While Duke Geoffrey tarried in Paris, receiving much honour at the King's court, but obtaining very little encouragement in his hope of help against Stephen, the time was heavy on the hands of some of his followers; but others of them, seeing that they had little service and much leisure, made up their minds to do not only what was good in their own eyes, but sometimes also that which was evil, as a certain chronicler once said of the English knights. For the wine of Gascony was good, but some said that the vintage of Burgundy was better, and a matter of such weight was evidently not to be left undecided; yet the more often it came to judgment, the more evidence and testimony were required in the case, so that the court sat night and day without agreeing upon a verdict. But Gilbert had never learned to sit for hours over a cup, slowly addling his wits and marking the hour when the room should begin to swing upon the pivot of his head; and Henry kept him constantly by his side, saying that he was the only sober man in his father's court, knight or squire; nor would the boy let him go, excepting when he himself could pass his time with the Queen, and then he was more than anxious that Gilbert should disappear. At first Eleanor was amused by the lad's childish passion, but as she herself greatly preferred Gilbert's society to that of Henry, she soon grew weary of the rather tame sport which consisted in making a boy of twelve years fall desperately in love with her. Moreover, Henry was precocious and keen-sighted beyond his years, and was not long in discovering his idol's predilection for his friend. His chief consolation was that Gilbert himself seemed indifferent, and came and went at the Queen's bidding as though he were obeying an order rather than an impulse. One lazy autumn afternoon, when the air was as hot as summer, and the flies were swarming about the open doors of the great stables, and before the deep archway that led into the main kitchen, and about the open windows of the knights' and squires' quarters,--when the air was still and lazy, and not a sound was heard in the vast enclosure of the castle-yard,--Henry and Gilbert came out to play at tennis in a shady corner behind the church, where there was a penthouse that would serve. In half a dozen strokes Henry had scored high to Gilbert's nothing, and the boy dropped the ball at his feet to tighten the network he had made on his hand by winding a bowstring in and out between his fingers and across the palm, as men did before rackets were thought of. Suddenly he turned half round and faced Gilbert, planting himself with his sturdy legs apart and crossing his arms, which were bare to the elbow; for he had taken off his cloth tunic, and his embroidered shirt, girdled at the waist by a leathern belt, hung over his scarlet hose, and was wide at the neck and turned back above his elbows. He was hatless, ruddy, and hot. "Will you answer a fair question fairly, Master Gilbert?" he asked, looking his friend in the eyes. Gilbert had fallen into the habit of treating him like a man, as most people did, excepting the Queen, and gravely nodded an answer. "Do you not think that the Queen of France is the most beautiful woman in the world?" "Yes," answered Gilbert, without a smile, and without the slightest hesitation. The boy's eyes, that were so near together, gleamed and fixed themselves in rising anger, while a dark red flush mounted from his bare throat to his cheeks, and from his cheeks to his forehead. "Then you love her?" he asked fiercely, and the words were thick on his lips. Gilbert was not easily surprised, but the conclusion was so sudden and unexpected that he stared for a moment in blank amazement before he smiled. "I?" he exclaimed. "I love the Queen? I should as soon think of coveting the King's crown!" Henry looked into Gilbert's face a moment longer, and the blood slowly subsided from his own. "I can see that you are in earnest," he said, picking up the ball at his feet, "though I cannot see why a man should not covet a king's crown as well as a king's wife." He struck the ball. "You are young," said Gilbert, "to ride atilt through all the Ten Commandments at once." "Young!" exclaimed the boy, keeping the ball up. "So was David when he killed the giant! So was Hercules when he strangled the serpents, as you told me the other day. Young!" he cried a second time, with forcibly concentrated contempt. "You should know, Master Gilbert, that a Plantagenet of thirteen years is the match of any other man of twenty. As I can beat you at tennis, though you are six years older than I, so I can beat you in other matters, and with the Queen herself, even though she is half in love with you already, as all the court is saying; and she shall belong to me some day, though I have to slay that dish-faced prayer-master of a king to get her." Gilbert was no more morally timid than he was physically a coward, but he looked round with some anxiety as the boy uttered his outrageous boast. The place they had chosen for their game was the deep and shady corner where the church made a right angle with the royal palace. The grass was cropped during several hours every morning by a dozen sheep and lambs kept in a stable at the other end of the castle-yard during the rest of the day. The springing turf was kept fresh even in summer's drought by the deep shadows. The church wall, built of well-hewn blocks of stone, was flat and smooth, and was strengthened at regular intervals by buttresses springing straight up from the sloping penthouse of masonry, some two yards high. The interval between the last buttress and the wall of the palace made an admirable court, and, indeed, the tennis-courts of later days all seem to have been modelled upon just such corners of old church architecture. The wall of the palace was also smooth and almost without windows on that side. There was one on the lower floor, at a considerable distance from the corner, but the other was at least four or five yards from the ground, just above the point where Gilbert and Henry were playing, and was made in Norman fashion of two round arches springing from the rough-hewn capital of a small stone column between them. Gilbert had often noticed this window, though it was above an ordinary side glance, as he played the ball at the other wall; and even as he turned now, he looked instinctively behind him and towards the distant lower window. A sweet low laugh rang out into the summer air just above his head. He looked up to meet the sound, and young Henry missed the ball and turned his eyes in the same direction. His bluff, boyish face blushed scarlet, but Gilbert turned slowly pale, stepped back, and took his round pointed cap from his fair hair in acknowledgment of the Queen's presence. "You were listening, Madam," cried the boy, red in his anger. "But I am glad you did, since you have heard the truth." The Queen laughed again, and drew back her head as if to see whether there were any one in the room behind her, her white hand lying over the stone sill, meanwhile, as if to show that she was not going away. Gilbert even thought that the slender fingers tapped the stone ledge in a reassuring way. Then she looked out again. A few late flowers and sweet herbs grew in an earthenware trough in one division of the window. There was sweet basil and rosemary, and a bit of ivy that tried to find a hold upon the slender column, and, partly missing it, hung down over the window-ledge. A single monthly rose made a point of colour among the sweet green things. The Queen was still smiling as she rested her elbows upon the sill and her chin on her folded hands. She was near enough to the tennis-players to be heard by them if she spoke in a low tone. "Are you angry because Master Gilbert is frightened?" she asked, looking at Henry. "Or are you frightened because his lordship, the Count of Anjou, is angry?" she inquired, turning her eyes to Gilbert. He smiled at her way of opening the conversation, but Henry thought that she was laughing at him and grew redder than ever. Not deigning to answer, he picked up the ball and served it over the penthouse to himself, striking it back cleverly enough. The Queen laughed again as he kept his face resolutely turned from her. "Will you teach me to play, if I come down to you?" she asked, looking at the back of his head. "It is no game for women," answered the boy, rudely, and still keeping the ball up. "Will you give me a lesson, Master Gilbert?" The laughing eyes were suddenly grave as they turned to the young Englishman, the smiling lips grew tender, and the voice was gentle. Without turning round, Henry felt the change and knew that she was looking at his friend; he served the ball with a vicious stroke that brought it back too high for him. Without turning his head to see where it had rolled, the angry boy walked off, picked up his tunic, which lay on the turf at a little distance, threw it over his arm, jammed his pointed cap upon his head with his other hand, and departed in offended dignity. The Queen smiled as she looked after him, but did not laugh again. "Will you teach me to play tennis?" she asked of Gilbert, who was hesitating as to what he should do. "You have not answered me yet." "I shall at all times do your Grace's bidding," answered Gilbert, inclining his head a little and making a gesture with the hand that held his cap as if to put himself at her disposal. "At all times?" she asked quietly. Gilbert looked up quickly, fearing lest he might be tricked into a promise he did not understand, and he did not answer at once. But she would not repeat the question. "Wait," she said, before he spoke. "I am coming down." With an almost imperceptible gesture, like a greeting, she disappeared. Gilbert began to walk up and down, his hands behind him, his eyes on the ground, and he did not see the tennis-ball which Henry had lost until he almost stumbled over it. The boy's words had roused an entirely new train of ideas in his mind. Perhaps no man could be so free from vanity as not to be pleased, even against his will, with the thought that the most beautiful living woman, and she a queen, was in love with him. But whatever satisfaction of that sort Gilbert may have felt was traversed in an opposite direction by the cool sense of his own indifference. And besides, that was a simple age in which sins were called by their own names and were regarded with a sort of semi-religious, respectful abhorrence by most honest gentlemen; and what was only the general expression of a narrow but high morality had been branded upon Gilbert's soul during the past months in letters that were wounds by the ever-present memory of his own mother's shame. The confusion of his reflections was simplified by the appearance of Queen Eleanor. At the window of the lower story, which opened to the ground, she stepped out, looked up and down the deserted yard, and then came towards him. Gilbert had been long enough in Paris to understand that Queen Eleanor had not the slightest regard for the set rules, formal prejudices, and staid traditions of her husband's court; and when King Louis gravely protested against her dressing herself in man's mail, bestriding his own favourite charger, and tilting at the Saracen quintain in the yard, she hinted with more or less good or ill nature, according to her mood, that her possessions were considerably more extensive than the kingdom of France, and that what she had been taught to do by William of Aquitaine was necessarily right, and beyond the criticism of Louis Capet, who was descended from a Paris butcher. Nevertheless, the Englishman had some reasonable doubts and misgivings at finding himself, a humble squire, alone in that quiet corner with the most beautiful and most powerful of reigning queens. But she, whose quick intuition was a gift almost beyond nature, knew what he felt before she had reached his side. She spoke quite naturally and as if such a meeting were an everyday occurrence. [Illustration: "PERHAPS THAT IS ONE REASON WHY I LIKE YOU"] "You did not know that the window was mine?" she said quietly. "I saw how surprised you were when I looked out. It is a window of a little hall behind my room. There is a staircase leading down. I often come that way, but I hardly ever look out. To-day as I was passing I heard that silly child's angry voice, and when I saw his face and heard what he said, I could not help laughing." "The young Count is in earnest," said Gilbert, quietly, for it would have seemed disloyal to him to join in the Queen's laughter. "In earnest! Children are always in earnest!" "They deserve the more respect," retorted the Englishman. "I never heard of respecting children," laughed the Queen. "You never read Juvenal," answered Gilbert. "You often say things which I never heard before," answered the Queen. "Perhaps that is one reason why I like you." She stopped and leaned against the penthouse, for they had reached the corner of the court, and she thoughtfully bit a sprig of rosemary which she had picked from her window in passing. Gilbert could not help watching the small white teeth that severed the little curling grey leaves like ivory knives, but the Queen's eyes were turned from him and were very thoughtful. Gilbert deemed it necessary to say something. "Your Grace is very kind." He bowed respectfully. "What makes you so sad?" she asked suddenly, after a short pause, and turning her eyes full upon him. "Is Paris so dull? Is our court so grave? Is my Gascony wine sour, that you will not be merry like the rest, or"--she laughed a little--"or are you not treated with the respect and consideration due to your rank?" Gilbert drew himself up a little as if not pleased by the jest. "You know well that I have no rank, Madam," he said; "and though it should please you to command of me some worthy deed, and I should, by the grace of God, deserve knighthood, yet I would not have it save of my lawful sovereign." "Such as teaching me to play tennis?" she asked, seeming not to hear the end of his speech. "You should as well be knighted for that as for any other thing hard to do." "Your Grace is never in earnest." "Sometimes I am." Her eyelids drooped a little as she looked at him. "Not often enough, you think? And you--too often. Always, indeed." "If I were Queen of France, I could be light-hearted, too," said Gilbert. "But if your Grace were Gilbert Warde, you should be perhaps a sadder man than I." And he also laughed a little, but bitterly. Eleanor raised her smooth brows and spoke with a touch of irony. "Are you so young, and have you already such desperate sorrows?" But as she looked, his face changed, with that look of real and cruel suffering which none can counterfeit. He leaned back against the penthouse, looking straight before him. Then she, seeing that she had touched the nerve in an unhealed wound, glanced sidelong at him, bit upon her sprig of rosemary again, turned, and with half-bent head walked slowly along to the next buttress; she turned again there, and coming back stood close before him, laying one hand upon his folded arm and looking up to his eyes, that gazed persistently over her head. "I would not hurt you for the world," she said very gravely. "I mean to be your friend, your best friend--do you understand?" Gilbert looked down and saw her upturned face. It should have moved him even then, he thought, and perhaps he did not himself know that between her and him there was the freezing shadow of a faint likeness to his mother. "You are kind, Madam," he said, somewhat formally. "A poor squire without home or fortune can hardly be the friend of the Queen of France." She drew back from him half a step, but her outstretched hand still rested on his arm. "What have lands and fortune to do with friendship--or with love?" she asked. "Friendship's home is in the hearts of men and women; friendship's fortune is friendship's faith." "Ay, Madam, so it should be," answered Gilbert, his voice warming in a fuller tone. "Then be my friend," she said, and her hand turned itself palm upward, asking for his. He took it and raised it to his lips in the act of bending one knee. But she hindered him; her fingers closed on his with a strength greater than he had supposed that any woman could possess, and she held him and made him stand upright again, so that he would have had to use force to kneel before her. "Leave that for the court," she said; "when we are alone let us enjoy our freedom and be simply human beings, man and woman, friend and friend." Gilbert still held her hand, and saw nothing but truth in the mask of open-hearted friendship in which she disguised her growing love. He was young and thought himself almost friendless; a generous warmth was suddenly at his heart, with something compounded of real present gratitude and of the most chivalrous and unselfish devotion for the future. She felt that she had gained a point, and she forthwith claimed the privilege of friendship. "And being friends," she said, still holding his hand as he stood beside her, "will you not trust me and tell me what it is that seems to break your heart? It may be that I can help you." Gilbert hesitated, and she saw the uncertainty in his face, and pressed his hand softly as if persuading him to speak. "Tell me!" she said. "Tell me about yourself!" Gilbert looked at her doubtfully, looked away, and then turned to her again. Her voice had a persuasion of its own that appealed to him as her beauty could not. Almost before he knew what he was doing he was walking slowly by her left side, in the shade of the church, telling her his story; and she listened, silently interested, always turning her face a little toward his, and sometimes meeting his eyes with eyes of sympathy. He could not have told his tale to a man; he would not have told it to a woman he loved; but Eleanor represented to him a new and untried relation, and the sweet, impersonal light of friendship waked the dark places of his heart to undreamt confidence. He told her what had befallen him, from first to last, but the sound of his own words was strange to him; for he found himself telling her what he had seen two and three years ago, in the light of what he had known but a few months, yet almost as if he had known it from the first. More than once he hesitated in his speech, being suddenly struck by the horror of what he was telling, and almost doubting the witness of his own soul to the truth. One thing only he did not tell--he never spoke of Beatrix, nor hinted that there had been any love in his life. They turned, and turned again many times, and he was hardly aware that at the end the Queen had linked one hand in his right arm and gently pressed it from time to time in sign of sympathy. And when he had finished, with a quaver in his deep voice as he told how he had come out into the world to seek his fortune, she stopped him, and they both stood still. "Poor boy!" she exclaimed softly. "Poor Gilbert!"--and her tone lingered on the name,--"the world owes you a desperate debt--but the world shall pay it!" She smiled as she spoke the last words, pressing his arm more suddenly and quickly than before; and he smiled, too, but incredulously. Then she looked down at her own hand upon his sleeve. "But that is not all," she continued thoughtfully; "was there no woman--no love--no one that was dearer than all you lost?" A faint and almost boyish blush rose in Gilbert's cheek, and disappeared again instantly. "They took her from me, too," he said in a low, hard voice. "She was Arnold de Curboil's daughter--when he married my mother he made his child my sister. You know the Church's law!" Eleanor was on the point of saying something impulsively, but her eyelids suddenly drooped and she checked herself. If Gilbert Warde did not know that the Church granted dispensations in such cases, she saw no good reason for telling him. "Besides," he added, "I could not have her now, unless I could take her from her father by force." "No," said the Queen, thoughtfully. "Is she fair?" "Very dark," said Gilbert. "I meant, is she beautiful?" "To me, yes: the most beautiful in the world. But how should I know? I have never heard others speak of her; she is not beautiful as your Grace is,--not radiantly, supremely, magnificently perfect,--yet to my eyes she is very lovely." "I should like to see her," said the Queen. In the silence that followed they began to walk up and down again side by side, but Eleanor's hand no longer rested on Gilbert's arm. She could see that his eyes were fixed upon a face that was far away, and that his hand longed for a touch not hers; and a painful little thrill of disappointment ran through her, for she was not used to any sort of opposition, in great things or small. The handsome Englishman attracted her strangely, and not by his outward personality only. From the first a sort of mystery had hung over him, and she had felt, when she was with him, the inexplicable fascination of a curiosity which she should be sure to satisfy sooner or later. And now, having learned something of his life, and liking him the more for what she knew, she was suddenly filled with an irresistible longing to see the girl who had made the first mark on Gilbert's life. She tried to conjure up the young face, and the dark hue he had spoken of brought the vision of a fateful shadow. Her mind dwelt upon the girl, and she started visibly when Gilbert spoke to her. "And has your Grace no deed for me to do?" he asked. "Is there nothing whereby I may prove my thanks?" "Nothing, save that you be indeed my friend--a friend I can trust, a friend to whom I may speak safely as to my own soul, a friend whom I may tell how heartily I hate this life I lead!" She uttered the last words with a sudden rising accent of unruly discontent, as genuine as every other outward showing of her vital nature. "How can your life be hateful?" asked Gilbert, in profound astonishment, for he did not know her half as well as she already knew him. "How can it be anything else?" she asked, "How should life not be hateful, when every natural thing that makes life worth living is choked as soon as it is awake? Oh, I often wish I were a man!" "Men do not wish you were," answered Gilbert, with a smile. Suddenly, while they were speaking, a sound of voices filled the air with loud chanting of Latin words. Instinctively the Queen laid her hand on Gilbert's sleeve and drew him into the shadow of a buttress, and he yielded, scarcely knowing what he did. The chanting swelled on the air, and a moment later the procession began to appear beyond the corner of the church. Two and two, led by one who bore a cross, the song-boys in scarlet and white came first, then Benedictine monks in black, then priests of the cathedral in violet cloth with fine white linen surplices and bearing wax candles. And they all chanted as they walked, loudly, fervently, as if a life and a soul depended on every note. Then, as the Queen and Gilbert looked on from the shade where they stood, they saw the canopy of cloth of gold borne on its six gilded staves by slim young men in white, and beneath it walked the venerable bishop, half hidden under the vast embroidered cope from which the golden monstrance emerged, grasped by his closely wrapped hands; and his colourless eyes were fixed devoutly upon the Sacred Host, while his lips moved in silent prayer. Just as the canopy was in sight the procession halted for some time. In the shadow of the buttress Eleanor knelt upon the turf, looking towards the Sacred Host, and Gilbert dropped upon one knee at her side, very reverently bending his head. Eleanor looked straight before her with more curiosity than religious fervour, but in her ear she heard Gilbert's deep voice softly chanting with the monks the psalms he had so often sung at Sheering Abbey. The Queen turned her head at the sound, in surprise, and watched the young man's grave face for a moment without attracting his attention. Apparently she was not pleased, for her brows were very slightly drawn together, the corners of her eyes drooped, and the deep bright blue was darkened. At that moment the canopy swayed a little, the ancient bishop moved his shoulders under the heavy cope in the effort of starting again, and the procession began to move onward. Next after the bishop, from behind the end of the church, the King came into sight, walking, monk-like, with folded hands, moving lips and downcast eyes, the long embroidered bliaut reaching almost to his feet, while the scarlet mantle, lined with blue and bordered with ermine, fell straight from his shoulders and touched the turf as he walked. He was bareheaded, and as Eleanor noticed what was evidently intended for another act of humility, the serene curve of her closed lips was sharpened in scorn. And suddenly, as she gazed at her husband's cold, white features in contempt, she heard Gilbert's voice at her elbow again, chanting the Latin words musically and distinctly, and she turned almost with a movement of anger to see the bold young face saddened and softened by the essence of a profound belief. "Was I born to love monks!" she sighed half audibly; but as she looked back at the procession she started and uttered a low exclamation. Beside her husband, but a little after him as the pageant turned, a straight, thin figure came into sight, clad in a monk's frock scarcely less dazzling white than the marvellous upturned face. At Eleanor's exclamation Gilbert also had raised his eyes from the ground, and they fixed themselves on the wonderful features of the greatest man of the age, while his voice forgot to chant and his lips remained parted in wonder. Upon the bright green grass against the background of hewn stone walls, in the glorious autumn sunshine, Bernard of Clairvaux moved like the supernal vision of a heavenly dream. His head thrown back, the delicate silver-fair beard scarcely shadowing the spiritual outlines of an almost divine face, his soft blue eyes looked upward, filled with a light not earthly. The transparent brow and the almost emaciated cheeks were luminously pale, and seemed to shed a radiance of their own. But it would have been impossible to say what it was in the man's form or face that made him so utterly different and distinct from other men. It was not alone the Christlike brow, nor the noble features inherited from a line of heroes; it was not the ascetic air, the look of bodily suffering, nor the fine-drawn lines of pain which, as it were, etched a shadowy background of sorrow upon which the spiritual supremacy blazed like a rising star: it was something beyond all these, above name and out of definition, the halo of saintship, the glory of genius, the crown of heroism. Of such a man, one's eyes might be filled, and one might say, 'Let him not speak, lest some harsh tone or imperfect speech should pierce the vision with sharp discord, as a rude and sudden sound ends a soft dream.' Yet he was a man who, when he raised his hand to lead, led millions like children; who, when he opened his lips to speak, spoke with the tongue of men and of angels such words as none had spoken before him--words which were the truth made light; one who, when he took pen in hand to write to the world's masters, wrote without fear or fault, as being the scribe of God, but who could pen messages of tenderest love and gentlest counsel to the broken-hearted and the heavy-laden. Gilbert's eyes followed the still, white glory of the monk's face, till the procession turned in a wide sweep behind the wing of the palace, and even then the tension of his look did not relax. He was still kneeling with fixed gaze when the Queen was standing beside him. The scorn was gone from her lips and had given place to a sort of tender pity. She touched the young man's shoulder twice before he started, looked up, and then sprang to his feet. "Who is that man?" he asked earnestly. "Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux," answered the Queen, looking far away. "I almost worshipped him once, when I was a child,--it is the will of Heaven that I should lose my heart to monks!" She laughed, as she had laughed from the window. "Monks?" Gilbert repeated the word with curiosity. "Are you one of those persons for whom it is necessary to explain everything?" asked Eleanor, still smiling and looking at him intently. "I think you must be half a monk yourself, for I heard you singing the psalms as sweetly as any convent scholar." "Even if I were not half a monk, but one altogether, I should not wholly understand your Grace's speech;" Gilbert smiled, too, for he was immeasurably far from guessing what was in her mind. "So I have thought, in all these weeks and days while we have been together." Her eyes darkened as she looked at him, but his were clear and calm. "Do you understand this?" she asked, and she laid her two hands upon his shoulders. "What?" he asked in surprise. "This," she said, very softly, drawing herself near to him by her hands. Then he knew, and he would have straightened himself, but her hands sprang to meet each other round his neck, and her face was close to his. But the vision of his own sinful mother rose in her eyes to meet him. She held him fast, and three times she kissed him before she would let him go. CHAPTER VIII Gilbert had reached Paris in the train of Duke Geoffrey in September; the Christmas bells were ringing when he first caught sight of the walls and towers of Rome. As he drew rein on the crest of a low hill, the desolate brown waste of the Campagna stretched behind him mile upon mile to northward, toward the impenetrable forests of Viterbo, and Rome was at last before him. Before him rose the huge half-ruined walls of Aurelian, battered by Goth and Saracen and imperial Greek; before him towered the fortress of Hadrian's tomb, vast, impregnable, ferocious. Here and there above the broken crenellation of the city's battlements rose dark and slender towers, square and round, marking the places where strong robbers had fortified themselves within the city. But from the point where Gilbert halted, Rome seemed but a long brown ruin, with portions standing whole, as brown as the rest under the bright depths of vaulted blue, unflecked by the least fleece of cloud, in the matchless clearness of the winter's morning. Profound disappointment came upon him as he looked. With little knowledge and hardly any information from others who had journeyed by the same road, he had built himself an imaginary city of unspeakable beauty, wherein graceful churches rose out of sunlit streets and fair open places planted with lordly avenues of trees. There, in his thoughts, walked companies of men with faces like the face of the great Bernard, splendid with innocence, radiant with the hope of life. Thither, in his fancy, came the true knights of the earth, purified of sin by vigils in the holy places of the East, to renew unbroken vows of chastity and charity and faith. There, in his dream, dwelt the venerable Father of Bishops, the Vicar of Christ, the successor of Peter, the Servant of the servants of God, the spotless head of the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church. There, in his heart, he had made the dwelling of whatsoever things are upright and just and perfect in heaven, and pure and beautiful on earth. That was the city of God, of which his soul was the architect, and in which he was to be a dweller, in peace that should pass understanding. He had left behind him in Paris another vision and one that might well have dazzled him--such favour as falls to few; such hopes as few can plant in their lives and still fewer can rear to maturity; such love as few indeed could hope for--the love of supreme and royal beauty. When he had ridden out of the castle on the island, older by some months, richer by such gifts as it was no shame for him to take of Duke Geoffrey and young Henry Plantagenet, he had believed himself wiser, too, by half a lifetime. He was confident in his own strength, in his own wisdom, in his own endurance; he fancied that he had fought against a great temptation, where he had in truth been chilled and terrified by the haunting vision of another's evil; he imagined that the little sharp regret, which stung his heart with longing for the sweetness of a sin that might have been, was the evil remnant of a passion not wholly quenched, whereas it was but the craving of a natural vanity that had not been strong enough to overcome a repugnance which he himself only half understood. He seemed in his own eyes to have made the sacrifice of his worldly future for the sake of his knightly ideal; but in truth, to a man without ambition, the renunciation had been easy and had been made in acquiescence with his real desires, rather than in opposition to them. And now he looked upon the city of his hope, and it crumbled to a dusty ruin under his very hand; he stood on ground made reverent by the march of history and sanctified by the blood of Christians, and it was but one great wilderness, of which he himself was the centre. His heart sank suddenly within him, and his fingers clutched at the breast of his tunic under his surcoat, as though the pain were bodily and real. Long he sat in silence, bending a little in the saddle, as if worn out with fatigue, though he had ridden only three hours since daybreak. "Sir," said his man Dunstan, interrupting his master's meditations, "here is an inn, and we may find water for our horses." Gilbert looked up indifferently, and then, as there was no near building in sight, he turned inquiringly to his man. A sardonic smile played on Dunstan's lean dark face as he pointed to what Gilbert had taken for three haystacks. They were, indeed, nothing but conical straw huts standing a few steps aside from the road, thirty yards down the hill. The entrance to each was low and dark, and from the one issued wreaths of blue smoke, slowly rising in the still, cold air. At the same entrance a withered bough proclaimed that wine was to be had. A ditch beyond the furthest hut was full of water, and at some distance from it a rude shed of boughs had been set up to afford the horses of travellers some shelter from winter rain or summer sun. As Gilbert looked, a man came out, bowing himself almost double to pass under the low aperture. He wore long goatskin breeches and a brown homespun tunic, like a monk's frock, cut short above the knees, and girdled with a twisted thong. Shaggy black hair thatched his square head, and a thin black beard framed the yellow face, which had the fever-stricken look of the dwellers in the Campagna. Though this was the first halting-place of the kind to which Gilbert had come in the Roman plain, he was no longer easily surprised by anything, and he did not even smile as he rode forward and dismounted. Besides his own men he had with him the muleteer who acted as guide and interpreter, and without whom it was impossible for a foreigner to travel in Italy. The peasant bowed to the ground, and led Gilbert to the entrance of the hut where he usually served his customers with food and drink, and in the gloom within Gilbert saw a rough-hewn table and two benches standing upon the well-swept floor of beaten earth. But the Englishman made signs that he would sit outside, and the scanty furniture was brought out into the open air. The third hut was a refuge and a sleeping-place for travellers overtaken at nightfall on their way to the city. "The monk is asleep," said the peasant host, lifting his finger to his lips because Gilbert's men were talking loud near the entrance. Gilbert understood as much as that without his interpreter; for in those days the Provencal tongue was an accomplishment of all well-born persons, and it was not unlike certain dialects of Italy. "A monk?" repeated Gilbert, indifferently. "He calls himself one, and he wears a grey frock," answered the other. "But we are glad when he comes, for he brings us good fortune. And you may see that I speak the truth, since he came late in the night, and your lordship is the first guest at the huts this morning." "Then you know him well?" "Every one knows him," answered the man. He turned, and Gilbert saw him lift up a hurdle of branches and disappear underground. His cellar was deep and cool, one of the many caverns which communicate with the catacombs and riddle the Campagna from Rome to the hills. Gilbert seated himself upon the smaller of the two benches at the end of the table; his three men took the other, and laid aside their caps out of respect for their master. The horses were tethered under the shed of boughs till they should be cool enough to be watered. The southern side of the hut was sunny and warm, and the place smelled of dry grass, of clean straw, and, faintly, of smouldering fire. Gilbert was hardly conscious that he was thinking of anything as he stared out at the rolling waste, folding his hands together upon the hilt of his long sword. Just then a man emerged from the third hut, drew himself up facing the sun, and rubbed his eyes before he looked toward the party at the other table. When he saw them, he hesitated for a moment, and then came up to Gilbert with the apparent intention of addressing him. Above the height of average men, the figure looked unnaturally tall by its gauntness, and the heavy folds of the grey woollen frock fell together below the breast as if they covered a shadow. Long, bony hands, that seemed woven of sinews and leather, but which were not without a certain nervous refinement, hung from loose-jointed brown wrists left bare by sleeves that were too short. The head was so roughly angular that even the thick masses of dark brown hair which fell to the shoulders could not make the angles seem like curves, and the face displayed the fervent features of a fanatic--dark, hollow cheeks, deep-sunk, blazing eyes, the vast lines of an ascetic mouth, a great jaw scarcely fringed by the scant black beard. Gilbert saw before him a face and figure that might have belonged to a hermit of Egypt, an ascetic of the Syrian desert, a John the Baptist, an Anthony of Thebes. The man wore a broad leathern girdle; a blackened rosary, with beads as large as walnuts, hung from his side and ended in a rough cross of wrought iron. Gilbert half rose from his seat, moved to one end of the short bench, and invited the stranger to sit beside him. The monk bent his head slightly, but not a feature moved as he took the proffered place in silence. He folded his great hands on the edge of the rough-hewn board and stared at the ruinous brown city to southward. "You are a stranger," he said in Provencal, after a long pause and in a singularly musical voice, but without turning his eyes to Gilbert. "I have never seen Rome before," answered Gilbert. "Rome!" There was a sort of almost heartbroken pity in the tone of the single syllable that fell from the lips of the wandering monk. "You have never seen Rome before? There it lies, all that is left of it--the naked bones of the most splendid, the most beautiful, the most powerful city in the world, murdered by power, done to death by popes and emperors, by prefects and barons, sapped of life by the evil canker of empire, and left there like a dead dog in the Campagna, to be a prey to carrion beasts and a horror to living men." The gaunt stranger set his elbows upon the table and bit his nails savagely, while his burning eyes fixed themselves on the distant towers of Rome. Then Gilbert saw that this man was no common wandering friar, begging a meal for his frock's sake, but one who had thoughts of his own, and with whom to think was to suffer. "It is true," said Gilbert, "that Rome is less fair to see than I had supposed." "And you are deceived of your hopes before you have entered her gate," returned the other. "Are you the first? Are you the last? Has Rome made an end of deceiving, and found the termination of disappointment? Rome has deceived and disappointed the world. Rome has robbed the world of its wealth, and devoured it, and grown gaunt to the bone. Rome has robbed men of their bodies and of their lives, and has torn them limb from limb wantonly, as a spoiled hawk tears a pheasant and scatters the bright feathers on the ground. Rome has robbed men of their souls and has fed hell with them to its surfeit. And now, in her turn, her grasping hands have withered at the wrists, her insatiable lips are cracking upon her loosening teeth, and the mistress of the world is the sport of Jews and usurers." "You speak bitterly," said Gilbert, looking curiously at his new acquaintance. The monk sighed, and his eyes softened wonderfully as he turned to the young man. He had been speaking in a tone that slowly rose to shrillness, like a cry of bodily pain. When he spoke again his voice was low and sweet. "Bitterly, but for her sake, not for mine," he said. "If I have given my life for her, she will not give me hers. Though I have laid at her feet all that I had, she shall put nothing into my hand nor give me anything but a ditch and a handful of earth for my bones, unless some emperor or pope shall leave them upon a gallows. But I have asked of her, for herself and her own sake, that she should do by herself honourably, and draw her neck from the yoke and shake off the burdens under which she has stumbled and fallen. I have asked of her to stand upright again, to refuse to eat from the hand that has wounded her, and not to hearken to the voice of violence and cursing. I have asked that Rome should cast out the Stranger Emperor, and cast down the churchman from the king's throne, and take from him the king's mask. I have asked Rome to face her high robbers whom she calls barons, her corruption, her secret weakness, as a brave man faces his sins and confesses them and steadfastly purposes to offend God no more, All this I have asked, and in part she has heard; and I have paid the price of my asking, for I am an outcast of many kingdoms and a man excommunicated under the Major Interdiction." A gentle smile, that might have been half indifference, half pity, wreathed the ascetic lips as he spoke the last words. They were not empty words in those days, and unawares Gilbert shrank a little from his companion. "I see that you are a devout person," said the friar, quietly. "Let my presence not offend you at your meal. I go my way." But as he began to rise, Gilbert's hand went out, and his fingers met round the skeleton arm in the loose grey sleeve. "Stay, sir," he said, "and break your fast with us. I am not such a one as you think." "You shrank from me," said the stranger, hesitating to resume his seat. "I meant no discourtesy," answered Gilbert. "Be seated, sir. You call yourself an outcast. I am but little better than a wanderer, disinherited of his own." "And come you hither for the Pope's justice?" asked the friar, scornfully. "There is no Pope in Rome. Our last was killed at the head of a band of fighting men, on the slope of the Capitol, last year, and he who is Pope now is as much a wanderer as you and I. And in Rome we have a Republic and a Senate, and justice of a kind, but only for Romans, and claiming no dominion over mankind; for to be free means to set free, to live means to let live." "I shall see what this freedom of yours is like," said Gilbert, thoughtfully. "For my part I am not used to such thoughts, and though I have read some history of Rome, I could never understand the Roman Republic. With us the strongest is master by natural law. Why should the strong man share with the weak what he may keep for himself? Or if he must, in your ideal, then why should not the strong nation share her strength and wealth with her weak neighbour? Is it not enough that the strong should not wantonly bruise the weak nor deal unfairly by him? The Normans can see no more harm or injustice in holding than we see in taking what we can; and so we shall never understand your republics and your senates." "Are you a Norman, sir?" asked the friar. "Are you a kinsman of Guiscard and of them that last burnt Rome? I do not wonder that the civilization of a republic should seem strange to you!" Gilbert was listening, but his eyes had wandered from the friar's face in the direction of the dusty road that led to Rome, and between his companion's words his quick ear had caught the sound of hoofs, although no horses were yet in sight but his own. Just as the friar ceased speaking, however, a troop of seven riders appeared at the turn of the road. They were rough-looking men in long brown cloaks that were in tatters at the edge; they wore round caps of mail on their heads, with a broad leathern strap under the chin; their faces were dark, their beards black and unkempt, and they rode small, ragged horses, as ill cared for as themselves. Gilbert sprang up almost as soon as he saw them, for he knew that, not being travellers, they could hardly be anything but highwaymen. His own men were on their feet as soon as he, while the muleteer guide disappeared round the hut quietly and swiftly, like a mouse when a cat is in sight. Gilbert made straight for his horses, followed by Dunstan and the groom; but before he could reach them, two of the riders had jumped the ditch from the road and intercepted him, while the others rode on toward the shed to carry off his horses. His sword was out in a flash, his men were beside him, their weapons in their hands, and the grimy riders drew theirs also; it was like a little storm of steel in the bright air. The Englishman's long blade whirled half a circle above his head; the blow would beat down the horseman's guard and draw blood, too. But in mid-air his wrist was seized in the sudden grasp of sinewy fingers, and the friar was already between him and his adversary, warning the other off with his outstretched hand. The loose sleeve had slipped back from his wrist, baring a brown, emaciated arm and elbow upon which the swollen veins seemed to twist and climb like leafless vines upon a withered tree. His lips were white, his eyes blazed, and his voice was suddenly harsh and commanding. "Back!" he cried, almost savagely. To Gilbert's very great astonishment, the single word produced an instantaneous and wonderful effect. The riders lowered their weapons, looked at one another, and then sheathed them; the others, who were loosing Gilbert's horses and mules, suddenly desisted at the sound of the friar's voice. Then the one nearest to Gilbert, who was a shade less grimy than the rest, and who wore in his cap a feather from a pheasant's tail, slipped to the ground, and bending low under his tattered brown cloak, took the hem of the monk's frock in his right hand and kissed it fervently. Gilbert stood aside, leaning upon his unsheathed sword, and his wonder grew as he looked on. "We ask your pardon, Fra Arnoldo," cried the chief, still kneeling. "How could we guess that you were breakfasting out here this morning? We thought you far in the north." "And therefore thought yourselves free to rob strangers and steal cattle, and cut one anothers' throats?" "This is probably a part of the civilization of a republic," observed Gilbert, with a smile. But the highwaymen, all dismounted now, came crowding to the feet of Arnold of Brescia in profound, if not lasting, contrition, and they begged a blessing of the excommunicated monk. CHAPTER IX Gilbert lodged at the sign of the Lion, over against the tower of Nona, by the bridge of Sant' Angelo. The inn was as old as the times of Charlemagne, when it had been named in honour of Pope Leo, who had crowned him emperor. But the quarter was at that time in the hands of the great Jewish race of Pierleoni, whose first antipope, Anacletus, had not been dead many years, and who, though they still held the castle and many towers and fortresses in Rome, had not succeeded in imposing the antipope Victor upon the Roman people, against the will of Bernard of Clairvaux. Rome lay along the river, in those days, like wreckage and scum thrown up on the shore of a wintry sea. Some twenty thousand human beings were huddled together in smoky huts, most of which were built against the outer walls and towers of the nobles' strongholds--a miserable population, living squalidly in terrible times, starving while the nobles fought with one another, rising now and then like a vision of famine and sword to take back by force the right of life which force had almost taken from them. Gilbert wandered through the crooked, unpaved streets, in and out of gloomy courts and over desolate wastes and open places, the haunts of ravenous dogs and homeless cats that kept themselves alive on the choice pickings of the city's garbage. He went armed and followed by his men, as he saw that other gentlemen of his condition did, and when he knelt in a church to hear mass or to say a prayer, he was careful to kneel with his back to the wall or to a pillar, lest some light-handed worshipper should set a razor to his wallet strings or his sword-belt. At his inn, too, he lived in a state of armed defence against every one, including the host and the other guests; and the weekly settlement was a weekly battle between Dunstan, who paid his master's scores, the little Tuscan interpreter, and Ser Clemente, the innkeeper, in which the Tuscan had the most uncomfortable position, finding himself placed buffer-like between the honest man and the thief, and exposed to equally hard hitting from both. Rome was poor and dirty and a den of thieves, murderers, and all malefactors, dominated alternately by a family of half-converted Jews, who terrorized the city from strong points of vantage, and then, on other days, by the mob that followed Arnold of Brescia when he appeared in the city, and who would have torn down stone walls with their bare hands at his merest words, as they would have faced the barons' steel with naked breast. At such times men left their tasks--the shoemaker his last, the smith his anvil, the crooked tailor his bench--to follow the northern monk to the Capitol, or to some church where he was to speak to them; and after the men came the women, and after the women the children, all drawn along by the mysterious attraction which they could neither understand nor resist. The tramping of many feet made a dull bass to the sound of many human voices, high and low, crying out lustily for 'Arnold, a Senate, and the Roman Republic'; and then taking up the song of the day, which was a ballad of liberty, in a long minor chant that broke into a jubilant major in the burden--the sort of song the Romans have always made in time of change, the kind of ballad that goes before the end of a kingdom, like a warning voice of fate. On such days, when the mob went howling and singing after its idol, southwards to the Capitol or even to the far Lateran where Marcus Aurelius sat upon his bronze horse watching the ages go by, then Gilbert loved to wander in the opposite direction, across the castle bridge and under the haunted battlements of Sant' Angelo, where evil Theodora's ghost walked on autumn nights when the south wind blew, and through the long wreck of the fair portico that had once extended from the bridge to the basilica, till he came to the broad flight of steps leading to the walled garden-court of old Saint Peter's. There he loved to sit musing among the cypresses, wondering at the vast bronze pine-cone and the great brass peacocks which Symmachus had brought thither from the ruins of Agrippa's baths, wherein the terrible Crescenzi had fortified themselves during more than a hundred years. Sitting there alone, while Dunstan puzzled his uncertain learning over deep-cut inscriptions of long ago, and Alric, the groom, threw his dagger at a mark on one of the cypress trees, hundreds of times in succession, and rarely missing his aim, Gilbert felt, in the silence he loved, that the soul of Rome had taken hold of his soul, and that in Rome it was good to live for the sake of dreaming, and that dreaming itself was life. The past, with his mother's sins, his own sorrows, the friendship of the boy Henry, the love of Queen Eleanor, were all infinitely far removed and dim. The future, once the magic mirror in which he had seen displayed the glory of knightly deeds which he was to do, was taken up like a departing vision into the blue Roman sky. Only the present remained, the idle, thoughtful, half-narcotic present, with a mazy charm no man could explain, since so far as any bodily good was concerned there was less comfort to be got for money, more fever to be taken for nothing, and a larger element of danger in everyday life in Rome than in any city Gilbert had traversed in his wanderings. Yet he lingered and loved it rather for what it denied him than for what it gave him, for the thoughts it called up rather than for the sights it offered, for that in it which was unknown, and therefore dear to dwell upon, rather than for the sadness and the darkness and the evil that all men might feel. But through all he felt, and in all he saw, welding and joining the whole together, there was the still fervour of that something which he had at first known in Sheering Abbey--something to which every fibre of his nature responded, and which, indeed, was the mainspring of the world in that age. For devotion was then more needful than bread, and it profited a man more to fight against unbelievers for his soul's sake than to wear hollows in altar-steps with his knees, or to forget his own name and put off his own proper character and being, as a nameless unit in a great religious order. At first the enormous disappointment of Rome had saddened and hurt him. He had fancied that where there was no head there could be no house, that where the leader was gone the army must scatter and be hewn in pieces. But as he stayed on, from week to week and from month to month, he learned to understand that the Church had never been more alive, more growing, and more militant than at that very time when the true and rightful pontiffs were made outcasts one after the other, while their places, earthly and spiritual, were given to instruments of feud and party. For the Church was the world, while Rome meant seven or eight thousand half-starved and turbulent ruffians, with their wives and children, eager always for change, because it seemed that no change could be for the worse. But in the ancient basilica of Saint Peter there was peace; there the white-haired priests solemnly officiated in the morning and at noon, and toward evening more than a hundred rich voices of boys and men sang the vesper psalms in the Gregorian tones; there slim youths in violet and white swung silver censers before the high altar, and the incense floated in rich clouds upon the sunbeams that fell slanting to the ancient floor; there, as in many a minster and cloister of the world, the Church was still herself, as she was, and is, and always will be; there words were spoken and solemn prayers intoned which had been familiar to the lips of the Apostles, which are familiar to our lips and ears to-day, and of which we are sure that lips unborn will repeat them to centuries of generations. Gilbert, type of Christian layman, kneeled in the old cathedral, and chanted softly after the choir, and breathed the incense-laden air that seemed as natural to him as ever the hay-scented breeze of summer had been, and he was infinitely refreshed in soul and body. But then again, alone in his room at the Lion Inn, late in the night, when he had been poring over the beautifully written copy of Boethius, given him by the Abbot of Sheering, he often opened wide the wooden shutters of his window and looked out at the castle and at the flowing river that eddied and gleamed in the moonlight. Then life rose before him in a mystery for him to solve by deeds, and he knew that he was not to dream out his years in the shadowy city, and the strong old instinct of his race bade him go forth and cut his fortune out of the world's flank alive. Then his blood rose in his throat, and his hands hardened one upon the other, as he leaned over the stone sill and drew the night air sharply between his closed teeth; and he resolved then to leave Rome and to go on in search of strange lands and masterful deeds. On such nights, when the wind blew down the river in the spring, it brought to him all the hosts of fancy, spirit armies, ghostly knights, and fairy maidens, and the forecast shadows of things to come. There was a tragic note, also; for on his right, as he looked, there rose the dark tower of Nona, and from the highest turret he could clearly see in the moonlight how the long rain-bleached rope hung down and swayed in the breeze, and the noose at the end of it softly knocked upon the tower wall; more than once, also, when he had looked out in the morning, he had seen a corpse hanging there by the neck, stiff and staring and wet with dew. But when the spring day dawned and the birds sang at his window, and when, looking out, he felt the breath of the sweet south and saw that Rome smiled again, then his resolutions failed, and instead of bidding Dunstan pack his armour and his fine clothes for a journey, he made his men mount and ride with him to the far regions of the city. Often he loitered away the afternoon in the desolate regions of the Aventine, riding slowly from one lonely church to another, and sometimes spending an hour in conversation with a solitary priest who, by living much alone and among inscriptions and old carvings, had gathered a little more learning than was common among the unlettered Romans. He met with no adventures; for though the highways in the country swarmed with robbers always on the watch for a merchant's train or for a rich traveller, yet within the city's limits, small as was the authority of the Senate and of the Prefect, thieves dared not band together in numbers, and no two or three of them would have cared to come to blows with Gilbert and his men. Nor did he make friends in Rome. His first intention had been to present himself to the principal baron in the city, as a traveller of good birth, and to request the advantages of friendship and protection; and so he would have done in any other European city. But he had soon learned that Rome was far behind the rest of the world in the social practices of chivalry, and that in placing himself under a Roman baron's protection he would, to all intents and purposes, be taking service instead of accepting hospitality. Even so, he might have been willing to take such a position for the sake of adventure; yet he could by no means make up his mind to a choice between the half-Jewish Pierleoni and the rough-mannered Frangipani. To the red-handed Crescenzi he would not go; the Colonna of that time were established on the heights of Tusculum, and the Orsini, friends to the Pope, had withdrawn to distant Galera, in the fever-haunted marsh northwest of Rome. But here and there he made the acquaintance of a priest or a monk whose learned conversation harmonized with his thoughts and helped the grave illusion in which--perhaps out of sheer idleness--he loved to think himself back in the abbey in England. And so he led a life unlike the lives around him, and many of the people in the quarter learned to know him by sight, and called him and his men 'the English'; and as most of the people of Rome were very much occupied with their own affairs, chiefly evil, Gilbert was allowed to live as he pleased. But for the fact that even his well-filled purse must in the course of time be exhausted, he might have spent the remainder of his life in the Lion Inn, by the bridge, carelessly meditative and simply happy. But other forces were at work to guide his life into other channels, and he had reckoned ill when he had fancied, being himself unmoved, that the love of such a woman as Queen Eleanor was a mere incident without consequence, forgotten like a flower of last year's blossoming. Several times during the winter and in the spring that followed, the friar Arnold came to see him in his lodgings and talked of the great things that were coming, of the redemption of man from man by the tearing down of all sovereign power, whether of pope or emperor, or king or prince, to make way for the millennium of a universal republic. Then the fanatic's burning eyes flashed like beacons, his long arms made sudden and wild gestures, his soft brown hair stood from his head as though lifted by a passing breeze, and his whole being was transfigured in the flash of his own eloquence. When he spoke to the Romans with that voice and with that look, they rose quickly to a tumult, as the sea under a gale, and he could guide them in their storming to ends of destruction and terror. But there was no drop of southern blood in Gilbert's veins nor anything to which the passionate Italian's eloquence appealed. Instead of catching fire, he argued; instead of joining Arnold in his attempt to turn the world into a republic, he was more and more persuaded of the excellence of all he had left behind him in the north. He incarnated that aristocratic temper which has in all times, since Duke William crossed the water, leavened the strong mass of the Anglo-Saxon character, balancing its rude democratic strength with the keenness of a higher physical organization and the nobility of a more disinterested daring, and again and again rousing the English-speaking races to life and conquest, when they were sunk deep in the sordid interests of trade and money-making. So when Arnold talked of laws and institutions which should again make Rome the mistress of the world, Gilbert answered him by talking of men who had the strength to take the world and to be its masters and make it obey whatsoever laws they saw fit to impose. Between the two there was the everlasting difference between theory and action; and though it chanced that just then Arnold, the dreamer, was in the lead of change and revolution, while Gilbert, the fighter, was idling away weeks and months in a dream, yet the fact was the same, and in manly strength and inward simplicity of thought Gilbert Warde, the Norman, was far nearer to the man who made Rome imperial than was the eloquent Italian who built the mistress city of his thoughts out of ideas and theories, carved and hewn into shapes of beauty by the tremendous tools of his wit and his words. At the root of the great difference between the two there was on the one side the Norman's centralization of the world in himself, as being for himself, and on the other the Latin's power and readiness to forget himself in the imaginations of an ideal state. "Men are talking of a second Crusade," said Arnold, one day, when he and Gilbert had chanced to meet in the garden court of Saint Peter's. Gilbert was standing with his back against one of the cypress trees, watching the fiery monk with thoughtful eyes. "They talk of Crusades," said Arnold, stopping to face the young man. "They talk of sending hundreds of thousands of Christian men to die every death under God's sun in Palestine--for what? To save men? To lift up a race? To plant good, that good may grow? They go for none of those things. The sign on their breasts is the cross; the word on their lips is Christ; the thought in their hearts is the thought of all your ruthless race--to take from others and add to your own stores; to take land, wealth, humanity, life, everything that can be taken from conquered man before he is left naked to die." Gilbert did not smile, for he was wondering whether there were not some truth in the monk's accusation. "Do you say this because Norman men hold half of your Italy?" he asked gravely. "Have they held it well or ill?" "Ill," answered Arnold, fixing his eyes sharply on Gilbert's face. "But that is not the matter; some of them have helped me, too. There are good men and bad among Normans, as among Saracens." "I thank you," said Gilbert, smiling now, in spite of himself. "The devils also believe and tremble," retorted Arnold, grimly quoting. "The taking of the South proves my words; it is not half my meaning. Men take the cross and give their lives for a name, a tradition, the sacred memories of a holy place. They will not give a week of their lives, a drop of their blood, for their fellow-men, nor for the beliefs that alone can save the world." "And what are those beliefs?" asked Gilbert. Arnold paused before he replied, and then as he lifted his face, it was full of light. "Faith, Hope, Charity," he answered, and then, as his head drooped with a sudden look of hopelessness, he turned away with slow steps toward the great gate. Gilbert did not change his position as he looked after him rather sadly. The man's perfect simplicity, his eagerness for the most lofty ideals, the spotless purity of his life, commanded Gilbert's most true admiration. And yet to the Norman, Arnold of Brescia was but a dreamer, a visionary, and a madman. Gilbert could listen to him for a while, but then the terrible tension of the friar's thought and speech wearied him. Just now he was almost glad that his companion should depart so suddenly; but as he watched him he saw him stop, as if he had forgotten something, and then turn back, searching for some object in the bosom of his frock. "I had forgotten what brought me here," said the friar, producing a small roll of parchment tied and bound together with thin leathern laces, and tied again with a string of scarlet silk to which was fastened a heavy leaden seal. "I have here a letter for you." "A letter!" Gilbert showed a not unnatural surprise. He had never received a letter in his life, and in those days persons of ordinary importance rarely sent or received messages except by word of mouth. "I went to your lodging," replied the monk, handing Gilbert the parchment. "I guessed that I might find you here, where we have met before." "I thank you," said Gilbert, turning the roll over in his hands as if hardly knowing what to do. "How came you by this?" "Last night there arrived messengers from France," answered Arnold, "bringing letters for the Senate and for me, and with them was this, which the messenger said had been delivered into his hand by the Queen of France, who had commanded him to find out the person to whom it was addressed, and had promised him a reward if he should succeed. I therefore told him that I would give it to you." Gilbert was looking at the seal. The heavy disk of lead through which the silken strings had been drawn was as large as the bottom of a drinking-cup and was stamped with the device of Aquitaine; doubtless the very one used by Duke William, for it bore the figures of Saint George and the Dragon, which Eleanor was afterwards to hand down to English kings to this day. Gilbert tried to pull the silk cord through the lead, but the blow that had struck the die had crushed and jammed them firmly. "Cut it," suggested the friar, and his ascetic face relaxed in a smile. Gilbert drew his dagger, which was a serviceable blade, half an ell long, and as broad as a man's three fingers under the straight cross-hilt, and as sharp as a razor on both edges, for Dunstan was a master at whetting. Gilbert cut the string and then the laces, and slipped the seal into his wallet, unrolling the stiff sheet till he found a short writing, some six or eight lines, not covering half the page, and signed, 'Eleanora R.' But when he had opened the letter he saw that it was not to be read easily. Nevertheless, his eye lighted almost at once upon the name which of all others he should not hare expected to find there, 'Beatrix.' There was no mistaking the letters, and presently he found them once again, and soon after that the sense was clear to him. 'If this reach you,' it said, in moderately fair Latin, 'greeting. I will that you make haste and come again to our castle in Paris, both because you shall at all times be welcome, and more especially now, and quickly, because the noble maiden Beatrix de Curboil is now at this court among my ladies, and is in great hope of seeing you, since she has left her father to be under my protection. Moreover, Bernard, the abbot, is preaching the Cross in Chartres and other places, and is coming here before long, and to Vezelay. Beatrix greets you.' "Can you tell me where I can find the messenger who brought you this?" asked Gilbert, looking up when he had at last deciphered every word. But Arnold was gone. The idea that an acquaintance whom he had been endeavouring to convert to republican doctrines should be in correspondence with one of those sovereigns against whom he so bitterly inveighed had finally disgusted him, and he had gone his way, if not in wrath, at least in displeasure. Seeing himself alone, Gilbert shrugged his shoulders indifferently, and began to walk up and down, reading the letter over and over. It was very short, but yet it contained so much information that he found some difficulty in adjusting his thoughts to what was an entirely new situation, and one which no amount of thinking could fully explain. He was far too simple to suppose that Eleanor had called Beatrix to her court solely for the sake of bringing him back to Paris. He therefore imagined the most complicated and absurd reasons for Queen Eleanor's letter. He told himself that he must have been mistaken from beginning to end; that the Queen had never felt anything except friendship for him, but a friendship far deeper and more sincere than he had realized; and he was suddenly immensely grateful to her for her wish to build up happiness in his life. But then, again, she knew as well as he--or as well as he thought he knew--that the Church would not easily consent to his union with Beatrix, and as he closed his eyes and recalled scenes of which the memories were still vivid and clear, the shadow that had chilled his heart in Paris rose again between him and Eleanor's face, and he distrusted her, and her kiss and her letter, and her motives. Then, too, it seemed very strange to him that Beatrix should have left her father's house; for Arnold de Curboil had always loved her, and it did not occur to Gilbert that his own mother had made the girl's life intolerable. He was to learn that later, and when he knew it, he tasted the last and bitterest dregs of all. Nevertheless, he could not reasonably doubt the Queen's word; he was positively certain that he should find Beatrix at the French court, and from the first he had not really hesitated about leaving at once. It seemed to be the only possible course, though it was diametrically opposed to all the good resolutions which had of late flitted through his dreams like summer moths. On the next day but one, early in the spring morning, Gilbert and his men rode slowly down the desolate Via Lata, and under Aurelian's arch, past the gloomy tomb of Augustus on the left, held by the Count of Tusculum, and out at last upon the rolling Campagna, northward, by the old Flaminian Way. CHAPTER X June was upon Italy, as a gossamer veil and a garland on the brow of a girl bride. The first sweet hay was drying in Tuscan valleys; the fig leaves were spreading, and shadowing the watery fruit that begins to grow upon the crooked twigs before the leaves themselves, and which the people call "fig-blossoms," because the real figs come later; the fresh and silvery olive shoots had shed a snow-flurry of small white stars; the yellow holy thorn still blossomed in the rough places of the hills, and the blending of many wild flowers was like a maiden blush on the earth's soft bosom. At early morning Gilbert rode along the crest of a low and grassy hill that was still sheltered from the sun by the high mountains to eastward, and he drank in the cool and scented air as if it had been water of paradise, and he a man saved out of death to life by the draught. There was much peace in his heart, and a still security that he had not felt yet since he had seen his father lying dead before him. He knew not how it was, but he was suddenly sure that Beatrix loved him and had escaped to the court of France in the hope of finding him, and was waiting for him day by day. And he was also sure that the Church would not cut him off from her in the end, let the churchmen say what they would. Was not the Queen of France his friend? She would plead his case, and the Pope would understand and take away the bar. He thought of these things, and he felt his hopes rising bright, like the steady sun. He reached the end of the crest and drew rein before descending, and he looked down into the broad valley and the river winding in and out among trees, gleaming like silver out there in the sun beyond the narrowing shadow, then dark blue, and then, in places, as black as ink. The white road, broad and dusty, winding on to Florence, followed the changing river. Gilbert took his cap from his head and felt the coolness of the morning on his forehead and the gentle breath of the early summer in his fair hair; and then, sitting there in the deep silence, bareheaded, it seemed to him that he was in the very holy place of God's cathedral. "The peace of God, which passeth all understanding," he repeated softly and almost involuntarily. "Now the God of peace be with you all, amen," answered Dunstan. But there was a tone in his voice that made Gilbert look at him, and he saw in the man's face a quiet smile, as if something amused him, while the black eyes were fixed on a sight far away. Dunstan was pointing to what he saw; so Gilbert looked, too, and he perceived a gleaming, very far off, that moved slowly on the white road beside the shining river. "They are expecting a fight to-day," said Gilbert, "for they are in mail and their mule-train is behind them." "Shall we turn aside and ride up the mountain, to let them pass?" asked Dunstan, who could fight like a wildcat, but had also the cat's instinctive caution. "It would be a pity not to see the fight," answered Gilbert, and he began to ride forward down the descent. The track was worn down to the depth of a man's height by the hoofs of the beasts that had trodden it for ages; and in places it was very narrow, so that two laden mules could hardly pass each other. Young chestnut shoots of three or four years' growth sprang up in thick green masses from the top of the bank on each side, and now and then the branches of nut trees almost joined their broad leaves across the way, making a deep shade that was cool and smelt of fresh mould and green things. A little way down the hill a spring of water trickled into a little pool hollowed out by travellers, and the water overflowed and made thick black mud of the earth churned up with last year's dead leaves. Gilbert let his horse stop to drink, and his men waited in single file to take their turn. "Psst!" The peculiar hiss which Italians make to attract attention came sharp and distinct from the low growth of the chestnut shoots. Gilbert turned his head quickly in the direction of the sound. A swarthy face appeared, framed in a close leathern cap on which small rings of rusty iron were sewn strongly, but not very regularly. Then a long left arm, clad in the same sort of mail, pushed the lower boughs aside and made a gesture in the direction whence Gilbert had come, which was meant to warn him back--a gesture of the flat hand, held across the breast with thumb hidden, just moving a little up and down. "Why should I go back?" asked Gilbert, in his natural voice. "Because yes," answered the dark man, in the common Italian idiom, and in a low tone. "Because we are waiting for the Florentines, certain of us of Pistoja, and we want no travellers in the way. And then--because, if you will not--" The right arm suddenly appeared, and in the hand was a spear, and the act was a threat to run Gilbert through, unmailed as he was, and just below his adversary. But as Gilbert laid his hand upon his sword, looking straight at the man's eye, he very suddenly saw a strange sight; for there was a long arrow sticking through the head, the point out on one side and the feather on the other; and for a moment the man still looked at him with eyes wide open. Then, standing as he was, his body slowly bent forward upon itself as if curling up, and with a crash of steel it rolled down the bank into the pool of water, where the lance snapped under it. For little Alric, the Saxon groom, had quietly slipped to the ground and had strung his bow, suspecting trouble, and had laid an arrow to the string, waiting; and little Alric's aim was very sure; it was also the first time that he had shot a man, and he came of men who had been bowmen since Alfred's day, and before that, and had killed many, for generations, so that it was an instinct with them to slay with the bow. "Well done, boy!" cried Gilbert. But his horse reared back, as the dead body fell splashing into the pool, and Alric quietly unstrung his bow again and remounted to be ready. Then Gilbert would have ridden on, but Dunstan hindered him. "This fellow was but a sentinel," he said. "A little further on you will find these woods filled with armed men waiting to surprise the riders we saw from above. Surely, I will die with you, sir; but we need not die like rats in a corn-bin. Let us ride up a little way again, and then skirt the woods and take the road where it joins the river, down in the valley." "And warn those men of Florence that they are riding into an ambush," added Gilbert, turning his horse. So they rode up the hill; and scarcely were they out of sight of the spring when a very old woman and a ragged little boy crept out of the bushes, with knives, and began to rob the dead man of his rusty mail and his poor clothes. Gilbert reached the road a long stone's-throw beyond the last chestnut shoots, and galloped forward to meet the advancing knights and men-at-arms. He drew rein suddenly, a dozen lengths before them, and threw up his open right hand. They were riding leisurely, but all in mail, some having surcoats with devices embroidered thereon, and most of them with their heads uncovered, their steel caps and hoods of mail hanging at their saddle-bows. "Sirs," cried Gilbert, in a loud, clear voice, "you ride to an ambush! The chestnut woods are full of the men of Pistoja." A knight who rode in front, and was the leader, came close to Gilbert. He was a man not young, with a dark, smooth face, as finely cut as a relief carved upon a shell, and his hair was short and iron-grey. Gilbert told him what had happened in the woods, and the elderly knight listened quietly and thoughtfully, while examining Gilbert's face with half-unconscious keenness. "If you please," said the young man, "I will lead you by the way I have ridden, and you may enter the bushes from above, and fight at better advantage." But the Florentine smiled at such simple tactics. To feel the breeze, he held up his right hand, which issued from a slit in the wrist of his mail, so that the iron mitten hung loose; and the wind was blowing toward the woods. He called to his squire. "Take ten men, light torches, and set fire to those young trees." The men got a cook's earthenware pot of coals, fed all day long with charcoal on the march, lest there should be no fire for the camp at night; and they lit torches of pitched hemp-rope, and presently there was a great smoke and a crackling of green branches. But the leader of the Florentines put on his steel cap and drew the mail hood down over his shoulders, while all the others who were bareheaded did the same. "Sir," said the knight to Gilbert, "you should withdraw behind us, now that you have done us this great service. For presently there will be fighting here, and you are unmailed." "The weather is overwarm for an iron coat," answered Gilbert, with a laugh. "But if I shall not trespass upon the courtesies of your country by thrusting my company upon you, I will ride at your left hand, that you may the more safely slay with your right." "Sir," answered the other, "you are a very courteous man. Of what country may you be?" "An Englishman, sir, and of Norman blood." He also told his name. "Gino Buondelmonte, at your service," replied the knight, naming himself. "Nay, sir," laughed Gilbert, "a knight cannot serve a simple squire!" "It is never shame for gentle-born to serve gentle-born," answered the other. But now the smoke was driving the men of Pistoja out of the wood, and the hillside down which Gilbert had ridden was covered with men in mail, on horseback, and with footmen in leather and such poor armour as had been worn by the dead sentinel. Buondelmonte thrust his feet home in his wide stirrups, settled himself in the saddle, shortened his reins, and drew his sword, while watching all the time the movements of the enemy. Gilbert sat quietly watching them, too. As yet he had never ridden at a foe, though he had fought on foot, and he unconsciously smiled with pleasure at the prospect, trying to pick out the man likely to fall by his sword. In England, or in France, he would certainly have put on the good mail which was packed on the sumpter mule's back; but here in the sweet Italian spring, in the morning breeze full of the scent of wild flowers, and the humming of bees and the twittering of little birds, even fighting had a look of harmless play, and he felt as secure in his cloth tunic as if it had been of woven steel. The position of the Florentines was the better, for they had the broad homeward road behind them, in case of defeat; but the men of Pistoja, driven from the woods by the thick smoke and the burning of the undergrowth, were obliged to scramble down a descent so steep that many of them were forced to dismount, and they then found themselves huddled together in a narrow strip of irregular meadow between the road and the foot of the stony hill. Buondelmonte saw his advantage. His sword shot up at arm's length over his head, and his high, clear voice rang out in a single word of command. In a moment the peace of nature was rent by the scream of war. Hoofs thundered, swords flashed, men yelled, and arrows shot through the great cloud of dust that rose suddenly as from an explosion. In the front of the charge the Italian and the Norman rode side by side, the inscrutable black eyes and the calm olive features beside the Norman's terrible young figure, with its white glowing face and fair hair streaming on the wind, and wide, deep eyes like blue steel, and the quivering nostrils of the man born for fight. Short was the strife and sharp, as the Florentines spread to right and left of their leader and pressed the foe back against the steep hill in the narrow meadow. Then Buondelmonte thrust out straight and sure, in the Italian fashion, and once the mortal wound was in the face, and once in the throat, and many times men felt it in their breasts through mail and gambison and bone. But Gilbert's great strokes flashed like lightnings from his pliant wrist, and behind the wrist was the Norman arm, and behind the arm the relentless pale face and the even lips, that just tightened upon each other as the deathblows went out, one by one, each to its place in a life. The Italian destroyed men skilfully and quickly, yet as if it were distasteful to him. The Norman slew like a bright destroying angel, breathing the swift and silent wrath of God upon mankind. Blow upon blow, with clash of steel, thrust after thrust as the darting of serpents, till the dead lay in heaps, and the horses' hoofs churned blood and grass to a green-red foam, till the sword-arm waited high and then sank slowly, because there was none for the sword to strike, and the point rested among the close-sewn rings of mail on Buondelmonte's foot, and the thin streams of blood trickled quietly down the dimmed blade. "Sir," said Buondelmonte, courteously, "you are a marvellous fine swordsman, though you fence not in our manner, with the point. I am your debtor for the safety of my left side. Are you hurt, sir?" "Not I!" laughed Gilbert, wiping his broad blade slowly on his horse's mane for lack of anything better. Then Buondelmonte looked at him again and smiled. "You have won yourself a fair crest," he laughed, as he glanced at Gilbert's cap. "A crest?" Gilbert put up his hand, and uttered an exclamation as it struck against a sharp steel point. A half-spent arrow had pierced the top of his red cloth cap and was sticking there, like a woman's long hairpin. He thought that if it had struck two inches lower, with a little more force, he should have looked as the man in the woods did, whom Alric had killed. He plucked the shaft from the stiff cloth with some difficulty, and, barely glancing at it, tossed it away. But little Alric, who had left the guide to take care of the mules and had followed the charge on foot, picked up the arrow, marked it with his knife and put it carefully into his leathern quiver, which he filled with arrows he picked up on the grass till it would hold no more. Dunstan, who had ridden in the press with the rest, was looking among the dead for a good sword to take, his own being broken. "Florence owes you a debt, sir," said Buondelmonte, an hour later, when they were riding back from the pursuit. "But for your warning, many of us would be lying dead in that wood. I pray you, take from the spoil, such as it is, whatsoever you desire. And if it please you to stay with us, the archbishop shall make a knight of you, for you have won knighthood to-day." But Gilbert shook his head, smiling gravely. "Praised be God, I need nothing, sir," he answered. "I thank you for your courteous hospitality, but I cannot stay, seeing that I ride upon a lady's bidding. And as for a debt, sir, Florence has paid hers largely in giving me your acquaintance." "My friendship, sir," replied Buondelmonte, not yielding in compliment to the knightly youth. So they broke bread together and drank a draught, and parted. But Buondelmonte gave Dunstan a small purse of gold and a handful of silver to little Alric and the muleteer, and Gilbert rode away with his men, and all were well pleased. Yet when he was alone in the evening, a sadness and a horror of what he had done came over him; for he had taken life that day as a man mows down grass, in swaths, and he could not tell why he had slain, for he knew not the men who fought on the two sides, nor their difference. He had charged because he saw men charging, he had struck for the love of strife, and had killed because it was of his nature to kill. But now that the blood was shed, and the sun which had risen on life was going down on death, Gilbert Warde was sorry for what he had done, and his brave charge seemed but a senseless deed of slaughter, for which he should rather have done penance than received knighthood. "I am no better than a wild beast," he said, when he had told Dunstan what he felt. "Go and find out a priest to pray for those I have killed to-day." He covered his brow with his hand as he sat at the supper table. "I go," answered the young man. "Yet it is a pleasant sight to see the lion weeping for pity over the calf he has killed." "The lion kills that he may eat and himself live," answered Gilbert. "And the men who fought to-day fought for a cause. But I smote for the wanton love of smiting that is in all our blood, and I am ashamed. Bid the priest pray for me also." CHAPTER XI The court of France was at Vezelay--the King, the Queen, the great vassals of the kingdom at the King's command, and those of Aquitaine and Guienne and Poitou in the train of Eleanor, whose state outshone and dwarfed her husband's. And there was Bernard, the holy man of Clairvaux, to preach the Cross, where old men remembered the voice of Peter the Hermit and the shout of men now long dead in far Palestine, crying, "God's will! God's will!" Because the church of Saint Mary Magdalen was too small to hold the multitude, they were gathered together in a wide grassy hollow without the little town, and there a raised floor of wood had been built for the King and Queen and the great nobles; but the rest of the knights and Eleanor's three hundred ladies stood upon the grass-grown slope, and were crowded together by the vast concourse of the people. The sun was already behind the hill, and the hot July air had cooled a little; but it was still hot, and the breathing of the multitude could be heard in the silence. Gilbert had come but just in time; he had left his men to find him a lodging if they could, and now he pressed forward as well as he might, to see and hear, but most of all to find out, if he could, the face of Beatrix among the three hundred. There sat the Queen, in scarlet and gold, wearing the crown upon her russet hair, and the King in gold and blue beside her, square, grave, and pale as ever; and when Gilbert had searched the three hundred fair young faces in vain, his eyes came back to the most beautiful woman in the world. He saw that she was fairer than even his memory of her, and he felt pride that she should call herself his friend. Then suddenly there was a stir among the knights behind the throne, and though they were standing closely, shoulder to shoulder, and pressed one against another, yet they divided to let the preacher go through. He came alone, with quiet eyes, thanking the knights to right and left because they made way for him, and he passed between them quickly like a white shadow. So thought pierces matter and the spiritual being penetrates the terrestrial being and is unchanged. But when Bernard had ascended the white wooden stage and stood near the King and Queen, then the hushed stillness became a dead silence, and the eyes of all that multitude were fastened upon his face and form, as each could see him. For a moment every man held his breath as if an angel had come down from heaven, bringing on his lips the word of God and in his look the evidence of eternal light. He was the holy man of the world even while he lived, and neither before him nor after him, since the days of the Apostles, has any one person so stood in the eyes of all mankind. The gentle voice began to speak, without effort to be heard, yet as distinct and clear as if it spoke to each several ear, pleading for the cause of the Cross of Christ, and for the suffering men who held the holy places in the East with ever-weakening hands, but still with undaunted, desperate courage. "Is there any man among you who has loved his mother, and has received her dying breath with her last blessing, and has laid her to rest in peace, in a place holy to him for her sake, and who would suffer that her grave should be defiled and defaced by her enemies, so long as he, her son, has in his body blood of hers to shed? Is there any among you who would not fight, while he had breath, to save his father's dead bones from dishonour? Do you not daily boast that you will lay down your lives in a quarrel for the good name of your ladies, as you would for your own daughters' fair fame and your own wives' faithfulness? "And now, I say, is not the Church of God your mother, and are not her temples your most holy places? You boast that you are ready to die for an honourable cause: yet Christ gave His life for us, not because of our honour, but because of our dishonour, and our sins which are many and grievous; and having atoned for us in His Holy Passion, He was laid at rest after the manner of men. And the place where He rested is sacred, for the Lord from Heaven lay therein when He had washed away our iniquity with His holy blood, when He had healed us by His stripes, when He had given His life that we might live, when He had endured the bondage of this dying flesh that we might be raised undying in the spirit, by Him, and through Him, and in Him. "Shall the earth that drank that blood be as other earth? Shall the place that echoed the seven words of agony be as other places? Is the tomb where God rested Him of His crucified manhood to be given up to forgetfulness and defilement? Or are we sinless, that we need not even the memory of the sacrifice, and so pure that we need no purification? I would that we were. The world is evil, the hour is late, the Judge is at hand, and we are lacking of good and eaten of evil, so that there is no whole part in us. "And yet we move not to save ourselves, though Christ gave His life to save us if we would stir ever so little, if we would but stretch out our hands to the hand that waits for ours. He bids us not be crucified, as He was for us. He bids us only take up our cross and follow Him, as He took it up Himself, and bore it to the place of death." Thus Bernard began to speak, gently at first, as one who rouses a friend from sleep to warn him of danger, and fears to be rough, yet cannot be silent; but by and by, in the breathing stillness, the sweet voice was strengthened and rang like the first clarion at dawn on the day of battle, far off and clear, heart-stirring and true. And with the rising tone came also the stronger word, and at last the spirit that moves more than word or voice. "Lay the Cross to your hearts as you wear it on your breasts. Bear it with you on the long day marches, and in the watches of night bow before it inwardly, and pray that you may have grace to bear it to the end. So shall your footsteps profit you, and your way shall be the way of the Cross, till you stand in the holy place. But if so be that God ask blood of you, blessed shall they be among you who shall give life freely, to die for the Cross of our Lord Christ; and they shall stand in the place that is holy indeed, before the Throne of God. "Yet beware of one thing. I would not that you should go out to fight for the Sepulchre as some of our fathers did, boasting in the Cross, yet in heart each for his own soul and none for the glory of Christ, counting the weariness, and the hurts, and the drops of blood as a sure reckoning to be repaid to you in heaven, as if you had lent God a piece of money which He must pay again. The Lord Jesus gave not His life at an account, nor His blood at usury; He counted not the pain, nor was His suffering set down in a book; but He gave all freely, of His love for men. Shall men therefore ask of God a return, saying: 'We have given Thee so much, as it were a wound, or it may be a life, or else a prayer, and a day of fasting, see that Thou pay us what is just'? That were not giving to God what is a man's own; it were rather lending or selling to God what is His. See that you do not thus, but if you have anything to give, let it be given freely; or else give not at all, for it is written that from him that hath not faith shall be taken even such things as he hath. "But if you take the Cross, and arm yourselves to fight for it, and go your way to Palestine to help your brethren in their sore need, go not for yourselves, suffer not for yourselves, fight not for yourselves. For as God is greater than man, so is the glory of God greater than the glory of self and more worthy that you should die for it. Think not therefore of earning a reward, but of honouring the Lord Christ in the holy place where He died for you. "March not as it were to do penance for your old sins, hoping for forgiveness, as a trader that brings merchandise looks for a profit! Strike not as slaves, who fight lest they be beaten with rods, neither as men in fear of everlasting fire and the torments of hell! Neither go out as thieves, seeking to steal the earth for yourselves, and striving not with the unbeliever, but with the rich man for his riches, and with the great man for his possessions! I say, go forth and do battle for God's sake and His glory! March ye for Christ and to bring the people to Him out of darkness! Take with you the Cross to set it in the hearts of men, and the seed of the tree of life to plant among desolate nations! "Ye kings, that are anointed leaders, lead ye the armies of Heaven! Ye knights, that are sworn to honour, draw your unsullied swords for the honour of God! Men and youths, that bear arms by allegiance, be ye soldiers of Christ and allegiant to the Cross! Be ye all first for honour, first for France, first for God Most High!" [Illustration: "CROSSES! GIVE US CROSSES!"] With those words the white-sleeved arm was high above his head, holding up the plain white wooden cross, and there was silence for a moment. But when the people saw that he had finished speaking, they drew deep breath, and the air thundered with the great cry that came. "Crosses! Give us crosses!" And they pressed upon one another to get nearer. The King had risen, and the Queen with him, and he came forward and knelt at Bernard's feet, with bent head and folded hands. The great abbot took pieces of scarlet cloth from a page who held them ready in a basket, and he fastened them upon the King's left shoulder and then raised his right hand in blessing. The people were silent again and looked on, and many thought that the King, in his great mantle and high crown, was like a bishop wearing a cope, for he had a churchman's face. He rose to his feet and stepped back but he was scarcely risen when the Queen stood in his place, radiant, the evening light in her hair. "I also will go," she said in a clear, imperious voice. "Give me the Cross!" She knelt and placed her hands together, as in prayer, and there was a fair light in her eyes as she looked up to Bernard's face. He hesitated a moment, then took a cross and laid it upon her mantle, and she smiled. A great cry went up from all the knights, and then from the people, strong and triumphant, echoing, falling, and rising again. "God save the Queen!--the Queen that wears the Cross!" And suddenly every man held up his sword by the sheath, and the great cross-hilts made forests of crosses in the glowing air. But the Queen's three hundred ladies pressed upon her. "We will not leave you!" they cried. "We will take the Cross with you!" And they thronged upon Bernard like a flight of doves, holding out white hands for crosses, and more crosses, while he gave as best he could. Also the people and the knights began to tear pieces from their own garments to make the sign, and one great lord took his white mantle and made strips of the fine cloth for his liege vassals and his squires and men; but another took Bernard's white cape from his shoulders and with a sharp dagger made many little crosses of it for the people, who kissed them as holy things when they received them. In the throng, Gilbert pressed forward to the edge of the platform where the Queen was standing, for he was strong and tall. He touched her mantle softly, and she looked down, and he saw how her face turned white and gentle when she knew him. Being too far below her to take her hand, he took the rich border of her cloak and kissed it, whereat she smiled; but she made a sign to him that he should not try to talk with her in the confusion. Then looking down again, she saw that he had yet no cross. She took one from one of her ladies, and, bending low, tried to fasten it upon his shoulder. "I thank your Grace," said Gilbert, very gratefully. "Is Beatrix here?" he asked in a low tone. But, to his wonder, the Queen's brow darkened, and her eyes were suddenly hard; she almost dropped the cross in her hurry to stand upright, nor would she again turn her eyes to look at him. CHAPTER XII In the late dusk of summer Bernard went his way from the place where he had preached, to the presbytery of Saint Mary Magdalen, where he was to lodge that night. The King and Queen walked beside him, their horses led after them by grooms in the royal liveries of white and gold; and all the long procession of knights and nobles, priests and laymen, gentlefolk and churls, men, women, and children, streamed in a motley procession up the road to the village. As they went, the King talked gravely with the holy man, interlarding and lining his sententious speeches with copious though not always correct quotations from the Vulgate. On Bernard's other side Eleanor walked with head erect, one hand upon her belt, one hanging down, her brows slightly drawn together, her face clear white, her burning eyes fixed angrily upon the bright vision cast by her thoughts into the empty air before her. She had used the only means, and the strongest means, of bringing Gilbert back to France; she had foredreamt his coming, she had foreknown that from the first he would ask for Beatrix; but she had neither known nor dreamt of what she should feel when he, standing at her feet below the platform, looked up to her offering eyes with a hunger in his face which she could not satisfy, and a desire which she could not fulfil. His very asking for the other had been a refusal of herself, and to be refused is a shame which no loving woman will accept while love is living, and an insult which no strong woman forgives when love is dead. But neither the King nor the abbot heeded her as they walked along, talking in Latin mixed with Norman French. The monk, not tall, slender, spiritualized even in the remnant of his flesh, the incarnation of believing thought and word, the exposition of matter's servitude to mind, was the master; the King, heavy, strong, pale, obedient, was the pupil, proving the existence of the greater force by his blind submission to its laws. Beside them the Queen imaged the independence of youthful life, believing without realizing, strong with blood, rich with colour, fearing regret more than remorse, thoughtlessly cruel and cruelly thoughtless, yet able to be very generous and brave. The bell of Saint Mary's tolled three strokes, then four, then five, then one, thirteen in all, and then rang backward for the ending day. The sun had set a full half-hour and the dusk had almost drunk the dregs of the red west. Bernard stood still, bareheaded in the way, with folded hands, and began the Angelus Domini; the King from habit raised his hand to take his cap from his head, and touched the golden crown instead. Instantly a little colour of embarrassment rose in his pale cheeks, and he stumbled over the familiar response as he clasped his hands with downcast eyes, for in some ways he was a timid man. The Queen stood still and spoke the words also, but neither the attitude of her head nor the look in her eyes was changed, nor did she take her hand from her belt to clasp it upon the other. The air was very soft and warm, there was the musical, low sound of many voices speaking in the monotone of prayer, and now and then, on whirring wings, a droning beetle hummed his way from one field to another, just above the heads of the great multitude. The prayer said, they all moved onward, past the first houses of the village and past the open smithy with its shelter of twisted chestnut boughs, beneath which the horses were protected from the sun while they were being shod. But the smith had not been to the preaching, because Alric, the Saxon groom, had brought him Gilbert's horse to shoe just when he was going, and had forced him to stay and do the work with the threat of an evil spell learned in Italy. And now, peering through the twilight, he stood watching the long procession as it came up to his door. He was a dark man, with red eyes and hairy hands, and his shirt was open on his chest almost to his belt. He stood quite still at first, gazing on Bernard's face, that was luminous in the dusk; but as he looked, something moved him that he could not understand, and he came forward in his leathern apron and his blackened hose, and knelt at the abbot's feet. "Give me also the Cross," he cried. "I give thee the sign, my son," answered Bernard, raising his hand to bless the hairy man. "The crosses we had are all given. But thou shalt have one to-morrow." But as the smith looked up to the inspired face the light came into his own eyes, and something he could not see took hold of him suddenly and hard. "Nay, my lord," he answered, "I will have it to-day and of my own." Then he sprang up and ran to his smithy, and came back holding in his hand a bar of iron that had been heating in the coals to make a shoe. The end of it was glowing red. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost!" he cried in a loud voice. And as he spoke the words, he had laid the red-hot point to his breast and had drawn it down and crosswise; and a little line of thin, white smoke followed the hissing iron along the seared flesh. He threw the bar down upon the threshold of his door and came to join the throng, the strange smile on his rough face and the light of another world in his fire-reddened eyes. But though the multitude sent up a great cry of praise and wonder, yet Bernard shook his head gravely and walked on, for he loved not any madness, not even a madness for good deeds, and the light by which he saw was as steady and clear and true as a life-long day. Moreover, even while he had been speaking he had felt that fanatic deeds were not far off, and a deep sadness had fallen upon him, because he knew that true belief is the fulness of true wisdom and by no means akin to any folly. Therefore, when he was alone that night, he was very heavy-hearted, and sat a long time by his square oak table in the light of the three-cornered brazen lamp which, stood at his elbow. The principal chamber of the presbytery was cross-vaulted and divided into two by a low round arch supported on slender double columns with capitals fantastically carved. The smaller portion of the room beyond the arch made an alcove for sleeping, which could be completely shut off by a heavy curtain; the larger part was paved with stone, and in one corner a low wooden platform, on which stood a heavy table before a carved bench fastened to the wall, was set apart for writing and study. On the table, besides the lamp, there stood a reading-desk, and above the bench a strong shelf carried a number of objects, including several large bottles of ink, a pot of glue for fastening leaves of parchment, and two or three jars of blue and white earthenware. On nails there hung a brush of half dried broom, a broad-brimmed rush hat, and a blackened rosary. On the other side of the table, and by the window, there was a small holy-water basin with a little besom. On the walls were hung pieces of coarse linen roughly embroidered with small crosses flory, worked in dark red silk. The vault was blank and white, and rushes were strewn on the stone pavement. In the deep embrasures of the windows there were dark window-seats worn black with age. The abbot had begun a letter, but the pen lay beside the unfinished writing, his elbow rested on the parchment, and he shaded his eyes from the light. The brilliancy was gone from his face and was succeeded by an almost earthy pallor, while his attitude expressed both lassitude and dejection. He had done what had been required of him, he had fired the passion of the hour, and one hour had shown him how completely it was to be beyond his control. He remembered how Peter the Hermit had led the vast advance-guard of the First Crusade to sudden and miserable destruction before the main force could be organized; he had seen enough on that afternoon to prove to him that the air was laden with such disaster, of which the responsibility would surely be heaped upon himself. He regretted not the thoughts he had preached, but the fact of having yielded to preach at all to such men and at such a time. He had begun to set forth all this and much more in a letter to Pope Eugenius, but before he had written a dozen lines the pen had fallen from his hand, and he had begun to reflect upon the impossibility of stemming the tide since it had turned to flood. A soft step sounded in the outer hall beyond the curtained doorway, but Bernard, absorbed in his meditations, heard nothing. A jewelled hand pushed aside the thick folds of the hanging, and the most beautiful eyes in the world gazed curiously upon the unheeding abbot. "Are you alone?" asked the Queen's voice. Without waiting for an answer she came forward into the room and paused beside the low platform, laying one hand upon the table in a gesture half friendly, half deprecating, as if she still feared that she had disturbed the holy man. His transparent fingers fell from his eyes, and he looked up to her, hardly realizing who she was, and quite unable to guess why she had come. A dark brown mantle completely covered her gown, and only a little of her scarlet sleeve showed as her hand lay on the table. Her russet-golden hair hung in broad waves and lightened in the rays of the oil lamp. Her eyes, that looked at Bernard intently and inquiringly, were the eyes of old Duke William, whom the Abbot of Clairvaux had brought to confession and penance long ago, and who had gone from the altar of his grand-daughter's marriage straight to solitary hermitage and lonely death in the Spanish hills; they were eyes in which all thoughts were fearless and in which tenderness was beautiful, but in which kindness was often out of sight behind the blaze of vitality and the burning love of life that proceeded from her and surrounded her as an atmosphere of her own. "You do not welcome me," she said, looking into his face. "Are you too deeply occupied to talk with me awhile? It is long since we have met." Bernard passed his hand over his eyes as if to brush away some material veil. "I am at your Grace's service," he said gently, and he rose from his seat as he spoke. "I ask no service for myself," she answered, setting her foot upon the platform and coming to his side. "Yet I ask something which you may do for others." Bernard hesitated, and then looked down. "Silver and gold have I none," he said, quoting, "but such as I have I give unto thee." "I have both gold and silver, and lands, and a crown," answered the Queen, smiling carelessly, and yet in earnest. "I lack faith. And so, though my people have swords and armour, and have taken upon them the Cross to succour their brethren in the Holy Land, yet they have no leader." "They have the King, your husband," answered Bernard, gravely. Eleanor laughed, not very cruelly, nor altogether scornfully, but as a man might laugh who was misunderstood, and to whom, asking for his sword, a servant should bring his pen. "The King!" she cried, still smiling. "The King! Are you so great in mind and so poor in sense as to think that he could lead men and win? The King is no leader. He is your acolyte--I like to see him swinging a censer in time to your prayers and flattening his flat face upon the altar-steps beatified by your footsteps!" The Queen laughed, for she had moods in which she feared neither God, nor saint, nor man. But Bernard looked grave at first, then hurt, and then there was pity in his eyes. He pointed to the window-seat beside the table, and he himself sat down upon his carved bench. Eleanor, being seated, rested her elbows on the table, clasped her beautiful hands together, and slowly rubbed her cheek against them, meditating what she should say next. She had had no fixed purpose in coming to the abbot's lodging, but she had always liked to talk with him when he was at leisure and to see the look of puzzled and pained surprise that came into his face when she said anything more than usually shocking to his delicate sensibilities. With impulses of tremendous force, there was at the root of her character a youthful and almost childlike indifference to consequences. "You misjudge your husband," said the abbot, at last, drumming on the table nervously and absently with the tips of his white fingers. "They who do their own will only are quick to condemn those who hope to accomplish the will of Heaven." "If you regard the King as the instrument of Divine Providence," answered Eleanor, with curling lip, "there is nothing to be said. Providence, for instance, was angered with the people of Vitry. Providence selected the King of France to be the representative of its wrath. The King, obedient as ever, set fire to the church, and burned several priests and two thousand more or less innocent persons at their prayers. Nothing could be better. Providence was appeased--" "Hush, Madam!" exclaimed Bernard, lifting a thin hand in deprecation. "That was the devil's work." "You told me that I was condemning one who is accomplishing the will of Heaven." "In leading the Crusade, yes--" "Then my husband works for both parties. Today he serves God; to-morrow he serves Mammon." Eleanor raised her finely pencilled eyebrows. "I believe there is a parable that teaches us what is to become of those that serve two masters." "It applies to those who try to serve them at the same time," answered the abbot, meeting her contemptuous look with the quiet boldness of a man sure of power. "You know as well as I that the King took oath to lead a Crusade out of repentance for what he did at Vitry." "A bargain, then, of the very kind against which you preached to-day." The Queen still smiled, but less scornfully, for she fancied herself as good as Bernard in an argument. "It is a very easy thing to fence with words," Bernard said. "It is one thing to argue, it is quite another to convince your hearers." "I do not desire to convince you of anything," answered Eleanor, with a little laugh. "I would rather be convinced." She looked at him a moment and then turned away with a weary little sigh of discontent. "Was it without conviction that you took the Cross from my hands to-day?" asked Bernard, sadly. "It was in the hope of conviction." Bernard understood. Before him, within reach of his hand, that great problem was present which, of all others, Paganism most easily and clearly solved, but with which Christianity grapples at a disadvantage, finding its foothold narrow, and its danger constant and great. It is the problem of the conversion of great and vital natures, brave, gifted and sure of self, to the condition of the humble and poor in spirit. It is easy to convince the cripple that peace is among the virtues; the sick man and the weak are soon persuaded that the world is a sensuous illusion of Satan, in which the pure and perfect have no part nor share; it is another, a greater and a harder matter, to prove the strong man a sinner by his strength, and to make woman's passion ridiculous in comparison of heaven. The clear flame of the spirit burns ill under the breath of this dying body, and for the fleeting touch of a loving hand the majesty of God is darkened in a man's heart. Bernard saw before him the incarnate strength and youth and beauty of her from whom a line of kings was to descend, and in whom were all the greatest and least qualities, virtues and failings of her unborn children--the Lion Heart of Richard, the heartless selfishness of John, the second Edward's grasping hold, Henry the Third's broad justice and wisdom; the doubt of one, the decision of another, the passions of them all in one, coursing in the blood of a young and kingly race. "You wish not to convince others, but to be convinced," Bernard said, "and yet it is not in your nature to yield yourself to any conviction. What would you of me? I can preach to them that will hear me, not to those that come to watch me and to smile at my sayings as if I were a player in a booth at a fair. Why do you come here to-night? Can I give you faith as a salve, wherewith to anoint your blind eyes? Can I furnish you the girdle of honesty for the virtue you have not? Shall I promise repentance for you to God, while you smile on your next lover? Why have you sought me out?" "If I had known that you had no leisure, and the Church no room for any but the altogether perfect, I would not have come." She leaned back in the window-seat and folded her arms, drawing the thin dark stuff of her cloak into severe straight lines and shadows, in vivid contrast with the radiant beauty of her face. Her straight and clear-cut brows lowered over her deep eyes, and her lips were as hard as polished coral. Bernard looked at her again long and earnestly, understanding in part, and in part guessing, that she had suffered a secret disappointment on that day and had come to him rather in the hope of some kind of mental excitement than with any idea of obtaining consolation. To him, filled as he was with the lofty thoughts inspired by the mission thrust upon him, there was something horrible in the woman's frivolity--or cynicism. To him the Cross meant the Passion of Christ, the shedding of God's blood, the Redemption of mankind. To her it was a badge, an ornament, the excuse for a luxurious pilgrimage of fair women living delicately in silken tents, and clothed in fine garments of a fanciful fashion. The contrast was too strong, too painful. Eleanor and her girl knights would be too wholly out of place, with their fancies and their whims, in an army of devoted men fighting for a faith, for a faith's high principle as between race and race, and for all which that faith had made sacred in its most holy places. It was too much. In profoundest disappointment and sadness Bernard's head sank upon his breast, and he raised his hands a little, to let them fall again upon his knees, as if he were almost ready to give up the struggle. Eleanor felt the wicked little thrill of triumph in his apparent despair which compensates schoolboys for unimaginable labour in mischief, when they at last succeed in hurting the feelings of a long-suffering teacher. There had been nothing but an almost childish desire to tease at the root of all that she had said; for before all things she was young and gay, and her surroundings tended in every way to repress both gayety and youth. "You must not take everything I say in earnest," she said suddenly, with a laugh that jarred on the delicate nerves of the overwrought man. He turned his head from her as if the sight of her face would have been disagreeable just then. "Jest with life if you can," he said. "Jest with death if you are brave enough; yet at least be earnest in this great matter. If you are fixed in purpose to go with the King, you and your ladies, then go with the purpose to do good, to bind up men's wounds, to tend the sick, to cheer the weak, and by your presence to make the coward ashamed." "And why not to fight?" asked the Queen, the light of an untried emotion brightening in her eyes. "Do you think I cannot bear the weight of mail, or sit a horse, or handle a sword as well as many a boy of twenty who will be there in the thick of battle? And if I and my court ladies can bear the weariness as well as even the weakest man in the King's army, and risk a life as bravely, and perhaps strike a clean blow or drive a straight thrust for the Holy Sepulchre, shall our souls have no good of it, because we are women?" As she spoke, her arm lay across the table, and her small strong hand moved energetically with her speech, touching the monk's sleeve. The fighting blood of the old Duke was in her veins, and there was battle in her voice. Bernard looked up. "If you were always what you are at this moment," he said, "and if you had a thousand such women as yourself to ride with you, the King would need no other army, for you could face the Seljuks alone. "But you think that by the time I have to face them my courage will have cooled to woman's tears, like hot vapour on a glass." She smiled, but gently now, for she was pleased by what he had said. "You need not fear," she continued, before he had time to answer her. "We shall not bear ourselves worse than men, and there will be grown men there who shall be afraid before we are. But if there were with us a leader of men, I should have no fear. Men will fight for the King, they will shed their blood for Eleanor of Guienne, but they would die ten deaths at the bidding of--" She paused, and fixed her eyes on Bernard's face. "Of whom?" he asked, unsuspecting. "Of Bernard of Clairvaux." There was a short silence. Then in a clear far-off voice, as if in a dream, the abbot repeated his own name. "Bernard of Clairvaux--a leader of men? A soldier? A general?" He paused as if consulting himself. "Madam," he said at last, "I am neither general, nor leader, nor soldier. I am a monk, and a churchman as the Hermit was, but not like him in this--I know the limitation of my strength. I can urge men to fight for a good cause, but I will not lead them to death and ruin, as Peter did, while there are men living who have been trained to the sword as I to the pen." "I do not ask that you should plan battles, lead forlorn charges, nor sit down in your tent to study the destruction of walled towns. You can be our leader without all that, for he who leads men's souls commands men's bodies and lives in men's hearts. Therefore, I bid you to come with us and help us, for although a sword is better at need than a hundred words, yet there are men at whose single word a thousand swords are drawn like one." "No, Madam," said the abbot, his even lips closing after the words, with a look of final decision, "I will not go with you. First, because I am unfit to be a leader of armies, and secondly, because such life as there is left in me can be better used at home than in following a camp. Lastly, I would that this good fight might be fought soberly and in earnest, neither in the fever of a fanatical fury nor, on the other hand, lightly, as an amusement and a play, nor selfishly and meanly in the hope of gain. My words are neither deep, nor learned, nor well chosen, for I speak as my thoughts rise and overflow. But thanks be to Heaven, what I say rouses men to act rather than moves them to think. Yet it is not well that they be over-roused or stirred when a long war is before them, lest their heat be consumed in a flash of fire, and their strength in a single blow. You need not a preacher, but a captain; not words but deeds. You go to make history, not to hear a prophecy." "Nevertheless," said the Queen, "you must go with us, for if the spirit you have called up sinks from men's memories, our actions will be worse than spiritless. You must go." "I cannot." "Cannot? But I say you must." "No, Madam--I say no." For a long time the two sat in silence facing each other, the Queen confident, vital, fully roused to the expression of her will; Bernard, on the other hand, as fully determined to oppose her with all the fervent conviction which he brought to every question of judgment or policy. "If we fall out among ourselves," said Eleanor, at last, "who shall unite us? If men lose faith in the cause before them and grow greedy of the things that lie in their way, who shall set them right?" The abbot shook his head sorrowfully and would not meet her eyes, for in this he knew that she was right. "When an army has lost faith," he said, "it is already beaten. When Atalanta stooped to pick up the golden apples, her race was lost." "As when love dies, contempt and hatred take its place," said Eleanor, as if in comment. "Suck love is of hell," said Bernard, looking suddenly into her face, so that she faintly blushed. "Yes," she retorted scornfully, "for it is the love of man and wife." The holy man watched her sadly and yet keenly, for he knew what she meant, and he foresaw the end. "Lucifer rebelled against law," he said. "I do not wonder," said the Queen, with a sharp laugh. "He would have rebelled against marriage. Love is the true faith--marriage is the dogma." She laughed again. Bernard shrank a little as if he felt actual pain. He had known her since she had been a little child, yet he had never become used to her cruelties of expression. He was a man more easily disgusted in his aesthetic sensibilities than shocked by the wickedness of a world he knew. To him, God was not only great, but beautiful; Nature, as some theologians maintain, was cruel, evil, hurtful, but she was never coarse, nor foul in his conception, and her beauty appealed to him against his will. So also in his eyes a woman could be sinful, and her sins might seem terrible to him, and yet she herself was to him a woman still, a being delicate, refined, tender even in her wickedness; but a woman who could speak at once keenly and brutally of her marriage reacted upon him as a very ugly or painful sight, or as a very harsh and discordant sound that jars every nerve in the body. "Madam," he said in a low voice, but very quietly and coldly, "I think not that you are in such state of grace as to bear the Cross to your good." Eleanor raised her head and looked at him haughtily, with lids half drooped as her eyes grew hard and keen. "You are not my confessor, sir," she retorted. "For all you know, he may have enjoined upon me a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It is a common penance." For the third time she laughed. "A common penance!" cried the abbot, in a tone of despair. "That is what it has come to in these days. A man kills his neighbour in a quarrel and goes to Jerusalem to purge him of blood, as he would take a physician's draught to cure him of the least of little aches. A pilgrimage is a remedy, as a prayer is a medicine. To repeat the act of contrition so and so often, or to run through a dozen rosaries of an afternoon, is a potion for the sick soul." "Well, what then?" asked the Queen. "What then?" repeated the abbot. "Then there is no faith left in the true meaning of the Crusade--" "That is what I fear," answered Eleanor. "That is why I am begging you to come with us. That is why the King will be unable to command men without you. And yet you will not go." "No," he replied, "I will not." "You have always disappointed me," said the Queen, rising, and employing a weapon to which women usually resort last. "You stand in the front and will not lead, you rouse men to deeds you will not do, you give men ideals in which you do not believe, and then you go back to the peace of your abbey of Clairvaux, and leave men to shift for themselves in danger and need. And if, perhaps, some trusting woman comes to you with overladen heart, you tell her that she is not in a state of grace. It must be easy to be a great man in that way." She turned as she spoke the last words and stepped from the platform to the stone pavement. At the enormous injustice of her judgment, Bernard's face grew cold and stern; but he would not answer what she said, for he knew how useless it would be. In her, and perhaps in her only, of all men and women he had known, there was the something to which he could not speak, the element that was out of harmony with his own being, and when he had talked with her it was as if he had eaten sand. He could understand that she, too, was in contradiction with her natural feelings in her marriage with such a man as the King; he could be sorry for her, he could pity her, he could forgive her, he could pray for her--but he could not speak to her as he could to others. A dozen times before she reached the door he wished to call her back, and he sought in the archive of his brain and in the treasury of his heart the words that might touch her. But he sought in vain. So long as she was before his eyes, a chilled air, dull and unresonant, divided his soul from hers. Her hand was on the curtain to go out when she turned and looked at him again. "You will not go with us," she said. "If we fail, we shall count the fault yours; if we quarrel and turn our swords upon one another, the sin is yours; if our armies lose heart, and are scattered and hewn in pieces, their blood will be on your head. But if we win," she said at the last, drawing herself to her height, "the honour of our deeds shall be ours alone, not yours." She had raised the curtain, and it fell behind her as she spoke the last word, leaving the abbot no possibility of a retort. But she had missed her intention, for he was not a man to be threatened from the right he had planned. When she was gone, his face grew sad, and calm, and weary again, and presently, musing, he took up the pen that lay beside the half-written page. But she went on through the outer hall to the vestibule, drawing her thin dark mantle about her, her lips set and her eyes cruel, for she had been disappointed. Beneath the idle wish to hear Bernard speak, behind the strong conviction that he must follow the army to the East if it was to be victorious, there had been the unconscious longing for a return of that brave emotion under which, in the afternoon, she had taken the Cross with her ladies. And a woman disappointed of strong feeling, hoped for and desired, is less kind than a strong man defeated of expectation. She was alone. Of all women, she hated most to be followed by attendants and watched by inferiors when she chose solitude. Reliant on herself and unaffectedly courageous, she often wondered whether it were not a more pleasant thing to be a man than to be even the fairest of womankind, as she was. She stood still a moment in the vestibule, drawing the hood of her cloak over her head and half across her face. The outer door was half open; the single lamp, filled with olive-oil and hanging from the middle of the vault, cast its ray out into the night. As Eleanor stood arranging her headdress and almost unconsciously looking toward the darkness, a gleam of colour and steel flashed softly in the gloom. It disappeared and flashed again, for a man was waiting without and slowly walking up and down before the door. The Queen had chosen to come alone, but had no reason for concealing herself; she made two steps to the threshold and looked out, opening wide one half of the door. The man stood still and turned his head without haste as the fuller light fell upon him. It was Gilbert, and as his eyes turned to the Queen's face, dark against the brightness within, she started a little, as if she would have drawn back, and she spoke nervously, in a low voice, hardly knowing what she said. "What is it?" she asked. "Why did you come here?" "Because I knew your Grace was here," he answered quietly. "You knew that I was here? How?" "I saw you--I followed." Under her hood, the Queen felt the warm blood in her cheeks. Gilbert was very good to see as he stood just outside the door, in the bright lamplight. He was pale, but not wan like Bernard; he was thin with the leanness of vigorous youth, not with fasting and vigils; he was grave, not sad; energetic, not inspired; and his face was handsome rather than beautiful. Eleanor looked at him for a few moments before she spoke again. "You followed me. Why?" "To beg a word of your Grace's favour." "The question you asked today?" "Yes." "Is it so urgent?" The Queen laughed a little, and Gilbert started in surprise. "Your Grace wrote urgently," he said. "Then you are zealous only to obey me? I like that. You shall be rewarded! But I have changed my mind. If the letter were to be written again, I would not write it." "It was the letter of a friend. Would you take it back?" Gilbert's face showed the coming disappointment. In his anxiety he pressed nearer to her, resting his hand on the doorpost. The Queen drew back and smiled. "Was it so very friendly?" she asked. "I do not remember--but I did not mean it so." "Madam, what did you mean?" His voice was steady and rather cold. "Oh--I have quite forgotten!" She almost laughed again, shaking her hooded head. "If your Grace had need of me, I might understand. Beatrix is not here. I looked at each of your ladies to-day, through all their ranks--she was not among them. I asked where she was, but you would not answer and were angry--" "I? Angry? You are dreaming!" "I thought you were angry, because you changed colour and would not speak again--" "You were wrong. Only a fool can be angry with ignorance." "Why do you call me ignorant? These are all riddles." "And you are not good at guessing. Come! To show you that I was not angry, I will have you walk with me down through the village. It is growing late." "Your Grace is alone?" "Since you followed me, you know it. Come." She almost pushed him aside to pass out, and a moment later they were crossing the dark open space before the church. Gilbert was not easily surprised, but when he reflected that he was walking late at night through a small French village with one of the most powerful sovereigns in Europe, who was at the same time the most beautiful of living women, he realized that his destiny was not leading him by common paths. He remembered his own surprise when, an hour earlier, he had seen the Queen's unmistakable figure pass the open window of his lodging. And yet should any one see her now, abroad at such an hour, in the company of a young Englishman, there would be much more matter for astonishment. Half boyishly he wished that he were not himself, or else that the Queen were Beatrix. As for his actual position in the Queen's good graces, he had not the slightest understanding of it, a fact which just then amused Eleanor almost as much as it irritated her. The road was uneven and steep beyond the little square. For some moments they walked side by side in silence. From far away came the sound of many rough voices singing a drinking-chorus. "Give me your arm," said Eleanor, suddenly. As she spoke, she put out her hand, as if she feared to stumble. Doing as she begged him, Gilbert suited his steps to hers, and they were very close together as they went on. He had never walked arm in arm in that way before, nor perhaps had he ever been so close to any other woman. An indescribable sensation took possession of him; he felt that his step was less steady, and that his head was growing hot and his hands cold; and somehow he knew that whereas the idea of love was altogether beyond and out of the question, yet he was spellbound in the charm of a new and mysterious attraction. With it there was the instantaneous certainty that it was evil, with the equally sure knowledge that if it grew upon him but a few moments longer he should not be able to resist it. Eleanor would not have been a woman had she not understood. "What is the matter?" she asked gently, and under her hood she was smiling. "The matter?" Gilbert spoke nervously. "There is nothing the matter; why do you ask?" "Your arm trembled," answered the Queen. "I suppose I was afraid that you were going to fall." At this the Queen laughed aloud. "Are you so anxious for my safety as that?" she inquired. Gilbert did not answer at once. "It seems so strange," he said at last, "that your Grace should choose to be abroad alone so late at night." "I am not alone," she answered. At that moment her foot seemed to slip, and her hand tightened suddenly upon Gilbert's arm. But as he thought her in danger of falling, he caught her round the waist and held her up; and, as he almost clasped her to him, the mysterious influence strengthened his hold in a most unnecessary manner. "I never slip," said Eleanor, by way of explaining the fact that she had just stumbled. "No," answered Gilbert. "Of course not." And he continued to hold her fast. She made a little movement vaguely indicating that she wished him to let her go, and her free right hand pretended to loosen his from her waist. He felt infinitesimal lines of fire running from his head to his feet, and he saw lights where there were none. "Let me go," she said, almost under her breath; and accentuating her words with little efforts of hand and body, it accidentally happened that her head was against his breast for a moment. The fire grew hotter, the lights brighter, and, with the consciousness of doing something at once terrible yet surpassingly sweet to do, he allowed his lips to touch the dark stuff that hid her russet hair. But she was quite unaware of this desperate deed. A moment later she seemed to hear something, for she turned her head quickly, as if listening, and spoke in an anxious half-whisper. "Take care! There is somebody--" Instantly Gilbert's hand dropped to his side and he assumed the attitude of a respectful protector. The Queen continued to stare into the darkness a moment longer, and then began to walk on. "It was nothing," she said carelessly. "I hear men singing," said Gilbert. "I dare say," answered Eleanor, with perfect indifference. "I have heard them for some time." One voice rose higher and louder than the rest as the singers approached, and the other voices joined in the rough chorus of a Burgundy drinking-song. Near the outskirts of the village, lights were flashing and moving unsteadily in the road as those who carried them staggered along. To reach the monastery which was the headquarters of the court, the Queen and Gilbert would have to walk a hundred yards down the street before turning to the right. Gilbert saw at a glance that it would be impossible for them to reach the turning before meeting the drunken crowd. "It would be better to go back by another way," he said, slackening his pace. But the Queen walked quietly on without answering him. It was clear that she intended to make the people stand aside to let her pass, for she continued to walk in the middle of the street. But Gilbert gently drew her aside, and she suffered him to lead her to a doorway, raised two steps above the street, and darkened by an overhanging balcony. There they stood and waited. A dense throng of grooms, archers and men-at-arms came roaring up the steep way toward them. A huge man in a dirty scarlet tunic and dusty russet hose, with soft boots that were slipping down in folds about his ankles, staggered along in front of the rest. His face was on fire with wine, his little red eyes glared dully from under swollen lids, and as he bawled his song with mouth wide open, one might have tossed an apple between his wolfish teeth. In his right hand he held an earthen jug in which there was still a little wine; with his left he brandished a banner that had been made by sewing a broad red cross upon a towel tied to one of those long wands with which farmers' boys drive geese to feed. Half dancing, half marching, and reeling at every step, he came along, followed closely by a dozen companions one degree less burly than himself, but at least quite as drunk; and each had upon his breast or shoulder the cross he had received that day. Behind them more and more, closer and closer, the others came stumbling, rolling, jostling each other, howling the chorus of the song. And every now and then the leader, swinging his banner and his wine jug, sent a shower of red drops into the faces of his followers, some of whom laughed, and some swore loudly in curses that made themselves felt through the roaring din. But loudest, highest, clearest of all, from within the heart of the drunken crowd, came one of those voices that are made to be heard in storm and battle. In a tune of its own, regardless of the singing of all the rest, it was chanting the Magnificat anima mea Dominum. Long-drawn, sustained, and of brazen quality, it calmly defied all other din, and as the crowd drew nearer Gilbert saw through the torchlight the thin white face of a very tall man in the midst, with half-closed eyes and lips that wore a look of pain as he sang--the face, the look, the voice of a man who in the madness of liquor was still a fanatic. The hot close breath of the ribald crew went before it in the warm summer night, the torches threw a moving yellow glare upon faces red as flame, or ghastly white, and here and there the small crosses of scarlet cloth fastened to the men's tunics caught the light like splashes of fresh blood. Eleanor drew back as far as she could under the doorway, offended in her sovereign pride and disgusted as gentlewomen are at the sight of drunkenness. By her side, Gilbert drew himself up as if protesting against a sacrilege and against the desecration of his holiest thoughts. He knew that such men would often be as riotous again before they reached Jerusalem, and that it would be absurd to expect anything else. But meanwhile he realized what a little more of disgust would be enough to make him hate what was before him. For a moment he forgot the Queen's presence at his side, and he closed his eyes so as not to see what was passing before them. A little angry sound, that was neither of pain nor of fear, roused him to the present. A man with a bad face and a shock head of red hair had fallen out of the march and stood unsteadily before the Queen, plucking at her mantle in the hope of seeing all her face. He seemed not to see Gilbert, and there was a wicked light in his winy eyes. The Queen drew back, and used her hands to keep her mantle and hood close about her; but the riot pressed onward and forced the man from his feet, so that he almost fell against her. Gilbert caught him by the neck with his hand; and when he had torn the cross from his shoulder, he struck him one blow that flattened his face for life. Then he threw him down into the drunken crowd, a bruised and senseless thing, as island men throw a dead horse from the cliff into the sea. In a moment the confusion and din were ten times greater than before. While some marched on, still yelling the tipsy chorus, others stumbled across the body of their unconscious fellow as it lay in the way; two had been struck by it as it fell, and were half stunned; others turned back to see the cause of the trouble; many were forced to the ground, impotently furious with drink, and not a few were trampled upon, and hurt, and burnt by their own torches. Eleanor looked down upon a writhing mass of miserable human beings who were blind with wine and stupid with rage against the unknown thing that had made them fall. She shrank to Gilbert's side, almost clinging to him. "We cannot stay here," she said. "You must not let me be recognized by these brutes." "Keep between me and the wall, then," he answered authoritatively. His sword was in his hand as he descended the two steps to the level of the street and began to force his way along between the houses and the crowd. It was not easy at first. One sprang at him blindly to stop him, but he thrust him aside; another drew his dagger, but Gilbert struck him on temple and jaw with his flat blade so that he fell in a heap; and presently the man who was sober was feared by the drunken men, and they made little resistance. But many saw by the torchlight that the hooded figure of a woman was gliding along beside him, and foul jests were screamed out, with howls and catcalls, so that the clean Norman blood longed to turn and face the whole throng together with edge and thrust, to be avenged of insult. Yet Gilbert remembered that if he did that, he might be slain, leaving Eleanor to the mercy of ruffians who would not believe that she was the Queen. So he resigned himself and went steadily on along the wall, forcing his opponents out of his way, striking them, stunning them, knocking them down mercilessly, but killing none. The time had been short from the beginning of the trouble till Gilbert reached the turning for which he was making. And all the while the high, brazen voice was chanting the words of the Canticle, above the roaring confusion. When Eleanor, safe at last, slipped into the shadows beyond the corner, the voice was singing, "He hath visited and redeemed his people," and far up the street the red-cross banner was waving furiously in the glare of the torchlight. As Gilbert sheathed his sword, Eleanor laid her hand on his. "You please me," she said; and though there was no light, he knew by her tone that she was smiling. "Thank you," she added softly. "Ask what you will, it is yours." In the dark he bent down and kissed the hand that held him. "Madam," he said, "I thank Heaven that I have been allowed to serve a woman in need." "And you ask nothing of me?" There was an odd little chill in her voice as she spoke. Gilbert did not answer at once, for he was uncertain whether to press her with a question about Beatrix, or to ask nothing. "If I asked anything," he said at last, "I should ask that I might understand your Grace, and why you bade me come in haste to one who is not even with you." They were within a few steps of the abbey, and the Queen separated a little from him and walked nearer to the wall. Then she stopped short. "Good-night," she said abruptly. Gilbert came close to her and stood still in silence. "Well?" She uttered the single word with a somewhat cold interrogation. "Madam," said Gilbert, suddenly determined to know the truth, "is Beatrix here with you or not? I have a right to know." "A right?" There was no mistaking the tone now, but Gilbert was not awed by it. "Yes," he answered; "you know I have." Without a word Eleanor left him and walked along the wall in the deep shadow. A moment later Gilbert saw two forms of women beside the taller figure of the Queen. He made a step forward, but instantly stopped again, realizing that he could not press the question in the presence of her ladies. She had doubtless placed them there when she had come out, to wait until she should return. When he could no longer see her in the gloom, he turned and retraced his steps. The drunken soldiers were gone on their way to join others in some tavern beyond the church, and the street was deserted. The moon, long past the full, was just rising above the hills to eastward, and shed a melancholy light upon the straggling village. Resentful of the Queen's mysterious silence, and profoundly sad from the impression made upon him by the drunken throng through which he had forced his way, Gilbert slowly climbed the hill and went back to his lodging near the church. He spent a restless night, and the early summer dawn brought him to his open window with that desire which every man feels, after a troubled day and broken rest, to see the world fresh and clean again, as if nothing had happened--as the writing is smoothed from the wax of the tablet before a new message can be written. Gilbert listened to the morning sounds,--the crowing of the cocks, the barking of the dogs, the calls of peasants greeting one another,--and he breathed the cool dawn air gratefully, without trying to understand what the Queen wanted of him. CHAPTER XIII The Crusade became a fact on that day when the sovereigns of France and Guienne together took the scarlet cross from Bernard's hand. But all was not ready yet. Men were roused, and the times were ripe, but not until the Abbot of Clairvaux had given Europe the final impulse could the armies of the King and of the Queen, and of Conrad, who was never to be crowned Emperor in Rome, begin the march of desperate toil and weariness that lay between their homes and their death. From Vezelay the master preacher and inspirer of mankind went straight to Conrad's court, doing the will of others in faith and without misgiving of conscience, to the greater glory of God, yet haunted in sleep and waking by the dim ghosts of ruin and defeat. He prophesied not, and he saw no visions, but he who was almost the world's physician in his day felt fever in its pulse and heard distraction in the piercing note of its rallying-cry. There were multitudes without order, there were kings without authority, there were leaders more fit to follow than to head the van. And always, when he had preached and breathed fire through the dry stubble of men's parched hopes, till the flame was broad and high and resistless, there came to him, in the solitude wherein he found no rest, the deadly memory of the Hermit's blasted host, overtaken, overcome, crushed to a heap of bones in one wild battle with the Seljuk horde. Many a time he told himself that Peter had been no soldier, that stronger and wiser men had won what he had failed even to see, and that the memories of Godfrey's fearful wrath, of Raymond's brave wisdom, and of Tancred's knightly deeds were more than half another victory gained. Yet always, too, in his deep intuition of men's limits, he felt that the soldiers of his day were not those great knights who had humbled the Emperor of the East and taught a lesson of fear to Kilidj Arslan, and who had grasped the flowers of Syria and Palestine with iron hands. It was indeed God's will that a great host should go forth again, but neither Bernard nor any other man could surely tell that in the will of Heaven there was victory too. The first to win or die must always and ever be the first alone; those who come after them imitate them, profit by them, or find ruin sown in the ravaged track of conquest; do what they may, believe as they can, be their faith ever so high and pure, they can never feel the splendid exultation of the soul that has found out some godlike and untried deed to do. The times had changed in forty years. The modern world is turned by the interests of the many, but the world of old revolved about the ambitions of the few, and the transition began in Bernard's day after the furnace of the eleventh century had poured its molten material out upon the world to settle and cool again in the castings of nations, separate and individual. There was less impulse, more rigidity; here and there, there was more strength, but everywhere there was less fire; and as interests grew in opposite directions and solidified apart, the chances of any universal rising or joint battle for belief grew less. Mankind moves westward with the sun; men's thoughts turn back to the bright East, the source of every faith that moves humanity; at first, for faith's sake, men may retrace their migration to its source and give their own blood for their holy places; and after them a generation will give its money for the honour of its God; but at the last, and surely, comes the time of memory's fading, the winter of belief, the night of faith's day, wherein a delicately nurtured and greedy race will give neither gold nor blood, but only a prayer or a smile for the hope of a life to come. Gilbert Warde began the great march, as some others did, in earnest trust and belief. He had struck blows in self-defence, and for vengeance; he had fought once in Italy for sheer love of fighting and the animal joy of the strong northerner in cut and thrust, and lately, at Vezelay, he had fought a herd of drunken brutes for a woman's safety; but he had not known the false and fierce delight of killing men to please God. That was still before him, and he looked forward to it with that half-deadly, half-voluptuous longing for bloodshed sanctioned and sanctified by justice or religion, which is at the main root of every soldier's nature, let men say what they will. When the Crusade began its pilgrimage of arms, Gilbert had not yet seen Beatrix, nor had he any distinct proof, even by the Queen's word, that she was really in France. Eleanor herself had kept him at a distance during the months that elapsed between Bernard's preaching at Vezelay and the departure of the host; and he had been much alone, being more knight than squire, and yet not having knighthood, because he would not ask it of the Queen, since that would have seemed like begging for a reward, and she did not offer it freely, while the King, of course, knew nothing of what had taken place. One night, as he sat alone in his chamber, a man entered, cloaked and hooded, and laid before him something heavy wrapped in a silk kerchief that might have been a woman's; and the man went out quickly before Gilbert had thought of asking a question. In the kerchief there was a purse of gold, which indeed he sorely needed, and yet after the man was gone he sat stupidly staring at the contents for a long time. At first it seemed to him almost certain that the money came from the Queen; but as he remembered her coldness ever since the riot at Vezelay, and recollected how many times he had of late tried to attract her attention without success, the conviction lost ground, and he began to believe it possible, if not certain, that the gift had proceeded from another source. As men did in those days, and as many would do now, he might have taken thankfully such fortune as he found in his path, not inquiring too closely whether he had deserved it or not. But yet he hesitated, and then, turning the thing over, he saw on the seal the device of the Abbot of Sheering, and he thanked Heaven for such a friend. And again, as living much alone made him more prone to self-questioning, he asked himself whether he had ever loved Beatrix at all. He heard men talk of love, he heard men sing the love-songs of a passionate and earnest age, and it seemed to him that he could nowhere find in his heart or soul the chords that should answer directly to that music. In him the memory was a treasure rather than a power; and while he loved to dream himself again through the pleasant passages of youth, calling up the kind and girlish face that was always near him in shadow-land, and although the image came, and he heard the voice and could almost fancy that he touched the little hand, yet it was all soft rather than vivid, it was full of tenderness rather than of a cruel and insatiate longing, it was a satisfaction rather than a desire. And therefore, though the mere name of Beatrix had been enough to bring him back from Rome, and though he had asked many questions in the hope of seeing her, he attempted nothing daring in order to be assured of the truth. Then came the final preparations, the testing of armour, the providing of small things necessary on the march, the renewal of saddle and bridle, and all the hundred details which every knight and soldier in those days understood and cared for himself. Then the first march eastward through a changing country which Gilbert had not yet seen, the encampment upon the heights about Metz, the days spent in roaming over the old city, long ago a fortress of the Romans--and during all that time Gilbert scarcely caught a glimpse of the Queen, though he saw the King often at religious functions in the lately built church of Saint Vincent; for as yet the great cathedral was not even begun. Last of all, on the morning of the final departure the royal armies assembled before dawn at the church, the court and the greater knights within, the vast concourse of men-at-arms and footmen and followers in the open air outside. But Gilbert passed boldly in among the high nobles of France and Guienne, and knelt with them in the dim nave, where little oil-lamps hung under the high vaults, and many candles burned upon the altars in the side-chapels, shedding a soft light on dark faces and mailed breasts and rich mantles. Out of the dusky choir rang the high plain-chant of monks and singing-boys, from the altar the bishop's voice alone intoned the Preface of the Holy Cross, and presently, in the deep silence, the Sacred Host was lifted high, and then the golden chalice. The King and Queen knelt side by side to receive the holy bread, and after them the nobles and the knights in turn went up to communicate, in long procession, while the day dawned through the clerestory windows high overhead, and the King and Queen knelt all the time with folded hands till the mass was over. Then at last the standard of the cross was brought forth, with the great standards of France and of Guienne--the banner of Saint George and the Dragon, which Eleanor was to hand down to her sons and sons' sons, kings of England, for generations; and the choir began to sing "Vexilla regis prodeunt" ("The standards of the king go forth"). So all that great and noble host went out in state, chanting the lofty hymn that rang with tones of victory, while among cypress groves on far Asian hillsides the ravens waited for the coming feast of Christian flesh, and the circling kite scanned the broad earth and dancing water for the living things that were to feed him full of death. At last the worst of the fearful march was over, and the Crusaders lay before Constantinople, travel-stained, half-starved and wan, but at rest. The great open space of undulating ground before the wall that joined the Golden Horn with the Sea of Marmara was their camping-ground, and countless tents were pitched in uneven lines as far as one could see. The King, and Queen Eleanor, and a few of the greater nobles had entered the city and were lodged in its palaces about the Emperor's gardens, but all the rest remained without. For the German hosts had been first to reach the Bosphorus, and where they had passed they had left a broad track of dust and ashes and a great terror upon all living things. Even in Constantinople itself, where the Emperor had received them as guests, they had robbed and ravaged and burned as if they had been in an enemy's country; and when at last he had persuaded them to cross over to Asia, they had left the great city half sacked behind them, so that the Emperor's heart was resentfully hardened against every man who bore the cross. And indeed he had been long-suffering, for many in his place would have borne less; and if he persuaded the Crusaders on false pretences to leave his capital and push on into Asia, he did so as the only means of saving his own people from robbery and violence. Though the King and the court only were lodged within the walls, while the main force of fighting men was encamped without, yet the guard at the gates was not over-strictly kept, and many knights went in with their squires to see the great sights and, if possible, to get a glimpse of the Emperor himself. Gilbert did like the rest and gave the captain of the Second Military Gate a piece of silver to go in. At the first glance he saw that there was little safety for any stranger who should chance to wander from the chief streets. Safe-conduct and security had been proclaimed for every soldier who wore a cross, and the fear of a cruel death was enough to enforce the imperial edict wherever watchmen or soldiers were present to remind men of it; but there was no rigorous counter-rule on the Crusaders' side, and if the rough Burgundian men-at-arms and the wild riders of Gascony who were in Eleanor's train had been admitted in numbers, they would hardly have withheld their hands from such desirable things as they chanced to find in their way. The Greeks stood watching in their doorways and their women sat huddled together in the small low balconies above, or at narrow windows whence they could see the street. Whenever a party of knights appeared, the men withdrew within their houses, the women were out of sight in a moment, and within the windows the curtains were closely drawn. Looking to right and left for the sign of a friendly tavern or the more desirable attraction of henna-dyed hair and painted cheeks and darkened eyes, the strangers saw nothing on each side of the street but blank houses and closed doors. But when they had passed, the curtains were parted, the doors were ajar again, and curious eyes looked after the big mailed figures, the gaudy cloaks, and the enormous cross-hilted swords of the Frenchmen. Of the poorer people in the streets and those whose business kept them abroad on that day, the men scowled resentfully at the intruders and the women drew their veils closely across their faces. For although the French were gentler and less uncouth to see than the rough Germans who had wrecked the city a few weeks earlier, the Greeks were past trusting any one, and looked upon all strangers with like fear and ever-increasing distrust. When he was within the gate, Gilbert saw three broad roads before him, stretching downward from the higher land on which the city wall was built. Vast and magnificent, Constantinople lay at his feet, a rich disorder of palaces and churches and towers. On the left, the quiet waters of the Golden Horn made a broad, blue path to meet the Bosphorus in the hazy distance before him; on the right, the Sea of Marmara was dazzling white under the morning sun, where its mirror-like reflections could be seen between the towers of the sea-wall. The air was full of light and colour, and the smell of late roses and autumn fruits and the enchantment of sights altogether new took hold of the young man's senses. Far before him and, as it seemed, near the end of the central street, a dome rose above the level of the surrounding city, raising its golden cross to the deep sky. Without hesitation Gilbert chose that road and followed it nearly a full hour before he stood at the gate of Saint Sophia's church. He stood still and looked up, he had heard much of the great cathedral and had wished to see it and the treasures it contained; but now, by an impulse which he followed without attempting to understand it, instead of going in he turned on his heel and went away. He said to himself that there would be plenty of time for visiting the church, and possibly the idea of leaving the beautiful daylight for the dark aisles and chapels of an ancient cathedral was distasteful. In his change of intention there seemed not to be that little element of chance that makes a man turn to the right rather than to the left when there is no choice of ways. He went on skirting the buttresses and outbuildings and following the steep descent by the northwest side of the cathedral. Here, to his surprise, he found the life of the city going on as usual, and as yet none of the Crusaders had found their way thither. The tide of business at that hour set toward the great markets and warehouses, to the north of which one of the Emperor's smaller palaces was built amid shady gardens that ran down to the water's edge. Gilbert was carried along by the stream of hurrying men, who, seeing that he was a stranger and alone, jostled him with little ceremony. He had too much wit and perhaps too much self-respect, to rouse a street brawl on his own behalf, and when any one ran against him with unnecessary roughness he contented himself with stiffening his back and holding his own in passive resistance. He had reached his full strength and was a match for many little Greeks, yet the annoyance was distasteful to him, and he was glad to find himself pushed into a narrow lane between high walls and crossed by a low covered bridge; and at the end, under overhanging branches, he saw the blue light of the sea. He followed the byway down to the water, supposing that there must be some beach or open space there, where he might be alone. But, to his surprise, both walls were built out on little piers into the sea, shutting off the view on each side. Looking straight before him, he saw the trees and white houses of distant Chalcedon, within the Sea of Marmara, but Chrysopolis was hidden on the left. The lane ended in a little beach, some six feet wide, and a skiff lay there with a pair of oars, half out of water, and made fast by a chain to a ring in the masonry. A cool breeze drew in through the narrow entrance, and the clear salt water lapped the clean sand softly, and splashed under the stern and along the wales of the half-beached boat. Gilbert rested one hand against the wall and looked out, breathing the bright sea air with a sort of voluptuous enjoyment, and letting his thoughts wander as they would. The march had been long and full of hardships, mingled often with real bodily suffering, and those who had escaped without disease were reckoned fortunate. The war was still before them, but no imaginable combat with men could be compared with the long struggle for existence through which the Crusaders had won their way to Constantinople. It seemed as if the worst were altogether past and as if rest-time had come already. In the cool and shady retreat from the crowd to which Gilbert's footsteps had led him, an Italian might have lain dreaming half the day, and an Oriental would have sat down to withdraw himself from the material tedium of life in the superior atmosphere of kef. But Gilbert was chilled to a different temper by the colder and harder life of the North, and the springs of his nature could not be so easily and wholly relaxed. In a few moments he grew restless, stood upright and began to look about him, letting his hand fall by his side from its hold on the wall. The walls were solid from end to end of the narrow lane, and not less than three times a man's height. The stones of the masonry were damp for six or seven feet above the ground, showing that the earth was at a higher level behind them than in the lane, and the trees of which the branches overhung the way were of the sort found in Eastern gardens, a cedar of Lebanon on the one side, a sycamore on the other; and with the light breeze there came to Gilbert's nostrils the aromatic scent of young oranges still green on the trees. It flashed upon him that the lane divided the imperial gardens and that the walls were built out into the water in order to prevent intrusion. One end of the boat's chain was shackled to a ring-bolt in the bows, and the other was made fast to the ring in the wall by one of those rude iron padlocks which had been used in Asia since the times of Alexander. Gilbert had heard wonderful tales of the gardens at Constantinople, and he resented the idea of being so near them and yet so effectually excluded. He tried to wrench the boat's chain from the bows, and, failing, he tried to force the lock, but the iron was solid and the lock was good; moreover, the chain was too short to allow the skiff to float to the end of the wall, if he had launched it. The idea of seeing into the garden became a determination as soon as he found that there were serious obstacles in the way, and by the time he had persuaded himself that the boat could not help him he would have readily risked life and limb for his fancy. A few moments' reflection showed him, however, that there need be no great danger in the undertaking, for the defence had a weak point. The foundations on which the walls stood were above water by several inches and were wide enough to give him a foothold if he could only keep himself upright against the flat surface. The latter difficulty could easily be overcome by using one of the oars from the boat, and he began to attempt the passage at once, cautiously putting one foot before the other and steadying himself with the oar against the opposite wall. It did not occur to him that to get into the Emperor's gardens by stealth might be looked upon as a serious matter. In a few moments he had reached the end and was getting back to the land on the other side. From the water's edge three little terraces led up like steps to the level of the garden, where the trees grew thick and dark; and, although it was early autumn, each terrace was covered with flowers of a different hue--pink and soft yellow and pale blue. Gilbert had never seen anything made to grow in such orderly profusion, and when he reached the top by narrow steps built against the wall, he found himself treading on a fine white gravel surface on which not even a single dead leaf had been allowed to lie, and which extended some thirty yards inwards under the trees to a straight bank of moss that had a sheen like green velvet where the sun fell upon it through the parted leaves overhead. Very far away between the trunks of the trees there was the gleam of white marble walls. Gilbert hesitated a little, and then walked slowly forward toward the bank. As yet he had seen no trace of any living thing in the garden, but as he advanced and changed his position, he noticed a small dash of colour, like the corner of a dark blue cloak, beside the trunk of one of the larger trees. Some one was sitting on the other side, and he moved cautiously and almost noiselessly till he saw that the person was a lady, seated on the ground and absorbed in a book. He did not remember to have seen more than two or three women reading in all his life, and one of them was Queen Eleanor; another was Beatrix, who, as a lonely child in the solitude of her father's castle, had acquired some learning from the chaplain, and delighted in spelling out the few manuscripts in her father's possession. Gilbert Warde was as much a born sportsman as he was a fighter, and he had stalked the fallow-deer in Stortford woods since he had been old enough to draw an arrow's head to his finger. Step by step, from tree to tree, with cat-like tread, he came nearer, amused by an almost boyish pleasure in his own skill. Once the lady moved, but she looked in the opposite direction, and then at last, when he was within a dozen yards of her, half-sheltered by a slender stem, she looked straight across toward him, and the light fell upon her face. He knew that she saw him, but he could not have moved from the spot if it had been to save his life, for the lady was Beatrix herself. In spite of a separation that had lasted two years, in spite of her final growth out of early girlhood, he knew that he was not mistaken, and her dark eyes were looking straight into his, telling him that she knew him, too. There was no fear in them, and she showed no surprise, but as she looked, a very lovely smile came into her sad face. He was so glad to see her that he thought little or not at all of her looks. But she was not beautiful in any common sense, and, saving the expression in her face, she could hardly have passed for pretty in the presence of Queen Eleanor and of most of her three hundred ladies. Her forehead was round and full rather than classic, and the thick dark eyebrows were somewhat rough and irregular, turning slightly upwards as they approached each other, a peculiarity which gave an almost pathetic expression to the eyes themselves; the small and by no means perfectly shaped nose was sensitively drawn at the nostrils, but had also an odd look of independence and inquiry; and the wide and shapely lips were more apt to smile with a half-humorous sadness than to part with laughter. Small and well-modelled ears were half covered by dark brown hair that had been almost black in childhood, and which fell to her shoulders in broad waves, in the fashion used by the Queen. While Gilbert looked and remained motionless, the girl rose lightly to her feet, and he saw that she was shorter than he had expected, but slight and delicately made. With one hand he could have lifted her from the ground, with two he could have held her in the air like a child. She was not the Beatrix he remembered, though he had known her instantly; she was not the solemn, black-eyed maiden of whom he sometimes dreamed; she was a being full of individual life and thought, quick, sensitive, perhaps capricious, and charming, if she could charm at all, by a spell that was quite her own. Half-frightened at last by his motionless attitude and his silence, she called him by name. "Gilbert! What is the matter?" He shook his broad shoulders as if waking to consciousness, and the smile in her face was reflected in his own. The voice, at least, had not changed, and the first tones called up the long-cherished record of childish years; for scent and sound can span the wastes of years and the deserts of separation, when sight is dull and even touch is unresponsive. Gilbert came forward, holding out both hands; and Beatrix took them when he was close to her, and held them in hers. The little tears had started in her eyes, that were glad as flowers at dewfall, and in her very clear, pale cheeks the colour lightened like the dawn. The man's face was quiet, and his heart was in no haste, though he was so glad. He drew her toward him, as he had often done, and she seemed light and little in his hands. But when he would have kissed her cheek as in other times, she turned in his hold like a bow that is bent but not strung, and straightened herself again quickly; and something tingled in him suddenly, and he tried hard to kiss her; yet when he saw that he must hurt her, he let her go, and laughed oddly. Her blush deepened to red and then faded all at once, and she turned her face away. "How is it that I have never found you before now?" Gilbert asked softly. "Were you with the Queen at Vezelay? Have you been with her on all the march?" "Yes." "And did you not know that I was with the army?" "Yes; but I could not send you any word. She would not let me." The girl looked round quickly in sudden apprehension. "If she should find you here, it would be ill for you," she added, with a gesture of pushing him away. But he showed that he would not go away. "The Queen has always been kind to me," he said. "I am not afraid." Beatrix would not turn to him, and was silent. He was not timid, but words did not come easily just then; therefore, manlike, he tried to draw her to him again. But she put away his hand somewhat impatiently and shook her head, whereat he felt the tingling warmth in his blood again. Then he remembered how he had felt the same thing on that night in Vezelay, when the Queen had pressed his arm unexpectedly, and once before, when she had kissed him in the tennis-court, and he was angry with himself. "Come," she said, "let us sit down and talk. There are two years between us." She led the way back in the direction whence he had come, and when they had reached the bank of moss she seated herself and looked out under the trees, at the blue water. He stood still a moment as though hesitating, and then sat down beside her, but not quite close to her, as he would have done in earlier years. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "there are two years between us. We must bridge them." "And between what we were and what we are there is something more than time," she answered, still looking far away. "Yes." He was silent, and he thought of his mother, and he knew that Beatrix was thinking of her too, and of her own father. It had not occurred to him that Beatrix could resent the marriage as bitterly as he, nor that she could in any way be as great a loser by it as he was. "Tell me why you left England," he said at last. "And you? Why did you leave your home?" She turned to him, and the little melancholy smile that was characteristic of her was in her face. "I had no home left," he answered gravely. "And had I? How could I live with them? No--how could I have lived with them, knowing what I did, even had they been ever so kind?" "Were they unkind to you?" Gilbert's deep eyes grew suddenly pale as they turned to hers, and his words came slowly and distinctly, like the first drops of a thunder shower. "Not at first. They came to the castle where I had been left all alone after they were married, and my father told me that I must call the Lady Goda my mother. She kissed me as if she were fond of me for his sake." Gilbert started a little, and his teeth set together, while he clasped his hands over one knee and waited to hear more. Beatrix understood his look, and knew that she had unintentionally hurt him. She laid her hand softly upon his arm. "Forgive me," she said. "I should not talk about it." "No," he said harshly, "go on! I feel nothing; I am past feeling there. They were kind to you at first, you said." "Yes," she continued, looking at him sideways. "They were kind when they remembered to be, but they often forgot. And then, it was hard to treat her with respect when I came to know how she had got your inheritance for my father, and how she had let you leave England to wander about the world. And then, last year, it seemed to me all at once that I was a woman and could not bear it any longer, for I saw that she hated me. And when a son was born to them, my father turned against me and threatened that he would send me to a nunnery. So I fled, one day when my father had ridden to Stoke and the Lady Goda was sleeping in her chamber. A groom and my handmaid helped me and went with me, for my father would have hanged them if they had stayed behind; so I took refuge with the Empress Maud at Oxford, and soon there came a letter from the Queen of France to the Empress, asking that I might be sent to the French court if I would. And something of the reason for the Queen's wish I can guess. But not all." She ceased, and for some moments Gilbert sat silent beside her, but not as if he had nothing to say. He seemed rather to be checking himself lest he should say too much. "So you were at Vezelay," he said at last; "yet I sought your face everywhere, and I could not see you." "How did you know?" asked Beatrix. "The Queen had written to me," he answered; "so I came back from Rome." "I understand," said the young girl, quietly. "What is it that you understand?" "I understand why she has prevented me from seeing you, when you have been near me for almost a year." She checked a little sigh, and then looked out at the water again. "I wish I did," Gilbert answered, with a short laugh. Beatrix laughed too, but in a different tone. "How dull you are!" she cried. Gilbert looked at her quickly, for no man likes to be told that he is dull, by any woman, old or young. "Am I? It seems to me that you do not put things very clearly." Beatrix was evidently not persuaded that he was in earnest, for she looked at him long and gravely. "We have not met for so long," she said, "that I am not quite sure of you." She threw her head back and scrutinized his face with half-closed lids; and about her lips there was an attempt to smile, that came and went fitfully. "Besides," she added, as she turned away at last, "you could not possibly be so simple as that." "By 'simple,' do you mean foolish, or do you mean plain?" "Neither," she answered without looking at him. "I mean innocent." "Oh!" Gilbert uttered the ejaculation in a tone expressive rather of bewilderment than of surprise. He did not in the least understand what she meant. Seeing that she did not enlighten him, and feeling uncomfortable, it was quite natural that he should attack her on different ground. "You have changed," he said coldly. "I suppose you have grown up, as you call it." For a moment Beatrix said nothing, but her lips trembled as if she were trying not to smile at what he said; and suddenly she could resist no longer, and laughed at him outright. "I cannot say the same for you," she retorted presently; "you are certainly not grown up yet!" This pleased Gilbert even less than what she had said before, for he was still young enough to wish himself older. He therefore answered her laughter with a look of grave contempt. She was woman enough to see that the time had come to take him by surprise, with a view of ascertaining the truth. "How long has the Queen loved you?" she asked suddenly; and while she seemed not to be looking at him, she was watching every line in his face, and would have noticed the movement of an eyelash if there had been nothing else to note. But Gilbert was really surprised. "The Queen! The Queen love me! Are you beside yourself?" "Not at all," answered the young girl, quietly; "it is the talk of the court. They say that the King is jealous of you." She laughed--gayly, this time, for she saw that he really had had no idea of the truth. Then she grew grave all at once, for it occurred to her that she had perhaps made a mistake in putting the idea into his head. "At least," she said, as if correcting herself, "that is what they used to say last year." "You are quite mad," he said, without a smile. "I cannot imagine how such an absurd idea could have suggested itself to you. In the first place, the Queen would never look at a poor Englishman like me--" "I defy any woman not to look at you," said Beatrix. "Why?" he asked, with, curiosity. "Is this more simplicity, or is it more dulness?" "Both, I suppose," answered Gilbert, in a hurt tone. "You are very witty." "Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "Wit is quite another thing." Then her tone changed and her face softened wonderfully as she took his hand. "I am glad that you do not believe it," she said; "and I am glad that you do not care to be thought handsome. But I think it is true that the Queen loves you, and if she sent to England for me, that was merely in order to bring you back to France. Of course she could not know--" She checked herself, and he, of course, asked what she had meant to say, and insisted upon knowing. "The Queen could not know," she said at last, "that we should seem so strange to each other when we met." "Do I seem so strange to you?" he asked, in a sorrowful tone. "No," she answered, "it is the other way. I can see that you expected me to be very different." "Indeed, I did not," answered Gilbert, with some indignation. "At least," he added hastily, "if I thought anything about it, I did not expect that you would be half so pretty, or half--" "If you thought anything about it," laughed Beatrix, interrupting him. "You know what I mean," he said, justly annoyed by his own lack of tact. "Oh, yes; of course I do--that is the trouble." "If we are going to do nothing but quarrel," he said, "I am almost sorry that I came here." Again her tone changed, but this time she did not touch his hand. Hearing her voice, he expected that she would, and he was oddly disappointed that she did not. "Nothing could make me sorry that you found me," she answered. "You do not know how hard I have tried to see you all through this last year!" Her tone was tender and earnest, and though they had been long parted, she was nearer to him than he knew. His hand closed upon hers, and in the little thrill that he felt he forgot his disappointment. "Could you not send me any word?" he asked. "I am a prisoner," she answered, more than half in earnest. "It would be ill for you if the Queen found you here; but there is no danger, for they are all gone to the high mass in the cathedral." "And why are you left behind?" he asked. "They always say that I am not strong," she replied, "especially when there might be a possibility of your seeing me. She has never allowed me to be with all the others when the court is together, since I was brought over from England." "That is why I did not see you at Vezelay," he said, suddenly understanding. And with him to understand was to act. He might have had some difficulty in persuading himself at leisure that he was seriously in love with Beatrix, but being taken suddenly and unawares, he had not the slightest doubt as to what he ought to do. Before she could answer his last words, he had risen to his feet and was drawing her by the hand. "Come," he cried. "I can easily take you by the way I came. It is only a step, and in five minutes you shall be as free as I am!" But, to his great surprise, Beatrix seemed inclined to laugh at him. "Where should we go?" she asked, refusing to leave her seat. "We should be caught before we reached the city gates, and it would be the worse for us." "And who should dare touch us?" asked Gilbert, indignantly. "Who should dare to lay a hand on you?" "You are strong and brave," answered Beatrix, "but you are not an army, and the Queen--but you will not believe what I say." "If the Queen even cared to see my face, she could send for me. It is three weeks since I caught a glimpse of her, five hundred yards away." "She is angry with you," answered the young girl, "and she thinks that you will wish to be with her, and will find some way of seeing her." "But," argued Gilbert, "if she only meant to use your name in order to bring me from Rome, it would have been quite enough to have written that letter without having brought you at all." "And how could she tell that I did not know where you were, or that I could not send you a message which might contradict hers?" "That is true," Gilbert admitted. "But what does it matter, after all, since we have met at last?" "Yes; what does it matter?" They asked the answerless question of each other almost unconsciously, for they were finding each other again. There are plants which may be plucked up half-grown, before their roots have spread in the earth or their buds ripened to blossoming, and they may lie long in dry places till they seem withered and dead; but there is life in their fibres still, and the power to grow is in the shrivelled stem and in the dusty leaf, so that if they be planted again and tended they come at last to their due maturity. Gilbert and Beatrix might have lived out their lives apart, and in the course of years they would have been the merest memories to each other; but having met in the slow weaving of fate's threads, they became destined to win or lose together. Their conversation needed but the slightest direction to take them back to the recollections of other times, and one of the first elements of lasting love is a common past, though that past may have covered but a few days. To that memory lovers go back as to the starting-point of life's journey, and though they may not speak of it often, yet its existence is the narrow ledge on which they have reared their stronghold in the perilous pass. And the English boy and girl had really lived a joint life, in their sympathies and surroundings, for years before a joint misfortune had overtaken them. In their meeting after a long separation they felt at the same time the rare delight of friendship renewed, and the still rarer charm of finding new acquaintances in old friends; but besides the well-remembered bond of habit, and the strong attraction of newly awakened interest, there was the masterful, nameless something upon which man's world has spun for all ages, as the material earth turns on its poles toward the sun--always to hope beyond failure, always to life beyond death, always and forever to love beyond life. It is the spark from heaven, the stolen fire, the mask of divinity with which the poorest of mankind may play himself a god. It has all powers, and it brings all gifts--the gift of tongues, for it is above words; the gift of prophecy, for it has foreknowledge of its own sadness; the gift of life, for it is itself that elixir in which mankind boasts of eternal youth. The two sat side by side and talked, and were silent, and talked again, understanding each other and happy in finding more to understand. The sun rose high and fell through the rustling leaves in fanciful warm tracery of light; down from the Bosphorus the sweet northerly breeze came over the rippling water, laden with the scent of orange-blossoms from the Asian shore and with the perfume of late roses from far Therapia. Between the trees they could see the white sails of little vessels beating to windward up the narrow channel, and now and then the dyed canvas of a fisherman's craft set a strangely disquieting note of colour upon the sea. There seemed to be no time, for all life was theirs, and it was all before them; an hour had passed, and they had not told each other half; another came and went, and what there was to tell still gained upon them. [Illustration: BEATRIX AND GILBERT] They talked of the Crusade, and of how the Queen had given her ladies no choice, commanding them to follow her, as a noble would order his vassals to rise with him to the king's war. Three hundred ladies were to wear mail and lead the van of battle, the fairest ladies of France and Aquitaine, of Gascony, of Burgundy, and of Provence. So far, a few had ridden, and many had been carried in closed litters slung between mules or borne on the broad shoulders of Swiss porters; and each lady had her serving-maid, and her servants and mules heavy laden with the furniture of beauty, with laces and silks and velvets, jewellery and scented waters, and salves for the face, of great virtue against cold and heat. It was a little army in itself, recruited of the women, and in which beauty was rank, and rank was power; and in order that the three hundred might ride with Queen Eleanor in the most marvellous masquerade of all time, a host of some two thousand servants and porters crossed Europe on foot and on horseback from the Rhine to the Bosphorus. The mere idea was so vastly absurd that Gilbert had laughed at it many a time by himself; and yet there was at the root of it an impulse which was rather sublime than ridiculous. Between its conception and its execution the time was too long, and the hot blood of daring romance already felt the fatal chill of coming failure. Gilbert looked at the delicate features and the slight figure beside him, and he resented the mere thought that Beatrix should ever be exposed to weariness and hardship. But she laughed. "I am always left behind on great occasions," she said. "You need not fear for me, for I shall certainly not be seen on the Queen's left hand when she overcomes the Seljuks without your help. I shall be told to wait quietly in my tent until it is all over. What can I do?" "You can at least let me know where you are," answered Gilbert. "What satisfaction shall you get from that? You cannot see me; you cannot come to me in the ladies' camp." "Indeed I can, and will," answered Gilbert, without the least hesitation. "At the risk of the Queen's displeasure?" "At any risk." "How strange it is!" exclaimed Beatrix, raising her eyebrows a little, but smiling happily. "This morning you would not have risked anything especial for the sake of finding me, but now that we have met by chance you are ready to do anything and everything to see me again." "Of some things," answered her companion, "one does not know how much one wants them till they are within reach." "And there are others which one longs for till one has them, and which one despises as soon as they are one's own." "What things may those be?" asked Gilbert. "I have heard Queen Eleanor say that a husband is one of them," answered Beatrix, demurely, "but I dare say that she is not always right." Side by side the two sat in the autumn noonday, each forgetful of all but the other, in the perfect unconsciousness of the difference their meeting was to make in their lives from that day onward. Yet after the first few words they did not speak again of Beatrix's father nor of Gilbert's mother. By a common instinct they tried to lose both, in the happiness of again finding one another. Then, at last, a cloud passed over the sun, and Beatrix felt a little chill that was like the breath of a coming evil while Gilbert became suddenly very grave and thoughtful. Beatrix looked round, more in fear than in suspicion, as a child does at night, when it has been frightened by a tale of goblins; and, turning, she caught sight of something and turned farther, and then started with a scared cry and half rose, with her hand on Gilbert's arm. Anxious for her, he sprang up to his height at the sound of her voice, and at the same moment he saw what she saw, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was not a cloud that had passed between them and the sun. The Queen stood there, as she had come from the Office in the church, a veil embroidered with gold pinned upon her head in a fashion altogether her own. Her clear eyes were very bright and hard, and her beautiful lips had a frozen look. "It is very long since I have seen you," she said to Gilbert, "and I had not thought to see you here--of all places--unbidden." "Nor I to be here, Madam," answered the Englishman. "Did you come here in your sleep?" asked the Queen, coldly. "For aught that I can tell how I got here, it may be as your Grace says. I came by such a way as I may not find again." "I care not how soon you find another, sir, so that it be a way out." Gilbert had never seen the Queen gravely displeased, and as yet she had been very kind to him when he had been in her presence. Against her anger he drew himself up, for he neither loved her nor feared her, and as he looked at her now he saw in her eyes that haunting memory of his own mother which had disturbed him more than once. "I ask your Grace's pardon," he said slowly, "for having entered uninvited. Yet I am glad that I did, since I have found what was kept from me so long." "I fancied your idol so changed that you might not care to find it after all!" Beatrix hardly understood what the words meant, but she knew that they were intended to hurt both her and Gilbert, and she saw by his face what he felt. Knowing as she did that the Queen was very strongly attracted by him, she would not have been human if she had not felt in her throat the pulse of triumph, as she stood beside the most beautiful woman in the world, pale, slight, sad-eyed, but preferred before the other's supreme beauty by the one man whose preference meant anything at all. But a moment later she forgot herself and feared for him. "Madam," he said very slowly and distinctly, "I trust that I may not fail in courtesy, either toward your Grace, or toward any other woman, high or low; and none but the blind man would deny that, of all women, you are fairest, wherefore you may cast it in the face of other ladies of your court that you are fairer than they. But since your Grace would wear a man's armour and draw a knight's sword, and ride for the Cross, shoulder to shoulder with the gentlemen of Normandy and Gascony and France, I shall tell you without fear of discourtesy, as one man would tell another, that your words and your deeds are less gentle than your royal blood." He finished speaking and looked her quietly in the face, his arms folded, his brow calm, his eyes still and clear. Beatrix fell back a step and drew anxious breath, for it was no small thing to cross words boldly with the sovereign next in power to the Emperor himself. And at the first, the seething blood hissed in the Queen's ears, and her lovely face grew ashy pale, and her wrath rose in her eyes with the red shadow of coming revenge. But no manlike impulse moved her hand nor her foot, and she stood motionless, with half her mantle gathered round her. In the fierce silence, the two faced each other, while Beatrix looked on, half sick with fear. Neither moved an eyelash, nor did the glance of either flinch, till it seemed as if a spell had bound them there forever, motionless, under the changing shadows of the leaves, only their hair stirring in the cool wind. Eleanor knew that no man had ever thus faced her before. For a few moments she felt the absolute confidence in herself which had never failed her yet; the certainty of strength which drove the King to take refuge from her behind a barrier of devotion and prayer; the insolence of wit and force against which the holy man of Clairvaux had never found a weapon of thought or speech. And still the hard Norman eyes were colder and angrier than her own, and still the man's head was high, and his face like a mask. At last she felt her lids tremble, and her lips quiver; his face moved strangely in her sight, his cold resistance hurt her as if she were thrusting herself uselessly against a rock; she knew that he was stronger than she, and that she loved him. The struggle was over; her face softened, and her eyes looked down. Beatrix could not understand, for she had expected that the Queen would command Gilbert to leave them, and that before long her vengeance would most certainly overtake him. But instead, it was the young soldier without fame or fortune, the boy with whom she had many a time played children's games, before whom Eleanor, Duchess of Guienne and Queen of France, lost courage and confidence. A moment later she looked up again, and not a trace of her anger was left to see. Simply and quietly she came to Gilbert's side and laid her hand upon his sleeve. "You make me say things I do not mean," she said. If she had actually asked his forgiveness in words, she could not have expressed a real regret more plainly, nor perhaps could she have done anything so sure to produce a strong impression upon the two who heard her. Gilbert's face relaxed instantly, and Beatrix forgot to be afraid. "I crave your Grace's pardon," said the young man. "If I spoke rudely let my excuse be that it was not for myself. We were children together," he added, looking at Beatrix, "we grew up together, and after long parting we have met by chance. There is much left of what there was. I pray that without concealment I may see the Lady Beatrix again." The Queen turned slowly from them and stood for a few moments looking toward the sea. Then she turned again and smiled at Gilbert, not unkindly; but she said no word, and presently, as they stood there, she left them, and walked slowly away with bent head, toward the palace. CHAPTER XIV Three weeks the French armies lay encamped without the walls of Constantinople, while the Emperor of the Greeks used every art and every means to rid himself of the unwelcome host, without giving overmuch offence to his royal guests. The army of Conrad, he said, had gained a great victory in Asia Minor. Travel-stained messengers arrived in Chrysopolis, and were brought across the Bosphorus to appear before the King and Queen of France, with tales of great and marvellous deeds of arms against the infidels. Fifty thousand Seljuks had been drowned in their own blood; three times that number had fled from the field, and were scattered fainting and wounded in the Eastern hills; vast spoils of gold and silver had fallen to the Christians, and if the Frenchmen craved a share in the victories of the Cross, or hoped for some part or parcel of the splendid booty, it was high time that they should be marching to join the Germans in the field. Yet Louis would have tarried longer to complete the full month of devotions and thanksgiving for the march accomplished, and many of his followers would cheerfully have spent the remainder of their days on the pleasant shores of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn; but the Queen was weary of the long preface to her unwritten history of arms, and grew impatient, and took the Greek Emperor's side, believing all the messages which he provided for her imagination. And so at last the great multitude was brought over to Asia by boat, and marched by quick stages to the plain of Nicaea. There they pitched their camp by the Lake of Ascanius, and waited for news of the Germans; for the messengers had brought information that the German Emperor desired to make Nicaea the trysting-place. But the messengers had all been Greeks, and the French waited many days in vain, spoiling the country of all they could take, though it was in the dominion of Christians, and no man dared raise a hand to defend his own against the Crusaders. Among the French, there were many, both of the great lords and of the simple knights, and of poor men-at-arms, who would have counted it mortal sin to take anything from a stranger without payment, who had come for faith's sake, to fight for faith, and who looked for faith's reward. Yet as there can be in logic nothing good excepting by its own comparison with things evil, so in that great pilgrimage of arms the worst followed the best in a greedy throng, as the jackal and the raven cross the desert in the lion's track. And the roads by which they had marched, and the lands wherein they had camped, lay waste as lie the wheat-fields of Palestine in June, when the plague of locusts has eaten its way from east to west. When they came to a resting-place after many days' march, mud-stained or white with dust, weary and footsore, their horses lame, their mules overladen with the burdens of those that had died by the way, beards half grown, hair unkempt, faces grimy, clothes worn shapeless, they were more like a multitude of barbarians wandering upon the plains of Asia than like nobles of France and high-born Crusaders. At first, when they reached the halting-place by stream or river or lake, there was a struggle for drinking and a strife for the watering of horses and beasts of burden, so that sometimes men and mules were trampled down and hurt, and some were killed; but it mattered little in so great a host, and a spade's depth of earth was ample burial for a man, and if a priest could be found to bless his body on the spot where he lay it was enough, since he had died on the road to Jerusalem; but the jackals and wild dogs followed the march and lay in wait for dead beasts. Then when the first confusion was over, when hunger and thirst were satisfied, the tents were unpacked with their poles, and the sound of the great wooden mallets striking upon the tent-pegs was like the irregular pounding stroke of the fullers' hammers as the water-wheel makes them rise and fall; and though the army had crossed Europe and had encamped in many places, the colours of the tents were bright still, and the pennants floated in streaks of vivid colour against the sky. Soon, when the first work was over and the little villages of red and green and purple and white canvas were built up in their long irregular lines, the smoke of camp-fires rose in curling wreaths, and bag and baggage, pack and parcel, were opened and the contents spread out. As if for some great festival, men and women chose their gayest clothes and richest ornaments, so that when they met again before the open tents which were set up for chapels, one for each little band of fellow-townsmen and neighbours at home, and afterwards when they ate and drank together according to their rank, under wide awnings at noontide, or beneath the clear sky in the cool of the evening, it was a goodly sight, and every man's heart was lightened and his courage returned as he felt that he himself had his share and part of the glorious whole. For it was as it always is and always must be, where power and wealth are masters of the scene, and there is no acting room for misery or sorrow or such poor strolling players as sickness and death. The things which please not the eye are quick to offend souls nursed in a faultless taste, and the charnel-house of failure receives whatsoever things have not the power of pleasing. Now when they came to Nicaea, hope was high, and the light of victory to come seemed to be shining in every man's eyes. There for the first time Queen Eleanor led out her three hundred ladies in battle array, clad in bright mail, with skirts of silk and cloth of gold, and long white mantles, each with the scarlet cross upon the shoulder; and on their heads they wore light caps of steel ornamented with chiselled gold and silver, and here and there with a metal crest or a bird's wing, beaten out of thin silver plate. It was at noonday under the fair autumn sun. A broad meadow, green still in patches, where the grass had not been burned brown by the early summer heat, stretched toward the Lake of Ascanius, where the ground rose in hillocks, to end abruptly in a sheer fall of thirty or forty feet to the water's edge. There were places where there was no grass at all, and where the dry gravel lay bare and dusty, yet on the whole it was a fair field for a great assembly of men on horseback and on foot. To southward the meadow rose, rolling away to the distant hills, whither the German host was already gone. The great lords, with their men-at-arms and squires, riding each in the midst of his vassal knights, went out thither to see such a sight as none had seen before, and ranged themselves by ranks around the field, so that there was room for all. And thither Gilbert went also with his man Dunstan, in the King's train, for he owed no service nor allegiance to any man there. But they waited long for the Queen. She came at last, leading her company and mounted on a beautiful white Arab mare, the gift of the Greek Emperor, as gentle a creature as ever obeyed voice and hand, and as swift as the swiftest of the breed of Nejd. She rode alone, ten lengths before the rest, tall and straight in the saddle as any man, a lance in her right hand, while her left held the bridle low and lightly; and at the very first glance every soldier in that great field knew that there was none like her in the troop. Yet her fair ladies made a good showing and rode not badly as they cantered by, brilliant and changing as a shower of blossoms, with black eyes, and blue, and brown, fair cheeks and dark, and laughing lips not made to talk of rough deeds save to praise them in husband or lover. Next to the Queen and before the following ranks rode one who bore the standard of Eleanor's ancient house, Saint George and the Dragon, displayed on a white ground and now for the first time quartered in a cross. The Lady Anne of Auch was very dark, and her black hair streamed like a shadow in the air behind her, while her dark eyes looked upward and onward. Splendidly handsome she was, and doubtless Eleanor had chosen her for her beauty to be standard bearer of the troop, well knowing that no living face could be compared with her own, and willing to outshine a rival whose features and form were the honour and boast of the South. They rode in a sort of order, in squadrons of fifty each, but not in serried ranks, for they had not the skill to keep in line, though they rode well and boldly. And before each squadron rode a lady who for her beauty or her rank, or for both, was captain, and wore upon her steel cap a gilded crest. Each squadron had a colour of its own, scarlet and green and violet, and the tender shade of anemones in spring, and their mantles had been dyed with each hue in the dyeing-vats of Venice, and were lined with delicately tinted silks from the East, brought to the harbours of France by Italian traders. For the merchants of Amalfi filled the Mediterranean with their busy commerce and had quarters of their own in every Eastern city, and had then but lately founded the saintly order of the Knights Hospitallers of Saint John of Jerusalem, whence grew the noble community of the Knights of Malta, which was to live through many centuries even to our day. Nor could the Queen's ladies have worn mail and steel and wielded sword and lance, so that at a long stone's throw they might almost have passed for men, but that cunning jewellers and artificers of Italy, and Moorish smiths from Spain, had been brought at great pains and cost to France to make such armour and weapons as had never been wrought before. The mail was of finest rings of steel sewn upon soft doeskin, fitted so closely that there was no room for gambison or jerkin; and though it might have stopped a broad arrow or turned the edge of a blade, a sharp dagger could have made a wound beneath it, and against a blow it afforded less protection than a woollen cloak. Many had little rings of gold sewn regularly in the rows of steel ones, that caught the light with a warmer sparkle, and the clasps of their mantles were of chiselled gold and silver. The trappings of each horse were matched in colour with the ladies' mantles, and the captains of the squadrons wore golden spurs. They dropped the points of their lances as they passed the King where he sat on his horse, a stone's throw from the high shore of the lake, in the midst of his chief barons, his pale face expressing neither interest nor pleasure in what he saw, and his eyes distrustful, as always, of his Queen and her many caprices. She, when she had saluted him with a smile that was almost a laugh, rode on a little way, and then, with a sharply uttered word of command, she wheeled by the left, crossed half the broad field, and led her ladies back straight toward the King. Within five lengths of him she halted suddenly, almost bringing her horse's haunches to the ground, and keeping her seat in a way that would have done credit to a man brought up in the saddle. To tell the truth, very few of her ladies were able to perform such a feat with any ease or assurance, and in the sudden halt there was more than a little disorder, accompanied by all sorts of exclamations of annoyance and ejaculations of surprise; yet, in spite of difficulty, the whole troop came to a standstill; moreover, a hundred thousand or more of knights and soldiers on horseback and on foot were so much more interested in the looks of the riders than in their horsemanship, and the whole effect of the gay confusion, with its many colours, its gleams of gold and glint of silver, was so pretty and altogether novel, that a great cry of enthusiasm and delight rang in the sunny air. A faint flush of pleasure rose in the Queen's cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with triumph at the long applause which was on her side against the King's disapproval. She dropped the point of her lance until it almost touched the ground, and spoke to her husband in a high clear voice that was heard by many. "I present to your Grace this troop of brave knights," she said. "In strength the advantage is yours, in numbers, you far outdo us, in age you are older, in experience there are those with you who have lived a lifetime in arms. Yet we have some skill also, and those who are old in battles know that the victory belongs to the spirit and the heart, before it is the work of the hand; and in these my knights are not behind yours." The men who heard her words and saw the lovely light in her wondrous face threw up their right hands and shouted great cheers for her and her three hundred riders, but the King spoke no word of praise, and his face was still and sour. Again the Queen's cheek flushed. "Your Grace leads the army of France," she said, "an army of brave men. My knights are many, and brave too, the troops of Guienne and of Poitou and of Gascony and of more than half of all the duchies that speak our tongue and owe me allegiance. But of them all, and before them all, to ride in van of this Holy War, I choose these three hundred ladies. My Lord King, and you, lords, barons, knights, and men, who have taken upon you the sign of the Cross, you, the flower of French chivalry and manhood, your comrades in arms are these, the flowers of France! Long live the King!" She threw up her lance and caught it easily in her right hand as she uttered the cry, laughing in the King's face, and well knowing her power compared with his; and as the high young voices behind her took up the shout, the great multitude that bordered the meadow took it up also; but one word was changed, and a hundred thousand throats shouted, "Long live the Queen!" When there was silence at last, the King looked awkwardly to his right and left as if seeking advice; but the nobles about him were watching the fair ladies, and had perhaps no counsel to offer. In the great stillness the Queen waited, still smiling triumphantly, and still he could find nothing to say, so that a soft titter ran through the ladies' ranks, whereat the King looked more sour than ever. "Madam," he began at last. And after that he seemed to be speaking, but no one heard what he said. Apparently with the intention of showing that he had nothing more to say,--and indeed it was of very little importance whether he had or not,--he waved his hand with a rather awkward gesture and slightly bowed his head. "Long live the monk!" said Eleanor, audibly, as she wheeled to the right to lead her troop away. Gilbert Warde sat on his horse in the front line of the spectators, some fifty yards from the King, and near the edge of the lake. As the Queen cantered along the line, gathering her harvest of admiration in men's faces, her eyes met the young Englishman's and recognized him. On his great Norman horse he sat half a head taller than the men on each side of him, motionless as a statue. Yet his look expressed something which she had never seen in his face till then; for, being freed from her immediate influence and at liberty to look on her merely as the loveliest sight in the world, more strangely beautiful than ever in her gleaming armour, he had not thought of concealing the pleasure he felt in watching her. Not all the cheering of the great army, not all the light in the thousands of eyes that followed her, could have done more than bring a faint colour to her face, nor could any man in all that host have found a word to make her heart beat faster. But when she saw Gilbert the blood sank suddenly and her eyes grew darker. They lingered on him as she rode by, and turned back to him a little with drooping lids, and a slight bend of the head that had in it a grace beyond her own knowledge or intention. He, like those beside him, threw up his hand and cheered again, arid she did not see that almost before she had passed him he was looking along the ranks for another face. The three hundred cantered slowly round half the meadow, and the cheer followed them as they went, like the moving cry of birds on the wing; and first they rode along the line of the King's men, but presently they came to the knights and soldiers of Eleanor's great vassalage, and all at once there were flowers in the air, wild flowers from the fields and autumn roses from the gardens of Nicaea, plucked early by young squires and boys, and tied into nosegays and carefully shielded from the sun, that they might be still fresh when the time came to throw them. The light blossoms scattered in the air, and the leaves were blown into the faces of the fair women as they passed. Moreover, some of the knights had silken scarfs of red and white, and waved them above their heads while they cheered and shouted. And so the troop rode round three sides of the great meadow. But at the last side there was a change that fell like a chill upon the whole multitude of men and women, and a cry came ringing down the air that struck a discord through the triumphant notes, long, harsh, bad to hear as the howl of wild beasts when the fire licks up the grass of the wilderness behind them. At the sound, men turned their heads and looked in the direction whence it came, and many, by old instinct, slipped their left hands to the hilts of sword and dagger, and felt that each blade was loose in its sheath. As she galloped along, Queen Eleanor's white mare threw up her head sideways with a snort and swerved, almost wrenching the bridle from the Queen's hold, and at the same moment the lusty cheering broke high in the air and died fitfully away. The instinct of fear and the foreknowledge of great evil were present, unseen and terrible, and of the three hundred ladies who reined in their horses as the Queen halted, nine out of ten felt that they changed colour, scarcely knowing why. With one common impulse all turned their eyes towards the rising ground to southward. There were strange figures upon the low hillocks, riding out of the woods at furious speed towards the meadow, and already the deep lines began to open and part to make way for the rush. There were men bareheaded, with rags of mantles streaming on the wind, spurring lame and jaded horses to the speed of a charge, and crying out strange words in tones of terror. But only one word was understood by some of those who heard. "The Seljuks! The Seljuks!" Down the gentle slope they came spurring like madmen. As they drew nearer, one could see that there was blood on their armour, blood on the rags of their cloaks, blood on their faces and on their hands; some were wounded in the head, and the clotted gore made streaks upon their necks; some had bandages upon them made of strips of torn-up clothes--and one man who rode in the front, when his horse sprang a ditch at the foot of the hill, threw up an arm that was without a hand. No man of all the throng who had ever seen war doubted the truth for one moment after the first of the wild riders was in sight, and the older and more experienced men instinctively looked into each other's faces and came forward together. But even had they been warned in time, they could have done nothing against the fright that seized the younger men and the women at the throat like a bodily enemy, choking out hope and strength and youth in the dreadful premonition of untimely death. The squires pressed upon the knights, the boys and young men-at-arms and the followers of the camp forced their weight inward next, and the inner circle yielded and allowed itself to be crushed in upon the troop of ladies, whose horses began to plunge and rear with their riders' fright; and still, on one side, the crowd tried to part before the coming fugitives. The first came tearing down, his horse's nostrils streaming with blood, himself wild-eyed, with foam-flecked lips that howled the words of terror. "The Seljuks! The Seljuks!" A dozen lengths before the terror-stricken wall of human beings that could not make way to let him in, without warning, without a death-gasp, the horse doubled his head under himself as he galloped his last stride, and falling in a round heap rolled over and over forwards with frightful violence, till he suddenly lay stiff and stark with twisted neck and outstretched heels, within a yard of the shrinking crowd, his rider crushed to death on the grass behind him. And still the others came tearing down the hill, more and more, faster and faster, as if no earthly power could stop their rush. First a score and then a hundred, and then the torn remnants of a vanquished host, blown, as it were like fallen leaves by the whirlwind of the death they had but just escaped. Many of them, not knowing and not caring what they did, and remembering only the wrath from which they fled, did not even try to rein in their horses, and the beasts themselves, mad with fright and pain, charged right at the ranks of people on foot and reared their full height at the last bound rather than override a living man; and many were crushed in the press, and many fell from their jaded mounts, too weary to rise and too much exhausted to utter any words save a cry for water. Nevertheless, two or three who had more life in them than the rest were able to stand, and were presently led round the close-packed crowd to the edge of the lake, where the King was quietly waiting with his courtiers until the confusion should end itself, saying a prayer or two for the welfare of every one concerned, but making not the slightest attempt to restrain the panic nor to restore order. But the Queen and her ladies were in danger of being crushed to death in the very midst of the seething, bruising, stifling mass of humanity. Gilbert was near the King, and sitting high on his great horse he saw farther than most men above the wild confusion. It was as if some frightful, unseen monster were gathering a hundred thousand men in iron coils, always inward, as great snakes crush their prey, thousands upon thousands, the bodies of horses and men upon men and horses, with resistless force, till the human beings could struggle no longer, and the beasts themselves could neither kick nor plunge, but only trample all that was near them, while they moved slowly towards the centre. In thousands and thousands again, on an almost even level, the small round caps of many colours were pressed together, till it seemed impossible that there could be room for the bodies that belonged to them. As when, in vintage time, the gathered fruit is brought home to the vats in the sweating panniers of wood, pressed down and level to the brim, and the red and white and blue and green grapes lie closely touching each other almost floating in the juice, rocking and bobbing all at once with every step of the laden mule--so, as Gilbert looked out before him, the bright-hued, close-fitting caps moved restlessly and without ceasing all round a central turmoil of splendid colour, shaded by tender tones of violet and olive, and shot by the glare of sunlit gold, and the sheen of silver, and the cold light of polished steel. But there in the heart of the press there was danger, and from far away Gilbert saw clearly enough, through the cloud of light and colour, the lifeless tones that are like nothing else of nature, the deadly unreflecting paleness of frightened faces, and the cries of women hurt and in terror came rising over the heads of the multitude. He sat still and looked before him as if his sight could distinguish the features of one or another at that distance, and he felt icy cold when he thought of what might happen, and that all those fair young girls and women, in their beauty and in their youth, in their fanciful dresses, might be crushed and trampled and kicked to death before thousands who would have died to save them. His first instinct was to charge the crowd before him, to force the way, even by the sword, and to bring the Queen and her ladies safely back; but a moment's thought showed him how utterly futile any such attempt must be, and that even if the whole throng had felt as he felt himself, and had wished to make way for any one, it would have had no power to do so. There was but one chance of saving the women, and that evidently lay in leading off the crowd by some excitement counter to its present fear. The instant the difficulty and the danger flashed upon him Gilbert began to look about him for some means of safety for those in peril, and in his distress of mind every lost minute was monstrously lengthened as it passed. Beside him, his man Dunstan stood in silence, apparently indifferent to all that was taking place, his quiet dark face a trifle more drawn and keen than usual; and though a very slight contraction of the curved nostrils expressed some inward excitement, it was scarcely perceptible. Gilbert knew that his own face showed his extreme anxiety, and as he in vain attempted to find some expedient, the man's excessive coolness began to irritate him. "You stand there," said Gilbert, rather coldly, "as if you did not care that three hundred ladies of France are being crushed to death and that we Englishmen can do nothing to help them." Dunstan raised his lids and looked up at his master without lifting his head. "I am not so indifferent as the King, sir," he answered, barely raising a finger in the direction of the knot of courtiers, in the midst of whom, some fifty yards away, the cold, pale face of the King was just then distinctly visible. "France might be burned before his eyes, yet he would pray for his own soul rather than lift a hand for the lives of others." "We are as bad as he," retorted Gilbert, almost angrily, and moving uneasily in his saddle as he felt himself powerless. Dunstan did not answer at once, and he bit one side of his lower lip nervously with his pointed teeth. Suddenly he stooped down and picked up something against which his foot had struck as he moved. Gilbert paid no attention to what he did. "Do you wish to draw away the crowd so as to make room for the Queen?" he asked. "Of course I do!" Gilbert looked at his man inquiringly, though his tone was harsh and almost angry. "We cannot cut a way for them through the crowd," he added, looking before him again. Dunstan laughed quietly. "I will lay my life against a new tunic that I can make this multitude spin on itself like a whipped top," he said. "But I admit that you could not, sir." "Why not?" asked Gilbert, instantly bending down in order to hear better. "What can you do that I cannot?" "What gentle blood could never do," replied the man, with a shade of bitterness. "Shall I have the new tunic if I save the Lady Beatrix--and the Queen of France?" "Twenty! Anything you ask for! But be quick--" Dunstan stooped again, and again picked up something from under his foot. "I am only a churl," he said as he stood upright again, "but I can risk my life like you for a lady, and if I win, I would rather win a sword than a bit of finery." "You shall win more than that," Gilbert answered, his tone changing. "But if you know of anything to do, in the name of God do it quickly, for it is time." "Good-by, sir." Gilbert heard the two words, and while they were still in his ears, half understood, Dunstan had slipped away among the squires and knights around them, and was lost to sight. One minute had not passed when a wild yell rent the air, with fierce words, high and clear, which thousands must have heard at the very first, even had they not been repeated again and again. "The King has betrayed us! The King is a traitor to the Cross!" At the very instant a stone flew straight from Dunstan's unerring hand, and struck the King's horse fairly between the eyes, upon the rich frontlet, heavy with gold embroidery. The charger reared up violently to his height, and before he had got his head down to plunge, Dunstan's furious scream split the air again, and the second stone struck the King himself full on the breast, and rolled to the saddle and then to the ground. "The King has betrayed us all! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!" There never yet was a feverish, terror-struck throng of men, suddenly disheartened by the unanswerable evidence of a great defeat by which they themselves might be lost, that would not take up the cry of "Traitor!" against their leaders. Before he raised his voice, Dunstan had got among men who knew him neither by sight nor by name, and the second stone had not sped home before he was gone again in a new direction, silent now, with compressed lips, his inscrutable dark eyes looking sharply about him. He had done his work, and he knew what might happen to him if he were afterwards recognized. But none heeded him. The uproar went surging towards the King with a rising fury, like the turn of the tide in a winter storm, roaring up to the breaking pitch, and many would have stoned him and torn him to pieces; but there were many also, older and cooler men, who pressed round him, shoulder to shoulder, with swords drawn and flashing in the sunlight, and faces set to defend their liege lord and sovereign. In an instant the flying Germans were forgotten; and the Emperor and his army, and the meaning of the Holy War and of the Cross itself, were gone from men's minds in the fury of riot on the one side, in the stern determination of defence on the other. The vast weight of men rolled forward, pushed by those behind, forcing the King and those who stood by him to higher ground. In dire distress, and almost hopeless of extricating her gentle troop from destruction, the Queen heard the new tumult far away, and felt the close press yielding on one side. The word 'traitor' ran along like a quick echo from mouth to mouth, repeated again and again, sometimes angrily, sometimes in tones of unbelief, but always repeated, until there was scarcely one man in a hundred thousand whose lips had not formed the syllables. Eleanor saw her husband and his companions with their drawn swords moving in the air, on the knoll; she heard the stinging word, and a hard and scornful look lingered in her face a moment. She knew that the accusation was false, that it was too utterly empty to have meaning for honest men; yet she despised her husband merely because a madman could cast such a word at him; and in the security of power and dominions far greater than his, as well as of a popularity to which he could never attain, she looked upon him in her heart as a contemptible kinglet, to marry whom had been her most foolish mistake. And it had become the object of her life to put him away if she could. For a few moments she looked on across the sea of heads that had already begun to move away. Her mare was quieter now in the larger space, being a docile creature, but many of the other ladies' horses were still plunging and kicking, though so crowded that they could do each other little hurt. She saw how the knights were forcing their way to the King's side, and how the great herd of footmen resisted them, while the word of shame rose louder in their yells; and though she despised the King, the fierce instinct of the great noble against the rabble ran through her like a painful shock, and her face turned pale as she felt her anger in her throat. There was room now, for the great throng was rushing from her, spreading like a river, and dividing at the hillock where it met the knights' swords, and flowing to right and left along the edge of the lake. The Queen looked behind her, to see what ladies were nearest to her, and she saw her standard bearer, Anne of Auch, fighting her rearing charger; and next to her, quiet and pale, on a vicious Hungarian gelding a great deal too big for her, but which she seemed to manage with extraordinary ease, sat Beatrix de Curboil, a small, slim figure in a delicate mail that looked no stronger than a silver fishing-net, her shape half hidden by her flowing mantle of soft olive-green with its scarlet cross on the shoulder, and wearing a silver dove's wing on her light steel cap. Her eyes met Eleanor's and lightened in sympathy of thought, so that the other understood in a flash. The Queen's right hand went up, lifting the lance high in air; half wheeling to the left, and turning her head still farther, she called out to those behind her:-- "Ladies of France! The rabble is at the King--Forward!" An instant later, the fleet Arab mare was galloping straight for the crowd, and Eleanor did not look behind her again, but held her lance before her and a little raised, so that it was just ready to fall into rest. Directly behind her rode the Lady Anne, the shaft of the standard in the socket of her stirrup, her arm run through the thong, so that she had both hands free; she sat erect in the saddle, her horse already at a racing gallop, neck out, eyes up, red nostrils wide, delighting in being free from restraint; and Beatrix was there, too, like a feather on her big brown Hungarian, that thundered along like a storm, his wicked ears laid straight back, and his yellowish young teeth showing under his quivering lip. But of all the three hundred ladies none followed them. The others had not understood the Queen's command, or had not heard, or could not manage their horses, or were afraid. And the three women rode at the mob, that was now four hundred yards away. Straight they rode, heedless and unaware that they were alone, nor counting how little three women could do against thousands. But the people heard the hammering hoofs of the two big horses, and the Arab's light footfall resounded quickly and steadily, as the fingers of a dancer striking the tambourine. Hundreds glanced back to see who rode so fast, and thousands turned their heads to know why the others looked; and all, seeing the Queen, pressed back to right and left, making way, partly in respect for her and much in fear for themselves. Far up the rising ground, the riot ceased as suddenly as it had begun; the men-at-arms drew back in shame, and many tried to hide their faces, lest they should be known again. The tide of human beings divided before the swiftly riding women, as the cloud-bank splits before the northwest wind in winter, and the white mare sped like a ray of light between long wavering lines of rough faces and gleaming arms. The Queen glanced scornfully to each side as she passed in a gale, and the dear sense of power soothed her stirred pride. Still the line opened, and still she rode on, scarcely rising and sinking with the mare's wonderful stride. But the way that was made for her was not straight to the King now; the throng was more dense there, and the people parted as they could, so that the three ladies had to follow the only open passage. Suddenly, before them, there was an end, where the rolling ground broke away sharply in a fall of forty feet to the edge of the lake below. The heads of the last of the crowd who stood at the brink were clear and distinct against the pale sky. The Queen could not see the water, but she felt that there was death in the leap. Her two companions looked beyond her and saw also. Eleanor dropped her lance quietly to the right, so that it should not make her followers fall, and with hands low and weight thrown back in the deep saddle she pulled with all her might. Her favourite black horse, broken to her own hand, would have obeyed her; she might have been able to stop Beatrix's great Hungarian, for her white hands were as strong as a man's; but the Arab mare was trained only to the touch of an Arab halter and the deep caress of an Arab voice, and at the first strain of the cruel French bit she threw up her head, swerved, caught the steel in her teeth, and shot forward again at twice her speed. Eleanor tried in vain to wrench the mare's head to one side, into the shrinking crowd. The Queen's face turned grey, but her lips were set and her eyes steady, as she looked death in the face. Behind her, Beatrix's little gloved hands were like white moths on her steadily jerking bridle, the Hungarian's terrific stride threw up the sods behind her, and there was a hopeless, far-away look in her face, almost like a death-smile. Only the strong dark woman of the South seemed still to have control over her horse, and he slowly slackened his speed, and fell a little behind the other two. In the fearful danger the crowd was silent and breathless, and many men turned pale as they saw. But none moved. One second, two seconds, three seconds, and to every second two strides; the end of three women's lives was counted by the wild hoof-strokes. The race might last while one could count ten more. Gilbert Warde had at first tried to press nearer to the King, but he saw that it was useless, because the latter was already shoulder to shoulder with the nobles and knights. So he had turned back to face the crowd with those about him, and with the flat of his blade he had beaten down some few swords which men had dared to draw; but he had wounded no one, for he knew that it was a madness which must pass and must be forgiven. Then he found himself with his horse on the very edge of the open track made by the dividing people, and he looked and saw the Queen, and Beatrix three or four lengths behind her, as the matchless Arab gained ground in the race. He had been above the deep fall and understood. Instantly he was on his feet on the turf, a step out in the perilous way; and he wished that he had the strength of Lancelot in his hands, with the leap of a wild beast in his feet, but his heart did not fail him. In one second he lived an hour. His life was nothing, but he could only give it once, to save one woman, and she must be Beatrix, let such chance befall Eleanor as might. Yet Eleanor was the Queen, and she had been kind to him, and in the fateful instant of doom his eyes were on her face; he would try to save the other, but unconsciously he made one step forward again and stood waiting in midway. One second for a lifetime's thought, one for the step he made, and the next was the last. He could hear the rush of the wind, and Eleanor was looking at him. In that supreme moment her face changed, and the desperate calm in her eyes became desperate fear for him she loved even better than she knew. "Back!" she cried, and the cry was a woman's agonized scream, not for herself. With all her might, but utterly in vain, she wrenched sideways at the mare's mouth and she closed her eyes lest she should see the man die. He had meant to let her pass to her death, for the girl was dearer to him, and he had gathered his strength like a bent spring to serve him. But he saw her eyes and heard her cry, and in the flash of instinct he knew she loved him, and that she wished him to save himself rather than her; and thereby is real love proved on the touchstone of fear. [Illustration: "HE... HELD, WHILE EARTH AND SKY WHIRLED WITH HIM."] As he sprang, he knew that he had no choice, though he did not love her. The fall of her mare, if his grip held, might stop the rest. He sprang; he saw only the Arab's bony head and the gold on the bridle, as both his hands grasped it. Then he saw nothing, but yet he held, and, dead, he would have held still, as the steel jaws of the hunter's trap hold upon the wolf's leg-bone. He knew that he was thrown down, dragged, pounded, bruised, twisted like a rope till his joints cracked. But he held, and felt no pain, while earth and sky whirled with him. It was not a second; it was an hour, a year, a lifetime; yet he could not have loosed his hands, had he wished to let go, for there were in him the blood and the soul of the race that never yielded its grip on whatsoever it held. It lasted a breathing-space, while the mare plunged wildly and staggered, and her head almost touched the ground and dragged the man's hands on the turf; then as his weight wrenched her neck back, her violent speed threw her hind quarters round, as a vane is blown from the gale. At the same instant the great Hungarian horse was upon her, tried to leap her in his stride, struck her empty saddle with his brown chest, and fell against her and upon her with all his enormous weight, and the two rolled over each other, frantically kicking. The standard bearer's horse, less mad than the others and some lengths behind, checked himself cleverly, and after two or three short, violent strides, that almost unseated his rider, planted his fore feet in the turf and stood stock-still, heaving and trembling. The race was over. With the strength and instinct of the born rider, Eleanor had slipped her feet from the stirrups and had let herself be thrown, lifting herself with her hands on the high pommel and vaulting clear away. She fell, but was on her feet before any man of the dazed throng could help her. She saw Gilbert lying his full length on his side, his body passive, but his arms stretched beyond his head, while his gloved hands still clenched upon the bridle and were pulled from side to side by the mare's faintly struggling head. His eyes were half open toward the Queen, but they were pale and saw nothing. The Hungarian had rolled half upon his back, little hurt, and the pommels of the saddle under him kept him from turning completely over. Beatrix lay like one dead. She had been thrown over the Arab's back, striking her head on the turf, and the mare in her final struggle had rolled upon her feet. The light steel cap had been forced down over her forehead in spite of its cushioned lining, and the chiselled rim had cut into the flesh so that a little line of dark blood was slowly running across the white skin; and her white gloved hands were lying palm upward, half open and motionless. The Queen scarcely glanced at her. Many men sprang forward when the danger was past, and they dragged Beatrix out and began to get her horse upon his feet. Eleanor knelt by Gilbert and tried to take his fingers from the bridle, but could not, so that she had to loose the buckle from the long bars of the bit. Her hands chafed his temples softly, and she bent lower and blew upon his face, that her cool breath might wake him. There were drops of blood on his forehead and on his chin, his cloth tunic was torn in many places, and the white linen showed at the rents; but Eleanor saw only the look in his face, serene and strong even in his unconsciousness, while in the dream of his swoon he saved her life again. In that moment, knowing that he could not see her, she thought not of her own face as she gazed upon his, nor of hiding what she felt; and the thing she felt was evil, and it was sweet. But suddenly there was life in his look, with a gentle smile, and the strained fingers were loosed with a sigh, and a long-unused word came from his lips. "Mother!" Eleanor shook her beautiful head slowly. Then Gilbert's face darkened with understanding and the old pain clutched at his heart sharply, even before the keen bodily hurt awoke in his wrung limbs. All at once thought came, and he knew how, in a quick fall of his heart, he had forgotten Beatrix and had almost given his life to save the Queen. As if he had been stung, he started and raised himself on one hand, though it was as if he forced his body among hot knives. "She is dead!" he cried, with twisting lips. "No--you saved us both." The words came soft and clear, as Eleanor laid her hand upon his shoulder to quiet him, and watched the change as the agony in his eyes faded to relief and brightened to peace. "Thank God!" He sank upon her arm, for he was much bruised. But her face changed, too, and she suffered new things, because in her there was good as well as evil; for as she loved him more than before he had saved her, so she would give him more, if she might, even to forgetting herself. And so, for a few moments, she knelt and watched him, heedless of the people about her, and scarcely seeing a dark man whom she had never noticed before, and who bent so low that she could not see his face, quietly loosening his master's collar and then feeling along his arms and legs for any bone hurt there might be. "Who are you?" asked the Queen, at last, gently, as to one who was helping him she loved. "His man," answered Dunstan, laconically, without looking up. "Take care of him and bring me word of him," she answered, and from a wallet she gave him gold, which he took, silently bending his head still lower in thanks. He, too, had saved her that day, and knew it, though she did not. She stood up at last, gathering her mantle round her. Less than ten minutes had passed since she had thrown up her hand and called to her ladies to follow her. Since then the world had been in herself and on fire, leaving no room for other thoughts; but now the crowd had parted wide, and the King was coming towards her, slow and late, to know whether she were hurt, for he had seen her ride. "Madam," he said, when he had dismounted, "I thank the mercy of Heaven, which deigned to hear the prayers I was continually offering up for your safety while your life was threatened by that dangerous animal. We will render thanks in divine services during ten days before proceeding farther, or during a fortnight if you prefer it." "Your Grace," said Eleanor, coldly, "is at liberty to praise Heaven by the month if it seems good to you. But for that poor Englishman, who lies there in a swoon, and who caught my horse's bridle at the risk of his life, you might have been ordering masses for my soul instead of for my bodily preservation. They would have been much needed had I been killed just then." The King crossed himself devoutly, half closed his eyes, bent himself a little, and whispered a short prayer. "It would be better," observed the Queen, "to move on at once and support the Emperor." "It has pleased God that the army of the Emperor should be totally destroyed," answered the King, calmly. "The Emperor himself will be here in a few hours, unless he has perished with the rest of his knights, slain by the Seljuk horsemen who are pursuing the fugitives." "The more reason why we should save those who are still alive. My army shall march to-morrow at daybreak--your Grace may stay behind and pray for us." She turned from him scornfully. Dunstan and some foot-soldiers had made stretchers with lances and pikes and were just beginning to carry Beatrix and Gilbert away, northward, in the direction of the camp. CHAPTER XV When Gilbert learned from his man that Beatrix was badly hurt and suffering great pain, he turned his face away and bit hard on the saddle-bag that served him for a pillow. It was late in the afternoon, and Dunstan had just come back from making inquiries in the ladies' lines, half a mile away. Nothing could have been simpler than his round tent, which had a single pole and covered a circle four or five paces in diameter. The dry ground had been sprinkled with water and beaten with mallets so as to harden it as much as possible. Gilbert and his two men slept on smoke-cured hides over which heavy woollen blankets were spread, almost as thick as carpets, hand-woven in rough designs of vivid blue and red, the coarse work of shepherds of Auvergne, but highly valued. Against the pole the saddles were piled one upon another, Gilbert's own on top, with its curved pommels; Dunstan's, covered with plaited lines for binding on rolled blankets and all sorts of light packages and saddle-bags before and behind the rider's seat; and the mule's pack-saddle, on which little Alric rode, perched upon the close-bound bundles, when the road was fair. During most of the journey the sturdy Saxon had trudged along on foot, as Dunstan did also, but it was not seemly that a man of gentle blood should be seen walking on the march, except of great necessity. Above the saddles Gilbert's mail hung by the neck, with a stout staff run through both arms to stretch it out, lest dampness should rust it; also his other armour and his sword were fastened up like an ancient trophy, with bridles and leathern bottles and other gear. Beside the saddles, on the ground, the shining copper kettle held three bright brass bowls, well-scoured wooden trenchers, a long wooden ladle, an iron skewer, and three brass spoons, the simple necessities for cooking and eating. Forks had not been thought of in those days. Gilbert lay on his back and turned his face away from his man. He was bruised and scratched, and his head ached from being struck on the ground when the mare had dragged him; but he was whole and sound in limb, and Dunstan had stretched his joints and pressed his bruises with a wise touch that had in it something of Oriental skill. He lay wrapped in a long robe of coarse white linen, as thick as wool--a sensible Greek garment which he had got in Constantinople. The afternoon was warm, and though the flap of the tent was raised and stretched out like an awning, there was little air, and the place smelt of the leathern trappings and of hot canvas; and through the side to which he turned his face Gilbert could see little dazzling sparks of rays where the sun was beating full upon the outside. He wished that in the mad rush of the Arab the life might have been pounded out of him, and that he might never have waked to know what he had done; for although in his sober senses he did not love the Queen, it seemed to him that he had loved her in the moment when he sprang to save her life, and that he could never again forget the look of fear for him in her eyes and her cry of terror for his sake. All that Beatrix had said to him in the garden at Constantinople came back to him now; until now, he had disbelieved it all, as a wild and foolish impossibility, for he was over-modest and diffident of himself in such matters. Beatrix would certainly have been killed but for the chance which had thrown the mare across the narrow way, and he had risked his life to save another woman. It mattered not that the other was the Queen; that was not the reason why he had leapt upon the bridle. He had done it for a glance of her eyes, for the tone of her voice, as it were in an instant of temptation, when he had stepped out of the rank to face destruction for a dearer sake. It seemed like a crime, and it proved against his own belief that he loved what he loved not. Had he let the Queen pass, and had he stopped Beatrix's horse instead, she might have been unhurt, and one other brave man might have saved Eleanor at the brink. Indeed, he thought of the sad face with its pathetic little smile, drawn with pain and hot upon the pillow, by his fault; and he thought with greater fear of the danger that some deep hurt might leave the slender frame bent and crippled for life. But meanwhile the news had spread quickly that it was the silent Englishman, neither knight nor squire, who had saved the Queen, and outside the tent men stopped and talked of the deed, and asked questions of Alric, who had picked up enough Norman-French to give tolerably intelligible answers. At first came soldiers, passing as they went to fetch water from the lake, and again as they came back with copper vessels filled to the brim and dripping upon their shoulders, they set down their burdens and talked together. Presently came a great knight, the Count of Montferrat, brother to the Count of Savoy, who had been at Vezelay, where Gilbert had talked with him. He walked with slow strides, his bright eyes seeming to cut a way for him, his long mantle trailing, his soft red leather boots pushed down in close creases about his ankles, his gloved hand pressing down the cross-hilt of his sword, so that the sheath lifted his mantle behind him. On each side of him walked his favourite knights, and their squires with them, all on their way to the King's quarters, where a council of war was to be held, since it was known how the great German host had been routed, and that the Emperor himself might follow Duke Frederick of Suabia. This Duke had already reached the camp, after beating off the Seljuk skirmishers who had harassed his retreat and driven in the first fright-struck Germans. The soldiers and grooms made way for the noble, but he asked which might be the tent of Gilbert Warde, the Englishman; so they pointed to the raised flap, where Alric stood with his sturdy legs apart, under the shadow of Gilbert's long shield, which was hanging from a lance stuck in the ground. The shield was blank, though many gentlemen already painted devices on theirs, and sovereign lords displayed the heraldic emblems of their houses long before their vassals began to use their coats-of-arms on their shields in war. But Gilbert would bear neither emblem nor device till some great deed should make him famous. The Count of Montferrat glanced at the blank shield thoughtfully, and asked little Alric of what family his master was; and when he heard that his forefathers had been with Robert the Devil when he died, and with William at Hastings, and with Godfrey at Jerusalem, and that his father had died fighting for Maud against the usurper, but that Gilbert had not knighthood for all that, he wondered gravely. Yet knowing that he was hurt and ill at ease, the Count would not go in, but gave Alric a piece of gold and bade him greet the young Lord of Stoke and tell him that the Count of Montferrat craved better acquaintance with him when he should be recovered. He went on his way, and was not gone far when the Count of Savoy and the lord of fated Coucy came strolling side by side, with their trains of knights and squires, on their way to the council. And having seen Montferrat stop at the tent, they did likewise, and asked the same questions, giving Alric money out of respect for his master's brave deed and good name, according to custom. Many others came after them, great and small, and the great gave the groom money, and the poor men-at-arms asked him to drink with them after supper; so that his flat leathern wallet, which was cracking in its creases from having been long empty, was puffed out and hard, and weighed heavily at his belt, and as for the wine promised him, he might have floated a boat in it. There was one of the Greek guides who stood near the tent, playing with a string of thick beads, and keeping behind Alric; and when there was a crowd around him this Greek slipped nearer, with his razor in the palm of his hand, and stealthily tried to cut the thongs by which the wallet was fastened. So the Saxon turned quickly and smote him between the eyes with his fist, and it was an hour before the Greek came to himself and crawled away, for nobody would lift him. But Alric laughed often as he sucked the trickling blood from his knuckles, and though he was a little man and young, the soldiers looked at him with respect, and many more of them asked him to drink. So on that afternoon Gilbert's reputation grew suddenly, as a bright lily that has been long in bud under a wet sky breaks out like a flame in the first sunshine; and the days were over when he must trudge along unnoticed in the vast throng of nobles, with his two men and his modest baggage. Meanwhile the council was held in the King's tent of state, within which three hundred nobles sat at ease after the King himself had taken his place on the throne, with the Queen on his right hand. There the red-bearded Frederick of Suabia, nephew to Conrad and famous afterward as the Emperor Barbarossa, stood up and told his tale: how the wild German knights had truly forced their leaders to take the mountain road and fight the Seljuks at a disadvantage; how the Seljuks appeared and disappeared again from hour to hour, falling upon their prey at every turn, reddening every pass with blood, and leaving half-killed men among the slain to wonder whence the swift smiters had come and whither they were gone. He himself had wounds not healed, and he told how, day by day, the mad bravery of the Germans, and the fury of his Black Forest men-at-arms, had risen again and again to very desperation, to sink before evening in a new defeat; until, at last, as the Seljuk swords still killed and killed, a terror had fallen upon the host in the passes, and men had thrown away their armour and fled like rats from a burning granary, so that their leaders could not hold them. He, with a few strong helpers, had covered his flying troops, and the brave Emperor Conrad, giant in strength, the greatest swordsman of the world, was even now fighting at the hindmost rear of the army to save whom he could. It had been madness, he told them all, to try the mountain ways. To Palestine there were two roads, and they might choose between them, either following the long coast round Asia Minor to the Gulf of Cyprus, or else, going down to the Propontis, they might get ships from Constantinople and sail to the ports of Syria. The short way was death, and though death were nothing, it meant failure and destruction to the Christian power in Jerusalem and Antioch. Thus he spoke, and the King and Queen and all the great nobles heard him in silence. There were the great Counts of Flanders and Toulouse, of Savoy, of Montferrat and Dreux and Blois, and the lords of Lusignan, of Coucy, of Courtenay, and of Bourbon, and the Bishops of Toul and Metz, and all the great knights of Gascony and Poitou, with many others of high name and good blood, who heard the red-bearded Duke speak. But when he had finished, none answered him, and the French King sat on his throne, repeating the prayers for the dead in a low voice. But Eleanor's eyes flashed fire and her gloved hand strained impatiently upon the carved arm of the chair of state. "Requiem eternam dona eis," muttered the King. "Amen!" responded Eleanor, in a clear, contemptuous voice. "And now that prayers are over, let us do deeds. Let us mount and ride forth at dawn to meet the Emperor, and help him in his need at the last. Let us ride in even order, sending out scouts and skirmishers before us, and keeping good watch, armed and ready at all moments. Then, when all are safe who are alive, we will return here, that the Germans may rest themselves by this good lake; and afterward we will set forth again by the safest road, cautiously, not wasting upon skirmishes the strength we shall need hereafter for a great victory." "The Emperor will surely be here to-morrow, without our help," said the King, in manifest discontent. "It is of no use to go and meet him." "If he is so near, let us mount to-night, this very hour, rather than have on us the shame of lying idly here while men who wear the cross are in need of us." The King said nothing, but at Eleanor's words a low murmur of assent ran through the assembly of brave men, from those at her feet to those farthest from her; and the impatient touch of each hand on sword or dagger, at the thought of fight, made a sound of softly moving steel and leather and buckle, which one may only hear among soldiers. Eleanor stood up, untired by her terrible ride, unshaken by her fall, her eyes full of the brightness of pride. It was her daily food and her perpetual necessity to have the better of the King in the eyes of men, whether the matter were great or small. She stood up to her height, as if to show all her beauty and strength to the world, and the low sun streamed through the wide entrance to the tent and fell full upon her face and her unblinking eyes. "My lords and barons, gentlemen of Guienne and France, our journey is over to-day, our battles begin to-morrow! Our brothers are in danger, the enemy is in sight! Men of the Cross, to arms!" "To arms!" rang the reply in many voices, both high and deep, like a major chord sounding from the heart. As she rose, the nobles had risen, too, and only the King kept his seat, his pale face bent, his hands folded upon the hilt of the sword that stood between his knees. The Queen said no more, and, without glancing at her husband, as if she alone were sovereign, she descended the two steps from the throne to the floor of the tent. Three knights, one of Gascony, one of Poitou, and one of her own Guienne, who were her guard of honour, followed her as she passed out, smiling to the great nobles on her right and left. And many showed that they desired to speak with her--first among them the Count of Montferrat. "Madam," he said, when he had bowed low before her, "I praise God and the Holy Trinity that your Grace is alive to-day. I pray that you will deign to accept the homage and felicitations of Montferrat!" "Of Bourbon, Madam!" cried a voice beside her. "Of Savoy, your Grace!" said another. "Of Coucy, of Courtenay, of Metz--" the voices all rang at once, as the lords pressed round her, for she had not been seen since she had left the field after her fall. "I thank you," she answered, with a careless smile. "But you should thank also the man who saved my life, if you love me." "Madam, we have," replied Montferrat. "And if your Grace will but let me have the man, I will do him much honour for your Highness's sake." "He is no vassal of mine," Eleanor said. "He is a poor English gentleman, cheated of his lands, a friend of young Henry Plantagenet." "The friend of a boy!" The Count laughed lightly. But Eleanor grew thoughtful on a sudden, for beyond her rare beauty and her splendid youth, and within her world of impatient passion, there were wisdom and knowledge of men. "A boy? Yes, he may be fourteen years old, not more. But there are boys who are not children, even in their cradles, and there are men who are nothing else--their swaddling-clothes outgrown, and their milk teeth cast, but not their whimpering and fretting." The nobles were silent, for she spoke over-boldly and meant the King, as they knew. "As for this Englishman," she continued after an instant's pause, "he is not mine to give you, my lord Count. And as for doing him honour for his brave deed, though I would gladly please you, I should be loth to let you do my duty for your pleasure." She smiled again very graciously, for she was glad that men should praise Gilbert Warde to her; and it was strangely pleasant to think that no one guessed half of what she would give him if he would take it. For among the nobles there were great lords, goodly men and young, who dreamed of her fair face, but would not have dared to lift up their eyes to her. So she passed out, with her knights behind her, and most of the lords and barons followed her at a distance, leaving the King within. When she was gone he rose slowly, and giving his sword to the chamberlain who stood waiting, he went to his chapel tent, with downcast eyes and clasped hands, as if walking in a solemn procession. A little bell rang, the sun was low, and it was the hour of the Benediction. The King knelt down before the rich altar, and when he had prayed earnestly for strength and courage, and for wisdom to win the war of the Cross, he prayed from the bottom of his unhappy heart that, if it were the will of Heaven, he might by some means be delivered from the woman of Belial who marred his life and burdened his soul. CHAPTER XVI To the south side of the camp the Germans came by thousands, all that day and far into the night, weary, half starved, on jaded beasts that could hardly set one foot before the other, or on foot themselves, reeling like men drunk, and almost blind with exhaustion. But the panic had not lasted long, for the few score of Seljuk riders who had fallen upon the van of the retreating column for the last time had been finally scattered by the Duke of Suabia, so that the remainder of the army came in with a show of order, bringing the greater part of the baggage. The Seljuks had not attempted to carry away plunder, which would have hampered them in their dashing charges and instant retreats. Last of all, before daybreak, came the Emperor himself, covering the rear of his army with chosen men, untired, though his great horse was staggering under him, alert and strong as if he had not been in the saddle the better part of four days and nights. He seemed a man of iron; and few could ride with him, or watch with him, or fight with him. When the sun rose, the great standard of the Holy Roman Empire waved before the imperial tent, and though he had not rested, Conrad knelt beside King Louis at early mass. Far to southward the German tents rose in long lines by the shore of the lake, where Eleanor had displayed her troop on the previous day, and countless little squads of men with mules came and went between the camp and the distant walled city of Nicaea. In the French lines, where the first preparations had been made for marching, men were again unpacking their belongings; for word had gone round at midnight that the Emperor was safe, and needed no help, and would be in the camp in the morning. Then there was secret rejoicing among the ladies, and those who had no bruise nor scratch from yesterday's accidents called their tirewomen and spent happy hours, holding up their little silver mirrors to their hair, and holding them down to see the clasp at the throat, and trying some of the silks and embroideries which they had received as gifts from the Greek Emperor. It was almost a miracle that none but Beatrix should have been gravely hurt, but many were a little bruised and much tired, and altogether inclined to ask sympathy of the rest, receiving visits in their tents and discussing the chances of the war and the beauty of Constantinople, until they began to discuss one another, after which the war was not spoken of again on that day. Then came the Queen with her attendants, from her tent in the midst of the ladies' lines, pitched as far as possible from the King's; and leaving outside those who were with her, she went in and sat down by Beatrix's bedside. The girl was very pale and lay propped up by pillows, her eyelids half shut against the light, though there was little enough under the thick double canvas and a brazier of glowing woodcoals made the tent almost too warm. A great Norman woman with yellow hair crouched beside her, slowly fanning her face with a Greek fan of feathers. The Queen stood still a moment, for she had entered softly, and Beatrix had not opened her eyes, nor had the woman known her in the dimness. But when she recognized the Queen, the maid's jaw dropped and her hand ceased to move. Eleanor took the fan from her, and with a gesture bade her make way, and then sat down in her place to do her duty. Hearing the rustle of skirts and feeling that another hand fanned her, the sick girl moved a little, but did not open her eyes, for her head hurt her, so that she feared the light. "Who is it?" she asked in the voice of pain. "Eleanor," answered the Queen, softly. Still fanning, she took the beautiful little white hand that lay nearest to her on the edge of the bed. Beatrix opened her eyes in wonder, for though the Queen was kind, she was not familiar with her ladies. The girl started, as if she would have tried to rise. "No," said Eleanor, quieting her like a child, "no, no! You must not move, my dear. I have come to see how you are--there, there! I did not mean to startle you!" She smoothed the soft brown hair, and then, with a sudden impulse, kissed the pale forehead, and fanned it, and kissed it again, as if Beatrix had been one of her own little daughters instead of being a grown woman not very far from her own age. "I thank your Grace," said Beatrix, faintly. "We are nearer than thanks since yesterday. Or if there were to be thanking, it should be from me to you who followed me with one other, when three hundred stayed behind. And we are closer than that, for one man saved us both." She stopped and looked round. The Norman woman was standing respectfully near the door of the tent, with eyes cast down and hands hidden under the folds of her skirt, which were drawn through her girdle in the servants' fashion. "Go," said Eleanor, quietly. "I will take care of your mistress for a while. And do not stay at the door of the tent, but go away." The woman bent her head low and disappeared. "Yes," Beatrix said, when they were alone, "I saw Gilbert Warde stop your horse, and yours stopped mine. He saved us both." There was silence, and the fan moved softly in the Queen's hand. "You have loved him long," she said presently, in a tone that questioned. Beatrix did not answer at once, and on her smooth young forehead two straight lines made straight shadows that ended between her half-closed eyes. At last she spoke, with an effort. "Madam, as you have a soul, do not take him from me!" She sighed and withdrew her hand from Eleanor's, as if by instinct. The Queen did not start, but for an instant her eyes gathered light into themselves and her mouth hardened. She glanced at the weak girl, broken and suffering, and looking so small beside her, and she was angry that Gilbert should have chosen anything so pitiful against her own lofty beauty. But presently her anger ceased, not because it was unopposed, but because she was too large-hearted for any meanness. "Forget that I am the Queen," she said at last. "Only remember that I am a woman and that we two love one man." Beatrix shivered and moved uneasily on her pillow, pressing her hand to her throat as if something choked her. "You are cruel!" Her voice would not serve her for more just then, and she stared at the roof of the tent. "Love is cruel," answered Eleanor, in a low voice, and suddenly the hand that held the fan dropped upon her knee, and her eyes looked at it thoughtfully. But Beatrix roused herself. There was more courage and latent energy in the slight girl than any one dreamed. Her words came clearly. "Yours is--not mine! For his sake you call yourself a woman like me, but for his sake only. Is your face nothing, is your power nothing, is it nothing that you can hide me from him at your pleasure, or let me see him as you will? What is any one to you, who can toss a king aside like a broken toy when he thwarts you, who can make war upon empires with no man's help, if you choose? Is Gilbert a god that he should not yield to you? Is he above men that he should not forget me, and go to you, the most beautiful woman in the world, and the most daring, and the most powerful--to you, Eleanor of Guienne, Queen of France? You have all; you want that one thing more which is all I have! You are right--love is cruel!" The Queen listened in silence, too generous still to smile at the girl, too much in earnest to be hurt. "A man has a right to choose for himself," she answered when Beatrix paused at last. "Yes, but you take that right from him. You thrust a choice upon him--that is your cruelty." "How?" "Look at me and look at yourself. Would any man think twice in choosing? And yet--" a faint smile flickered in the mask of pain--"in Constantinople--in the garden--" She stopped, happy for a moment in the memory of his defence of her. The Queen was silent and faintly blushed for her cruel speech on that day. She could have done worse deeds and been less ashamed before herself. But Beatrix went on. "Besides," she said, turning her suffering eyes to Eleanor's face, "your love is sinful, mine is not." The Queen's look darkened suddenly. This was different ground. "Leave priests' talk to priests," she answered curtly. "It will soon be the talk of other men besides priests," reproved Beatrix. "For that matter, are you better?" retorted the Queen. "Have you not told me that your father has married his mother? You are far within the forbidden degrees of affinity. You cannot marry Gilbert Warde any more than I can. Where is the difference?" "You know it as well as I." The young girl turned her face away. "You know as well as I that the Church can pass over what is a mere legal regulation to hinder marriages made only for fortune's sake. I am not so ignorant as you think. And you know what your love for Gilbert Warde is, before God and man!" The blood rose in her white face as she spoke. After that there was silence for some time; but presently the Queen began to fan Beatrix again, and mechanically smoothed the coverlet. There are certain things which a womanly woman would do for her worst enemy almost unconsciously, and Eleanor was far from hating her rival. Strong and unthwarted from her childhood, and disappointed in her marriage, she had grown to look upon herself as a being above laws of heaven or earth, and answerable to no one for her deeds. Feminine in heart and passion, she was manlike in mind and in her indifference to opinion. Save for Gilbert, she liked Beatrix; yet, as matters stood, she both looked upon her as an obstacle and was sorry for her at the same time. Not being in any way confident of Gilbert's love herself, the girl she pitied and half liked was as much her rival as the most beautiful woman in Europe could have been. She was made up of strong contrasts--generous yet often unforgiving; strong as a man yet capricious as a child; tender as a woman, and then in turn sudden, fierce, and dangerous as a tigress. Beatrix made a feeble gesture as if she would not be fanned by the hand that was against her, but the Queen paid no attention to the refusal. The silence lasted long, and then she spoke quietly and thoughtfully. "You have a right to say what you will," she began, "for I sat down beside you, as one woman by another, and you have taken me at my word. Love is the very blood of equality. You blame me, and I do not blame you, though I brought up the Church's rule against your love. You are right in all you say, and I am sinful. I grant you that freely, and I will grant also that if I had my due I should be doing penance on my knees instead of defending my sins to you if indeed I am defending them. But do you think that our bad deeds are weighed only against the unattainable perfection of saints' and martyrs' lives, and never at all against the splendid temptations that are the royal garments of sin? God is just, and justice weaves a fair judgment. It is not an unchangeable standard. A learned Greek in Constantinople was telling me he other day a story of one Procrustes, a terrible highway robber. He had a bed which he offered to those he took captive, on condition that they should exactly fit its length; and if a man was too long, the robber hewed off his feet by so much, but if he was too short, he stretched him on a rack until he was tall enough. If God were to judge me as He judges you, by a ruled length of virtue, alike for all and without allowance for our moral height, God would not be God, but Procrustes, a robber of souls and a murderer of them." "You speak very blasphemously," said Beatrix, in a low voice. "No; I speak justly. You and I both love one man. In you, love is virtue, in me it is sin. You blame me with right, but you blame me too much. You tell me that I am beautiful, powerful, the Queen of France, and it is true. But even you do not tell me that I am happy, for you know that I am not." "And therefore you would rob me of all I have, to make your happiness, when you have so much that I have not! Is that your justice?" "No," answered Eleanor, almost sadly, "it is not justice. It is my excuse to God and man, before whom you say I am condemned." The girl roused herself again, and though it was sharp pain to move, she raised her weight upon her elbow and looked straight into the Queen's eyes. "You argue and you make excuses," she said boldly. "I ask for none. I ask only that you should not take the one happiness I have out of my life. You say that we are speaking as woman to woman. What right have you to the man I love? No, do not answer me with another dissertation on the soul. Woman to woman, tell me what right you have?" "If he loves me, is that no right?" "If he loves you? Oh, no! He does not love you yet!" "He saved me yesterday--not you," answered the Queen, cruelly, and she remembered his eyes. "Does a man risk his life desperately, as he did, for the woman he loves, or for another, when both are in like danger?" "It was not you, it was the Queen he saved. It is right that a loyal man should save his sovereign first. I do not blame him. I should not have blamed him had I been more hurt than I am." "I am not his sovereign, and he is no vassal of mine." Eleanor smiled coldly. "He is an Englishman." "You play with words," answered Beatrix, as she would have spoken to an equal. "Take care!" They faced each other, and on the instant the fierce pride of royalty sprang up, as at an insult. But Beatrix was brave--a sick girl against the Queen of France. "If you are not his sovereign, you are not mine," she said. "And were you ten times my Queen, there can be no fence of royalty between you and me from this hour, or if there is, you are doubly playing with the meaning of what your lips say. Are you to be a woman to me, a woman, at one moment, and a sovereign to me, a subject, at the next? Which is it to be?" "A woman, then, if nothing more. And as a woman, I tell you that I will have Gilbert Warde for myself, body and soul." The girl's eyes lightened suddenly. Men said that in her mother's veins there had run some of the Conqueror's blood, and his great oath sprang to her lips as she answered:-- "And by the splendour of God, I tell you that you shall not!" "Then it is a duel between us," the Queen said, and she turned to go. "To death," answered the girl, as her head sank back upon the pillows, pitifully weak and tired in her aching body, but dauntless in spirit. Eleanor crossed the carpeted floor of the tent slowly toward the door. She had not made four steps when she stood still, looking before her. A great shame of herself came upon her for what she had said--the loyal, generous shame of the strong who in anger has been overbearing with the weak. She stood still, and she felt as an honest man does who has struck a fallen enemy in unreasoning rage. It was the second time that she had fallen so low in her own eyes, and her own scorn of herself was more than she could bear. Quickly she came back to Beatrix's side. The girl lay quite still, with parted lips and closed eyes that had great black shadows under them. Her small white hands twitched now and then spasmodically, but she seemed hardly to breathe. Eleanor knelt beside her and propped her up higher, thrusting one arm under the pillow while she fanned her with the other hand. "Beatrix!" she called softly. She thought that the girl's eyelids quivered, and she called her again; but there was no answer, nor any movement of the hand this time, and the face was so white and deathly that any one might have believed life gone, but for the faintly perceptible breath that stirred the feathers of the Greek fan when the Queen held it close to the lips. She grew anxious and thought of calling the Norman serving-woman and of sending for her own physician. But, in the first place, she thought that Beatrix might have only fainted, to revive at any moment, in which case she had things to say which were not for other ears; and as for her physician, it suddenly occurred to her that, although he had been in her train five years, she had never under any circumstances had occasion to consult him, and that he was probably what he looked, a solemn fool and an ignorant drencher, whereas there were younger men with wise heads who had followed the army and made a fat living by concocting draughts for those who overcloyed themselves with Greek sweetmeats, physicians who could make salves for bruises, who knew the cunning Italian trick of opening a vein in the instep instead of in the arm, and who, on occasion, could cast a judicial figure of the heavens and interpret the horoscope of the day and hour. But while she hesitated, Eleanor brought water from a bright brass ewer and dashed drops upon the girl's face; she found also a cup with Greek wine in it, that smelt of fine resin, and she set it to the pale lips and held it there. Presently Beatrix opened her eyes a little, and suddenly she shuddered when she saw Eleanor and heard her voice in the deep stillness. "As one woman to another--I ask your forgiveness." CHAPTER XVII Gilbert sat in the door of his tent at noon, the sun shining down upon him and warming him pleasantly, for the day was chilly, and he was still aching. As he idly watched the soldiers going and coming, and cooking their midday meal at the camp-fires, while Dunstan and Alric were preparing his own, he was thinking that this was the third day since he had saved the Queen's life, and that although many courtiers had asked of his condition, and had talked with him as if he had done a great deed, yet he had received not so much as a message of thanks from Eleanor nor from the King, and it seemed as if he had been forgotten altogether. But of Beatrix, Dunstan told him that she was in a fever and wandering, and the Norman woman had said that she talked of her home. Gilbert hated himself because he could do nothing for her, but most bitterly because he had yielded to the Queen's eyes and to her voice in the instant of balanced life and death. The great nobles passed on their way to their tents from the King's quarters, where the council met daily to trace the march. And still Gilbert's shield hung blank and white on his lance, and he sat alone, without so much as a new mantle upon him, nor a sword-belt, nor any gift to show that the royal favour had descended upon him as had been expected. So some of the nobles only saluted him with a grave gesture in which there was neither friendship nor familiarity, and some took no notice of him, turning their faces away, for they thought that they had made a mistake, and that the Englishman had given some grave offence for which even his brave action was not a sufficient atonement. But he cared little, for his nature was not a courtier's, and even then the English Normans were colder and graver men than those of France, and more overbearing in arms, but less self-seeking, one against another, in court. Dunstan came from behind the tent, where the fire was, bringing food in two polished brass bowls, and Gilbert went in to eat his dinner. Coarse fare enough it was, a soup of vegetables and bread, with pieces of meat in it, and little crumbs of cheese, scraped off with a sharp knife, and floating on the thick liquid; and then, in the other bowl, small gobbets of roasted beef run by sixes on wooden skewers that were blackened at the ends by the fire. And it all tasted of smoke, for the wood was yet green on the hillsides. But Gilbert ate and said nothing, neither praising nor blaming, for very often on the long march he had eaten the dried bread of the German peasants and the unleavened wheat-cakes of the wild Hungarians, with a draught of water, and had been glad even of that. Also on Fridays and Saturdays, and on the vigils of feast days, and on most days in Lent, he had eaten only bread and boiled vegetables, such as could be found, and the fasting reminded him of the old days in Sheering Abbey. For in his nature there was the belief of that age in something far above common desires and passions, dwelling in a temple of the soul that must be reached by steps of pain; there was the spirit of men who starved and scourged their bodies almost to death that their souls might live unspotted; and the terribly primitive conception of every passional sin as equal in importance to murder, and only less deadly than an infamous crime in the semi-worldly view of knightly honour, which admitted private vengeance as a sort of necessity of human nature. The mere thought that he could love the Queen, or could have believed that he loved her for one instant, seemed ten thousand times worse than his boyish love of Beatrix had once seemed, when he had supposed that there was no means of setting aside the bar of affinity; and it was right that he should think so. But though temptation is not sin, he made it that, and accused himself; for it was manifest that the merest passing thrill of the blood, such as he had felt on that night in Vezelay, and now again, must be an evil thing, since it had brought about such a great result in a dangerous moment. These were small things, and nice distinctions, that a strong man should dwell on them and bruise his heart for its wickedness. But they were not small if to neglect them meant the eternity of torture that awaited him who looked upon his neighbour's wife to covet her. There were among the nobles who had taken the Cross not a few to whom the law seemed less rigid and perdition less sure, and Eleanor herself gave her sins gentle names; but the Englishman was old-fashioned, and even the good Abbot of Sheering had been struck by his literal way of accepting all beliefs, in the manner of a past time when the world had trembled at the near certainty of the Last Judgment, expiating its misdeeds by barefooted pilgrimages to Jerusalem, and its venial faults by cruel macerations of the flesh. Gilbert, therefore, looked upon all bodily weariness and suffering and privation which he chanced to encounter on the march as so much penance to be borne cheerfully because it should profit his soul; and while the young blood coursed in his veins, and youth's bright lights danced in his eyes, the cold spirit of the ascetic fought against the warm life toward an end which the man felt rather than saw, and of which the profound melancholy would have appalled him, could he have realized it. As month followed month, though his strength increased upon him under much labour, and though his cheeks were tanned by sunshine and weather, the broad forehead grew whiter under his cap, and more thoughtful, and his eyes were saddened and his features more spiritual; also, while he longed daily to draw his sword and strike great blows at unbelievers for faith's sake and to the honouring of the Holy Cross, the rough fighting instinct of his people, that craved to see blood for its redness and to take the world for love of holding it, no longer awoke suddenly in him, like hunger or thirst, at the wayward call of opportunity. He could not now have plucked out steel to hew down men, as he had done on that spring morning among the flowers of the Tuscan valley, only because it was good to see the dazzling red line follow the long quick sword-stroke, and to ride weight at weight to overthrow it, swinging the death-scythe through the field of life. He wanted the cause and the end now, where once he had desired only the deed, and he had risen another step above the self that had been. He knew it, and nevertheless, as he sat still after he had eaten his midday meal, he saw that his years had been very sad since his first great sorrow; and each time when he thought he had gone forward some strong thing had driven him back, or some great grief had fallen upon him, and he himself had almost been forced down. He had been proud of his arms and his boyish skill at Faringdon, and before his eyes his father had been foully slain; he had faced the murderer in the cause of right, and he himself had been half killed; he had believed in his mother as in heaven, and she had defiled his father's memory and robbed her son of his inheritance; he had sought peace in Rome, and had found madness and strife; he had desired to do knightly deeds and had killed men for nothing; he loved a maiden with a maiden heart, and at the touch of a faithless woman his blood rose in his throat, and for a look of hers and a tone of her voice he had put forth his hands to grapple with sudden death, forgetting the other, the better, the dearer. So he was thinking, and the door of his tent was darkened for a moment, so that he looked up. There stood one of Queen Eleanor's attendant knights, in tunic and hose, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other holding his round cap in the act of salutation. He was a Gascon, of middle height, spare and elastic as a steel blade, dark as a Moor, with fiery eyes and thin black mustaches that stuck up like a cat's whiskers. His manner was exaggerated, and he made great gestures, but he was a true man and brave. Gilbert rose to meet him, and saw behind him a soldier carrying something small and heavy on one shoulder, steadying it with his hand. "The Lord of Stoke?" the knight began in a tone of inquiry. "If I had my own, sir," answered the Englishman, "but I have not. My name is Gilbert Warde." "Sir Gilbert--" began the Gascon, bowing again and waving the hand that held his cap in a tremendous gesture, which ended on his heart as if to express thanks for the information. "No, sir," interrupted the other. "Of those who would have given me knighthood I would not have it, and they of whom I would take it have not offered it." "Sir," answered the knight, courteously, "those of whom you speak cannot have known you. I come from her Grace the Duchess of Gascony." "The Duchess of, Gascony?" asked Gilbert, unaccustomed to the title. The knight drew himself up till he seemed to be standing on his toes, and his hand left his sword-hilt to give his mustache a fierce upward twist. "The Duchess of Gascony, sir," he repeated. "There are a few persons who call her Highness the Queen of France, doubtless without meaning to give offence." Gilbert smiled in spite of himself, but the knight's eyes took fire instantly. "Do you laugh at me, sir?" he asked, his hand going back to his sword, and his right foot advancing a little as if he meant to draw. "No, sir. I crave your pardon if I smiled, admiring your Gascon loyalty." The other was instantly pacified, smiled too, and waved his long arm several times. "I come, then, from her Grace the Duchess," he said, insisting on the title, "to express to you her sovereign thanks for the service you did her the other day. Her Grace has been much busied by the councils, else she would have sent me sooner." "I am most respectfully grateful for the message," answered Gilbert, rather coldly, "and I beg you, sir, to accept my appreciation of the pains you have taken to bring it to me." "Sir, I am most wholly at your service," replied the knight, again laying his hand upon his heart. "But besides words the Duchess sends you, by my hand, a more substantial evidence of her gratitude." He turned and took the heavy leather bag from his attendant soldier, and offered it to Gilbert, holding it out in his two hands, and coming nearer. Gilbert stepped back when he saw what it was. The money was for a deed which might have cost Beatrix her life. He felt sick at the sight of it, as if it had been as the price of blood which Judas took. His face turned very pale under his tan, and he clasped his hands together nervously. "No," he said quickly, "no, I pray you! Not money--thanks are enough!" The knight looked at him in surprise at first, and then incredulously, supposing that it was only a first refusal, for the sake of ceremony. "Indeed," he answered, "it is the Duchess's command that I should present you with this gift in most grateful acknowledgment of your service." "And I beg you, by your knighthood, to thank her Grace with all possible respect for what I cannot receive." Gilbert's voice grew hard. "She is not my sovereign, sir, that I should look to her for my support in this war. It pleased God that I should save a lady's life, but I shall not take a lady's gold. I mean no discourtesy to her Grace, nor to you, sir." Seeing that he was in earnest, the Gascon's expression changed, and a bright smile came into his sallow face, for he had found a man after his own heart. He threw the heavy bag toward the soldier, and it fell chinking to the floor before the man could reach it; and turning to Gilbert again, he held out his hand with less ceremony and more cordiality than he had hitherto shown. "With a little accent," he said, "you might pass for a Gascon." Gilbert smiled as he shook hands, for it was clear that the knight meant to bestow upon him the highest compliment he could put into words. "Sir," answered the Englishman, "I see that we think alike in this matter. I pray you, let not the Queen be offended by the answer you shall give her from me; but I shall leave it to your courtesy and skill to choose such words as you think best, for I am a poor speaker of compliments." "The Duchess of Gascony shall think only the better of you when she has heard me, sir." Thereupon, with a great gesture and a bow to which Gilbert gravely responded, the knight took his leave and went to the door; but then, suddenly forgetting all his manner, and with a genuine impulse, he turned, came back and seized Gilbert's hand once more. "A little accent, my friend! If you only had a little accent!" His wiry figure disappeared through the door a moment later, and Gilbert was alone. He asked himself whether the Queen had meant to insult him, and he could not believe it. But presently, as he remembered all that had happened, it occurred to him that she might be ashamed of having shown him her heart in a moment of great danger, and now, as if to cover herself, she meant him to understand that he was nothing to her but a brave man who ought to be substantially and richly rewarded for having risked his life on her behalf. Strangely enough, the thought pleased him now, as much as the brutal offer of the gold had outraged his honourable feeling. It was far better, he reflected, that the Queen should act thus and help him to look upon her as a being altogether beyond his sphere, as she really was. After this, he thought, it would be impossible and out of the question that any look or touch of hers could send a thrill through him, like little rivers of fire, from his head to his heels. The hand that had been held out to pay him money for its own life, must be as cold as a stone and as unfeeling. She was helping him to be true. He shook himself and stretched his long arms as if awaking from sleep and dreaming. The motion hurt him, and he felt all his bruises at once, but there was a sort of pleasure in the pain, that accorded with his strange state of heart, and he did it a second time in order to feel the pain once more. CHAPTER XVIII The knight, whose name was Gaston de Castignac, faithfully fulfilled Gilbert's wishes, using certain ornate flourishes of language which the Englishman could certainly not have invented, and altogether expressing an absolute refusal in the most complimentary manner imaginable. The Queen bade him return the gold to her seneschal without breaking the leaden seal that pinched the ends of the knotted strings together. When she was alone, her women being together in the outer part of the tent, she hid her face in her white hands, as she sat, and bending forward, she remained in that attitude a long time, without moving. It was as Gilbert had thought. In the generous impulse that had prompted her to ask Beatrix's forgiveness she had done what was hardest for her to do, in a sort of wild hope that, by insulting the man who had such strong attraction for her, she might send him away out of her sight forever. Had he accepted the money, she would assuredly have despised him, and contempt must kill all thoughts of love; but since he refused it, he must be angry with her, and he would either leave her army, and join himself to the Germans during the rest of the campaign, or, at the very least, he would avoid her. But now that it was done and he had sent back the money in scorn, as she clearly understood in spite of her knight's flowery speeches, she felt the shame of having treated a poor gentleman like a poor servant, and then the certainty that he must believe her ungrateful began to torment her, so that she thought of his face, and longed to see him with all her heart. For Beatrix's sake and her own honour she would not send for him; but she called one of her women and sent for the Lady Anne of Auch, who bore the standard of the ladies' troop, the same who had stopped her horse without a fall. In her the Queen had great faith for her wisdom, for she had a man's thoughts with a woman's heart. She came presently, tall and grave as a stately cypress among silver birches and shimmering white poplar trees. "I have sent for you to ask you a question," the Queen began, "or, perhaps, to ask your advice." The Lady Anne bowed her head, and when Eleanor pointed to a folding-stool beside her, she sat down and waited, fixing her black eyes on a distant part of the tent. "You saw that young Englishman who stopped my horse," the Queen began. "I wish to reward him. I have sent him five hundred pieces of gold, and he has refused to receive the gift." The black eyes turned steadily to the Queen's face, gazed at her for a moment, and then looked away again, while not a feature moved. There was silence, for Anne of Auch said nothing while Eleanor waited. "What shall I do now?" Eleanor asked after a long pause. "Madam," answered the dark lady, smiling thoughtfully, "I think that, since you have offered him gold first, he would refuse a kingdom if you should press it upon him now, for he is a brave man." "Do you know him?" asked Eleanor, almost sharply, and her eyes hardened. "I have seen him many times, but I have never spoken with him. We talk of him now and then, because he is unlike the other knights, mixing little with them in the camp and riding often alone on the march. They say he is very poor, and he is surely brave." "What does Beatrix de Curboil say of him?" The Queen's voice was still sharp. "Beatrix? She is my friend, poor girl. I never heard her speak of this gentleman." "She is very silent, is she not?" "Oh, no! She is sometimes sad, and she has told me how her father took a second wife who was unkind to her, and she speaks of her own childhood as if she were the daughter of a great house. But that is all." "And she never told you her stepmother's name, and never mentioned this Englishman?" "Never, Madam, I am quite sure. But she is often very gay and quick of wit, and makes us laugh, even when we are tired and hot after a day's march and are waiting for our women; and sometimes she sings strange old Norman songs of Duke William's day, very sweetly, and little Saxon slave songs which we cannot understand." "I have never heard her laugh nor sing, I think," said Eleanor, thoughtfully. "She is very grave before your Grace. I have noticed it. That may be the English manner." "I think it is." The Queen thought of Gilbert, and wondered whether he were ever gay. "But the question," she continued, "is what am I to do for the man?" She spoke coldly and indifferently, but her eyes were watching the Lady Anne's face. "What should you do yourself?" she asked, as the noble woman made no answer. "I should not have sent him gold first," replied Anne of Auch. "But since that cannot be undone, your Grace can only offer him some high honour, which may be an honour only, and not wealth." "He is not even a knight!" "Then give him knighthood and honour too. Your Grace has made knights,--there is Gaston de Castignac,--and the fashion of receiving knighthood from the Church only, is past." "I have heard him say that he would have it from his own liege sovereign, or not at all. He will not even set a device in his shield, as many are beginning to do, to show in the field that they are of good stock." "Give him one, then--a device that shall be a perpetual honour to his house and a memory of a brave deed well done for a Queen's sake." "And then? Shall that be all?" "And then, if he be the man he seems, single him out for some great thing, and bid him risk his life again in doing it for the Holy Cross, and for your Grace's sake." "That is good. Your counsel was always good. What thing shall I give him to attempt?" "Madam, the Germans have been betrayed by the Greek Emperor's Greek guides, and we ourselves have no others, so that we in turn shall be led to slaughter if we follow them. If it please your Grace, let this Englishman choose such men as he trusts, and go ever before our march, till we reach Syria, sending tidings back to us, and receiving them, and bearing the brunt of danger for us." "That would be indeed an honourable part," said the Queen, thoughtfully, and she turned slowly pale, careless of her lady's straight gaze. "He can never live to the end of it," she added, in a low voice. "It is better to die for the Cross than to die or live for any woman's love," said Anne of Auch, and there was the music of faith in her soft tones. The Queen glanced at her, wondering how much she guessed, and suddenly conscious that she herself had changed colour. "And what device shall I set in this man's shield?" she asked, going back to the beginning, in order to avoid what touched her too closely. "A cross," answered Anne. "Let me see--why not your Grace's own? The Cross of Aquitaine?" But the Queen did not hear, for she was dreaming, and she saw Gilbert, in her thoughts, riding to sure death with a handful of brave men, riding into an ambush of the terrible Seljuks, pierced by their arrows--one in his white throat as he reeled back in the saddle, his eyes breaking in death. She shuddered, and then started as if waking. "What did you say?" she asked. "I was thinking of something else." "I said that your Grace might give him the Cross of Aquitaine for a device," answered the Lady of Auch. Her quiet black eyes watched the Queen, not in suspicion, but with a sort of deep and womanly sympathy; for she herself had loved well, and on the eighth day after she had wedded her husband, he had gone out with others against the Moors in the southern mountains; and they had brought him home on his shield, wrapped in salted hides, and she had seen his face. Therefore she had taken the Cross, not as many ladies had taken it, in lightness of heart, but earnestly, seeking a fair death on the field of honour for the hope of the life to come. "Yes," said the Queen, "he shall have the Cross of Aquitaine. Fetch me some gentleman or squire skilled with colours, and send for the Englishman's shield." "Madam," said Anne of Auch, "I myself can use a brush, and by your leave I will paint the device under your eyes." It was no uncommon thing in that day for a lady of France to understand such arts better than men, and Eleanor was glad, and ordered that the shield should be brought quickly, by two of the elder pages who were soon to be squires. But Alric, the groom, who lay in the shade outside Gilbert's tent, chewing blades of grass and wishing himself in England, would not let the messengers take the shield from the lance without authority, and he called Dunstan, who went and asked Gilbert what he should do. So Gilbert came and stood in the door of his tent, and spoke to the young men. "We know nothing, sir, save that we are bidden to bring your shield to the Queen." "Take it. And you shall tell her Grace from me that I crave excuse if the shield be of an old fashion, with rounded shoulders, for it was my father's; and you shall say also that she has power to take it, but that I will not sell it, nor take anything in return for it." The two young men looked at him strangely, as if doubting whether he were in his right mind. But as they went away together, the one who bore the shield said to the other that they should not give the message, for it was discourteous and might do harm to themselves. But the other was for telling the truth, since they could call Gilbert's men to witness of the words. "And if we are caught in a lie," he said, "we shall be well beaten." For they were young and were pages, not yet squires, and still under education. "Also we shall be beaten if we say things un-courtly to the Queen," retorted the first. "This air smells of sticks," said the other, as he sniffed, and laughed at his jest, but somewhat nervously. "You shall speak for us," concluded his companion, "for you are the truth-teller." So they came to the Queen, and laid the blank shield at her feet, and neither would say anything. "Saw you the gentleman to whom it belongs?" she asked. "Yes, Madam!" they answered in one breath. "And said he anything? Have you no message?" "He said, Madam--" said one, and stopped short. "Yes, Madam, he said that we should tell your Grace--" But the page's courage failed him, and he stopped. "What said he?" asked Eleanor, bending her brows. "Speak out!" "May it please your Grace, the gentleman said that it was his father's shield." "And that he craved excuse if it were of an old fashion," added the other. "And that he would not sell it," concluded the one who was the bolder of the two. Then he shrank back, and his companion too, and they seemed trying to get behind each other; for the Queen's eyes flashed wrath, and her beautiful lips parted a little over her gleaming teeth, that were tightly closed. But in an instant she was calm again, and she took money from her wallet and gave each page a piece of gold, and spoke quietly. "You are brave boys to give me such a message," she said. "But if I chance to find out that you have changed it on the way, you shall each have as many blows as there are French deniers in a Greek bezant--and I doubt whether any one knows how many there may be." "We speak truth, Madam," said the two, in a breath, "and we humbly thank your Grace." She sent them away, and sat looking at the shield at her feet, while Anne of Auch waited in silence. Eleanor's eyes burned in her head, and her hands were cold, and would have shaken a little if she had not held them tightly clasped together. "It was unknightly of him to say that," she cried at last, as if it hurt her. But her lady was still silent, and the Queen turned her hot eyes to her. "You say nothing. Was it not unknightly of him?" "Madam," answered Anne of Auch, "since you wished to pay him for your life, it is little wonder if he thinks you may offer to buy his arms." They said no more for a long time, and from the outer tent the sweet subdued voices of many women, talking and laughing softly together, floated into the silence like the song of birds at dawn. At last the Queen spoke, but it was to herself. "He had the right," she said bitterly, and bent her head a little, and sighed. "Paint me the shield, Lady Anne," she added, a moment later, looking up calmly once more. "On a field azure, for the faith he keeps, gild him the cross flory of Aquitaine--for me!" She rose and began to walk slowly up and down the tent, glancing at Anne from time to time. The lady had sent for her colours, ground on a piece of white marble, and a small chafing-dish with burning coals, in which a little copper pot of melted wax mixed with resin stood on an iron tripod. She warmed her brush in the wax, and took up the costly blue on it, and spread it very dexterously over all the long shield. When it was cool, the resin made it very hard, and with rule and dividers she measured out the cross with its equal arms, all flowered, and drew it skilfully, while the Queen watched her deft fingers. And last of all she moistened the cross with Arabian gum, a little at a time, and laid strong gold-leaf upon it with a sharp steel instrument, blowing hard upon each leaf as soon as it was laid, to press it down, and smoothing it with a hare's-foot. When it was all covered and dry, she took a piece of soft leather wrapped about her forefinger, and carefully went round the outline, taking off the superfluous leaf that spread beyond the gummed part. She had learned these things from an Italian who had come to Auch to adorn the chapel of her father's house. The Queen had sat down long before it was finished, but her eyes followed the Lady Anne's brush and her fingers, while neither of the women spoke. "It is a fair shield," said Eleanor, when it was done. "Lady Anne, shall I send it to him, or shall he come here? Were you in my place, which should you do?" "Madam, I would send for the Englishman. From your Grace's hands he cannot refuse honour." Eleanor did not answer, but after a moment she rose and turned away. "Nor death," she said in a low voice, as to herself, and stood still, and pressed her hand to her forehead. "Send for him, and leave me alone till he comes, but stay when he is here," she added, in clear tones; and still not looking at the Lady Anne, she bent her head and went out. The tall, old-fashioned shield stood on its point, leaning against the table. Eleanor looked at it, and her features were moved, now that she was alone, and her eyes were veiled. She lifted it in both her hands, wondering at its weight, and she pushed aside an inner curtain and set the shield upon an altar that was there, hidden from the rest of the tent for a little oratory, as in many royal chambers. Then she knelt down at the kneeling-stool and folded her hands. She was not ungenerous, she was not at heart unjust; she deserved some gentleness of judgment, for she was doing her best to fight her love, for her royal honour's sake and for the sick girl who seemed so poor a rival, but who loved Gilbert Warde as well as she and less selfishly. As she knelt there, she believed that she was in the great struggle of her life, and that at once and forever she could make the sacrifice, though it had grown to be a great one. She meant to send him before the army, and the wager for his death was as a hundred to one. Let him die--that was the consecration of the sacrifice. Dead in glory, dead for Christ's sake, dead in the spotless purity of his young knighthood, she could love him fearlessly thereafter, and speak very gentle words upon his grave. It was not cruel to send him to die thus, if his days were numbered, and he himself would gratefully thank her for preferring him before others to lead the van of peril; for the way of the Cross leads heavenwards. But if he should come alive through the storm of swords, he must win great honour for all his life. Thereupon she prayed for him alone, and she dedicated his great shield on her own altar, in her own words, with all her passionate heart, wherein beat the blood of her grandsire, dead in a hermit's cell after much love and war, and the blood of the son she was to bear long after, whom men were to call the Lion-Hearted. And she prayed thus, with a pale face:-- "Almighty God, most just, who art the truth, and who orderest good against evil, with pain, that men may be saved by overcoming, help me to give up what is most dear in my life. Hear me, O God, a sinful woman, and have mercy upon me! Hear me, O God, and though I perish, let this man's soul be saved! "Lord Jesus Christ, most pitiful and kind, to Thee I bring my sin, and I steadfastly purpose to be faithful, and to renounce and abhor my evil desires and thoughts. Hear me, O Christ, a sinful woman! To Thy service and to the honour of Thy most sacred Cross, I dedicate this true man. Bless Thou this shield of his, that it may be between him and his enemies, and his arms, also, that he may go before our host, and save many, and lead us to Thy holy place in Jerusalem! Endue him with grace, fill him with strength, enlighten his heart. Hear me and help me, O Christ, a sinful, loving woman! "Holy Spirit of God, Most High, Creator, Comforter, let Thy pure gifts descend upon this clean-hearted man, that his courage fail not in life, nor in the hour of death. Hear me, a sinful woman, Thou who, with the Father and the Son, livest and reignest in glory forever!" When she had prayed, she knelt a little while longer, with bowed head pressing against her clasped hands on the praying-stool till they hurt her. And that was the hardest, for it had been her meaning to make a solemn promise, and she saw between her and her love the barrier of her faith to be kept to God, and of her respect of her own plighted honour. Rising at last, she took the shield again, and kissed it once between the arms of the cross; and her lips made a small mark on the fresh gold-leaf. "He will never know what it is," she said to herself, as she looked at the place, "but I think that no arrow shall strike through it there, nor any lance." Suddenly she longed to kiss the shield again, and many times, to thousands, as if her lips could give it tenfold virtue to defend. But she thought of her prayer and would not, and she brought the shield back into the tent, out of the oratory, and set it upright against the table. Then, after a time, Anne of Auch lifted the curtain to let Gilbert in, standing by the entrance when he had passed her. He bent his head courteously but not humbly, and then stood upright, pale from what he had suffered, his eyes fixed as if he were making an inward effort. The Queen spoke, coldly and clearly. "Gilbert Warde, you saved my life, and you have sent back a gift from me. I have called you to give you two things. You may scorn the one, but the other you cannot refuse." [Illustration: THE KNIGHTING OF GILBERT.] He looked at her, and within her outward coldness he saw something he had never seen before--something divinely womanly, unguessed in his life, which touched him more than her own touch had ever done. He felt that she drew him to her, though it were now against her better will. Therefore he was afraid, and angry with himself. "Madam," he said, with a sort of fierce coldness, "I need no gifts to poison your good thanks." "Sir," answered Eleanor, "there is no venom in the honour I mean for you. I borrowed your shield,--your father's honourable shield,--and I give it back to you with a device that was never shamed, that you and yours may bear my cross of Aquitaine in memory of what you did." She took the shield and held it out to him with a look almost stern, and as her eyes fell upon it they dwelt on the spot she had kissed. Gilbert's face changed, for he was moved. He knelt on one knee to receive the shield, and his voice shook. "Madam, I will bear this device ever for your Grace's sake and memory, and I pray that I may bear it honourably, and my sons' sons after me." Eleanor waited a breathing-space before she spoke again. "You may not bear it long, sir," she said, and her voice was less hard and clear, "for I desire of you a great service, which is also an honour before other men." "What I may do, I will do." "Take, then, at your choice two or three score lances, gentlemen and men-at-arms who are well mounted, and ride ever a day's march before the army, spying out the enemy and sending messengers constantly to us, as we shall send to you; for I trust not the Greek guides we have. So you shall save us all from the destruction that overtook the German Emperor in the mountains. Will you do this?" Again Gilbert's face lightened, for he knew the danger and the honour. "I will do it faithfully, so help me God." Then he would have risen, but the Queen spoke again. "Lady Anne," she said, "give me the sword of Aquitaine." Anne of Auch brought the great blade, in its velvet scabbard, with its cross-hilt bound with twisted wire of gold for the old Duke's grip. The Queen drew it slowly and gave back the sheath. "Sir," she said, "I will give you knighthood, that you may have authority among men." Gilbert was taken unawares. He bowed his head in silence, and knelt upon both knees instead of on one only, placing his open hands together. The Queen stood with her left hand on the hilt of the great sword, and she made the sign of the cross with her right. Gilbert also crossed himself, and so did the Lady Anne, and she knelt at the Queen's left, for it was a very solemn rite. Then Eleanor spoke. "Gilbert Warde, inasmuch as you are about to receive the holy order of knighthood at my hands without preparation, consider first whether you are in any mortal sin, lest that be an impediment." "On the honour of my word, I have no mortal sin upon my soul," answered Gilbert. "Make, then, the promises of knighthood. Promise before Almighty God that you will lead an honest and a clean life." "I will so live, God helping me." "Promise that to the best of your strength you will defend the Christian faith against unbelievers, and that you will suffer death, and a cruel death, but not deny the Lord Jesus Christ." "I will be faithful to death, so God help me." "Promise that you will honour women, and protect them, and shield the weak, and at all times be merciful to the poor, preferring before yourself all those who are in trouble and need." "I will, by God's grace." "Promise that you will be true and allegiant to your liege sovereign." "I promise that I will be true and allegiant to my liege Queen and Lady, Maud of England, and to her son and Prince, Henry Plantagenet, and thereof your Grace is witness." "And between my hands, as your liege sovereign's proxy, lay your hands." Gilbert held out his joined hands to the Queen, and she took them between her palms, while Anne of Auch held the great sword, still kneeling. "I put my hands between the hands of my Lady, Queen Maud of England, and I am her man," said Gilbert Warde. But Eleanor's touch was like ice, and she trembled a little. Then she took the sword of Aquitaine and held it up in her right hand, though it was heavy, and she spoke holy words. "Gilbert Warde, be a true knight in life and death! 'Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things'--and do them, and for them live and die." When she had spoken, she laid the sword flat upon his left shoulder, and let it linger a moment, and then lifted it and touched him twice again, and sheathed the long blade. "Sir Gilbert, rise!" He stood before her, and he knew what remained to be done, according to the rite, and it was not fire that ran through him, but a chill of fear. The Queen's face was marble pale and as beautiful as death. One step toward him she made with outstretched arms, her right above his left, her left under his right as he met her. Then she coldly kissed the man she loved on the cheek, once only, in the royal fashion, and he kissed her. She drew back, and their eyes met. Remembering many things, he thought that he should see in her face the evil shadow of his mother, as he had seen it before; but he saw a face he did not know, for it was that of a suffering woman, coldly brave to the best of her strength. "Go, Sir Gilbert!" she said. "Go out and fight, and die if need be, that others may live to win battles for the Cross of Christ." He was gone, and Anne of Auch stood beside her. "Lady Anne," said the Queen, "I thank you. I would be alone." She turned and went into the little oratory, and knelt down before the altar, looking at the place where the shield had stood. CHAPTER XIX So Gilbert Warde was made a knight, and to this day the Wards bear the cross flory in their shield, which was given to their forefathers by Eleanor of Aquitaine before she was English Queen. And so, also, Sir Gilbert promised to ride a day's march before the rest, with a handful of men whom he chose among his acquaintance; and many envied him his honour, but there were more who warmed themselves by the camp-fire at night most comfortably, and were glad that they had not been chosen to live hardly, half starving on their half-starved horses, with a cloak and a blanket on the ground for a bed, watching in turns by night, and waking each morning to wonder whether they should live till sunset. In truth there was less of danger than of hardship at first, and more trouble than either; for though Gilbert was sent on with the best of the Greek guides to choose the way, and had full power of life and death over them, so that they feared him more than Satan and dared not hide the truth from him, yet when he had chosen the line of the march and had sent word by a messenger to the army, the answer often came back that the King and the Emperor were of another mind, because they had listened to some lying Greek; and since the Emperor and the King and Queen had agreed that any one of them must always yield to the opinion of the other two, Eleanor's advice, which was Gilbert's and founded on real knowledge, was often overridden by the others, and she was forced to give way or make an open breach. Then Gilbert ground his teeth silently and did the best he could, retracing his steps over many miles, exploring a new road, and choking down the humiliation bravely, because he had given his word. But little by little that humiliation turned to honour, even among the men who were with him; for most of them were taken from the Queen's army, and besides, they saw every day that Gilbert was right, so that they trusted him and would have followed him through storm and fire. Also in the Queen's army it began to be known, and it spread to the other French, and to the Germans, and to the Poles and the Bohemians, that when the troops followed the march chosen by Gilbert, all went well, and they found water and forage for their horses, and food and a good camping-ground; but often, when the King and the Emperor had their way, there was hunger and cold and lack of water. The men began to say to each other, when they knew, "This is Sir Gilbert's road, and to-day is a feast-day;" and then, "This is the King's road, and to-day is Friday." And on Gilbert's days they sang as they marched, and trudged along cheerfully, and his name ran like a sound of gladness along the endless lines. He grew, therefore, to be beloved by many who had never seen him in the great host, and at last even by the most of the soldiers. So they came to Ephesus at last, very weary, and with some sick persons among them. Conrad the Emperor was in ill case, though he was of the strongest, and at Ephesus messengers met him who had come by sea from the Emperor of the Greeks, begging that he and all his men would sail back to Constantinople and spend the rest of the winter there, and afterwards go by sea again to Syria. And they did so, for the brave Germans were much broken and worn because of their marches and defeats before they had gone back to Nicaea, and the armies of the King and Queen went on without them, to a great meadow by the Maeander, where they encamped to keep the Christmas feast with great thanksgiving for their preservation thus far. On Christmas eve Gilbert came into camp with his companions, and when they were seen, a great cry arose throughout the army, and men left their fires and their mending of arms and clothes, and ran out to meet him, a gaunt man in rusty armour, on a gaunt horse, followed by others in no better plight. His mantle was all stained with rain and mud, and was rent in many places, and his mail was brown, save where it had been chafed bright by his moving; his great Norman horse was rough with his winter coat and seemed all joints and bones, and Dunstan and Alric rode in rags with the men-at-arms. His face was haggard with weariness and lack of food, but stern and high, and the first who saw him ceased shouting and looked up at him with awe; but then he smiled so gently and kindly that the cheer broke out again and rang across the camp, far and wide. Presently those who cheered began to follow the little train of horsemen, first by twos and tens and twenties, till thousands were drawn into the stream and pressed round him, so that he was obliged to move slowly. For many weeks they had heard his name, knowing that it meant safety for them, and wonderful tales had been told over the camp-fires of his endurance and courage. So his coming back was his first triumph, and the day was memorable in his life. While the army rested there was no work for him, and he had returned in order to rest himself; but he had nothing of immediate importance to report to the leaders, and he bade his men find out his baggage among the heaps of packs that had been unloaded from the general train of mules, and to pitch his tent near those of his old comrades on the march. While Dunstan and Alric were obeying his orders, he sat on his saddle on the ground, with his weary horse standing beside him, his nose plunged into a canvas bag half full of oats. Gilbert looked on in a sort of mournfully indifferent silence. Everything he saw was familiar, and yet it all seemed very far away and divided from him by weeks of danger and hard riding. The vast crowd that had followed him had begun to disperse as soon as it was known that he was not going before the King, and only three or four hundred of the more curious stood and moved in groups around the open space where the tent was being pitched. Many of his acquaintance came and spoke to him, and he rose and shook their hands and spoke a few words to each; but none of the greater nobles who had sought him out after he had saved the Queen took any pains to find him now, though they and their followers owed him much. The praise of the multitude and their ringing cheers had been pleasant enough to hear, but he had expected something else, and a cold disappointment took possession of his heart as he sat in his tent some hours later, considering, with Dunstan, the miserable condition and poor appearance of his arms and the impossibility of procuring anything better. He was as lonely and unnoticed as if he had not been devoting every energy he possessed to the safe guidance of a great army during the past two months. "There is nothing to complain of, sir," said Dunstan, in answer to a disconsolate ejaculation of Gilbert's. "Your body is whole, you have received back your belongings with nothing stolen, which is more than I expected of the Greek muleteers, you have a new tunic and hose to wear, and bean soup for supper. The world is not so bad as it looks." "On the other hand," answered Gilbert, with a sour smile, "my bones ache, my armour is rusty, and my purse is empty. Make what good cheer you can of that." He rose, and leaving Dunstan to set to work upon the injured coat of mail, he took his cap and strolled out alone to breathe the afternoon air. It was Christmas-time, and the day had been bright and clear; but he wore no mantle, for the overwhelmingly good reason that he possessed only one, which was in rags; and, indeed, he had been so much exposed to bad weather of late that he was hardened to every sort of discomfort--a little more or less was not worth counting. Dunstan was quite right of course, and Gilbert had no reasonable cause for complaint. The Queen would doubtless send for him on the morrow, and had he chosen to present himself before her at once he would have been received with honour. But he was in an ill humour with himself and the world, and being still very young, it seemed quite natural to yield to it rather than to reason himself into a better temper. He got out of the camp as soon as he could, and walked by the green banks of the still Maeander. It was winter, but the grass was as fresh as it might have been in spring, and a salt breeze floated up from the not distant sea. He knew the country, for he himself had chosen the spot as a camping-place for the army, and had advanced still farther when messengers had brought him word to come back. To northward rolled away the gentle hills beyond Ephesus, while to the south and east the mountains of the Cadmus and Taurns rose rugged and sharp against the pale sky--the range through which the army must next make its way to Attalia. The time lacked an hour of sunset, and the clear air had taken the first tinge of evening. Here and there in the plain the evergreen ilex trees grew in little clumps, black against the sunlight, but dark green, with glistening points among their shadows, where the afternoon sun struck full upon them. Gilbert had hoped to be alone, but there were parties of idlers along the river-bank as far as he could see, and among them were many who bore evergreen boughs and young cypress shoots of three and four years' growth, which they were carrying back to the camp for the Christmas festival. For there were many Normans in the army, and Franks from Lorraine, and Northern men from Poland and Bohemia, and all the men of the North would have their Yule trees before their tents, as their heathen forefathers had done before them in the days of the old faith. There were ladies of Eleanor's troop also, riding for pleasure, in rich gowns and flowing mantles, and knights with them, all unarmed save for a sword or dagger; and there were many dark-eyed Greeks, too, both men and women, who had come out from Ephesus in holiday clothes to see the great camp. It was all calm, and bright, and good to see, but out of harmony with Gilbert's gloomy thoughts. At the bend of the stream the ground rose a little, somewhat away from the bank, and the rocks stuck up rough and jagged out of the green grass, a sort of little wilderness in the midst of the fertile plain. Almost instinctively, Gilbert turned aside and climbed in and out among the stones until he reached the highest ledge, on which he seated himself in profound satisfaction at having got away from his fellow-creatures. The place where he had perched was about sixty feet above the river-bank, and though he could not distinctly hear the conversation of the passing groups he could see the expression of every face clearly, and he found himself wondering how often the look of each matched the words and the unspoken thoughts. The sun sank lower, and he had no idea how long he had sat still, when he became conscious that he was intently watching a party of riders who were coming toward him. They were still half a mile away, but he saw a white horse in the front rank, and even at that distance something in the easy pace of the creature made him feel sure that it was the Queen's Arab mare. They came on at a canter, and in two or three minutes he could make out the figures of those best known to him--Eleanor herself, Anne of Auch, Castignac, and the other two attendant knights who were always in the Queen's train, and a score of others riding behind by twos and threes. Gilbert sat motionless and watched them, nor did it occur to him that he himself, sitting on the highest boulder and dressed in a tunic of dark red, was a striking object in the glow of the setting sun. But before she was near enough to recognize him, Eleanor had seen him, and her curiosity was roused; a few minutes more, and she knew his face. Then their eyes met. She drew rein and walked her horse, still looking up, and wondering why he gazed at her so fixedly, without so much as lifting his cap from his head; and then, to her infinite surprise, she saw him spring to his feet and disappear from view among the rocks. She was so much astonished that she stopped her horse altogether and sat several seconds staring at the ledge on which he had sat, while all her attendants looked in the same direction, expecting Gilbert to appear again; for several of them had recognized him, and supposed that he would hasten down to salute the Queen. But when he did not come, she moved on, and though her face did not change, she did not speak again till the camp was reached, nor did any of her party dare to break the silence. Had she looked back, she might have caught sight of Gilbert's figure walking steadily with bent head across the plain, away from the river and from the camp, out to the broad solitude beyond. He had acted under an impulse, foolishly, almost unconsciously, being guided by something he did not attempt to understand. Two months had passed, and more, since he had seen her, and in his life of excitement and anxiety her face had disappeared from his dreams. While he had been away from her, she had not existed for him, save as the only leader of the three to whom he looked for approbation and support; the woman had been lost in the person of the sovereign, and had ceased to torment him by the perpetual opposition of that which all men coveted to that which he truly loved. But now, at the very first sight of her face, it seemed as if the Queen were gone again, leaving only the woman to his sight, and at the instant in which he realized it he had turned and fled, hardly knowing what he did. He walked steadily on, more than two miles, and all at once he cast no shadow, for the sun had gone down, and the pale east before him turned to a cool purple in the reflection. The air was very chilly, for the night wind came down suddenly from the mountains as the sea breeze died away, and the solitary man felt cold; for he had no cloak, and exposure and fighting had used his blood, while within him there was nothing to cheer his heart. It had seemed to him for two years that he was always just about to do the high deed, to make the great decision of life, to find out his destiny, and he had done bravely and well all that he had found in his way. The chance came, he seized it, he did his best, and the cheers of the soldiers had told him a few hours ago that he was no longer the obscure English wanderer who had met Geoffrey Plantagenet on the road to Paris. Thousands repeated his name in honour and looked to him for their safety on the march, cursing those who led them astray against his warning. In his place on that day, most men would have gone to the Queen, expecting a great reward, if not claiming it outright. But he was wandering alone at nightfall in the great plain, discontented with all things, and most of all with himself. Everything he had done rose up against him and accused him, instead of praising him and flattering his vanity; every good deed had a base motive in his eyes, or was poisoned by the thought that it had not been done for itself, but for an uncertain something which came over him when the Queen spoke to him or touched his hand. It is not only inactive men who grow morbid and fault-finding with themselves; for the wide breach between the ideal good and the poor accomplishment holds as much that can disappoint the heart as the mean little ditch between thought and deed, wherein so many weak good men lie stuck in the mud of self-examination. He who stands at the edge of the limit, with a lifetime of good struggles behind him, may be as sad and hopeless as he who sits down and weeps before the mountain of untried beginnings. The joy of the earthly future is for the very great and the very little. For as charity leads mankind by faith to the hope of the life to come, so, on the mind's side, by faith in its own strength, the work of genius in the past is its own surety for like work to come. Gilbert Warde was not of that great mould, but more human and less sure of himself; and suddenly, as the sun went down, a strong desire of death came upon him, and he wished that he were dead and buried under the grass whereon he stood, for very discontent with himself. It would be so simple, and none would mourn him much, except his men, perhaps, and they would part his few possessions and serve another. He was a burden to the earth, since he could do nothing well; he was a coward, because he was afraid of a woman's eyes and had fled from their gaze like a boy; he was a sinner deserving eternal fire since a touch of a fair woman's hand could make him unfaithful for an instant to the one woman he loved best. He had meant to tread the way of the Cross in true faith, with unswerving feet, and his heart was the toy of women; he had sworn the promises of knighthood, and he was already breaking them in his thoughts; he was his evil mother's son, and he had not the strength to be unlike her. It was folly and madness, and Castignac, the Gascon knight, would have laughed at him, or else would have believed that he was demented. But to the Englishman it was real, for he was under that strange melancholy which only Northmen know, and which is the most real suffering in all the world. It is a dim sadness that gathers like a cloud about strong men's souls, and they fear it, and sometimes kill themselves to escape from it into the outer darkness beyond; but sometimes it drives them to bad deeds and the shedding of innocent blood, and now and then the better sort of such men turn from the world and hide themselves in the abodes of sorrow and pain and prayer. The signs of it are that when it has no cause it seizes upon trifles to make them its reasons, and more often it torments young men than the old; and no woman nor southern person has ever known it, nor can even understand it. But it follows the northern blood from generation to generation, like retribution for an evil without a name done long ago by the northern race. It was dark night when Gilbert found his way back to his tent, more by the instinct of one used to living in camps among soldiers than by any precise recollection of the way, and he sat down to warm himself before the brazier of red coals which Alric shovelled out of the camp-fire that burned outside. His men gave him a pottage of beans, with bread and wine, as it was Christmas Eve and a fast-day, and there was nothing else, for all the fish brought up from the sea had been bought early in the day for the great nobles, long before Gilbert had come into the lines. But he neither knew nor cared, and he ate mechanically what they gave him, being in a black humour. Then he sat a long time by the light of the earthenware lamp which Dunstan occasionally tended with an iron pin, lest the charring wick should slip into the half-melted fat and go out altogether. When he was not watching the wick, the man's eyes fixed themselves upon his master's grave face. "Sir," he said at last, "you are sad. This is the Holy Eve, and all the army will watch till midnight, when the first masses begin. If it please you, let us walk through the camp and see what we may. The tents of the great lords are all lighted up by this time and the soldiers are singing the Christmas hymns." Gilbert shook his head indifferently, but said nothing. "Sir," insisted the man, "I pray you, let us go, for you shall be cheered, and there are good sights. Before midnight the King and Queen and all the court go in procession to the great chapel tent, and it is meet that you should be there with them." Dunstan brought a garment and gently urged him to rise. Gilbert stood up, not looking. "Why should I go?" he asked. "I am better alone, for I am in a sad humour. And, besides, it is very cold." "Your cloak shall keep you warm, sir." "I cannot walk among the court people in rags," answered Gilbert, "and I have nothing that is whole but this one thin tunic." But even as he spoke, Dunstan held up the surcoat for him to put on over his head, the skirts caught up in his hands, which also held the collar open. "What is this?" asked Gilbert, in surprise. "It is a knight's surcoat, sir," answered the man. "It is of very good stuff, and is wadded with down. I pray you, put it on." "This is a gift," said Gilbert, suspiciously, and drawing back. "Who sends me such presents?" "The King of France, sir." "You mean the Queen." He frowned and would not touch the coat. "The things were brought by the King's men, and one of the King's knights came also with them, and delivered a very courteous message, and a purse of Greek bezants, very heavy." Gilbert began to walk up and down, in hesitation. He was very poor, but if the gifts were from the Queen, he was resolved not to keep them. "Sir," said Dunstan, "the knight said most expressly that the King sent you these poor presents as a token that he desires to see you to-morrow and to thank you for all you have done. I thought to please you by bringing them out suddenly." Then Gilbert smiled kindly, for the man loved him, and he put his head and arms into the knightly garment with its wide sleeves, and Dunstan laced it up the back, so that it fitted closely to the body, while the skirt hung down below the knees. It was of a rich dark silk, woven in the East, and much like the velvet of later days. Then Dunstan girded his master with a new sword-belt made of heavy silver plates, finely chased and sewn on leather, and he thrust the great old sword with its sheath through the flattened ring that hung to the belt by short silver chains. Lastly he put upon Gilbert's shoulders a mantle of very dark red cloth, lined with fine fur and clasped at the neck with silver; for it was not seemly to wear a surcoat without a cloak. "It is very noble," said Dunstan, moving back a step or two to see the effect. Indeed, the young English knight looked well in the dress of his station, which he wore for the first time; for he was very tall and broad of shoulder, and a lean man, well-bred; his face was clear and pale, and his fair hair fell thick and long behind his cap. "But you, Dunstan, you cannot be seen--" Gilbert stopped, for he noticed suddenly that both his men were clad in new clothes of good cloth and leather. "The servants are honoured with their lord," said Dunstan. "The King sent gifts for us, too." "That was a man's thought, not a woman's," said Gilbert, almost to himself. He went out, and Dunstan walked by his left, but half a step behind his stride, as was proper. The camp was lit up with fires and torches as far as one could see, and all men were out of doors, either walking up and down, arm in arm, or sitting before their tents on folding-stools, or on their saddles, or on packs of baggage. The hundreds and thousands of little Christmas trees, stuck into the earth amid circles of torches before the newly whitened tents, made a great garden of boughs and evergreens, and the yellow glare shone everywhere through lacing branches, and fell on rich colours and gleaming arms, well polished for the holiday, and lost itself suddenly in the cold starlight overhead. The air smelt of evergreen and the aromatic smoke of burning resin. The night rang with song also, and in some places as many as a hundred had gathered in company to sing the long Christmas hymns they had learned as little children far away at home--endless canticles with endless repetitions, telling the story of the Christ-Child's birth at Bethlehem, of the adoration of the shepherds, and of the coming of the Eastern kings. In one part of the camp the rough Burgundians were drinking the strong Asian wine in deep draughts, roaring their great choruses between, with more energy than unction. But for the most part the northern men were sober and in earnest, praying as they sang and looking upward as if the Star of the East were presently to shed its soft light in the sky; and they tended the torches and lights around the trees devoutly, not guessing that their fathers had done the same long ago, in bleak Denmark and snowy Norway, in worship of Odin and in honour of Yggdrasil, the tree of life. The Gascons and all the men of the South, on their side, had made little altars between two trees, decked with white cloths and adorned with tinsel ornaments and little crosses and small carved images carefully brought, like household gods, from the far home, and treasured only next to their arms. The thin, dark faces of the men were fervent with southern faith, and their wild black eyes were deep and still. There were also Alsatians and Lorrainers in lines by themselves, quiet, fair-haired men. They had little German dolls of wood, and toys brightly painted, and by their trees they set out the scene of Bethlehem, with the manger and the Christ-Child, and the oxen crouching down, and the Blessed Mary and Saint Joseph, and also the shepherds and the wise kings; and the men sat down before these things with happy faces and sang their songs. So it was through the whole camp, the soldiers doing everywhere according to their customs. As for the nobles and knights, Gilbert saw some of them walking about like himself, and some were sitting before their tents. Here and there, as he passed, when a tent was open, he saw knights kneeling in prayer, and could hear them reciting the litanies. But it was not always so, for some were spending the night in feasting, their tents being closed, though one could hear plainly the revelry. There was more than one great tent in the French lines, of which the curtain was raised a little, and there Gilbert saw men and women drinking together, under bright lights, and he saw that the women were Greeks and that their cheeks were painted and their eyelids blackened; and he turned away from the sight, in disgust that such things should be done on the Holy Eve of Christmas. Further on, some very poor soldiers, in sheepskin doublets and leathern hose, were kneeling together before a sort of rough screen, on which were hung images painted in the manner of Greek eikons. These men had long and silky beards, and their smooth brown hair hung out over their shoulders in well-combed waves, and some of them had beautiful faces. One, who was a priest of their own, stood upright and recited prayers in a low chant, and from time to time, at the refrain, the soldiers all bowed themselves till their foreheads touched the ground. "The Lord Jesus Christ be praised," sang the priest. "To all ages. Amen," responded the soldiers. Though they sang in the Bohemian language, and Gilbert could not understand, he saw that they believed and were of an earnest mind. So he walked about for more than an hour, looking and listening, and his own sad humour was lightened a little as he forgot to think of himself only. For it seemed a great thing to have been chosen to lead so many through a wilderness full of danger, and to know that more than a hundred thousand lives had been in his keeping, as it were, for two months, and were to be in his hand again, till he should lead them safely into Syria, or perish himself and leave his task to another. It was a task worth accomplishing and a trust worth his life. Then, at midnight, he was walking in a great procession after the King and Queen. Modestly he joined the ranks, and his man walked beside him carrying a torch, so that the light fell full upon his face. Some one knew him, and spoke to his neighbour. "That is Sir Gilbert Warde, who is our guide," he said. In an instant word ran along the line that he was there; and in a few minutes a messenger came breathless, asking for him, and then the herald of France, Montjoye Saint Denis, came after, bidding him to a foremost place, in the name of the King and Queen. So he followed the herald, whose runner walked before him, as had been bidden by Eleanor herself. "Make way for the Guide of Aquitaine!" cried the squire, in a loud voice. Knights and men-at-arms stood aside to let him pass, and the tall Englishman went between them, courteously bending his head to thank those who moved out of his way, and deprecating the high honour that was done him. He heard his name repeated, both by men whose faces he could see in the light around him, when the torches blazed and flamed, and also from the darkness beyond. "Well done, Sir Gilbert!" cried some. "God bless the Guide of Aquitaine!" cried many others. And all the voices praised him, so that his heart warmed. Following the herald, he came to his place in the procession, in the front rank of the great vassals of the two kingdoms, and just after the sovereign lords; and as he was somewhat taller than other men, he could look over their heads, and he saw the King and Queen in their furs, walking together, and before them the bishops and priests. At the stir made by his coming Eleanor turned and looked back, and her eyes met Gilbert's through the smoky glare, gazing at him sadly, as if she would have made him understand something she could not say. But he would not have spoken if he could, for his thoughts were on other things. The procession went on toward the royal altar, set up under an open tent in a wide space, so that the multitude could kneel on the grass and both see and hear the celebration. So they all knelt down, the great barons and chief vassals having small hassocks for their knees, while the King and Queen and the sovereign lords of Savoy and Alsatia and Lorraine, and of Bohemia and of Poland, had rich praying-stools set out for them in a row, next to the King and Queen. The torches were stuck into the ground to burn down as they might, and the great wax candles shone quietly on the white altar, for the night was now very still and clear. There all the great nobles and many thousands of other men heard the Christmas mass, just after midnight, knowing that many of them should never hear it again on earth. There they all sang together, in a mighty melody of older times, the 'Glory to God in the highest,' which was first sung on the Holy Eve; and there, when the Bishop of Metz was about to lift up the consecrated bread, the royal trumpets rang out a great call to the multitude, so that all men might bow themselves together. Then the silence was very deep, while the Lord passed by; nor ever again in his life did Sir Gilbert Warde know such a stillness as that was, save once, and it seemed to him that in the Way of the Cross he had reached a place of refreshment and rest. CHAPTER XX Gilbert rose from his knees with the rest, and then he saw that the King and Queen placed themselves side by side and standing, and the nobles began to go up to them according to their rank, to kiss their hands. As Gilbert stood still, not knowing what to do, he watched the procession of the barons from a distance. Suddenly he felt that his eyes were wide open, and that he was gazing at a face which he knew, hardly believing that he saw it in the flesh; and his back stiffened, and his teeth ground on one another. Ten paces from him, waiting and looking on, like himself, stood a graceful man of middle height, of a clear olive complexion, with a well-clipped beard of somewhat pointed cut, grey at the sides, as was also the smooth, dark hair. Years had passed, and the last time he had seen that face had been in the changing light of the greenwood, where the sunshine played among the leaves; and as he had seen it last, he had felt steel in his side and had fallen asleep, and after that his life had changed. For Arnold de Curboil was before him, looking at him, but not recognizing him. Still Gilbert stood rooted to the spot, trying not to believe his senses, for he could not understand how his stepfather could suddenly be among the Crusaders; but the divine peace that had descended upon him that night was shivered as a mirror by a stone, and his heart grew cold and hard. The man also was changed since Gilbert had seen him. The face was handsome still, but it was thin and sharp, and the eyes were haggard and weary, as if they had seen a great evil long and had sickened of it at last, and were haunted by it. Gilbert looked at him who had murdered his father and had brought shame to his mother, and who had robbed him of his fair birthright, and he saw that something of the score had been paid. Gradually, too, as Sir Arnold gazed, a look of something like despair settled in his face, a sort of horror that was not fear,--for he was no coward,--but was rather a dread of himself. He made a step forward, and Gilbert waited, and heard how Dunstan, who stood behind him, loosened his dagger in its brass sheath. At that moment came the King's herald again as before, bidding him go up to the presence of the King and Queen. "Room for the Guide of Aquitaine!" The cry rang loud and clear, and Gilbert saw Sir Arnold start in surprise at the high-sounding title. Then he followed the herald; but in his heart there was already a triumph that the man who had left him for dead in the English woods should find him again thus preferred before other men. The Queen's face grew paler as he came toward her and knelt down on one knee, and through her embroidered glove of state his own hand, that was cold, felt that hers was colder. But it did not tremble, and her voice was steady and clear, so that all could hear it. "Sir Gilbert Warde," she said, "you have done well. Guienne thanks you, and France also--" She paused and looked toward the King, who was watching her closely. Louis bent his great pale face solemnly toward the Englishman. "We thank you, Sir Gilbert," he said, with cold condescension. "A hundred thousand men thank you," added Eleanor, in a ringing voice that was to make up for her husband's ungrateful indifference. There was a moment's silence, and then the voice of Gaston de Castignac, high and full, sent up a cheer that was heard far out in the clear night. "God bless the Guide of Aquitaine!" The cheer was taken up in the deep shout of strong men in earnest; for it was known how Gilbert cared not for himself, nor for rewards, but only for honour; and the thirty men who had been with him had told far and wide how often he had watched that they might sleep, and how he would always give the best to others, and how gently and courteously he treated those he commanded. But in the loud cheering, Eleanor took his hand in both hers and bent down to speak to him, unheard by the rest; and her voice was low and trembled a little. "God bless you!" she said fervently. "God bless you and keep you, for as I am a living woman, you are dearer to me than the whole world." Gilbert understood how she loved him, as he had not understood before. And yet her touch had no evil power to move him now, and the shadow of his mother no longer haunted him in her eyes as he looked up. There, beside the Christmas altar, in the Holy Night, she was trying to complete the sacrifice of herself and her love. Gilbert answered her earnestly. "Madam," he said, "I shall try to do your will with all my heart, even to death." Thereafter he kept his word. But now he rose to his feet, and after bending his knee again, he looked into the Queen's sad eyes, and passed on to make way for the others, while the cheers that were for him still rang in the air. Then he began to walk to his tent. Dunstan had lighted a fresh torch and was waiting for him. But the great barons, who had gone up to the King and Queen before him, pressed round him and shook his hand, one after another, and bade him to their feasting on the morrow; nor was there jealousy of him, as there had been when he had saved the Queen's life at Nicaea, for now that they saw him they felt that he was no courtier, and desired only the safety of the army, with his own honour. As they thronged about him, there came Sir Arnold de Curboil, pressing his way among them, and when he was before Gilbert he also held out his hand. "Gilbert Warde," he asked, "do you not know me?" "I know you, sir," answered the young knight, in a clear voice that all could hear, "but I will not take your hand." There was silence, and the great nobles looked on, not understanding, while Dunstan held his torch so that the light fell full upon Sir Arnold's pale features. "Then take my glove!" He plucked off his loose leathern gauntlet and tossed it lightly at Gilbert's face. But Dunstan's quick left hand caught it in the air, while the torch scarcely wavered in his right. Gilbert was paler than his enemy, but he would not let his hand go to his sword, and he folded his arms under his mantle, lest they should move against his will. "Sir," he said, "I will not fight you again at this time, though you killed my father treacherously. Though you have stolen my birthright, I will not fight you now, for I have taken the Cross, and I will keep the vow of the Cross, come what may." "Coward!" cried Sir Arnold, contemptuously, and he would have turned on his heel. But Gilbert stepped forward and caught him by his arms and held him quietly, without hurting him, but so that he could not easily move and must hear. "You have called me a coward, Sir Arnold de Curboil. How should I fear you, since I can wring you to death in my hands if I will? But I will let you go, and these good lords here shall judge whether I am a coward or not because I will not fight you until I have fulfilled my vows." "Well said," cried the old Count of Bourbon. "Well said, well done," cried many others. Moreover, the Count of Savoy, of whose race none was ever born that knew fear, even to this day, spoke to his younger brother of Montferrat. "I have not seen a braver man than this English knight, nor a better man of his hands, nor one more gentle, and he has the face of a leader." Then Gilbert loosed his hold and Sir Arnold looked angrily to the right and left, and passed out of the crowd, all men making way for him as if they would not touch him. Some of them turned to Gilbert again, and asked him questions about the strange knight. "My lords," he answered, "he is Sir Arnold de Curboil, my stepfather; for when he had killed my father, he married my mother and stole my lands. I fought him when I was but a boy, and he left me for dead in the forest; and now I think that he is come from England to seek occasion against me; but if I live I shall get back my inheritance. And now, if I seem to you to have dealt justly by him, I crave my leave of you, and thank your lordships for your good will and courtesy." So they bade him good-night, and he went away, leaving many who felt that he had done well, but that, in his place, they could not have done as much. They did not know how dear it cost him, but dimly they guessed that he was braver than they, though they were of the bravest. He was very tired, and had not slept in a good bed under his own tent for two months; yet he was sleepless, and awoke after two hours, and could not sleep again till within an hour of the winter dawn; for he feared some evil for Beatrix if her father should claim her of the Queen and take her back from Ephesus by sea, as he must have come. At daylight, warming themselves at a fire, Dunstan told Alric all that happened in the night. The Saxon's stolid face did not change, but he was thoughtful and silent for some time, remembering how the Lady Goda had once had him beaten, long ago, because he had not held Sir Arnold's horse in the right way when the knight was mounting. Presently Beatrix's Norman tirewoman came to the two men, wrapped in a brown cloak with a hood that covered half her face. She told them that her lady knew of Sir Arnold's coming, and begged of Sir Gilbert that for her sake he would walk by the river at noon, when every one would be at dinner in the camp, and she would try and meet him there. CHAPTER XXI Gilbert waited long, for he went down early to the river, and he sat on a big stone sunning himself, for the air was keen, and there was a north wind. At last he saw two veiled women coming along the bank. The shorter one was a little lame and leaned upon the other's arm, and the wind blew their cloaks before them as they came. When he saw that Beatrix limped, knowing that she had not quite recovered from her fall, and remembering that she might have been killed, his heart sank with a sickening faintness. He took her by the hand very gently, for she looked so slight and ill that he almost feared to touch her, and yet he did not wish to let her fingers go, nor she to take them away. The tirewoman went down to the river-bank, at some distance, and they sat upon the big stone, hand in hand like two children, and looked at each other. Suddenly the girl's face lightened, as if she had just found out that she was glad; her eyes laughed, and her voice was as happy as a bird's at sunrise. Gilbert had not seen her for a long time. To such a man, all women, and even one chosen woman, might easily become an ideal, too far from the material to have a real hold upon his manhood, and so high above earth as to have no spiritual realization. Even in that age many a knight made a divinity of his lady and a religion of his devotion to her, so that the very meaning of love was forgotten in the ascetic impulse to seek the soul's salvation in all things, even in the contempt of all earthly longings; and those men demanded as much in return, expecting it even after their own death. There were also women, like Anne of Auch, who gave such devotion freely. Nevertheless, it was not altogether in this way between Beatrix and Gilbert, and if it might have been, so far as he was concerned, she would not have had it so, and her words proved it. "I am so proud of you!" she cried. "And I am so very glad to see you." "Proud of me?" he asked, smiling sadly. "I am not proud of myself. For all I have done, you might be dead at Nicaea." "But I am alive," she answered happily, "and by your doing, though I cannot yet walk quite well." "I ought to have let the Queen pass on. I ought to have thought only of you." He found a satisfaction in saying aloud at last what had been so long in his heart against himself, and in saying it to Beatrix herself. But she would not hear it. "That would have been very unknightly and disloyal," she said. "I would not have had you do it, for you would have been blamed by men. And then I should never have heard what I heard yesterday and last night, the very best words I ever heard in all my life--the cry of a great army blessing one man for a good work well done." "I have done nothing," answered Gilbert, stolidly determined to depreciate himself in her eyes. But she smiled and laid her gloved hand quickly upon his lips. "I would not have another laugh at you, as I do!" she cried. He looked at her, and the mask of grave melancholy which was fast becoming his natural expression began to soften, as if it could not last forever. "I have often thought of you and wondered whether you would think well of my deeds," he said. "You see!" she laughed. "And now because I am proud of you, you pretend that you have done nothing! That is poor praise of my good sight and judgment." He laughed, too. Since the dawn of time, women have retorted thus upon brave men too modest of their doings; and since the first woman found the trick, it has never failed to please man. But love needs not novelty, for he himself is always young; the stars of night are not less fair in our eyes because men knew the 'sweet influence of the Pleiades' in Job's day, nor is the scent of new-mown hay less delicate because all men love it. The old is the best, even in love, which is young. "Say what you will," answered Gilbert, presently, "we are together to-day." "And nothing else matters," said Beatrix. "Not even that it is two months since I have seen you, and that I have been ill, or, at least, half crippled, by that fall. It is all forgotten." He looked at her, not quite understanding, for as she spoke her eyebrows were raised a little, with her own expression, half sad, half laughing at herself. "I wish I could see you more often," answered Gilbert. Her little birdlike laugh disconcerted him. "Indeed, I am in earnest," he said. "And yet when you are in earnest, you do much harder things," answered Beatrix, and at once the sadness had the better of the laughter in her face. "Oh, Gilbert, I wish we were back in England in the old days." "So do I!" "Oh, no! You do not. You say so to please me, but you cannot make it sound true. You are a great man now. You are Sir Gilbert Warde, the Guide of Aquitaine. It is you, and you only, who are leading the army, and you will have all the honour of it. Would you go back to the old times when we were boy and girl? Would you, if you could?" "I would if I could." He spoke so gravely that she understood where his thoughts were, and that they were not all for her. For a few moments she looked down in silence, pulling at the fingers of her glove, and once she sighed; then, without looking up, she spoke, in her sweet, low voice. "Gilbert, what are we to each other? Brother and sister?" He started, again not understanding, and fancying that she was setting up the Church's canon between them, which he now knew to be no unremovable impediment. "You are no more my sister than your tirewoman there can be," he answered, more warmly than he had spoken yet. "I did not mean that," she said sadly. "I do not understand, then." "If you do not, how can I tell you what I mean?" She glanced at him and then looked away quickly, for she was blushing, and was ashamed of her boldness. "Do you mean that I love you as I might a sister?" asked Gilbert, with the grave tactlessness of a thoroughly honest man. The blush deepened in her cheek, and she nodded slowly, still looking away. "Beatrix!" "Well?" She would not turn to him. "What have I done that you should say such a thing?" "That is it!" she answered regretfully. "You have done great things, but they were not for me." "Have I not told you how I have thought of you day after day, hoping that you might think well of my deeds?" "Yes. But you might have done one thing more. That would have made all the difference." "What?" He bent anxiously towards her for the answer. "You might have tried to see me." "But I was never in the camp. I was always a day's march in the lead of the army." "But not always fighting. There were days, or nights, when you could have ridden back. I would have met you anywhere--I would have ridden hours to see you. But you never tried. And at last it is I who send for you and beg you to come and talk with me here. And you do not even seem glad to be with me." "I did not think that I had a right to leave my post and come back, even for you." "You could not have helped it--if you had cared." She spoke very low. Gilbert looked at her long, and the lines deepened in his face, for he was hurt. "Do you really believe that I do not love you?" he asked, but his voice was cold because he tried to control it, and succeeded too well. "You have never told me so," Beatrix answered. "You have done little to make me think so, since we were children together. You have never tried to see me when it would have cost you anything. You are not glad to see me now." Her voice could be cold, too; but there was a tremor in some of the syllables. He was utterly surprised and taken unawares, and he slowly repeated the substance of what she said. "I never told you so? Never made you think so? Oh, Beatrix!" He remembered the sleepless nights he had passed, accusing himself of letting even one thought of the Queen come between him and the girl who was denying his love--the restless, melancholy hours of self-accusation, the cruel self-torment--how could she know? She was in earnest, now, though she had begun half playfully; for if the man's heart had not changed, he had gone away from her in his active life, and in the habit of hiding all real feeling which comes from living long alone or with strangers. It was true that outwardly he had hardly seemed glad to see her, and all the ring of happiness had died away out of her voice before they had exchanged many words. He felt her mood, and it grew clear to him that he had made some great mistake which it would be very hard to set right. And she was thinking how boldly she had striven with the Queen for his love, and that now it seemed to be no love at all. But he, whose impulse was ever to act when there was danger, however much he might weary his soul with inward examination at other times, grew desperate, and gave up thinking of a way out of the difficulty. What he loved was slipping from him, and though he loved it in his own way, it was indeed all he loved, and he would not let it go. Thoughtless at last, and sudden, he took her into his arms, and his face was close to hers, and his eyes were in hers, and their lips breathed the same breath. She was not frightened, but her lids drooped, and she turned quite white. Then he kissed her, not once, but many times, and as if he would never let her go, on her pale mouth, on her dark eyelids, on her waving hair. "If I kill you, you shall know that I love you," he said, and he kissed her again, so that it hurt her, but it was good to be hurt. After that she lay in his arms, very still, and she looked up slowly, and their eyes met; and it was as if the veil had fallen from between them. When he kissed her again, his kisses were gentle and altogether tender. "I had almost lost you," he said, breathing the words to her ear. The Norman tirewoman sat motionless by the river's edge, waiting till she should be called. After a time they began to talk again, and their voices were in tune, like their hearts. Then Gilbert spoke of what had happened in the night, but Beatrix already knew that her father had come. "He has come to take me away," she said, "and we have talked together. Gilbert--a dreadful thing has happened; did he tell you?" "He told me nothing--excepting that I was a coward!" He laughed scornfully. "I think he is half mad with sorrow." She paused and laid her hand on Gilbert's. "His wife is dead,--your mother is dead,--with the child she bore him." Gilbert's eyes alone changed, but under her palm Beatrix felt the sinews of his hand leap and the veins swell. "Tell me quickly," he said. "She was burned," continued Beatrix, in a tone of awe. "She made my father grind his people till they turned, and she made him hang the leader who spoke for them. Then all the yeomen and the bondmen rose, and they burned the castle, and your mother died with the child. But my father escaped alive. Now I am again his only child, and he wants me again." Gilbert's head fell forward, as if he had received a blow, but he said nothing for a time, for he saw his mother's face; and he saw her not as when they had parted, but as he remembered her before that, when he had loved her above all things, not knowing what she was. In spite of all that had gone between, she came back to him as she had been, and the pain and the pity were real and great. But then he felt Beatrix's hand pressing his in sympathy, and it brought him again to the evil truth. He raised his head. "She is better dead," he said bitterly. "Let us not speak of her any more. She was my mother." He stared long at the river, and the sadness of his homeless and lonely state in the world began to come upon him, as it came often. Then a soft voice broke the spell, and the words answered his thoughts. "We are not alone, you and I," it said, and the two small hands crept up shyly and clasped his neck, and the loving, pathetic face looked up to his. "Do not let him take me away!" she begged. His hand pressed her head to his breast, and once more he kissed her hair. "He shall not take you," he said. "No one shall take you from me; no one shall come between you and me." Beatrix's eyes seemed to drink out of his the meaning of the words he spoke. "Promise me that," she said, knowing that he would promise her the world. "I promise it with all my heart." "On your knightly faith?" She smiled as she insisted. "On my honour and faith." "And on the faith of love, too?" She almost laughed, out of sheer happiness. "On the very truth of true love," he answered. "Then I am quite safe," she said, and she hid her face against his surcoat. "I am glad I came to you, I am glad that I was so bold as to send for you this day, for it is the best day of my whole life. And, Gilbert, you will not wait till I send for you another time? You will try and see me--of your own accord?" She was altogether in anxiety again, and there was a look of fear and sadness in her eyes. "I will try--indeed I will," he said earnestly. "Whenever you do, you shall succeed," she answered, nestling to him. "I wish I might shut my eyes and rest here--now that I know." "Rest, sweet, rest!" A moment, and then, from far away, a clarion call rang on the still air. With the instinct of the soldier, Gilbert started, and listened, holding his breath, but still pressing the girl close to him. "What is it?" she asked, half frightened. It came again, joyous and clear. "It is nothing," he said. "It is the Christmas banquet, and perhaps the King drinks the Queen's health--and she his." "And perhaps, though no one knows it, she--" But Beatrix stopped and laughed. "I will not say it! Why should I care?" She was thinking that if the Queen drank a health it might be meant, in her heart, for the Guide of Aquitaine, and she nestled closer to him in the sunshine. CHAPTER XXII A week the army stayed in camp by the pleasant waters of the Maeander, and daily at noon Gilbert and Beatrix met at the same place. She told him that she had not seen her father again, and believed that he had left the camp. The Queen knew that the lovers met, but she would not hinder them, though it was cruel pain to think of their happiness. Many have spoken and written evil things of Eleanor, for she was a haughty woman and overbearing, and she feared neither God nor man, nor Satan either; but she had a strong and generous heart, and, having promised, she kept her word as well as she could. She would not send for Gilbert, nor see him alone, lest she should fail of resolution when her eyes looked on him too closely. Beatrix knew this and took heart, and the veil of estrangement was lifted between her and Gilbert. On the last day but one of the year he went before the King, who bade him mount again with his men and ride before the army through the passes of the Cadmus towards Attalia, seeking out the safest way and giving timely warning of the enemy. Also, because it was known that the danger must be greater now than before, the King gave him leave to choose knights and men-at-arms to the number of a hundred, to be under him, and made him rich presents of fine armour, and caused his shield to be painted afresh by a skilled Greek. While he talked with Gilbert he watched the Queen, who sat apart somewhat pale, reading in a Book of Hours, for he was suspicious of her; but she never looked at the Englishman until he was taking his leave. Then she beckoned him to her, before he went out, and gave him her ungloved hand, which he kissed, and she looked into his face a moment, very sadly, not knowing whether she should see him again. So he went out, to bid Beatrix farewell. She met him at the accustomed place by the river, and for a while they were together; but they could not talk much, being both very sad. She took a golden ring from her hand, and would have put it upon his finger, but it was too small. "I had hoped that you could wear it," she said, disappointed, "for it was my mother's." Gilbert took it in his hand. It was of very pure gold and thin, so he cut it open with the point of his dagger and bent it back and clasped it round his fourth finger, tightly. "It is our troth," he said. It was hard to let him go, for she also knew the peril, as the Queen knew it. "I shall pray for you," she said, clinging to him. "God is good--you may come back to me." They sat a long time together, saying nothing. When it was time for him to lead his men out, as he judged by the sun, he kissed her, lifting her up to him. "Good-by," he said. "Not yet!" she pleaded, between his kisses. "Oh, Gilbert, not so very soon!" But she knew that he must go, and he set her gently upon her feet, for it was the last moment. When he was gone, she sat down upon the stone, and the Norman woman came and put one arm round her, holding her, for she seemed fainting. Still her eyes followed him as he strode along the river, till he reached the turning. There he stopped and looked back, and kissed the ring she had given him, and waved his hand to her; and she pressed both her hands to her lips and threw them out to him, as if she would have thrown him her heart and her soul with it. When he was gone, the sky turned black before her eyes and time stood still, and she knew what death meant. But she did not faint, and she had no tears. Only, when she went back after some time, she walked unsteadily and her woman helped her. So Gilbert rode out to seek the way, taking well-mounted messengers with him as before, and on the first day of the New Year the whole army began the march again, crossing the river the first time at a ford. The Queen would perforce be in the van, with her ladies, so that the speed of their riding became the speed of the whole army, whereby the whole host was kept together. The first messenger who came back told that Sir Gilbert had reached the hills, and led the Queen by the way he had followed, saying that so far he had met no enemies. But on the morrow, as they drew near to the mountains and rode up the rising ground, they saw afar off a man standing by one who lay stark on the ground, and driving off a vulture and a score of ravens with a long staff. The Queen's heart stood still when she saw this sight, and she spurred her Arab mare forward before all the army till she stopped beside the dead body and saw that the face was not Gilbert's. The squire who was guarding the dead told her how, very early in the morning, some fifty Seljuk horsemen had come down from the hills and had shot arrows at Gilbert and his men from a distance, wheeling quickly and galloping away out of sight before the Christians could mount; and this one knight had been killed, and his squire had stayed by him till the army should come up, while the rest rode on, and took both the horses with them in case they should lose any of their own. There they buried the body deep, when the Queen's chaplain had blessed it, and they marched on till noon, and encamped. From that time the Queen made her ladies ride in the centre of the great host, protected on all sides; but she herself, with the Lady Anne of Auch, still kept the van, for in this way she was nearer to Gilbert. She also sent out parties of scouts to the right and left, to give warning of the Seljuks; and the King guarded the rear, where there was also great danger. Meanwhile Gilbert went farther up into the mountains, searching out the best way to the pass, distrusting the Greek guides, who nevertheless feared him and told him the truth, though it was the secret wish of the Greek Emperor that the army should all be destroyed, because he desired no increase of the western power in Asia. But Gilbert told the guides severally and all together that he would cut off the head of the first one who should even seem to be false; and he kept them under his own eye, and his long sword was always loose in the sheath. He went very cautiously now, setting sentinels at night and sleeping little himself, so that he might often go alone from post to post and see that all was well. But the Seljuks never came in the darkness, for as yet there were not many of them, and they trusted to their bows by day, when they could see; but they feared to come to close quarters with the picked swordsmen of the French army. Since they had first shown themselves, the Christians all rode fully armed in mail and hood, knights and men-at-arms and young squires alike, with the half-dozen pack-horses and a few spare mounts in the midst; and good mail was proof against arrows, but Gilbert wished that he had brought fifty archers with him, such marksmen as little Alric, his groom. There was some fighting every day, when he was able to overtake the swift Seljuks in some narrow place. They fled when they could, but when they were brought to bay they turned savagely and fought like panthers, yelling their war-cry: "Hurr! Hurr!" which in the Tartar tongue signifies: "Kill! Kill!" But more often the Christians killed them, being stronger men and better armed, and Gilbert was ever the first to strike; and one day, as the fiercest of a band of Seljuks rode at him, whirling a crooked sword and shouting the cry, Gilbert cut off his arm at one stroke and it fell to the ground with the fist still grasping the scimitar; whereat Gilbert laughed fiercely and mocked the unbeliever's cry. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" he shouted, as he rode on. Then his followers took the cry from him, jeering at their enemies, and on that morning they let not one escape, but slew them all, saving one man only, and took the horses that were alive. But from that time, the Christians began to cry, "Hurrah!" And when men shout to-day, "Hurrah for the king," they know not that they are crying, "Kill for the king." But Gilbert saw that the place where this happened was a very dangerous one, though the entrance to it was broad and pleasant, through a high valley where there were certain huts in which shepherds dwelt, and grass and water. Therefore he turned back quickly when the killing was over, and he took the chief of the guides by the throat, holding his head down upon the pommel of his saddle, and bade him show a better way if he would keep his head on his shoulders. "My lord, there is no other way," cried the man, fright-struck. "Very well," answered Gilbert, drawing his red sword again. "If there is no other way, I shall not need you any more, my man." When the fellow heard the sheath sucking the wet steel, he screamed for terror, crying out that there was another way. So they rode back to the entrance of the valley, and the man began to lead them up a steep track among trees; and above the trees they came to a desolate, stony ridge; but still they could ride, though it was a very toilsome way. When they had reached the top, after three hours, Gilbert saw that he was at the true pass, broad and straight, opening down to grassy slopes beyond, between crags that would not give a foothold to a goat. He rode on a little way farther, and there was a very steep path, turning back, round the highest peak, and presently he looked down into a small, high valley, below which the narrow way led down to the pleasant place through which he had first ridden, and he saw that a great army could easily be destroyed there by a small one lying in ambush. He could see quite plainly the dead Seljuks lying as they had fallen, and from far and near the great vultures and the kites were sailing down from the crags, while the ravens and crows that followed his killing day by day were flying, and settling, and hopping along the ground, and flying again to the places of death. He rode back to his men, driving the guide before him; and the man feared for his life continually, and reeled in the saddle as if he were drunk. But Gilbert knew that a man well frightened was a man gained for what he wanted, so when he had threatened to cut off his hands and put out his eyes and leave him to die among the rocks if he tried to misguide the army again, he let him live. Then he sent ten men back to lead the host on the following day, and he remained in the pass to keep it until the vanguard should be in sight. He bade his messengers tell the King that for his life he must not go into the broad valley, though it looked so fair and open. Now the Seljuks whom he had met were all dead but one young man; but there were many of them, some five thousand, encamped in a great hiding-place surrounded by rocks, on the other side of the pass. And the one who had escaped went to them, and told them what had happened, and that the whole French army would surely come up that way on the next day or the day after that. Therefore the Seljuks mounted, and came and lay in ambush, and two hundred of them rode down into the valley and hid themselves among the trees where the steep way began which was the right way. For they knew the mountains, and feared lest at the last moment the White Fiend, as they called Gilbert, might find out his mistake and choose that path to the pass, and save all; whereas on the steep ridge, under cover of trees, two hundred chosen bowmen, each with a great sheaf of arrows, might turn back a host. So the night passed, and Gilbert was undisturbed; but great evil was prepared for the army, though his messengers reached the camp and repeated his words to the King before nightfall. It lacked two hours of noon when Sir Gaston de Castignac and a dozen other knights, and Gilbert's ten men, turned the spur of the mountain where the broad green valley opened, having on their right the wooded ridge where the two hundred Seljuks were hidden. A moment later the Queen herself came up, with Anne of Auch and a hundred knights, and she supposed that they should have ridden through the valley; but Castignac stopped her and told her what the men said, and that they must all begin the ascent from that point. The valley was inviting, with its pleasant water and its broad meadow, and some of the knights murmured; but when Eleanor heard that Gilbert had chosen the steeper way, she had no doubt, and bade them all be silent; yet as there was much space on the grass, and as the men said that the ascent was long, it seemed better to halt awhile before beginning to climb. Meanwhile the whole van of the army came up, many thousands of men-at-arms and knights, and footmen, and after them the gorgeous train of ladies, careless and gay, feeling themselves safe among so many armed men, and desiring a sight of the enemy rather than fearing it. There was little order in the march, and hitherto there had been little danger; for the Seljuks meant to destroy them in the mountains, and would never have tried battle in the open with such a great host. Still the troop came on, filling the valley from side to side, and pressing up by sheer numbers toward the pass; and the King came at last, and with him certain Greek guides to whom he listened, and who began to make a great outcry, saying that Sir Gilbert was a madman and that no horses could climb the ridge. Thereat Gilbert's men swore that they had climbed it on the preceding day, and that even a woman could ride up it. And one of the Greeks began to laugh at them, saying that they lied; so Sir Gaston de Castignac smote him on the mouth with his mailed hand, breaking all his teeth, and there was a turmoil, and the people began to take opposite sides, for many of the King's men had come up, and he himself was for the easy way up the valley. Then Eleanor was very angry, and she mounted again, calling Gilbert's men to her side, and her own knights who rode in the van, and she told the King to his face that the Guide of Aquitaine had ever led them safely, but that whenever the army had followed the King's guides, evil had befallen. But the King would not be browbeaten before the great lords and barons, and he swore a great oath that he would go by the valley, come what might. Thereupon Eleanor turned her back on him, wheeling her horse short round; and she bade her knights ride up the hill to the trees with her, and gave orders that her army should follow her, and leave the King to take his men by any way he chose. On this the confusion became greater than ever, for in the host there were thousands of men, half pilgrims, half soldiers, who had come of their own accord, as free men, bound neither to the King nor the Queen; there were also the Poles and Bohemians, who were independent. All these began to discuss and quarrel among themselves. Meanwhile the Queen and Anne of Auch rode slowly up the hill, straight toward the trees, with Castignac and Gilbert's men before them, and the knights of Guienne following closely after; but none of them expected evil, for the place looked peaceful in the high sunshine. Eleanor and the Lady Anne rode fearlessly in their skirts and mantles, but the men were fully armed in their mail and steel caps. The foremost were half a dozen spears' lengths from the brushwood when the sharp twang of a bowstring broke the stillness, and an arrow that was meant for the Queen's face flew just between her and the Lady Anne. The fair woman flushed suddenly at the danger; on the dark one's forehead a vein stood out, straight from the parting of the hair, downward between the eyes. The men spurred their horses instantly, and dashed into the wood before the Queen could stop them, Castignac first by a length, with his sword out. The flight of arrows that followed the first shot struck horses and men together, and three or four horses went down with their riders; but the mail was proof, and the men were on their feet in an instant and running among the trees, whence came the sound of great blows, and the sharp twanging of many bowstrings, and the yell of the Seljuks. Now and again an arrow flew from among the trees at random, and while Eleanor sat on her horse, looking down the hill and crying to her knights to come on quickly and join in the fight, she did not know that Anne of Auch covered her with her body from the danger of a stray shaft, facing the danger with a light heart, in the hope of the blessed death for which she looked. Of those who went in under the trees, none came back, while the din of the fight rose louder and wilder, by which Eleanor guessed that the enemy were very few and were being driven up the hill, overpowered by numbers; and lest her own men should hamper each other, she stopped them and would not allow any more to go up. Meanwhile the King looked on from below, saying prayers; for he was in mortal dread of wishing that the Queen might be killed, since that would have been as great a sin as if he had slain her with his own hand; so that whereas when there was no present danger he constantly prayed that by some means he might be delivered from the woman of Belial, he now prayed as fervently that she might be preserved. As soon as he saw her forbidding a further advance, he took it for granted that she intended to come back and go up the valley, and he gave the signal to his own knights and men to advance in that direction, away from the place where the Seljuks were fighting. Indeed, there were always many who were ready to turn their backs on danger, especially of the poorer sort, who were ill-armed; and immediately, with great confusion and much shouting and pressing, the main body began to move on quickly, spreading out as they went, and completely filling up the valley; but then they were crowded again, as they went higher, where the valley narrowed to the pass, and at last they were so squeezed and jammed together that the horses could hardly move at all. The Queen's ladies, with their great throng of attendants and servants, had drawn aside at the beginning of the valley, protected by two or three thousand men-at-arms, to wait the end of the fighting, but she herself was still on the spur of the hill before the woods. Before long came Sir Gaston de Castignac, on foot and covered with blood, his mail hacked in many places by the crooked Seljuk swords, and his three-cornered shield dinted and battered. He came to the Queen's side and made a grand bow, waving his right hand towards the trees, and he spoke in a loud voice. "The Duchess's highway is clear," he said. "The way is open and the road is swept. But the broom--" He turned livid and reeled. "The broom is broken!" he cried, as he fell at full length almost under the Arab mare's feet. He had been shot through the middle with an arrow, but had lived to tell of victory. In an instant the Queen knelt beside him, trying to raise his head; and he smiled when he knew her, and died. But there were gentle tears in her eyes as she rose to her feet and bade them bury the Gascon deep, while she herself laid his shield upon his knees, and crossed his hands upon his breast. Many others died there, and were buried quickly; but the bodies of the Seljuks were dragged aside, out of the line of the march; and it was high noon, for all that had happened had taken place in about two hours. Yet as the way was long to the summit of the pass, those of Gilbert's men who had not been killed urged the Queen to march on at once, in order that the camp might be pitched by daylight where Gilbert was waiting. So Eleanor commanded that all her people should follow her in the best order they could keep, and she began to ride up the steep way. But in the valley the King's army was pressing on and up toward the place where Gilbert had fought yesterday, where the bones of the slain Seljuks were already white, and the gorged vultures perched sleeping in the noonday sun. Two hours passed, and because the guides knew the way well, it being now the third time of their passing there, and because the Queen and her vanguard were on sure-footed horses, they reached the top in that time, and saw Gilbert and the eighty men he still had with him sitting on the rocks in their armour, waiting, and their horses tethered near by, but saddled and bridled. Then Gilbert stood out before the rest and waited for the Queen, who cantered forward and halted beside him. She began to speak somewhat hurriedly, and she constantly looked about her, rather than into his face, telling him how they had fought in the wood, and how the King and many of the host had gone round by the valley. Thereat Gilbert became very anxious. "The ladies are following me," said Eleanor, gently, for she knew why he was pale. As she spoke, a cry came on the air, wild, distinct as the scream of the hungry falcon, but it was the cry of thousands. "Hurr! Hurr! Hurr!" "The Seljuks are upon them," said Gilbert, "for that cry is from the pass above the valley. God have mercy on the souls of Christian men!" Dunstan, who knew him well, brought his horse at the first alarm. "By your Grace's leave," said Gilbert, taking the bridle to mount, "I will take my men and do what I can to help them. I have explored the way round this mountain, and every man who follows me may kill ten Seljuks at an advantage, from above, just as the Seljuks are now slaying the King's men, below them." "Hurr! Hurr! Kill! Kill!" Ear-piercing, wild, the cry of slaughter came up from the valley again and again, and worse sounds came now on the clear air, the howls of men pressed together and powerless, slain in hundreds with arrows and stones, and the unearthly shrieks of horses wounded to death. "They are in thousands," said Gilbert, listening. "I must have more men." "I give you my army," said Eleanor. "Command all, and do your best." For one moment Gilbert looked hard at her, scarcely believing that she meant the words. But she raised herself in her saddle, and called out in a loud voice to the hundreds of nobles and knights who had already come up. "Sir Gilbert Warde commands the army!" she cried. "Follow the Guide of Aquitaine!" There was light in his face as he silently bowed his head and mounted. "Sirs," he said, when he was in the saddle, "the way by which I shall lead you to rescue the King is narrow; therefore follow me in good order, two and two, all those who have sure-footed horses. But beyond the defile as many as a thousand may fight without hindering each other. The rest encamp here and protect the Queen and her ladies. Forward!" He saluted Eleanor and rode away, leaving her there. She hesitated and looked longingly after him, but Anne of Auch laid a hand upon her bridle. "Madam," she said, "your place is here, where there is no one to command. And here also there may be danger before long." All the time, the dreadful din of fight came up from below, louder and louder. The Seljuks had waited until not less than five thousand men, with the King himself, had passed through the narrow channel from the lower valley and choked the upper gorge, pushed on by those behind; and then, from their hiding-places among the rocks and trees, they had sprung up in their thousands to kill those taken in the trap like mice. First came the thick flight of their arrows, straight and deadly, going down with flashes into the sea of men; and then great stones rolled from the heights, boulders that crushed the life out of horse and man and rolled straight through the mass of human bodies, leaving a track of blood behind; and then more arrows, darting hither and thither in the sunlight like rock-swallows; and again stones and boulders, till the confusion and the panic were at their height, and the wild Seljuks sprang down the sides of the gorge, yelling for death, swinging their scimitars, to kill more surely by hand, lest they should waste arrows on dead men. The blood was ankle-deep in the pass, through which more and more of the Christians were driven up to the slaughter by those who followed them. The King was forcing his way through his own men, and with them, toward the side where there were most enemies. His sluggish blood was roused at last, and his sword was out. Nor was it long before he was able to fight hand to hand; but many of those around him were slain, because their arms were hampered in the close press. The Seljuks made room by killing, and climbed upon the slain towards the living. In the vast and screaming din, no one could have heard a voice of command, and the air was darkening with the steam and reek of battle. A full hour the Seljuks slew and slew, almost unharmed, and the Christians were dead in thousands under their feet. The King, with a hundred followers, was at bay by the roots of a huge oak tree, fighting as best he might, and killing a man now and then, though wounded in the face and shoulder, and sorely spent. But he saw that it was a desperate case and that all was lost, and no more of his army were coming up to the rescue, because the narrow pass was choked with dead. So he began to sing the penitential psalms in time with the swinging of his sword. It was towards evening, for the days were short, and the westering sun suddenly poured its light straight into the gorge and upon the rising ground above. Some of the Christians looked up out of the carnage, and the King turned his eyes that way when he could spare a glance, and suddenly the sun flashed back from the height, as from golden and silver mirrors quickly moving, and foremost was an azure shield with a golden cross flory, and the Christians knew it well. Then a feeble shout went up from the few who lived. "The Guide of Aquitaine!" they cried. But they were not heard, for suddenly there was a louder cry from the Seljuks, and it was not their war-yell, but something like a howl of fear. "The Wrath of God! The White Fiend!" For they were caught in their own trap, and death rose in their eyes. On the low heights above the gorge a thousand Christians had formed in ranks quickly, with lance lowered and sword loose in sheath. A moment later, and a steel cap went whirling through the air, glancing and gleaming in the sun, till it fell among the enemy below, and then came the sharp command, the leader's single word: "Charge!" The Seljuks heard the terrible, quick clanking of armour as the great troop began to move, and the Guide of Aquitaine swept down in a storm of steel, bareheaded, his fair hair streaming on the wind, his eyes on fire in the setting sun, his great sword high in air, the smile of destruction on his even lips. "The White Fiend! The Wrath of God!" screamed the Seljuks. They tried to fly, but there was no way out, for the pass was choked with dead below, and they must win or die, every living soul of their host. So they turned at bay, joining their strength, and standing as they could on heaps of dead bodies. There, where they had slain, Gilbert slew them, and a thousand blades flashed red in the red sunlight, in time with his; and there was a low, sure sound of killing as steel went through flesh and bone and was wrenched back to strike again. The Seljuks fought like madmen and like wild beasts while they could; but in Gilbert's eyes there was the awful light of victory, and his arm tired not, while rank upon rank the enemy went down, and the Christians who still lived began to smite them from behind. Then the pass was filled fuller than before, and a small red river leaped down from stone to stone, following the channel to the broad valley beyond, where nearly fifty thousand powerless men watched it flowing among them. But they listened, too, and the Seljuk yell grew fainter, because few were left, and there were few to cry out. The shout of triumphant Christian men came ringing down the evening air instead, and fear gave way to rejoicing and gladness; for though there were many dead in the upper valley, and many strong knights and men-at-arms, young and old, great and small, lay under the dead Seljuks who had killed them, yet the great body of the army was alive, the strength of the enemy was broken, and Gilbert had saved the King. In truth, he had found him in an evil case, with his back against the oak tree, and his knights dead around him; three of the last Seljuks who lived were still hacking at him with their crooked swords, while he sang his "De profundis," for his soul's good, and used his best fence for his body's safety, hewing away like a strong man and brave, as he was, notwithstanding his faults; and he was sore spent. "Sir," he said, taking Gilbert's hand, "ask what you will of me, and if it be no sin, you shall have it, for you have saved the army of the Cross." But the Englishman smiled and would ask nothing, for he had honour enough that day. Yet he knew not that on the cliff whence he had descended to the valley, there sat two women who dearly loved him, watching him from first to last,--the Queen and Beatrix. There they sat, unconsciously clasping hand in hand, and their eyes were wide with fear for him, and yet bright with pride of him as they saw the splendour of his deeds, how his fair streaming hair went ever forward through the Seljuk ranks, and how his track was deep and red for others to follow, till it seemed not possible that one man could slay so many and be unhurt, and a sort of awe came over them, as if he were a being beyond nature. Neither spoke, nor did either hand loosen on the other; but when it was done, and they saw him dismount, and stand a little apart from other men, resting on his sword, with the glory of the sunset in his face as he looked down the valley, then Beatrix turned to the Queen, and the tears of joy sprang to her eyes as she buried her girl's face in Eleanor's bosom, and she was glad of the kind arms that held her, seeming to understand all her joy. But the Queen's eyes were dry, her face was white, and her beautiful coral lips were parched as in a fever. CHAPTER XXIII In this way it came about that Gilbert, of whom the historians say that nothing else is known, was placed in command of the whole army of Crusaders, to lead them through the enemy's country down into Syria; and so he did, well and bravely. After the great battle in the valley there was much fighting still to be done, day by day; for the Seljuks retreated foot by foot, filling the mountains and sweeping down like storm-clouds, to disappear as quickly, leaving blood behind them. But Gilbert led the van, and held the whole pilgrimage together, commanding where the camp should be each night, and ordering the march. Men wondered at his wisdom, and at his strength to endure hardship; for all were very tired, and provision was scarce, and the Greek hill people sold at a tenfold value the little they had to sell, so that the soldiers dined not every day, and a dish of boiled goat's flesh was a feast. So the pilgrimage went on in fighting and suffering, and as time passed the people were the more in earnest with themselves and with one another, looking forward to the promised forgiveness of sins when they should have accomplished their vows in the holy places. They came down at last from the mountains to the sea, to a place called Attalia. Thence Gilbert would have led them still by land into Syria; but the King was weary, and the Queen also had seen the great mistake she had made in bringing her ladies into the pilgrimage; for few had the strength of the hardy Anne of Auch, or the spirit of Beatrix, to endure without murmuring, like men, and like very brave men. The ladies' train had become a company of complainers, murmuring against everything, longing for the good things of France, and often crying out bitterly, even with tears, that they had been brought out to waste their youth and freshness, or even their lives, in a wilderness. Therefore Eleanor consented at last to the King's desire, which was to take ship from Attalia to Saint Simeon's Harbour, which is close to Antioch. In Antioch also reigned her uncle, Count Raymond, a man of her own blood, and thinking as she thought; him she now desired to see and consult with, because he knew the world, and was an honourable man, and of good counsel. Yet there was danger there, too, for the King had once believed that this Count Raymond loved her, when he had been at the court, and the King was ever very jealous and sour. He would have brought the whole army to Antioch with him, but a great outcry arose; for, whereas all the great barons and knights were for the safer journey, the poorer sort of pilgrims feared the sea more than they feared the Seljuks, and they would not take ship. So at last the King let them go, and they, not knowing whither they went, boasted that they should reach Antioch first. He gave them money and certain guides whom he trusted. Then Gilbert, seeing that there was a choice of two ways, sat down at night and debated what he should do. He desired to follow Beatrix with the ships, for he had not seen Sir Arnold de Curboil since Christmas Eve, and he believed that he had gone back to Ephesus to sail for Syria, so that at the present time he could not suddenly surprise his daughter and carry her away, to force her to a marriage of which heirs might be born to his great possessions in England. Gilbert knew also that his command over the whole army was ended, that the enemy's country was now passed, and that all were to join forces with Count Raymond to win back Edessa in the spring. He should therefore have more time and leisure to protect Beatrix if needful; and this was a strong thing to move him, for he had seen her many times of late, and he loved her with all his heart. But on the other hand, when he saw how many thousands of the poorer people, who had taken the Cross in simple faith that God would provide for the journey, were about to go up into the passes again, to fight their own way through, without King or Queen or army, his charity bade him stay with them and lead them, as he only could, to live or die with them, rather than to go safely by water. So it was hard to decide which he should do, and he would not see Beatrix, lest she should persuade him; nor would he let himself think too much of the people, nor mix with them, for they knew him, and honoured him greatly, and would have carried him on their shoulders to make him their leader if he would. Therefore his debating with himself came to nothing, and he slept ill. In the early morning, as he was walking by the seashore, he met the Lady Anne of Auch, with two women behind her, coming back from the mass, and they stood and talked together. As he looked into her face he saw friendship there, and suddenly, though he was often slow of impulse, he began to tell her his trouble, walking beside her. "Sir Gilbert," she said quietly, "I loved a good man, who was my husband, and he loved me; but he was killed, and they brought him home to me dead. I tell you, Sir Gilbert, that the true love of man and woman is the greatest and best thing in all the world; but when two love one another, if their love be not the greatest thing save honour, then it is not true, nor worthy to be reckoned in account. Think well whether you love this lady truly, as I mean, or not, and if you do, there can be no more doubt." "Lady Anne," said Gilbert, when he had thought a little while, "you are a very honourable woman, and your counsel is good." After they had talked, they parted, and Gilbert went back to his lodging, being determined to go to Antioch by sea with the King and Queen; but still he was sorry for the poor pilgrims who were to be left behind to fight a way through for themselves. The great ships that had been hired for the voyage were heavy and unwieldy vessels to see, but yet swift through the water, whether the vast lateen sails drew full with a fair wind or were close-reefed in a gale, till they seemed mere jibs bent to the long yards, or even when in a flat calm the vessels were sent along by a hundred sweeps, fifty on each side; and they were partly Greek galleys and partly they were of Amalfi, whose citizens had all the commerce of the East, and their own quarter in every town and harbour, from the Piraeus round by Constantinople and all Asia Minor and Egypt, as far as Tunis itself. A clear northwest wind began to blow on the very day fixed for departure, and the big galleys swept out one by one, close upon each other, till they were outside and hoisted their sails, the sea being very smooth under the land; and when they had run out two or three miles, with the wind aft, they wore ship, one after another, coming to a little, to get their sheets in, and then holding off to jibe the great sails for the port tack, with much creaking of yards and flapping of canvas. Then, as they ran free along the coast to the eastward, the wind quartering, they got out great booms to windward, guyed fore and aft, and down to the forward beaching-hooks at the water's edge, at the first streak under the wales; and they set light sails, hauling the tacks well out and making the sheet fast after the southern fashion, and then swaying away at the halyards, till the white canvas was up to the mast-head, bellying full, and as steady as the upper half of a half-moon. Before many days they came to Saint Simeon's Harbour, which was the port of Antioch, and saw the mighty walls and towers on the heights a dozen miles inshore; and when Gilbert looked from the deck of his ship, he was glad that the army was not to besiege that great and strong fortress, since it belonged to Count Raymond, the Queen's uncle. But if he had known what things were to happen to him there, rather than have ridden up to the walled city he would have gone barefoot to Jerusalem, to fulfil his vow as he might. Count Raymond, with his broad shoulders and bronzed face and dark hair just turning gray at the temples, came down to meet the army at the shore; and first he embraced the King, according to custom, and then he kissed the Queen, his niece, not once, but four or five times, and she kissed him, for they were very glad to see each other; but it is not true, as some have said in their chronicles, that there were thoughts of love between them. Queen Eleanor had many bitter enemies, and her sins were almost as many as her good deeds, but love for Count Raymond was not among them. Nevertheless, King Louis was very jealous as soon as he saw the two embracing, for he had always believed that there was more than he knew. But he said nothing, for he feared his Queen. So there were great rejoicings in Antioch, when all the ladies and the barons and other nobles were installed there to keep Easter together; and though they had still some days of fasting during Holy Week, they were so glad to be in the great city, and so much lightened of trouble by having left the poorer pilgrims to shift for themselves, that it would have been easy for them to live on bread and water, instead of eating the dainty dishes of good fish, and the imitations of eggs made with flour and saffron and blanched almonds, and the delicate sweetmeats, and all the many good things which Count Raymond's fifty cooks knew how to prepare for Lent. For the Count lived luxuriously, though he was a good fighter at need. Most of all, he was a keen man, with few scruples, and the Queen began to ask him to help her in getting her marriage annulled, because she could no longer bear to be the wife of a spoon-faced monk, as she called the King; whereat Count Raymond laughed. Then he thought awhile and bent his broad brows; but soon his face cleared, for he had found a remedy. The King, he said, was surely Eleanor's cousin and within the prohibited degrees of consanguinity, so that the marriage was null and void; and the Pope would be obliged against his will to adhere to the rule of the Church and pronounce it so. They were cousins in the seventh degree, he said, because the King was descended from Eleanor's great-great-great-great-grandfather, William Towhead, Duke of Guienne, whose daughter, Adelaide of Poitiers, married Hugh Capet, King of France; and the seventh degree of consanguinity was still prohibited, and no dispensation had been given, nor even asked for. At first the Queen laughed, but presently she sent for the Bishop of Metz, and asked him; and he said that Count Raymond spoke truly, but that he would have nothing to do with the matter, since it had never been the intention of the Church that her rules should be misused. Yet it is said that he was afterwards of the Council which declared that there had been no marriage. So, being sure, the Queen went to the King and told him to his face that she had meant to marry a king, and not a monk as he was, and that she had now found out that her marriage was no marriage, wherefore he was living in mortal sin; and if he would save his soul he must repudiate her as soon as they should have returned to France. At this the King was overcome with grief and wept bitterly, not because he was to be delivered from the woman of Belial, as he had prayed, but because he had unwittingly lived in such great sin so many years. She laughed and went away, leaving him weeping. From that time she spent her days and her evenings in consultation with Count Raymond, and they were continually closeted together in her apartment, which was in one of the western towers of the palace and looked out over the city walls towards the sea. It was early spring, and the air smelt of Syrian flowers and was tender to breathe. Although the King was now sure that Eleanor was not his wife, he continued to be very jealous of her, because he had once loved her in his dull fashion, and she was very beautiful. Therefore, when he was not praying, he was watching and spying, to see whether she were alone with Count Raymond. Certain writers have spoken of the great Saladin at this time, saying that she met him secretly, for the deliverance of her kinsman Sandebeuil de Sanzay, who had been taken prisoner, and that she loved Saladin for his generosity, and that the King was jealous of him; which things are lies, because Saladin was at that time but seven years old. Daily, as he watched, the King grew very sure that Raymond loved Eleanor, and he swore by his hope of salvation that such things should not be. In this way the feast of Easter passed, and there were great rejoicings, and feastings, and all manner of delight. Also during this time Gilbert saw Beatrix freely, so that their love grew more and more; but he seldom spoke with the Queen, and then briefly. Now Eleanor lived in the western tower, and only one staircase led up to the vestibule of her apartments, by which way Count Raymond came, and the great nobles when she summoned them, and the guards also. But beyond her inner chamber there was a door opening into the long wing of the palace where all her ladies were lodged, and by that door she went to them and they came to her. Often the Lady Anne came in, and Beatrix, and some of the others who were more especially her familiars, and they found the Queen and Count Raymond sitting in chairs, and talking without constraint, and sometimes playing at chess by the open window which looked out on the west balcony. They thought no evil, for they knew that he had become her counsellor in the matter of the repudiation; and Beatrix cared not, for she knew well that the Queen loved Gilbert, and she never saw him there. On an evening in the week after Easter the King determined that he would see the Queen himself and tell her his mind. He therefore took two nobles for an escort, with torchbearers and a few guards; and when he had descended into the main court, he walked across to the west side and went up into Eleanor's tower; for he would not go through the ladies' wing, lest his eyes should see some fair and noble maiden, or some young dame of great beauty, whereby his pious thoughts might be disturbed ever so little. Having come to the vestibule, he demanded admittance to the Queen's chamber; and the young Lord of Sanzay, who was in waiting, begged him to wait while he himself inquired if the Queen were at leisure. Then the King was angry, and said that he waited for no one, and he went forward to go in. But Sanzay stood before the door and bade the Gascon guards form in rank and keep it till he should come back. The King saw that he had small chance of forcing a way, and he stood still, repeating some prayers the while, lest he should draw his sword and fight, out of sheer anger. Then Sanzay came back. "My lord King," he said in a clear voice, "her Grace bids me say that she has no leisure now, and that when she has need of a monk she will send for him." At the great insult, swords were out as soon as the words, and the broken reflections of steel flashed red under the high lamps and in the torchlight; for the King drew to strike down Sanzay where he stood, and his nobles and guards drew with him, while the Gascons were as quick as they. But Sanzay would not draw his sword, for he had once saved the King's life in battle, and he thought it not knightly. Then some blows were exchanged and blood was shed; but presently, being at a disadvantage, the King stepped back and lowered his point. "Sirs," he said, "it is not seemly that we of the Cross should kill one another. Let us go." When Sanzay heard this, he called his guards back, and the King went away discomfited. In the courtyard he turned aside and sat down upon a great stone seat. "Fetch me Sir Gilbert Warde," he said, "and let him come quickly." He waited silently till the knight came and stood before him in his surcoat and mantle, with only his dagger in his belt; and the King bade all his attendants go away to a distance, leaving a torch stuck in the ring in the wall. He desired of Gilbert that he should take a force of trusted men who would obey him, and go up the west tower to bring the Queen out a prisoner; for he would not stay in Antioch another night, nor leave her behind, and he meant to ride down to the harbour and take ship for Ptolemais, leaving the army to follow him on the morrow. But for a space Gilbert answered nothing. At first it seemed to him impossible to do such a deed, and but for courtesy he would have turned on his heel and left the King sitting there. But as he stood thinking, it seemed to him that he had better seem to obey, and go and warn the Queen of her danger. [Illustration: "FOR A SPACE GILBERT ANSWERED NOTHING"] "My lord," he answered at last, "I will go." Though he said not what he would do, the King was satisfied, and rose and went toward his own apartments, to order his departure. Then Gilbert went and sought out ten knights whom he knew, and each of them called ten of their men-at-arms, and they took their swords with them, and torches; but Gilbert had only his dagger, for those he had chosen were all of them Queen's men and would have died for her. So they went together up the broad steps of the tower, and the Gascons heard the hundred footfalls in fear and much trembling, supposing that the King had come back with a great force to slay them and go in. Then Sanzay drew his sword and stood at the head of the stairs, bidding his men keep the narrow way till they should all be dead for the Queen's sake. They were Gascons, and were ready to die, but they held their breath as they listened to the steady tramping on the stone steps below. In the torchlight they saw Gilbert's face, and the faces of Queen's men, and that there were no swords out; nevertheless, they kept theirs drawn and stood in the doorway, and on the landing Gilbert stood still, for they did not make way for him. "Sir Gilbert," said Sanzay, "I am here to keep the Queen's door, and though we be friends, I shall not let you pass while I live, if you mean her any violence." "Sir," answered Gilbert, "I come unarmed, as you see, and by no means to fight with you. I pray you, sir, go in and tell the Queen that I am without, and have her men with me, and would speak with her for her safety." Then Sanzay bade his men stand back, and the knights and men-at-arms crowded the vestibule, while he went in; and immediately he came out again, with a clear face. "The Queen is alone, and bids the Guide of Aquitaine pass," he said. All stood aside, and he, taller than they, and grave and keen of face, went in; and the door was closed behind him, and within that there was a heavy Eastern curtain, so that no voices could be heard from one side to the other. Eleanor sat under the warm lamplight, near the open window, for the night was warm. Her head was uncovered, her russet-golden hair fell in great waves upon her shoulders and to the ground behind her chair, and she wore no mantle, but only a close-fitting gown of cream-white silk with deep embroideries of silver and pearls. She was very beautiful, but very pale, and her eyes were veiled. Gilbert came and stood before her, but she did not hold out her hand, as he had expected. "Why have you come to me?" she asked after a time, looking out at the balcony, and not at him. "The King, Madam, has bidden me take you a prisoner to him, in order that he may carry you away by sea to Ptolemais and to Jerusalem." While he was speaking, she slowly turned her face to him, and stared at his coldly. "And you are come to do as you are bidden, getting admittance to me stealthily, with men of my own who have betrayed me?" Gilbert turned white, and then he smiled as he answered her. "No. I am come to warn your Grace and to defend you against all violence, with my life." Eleanor's face changed and softened, and again she looked out at the balcony. "Why should you defend me?" she asked sadly, after a pause. "What am I to you, that you should fight for me? I sent you out to die--why should you wish me to be safe?" "You have been the best friend to me, and the kindest, that ever woman was to man." "A friend? No. I was never your friend. I sent you out to death, because I loved you, and trusted that I might see you never again, and that you might die honourably for the Cross and your vows. Instead, you won glory, and saved us all--all but me! You owe me no thanks for such friendship." She looked at him long, and he was silent. "Oh, what a man you are!" she cried suddenly. "What a man!" He blushed like a girl at the praise, for her soul was in the words, and her great love for him, the only thing in all her life that had ever been above herself. "What a man you are!" she said again, more softly. "Eleanor of Aquitaine, the Queen, the fairest woman in the world, would give you her soul and her body and the hope of her life to come--and you are faithful to a poor girl whom you loved when you were a boy! A hundred thousand brave men stand by to see me die, and you alone take death by the throat and strangle him off, as you would strangle a bloodhound, with those hands of yours! I send you out--oh, how selfishly!--that you may at least die bravely for your vow and leave me at sad peace with your memory, and you fight through a hell of foes and save the King and me and all, and come back to me in glory--my Guide of Aquitaine!" She had risen and stood before him, her face dead white with passion, and her eyes deep-fired by a love that was beyond any telling. And though she would not move, her arms went out toward him. "How can any woman help loving you!" she cried passionately. She sank into her chair again, and covered her face with her hands. He stood still a moment, and then came and knelt on one knee beside her, resting his hand upon the carved arm of her chair. "I cannot love you, but in so far as I may be faithful to another I give you my whole life," he said very gently. As he spoke the last words, the curtain of the inner apartments was softly raised, and Beatrix stood there; for she had thought that the Queen was alone. But she heard not the beginning of the speech, and she grew quite cold, and could not speak nor go away. Eleanor's hands left her face and fell together upon Gilbert's right. "I have not mine to give," she answered in a low voice. "It is yours already--and I would that you were not English, that I might be your sovereign and make you great among men--or that I were England's Queen--and that may come to pass, and you shall see what I will do for love of you--I would marry that boy of the Plantagenets, if it could serve you!" "Madam," said Gilbert, "think of your own present safety--the King is very angry--" "Did I think of your safety when I sent you out to lead us? Now if you are here, am I not safe? Gilbert--" She let her voice caress his name, and her lips lingered with it, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders. As he knelt beside her--she bent to his face. "Best and bravest living man"--it was a whisper now--"love of my life--heart of my heart--this last time--this only once--and then good-by." She kissed him on the forehead, and leapt from her seat in horror, for there was another voice in the room, with a hurt cry. "Oh, Gilbert! Gilbert!" Beatrix was reeling on her feet, and caught the curtain, lest she fall, and her face of agony was still turned toward the two, as they stood together. Gilbert sprang forward, when he understood, and caught the girl in his arms and brought her to the light, trembling like a falling leaf. Then she started in his arms and struggled wildly to be free, and twisted her neck lest he should kiss her; but he held her fast. "Beatrix! You do not understand--you did not hear!" He tried to make her listen to him. "I heard!" she cried, still struggling. "I saw! I know! Let me go--oh, for God's sake, let me go!" Gilbert's arms relaxed, and she sprang back from him two paces, and faced the Queen. "You have won!" she cried, in a breaking voice. "You have him body and soul, as you swore you would! But do not say that I have not understood!" "I have given him to you, soul and body," answered Eleanor, sadly. "Might I not even bid him good-by, as a friend might?" "You are false--falser each than the other," answered Beatrix, in white anger. "You have played with me, tricked me, made me your toy--" "Did you hear this man say that he did not love me, before I bade him good-by?" asked Eleanor, gravely, almost sternly. "He has said it to me, but not to you, never to you--never to the woman he loves!" "I never loved the Queen," said Gilbert. "On my soul--on the Holy Cross--" "Never loved her? And you saved her life before mine--" "And you said that I did well--" "It was all a lie--a cruel lie--" The girl's voice almost broke, but she choked down the terrible tears, and got words again. "It would have been braver to have told me long ago--I should not have died then, for I loved you less." Eleanor came a step nearer and spoke very quietly and kindly. "You are wrong," she said. "Sir Gilbert is sent by the King to take me as a prisoner, that I may be carried away to Jerusalem this very night. Come, you shall hear the voices of the soldiers who are waiting for me." She led Beatrix to the door and lifted the curtain, so that through the wooden panels the girl could hear the talking of many voices, and the clank of steel. Then Eleanor brought her back. "But he would not take me," she said, "and he warned me of my danger." "No wonder--he loves you!" "He does not love me, though I love him, and he has said so to-night. And I know that he loves you and is faithful to you--" Beatrix laughed wildly. "Faithful! He? There is no faith in his greatest oath, nor in his smallest word!" "You are mad, child; he never lied in all his life to me or you--he could not lie." "Then he has deceived you, too--Queen, Duchess; you are only a woman, after all, and he has made sport of you, as he has of me!" Again she laughed, half furiously. "If he has deceived me he has indeed deceived you," answered Eleanor, "for he has told me very plainly that he loves you. And now I will not stand between you and him, even in the mistake you made. I love him, yes. I have loved him enough to give him up, because he loves you. I love him so well that I will not take his warning and save myself from the King's anger, and I know not what he and his monks will do to me. Good-by, Sir Gilbert Warde--Beatrix, good-by." "This is some comedy," answered the girl, exasperated. "No--by the living truth, it is no comedy," answered the Queen. She looked once more into Gilbert's face, and then turned away, stately and sad. With one movement she drew aside the great curtain, and with the next she opened wide the door, and the loud clamour of the knights and men-at-arms came in like a wave. Then it ceased suddenly, as Eleanor spoke to them in clear tones. "I am the King's prisoner. Take me to him!" There was silence for a moment, and then the Gascons who had fought with the King and his men cried out fiercely. "We will not let you go! We will not let our Duchess go!" They feared some evil for her, and were loyal men to her, hating the King. But Eleanor raised her hand to motion them back, for their faces were fierce, and their hands were on their swords. "Make way for me, if you will not take me to him," she said proudly. Then Sanzay, her kinsman, stepped before the rest, and spoke. "Madam," he said, "the Duchess of Gascony cannot be prisoner to the King of France, while there are Gascons. If your Grace will go to the King, we will go also, and we shall see who is to be a prisoner." At this there was a great shout that rang up to the vault of the lofty vestibule, and down the stone steps and out into the courtyard. Eleanor smiled serenely, for she knew her men. "Go with me, then," she said, "and see that no bodily harm comes to me. But in this matter I shall do the King's will." In the room behind, the words echoed clearly, and Beatrix turned to Gilbert. "You see," she said, "it is but a play that you have thought of between you, and nothing more." "Can you not believe us?" he asked reproachfully. "I shall believe you when I know that you love me," she answered, and turned away, towards the door of the inner apartments. Gilbert followed her. "Beatrix!" he cried. "Beatrix! Hear me!" She turned once more, with a face like stone. "I have heard you, I have heard her, and I do not believe you," she answered. Without another word she left him and went out. He stood looking after her for a moment, while his calm face darkened slowly; and his anger was slow and lasting, as the heating of a furnace for the smelting. He stooped and picked up his cap, which had fallen to the floor, and then he, too, followed the Queen, through the vestibule and stairs and courtyard, to the King's presence. CHAPTER XXIV That night they left hastily and went down to the sea with torches; but it was dawn when they were on board one of the great ships, and the hawsers were cast off, and the crew began to heave up the anchor. In his anger, Gilbert had called his men, and had gone on board also, and many hours passed before he realized what he had done. Then he began to torment himself. His angry manhood told him that he was just and that he should not bear a girl's unbelief when he was manifestly in the right; and his love answered that he had left Beatrix without protection and perhaps at the mercy of her father, since he might come by sea at any moment and claim her from Count Raymond, who would give her up without opposition. He wondered also why Sir Arnold had not appeared, and whether, having sailed from Ephesus, he had been shipwrecked. But his thoughts soon turned back to his work, and he sat on the low rail by the main-rigging, looking down at the blue water as the ship ran smoothly along. What was there in Beatrix to hold him, after all? It was nothing but a boyish memory, revived by a mistaken idea of faith. But suddenly he felt within him the aching hollow and the grinding hunger of heart that the loved woman leaves behind her, and he knew well that his anger was playing a comedy with him, as Beatrix had accused him and the Queen of playing a play in the past night. It was hard that she should not have believed him; and yet when one has seen and heard, it is harder still to believe against sight and hearing. If she had loved him, he said to himself, she could not have doubted him. He would never have doubted her, no matter what he might have seen her do. But at this he began to realize and understand; for in order to persuade himself, he pictured her sitting as the Queen had sat, and a man bending over her and kissing her and calling her the love of his life and heart, and he felt another sort of anger rising fiercely in him, because the imagined sight was vivid and bad to see. Thereupon he grew calmer, seeing that she was not wholly wrong, and he began to curse his evil fate and to wish that he had not followed the Queen, but had stayed behind at Antioch. But it was too late now, for Antioch was gone in the purple distance, and it was towards evening. The day dawned again, and darkened, and days after that, while he perpetually blamed himself more and more and began to find a fault in every doing of his life, and the gloom of the northern temper settled upon him and oppressed him heavily, so that his companions wondered what had happened to him. During all that time the Queen never showed herself, but remained in her cabin with the Lady Anne, who had come with her and would not be denied. For Eleanor hated to see the King, and she was afraid to see Gilbert, whom she knew to be in the ship's company, and she was very sad, also, and cared not for the daylight nor for men's voices. It made it worse that she had tried to sacrifice herself for the woman Gilbert loved, since it had been in vain, and she had not been believed, and since he had after all come with her, she knew not why. As for the King, he sat all day long on the quarter-deck under an awning, telling beads, and praying fervently that the presence of the woman of Belial might not distract his thoughts when he should at last come to the holy places; for before anything else he considered his own soul as of great importance. So they came to Ptolemais, which some called Acre, and they rode a weary way to Jerusalem, till the young King Baldwin of Jerusalem, the third of that name, came out to meet them with a very rich train. Then Gilbert lagged behind, for he had no heart in any rejoicing or feasting, seeing that he should not have been there at all, and had left Beatrix in anger. But Eleanor had come out of the ship to the shore, more beautiful than ever, and serenely scornful of the King, since he had not even dared to use the power she had put into his hands, in order to tell her his mind, and speak out his reproaches; and he was more ridiculous than ever in her eyes. From that time she paid no more attention to him than if he had not existed, for she despised a man who would not use the power he had. As for Gilbert, though he was in such melancholy mood, when he saw the walls and towers of Jerusalem at last, a hope of peace sprang up in him, and a certainty of satisfaction not like anything which he had known before; and it seemed to him that if he could but be alone in the holy places he should find rest for his soul. Therefore he rode in the rear of the train, though he was a man of consequence, and many young knights and squires looked up to him and kept him company, so that he could not escape altogether to an outward solitude. His eyes looked up before him, and he saw the holiest city in the world, like a vision against the pale sky, as the day sank; and his whole being went out to be there, floating before him in a prayer learnt long ago. Therein, as when he had been a child in his English home, he heard the voice of a guardian angel praying with him--praying for the good against the evil, for the light against the darkness, for the clean against the unclean, for the good self against the bad; and his heart made echoes in heaven. He heard not the sounds that came back from the royal train, the high talking and glad laughter; for that would have jarred on him and set his teeth on edge, and he had shut the doors of the body upon himself to be alone within. It mattered not that young Baldwin was riding by the Queen, already half in love, and making soft speeches within sight of the hill whereon Christ died, nor that he took a boy's mischievous pleasure in interrupting the King's droning litany, recited in verse and response with the priest at his side; nor that some of the knights were chattering of what lodging they should find, and the young squires, in undertones, of black-eyed Jewish girls, and the grooms of Syrian wine. They were as nothing, all these, as nothing but the shadows of the world cast by its own ancient evil at the foot of the Cross, and he only was real and alive, and the Cross only was true and high in the pure light. And in this he was not quite dreaming, for the train that rode up from Acre was not all of those true Crusaders of whom many had been with the army, both rich and poor, but of whom the rich had stayed behind in Antioch and the poor had perished miserably by the swords of the Seljuks or by the wiles of the Greeks, when they had tried to come on by land; and many of them had been sold into slavery, and not one reached Jerusalem alive, out of so many thousands. Of the forty or fifty who were first in sight of the City, scarcely three were in heartfelt earnest, and they were the Lady Anne of Auch, and Gilbert Warde, and the King himself. But with the King all faith took a material shape, which was his own, and the buying of his own salvation had turned his soul into a place of spiritual usury. The Lady Anne was calm and silent, and when young Baldwin spoke to her she hardly heard him, and answered in few words, little to the point. She had trusted that she might never see Jerusalem, for she had hoped to die of wound or sickness by the way, and so end in heaven, with him she had lost, the pilgrimage begun on earth. For she was a most faithful woman, and of the most faithful there is often least to tell, because they have but one thought, one hope, one prayer. And seeing that she had come through alive, she neither rejoiced nor complained, knowing that there was more to bear before the end, and trusting to bear it all bravely for the dear sake of her dead love. It may be, also, that she was the most earnest of all those who had taken the Cross, because all earthly things that had made her life happy had been taken from her. Yet of all men, Gilbert Warde had fought best and most, and in so far as bodily peril was counted, none had lived through so much as he; for many of his companions had been killed beside him, and others had taken their place, and even his man Dunstan had been wounded twice, and little Alric once, and many horses had been killed under him, but he himself was untouched, even after the great battle in the valley; and there were honours for him whenever he was seen. In this, too, he was high-hearted and thoughtless of himself, that when he saw the Holy City before him, he forgot the many risks of life and limb, and the hunger and cold and weariness through which he had passed, and forgot that he had won reward well and fairly, thinking only that the peace he felt came as a gift from Heaven. That evening, when there was a feast in Baldwin's palace, the Lady Anne was not there; and when the King of France called for the Guide of Aquitaine to present him to the King of Jerusalem, he was not in the hall nor within the walls; and by and by the Queen herself rose and went out, leaving the two Kings at table. For Gilbert had gone fasting to the Holy Sepulchre, with Dunstan bearing his shield, and with a man to lead them. Then he went into the vast church which the crusaders had built to enclose all the sacred ground, and little lights broke the darkness here and there, without dispelling it, but the poor Christian who led Gilbert had a taper in his hand. The knight came first to the deep-red stone whereon Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea anointed the body of the Lord for burial, and there kneeling down, he set his shield and sword before him and prayed that he might yet use them well. Then the man took him to the Golgotha, and he laid down his arms before him and stood trembling, as if he were afraid, and the drops of sweat stood out upon his forehead, and his low voice shook like a little child's when he prayed in the place where God died for man. Afterwards he knelt and touched the stones with his face, and spread out his arms crosswise, not knowing what he did. But when he had lain thus some time he rose and took up his shield and sword, and the man led him farther through the darkness to other places. So at last they brought him to the Tomb, and he sent away the man who had guided him, and bade Dunstan go back also; but he would not. "I also have fought for the Cross, though I be but a churl," said the dark-faced man. "You are no churl," answered Gilbert, gravely. "Kneel beside me and watch." "I will watch with you," said Dunstan, and he took his own sword and laid it next to Gilbert's. But he knelt one step behind his master, on his left side. More than forty burning lamps hung above the stone of the Tomb, and around the stone itself stood a grating of well-wrought iron having a wicket with a lock of pure gold. Then Gilbert raised his eyes, and looking through the iron fence, he saw that on the other side some one was kneeling also, and it was the Lady Anne of Auch, robed all in black, with a black hood half thrown back; but her face was white, with dark shadows, and her two white hands clasped two of the iron stanchions, while her sad eyes looked upwards fixedly, seeing a vision, and not seeing men. Gilbert was glad that she was there. So they knelt an hour, and another hour, and no sound broke the stillness, nor did they feel any weariness at all, for their hearts were lifted up, and for a time the world fell away from them. Then a soft sound of footsteps was in the church, ceasing at some distance from the Tomb, which was not then shut off within walls of its own. But none of the three turned to see who was there, and there was silence again. Eleanor had come alone to the Sepulchre, and stood gazing at the three, not willing to come nearer. As she looked, her sins rose in her eyes and passed before her, many and great, and where her good deeds were hidden in her soul there was darkness, and she despaired of forgiveness, for she knew her own pride, that it could never be broken in her. She looked on that most faithful woman, and on that maiden knight whom she so dearly loved, sinning daily in her heart for him, and yet for his sake fighting her loving thoughts; and she would not have dared to go forward and kneel beside the pure in heart, in the holy light. All alone she drew back, and when she was so far that they could not have seen her, had they looked, she knelt down by a pillar, and drew her dark veil over her face, folding her hands in the hope of forgiveness and peace, and in great loneliness. Some comfort she found in this, that for the great love of her life, the like of which she had not known nor was to know again, though she had wished evil and dreamed of sweetest sins, she had done a little good at the last, and that the man who knelt there praying had grown stronger and greater and of higher honour by her means. Yet the comfort was not of much worth in her loneliness, since she had given him to another, and none could take his place. Then she said prayers she knew, but they had no meaning, and she gazed from beneath her veil at the place where the Lord had lain; but she felt nothing, and her heart was as stone, believing what she saw, but finding no light of faith for her in the divine beyond. At last she rose softly, as she had knelt, and leaning against the pillar, she looked long at the man she loved, and at the shield with the cross of Aquitaine, and, in it, at the spot she had once so fervently kissed. Her hand went to her heart, where it hurt her, and with the hurt came the great pure longing that, come what might to herself, all might be well with him; and her lips moved silently, while her eyes would have given him the world and its glory. "God, let me perish, but keep him what he is!" Shall any one say that such true prayers are not heard, because they are spoken by lips that have sinned? If not, God is not good, nor did Christ die to save men. The daughter of princes, the wife of two kings, as she was to be, and the mother of two kings, and of many more in line after them, she drew down her veil that none might see her face under the dim lights, and she went out thence, very lonely and sad, into the streets of Jerusalem. At midnight came a priest of the church to trim the lights at the tomb; yet the three did not move, and he prayed awhile and went away. But when the watchmen cried the dawning, and their voices came faintly in by the doorway, floating through the dark church, Gilbert rose to his feet, and Dunstan with him, and they took their arms with them, and went away, leaving the Lady Anne the last of them all, her white hands still clasping the iron bars, her sad black eyes still turned to heaven. Faint streaks were in the eastern sky, but it was still almost dark as the two men turned to the left to follow the way by which they had come. Three steps from the door, Dunstan stumbled against something neither hard nor soft, and in many fights he had learned what that thing was. "There is a dead man here," he said, and Gilbert had stopped also. They stooped down, trying to see, and Dunstan felt along the body, touching the mantle, till he found something sharp, which was the point of a dagger out of its sheath. "He is a knight," said Dunstan, "for he wears his surcoat and sword-belt under his mantle." But Gilbert was gazing into the face, trying to see, while the dust under the head grew slowly grey in the dawn, and the waxen features seemed to rise up out of the earth before him. But then he started, for, as he looked down, his own eyes were but a hand-breadth from an arrow-head that stuck straight up out of the dead forehead, and the broken shaft with its feathers darkly soiled lay half under the body. Dunstan also looked, and a low sound of gladness came from his fierce lips. "It is Arnold de Curboil!" exclaimed Gilbert, in measureless surprise. "And this is Alric's arrow," answered Dunstan, looking at the point, and then handling the piece of the broken shaft. "This is the arrow that was sticking in your cap on that day when we fought for sport in Tuscany, and Alric picked it up and kept it. And often in battle he had but that one left, and would not shoot, saying that it was only to be shot to save his master's life. So now it has done its work, for though the knight was shot from behind, he has his dagger in his dead hand under his cloak, and he must have followed you to the door of the church to kill you in the dark within. Well done, little Alric!" Then Dunstan spat in the face of the dead man and cursed him; but Gilbert took his man by the collar and pulled him aside roughly. "It is unmanly to insult the dead," he said, in disgust. But Dunstan laughed savagely. "Why?" he asked. "He was only my father!" Gilbert's hand relaxed and fell to his side, then he lifted it again and laid it gently on Dunstan's shoulder. "Poor Dunstan!" he said. But Dunstan smiled bitterly and said nothing, for he thought himself poor indeed, since if the dead man had given him a tenth of his due, he should have had land enough for a knight. "We cannot leave him here," said Gilbert, at last. "Why not? There are dogs." Dunstan took up his master's shield and without more waiting turned his back on his father's body. But Gilbert stood where he was, and gazed down into the face of the man who had done him so much harm; and he remembered Faringdon and the swift stroke that had killed his father, and Stortford woods, where he himself had lain for dead. He still saw in dreams how Curboil snatched his dagger left-handed from its sheath, and now, by strong association, he wished to see whether it were still the same one, a masterpiece of Eastern art, and he stooped down in the dawn to pull back the cloak and take the weapon. It was the same, fair and keen, with the chiselled hilt. He stuck it into his own belt, for a memory, for it had once been sheathed in his own side; then he drew the cloak over the dead face and went his way, just as the hushed city began to stir, following Dunstan to his lodging, musing on the strange chances of his life, and glad that, since his enemy was to die, it had not been his ill chance to soil the blade consecrated to the Cross with blood so vile, and to slay with his own hand the father of the woman he loved. Now also, as he thought calmly, he guessed that Beatrix must be in Jerusalem, and that Curboil, having taken her from Antioch, and meaning to kill his enemy before he sailed back to England, had brought his daughter with him, fearing lest she should escape him again and find refuge against him. He found little Alric sitting on the low doorstep of the house where he lodged, his stolid Saxon face pink and white in the fresh dawn, and his thick hands hanging idly over his knees, while the round blue eyes stared at the street. He got up when Gilbert came near, and pulled off his woollen cap. "Well done, Alric," said Gilbert. "That is the second time you have saved my life." "It was a good arrow," answered Alric, thoughtfully. "I carried it two years and made it very sharp. It is a pity the man broke the shaft with his head when he fell, and I would have cut off the steel point to use it again, but I heard footsteps and ran away, lest I should be taken for a thief." "It was well shot," said Gilbert, and he went in. CHAPTER XXV It had been early dawn when they had found Sir Arnold dead; it was toward evening when Gilbert and Dunstan followed a young Jew to the door of a Syrian house in a garden of the old quarter of the city, toward the Zion gate. All day they had searched Jerusalem, up and down, through the narrow streets of whitened houses, inquiring everywhere for a knight who had lately come with his one daughter, and no one could tell them anything; for Sir Arnold had paid well to find a retired house, where Beatrix might be safely guarded while he went out to seek Gilbert and kill him, and where he himself could hide if there were any pursuit. So they asked in vain, till at last they saw a boy sitting by the wayside on the hill of the Temple, weeping and lamenting in the Eastern fashion. The guide, who was also a Jew, asked him what had chanced, and he said that his father was gone on a journey, leaving him, his young son, in the house with his mother. And there had come a Christian knight with a daughter and her woman and certain servants, desiring to hire the house for a time because it was in a pleasant place; and they had let him have it, he promising by an interpreter to pay a great price; but he had not yet paid it. In the morning the young man had seen Christians carrying away the body of this knight to bury it; and he had been to the house, but the knight's servants would not let him in, and did not understand his speech, and threatened to beat him; and now he was afraid lest his father should come home unawares and take him and his mother to account for letting strangers use the house without even paying for it beforehand. When Gilbert saw that he had found what he sought, he first gave money to the boy, to encourage him, and bade the interpreter tell him to lead them all to the house, saying that Gilbert himself would enter, in spite of the servants. The boy took the money, and when he had measured Gilbert with his eye, he understood, and went before them with no more weeping; and the knight's step was light and quick with hope, for he had begun to doubt whether Beatrix were really in the city after all. The house was low and white, and stood at the end of a small garden in which there were palms, and spring flowers growing in straight lines between small hewn stones, laid so as to leave little trenches of earth between them. There was a hard path, newly swept, leading to the square door of the house, and on the doorpost were clearly written certain characters in Hebrew. Gilbert knocked on the door, not loudly, with the hilt of his dagger, but no one answered; and again louder, but there was no sound from within. Then he shook the door, trying whether it would open of itself by a push; but it was fast, and the two windows of the house that looked out on each side of the door were barred also. "They think that some great force is with us, and are afraid," said the Jewish boy. "Speak to them, sir, for they do not understand my tongue." And the interpreter explained what he said. Then Gilbert spoke in English, for he supposed that Curboil's men must be Englishmen, but the Jewish boy knew that the words should sound otherwise. "In Greek, sir! Speak to them in Greek, for they are all Greeks. That is why they are afraid. All Greeks are afraid." The interpreter began to speak in Greek, clear and loud, but no sound came. Yet when Gilbert put his ear to the door he thought that he heard something like a child's moaning. It had a sound of pain in it, and his blood rose at the thought that some weak creature was being hurt. So he took little Alric's leathern belt, such as grooms wear, and bound it round his hand to guard the flesh, and he struck the door where the leaves joined in the middle, once and twice and three times, and it began to open inward, so that they could see the iron bolt bent half double. Then with his shoulder he forced it in, so that the bolt slipped from the socket, and the leaves flew open. There was a little court within, around which the house was built, with a well for rain-water in the middle, after the fashion that was half Roman and half Eastern. Gilbert went in, and bade all be silent that he might hear whence the moaning came; for it was more distinct now, and it seemed to come from the well, with a little splashing of water; so he went and looked down, and when he saw what was there he cried aloud for fear. For there he saw an upturned face, half dead, with a white thing bound across the mouth, and hands tied together, and struggling to strike the water, but heavily weighted and it was the face of Beatrix, two fathoms below him. There were holes opposite each other, in the two sides of the well, for a man's hands and feet, for climbing down into the cistern; and Gilbert lost no moment, but began to descend at once yet long before he had got the bound hands together in his own, stooping and himself in peril of falling, the face had sunk below the bubbling water. With his feet firmly planted in the holes, and standing as it might be astride of the well, he lifted the girl up and though she was so slight, it was one of the hardest things he ever had to do, for her clothes were full of water, and he was at a disadvantage; nor could his men help him till he had raised her so high that he could rest her weight on his right knee and against his own body. Then the others climbed down and slipped their belts under her arms, and she was taken out in safety and laid upon the pavement of the little court. And then the Jewish boy went to call his mother from the house of her sister, where they two had gone to live, for Beatrix had need of a woman. Gilbert knelt down and laid her head upon Dunstan's coat folded together, and covered her with his own mantle, gazing into the unconscious face, small and pale and pitiful, and he remembered how he had seen it last in Antioch, full of anger and unbelief, so that he had turned and left what he loved just when evil was at hands and his heart stood still, and then smote him in his breast, and stood still again, as the smith's hammer is poised in the air between the strokes. Beatrix did not move and seemed not to breathe, lying as one dead, and suddenly Gilbert believed that there was no life left in her. He tried to speak to Dunstan, but he could make no sound, for his tongue and his throat were suddenly parched and paralyzed, so that he was dumb in his grief; but he took the small white hands, with the wrists all cut by the cords, and folded them upon the breast, and he took his cross-hilted dagger with its sheath, and laid it between the hands for a cross, and gently tried to close the half-opened eyes. Then, when Dunstan saw what his master meant, he touched him on the shoulder and spoke to him. "She is not dead," he said. Gilbert started and looked up at him, and saw that he was in earnest; but the man's lean face was drawn with anxiety. "Sir," said Dunstan, "will you let me touch the Lady Beatrix?" The knight's brow darkened, for that a churl's hands should touch a high-born lady's face seemed to him something monstrous and against nature; but in the moment he had forgotten something. "She is quite dead," he tried to say. Then Dunstan spoke sadly, kneeling down beside her. "This lady is half my sister," he said. "I have some skill with half-drowned persons. Let me save her, sir, unless we are to let her die before our eyes. A gipsy taught me what to do." The cloud passed from Gilbert's face, but still he did not believe. "In heaven's name, do what you can, try what you know, and quickly!" he said. "Help me, then," said Dunstan. So he did as all skilled persons know how to do with half-drowned people, though only the gipsies knew it then. They turned her body gently so that the clear water ran from her parted lips, and laying her down again, they took her arms and drew them over her head, stretched them out, and brought them down to her sides, again and again, so as to make her breathe, and the breath was drawn in and breathed out again with a delicate foam that clung to her lips. Still Sir Gilbert did not believe, and though he helped his man, in the despair of the instant, and in the horror of losing the least chance of life, it all seemed to him a desecration of the most dear dead, and more than once he would have let the poor little arm rest, rather than make it limply follow the motion Dunstan gave to the other. "She is quite, quite dead," he said again. "She is alive," answered Dunstan; "stop not now one moment, or we shall lose her." His dark face glowed, and his unwinking eyes watched her face for the least sign of life. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, passed, and time seemed facing death--the swift against the immovable and eternal. Gilbert, the strong and masterful in fight, humbly and anxiously watched his man's looks for the signs of hope, as if Dunstan had been the wisest physician of all mankind; and indeed in that day there were few physicians who knew how to do what the man was doing. And at last the glow in his face began to fade, and Gilbert's heart sank, and the horror of so disturbing the dead came upon him tenfold, so that he let the slender arm rest on the stones, and sighed. But Dunstan cried out fiercely to him. "For your life, go on! She is alive! See! See!" And even as Gilbert sadly shook his head in the last collapse of belief, the long lashes quivered a little with the lids and were still, and quivered again, and then again, and the eyes opened wide and staring, but broad awake; and then the delicate body shook and was half convulsed by the miracle of life restored, and the slight arms quickened with nervous strength, resisting the men's strong hands, and a choking cough brought the bright colour to the pale cheeks. Then Gilbert lifted her from the pavement to the stone rim of the well, that she might breathe better, and presently the choking ceased, so that she lay quite still with her head against his breast, and her weight in his arms. But still she did not speak, and the man's heart beat furiously with joy, and then stood still in fear, lest the worst should come again, whereof there was no danger; but he did not know, and Dunstan and Alric were suddenly gone, seeking wine in the house. Just when the girl seemed to be sinking into a swoon they brought a short draught of Syrian wine in an earthen cup; for little Alric was not wise, but he would have found wine in the sandy desert, and he had gone straight to a corner where a leathern bottle with a wooden plug was hung up in a cool place. Beatrix drank, and revived again, and looked up to Gilbert. "I knew you would come," she said faintly, and she smiled, but Gilbert could not speak. By this time the Jewish boy had brought his mother, and they carried the girl into a room, and the woman took care of her kindly, fearing lest a Christian should die in her husband's house, and also lest she should not be paid the value of the rent, but with womanly gentleness also, wrapping her in dry clothes of her own before she laid her to rest. For Arnold de Curboil's servants had been all Greeks, and when they had learned that their master had been killed in the night, they had bolted and barred the house, and had bound Beatrix and her Norman tirewoman hand and foot and gagged their mouths with cloths, in order that they might carry off the rich plunder, but at first they had not meant to kill the women. Only when they were just about to slip away, one at a time, so as to escape notice, they held a council, and the most of them said that it would be better to throw the women into the well, lest either of them should help the other, and getting loose, escape from the house and cause a pursuit. So they threw the Norman woman down first, and when they saw that she sank the third time, being drowned, they threw Beatrix after her. But the well was not so deep as they had thought, and was narrow, so that Beatrix had kept her head above the water a long time, her feet just touching the body of her drowned servant. And in this way the faithful woman had saved her mistress after she was dead. When this was known, they took her from the well and bore her to burial without the city, while Beatrix was asleep. That night Gilbert and Dunstan lay on their cloaks within the half-broken door of the house, which could not be bolted, for they were tired, having watched by the Sepulchre all the night before that; and little Alric kept watch in the courtyard, walking up and down lest he should sleep, for the Syrian wine might have made him drowsy, and he had the whole bottle to himself. But he drank slowly and thoughtfully, and when he felt that his head was not clear, he let the wine alone, and walked up and down a long time talking to himself and warning himself to keep sober. This being accomplished, he swallowed another draught, wisely sipping it by half mouthfuls, and then walked again; and so all night, and in the dawn he was as fresh and rosy and sober as ever, but the big leathern bottle lay quite flat and disconsolate on the pavement; for he came of the old English archers, who were good men at a bowl, and steady on their legs. In the morning Gilbert awoke and sat up, on the pavement, and as Alric came near he made a sign that he should not wake Dunstan, but let him rest. He looked at the sleeper's face, and thought how much this servant of his had suffered, being quite half as gentle by birth as he himself; and he remembered how the man had fought ever bravely, and had shed his blood, and had never taken gifts of money from his master, save for great necessity, and had asked for a sword rather than for a tunic when he had raised the riot to save Beatrix and the Queen in Nicaea; and Gilbert was ashamed that such a man, who was in truth the eldest born of a great house, should be a starving servant. So when Dunstan opened his eyes and started up at seeing his master awake, Gilbert spoke to him. "You have fought with me," he said, "you have endured with me, we have fasted together on the march, and we have drunk of the same spring in battle while the arrows fell about us, and now, God willing, we are to be brothers, when I wed the Lady Beatrix, and but for you I should be mourning by her grave to-day. It is not meet that we should be any longer master and man, for you have gentle blood in you, of a great house." "Sir Gilbert," murmured Dunstan, flushing darkly, "you are very kind to me, but I will not have gentlehood of a father who was a murderer and a thief." "You prove yourself gentle by that speech," answered Gilbert. "Had he no other blood to give you than his own? Then the Lady Beatrix is also the daughter of a thief and a murderer." "And of a lady of great lineage. That is different. I am no peer of my lady sister. But if so be that I may have a name, and be called gentle, then, sir, I pray you, beg of our sovereign in England that I may be called by a new name of my own, that my ill birth may be forgotten." "And so I will," said Gilbert, "for it is better thus." Afterwards he kept his word, and when she had her own again, Beatrix gave him a third share of her broad lands, to hold in fief to Gilbert Warde, though he had no rightful claim; and because he had saved her life, he was called Dunstan Le Sauveur, because he had saved her and many; and he had favour of King Henry and fought bravely, and was made a knight, and raised up an honourable race. But on that morning in Jerusalem, in the little court, Beatrix came out, still weak and weary, and sat beside Gilbert in the shade of the wall, with her hand between his, and the light in her face. "Gilbert," she said, when she had told him what had happened to her until then, "when I was angry and unbelieving in the Queen's chamber in Antioch, why did you turn and leave me, seeing that I was in the wrong?" "I was angry, too," he answered simply. But womanlike, she answered him again. "That was foolish. You should have taken me roughly in your arms and kissed me, as you did by the river long ago. Then I should have believed you, as I do now." "But you would not believe my words, nor the Queen's," he said, "nor even when she gave herself up to the King, to prove herself true, would you believe her." "If men only knew!" Beatrix laughed softly her little bird laugh that had the music of a spring day. "If men knew--what?" "If men knew--" She paused, and blushed, and laughed again. "If men knew how women love sweet words when they are happy, and sharp deeds when they are angry! That is what I mean. I would have given my blood and the Queen's kingdom for a kiss when you left me standing there." "I wish I had known!" exclaimed Gilbert, happy but half perplexed. "You ought to have known," answered the girl. Her eyebrows were raised a little with the half-pathetic look he loved, while her mouth smiled. "I shall never understand," he said, but he began to laugh too. "I will tell you. In the first place, I shall never be angry with you again--never! Do you believe me, Gilbert?" "Of course I do," he answered, having nothing else to say. "Very well. But if I ever should be--" "But you just said that you never would be!" "I know; but if I should--just once--then take me in your arms, and say nothing, but kiss me as you did that day by the river." "I understand," he said. "Are you angry now?" But he was laughing. "Almost," she answered, glancing sideways in a smile. "Not quite?" "Yes, quite!" And her eyes darkened under the drooping lids. Then he held her so close to him that she was half breathless, and kissed her till it hurt, and she turned pale again, and her eyes were closed. [Illustration: THE WAY OF THE CROSS] "You see," she said very faintly, "I believe you now!" Here ends the story of Gilbert Warde's crusading; for he had reached the end of his Via Crucis in the Holy City, and had at last found peace for his soul, and light and rest for his heart, after many troubles and temptations, and after much brave fighting for the good cause of the Faith against unbelievers. After that he fought again with the army at Damascus, and saw how the princes betrayed one another, when the Emperor Conrad had come again, so that the siege of the strong town came to naught, and the armies were scattered among the rich gardens to gather fruit and drink strong wine, while their leaders wrangled. Also at Ascalon he drew sword again, and again he saw failure hanging over all, like an evil shadow, and chilling the courage in men, so that there was murmuring, and clamouring for the homeward path. There he saw how the great armies went to ruin and fell to pieces, because, as the holy Bernard had known, there was not the faith of other days, and also because there was no great leader, as Eleanor had told the abbot himself at Vezelay; and it was a sad sight, and one to sicken the souls of good men. But though he fought with all his might when swords were out, there was no sadness in him for all these things, for life and hope were bright before him. Little by little, too, he had heard how all the poor pilgrims left at Attalia had perished; but he knew that if he had led them, Beatrix would have died there in the court of the little house in Jerusalem, and he held her life more dear than the lives of many, whom his own could hardly have saved. Moreover, and last of all, he had learned and understood that the cause of God lies not buried among stones in any city, not even in the most holy city of all; for the place of Christ's suffering is in men's sinful hearts, and the glory of his resurrection is the saving of a soul from death to everlasting life, in refreshment and light and peace. 
6490	----	THE BETROTHED INTRODUCTION--(1832.) The Tales of the Crusaders was determined upon as the title of the following series of the Novels, rather by the advice of the few friends whom, death has now rendered still fewer, than by the author's own taste. Not but that he saw plainly enough the interest which might be excited by the very name of the Crusaders, but he was conscious at the same time that that interest was of a character which it might be more easy to create than to satisfy, and that by the mention of so magnificent a subject each reader might be induced to call up to his imagination a sketch so extensive and so grand that it might not be in the power of the author to fill it up, who would thus stand in the predicament of the dwarf bringing with him a standard to measure his own stature, and showing himself, therefore, says Sterne, "a dwarf more ways than one." It is a fact, if it were worth while to examine it, that the publisher and author, however much their general interests are the same, may be said to differ so far as title pages are concerned; and it is a secret of the tale-telling art, if it could be termed a secret worth knowing, that a taking-title, as it is called, best answers the purpose of the bookseller, since it often goes far to cover his risk, and sells an edition not unfrequently before the public have well seen it. But the author ought to seek more permanent fame, and wish that his work, when its leaves are first cut open, should be at least fairly judged of. Thus many of the best novelists have been anxious to give their works such titles as render it out of the reader's power to conjecture their contents, until they should have an opportunity of reading them. All this did not prevent the Tales of the Crusaders from being the title fixed on; and the celebrated year of projects (eighteen hundred and twenty-five) being the time of publication, an introduction was prefixed according to the humour of the day. The first tale of the series was influenced in its structure, rather by the wish to avoid the general expectations which might be formed from the title, than to comply with any one of them, and so disappoint the rest. The story was, therefore, less an incident belonging to the Crusades, than one which was occasioned by the singular cast of mind introduced and spread wide by those memorable undertakings. The confusion among families was not the least concomitant evil of the extraordinary preponderance of this superstition. It was no unusual thing for a Crusader, returning from his long toils of war and pilgrimage, to find his family augmented by some young off-shoot, of whom the deserted matron could give no very accurate account, or perhaps to find his marriage-bed filled, and that, instead of becoming nurse to an old man, his household dame had preferred being the lady-love of a young one. Numerous are the stories of this kind told in different parts of Europe; and the returned knight or baron, according to his temper, sat down good naturedly contented with the account which his lady gave of a doubtful matter, or called in blood and fire to vindicate his honour, which, after all, had been endangered chiefly by his forsaking his household gods to seek adventures in Palestine. Scottish tradition, quoted, I think, in some part of the Border Minstrelsy, ascribes to the clan of Tweedie, a family once stout and warlike, a descent which would not have misbecome a hero of antiquity. A baron, somewhat elderly we may suppose, had wedded a buxom young lady, and some months after their union he left her to ply the distaff alone in his old tower, among the mountains of the county of Peebles, near the sources of the Tweed. He returned after seven or eight years, no uncommon space for a pilgrimage to Palestine, and found his family had not been lonely in his absence, the lady having; been cheered by the arrival of a stranger, (of whose approach she could give the best account of any one,) who hung on her skirts, and called her mammy, and was just such as the baron would have longed to call his son, but that he could by no means make his age correspond, according to the doctrine of civilians, with his own departure for Palestine. He applied to his wife, therefore, for the solution of this dilemma. The lady, after many floods of tears, which she had reserved for the occasion, informed the honest gentleman, that, walking one day alone by the banks of the infant river, a human form arose from a deep eddy, still known and termed Tweed-pool, who deigned to inform her that he was the tutelar genius of the stream, and, _bongre malgre_, became the father of the sturdy fellow, whose appearance had so much surprised her husband. This story, however suitable to Pagan times, would have met with full credence from few of the baron's contemporaries, but the wife was young and beautiful, the husband old and in his dotage; her family (the Frazers, it is believed) were powerful and warlike, and the baron had had fighting enough in the holy wars. The event was, that he believed, or seemed to believe, the tale, and remained contented with the child with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously presented him. The only circumstance which preserved the memory of the incident was, that the youth retained the name of Tweed, or Tweedie. The baron, meanwhile, could not, as the old Scotch song says, "Keep the cradle rowing," and the Tweed apparently thought one natural son was family enough for a decent Presbyterian lover; and so little gall had the baron in his composition, that having bred up the young Tweed as his heir while he lived, he left him in that capacity when he died, and the son of the river-god founded the family of Drummelzier and others, from whom have flowed, in the phrase of the Ettrick Shepherd, "many a brave fellow, and many a bauld feat." The tale of the Noble Moringer is somewhat of the same nature--it exists in a collection of German popular songs, entitled, Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807; published by Messrs. Busching and Von der Hagen. The song is supposed to be extracted from a manuscript chronicle of Nicholas Thomann, chaplain to St. Leonard in Wissenhorn, and dated 1533. The ballad, which is popular in Germany, is supposed from the language, to have been composed in the fifteenth century. The Noble Moringer, a powerful baron of Germany, about to set out on a pilgrimage to the land of St. Thomas, with the geography of which we are not made acquainted, resolves to commit his castle, dominions, and lady, to the vassal who should pledge him to keep watch over them till the seven years of his pilgrimage were accomplished. His chamberlain, an elderly and a cautious man, declines the trust, observing, that seven days, instead of seven years, would be the utmost space to which he would consent to pledge himself for the fidelity of any woman. The esquire of the Noble Moringer confidently accepts the trust refused by the chamberlain, and the baron departs on his pilgrimage. The seven years are now elapsed, all save a single day and night, when, behold, a vision descends on the noble pilgrim as he sleeps in the land of the stranger. "It was the noble Moringer, within an orchard slept, When on the Baron's slumbering sense a boding vision crept, And whispered in his ear a voice,' 'Tis time. Sir Knight, to wake-- Thy lady and thy heritage another master take. "'Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein, And stoop them to another's will, thy gallant vassal train; And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair, This night, within thy father's hall, she weds Marstetten's heir.'" The Moringer starts up and prays to his patron St. Thomas, to rescue him from the impending shame, which his devotion to his patron had placed him in danger of incurring. St. Thomas, who must have felt the justice of the imputation, performs a miracle. The Moringer's senses were drenched in oblivion, and when he waked he lay in a well-known spot of his own domain; on his right the Castle of his fathers, and on his left the mill, which, as usual, was built not far distant from the Castle. "He leaned upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the mill he drew-- So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew. The baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings may there be?' "The miller answered him again--'He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose; Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord. "'Of him I held the little mill, which wins me living free-- God rest the baron in his grave, he aye was kind to me! And when St. Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'" The baron proceeds to the Castle gate, which is bolted to prevent intrusion, while the inside of the mansion rung with preparations for the marriage of the lady. The pilgrim prayed the porter for entrance, conjuring him by his own sufferings, and for the sake of the late Moringer; by the orders of his lady, the warder gave him admittance. "Then up the hall paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow; It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their lord to know. He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed with wo and wrong; Short while he sat, but ne'er to him seemed little space so long. "Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour, The time was nigh when new made brides retire to nuptial bower, 'Our Castle's wont,' a bride's man said, 'hath been both firm and long-- No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.'" When thus called upon, the disguised baron sung the following melancholy ditty:-- "'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung, 'Nor golden mead, nor garment gay, unlocks his heavy tongue. Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine, And by my side as fair a bride, with all her charms, was mine. "'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver hair'd, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard; Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage, And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.'" The lady, moved at the doleful recollections which the palmer's song recalled, sent to him a cup of wine. The palmer, having exhausted the goblet, returned it, and having first dropped in the cup his nuptial ring, requested the lady to pledge her venerable guest. "The ring hath caught the lady's eye, she views it close and near, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Moringer is here!' Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell, But if she wept for joy or wo, the ladies best can tell. "Full loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power, That had restored the Moringer before the midnight hour; And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride, That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried. "'Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, 'to constant matrons due, Who keep the troth, that they have plight, so stedfastly and true; For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright, Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night.' "It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew, He kneeled before The Moringer, and down his weapon threw; 'My oath and knightly faith are broke,' these were the words he said; 'Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head. "The noble Moringer, he smiled, and then aloud did say, 'He gathers wisdom that hath roamed seven twelvemonths and a day, My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair; I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir. "'The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old, Whose faith were kept till term and tide so punctually were told. But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate, For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.'" There is also, in the rich field of German romance, another edition of this story, which has been converted by M. Tieck (whose labours of that kind have been so remarkable) into the subject of one of his romantic dramas. It is, however, unnecessary to detail it, as the present author adopted his idea of the tale chiefly from the edition preserved in the mansion of Haighhall, of old the mansion-house of the family of Braidshaigh, now possessed by their descendants on the female side, the Earls of Balcarras. The story greatly resembles that of the Noble Moringer, only there is no miracle of St. Thomas to shock the belief of good Protestants. I am permitted, by my noble friends, the lord and lady of Haighhall, to print the following extract from the family genealogy. Sir William Bradshaghe 2d Sone to Sr John was a great traveller and a Souldyer and married To Mabell daughter and Sole heire of Hugh Noris de Haghe and Blackrode and had issue EN. 8. E 2. of this Mabel is a story by tradition of undouted verity that in Sr William Bradshage's absence (being 10 yeares away in the wares) she married a welsh kt. Sr William retorninge from the wars came in a Palmers habit amongst the Poore to haghe. Who when she saw & congetringe that that he favoured her former husband wept, for which the kt chasticed her at wich Sr William went and made him selfe Knawne to his Tennants in wch space the kt fled, but neare to Newton Parke Sr William overtooke him and slue him. The said Dame Mabell was enjoyned by her confessor to doe Pennances by going onest every week barefout and bare legg'd to a Crosse ner Wigan from the haghe wilest she lived & is called Mabb to this day; & ther monument Lyes in wigan Church as you see ther Portrd. An: Dom: 1315. There were many vestiges around Haighhall, both of the Catholic penances of the Lady Mabel, and the history of this unfortunate transaction in particular; the whole history was within the memory of man portrayed upon a glass window in the hall, where unfortunately it has not been preserved. Mab's Cross is still extant. An old ruinous building is said to have been the place where the Lady Mabel was condemned to render penance, by walking hither from Haighhall barefooted and barelegged for the performance of her devotions. This relic, to which an anecdote so curious is annexed, is now unfortunately ruinous. Time and whitewash, says Mr. Roby, have altogether defaced the effigies of the knight and lady on the tomb. The particulars are preserved in Mr. Roby's Traditions of Lancashire, [Footnote: A very elegant work, 2 vols. 1829. By J. Roby, M.R.S.L.] to which the reader is referred for further particulars. It does not appear that Sir William Braidshaigh was irreparably offended against the too hasty Lady Mabel, although he certainly showed himself of a more fiery mould than the Scottish and German barons who were heroes of the former tales. The tradition, which the author knew very early in life, was told to him by the late Lady Balcarras. He was so much struck with it, that being at that time profuse of legendary lore, he inserted it in the shape of a note to Waverley, the first of his romantic offences. Had he then known, as he now does, the value of such a story, it is likely that, as directed in the inimitable receipt for making an epic poem, preserved in the Guardian, he would have kept it for some future opportunity. As, however, the tale had not been completely told, and was a very interesting one, and as it was sufficiently interwoven with the Crusades, the wars between the Welsh and the Norman lords of the Marches was selected as a period when all freedoms might be taken with the strict truth of history without encountering any well known fact which might render the narrative improbable. Perhaps, however, the period which vindicates the probability of the tale, will, with its wars and murders, be best found described in the following passage of Gryffyth Ap Edwin's wars. "This prince in conjunction with Algar, Earl of Chester, who had been banished from England as a traitor, in the reign of Edward the Confessor, marched into Herefordshire and wasted all that fertile country with fire and sword, to revenge the death of his brother Rhees, whose head had been brought to Edward in pursuance of an order sent by the King on account of the depredations which he had committed against the English on the borders. To stop these ravages the Earl of Hereford, who was nephew to Edward, advanced with an army, not of English alone, but of mercenary Normans and French, whom he had entertained in his service, against Gryffyth and Algar. He met them near Hereford, and offered them battle, which the Welsh monarch, who had won five pitched battles before, and never had fought without conquering, joyfully accepted. The earl had commanded his English forces to fight on horseback, in imitation of the Normans, against their usual custom; but the Welsh making a furious and desperate charge, that nobleman himself, and the foreign cavalry led by him, were so daunted at the view of them, that they shamefully fled without fighting; which being seen by the English, they also turned their backs on the enemy, who, having killed or wounded as many of them as they could come up with in their flight, entered triumphantly into Hereford, spoiled and fired the city, razed the walls to the ground, slaughtered some of the citizens, led many of them captive, and (to use the words of the Welsh Chronicle) left nothing in the town but blood and ashes. After this exploit they immediately returned into Wales, undoubtedly from a desire of securing their prisoners, and the rich plunder they had gained. The King of England hereupon commanded Earl Harold to collect a great army from all parts of the kingdom, and assembling them at Gloucester, advanced from thence to invade the dominions of Gryffyth in North Wales. He performed his orders, and penetrated into that country without resistance from the Welsh; Gryffyth and Algar returning into some parts of South Wales. What were their reasons for this conduct we are not well informed; nor why Harold did not pursue his advantage against them; but it appears that he thought it more advisable at this time to treat with, than subdue, them; for he left North Wales, and employed himself in rebuilding the walls of Hereford, while negotiations were carrying on with Gryffyth which soon after produced the restoration of Algar, and a peace with that king, not very honourable to England, as he made no satisfaction for the mischief he had done in the war, nor any submissions to Edward. Harold must doubtless have had some private and forcible motives to conclude such a treaty. The very next year the Welsh monarch, upon what quarrel we, know not, made a new incursion into England, and killed the Bishop of Hereford, the Sheriff of the county, and many more of the English, both ecclesiastics and laymen. Edward was counselled by Harold, and Leofrick, Earl of Mercia, to make peace with him again; which he again broke; nor could he be restrained by any means, from these barbarous inroads, before the year one, thousand and sixty-three; when Edward, whose patience and pacific disposition had been too much abused, commissioned Harold to assemble the whole strength of the kingdom, and make war upon him in his own country till he had subdued or destroyed him. That general acted so vigorously, and with so much celerity, that he had like to have surprised him in his palace: but just before the English forces arrived at his gate, having notice of the danger that threatened him, and seeing no other means of safety, he threw himself with a few of his household into one of his ships which happened at the instant to be ready to sail and put to sea."--LYTTLETON'S _Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 338. This passage will be found to bear a general resemblance to the fictitious tale told, in the Romance. ABBOTSFORD, 1_st June_, 1832. INTRODUCTION. MINUTES OF SEDERUNT OF A GENERAL MEETING OF THE SHAREHOLDERS DESIGNING TO FORM A JOINT-STOCK COMPANY, UNITED FOR THE PURPOSE OF WRITING AND PUBLISHING THE CLASS OF WORKS CALLED THE WAVERLEY NOVELS, HELD IN THE WATERLOO TAVERN, REGENT'S BRIDGE, EDINBURGH, 1_st June_, 1825. [The reader must have remarked, that the various editions of the proceedings at this meeting were given in the public papers with rather more than usual inaccuracy. The cause of this was no ill- timed delicacy on the part of the gentlemen of the press to assert their privilege of universal presence wherever a few are met together, and to commit to the public prints whatever may then and there pass of the most private nature. But very unusual and arbitrary methods were resorted to on the present occasion to prevent the reporters using a right which is generally conceded to them by almost all meetings, whether of a political or commercial description. Our own reporter, indeed, was bold enough to secrete himself under the Secretary's table, and was not discovered till the meeting was well-nigh over. We are sorry to say, he suffered much in person from fists and toes, and two or three principal pages were torn out of his note-book, which occasions his report to break off abruptly. We cannot but consider this behaviour as more particularly illiberal on the part of men who are themselves a kind of gentlemen of the press; and they ought to consider themselves as fortunate that the misused reporter has sought no other vengeance than from the tone of acidity with which he has seasoned his account of their proceedings.--_Edinburgh Newspaper_.] A meeting of the gentlemen and others interested in the celebrated publications called the Waverley Novels, having been called by public advertisement, the same was respectably attended by various literary characters of eminence. And it being in the first place understood that individuals were to be denominated by the names assigned to them in the publications in question, the Eidolon, or image of the author, was unanimously called to the chair, and Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq. of Monkbarns, was requested to act as Secretary. The Preses then addressed the meeting to the following purpose:-- "Gentlemen, I need scarcely remind you, that we have a joint interest in the valuable property which has accumulated under our common labours. While the public have been idly engaged in ascribing to one individual or another the immense mass of various matter, which the labours of many had accumulated, you, gentlemen, well know, that every person in this numerous assembly has had his share in the honours and profits of our common success. It is, indeed, to me a mystery, how the sharp-sighted could suppose so huge a mass of sense and nonsense, jest and earnest, humorous and pathetic, good, bad, and indifferent, amounting to scores of volumes, could be the work of one hand, when we know the doctrine so well laid down by the immortal Adam Smith, concerning the division of labour. Were those who entertained an opinion so strange, not wise enough to know, that it requires twenty pairs of hands to make a thing so trifling as a pin--twenty couple of dogs to kill an animal so insignificant as a fox?--" "Hout, man!" said a stout countryman, "I have a grew-bitch at home will worry the best tod in Pomoragrains, before ye could say, Dumpling." "Who is that person?" said the Preses, with some warmth, as it appeared to us. "A son of Dandy Dinmont's," answered the unabashed rustic. "God, ye may mind him, I think!--ane o' the best in your aught, I reckon. And, ye see, I am come into the farm, and maybe something mair, and a whoen shares in this buik-trade of yours." "Well, well," replied the Preses, "peace, I pray thee, peace. Gentlemen, when thus interrupted, I was on the point of introducing the business of this meeting, being, as is known to most of you, the discussion of a proposition now on your table, which I myself had the honour to suggest at last meeting, namely, that we do apply to the Legislature for an Act of Parliament in ordinary, to associate us into a corporate body, and give us a _personi standi in judicio_, with full power to prosecute and bring to conviction all encroachers upon our exclusive privilege, in the manner therein to be made and provided. In a letter from the ingenious Mr. Dousterswivel which I have received---" Oldbuck, warmly--"I object to that fellow's name being mentioned; he is a common swindler." "For shame, Mr. Oldbuck," said the Preses, "to use such terms respecting the ingenious inventor of the great patent machine erected at Groningen, where they put in raw hemp at one end, and take out ruffled shirts at the other, without the aid of hackle or rippling-comb--loom, shuttle, or weaver--scissors, needle, or seamstress. He had just completed it, by the addition of a piece of machinery to perform the work of the laundress; but when it was exhibited before his honour the burgomaster, it had the inconvenience of heating the smoothing-irons red-hot; excepting which, the experiment was entirely satisfactory. He will become as rich as a Jew." "Well," added Mr. Oldbuck, "if the scoundrel--" "Scoundrel, Mr. Oldbuck," said the Preses, "is a most unseemly expression, and I must call you to order. Mr. Dousterswivel is only an eccentric genius." "Pretty much the same in the Greek," muttered Mr. Oldbuck; and then said aloud, "and if this eccentric genius has work enough in singeing the Dutchman's linen, what the devil has he to do here?" "Why, he is of opinion, that at the expense of a little mechanism, some part of the labour of composing these novels might be saved by the use of steam." There was a murmur of disapprobation at this proposal, and the words, "Blown up," and "Bread taken out of our mouths," and "They might as well construct a steam parson," were whispered. And it was not without repeated calls to order, that the Preses obtained an opportunity of resuming his address. "Order!--Order! Pray, support the chair. Hear, hear, hear the chair!" "Gentlemen, it is to be premised, that this mechanical operation can only apply to those parts of the narrative which are at present composed out of commonplaces, such as the love-speeches of the hero, the description of the heroine's person, the moral observations of all sorts, and the distribution of happiness at the conclusion of the piece. Mr. Dousterswivel has sent me some drawings, which go far to show, that by placing the words and phrases technically employed on these subjects, in a sort of framework, like that of the Sage of Laputa, and changing them by such a mechanical process as that by which weavers of damask alter their patterns, many new and happy combinations cannot fail to occur, while the author, tired of pumping his own brains, may have an agreeable relaxation in the use of his fingers." "I speak for information, Mr. Preses," said the Rev. Mr. Lawrence Templeton; "but I am inclined to suppose the late publication of Walladmor to have been the work of Dousterswivel, by the help of the steam-engine." [Footnote: A Romance, by the Author of Waverley, having been expected about this time at the great commercial mart of literature, the Fair of Leipsic, an ingenious gentleman of Germany, finding that none such appeared, was so kind as to supply its place with a work, in three volumes, called Walladmor, to which he prefixed the Christian and surname at full length. The character of this work is given with tolerable fairness in the text. ] "For shame, Mr. Templeton," said the Preses; "there are good things in Walladmor, I assure you, had the writer known any thing about the country in which he laid the scene." "Or had he had the wit, like some of ourselves, to lay the scene in such a remote or distant country that nobody should be able to back-speer [Footnote: Scottish for cross-examine him.] him," said Mr. Oldbuck. "Why, as to that," said the Preses, "you must consider the thing was got up for the German market, where folks are no better judges of Welsh manners than of Welsh crw." [Footnote: The ale of the ancient British is called crw in their native language.] "I make it my prayer that this be not found the fault of our own next venture," said Dr. Dryasdust, pointing to some books which lay on the table. "I fear the manners expressed in that 'Betrothed' of ours, will scarce meet the approbation of the Cymmerodion; I could have wished that Llhuyd had been looked into --that Powel had been consulted--that Lewis's History had been quoted, the preliminary dissertations particularly, in order to give due weight to the work." "Weight!" said Captain Clutterbuck; "by my soul, it is heavy enough already, Doctor." "Speak to the chair," said the Preses, rather peevishly. "To the chair, then, I say it," said Captain Clutterbuck, "that 'The Betrothed' is heavy enough to break down the chair of John of Gaunt, or Cador-Edris itself. I must add, however, that, in my poor mind, 'The Talisman' goes more trippingly off." [Footnote: This was an opinion universally entertained among the friends of the author.] "It is not for me to speak," said the worthy minister of Saint Ronan's Well; "but yet I must say, that being so long engaged upon the Siege of Ptolemais, my work ought to have been brought out, humble though it be, before any other upon a similar subject at least." "Your Siege, Parson!" said Mr. Oldbuck, with great contempt; "will you speak of your paltry prose-doings in my presence, whose great Historical Poem, in twenty books, with notes in proportion, has been postponed _ad Grcecas Kalendas?_" The Preses, who appeared to suffer a great deal during this discussion, now spoke with dignity and determination. "Gentlemen," he said, "this sort of discussion is highly irregular. There is a question before you, and to that, gentlemen, I must confine your attention. Priority of publication, let me remind you, gentlemen, is always referred to the Committee of Criticism, whose determination on such subjects is without appeal. I declare I will leave the chair, if any more extraneous matter be introduced.--And now, gentlemen, that we are once more in order, I would wish to have some gentleman speak upon the question, whether, as associated to carry on a joint-stock trade in fictitious narrative, in prose and verse, we ought not to be incorporated by Act of Parliament? What say you, gentlemen, to the proposal? _Vis unita fortior_, is an old and true adage." "_Societas mater discordiarum_, is a brocard as ancient and as veritable," said Oldbuck, who seemed determined, on this occasion, to be pleased with no proposal that was announced by the chair. "Come, Monkbarns," said the Preses, in his most coaxing manner, "you have studied the monastic institutions deeply, and know there must be a union of persons and talents to do any thing respectable, and attain a due ascendance over the spirit of the age. _Tres faciunt collegium_--it takes three monks to make a convent." "And nine tailors to make a man," replied Oldbuck, not in the least softened in his opposition; "a quotation as much to the purpose as the other." "Come, come," said the Preses, "you know the Prince of Orange said to Mr. Seymour, 'Without an association, we are a rope of sand.'" "I know," replied Oldbuck, "it would have been as seemly that none of the old leaven had been displayed on this occasion, though you be the author of a Jacobite novel. I know nothing of the Prince of Orange after 1688; but I have heard a good deal of the immortal William the Third." "And to the best of my recollection," said Mr. Templeton, whispering to Oldbuck, "it was Seymour made the remark to the Prince, not the Princo to Seymour. But this is a specimen of our friend's accuracy, poor gentleman: He trusts too much to his memory! of late years--failing fast, sir--breaking up." "And breaking down, too," said Mr. Oldbuck. "But what can you expect of a man too fond of his own hasty and flashy compositions, to take the assistance of men of reading and of solid parts?" "No whispering--no caballing--no private business, gentlemen," said the unfortunate Preses, who reminded us somewhat of a Highland drover engaged in gathering and keeping in the straight road his excursive black cattle. "I have not yet heard," he continued, "a single reasonable objection to applying for the Act of Parliament, of which the draught lies on the table. You must be aware that the extremes of rude and of civilized society are, in these our days, on the point of approaching to each other. In the patriarchal period, a man is his own weaver, tailor, butcher, shoemaker, and so forth; and, in the age of Stock-companies, as the present may be called, an individual may be said, in one sense, to exercise the same plurality of trades. In fact, a man who has dipt largely into these speculations, may combine his own expenditure with the improvement of his own income, just like the ingenious hydraulic machine, which, by its very waste, raises its own supplies of water. Such a person buys his bread from his own Baking Company, his milk and cheese from his own Dairy Company, takes off a new coat for the benefit of his own Clothing Company, illuminates his house to advance his own Gas Establishment, and drinks an additional bottle of wine for the benefit of the General Wine Importation Company, of which he is himself a member. Every act, which would otherwise be one of mere extravagance, is, to such a person, seasoned with the _odor lucri_, and reconciled to prudence. Even if the price of the article consumed be extravagant, and the quality indifferent, the person, who is in a manner his own customer, is only imposed upon for his own benefit. Nay, if the Joint-stock Company of Undertakers shall unite with the Medical Faculty, as proposed by the late facetious Doctor G--, under the firm of Death and the Doctor, the shareholder might contrive to secure to his heirs a handsome slice of his own death- bed and funeral expenses. In short, Stock-Companies are the fashion of the age, and an Incorporating Act will, I think, be particularly useful in bringing back the body, over whom I have the honour to preside, to a spirit of subordination, highly necessary to success in every enterprise where joint wisdom, talent, and labour, are to be employed. It is with regret that I state, that, besides several differences amongst yourselves, I have not myself for some time been treated with that deference among you which circumstances entitled me to expect." "_Hinc illa lachryma_," muttered Mr. Oldbuck. "But," continued the Chairman, "I see other gentlemen impatient to deliver their opinions, and I desire to stand in no man's way. I therefore--my place in this chair forbidding me to originate the motion--beg some gentleman may move a committee for revising the draught of the bill now upon the table, and which has been duly circulated among those having interest, and take the necessary measures to bring it before the House early next session." There was a short murmur in the meeting, and at length Mr. Oldbuck again rose. "It seems, sir," he said, addressing the chair, "that no one present is willing to make the motion you point at. I am sorry no more qualified person has taken upon him to show any reasons in the contrair, and that it has fallen on me, as we Scotsmen say, to bell-the-cat with you; anent whilk phrase, Pitscottie hath a pleasant jest of the great Earl of Angus--" Here a gentleman whispered to the speaker, "Have a care of Pitscottie" and, Mr. Oldbuck, as if taking the hint, went on. "But that's neither here nor there--Well, gentlemen, to be short, I think it unnecessary to enter into the general reasonings whilk have this day been delivered, as I may say, _ex cathedra_; nor will I charge our worthy Preses with an attempt to obtain over us, _per ambages_, and under colour of an Act of Parliament, a despotic authority, inconsistent with our freedom. But this I will say, that times are so much changed above stairs, that whereas last year you might have obtained an act incorporating a Stock Company for riddling ashes, you will not be able to procure one this year for gathering pearls. What signifies, then, wasting the time of the meeting, by inquiring whether or not we ought to go in at a door which we know to be bolted and barred in our face, and in the face of all the companies for fire or air, land or water, which we have of late seen blighted!" Here there was a general clamour, seemingly of approbation, in which the words might be distinguished, "Needless to think of it"-- "Money thrown away"--"Lost before the committee," &c. &c. &c. But above the tumult, the voices of two gentlemen, in different corners of the room, answered each other clear and loud, like the blows of the two figures on Saint Dunstan's clock; and although the Chairman, in much agitation, endeavoured to silence them, his interruption had only the effect of cutting their words up into syllables, thus,-- _First Voice_. "The Lord Chan--" _Second Voice_. "The Lord Lau--" _Chairman_, (loudly.) "Scandalum magnatum!" _First Voice_. "The Lord Chancel--" _Second Voice_. "The Lord Lauder--" _Chairman_, (_louder yet_.) "Breach of Privilege!" _First Voice_. "The Lord Chancellor--" _Second Voice_. "My Lord Lauderdale--" _Chairman_, (_at the highest pitch of his voice_.) "Called before the House!" _Both Voices together_. "Will never consent to such a bill." A general assent seemed to follow this last proposition, which was propounded with as much emphasis as could be contributed by the united clappers of the whole meeting, joined to those of the voices already mentioned. Several persons present seemed to consider the business of the meeting as ended, and were beginning to handle their hats and canes, with a view to departure, when the Chairman, who had thrown himself back in his chair, with an air of manifest mortification and displeasure, again drew himself up, and commanded attention. All stopped, though some shrugged their shoulders, as if under the predominating influence of a _bore_. But the tenor of his discourse soon excited anxious attention. "I perceive, gentlemen," he said, "that you are like the young birds, who are impatient to leave their mother's nest--take care your own penfeathers are strong enough to support you; since, as for my part, I am tired of supporting on my wing such a set of ungrateful gulls. But it signifies nothing speaking--I will no longer avail myself of such weak ministers as you--I will discard you--I will unbeget you, as Sir Anthony Absolute says--I will leave you and your whole hacked stock in trade--your caverns and your castles--your modern antiques, and your antiquated moderns-- your confusion of times, manners, and circumstances--your properties, as player-folk say of scenery and dresses--the whole of your exhausted expedients, to the fools who choose to deal with them. I will vindicate my own fame with my own right hand, without appealing to such halting assistants, 'Whom I have used for sport, rather than need.' --I will lay my foundations better than on quicksands--I will rear my structure of better materials than painted cards; in a word, I will write HISTORY!" There was a tumult of surprise, amid which our reporter detected the following expressions:--"The devil you will!"--"You, my dear sir, _you?_"--"The old gentleman forgets that he is the greatest liar since Sir John Mandeville." "Not the worse historian for that," said Oldbuck, "since history, you know, is half fiction." "I'll answer for that half being forthcoming" said the former speaker; "but for the scantling of truth which is necessary after all, Lord help us!--Geoffrey of Monmouth will be Lord Clarendon to him." As the confusion began to abate, more than one member of the meeting was seen to touch his forehead significantly, while Captain Clutterbuck humm'd Be by your friends advised, Too rash, too hasty, dad, Maugre your bolts and wise head, The world will think you mad. "The world, and you, gentlemen, may think what you please," said the Chairman, elevating his voice; "but I intend to write the most wonderful book which the world ever read--a book in which every incident shall be incredible, yet strictly true--a work recalling recollections with which the ears of this generation once tingled, and which shall be read by our children with an admiration approaching to incredulity. Such shall be the LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE by the AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY." In the general start and exclamation which followed this annunciation, Mr. Oldbuck dropped his snuff-box; and the Scottish rappee, which dispersed itself in consequence, had effects upon the nasal organs of our reporter, ensconced as he was under the secretary's table, which occasioned his being discovered and extruded in the illiberal and unhandsome manner we have mentioned, with threats of farther damage to his nose, ears, and other portions of his body, on the part especially of Captain Clutterbuck. Undismayed by these threats, which indeed those of his profession are accustomed to hold at defiance, our young man hovered about the door of the tavern, but could only bring us the farther intelligence, that the meeting had broken up in about a quarter of an hour after his expulsion, "in much-admired disorder." CHAPTER THE FIRST. Now in these days were hotte wars upon the Marches of Wales. LEWIS'S _History._ The Chronicles, from which this narrative is extracted, assure us, that during the long period when the Welsh princes maintained their independence, the year 1187 was peculiarly marked as favourable to peace betwixt them and their warlike neighbours, the Lords Marchers, who inhabited those formidable castles on the frontiers of the ancient British, on the ruins of which the traveller gazes with wonder. This was the time when Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, accompanied by the learned Giraldus de Barri, afterwards Bishop of Saint David's, preached the Crusade from castle to castle, from town to town; awakened the inmost valleys of his native Cambria with the call to arms for recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; and, while he deprecated the feuds and wars of Christian men against each other, held out to the martial spirit of the age a general object of ambition, and a scene of adventure, where the favour of Heaven, as well as earthy renown, was to reward the successful champions. Yet the British chieftains, among the thousands whom this spirit- stirring summons called from their native land to a distant and perilous expedition, had perhaps the best excuse for declining the summons. The superior skill of the Anglo-Norman knights, who were engaged in constant inroads on the Welsh frontier, and who were frequently detaching from it large portions, which they fortified with castles, thus making good what they had won, was avenged, indeed, but not compensated, by the furious inroads of the British, who, like the billows of a retiring tide, rolled on successively, with noise, fury, and devastation; but, on each retreat, yielded ground insensibly to their invaders. A union among the native princes might have opposed a strong and permanent barrier to the encroachments of the strangers; but they were, unhappily, as much at discord among themselves as they were with the Normans, and were constantly engaged in private war with each other, of which the common enemy had the sole advantage. The invitation to the Crusade promised something at least of novelty to a nation peculiarly ardent in their temper; and it was accepted by many, regardless of the consequences which must ensue, to the country which they left defenceless. Even the most celebrated enemies of the Saxon and Norman race laid aside their enmity against the invaders of their country, to enrol themselves under the banners of the Crusade. Amongst these was reckoned Gwenwyn, (or more properly Gwenwynwen, though we retain the briefer appellative,) a British prince who continued exercising a precarious sovereignty over such parts of Powys-Land as had not been subjugated by the Mortimers, Guarines, Latimers, FitzAlans, and other Norman nobles, who, under various pretexts, and sometimes contemning all other save the open avowal of superior force, had severed and appropriated large portions of that once extensive and independent principality, which, when Wales was unhappily divided into three parts on the death of Roderick Mawr, fell to the lot of his youngest son, Mervyn. The undaunted resolution and stubborn ferocity of Gwenwyn, descendant of that prince, had long made him beloved among the "Tall men" or Champions of Wales; and he was enabled, more by the number of those who served under him, attracted by his reputation, than by the natural strength of his dilapidated principality, to retaliate the encroachments of the English by the most wasteful inroads. Yet even Gwenwyn on the present occasion seemed to forget his deeply sworn hatred against his dangerous neighbours. The Torch of Pengwern (for so Gwenwyn was called, from his frequently laying the province of Shrewsbury in conflagration) seemed at present to burn as calmly as a taper in the bower of a lady; and the Wolf of Plinlimmon, another name with which the bards had graced Gwenwyn, now slumbered as peacefully as the shepherd's dog on the domestic hearth. But it was not alone the eloquence of Baldwin or of Girald which had lulled into peace a spirit so restless and fierce. It is true, their exhortations had done more towards it than Gwenwyn's followers had thought possible. The Archbishop had induced the British Chief to break bread, and to mingle in silvan sports, with his nearest, and hitherto one of his most determined enemies, the old Norman warrior Sir Raymond Berenger, who, sometimes beaten, sometimes victorious, but never subdued, had, in spite of Gwenwyn's hottest incursions, maintained his Castle of Garde Doloureuse, upon the marches of Wales; a place strong by nature, and well fortified by art, which the Welsh prince had found it impossible to conquer, either by open force or by stratagem, and which, remaining with a strong garrison in his rear, often checked his incursions, by rendering his retreat precarious. On this account, Gwenwyn of Powys-Land had an hundred times vowed the death of Raymond Berenger, and the demolition of his castle; but the policy of the sagacious old warrior, and his long experience in all warlike practice, were such as, with the aid of his more powerful countrymen, enabled him to defy the attempts of his fiery neighbour. If there was a man, therefore, throughout England, whom Gwenwyn hated more than another, it was Raymond Berenger; and yet the good Archbishop Baldwin could prevail on the Welsh prince to meet him as a friend and ally in the cause of the Cross. He even invited Raymond to the autumn festivities of his Welsh palace, where the old knight, in all honourable courtesy, feasted and hunted for more than a week in the dominions of his hereditary foe. To requite this hospitality, Raymond invited the Prince of Powys, with a chosen but limited train, during the ensuing Christmas, to the Garde Doloureuse, which some antiquaries have endeavoured to identify with the Castle of Colune, on the river of the same name. But the length of time, and some geographical difficulties, throw doubts upon this ingenious conjecture. As the Welshman crossed the drawbridge, he was observed by his faithful bard to shudder with involuntary emotion; nor did Cadwallon, experienced as he was in life, and well acquainted with the character of his master, make any doubt that he was at that moment strongly urged by the apparent opportunity, to seize upon the strong fortress which had been so long the object of his cupidity, even at the expense of violating his good faith. Dreading lest the struggle of his master's conscience and his ambition should terminate unfavourably for his fame, the bard arrested his attention by whispering in their native language, that "the teeth which bite hardest are those which are out of sight;" and Gwenwyn looking around him, became aware that, though, only unarmed squires and pages appeared in the courtyard, yet the towers and battlements connecting them were garnished with archers and men-at-arms. They proceeded to the banquet, at which Gwenwyn, for the first time, beheld Eveline Berenger, the sole child of the Norman castellane, the inheritor of his domains and of his supposed wealth, aged only sixteen, and the most beautiful damsel upon the Welsh marches. Many a spear had already been shivered in maintenance of her charms; and the gallant Hugo de Lacy, Constable of Chester, one of the most redoubted warriors of the time, had laid at Eveline's feet the prize which his chivalry had gained in a great tournament held near that ancient town. Gwenwyn considered these triumphs as so many additional recommendations to Eveline; her beauty was incontestable, and she was heiress of the fortress which he so much longed to possess, and which he began now to think might be acquired by means more smooth than those with which he was in the use of working out his will. Again, the hatred which subsisted between the British and their Saxon and Norman invaders; his long and ill-extinguished feud with this very Raymond Berenger; a general recollection that alliances between the Welsh and English had rarely been happy; and a consciousness that the measure which he meditated would be unpopular among his followers, and appear a dereliction of the systematic principles on which he had hitherto acted, restrained him from speaking his wishes to Raymond or his daughter. The idea of the rejection of his suit did not for a moment occur to him; he was convinced he had but to speak his wishes, and that the daughter of a Norman, castellane, whose rank or power were not of the highest order among the nobles of the frontiers, must be delighted and honoured by a proposal for allying his family with that of the sovereign of a hundred mountains. There was indeed another objection, which in later times would have been of considerable weight--Gwenwyn was already married. But Brengwain was a childless bride; sovereigns (and among sovereigns the Welsh prince ranked himself) marry for lineage, and the Pope was not likely to be scrupulous, where the question was to oblige a prince who had assumed the Cross with such ready zeal, even although, in fact, his thoughts had been much more on the Garde Doloureuse than on Jerusalem. In the meanwhile, if Raymond Berenger (as was suspected) was not liberal enough in his opinions to permit Eveline to hold the temporary rank of concubine, which the manners of Wales warranted Gwenwyn to offer as an interim, arrangement, he had only to wait for a few months, and sue for a divorce through the Bishop of Saint David's, or some other intercessor at the Court of Rome. Agitating these thoughts in his mind, Gwenwyn prolonged his residence at the Castle of Berenger, from Christmas till Twelfthday; and endured the presence of the Norman cavaliers who resorted to Raymond's festal halls, although, regarding themselves, in virtue of their rank of knighthood, equal to the most potent sovereigns, they made small account of the long descent of the Welsh prince, who, in their eyes, was but the chief of a semibarbarous province; while he, on his part, considered them little better than a sort of privileged robbers, and with the utmost difficulty restrained himself from manifesting his open hatred, when he beheld them careering in the exercises of chivalry, the habitual use of which rendered them such formidable enemies to his country. At length, the term of feasting was ended, and knight and squire departed from the castle, which once more assumed the aspect of a solitary and guarded frontier fort. But the Prince of Powys-Land, while pursuing his sports on his own mountains and valleys, found that even the abundance of the game, as well as his release from the society of the Norman chivalry, who affected to treat him as an equal, profited him nothing so long as the light and beautiful form of Eveline, on her white palfrey, was banished from the train of sportsmen. In short, he hesitated no longer, but took into his confidence his chaplain, an able and sagacious man, whose pride was flattered by his patron's communication, and who, besides, saw in the proposed scheme some contingent advantages for himself and his order. By his counsel, the proceedings for Gwenwyn's divorce were prosecuted under favourable auspices, and the unfortunate Brengwain was removed to a nunnery, which perhaps she found a more cheerful habitation than the lonely retreat in which she had led a neglected life, ever since Gwenwyn had despaired of her bed being blessed with issue. Father Einion also dealt with the chiefs and elders of the land, and represented to them the advantage which in future wars they were certain to obtain by the possession of the Garde Doloureuse, which had for more than a century covered and protected a considerable tract of country, rendered their advance difficult, and their retreat perilous, and, in a word, prevented their carrying their incursions as far as the gates of Shrewsbury. As for the union with the Saxon damsel, the fetters which it was to form might not (the good father hinted) be found more permanent than those which had bound Gwenwyn to her predecessor, Brengwain. These arguments, mingled with others adapted to the views and wishes of different individuals, were so prevailing, that the chaplain in the course of a few weeks was able to report to his princely patron, that this proposed match would meet with no opposition from the elders and nobles of his dominions. A golden bracelet, six ounces in weight, was the instant reward of the priest's dexterity in negotiation, and he was appointed by Gwenwyn to commit to paper those proposals, which he doubted not were to throw the Castle of Garde Doloureuse, notwithstanding its melancholy name, into an ecstasy of joy. With some difficulty the chaplain prevailed on his patron to say nothing in this letter upon his temporary plan of concubinage, which he wisely judged might be considered as an affront both by Eveline and her father. The matter of the divorce he represented as almost entirely settled, and wound up his letter with a moral application, in which were many allusions to Vashti, Esther, and Ahasuerus. Having despatched this letter by a swift and trusty messenger, the British prince opened in all solemnity the feast of Easter, which had come round during the course of these external and internal negotiations. Upon the approaching Holy-tide, to propitiate the minds of his subjects and vassals, they were invited in large numbers to partake of a princely festivity at Castell-Coch, or the Red- Castle, as it was then called, since better known by the name of Powys-Castle, and in latter times the princely seat of the Duke of Beaufort. The architectural magnificence of this noble residence is of a much later period than that of Gwenwyn, whose palace, at the time we speak of, was a low, long-roofed edifice of red stone, whence the castle derived its name; while a ditch and palisade were, in addition to the commanding situation, its most important defences. CHAPTER THE SECOND In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, With rapid clangor hurried far; Each hill and dale the note rebounds, But when return the sons of war? Thou, born of stern Necessity, Dull Peace! the valley yields to thee, And owns thy melancholy sway. WELSH POEM. The feasts of the ancient British princes usually exhibited all the rude splendour and liberal indulgence of mountain hospitality, and Gwenwyn was, on the present occasion, anxious to purchase popularity by even an unusual display of profusion; for he was sensible that the alliance which he meditated might indeed be tolerated, but could not be approved, by his subjects and followers. The following incident, trifling in itself, confirmed his apprehensions. Passing one evening, when it was become nearly dark, by the open window of a guard-room, usually occupied by some few of his most celebrated soldiers, who relieved each other in watching his palace, he heard Morgan, a man distinguished for strength, courage, and ferocity, say to the companion with whom he was sitting by the watch-fire, "Gwenwyn is turned to a priest, or a woman! When was it before these last months, that a follower of his was obliged to gnaw the meat from the bone so closely, as I am now peeling the morsel which I hold in my hand?" [Footnote: It is said in Highland tradition, that one of the Macdonalds of the Isles, who had suffered his broadsword to remain sheathed for some months after his marriage with a beautiful woman, was stirred to a sudden and furious expedition against the mainland by hearing conversation to the above purpose among his bodyguard.] "Wait but awhile," replied his comrade, "till the Norman match be accomplished; and so small will be the prey we shall then drive from the Saxon churls, that we may be glad to swallow, like hungry dogs, the very bones themselves." Gwenwyn heard no more of their conversation; but this was enough to alarm his pride as a soldier, and his jealousy as a prince. He was sensible, that the people over whom he ruled were at once fickle in their disposition, impatient of long repose, and full of hatred against their neighbours; and he almost dreaded the consequences of the inactivity to which a long truce might reduce them. The risk was now incurred, however; and to display even more than his wonted splendour and liberality, seemed the best way of reconciling the wavering affections of his subjects. A Norman would have despised the barbarous magnificence of an entertainment, consisting of kine and sheep roasted whole, of goat's flesh and deer's flesh seethed in the skins of the animals themselves; for the Normans piqued themselves on the quality rather than the quantity of their food, and, eating rather delicately than largely, ridiculed the coarser taste of the Britons, although the last were in their banquets much more moderate than were the Saxons; nor would the oceans of _Crw_ and hydromel, which overwhelmed the guests like a deluge, have made up, in their opinion, for the absence of the more elegant and costly beverage which they had learnt to love in the south of Europe. Milk, prepared in various ways, was another material of the British entertainment, which would not have received their approbation, although a nutriment which, on ordinary occasions, often supplied the Avant of all others among the ancient inhabitants, whose country was rich in flocks and herds, but poor in agricultural produce. The banquet was spread in a long low hall, built of rough wood lined with shingles, having a fire at each end, the smoke of which, unable to find its way through the imperfect chimneys in the roof, rolled in cloudy billows above the heads of the revellers, who sat on low seats, purposely to avoid its stifling fumes. [Footnote: The Welsh houses, like those of the cognate tribes in Ireland and in the Highlands of Scotland, were very imperfectly supplied with chimneys. Hence, in the History of the Gwydir Family, the striking expression of a Welsh chieftain who, the house being assaulted and set on fire by his enemies, exhorted his friends to stand to their defence, saying he had seen as much smoke in the hall upon a Christmas even.] The mien and appearance of the company assembled was wild, and, even in their social hours, almost terrific. Their prince himself had the gigantic port and fiery eye fitted to sway an unruly people, whose delight was in the field of battle; and the long mustaches which he and most of his champions wore, added to the formidable dignity of his presence. Like most of those present, Gwenwyn was clad in a simple tunic of white linen cloth, a remnant of the dress which the Romans had introduced into provincial Britain; and he was distinguished by the Eudorchawg, or chain of twisted gold links, with which the Celtic tribes always decorated their chiefs. The collar, indeed, representing in form the species of links made by children out of rushes, was common to chieftains of inferior rank, many of whom bore it in virtue of their birth, or had won it by military exploits; but a ring of gold, bent around the head, intermingled with Gwenwyn's hair--for he claimed the rank of one of three diademed princes of Wales, and his armlets and anklets, of the same metal, were peculiar to the Prince of Powys, as an independent sovereign. Two squires of his body, who dedicated their whole attention to his service, stood at the Prince's back; and at his feet sat a page, whose duty it was to keep them warm by chafing and by wrapping them in his mantle. The same right of sovereignty, which assigned to Gwenwyn his golden crownlet, gave him a title to the attendance of the foot-bearer, or youth, who lay on the rushes, and whose duty it was to cherish the Prince's feet in his lap or bosom. [Footnote: See Madoc for this literal _foot page's_ office and duties. Mr. Southey's notes inform us: "The foot-bearer shall hold the feet of the King in his lap, from the time he reclines at the board till he goes to rest, and he shall chafe them with a towel; and during all that time shall watch that no harm befalls the King. He shall eat of the shame dish from which the King takes his food; he shall light the first candle before the King." Such are the instructions given for this part of royal ceremonial in the laws of Howell Dha. It may be added, that probably upon this Celtic custom was founded one of those absurd and incredible representations which were propagated at the time of the French revolution, to stir up the peasants against their feudal superiors. It was pretended that some feudal seigneurs asserted their right to kill and disembowel a peasant, in order to put their own feet within the expiring body, and so recover them from the chill.] Notwithstanding the military disposition of the guests, and the danger arising from the feuds into which they were divided, few of the feasters wore any defensive armour, except the light goat-skin buckler, which hung behind each man's seat. On the other hand, they were well provided with offensive weapons; for the broad, sharp, short, two-edged sword was another legacy of the Romans. Most added a wood-knife or poniard; and there were store of javelins, darts, bows, and arrows, pikes, halberds, Danish axes, and Welsh hooks and bills; so, in case of ill-blood arising during the banquet, there was no lack of weapons to work mischief. But although the form of the feast was somewhat disorderly, and that the revellers were unrestrained by the stricter rules of good-breeding which the laws of chivalry imposed, the Easter banquet of Gwenwyn possessed, in the attendance of twelve eminent bards, one source of the most exalted pleasure, in a much higher degree than the proud Normans could themselves boast. The latter, it is true, had their minstrels, a race of men trained to the profession of poetry, song, and music; but although those arts were highly honoured, and the individual professors, when they attained to eminence, were often richly rewarded, and treated with distinction, the order of minstrels, as such, was held in low esteem, being composed chiefly of worthless and dissolute strollers, by whom the art was assumed, in order to escape from the necessity of labour, and to have the means of pursuing a wandering and dissipated course of life. Such, in all times, has been the censure upon the calling of those who dedicate themselves to the public amusement; among whom those distinguished by individual excellence are sometimes raised high in the social circle, while far the more numerous professors, who only reach mediocrity, are sunk into the lower scale. But such was not the case with the order of bards in Wales, who, succeeding to the dignity of the Druids, under whom they had originally formed a subordinate fraternity, had many immunities, were held in the highest reverence and esteem, and exercised much influence with their countrymen. Their power over the public mind even rivalled that of the priests themselves, to whom indeed they bore some resemblance; for they never wore arms, were initiated into their order by secret and mystic solemnities, and homage was rendered to their _Awen_, or flow of poetic inspiration, as if it had been indeed marked with a divine character. Thus possessed of power and consequence, the bards were not unwilling to exercise their privileges, and sometimes, in doing so, their manners frequently savoured of caprice. This was perhaps the case with Cadwallon, the chief bard of Gwenwyn, and who, as such, was expected to have poured forth the tide of song in the banqueting-hall of his prince. But neither the anxious and breathless expectation of the assembled chiefs and champions--neither the dead silence which stilled the roaring hall, when his harp was reverently placed before him by his attendant--nor even the commands or entreaties of the Prince himself--could extract from Cadwallon more than a short and interrupted prelude upon the instrument, the notes of which arranged themselves into an air inexpressibly mournful, and died away in silence. The Prince frowned darkly on the bard, who was himself far too deeply lost in gloomy thought, to offer any apology, or even to observe his displeasure. Again he touched a few wild notes, and, raising his looks upward, seemed to be on the very point of bursting forth into a tide of song similar to those with which this master of his art was wont to enchant his hearers. But the effort was in vain--he declared that his right hand was withered, and pushed the instrument from him. A murmur went round the company, and Gwenwyn read in their aspects that they received the unusual silence of Cadwallon on this high occasion as a bad omen. He called hastily on a young and ambitious bard, named Caradoc of Menwygent, whose rising fame was likely soon to vie with the established reputation of Cadwallon, and summoned him to sing something which might command the applause of his sovereign and the gratitude of the company. The young man was ambitious, and understood the arts of a courtier. He commenced a poem, in which, although under a feigned name, he drew such a poetic picture of Eveline Berenger, that Gwenwyn was enraptured; and while all who had seen the beautiful original at once recognized the resemblance, the eyes of the Prince confessed at once his passion for the subject, and his admiration of the poet. The figures of Celtic poetry, in themselves highly imaginative, were scarce sufficient for the enthusiasm of the ambitious bard, rising in his tone as he perceived the feelings which he was exciting. The praises of the Prince mingled with those of the Norman beauty; and "as a lion," said the poet, "can only be led by the hand of a chaste and beautiful maiden, so a chief can only acknowledge the empire of the most virtuous, the most lovely of her sex. Who asks of the noonday sun, in what quarter of the world he was born? and who shall ask of such charms as hers, to what country they owe their birth?" Enthusiasts in pleasure as in war, and possessed of imaginations which answered readily to the summons of their poets, the Welsh chiefs and leaders united in acclamations of applause; and the song of the bard went farther to render popular the intended alliance of the Prince, than had all the graver arguments of his priestly precursor in the same topic. Gwenwyn himself, in a transport of delight, tore off the golden bracelets which he wore, to bestow them upon a bard whose song had produced an effect so desirable; and said, as he looked at the silent and sullen Cadwallon, "The silent harp was never strung with golden wires." "Prince," answered the bard, whose pride was at least equal to that of Gwenwyn himself, "you pervert the proverb of Taliessin--it is the flattering harp which never lacked golden strings." Gwenwyn, turning sternly towards him, was about to make an angry answer, when the sudden appearance of Jorworth, the messenger whom he had despatched to Raymond Berenger, arrested his purpose. This rude envoy entered the hall bare-legged, excepting the sandals of goat-skin which he wore, and having on his shoulder a cloak of the same, and a short javelin in his hand. The dust on his garments, and the flush on his brow, showed with what hasty zeal his errand had been executed. Gwenwyn demanded of him eagerly, "What news from Garde Doloureuse, Jorworth ap Jevan?" "I bear them in my bosom," said the son of Jevan; and, with much reverence, he delivered to the Prince a packet, bound with silk, and sealed with the impression of a swan, the ancient cognizance of the House of Berenger. Himself ignorant of writing or reading, Gwenwyn, in anxious haste, delivered the letter to Cadwallon, who usually acted as secretary when the chaplain was not in presence, as chanced then to be the case. Cadwallon, looking at the letter, said briefly, "I read no Latin. Ill betide the Norman, who writes to a Prince of Powys in other language than that of Britain! and well was the hour, when that noble tongue alone was spoken from Tintadgel to Cairleoil!" Gwenwyn only replied to him with an angry glance. "Where is Father Einion?" said the impatient Prince. "He assists in the church," replied one of his attendants, "for it is the feast of Saint--" "Were it the feast of Saint David," said Gwenwyn, "and were the pyx between his hands, he must come hither to me instantly!" One of the chief henchmen sprung off, to command his attendance, and, in the meantime, Gwenwyn eyed the letter containing the secret of his fate, but which it required an interpreter to read, with such eagerness and anxiety, that Caradoc, elated by his former success, threw in a few notes to divert, if possible, the tenor of his patron's thoughts during the interval. A light and lively air, touched by a hand which seemed to hesitate, like the submissive voice of an inferior, fearing to interrupt his master's meditations, introduced a stanza or two applicable to the subject. "And what though thou, O scroll," he said, apostrophizing the letter, which lay on the table before his master, "dost speak with the tongue of the stranger? Hath not the cuckoo a harsh note, and yet she tells us of green buds and springing flowers? What if thy language be that of the stoled priest, is it not the same which binds hearts and hands together at the altar? And what though thou delayest to render up thy treasures, are not all pleasures most sweet, when enhanced by expectation? What were the chase, if the deer dropped at our feet the instant he started from the cover--or what value were there in the love of the maiden, were it yielded without coy delay?" The song of the bard was here broken short by the entrance of the priest, who, hasty in obeying the summons of his impatient master, had not tarried to lay aside even the stole, which he had worn in the holy service; and many of the elders thought it was no good omen, that, so habited, a priest should appear in a festive assembly, and amid profane minstrelsy. The priest opened the letter of the Norman Baron, and, struck with surprise at the contents, lifted his eyes in silence. "Read it!" exclaimed the fierce Gwenwyn. "So please you," replied the more prudent chaplain, "a smaller company were a fitter audience." "Read it aloud!" repeated the Prince, in a still higher tone; "there sit none here who respect not the honour of their prince, or who deserve not his confidence. Read it, I say, aloud! and by Saint David, if Raymond the Norman hath dared--" He stopped short, and, reclining on his seat, composed himself to an attitude of attention; but it was easy for his followers to fill up the breach in his exclamation which prudence had recommended. The voice of the chaplain was low and ill-assured as he read the following epistle:-- "Raymond Berenger, the noble Norman Knight, Seneschal of the Garde Doloureuse, to Gwenwyn, Prince of Powys, (may peace be between them!) sendeth health. "Your letter, craving the hand of our daughter Eveline Berenger, was safely delivered to us by your servant, Jorworth ap Jevan, and we thank you heartily for the good meaning therein expressed to us and to ours. But, considering within ourselves the difference of blood and lineage, with the impediments and causes of offence which have often arisen in like cases, we hold it fitter to match our daughter among our own people; and this by no case in disparagement of you, but solely for the weal of you, of ourselves, and of our mutual dependants, who will be the more safe from the risk of quarrel betwixt us, that we essay not to draw the bonds of our intimacy more close than beseemeth. The sheep and the goats feed together in peace on the same pastures, but they mingle not in blood, or race, the one with the other. Moreover, our daughter Eveline hath been sought in marriage by a noble and potent Lord of the Marches, Hugo de Lacy, the Constable of Chester, to which most honourable suit we have returned a favourable answer. It is therefore impossible that we should in this matter grant to you the boon you seek; nevertheless, you shall at all times find us, in other matters, willing to pleasure you; and hereunto we call God, and Our Lady, and Saint Mary Magdalene of Quatford, to witness; to whose keeping we heartily recommend you. "Written by our command, at our Castle of Garde Doloureuse, within the Marches of Wales, by a reverend priest, Father Aldrovand, a black monk of the house of Wenlock; and to which we have appended our seal, upon the eve of the blessed martyr Saint Alphegius, to whom be honour and glory!" The voice of Father Einion faltered, and the scroll which he held in his hand trembled in his grasp, as he arrived at the conclusion of this epistle; for well he knew that insults more slight than Gwenwyn would hold the least word it contained, were sure to put every drop of his British blood into the most vehement commotion. Nor did it fail to do so. The Prince had gradually drawn himself up from the posture of repose in which he had prepared to listen to the epistle; and when it concluded, he sprung on his feet like a startled lion, spurning from him as he rose the foot-bearer, who rolled at some distance on the floor. "Priest," he said, "hast thou read that accursed scroll fairly? for if thou hast added, or diminished, one word, or one letter, I will have thine eyes so handled, that thou shalt never read letter more!" The monk replied, trembling, (for he was well aware that the sacerdotal character was not uniformly respected among the irascible Welshmen,) "By the oath of my order, mighty prince, I have read word for word, and letter for letter." There was a momentary pause, while the fury of Gwenwyn, at this unexpected affront, offered to him in the presence of all his Uckelwyr, (_i.e._ noble chiefs, literally men of high stature,) seemed too big for utterance, when the silence was broken by a few notes from the hitherto mute harp of Cadwallon. The Prince looked round at first with displeasure at the interruption, for he was himself about to speak; but when he beheld the bard bending over his harp with an air of inspiration, and blending together, with unexampled skill, the wildest and most exalted tones of his art, he himself became an auditor instead of a speaker, and Cadwallon, not the Prince, seemed to become the central point of the assembly, on whom all eyes were bent, and to whom each ear was turned with breathless eagerness, as if his strains were the responses of an oracle. "We wed not with the stranger,"--thus burst the song from the lips of the poet. "Vortigern wedded with the stranger; thence came the first wo upon Britain, and a sword upon her nobles, and a thunderbolt upon her palace. We wed not with the enslaved Saxon-- the free and princely stag seeks not for his bride the heifer whose neck the yoke hath worn. We wed not with the rapacious Norman--the noble hound scorns to seek a mate from the herd of ravening wolves. When was it heard that the Cymry, the descendants of Brute, the true children of the soil of fair Britain, were plundered, oppressed, bereft of their birthright, and insulted even in their last retreats?--when, but since they stretched their hand in friendship to the stranger, and clasped to their bosoms the daughter of the Saxon? Which of the two is feared?--the empty water-course of summer, or the channel of the headlong winter torrent?--A maiden smiles at the summer-shrunk brook while she crosses it, but a barbed horse and his rider will fear to stem the wintry flood. Men of Mathravel and Powys, be the dreaded flood of winter--Gwenwyn, son of Cyverliock!--may thy plume be the topmost of its waves!" All thoughts of peace, thoughts which, in themselves, were foreign to the hearts of the warlike British, passed before the song of Cadwallon like dust before the whirlwind, and the unanimous shout of the assembly declared for instant war. The Prince himself spoke not, but, looking proudly around him, flung abroad his arm, as one who cheers his followers to the attack. The priest, had he dared, might have reminded Gwenwyn, that the Cross which he had assumed on his shoulder, had consecrated his arm to the Holy War, and precluded his engaging in any civil strife. But the task was too dangerous for Father Einion's courage, and he shrunk from the hall to the seclusion of his own convent. Caradoc, whose brief hour of popularity was past, also retired, with humbled and dejected looks, and not without a glance of indignation at his triumphant rival, who had so judiciously reserved his display of art for the theme of war, that was ever most popular with the audience. The chiefs resumed their seats no longer for the purpose of festivity, but to fix, in the hasty manner customary among these prompt warriors, where they were to assemble their forces, which, upon such occasions, comprehended almost all the able-bodied males of the country,--for all, excepting the priests and the bards, were soldiers,--and to settle the order of their descent upon the devoted marches, where they proposed to signalize, by general ravage, their sense of the insult which their Prince had received, by the rejection of his suit. CHAPTER THE THIRD The sands are number'd, that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. HENRY VI. ACT. I. SCENE IV. When Raymond Berenger had despatched his mission to the Prince of Powys, he was not unsuspicious, though altogether fearless, of the result. He sent messengers to the several dependants who held their fiefs by the tenure of _cornage_, and warned them to be on the alert, that he might receive instant notice of the approach of the enemy. These vassals, as is well known, occupied the numerous towers, which, like so many falcon-nests, had been built on the points most convenient to defend the frontiers, and were bound to give signal of any incursion of the Welsh, by blowing their horns; which sounds, answered from tower to tower, and from station to station, gave the alarm for general defence. But although Raymond considered these precautions as necessary, from the fickle and precarious temper of his neighbours, and for maintaining his own credit as a soldier, he was far from believing the danger to be imminent; for the preparations of the Welsh; though on a much more extensive scale than had lately been usual, were as secret, as their resolution of war had been suddenly adopted. It was upon the second morning after the memorable festival of Castell-Coch, that the tempest broke on the Norman frontier. At first a single, long, and keen bugle-blast, announced the approach of the enemy; presently the signals of alarm were echoed from every castle and tower on the borders of Shropshire, where every place of habitation was then a fortress. Beacons were lighted upon crags and eminences, the bells were rung backward in the churches and towns, while the general and earnest summons to arms announced an extremity of danger which even the inhabitants of that unsettled country had not hitherto experienced. Amid this general alarm, Raymond Berenger, having busied himself in arranging his few but gallant followers and adherents, and taken such modes of procuring intelligence of the enemy's strength and motions as were in his power, at length ascended the watch- tower of the castle, to observe in person the country around, already obscured in several places by the clouds of smoke, which announced the progress and the ravages of the invaders. He was speedily joined by his favourite squire, to whom the unusual heaviness of his master's looks was cause of much surprise, for till now they had ever been blithest at the hour of battle. The squire held in his hand his master's helmet, for Sir Raymond was all armed, saving the head. "Dennis Morolt," said the veteran soldier, "are our vassals and liegemen all mustered?" "All, noble sir, but the Flemings, who are not yet come in." "The lazy hounds, why tarry they?" said Raymond. "Ill policy it is to plant such sluggish natures in our borders. They are like their own steers, fitter to tug a plough than for aught that requires mettle." "With your favour," said Dennis, "the knaves can do good service notwithstanding. That Wilkin Flammock of the Green can strike like the hammers of his own fulling-mill." "He will fight, I believe, when he cannot help it," said Raymond; "but he has no stomach for such exercise, and is as slow and as stubborn as a mule." "And therefore are his countrymen rightly matched against the Welsh," replied Dennis Morolt, "that their solid and unyielding temper may be a fit foil to the fiery and headlong dispositions of our dangerous neighbours, just as restless waves are best opposed by steadfast rocks.--Hark, sir, I hear Wilkin Flammock's step ascending the turret-stair, as deliberately as ever monk mounted to matins." Step by step the heavy sound approached, until the form of the huge and substantial Fleming at length issued from the turret-door to the platform where they "were conversing. Wilkin Flammock was cased in bright armour, of unusual weight and thickness, and cleaned with exceeding care, which marked the neatness of his nation; but, contrary to the custom of the Normans, entirely plain, and void of carving, gilding, or any sort of ornament. The basenet, or steel-cap, had no visor, and left exposed a broad countenance, with heavy and unpliable features, which announced the character of his temper and understanding. He carried in his hand a heavy mace. "So, Sir Fleming," said the Castellane, "you are in no hurry, methinks, to repair to the rendezvous." "So please you," answered the Fleming, "we were compelled to tarry, that we might load our wains with our bales of cloth and other property." "Ha! wains?--how many wains have you brought with you?" "Six, noble sir," replied Wilkin. "And how many men?" demanded Raymond Berenger. "Twelve, valiant sir," answered Flammock. "Only two men to each baggage-wain? I wonder you would thus encumber yourself," said Berenger. "Under your favour, sir, once more," replied Wilkin, "it is only the value which I and my comrades set upon our goods, that inclines us to defend them with our bodies; and, had we been obliged to leave our cloth to the plundering clutches of yonder vagabonds, I should have seen small policy in stopping here to give them the opportunity of adding murder to robbery. Gloucester should have been my first halting-place." The Norman knight gazed on the Flemish artisan, for such was Wilkin Flammock, with such a mixture of surprise and contempt, as excluded indignation. "I have heard much," he said, "but this is the first time that I have heard one with a beard on his lip avouch himself a coward." "Nor do you hear it now," answered Flammock, with the utmost composure--"I am always ready to fight for life and property; and my coming to this country, where they are both in constant danger, shows that I care not much how often I do so. But a sound skin is better than a slashed one, for all that." "Well," said Raymond Berenger, "fight after thine own fashion, so thou wilt but fight stoutly with that long body of thine. We are like to have need for all that we can do.--Saw you aught of these rascaille Welsh?--have they Gwenwyn's banner amongst them?" "I saw it with the white dragon displayed," replied Wilkin; "I could not but know it, since it was broidered in my own loom." Raymond looked so grave upon this intelligence, that Dennis Morolt, unwilling the Fleming should mark it, thought it necessary to withdraw his attention. "I can tell thee," he said to Flammock, "that when the Constable of Chester joins us with his lances, you shall see your handiwork, the dragon, fly faster homeward than ever flew the shuttle which wove it." "It must fly before the Constable comes up, Dennis Morolt," said Berenger, "else it will fly triumphant over all our bodies." "In the name of God and the Holy Virgin!" said Dennis, "what may you mean, Sir Knight?--not that we should fight with the Welsh before the Constable joins us?"--He paused, and then, well understanding the firm, yet melancholy glance, with which his master answered the question, he proceeded, with yet more vehement earnestness--"You cannot mean it--you cannot intend that we shall quit this castle, which we have so often made good against them, and contend in the field with two hundred men against thousands?-- Think better of it, my beloved master, and let not the rashness of your old age blemish that character for wisdom and warlike skill, which your former life has so nobly won." "I am not angry with you for blaming my purpose, Dennis," answered the Norman, "for I know you do it in love to me and mine. But, Dennis Morolt, this thing must be--we must fight the Welshmen within these three hours, or the name of Raymond Berenger must be blotted from the genealogy of his house." "And so we will--we will fight them, my noble master," said the esquire; "fear not cold counsel from Dennis Morolt, where battle is the theme. But we will fight them under the walls of the castle, with honest Wilkin Flammock and his crossbows on the wall to protect our flanks, and afford us some balance against the numerous odds." "Not so, Dennis," answered his master--"In the open field we must fight them, or thy master must rank but as a mansworn knight. Know, that when I feasted yonder wily savage in my halls at Christmas, and when the wine was flowing fastest around, Gwenwyn threw out some praises of the fastness and strength of my castle, in a manner which intimated it was these advantages alone that had secured me in former wars from defeat and captivity. I spoke in answer, when I had far better been silent; for what availed my idle boast, but as a fetter to bind me to a deed next to madness? If, I said, a prince of the Cymry shall come in hostile fashion before the Garde Doloureuse, let him pitch his standard down in yonder plain by the bridge, and, by the word of a good knight, and the faith of a Christian man, Raymond Berenger will meet him as willingly, be he many or be he few, as ever Welshman was met withal." Dennis was struck speechless when he heard of a promise so rash, so fatal; but his was not the casuistry which could release his master from the fetters with which his unwary confidence had bound him. It was otherwise with Wilkin Flammock. He stared--he almost laughed, notwithstanding the reverence due to the Castellane, and his own insensibility to risible emotions. "And is this all?" he said. "If your honour had pledged yourself to pay one hundred florins to a Jew or to a Lombard, no doubt you must have kept the day, or forfeited your pledge; but surely one day is as good as another to keep a promise for fighting, and that day is best in which the promiser is strongest. But indeed, after all, what signifies any promise over a wine flagon?" "It signifies as much as a promise can do that is given elsewhere. The promiser," said Berenger, "escapes not the sin of a word- breaker, because he hath been a drunken braggart." "For the sin," said Dennis, "sure I am, that rather than you should do such a deed of dole, the Abbot of Glastonbury would absolve you for a florin." "But what shall wipe out the shame?" demanded Berenger--"how shall I dare to show myself again among press of knights, who have broken my word of battle pledged, for fear of a Welshman and his naked savages? No! Dennis Morolt, speak on it no more. Be it for weal or wo, we fight them to-day, and upon yonder fair field." "It may be," said Flammock, "that Gwenwyn may have forgotten the promise, and so fail to appear to claim it in the appointed space; for, as we heard, your wines of France flooded his Welsh brains deeply." "He again alluded to it on the morning after it was made," said the Castellane--"trust me, he will not forget what will give him such a chance of removing me from his path for ever." As he spoke, they observed that large clouds of dust, which had been seen at different points of the landscape, were drawing down towards the opposite side of the river, over which an ancient bridge extended itself to the appointed place of combat. They were at no loss to conjecture the cause. It was evident that Gwenwyn, recalling the parties who had been engaged in partial devastation, was bending with his whole forces towards the bridge and the plain beyond it. "Let us rush down and secure the pass," said Dennis Morolt; "we may debate with them with some equality by the advantage of defending the bridge. Your word bound you to the plain as to a field of battle, but it did not oblige you to forego such advantages as the passage of the bridge would afford. Our men, our horses, are ready--let our bowmen secure the banks, and my life on the issue." "When I promised to meet him in yonder field, I meant," replied Raymond Berenger, "to give the Welshman the full advantage of equality of ground. I so meant it--he so understood it; and what avails keeping my word in the letter, if I break it in the sense? We move not till the last Welshman has crossed the bridge; and then--" "And then," said Dennis, "we move to our death!--May God forgive our sins!--But--" "But what?" said Berenger; "something sticks in thy mind that should have vent." "My young lady, your daughter the Lady Eveline--" "I have told her what is to be. She shall remain in the castle, where I will leave a few chosen veterans, with you, Dennis, to command them. In twenty-four hours the siege will be relieved, and we have defended it longer with a slighter garrison. Then to her aunt, the Abbess of the Benedictine sisters--thou, Dennis, wilt see her placed there in honour and safety, and my sister will care for her future provision as her wisdom shall determine." "_I_ leave you at this pinch!" said Dennis Morolt, bursting into tears --"_I_ shut myself up within walls, when my master rides to his last of battles!--_I_ become esquire to a lady, even though it be to the Lady Eveline, when he lies dead under his shield!--Raymond Berenger, is it for this that I have buckled thy armour so often?" The tears gushed from the old warrior's eyes as fast as from those of a girl who weeps for her lover; and Raymond, taking him kindly by the hand, said, in a soothing tone, "Do not think, my good old servant, that, were honour to be won, I would drive thee from my side. But this is a wild and an inconsiderate deed, to which my fate or my folly has bound me. I die to save my name from dishonour; but, alas! I must leave on my memory the charge of imprudence." "Let me share your imprudence, my dearest master," said Dennis Morolt, earnestly--"the poor esquire has no business to be thought wiser than his master. In many a battle my valour derived some little fame from partaking in thee deeds which won your renown-- deny me not the right to share in that blame which your temerity may incur; let them not say, that so rash was his action, even his old esquire was not permitted to partake in it! I am part of yourself--it is murder to every man whom you take with you, if you leave me behind." "Dennis," said Berenger, "you make me feel yet more bitterly the folly I have yielded to. I. would grant you the boon you ask, sad as it is--But my daughter--" "Sir Knight," said the Fleming, who had listened to this dialogue with somewhat less than his usual apathy, "it is not my purpose this day to leave this castle; now, if you could trust my troth to do what a plain man may for the protection of my Lady Eveline--" "How, sirrah!" said Raymond; "you do not propose to leave the castle? Who gives you right to propose or dispose in the case, until my pleasure is known?" "I shall be sorry to have words with you, Sir Castellane," said the imperturbable Fleming;--"but I hold here, in this township, certain mills, tenements, cloth-yards, and so forth, for which I am to pay man-service in defending this Castle of the Garde Doloureuse, and in this I am ready. But if you call on me to march from hence, leaving the same castle defenceless, and to offer up my life in a battle which you acknowledge to be desperate, I must needs say my tenure binds me not to obey thee." "Base mechanic!" said Morolt, laying his hand on his dagger, and menacing the Fleming. But Raymond Berenger interfered with voice and hand--"Harm him not, Morolt, and blame him not. He hath a sense of duty, though not after our manner; and he and his knaves will fight best behind stone walls. They are taught also, these Flemings, by the practice of their own country, the attack and defence of walled cities and fortresses, and are especially skilful in working of mangonels and military engines. There are several of his countrymen in the castle, besides his own followers. These I propose to leave behind; and I think they will obey him more readily than any but thyself--how think'st thou? Thou wouldst not, I know, from a miscontrued point of honour, or a blind love to me, leave this important place, and the safety of Eveline, in doubtful hands?" "Wilkin Flammock is but a Flemish clown, noble sir," answered Dennis, as much overjoyed as if he had obtained some important advantage; "but I must needs say he is as stout and true as any whom you might trust; and, besides, his own shrewdness will teach him there is more to be gained by defending such a castle as this, than by yielding it to strangers, who may not be likely to keep the terms of surrender, however fairly they may offer them." "It is fixed then," said Raymond Berenger. "Then, Dennis, thou shalt go with me, and he shall remain behind.--Wilkin Flammock," he said, addressing the Fleming solemnly, "I speak not to thee the language of chivalry, of which thou knowest nothing; but, as thou art an honest man, and a true Christian, I conjure thee to stand to the defence of this castle. Let no promise of the enemy draw thee to any base composition--no threat to any surrender. Relief must speedily arrive, if you fulfil your trust to me and to my daughter, Hugo de Lacy will reward you richly--if you fail, he will punish you severely." "Sir Knight," said Flammock, "I am pleased you have put your trust so far in a plain handicraftsman. For the Welsh, I am come from a land for which we were compelled--yearly compelled--to struggle with the sea; and they who can deal with the waves in a tempest, need not fear an undisciplined people in their fury. Your daughter shall be as dear to me as mine own; and in that faith you may prick forth--if, indeed, you will not still, like a wiser man, shut gate, down portcullis, up drawbridge, and let your archers and my crossbows man the wall, and tell the knaves you are not the fool that they take you for." "Good fellow, that must not be," said the Knight. "I hear my daughter's voice," he added hastily; "I would not again meet her, again to part from her. To Heaven's keeping I commit thee, honest Fleming.--Follow me, Dennis Morolt." The old Castellane descended the stair of the southern tower hastily, just as his daughter Eveline ascended that of the eastern turret, to throw herself at his feet once more. She was followed by the Father Aldrovand, chaplain of her father; by an old and almost invalid huntsman, whose more active services in the field and the chase had been for some time chiefly limited to the superintendence of the Knight's kennels, and the charge especially of his more favourite hounds; and by Rose Flammock, the daughter of Wilkin, a blue-eyed Flemish maiden, round, plump, and shy as a partridge, who had been for some time permitted to keep company with the high-born Norman damsel, in a doubtful station, betwixt that of an humble friend and a superior domestic. Eveline rushed upon the battlements, her hair dishevelled, and her eyes drowned in tears, and eagerly demanded of the Fleming where her father was. Flammock made a clumsy reverence, and attempted some answer; but his voice seemed to fail him. He turned his back upon Eveline without ceremony, and totally disregarding the anxious inquiries of the huntsman and the chaplain, he said hastily to his daughter, in his own language, "Mad work! mad work! look to the poor maiden, Roschen--_Der alter Herr ist verruckt_." [Footnote: The old lord is frantic.] Without farther speech he descended the stairs, and never paused till he reached the buttery. Here he called like a lion for the controller of these regions, by the various names of Kammerer, Keller-master, and so forth, to which the old Reinold, an ancient Norman esquire, answered not, until the Netherlander fortunately recollected his Anglo-Norman title of butler. This, his regular name of office, was the key to the buttery-hatch, and the old man instantly appeared, with his gray cassock and high rolled hose, a ponderous bunch of keys suspended by a silver chain to his broad leathern girdle, which, in consideration of the emergency of the time, he had thought it right to balance on the left side with a huge falchion, which seemed much too weighty for his old arm to wield. "What is your will," he said, "Master Flammock? or what are your commands, since it is my lord's pleasure that they shall be laws to me for a time?" "Only a cup of wine, good Meister Keller-master--butler, I mean." "I am glad you remember the name of mine office," said Reinold, with some of the petty resentment of a spoiled domestic, who thinks that a stranger has been irregularly put in command over him. "A flagon of Rhenish, if you love me," answered the Fleming, "for my heart is low and poor within me, and I must needs drink of the best." "And drink you shall," said Reinold, "if drink will give you the courage which perhaps you want."--He descended to the secret crypts, of which he was the guardian, and returned with a silver flagon, which might contain about a quart.--"Here is such wine," said Reinold, "as thou hast seldom tasted," and was about to pour it out into a cup. "Nay, the flagon--the flagon, friend Reinold; I love a deep and solemn draught when the business is weighty," said Wilkin. He seized on the flagon accordingly, and drinking a preparatory mouthful, paused as if to estimate the strength and flavour of the generous liquor. Apparently he was pleased with both, for he nodded in approbation to the butler; and, raising the flagon to his mouth once more, he slowly and gradually brought the bottom of the vessel parallel with the roof of the apartment, without suffering one drop of the contents to escape him. "That hath savour, Herr Keller-master," said he, while he was recovering his breath by intervals, after so long a suspense of respiration; "but, may Heaven forgive you for thinking it the best I have ever tasted! You little know the cellars of Ghent and of Ypres." "And I care not for them," said Reinold; "those of gentle Norman blood hold the wines of Gascony and France, generous, light, and cordial, worth all the acid potations of the Rhine and the Neckar." "All is matter of taste," said the Fleming; "but hark ye--Is there much of this wine in the cellar?" "Methought but now it pleased not your dainty palate?" said Reinold. "Nay, nay, my friend," said Wilkin, "I said it had savour--I may have drunk better--but this is right good, where better may not be had.--Again, how much of it hast thou?" "The whole butt, man," answered the butler; "I have broached a fresh piece for you." "Good," replied Flammock; "get the quart-pot of Christian measure; heave the cask up into this same buttery, and let each soldier of this castle be served with such a cup as I have here swallowed. I feel it hath done me much good--my heart was sinking when I saw the black smoke arising from mine own fulling-mills yonder. Let each man, I say, have a full quart-pot--men defend not castles on thin liquors." "I must do as you will, good Wilkin Flammock," said the butler; "but I pray you, remember all men are not alike. That which will but warm your Flemish hearts, will put wildfire into Norman brains; and what may only encourage your countrymen to man the walls, will make ours fly over the battlements." "Well, you know the conditions of your own countrymen best; serve out to them what wines and measure you list--only let each Fleming have a solemn quart of Rhenish.--But what will you do for the English churls, of whom there are a right many left with us?" The old butler paused, and rubbed his brow.--"There will be a strange waste of liquor," he said; "and yet I may not deny that the emergency may defend the expenditure. But for the English, they are, as you wot, a mixed breed, having much of your German sullenness, together with a plentiful touch of the hot blood of yonder Welsh furies. Light wines stir them not; strong heavy draughts would madden them. What think you of ale, an invigorating, strengthening liquor, that warms the heart without inflaming the brain?" "Ale!" said the Fleming.--"Hum--ha--is your ale mighty, Sir Butler?--is it double ale?" "Do you doubt my skill?" said the butler.--"March and October have witnessed me ever as they came round, for thirty years, deal with the best barley in Shropshire.--You shall judge." He filled, from a large hogshead in the corner of the buttery, the flagon which the Fleming had just emptied, and which was no sooner replenished than Wilkin again drained it to the bottom. "Good ware," he said, "Master Butler, strong stinging ware. The English churls will fight like devils upon it--let them be furnished with mighty ale along with their beef and brown bread. And now, having given you your charge, Master Reinold, it is time I should look after mine own." Wilkin Flammock left the buttery, and with a mien and judgment alike undisturbed by the deep potations in which he had so recently indulged, undisturbed also by the various rumours concerning what was passing without doors, he made the round of the castle and its outworks, mustered the little garrison, and assigned to each their posts, reserving to his own countrymen the management of the arblasts, or crossbows, and of the military engines which were contrived by the proud Normans, and were incomprehensible to the ignorant English, or, more properly, Anglo-Saxons, of the period, but which his more adroit countrymen managed with great address. The jealousies entertained by both the Normans and English, at being placed under the temporary command of a Fleming, gradually yielded to the military and mechanical skill which he displayed, as well as to a sense of the emergency, which became greater with every moment. CHAPTER THE FOURTH Beside yon brigg out ower yon burn, Where the water bickereth bright and sheen, Shall many a falling courser spurn, And knights shall die in battle keen. PROPHECY OF THOMAS THE RHYMER. The daughter of Raymond Berenger, with the attendants whom we have mentioned, continued to remain upon the battlements of the Garde Doloureuse, in spite of the exhortations of the priest that she would rather await the issue of this terrible interval in the chapel, and amid the rites of religion. He perceived, at length, that she was incapable, from grief and fear, of attending to, or understanding his advice; and, sitting down beside her, while the huntsman and Rose Flammock stood by, endeavoured to suggest such comfort as perhaps he scarcely felt himself. "This is but a sally of your noble father's," he said; "and though it may seem it is made on great hazard, yet who ever questioned Sir Raymond Berenger's policy of wars?--He is close and secret in his purposes. I guess right well he had not marched out as he proposes, unless he knew that the noble Earl of Arundel, or the mighty Constable of Chester, were close at hand." "Think you this assuredly, good father?--Go, Raoul--go, my dearest Rose--look to the east--see if you cannot descry banners or clouds of dust.--Listen--listen--hear you no trumpets from that quarter?" "Alas! my lady," said Raoul, "the thunder of heaven could scarce be heard amid the howling of yonder Welsh wolves." Eveline turned as he spoke, and looking towards the bridge, she beheld an appalling spectacle. The river, whose stream washes on three sides the base of the proud eminence on which the castle is situated, curves away from the fortress and its corresponding village on the west, and the hill sinks downward to an extensive plain, so extremely level as to indicate its alluvial origin. Lower down, at the extremity of this plain, where the banks again close on the river, were situated the manufacturing houses of the stout Flemings, which were now burning in a bright flame. The bridge, a high, narrow combination of arches of unequal size, was about half a mile distant from the castle, in the very centre of the plain. The river itself ran in a deep rocky channel, was often unfordable, and at all times difficult of passage, giving considerable advantage to the defenders of the castle, who had spent on other occasions many a dear drop of blood to defend the pass, which Raymond Berenger's fantastic scruples now induced him to abandon. The Welshmen, seizing the opportunity with the avidity with which men grasp an unexpected benefit, were fast crowding over the high and steep arches, while new bands, collecting from different points upon the farther bank, increased the continued stream of warriors, who, passing leisurely and uninterrupted, formed their line of battle on the plain opposite to the castle. At first Father Aldrovand viewed their motions without anxiety, nay, with the scornful smile of one who observes an enemy in the act of falling into the snare spread for them by superior skill. Raymond Berenger, with his little body of infantry and cavalry, were drawn up on the easy hill which is betwixt the castle and the plain, ascending from the former towards the fortress; and it seemed clear to the Dominican, who had not entirely forgotten in the cloister his ancient military experience, that it was the Knight's purpose to attack the disordered enemy when a certain number had crossed the river, and the others were partly on the farther side, and partly engaged in the slow and perilous manoeuvre of effecting their passage. But when large bodies of the white-mantled Welshmen were permitted without interruption to take such order on the plain as their habits of fighting recommended, the monk's countenance, though he still endeavoured to speak encouragement to the terrified Eveline, assumed a different and an anxious expression; and his acquired habits of resignation contended strenuously with his ancient military ardour. "Be patient," he said, "my daughter, and be of good comfort; thine eyes shall behold the dismay of yonder barbarous enemy. Let but a minute elapse, and thou shalt see them scattered like dust.--Saint George! they will surely cry thy name now, or never!" The monk's beads passed meanwhile rapidly through his hands, but many an expression of military impatience mingled itself with his orisons. He could not conceive the cause why each successive throng of mountaineers, led under their different banners, and headed by their respective chieftains, was permitted, without interruption, to pass the difficult defile, and extend themselves in battle array on the near side of the bridge, while the English, or rather Anglo-Norman cavalry, remained stationary, without so much as laying their lances in rest. There remained, as he thought, but one hope--one only rational explanation of this unaccountable inactivity--this voluntary surrender of every advantage of ground, when that of numbers was so tremendously on the side of the enemy. Father Aldrovand concluded, that the succours of the Constable of Chester, and other Lord Marchers, must be in the immediate vicinity, and that the Welsh were only permitted to pass the river without opposition, that their retreat might be the more effectually cut off, and their defeat, with a deep river in their rear, rendered the more signally calamitous. But even while he clung to this hope, the monk's heart sunk within him, as, looking in every direction from which the expected succours might arrive, he could neither see nor hear the slightest token which announced their approach. In a frame of mind approaching more nearly to despair than to hope, the old man continued alternately to tell his beads, to gaze anxiously around, and to address some words of consolation in broken phrases to the young lady, until the general shout of the Welsh, ringing from the bank of the river to the battlements of the castle, warned him, in a note of exultation, that the very last of the British had defiled through the pass, and that their whole formidable array stood prompt for action upon the hither side of the river. This thrilling and astounding clamour, to which each Welshman lent his voice with all the energy of defiance, thirst of battle, and hope of conquest, was at length answered by the blast of the Norman trumpets,--the first sign of activity which had been exhibited on the part of Raymond Berenger. But cheerily as they rang, the trumpets, in comparison of the shout which they answered, sounded like the silver whistle of the stout boatswain amid the howling of the tempest. At the same moment when the trumpets were blown, Berenger gave signal to the archers to discharge their arrows, and the men-at- arms to advance under a hail-storm of shafts, javelins, and stones, shot, darted, and slung by the Welsh against their steel- clad assailants. The veterans of Raymond, on the other hand, stimulated by so many victorious recollections, confident in the talents of their accomplished leader, and undismayed even by the desperation of their circumstances, charged the mass of the Welshmen with their usual determined valour. It was a gallant sight to see this little body of cavalry advance to the onset, their plumes floating above their helmets, their lances in rest, and projecting six feet in length before the breasts of their coursers; their shields hanging from their necks, that their left hands might have freedom to guide their horses; and the whole body rushing on with an equal front, and a momentum of speed which increased with every second. Such an onset might have startled naked men, (for such were the Welsh, in respect of the mail-sheathed Normans,) but it brought no terrors to the ancient British, who had long made it their boast that they exposed their bare bosoms and white tunics to the lances and swords of the men-at-arms, with as much confidence as if they had been born invulnerable. It was not indeed in their power to withstand the weight of the first shock, which, breaking their ranks, densely as they were arranged, carried the barbed horses into the very centre of their host, and well-nigh up to the fatal standard, to which Raymond Berenger, bound by his fatal vow, had that day conceded so much vantage-ground. But they yielded like the billows, which give way, indeed, to the gallant ship, but only to assail her sides, and to unite in her wake. With wild and horrible clamours, they closed their tumultuous ranks around Berenger and his devoted followers, and a deadly scene of strife ensued. The best warriors of Wales had on this occasion joined the standard of Gwenwyn; the arrows of the men of Gwentland, whose skill in archery almost equalled that of the Normans themselves, rattled on the helmets of the men-at-arms; and the spears of the people of Deheubarth, renowned for the sharpness and temper of their steel heads, were employed against the cuirasses not without fatal effect, notwithstanding the protection, which these afforded to the rider. It was in vain that the archery belonging to Raymond's little band, stout yeomen, who, for the most part, held possession by military tenure, exhausted their quivers on the broad mark afforded them by the Welsh army. It is probable, that every shaft carried a Welshman's life on its point; yet, to have afforded important relief to the cavalry, now closely and inextricably engaged, the slaughter ought to have been twenty-fold at least. Meantime, the Welsh, galled by this incessant discharge, answered it by volleys from their own archers, whose numbers made some amends for their inferiority, and who were supported by numerous bodies of darters and slingers. So that the Norman archers, who had more than once attempted to descend from their position to operate a diversion in favour of Raymond and his devoted band, were now so closely engaged in front, as obliged them to abandon all thoughts of such a movement. Meanwhile, that chivalrous leader, who from the first had hoped for no more than an honourable death, laboured with all his power to render his fate signal, by involving in it that of the Welsh Prince, the author of the war. He cautiously avoided the expenditure of his strength by hewing among the British; but, with the shock of his managed horse, repelled the numbers who pressed on him, and leaving the plebeians to the swords of his companions, shouted his war-cry, and made his way towards the fatal standard of Gwenwyn, beside which, discharging at once the duties of a skilful leader and a brave soldier, the Prince had stationed himself. Raymond's experience of the Welsh disposition, subject equally to the highest flood, and most sudden ebb of passion, gave him some hope that a successful attack upon this point, followed by the death or capture of the Prince, and the downfall of his standard, might even yet strike such a panic, as should change the fortunes of the day, otherwise so nearly desperate. The veteran, therefore, animated his comrades to the charge by voice and example; and, in spite of all opposition, forced his way gradually onward. But Gwenwyn in person, surrounded by his best and noblest champions, offered a defence as obstinate as the assault was intrepid. In vain they were borne to the earth by the barbed horses, or hewed down by the invulnerable riders. Wounded and overthrown, the Britons continued their resistance, clung round the legs of the Norman steeds, and cumbered their advance while their brethren, thrusting with pikes, proved every joint and crevice of the plate and mail, or grappling with the men-at-arms, strove to pull them from their horses by main force, or beat them down with their bills and Welsh hooks. And wo betide those who were by these various means dismounted, for the long sharp knives worn by the Welsh, soon pierced them with a hundred wounds, and were then only merciful when the first inflicted was deadly. The combat was at this point, and had raged for more than half an hour, when Berenger, having forced his horse within two spears' length of the British standard, he and Gwenwyn were so near to each other as to exchange tokens of mutual defiance. "Turn thee, Wolf of Wales," said Berenger, "and abide, if thou darest, one blow of a good knight's sword! Raymond Berenger spits at thee and thy banner." "False Norman churl!" said Gwenwyn, swinging around his head a mace of prodigious weight, and already clottered with blood, "thy iron headpiece shall ill protect thy lying tongue, with which I will this day feed the ravens." Raymond made no farther answer, but pushed his horse towards the Prince, who advanced to meet him with equal readiness. But ere they came within reach of each other's weapons, a Welsh champion, devoted like the Romans who opposed the elephants of Pyrrhus, finding that the armour of Raymond's horse resisted the repeated thrusts of his spear, threw himself under the animal, and stabbed him in the belly with his long knife. The noble horse reared and fell, crushing with his weight the Briton who had wounded him; the helmet of the rider burst its clasps in the fall, and rolled away from his head, giving to view his noble features and gray hairs. He made more than one effort to extricate himself from the fallen horse, but ere he could succeed, received his death-wound from the hand of Gwenwyn, who hesitated not to strike him down with his mace while in the act of extricating himself. During the whole of this bloody day, Dennis Morolt's horse had kept pace for pace, and his arm blow for blow, with his master's. It seemed as if two different bodies had been moving under one act of volition. He husbanded his strength, or put it forth, exactly as he observed his knight did, and was close by his side, when he made the last deadly effort. At that fatal moment, when Raymond Berenger rushed on the chief, the brave squire forced his way up to the standard, and, grasping it firmly, struggled for possession of it with a gigantic Briton, to whose care it had been confided, and who now exerted his utmost strength to defend it. But even while engaged in this mortal struggle, the eye of Morolt scarcely left his master; and when he saw him fall, his own force seemed by sympathy to abandon him, and the British champion had no longer any trouble in laying him prostrate among the slain. The victory of the British was now complete. Upon the fall of their leader, the followers of Raymond Berenger would willingly have fled or surrendered. But the first was impossible, so closely had they been enveloped; and in the cruel wars maintained by the Welsh upon their frontiers, quarter to the vanquished was out of question. A few of the men-at-arms were lucky enough to disentangle themselves from the tumult, and, not even attempting to enter the castle, fled in various directions, to carry their own fears among the inhabitants of the marches, by announcing the loss of the battle, and the fate of the far-renowned Raymond Berenger. The archers of the fallen leader, as they had never been so deeply involved in the combat, which had been chiefly maintained by the cavalry, became now, in their turn, the sole object of the enemy's attack. But when they saw the multitude come roaring towards them like a sea, with all its waves, they abandoned the bank which they had hitherto bravely defended, and began a regular retreat to the castle in the best order which they could, as the only remaining means of securing their lives. A few of their lightfooted enemies attempted to intercept them, during the execution of this prudent manoeuvre, by outstripping them in their march, and throwing themselves into the hollow way which led to the castle, to oppose their retreat. But the coolness of the English archers, accustomed to extremities of every kind, supported them on the present occasion. While a part of them, armed with glaives and bills, dislodged the Welsh from the hollow way, the others, facing in the opposite direction, and parted into divisions, which alternately halted and retreated, maintained such a countenance as to check pursuit, and exchange a severe discharge of missiles with the Welsh, by which both parties were considerable sufferers. At length, having left more than two-thirds of their brave companions behind them, the yeomanry attained the point, which, being commanded by arrows and engines from the battlements, might be considered as that of comparative safety. A volley of large stones, and square-headed bolts of great size and thickness, effectually stopped the farther progress of the pursuit, and those who had led it drew back their desultory forces to the plain, where, with shouts of jubilee and exultation, their countrymen were employed in securing the plunder of the field; while some, impelled by hatred and revenge, mangled and mutilated the limbs of the dead Normans, in a manner unworthy of their national cause and their own courage. The fearful yells with which this dreadful work was consummated, while it struck horror into the minds of the slender garrison of the Garde Doloureuse, inspired them at the same time with the resolution rather to defend the fortress to the last extremity, than to submit to the mercy of so vengeful an enemy. [Footnote: This is by no means exaggerated in the text. A very honourable testimony was given to their valour by King Henry II., in a letter to the Greek Emperor, Emanuel Commenus. This prince having desired that an account might be sent him of all that was remarkable in the island of Great Britain, Henry, in answer to that request, was pleased to take notice, among other particulars, of the extraordinary courage and fierceness of the Welsh, who were not afraid to fight unarmed with enemies armed at all points, valiantly shedding their blood in the cause of their country, and purchasing glory at the expense of their lives.] CHAPTER THE FIFTH That baron he to his castle fled, To Barnard Castle then fled he; The uttermost walls were eathe to win, The Earls have won them speedilie;- The uttermost walls were stone and brick; But though they won them soon anon, Long ere they won the inmost walls, For they were hewn in rock of stone. PERCY'S RELICS OF ANCIENT POETRY. The unhappy fate of the battle was soon evident to the anxious spectators upon the watch-towers of the Garde Doloureuse, which name the castle that day too well deserved. With difficulty the confessor mastered his own emotions to control those of the females on whom he attended, and who were now joined in their lamentation by many others--women, children, and infirm old men, the relatives of those whom they saw engaged in this unavailing contest. These helpless beings had been admitted to the castle for security's sake, and they had now thronged to the battlements, from which Father Aldrovand found difficulty in making them descend, aware that the sight of them on the towers, that should have appeared lined with armed men, would be an additional encouragement to the exertions of the assailants. He urged the Lady Eveline to set an example to this group of helpless, yet intractable mourners. Preserving, at least endeavouring to preserve, even in the extremity of grief, that composure which the manners of the times enjoined--for chivalry had its stoicism as well as philosophy-- Eveline replied in a voice which she would fain have rendered firm, and which was tremulous in her despite--"Yes, father, you say well--here is no longer aught left for maidens to look upon. Warlike meed and honoured deed sunk when yonder white plume touched the bloody ground.--Come, maidens, there is no longer aught left us to see--To mass, to mass--the tourney is over!" There was wildness in her tone, and when she rose, with the air of one who would lead out a procession, she staggered, and would have fallen, but for the support of the confessor. Hastily wrapping her head in her mantle, as if ashamed of the agony of grief which she could not restrain, and of which her sobs and the low moaning sounds that issued from under the folds enveloping her face, declared the excess, she suffered Father Aldrovand to conduct her whither he would. "Our gold," he said, "has changed to brass, our silver to dross, our wisdom, to folly--it is His will, who confounds the counsels of the wise, and shortens the arm of the mighty. To the chapel--to the chapel, Lady Eveline; and instead of vain repining, let us pray to God and the saints to turn away their displeasure, and to save the feeble remnant from the jaws of the devouring wolf." Thus speaking, he half led, half supported Eveline, who was at the moment almost incapable of thought and action, to the castle- chapel, where, sinking before the altar, she assumed the attitude at least of devotion, though her thoughts, despite the pious words which her tongue faltered out mechanically, were upon the field of battle, beside the body of her slaughtered parent. The rest of the mourners imitated their young lady in her devotional posture, and in the absence of her thoughts. The consciousness that so many of the garrison had been cut off in Raymond's incautious sally, added to their sorrows the sense of personal insecurity, which was exaggerated by the cruelties which were too often exercised by the enemy, who, in the heat of victory, were accustomed to spare neither sex nor age. The monk, however, assumed among them the tone of authority which his character warranted, rebuked their wailing and ineffectual complaints, and having, as he thought, brought them to such a state of mind as better became their condition, he left them to their private devotions to indulge his own anxious curiosity by inquiring into the defences of the castle. Upon the outward walls he found Wilkin Flammock, who, having done the office of a good and skilful captain in the mode of managing his artillery, and beating back, as we have already seen, the advanced guard of the enemy, was now with his own hand measuring out to his little garrison no stinted allowance of wine. "Have a care, good Wilkin," said the father, "that thou dost not exceed in this matter. Wine is, thou knowest, like fire and water, an excellent servant, but a very bad master." "It will be long ere it overflow the deep and solid skulls of my countrymen," said Wilkin Flammock. "Our Flemish courage is like our Flanders horses--the one needs the spur, and the other must have a taste of the winepot; but, credit me, father, they are of an enduring generation, and will not shrink in the washing.--But indeed, if I were to give the knaves a cup more than enough, it were not altogether amiss, since they are like to have a platter the less." "How do you mean!" cried the monk, starting; "I trust in the saints the provisions have been cared for?" "Not so well as in your convent, good father," replied Wilkin, with the same immoveable stolidity of countenance. "We had kept, as you know, too jolly a Christmas to have a very fat Easter. Yon Welsh hounds, who helped to eat up our victuals, are now like to get into our hold for the lack of them." "Thou talkest mere folly," answered the monk; "orders were last evening given by our lord (whose soul God assoilzie!) to fetch in the necessary supplies from the country around! "Ay, but the Welsh were too sharp set to permit us to do that at our ease this morning, which should have been done weeks and months since. Our lord deceased, if deceased he be, was one of those who trusted to the edge of the sword, and even so hath come of it. Commend me to a crossbow and a well-victualled castle, if I must needs fight at all.--You look pale, my good father, a cup of wine will revive you." The monk motioned away from him the untasted cup, which Wilkin pressed him to with clownish civility. "We have now, indeed," he said, "no refuge, save in prayer!" "Most true, good father;" again replied the impassible Fleming; "pray therefore as much as you will. I will content myself with fasting, which will come whether I will or no."--At this moment a horn was heard before the gate.--"Look to the portcullis and the gate, ye knaves!--What news, Neil Hansen?" "A messenger from the Welsh tarries at the Mill-hill, just within shot of the cross-bows; he has a white flag, and demands admittance." "Admit him not, upon thy life, till we be prepared for him," said Wilkin. "Bend the bonny mangonel upon the place, and shoot him if he dare to stir from the spot where he stands till we get all prepared to receive him," said Flammock in his native language. "And, Neil, thou houndsfoot, bestir thyself--let every pike, lance, and pole in the castle be ranged along the battlements, and pointed through the shot-holes--cut up some tapestry into the shape of banners, and show them from the highest towers.--Be ready when I give a signal, to strike _naker_, [Footnote: _Naker_,--Drum. ] and blow trumpets, if we have any; if not, some cow-horns--anything for a noise. And hark ye, Neil Hansen, do you, and four or five of your fellows, go to the armoury and slip on coats-of-mail; our Netherlandish corslets do not appal them so much. Then let the Welsh thief be blindfolded and brought in amongst us--Do you hold up your heads and keep silence--leave me to deal with him--only have a care there be no English among us." The monk, who in his travels had acquired some slight knowledge of the Flemish language, had well-nigh started when he heard the last article in Wilkin's instructions to his countryman, but commanded himself, although a little surprised, both at this suspicious circumstance, and at the readiness and dexterity with which the rough-hewn Fleming seemed to adapt his preparations to the rules of war and of sound policy. Wilkin, on his part, was not very certain whether the monk had not heard and understood more of what he said to his countryman, than what he had intended. As if to lull asleep any suspicion which Father Aldrovand might entertain, he repeated to him in English most of the directions which he had given, adding, "Well, good father, what think you of it?" "Excellent well," answered the father, "and done as if you had practised war from the cradle, instead of weaving broad-cloth." "Nay, spare not your jibes, father," answered Wilkin.--"I know full well that you English think that Flemings have nought in their brainpan but sodden beef and cabbage; yet you see there goes wisdom to weaving of webs." "Right, Master Wilkin Flammock," answered the father; "but, good Fleming, wilt thou tell me what answer thou wilt make to the Welsh Prince's summons?" "Reverend father, first tell me what the summons will be," replied the Fleming. "To surrender this castle upon the instant," answered the monk. "What will be your reply?" "My answer will be, Nay--unless upon good composition." "How, Sir Fleming! dare you mention composition and the castle of the Garde Doloureuse in one sentence?" said the monk. "Not if I may do better," answered the Fleming. "But would your reverence have me dally until the question amongst the garrison be, whether a plump priest or a fat Fleming will be the better flesh to furnish their shambles?" "Pshaw!" replied Father Aldrovand, "thou canst not mean such folly. Relief must arrive within twenty-four hours at farthest. Raymond Berenger expected it for certain within such a space." "Raymond Berenger has been deceived this morning in more matters than one," answered the Fleming. "Hark thee, Flanderkin," answered the monk, whose retreat from the world had not altogether quenched his military habits and propensities, "I counsel thee to deal uprightly in this matter, as thou dost regard thine own life; for here are as many English left alive, notwithstanding the slaughter of to-day, as may well suffice to fling the Flemish bull-frogs into the castle-ditch, should they have cause to think thou meanest falsely, in the keeping of this castle, and the defence of the Lady Eveline." "Let not your reverence be moved with unnecessary and idle fears," replied Wilkin Flammock--"I am castellane in this house, by command of its lord, and what I hold for the advantage of mine service, that will I do." "But I," said the angry monk, "I am the servant of the Pope--the chaplain of this castle, with power to bind and unloose. I fear me thou art no true Christian, Wilkin Flammock, but dost lean to the heresy of the mountaineers. Thou hast refused to take the blessed cross--thou hast breakfasted, and drunk both ale and wine, ere thou hast heard mass. Thou art not to be trusted, man, and I will not trust thee--I demand to be present at the conference betwixt thee and the Welshman." "It may not be, good father," said Wilkin, with the same smiling, heavy countenance, which he maintained on all occasions of life, however urgent. "It is true, as thou sayest, good father, that I have mine own reasons for not marching quite so far as the gates of Jericho at present; and lucky I have such reasons, since I had not else been here to defend the gate of the Garde Doloureuse. It is also true that I may have been sometimes obliged to visit my mills earlier than the chaplain was called by his zeal to the altar, and that my stomach brooks not working ere I break my fast. But for this, father, I have paid a mulet even to your worshipful reverence, and methinks since you are pleased to remember the confession so exactly, you should not forget the penance and the absolution." The monk, in alluding to the secrets of the confessional, had gone a step beyond what the rules of his order and of the church permitted. He was baffled by the Fleming's reply, and finding him unmoved by the charge of heresy, he could only answer, in some confusion, "You refuse, then, to admit me to the conference with the Welshman?" "Reverend father," said Wilkin, "it altogether respecteth secular matters. If aught of religious tenor should intervene, you shall be summoned without delay." "I will be there in spite of thee, thou Flemish ox," muttered the monk to himself, but in a tone not to be heard by the by-standers; and so speaking he left the battlements. Wilkin Flammock, a few minutes afterwards, having first seen that all was arranged on the battlements, so as to give an imposing idea of a strength which did not exist, descended to a small guard-room, betwixt the outer and inner gate, where he was attended by half-a-dozen of his own people, disguised in the Norman armour which they had found in the armoury of the castle,-- their strong, tall, and bulky forms, and motionless postures, causing them to look rather like trophies of some past age, than living and existing soldiers. Surrounded by these huge and inanimate figures, in a little vaulted room which almost excluded daylight, Flammock received the Welsh envoy, who was led in blindfolded betwixt two Flemings, yet not so carefully watched but that they permitted him to have a glimpse of the preparations on the battlements, which had, in fact, been made chiefly for the purpose of imposing on him. For the same purpose an occasional clatter of arms was made without; voices were heard as if officers were going their rounds; and other sounds of active preparation seemed to announce that a numerous and regular garrison was preparing to receive an attack. When the bandage was removed from Jorworth's eyes,--for the same individual who had formerly brought Gwenwyn's offer of alliance, now bare his summons of surrender,--he looked haughtily around him and demanded to whom he was to deliver the commands of his master, the Gwenwyn, son of Cyvelioc, Prince of Powys. "His highness," answered Flammock, with his usual smiling indifference of manner, "must be contented to treat with Wilkin Flammock of the Fulling-mills, deputed governor of the Garde Doloureuse." "Thou deputed governor!" exclaimed Jorworth; "thou?--a Low-country weaver!--it is impossible. Low as they are, the English Crogan [Footnote: This is a somewhat contumelious epithet applied by the Welsh to the English.] cannot have sunk to a point so low, as to be commanded by _thee!_--these men seem English, to them I will deliver my message." "You may if you will," replied Wilkin, "but if they return you any answer save by signs, you shall call me _schelm_." "Is this true?" said the Welsh envoy, looking towards the men-at- arms, as they seemed, by whom Flammock was attended; "are you really come to this pass? I thought that the mere having been born on British earth, though the children of spoilers and invaders, had inspired you with too much pride to brook the yoke of a base mechanic. Or, if you are not courageous, should you not be cautious?--Well speaks the proverb, Wo to him that will trust a stranger! Still mute--still silent?--answer me by word or sign--Do you really call and acknowledge him as your leader?" The men in armour with one accord nodded their casques in reply to Jorworth's question, and then remained motionless as before. The Welshman, with the acute genius of his country, suspected there was something in this which he could not entirely comprehend, but, preparing himself to be upon his guard, he proceeded as follows: "Be it as it may, I care not who hears the message of my sovereign, since it brings pardon and mercy to the inhabitants of this Castell an Carrig, [Footnote: Castle of the Craig.] which you have called the Garde Doloureuse, to cover the usurpation of the territory by the change of the name. Upon surrender of the same to the Prince of Powys, with its dependencies, and with the arms which it contains, and with the maiden Eveline Berenger, all within the castle shall depart unmolested, and have safe-conduct wheresoever they will, to go beyond the marches of the Cymry." "And how, if we obey not this summons?" said the imperturbable Wilkin Flammock. "Then shall your portion be with Raymond Berenger, your late leader," replied Jorworth, his eyes, while he was speaking, glancing with the vindictive ferocity which dictated his answer. "So many strangers as be here amongst ye, so many bodies to the ravens, so many heads to the gibbet!--It is long since the kites have had such a banquet of lurdane Flemings and false Saxons." "Friend Jorworth," said Wilkin, "if such be thy only message, bear mine answer back to thy master, That wise men trust not to the words of others that safety, which they can secure by their own deeds. We have walls high and strong enough, deep moats, and plenty of munition, both longbow and arblast. We will keep the castle, trusting the castle will keep us, till God shall send us succour." "Do not peril your lives on such an issue," said the Welsh emissary, changing his language to the Flemish, which, from occasional communication with those of that nation in Pembrokeshire, he spoke fluently, and which he now adopted, as if to conceal the purport of his discourse from the supposed English in the apartment. "Hark thee hither," he proceeded, "good Fleming. Knowest thou not that he in whom is your trust, the Constable De Lacy, hath bound himself by his vow to engage in no quarrel till he crosses the sea, and cannot come to your aid without perjury? He and the other Lords Marchers have drawn their forces far northward to join the host of Crusaders. What will it avail you to put us to the toil and trouble of a long siege, when you can hope no rescue?" "And what will it avail me more," said Wilkin, answering in his native language and looking at the Welshman fixedly, yet with a countenance from which all expression seemed studiously banished, and which exhibited, upon features otherwise tolerable, a remarkable compound of dulness and simplicity, "what will it avail me whether your trouble be great or small?" "Come, friend Flammock," said the Welshman, "frame not thyself more unapprehensive than nature hath formed thee. The glen is dark, but a sunbeam can light the side of it. Thy utmost efforts cannot prevent the fall of this castle; but thou mayst hasten it, and the doing so shall avail thee much." Thus speaking, he drew close up to Wilkin, and sunk his voice to an insinuating whisper, as he said, "Never did the withdrawing of a bar, or the raising of a portcullis, bring such vantage to Fleming as they may to thee, if thou wilt." "I only know," said Wilkin, "that the drawing the one, and the dropping the other, have cost me my whole worldly subsistence." "Fleming, it shall be compensated to thee with an overflowing measure. The liberality of Gwenwyn is as the summer rain." "My whole mills and buildings have been this morning burnt to the earth--" "Thou shalt have a thousand marks of silver, man, in the place of thy goods," said the Welshman; but the Fleming continued, without seeming to hear him, to number up his losses. "My lands are forayed, twenty kine driven off, and--" "Threescore shall replace them," interrupted Jorworth, "chosen from the most bright-skinned of the spoil." "But my daughter--but the Lady Eveline"--said the Fleming, with some slight change in his monotonous voice, which seemed to express doubt and perplexity--"You are cruel conquerors, and--" "To those who resist us we are fearful," said Jorworth, "but not to such as shall deserve clemency by surrender. Gwenwyn will forget the contumelies of Raymond, and raise his daughter to high honour among the daughters of the Cymry. For thine own child, form but a wish for her advantage, and it shall be fulfilled to the uttermost. Now, Fleming, we understand each other." "I understand thee, at least," said Flammock. "And I thee, I trust?" said Jorworth, bending his keen, wild blue eye on the stolid and unexpressive face of the Netherlander, like an eager student who seeks to discover some hidden and mysterious meaning in a passage of a classic author, the direct import of which seems trite and trivial. "You believe that you understand me," said Wilkin; "but here lies the difficulty,--which of us shall trust the other?" "Darest thou ask?" answered Jorworth. "Is it for thee, or such as thee, to express doubt of the purposes of the Prince of Powys?" "I know them not, good Jorworth, but through thee; and well I wot thou art not one who will let thy traffic miscarry for want of aid from the breath of thy mouth." "As I am a Christian man," said Jorworth, hurrying asseveration on asseveration--"by the soul of my father--by the faith of my mother--by the black rood of--" "Stop, good Jorworth--thou heapest thine oaths too thickly on each other, for me to value them to the right estimate," said Flammock; "that which is so lightly pledged, is sometimes not thought worth redeeming. Some part of the promised guerdon in hand the whilst, were worth an hundred oaths." "Thou suspicious churl, darest thou doubt my word?" "No--by no means," answered Wilkin;--"nevertheless, I will believe thy deed more readily." "To the point, Fleming," said Jorworth--"What wouldst thou have of me?" "Let me have some present sight of the money thou didst promise, and I will think of the rest of thy proposal." "Base silver-broker!" answered Jorworth, "thinkest thou the Prince of Powys has as many money-bags, as the merchants of thy land of sale and barter? He gathers treasures by his conquests, as the waterspout sucks up water by its strength, but it is to disperse them among his followers, as the cloudy column restores its contents to earth and ocean. The silver that I promise thee has yet to be gathered out of the Saxon chests--nay, the casket of Berenger himself must be ransacked to make up the tale." "Methinks I could do that myself, (having full power in the castle,) and so save you a labour," said the Fleming. "True," answered Jorworth, "but it would be at the expense of a cord and a noose, whether the Welsh took the place or the Normans relieved it--the one would expect their booty entire--the other their countryman's treasures to be delivered undiminished." "I may not gainsay that," said the Fleming. "Well, say I were content to trust you thus far, why not return my cattle, which are in your own hands, and at your disposal? If you do not pleasure me in something beforehand, what can I expect of you afterwards?" "I would pleasure you in a greater matter," answered the equally suspicious Welshman. "But what would it avail thee to have thy cattle within the fortress? They can be better cared for on the plain beneath." "In faith," replied the Fleming, "thou sayst truth--they will be but a trouble to us here, where we have so many already provided for the use of the garrison.--And yet, when I consider it more closely, we have enough of forage to maintain all we have, and more. Now, my cattle are of a peculiar stock, brought from the rich pastures of Flanders, and I desire to have them restored ere your axes and Welsh hooks be busy with their hides." "You shall have them this night, hide and horn," said Jorworth; "it is but a small earnest of a great boon." "Thanks to your munificence," said the Fleming; "I am a simple- minded man, and bound my wishes to the recovery of my own property." "Thou wilt be ready, then, to deliver the castle?" said Jorworth. "Of that we will talk farther to-morrow," said Wilkin Flammock; "if these English and Normans should suspect such a purpose, we should have wild work--they must be fully dispersed ere I can hold farther communication on the subject. Meanwhile, I pray thee, depart suddenly, and as if offended with the tenor of our discourse." "Yet would I fain know something more fixed and absolute," said Jorworth. "Impossible--impossible," said the Fleming: "see you not yonder tall fellow begins already to handle his dagger--Go hence in haste, and angrily--and forget not the cattle." "I will not forget them," said Jorworth; "but if thou keep not faith with us--" So speaking, he left the apartment with a gesture of menace, partly really directed to Wilkin himself, partly assumed in consequence of his advice. Flammock replied in English, as if that all around might understand, what he said, "Do thy worst, Sir Welshman! I am a true man; I defy the proposals of rendition, and will hold out this castle to thy shame and thy master's!--Here--let him be blindfolded once more, and returned in safety to his attendants without; the next Welshman who appears before the gate of the Garde Doloureuse, shall be more sharply received." The Welshman was blindfolded and withdrawn, when, as Wilkin Flammock himself left the guardroom, one of the seeming men-at- arms, who had been present at this interview, said in his ear, in English, "Thou art a false traitor, Flammock, and shalt die a traitor's death!" Startled at this, the Fleming would have questioned the man farther, but he had disappeared so soon as the words were uttered. Flammock was disconcerted by this circumstance, which showed him that his interview with Jorworth had been observed, and its purpose known or conjectured, by some one who was a stranger to his confidence, and might thwart his intentions; and he quickly after learned that this was the case. CHAPTER THE SIXTH Blessed Mary, mother dear, To a maiden bend thine ear, Virgin undefiled, to thee A wretched virgin bends the knee. HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. The daughter of the slaughtered Raymond had descended from the elevated station whence she had beheld the field of battle, in the agony of grief natural to a child whose eyes have beheld the death of an honoured and beloved father. But her station, and the principles of chivalry in which she had been trained up, did not permit any prolonged or needless indulgence of inactive sorrow. In raising the young and beautiful of the female sex to the rank of princesses, or rather goddesses, the spirit of that singular system exacted from them, in requital, a tone of character, and a line of conduct, superior and something contradictory to that of natural or merely human feeling. Its heroines frequently resembled portraits shown by an artificial light--strong and luminous, and which placed in high relief the objects on which it was turned; but having still something of adventitious splendour, which, compared with that of the natural day, seemed glaring and exaggerated. It was not permitted to the orphan of the Garde Doloureuse, the daughter of a line of heroes, whose stem was to be found in the race of Thor, Balder, Odin, and other deified warriors of the North, whose beauty was the theme of a hundred minstrels, and her eyes the leading star of half the chivalry of the warlike marches of Wales, to mourn her sire with the ineffectual tears of a village maiden. Young as she was, and horrible as was the incident which she had but that instant witnessed, it was not altogether so appalling to her as to a maiden whose eye had not been accustomed to the rough, and often fatal sports of chivalry, and whose residence had not been among scenes and men where war and death had been the unceasing theme of every tongue, whose imagination had not been familiarized with wild and bloody events, or, finally, who had not been trained up to consider an honourable "death under shield," as that of a field of battle was termed, as a more desirable termination to the life of a warrior, than that lingering and unhonoured fate which comes slowly on, to conclude the listless and helpless inactivity of prolonged old age. Eveline, while she wept for her father, felt her bosom glow when she recollected that he died in the blaze of his fame, and amidst heaps of his slaughtered enemies; and when she thought of the exigencies of her own situation, it was with the determination to defend her own liberty, and to avenge her father's death, by every means which Heaven had left within her power. The aids of religion were not forgotten; and according to the custom of the times, and the doctrines of the Roman church, she endeavoured to propitiate the favour of Heaven by vows as well as prayers. In a small crypt, or oratory, adjoining to the chapel, was hung over an altar-piece, on which a lamp constantly burned, a small picture of the Virgin Mary, revered as a household and peculiar deity by the family of Berenger, one of whose ancestors had brought it from the Holy Land, whither he had gone upon pilgrimage. It was of the period of the Lower Empire, a Grecian painting, not unlike those which in Catholic countries are often imputed to the Evangelist Luke. The crypt in which it was placed was accounted a shrine of uncommon sanctity--nay, supposed to have displayed miraculous powers; and Eveline, by the daily garland of flowers which she offered before the painting, and by the constant prayers with which they were accompanied, had constituted herself the peculiar votaress of Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, for so the picture was named. Now, apart from others, alone, and in secrecy, sinking in the extremity of her sorrow before the shrine of her patroness, she besought the protection of kindred purity for the defence of her freedom and honour, and invoked vengeance on the wild and treacherous chieftain who had slain her father, and was now beleaguering her place of strength. Not only did she vow a large donative in lands to the shrine of the protectress whose aid she implored; but the oath passed her lips, (even though they faltered, and though something within her remonstrated against the vow,) that whatsoever favoured knight Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse might employ for her rescue, should obtain from her in guerdon whatever boon she might honourably grant, were it that of her virgin hand at the holy altar. Taught as she was to believe, by the assurances of many a knight, that such a surrender was the highest boon which Heaven could bestow, she felt as discharging a debt of gratitude when she placed herself entirely at the disposal of the pure and blessed patroness in whose aid she confided. Perhaps there lurked in this devotion some earthly hope of which she was herself scarce conscious, and which reconciled her to the indefinite sacrifice thus freely offered. The Virgin, (this flattering hope might insinuate,) kindest and most benevolent of patronesses, will use compassionately the power resigned to her, and _he_ will be the favoured champion of Maria, upon whom her votaress would most willingly confer favour. But if there was such a hope, as something selfish will often mingle with our noblest and purest emotions, it arose unconscious of Eveline herself, who, in the full assurance of implicit faith, and fixing on the representative of her adoration, eyes in which the most earnest supplication, the most humble confidence, struggled with unbidden tears, was perhaps more beautiful than when, young as she was, she was selected to bestow the prize of chivalry in the lists of Chester. It was no wonder that, in such a moment of high excitation, when prostrated in devotion before a being of whose power to protect her, and to make her protection assured by a visible sign, she doubted nothing, the Lady Eveline conceived she saw with her own eyes the acceptance of her vow. As she gazed on the picture with an over-strained eye, and an imagination heated with enthusiasm, the expression seemed to alter from the hard outline, fashioned by the Greek painter; the eyes appeared to become animated, and to return with looks of compassion the suppliant entreaties of the votaress, and the mouth visibly arranged itself into a smile of inexpressible sweetness. It even seemed to her that the head made a gentle inclination. Overpowered by supernatural awe at appearances, of which her faith permitted her not to question the reality, the Lady Eveline folded her arms on her bosom, and prostrated her forehead on the pavement, as the posture most fitting to listen to divine communication. But her vision went not so far; there was neither sound nor voice, and when, after stealing her eyes all around the crypt in which she knelt, she again raised them to the figure of Our Lady, the features seemed to be in the form in which the limner had sketched them, saving that, to Eveline's imagination, they still retained an august and yet gracious expression, which she had not before remarked upon the countenance. With awful reverence, almost amounting to fear, yet comforted, and even elated, with the visitation she had witnessed, the maiden repeated again and again the orisons which she thought most grateful to the ear of her benefactress; and rising at length, retired backwards, as from the presence of a sovereign, until she attained the outer chapel. Here one or two females still knelt before the saints which the walls and niches presented for adoration; but the rest of the terrified suppliants, too anxious to prolong their devotions, had dispersed through the castle to learn tidings of their friends, and to obtain some refreshment, or at least some place of repose for themselves and their families. Bowing her head, and muttering an ave to each saint as she passed his image, (for impending danger makes men observant of the rites of devotion,) the Lady Eveline had almost reached the door of the chapel, when a man-at-arms, as he seemed, entered hastily; and, with a louder voice than suited the holy place, unless when need was most urgent, demanded the Lady Eveline. Impressed with the feelings of veneration which the late scene had produced, she was about to rebuke his military rudeness, when he spoke again, and in anxious haste, "Daughter, we are betrayed!" and though the form, and the coat-of-mail which covered it, were those of a soldier, the voice was that of Father Aldrovand, who, eager and anxious at the same time, disengaged himself from the mail hood, and showed his countenance. "Father," she said, "what means this? Have you forgotten the confidence in Heaven which you are wont to recommend, that you bear other arms than your order assigns to you?" "It may come to that ere long," said Father Aldrovand; "for I was a soldier ere I was a monk. But now I have donn'd this harness to discover treachery, not to resist force. Ah! my beloved daughter-- we are dreadfully beset--foemen without--traitors within!--The false Fleming, Wilkin Flammock, is treating for the surrender of the castle!" "Who dares say so?" said a veiled female, who had been kneeling unnoticed in a sequestered corner of the chapel, but who now started up and came boldly betwixt Lady Eveline and the monk. "Go hence, thou saucy minion," said the monk, surprised at this bold interruption; "this concerns not thee." "But it _doth_ concern me," said the damsel, throwing back her veil, and discovering the juvenile countenance of Rose, the daughter of Wilkin Flammock, her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks blushing with anger, the vehemence of which made a singular contrast with the very fair complexion, and almost infantine features of the speaker, whose whole form and figure was that of a girl who has scarce emerged from childhood, and indeed whose general manners were as gentle and bashful as they now seemed bold, impassioned, and undaunted.--"Doth it not concern me," she said, "that my father's honest name should be tainted with treason? Doth it not concern the stream when the fountain is troubled? It _doth_ concern me, and I will know the author of the calumny." "Damsel," said Eveline, "restrain thy useless passion; the good father, though he cannot intentionally calumniate thy father, speaks, it may be, from false report." "As I am an unworthy priest," said the father, "I speak from the report of my own ears. Upon the oath of my order, myself heard this Wilkin Flammock chaffering with the Welshman for the surrender of the Garde Doloureuse. By help of this hauberk and mail hood, I gained admittance to a conference where he thought there were no English ears. They spoke Flemish too, but I knew the jargon of old." "The Flemish," said the angry maiden, whose headstrong passion led her to speak first in answer to the last insult offered, "is no jargon like your piebald English, half Norman, half Saxon, but a noble Gothic tongue, spoken by the brave warriors who fought against the Roman Kaisars, when Britain bent the neck to them--and as for this he has said of Wilkin Flammock," she continued, collecting her ideas into more order as she went on, "believe it not, my dearest lady; but, as you value the honour of your own noble father, confide, as in the Evangelists, in the honesty of mine!" This she spoke with an imploring tone of voice, mingled with sobs, as if her heart had been breaking. Eveline endeavoured to soothe her attendant. "Rose," she said, "in this evil time suspicions will light on the best men, and misunderstandings will arise among the best friends.--Let us hear the good father state what he hath to charge upon your parent. Fear not but that Wilkin shall be heard in his defence. Thou wert wont to be quiet and reasonable." "I am neither quiet nor reasonable on this matter," said Rose, with redoubled indignation; "and it is ill of you, lady, to listen to the falsehoods of that reverend mummer, who is neither true priest nor true soldier. But I will fetch one who shall confront him either in casque or cowl." So saying, she went hastily out of the chapel, while the monk, after some pedantic circumlocution, acquainted the Lady Eveline with what he had overheard betwixt Jorworth and Wilkin; and proposed to her to draw together the few English who were in the castle, and take possession of the innermost square tower; a keep which, as usual in Gothic fortresses of the Norman period, was situated so as to make considerable defence, even after the exterior works of the castle, which it commanded, were in the hand of the enemy. "Father," said Eveline, still confident in the vision she had lately witnessed, "this were good counsel in extremity; but otherwise, it were to create the very evil we fear, by seating our garrison at odds amongst themselves. I have a strong, and not unwarranted confidence, good father, in our blessed Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, that we shall attain at once vengeance on our barbarous enemies, and escape from our present jeopardy; and I call you to witness the vow I have made, that to him whom Our Lady should employ to work us succour, I will refuse nothing, were it my father's inheritance, or the hand of his daughter." "_Ave Maria! Ave Regina Coeli!_" said the priest; "on a rock more sure you could not have founded your trust.--But, daughter," he continued after the proper ejaculation had been made, "have you never heard, even by a hint, that there was a treaty for your hand betwixt our much honoured lord, of whom we are cruelly bereft, (may God assoilzie his soul!) and the great house of Lacy?" "Something I may have heard," said Eveline, dropping her eyes, while a slight tinge suffused her cheek; "but I refer me to the disposal of our Lady of Succour and Consolation." As she spoke, Rose entered the chapel with the same vivacity she had shown in leaving it, leading by the hand her father, whose sluggish though firm step, vacant countenance, and heavy demeanour, formed the strongest contrast to the rapidity of her motions, and the anxious animation of her address. Her task of dragging him forward might have reminded the spectator of some of those ancient monuments, on which a small cherub, singularly inadequate to the task, is often represented as hoisting upward towards the empyrean the fleshy bulk of some ponderous tenant of the tomb, whose disproportioned weight bids fair to render ineffectual the benevolent and spirited exertions of its fluttering guide and assistant. "Roschen--my child--what grieves thee?" said the Netherlander, as he yielded to his daughter's violence with a smile, which, being on the countenance of a father, had more of expression and feeling than those which seemed to have made their constant dwelling upon his lips. "Here stands my father," said the impatient maiden; "impeach him with treason, who can or dare! There stands Wilkin Flammock, son of Dieterick, the Cramer of Antwerp,--let those accuse him to his face who slandered him behind his back!" "Speak, Father Aldrovand," said the Lady Eveline; "we are young in our lordship, and, alas! the duty hath descended upon us in an evil hour; yet we will, so may God and Our Lady help us, hear and judge of your accusation to the utmost of our power." "This Wilkin Flammock," said the monk, "however bold he hath made himself in villany, dares not deny that I heard him with my own ears treat for the surrender of the castle." "Strike him, father!" said the indignant Rose,--"strike the disguised mummer! The steel hauberk may be struck, though not the monk's frock--strike him, or tell him that he lies foully!" "Peace, Roschen, thou art mad," said her father, angrily; "the monk hath more truth than sense about him, and I would his ears had been farther off when he thrust them into what concerned him not." Rose's countenance fell when she heard her father bluntly avow the treasonable communication of which she had thought him incapable-- she dropt the hand by which she had dragged him into the chapel, and stared on the Lady Eveline, with eyes which seemed starting from their sockets, and a countenance from which the blood, with which it was so lately highly coloured, had retreated to garrison the heart. Eveline looked upon the culprit with a countenance in which sweetness and dignity were mingled with sorrow. "Wilkin," she said, "I could not have believed this. What! on the very day of thy confiding benefactor's death, canst thou have been tampering with his murderers, to deliver up the castle, and betray thy trust!--But I will not upbraid thee--I deprive thee of the trust reposed in so unworthy a person, and appoint thee to be kept in ward in the western tower, till God send us relief; when, it may be, thy daughter's merits shall atone for thy offences, and save farther punishment.--See that our commands be presently obeyed." "Yes--yes--yes!" exclaimed Rose, hurrying one word on the other as fast and vehemently as she could articulate--"Let us go--let us go to the darkest dungeon--darkness befits us better than light." The monk, on the other hand, perceiving that the Fleming made no motion to obey the mandate of arrest, came forward, in a manner more suiting his ancient profession, and present disguise, than his spiritual character; and with the words, "I attach thee, Wilkin Flammock, of acknowledged treason to your liege lady," would have laid hand upon him, had not the Fleming stepped back and warned him off, with a menacing and determined gesture, while he said,--"Ye are mad!--all of you English are mad when the moon is full, and my silly girl hath caught the malady.--Lady, your honoured father gave me a charge, which I propose to execute to the best for all parties, and you cannot, being a minor, deprive me of it at your idle pleasure.--Father Aldrovand, a monk makes no lawful arrests.--Daughter Roschen, hold your peace and dry your eyes--you are a fool." "I am, I am," said Rose, drying her eyes and regaining her elasticity of manner--"I am indeed a fool, and worse than a fool, for a moment to doubt my father's probity.--Confide in him, dearest lady; he is wise though he is grave, and kind though he is plain and homely in his speech. Should he prove false he will fare the worse! for I will plunge myself from the pinnacle of the Warder's Tower to the bottom of the moat, and he shall lose his own daughter for betraying his master's." "This is all frenzy," said the monk--"Who trusts avowed traitors? --Here, Normans, English, to the rescue of your liege lady--Bows and bills--bows and bills!" "You may spare your throat for your next homily, good father," said the Netherlander, "or call in good Flemish, since you understand it, for to no other language will those within hearing reply." He then approached the Lady Eveline with a real or affected air of clumsy kindness, and something as nearly approaching to courtesy as his manners and features could assume. He bade her good-night, and assuring her that he would act for the best, left the chapel. The monk was about to break forth into revilings, but Eveline, with more prudence, checked his zeal. "I cannot," she said, "but hope that this man's intentions are honest--" "Now, God's blessing on you, lady, for that very word!" said Rose, eagerly interrupting her, and kissing her hand. "But if unhappily they are doubtful," continued Eveline, "it is not by reproach that we can bring him to a better purpose. Good father, give an eye to the preparations for resistance, and see nought omitted that our means furnish for the defence of the castle." "Fear nothing, my dearest daughter," said Aldrovand; "there are still some English hearts amongst us, and we will rather kill and eat the Flemings themselves, than surrender the castle." "That were food as dangerous to come by as bear's venison, father," answered Rose, bitterly, still on fire with the idea that the monk treated her nation with suspicion and contumely. On these terms they separated--the women to indulge their fears and sorrows in private grief, or alleviate them by private devotion; the monk to try to discover what were the real purposes of Wilkin Flammock, and to counteract them if possible, should they seem to indicate treachery. His eye, however, though sharpened by strong suspicion, saw nothing to strengthen his fears, excepting that the Fleming had, with considerable military skill, placed the principal posts of the castle in the charge of his own countrymen which must make any attempt to dispossess him of his present authority both difficult and dangerous. The monk at length retired, summoned by the duties of the evening service, and with the determination to be stirring with the light the next morning. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH Oh, sadly shines the morning sun On leaguer'd castle wall, When bastion, tower, and battlement, Seemed nodding to their fall. OLD BALLAD. True to his resolution, and telling his beads as he went, that he might lose no time, Father Aldrovand began his rounds in the castle so soon as daylight had touched the top of the eastern horizon. A natural instinct led him first to those stalls which, had the fortress been properly victualled for a siege, ought to have been tenanted by cattle; and great was his delight to see more than a score of fat kine and bullocks in the place which had last night been empty! One of them had already been carried to the shambles, and a Fleming or two, who played butchers on the occasion, were dividing the carcass for the cook's use. The good father had well-nigh cried out, a miracle; but, not to be too precipitate, he limited his transport to a private exclamation in honour of Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse. "Who talks of lack of provender?--who speaks of surrender now?" he said. "Here is enough to maintain us till Hugo de Lacy arrives, were he to sail back from Cyprus to our relief. I did purpose to have fasted this morning, as well to save victuals as on a religious score; but the blessings of the saints must not be slighted.--Sir Cook, let me have half a yard or so of broiled beef presently; bid the pantler send me a manchet, and the butler a cup of wine. I will take a running breakfast on the western battlements." [Footnote: Old Henry Jenkins, in his Recollections of the Abbacies before their dissolution, has preserved the fact that roast-beef was delivered out to the guests not by weight, but by measure.] At this place, which was rather the weakest point of the Garde Doloureuse, the good father found Wilkin Flammock anxiously superintending the necessary measures of defence. He greeted him courteously, congratulated him on the stock of provisions with which the castle had been supplied during the night, and was inquiring how they had been so happily introduced through the Welsh besiegers, when Wilkin took the first occasion to interrupt him. "Of all this another time, good father; but I wish at present, and before other discourse, to consult thee on a matter which presses my conscience, and moreover deeply concerns my worldly estate." "Speak on, my excellent son," said the father, conceiving that he should thus gain the key to Wilkin's real intentions. "Oh, a tender conscience is a jewel! and he that will not listen when it saith, 'Pour out thy doubts into the ear of the priest,' shall one day have his own dolorous outcries choked with fire and brimstone. Thou wert ever of a tender conscience, son Wilkin, though thou hast but a rough and borrel bearing." "Well, then," said Wilkin, "you are to know, good father, that I have had some dealings with my neighbour, Jan Vanwelt, concerning my daughter Rose, and that he has paid me certain gilders on condition I will match her to him." "Pshaw, pshaw! my good son," said the disappointed confessor, "this gear can lie over--this is no time for marrying or giving in marriage, when we are all like to be murdered." "Nay, but hear me, good father," said the Fleming, "for this point of conscience concerns the present case more nearly than you wot of.--You must know I have no will to bestow Rose on this same Jan Vanwelt, who is old, and of ill conditions; and I would know of you whether I may, in conscience, refuse him my consent?" "Truly," said Father Aldrovand, "Rose is a pretty lass, though somewhat hasty; and I think you may honestly withdraw your consent, always on paying back the gilders you have received." "But there lies the pinch, good father," said the Fleming--"the refunding this money will reduce me to utter poverty. The Welsh have destroyed my substance; and this handful of money is all, God help me! on which I must begin the world again." "Nevertheless, son Wilkin," said Aldrovand, "thou must keep thy word, or pay the forfeit; for what saith the text? _Quis habitabit in tabernaculo, quis requiescet in monte sancta?_-- Who shall ascend to the tabernacle, and dwell in the holy mountain? Is it not answered again, _Qui jurat proximo et non decipit?_--Go to, my son--break not thy plighted word for a little filthy lucre--better is an empty stomach and an hungry heart with a clear conscience, than a fatted ox with iniquity and wordbreaking.--Sawest thou not our late noble lord, who (may his soul be happy!) chose rather to die in unequal battle, like a true knight, than live a perjured man, though he had but spoken a rash word to a Welshman over a wine flask?" "Alas! then," said the Fleming, "this is even what I feared! We must e'en render up the castle, or restore to the Welshman, Jorworth, the cattle, by means of which I had schemed to victual and defend it." "How--wherefore--what dost thou mean?" said the monk, in astonishment. "I speak to thee of Rose Flammock, and Jan Van- devil, or whatever you call him, and you reply with talk about cattle and castles, and I wot not what!" "So please you, holy father, I did but speak in parables. This castle was the daughter I had promised to deliver over--the Welshman is Jan Vanwelt, and the gilders were the cattle he has sent in, as a part-payment beforehand of my guerdon." "Parables!" said the monk, colouring with anger at the trick put on him; "what has a boor like thee to do with parables?--But I forgive thee--I forgive thee." "I am therefore to yield the castle to the Welshman, or restore him his cattle?" said the impenetrable Dutchman. "Sooner yield thy soul to Satan!" replied the monk. "I fear it must be the alternative," said the Fleming; "for the example of thy honourable lord--" "The example of an honourable fool"--answered the monk; then presently subjoined, "Our Lady be with her servant!--This Belgic- brained boor makes me forget what I would say." "Nay, but the holy text which your reverence cited to me even now," continued the Fleming. "Go to," said the monk; "what hast thou to do to presume to think of texts?--knowest thou not the letter of the Scripture slayeth, and that it is the exposition which maketh to live?--Art thou not like one who, coming to a physician, conceals from him half the symptoms of the disease?--I tell thee, thou foolish Fleming, the text speaketh but of promises made unto Christians, and there is in the Rubric a special exception of such as are made to Welshmen." At this commentary the Fleming grinned so broadly as to show his whole case of broad strong white teeth. Father Aldrovand himself grinned in sympathy, and then proceeded to say,--"Come, come, I see how it is. Thou hast studied some small revenge on me for doubting of thy truth; and, in verity, I think thou hast taken it wittily enough. But wherefore didst thou not let me into the secret from the beginning? I promise thee I had foul suspicions of thee. "What!" said the Fleming, "is it possible I could ever think of involving your reverence in a little matter of deceit? Surely Heaven hath sent me more grace and manners.--Hark, I hear Jorworth's horn at the gate." "He blows like a town swineherd," said Aldrovand, in disdain. "It is not your reverence's pleasure that I should restore the cattle unto them, then?" said Flammock. "Yes, thus far. Prithee, deliver him straightway over the walls such a tub of boiling water as shall scald the hair from his goatskin cloak. And, hark thee, do thou, in the first place, try the temperature of the kettle with thy forefinger, and that shall be thy penance for the trick thou hast played me." The Fleming answered this with another broad grin of intelligence, and they proceeded to the outer gate, to which Jorworth had come alone. Placing himself at the wicket, which, however, he kept carefully barred, and speaking through a small opening, contrived for such purpose, Wilkin Flammock demanded of the Welshman his business. "To receive rendition of the castle, agreeable to promise," said Jorworth. "Ay? and art thou come on such errand alone?" said Wilkin. "No, truly," answered Jorworth; "I have some two score of men concealed among yonder bushes." "Then thou hadst best lead them away quickly," answered Wilkin, "before our archers let fly a sheaf of arrows among them." "How, villain! Dost thou not mean to keep thy promise?" said the Welshman. "I gave thee none," said the Fleming; "I promised but to think on what thou didst say. I have done so, and have communicated with my ghostly father, who will in no respect hear of my listening to thy proposal." "And wilt thou," said Jorworth, "keep the cattle, which I simply sent into the castle on the faith of our agreement?" "I will excommunicate and deliver him over to Satan," said the monk, unable to wait the phlegmatic and lingering answer of the Fleming, "if he give horn, hoof, or hair of them, to such an uncircumcised Philistine as thou or thy master." "It is well, shorn priest," answered Jorworth in great anger. "But mark me--reckon not on your frock for ransom. When Gwenwyn hath taken this castle, as it shall not longer shelter such a pair of faithless traitors, I will have you sewed up each into the carcass of one of these kine, for which your penitent has forsworn himself, and lay you where wolf and eagle shall be your only companions." "Thou wilt work thy will when it is matched with thy power," said the sedate Netherlander. "False Welshman, we defy thee to thy teeth!" answered, in the same breath, the more irascible monk. "I trust to see hounds gnaw thy joints ere that day come that ye talk of so proudly." By way of answer to both, Jorworth drew back his arm with his levelled javelin, and shaking the shaft till it acquired a vibratory motion, he hurled it with equal strength and dexterity right against the aperture in the wicket. It whizzed through the opening at which it was aimed, and flew (harmlessly, however) between the heads of the monk and the Fleming; the former of whom started back, while the latter only said, as he looked at the javelin, which stood quivering in the door of the guard-room, "That was well aimed, and happily baulked." Jorworth, the instant he had flung his dart, hastened to the ambush which he had prepared, and gave them at once the signal and the example of a rapid retreat down the hill. Father Aldrovand would willingly have followed them with a volley of arrows, but the Fleming observed that ammunition was too precious with them to be wasted on a few runaways. Perhaps the honest man remembered that they had come within the danger of such a salutation, in some measure, on his own assurance. When the noise of the hasty retreat of Jorworth and his followers had died away, there ensued a dead silence, well corresponding with the coolness and calmness of that early hour in the morning. "This will not last long," said Wilkin to the monk, in a tone of foreboding seriousness, which found an echo in the good father's bosom. "It will not, and it cannot," answered Aldrovand; "and we must expect a shrewd attack, which I should mind little, but that their numbers are great, ours few; the extent of the walls considerable, and the obstinacy of these Welsh fiends almost equal to their fury. But we will do the best. I will to the Lady Eveline--She must show herself upon the battlements--She is fairer in feature than becometh a man of my order to speak of; and she has withal a breathing of her father's lofty spirit. The look and the word of such a lady will give a man double strength in the hour of need." "It may be," said the Fleming; "and I will go see that the good breakfast which I have appointed be presently served forth; it will give my Flemings more strength than the sight of the ten thousand virgins--may their help be with us!--were they all arranged on a fair field." CHAPTER THE EIGHTH 'Twas when ye raised,' mid sap and siege, The banner of your rightful liege At your she captain's call, Who, miracle of womankind, Lent mettle to the meanest hind That mann'd her castle wall. WILLIAM STEWART ROSE. The morning light was scarce fully spread abroad, when Eveline Berenger, in compliance with her confessor's advice, commenced her progress around the walls and battlements of the beleaguered castle, to confirm, by her personal entreaties, the minds of the valiant, and to rouse the more timid to hope and to exertion. She wore a rich collar and bracelets, as ornaments which indicated her rank--and high descent; and her under tunic, in the manner of the times, was gathered around her slender waist by a girdle, embroidered with precious stones, and secured by a large buckle of gold. From one side of the girdle was suspended a pouch or purse, splendidly adorned with needle-work, and on the left side it sustained a small dagger of exquisite workmanship. A dark-coloured mantle, chosen as emblematic of her clouded fortunes, was flung loosely around her; and its hood was brought forward, so as to shadow, but not hide, her beautiful countenance. Her looks had lost the high and ecstatic expression which had been inspired by supposed revelation, but they retained a sorrowful and mild, yet determined character--and, in addressing the soldiers, she used a mixture of entreaty and command--now throwing herself upon their protection--now demanding in her aid the just tribute of their allegiance. The garrison was divided, as military skill dictated, in groups, on the points most liable to attack, or from which an assailing enemy might be best annoyed; and it was this unavoidable separation of their force into small detachments, which showed to disadvantage the extent of walls, compared with the number of the defenders; and though Wilkin Flammock had contrived several means of concealing this deficiency of force from the enemy, he could not disguise it from the defenders of the castle, who cast mournful glances on the length of battlements which were unoccupied save by sentinels, and then looked out to the fatal field of battle, loaded with the bodies of those who ought to have been their comrades in this hour of peril. The presence of Eveline did much to rouse the garrison from this state of discouragement. She glided from post to post, from tower to tower of the old gray fortress, as a gleam of light passes over a clouded landscape, and touching its various points in succession, calls them out to beauty and effect. Sorrow and fear sometimes make sufferers eloquent. She addressed the various nations who composed her little garrison, each in appropriate language. To the English, she spoke as children of the soil--to the Flemings, as men who had become denizens by the right of hospitality--to the Normans, as descendants of that victorious race, whose sword had made them the nobles and sovereigns of every land where its edge had been tried. To them she used the language of chivalry, by whose rules the meanest of that nation regulated, or affected to regulate, his actions. The English she reminded of their good faith and honesty of heart; and to the Flemings she spoke of the destruction of their property, the fruits of their honest industry. To all she proposed vengeance for the death of their leader and his followers--to all she recommended confidence in God and Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse; and she ventured to assure all, of the strong and victorious bands that were already in march to their relief. "Will the gallant champions of the cross," she said, "think of leaving their native land, while the wail of women and of orphans is in their ears?--it were to convert their pious purpose into mortal sin, and to derogate from the high fame they have so well won. Yes--fight but valiantly, and perhaps, before the very sun that is now slowly rising shall sink in the sea, you will see it shining on the ranks of Shrewsbury and Chester. When did the Welshmen wait to hear the clangour of their trumpets, or the rustling of their silken banners? Fight bravely--fight freely but awhile!--our castle is strong--our munition ample--your hearts are good--your arms are powerful--God is nigh to us, and our friends are not far distant. Fight, then, in the name of all that is good and holy--fight for yourselves, for your wives, for your children, and for your property--and oh! fight for an orphan maiden, who hath no other defenders but what a sense of her sorrows, and the remembrance of her father, may raise up among you." Such speeches as these made a powerful impression on the men to whom they were addressed, already hardened, by habits and sentiments, against a sense of danger. The chivalrous Normans swore, on the cross of their swords, they would die to a man ere they would surrender their posts--the blunter Anglo-Saxons cried, "Shame on him who would render up such a lamb as Eveline to a Welsh wolf, while he could make her a bulwark with his body!"-- Even the cold Flemings caught a spark of the enthusiasm with which the others were animated, and muttered to each other praises of the young lady's beauty, and short but honest resolves to do the best they might in her defence. Rose Flammock, who accompanied her lady with one or two attendants upon her circuit around the castle, seemed to have relapsed into her natural character of a shy and timid girl, out of the excited state into which she had been brought by the suspicions which in the evening before had attached to her father's character. She tripped closely but respectfully after Eveline, and listened to what she said from time to time, with the awe and admiration of a child listening to its tutor, while only her moistened eye expressed how far she felt or comprehended the extent of the danger, or the force of the exhortations. There was, however, a moment when the youthful maiden's eye became more bright, her step more confident, her looks more elevated. This was when they approached the spot where her father, having discharged the duties of commander of the garrison, was now exercising those of engineer, and displaying great skill, as well as wonderful personal strength, in directing and assisting the establishment of a large mangonel, (a military engine used for casting stones,) upon a station commanding an exposed postern gate, which led from the western side of the castle down to the plain; and where a severe assault was naturally to be expected. The greater part of his armour lay beside him, but covered with his cassock to screen it from morning dew; while in his leathern doublet, with arms bare to the shoulder, and a huge sledge-hammer in his hand, he set an example to the mechanics who worked under his direction. In slow and solid natures there is usually a touch of shamefacedness, and a sensitiveness to the breach of petty observances. Wilkin Flammock had been unmoved even to insensibility at the imputation of treason so lately cast upon him; but he coloured high, and was confused, while, hastily throwing on his cassock, he endeavoured, to conceal the dishabille in which he had been surprised by the Lady Eveline. Not so his daughter. Proud of her father's zeal, her eye gleamed from him to her mistress with a look of triumph, which seemed to say, "And this faithful follower is he who was suspected of treachery!" Eveline's own bosom made her the same reproach; and anxious to atone for her momentary doubt of his fidelity, she offered for his acceptance a ring of value; "in small amends," she said, "of a momentary misconstruction." "It needs not, lady," said Flammock, with his usual bluntness, "unless I have the freedom to bestow the gaud on Rose; for I think she was grieved enough at that which moved me little,--as why should it?" "Dispose of it as thou wilt," said Eveline; "the stone it bears is as true as thine own faith." Here Eveline paused, and looking on the broad expanded plain which extended between the site of the castle and the river, observed how silent and still the morning was rising over what had so lately been a scene of such extensive slaughter. "It will not be so long," answered Flammock; "we shall have noise enough, and that nearer to our ears than yesterday." "Which way lie the enemy?" said Eveline; "methinks I can spy neither tents nor pavilions." "They use none, lady," answered Wilkin Flammock. "Heaven has denied them the grace and knowledge to weave linen enough for such a purpose--Yonder they lie on both sides of the river, covered with nought but their white mantles. Would one think that a host of thieves and cut-throats could look so like the finest object in nature--a well-spread bleaching-field!--Hark!--hark--the wasps are beginning to buzz; they will soon be plying their stings." In fact, there was heard among the Welsh army a low and indistinct murmur, like that of "Bees alarmed and arming in their hives." Terrified at the hollow menacing sound, which grew louder every moment, Rose, who had all the irritability of a sensitive temperament, clung to her father's arm, saying, in a terrified whisper, "It is like the sound of the sea the night before the great inundation." "And it betokens too rough weather for woman to be abroad in," said Flammock. "Go to your chamber, Lady Eveline, if it be your will--and go you too, Roschen--God bless you both--ye do but keep us idle here." And, indeed, conscious that she had done all that was incumbent upon her, and fearful lest the chill which she felt creeping over her own heart should infect others, Eveline took her vassal's advice, and withdrew slowly to her own apartment, often casting back her eye to the place where the Welsh, now drawn out and under arms, were advancing their ridgy battalions, like the waves of an approaching tide. The Prince of Powys had, with considerable military skill, adopted a plan of attack suitable to the fiery genius of his followers, and calculated to alarm on every point the feeble garrison. The three sides of the castle which were defended by the river, were watched each by a numerous body of the British, with instructions to confine themselves to the discharge of arrows, unless they should observe that some favourable opportunity of close attack should occur. But far the greater part of Gwenwyn's forces, consisting of three columns of great strength, advanced along the plain on the western side of the castle, and menaced, with a desperate assault, the walls, which, in that direction, were deprived of the defence of the river. The first of these formidable bodies consisted entirely of archers, who dispersed themselves in front of the beleaguered place, and took advantage of every bush and rising ground which could afford them shelter; and then began to bend their bows and shower their arrows on the battlements and loop-holes, suffering, however, a great deal more damage than they were able to inflict, as the garrison returned their shot in comparative safety, and with more secure and deliberate aim. [Footnote: The Welsh were excellent bowmen; but, under favour of Lord Lyttleton, they probably did not use the long bow, the formidable weapon of the Normans, and afterwards of the English yeomen. That of the Welsh most likely rather resembled the bow of the cognate Celtic tribes of Ireland, and of the Highlanders of Scotland. It was shorter than the Norman long bow, as being drawn to the breast, not to the ear, more loosely strung, and the arrow having a heavy iron head; altogether, in short, a less effective weapon. It appears, from the following anecdote, that there was a difference between the Welsh arrow and those of the English. In 1122, Henry the II., marching into Powys-Land to chastise Meredith ap Blethyn and certain rebels, in passing a defile, was struck by an arrow on the breast. Repelled by the excellence of his breast-plate, the shaft fell to the ground. When the King felt the blow, and saw the shaft, he swore his usual oath, by the death of our Lord, that the arrow came not from a Welsh but an English bow; and, influenced by this belief hastily put an end to the war.] Under cover, however, of their discharge of arrows, two very strong bodies of Welsh attempted to carry the outer defences of the castle by storm. They had axes to destroy the palisades, then called barriers; faggots to fill up the external ditches; torches to set fire to aught combustible which they might find; and, above all, ladders to scale the walls. These detachments rushed with incredible fury towards the point of attack, despite a most obstinate defence, and the great loss which they sustained by missiles of every kind, and continued the assault for nearly an hour, supplied by reinforcements which more than recruited their diminished numbers. When they were at last compelled to retreat, they seemed to adopt a new and yet more harassing species of attack. A large body assaulted one exposed point of the fortress with such fury as to draw thither as many of the besieged as could possibly be spared from other defended posts, and when there appeared a point less strongly manned than was adequate to defence, that, in its turn, was furiously assailed by a separate body of the enemy. Thus the defenders of the Garde Doloureuse resembled the embarrassed traveller, engaged in repelling a swarm of hornets, which, while he brushes them, from one part, fix in swarms upon another, and drive him to despair by their numbers, and the boldness and multiplicity of their attacks. The postern being of course a principal point of attack, Father Aldrovand, whose anxiety would not permit him to be absent from the walls, and who, indeed, where decency would permit, took an occasional share in the active defence of the place, hasted thither, as the point chiefly in danger. Here he found the Fleming, like a second Ajax, grim with dust and blood, working with his own hands the great engine which he had lately helped to erect, and at the same time giving heedful eye to all the exigencies around. "How thinkest thou of this day's work?" said the monk in a whisper. "What skills it talking of it, father?" replied Flammock; "thou art no soldier, and I have no time for words." "Nay, take thy breath," said the monk, tucking up the sleeves of his frock; "I will try to help thee the whilst--although, our Lady pity me, I know nothing of these strange devices--not even the names. But our rule commands us to labour; there can be no harm therefore, in turning this winch--or in placing this steel-headed piece of wood opposite to the chord, (suiting his actions to his words,) nor see I aught uncanonical in adjusting the lever thus, or in touching the spring." The large bolt whizzed through the air as he spoke, and was so successfully aimed, that it struck down a Welsh chief of eminence, to which Gwenwyn himself was in the act of giving some important charge. "Well driven, _trebuchet_--well flown, _quarrel!_" cried the monk, unable to contain his delight, and giving in his triumph, the true technical names to the engine, and the javelin which it discharged. "And well aimed, monk," added Wilkin Flammock; "I think thou knowest more than is in thy breviary." "Care not thou for that," said the father; "and now that thou seest I can work an engine, and that the Welsh knaves seem something low in stomach, what think'st thou of our estate?" "Well enough--for a bad one--if we may hope for speedy succour; but men's bodies are of flesh, not of iron, and we may be at last wearied out by numbers. Only one soldier to four yards of wall, is a fearful odds; and the villains are aware of it, and keep us to sharp work." The renewal of the assault here broke off their conversation, nor did the active enemy permit them to enjoy much repose until sunset; for, alarming them with repeated menaces of attack upon different points, besides making two or three formidable and furious assaults, they left them scarce time to breathe, or to take a moment's refreshment. Yet the Welsh paid a severe price for their temerity; for, while nothing could exceed the bravery with which their men repeatedly advanced to the attack, those which were made latest in the day had less of animated desperation than their first onset; and it is probable, that the sense of having sustained great loss, and apprehension of its effects on the spirits of his people, made nightfall, and the interruption of the contest, as acceptable to Gwenwyn as to the exhausted garrison of the Garde Doloureuse. But in the camp or leaguer of the Welsh there was glee and triumph, for the loss of the past day was forgotten in recollection of the signal victory which had preceded this siege; and the dispirited garrison could hear from their walls the laugh and the song, the sound of harping and gaiety, which triumphed by anticipation over their surrender. The sun was for some time sunk, the twilight deepened, and night closed with a blue and cloudless sky, in which the thousand spangles that deck the firmament received double brilliancy from some slight touch of frost, although the paler planet, their mistress, was but in her first quarter. The necessities of the garrison were considerably aggravated by that of keeping a very strong and watchful guard, ill according with the weakness of their numbers, at a time which appeared favourable to any sudden nocturnal alarm; and, so urgent was this duty, that those who had been more slightly wounded on the preceding day, were obliged to take their share in it, notwithstanding their hurts. The monk and Fleming, who now perfectly understood each other, went in company around the walls at midnight, exhorting the warders to be watchful, and examining with their own eyes the state of the fortress. It was in the course of these rounds, and as they were ascending an elevated platform by a range of narrow and uneven steps, something galling to the monk's tread, that they perceived on the summit to which they were ascending, instead of the black corslet of the Flemish sentinel who had been placed there, two white forms, the appearance of which struck Wilkin Flammock with more dismay than he had shown during any of the doubtful events of the preceding day's fight. "Father," he said, "betake yourself to your tools--_es spuckt_--there are hobgoblins here." The good father had not learned as a priest to defy the spiritual host, whom, as a soldier, he had dreaded more than any mortal enemy; but he began to recite, with chattering teeth, the exorcism of the church, _"Conjuro vos omnes, spiritus maligni, magni, atque parvi,"_--when he was interrupted by the voice of Eveline, who called out, "Is it you, Father Aldrovand?" Much lightened at heart by finding they had no ghost to deal with, Wilkin Flammock and the priest advanced hastily to the platform, where they found the lady with her faithful Rose, the former with a half-pike in her hand, like a sentinel on duty. "How is this, daughter?" said the monk; "how came you here, and thus armed? and where is the sentinel,--the lazy Flemish hound, that should have kept the post?" "May he not be a lazy hound, yet not a Flemish one, father?" said Rose, who was ever awakened by anything which seemed a reflection upon her country; "methinks I have heard of such curs of English breed." "Go to, Rose, you are too malapert for a young maiden," said her father. "Once more, where is Peterkin Vorst, who should have kept this post?" "Let him not be blamed for my fault," said Eveline, pointing to a place where the Flemish sentinel lay in the shade of the battlement fast asleep--"He was overcome with toil--had fought hard through the day, and when I saw him asleep as I came hither, like a wandering spirit that cannot take slumber or repose, I would not disturb the rest which I envied. As he had fought for me, I might, I thought, watch an hour for him; so I took his weapon with the purpose of remaining here till some one should come to relieve him." "I will relieve the schelm, with a vengeance!" said Wilkin Flammock, and saluted the slumbering and prostrate warder with two kicks, which made his corslet clatter. The man started to his feet in no small alarm, which he would have communicated to the next sentinels and to the whole garrison, by crying out that the Welsh were upon the walls, had not the monk covered his broad mouth with his hand just as the roar was issuing forth.--"Peace, and get thee down to the under bayley," said he;--"thou deservest death, by all the policies of war--but, look ye, varlet, and see who has saved your worthless neck, by watching while you were dreaming of swine's flesh and beer-pots." The Fleming, although as yet but half awake, was sufficiently conscious of his situation, to sneak off without reply, after two or three awkward congees, as well to Eveline as to those by whom his repose had been so unceremoniously interrupted. "He deserves to be tied neck and heel, the houndsfoot," said Wilkin. "But what would you have, lady? My countrymen cannot live without rest or sleep." So saying, he gave a yawn so wide, as if he had proposed to swallow one of the turrets at an angle of the platform on which he stood, as if it had only garnished a Christmas pasty. "True, good Wilkin," said Eveline; "and do you therefore take some rest, and trust to my watchfulness, at least till the guards are relieved. I cannot sleep if I would, and I would not if I could." "Thanks, lady," said Flammock; "and in truth, as this is a centrical place, and the rounds must pass in an hour at farthest, I will e'en close my eyes for such a space, for the lids feel as heavy as flood-gates." "Oh, father, father!" exclaimed Rose, alive to her sire's unceremonious neglect of decorum--"think where you are, and in whose presence!" "Ay, ay, good Flammock," said the monk, "remember the presence of a noble Norman maiden is no place for folding of cloaks and donning of night-caps." "Let him alone, father," said Eveline, who in another moment might have smiled at the readiness with which Wilkin Flammock folded himself in his huge cloak, extended his substantial form on the stone bench, and gave the most decided tokens of profound repose, long ere the monk had done speaking.--"Forms and fashions of respect," she continued, "are for times of ease and nicety;--when in danger, the soldier's bedchamber is wherever he can find leisure for an hour's sleep--his eating-hall, wherever he can obtain food. Sit thou down by Rose and me, good father, and tell us of some holy lesson which may pass away these hours of weariness and calamity." The father obeyed; but however willing to afford consolation, his ingenuity and theological skill suggested nothing better than a recitation of the penitentiary psalms, in which task he continued until fatigue became too powerful for him also, when he committed the same breach of decorum for which he had upbraided Wilkin Flammock, and fell fast asleep in the midst of his devotions. CHAPTER THE NINTH "Oh, night of wo," she said, and wept, "Oh, night foreboding sorrow! "Oh, night of wo," she said and wept, "But more I dread the morrow!" SIR GILBERT ELLIOT. The fatigue which had exhausted Flammock and the monk, was unfelt by the two anxious maidens, who remained with their eyes bent, now upon the dim landscape, now on the stars by which it was lighted, as if they could have read there the events which the morrow was to bring forth. It was a placid and melancholy scene. Tree and field, and hill and plain, lay before them in doubtful light, while at greater distance, their eye could with difficulty trace one or two places where the river, hidden in general by banks and trees, spread its more expanded bosom to the stars, and the pale crescent. All was still, excepting the solemn rush of the waters, and now and then the shrill tinkle of a harp, which, heard from more than a mile's distance through the midnight silence, announced that some of the Welshmen still protracted their most beloved amusement. The wild notes, partially heard, seemed like the voice of some passing spirit; and, connected as they were with ideas of fierce and unrelenting hostility, thrilled on Eveline's ear, as if prophetic of war and wo, captivity and death. The only other sounds which disturbed the extreme stillness of the night, were the occasional step of a sentinel upon his post, or the hooting of the owls, which seemed to wail the approaching downfall of the moonlight turrets, in which they had established their ancient habitations. The calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to her mind a deeper sense of present grief, and keener apprehension of future horrors, than had reigned there during the bustle, blood, and confusion of the preceding day. She rose up--she sat down--she moved to and fro on the platform--she remained fixed like a statue to a single spot, as if she were trying by variety of posture to divert her internal sense of fear and sorrow. At length, looking at the monk and the Fleming as they slept soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer forbear breaking silence. "Men are happy," she said, "my beloved Rose; their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They may encounter wounds and death, but it is we who feel in the spirit a more keen anguish than the body knows, and in the gnawing sense of present ill and fear of future misery, suffer a living death, more cruel than that which ends our woes at once." "Do not be thus downcast, my noble lady," said Rose; "be rather what you were yesterday, caring for the wounded, for the aged, for every one but yourself--exposing even your dear life among the showers of the Welsh arrows, when doing so could give courage to others; while I--shame on me--could but tremble, sob, and weep, and needed all the little wit I have to prevent my shouting with the wild cries of the Welsh, or screaming and groaning with those of our friends who fell around me." "Alas! Rose," answered her mistress, "you may at pleasure indulge your fears to the verge of distraction itself--you have a father to fight and watch for you. Mine--my kind, noble, and honoured parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is to act as may best become his memory. But this moment is at least mine, to think upon and to mourn for him." So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial sorrow, she sunk down on the banquette which ran along the inside of the embattled parapet of the platform, and murmuring to herself, "He is gone for ever!" abandoned herself to the extremity of grief. One hand grasped unconsciously the weapon which she held, and served, at the same time, to prop her forehead, while the tears, by which she was now for the first time relieved, flowed in torrents from her eyes, and her sobs seemed so convulsive, that Rose almost feared her heart was bursting. Her affection and sympathy dictated at once the kindest course which Eveline's condition permitted. Without attempting to control the torrent of grief in its full current, she gently sat her down beside the mourner, and possessing herself of the hand which had sunk motionless by her side, she alternately pressed it to her lips, her bosom, and her brow--now covered it with kisses, now bedewed it with tears, and amid these tokens of the most devoted and humble sympathy, waited a more composed moment to offer her little stock of consolation in such deep silence and stillness, that, as the pale light fell upon the two beautiful young women, it seemed rather to show a group of statuary, the work of some eminent sculptor, than beings whose eyes still wept, and whose hearts still throbbed. At a little distance, the gleaming corslet of the Fleming, and the dark garments of Father Aldrovand, as they lay prostrate on the stone steps, might represent the bodies of those for whom the principal figures were mourning. After a deep agony of many minutes, it seemed that the sorrows of Eveline were assuming a more composed character; her convulsive sobs were changed for long, low, profound sighs, and the course of her tears, though they still flowed, was milder and less violent. Her kind attendant, availing herself of these gentler symptoms, tried softly to win the spear from her lady's grasp. "Let me be sentinel for a while." she said, "my sweet lady--I will at least scream louder than you, if any danger should approach." She ventured to kiss her cheek, and throw her arms around Eveline's neck while she spoke; but a mute caress, which expressed her sense of the faithful girl's kind intentions to minister if possible to her repose, was the only answer returned. They remained for many minutes silent in the same posture,--Eveline, like an upright and tender poplar,--Rose, who encircled her lady in her arms, like the woodbine which twines around it. At length Rose suddenly felt her young mistress shiver in her embrace, and then Eveline's hand grasped her arm rigidly as she whispered, "Do you hear nothing?" "No--nothing but the hooting of the owl," answered Rose, timorously. "I heard a distant sound," said Eveline,--"I thought I heard it-- hark, it comes again!--Look from the battlements, Rose, while I awaken the priest and thy father." "Dearest lady," said Rose, "I dare not--what can this sound be that is heard by one only?--You are deceived by the rush of the river." "I would not alarm the castle unnecessarily," said Eveline, pausing, "or even break your father's needful slumbers, by a fancy of mine--But hark--I hear it again--distinct amidst the intermitting sounds of the rushing water--a low tremulous sound, mingled with a tinkling like smiths or armourers at work upon their anvils." Rose had by this time sprung up on the banquette, and flinging back her rich tresses of fair hair, had applied her hand behind her ear to collect the distant sound. "I hear it," she cried, "and it increases--Awake them, for Heaven's sake, and without a moment's delay!" Eveline accordingly stirred the sleepers with the reversed end of the lance, and as they started to their feet in haste, she whispered in a hasty but cautious voice, "To arms--the Welsh are upon us!" "What--where?" said Wilkin Flammock,--"where be they?" "Listen, and you will hear them arming," she replied. "The noise is but in thine own fancy, lady," said the Fleming, whose organs were of the same heavy character with his form and his disposition. "I would I had not gone to sleep at all, since I was to be awakened so soon." "Nay, but listen, good Flammock-the sound of armour comes from the north-east." "The Welsh lie not in that quarter, lady," said Wilkin; "and besides, they wear no armour." "I hear it--I hear it!" said Father Aldrovand, who had been listening for some time. "All praise to St. Benedict!--Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse has been gracious to her servants as ever!-- It is the tramp of horses--it is the clash of armour--the chivalry of the Marches are coming to our relief-Kyrie Eleison!" "I hear something too," said Flammock,--"something like the hollow sound of the great sea, when it burst into my neighbour Klinkerman's warehouse, and rolled his pots and pans against each other. But it were an evil mistake, father, to take foes for friends--we were best rouse the people." "Tush!" said the priest, "talk to me of pots and kettles?--Was I, squire of the body to Count Stephen Mauleverer for twenty years, and do I not know the tramp of a war-horse, or the clash of a mail-coat?--But call the men to the walls at any rate, and have me the best drawn up at the base-court--we may help them by a sally." "That will not be rashly undertaken with my consent," murmured the Fleming; "but to the wall if you will, and 111 good time. But keep your Normans and English silent, Sir Priest, else their unruly and noisy joy will awaken the Welsh camp, and prepare them for their unwelcome visitors." The monk laid his finger on his lip in sign of obedience, and they parted in opposite directions, each to rouse the defenders of the castle, who were soon heard drawing from all quarters to their posts upon the walls, with hearts in a very different mood from that in which they had descended from them. The utmost caution being used to prevent noise, the manning of the walls was accomplished in silence, and the garrison awaited in, breathless expectation the success of the forces who were rapidly advancing to their relief. The character of the sounds which now loudly awakened the silence of this eventful night, could no longer be mistaken. They were distinguishable from the rushing of a mighty river, or from the muttering sound of distant thunder, by the sharp and angry notes which the clashing of the rider's arms mingled with the deep bass of the horses' rapid tread. From the long continuance of the sounds, their loudness, and the extent of horizon from which they seemed to come, all in the castle were satisfied that the approaching relief consisted of several very strong bodies of horse. [Footnote: Even the sharp and angry clang made by the iron scabbards of modern cavalry ringing against the steel-tipp'd saddles and stirrup, betrays their approach from a distance. The clash of the armour of knights, armed _cap-a-pie_, must have been much more easily discernible.] At once this mighty sound ceased, as if the earth on which they trod had either devoured the armed squadrons or had become incapable of resounding to their tramp. The defenders of the Garde Doloureuse concluded that their friends had made a sudden halt, to give their horses breath, examine the leaguer of the enemy, and settle the order of attack upon them. The pause, however was but momentary. The British, so alert at surprising their enemies, were themselves, on many occasions, liable to surprise. Their men were undisciplined, and sometimes negligent of the patient duties of the sentinel; and, besides, their foragers and flying parties, who scoured the country during the preceding day, had brought back tidings which had lulled them into fatal security. Their camp had been therefore carelessly guarded, and confident in the smallness of the garrison, they had altogether neglected the important military duty of establishing patrols and outposts at a proper distance from their main body. Thus the cavalry of the Lords Marchers, notwithstanding the noise which accompanied their advance, had approached very near the British camp without exciting the least alarm. But while they were arranging their forces into separate columns, in order to commence the assault, a loud and increasing clamour among the Welsh announced that they were at length aware of their danger. The shrill and discordant cries by which they endeavoured to assemble their men, each under the banner of his chief, resounded from their leaguer. But these rallying shouts were soon converted into screams, and clamours of horror and dismay, when the thundering charge of the barbed horses and heavily armed cavalry of the Anglo-Normans surprised their undefended camp. Yet not even under circumstances so adverse did the descendants of the ancient Britons renounce their defence, or forfeit their old hereditary privilege, to be called the bravest of mankind. Their cries of defiance and resistance were heard resounding above the groans of the wounded, the shouts of the triumphant assailants, and the universal tumult of the night-battle. It was not until the morning light began to peep forth, that the slaughter or dispersion of Gwenwyn's forces was complete, and that the "earthquake voice of victory" arose in uncontrolled and unmingled energy of exultation. Then the besieged, if they could be still so termed, looking from their towers over the expanded country beneath, witnessed nothing but one widespread scene of desultory flight and unrelaxed pursuit. That the Welsh had been permitted to encamp in fancied security upon the hither side of the river, now rendered their discomfiture more dreadfully fatal. The single pass by which they could cross to the other side was soon completely choked by fugitives, on whose rear raged the swords of the victorious Normans. Many threw themselves into the river, upon the precarious chance of gaining the farther side, and, except a few, who were uncommonly strong, skilful, and active, perished among the rocks and in the currents; others, more fortunate, escaped by fords, with which they had accidentally been made acquainted; many dispersed, or, in small bands, fled in reckless despair towards the castle, as if the fortress, which had beat them off when victorious, could be a place of refuge to them in their present forlorn condition; while others roamed wildly over the plain, seeking only escape from immediate and instant danger, without knowing whither they ran. The Normans, meanwhile, divided into small parties, followed and slaughtered them at pleasure; while, as a rallying point for the victors, the banner of Hugo de Lacy streamed from a small mount, on which Gwenwyn had lately pitched his own, and surrounded by a competent force, both of infantry and horsemen, which the experienced Baron permitted on no account to wander far from it. The rest, as we have already said, followed the chase with shouts of exultation and of vengeance, ringing around the battlements, which resounded with the cries, "Ha, Saint Edward!--Ha, Saint Dennis!--Strike--slay--no quarter to the Welsh wolves--think on Raymond Berenger!" The soldiers on the walls joined in these vengeful and victorious clamours, and discharged several sheaves of arrows upon such fugitives, as, in their extremity, approached too near the castle. They would fain have sallied to give more active assistance in the work of destruction; but the communication being now open with the Constable of Chester's forces, Wilkin Flammock considered himself and the garrison to be under the orders of that renowned chief, and refused to listen to the eager admonitions of Father Aldrovand, who would, notwithstanding his sacerdotal character, have willingly himself taken charge of the sally which he proposed. At length, the scene of slaughter seemed at an end. The retreat was blown on many a bugle, and knights halted on the plain to collect their personal followers, muster them under their proper pennon, and then march them slowly back to the great standard of their leader, around which the main body were again to be assembled, like the clouds which gather around the evening sun--a fanciful simile, which might yet be drawn farther, in respect of the level rays of strong lurid light which shot from those dark battalions, as the beams were flung back from their polished armour. The plain was in this manner soon cleared of the horsemen, and remained occupied only by the dead bodies of the slaughtered Welshmen. The bands who had followed the pursuit to a greater distance were also now seen returning, driving before them, or dragging after them, dejected and unhappy captives, to whom they had given quarter when their thirst of blood was satiated. It was then that, desirous to attract the attention of his liberators, Wilkin Flammock commanded all the banners of the castle to be displayed, under a general shout of acclamation from those who had fought under them. It was answered by a universal cry of joy from De Lacy's army, which rung so wide, as might even yet have startled such of the Welsh fugitives, as, far distant from this disastrous field of flight, might have ventured to halt for a moment's repose. Presently after this greeting had been exchanged, a single rider advanced from the Constable's army towards the castle, showing, even at a distance, an unusual dexterity of horsemanship and grace of deportment. He arrived at the drawbridge, which was instantly lowered to receive him, whilst Flammock and the monk (for the latter, as far as he could, associated himself with the former in all acts of authority) hastened to receive the envoy of their liberator. They found him just alighted from the raven-coloured horse, which was slightly flecked with blood as well as foam, and still panted with the exertions of the evening; though, answering to the caressing hand of its youthful rider, he arched his neck, shook his steel caparison, and snorted to announce his unabated mettle and unwearied love of combat. The young man's eagle look bore the same token of unabated vigour, mingled with the signs of recent exertion. His helmet hanging at his saddle-bow, showed a gallant countenance, coloured highly, but not inflamed, which looked out from a rich profusion of short chestnut-curls; and although his armour was of a massive and simple form, he moved under it with such elasticity and ease, that it seemed a graceful attire, not a burden or encumbrance. A furred mantle had not sat on him with more easy grace than the heavy hauberk, which complied with every gesture of his noble form. Yet his countenance was so juvenile, that only the down on the upper lip announced decisively the approach to manhood. The females, who thronged into the court to see the first envoy of their deliverers, could not forbear mixing praises of his beauty with blessings on his valour; and one comely middle-aged dame, in particular, distinguished by the tightness with which her scarlet hose sat on a well-shaped leg and ankle, and by the cleanness of her coif, pressed close up to the young squire, and, more forward than, the rest, doubled the crimson hue of his cheek, by crying aloud, that Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse had sent them news of their redemption by an angel from the sanctuary;--a speech which, although Father Aldrovand shook his head, was received by her companions with such general acclamation, as greatly embarrassed the young man's modesty. "Peace, all of ye!" said Wilkin Flammock--"Know you no respects, you women, or have you never seen a young gentleman before, that you hang on him like flies on a honeycomb? Stand back, I say, and let us hear in peace what are the commands of the noble Lord of Lacy." "These," said the young man, "I can only deliver in the presence of the right noble demoiselle, Eveline Berenger, if I may be thought worthy of such honour." "That thou art, noble sir," said the same forward dame, who had before expressed her admiration so energetically; "I will uphold thee worthy of her presence, and whatever other grace a lady can do thee." "Now, hold thy tongue, with a wanion!" said the monk; while in the same breath the Fleming exclaimed, "Beware the cucking-stool, Dame Scant-o'-Grace!" while he conducted the noble youth across the court. "Let my good horse be cared for," said the cavalier, as he put the bridle into the hand of a menial; and in doing so got rid of some part of his female retinue, who began to pat and praise the steed as much as they had done the rider; and some, in the enthusiasm of their joy, hardly abstained from kissing the stirrups and horse furniture. But Dame Gillian was not so easily diverted from her own point as were some of her companions. She continued to repeat the word _cucking-stool_, till the Fleming was out of hearing, and then became more specific in her objurgation.--"And why _cucking-stool_, I pray, Sir Wilkin Butterfirkin? You are the man would stop an English mouth with a Flemish damask napkin, I trow! Marry quep, my cousin the weaver! And why the cucking-stool, I pray?--because my young lady is comely, and the young squire is a man of mettle, reverence to his beard that is to come yet! Have we not eyes to see, and have we not a mouth and a tongue?" "In troth, Dame Gillian, they do you wrong who doubt it," said Eveline's nurse, who stood by; "but I prithee, keep it shut now, were it but for womanhood." "How now, mannerly Mrs. Margery?" replied the incorrigible Gillian; "is your heart so high, because you dandled our young lady on your knee fifteen years since?--Let me tell you, the cat will find its way to the cream, though it was brought up on an abbess's lap." "Home, housewife--home!" exclaimed her husband, the old huntsman, who was weary of this public exhibition of his domestic termagant --"home, or I will give you a taste of my dog lash--Here are both the confessor and Wilkin Flammock wondering at your impudence." "Indeed!" replied Gillian; "and are not two fools enough for wonderment, that you must come with your grave pate to make up the number three?" There was a general laugh at the huntsman's expense, under cover of which he prudently withdrew his spouse, without attempting to continue the war of tongues, in which she had shown such a decided superiority. This controversy, so light is the change in human spirits, especially among the lower class, awakened bursts of idle mirth among beings, who had so lately been in the jaws of danger, if not of absolute despair. CHAPTER THE TENTH They bore him barefaced on his bier, Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirkyard wall. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. While these matters took place in the castle-yard, the young squire, Damian Lacy, obtained the audience which he had requested of Eveline Berenger, who received him in the great hall of the castle, seated beneath the dais, or canopy, and waited upon by Rose and other female attendants; of whom the first alone was permitted to use a tabouret or small stool in her presence, so strict were the Norman maidens of quality in maintaining their claims to high rank and observance. The youth was introduced by the confessor and Flammock, as the spiritual character of the one, and the trust reposed by her late father in the other, authorized them to be present upon the occasion. Eveline naturally blushed, as she advanced two steps to receive the handsome youthful envoy; and her bashfulness seemed infectious, for it was with some confusion that Damian went through the ceremony of saluting the hand which she extended towards him in token of welcome. Eveline was under the necessity of speaking first. "We advance as far as our limits will permit us," she said, "to greet with our thanks the messenger who brings us tidings of safety. We speak--unless we err--to the noble Damian of Lacy?" "To the humblest of your servants," answered Damian, falling with some difficulty into the tone of courtesy which his errand and character required, "who approaches you on behalf of his noble uncle, Hugo de Lacy, Constable of Chester." "Will not our noble deliverer in person honour with his presence the poor dwelling which he has saved?" "My noble kinsman," answered Damian, "is now God's soldier, and bound by a vow not to come beneath a roof until he embark for the Holy Land. But by my voice he congratulates you on the defeat of your savage enemies, and sends you these tokens that the comrade and friend of your noble father hath not left his lamentable death many hours unavenged." So saying, he drew forth and laid before Eveline the gold bracelets, the coronet, and the eudorchawg, or chain of linked gold, which had distinguished the rank of the Welsh Prince. [Footnote: Eudorchawg, or Gold Chains of the Welsh. These were the distinguished marks of rank and valour among the numerous tribes of Celtic extraction. Manlius, the Roman Champion, gained the name of Torquatus, or he of the chain, on account of an ornament of this kind, won, in single combat, from a gigantic Gaul. Aneurin, the Welsh bard, mentions, in his poem on the battle of Catterath, that no less than three hundred of the British, who fell there, had their necks wreathed with the Eudorchawg. This seems to infer that the chain was a badge of distinction, and valour perhaps, but not of royalty; otherwise there would scarce have been so many kings present in one battle. This chain has been found accordingly in Ireland and Wales, and sometimes, though more rarely, in Scotland. Doubtless it was of too precious materials not to be usually converted into money by the enemy into whose hands it fell.] "Gwenwyn hath then fallen?" said Eveline, a natural shudder combating with the feelings of gratified vengeance, as she beheld that the trophies were speckled with blood,--"The slayer of my father is no more!" "My kinsman's lance transfixed the Briton as he endeavoured to rally his flying people--he died grimly on the weapon which had passed more than a fathom through his body, and exerted his last strength in a furious but ineffectual blow with his mace." "Heaven is just," said Eveline; "may his sins be forgiven to the man of blood, since he hath fallen by a death so bloody!--One question I would ask you, noble sir. My father's remains----" She paused unable to proceed. "An hour will place them at your disposal, most honoured lady," replied the squire, in the tone of sympathy which the sorrows of so young and so fair an orphan called irresistibly forth. "Such preparations as time admitted were making even when I left the host, to transport what was mortal of the noble Berenger from the field on which we found him amid a monument of slain which his own sword had raised. My kinsman's vow will not allow him to pass your portcullis; but, with your permission, I will represent him, if such be your pleasure, at these honoured obsequies, having charge to that effect." "My brave and noble father," said Eveline, making an effort to restrain her tears, "will be best mourned by the noble and the brave." She would have continued, but her voice failed her, and she was obliged to withdraw abruptly, in order to give vent to her sorrow, and prepare for the funeral rites with such ceremony as circumstances should permit. Damian bowed to the departing mourner as reverently as he would have done to a divinity, and taking his horse, returned to his uncle's host, which had encamped hastily on the recent field of battle. The sun was now high, and the whole plain presented the appearance of a bustle, equally different from the solitude of the early morning, and from the roar and fury of the subsequent engagement. The news of Hugo de Lacy's victory every where spread abroad with all alacrity of triumph, and had induced many of the inhabitants of the country, who had fled before the fury of the Wolf of Plinlimmon, to return to their desolate habitations. Numbers also of the loose and profligate characters which abound in a country subject to the frequent changes of war, had flocked thither in quest of spoil, or to gratify a spirit of restless curiosity. The Jew and the Lombard, despising danger where there was a chance of gain, might be already seen bartering liquors and wares with the victorious men-at-arms, for the blood-stained ornaments of gold lately worn by the defeated British. Others acted as brokers betwixt the Welsh captives and their captors; and where they could trust the means and good faith of the former, sometimes became bound for, or even advanced in ready money, the sums necessary for their ransom; whilst a more numerous class became themselves the purchasers of those prisoners who had no immediate means of settling with their conquerors. That the spoil thus acquired might not long encumber the soldier, or blunt his ardour for farther enterprise, the usual means of dissipating military spoils were already at hand. Courtezans, mimes, jugglers, minstrels, and tale-tellers of every description, had accompanied the night-march; and, secure in the military reputation of the celebrated De Lacy, had rested fearlessly at some little distance until the battle was fought and won. These now approached, in many a joyous group, to congratulate the victors. Close to the parties which they formed for the dance, the song, or the tale, upon the yet bloody field, the countrymen, summoned in for the purpose, were opening large trenches for depositing the dead--leeches were seen tending the wounded-- priests and monks confessing those in extremity--soldiers transporting from the field the bodies of the more honoured among the slain--peasants mourning over their trampled crops and plundered habitations--and widows and orphans searching for the bodies of husbands and parents, amid the promiscuous carnage of two combats. Thus wo mingled her wildest notes with those of jubilee and bacchanal triumph, and the plain of the Garde Doloureuse formed a singular parallel to the varied maze of human life, where joy and grief are so strangely mixed, and where the confines of mirth and pleasure often border on those of sorrow and of death. About noon these various noises were at once silenced, and the attention alike of those who rejoiced or grieved was arrested by the loud and mournful sound of six trumpets, which, uplifting and uniting their thrilling tones in a wild and melancholy death-note, apprised all, that the obsequies of the valiant Raymond Berenger were about to commence. From a tent, which had been hastily pitched for the immediate reception of the body, twelve black monks, the inhabitants of a neighbouring convent, began to file out in pairs, headed by their abbot, who bore a large cross, and thundered forth the sublime notes of the Catholic _Miserere me, Domine_. Then came a chosen body of men-at-arms, trailing their lances, with their points reversed and pointed to the earth; and after them the body of the valiant Berenger, wrapped in his own knightly banner, which, regained from the hands of the Welsh, now served its noble owner instead of a funeral pall. The most gallant Knights of the Constable's household (for, like other great nobles of that period, he had formed it upon a scale which approached to that of royalty) walked as mourners and supporters of the corpse, which was borne upon lances; and the Constable of Chester himself, alone and fully armed, excepting the head, followed as chief mourner. A chosen body of squires, men-at-arms, and pages of noble descent, brought up the rear of the procession; while their nakers and trumpets echoed back, from time to time, the melancholy song of the monks, by replying in a note as lugubrious as their own. The course of pleasure was arrested, and even that of sorrow was for a moment turned from her own griefs, to witness the last honours bestowed on him, who had been in life the father and guardian of his people. The mournful procession traversed slowly the plain which had been within a few hours the scene of such varied events; and, pausing before the outer gate of the barricades of the castle, invited, by a prolonged and solemn flourish, the fortress to receive the remains of its late gallant defender. The melancholy summons was answered by the warder's horn--the drawbridge sunk--the portcullis rose--and Father Aldrovand appeared in the middle of the gateway, arrayed in his sacerdotal habit, whilst a little way behind him stood the orphaned damsel, in such weeds of mourning as time admitted, supported by her attendant Rose, and followed by the females of the household. The Constable of Chester paused upon the threshold of the outer gate, and, pointing to the cross signed in white cloth upon his left shoulder, with a lowly reverence resigned to his nephew, Damian, the task of attending the remains of Raymond Berenger to the chapel within the castle. The soldiers of Hugo de Lacy, most of whom were bound by the same vow with himself, also halted without the castle gate, and remained under arms, while the death- peal of the chapel bell announced from within the progress of the procession. It winded on through those narrow entrances, which were skilfully contrived to interrupt the progress of an enemy, even should he succeed in forcing the outer gate, and arrived at length in the great court-yard, where most of the inhabitants of the fortress, and those who, under recent circumstances, had taken refuge there, were drawn up, in order to look, for the last time, on their departed lord. Among these were mingled a few of the motley crowd from without, whom curiosity, or the expectation of a dole, had brought to the castle gate, and who, by one argument or another, had obtained from the warder permission to enter the interior. The body was here set down before the door of the chapel, the ancient Gothic front of which formed one side of the court-yard, until certain prayers were recited by the priests, in which the crowd around were supposed to join with becoming reverence. It was during this interval, that a man, whose peaked beard, embroidered girdle, and high-crowned hat of gray felt, gave him the air of a Lombard merchant, addressed Margery, the nurse of Eveline, in a whispering tone, and with a foreign accent.--"I am a travelling merchant, good sister, and am come hither in quest of gain--can you tell me whether I can have any custom in this castle?" "You are come at an evil time, Sir Stranger--you may yourself see that this is a place for mourning and not for merchandise." "Yet mourning times have their own commerce," said the stranger, approaching still closer to the side of Margery, and lowering his voice to a tone yet more confidential. "I have sable scarfs of Persian silk--black bugles, in which a princess might mourn for a deceased monarch--cyprus, such as the East hath seldom sent forth --black cloth for mourning hangings--all that may express sorrow and reverence in fashion and attire; and I know how to be grateful to those who help me to custom. Come, bethink you, good dame--such things must be had--I will sell as good ware and as cheap as another; and a kirtle to yourself, or, at your pleasure, a purse with five florins, shall be the meed of your kindness." "I prithee peace, friend," said Margery, "and choose a better time for vaunting your wares--you neglect both place and season; and if you be farther importunate, I must speak to those who will show you the outward side of the castle gate. I marvel the warders would admit pedlars upon a day such as this--they would drive a gainful bargain by the bedside of their mother, were she dying, I trow." So saying, she turned scornfully from him. While thus angrily rejected on the one side, the merchant felt his cloak receive an intelligent twitch upon the other, and, looking round upon the signal, he saw a dame, whose black kerchief was affectedly disposed, so as to give an appearance of solemnity to a set of light laughing features, which must have been captivating when young, since they retained so many good points when at least forty years had passed over them. She winked to the merchant, touching at the same time her under lip with her forefinger, to announce the propriety of silence and secrecy; then gliding from the crowd, retreated to a small recess formed by a projecting buttress of the chapel, as if to avoid the pressure likely to take place at the moment when the bier should be lifted. The merchant failed not to follow her example, and was soon by her side, when she did not give him the trouble of opening his affairs, but commenced the conversation herself. "I have heard what you said to our Dame Margery--Mannerly Margery, as I call her--heard as much, at least, as led me to guess the rest, for I have got an eye in my head, I promise you." "A pair of them, my pretty dame, and as bright as drops of dew in a May morning." "Oh, you say so, because I have been weeping," said the scarlet- hosed Gillian, for it was even herself who spoke; "and to be sure, I have good cause, for our lord was always my very good lord, and would sometimes chuck me under the chin, and call me buxom Gillian of Croydon--not that the good gentleman was ever uncivil, for he would thrust a silver twopennies into my hand at the same time.-- Oh! the friend that I have lost!--And I have had anger on his account too--I have seen old Raoul as sour as vinegar, and fit for no place but the kennel for a whole day about it; but, as I said to him, it was not for the like of me, to be affronting our master, and a great baron, about a chuck under the chin, or a kiss, or such like." "No wonder you are so sorry for so kind a master, dame," said the merchant. "No wonder, indeed," replied the dame, with a sigh; "and then what is to become of us?--It is like my young mistress will go to her aunt--or she will marry one of these Lacys that they talk so much of--or, at any rate, she will leave the castle; and it's like old Raoul and I will be turned to grass with the lord's old chargers. The Lord knows, they may as well hang him up with the old hounds, for he is both footless and fangless, and fit for nothing on earth that I know of." "Your young mistress is that lady in the mourning mantle," said the merchant, "who so nearly sunk down upon the body just now?" "In good troth is she, sir--and much cause she has to sink down. I am sure she will be to seek for such another father." "I see you are a most discerning woman, gossip Gillian," answered the merchant; "and yonder youth that supported her is her bridegroom?" "Much need she has for some one to support her," said Gillian; "and so have I for that matter, for what can poor old rusty Raoul do?" "But as to your young lady's marriage?" said the merchant. "No one knows more, than that such a thing was in treaty between our late lord and the great Constable of Chester, that came to-day but just in time to prevent the Welsh from cutting all our throats, and doing the Lord knoweth what mischief beside. But there is a marriage talked of, that is certain--and most folk think it must be for this smooth-cheeked boy, Damian, as they call him; for though the Constable has gotten a beard, which his nephew hath not, it is something too grizzled for a bridegroom's chin-- Besides, he goes to the Holy Wars--fittest place for all elderly warriors--I wish he would take Raoul with him.--But what is all this to what you were saying about your mourning wares even now?-- It is a sad truth, that my poor lord is gone--But what then?-- Well-a-day, you know the good old saw,-- 'Cloth must be wear, Eat beef and drink beer, Though the dead go to bier.' And for your merchandising, I am as like to help you with my good word as Mannerly Margery, provided you bid fair for it; since, if the lady loves me not so much, I can turn the steward round my finger." "Take this in part of your bargain, pretty Mistress Gillian," said the merchant; "and when my wains come up, I will consider you amply, if I get good sale by your favourable report.--But how shall I get into the castle again? for I would wish to consult you, being a sensible woman, before I come in with my luggage." "Why," answered the complaisant dame, "if our English be on guard, you have only to ask for Gillian, and they will open the wicket to any single man at once; for we English stick all together, were it but to spite the Normans;--but if a Norman be on duty, you must ask for old Raoul, and say you come to speak of dogs and hawks for sale, and I warrant you come to speech of me that way. If the sentinel be a Fleming, you have but to say you are a merchant, and he will let you in for the love of trade." The merchant repeated his thankful acknowledgment, glided from her side, and mixed among the spectators, leaving her to congratulate herself on having gained a brace of florins by the indulgence of her natural talkative humour; for which, on other occasions, she had sometimes dearly paid. The ceasing of the heavy toll of the castle bell now gave intimation that the noble Raymond Berenger had been laid in the vault with his fathers. That part of the funeral attendants who had come from the host of De Lacy, now proceeded to the castle hall, where they partook, but with temperance, of some refreshments which were offered as a death-meal; and presently after left the castle, headed by young Damian, in the same slow and melancholy form in which they had entered. The monks remained within the castle to sing repeated services for the soul of the deceased, and for those of his faithful men-at-arms who had fallen around him, and who had been so much mangled during, and after, the contest with the Welsh, that it was scarce possible to know one individual from another; otherwise the body of Dennis Morolt would have obtained, as his faith well deserved, the honours of a separate funeral. [Footnote: The Welsh, a fierce and barbarous people, were often accused of mangling the bodies of their slain antagonists. Every one must remember Shakspeare's account, how -----"the noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight, Against the irregular and wild Glendower-- Was, by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, And a thousand of his people butchered; Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, Such beastly, shameless transformation, By these Welshwomen done, as may not be, Without much shame, retold or spoken of."] CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. ----The funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage table. HAMLET. The religious rites which followed the funeral of Raymond Berenger, endured without interruption for the period of six days; during which, alms were distributed to the poor, and relief administered, at the expense of the Lady Eveline, to all those who had suffered by the late inroad. Death-meals, as they were termed, were also spread in honour of the deceased; but the lady herself, and most of her attendants, observed a stern course of vigil, discipline, and fasts, which appeared to the Normans a more decorous manner of testifying their respect for the dead, than the Saxon and Flemish custom of banqueting and drinking inordinately upon such occasions. Meanwhile, the Constable De Lacy retained a large body of his men encamped under the walls of the Garde Doloureuse, for protection against some new irruption of the Welsh, while with the rest he took advantage of his victory, and struck terror into the British by many well-conducted forays, marked with ravages scarcely less hurtful than their own. Among the enemy, the evils of discord were added to those of defeat and invasion; for two distant relations of Gwenwyn contended for the throne he had lately occupied, and on this, as on many other occasions, the Britons suffered as much from internal dissension as from the sword of the Normans. A worse politician, and a less celebrated soldier, than the sagacious and successful De Lacy, could not have failed, under such circumstances, to negotiate as he did an advantageous peace, which, while it deprived Powys of a part of its frontier, and the command of some important passes, in which it was the Constable's purpose to build castles, rendered the Garde Doloureuse more secure than formerly, from any sudden attack on the part of their fiery and restless neighbours. De Lacy's care also went to re-establishing those settlers who had fled from their possessions, and putting the whole lordship, which now descended upon an unprotected female, into a state of defence as perfect as its situation on a hostile frontier could possibly permit. Whilst thus anxiously provident in the affairs of the orphan of the Garde Doloureuse, De Lacy during the space we have mentioned, sought not to disturb her filial grief by any personal intercourse. His nephew, indeed, was despatched by times every morning to lay before her his uncle's _devoirs,_ in the high- flown language of the day, and acquaint her with the steps which he had taken in her affairs. As a meed due to his relative's high services, Damian was always admitted to see Eveline on such occasions, and returned charged with her grateful thanks, and her implicit acquiescence in whatever the Constable proposed for her consideration. But when the days of rigid mourning were elapsed, the young de Lacy stated, on the part of his kinsman, that his treaty with the Welsh being concluded, and all things in the district arranged as well as circumstances would permit, the Constable of Chester now proposed to return into his own territory, in order to resume his instant preparations for the Holy Land, which the duty of chastising her enemies had for some days interrupted. "And will not the noble Constable, before he departs from this place," said Eveline, with a burst of gratitude which the occasion well merited, "receive the personal thanks of her that was ready to perish, when he so valiantly came to her aid?" "It was even on that point that I was commissioned to speak," replied Damian; "but my noble kinsman feels diffident to propose to you that which he most earnestly desires--the privilege of speaking to your own ear certain matters of high import, and with which he judges it fit to intrust no third party." "Surely," said the maiden, blushing, "there can be nought beyond the bounds of maidenhood, in my seeing the noble Constable whenever such is his pleasure." "But his vow," replied Damian, "binds my kinsman not to come beneath a roof until he sets sail for Palestine; and in order to meet him, you must grace him so far as to visit his pavilion;--a condescension which, as a knight and Norman noble, he can scarcely ask of a damsel of high degree." "And is that all?" said Eveline, who, educated in a remote situation, was a stranger to some of the nice points of etiquette which the damsels of the time observed in keeping their state towards the other sex. "Shall I not," she said, "go to render my thanks to my deliverer, since he cannot come hither to receive them? Tell the noble Hugo de Lacy, that, next to my gratitude to Heaven, it is due to him, and to his brave companions in arms. I will come to his tent as to a holy shrine; and, could such homage please him, I would come barefooted, were the road strewed with flints and with thorns." "My uncle will be equally honoured and delighted with your resolve," said Damian; "but it will be his study to save you all unnecessary trouble, and with that view a pavilion shall be instantly planted before your castle gate, which, if it please you to grace it with your presence, may be the place for the desired interview." Eveline readily acquiesced in what was proposed, as the expedient agreeable to the Constable, and recommended by Damian; but, in the simplicity of her heart, she saw no good reason why, under the guardianship of the latter, she should not instantly, and without farther form, have traversed the little familiar plain on which, when a child, she used to chase butterflies and gather king's- cups, and where of later years she was wont to exercise her palfrey on this well-known plain, being the only space, and that of small extent, which separated her from the camp of the Constable. The youthful emissary, with whose presence she had now become familiar, retired to acquaint his kinsman and lord with the success of his commission; and Eveline experienced the first sensation of anxiety upon her own account which had agitated her bosom, since the defeat and death of Gwenwyn gave her permission to dedicate her thoughts exclusively to grief, for the loss which she had sustained in the person of her noble father. But now, when that grief, though not satiated, was blunted by solitary indulgence--now that she was to appear before the person of whose fame she had heard so much, of whose powerful protection she had received such recent proofs, her mind insensibly turned upon the nature and consequences of that important interview. She had seen Hugo de Lacy, indeed, at the great tournament at Chester, where his valour and skill were the theme of every tongue, and she had received the homage which he rendered her beauty when he assigned to her the prize, with all the gay flutterings of youthful vanity; but of his person and figure she had no distinct idea, excepting that he was a middle-sized man, dressed in peculiarly rich armour, and that the countenance, which looked out from under the shade of his raised visor, seemed to her juvenile estimate very nearly as old as that of her father. This person, of whom she had such slight recollection, had been the chosen instrument employed by her tutelar protectress in rescuing her from captivity, and in avenging the loss of a father, and she was bound by her vow to consider him as the arbiter of her fate, if indeed he should deem it worth his while to become so. She wearied her memory with vain efforts to recollect so much of his features as might give her some means of guessing at his disposition, and her judgment toiled in conjecturing what line of conduct he was likely to pursue towards her. The great Baron himself seemed to attach to their meeting a degree of consequence, which was intimated by the formal preparations which he made for it. Eveline had imagined that he might have ridden to the gate of the castle in five minutes, and that, if a pavilion were actually necessary to the decorum of their interview, a tent could have been transferred from his leaguer to the castle gate, and pitched there in ten minutes more. But it was plain that the Constable considered much more form and ceremony as essential to their meeting; for in about half an hour after Damian de Lacy had left the castle, not fewer than twenty soldiers and artificers, under the direction of a pursuivant, whose tabard was decorated with the armorial bearings of the house of Lacy, were employed in erecting before the gate of the Garde Doloureuse one of those splendid pavilions, which were employed at tournaments and other occasions of public state. It was of purple silk, valanced with gold embroidery, having the chords of the same rich materials. The door-way was formed by six lances, the staves of which were plaited with silver, and the blades composed of the same precious metal. These were pitched into the ground by couples, and crossed at the top, so as to form a sort of succession of arches, which were covered by drapery of sea-green silk, forming a pleasing contrast with the purple and gold. The interior of the tent was declared by Dame Gillian and others, whose curiosity induced them to visit it, to be of a splendour agreeing with the outside. There were Oriental carpets, and there were tapestries of Ghent and Bruges mingled in gay profusion, while the top of the pavilion, covered with sky-blue silk, was arranged so as to resemble the firmament, and richly studded with a sun, moon, and stars, composed of solid silver. This gorgeous pavilion had been made for the use of the celebrated William of Ypres, who acquired such great wealth as general of the mercenaries of King Stephen, and was by him created Earl of Albemarle; but the chance of War had assigned it to De Lacy, after one of the dreadful engagements, so many of which occurred during the civil wars betwixt Stephen and the Empress Maude, or Matilda. The Constable had never before been known to use it; for although wealthy and powerful, Hugo de Lacy was, on most occasions, plain and unostentatious; which, to those who knew him, made his present conduct seem the more remarkable. At the hour of noon he arrived, nobly mounted, at the gate of the castle, and drawing up a small body of servants, pages, and equerries, who attended him in their richest liveries, placed himself at their head, and directed his nephew to intimate to the Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, that the humblest of her servants awaited the honour of her presence at the castle gate. Among the spectators who witnessed his arrival, there were many who thought that some part of the state and splendour attached to his pavilion and his retinue, had been better applied to set forth the person of the Constable himself, as his attire was simple even to meanness, and his person by no means of such distinguished bearing as might altogether dispense with the advantages of dress and ornament. The opinion became yet more prevalent, when he descended from horseback, until which time his masterly management of the noble animal he bestrode, gave a dignity to his person and figure, which he lost upon dismounting from his steel saddle. In height, the celebrated Constable scarce attained the middle size, and his limbs, though strongly built and well knit, were deficient in grace and ease of movement. His legs were slightly curved outwards, which gave him advantage as a horseman, but showed unfavourably when he was upon foot. He halted, though very slightly, in consequence of one of his legs having been broken by the fall of a charger, and inartificially set by an inexperienced surgeon. This, also, was a blemish in his deportment; and though his broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and expanded chest, betokened the strength which he often displayed, it was strength of a clumsy and ungraceful character. His language and gestures were those of one seldom used to converse with equals, more seldom still with superiors; short, abrupt, and decisive, almost to the verge of sternness. In the judgment of those who were habitually acquainted with the Constable, there was both dignity and kindness in his keen eye and expanded brow; but such as saw him for the first time judged less favourably, and pretended to discover a harsh and passionate expression, although they allowed his countenance to have, on the whole, a bold and martial character. His age was in reality not more than five-and-forty, but the fatigues of war and of climate had added in appearance ten years to that period of time. By far the plainest dressed man of his train, he wore only a short Norman mantle, over the close dress of shamois-leather, which, almost always covered by his armour, was in some places slightly soiled by its pressure. A brown hat, in which he wore a sprig of rosemary in memory of his vow, served for his head-gear-- his good sword and dagger hung at a belt made of seal-skin. Thus accoutred, and at the head of a glittering and gilded band of retainers, who watched his lightest glance, the Constable of Chester awaited the arrival of the Lady Eveline Berenger, at the gate of her castle of Garde Doloureuse. The trumpets from within announced her presence--the bridge fell, and, led by Damian de Lacy in his gayest habit, and followed by her train of females, and menial or vassal attendants, she came forth in her loveliness from under the massive and antique portal of her paternal fortress. She was dressed without ornaments of any kind, and in deep mourning weeds, as best befitted her recent loss; forming, in this respect, a strong contrast with the rich attire of her conductor, whose costly dress gleamed with jewels and embroidery, while their age and personal beauty made them in every other respect the fair counterpart of each other; a circumstance which probably gave rise to the delighted murmur and buzz which passed through the bystanders on their appearance, and which only respect for the deep mourning of Eveline prevented from breaking out into shouts of applause. The instant that the fair foot of Eveline had made a step beyond the palisades which formed the outward barrier of the castle, the Constable de Lacy stepped forward to meet her, and, bending his right knee to the earth, craved pardon for the discourtesy which his vow had imposed on him, while he expressed his sense of the honour with which she now graced him, as one for which his life, devoted to her service, would be an inadequate acknowledgment. The action and speech, though both in consistence with the romantic gallantry of the times, embarrassed Eveline; and the rather that this homage was so publicly rendered. She entreated the Constable to stand up, and not to add to the confusion of one who was already sufficiently at a loss how to acquit herself of the heavy debt of gratitude which she owed him. The Constable arose accordingly, after saluting her hand, which she extended to him, and prayed her, since she was so far condescending, to deign to enter the poor hut he had prepared for her shelter, and to grant him the honour of the audience he had solicited. Eveline, without farther answer than a bow, yielded him her hand, and desiring the rest of her train to remain where they were, commanded the attendance of Rose Flammock. "Lady," said the Constable, "the matters of which I am compelled thus hastily to speak, are of a nature the most private." "This maiden," replied Eveline, "is my bower-woman, and acquainted with my most inward thoughts; I beseech you to permit her presence at our conference." "It were better otherwise," said Hugo de Lacy, with some embarrassment; "but your pleasure shall be obeyed." He led the Lady Eveline into the tent, and entreated her to be seated on a large pile of cushions, covered with rich Venetian silk. Rose placed herself behind her mistress, half kneeling upon the same cushions, and watched the motions of the all-accomplished soldier and statesman, whom the voice of fame lauded so loudly; enjoying his embarrassment as a triumph of her sex, and scarcely of opinion that his shamois doublet and square form accorded with the splendour of the scene, or the almost angelic beauty of Eveline, the other actor therein. "Lady," said the Constable, after some hesitation, "I would willingly say what it is my lot to tell you, in such terms as ladies love to listen to, and which surely your excellent beauty more especially deserves; but I have been too long trained in camps and councils to express my meaning otherwise than simply and plainly." "I shall the more easily understand you, my lord," said Eveline, trembling, though she scarce knew why. "My story, then, must be a blunt one. Something there passed between your honourable father and myself, touching a union of our houses."--He paused, as if he wished or expected Eveline to say something, but, as she was silent, he proceeded. "I would to God, that, as he was at the beginning of this treaty, it had pleased Heaven he should have conducted and concluded it with his usual wisdom; but what remedy?--he has gone the path which we must all tread." "Your lordship," said Eveline, "has nobly avenged the death of your noble friend." "I have but done my devoir, lady, as a good knight, in defence of an endangered maiden--a Lord Marcher in protection of the frontier--and a friend in avenging his friend. But to the point.-- Our long and noble line draws near to a close. Of my remote kinsman, Randal Lacy, I will not speak; for in him I see nothing that is good or hopeful, nor have we been at one for many years. My nephew, Damian, gives hopeful promise to be a worthy branch of our ancient tree--but he is scarce twenty years old, and hath a long career of adventure and peril to encounter, ere he can honourably propose to himself the duties of domestic privacy or matrimonial engagements. His mother also is English, some abatentent perhaps in the escutcheon of his arms; yet, had ten years more passed over him with the honours of chivalry, I should have proposed Damian de Lacy for the happiness to which I at present myself aspire." "You--you, my lord!--it is impossible!" said Eveline, endeavouring at the same time to suppress all that could be offensive in the surprise which she could not help exhibiting. "I do not wonder," replied the Constable, calmly,--for the ice being now broken, he resumed the natural steadiness of his manner and character,--"that you express surprise at this daring proposal. I have not perhaps the form that pleases a lady's eye, and I have forgotten,--that is, if I ever knew them,--the terms and phrases which please a lady's ear; but, noble Eveline, the Lady of Hugh de Lacy will be one of the foremost among the matronage of England." "It will the better become the individual to whom so high a dignity is offered," said Eveline, "to consider how far she is capable of discharging its duties." "Of that I fear nothing," said De Lacy. "She who hath been so excellent a daughter, cannot be less estimable in every other relation in life." "I do not find that confidence in myself my lord," replied the embarrassed maiden, "with which you are so willing to load me--And I--forgive me--must crave time for other inquiries, as well as those which respect myself." "Your father, noble lady, had this union warmly at heart. This scroll, signed with his own hand, will show it." He bent his knee as he gave the paper. "The wife of De Lacy will have, as the daughter of Raymond Berenger merits, the rank of a princess; his widow, the dowry of a queen." "Mock me not with your knee, my lord, while you plead to me the paternal commands, which, joined to other circumstances"--she paused, and sighed deeply--"leave me, perhaps, but little room for free will!" Imboldened by this answer, De Lacy, who had hitherto remained on his knee, rose gently, and assuming a seat beside the Lady Eveline, continued to press his suit,--not, indeed, in the language of passion, but of a plain-spoken man, eagerly urging a proposal on which his happiness depended. The vision of the miraculous image was, it may be supposed, uppermost in the mind of Eveline, who, tied down by the solemn vow she had made on that occasion, felt herself constrained to return evasive answers, where she might perhaps have given a direct negative, had her own wishes alone been to decide her reply. "You cannot," she said, "expect from me, my lord, in this my so recent orphan state, that I should come to a speedy determination upon an affair of such deep importance. Give me leisure of your nobleness for consideration with myself--for consultation with my friends." "Alas! fair Eveline," said the Baron, "do not be offended at my urgency. I cannot long delay setting forward on a distant and perilous expedition; and the short time left me for soliciting your favour, must be an apology for my importunity." "And is it in these circumstances, noble De Lacy, that you would encumber yourself with family ties?" asked the maiden, timidly. "I am God's soldier," said the Constable, "and He, in whose cause I fight in Palestine, will defend my wife in England." "Hear then my present answer, my lord," said Eveline Berenger, rising from her seat. "To-morrow I proceed to the Benedictine nunnery at Gloucester, where resides my honoured father's sister, who is Abbess of that reverend house. To her guidance I will commit myself in this matter." "A fair and maidenly resolution," answered De Lacy, who seemed, on his part, rather glad that the conference was abridged, "and, as I trust, not altogether unfavourable to the suit of your humble suppliant, since the good Lady Abbess hath been long my honoured friend." He then turned to Rose, who was about to attend her lady:--"Pretty maiden," he said, offering a chain of gold, "let this carcanet encircle thy neck, and buy thy good will." "My good will cannot be purchased, my lord," said Rose, putting back the gift which he proffered. "Your fair word, then," said the Constable, again pressing it upon her. "Fair words are easily bought," said Rose, still rejecting the chain, "but they are seldom worth the purchase-money." "Do you scorn my proffer, damsel?" said De Lacy: "it has graced the neck of a Norman count." "Give it to a Norman countess then, my lord," said the damsel; "I am plain Rose Flammock, the weaver's daughter. I keep my good word to go with my good will, and a latten chain will become me as well as beaten gold." "Peace, Rose," said her lady; "you are over malapert to talk thus to the Lord Constable.--And you, my lord," she continued, "permit me now to depart, since you are possessed of my answer to your present proposal. I regret it had not been of some less delicate nature, that by granting it at once, and without delay, I might have shown my sense of your services." The lady was handed forth by the Constable of Chester, with the same ceremony which had been observed at their entrance, and she returned to her own castle, sad and anxious in mind for the event of this important conference. She gathered closely round her the great mourning veil, that the alteration of her countenance might not be observed; and, without pausing to speak even to Father Aldrovand, she instantly withdrew to the privacy of her own bower. CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, And ladies of England that happy would prove, Marry never for houses, nor marry for land, Nor marry for nothing but only love. FAMILY QUARRELS. When the Lady Eveline had retired into her own private chamber, Rose Flammock followed her unbidden, and proffered her assistance in removing the large veil which she had worn while she was abroad; but the lady refused her permission, saying, "You are forward with service, maiden, when it is not required of you." "You are displeased with me, lady!" said Rose. "And if I am, I have cause," replied Eveline. "You know my difficulties--you know what my duty demands; yet, instead of aiding me to make the sacrifice, you render it more difficult." "Would I had influence to guide your path!" said Rose; "you should find it a smooth one--ay, an honest and straight one, to boot." "How mean you, maiden?" said Eveline. "I would have you," answered Rose, "recall the encouragement--the consent, I may almost call it, you have yielded to this proud baron. He is too great to be loved himself--too haughty to love you as you deserve. If you wed him, you wed gilded misery, and, it may be, dishonour as well as discontent." "Remember, damsel," answered Eveline Berenger, "his services towards us." "His services?" answered Rose. "He ventured his life for us; indeed, but so did every soldier in his host. And am I bound to wed any ruffling blade among them, because he fought when the trumpet sounded? I wonder what, is the meaning of their _devoir_, as they call it, when it shames them not to claim the highest reward woman can bestow, merely for discharging the duty of a gentleman, by a distressed creature. A gentleman, said I?--The coarsest boor in Flanders would hardly expect thanks for doing the duty of a man by women in such a case." "But my father's wishes?" said the young lady. "They had reference, without doubt, to the inclination of your father's daughter," answered the attendant. "I will not do my late noble lord--(may God assoilzie him!)--the injustice to suppose he would have urged aught in this matter which squared not with your free choice." "Then my vow--my fatal vow, as I had well nigh called it?" said Eveline. "May Heaven forgive me my ingratitude to my patroness!" "Even this shakes me not," said Rose; "I will never believe our Lady of Mercy would exact such a penalty for her protection, as to desire me to wed the man I could not love. She smiled, you say, upon your prayer. Go--lay at her feet these difficulties which oppress you, and see if she will not smile again. Or seek a dispensation from your vow--seek it at the expense of the half of your estate,--seek it at the expense of your whole property. Go a pilgrimage barefooted to Rome--do any thing but give your hand where you cannot give your heart." "You speak warmly, Rose," said Eveline, still sighing as she spoke. "Alas! my sweet lady, I have cause. Have I not seen a household where love was not--where, although there was worth and good will, and enough of the means of life, all was imbittered by regrets, which were not only vain, but criminal?" "Yet, methinks, Rose, a sense of what is due to ourselves and to others may, if listened to, guide and comfort us under such feelings even as thou hast described." "It will save us from sin, lady, but not from sorrow," answered Rose; "and wherefore should we, with our eyes open, rush into circumstances where duty must war with inclination?" Why row against wind and tide, when you may as easily take advantage of the breeze?" "Because the voyage of my life lies where winds and currents oppose me," answered Eveline. "It is my fate, Rose." "Not unless you make it such by choice," answered Rose. "Oh, could you but have seen the pale cheek, sunken eye, and dejected bearing of my poor mother!--I have said too much." "It was then your mother," said her young lady, "of whose unhappy wedlock you have spoken?" "It was--it was," said Rose, bursting into tears. "I have exposed my own shame to save you from sorrow. Unhappy she was, though most guiltless--so unhappy, that the breach of the dike, and the inundation in which she perished, were, but for my sake, to her welcome as night to the weary labourer. She had a heart like yours, formed to love and be loved; and it would be doing honour to yonder proud Baron, to say he had such worth as my father's.-- Yet was she most unhappy. Oh! my sweet lady, be warned, and break off this ill-omened match!" Eveline returned the pressure with which the affectionate girl, as she clung to her hand, enforced her well-meant advice, and then muttered with a profound sigh,--"Rose, it is too late." "Never--never," said Rose, looking eagerly round the room. "Where are those writing materials?--Let me bring Father Aldrovand, and instruct him of your pleasure--or, stay, the good father hath himself an eye on the splendours of the world which he thinks he has abandoned--he will be no safe secretary.--I will go myself to the Lord Constable--_me_ his rank cannot dazzle, or his wealth bribe, or his power overawe. I will tell him he doth no knightly part towards you, to press his contract with your father in such an hour of helpless sorrow--no pious part, in delaying the execution of his vows for the purpose of marrying or giving in marriage--no honest part, to press himself on a maiden whose heart has not decided in his favour--no wise part, to marry one whom he must presently abandon, either to solitude, or to the dangers of a profligate court." "You have not courage for such an embassy, Rose," said her mistress, sadly smiling through her tears at her youthful attendant's zeal. "Not courage for it!--and wherefore not?--Try me," answered the Flemish maiden, in return. "I am neither Saracen nor Welshman--his lance and sword scare me not. I follow not his banner--his voice of command concerns me not. I could, with your leave, boldly tell him he is a selfish man, veiling with fair and honourable pretexts his pursuit of objects which concern his own pride and gratification, and founding high claims on having rendered the services which common humanity demanded. And all for what?-- Forsooth the great De Lacy must have an heir to his noble house, and his fair nephew is not good enough to be his representative, because his mother was of Anglo-Saxon strain, and the real heir must be pure unmixed Norman; and for this, Lady Eveline Berenger, in the first bloom of youth, must be wedded to a man who might be her father, and who, after leaving her unprotected for years, will return in such guise as might beseem her grandfather!" "Since he is thus scrupulous concerning purity of lineage," said Eveline, "perhaps he may call to mind, what so good a herald as he is cannot fail to know--that I am of Saxon strain by my father's mother." "Oh," replied Rose, "he will forgive that blot in the heiress of the Garde Doloureuse." "Fie, Rose," answered her mistress, "thou dost him wrong in taxing him with avarice." "Perhaps so," answered Rose; "but he is undeniably ambitious; and Avarice, I have heard, is Ambition's bastard brother, though Ambition be sometimes ashamed of the relationship." "You speak too boldly, damsel," said Eveline; "and, while I acknowledge your affection, it becomes me to check your mode of expression." "Nay, take that tone, and I have done," said Rose.--"To Eveline, whom I love, and who loves me, I can speak freely--but to the Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, the proud Norman damsel, (which when you choose to be you can be,) I can curtsy as low as my station demands, and speak as little truth as she cares to hear." "Thou art a wild but a kind girl," said Eveline; "no one who did not know thee would think that soft and childish exterior covered such a soul of fire. Thy mother must indeed have been the being of feeling and passion you paint her; for thy father--nay, nay, never arm in his defence until he be attacked--I only meant to say, that his solid sense and sound judgment are his most distinguished qualities." "And I would you would avail yourself of them, lady," said Rose. "In fitting things I will; but he were rather an unmeet counsellor in that which we now treat of," said Eveline. "You mistake him," answered Rose Flammock, "and underrate his value. Sound judgment is like to the graduated measuring-wand, which, though usually applied only to coarser cloths, will give with equal truth the dimensions of Indian silk, or of cloth of gold." "Well--well--this affair presses not instantly at least," said the young lady. "Leave me now, Rose, and send Gillian the tirewoman hither--I have directions to give about the packing and removal of my wardrobe." "That Gillian the tirewoman hath been a mighty favourite of late," said Rose; "time was when it was otherwise." "I like her manners as little as thou dost," said Eveline; "but she is old Raoul's wife--she was a sort of half favourite with my dear father--who, like other men, was perhaps taken by that very freedom which we think unseemly in persons of our sex; and then there is no other woman in the Castle that hath such skill in empacketing clothes without the risk of their being injured." "That last reason alone," said Rose, smiling, "is, I admit, an irresistible pretension to favour, and Dame Gillian shall presently attend you.--But take my advice, lady--keep her to her bales and her mails, and let her not prate to you on what concerns her not." So saying, Rose left the apartment, and her young lady looked after her in silence--then murmured to herself--"Rose loves me truly; but she would willingly be more of the mistress than the maiden; and then she is somewhat jealous of every other person that approaches me.--It is strange, that I have not seen Damian de Lacy since my interview with the Constable. He anticipates, I suppose, the chance of his finding in me a severe aunt!" But the domestics, who crowded for orders with reference to her removal early on the morrow, began now to divert the current of their lady's thoughts from the consideration of her own particular situation, which, as the prospect presented nothing pleasant, with the elastic spirit of youth, she willingly postponed till farther leisure. CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH Too much rest is rust, There's ever cheer in changing; We tyne by too much trust, So we'll be up and ranging. OLD SONG. Early on the subsequent morning, a gallant company, saddened indeed by the deep mourning which their principals wore, left the well-defended Castle of the Garde Doloureuse, which had been so lately the scene of such remarkable events. The sun was just beginning to exhale the heavy dews which had fallen during the night, and to disperse the thin gray mist which eddied around towers and battlements, when Wilkin Flammock, with six crossbowmen on horseback, and as many spearmen on foot, sallied forth from under the Gothic gate-way, and crossed the sounding drawbridge. After this advanced guard, came four household servants well mounted, and after them, as many inferior female attendants, all in mourning. Then rode forth the young Lady Eveline herself, occupying the centre of the little procession, and her long black robes formed a striking contrast to the colour of her milk-white palfrey. Beside her, on a Spanish jennet, the gift of her affectionate father,--who had procured it at a high rate, and who would have given half his substance to gratify his daughter,--sat the girlish form of Rose Flammock, who had so much of juvenile shyness in her manner, so much of feeling and of judgment in her thoughts and actions. Dame Margery followed, mixed in the party escorted by Father Aldrovand, whose company she chiefly frequented; for Margery affected a little the character of the devotee, and her influence in the family, as having been Eveline's nurse, was so great as to render her no improper companion for the chaplain, when her lady did not require her attendance on her own person. Then came old Raoul the huntsman, his wife, and two or three other officers of Raymond Berenger's household; the steward, with his golden chain, velvet cassock, and white wand, bringing up the rear, which was closed by a small band of archers, and four men-at-arms. The guards, and indeed the greater part of the attendants, were only designed to give the necessary degree of honour to the young lady's movements, by accompanying her a short space from the castle, where they were met by the Constable of Chester, who, with a retinue of thirty lances, proposed himself to escort Eveline as far as Gloucester, the place of her destination. Under his protection no danger was to be apprehended, even if the severe defeat so lately sustained by the Welsh had not of itself been likely to prevent any attempt, on the part of those hostile mountaineers, to disturb the safety of the marches for some time to come. In pursuance of this arrangement, which permitted the armed part of Eveline's retinue to return for the protection of the castle, and the restoration of order in the district around, the Constable awaited her at the fatal bridge, at the head of the gallant band of selected horsemen whom he had ordered to attend upon him. The parties halted, as if to salute each other; but the Constable, observing that Eveline drew her veil more closely around her, and recollecting the loss she had so lately sustained on that luckless spot, had the judgment to confine his greeting to a mute reverence, so low that the lofty plume which he wore, (for he was now in complete armour,) mingled with the flowing mane of his gallant horse. Wilkin Flammock next halted, to ask the lady if she had any farther commands. "None, good Wilkin," said Eveline; "but to be, as ever, true and watchful." "The properties of a good mastiff," said Flammock. "Some rude sagacity, and a stout hand instead of a sharp case of teeth, are all that I can claim to be added to them--I will do my best.--Fare thee well, Roschen! Thou art going among strangers--forget not the qualities which made thee loved at home. The saints bless thee-- farewell!" The steward next approached to take his leave, but in doing so, had nearly met with a fatal accident. It had been the pleasure of Raoul, who was in his own disposition cross-grained, and in person rheumatic, to accommodate himself with an old Arab horse, which had been kept for the sake of the breed, as lean, and almost as lame as himself, and with a temper as vicious as that of a fiend. Betwixt the rider and the horse was a constant misunderstanding, testified on Raoul's part by oaths, rough checks with the curb, and severe digging with the spurs, which Mahound (so paganishly was the horse named) answered by plunging, bounding, and endeavouring by all expedients to unseat his rider, as well as striking and lashing out furiously at whatever else approached him. It was thought by many of the household, that Raoul preferred this vicious cross-tempered animal upon all occasions when he travelled in company with his wife, in order to take advantage by the chance, that amongst the various kicks, plunges, gambades, lashings out, and other eccentricities of Mahound, his heels might come in contact with Dame Gillian's ribs. And now, when as the important steward spurred up his palfrey to kiss his young lady's hand, and to take his leave, it seemed to the bystanders as if Raoul so managed his bridle and spur, that Mahound jerked out his hoofs at the same moment, one of which coming in contact with the steward's thigh, would have splintered it like a rotten reed, had the parties been a couple of inches nearer to each other. As it was, the steward sustained considerable damage; and they that observed the grin upon Raoul's vinegar countenance entertained little doubt, that Mahound's heels then and there avenged certain nods, and winks, and wreathed smiles, which had passed betwixt the gold-chained functionary and the coquettish tirewoman, since the party left the castle. This incident abridged the painful solemnity of parting betwixt the Lady Eveline and her dependents, and lessened, at the same time, the formality of her meeting with the Constable, and, as it were, resigning herself to his protection. Hugo de Lacy, having commanded six of his men-at-arms to proceed as an advanced-guard, remained himself to see the steward properly deposited on a litter, and then, with the rest of his followers, marched in military fashion about one hundred yards in the rear of Lady Eveline and her retinue, judiciously forbearing to present himself to her society while she was engaged in the orisons which the place where they met naturally suggested, and waiting patiently until the elasticity of youthful temper should require some diversion of the gloomy thoughts which the scene inspired. Guided by this policy, the Constable did not approach the ladies until the advance of the morning rendered it politeness to remind them, that a pleasant spot for breaking their fast occurred in the neighbourhood, where he had ventured to make some preparations for rest and refreshment. Immediately after the Lady Eveline had intimated her acceptance of this courtesy, they came in sight of the spot he alluded to, marked by an ancient oak, which, spreading its broad branches far and wide, reminded the traveller of that of Mamre, under which celestial beings accepted the hospitality of the patriarch. Across two of these huge projecting arms was flung a piece of rose-coloured sarsanet, as a canopy to keep off the morning beams, which were already rising high. Cushions of silk, interchanged with others covered with the furs of animals of the chase, were arranged round a repast, which a Norman cook had done his utmost to distinguish, by the superior delicacy of his art, from the gross meals of the Saxons, and the penurious simplicity of the Welsh tables. A fountain, which bubbled from under a large mossy stone at some distance, refreshed the air with its sound, and the taste with its liquid crystal; while, at the same time, it formed a cistern for cooling two or three flasks of Gascon wine and hippocras, which were at that time the necessary accompaniments of the morning meal. When Eveline, with Rose, the Confessor, and at some farther distance her faithful nurse, was seated at this silvan banquet, the leaves rustling to a gentle breeze, the water bubbling in the background, the birds twittering around, while the half-heard sounds of conversation and laughter at a distance announced that their guard was in the vicinity, she could not avoid making the Constable some natural compliment on his happy selection of a place of repose. "You do me more than justice," replied the Baron; "the spot was selected by my nephew, who hath a fancy like a minstrel. Myself am but slow in imagining such devices." Rose looked full at her mistress, as if she endeavoured to look into her very inmost soul; but Eveline answered with the utmost simplicity,--"And wherefore hath not the noble Damian waited to join us at the entertainment which he hath directed?" "He prefers riding onward," said the Baron, "with some light- horsemen; for, notwithstanding there are now no Welsh knaves stirring, yet the marches are never free from robbers and outlaws; and though there is nothing to fear for a band like ours, yet you should not be alarmed even by the approach of danger." "I have indeed seen but too much of it lately," said Eveline; and relapsed into the melancholy mood from which the novelty of the scene had for a moment awakened her. Meanwhile, the Constable, removing, with the assistance of his squire, his mailed hood and its steel crest, as well as his gauntlets, remained in his flexible coat of mail, composed entirely of rings of steel curiously interwoven, his hands bare, and his brows covered with a velvet bonnet of a peculiar fashion, appropriated to the use of knights, and called a _mortier_, which permitted him both to converse and to eat more easily than when he wore the full defensive armour. His discourse was plain, sensible, and manly; and, turning upon the state of the country, and the precautions to be observed for governing and defending so disorderly a frontier, it became gradually interesting to Eveline, one of whose warmest wishes was to be the protectress of her father's vassals. De Lacy, on his part, seemed much pleased; for, young as Eveline was, her questions showed intelligence, and her mode of answering, both apprehension and docility. In short, familiarity was so far established betwixt them, that in the nest stage of their journey, the Constable seemed to think his appropriate place was at the Lady Eveline's bridle-rein; and although she certainly did not countenance his attendance, yet neither did she seem willing to discourage it. Himself no ardent lover, although captivated both by the beauty and the amiable qualities of the fair orphan, De Lacy was satisfied with being endured as a companion, and made no efforts to improve the opportunity which this familiarity afforded him, by recurring to any of the topics of the preceding day. A halt was made at noon in a small village, where the same purveyor had made preparations for their accommodation, and particularly for that of the Lady Eveline; but, something to her surprise, he himself remained invisible. The conversation of the Constable of Chester was, doubtless, in the highest degree instructive; but at Eveline's years, a maiden might be excused for wishing some addition to the society in the person of a younger and less serious attendant; and when she recollected the regularity with which Damian Lacy had hitherto made his respects to her, she rather wondered at his continued absence. But her reflection went no deeper than the passing thought of one who was not quite so much delighted with her present company, as not to believe it capable of an agreeable addition. She was lending a patient ear to the account which the Constable gave her of the descent and pedigree of a gallant knight of the distinguished family of Herbert, at whose castle he proposed to repose during the night, when one of the retinue announced a messenger from the Lady of Baldringham. "My honoured father's aunt," said Eveline, arising to testify that respect for age and relationship which the manners of the time required. "I knew not," said the Constable, "that my gallant friend had such a relative." "She was my grandmother's sister," answered Eveline, "a noble Saxon lady; but she disliked the match formed with a Norman house, and never saw her sister after the period of her marriage." She broke off, as the messenger, who had the appearance of the steward of a person of consequence, entered the presence, and, bending his knee reverently, delivered a letter, which, being examined by Father Aldrovand, was found to contain the following invitation, expressed, not in French, then the general language of communication amongst the gentry, but in the old Saxon language, modified as it now was by some intermixture of French. "If the grand-daughter of Aelfried of Baldringham hath so much of the old Saxon strain as to desire to see an ancient relation, who still dwells in the house of her forefathers, and lives after their manner, she is thus invited to repose for the night in the dwelling of Ermengarde of Baldringham." "Your pleasure will be, doubtless, to decline the present hospitality?" said the Constable De Lacy; "the noble Herbert expects us, and has made great preparation." "Your presence, my lord," said Eveline, "will more than console him for my absence. It is fitting and proper that I should meet my aunt's advances to reconciliation, since she has condescended to make them." De Lacy's brow was slightly clouded, for seldom had he met with anything approaching to contradiction of his pleasure. "I pray you to reflect, Lady Eveline," he said, "that your aunt's house is probably defenceless, or at least very imperfectly guarded.--Would it not be your pleasure that I should continue my dutiful attendance?" "Of that, my lord, mine aunt can, in her own house, be the sole judge; and methinks, as she has not deemed it necessary to request the honour of your lordship's company, it were unbecoming in me to permit you to take the trouble of attendance;--you have already had but too much on my account." "But for the sake of your own safety, madam," said De Lacy, unwilling to leave his charge. "My safety, my lord, cannot be endangered in the house of so near a relative; whatever precautions she may take on her own behalf, will doubtless be amply sufficient for mine." "I hope it will be found so," said De Lacy; "and I will at least add to them the security of a patrol around the castle during your abode in it." He stopped, and then proceeded with some hesitation to express his hope, that Eveline, now about to visit a kinswoman whose prejudices against the Norman race were generally known, would be on her guard against what she might hear upon that subject. Eveline answered with dignity, that the daughter of Raymond Berenger was unlikely to listen to any opinions which would affect the dignity of that good knight's nation and descent; and with this assurance, the Constable, finding it impossible to obtain any which had more special reference to himself and his suit, was compelled to remain satisfied. He recollected also that the castle of Herbert was within two miles of the habitation of the Lady of Baldringham, and that his separation from Eveline was but for one night; yet a sense of the difference betwixt their years, and perhaps of his own deficiency in those lighter qualifications by which the female heart is supposed to be most frequently won, rendered even this temporary absence matter of anxious thought and apprehension; so that, during their afternoon journey, he rode in silence by Eveline's side, rather meditating what might chance to- morrow, than endeavouring to avail himself of present opportunity. In this unsocial manner they travelled on until the point was reached where they were to separate for the evening. This was an elevated spot, from which they could see, on the right hand, the castle of Amelot Herbert, rising high upon an eminence, with all its Gothic pinnacles and turrets; and on the left, low- embowered amongst oaken woods, the rude and lonely dwelling in which the Lady of Baldringham still maintained the customs of the Anglo-Saxons, and looked with contempt and hatred on all innovations that had been introduced since the battle of Hastings. Here the Constable De Lacy, having charged a part of his men to attend the Lady Eveline to the house of her relation, and to keep watch around it with the utmost vigilance, but at such a distance as might not give offence or inconvenience to the family, kissed her hand, and took a reluctant leave. Eveline proceeded onwards by a path so little trodden, as to show the solitary condition of the mansion to which it led. Large kine, of an uncommon and valuable breed, were feeding in the rich pastures around; and now and then fallow deer, which appeared to have lost the shyness of their nature, tripped across the glades of the woodland, or stood and lay in small groups under some great oak. The transient pleasure which such a scene of rural quiet was calculated to afford, changed to more serious feelings, when a sudden turn brought her at once in front of the mansion-house, of which she had seen nothing since she first beheld it from the point where she parted with the Constable, and which she had more than one reason for regarding with some apprehension. The house, for it could not be termed a castle, was only two stories high, low and massively built, with doors and windows forming the heavy round arch which is usually called Saxon;--the walls were mantled with various creeping plants, which had crept along them undisturbed--grass grew up to the very threshold, at which hung a buffalo's horn, suspended by a brass chain. A massive door of black oak closed a gate, which much resembled the ancient entrance to a ruined sepulchre, and not a soul appeared to acknowledge or greet their arrival. "Were I you, my Lady Eveline," said the officious dame Gillian, "I would turn bridle yet; for this old dungeon seems little likely to afford food or shelter to Christian folk." Eveline imposed silence on her indiscreet attendant, though herself exchanging a look with Rose which confessed something like timidity, as she commanded Raoul to blow the horn at the gate. "I have heard," she said, "that my aunt loves the ancient customs so well, that she is loath to admit into her halls any thing younger than the time of Edward the Confessor." Raoul, in the meantime, cursing the rude instrument which baffled his skill in sounding a regular call, and gave voice only to a tremulous and discordant roar, which seemed to shake the old walls, thick as they were, repeated his summons three times before they obtained admittance. On the third sounding, the gate opened, and a numerous retinue of servants of both sexes appeared in the dark and narrow hall, at the upper end of which a great fire of wood was sending its furnace-blast up an antique chimney, whose front, as extensive as that of a modern kitchen, was carved over with ornaments of massive stone, and garnished on the top with a long range of niches, from each of which frowned the image of some Saxon Saint, whose barbarous name was scarce to be found in the Romish calendar. The same officer who had brought the invitation from his lady to Eveline, now stepped forward, as she supposed, to assist her from her palfrey; but it was in reality to lead it by the bridle-rein into the paved hall itself, and up to a raised platform, or dais, at the upper end of which she was at length permitted to dismount. Two matrons of advanced years, and four young women of gentle birth, educated by the bounty of Ermengarde, attended with reverence the arrival of her kinswoman. Eveline would have inquired of them for her grand-aunt, but the matrons with much respect laid their fingers on their mouths, as if to enjoin her silence; a gesture which, united to the singularity of her reception in other respects, still farther excited her curiosity to see her venerable relative. It was soon gratified; for, through a pair of folding doors, which opened not far from the platform on which she stood, she was ushered into a large low apartment hung with arras; at the upper end of which, under a species of canopy, was seated the ancient Lady of Baldringham. Fourscore years had not quenched the brightness of her eyes, or bent an inch of her stately height; her gray hair was still so profuse as to form a tier, combined as it was with a chaplet of ivy leaves; her long dark-coloured gown fell in ample folds, and the broidered girdle, which gathered it around her, was fastened by a buckle of gold, studded with precious stones, which were worth an Earl's ransom; her features, which had once been beautiful, or rather majestic, bore still, though faded and wrinkled, an air of melancholy and stern grandeur, that assorted well with her garb and deportment. She had a staff of ebony in her hand; at her feet rested a large aged wolf-dog, who pricked his ears and bristled up his neck, as the step of a stranger, a sound so seldom heard in those halls, approached the chair in which his aged mistress sat motionless. "Peace, Thryme," said the venerable dame; "and thou, daughter of the house of Baldringham, approach, and fear not their ancient servant." The hound sunk down to his couchant posture when she spoke, and, excepting the red glare of his eyes, might have seemed a hieroglyphical emblem, lying at the feet of some ancient priestess of Woden or Freya; so strongly did the appearance of Ermengarde, with her rod and her chaplet, correspond with the ideas of the days of Paganism. Yet he who had thus deemed of her would have done therein much injustice to a venerable Christian matron, who had given many a hide of land to holy church, in honour of God and Saint Dunstan. Ermengarde's reception of Eveline was of the same antiquated and formal cast with her mansion and her exterior. She did not at first arise from her seat when the noble maiden approached her, nor did she even admit her to the salute which she advanced to offer; but, laying her hand on Eveline's arm, stopped her as she advanced, and perused her countenance with an earnest and unsparing eye of minute observation. "Berwine," she said to the most favoured of the two attendants, "our niece hath the skin and eyes of the Saxon hue; but the hue of her eye-brows and hair is from the foreigner and alien.--Thou art, nevertheless,--welcome to my house, maiden," she added, addressing Eveline, "especially if thou canst bear to hear that thou art not absolutely a perfect creature, as doubtless these flatterers around thee have taught thee to believe." So saying, she at length arose, and saluted her niece with a kiss on the forehead. She released her not, however, from her grasp, but proceeded to give the attention to her garments which she had hitherto bestowed upon her features. "Saint Dunstan keep us from vanity!" she said; "and so this is the new guise--and modest maidens wear such tunics as these, showing the shape of their persons as plain as if (Saint Mary defend us!) they were altogether without garments? And see, Berwine, these gauds on the neck, and that neck itself uncovered as low as the shoulder--these be the guises which strangers have brought into merry England! and this pouch, like a player's placket, hath but little to do with housewifery, I wot; and that dagger, too, like a glee-man's wife, that rides a mumming in masculine apparel--dost thou ever go to the wars, maiden, that thou wearest steel at thy girdle?" Eveline, equally surprised and disobliged by the depreciating catalogue of her apparel, replied to the last question with some spirit,--"The mode may have altered, madam; but I only wear such garments as are now worn by those of my age and condition. For the poniard, may it please you, it is not many days since I regarded it as the last resource betwixt me and dishonour." "The maiden speaks well and boldly, Berwine," said Dame Ermengarde; "and, in truth, pass we but over some of these vain fripperies, is attired in a comely fashion. Thy father, I hear, fell knight-like in the field of battle." "He did so," answered Eveline, her eyes filling with tears at the recollection of her recent loss. "I never saw him," continued Dame Ermengarde; "he carried the old Norman scorn towards the Saxon stock, whom they wed but for what they can make by them, as the bramble clings to the elm;--nay, never seek to vindicate him," she continued, observing that Eveline was about to speak, "I have known the Norman spirit for many a year ere thou wert born." At this moment the steward appeared in the chamber, and, after a long genuflection, asked his lady's pleasure concerning the guard of Norman soldiers who remained without the mansion. "Norman soldiers so near the house of Baldringham!" said the old lady, fiercely; "who brings them hither, and for what purpose?" "They came, as I think," said the sewer, "to wait on and guard this gracious young lady." "What, my daughter," said Ermengarde, in a tone of melancholy reproach, "darest thou not trust thyself unguarded for one night in the castle of thy forefathers?" "God forbid else!" said Eveline. "But these men are not mine, nor under my authority. They are part of the train of the Constable de Lacy, who left them to watch around the castle, thinking there might be danger from robbers." "Robbers," said Ermengarde, "have never harmed the house of Baldringham, since a Norman robber stole from it its best treasure in the person of thy grandmother--And so, poor bird, thou art already captive--unhappy flutterer! But it is thy lot, and wherefore should I wonder or repine? When was there fair maiden, with a wealthy dower, but she was ere maturity destined to be the slave of some of those petty kings, who allow us to call nothing ours that their passions can covet? Well--I cannot aid thee--I am but a poor and neglected woman, feeble both from sex and age.--And to which of these De Lacys art thou the destined household drudge?" A question so asked, and by one whose prejudices were of such a determined character, was not likely to draw from Eveline any confession of the real circumstances in which she was placed, since it was but too plain her Saxon relation could have afforded her neither sound counsel nor useful assistance. She replied therefore briefly, that as the Lacys, and the Normans in general, were unwelcome to her kinswoman, she would entreat of the commander of the patrol to withdraw it from the neighbourhood of Baldringham. "Not so, my niece," said the old lady; "as we cannot escape the Norman neighbourhood, or get beyond the sound of their curfew, it signifies not whether they be near our walls or more far off, so that they enter them, not. And, Berwine, bid Hundwolf drench the Normans with liquor, and gorge them with food--the food of the best, and liquor of the strongest. Let them not say the old Saxon hag is churlish of her hospitality. Broach a piece of wine, for I warrant their gentle stomachs brook no ale." Berwine, her huge bunch of keys jangling at her girdle, withdrew to give the necessary directions, and presently returned. Meanwhile Ermengarde proceeded to question her niece more closely. "Is it that thou wilt not, or canst not, tell me to which of the De Lacys thou art to be bondswoman?--to the overweening Constable, who, sheathed in impenetrable armour, and mounted on a swift and strong horse as invulnerable as himself, takes pride that he rides down and stabs at his ease, and with perfect safety, the naked Welshmen?--or is it to his nephew, the beardless Damian?--or must thy possessions go to mend a breach in the fortunes of that other cousin, Randal Lacy, the decayed reveller, who, they say, can no longer ruffle it among the debauched crusaders for want of means?" "My honoured aunt," replied Eveline, naturally displeased with this discourse, "to none of the Lacy's, and I trust to none other, Saxon or Norman, will your kinswoman become a household drudge. "There was, before the death of my honoured father, some treaty betwixt him and the Constable, on which account I cannot at present decline his attendance; but what may be the issue of it, fate must determine." "But I can show thee, niece, how the balance of fate inclines," said Ermengarde, in a low and mysterious voice. "Those united with us by blood have, in some sort, the privilege of looking forward beyond the points of present time, and seeing in their very bud the thorns or flowers which are one day to encircle their head." "For my own sake, noble kinswoman," answered Eveline, "I would decline such foreknowledge, even were it possible to acquire it without transgressing the rules of the Church. Could I have foreseen what has befallen me within these last unhappy days, I had lost the enjoyment of every happy moment before that time." "Nevertheless, daughter," said the Lady of Baldringham, "thou, like others of thy race, must within this house conform to the rule, of passing one night within the chamber of the Red-Finger.-- Berwine, see that it be prepared for my niece's reception." "I--I--have heard speak of that chamber, gracious aunt," said Eveline, timidly, "and if it may consist with your good pleasure, I would not now choose to pass the night there. My health has suffered by my late perils and fatigues, and with your good-will I will delay to another time the usage, which I have heard is peculiar to the daughters of the house of Baldringham." "And which, notwithstanding, you would willingly avoid," said the old Saxon lady, bending her brows angrily. "Has not such disobedience cost your house enough already?" "Indeed, honoured and gracious lady," said Berwine, unable to forbear interference, though well knowing the obstinacy of her patroness, "that chamber is in disrepair, and cannot easily on a sudden be made fit for the Lady Eveline; and the noble damsel looks so pale, and hath lately suffered so much, that, might I have the permission to advise, this were better delayed." "Thou art a fool, Berwine," said the old lady, sternly; "thinkest thou I will bring anger and misfortune on my house, by suffering this girl to leave it without rendering the usual homage to the Red-Finger? Go to--let the room be made ready--small preparation may serve, if she cherish not the Norman nicety about bed and lodging. Do not reply; but do as I command thee.--And you, Eveline--are you so far degenerated from the brave spirit of your ancestry, that you dare not pass a few hours in an ancient apartment?" "You are my hostess, gracious madam," said Eveline, "and must assign my apartment where you judge proper--my courage is such as innocence and some pride of blood and birth have given me. It has been, of late, severely tried; but, since such is your pleasure, and the custom of your house, my heart is yet strong enough to encounter what you propose to subject me to." She paused here in displeasure; for she resented, in some measure, her aunt's conduct, as unkind and inhospitable. And yet when she reflected upon the foundation of the legend of the chamber to which she was consigned, she could not but regard the Lady of Baldringham as having considerable reason for her conduct, according to the traditions of the family, and the belief of the times, in which Eveline herself was devout. CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH Sometimes, methinks, I hear the groans of ghosts, Then hollow sounds and lamentable screams; Then, like a dying echo from afar, My mother's voice, that cries, "Wed not, Almeyda-- Forewanvd, Almeyda, marriage is thy crime." DON SEBASTIAN. The evening at Baldringham would have seemed of portentous and unendurable length, had it not been that apprehended danger makes times pass quickly betwixt us and the dreaded hour, and that if Eveline felt little interested or amused by the conversation of her aunt and Berwine, which turned upon the long deduction of their ancestors from the warlike Horsa, and the feats of Saxon champions, and the miracles of Saxon monks, she was still better pleased to listen to these legends, than to anticipate her retreat to the destined and dreaded apartment where she was to pass the night. There lacked not, however, such amusement as the house of Baldringham could afford, to pass away the evening. Blessed by a grave old Saxon monk, the chaplain of the house, a sumptuous entertainment, which might have sufficed twenty hungry men, was served up before Ermengarde and her niece, whose sole assistants, beside the reverend man, were Berwine and Rose Flammock. Eveline was the less inclined to do justice to this excess of hospitality, that the dishes were all of the gross and substantial nature which the Saxons admired, but which contrasted disadvantageously with the refined and delicate cookery of the Normans, as did the moderate cup of light and high-flavoured Gascon wine, tempered with more than half its quantity of the purest water, with the mighty ale, the high-spiced pigment and hippocras, and the other potent liquors, which, one after another, were in vain proffered for her acceptance by the steward Hundwolf, in honour of the hospitality of Baldringham. Neither were the stated amusements of evening more congenial to Eveline's taste, than the profusion of her aunt's solid refection. When the boards and tresses, on which the viands had been served, were withdrawn from the apartment, the menials, under direction of the steward, proceeded to light several long waxen torches, one of which was graduated for the purpose of marking the passing time, and dividing it into portions. These were announced by means of brazen balls, suspended by threads from the torch, the spaces betwixt them being calculated to occupy a certain time in burning; so that, when the flame reached the thread, and the balls fell, each in succession, into a brazen basin placed for its reception, the office of a modern clock was in some degree discharged. By this light the party was arranged for the evening. The ancient Ermengarde's lofty and ample chair was removed, according to ancient custom, from the middle of the apartment to the warmest side of a large grate, filled with charcoal, and her guest was placed on her right, as the seat of honour. Berwine then arranged in due order the females of the household, and, having seen that each was engaged with her own proper task, sat herself down to ply the spindle and distaff. The men, in a more remote circle, betook themselves to the repairing of their implements of husbandry, or new furbishing weapons of the chase, under the direction of the steward Hundwolf. For the amusement of the family thus assembled, an old glee-man sung to a harp, which had but four strings, a long and apparently interminable legend, upon some religious subject, which was rendered almost unintelligible to Eveline, by the extreme and complicated affectation of the poet, who, in order to indulge in the alliteration which was accounted one great ornament of Saxon poetry, had sacrificed sense to sound, and used words in the most forced and remote sense, provided they could be compelled into his service. There was also all the obscurity arising from elision, and from the most extravagant and hyperbolical epithets. Eveline, though well acquainted with the Saxon language, soon left off listening to the singer, to reflect for a moment on the gay fabliaux and imaginative _lais_ of the Norman minstrels, and then to anticipate, with anxious apprehension, what nature of visitation she might be exposed to in the mysterious chamber in which she was doomed to pass the night. The hour of parting at length approached. At half an hour before mid-night, a period ascertained by the consumption of the huge waxen torch, the ball which was secured to it fell clanging into the brazen basin placed beneath, and announced to all the hour of rest. The old glee-man paused in his song, instantaneously, and in the middle of a stanza, and the household were all on foot at the signal, some retiring to their own apartments, others lighting torches or bearing lamps to conduct the visitors to their places of repose. Among these last was a bevy of bower-women, to whom the duty was assigned of conveying the Lady Eveline to her chamber for the night. Her aunt took a solemn leave of her, crossed her forehead, kissed it, and whispered in her ear, "Be courageous, and be fortunate." "May not my bower-maiden, Rose Flammock, or my tire-woman, Dame Gillian, Raoul's wife, remain in the apartment with me for this night?" said Eveline. "Flammock-Raoul!" repeated Ermengarde, angrily; "is thy household thus made up? The Flemings are the cold palsy to Britain, the Normans the burning fever." "And the poor Welsh will add," said Rose, whose resentment began to surpass her awe for the ancient Saxon dame, "that the Anglo- Saxons were the original disease, and resemble a wasting pestilence." "Thou art too bold, sweetheart," said the Lady Ermengarde, looking at the Flemish maiden from under her dark brows; "and yet there is wit in thy words. Saxon, Dane, and Norman, have rolled like successive billows over the land, each having strength to subdue what they lacked wisdom to keep. When shall it be otherwise?" "When, Saxon, and Briton, and Norman, and Fleming," answered Rose, boldly, "shall learn to call themselves by one name, and think themselves alike children of the land they were born in." "Ha!" exclaimed the Lady of Baldringham, in the tone of one half surprised, half-pleased. Then turning to her relation, she said, "There are words and wit in this maiden; see that she use but do not abuse them." "She is as kind and faithful, as she is prompt and ready-witted." said Eveline. "I pray you, dearest aunt, let me use her company for this night." "It may not be--it were dangerous to both. Alone you must learn your destiny, as have all the females of our race, excepting your grandmother, and what have been the consequences of her neglecting the rules of our house? Lo! her descendant stands before me an orphan in the very bloom of youth." "I will go, then," said Eveline with a sigh of resignation; "and it shall never be said I incurred future wo, to shun present terror." "Your attendants," said the Lady Ermengarde, "may occupy the anteroom, and be almost within your call. Berwine will show you the apartment--I cannot; for we, thou knowest, who have once entered it, return not thither again. Farewell, my child, and may heaven bless thee!" With more of human emotion and sympathy than she had yet shown, the Lady again saluted Eveline, and signed to her to follow Berwine, who, attended by two damsels bearing torches, waited to conduct her to the dreaded apartment. Their torches glared along the rudely built walls and dark arched roofs of one or two long winding passages; these by their light enabled them to descend the steps of a winding stair, whose inequality and ruggedness showed its antiquity; and finally led into a tolerably large chamber on the lower story of the edifice, to which some old hangings, a lively fire on the hearth, the moonbeams stealing through a latticed window, and the boughs of a myrtle plant which grew around the casement, gave no uncomfortable appearance. "This," said Berwine, "is the resting-place of your attendants," and she pointed to the couches which had been prepared for Rose and Dame Gillian; "we," she added, "proceed farther." She then took a torch from the attendant maidens, both of whom seemed to shrink back with fear, which was readily caught by Dame Gillian, although she was not probably aware of the cause. But Rose Flammock, unbidden, followed her mistress without hesitation, as Berwine conducted her through a small wicket at the upper end of the apartment, clenched with many an iron nail, into a second but smaller anteroom or wardrobe, at the end of which was a similar door. This wardrobe had also its casement mantled with evergreens, and, like the former, it was faintly enlightened by the moonbeams. Berwine paused here, and, pointing to Rose, demanded of Eveline, "Why does she follow?" "To share my mistress's danger, be it what it may," answered Rose, with her characteristic readiness of speech and resolution. "Speak," she said, "my dearest lady," grasping Eveline's hand, while she addressed her; "you will not drive your Rose from you? If I am less high-minded than one of your boasted race, I am bold and quick-witted in all honest service.--You tremble like the aspen! Do not go into this apartment--do not be gulled by all this pomp and mystery of terrible preparation; bid defiance to this antiquated, and, I think, half-pagan superstition." "The Lady Eveline must go, minion," replied Berwine, sternly; "and she must go without any malapert adviser or companion." "Must go---_must go_!" repeated Rose. "Is this language to a free and noble maiden?--Sweet lady, give me once but the least hint that you wish it, and their '_must go_' shall be put to the trial. I will call from the casement on the Norman cavaliers, and tell them we have fallen, into a den of witches, instead of a house of hospitality." "Silence, madwoman," said Berwine, her voice quivering with anger and fear; "you know not who dwells in the next chamber." "I will call those who will soon see to that," said Rose, flying to the casement, when Eveline, seizing her arm in her turn, compelled her to stop. "I thank thy kindness, Rose," she said, "but it cannot help me in this matter. She who enters yonder door, must do so alone." "Then I will enter it in your stead, my dearest lady," said Rose. "You are pale--you are cold--you will die with terror if you go on. There may be as much of trick as of supernatural agency in this matter--me they shall not deceive--or if some stern spirit craves a victim,--better Rose than her lady." "Forbear, forbear," said Eveline, rousing up her own spirits; "you make me ashamed of myself. This is an ancient ordeal, which regards the females descended from the house of Baldringham as far as in the third degree, and them only. I did not indeed expect, in my present circumstances, to have been called upon to undergo it; but, since the hour summons me, I will meet it as freely as any of my ancestors." So saying, she took the torch from the hand of Berwine, and wishing good-night to her and Rose, gently disengaged herself from the hold of the latter, and advanced into the mysterious chamber. Rose pressed after her so far as to see that it was an apartment of moderate dimensions, resembling that through which they had last passed, and lighted by the moonbeams, which came through a window lying on the same range with those of the anterooms. More she could not see, for Eveline turned on the threshold, and kissing her at the same time, thrust her gently back into the smaller apartment which she had just left, shut the door of communication, and barred and bolted it, as if in security against her well-meant intrusion. Berwine now exhorted Rose, as she valued her life, to retire into the first anteroom, where the beds were prepared, and betake herself, if not to rest, at least to silence and devotion; but the faithful Flemish girl stoutly refused her entreaties, and resisted her commands. "Talk not to me of danger," she said; "here I remain, that I may be at least within hearing of my mistress's danger, and wo betide those who shall offer her injury!--Take notice, that twenty Norman spears surround this inhospitable dwelling, prompt to avenge whatsoever injury shall be offered to the daughter of Raymond Berenger." "Reserve your threats for those who are mortal," said Berwine, in a low, but piercing whisper; "the owner of yonder chamber fears them not. Farewell--thy danger be on thine own head!" She departed, leaving Rose strangely agitated by what had passed, and somewhat appalled at her last words. "These Saxons," said the maiden, within herself, "are but half converted after all, and hold many of their old hellish rites in the worship of elementary spirits. Their very saints are unlike to the saints of any Christian country, and have, as it were, a look of something savage and fiendish--their very names sound pagan and diabolical. It is fearful being alone here--and all is silent as death in the apartment into which my lady has been thus strangely compelled. Shall I call up Gillian?--but no--she has neither sense, nor courage, nor principle, to aid me on such an occasion--better alone than have a false friend for company. I will see if the Normans are on their post, since it is to them I must trust, if a moment of need should arrive." Thus reflecting, Rose Flammock went to the window of the little apartment, in order to satisfy herself of the vigilance of the sentinels, and to ascertain the exact situation of the corps de garde. The moon was at the full, and enabled her to see with accuracy the nature of the ground without. In the first place, she was rather disappointed to find, that instead of being so near the earth as she supposed, the range of windows which gave light as well to the two anterooms as to the mysterious chamber itself, looked down upon an ancient moat, by which they were divided from the level ground on the farther side. The defence which this fosse afforded seemed to have been long neglected, and the bottom, entirely dry, was choked in many places with bushes and low trees, which rose up against the wall of the castle, and by means of which it seemed to Rose the windows might be easily scaled, and the mansion entered. From the level plain beyond, the space adjoining to the castle was in a considerable degree clear, and the moonbeams slumbered on its close and beautiful turf, mixed with long shadows of the towers and trees. Beyond this esplanade lay the forest ground, with a few gigantic oaks scattered individually along the skirt of its dark and ample domain, like champions, who take their ground of defiance in front of a line of arrayed battle. The calm beauty and repose of a scene so lovely, the stillness of all around, and the more matured reflections which the whole suggested, quieted, in some measure, the apprehensions which the events of the evening had inspired. "After all," she reflected, "why should I be so anxious on account of the Lady Eveline? There is among the proud Normans and the dogged Saxons scarce a single family of note, but must needs be held distinguished from others by some superstitious observance peculiar to their race, as if they thought it scorn to go to Heaven like a poor simple Fleming, such as I am.--Could I but see the Norman sentinel, I would hold myself satisfied with my mistress's security.--And yonder one stalks along the gloom, wrapt in his long white mantle, and the moon tipping the point of his lance with silver.--What ho, Sir Cavalier!" The Norman turned his steps, and approached the ditch as she spoke. "What is your pleasure, damsel?" he demanded. "The window next to mine is that of the Lady Eveline Berenger, whom you are appointed to guard. Please to give heedful watch upon this side of the castle." "Doubt it not, lady," answered the cavalier; and enveloping himself in his long _chappe_, or military watch-cloak, he withdrew to a large oak tree at some distance, and stood there with folded arms, and leaning on his lance, more like a trophy of armour than a living warrior. Imboldened by the consciousness, that in case of need succour was close at hand, Rose drew back into her little chamber, and having ascertained, by listening, that there was no noise or stirring in that of Eveline, she began to make some preparations for her own repose. For this purpose she went into the outward ante-room, where Dame Gillian, whose fears had given way to the soporiferous effects of a copious draught of _lithe-alos_, (mild ale, of the first strength and quality,) slept as sound a sleep as that generous Saxon beverage could procure. Muttering an indignant censure on her sloth and indifference, Rose caught, from the empty couch which had been destined for her own use, the upper covering, and dragging it with her into the inner ante-room, disposed it so as, with the assistance of the rushes which strewed that apartment, to form a sort of couch, upon which, half seated, half reclined, she resolved to pass the night in as close attendance upon her mistress as circumstances permitted. Thus seated, her eye on the pale planet which sailed in full glory through the blue sky of midnight, she proposed to herself that sleep should not visit her eyelids till the dawn of morning should assure her of Eveline's safety. Her thoughts, meanwhile, rested on the boundless and shadowy world beyond the grave, and on the great and perhaps yet undecided question, whether the separation of its inhabitants from those of this temporal sphere is absolute and decided, or whether, influenced by motives which we cannot appreciate, they continue to hold shadowy communication with those yet existing in earthly reality of flesh and blood? To have denied this, would, in the age of crusades and of miracles, have incurred the guilt of heresy; but Rose's firm good sense led her to doubt at least the frequency of supernatural interference, and she comforted herself with an opinion, contradicted, however, by her own involuntary starts and shudderings at every leaf which moved, that, in submitting to the performance of the rite imposed on her, Eveline incurred no real danger, and only sacrificed to an obsolete family superstition. As this conviction strengthened on Rose's mind, her purpose of vigilance began to decline--her thoughts wandered to objects towards which they were not directed, like sheep which stray beyond the charge of their shepherd--her eyes no longer brought back to her a distinct apprehension of the broad, round, silvery orb on which they continued to gaze. At length they closed, and seated on the folded mantle, her back resting against the wall of the apartment, and her white arms folded on her bosom, Rose Flammock fell fast asleep. Her repose was fearfully broken by a shrill and piercing shriek from the apartment where her lady reposed. To start up and fly to the door was the work of a moment with the generous girl, who never permitted fear to struggle with love or duty. The door was secured with both bar and bolt; and another fainter scream, or rather groan, seemed to say, aid must be instant, or in vain. Rose next rushed to the window, and screamed rather than called to the Norman soldier, who, distinguished by the white folds of his watch-cloak, still retained his position under the old oak-tree. At the cry of "Help, help!--the Lady Eveline is murdered!" the seeming statue, starting at once into active exertion, sped with the swiftness of a race-horse to the brink of the moat, and was about to cross it, opposite to the spot where Rose stood at the open casement, urging him to speed by voice and gesture. "Not here--not here!" she exclaimed, with breathless precipitation, as she saw him make towards her--"the window to the right--scale it, for God's sake, and undo the door of communication." The soldier seemed to comprehend her--he dashed into the moat without hesitation, securing himself by catching at the boughs of trees as he descended. In one moment he vanished among the underwood; and in another, availing himself of the branches of a dwarf oak, Rose saw him upon her right, and close to the window of the fatal apartment. One fear remained--the casement might be secured against entrance from without--but no! at the thrust of the Norman it yielded, and its clasps or fastenings being worn with time, fell inward with a crash which even Dame Gillian's slumbers were unable to resist. Echoing scream upon scream, in the usual fashion of fools and cowards, she entered the cabinet from the ante-room, just as the door of Eveline's chamber opened, and the soldier appeared, bearing in his arms the half-undressed and lifeless form of the Norman maiden herself. Without speaking a word, he placed her in Rose's arms, and with the same precipitation with which he had entered, threw himself out of the opened window from which Rose had summoned him. Gillian, half distracted with fear and wonder, heaped exclamations on questions, and mingled questions with cries for help, till Rose sternly rebuked her in a tone which seemed to recall her scattered senses. She became then composed enough to fetch a lamp which remained lighted in the room she had left, and to render herself at least partly useful in suggesting and applying the usual modes for recalling the suspended sense. In this they at length succeeded, for Eveline fetched a fuller sigh, and opened her eyes; but presently shut them again, and letting her head drop on Rose's bosom, fell into a strong shuddering fit; while her faithful damsel, chafing her hands and her temples alternately with affectionate assiduity, and mingling caresses with these efforts, exclaimed aloud, "She lives!--She is recovering!--Praised be God!" "Praised be God!" was echoed in a solemn tone from the window of the apartment; and turning towards it in terror, Rose beheld the armed and plumed head of the soldier who had come so opportunely to their assistance, and who, supported by his arms, had raised himself so high as to be able to look into the interior of the cabinet. Rose immediately ran towards him. "Go--go--good friend," she said; "the lady recovers--your reward shall await you another time. Go-- begone!--yet stay--keep on your post, and I will call you if there is farther need. Begone--be faithful, and be secret." The soldier obeyed without answering a word, and she presently saw him descend into the moat. Rose then returned back to her mistress, whom she found supported by Gillian, moaning feebly, and muttering hurried and unintelligible ejaculations, all intimating that she had laboured under a violent shock sustained from some alarming cause. Dame Gillian had no sooner recovered some degree of self- possession, than her curiosity became active in proportion. "What means all this?" she said to Rose; "what has been doing among you?" "I do not know," replied Rose. "If you do not," said Gillian, "who should?--Shall I call the other women, and raise the house?" "Not for your life," said Rose, "till my lady is able to give her own orders; and for this apartment, so help me Heaven, as I will do my best to discover the secrets it contains!--Support my mistress the whilst." So saying, she took the lamp in her hand, and, crossing her brow, stepped boldly across the mysterious threshold, and, holding up the light, surveyed the apartment. It was merely an old vaulted chamber, of very moderate dimensions. In one corner was an image of the Virgin, rudely cut, and placed above a Saxon font of curious workmanship. There were two seats and a couch, covered with coarse tapestry, on which it seemed that Eveline had been reposing. The fragments of the shattered casement lay on the floor; but that opening had been only made when the soldier forced it in, and she saw no other access by which a stranger could have entered an apartment, the ordinary access to which was barred and bolted. Rose felt the influence of those terrors which she had hitherto surmounted; she cast her mantle hastily around her head, as if to shroud her sight from some blighting vision, and tripping back to the cabinet, with more speed and a less firm step than when she left it, she directed Gillian to lend her assistance in conveying Eveline to the next room; and having done so, carefully secured the door of communication, as if to put a barrier betwixt them, and the suspected danger. The Lady Eveline was now so far recovered that she could sit up, and was trying to speak, though but faintly. "Rose," she said at length, "I have seen her--my doom is sealed." Rose immediately recollected the imprudence of suffering Gillian to hear what her mistress might say at such an awful moment, and hastily adopting the proposal she had before declined, desired her to go and call other two maidens of their mistress's household. "And where am I to find them in this house," said Dame Gillian, "where strange men run about one chamber at midnight, and devils, for aught I know, frequent the rest of the habitation?" "Find them where you can," said Rose, sharply; "but begone presently." Gillian withdrew lingeringly, and muttering at the same time something which could not distinctly be understood. No sooner was she gone, than Rose, giving way to the enthusiastic affection which she felt for her mistress, implored her, in the most tender terms, to open her eyes, (for she had again closed them,) and speak to Rose, her own Rose, who was ready, if necessary, to die by her mistress's side. "To-morrow--to-morrow, Rose," murmured Eveline--"I cannot speak at present." "Only disburden your mind with one word--tell what has thus alarmed you--what danger you apprehend." "I have seen her," answered Eveline--"I have seen the tenant of yonder chamber--the vision fatal to my race!--Urge me no more--to- morrow you shall know all." [Footnote: The idea of the Bahr-Geist was taken from a passage in the Memoirs of Lady Fanshaw, which have since been given to the public, and received with deserved approbation. The original runs as follows. Lady Fanshaw, shifting among her friends in Ireland, like other sound loyalists of the period, tells her story thus:-- "From thence we went to the Lady Honor O'Brien's, a lady that went for a maid, but few believed it. She was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Thomond. There we staid three nights--the first of which I was surprised at being laid in a chamber, where, when about one o'clock, I heard a voice that awakened me. I drew the curtain, and in the casement of the window I saw, by the light of the moon, a woman leaning through the casement into the room, in white, with red hair and pale and ghastly complexion. She spoke loud, and in a tone I had never heard, thrice. "A horse;" and then, with a sigh more like the wind than breath, she vanished, and to me her body looked more like a thick cloud than substance. I was so much frightened, that my hair stood on end, and my night- clothes fell off. I pulled and pinched your father, who never awoke during the disorder I was in, but at last was much surprised to see me in this fright, and more so when I related the story and showed him the window opened. Neither of us slept any more that night; but he entertained me by telling me how much more these apparitions were common in this country than in England; and we concluded the cause to be the great superstition of the Irish, and the want of that knowing faith which should defend them from the power of the devil, which he exercises among them very much. About five o'clock the lady of the house came to see us, saying, she had not been in bed all night, because a cousin O'Brien of hers, whose ancestors had owned that house, had desired her to stay with him in his chamber, and that he died at two o'clock; and she said, I wish you to have had no disturbance, for 'tis the custom of the place, that when any of the family are dying, the shape of a woman appears every night in the window until they be dead. This woman was many ages ago got with child by the owner of this place, who murdered her in his garden, and flung her into the river under the window; but truly I thought not of it when I lodged you here, it being the best room in the house! We made little reply to her speech, but disposed ourselves to be gone suddenly."] As Gillian entered with two of the maidens of her mistress's household, they removed the Lady Eveline, by Rose's directions, into a chamber at some distance which the latter had occupied, and placed her in one of their beds, where Rose, dismissing the others (Gillian excepted) to seek repose where they could find it, continued to watch her mistress. For some time she continued very much disturbed, but, gradually, fatigue, and the influence of some narcotic which Gillian had sense enough to recommend and prepare, seemed to compose her spirits. She fell into a deep slumber, from which she did not awaken until the sun was high over the distant hills. CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away; I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay. MALLET. When Eveline first opened her eyes, it seemed to be without any recollection of what had passed on the night preceding. She looked round the apartment, which was coarsely and scantily furnished, as one destined for the use of domestics and menials, and said to Rose, with a smile, "Our good kinswoman maintains the ancient Saxon hospitality at a homely rate, so far as lodging is concerned. I could have willingly parted with last night's profuse supper, to have obtained a bed of a softer texture. Methinks my limbs feel as if I had been under all the flails of a Franklin's barn-yard." "I am glad to see you so pleasant, madam," answered Rose, discreetly avoiding any reference to the events of the night before. Dame Gillian was not so scrupulous. "Your ladyship last night lay down on a better bed than this," she said, "unless I am much mistaken; and Rose Flammock and yourself know best why you left it." If a look could have killed, Dame Gillian would have been in deadly peril from that which Rose shot at her, by way of rebuke for this ill-advised communication. It had instantly the effect which was to be apprehended, for Lady Eveline seemed at first surprised and confused; then, as recollections of the past arranged themselves in her memory, she folded her hands, looked on the ground, and wept bitterly, with much agitation. Rose entreated her to be comforted, and offered to fetch the old Saxon chaplain of the house to administer spiritual consolation, if her grief rejected temporal comfort. "No--call him not," said Eveline, raising her head and drying her eyes--"I have had enough of Saxon kindness. What a fool was I to expect, in that hard and unfeeling woman, any commiseration for my youth--my late sufferings--my orphan condition! I will not permit her a poor triumph over the Norman blood of Berenger, by letting her see how much I have suffered under her inhuman infliction. But first, Rose, answer me truly, was any inmate of Baldringham witness to my distress last night?" Rose assured her that she had been tended exclusively by her own retinue, herself and Gillian, Blanche and Ternotte. She seemed to receive satisfaction from this assurance. "Hear me, both of you," she said, "and observe my words, as you love and as you fear me. Let no syllable be breathed from your lips of what has happened this night. Carry the same charge to my maidens. Lend me thine instant aid, Gillian, and thine, my dearest Rose, to change these disordered garments, and arrange this dishevelled hair. It was a poor vengeance she sought, and all because of my country. I am resolved she shall not see the slightest trace of the sufferings she has inflicted." As she spoke thus, her eyes flashed with indignation, which seemed to dry up the tears that had before filled them. Rose saw the change of her manner with a mixture of pleasure and concern, being aware that her mistress's predominant failing was incident to her, as a spoiled child, who, accustomed to be treated with kindness, deference, and indulgence, by all around her, was apt to resent warmly whatever resembled neglect or contradiction. "God knows," said the faithful bower-maiden, "I would hold my hand out to catch drops of molten lead, rather than endure your tears; and yet, my sweet mistress, I would rather at present see you grieved than angry. This ancient lady hath, it would seem, but acted according to some old superstitious rite of her family, which is in part yours. Her name is respectable, both from her conduct and possessions; and hard pressed as you are by the Normans, with whom your kinswoman, the Prioress, is sure to take part. I was in hope you might have had some shelter and countenance from the Lady of Baldringham." "Never, Rose, never," answered Eveline; "you know not--you cannot fuess what she has made me suffer--exposing me to witchcraft and fiends. Thyself said it, and said it truly--the Saxons are still half Pagans, void of Christianity, as of nurture and kindliness." "Ay, but," replied Rose, "I spoke then to dissuade you from a danger now that the danger is passed and over, I may judge of it otherwise." "Speak not for them, Rose," replied Eveline, angrily; "no innocent victim was ever offered up at the altar of a fiend with more indifference than my father's kinswoman delivered up me--me, an orphan, bereaved of my natural and powerful support. I hate her cruelty--I hate her house--I hate the thought of all that has happened here--of all, Rose, except thy matchless faith and fearless attachment. Go, bid our train saddle directly--I will be gone instantly--I will not attire myself" she added, rejecting the assistance she had at first required--"I will have no ceremony-- tarry for no leave-taking." In the hurried and agitated manner of her mistress, Rose recognized with anxiety another mood of the same irritable and excited temperament, which had before discharged itself in tears and fits. But perceiving, at the same time, that remonstrance was in vain, she gave the necessary orders for collecting their company, saddling, and preparing for departure; hoping, that as her mistress removed to a farther distance from the scene where her mind had received so severe a shock, her equanimity might, by degrees, be restored. Dame Gillian, accordingly, was busied with arranging the packages of her lady, and all the rest of Lady Eveline's retinue in preparing for instant departure, when, preceded by her steward, who acted also as a sort of gentleman-usher, leaning upon her confidential Berwine, and followed by two or three more of the most distinguished of her household, with looks of displeasure on her ancient yet lofty brow, the Lady Ermengarde entered the apartment. Eveline, with a trembling and hurried hand, a burning cheek, and other signs of agitation, was herself busied about the arrangement of some baggage, when her relation made her appearance. At once, to Rose's great surprise, she exerted a strong command over herself, and, repressing every external appearance of disorder, she advanced to meet her relation, with a calm and haughty stateliness equal to her own. "I come to give you good morning, our niece," said Ermengarde, haughtily indeed, yet with more deference than she seemed at first to have intended, so much did the bearing of Eveline impose respect upon her;--"I find that you have been pleased to shift that chamber which was assigned you, in conformity with the ancient custom of this household, and betake yourself to the apartment of a menial." "Are you surprised at that, lady?" demanded Eveline in her turn; "or are you disappointed that you find me not a corpse, within the limits of the chamber which your hospitality and affection allotted to me?" "Your sleep, then, has been broken?" said Ermengarde, looking fixedly at the Lady Eveline, as she spoke. "If I complain not, madam, the evil must be deemed of little consequence. What has happened is over and passed, and it is not my intention to trouble you with the recital." "She of the ruddy finger," replied Ermengarde, triumphantly, "loves not the blood of the stranger." "She had less reason, while she walked the earth, to love that of the Saxon," said Eveline, "unless her legend speaks false in that matter; and unless, as I well suspect, your house is haunted, not by the soul of the dead who suffered within its walls, but by evil spirits, such as the descendants of Hengist and Horsa are said still in secret to worship." "You are pleasant, maiden," replied the old lady, scornfully, "or, if your words are meant in earnest, the shaft of your censure has glanced aside. A house, blessed by the holy Saint Dunstan, and by the royal and holy Confessor, is no abode for evil spirits." "The house of Baldringham," replied Eveline, "is no abode for those who fear such spirits; and as I will, with all humility, avow myself of the number, I shall presently leave it to the custody of Saint Dunstan." "Not till you have broken your fast, I trust?" said the Lady of Baldringham; "you will not, I hope, do my years and our relationship such foul disgrace?" "Pardon me, madam," replied the Lady Eveline; "those who have experienced your hospitality at night, have little occasion for breakfast in the morning.--Rose, are not those loitering knaves assembled in the court-yard, or are they yet on their couches, making up for the slumber they have lost by midnight disturbances?" Rose announced that her train was in the court, and mounted; when, with a low reverence, Eveline endeavoured to pass her relation, and leave the apartment without farther ceremony. Ermengarde at first confronted her with a grim and furious glance, which seemed to show a soul fraught with more rage than the thin blood and rigid features of extreme old age had the power of expressing, and raised her ebony staff as if about even to proceed to some act of personal violence. But she changed her purpose, and suddenly made way for Eveline, who passed without farther parley; and as she descended the staircase, which conducted from the apartment to the gateway, she heard the voice of her aunt behind her, like that of an aged and offended sibyl, denouncing wrath and wo upon her insolence and presumption. "Pride," she exclaimed, "goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. She who scorneth the house of her forefathers, a stone from its battlements shall crush her! She who mocks the gray hairs of a parent, never shall one of her own locks be silvered with age! She who weds with a man of war and of blood, her end shall neither be peaceful nor bloodless!" Hurrying to escape from these and other ominous denunciations, Eveline rushed from the house, mounted her palfrey with the precipitation of a fugitive, and, surrounded by her attendants, who had caught a part of her alarm, though without conjecturing the cause, rode hastily into the forest; old Raoul, who was well acquainted with the country, acting as their guide. Agitated more than she was willing to confess to herself, by thus leaving the habitation of so near a relation, loaded with maledictions, instead of the blessings which are usually bestowed on a departing kinswoman, Eveline hastened forward, until the huge oak-trees with intervening arms had hidden from her view the fatal mansion. The trampling and galloping of horse was soon after heard, announcing the approach of the patrol left by the Constable for the protection of the mansion, and who now, collecting from their different stations, came prepared to attend the Lady Eveline on her farther road to Gloucester, great part of which lay through the extensive forest of Deane, then a silvan region of large extent, though now much denuded of trees for the service of the iron mines. The Cavaliers came up to join the retinue of Lady Eveline, with armour glittering in the morning rays, trumpets sounding, horses prancing, neighing, and thrown, each by his chivalrous rider, into the attitude best qualified to exhibit the beauty of the steed and dexterity of the horseman; while their lances, streaming with long penoncelles, were brandished in every manner which could display elation of heart and readiness of hand. The sense of the military character of her countrymen of Normandy gave to Eveline a feeling at once of security and of triumph, which operated towards the dispelling of her gloomy thoughts, and of the feverish disorder which affected her nerves. The rising sun also--the song of the birds among the bowers--the lowing of the cattle as they were driven to pasture--the sight of the hind, who, with her fawn trotting by her side, often crossed some forest glade within view of the travellers,--all contributed to dispel the terror of Eveline's nocturnal visions, and soothe to rest the more angry passions which had agitated her bosom at her departure from Baldringham. She suffered her palfrey to slacken his pace, and, with female attention to propriety, began to adjust her riding robes, and compose her head-dress, disordered in her hasty departure. Rose saw her cheek assume a paler but more settled hue, instead of the angry hectic which had coloured it--saw her eye become more steady as she looked with a sort of triumph upon her military attendants, and pardoned (what on other occasions she would probably have made some reply to) her enthusiastic exclamations in praise of her countrymen. "We journey safe," said Eveline, "under the care of the princely and victorious Normans. Theirs is the noble wrath of the lion, which destroys or is appeased at once--there is no guile in their romantic affection, no sullenness mixed with their generous indignation--they know the duties of the hall as well as those of battle; and were they to be surpassed in the arts of war, (which will only be when Plinlimmon is removed from its base,) they would still remain superior to every other people in generosity and courtesy." "If I do not feel all their merits so strongly as if I shared their blood." said Rose, "I am at least glad to see them around us, in woods which are said to abound with dangers of various kinds. And I confess, my heart is the lighter, that I can now no longer observe the least vestige of that ancient mansion, in which we passed so unpleasant a night, and the recollection of which will always be odious to me." Eveline looked sharply at her. "Confess the truth, Rose; thou wouldst give thy best kirtle to know all of my horrible adventure." "It is but confessing that I am a woman," answered Rose; "and did I say a man, I dare say the difference of sex would imply but a small abatement of curiosity." "Thou makest no parade of other feelings, which prompt thee to inquire into my fortunes," said Eveline; "but, sweet Rose, I give thee not the less credit for them. Believe me, thou shalt know all--but, I think, not now." "At your pleasure," said Rose; "and yet, methinks, the bearing in your solitary bosom such a fearful secret will only render the weight more intolerable. On my silence you may rely as on that of the Holy Image, which hears us confess what it never reveals. Besides, such things become familiar to the imagination when they have been spoken of, and that which is familiar gradually becomes stripped of its terrors." "Thou speakest with reason, my prudent Rose; and surely in this gallant troop, borne like a flower on a bush by my good palfrey Yseulte--fresh gales blowing round us, flowers opening and birds singing, and having thee by my bridle-rein, I ought to feel this a fitting time to communicate what thou hast so good a title to know. And--yes!--thou shalt know all!--Thou art not, I presume, ignorant of the qualities of what the Saxons of this land call a _Bahrgeist_?" "Pardon me, lady," answered Rose, "my father discouraged my listening to such discourses. I might see evil spirits enough, he said, without my imagination being taught to form, such as were fantastical. The word Bahr-geist, I have heard used by Gillian and other Saxons; but to me it only conveys some idea of indefinite terror, of which I never asked nor received an explanation." "Know then," said Eveline, "it is a spectre, usually the image of a departed person, who, either for wrong sustained in some particular place during life, or through treasure hidden there, or from some such other cause, haunts the spot from time to time, becomes familiar to those who dwell there, takes an interest in their fate, occasionally for good, in other instances or times for evil. The Bahr-geist is, therefore, sometimes regarded as the good genius, sometimes as the avenging fiend, attached to particular families and classes of men. It is the lot of the family of Baldringham (of no mean note in other respects) to be subject to the visits of such a being." "May I ask the cause (if it be known) of such visitation?" said Rose, desirous to avail herself to the uttermost of the communicative mood of her young lady, which might not perhaps last very long. "I know the legend but imperfectly," replied Eveline, proceeding with a degree of calmness, the result of strong exertion over her mental anxiety, "but in general it runs thus:--Baldrick, the Saxon hero who first possessed yonder dwelling, became enamoured of a fair Briton, said to have been descended from those Druids of whom the Welsh speak so much, and deemed not unacquainted with the arts of sorcery which they practised, when they offered up human sacrifices amid those circles of unhewn and living rock, of which thou hast seen so many. After more than two years' wedlock, Baldrick became weary of his wife to such a point, that he formed the cruel resolution of putting her to death. Some say he doubted her fidelity--some that the matter was pressed on him by the church, as she was suspected of heresy--some that he removed her to make way for a more wealthy marriage--but all agree in the result. He sent two of his Cnichts to the house of Baldringham, to put to death the unfortunate Vanda, and commanded them to bring him the ring which had circled her finger on the day of wedlock, in token that his orders were accomplished. The men were ruthless in their office; they strangled Vanda in yonder apartment, and as the hand was so swollen that no effort could draw off the ring, they obtained possession of it by severing the finger. But long before the return of those cruel perpetrators of her death, the shadow of Vanda had appeared before her appalled husband, and holding up to him her bloody hand, made him fearfully sensible how well his savage commands had been obeyed. After haunting him in peace and war, in desert, court, and camp, until he died despairingly on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, the Bahr-geist, or ghost of the murdered Vanda, became so terrible in the House of Baldringham, that the succour of Saint Dunstan was itself scarcely sufficient to put bounds to her visitation. Yea, the blessed saint, when he had succeeded in his exorcism, did, in requital of Baldrick's crime, impose a strong and enduring penalty upon every female descendant of the house in the third degree; namely, that once in their lives, and before their twenty-first year, they should each spend a solitary night in the chamber of the murdered Vanda, saying therein certain prayers, as well for her repose, as for the suffering soul of her murderer. During that awful space, it is generally believed that the spirit of the murdered person appears to the female who observes the vigil, and shows some sign of her future good or bad fortune. If favourable, she appears with a smiling aspect, and crosses them with her unbloodied hand; but she announces evil fortune by showing the hand from which the finger was severed, with a stern countenance, as if resenting upon the descendant of her husband his inhuman cruelty. Sometimes she is said to speak. These particulars I learned long since from an old Saxon dame, the mother of our Margery, who had been an attendant on my grandmother, and left the House of Baldringham when she made her escape from it with my father's father." "Did your grandmother ever render this homage," said Rose, "which seems to me--under favour of St. Dunstan--to bring humanity into too close intercourse with a being of a doubtful nature?" "My grandfather thought so, and never permitted my grandmother to revisit the house of Baldringham after her marriage; hence disunion betwixt him and his son on the one part, and the members of that family on the other. They laid sundry misfortunes, and particularly the loss of male heirs which at that time befell them, to my parent's not having done the hereditary homage to the bloody-fingered Bahr-geist." "And how could you, my dearest lady," said Rose, "knowing that they held among them a usage so hideous, think of accepting the invitation of Lady Ermengarde?" "I can hardly answer you the question," answered Eveline. "Partly I feared my father's recent calamity, to be slain (as I have heard him say his aunt once prophesied of him) by the enemy he most despised, might be the result of this rite having been neglected; and partly I hoped, that if my mind should be appalled at the danger, when it presented itself closer to my eye, it could not be urged on me in courtesy and humanity. You saw how soon my cruel- hearted relative pounced upon the opportunity, and how impossible it became for me, bearing the name, and, I trust, the spirit of Berenger, to escape from the net in which I had involved myself." "No regard for name or rank should have engaged me," replied Rose, "to place myself where apprehension alone, even without the terrors of a real visitation, might have punished my presumption with insanity. But what, in the name of Heaven, did you see at this horrible rendezvous?" "Ay, there is the question," said Eveline, raising her hand to her brow--"how I could witness that which I distinctly saw, yet be able to retain command of thought and intellect!--I had recited the prescribed devotions for the murderer and his victim, and sitting down on the couch which was assigned me, had laid aside such of my clothes as might impede my rest--I had surmounted, in short, the first shock which I experienced in committing myself to this mysterious chamber, and I hoped to pass the night in slumber as sound as my thoughts were innocent. But I was fearfully disappointed. I cannot judge how long I had slept, when my bosom was oppressed by an unusual weight, which seemed at once to stifle my voice, stop the beating of my heart, and prevent me from drawing my breath; and when I looked up to discover the cause of this horrible suffocation, the form of the murdered British matron stood over my couch taller than life, shadowy, and with a countenance where traits of dignity and beauty were mingled with a fierce expression of vengeful exultation. She held over me the hand which bore the bloody marks of her husband's cruelty, and seemed as if she signed the cross, devoting me to destruction; while, with an unearthly tone, she uttered these words:-- `Widow'd wife, and married maid, Betrothed, betrayer, and betray'd!' The phantom stooped over me as she spoke, and lowered her gory fingers, as if to touch my face, when, terror giving me the power of which it at first deprived me, I screamed aloud--the casement of the apartment was thrown open with a loud noise,--and--But what signifies my telling all this to thee, Rose, who show so plainly, by the movement of eye and lip, that you consider me as a silly and childish dreamer?" "Be not angry, my dear lady," said Rose; "I do indeed believe that the witch we call Mara [Footnote: Ephialtes, or Nightmare] has been dealing with you; but she, you know, is by leeches considered as no real phantom, but solely the creation of our own imagination, disordered by causes which arise from bodily indisposition." "Thou art learned, maiden," said Eveline, rather peevishly; "but when I assure thee that my better angel came to my assistance in a human form.--that at his appearance the fiend vanished--and that he transported me in his arms out of the chamber of terror, I think thou wilt, as a good Christian, put more faith in that which I tell you." "Indeed, indeed, my sweetest mistress, I cannot," replied Rose. "It is even that circumstance of the guardian angel which makes me consider the whole as a dream. A Norman sentinel, whom I myself called from his post on purpose, did indeed come to your assistance, and, breaking into your apartment, transported you to that where I myself received you from his arms in a lifeless condition." "A Norman soldier, ha!" said Eveline, colouring extremely; "and to whom, maiden, did you dare give commission to break into my sleeping chamber?" "Your eyes flash anger, madam, but is it reasonable they should?-- Did I not hear your screams of agony, and was I to stand fettered by ceremony at such a moment?--no more than if the castle had been on fire." "I ask you again, Rose," said her mistress, still with discomposure, though less angrily than at first, "whom you directed to break into my apartment?" "Indeed, I know not, lady," said Rose; "for beside that he was muffled in his mantle, little chance was there of my knowing his features, even had I seen them fully. But I can soon discover the cavalier; and I will set about it, that I may give him the reward I promised, and warn him to be silent and discreet in this matter." "Do so," said Eveline; "and if you find him among those soldiers who attend us, I will indeed lean to thine opinion, and think that fantasy had the chief share in the evils I have endured the last night." Rose struck her palfrey with the rod, and, accompanied by her mistress, rode up to Philip Guarine, the Constable's squire, who for the present commanded their little escort. "Good Guarine," she said, "I had talk with one of these sentinels last night from my window, and he did me some service, for which I promised him recompense--Will you inquire for the man, that I may pay him his guerdon?" "Truly, I will owe him a guerdon, also, pretty maiden," answered the squire; "for if a lance of them approached near enough the house to hold speech from the windows, he transgressed the precise orders of his watch." "Tush! you must forgive that for my sake," said Rose. "I warrant, had I called on yourself, stout Guarine, I should have had influence to bring you under my chamber window." Guarine laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. "True it is," he said, "when women are in place, discipline is in danger." He then went to make the necessary inquiries among his band, and returned with the assurance, that his soldiers, generally and severally, denied having approached the mansion of the Lady Ermengarde on the preceding night. "Thou seest, Rose," said Eveline, with a significant look to her attendant. "The poor rogues are afraid of Guarine's severity," said Rose, "and dare not tell the truth--I shall have some one in private claiming the reward of me." "I would I had the privilege myself, damsel," said Guarine; "but for these fellows, they are not so timorous as you suppose them, being even too ready to avouch their roguery when it hath less excuse--Besides, I promised them impunity.--Have you any thing farther to order?" "Nothing, good Guarine," said Eveline; "only this small donative to procure wine for thy soldiers, that they may spend the next night more merrily than the last.--And now he is gone,--Maiden, thou must, I think, be now well aware, that what thou sawest was no earthly being?" "I must believe mine own ears and eyes, madam," replied Rose. "Do--but allow me the same privilege," answered Eveline. "Believe me that my deliverer (for so I must call him) bore the features of one who neither was, nor could be, in the neighbourhood of Baldringham. Tell me but one thing--What dost thou think of this extraordinary prediction-- 'Widow'd wife, and wedded maid, Betrothed, betrayer, and betray'd' Thou wilt say it is an idle invention of my brain--but think it for a moment the speech of a true diviner, and what wouldst thou say of it?" "That you may be betrayed, my dearest lady, but never can be a betrayer," answered Rose, with animation. Eveline reached her hand out to her friend, and as she pressed affectionately that which Rose gave in return, she whispered to her with energy, "I thank thee for the judgment, which my own heart confirms." A cloud of dust now announced the approach of the Constable of Chester and his retinue, augmented by the attendance of his host Sir William Herbert, and some of his neighbours and kinsmen, who came to pay their respects to the orphan of the Garde Doloureuse, by which appellation Eveline was known upon her passage through their territory. Eveline remarked, that, at their greeting, De Lacy looked with displeased surprise at the disarrangement of her dress and equipage, which her hasty departure from Baldringham had necessarily occasioned; and she was, on her part, struck with an expression of countenance which seemed to say, "I am not to be treated as an ordinary person, who may be received with negligence, and treated slightly with impunity." For the first time, she thought that, though always deficient in grace and beauty, the Constable's countenance was formed to express the more angry passions with force and vivacity, and that she who shared his rank and name must lay her account with the implicit surrender of her will and wishes to those of an arbitrary lord and master. But the cloud soon passed from the Constable's brow; and in the conversation which he afterwards maintained with Herbert and the other knights and gentlemen, who from time to time came to greet and accompany them for a little way on their journey, Eveline had occasion to admire his superiority, both of sense and expression, and to remark the attention and deference with which his words were listened to by men too high in rank, and too proud, readily to admit any pre-eminence that was not founded on acknowledged merit. The regard of women is generally much influenced by the estimation which an individual maintains in the opinion of men; and Eveline, when she concluded her journey in the Benedictine nunnery in Gloucester, could not think without respect upon the renowned warrior, and celebrated politician, whose acknowledged abilities appeared to place him above every one whom she had seen approach him. His wife, Eveline thought, (and she was not without ambition,) if relinquishing some of those qualities in a husband which are in youth most captivating to the female imagination, must be still generally honoured and respected, and have contentment, if not romantic felicity, within her reach. CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH The Lady Eveline remained nearly four months with her aunt, the Abbess of the Benedictine nunnery, under whose auspices the Constable of Chester saw his suit advance and prosper as it would probably have done under that of the deceased Raymond Berenger, her brother. It is probable, however, that, but for the supposed vision of the Virgin, and the vow of gratitude which that supposed vision had called forth, the natural dislike of so young a person to a match so unequal in years, might have effectually opposed his success. Indeed Eveline, while honouring the Constable's virtues, doing justice to his high character, and admiring his talents, could never altogether divest herself of a secret fear of him, which, while it prevented her from expressing any direct disapprobation of his addresses, caused her sometimes to shudder, she scarce knew why, at the idea of their becoming successful. The ominous words, "betraying and betrayed," would then occur to her memory; and when her aunt (the period of the deepest mourning being elapsed) had fixed a period for her betrothal, she looked forward to it with a feeling of terror, for which she was unable to account to herself, and which, as well as the particulars of her dream, she concealed even from Father Aldrovand in the hours of confession. It was not aversion to the Constable--it was far less preference to any other suitor--it was one of those instinctive movements and emotions by which Nature seems to warn us of approaching danger, though furnishing no information respecting its nature, and suggesting no means of escaping from it. So strong were these intervals of apprehension, that if they had been seconded by the remonstrances of Rose Flammock, as formerly, they might perhaps have led to Eveline's yet forming some resolution unfavourable to the suit of the Constable. But, still more zealous for her lady's honour than even for her happiness, Rose had strictly forborne every effort which could affect Eveline's purpose, when she had once expressed her approbation of De Lacy's addresses; and whatever she thought or anticipated concerning the proposed marriage, she seemed from that moment to consider it as an event which must necessarily take place. De Lacy himself, as he learned more intimately to know the merit of the prize which he was desirous of possessing, looked forward with different feelings towards the union, than those with which he had first proposed the measure to Raymond Berenger. It was then a mere match of interest and convenience, which had occurred to the mind of a proud and politic feudal lord, as the best mode of consolidating the power and perpetuating the line of his family. Nor did even the splendour of Eveline's beauty make that impression upon De Lacy, which it was calculated to do on the fiery and impassioned chivalry of the age. He was past that period of life when the wise are captivated by outward form, and might have said with truth, as well as with discretion, that he could have wished his beautiful bride several years older, and possessed of a more moderate portion of personal charms, in order to have rendered the match more fitted for his own age and disposition. This stoicism, however, vanished, when, on repeated interviews with his destined bride, he found that she was indeed inexperienced in life, but desirous to be guided by superior wisdom; and that, although gifted with high spirit, and a disposition which began to recover its natural elastic gaiety, she was gentle, docile, and, above all, endowed with a firmness of principle, which seemed to give assurance that she would tread uprightly, and without spot, the slippery paths in which youth, rank, and beauty, are doomed to move. As feelings of a warmer and more impassioned kind towards Eveline began to glow in De Lacy's bosom, his engagements as a crusader became more and more burdensome to him. The Benedictine Abbess, the natural guardian of Eveline's happiness, added to these feelings by her reasoning and remonstrances. Although a nun and a devotee, she held in reverence the holy state of matrimony, and comprehended so much of it as to be aware, that its important purposes could not be accomplished while the whole continent of Europe was interposed betwixt the married pair; for as to a hint from the Constable, that his young spouse might accompany him into the dangerous and dissolute precincts of the Crusader's camp, the good lady crossed herself with horror at the proposal, and never permitted it to be a second time mentioned in her presence. It was not, however, uncommon for kings, princes, and other persons of high consequence, who had taken upon them the vow to rescue Jerusalem, to obtain delays, and even a total remission of their engagement, by proper application to the Church of Rome. The Constable was sure to possess the full advantage of his sovereign's interest and countenance, in seeking permission to remain in England, for he was the noble to whose valour and policy Henry had chiefly intrusted the defence of the disorderly Welsh marches; and it was by no means with his good-will that so useful a subject had ever assumed the cross. It was settled, therefore, in private betwixt the Abbess and the Constable, that the latter should solicit at Rome, and with the Pope's Legate in England, a remission of his vow for at least two years; a favour which it was thought could scarce be refused to one of his wealth and influence, backed as it was with the most liberal offers of assistance towards the redemption of the Holy Land. His offers were indeed munificent; for he proposed, if his own personal attendance were dispensed with, to send an hundred lances at his own cost, each lance accompanied by two squires, three archers, and a varlet or horse-boy; being double the retinue by which his own person was to have been accompanied. He offered besides to deposit the sum of two thousand bezants to the general expenses of the expedition, to surrender to the use of the Christian armament those equipped vessels which he had provided, and which even now awaited the embarkation of himself and his followers. Yet, while making these magnificent proffers, the Constable could not help feeling they would be inadequate to the expectations of the rigid prelate Baldwin, who, as he had himself preached the crusade, and brought the Constable and many others into that holy engagement, must needs see with displeasure the work of his eloquence endangered, by the retreat of so important an associate from his favourite enterprise. To soften, therefore, his disappointment as much as possible, the Constable offered to the Archbishop, that, in the event of his obtaining license to remain in Britain, his forces should be led by his nephew, Danxian Lacy, already renowned for his early feats of chivalry, the present hope of his house, and, failing heirs of his own body, its future head and support. The Constable took the most prudent method of communicating this proposal to the Archbishop Baldwin, through a mutual friend, on whose good offices he could depend, and whose interest with the Prelate was regarded as great. But notwithstanding the splendour of the proposal, the Prelate heard it with sullen and obstinate silence, and referred for answer to a personal conference with the Constable at an appointed day, when concerns of the church would call the Archbishop to the city of Gloucester. The report of the mediator was such as induced the Constable to expect a severe struggle with the proud and powerful churchman; but, himself proud and powerful, and backed by the favour of his sovereign, he did not expect to be foiled in the contest. The necessity that this point should be previously adjusted, as well as the recent loss of Eveline's father, gave an air of privacy to De Lacy's courtship, and prevented its being signalized by tournaments and feats of military skill, in which he would have been otherwise desirous to display his address in the eyes of his mistress. The rules of the convent prevented his giving entertainments of dancing, music, or other more pacific revels; and although the Constable displayed his affection by the most splendid gifts to his future bride and her attendants, the whole affair, in the opinion of the experienced Dame Gillian, proceeded more with the solemnity of a funeral, than the light pace of an approaching bridal. The bride herself felt something of this, and thought occasionally it might have been lightened by the visits of young Damian, in whose age, so nearly corresponding to her own, she might have expected some relief from the formal courtship of his graver uncle. But he came not; and from what the Constable said concerning him, she was led to imagine that the relations had, for a time at least, exchanged occupations and character. The elder De Lacy continued, indeed, in nominal observance of his vow, to dwell in a pavilion by the gates of Gloucester; but he seldom donned his armour, substituted costly damask and silk for his war-worn shamois doublet, and affected at his advanced time of life more gaiety of attire than his contemporaries remembered as distinguishing his early youth. His nephew, on the contrary, resided almost constantly on the marches of Wales, occupied in settling by prudence, or subduing by main force, the various disturbances by which these provinces were continually agitated; and Eveline learned with surprise, that it was with difficulty his uncle had prevailed on him to be present at the ceremony of their being betrothed to each other, or, as the Normans entitled the ceremony, their _fiancailles_. This engagement, which preceded the actual marriage for a space more or less, according to circumstances, was usually celebrated with a solemnity corresponding to the rank of the contracting parties. The Constable added, with expressions of regret, that Damian gave himself too little rest, considering his early youth, slept too little, and indulged in too restless a disposition--that his health was suffering--and that a learned Jewish leech, whose opinion had been taken, had given his advice that the warmth of a more genial climate was necessary to restore his constitution to its general and natural vigour. Eveline heard this with much regret, for she remembered Damian as the angel of good tidings, who first brought her news of deliverance from the forces of the Welsh; and the occasions on which they had met, though mournful, brought a sort of pleasure in recollection, so gentle had been the youth's deportment, and so consoling his expressions of sympathy. She wished she could see him, that she might herself judge of the nature of his illness; for, like other damsels of that age, she was not entirely ignorant of the art of healing, and had been taught by Father Aldrovand, himself no mean physician, how to extract healing essences from plants and herbs gathered under planetary hours. She thought it possible that her talents in this art, slight as they were, might perhaps be of service to one already her friend and liberator, and soon about to become her very near relation. It was therefore with a sensation of pleasure mingled with some confusion, (at the idea, doubtless, of assuming the part of medical adviser to so young a patient,) that one evening, while the convent was assembled about some business of their chapter, she heard Gillian announce that the kinsman of the Lord Constable desired to speak with her. She snatched up the veil, which she wore in compliance with the customs of the house, and hastily descended to the parlour, commanding the attendance of Gillian, who, nevertheless, did not think proper to obey the signal. When she entered the apartment, a man whom she had never seen before advanced, kneeling on one knee, and taking up the hem of her veil, saluted it with an air of the most profound respect. She stepped back, surprised and alarmed, although there was nothing in the appearance of the stranger to justify her apprehension. He seemed to be about thirty years of age, tall of stature, and bearing a noble though wasted form, and a countenance on which disease, or perhaps youthful indulgence, had anticipated the traces of age. His demeanour seemed courteous and respectful, even in a degree which approached to excess. He observed Eveline's surprise, and said, in a tone of pride, mingled with emotion, "I fear that I have been mistaken, and that my visit is regarded as an unwelcome intrusion." "Arise, sir," answered Eveline, "and let me know your name and business I was summoned to a kinsman of the Constable of Chester." "And you expected the stripling Damian," answered the stranger. "But the match with which England rings will connect you with others of the house besides that young person; and amongst these, with the luckless Randal de Lacy. Perhaps," continued he, "the fair Eveline Berenger may not even have heard his name breathed by his more fortunate kinsman--more fortunate in every respect, but _most_ fortunate in his present prospects." This compliment was accompanied by a deep reverence, and Eveline stood much embarrassed how to reply to his civilities; for although she now remembered to have heard this Randal slightly mentioned by the Constable when speaking of his family, it was in terms which implied there was no good understanding betwixt them. She therefore only returned his courtesy by general thanks for the honour of his visit, trusting he would then retire; but such was not his purpose. "I comprehend," he said, "from the coldness with which the Lady Eveline Berenger receives me, that what she has heard of me from my kinsman (if indeed he thought me worthy of being mentioned to her at all) has been, to say the least, unfavourable. And yet my name once stood as high in fields and courts, as that of the Constable; nor is it aught more disgraceful than what is indeed often esteemed the worst of disgraces--poverty, which prevents my still aspiring to places of honour and fame. If my youthful follies have been numerous, I have paid for them by the loss of my fortune, and the degradation of my condition; and therein, my happy kinsman might, if he pleased, do me some aid--I mean not with his purse or estate; for, poor as I am, I would not live on alms extorted from the reluctant hand of an estranged friend; but his countenance would put him to no cost, and, in so far, I might expect some favour." "In that my Lord Constable," said Eveline, "must judge for himself. I have--as yet, at least--no right to interfere in his family affairs; and if I should ever have such right, it will well become me to be cautious how I use it." "It is prudently answered," replied Randal; "but what I ask of you is merely, that you, in your gentleness, would please to convey to my cousin a suit, which I find it hard to bring my ruder tongue to utter with sufficient submission. The usurers, whose claims have eaten like a canker into my means, now menace me with a dungeon--a threat which they dared not mutter, far less attempt to execute, were it not that they see me an outcast, unprotected by the natural head of my family, and regard me rather as they would some unfriended vagrant, than as a descendant of the powerful house of Lacy." "It is a sad necessity," replied Eveline; "but I see not how I can help you in such extremity." "Easily," replied Randal de Lacy. "The day of your betrothal is fixed, as I hear reported; and it is your right to select what witnesses you please to the solemnity, which may the saints bless! To every one but myself, presence or absence upon that occasion is a matter of mere ceremony--to me it is almost life or death. So an I situated, that the marked instance of slight or contempt, implied by my exclusion from this meeting of our family, will be held for the signal of my final expulsion from the House of the De Lacy's, and for a thousand bloodhounds to assail me without mercy or forbearance, whom, cowards as they are, even the slightest show of countenance from my powerful kinsman would compel to stand at bay. But why should I occupy your time in talking thus?--Farewell, madam--be happy--and do not think of me the more harshly, that for a few minutes I have broken the tenor of your happy thoughts, by forcing my misfortunes on your notice." "Stay, sir," said Eveline, affected by the tone and manner of the noble suppliant; "you shall not have it to say that you have told your distress to Eveline Berenger, without receiving such aid as is in her power to give. I will mention your request to the Constable of Chester." "You must do more, if you really mean to assist me," said Randal de Lacy, "you must make that request your own. You do not know," said he, continuing to bend on her a fixed and expressive look, "how hard it is to change the fixed purpose of a De Lacy--a twelvemonth hence you will probably be better acquainted with the firm texture of our resolutions. But, at present, what can withstand your wish should you deign to express it?" "Your suit, sir, shall not be lost for want of my advancing it with my good word and good wishes," replied Eveline; "but you must be well aware that its success or failure must rest with the Constable himself." Randal de Lacy took his leave with the same air of deep reverence which had marked his entrance; only that, as he then saluted the skirt of Eveline's robe, he now rendered the same homage by touching her hand with his lip. She saw him depart with a mixture of emotions, in which compassion was predominant; although in his complaints of the Constable's unkindness to him there was something offensive, and his avowal of follies and excess seemed uttered rather in the spirit of wounded pride, than in that of contrition. When Eveline next saw the Constable, she told him of the visit of Randal and of his request; and strictly observing his countenance while she spoke, she saw, that at the first mention of his kinsman's name, a gleam of anger shot along his features. He soon subdued it, however, and, fixing his eyes on the ground, listened to Eveline's detailed account of the visit, and her request "that Randal might be one of the invited witnesses to their _fiancailles_." The Constable paused for a moment, as if he were considering how to elude the solicitation. At length he replied, "You do not know for whom you ask this, or you would perhaps have forborne your request; neither are you apprized of its full import, though my crafty cousin well knows, that when I do him this grace which he asks, I bind myself, as it were, in the eye of the world once more--and it will be for the third time--to interfere in his affairs, and place them on such a footing as may afford him the means of re-establishing his fallen consequence, and repairing his numerous errors." "And wherefore not, my lord?" said the generous Eveline. "If he has been ruined only through follies, he is now of an age when these are no longer tempting snares; and if his heart and hand be good, he may yet be an honour to the House of De Lacy." The Constable shook his head. "He hath indeed," he said, "a heart and hand fit for service, God knoweth, whether in good or evil. But never shall it be said that you, my fair Eveline, made request of Hugh de Lacy, which he was not to his uttermost willing to comply with. Randal shall attend at our _fiancailles_; there is indeed the more cause for his attendance, as I somewhat fear we may lack that of our valued nephew Damian, whose malady rather increases than declines, and, as I hear, with strange symptoms of unwonted disturbance of mind and starts of temper, to which the youth had not hitherto been subject." CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH. Ring out the merry bell, the bride approaches, The blush upon her cheek has shamed the morning, For that is dawning palely. Grant, good saints, These clouds betoken nought of evil omen! OLD PLAY. The day of the _fiancailles, or espousals, was now approaching; and it seems that neither the profession of the Abbess, nor her practice at least, were so rigid as to prevent her selecting the great parlour of the convent for that holy rite, although necessarily introducing many male guests within those vestal precincts, and notwithstanding that the rite itself was the preliminary to a state which the inmates of the cloister had renounced for ever. The Abbess's Norman pride of birth, and the real interest which she took in her niece's advancement, overcame all scruples; and the venerable mother might be seen in unwonted bustle, now giving orders to the gardener for decking the apartment with flowers--now to her cellaress, her precentrix, and the lay-sisters of the kitchen, for preparing a splendid banquet, mingling her commands on these worldly subjects with an occasional ejaculation on their vanity and worthlessness, and every now and then converting the busy and anxious looks which she threw upon her preparations into a solemn turning upward of eyes and folding of hands, as one who sighed over the mere earthly pomp which she took such trouble in superintending. At another time the good lady might have been seen in close consultation with Father Aldrovand, upon the ceremonial, civil and religious, which was to accompany a solemnity of such consequence to her family. Meanwhile the reins of discipline, although relaxed for a season, were not entirely thrown loose. The outer court of the convent was indeed for the time opened for the reception of the male sex; but the younger sisters and novices of the house being carefully secluded in the more inner apartments of the extensive building, under the immediate eye of a grim old nun, or, as the conventual rule designed her, an ancient, sad, and virtuous person, termed Mistress of the Novices, were not permitted to pollute their eyes by looking on waving plumes and rustling mantles. A few sisters, indeed, of the Abbess's own standing, were left at liberty, being such goods as it was thought could not, in shopman's phrase, take harm from the air, and which are therefore left lying on the counter. These antiquated dames went mumping about with much affected indifference, and a great deal of real curiosity, endeavouring indirectly to get information concerning names, and dresses, and decorations, without daring to show such interest in these vanities as actual questions on the subject might have implied. A stout band of the Constable's spearmen guarded the gate of the nunnery, admitting within the hallowed precinct the few only who were to be present at the solemnity, with their principal attendants, and while the former were ushered with all due ceremony into the apartments dressed out for the occasion, the attendants, although detained in the outer court, were liberally supplied with refreshments of the most substantial kind; and had the amusement, so dear to the menial classes, of examining and criticising their masters and mistresses, as they passed into the interior apartments prepared for their reception. Amongst the domestics who were thus employed were old Raoul the huntsman and his jolly dame--he gay and glorious, in a new cassock of green velvet, she gracious and comely, in a kirtle of yellow silk, fringed with minivair, and that at no mean cost, were equally busied in beholding the gay spectacle. The most inveterate wars have their occasional terms of truce; the most bitter and boisterous weather its hours of warmth and of calmness; and so was it with the matrimonial horizon of this amiable pair, which, usually cloudy, had now for brief space cleared up. The splendour of their new apparel, the mirth of the spectacle around them, with the aid, perhaps, of a bowl of muscadine quaffed by Raoul, and a cup of hippocras sipped by his wife, had rendered them rather more agreeable in each other's eyes than was their wont; good cheer being in such cases, as oil is to a rusty lock, the means of making those valves move smoothly and glibly, which otherwise work not together at all, or by shrieks and groans express their reluctance to move in union. The pair had stuck themselves into a kind of niche, three or four steps from the ground, which contained a small stone bench, whence their curious eyes could scrutinize with advantage every guest who entered the court. Thus placed, and in their present state of temporary concord, Raoul with his frosty visage formed no unapt representative of January, the bitter father of the year; and though Gillian was past the delicate bloom of youthful May, yet the melting fire of a full black eye, and the genial glow of a ripe and crimson cheek, made her a lively type of the fruitful and jovial August. Dame Gillian used to make it her boast, that she could please every body with her gossip, when she chose it, from Raymond Berenger down to Robin the horse-boy; and like a good housewife, who, to keep her hand in use, will sometimes even condescend to dress a dish for her husband's sole eating, she now thought proper to practise her powers of pleasing on old Raoul, fairly conquering, in her successful sallies of mirth and satire, not only his cynical temperament towards all human kind, but his peculiar and special disposition to be testy with his spouse. Her jokes, such as they were, and the coquetry with which they were enforced, had such an effect on this Timon of the woods, that he curled up his cynical nose, displayed his few straggling teeth like a cur about to bite, broke out into a barking laugh, which was more like the cry of one of his own hounds--stopped short in the explosion, as if he had suddenly recollected that it was out of character; yet, ere he resumed his acrimonious gravity, shot such a glance at Gillian as made his nut-cracker jaws, pinched eyes, and convolved nose, bear no small resemblance to one of those fantastic faces which decorate the upper end of old bass viols. "Is not this better than laying your dog-leash on your loving wife, as if she were a brach of the kennel?" said August to January. "In troth is it," answered January, in a frost-bitten tone;--"and so it is also better than doing the brach-tricks which bring the leash into exercise." "Humph!" said Gillian, in the tone of one who thought her husband's proposition might bear being disputed; but instantly changing the note to that of tender complaint, "Ah! Raoul," she said, "do you not remember how you once beat me because our late lord--Our Lady assoilzie him!--took my crimson breast-knot for a peony rose?" "Ay, ay," said the huntsman; "I remember our old master would make such mistakes--Our Lady assoilzie him! as you say--The best hound will hunt counter." "And how could you think, dearest Raoul, to let the wife of thy bosom go so long without a new kirtle?" said his helpmate. "Why, thou hast got one from our young lady that might serve a countess," said Raoul, his concord jarred by her touching this chord--"how many kirtles wouldst thou have?" "Only two, kind Raoul; just that folk may not count their children's age by the date of Dame Gillian's last new gown." "Well, well--it is hard that a man cannot be in good-humour once and away without being made to pay for it. But thou shalt have a new kirtle at Michaelmas, when I sell the buck's hides for the season. The very antlers should bring a good penny this year." "Ay, ay," said Gillian; "I ever tell thee, husband, the horns would be worth the hide in a fair market." Raoul turned briskly round as if a wasp had stung him, and there is no guessing what his reply might have been to this seemingly innocent observation, had not a gallant horseman at that instant entered the court, and, dismounting like the others, gave his horse to the charge of a squire, or equerry, whose attire blazed with embroidery. "By Saint Hubert, a proper horseman, and a _destrier_ for an earl," said Raoul; "and my Lord Constable's liveries withal--yet I know not the gallant." "But I do," said Gillian; "it is Randal de Lacy, the Constable's kinsman, and as good a man as ever came of the name!" "Oh! by Saint Hubert, I have heard of him--men say he is a reveller, and a jangler, and a waster of his goods." "Men lie now and then," said Gillian dryly. "And women also," replied Raoul;--"why, methinks he winked on thee just now." "That right eye of thine saw never true since our good lord-Saint Mary rest him!--flung a cup of wine in thy face, for pressing over boldly into his withdrawing-room." "I marvel," said Raoul, as if he heard her not, "that yonder ruffler comes hither. I have heard that he is suspected to have attempted the Constable's life, and that they have not spoken together for five years." "He comes on my young lady's invitation, and that I know full well," said Dame Gillian; "and he is less like to do the Constable wrong than to have wrong at his hand, poor gentleman, as indeed he has had enough of that already." "And who told thee so?" said Raoul, bitterly. "No matter, it was one who knew all about it very well," said the dame, who began to fear that, in displaying her triumph of superior information, she had been rather over-communicative. "It must have been the devil, or Randal himself" said Raoul, "for no other mouth is large enough for such a lie.--But hark ye, Dame Gillian, who is he that presses forward next, like a man that scarce sees how he goes?" "Even your angel of grace, my young Squire Damian" said Dame Gillian. "It is impossible!" answered Raoul--"call me blind if thou wilt;-- but I have never seen man so changed in a few weeks--and his attire is flung on him so wildly as if he wore a horse-cloth round him instead of a mantle--What can ail the youth?--he has made a dead pause at the door, as if he saw something on the threshold that debarred his entrance--Saint Hubert, but he looks as if he were elf-stricken!" "You ever thought him such a treasure!" said Gillian; "and now look at him as he stands by the side of a real gentleman, how he stares and trembles as if he were distraught." "I will speak to him," said Raoul, forgetting his lameness, and springing from his elevated station--"I will speak to him; and if he be unwell, I have my lancets and fleams to bleed man as well as brute." "And a fit physician for such a patient," muttered Gillian,--"a dog-leech for a dreamy madman, that neither knows his own disease nor the way to cure it." Meanwhile the old huntsman made his way towards the entrance, before which Damian remained standing, in apparent uncertainty whether he should enter or not, regardless of the crowd around, and at the same time attracting their attention by the singularity of his deportment. Raoul had a private regard for Damiah; for which, perhaps, it was a chief reason, that of late his wife had been in the habit of speaking of him in a tone more disrespectful than she usually applied to handsome young men. Besides, he understood the youth was a second Sir Tristrem in silvan sports by wood and river, and there needed no more to fetter Raoul's soul to him with bands of steel. He saw with great concern his conduct attract general notice, mixed with some ridicule. "He stands," said the town-jester, who had crowded into the gay throng, "before the gate, like Balaam's ass in the Mystery, when the animal sees so much more than can be seen by any one else." A cut from Raoul's ready leash rewarded the felicity of this application, and sent the fool howling off to seek a more favourable audience, for his pleasantry. At the same time Raoul pressed up to Damian, and with an earnestness very different from his usual dry causticity of manner, begged him for God's sake not to make himself the general spectacle, by standing there as if the devil sat on the doorway, but either to enter, or, what might be as becoming, to retire, and make himself more fit in apparel for attending on a solemnity so nearly concerning his house. "And what ails my apparel, old man?" said Damian, turning sternly on the huntsman, as one who has been hastily and uncivilly roused from a reverie. "Only, with respect to your valour," answered the huntsman, "men do not usually put old mantles over new doublets; and methinks, with submission, that of yours neither accords with your dress, nor is fitted for this noble presence." "Thou art a fool!" answered Damian, "and as green in wit as gray in years. Know you not that in these days the young and old consort together--contract together--wed together? and should we take more care to make our apparel consistent than our actions?" "For God's sake, my lord," said Raoul, "forbear these wild and dangerous words! they may be heard by other ears than mine, and construed by worse interpreters. There may be here those who will pretend to track mischief from light words, as I would find a buck from his frayings. Your cheek is pale, my lord, your eye is blood- shot; for Heaven's sake, retire!" "I will not retire," said Damian, with yet more distemperature of manner, "till I have seen the Lady Eveline." "For the sake of all the saints," ejaculated Raoul, "not now!--You will do my lady incredible injury by forcing yourself into her presence in this condition." "Do you think so!" said Damian, the remark seeming to operate as a sedative which enabled him to collect his scattered thoughts.--"Do you really think so?--I thought that to have looked upon her once more--but no--you are in the right, old man." He turned from the door as if to withdraw, but ere he could accomplish his purpose, he turned yet more pale than before, staggered, and fell on the pavement ere Raoul could afford him his support, useless as that might have proved. Those who raised him were surprised to observe that his garments were soiled with blood, and that the stains upon his cloak, which had been criticised by Raoul, were of the same complexion. A grave-looking personage, wrapped in a sad-coloured mantle, came forth from the crowd. "I knew how it would be," he said; "I made venesection this morning, and commanded repose and sleep according to the aphorisms of Hippocrates; but if young gentlemen will neglect the ordinance of their physician, medicine will avenge herself. It is impossible that my bandage or ligature, knit by these fingers, should have started, but to avenge the neglect of the precepts of art." "What means this prate?" said the voice of the Constable, before which all others were silent. He had been summoned forth just as the rite of espousal or betrothing was concluded, on the confusion occasioned by Damian's situation, and now sternly commanded the physician to replace the bandages which had slipped from his nephew's arm, himself assisting in the task of supporting the patient, with the anxious and deeply agitated feelings of one who saw a near and justly valued relative--as yet, the heir of his fame and family--stretched before him in a condition so dangerous. But the griefs of the powerful and the fortunate are often mingled with impatience of interrupted prosperity. "What means this?" he demanded sternly of the leech. "I sent you this morning to attend my nephew on the first tidings of his illness, and commanded that he should make no attempt to be present on this day's solemnity, yet I find him in this state, and in this place." "So please your lordship," replied the leech, with a conscious self-importance, which even the presence of the Constable could not subdue--_"Curatio est canonica, non coacta;_ which signifieth, my lord, that the physician acteth his cure by rules of art and science--by advice and prescription, but not by force or violence upon the patient, who cannot be at all benefited unless he be voluntarily amenable to the orders of his medicum." "Tell me not of your jargon," said De Lacy; "if my nephew was lightheaded enough to attempt to come hither in the heat of a delirious distemper, you should have had sense to prevent him, had it been by actual force." "It may be," said, Randal de Lacy, joining the crowd, who, forgetting the cause which had brought them together, were now assembled about Damian, "that more powerful was the magnet which drew our kinsman hither, than aught the leech could do to withhold him." The Constable, still busied about his nephew, looked up as Randal spoke, and, when he was done, asked, with formal coldness of manner, "Ha, fair kinsman, of what magnet do you speak?" "Surely of your nephew's love and regard to your lordship," answered Randal, "which, not to mention his respect for the lady Eveline, must have compelled him hither, if his limbs were able to bear him.--And here the bride comes, I think, in charity, to thank him for his zeal." "What unhappy case is this?" said the Lady Eveline, pressing forward, much disordered with the intelligence of Damian's danger, which had been suddenly conveyed to her. "Is there nothing in which my poor service may avail?" "Nothing, lady," said the Constable, rising from beside his nephew, and taking her hand; "your kindness is here mistimed. This motley assembly, this unseeming confusion, become not your presence." "Unless it could be helpful, my lord," said Eveline, eagerly. "It is your nephew who is in danger--my deliverer--one of my deliverers, I would say." "He is fitly attended by his chirurgeon," said the Constable, leading back his reluctant bride to the convent, while the medical attendant triumphantly exclaimed, "Well judgeth my Lord Constable, to withdraw his noble Lady from the host of petticoated empirics, who, like so many Amazons, break in upon and derange the regular course of physical practice, with their petulant prognostics, their rash recipes, their mithridate, their febrifuges, their amulets, and their charms. Well speaketh the Ethnic poet, 'Non audet, nisi qua didicit, dare quod medicorum est; Promittunt medici--tractant fabrilia fabri,'" As he repeated these lines with much emphasis, the doctor permitted his patient's arm to drop from his hand, that he might aid the cadence with a flourish of his own. "There," said he to the spectators, "is what none of you understand--no, by Saint Luke, nor the Constable himself." "But he knows how to whip in a hound that babbles when he should be busy," said Raoul; and, silenced by this hint, the chirurgeon betook himself to his proper duty, of superintending the removal of young Damian to an apartment in the neighbouring street, where the symptoms of his disorder seemed rather to increase than diminish, and speedily required all the skill and attention which the leech could bestow. The subscription of the contract of marriage had, as already noticed, been just concluded, when the company assembled on the occasion were interrupted by the news of Damian's illness. When the Constable led his bride from the court-yard into the apartment where the company was assembled, there was discomposure and uneasiness on the countenance of both; and it was not a little increased by the bride pulling her hand hastily from the hold of the bridegroom, on observing that the latter was stained with recent blood, and had in truth left the same stamp upon her own. With a faint exclamation she showed the marks to Rose, saying at the same time, "What bodes this?--Is this the revenge of the Bloody-finger already commencing?" "It bodes nothing, my dearest lady," said Rose--"it is our fears that are prophets, not those trifles which we take for augury. For God's sake, speak to my lord! He is surprised at your agitation." "Let him ask me the cause himself," said Eveline; "fitter it should be told at his bidding, than be offered by me unasked." The Constable, while his bride stood thus conversing with her maiden, had also observed, that in his anxiety to assist his nephew, he had transferred part of his blood from his own hands to Eveline's dress. He came forward to apologize for what at such a moment seemed almost ominous. "Fair lady," said he, "the blood of a true De Lacy can never bode aught but peace and happiness to you." Eveline seemed as if she would have answered, but could not immediately find words. The faithful Rose, at the risk of incurring the censure of being over forward, hastened to reply to the compliment. "Every damsel is bound to believe what you say, my noble lord," was her answer, "knowing how readily that blood hath ever flowed for protecting the distressed, and so lately for our own relief." "It is well spoken, little one," answered the Constable; "and the Lady Eveline is happy in a maiden who so well knows how to speak when it is her own pleasure to be silent.--Come, lady," he added, "let us hope this mishap of my kinsman is but like a sacrifice to fortune, which permits not the brightest hour to pass without some intervening shadow. Damian, I trust, will speedily recover; and be we mindful that the blood-drops which alarm you have been drawn by a friendly steel, and are symptoms rather of recovery than of illness.--Come, dearest lady, your silence discourages our friends, and wakes in them doubts whether we be sincere in the welcome due to them. Let me be your sewer," he said; and, taking a silver ewer and napkin from the standing cupboard, which was loaded with plate, he presented them on his knee to his bride. Exerting herself to shake off the alarm into which she had been thrown by some supposed coincidence of the present accident with the apparition at Baldringham, Eveline, entering into her betrothed husband's humour, was about to raise him from the ground, when she was interrupted by the arrival of a hasty messenger, who, coming into the room without ceremony, informed the Constable that his nephew was so extremely ill, that if he hoped to see him alive, it would be necessary he should come to his lodgings instantly. The Constable started up, made a brief adieu to Eveline and to the guests, who, dismayed at this new and disastrous intelligence, were preparing to disperse themselves, when, as he advanced towards the door, he was met by a Paritor, or Summoner of the Ecclesiastical Court, whose official dress had procured him unobstructed entrance into the precincts of the abbey. _"Deus vobiscum,"_ said the paritor; "I would know which of this fair company is the Constable of Chester?" "I am he," answered the elder De Lacy; "but if thy business be not the more hasty, I cannot now speak with thee--I am bound on matters of life and death." "I take all Christian people to witness that I have discharged my duty," said the paritor, putting into the hand of the Constable a slip of parchment. "How is this, fellow?" said the Constable, in great indignation-- "for whom or what does your master the Archbishop take me, that he deals with me in this uncourteous fashion, citing me to compear before him more like a delinquent than a friend or a nobleman?" "My gracious lord," answered the paritor, haughtily, "is accountable to no one but our Holy Father the Pope, for the exercise of the power which is intrusted to him by the canons of the Church. Your lordship's answer to my citation?" "Is the Archbishop present in this city?" said the Constable, after a moment's reflection--"I knew not of his purpose to travel hither, still less of his purpose to exercise authority within these bounds." "My gracious lord the Archbishop," said the paritor, "is but now arrived in this city, of which he is metropolitan; and, besides, by his apostolical commission, a legate _a latere_ hath plenary jurisdiction throughout all England, as those may find (whatsoever be their degree) who may dare to disobey his summons." "Hark thee, fellow," said the Constable, regarding the paritor with a grim and angry countenance, "were it not for certain respects, which I promise thee thy tawny hood hath little to do with, thou wert better have swallowed thy citation, seal and all, than delivered it to me with the addition of such saucy terms. Go hence, and tell your master I will see him within the space of an hour, during which time I am delayed by the necessity of attending a sick relation." The paritor left the apartment with more humility in his manner than when he had entered, and left the assembled guests to look upon each other in silence and dismay. The reader cannot fail to remember how severely the yoke of the Roman supremacy pressed both on the clergy and laity of England during the reign of Henry II. Even the attempt of that wise and courageous monarch to make a stand for the independence of his throne in the memorable case of Thomas a Becket, had such an unhappy issue, that, like a suppressed rebellion, it was found to add new strength to the domination of the Church. Since the submission of the king in that ill-fated struggle, the voice of Rome had double potency whenever it was heard, and the boldest peers of England held it more wise to submit to her imperious dictates, than to provoke a spiritual censure which had so many secular consequences. Hence the slight and scornful manner in which the Constable was treated by the prelate Baldwin struck a chill of astonishment into the assembly of friends whom he had collected to witness his espousals; and as he glanced his haughty eye around, he saw that many who would have stood by him through life and death in any other quarrel, had it even been with his sovereign, were turning pale at the very thought of a collision with the Church. Embarrassed, and at the same time incensed at their timidity, the Constable hasted to dismiss them, with the general assurance that all would be well--that his nephew's indisposition was a trifling complaint, exaggerated by a conceited physician, and by his own want of care--and that the message of the Archbishop, so unceremoniously delivered, was but the consequence of their mutual and friendly familiarity, which induced them sometimes, for the jest's sake, to reverse or neglect the ordinary forms of intercourse.--"If I wanted to speak with the prelate Baldwin on express business and in haste, such is the humility and indifference to form of that worthy pillar of the Church, that I should not fear offence," said the Constable, "did I send the meanest horseboy in my troop to ask an audience of him." So he spoke--but there was something in his countenance which contradicted his words; and his friends and relations retired from the splendid and joyful ceremony of his espousals as from a funeral feast, with anxious thoughts and with downcast eyes. Randal was the only person, who, having attentively watched the whole progress of the affair during the evening, ventured to approach his cousin as he left the house, and asked him, "in the name of their reunited friendship, whether he had nothing to command him?" assuring him, with a look more expressive than his words, that he would not find him cold in his service. "I have nought which can exercise your zeal, fair cousin," replied the Constable, with the air of one who partly questioned the speaker's sincerity; and the parting reverence with which he accompanied his words, left Randal no pretext for continuing his attendance, as he seemed to have designed. CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. Oh, were I seated high as my ambition, I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs! MYSTERIOUS MOTHER. The most anxious and unhappy moment of Hugo de Lacy's life, was unquestionably that in which, by espousing Eveline with all civil and religious solemnity, he seemed to approach to what for some time he had considered as the prime object of his wishes. He was assured of the early possession of a beautiful and amiable wife, endowed with such advantage of worldly goods, as gratified his ambition as well as his affections--Yet, even in this fortunate moment, the horizon darkened around him, in a manner which presaged nought but storm and calamity. At his nephew's lodging he learned that the pulse of the patient had risen, and his delirium had augmented, and all around him spoke very doubtfully of his chance of recovery, or surviving a crisis which seemed speedily approaching. The Constable stole towards the door of the apartment which his feelings permitted him not to enter, and listened to the raving which the fever gave rise to. Nothing can be more melancholy than to hear the mind at work concerning its ordinary occupations, when the body is stretched in pain and danger upon the couch of severe sickness; the contrast betwixt the ordinary state of health, its joys or its labours, renders doubly affecting the actual helplessness of the patient before whom these visions are rising, and we feel a corresponding degree of compassion for the sufferer whose thoughts are wandering so far from his real condition. The Constable felt this acutely, as he heard his nephew shout the war-cry of the family repeatedly, appearing, by the words of command and direction, which he uttered from time to time, to be actively engaged in leading his men-at-arms against the Welsh. At another time he uttered various terms of the _manege_, of falconry, and of the chase--he mentioned his uncle's name repeatedly on these occasions, as if the idea of his kinsman had been connected alike with his martial encounters, and with his sports by wood and river. Other sounds there were, which he muttered so low as to be altogether undistinguishable. With a heart even still more softened towards his kinsman's sufferings from hearing the points on which his mind wandered, the Constable twice applied his hand to the latch of the door, in order to enter the bedroom, and twice forebore, his eyes running faster with tears than he chose should be witnessed by the attendants. At length, relinquishing his purpose, he hastily left the house, mounted his horse, and followed only by four of his personal attendants, rode towards the palace of the Bishop, where, as he learned from public rumour, the Archprelate Baldwin had taken up his temporary residence. The train of riders and of led-horses, of sumpter mules, and of menials and attendants, both lay and ecclesiastical, which thronged around the gate of the Episcopal mansion, together with the gaping crowd of inhabitants who had gathered around, some to gaze upon the splendid show, some to have the chance of receiving the benediction of the Holy Prelate, was so great as to impede the Constable's approach to the palace-door; and when this obstacle was surmounted, he found another in the obstinacy of the Archbishop's attendants, who permitted him not, though announced by name and title, to cross the threshold of the mansion, until they should receive the express command of their master to that effect. The Constable felt the full effect of this slighting reception. He had dismounted from his horse in full confidence of being instantly admitted into the palace at least, if not into the Prelate's presence; and as he now stood on foot among the squires, grooms, and horseboys of the spiritual lord, he was so much disgusted, that his first impulse was to remount his horse, and return to his pavilion, pitched for the time before the city walls, leaving it to the Bishop to seek him there, if he really desired an interview. But the necessity of conciliation almost immediately rushed on his mind, and subdued the first haughty impulse of his offended pride. "If our wise King," he said to himself, "hath held the stirrup of one Prelate of Canterbury when living, and submitted to the most degrading observances before his shrine when dead, surely I need not be more scrupulous towards his priestly successor in the same overgrown authority." Another thought, which he dared hardly to acknowledge, recommended the same humble and submissive course. He could not but feel that, in endeavouring to evade his vows as a crusader, he was incurring some just censure from the Church; and he was not unwilling to hope, that his present cold and scornful reception on Baldwin's part, might be meant as a part of the penance which his conscience informed him his conduct was about to receive. After a short interval, De Lacy was at length invited to enter the palace of the Bishop of Gloucester, in which he was to meet the Primate of England; but there was more than one brief pause, in hall and anteroom, ere he at length was admitted to Baldwin's presence. The successor of the celebrated Becket had neither the extensive views, nor the aspiring spirit, of that redoubted personage; but, on the other hand, saint as the latter had become, it may be questioned, whether, in his professions for the weal of Christendom, he was half so sincere as was the present Archbishop. Baldwin was, in truth, a man well qualified to defend the powers which the Church had gained, though perhaps of a character too sincere and candid to be active in extending them. The advancement of the Crusade was the chief business of his life, his success the principal cause of his pride; and, if the sense of possessing the powers of eloquent persuasion, and skill to bend the minds of men to his purpose, was blended with his religious zeal, still the tenor of his life, and afterwards his death before Ptolemais, showed that the liberation of the Holy Sepulchre from the infidels was the unfeigned object of all his exertions. Hugo de Lacy well knew this; and the difficulty of managing such a temper appeared much greater to him on the eve of the interview in which the attempt was to be made, than he had suffered himself to suppose when the crisis was yet distant. The Prelate, a man of a handsome and stately form, with features rather too severe to be pleasing, received the Constable in all the pomp of ecclesiastical dignity. He was seated on a chair of oak, richly carved with Gothic ornaments, and placed above the rest of the floor under a niche of the same workmanship. His dress was the rich episcopal robe, ornamented with costly embroidery, and fringed around the neck and cuffs; it opened from the throat and in the middle, and showed an under vestment of embroidery, betwixt the folds of which, as if imperfectly concealed, peeped the close shirt of hair-cloth which the Prelate constantly wore under all his pompous attire. His mitre was placed beside him on an oaken table of the same workmanship with his throne, against which also rested his pastoral staff, representing a shepherd's crook of the simplest form, yet which had proved more powerful and fearful than lance or scimetar, when wielded by the hand of Thomas a Becket. A chaplain in a white surplice kneeled at a little distance before a desk, and read forth from an illuminated volume some portion of a theological treatise, in which Baldwin appeared so deeply interested, that he did not appear to notice the entrance of the Constable, who, highly displeased at this additional slight, stood on the floor of the hall, undetermined whether to interrupt the reader, and address the Prelate at once, or to withdraw without saluting him at all. Ere he had formed a resolution, the chaplain had arrived at some convenient pause in the lecture, where the Archbishop stopped him with, "_Satis est, mi fili._" It was in vain that the proud secular Baron strove to conceal the embarrassment with which he approached the Prelate, whose attitude was plainly assumed for the purpose of impressing him with awe and solicitude. He tried, indeed, to exhibit a demeanour of such ease as might characterize their old friendship, or at least of such indifference as might infer the possession of perfect tranquillity; but he failed in both, and his address expressed mortified pride, mixed with no ordinary degree of embarrassment. The genius of the Catholic Church was on such occasions sure to predominate over the haughtiest of the laity. "I perceive," said De Lacy, collecting his thoughts, and ashamed to find he had difficulty in doing so,--"I perceive that an old friendship is here dissolved. Methinks Hugo de Lacy might have expected another messenger to summon him to this reverend presence, and that another welcome should wait him on his arrival." The Archbishop raised himself slowly in his seat, and made a half- inclination towards the Constable, who, by an instinctive desire of conciliation, returned it lower than he had intended, or than the scanty courtesy merited. The Prelate at the same time signing to his chaplain, the latter rose to withdraw, and receiving permission in the phrase "_Do veniam_," retreated reverentially, without either turning his back or looking upwards, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands still folded in his habit, and crossed over his bosom. When this mute attendant had disappeared, the Prelate's brow became more open, yet retained a dark shade of grave displeasure, and he replied to the address of De Lacy, but still without rising from his seat. "It skills not now, my lord, to say what the brave Constable of Chester has been to the poor priest Baldwin, or with what love and pride we beheld him assume the holy sign of salvation, and, to honour Him by whom he has himself been raised to honour, vow himself to the deliverance of the Holy Land. If I still see that noble lord before me, in the same holy resolution, let me know the joyful truth, and I will lay aside rochet and mitre, and tend his horse like a groom, if it be necessary by such menial service to show the cordial respect I bear to him." "Reverend father," answered De Lacy, with hesitation, "I had hoped that the propositions which were made to you on my part by the Dean of Hereford, might have seemed more satisfactory in your eyes." Then, regaining his native confidence, he proceeded with more assurance in speech and manner; for the cold inflexible looks of the Archbishop irritated him. "If these proposals can be amended, my lord, let me know in what points, and, if possible, your pleasure shall be done, even if it should prove somewhat unreasonable. I would have peace, my lord, with Holy Church, and am the last who would despise her mandates. This has been known by my deeds in field, and counsels in the state; nor can I think my services have merited cold looks and cold language from the Primate of England." "Do you upbraid the Church with your services, vain man?" said Baldwin. "I tell thee, Hugo de Lacy, that what Heaven hath wrought for the Church by thy hand, could, had it been the divine pleasure, have been achieved with as much ease by the meanest horseboy in thy host. It is _thou_ that art honoured, in being the chosen instrument by which great things have been wrought in Israel.--Nay, interrupt me not--I tell thee, proud baron, that, in the sight of Heaven, thy wisdom is but as folly-- thy courage, which thou dost boast, but the cowardice of a village maiden--thy strength weakness--thy spear an osier, and thy sword a bulrush." "All this I know, good father," said the Constable, "and have ever heard it repeated when such poor services as I may have rendered are gone and past. Marry, when there was need for my helping hand, I was the very good lord of priest and prelate, and one who should be honoured and prayed for with patrons and founders who sleep in the choir and under the high altar. There was no thought, I trow, of osier or of bulrush, when I have been prayed to couch my lance or draw my weapon; it is only when they are needless that they and their owner are undervalued. Well, my reverend father, be it so,-- if the Church can cast the Saracens from the Holy Land by grooms and horseboys, wherefore do you preach knights and nobles from the homes and the countries which they are born to protect and defend?" The Archbishop looked steadily on him as he replied, "Not for the sake of their fleshly arm do we disturb your knights and barons in their prosecution of barbarous festivities, and murderous feuds, which you call enjoying their homes and protecting their domains, --not that Omnipotence requires their arm of flesh to execute the great predestined work of liberation--but for the weal of their immortal souls." These last words he pronounced with great emphasis. The Constable paced the floor impatiently, and muttered to himself, "Such is the airy guerdon for which hosts on hosts have been drawn from Europe to drench the sands of Palestine with their gore--such the vain promises for which we are called upon to barter our country, our lands, and our lives!" "Is it Hugo de Lacy speaks thus?" said the Archbishop, arising from his seat, and qualifying his tone of censure with the appearance of shame and of regret--"Is it he who underprizes the renown of a knight--the virtue of a Christian--the advancement of his earthly honour--the more incalculable profit of his immortal soul?--Is it he who desires a solid and substantial recompense in lands or treasures, to be won by warring on his less powerful neighbours at home, while knightly honour and religious faith, his vow as a knight and his baptism as a Christian, call him to a more glorious and more dangerous strife?--Can it be indeed Hugo de Lacy, the mirror of the Anglo-Norman chivalry, whose thoughts can conceive such sentiments, whose words can utter them?" "Flattery and fair speech, suitably mixed with taunts and reproaches, my lord," answered the Constable, colouring and biting his lip, "may carry your point with others; but I am of a temper too solid to be either wheedled or goaded into measures of importance. Forbear, therefore, this strain of affected amazement; and believe me, that whether he goes to the Crusade or abides at home, the character of Hugo de Lacy will remain as unimpeached in point of courage as that of the Archbishop Baldwin in point of sanctitude." "May it stand much higher," said the Archbishop, "than the reputation with which you vouchsafe to compare it! but a blaze may be extinguished as well as a spark; and I tell the Constable of Chester, that the fame which has set on his basnet for so many years, may flit from it in one moment, never to be recalled." "Who dares to say so?" said the Constable, tremblingly alive to the honour for which he had encountered so many dangers. "A friend," said the Prelate, "whose stripes should be received as benefits. You think of pay, Sir Constable, and of guerdon, as if you still stood in the market, free to chaffer on the terms of your service. I tell you, you are no longer your own master--you are, by the blessed badge you have voluntarily assumed, the soldier of God himself; nor can you fly from your standard without such infamy as even coistrels or grooms are unwilling to incur." "You deal all too hardly with us, my lord," said Hugo de Lacy, stopping short in his troubled walk. "You of the spirituality make us laymen the pack-horses of your own concerns, and climb to ambitious heights by the help of our over-burdened shoulders; but all hath its limits--Becket transgressed it, and----" A gloomy and expressive look corresponded with the tone in which he spoke this broken sentence; and the Prelate, at no loss to comprehend his meaning, replied, in a firm and determined voice, "And he was _murdered!_--that is what you dare to hint to me-- even to me, the successor of that glorified saint--as a motive for complying with your fickle and selfish wish to withdraw your hand from the plough. You know not to whom you address such a threat. True, Becket, from a saint militant on earth, arrived, by the bloody path of martyrdom, to the dignity of a saint in Heaven; and no less true is it, that, to attain a seat a thousand degrees beneath that of his blessed predecessor, the unworthy Baldwin were willing to submit, under Our Lady's protection, to whatever the worst of wicked men can inflict on his earthly frame." "There needs not this show of courage, reverend father," said Lacy, recollecting himself, "where there neither is, nor can be, danger. I pray you, let us debate this matter more deliberately. I have never meant to break off my purpose for the Holy Land, but only to postpone it. Methinks the offers that I have made are fair, and ought to obtain for me what has been granted to others in the like case--a slight delay in the time of my departure." "A slight delay on the part of such a leader as you, noble De Lacy," answered the Prelate, "were a death-blow to our holy and most gallant enterprise. To meaner men we might have granted the privilege of marrying and giving in marriage, even although they care not for the sorrows of Jacob; but you, my lord, are a main prop of our enterprise, and, being withdrawn, the whole fabric may fall to the ground. Who in England will deem himself obliged to press forward, when Hugo de Lacy falls back? Think, my lord, less upon your plighted bride, and more on your plighted word; and believe not that a union can ever come to good, which shakes your purpose towards our blessed undertaking for the honour of Christendom." The Constable was embarrassed by the pertinacity of the Prelate, and began to give way to his arguments, though most reluctantly, and only because the habits and opinions of the time left him no means of combating his arguments, otherwise than by solicitation. "I admit," he said, "my engagements for the Crusade, nor have I--I repeat it--farther desire than that brief interval which may be necessary to place my important affairs in order. Meanwhile, my vassals, led by my nephew----" "Promise that which is within thy power," said the Prelate. "Who knows whether, in resentment of thy seeking after other things than HIS most holy cause, thy nephew may not be called hence, even while we speak together?" "God forbid!" said the Baron, starting up, as if about to fly to his nephew's assistance; then suddenly pausing, he turned on the Prelate a keen and investigating glance. "It is not well," he said, "that your reverence should thus trifle with the dangers which threaten my house. Damian is dear to me for his own good qualities--dear for the sake of my only brother.--May God forgive us both! he died when we were in unkindness with each other.--My lord, your words import that my beloved nephew suffers pain and incurs danger on account of my offences?" The Archbishop perceived he had at length touched the chord to which his refractory penitent's heart-strings must needs vibrate. He replied with circumspection, as well knowing with whom he had to deal,--"Far be it from me to presume to interpret the counsels of Heaven! but we read in Scripture, that when the fathers eat sour grapes, the teeth of the children are set on edge. What so reasonable as that we should be punished for our pride and contumacy, by a judgment specially calculated to abate and bend that spirit of surquedry? [Footnote: Self-importance, or assumption.] You yourself best know if this disease clung to thy nephew before you had meditated defection from the banner of the Cross." Hugo de Lacy hastily recollected himself, and found that it was indeed true, that, until he thought of his union with Eveline, there had appeared no change in his nephew's health. His silence and confusion did not escape the artful Prelate. He took the hand of the warrior as he stood before him overwhelmed in doubt, lest his preference of the continuance of his own house to the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre should have been punished by the disease which threatened his nephew's life. "Come," he said, "noble De Lacy--the judgment provoked by a moment's presumption may be even yet averted by prayer and penitence. The dial went back at the prayer of the good King Hezekiah--down, down upon thy knees, and doubt not that, with confession, and penance, and absolution, thou mayst yet atone for thy falling away from the cause of Heaven." Borne down by the dictates of the religion in which he had been educated, and by the fears lest his delay was punished by his nephew's indisposition and danger, the Constable sunk on his knees before the Prelate, whom he had shortly before well-nigh braved, confessed, as a sin to be deeply repented of, his purpose of delaying his departure for Palestine, and received, with patience at least, if not with willing acquiescence, the penance inflicted by the Archbishop; which consisted in a prohibition to proceed farther in his proposed wedlock with the Lady Eveline, until he was returned from Palestine, where he was bound by his vow to abide for the term of three years. "And now, noble De Lacy," said the Prelate, "once more my best beloved and most honoured friend--is not thy bosom lighter since thou hast thus nobly acquitted thee of thy debt to Heaven, and cleansed thy gallant spirit from those selfish and earthly stains which dimmed its brightness?" The Constable sighed. "My happiest thoughts at this moment," he said, "would arise from knowledge that my nephew's health is amended." "Be not discomforted on the score of the noble Damian, your hopeful and valorous kinsman," said the Archbishop, "for well I trust shortly ye shall hear of his recovery; or that, if it shall please God to remove him to a better world, the passage shall be so easy, and his arrival in yonder haven of bliss so speedy, that it were better for him to have died than to have lived." The Constable looked at him, as if to gather from his countenance more certainty of his nephew's fate than his words seemed to imply; and the Prelate, to escape being farther pressed on the subject on which he was perhaps conscious he had ventured too far, rung a silver bell which stood before him on the table, and commanded the chaplain who entered at the summons, that he should despatch a careful messenger to the lodging of Damian Lacy to bring particular accounts of his health. "A stranger," answered the chaplain, "just come from the sick chamber of the noble Damian Lacy, waits here even now to have speech of my Lord Constable." "Admit him instantly," said the Archbishop--"my mind tells me he brings us joyful tidings.--Never knew I such humble penitence,-- such willing resignation of natural affections and desires to the doing of Heaven's service, but it was rewarded with a guerdon either temporal or spiritual." As he spoke, a man singularly dressed entered the apartment. His garments, of various colours, and showily disposed, were none of the newest or cleanest, neither were they altogether fitting for the presence in which he now stood. "How now, sirrah!" said the Prelate; "when was it that jugglers and minstrels pressed into the company of such as we without permission?" "So please you," said the man, "my instant business was not with your reverend lordship, but with my lord the Constable, to whom I will hope that my good news may atone for my evil apparel." "Speak, sirrah, does my kinsman live?" said the Constable eagerly. "And is like to live, my lord," answered the man--"a favourable crisis (so the leeches call it) hath taken place in his disorder, and they are no longer under any apprehensions for his life." "Now, God be praised, that hath granted me so much mercy!" said the Constable. "Amen, amen!" replied the Archbishop solemnly.--"About what period did this blessed change take place?" "Scarcely a quarter of an hour since," said the messenger, "a soft sleep fell on the sick youth, like dew upon a parched field in summer--he breathed freely--the burning heat abated--and, as I said, the leeches no longer fear for his life." "Marked you the hour, my Lord Constable?" said the Bishop, with exultation--"Even then you stooped to those counsels which Heaven suggested through the meanest of its servants! But two words avouching penitence--but one brief prayer--and some kind saint has interceded for an instant hearing, and a liberal granting of thy petition. Noble Hugo," he continued, grasping his hand in a species of enthusiasm, "surely Heaven designs to work high things by the hand of him whose faults are thus readily forgiven--whose prayer is thus instantly heard. For this shall _Te Deum Laudamus_ be said in each church, and each convent in Gloucester, ere the world be a day older." The Constable, no less joyful, though perhaps less able to perceive an especial providence in his nephew's recovery, expressed his gratitude to the messenger of the good tidings, by throwing him his purse. "I thank you, noble lord," said the man; "but if I stoop to pick up this taste of your bounty, it is only to restore it again to the donor." "How now, sir?" said the Constable, "methinks thy coat seems not so well lined as needs make thee spurn at such a guerdon." "He that designs to catch larks, my lord," replied the messenger, "must not close his net upon sparrows--I have a greater boon to ask of your lordship, and therefore I decline your present gratuity." "A greater boon, ha!" said the Constable,--"I am no knight-errant, to bind myself by promise to grant it ere I know its import; but do thou come to my pavilion to-morrow, and thou wilt not find me unwilling to do what is reason." So saying, he took leave of the Prelate, and returned homeward, failing not to visit his nephew's lodging as he passed, where he received the same pleasant assurances which had been communicated by the messenger of the particoloured mantle. CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. He was a minstrel--in his mood Was wisdom mix'd with folly; A tame companion to the good, But wild and fierce among the rude, And jovial with the jolly. ARCHIBALD ARMSTRONG. The events of the preceding day had been of a nature so interesting, and latterly so harassing, that the Constable felt weary as after a severely contested battle-field, and slept soundly until the earliest beams of dawn saluted him through the opening of the tent. It was then that, with a mingled feeling of pain and satisfaction, he began to review the change which had taken place in his condition since the preceding morning. He had then risen an ardent bridegroom, anxious to find favour in the eyes of his fair bride, and scrupulous about his dress and appointments, as if he had been as young in years as in hopes and wishes. This was over, and he had now before him the painful task of leaving his betrothed for a term of years, even before wedlock had united them indissolubly, and of reflecting that she was exposed to all the dangers which assail female constancy in a situation thus critical. When the immediate anxiety for his nephew was removed, he was tempted to think that he had been something hasty in listening to the arguments of the Archbishop, and in believing that Damian's death or recovery depended upon his own accomplishing, to the letter, and without delay, his vow for the Holy Land. "How many princes and kings," he thought to himself, "have assumed the Cross, and delayed or renounced it, yet lived and died in wealth and honour, without sustaining such a visitation as that with which Baldwin threatened me; and in what case or particular did such men deserve more indulgence than I? But the die is now cast, and it signifies little to inquire whether my obedience to the mandates of the Church has saved the life of my nephew, or whether I have not fallen, as laymen are wont to fall, whenever there is an encounter of wits betwixt them and those of the spirituality. I would to God it may prove otherwise, since, girding on my sword as Heaven's champion, I might the better expect Heaven's protection for her whom I must unhappily leave behind me." As these reflections passed through his mind, he heard the warders at the entrance of his tent challenge some one whose footsteps were heard approaching it. The person stopped on their challenge, and presently after was heard the sound of a rote, (a small species of lute,) the strings of which were managed by means of a small wheel. After a short prelude, a manly voice, of good compass, sung verses, which, translated into modern language, might run nearly thus: I. "Soldier, wake--the day is peeping:, Honour ne'er was won in sleeping, Never when the sunbeams still Lay unreflected on the hill: 'Tis when they are glinted back From axe and armour, spear and jack, That they promise future story Many a page of deathless glory. Shields that are the foe man's terror, Ever are the morning's mirror. II. "Arm and up--the morning beam Hath call'd the rustic to his team, Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake, Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake; The early student ponders o'er His dusty tomes of ancient lore. Soldier, wake--thy harvest, fame; Thy study, conquest; war, thy game. Shield, that would be foeman's terror, Still should gleam the morning's mirror. III. "Poor hire repays the rustic's pain; More paltry still the sportsman's gain; Vainest of all, the student's theme End in gome metaphysic dream. Yet each is up, and each has toil'd Since first the peep of dawn has smiled; And each is eagerer in his aim Than he who barters life for fame. Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror! Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror." When the song was finished, the Constable heard some talking without, and presently Philip Guarine entered the pavilion to tell that a person, come hither as he said by the Constable's appointment, waited permission to speak with him. "By my appointment?" said De Lacy; "admit him immediately." The messenger of the preceding evening entered the tent, holding in one hand his small cap and feather, in the other the rote on which he had been just playing. His attire was fantastic, consisting of more than one inner dress of various colours, all of the brightest and richest dyes, and disposed so as to contrast with each other--the upper garment was a very short Norman cloak, in bright green. An embroidered girdle sustained, in lieu of offensive weapons, an inkhorn with its appurtenances on the one side, on the other a knife for the purposes of the table. His hair was cut in imitation of the clerical tonsure, which was designed to intimate that he had arrived to a certain rank in his profession; for the Joyous Science, as the profession of minstrelsy was termed, had its various ranks, like the degrees in the church and in chivalry. The features and the manners of the man seemed to be at variance with his profession and habit; for, as the latter was gay and fantastic, the former had a cast of gravity, and almost of sternness, which, unless when kindled by the enthusiasm of his poetical and musical exertions, seemed rather to indicate deep reflection, than the thoughtless vivacity of observation which characterized most of his brethren. His countenance, though not handsome, had therefore something in it striking and impressive, even from its very contrast with the particoloured hues and fluttering shape of his vestments; and the Constable felt something inclined to patronize him, as he said, "Good-morrow, friend, and I thank thee for thy morning greeting; it was well sung and well meant, for when we call forth any one to bethink him how time passes, we do him the credit of supposing that he can employ to advantage that flitting treasure." The man, who had listened in silence, seemed to pause and make an effort ere he replied, "My intentions, at least, were good, when I ventured to disturb my lord thus early; and I am glad to learn that my boldness hath not been evil received at his hand." "True," said the Constable, "you had a boon to ask of me. Be speedy, and say thy request--my leisure is short." "It is for permission to follow you to the Holy Land, my lord," said the man. "Thou hast asked what I can hardly grant, my friend," answered De Lacy--"Thou art a minstrel, art thou not?" "An unworthy graduate of the Gay Science, my lord," said the musician; "yet let me say for myself, that I will not yield to the king of minstrels, Geoffrey Rudel, though the King of England hath given him four manors for one song. I would be willing to contend with him in romance, lay, or fable, were the judge to be King Henry himself." "You have your own good word, doubtless," said De Lacy; "nevertheless, Sir Minstrel, thou goest not with me. The Crusade has been already too much encumbered by men of thy idle profession; and if thou dost add to the number, it shall not be under my protection. I am too old to be charmed by thy art, charm thou never so wisely." "He that is young enough to seek for, and to win, the love of beauty," said the minstrel, but in a submissive tone, as if fearing his freedom might give offence, "should not term himself too old to feel the charms of minstrelsy." The Constable smiled, not insensible to the flattery which assigned to him the character of a younger gallant. "Thou art a jester," he said, "I warrant me, in addition to thy other qualities." "No," replied the minstrel, "it is a branch of our profession which I have for some time renounced--my fortunes have put me out of tune for jesting." "Nay, comrade," said the Constable, "if thou hast been hardly dealt within the world, and canst comply with the rules of a family so strictly ordered as mine, it is possible we may agree together better than I thought. What is thy name and country? thy speech, methinks, sounds somewhat foreign." "I am an Armorican, my lord, from the merry shores of Morbihan; and hence my tongue hath some touch of my country speech. My name is Renault Vidal." "Such being the case, Renault," said the Constable, "thou shalt follow me, and I will give orders to the master of my household to have thee attired something according to thy function, but in more orderly guise than thou now appearest in. Dost thou understand the use of a weapon?" "Indifferently, my lord," said the Armorican; at the same time taking a sword from the wall, he drew, and made a pass with it so close to the Constable's body as he sat on the couch, that he started up, crying, "Villain, forbear!" "La you! noble sir," replied Vidal, lowering with all submission the point of his weapon--"I have already given you a proof of sleight which has alarmed even your experience--I have an hundred other besides." "It may be so," said De Lacy, somewhat ashamed at having shown himself moved by the sudden and lively action of the juggler; "but I love not jesting with edge-tools, and have too much to do with sword and sword-blows in earnest, to toy with them; so I pray you let us have no more of this, but call me my squire and my chamberlain, for I am about to array me and go to mass." The religious duties of the morning performed, it was the Constable's intention to visit the Lady Abbess, and communicate, with the necessary precautions and qualifications, the altered relations in which he was placed towards her niece, by the resolution he had been compelled to adopt, of departing for the Crusade before accomplishing his marriage, in the terms of the precontract already entered into. He was conscious that it would be difficult to reconcile the good lady to this change of measures, and he delayed some time ere he could think of the best mode of communicating and softening the unpleasant intelligence. An interval was also spent in a visit to his nephew, whose state of convalescence continued to be as favourable, as if in truth it had been a miraculous consequence of the Constable's having complied with the advice of the Archbishop. From the lodging of Damian, the Constable proceeded to the convent of the Benedictine Abbess. But she had been already made acquainted with the circumstances which he came to communicate, by a still earlier visit from the Archbishop Baldwin himself. The Primate had undertaken the office of mediator on this occasion, conscious that his success of the evening before must have placed the Constable in a delicate situation with the relations of his betrothed bride, and willing, by his countenance and authority, to reconcile the disputes which might ensue. Perhaps he had better have left Hugo de Lacy to plead his own cause; for the Abbess, though she listened to the communication with all the respect due to the highest dignitary of the English Church, drew consequences from the Constable's change of resolution which the Primate had not expected. She ventured to oppose no obstacle to De Lacy's accomplishment of his vows, but strongly argued that the contract with her niece should be entirely set aside, and each, party left at liberty to form a new choice. It was in vain that the Archbishop endeavoured to dazzle the Abbess with the future honours to be won by the Constable in the Holy Land; the splendour of which would attach not to his lady alone, but to all in the remotest degree allied to or connected with her. All his eloquence was to no purpose, though upon so favourite a topic he exerted it to the utmost. The Abbess, it is true, remained silent for a moment after his arguments had been exhausted, but it was only to consider how she should intimate in a suitable and reverent manner, that children, the usual attendants of a happy union, and the existence of which she looked to for the continuation of the house of her father and brother, could not be hoped for with any probability, unless the precontract was followed by marriage, and the residence of the married parties in the same country. She therefore insisted, that the Constable having altered his intentions in this most important particular, the _fiancailles_ should be entirely abrogated and set aside; and she demanded of the Primate, as an act of justice, that, as he had interfered to prevent the bridegroom's execution of his original purpose, he should now assist with his influence wholly to dissolve an engagement which had been thus materially innovated upon. The Primate, who was sensible he had himself occasioned De Lacy's breach of contract, felt himself bound in honour and reputation to prevent consequences so disagreeable to his friend, as the dissolution of an engagement in which his interest and inclinations were alike concerned. He reproved the Lady Abbess for the carnal and secular views which she, a dignitary of the church, entertained upon the subject of matrimony, and concerning the interest of her house. He even upbraided her with selfishly preferring the continuation of the line of Berenger to the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, and denounced to her that Heaven would be avenged of the shortsighted and merely human policy, which postponed the interests of Christendom to those of an individual family. After this severe homily, the Prelate took his departure, leaving the Abbess highly incensed, though she prudently forbore returning any irreverent answer to his paternal admonition. In this humour the venerable lady was found by the Constable himself, when with some embarrassment, he proceeded to explain to her the necessity of his present departure for Palestine. She received the communication with sullen dignity; her ample black robe and scapular seeming, as it were, to swell out in yet prouder folds as she listened to the reasons and the emergencies which compelled the Constable of Chester to defer the marriage which he avowed was the dearest wish of his heart, until after his return from the Crusade, for which he was about to set forth. "Methinks," replied the Abbess, with much coldness, "if this communication is meant for earnest,--and it were no fit business-- I myself no fit person,--for jesting with--methinks the Constable's resolution should have been proclaimed to us yesterday before the _fiancailles_ had united his troth with that of Eveline Berenger, under expectations very different from those which he now announces." "On the word of a knight and a gentleman, reverend lady," said the Constable, "I had not then the slightest thought that I should be called upon to take a step no less distressing to me, than, as I see with pain, it is unpleasing to you." "I can scarcely conceive," replied the Abbess, "the cogent reasons, which, existing as they must have done yesterday, have nevertheless delayed their operation until to-day." "I own," said De Lacy, reluctantly, "that I entertained too ready hopes of obtaining a remission from my vow, which my Lord of Canterbury hath, in his zeal for Heaven's service, deemed it necessary to refuse me." "At least, then," said the Abbess, veiling her resentment under the appearance of extreme coldness, "your lordship will do us the justice to place us in the same situation in which we stood yesterday morning; and, by joining with my niece and her friends in desiring the abrogation of a marriage contract, entered into with very different views from those which you now entertain, put a young person in that state of liberty of which she is at present deprived by her contract with you." "Ah, madam!" said the Constable, "what do you ask of me? and in a tone how cold and indifferent do you demand me to resign hopes, the dearest which my bosom ever entertained since the life-blood warmed it!" "I am unacquainted with language belonging to such feelings, my lord," replied the Abbess; "but methinks the prospects which could be so easily adjourned for years, might, by a little, and a very little, farther self-control, be altogether abandoned." Hugo de Lacy paced the room in agitation, nor did he answer until after a considerable pause. "If your niece, madam, shares the sentiments which you have expressed, I could not, indeed, with justice to her, or perhaps to myself, desire to retain that interest in her, which our solemn espousals have given me. But I must know my doom from her own lips; and if it is as severe as that which your expressions lead me to fear, I will go to Palestine the better soldier of Heaven, that I shall have little left on earth that can interest me." The Abbess, without farther answer, called on her Praecentrix, and desired her to command her niece's attendance immediately. The Praecentrix bowed reverently, and withdrew. "May I presume to inquire," said De Lacy, "whether the Lady Eveline hath been possessed of the circumstances which have occasioned this unhappy alteration in my purpose?" "I have communicated the whole to her from point to point," said the Abbess, "even as it was explained to me this morning by my Lord of Canterbury, (for with him I have already spoken upon the subject,) and confirmed but now by your lordship's own mouth." "I am little obliged to the Archbishop," said the Constable, "for having forestalled my excuses in the quarter where it was most important for me that they should be accurately stated, and favourably received." "That," said the Abbess, "is but an item of the account betwixt you and the Prelate,--it concerns not us." "Dare I venture to hope," continued De Lacy, without taking offence at the dryness of the Abbess's manner, "that Lady Eveline has heard this most unhappy change of circumstances without emotion,--I would say, without displeasure?" "She is the daughter of a Berenger, my lord," answered the Abbess, "and it is our custom to punish a breach of faith or to contemn it--never to grieve over it. What my niece may do in this case, I know not. I am a woman of religion, sequestered from the world, and would advise peace and Christian forgiveness, with a proper sense of contempt for the unworthy treatment which she has received. She has followers and vassals, and friends, doubtless, and advisers, who may not, in blinded zeal for worldly honour, recommend to her to sit down slightly with this injury, but desire she should rather appeal to the King, or to the arms of her father's followers, unless her liberty is restored to her by the surrender of the contract into which she has been enticed.--But she comes, to answer for herself." Eveline entered at the moment, leaning on Rose's arm. She had laid aside mourning since the ceremony of the _fiancailles_, and was dressed in a kirtle of white, with an upper robe of pale blue. Her head was covered with a veil of white gauze, so thin, as to float about her like the misty cloud usually painted around the countenance of a seraph. But the face of Eveline, though in beauty not unworthy one of that angelic order, was at present far from resembling that of a seraph in tranquillity of expression. Her limbs trembled, her cheeks were pale, the tinge of red around the eyelids expressed recent tears; yet amidst these natural signs of distress and uncertainty, there was an air of profound resignation--a resolution to discharge her duty in every emergence reigning in the solemn expression of her eye and eyebrow, and showing her prepared to govern the agitation which she could not entirely subdue. And so well were these opposing qualities of timidity and resolution mingled on her cheek, that Eveline, in the utmost pride of her beauty, never looked more fascinating than at that instant; and Hugo de Lacy, hitherto rather an unimpassioned lover, stood in her presence with feelings as if all the exaggerations of romance were realized, and his mistress were a being of a higher sphere, from whose doom he was to receive happiness or misery, life or death. It was under the influence of such a feeling, that the warrior dropped on one knee before Eveline, took the hand which she rather resigned than gave to him, pressed it to his lips fervently, and, ere he parted with it, moistened it with one of the few tears which he was ever known to shed. But, although surprised, and carried out of his character by a sudden impulse, he regained his composure on observing that the Abbess regarded his humiliation, if it can be so termed, with an air of triumph; and he entered on his defence before Eveline with a manly earnestness, not devoid of fervour, nor free from agitation, yet made in a tone of firmness and pride, which seemed assumed to meet and control that of the offended Abbess. "Lady," he said, addressing Eveline, "you have heard from the venerable Abbess in what unhappy position I have been placed since yesterday by the rigour of the Archbishop--perhaps I should rather say by his just though severe interpretation of my engagement in the Crusade. I cannot doubt that all this has been stated with accurate truth by the venerable lady; but as I must no longer call her my friend, let me fear whether she has done me justice in her commentary upon the unhappy necessity which must presently compel me to leave my country, and with my country to forego--at best to postpone--the fairest hopes which man ever entertained. The venerable lady hath upbraided me, that being myself the cause that the execution of yesterday's contract is postponed, I would fain keep it suspended over your head for an indefinite term of years. No one resigns willingly such rights as yesterday gave me; and, let me speak a boastful word, sooner than yield them up to man of woman born, I would hold a fair field against all comers, with grinded sword and sharp spear, from sunrise to sunset, for three days' space. But what I would retain at the price of a thousand lives, I am willing to renounce if it would cost you a single sigh. If, therefore, you think you cannot remain happy as the betrothed of De Lacy, you may command my assistance to have the contract annulled, and make some more fortunate man happy." He would have gone on, but felt the danger of being overpowered again by those feelings of tenderness so new to his steady nature, that he blushed to give way to them. Eveline remained silent. The Abbess took the word. "Kinswoman," she said, "you hear that the generosity--or the justice--of the Constable of Chester, proposes, in consequence of his departure upon a distant and perilous expedition, to cancel a contract entered into upon the specific and precise understanding that he was to remain in England for its fulfilment. You cannot, methinks, hesitate to accept of the freedom which he offers you, with thanks for his bounty. For my part, I will reserve mine own, until I shall see that your joint application is sufficient to win to your purpose his Grace of Canterbury, who may again interfere with the actions of his friend the Lord Constable, over whom he has already exerted so much influence--for the weal, doubtless, of his spiritual concerns." "If it is meant by your words, venerable lady," said the Constable, "that I have any purpose of sheltering myself behind the Prelate's authority, to avoid doing that which I proclaim my readiness, though not my willingness, to do, I can only say, that you are the first who has doubted the faith of Hugo de Lacy."--And while the proud Baron thus addressed a female and a recluse, he could not prevent his eye from sparkling, and his cheek from flushing. "My gracious and venerable kinswoman," said Eveline, summoning together her resolution, "and you, my kind lord, be not offended if I pray you not to increase by groundless suspicions and hasty resentments your difficulties and mine. My lord, the obligations which I lie under to you are such as I can never discharge, since they comprehend fortune, life, and honour. Know that, in my anguish of mind, when besieged by the Welsh in my castle of the Garde Doloureuse, I vowed to the Virgin, that (my honour safe) I would place myself at the disposal of him whom our Lady should employ as her instrument to relieve me from yonder hour of agony. In giving me a deliverer, she gave me a master; nor could I desire a more noble one than Hugo de Lacy." "God forbid, lady," said the Constable, speaking eagerly, as if he was afraid his resolution should fail ere he could get the renunciation uttered, "that I should, by such a tie, to which you subjected yourself in the extremity of your distress, bind you to any resolution in my favour which can put force on your own inclinations!" The Abbess herself could not help expressing her applause of this sentiment, declaring it was spoken like a Norman gentleman; but at the same time, her eyes, turned towards her niece, seemed to exhort her to beware how she declined to profit by the candour of De Lacy. But Eveline proceeded, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and a slight colour overspreading her face, to state her own sentiments, without listening to the suggestions of any one. "I will own, noble sir," she said, "that when your valour had rescued me from approaching destruction, I could have wished--honouring and respecting you, as I had done your late friend, my excellent father--that you could have accepted a daughter's service from me. I do not pretend entirely to have surmounted these sentiments, although I have combated them, as being unworthy of me, and ungrateful to you. But, from the moment you were pleased to honour me by a claim on this poor hand, I have studiously examined my sentiments towards you, and taught myself so far to make them coincide with my duty, that I may call myself assured that De Lacy would not find in Eveline Berenger an indifferent, far less an unworthy bride. In this, sir, you may boldly confide, whether the union you have sought for takes place instantly, or is delayed till a longer season. Still farther, I must acknowledge that the postponement of these nuptials will be more agreeable to me than their immediate accomplishment. I am at present very young, and totally inexperienced. Two or three years will, I trust, render me yet more worthy the regard of a man of honour." At this declaration in his favour, however cold and qualified, De Lacy had as much difficulty to restrain his transports as formerly to moderate his agitation. "Angel of bounty and of kindness!" he said, kneeling once more, and again possessing himself of her hand, "perhaps I ought in honour to resign voluntarily those hopes which you decline to ravish from me forcibly. But who could be capable of such unrelenting magnanimity?--Let me hope that my devoted attachment-- that which you shall hear of me when at a distance--that which you shall know of me when near you--may give to your sentiments a more tender warmth than they now express; and, in the meanwhile, blame me not that I accept your plighted faith anew, under the conditions which you attach to it. I am conscious my wooing has been too late in life to expect the animated returns proper to youthful passion--Blame me not if I remain satisfied with those calmer sentiments which make life happy, though they cannot make possession rapturous. Your hand remains In my grasp, but it acknowledges not my pressure--Can it be that it refuses to ratify what your lips have said?" "Never, noble De Lacy!" said Eveline, with more animation than she had yet expressed; and it appeared that the tone was at length sufficiently encouraging, since her lover was emboldened to take the lips themselves for guarantee. It was with an air of pride, mingled with respect, that, after having received this pledge of fidelity, he turned to conciliate and to appease the offended Abbess. "I trust, venerable mother," he said, "that you will resume your former kind thoughts of me, which I am aware were only interrupted by your tender anxiety for the interest of her who should be dearest to us both. Let me hope that I may leave this fair flower under protection of the honoured lady who is her nest in blood, happy and secure as she must ever be, while listening to your counsels, and residing within these sacred walls." But the Abbess was too deeply displeased to be propitiated by a compliment, which perhaps it had been better policy to have delayed till a calmer season. "My lord," she said, "and you, fair kinswoman, you ought needs to be aware how little my counsels--not frequently given where they are unwillingly listened to--can be of avail to those embarked in worldly affairs. I am a woman dedicated to religion, to solitude, and seclusion--to the service, in brief, of Our Lady and Saint Benedict. I have been already censured by my superior because I have, for love of you, fair niece, mixed more deeply in secular affairs than became the head of a convent of recluses--I will merit no farther blame on such an account; nor can you expect it of me. My brother's daughter, unfettered by worldly ties, had been the welcome sharer of my poor solicitude. But this house is too mean for the residence of the vowed bride of a mighty baron; nor do I, in my lowliness and inexperience, feel fitness to exercise over such an one that authority, which must belong to me over every one whom this roof protects. The grave tenor of our devotions, and the serener contemplation to which the females of this house are devoted," continued the Abbess, with increasing heat and vehemence, "shall not, for the sake of my worldly connections, be disturbed by the intrusion of one whose thoughts must needs be on the worldly toys of love and marriage." "I do indeed believe, reverend mother," said the Constable, in his turn giving way to displeasure, "that a richly-dowered maiden, unwedded, and unlikely to wed, were a fitter and more welcome inmate to the convent, than one who cannot be separated from the world, and whose wealth is not likely to increase the House's revenues." The Constable did the Abbess great injury in this hasty insinuation, and it only went to confirm her purpose of rejecting all charge of her niece during his absence. She was in truth as disinterested as haughty; and her only reason for anger against her niece was, that her advice had not been adopted without hesitation, although the matter regarded Eveline's happiness exclusively. The ill-timed reflection of the Constable confirmed her in the resolution which she had already, and hastily adopted. "May Heaven forgive you, Sir Knight," she replied, "your injurious thoughts of His servants! It is indeed time, for your soul's sake, that you do penance in the Holy Land, having such rash judgments to repent of.--For you, my niece, you cannot want that hospitality, which, without verifying, or seeming to verify, unjust suspicions, I cannot now grant to you, while you have, in your kinswoman of Baldringham, a secular relation, whose nearness of blood approaches mine, and who may open her gates to you without incurring the unworthy censure, that she means to enrich herself at your cost." The Constable saw the deadly paleness which, came over Eveline's cheek at this proposal, and, without knowing the cause of her repugnance, he hastened to relieve her from the apprehensions which she seemed evidently to entertain. "No, reverend mother," he said, "since _you_ so harshly reject the care of your kinswoman, she shall not be a burden to any of her other relatives. While Hugo de Lacy hath six gallant castles, and many a manor besides, to maintain fire upon their hearths, his betrothed bride shall burden no one with her society, who may regard it as otherwise than a great honour; and methinks I were much poorer than Heaven hath made me, could I not furnish friends and followers sufficient to serve, obey, and protect her." "No, my lord," said Eveline, recovering from the dejection into which she had been thrown by the unkindness of her relative; "since some unhappy destiny separates me from the protection of my father's sister, to whom I could so securely have resigned myself, I will neither apply for shelter to any more distant relation, nor accept of that which you, my lord, so generously offer; since my doing so might excite harsh, and, I am sure, undeserved reproaches, against her by whom I was driven to choose a less advisable dwelling-place. I have made my resolution. I have, it is true, only one friend left, but she is a powerful one, and is able to protect me against the particular evil fate which seems to follow me, as well as against the ordinary evils of human life." "The Queen, I suppose?" said the Abbess, interrupting her impatiently. "The Queen of Heaven! venerable kinswoman," answered Eveline; "our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, ever gracious to our house, and so lately my especial guardian and protectress. Methinks, since the vowed votaress of the Virgin rejects me, it is to her holy patroness whom I ought to apply for succour." The venerable dame, taken somewhat at unawares by this answer, pronounced the interjection "Umph!" in a tone better befitting a Lollard or an Iconoclast, than a Catholic Abbess, and a daughter of the House of Berenger. Truth is, the Lady Abbess's hereditary devotion to the Lady of the Garde Doloureuse was much decayed since she had known the full merits of another gifted image, the property of her own convent. Recollecting herself, however, she remained silent, while the Constable alleged the vicinity of the Welsh, as what might possibly again render the abode of his betrothed bride at the Garde Doloureuse as perilous as she had on a former occasion found it. To this Eveline replied, by reminding him of the great strength of her native fortress--the various sieges which it had withstood--and the important circumstance, that, upon the late occasion, it was only endangered, because, in compliance with a point of honour, her father Raymond had sallied out with the garrison, and fought at disadvantage a battle under the walls. She farther suggested, that it was easy for the Constable to name, from among his own vassals or hers, a seneschal of such approved prudence and valour, as might ensure the safety of the place, and of its lady. Ere De Lacy could reply to her arguments the Abbess rose, and, pleading her total inability to give counsel in secular affairs, and the rules of her order, which called her, as she said, with a heightened colour and raised voice, "to the simple and peaceful discharge of her conventual duties," she left the betrothed parties in the locutory, or parlour, without any company, save Rose, who prudently remained at some distance. The issue of their private conference seemed agreeable to both; and when Eveline told Rose that they were to return presently to the Garde Doloureuse, under a sufficient escort, and were to remain there during the period of the Crusade, it was in a tone of heartfelt satisfaction, which her follower had not heard her make use of for many days. She spoke also highly in praise of the kind acquiescence of the Constable in her wishes, and of his whole conduct, with a warmth of gratitude approaching to a more tender feeling. "And yet, my dearest lady," said Rose, "if you will speak unfeignedly, you must, I am convinced, allow that you look upon this interval of years, interposed betwixt your contract and your marriage, rather as a respite than in any other light." "I confess it," said Eveline, "nor have I concealed from, my future lord that such are my feelings, ungracious as they may seem. But it is my youth, Rose, my extreme youth, which makes me fear the duties of De Lacy's wife. Then those evil auguries hang strangely about me. Devoted to evil by one kinswoman, expelled almost from the roof of another, I seem to myself, at present, a creature who must carry distress with her, pass where she will. This evil hour, and, what is more, the apprehensions of it, will give way to time. When I shall have attained the age of twenty, Rose, I shall be a full-grown woman, with all the soul of a Berenger strong within me, to overcome those doubts and tremors which agitate the girl of seventeen." "Ah! my sweet mistress," answered Rose, "may God and our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse guide all for the best!--But I would that this contract had not taken place, or, having taken place, that it could have been fulfilled by your immediate union." CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH The Kiugr call'd down his merry men all, By one, and by two, and three; Earl Marshal was wont to be the foremost man, But the hindmost man was he. OLD BALLAD. If the Lady Eveline retired satisfied and pleased from her private interview with De Lacy, the joy on the part of the Constable rose to a higher pitch of rapture than he was in the habit of feeling or expressing; and it was augmented by a visit of the leeches who attended his nephew, from whom he received a minute and particular account of his present disorder, with every assurance of a speedy recovery. The Constable caused alms to be distributed to the convents and to the poor, masses to be said, and tapers to be lighted. He visited the Archbishop, and received from him his full approbation of the course which he proposed to pursue, with the promise, that out of the plenary power which he held from the Pope, the Prelate was willing, in consideration of his instant obedience, to limit his stay in the Holy Land to the term of three years, to become current from his leaving Britain, and to include the space necessary for his return to his native country. Indeed, having succeeded in the main point, the Archbishop judged it wise to concede every inferior consideration to a person of the Constable's rank and character, whose good-will to the proposed expedition was perhaps as essential to its success as his bodily presence. In short, the Constable returned to his pavilion highly satisfied with the manner in which he had extricated himself from those difficulties which in the morning seemed almost insuperable; and when his officers assembled to disrobe him, (for great feudal lords had their levees and couchees, in imitation of sovereign princes,) he distributed gratuities amongst them, and jested and laughed in a much gayer humour than they had ever before witnessed. "For thee," he said, turning to Vidal the minstrel, who, sumptuously dressed, stood to pay his respects among the other attendants, "I will give thee nought at present; but do thou remain by my bedside until I am asleep, and I will next morning reward thy minstrelsy as I like it." "My lord," said Vidal, "I am already rewarded, both by the honour, and by the liveries, which better befit a royal minstrel than one of my mean fame; but assign me a subject, and I will do my best, not out of greed of future largess, but gratitude for past favours." "Gramercy, good fellow," said the Constable. "Guarine," he added, addressing his squire, "let the watch be posted, and do thou remain within the tent--stretch thyself on the bear-hide, and sleep, or listen to the minstrelsy, as thou likest best. Thou thinkest thyself a judge, I have heard, of such gear." It was usual, in those insecure times, for some faithful domestic to sleep at night within the tent of every great baron, that, if danger arose, he might not be unsupported or unprotected. Guarine accordingly drew his sword, and, taking it in his hand, stretched himself on the ground in such a manner, that, on the slightest alarm, he could spring up, sword in hand. His broad black eyes, in which sleep contended with a desire to listen to the music, were fixed on Vidal, who saw them glittering in the reflection of the silver lamp, like those of a dragon or a basilisk. After a few preliminary touches on the chords of his rote, the minstrel requested of the Constable to name the subject on which he desired the exercise of his powers. "The truth of woman," answered Hugo de Lacy, as he laid his head upon his pillow. After a short prelude, the minstrel obeyed, by singing nearly as follows:-- "Woman's faith, and woman's trust-- Write the characters in dust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon's pale best, And each evanescent letter, Shall be clearer, firmer, better, And more permanent, I ween, Than the thing those letters mean. I have strain'd the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid; I have weigh'd a grain of sand 'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; I told my true love of the token, How her faith proved light, and her word was broken Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night." "How now, sir knave," said the Constable, raising himself on his elbow, from what drunken rhymer did you learn that half-witted satire?" "From an old, ragged, crossgrained friend of mine, called Experience," answered Vidal. "I pray Heaven, he may never take your lordship, or any other worthy man, under his tuition." "Go to, fellow," said the Constable, in reply; "thou art one of those wiseacres, I warrant me, that would fain be thought witty, because thou canst make a jest of those things which wiser men hold worthy of most worship-the honour of men, and the truth of women. Dost thou call thyself a minstrel, and hast no tale of female fidelity?" "I had right many a one, noble sir, but I laid them aside when I disused my practice of the jesting part of the Joyous Science. Nevertheless, if it pleases your nobleness to listen, I can sing you an established lay upon such a subject." De Lacy made a sign of acquiescence, and laid himself as if to slumber; while Vidal began one of those interminable and almost innumerable adventures concerning that paragon of true lovers, fair Ysolte; and of the constant and uninterrupted faith and affection which she displayed in numerous situations of difficulty and peril, to her paramour, the gallant Sir Tristrem, at the expense of her less favoured husband, the luckless King Mark of Cornwall; to whom, as all the world knows, Sir Tristrem was nephew. This was not the lay of love and fidelity which De Lacy would have chosen; but a feeling like shame prevented his interrupting it, perhaps because he was unwilling to yield to or acknowledge the unpleasing sensations excited by the tenor of the tale. He soon fell asleep, or feigned to do so; and the harper, continuing for a time his monotonous chant, began at length himself to feel the influence of slumber; his words, and the notes which he continued to touch upon the harp, were broken and interrupted, and seemed to escape drowsily from his fingers and voice. At length the sounds ceased entirely, and the minstrel seemed to have sunk into profound repose, with his head reclining on his breast, and one arm dropped down by his side, while the other rested on his harp. His slumber, however, was not very long, and when he awoke from it, and cast his eyes around him, reconnoitering, by the light of the night-lamp, whatever was in the tent, he felt a heavy hand, which pressed his shoulder as if gently to solicit his attention. At the same time the voice of the vigilant Philip Guarine whispered in his ear, "Thine office for the night is ended--depart to thine own quarters with all the silence thou mayst." The minstrel wrapt himself in his cloak without reply, though perhaps not without feeling some resentment at a dismissal so unceremonious. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. Oh! then I see Queen Mab has been with you. ROMEO AND JULIET. The subject on which the mind has last been engaged at night is apt to occupy our thoughts even during slumber, when Imagination, uncorrected by the organs of sense, weaves her own fantastic web out of whatever ideas rise at random in the sleeper. It is not surprising, therefore, that De Lacy in his dreams had some confused idea of being identified with the unlucky Mark of Cornwall; and that he awakened from such unpleasant visions with a brow more clouded than when he was preparing for his couch on the evening before. He was silent, and seemed lost in thought, while his squire assisted at his levee with the respect now only paid to sovereigns. "Guarine," at length he said, "know you the stout Fleming, who was said to have borne him so well at the siege of the Garde Doloureuse?--a tall, big, brawny man." "Surely, my lord," answered his squire; "I know Wilkin Flammock--I saw him but yesterday." "Indeed!" replied the Constable--"Here, meanest thou?--In this city of Gloucester?" "Assuredly, my good lord. He came hither partly about his merchandise, partly, I think, to see his daughter Rose, who is in attendance on the gracious young Lady Eveline." "He is a stout soldier, is he not?" "Like most of his kind--a rampart to a castle, but rubbish in the field," said the Norman squire. "Faithful, also, is he not?" continued the Constable. "Faithful as most Flemings, while you can pay for their faith," replied Guarine, wondering a little at the unusual interest taken in one whom he esteemed a being of an inferior order; when, after some farther inquiries, the Constable ordered the Fleming's attendance to be presently commanded. Other business of the morning now occurred, (for his speedy departure required many arrangements to be hastily adopted,) when, as the Constable was giving audience to several officers of his troops, the bulky figure of Wilkin Flammock was seen at the entrance of the pavilion, in jerkin of white cloth, and having only a knife by his side. "Leave the tent, my masters," said De Lacy, "but continue in attendance in the neighbourhood; for here comes one I must speak to in private." The officers withdrew, and the Constable and Fleming were left alone. "You are Wilkin Mammock, who fought well against the Welsh at the Garde Doloureuse?" "I did my best, my lord," answered Wilkin--"I was bound to it by my bargain; and I hope ever to act like a man of credit." "Methinks" said the Constable, "that you, so stout of limb, and, as I hear, so bold in spirit, might look a little higher than this weaving trade of thine." "No one is reluctant to mend his station, my lord," said Wilkin; "yet I am so far from complaining of mine, that I would willingly consent it should never be better, on condition I could be assured it were never worse." "Nay, but, Flammock," said the Constable, "I mean higher things for you than your modesty apprehends--I mean to leave thee in a charge of great trust." "Let it concern bales of drapery, my lord, and no one will perform it better," said the Fleming. "Away! thou art too lowly minded," said the Constable. "What think'st thou of being dubbed knight, as thy valour well deserves, and left as Chattelain of the Garde Doloureuse?" "For the knighthood, my lord, I should crave your forgiveness; for it would sit on me like a gilded helmet on a hog. For any charge, whether of castle or cottage, I trust I might discharge it as well as another." "I fear me thy rank must be in some way mended," said the Constable, surveying the unmilitary dress of the figure before him; "it is at present too mean to befit the protector and guardian of a young lady of high birth and rank." "I the guardian of a young lady of birth and rank!" said Flammock, his light large eyes turning larger, lighter, and rounder as he spoke. "Even thou," said the Constable. "The Lady Eveline proposes to take up her residence in her castle of the Garde Doloureuse. I have been casting about to whom I may intrust the keeping of her person as well as of the stronghold. Were I to choose some knight of name, as I have many in my household, he would be setting about to do deeds of vassalage upon the Welsh, and engaging himself in turmoils, which would render the safety of the castle precarious; or he would be absent on feats of chivalry, tournaments, and hunting parties; or he would, perchance, have shows of that light nature under the walls, or even within the courts of the castle, turning the secluded and quiet abode, which becomes the situation of the Lady Eveline, into the misrule of a dissolute revel.--Thee I can confide in--thou wilt fight when it is requisite, yet wilt not provoke danger for the sake of danger itself--thy birth, thy habits, will lead thee to avoid those gaieties, which, however fascinating to others, cannot but be distasteful to thee--thy management will be as regular, as I will take care that it shall be honourable; and thy relation to her favourite, Rose, will render thy guardianship more agreeable to the Lady Eveline, than, perchance, one of her own rank--And, to speak to thee a language which, thy nation readily comprehends, the reward, Fleming, for the regular discharge of this most weighty trust, shall be beyond thy most flattering hope." The Fleming had listened to the first part of this discourse with an expression of surprise, which gradually gave way to one of deep and anxious reflection. He gazed fixedly on the earth for a minute after the Constable had ceased speaking, and then raising up his eyes suddenly, said, "It is needless to seek for round-about excuses. This cannot be your earnest, my lord--but if it is, the scheme is naught." "How and wherefore?" asked the Constable, with displeased surprise. "Another man may grasp at your bounty," continued Wilkin, "and leave you to take chance of the value you were to receive for it; but I am a downright dealer, I will not take payment for service I cannot render." "But I demand, once more, wherefore thou canst not, or rather wilt not, accept this trust?" said the Constable. "Surely, if I am willing to confer such confidence, it is well thy part to answer it." "True, my lord," said the Fleming; "but methinks the noble Lord de Lacy should feel, and the wise Lord de Lacy should foresee, that a Flemish weaver is no fitting guardian for his plighted bride. Think her shut up in yonder solitary castle, under such respectable protection, and reflect how long the place will be solitary in this land of love and of adventure! We shall have minstrels singing ballads by the threave under our windows, and such twangling of harps as would be enough to frighten our walls from their foundations, as clerks say happened to those of Jericho--We shall have as many knights-errant around us as ever had Charlemagne, or King Arthur. Mercy on me! A less matter than a fine and noble recluse immured--so will they term it--in a tower, under the guardianship of an old Flemish weaver, would bring half the chivalry in England round us, to break lances, vow vows, display love-liveries, and I know not what follies besides.--Think you such gallants, with the blood flying through their veins like quicksilver, would much mind _my_ bidding them begone?" "Draw bolts, up with the drawbridge, drop portcullis," said the Constable, with a constrained smile. "And thinks your lordship such gallants would mind these impediments? such are the very essence of the adventures which they come to seek.--The Knight of the Swan would swim through the moat--he of the Eagle would fly over the wails--he of the Thunderbolt would burst open the gates." "Ply crossbow and mangonel," said de Lacy. "And be besieged in form," said the Fleming, "like the Castle of Tintadgel in the old hangings, all for the love of fair lady?--And then those gay dames and demoiselles, who go upon adventure from castle to castle, from tournament to tournament, with bare bosoms, flaunting plumes, poniards at their sides, and javelins in their hands, chattering like magpies, and fluttering like jays, and, ever and anon, cooing like doves--how am I to exclude such from the Lady Eveline's privacy?" "By keeping doors shut, I tell thee," answered the Constable, still in the same tone of forced jocularity; "a wooden bar will be thy warrant." "Ay, but," answered Flammock, "if the Flemish weaver say _shut_, when the Norman young lady says _open_, think which has best chance of being obeyed. At a word, my lord, for the matter of guardianship, and such like, I wash my hands of it--I would not undertake to be guardian to the chaste Susannah, though she lived in an enchanted castle, which no living thing could approach." "Thou holdest the language and thoughts," said De Lacy, "of a vulgar debauchee, who laughs at female constancy, because he has lived only with the most worthless of the sex. Yet thou shouldst know the contrary, having, as I know, a most virtuous daughter--" "Whose mother was not less so," said Wilkin, breaking in upon the Constable's speech with somewhat more emotion than he usually displayed, "But law, my lord, gave me authority to govern and direct my wife, as both law and nature give me power and charge over my daughter. That which I can govern, I can be answerable for; but how to discharge me so well of a delegated trust, is another question.--Stay at home, my good lord," continued the honest Fleming, observing that his speech made some impression upon De Lacy; "let a fool's advice for once be of avail to change a wise man's purpose, taken, let me say, in no wise hour. Remain in your own land, rule your own vassals, and protect your own bride. You only can claim her cheerful love and ready obedience; and sure I am, that, without pretending to guess what she may do if separated from you, she will, under your own eye, do the duty of a faithful and a loving spouse." "And the Holy Sepulchre?" said the Constable, with a sigh, his heart confessing the wisdom of the advice, which circumstances prevented him from following. "Let those who lost the Holy Sepulchre regain it, my lord," replied Flammock. "If those Latins and Greeks, as they call them, are no better men than I have heard, it signifies very little whether they or the heathen have the country that has cost Europe so much blood and treasure." "In good faith," said the Constable, "there is sense in what thou say'st; but I caution thee to repeat it not, lest thou be taken for a heretic or a Jew. For me, my word and oath are pledged beyond retreat, and I have only to consider whom I may best name for that important station, which thy caution has--not without some shadow of reason--induced thee to decline." "There is no man to whom your lordship can so naturally or honourably transfer such a charge," said Wilkin Flammock, "as to the kinsman near to you, and possessed of your trust; yet much better would it be were there no such trust to be reposed in any one." "If," said the Constable, "by my near kinsman, you mean Randal de Lacy, I care not if I tell you, that I consider him as totally worthless, and undeserving of honourable confidence." "Nay, I mean another," said Flammock, "nearer to you by blood, and, unless I greatly mistake, much nigher also in affection--I had in mind your lordship's nephew, Damian de Lacy." The Constable started as if a wasp had stung him; but instantly replied, with forced composure, "Damian was to have gone in my stead to Palestine--it now seems I must go in his; for, since this last illness, the leeches have totally changed their minds, and consider that warmth of the climate as dangerous, which they formerly decided to be salutary. But our learned doctors, like our learned priests, must ever be in the right, change their counsels as they may; and we poor laymen still in the wrong. I can, it is true, rely on Damian with the utmost confidence; but he is young, Flammock--very young--and in that particular, resembles but too nearly the party who might be otherwise committed to his charge." "Then once more, my lord," said the plain-spoken Fleming, "remain at home, and be yourself the protector of what is naturally so dear to you." "Once more, I repeat, that I cannot," answered the Constable. "The step which I have adopted as a great duty, may perhaps be a great error--I only know that it is irretrievable." "Trust your nephew, then, my lord," replied Wilkin--"he is honest and true; and it is better trusting young lions than old wolves. He may err, perhaps, but it will not be from premeditated treachery." "Thou art right, Flammock," said the Constable; "and perhaps I ought to wish I had sooner asked thy counsel, blunt as it is. But let what has passed be a secret betwixt us; and bethink thee of something that may advantage thee more than the privilege of speaking about my affairs." "That account will be easily settled, my lord," replied Flammock; "for my object was to ask your lordship's favour to obtain certain extensions of our privileges, in yonder wild corner where we Flemings have made our retreat." "Thou shalt have them, so they be not exorbitant," said the Constable. And the honest Fleming, among whose good qualities scrupulous delicacy was not the foremost, hastened to detail, with great minuteness, the particulars of his request or petition, long pursued in vain, but to which this interview was the means of insuring success. The Constable, eager to execute the resolution which he had formed, hastened to the lodging of Damian de Lacy, and to the no small astonishment of his nephew, intimated to him his change of destination; alleging his own hurried departure, Damian's late and present illness, together with the necessary protection to be afforded to the Lady Eveline, as reasons why his nephew must needs remain behind him--to represent him during his absence--to protect the family rights, and assert the family honour of the house of De Lacy--above all, to act as the guardian of the young and beautiful bride, whom his uncle and patron had been in some measure compelled to abandon for a time. Damian yet occupied his bed while the Constable communicated this change of purpose. Perhaps he might think the circumstance fortunate, that in this position he could conceal from his uncle's observation the various emotions which he could not help feeling; while the Constable, with the eagerness of one who is desirous of hastily finishing what he has to say on an unpleasant subject, hurried over an account of the arrangements which he had made, in order that his nephew might have the means of discharging, with sufficient effect, the important trust committed to him. The youth listened as to a voice in a dream, which he had not the power of interrupting, though there was something within him which whispered there would be both prudence and integrity in remonstrating against his uncle's alteration of plan. Something he accordingly attempted to say, when the Constable at length paused; but it was too feebly spoken to shake a resolution fully though hastily adopted and explicitly announced, by one not in the use to speak before his purpose was fixed, or to alter it when it was declared. The remonstrance of Damian, besides, if it could be termed such, was spoken in terms too contradictory to be intelligible. In one moment he professed his regret for the laurels which he had hoped to gather in Palestine, and implored his uncle not to alter his purpose, but permit him to attend his banner thither; and in the next sentence, he professed his readiness to defend the safety of Lady Eveline with the last drop of his blood. De Lacy saw nothing inconsistent in these feelings, though they were for the moment contradictory to each other. It was natural, he thought, that a young knight should be desirous to win honour--natural also that he should willingly assume a charge so honourable and important as that with which he proposed to invest him; and therefore he thought that it was no wonder that, assuming his new office willingly, the young man should yet feel regret at losing the prospect of honourable adventure, which he must abandon. He therefore only smiled in reply to the broken expostulations of his nephew; and, having confirmed his former arrangement, left the young man to reflect at leisure on his change of destination, while he himself, in a second visit to the Benedictine Abbey, communicated the purpose which he had adopted, to the Abbess, and to his bride-elect. The displeasure of the former lady was in no measure abated by this communication; in which, indeed, she affected to take very little interest. She pleaded her religious duties, and her want of knowledge of secular affairs, if she should chance to mistake the usages of the world; yet she had always, she said, understood, that the guardians of the young and beautiful of her own sex were chosen from the more mature of the other. "Your own unkindness, lady," answered the Constable, "leaves me no better choice than I have made. Since the Lady Eveline's nearest friends deny her the privilege of their roof, on account of the claim with which she has honoured me, I, on my side, were worse than ungrateful did I not secure for her the protection of my nearest male heir. Damian is young, but he is true and honourable; nor does the chivalry of England afford me a better choice." Eveline seemed surprised, and even struck with consternation, at the resolution which her bridegroom thus suddenly announced; and perhaps it was fortunate that the remark of the Lady Abbess made the answer of the Constable necessary, and prevented him from observing that her colour shifted more than once from pale to deep red. Rose, who was not excluded from the conference, drew close up to her mistress; and, by affecting to adjust her veil, while in secret she strongly pressed her hand, gave her time and encouragement to compose her mind for a reply. It was brief and decisive, and announced with a firmness which showed that the uncertainty of the moment had passed away or been suppressed. "In case of danger," she said, "she would not fail to apply to Damian de Lacy to come to her aid, as he had once done before; but she did not apprehend any danger at present, within her own secure castle of the Garde Doloureuse, where it was her purpose to dwell, attended only by her own household. She was resolved," she continued, "in consideration of her peculiar condition, to observe the strictest retirement, which she expected would not be violated even by the noble young knight who was to act as her guardian, unless some apprehension for her safety made his visit unavoidable." The Abbess acquiesced, though coldly, in a proposal, which her ideas of decorum recommended; and preparations were hastily made for the Lady Eveline's return to the castle of her father. Two interviews which intervened before her leaving the convent, were in their nature painful. The first was when Damian was formally presented to her by his uncle, as the delegate to whom he had committed the charge of his own property, and, which was much dearer to him, as he affirmed, the protection of her person and interest. Eveline scarce trusted herself with one glance; but that single look comprehended and reported to her the ravage which disease, aided by secret grief, had made on the manly form and handsome countenance of the youth before her. She received his salutation in a manner as embarrassed as that in which it was made; and, to his hesitating proffer of service, answered, that she trusted only to be obliged to him for his good-will during the interval of his uncle's absence. Her parting with the Constable was the next trial which she was to undergo. It was not without emotion, although she preserved her modest composure, and De Lacy his calm gravity of deportment. His voice faltered, however, when he came to announce, "that it were unjust she should be bound by the engagement which she had been graciously contented to abide under. Three years he had assigned for its term; to which space the Arch-bishop Baldwin had consented to shorten the period of his absence. If I appear not when these are elapsed," he said, "let the Lady Eveline conclude that the grave holds De Lacy, and seek out for her mate some happier man. She cannot find one more grateful, though there are many who better deserve her." On these terms they parted; and the Constable, speedily afterwards embarking, ploughed the narrow seas for the shores of Flanders, where he proposed to unite his forces with the Count of that rich and warlike country, who had lately taken the Cross, and to proceed by the route which should be found most practicable on their destination for the Holy Land. The broad pennon, with the arms of the Lacys, streamed forward with a favourable wind from the prow of the vessel, as if pointing to the quarter of the horizon where its renown was to be augmented; and, considering the fame of the leader, and the excellence of the soldiers who followed him, a more gallant band, in proportion to their numbers, never went to avenge on the Saracens the evils endured by the Latins of Palestine. Meanwhile Eveline, after a cold parting with the Abbess, whose offended dignity had not yet forgiven the slight regard which she had paid to her opinion, resumed her journey homeward to her paternal castle, where her household was to be arranged in a manner suggested by the Constable, and approved of by herself. The same preparations were made for her accommodation at every halting place which she had experienced upon her journey to Gloucester, and, as before, the purveyor was invisible, although she could be at little loss to guess his name. Yet it appeared as if the character of these preparations was in some degree altered. All the realities of convenience and accommodation, with the most perfect assurances of safety, accompanied her every where on the route; but they were no longer mingled with that display of tender gallantry and taste, which marked that the attentions were paid to a young and beautiful female. The clearest fountain-head, and the most shady grove, were no longer selected for the noontide repast; but the house of some franklin, or a small abbey, afforded the necessary hospitality. All seemed to be ordered with the most severe attention to rank and decorum--it seemed as if a nun of some strict order, rather than a young maiden of high quality and a rich inheritance, had been journeying through the land, and Eveline, though pleased with the delicacy which seemed thus to respect her unprotected and peculiar condition, would sometimes think it unnecessary, that, by so many indirect hints, it should be forced on her recollection. She thought it strange also, that Damian, to whose care she had been so solemnly committed, did not even pay his respects to her on the road. Something there was which whispered to her, that close and frequent intercourse might be unbecoming--even dangerous; but surely the ordinary duties of a knight and gentleman enjoined him some personal communication with the maiden under his escort, were it only to ask if her accommodations had been made to her satisfaction, or if she had any special wish which was ungratified. The only intercourse, however, which took place betwixt them, was through means of Amelot, Damian de Lacy's youthful page, who came at morning and evening to receive Eveline's commands concerning their route, and the hours of journey and repose. These formalities rendered the solitude of Eveline's return less endurable; and had it not been for the society of Rose, she would have found herself under an intolerably irksome degree of constraint. She even hazarded to her attendant some remarks upon the singularity of De Lacy's conduct, who, authorized as he was by his situation, seemed yet as much afraid to approach her as if she had been a basilisk. Rose let the first observation of this nature pass as if it had been unheard; but when her mistress made a second remark to the same purpose, she answered, with the truth and freedom of her character, though perhaps with less of her usual prudence, "Damian de Lacy judges well, noble lady. He to whom the safe keeping of a royal treasure is intrusted, should not indulge himself too often by gazing upon it." Eveline blushed, wrapt herself closer in her veil, nor did she again during their journey mention the name of Damian de Lacy. When the gray turrets of the Garde Doloureuse greeted her sight on the evening of the second day, and she once more beheld her father's banner floating from its highest watch-tower in honour of her approach, her sensations were mingled with pain; but, upon the whole, she looked towards that ancient home as a place of refuge, where she might indulge the new train of thoughts which circumstances had opened to her, amid the same scenes which had sheltered her infancy and childhood. She pressed forward her palfrey, to reach the ancient portal as soon as possible, bowed hastily to the well-known faces which showed themselves on all sides, but spoke to no one, until, dismounting at the chapel door, she had penetrated to the crypt, in which was preserved the miraculous painting. There, prostrate on the ground, she implored the guidance and protection of the Holy Virgin through those intricacies in which she had involved herself, by the fulfilment of the vow which she had made in her anguish before the same shrine. If the prayer was misdirected, its purport was virtuous and sincere; nor are we disposed to doubt that it attained that Heaven towards which it was devoutly addressed. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND The Virgin's image falls--yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, As to a visible power, in which might blend All that was mix'd, and reconciled in her, Of mother's love, with maiden's purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene. WORDSWORTH. The household of the Lady Eveline, though of an establishment becoming her present and future rank, was of a solemn and sequestered character, corresponding to her place of residence, and the privacy connected with her situation, retired as she was from the class of maidens who are yet unengaged, and yet not united with that of matrons, who enjoy the protection of a married name. Her immediate female attendants, with whom the reader is already acquainted, constituted almost her whole society. The garrison of the castle, besides household servants, consisted of veterans of tried faith, the followers of Berenger and of De Lacy in many a bloody field, to whom the duties of watching and warding were as familiar as any of their more ordinary occupations, and whose courage, nevertheless, tempered by age and experience, was not likely to engage in any rash adventure or accidental quarrel. These men maintained a constant and watchful guard, commanded by the steward, but under the eye of Father Aldrovand, who, besides discharging his ecclesiastical functions, was at times pleased to show some sparkles of his ancient military education. Whilst this garrison afforded security against any sudden attempt on the part of the Welsh to surprise the castle, a strong body of forces were disposed within a few miles of the Garde Doloureuse, ready, on the least alarm, to advance to defend the place against any more numerous body of invaders, who, undeterred by the fate of Gwenwyn, might have the hardihood to form a regular siege. To this band, which, under the eye of Damian de Lacy himself, was kept in constant readiness for action, could be added on occasion all the military force of the Marches, comprising numerous bodies of Flemings, and other foreigners, who held their establishments by military tenure. While the fortress was thus secure from hostile violence, the life of its inmates was so unvaried and simple, as might have excused youth and beauty for wishing for variety, even at the expense of some danger. The labours of the needle were only relieved by a walk round the battlements, where Eveline, as she passed arm in arm with Rose, received a military salute from each sentinel in turn, or in the court-yard, where the caps and bonnets of the domestics paid her the same respect which she received above from the pikes and javelins of the warders. Did they wish to extend their airing beyond the castle gate, it was not sufficient that doors and bridges were to be opened and lowered; there was, besides, an escort to get under arms, who, on foot or horseback as the case might require, attended for the security of the Lady Eveline's person. Without this military attendance they could not in safety move even so far as the mills, where honest Wilkln Flammock, his warlike deeds forgotten, was occupied with his mechanical labours. But if a farther disport was intended, and the Lady of the Garde Doloureuse proposed to hunt or hawk for a few hours, her safety was not confided to a guard so feeble as the garrison of the castle might afford. It was necessary that Raoul should announce her purpose to Damian by a special messenger despatched the evening before, that there might be time before daybreak to scour, with a body of light cavalry, the region in which she intended to take her pleasure; and sentinels were placed in all suspicious places while she continued in the field. In truth, she tried, upon one or two occasions, to make an excursion, without any formal annunciation of her intention; but all her purposes seemed to be known to Damian as soon as they were formed, and she was no sooner abroad than parties of archers and spearmen from his camp were seen scouring the valleys, and guarding the mountain-pass, and Damian's own, plume was usually beheld conspicuous among the distant soldiers. The formality of these preparations so much allayed the pleasure derived from the sport, that Eveline seldom resorted to amusement which was attended with such bustle, and put in motion so many persons. The day being worn out as it best might, in the evening Father Aldrovand was wont to read out of some holy legend, or from the homilies of some departed saint, such passages as he deemed fit for the hearing of his little congregation. Sometimes also he read and expounded a chapter of the Holy Scripture; but in such cases, the good man's attention was so strangely turned to the military part of the Jewish history, that he was never able to quit the books of Judges and of Kings, together with the triumphs of Judas Maccabeus; although the manner in which he illustrated the victories of the children of Israel was much more amusing to himself than edifying to his female audience. Sometimes, but rarely, Rose obtained permission for a strolling minstrel to entertain an hour with his ditty of love and chivalry; sometimes a pilgrim from a distant shrine, repaid by long tales of the wonders which he had seen in other lands, the hospitality which the Garde Doloureuse afforded; and sometimes also it happened, that the interest and intercession of the tiring-woman obtained admission for travelling merchants, or pedlars, who, at the risk of their lives, found profit by carrying from castle to castle the materials of rich dresses and female ornaments. The usual visits of mendicants, of jugglers, of travelling jesters, are not to be forgotten in this list of amusements; and though his nation subjected him to close watch and observation, even the Welsh bard, with his huge harp strung with horse-hair, was sometimes admitted to vary the uniformity of their secluded life. But, saving such amusements, and saving also the regular attendance upon the religious duties at the chapel, it was impossible for life to glide away in more wearisome monotony than at the castle of the Garde Doloureuse. Since the death of its brave owner, to whom feasting and hospitality seemed as natural as thoughts of honour and deeds of chivalry, the gloom of a convent might be said to have enveloped the ancient mansion of Raymond Berenger, were it not that the presence of so many armed warders, stalking in solemn state on the battlements, gave it rather the aspect of a state-prison; and the temper of the inhabitants gradually became infected by the character of their dwelling. The spirits of Eveline in particular felt a depression, which her naturally lively temper was quite inadequate to resist; and as her ruminations became graver, had caught that calm and contemplative manner, which is so often united with an ardent and enthusiastical temperament. She meditated deeply upon the former accidents of her life; nor can it be wondered that her thoughts repeatedly wandered back to the two several periods on which she had witnessed, or supposed that she had witnessed, a supernatural appearance. Then it was that it often seemed to her, as if a good and evil power strove for mastery over her destiny. Solitude is favourable to feelings of self-importance; and it is when alone, and occupied only with their own thoughts, that fanatics have reveries, and imagined saints lose themselves in imaginary ecstasies. With Eveline the influence of enthusiasm went not such a length, yet it seemed to her as if in the vision of the night she saw sometimes the aspect of the Lady of the Garde Doloureuse, bending upon her glances of pity, comfort, and protection; sometimes the ominous form of the Saxon castle of Baldringbam, holding up the bloody hand as witness of the injuries with which she had been treated while in life, and menacing with revenge the descendant of her murderer. On awaking from such dreams, Eveline would reflect that she was the last branch of her house--a house to which the tutelage and protection of the miraculous Image, and the enmity and evil influence of the revengeful Vanda, had been peculiarly attached for ages. It seemed to her as if she were the prize, for the disposal of which the benign saint and vindictive fiend were now to play their last and keenest game. Thus thinking, and experiencing little interruption of her meditations from any external circumstance of interest and amusement, she became pensive, absent, wrapt herself up in contemplations which withdrew her attention from the conversation around her, and walked in the world of reality like one who is still in a dream. When she thought of her engagement with the Constable of Chester, it was with resignation, but without a wish, and almost without an expectation, that she would be called upon to fulfil it. She had accomplished her vow by accepting the faith of her deliverer in exchange for her own; and although she held herself willing to redeem the pledge--nay, would scarce confess to herself the reluctance with which she thought of doing so--yet it is certain that she entertained unavowed hopes that Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse would not be a severe creditor; but, satisfied with the readiness she had shown to accomplish her vow, would not insist upon her claim in its full rigour. It would have been the blackest ingratitude, to have wished that her gallant deliverer, whom she had so much cause to pray for, should experience any of those fatalities which in the Holy Land so often changed the laurel-wreath into cypress; but other accidents chanced, when men had been long abroad, to alter those purposes with which they had left home. A strolling minstrel, who sought the Garde Doloureuse, had recited, for the amusement of the lady and household, the celebrated lay of the Count of Gleichen, who, already married in his own country, laid himself under so many obligations in the East to a Saracen princess, through whose means he achieved his freedom, that he married her also. The Pope and his conclave were pleased to approve of the double wedlock, in a case so extraordinary; and the good Count of Gleichen shared his nuptial bed between two wives of equal rank, and now sleeps between them under the same monument. The commentaries of the inmates of the castle had been various and discrepant upon this legend. Father Aldrovand considered it as altogether false, and an unworthy calumny on the head of the church, in affirming his Holiness would countenance such irregularity. Old Margery, with the tender- heartedness of an ancient nurse, wept bitterly for pity during the tale, and, never questioning either the power of the Pope or the propriety of his decision, was pleased that a mode of extrication was found for a complication of love distresses which seemed almost inextricable. Dame Gillian declared it unreasonable, that, since a woman was only allowed one husband, a man should, under any circumstances, be permitted to have two wives; while Raoul, glancing towards her a look of verjuice, pitied the deplorable idiocy of the man who could be fool enough to avail himself of such a privilege. "Peace, all the rest of you," said the Lady Eveline; "and do you, my dear Rose, tell me your judgment upon the Count of Gleichen and his two wives." Rose blushed, and replied, "She was not much accustomed to think of such matters; but that, in her apprehension, the wife who could be contented with but one half of her husband's affections, had never deserved to engage the slightest share of them." "Thou art partly right, Rose," said Eveline; "and methinks the European lady, when she found herself outshone by the young and beautiful foreign princess, would have best consulted her own dignity in resigning the place, and giving the Holy Father no more trouble than in annulling the marriage, as has been done in cases of more frequent occurrence." This she said with an air of indifference and even gaiety, which intimated to her faithful attendant with how little effort she herself could have made such a sacrifice, and served to indicate the state of her affections towards the Constable. But there was another than the Constable on whom her thoughts turned more frequently, though involuntarily, than perhaps in prudence they should have done. The recollections of Damian de Lacy had not been erased from Eveline's mind. They were, indeed, renewed by hearing his name so often mentioned, and by knowing that he was almost constantly in the neighbourhood, with his whole attention fixed upon her convenience, interest, and safety; whilst, on the other hand, so far from waiting on her in person, he never even attempted, by a direct communication with herself, to consult her pleasure, even upon what most concerned her. The messages conveyed by Father Aldrovand, or by Rose, to Amelot, Damian's page, while they gave an air of formality to their intercourse, which Eveline thought unnecessary, and even unkind, yet served to fix her attention upon the connection between them, and to keep it ever present to her memory. The remark by which Rose had vindicated the distance observed by her youthful guardian, sometimes arose to her recollection; and while her soul repelled with scorn the suspicion, that, in any case, his presence, whether at intervals or constantly, could be prejudicial to his uncle's interest, she conjured up various arguments for giving him a frequent place in her memory.--Was it not her duty to think of Damian often and kindly, as the Constable's nearest, best beloved, and most trusted relative?--Was he not her former deliverer and her present guardian?--And might he not be considered as an instrument specially employed by her divine patroness, in rendering effectual the protection with which she had graced her in more than one emergency? Eveline's mind mutinied against the restrictions which were laid on their intercourse, as against something which inferred suspicion and degradation, like the compelled seclusion to which she had heard the Paynim infidels of the East subjected their females. Why should she see her guardian only in the benefits which he conferred upon her, and the cares he took for her safety, and hear his sentiments only by the mouth of others, as if one of them had been infected with the plague, or some other fatal or infectious disorder, which might render their meeting dangerous to the other?--And if they did meet occasionally, what else could be the consequence, save that the care of a brother towards a sister --of a trusty and kind guardian to the betrothed bride of his near relative and honoured patron, might render the melancholy seclusion of the Garde Doloureuse more easy to be endured by one so young in years, and, though dejected by present circumstances, naturally so gay in temper? Yet, though this train of reasoning appeared to Eveline, when tracing it in her own mind, so conclusive, that she several times resolved to communicate her view of the case to Rose Flammock, it so chanced that, whenever she looked on the calm steady blue eye of the Flemish maiden, and remembered that her unblemished faith was mixed with a sincerity and plain dealing proof against every consideration, she feared lest she might be subjected in the opinion of her attendant to suspicions from which her own mind freed her; and her proud Norman spirit revolted at the idea of being obliged to justify herself to another, when she stood self- acquitted to her own mind. "Let things be as they are," she said; "and let us endure all the weariness of a life which might be so easily rendered more cheerful, rather than that this zealous but punctilious friend should, in the strictness and nicety of her feelings on my account, conceive me capable of encouraging an intercourse which could lead to a less worthy thought of me in the mind of the most scrupulous of man--or of womankind." But even this vacillation of opinion and resolution tended to bring the image of the handsome young Damian more frequently before the Lady Eveline's fancy, than perhaps his uncle, had he known it, would altogether have approved of. In such reflections, however, she never indulged long, ere a sense of the singular destiny which had hitherto attended her, led her back into the more melancholy contemplations from which the buoyancy of her youthful fancy had for a short time emancipated her. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD ---Ours is the skie, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall flie. RANDOLPH. One bright September morning, old Raoul was busy in the mews where he kept his hawks, grumbling all the while to himself as he surveyed the condition of each bird, and blaming alternately the carelessness of the under-falconer, and the situation of the building, and the weather, and the wind, and all things around him, for the dilapidation which time and disease had made in the neglected hawking establishment of the Garde Doloureuse. While in these unpleasing meditations, he was surprised by the voice of his beloved Dame Gillian, who seldom was an early riser, and yet more rarely visited him when he was in his sphere of peculiar authority. "Raoul, Raoul! where art thou, man?--Ever to seek for, when thou canst make aught of advantage for thyself or me!" "And what want'st thou, dame?" said Raoul, "what means thy screaming worse than the seagull before wet weather? A murrain on thy voice! it is enough to fray every hawk from the perch." "Hawk!" answered Dame Gillian; "it is time to be looking for hawks, when here is a cast of the bravest falcons come hither for sale, that ever flew by lake, brook, or meadow!" "Kites! like her that brings the news," said Raoul. "No, nor kestrils like him that hears it," replied Gillian; "but brave jerfalcons, with large nares, strongly armed, and beaks short and something bluish--" "Pshaw, with thy jargon!--Where came they from?" said Raoul, interested in the tidings, but unwilling to give his wife the satisfaction of seeing that he was so. "From the Isle of Man," replied Gillian. "They must be good, then, though it was a woman brought tidings of them," said Raoul, smiling grimly at his own wit; then, leaving the mews, he demanded to know where this famous falcon-merchant was to be met withal. "Why, between the barriers and the inner gate," replied Gillian, "where other men are admitted that have wares to utter--Where should he be?" "And who let him in?" demanded the suspicious Raoul. "Why, Master Steward, thou owl!" said Gillian; "he came but now to my chamber, and sent me hither to call you." "Oh, the steward--the steward--I might have guessed as much. And he came to thy chamber, doubtless, because he could not have as easily come hither to me himself.--Was it not so, sweetheart?" "I do not know why he chose to come to me rather than to you, Raoul," said Gillian; "and if I did know, perhaps I would not tell you. Go to--miss your bargain, or make your bargain, I care not which--the man will not wait for you--he has good proffers from the Seneschal of Malpas, and the Welsh Lord of Dinevawr." "I come--I come," said Raoul, who felt the necessity of embracing this opportunity of improving his hawking establishment, and hastened to the gate, where he met the merchant, attended by a servant, who kept in separate cages the three falcons which he offered for sale. The first glance satisfied Raoul that they were of the best breed in Europe, and that, if their education were in correspondence to their race, there could scarce be a more valuable addition even to a royal mews. The merchant did not fail to enlarge upon all their points of excellence; the breadth of their shoulders, the strength of their train, their full and fierce dark eyes, the boldness with which they endured the approach of strangers, and the lively spirit and vigour with which they pruned their plumes, and shook, or, as it was technically termed, roused themselves. He expatiated on the difficulty and danger with which they were obtained from the rock of Ramsey, on which they were bred, and which was an every unrivalled even on the coast of Norway. Raoul turned apparently a deaf ear to all these commendations. "Friend merchant," said he, "I know a falcon as well as thou dost, and I will not deny that thine are fine ones; but if they be not carefully trained and reclaimed, I would rather have a goss-hawk on my perch than the fairest falcon that ever stretched wing to weather." "I grant ye," said the merchant; "but if we agree on the price, for that is the main matter, thou shalt see the birds fly if thou wilt, and then buy them or not as thou likest. I am no true merchant if thou ever saw'st birds beat them, whether at the mount or the stoop." "That I call fair," said Raoul, "if the price be equally so." "It shall be corresponding," said the hawk-merchant; "for I have brought six casts from the island, by the good favour of good King Reginald of Man, and I have sold every feather of them save these; and so, having emptied my cages and filled my purse, I desire not to be troubled longer with the residue; and if a good fellow and a judge, as thou seemest to be, should like the hawks when he has seen them fly, he shall have the price of his own making." "Go to," said Raoul, "we will have no blind bargains; my lady, if the hawks be suitable, is more able to pay for them than thou to give them away. Will a bezant be a conformable price for the cast?" "A bezant, Master Falconer!--By my faith, you are no bold bodesman! nevertheless, double your offer, and I will consider it." "If the hawks are well reclaimed," said Raoul, "I will give you a bezant and a half; but I will see them strike a heron ere I will be so rash as to deal with you." "It is well," said the merchant, "and I had better take your offer than be longer cumbered with them; for were I to carry them into Wales, I might get paid in a worse fashion by some of their long knives.--Will you to horse presently?" "Assuredly," said Raoul; "and, though March be the fitter month for hawking at the heron, yet I will show you one of these frogpeckers for the trouble of riding the matter of a mile by the water-side." "Content, Sir Falconer," said the merchant. "But are we to go alone, or is there no lord or lady in the castle who would take pleasure to see a piece of game gallantly struck? I am not afraid to show these hawks to a countess." "My lady used to love the sport well enough," said Raoul; "but, I wot not why, she is moped and mazed ever since her father's death, and lives in her fair castle like a nun in a cloister, without disport or revelry of any kind. Nevertheless, Gillian, thou canst do something with her-- good now, do a kind deed for once, and move her to come out and look on this morning's sport--the poor heart hath seen no pastime this summer." "That I will do," quoth Gillian; "and, moreover, I will show her such a new riding-tire for the head, that no woman born could ever look at without the wish to toss it a little in the wind." As Gillian spoke, it appeared to her jealous-pated husband that he surprised a glance of more intelligence exchanged betwixt her and the trader than brief acquaintance seemed to warrant, even when allowance was made for the extreme frankness of Dame Gillian's disposition. He thought also, that, on looking more closely at the merchant, his lineaments were not totally unknown to him; and proceeded to say to him dryly, "We have met before, friend, but I cannot call to remembrance where." "Like enough," said the merchant; "I have used this country often, and may have taken money of you in the way of trade. If I were in fitting place, I would gladly bestow a bottle of wine to our better acquaintance." "Not so fast, friend," said the old huntsman; "ere I drink to better acquaintance with any one, I must be well pleased with what I already know of him. We will see thy hawks fly, and if their breeding match thy bragging, we may perhaps crush a cup together. --And here come grooms and equerries, in faith--my lady has consented to come forth." The opportunity of seeing this rural pastime had offered itself to Eveline, at a time when the delightful brilliancy of the day, the temperance of the air, and the joyous work of harvest, proceeding in every direction around, made the temptation to exercise almost irresistible. As they proposed to go no farther than the side of the neighbouring river, near the fatal bridge, over which a small guard of infantry was constantly maintained, Eveline dispensed with any farther escort, and, contrary to the custom of the castle, took no one in her train save Rose and Gillian, and one or two servants, who led spaniels, or carried appurtenances of the chase. Raoul, the merchant, and an equerry, attended her of course, each holding a hawk on his wrist, and anxiously adjusting the mode in which they should throw them off, so as best to ascertain the extent of their powers and training. When these important points had been adjusted, the party rode down the river, carefully looking on every side for the object of their game; but no heron was seen stalking on the usual haunts of the bird, although there was a heronry at no great distance. Few disappointments of a small nature are more teasing than that of a sportsman, who, having set out with all means and appliances for destruction of game, finds that there is none to be met with; because he conceives himself, with his full shooting trim, and his empty game-pouch, to be subjected to the sneer of every passing rustic. The party of the Lady Eveline felt all the degradation of such disappointment. "A fair country this," said the merchant, "where, on two miles of river, you cannot find one poor heron!" "It is the clatter those d--d Flemings make with their water-mills and fulling-mills," said Raoul; "they destroy good sport and good company wherever they come. But were my lady willing to ride a mile or so farther to the Red Pool, I could show you a long- shanked fellow who would make your hawks cancelier till their brains were giddy." "The Red Pool!" said Rose; "thou knowest it is more than three miles beyond the bridge, and lies up towards the hills." "Ay, ay," said Raoul, "another Flemish freak to spoil pastime! They are not so scarce on the Marches these Flemish wenches, that they should fear being hawked at by Welsh haggards." "Raoul is right, Rose," answered Eveline; "it is absurd to be cooped uplike birds in a cage, when all around us has been so uniformly quiet. I am determined to break out of bounds for once, and see sport in our old fashion, without being surrounded with armed men like prisoners of state. We will merrily to the Red Pool, wench, and kill a heron like free maids of the Marches." "Let me but tell my father, at least, to mount and follow us," said Rose--for they were now near the re-established manufacturing houses of the stout Fleming. "I care not if thou dost, Rose," said Eveline; "yet credit me, girl, we will be at the Red Pool, and thus far on our way home again, ere thy father has donned his best doublet, girded on his two-handed sword, and accoutred his strong Flanderkin elephant of a horse, which he judiciously names Sloth--nay, frown not, and lose not, in justifying thy father, the time that may be better spent in calling him out." Rose rode to the mills accordingly, when Wilkin Flammock, at the command of his liege mistress, readily hastened to get his steel cap and habergeon, and ordered half-a-dozen of his kinsmen and servants to get on horseback. Rose remained with him, to urge him to more despatch than his methodical disposition rendered natural to him; but in spite of all her efforts to stimulate him, the Lady Eveline had passed the bridge more than half an hour ere her escort was prepared to follow her. Meanwhile, apprehensive of no evil, and riding gaily on, with the sensation of one escaped from confinement, Eveline moved forward on her lively jennet, as light as a lark; the plumes with which Dame Gillian had decked her riding-bonnet dancing in the wind, and her attendants galloping behind her, with dogs, pouches, lines, and all other appurtenances of the royal sport of hawking. After passing the river, the wild green-sward path which they pursued began to wind upward among small eminences, some-times bare and craggy, sometimes overgrown with hazel, sloethorn, and other dwarf shrubs, and at length suddenly descending, brought them to the verge of a mountain rivulet, that, like a lamb at play, leapt merrily from rock to rock, seemingly uncertain which way to run. "This little stream was always my favourite, Dame Gillian," said Eveline, "and now methinks it leaps the lighter that it sees me again." "Ah! lady," said Dame Gillian, whose turn for conversation never ex-tended in such cases beyond a few phrases of gross flattery, "many a fair knight would leap shoulder-height for leave to look on you as free as the brook may! more especially now that you have donned that riding-cap, which, in exquisite delicacy of invention, methinks, is a bow-shot before aught that I ever invented--What thinkest thou, Raoul?" "I think," answered her well-natured helpmate, "that women's tongues were contrived to drive all the game out of the country.-- Here we come near to the spot where we hope to speed, or no where; wherefore, pray, my sweet lady, be silent yourself, and keep your followers as much so as their natures will permit, while we steal along the bank of the pool, under the wind, with our hawks' hoods cast loose, all ready for a flight." As he spoke, they advanced about a hundred yards up the brawling stream, until the little vale through which it flowed, making a very sudden turn to one side, showed them the Red Pool, the superfluous water of which formed the rivulet itself. This mountain-lake, or tarn, as it is called in some countries, was a deep basin of about a mile in circumference, but rather oblong than circular. On the side next to our falconers arose a ridge of rock, of a dark red hue, giving name to the pool, which, reflecting this massive and dusky barrier, appeared to partake of its colour. On the opposite side was a heathy hill, whose autumnal bloom had not yet faded from purple to russet; its surface was varied by the dark green furze and the fern, and in many places gray cliffs, or loose stones of the same colour, formed a contrast to the ruddy precipice to which they lay opposed. A natural road of beautiful sand was formed by a beach, which, extending all the way around the lake, separated its waters from the precipitous rock on the one hand, and on the other from the steep and broken hill; and being no where less than five or six yards in breadth, and in most places greatly more, offered around its whole circuit a tempting opportunity to the rider, who desired to exercise and breathe the horse on which he was mounted. The verge of the pool on the rocky side was here and there strewed with fragments of large size, detached from the precipice above, but not in such quantity as to encumber this pleasant horse-course. Many of these rocky masses, having passed the margin of the water in their fall, lay immersed there like small islets; and, placed amongst a little archipelago, the quick eye of Raoul detected the heron which they were in search of. A moment's consultation was held to consider in what manner they should approach the sad and solitary bird, which, unconscious that itself was the object of a formidable ambuscade, stood motionless on a stone, by the brink of the lake, watching for such small fish or water-reptiles as might chance to pass by its lonely station. A brief debate took place betwixt Raoul and the hawk-merchant on the best mode of starting the quarry, so as to allow Lady Eveline and her attendants the most perfect view of the flight. The facility of killing the heron at the _far jettee_ or at the _jettee ferre_--that is, upon the hither or farther sid of the pool-- was anxiously debated in language of breathless importance, as if some great and perilous enterprise was about to be executed. At length the arrangements were fixed, and the party began to advance towards the aquatic hermit, who, by this time aware of their approach, drew himself up to his full height, erected his long lean neck, spread his broad fan-like wings, uttered his usual clanging cry, and, projecting his length of thin legs far behind him, rose upon the gentle breeze. It was then, with a loud whoop of encouragement, that the merchant threw off the noble hawk he bore, having first unhooded her to give her a view of her quarry. Eager as a frigate in chase of some rich galleon, darted the falcon towards the enemy, which she had been taught to pursue; while, preparing for defence, if he should be unable to escape by flight, the heron exerted all his powers of speed to escape from an enemy so formidable. Plying his almost unequalled strength of wing, he ascended high and higher in the air, by short gyrations, that the hawk might gain no vantage ground for pouncing at him; while his spiked beak, at the extremity of so long a neck as enabled him to strike an object at a yard's distance in every direction, possessed for any less spirited assailant all the terrors of a Moorish javelin. Another hawk was now thrown off, and encouraged by the halloos of the falconer to join her companion. Both kept mounting, or scaling the air, as it were, by a succession of small circles, endeavoring to gain that superior height which the heron on his part was bent to preserve; and to the exquisite delight of the spectators, the contest was continued until all three were well-nigh mingled with the fleecy clouds, from which was occasionally heard the harsh and plaintive cry of the quarry, appealing as it were to the heaven which he was approaching, against the wanton cruelty of those by whom he was persecuted. At length on of the falcons had reached a pitch from which she ventured to stoop at the heron; but so judiciously did the quarry maintain his defence, as to receive on his beak the stroke which the falcon, shooting down at full descent, had made against his right wing; so that one of his enemies, spiked through the body by his own weight, fell fluttering into the lake, very near the land, on the side farthest from the falconers, and perished there. "There goes a gallant falcon to the fishes," said Raoul. "Merchant, thy cake is dough." Even as he spoke, however, the remaining bird had avenged the fate of her sister; for the success which the heron met with on one side, did not prevent his being assailed on the other wing; and the falcon stooping boldly, and grappling with, or, as it is called in falconry, _binding_ his prey, both came tumbling down together, from a great height in the air. It was then no small object on the part of the falconers to come in as soon as possible, lest the falcon should receive hurt from the beak or talons of the heron; and the whole party, the men setting spurs, and the females switching their palfreys, went off like the wind, sweeping along the fair and smooth beach betwixt the rock and the water. Lady Eveline, far better mounted than any of her train, her spirits elated by the sport, and by the speed at which she moved, was much sooner than any of her attendants at the spot where the falcon and heron, still engaged in their mortal struggle, lay fighting upon the moss; the wing of the latter having been broken by the stoop of the former. The duty of a falconer in such a crisis was to run in and assist the hawk, by thrusting the heron's bill into the earth, and breaking his legs, and thus permitting the falcon to dispatch him on easy terms. Neither would the sex nor quality of the Lady Eveline have excused her becoming second to the falcon in this cruel manner; but, just as she had dismounted for that purpose, she was surprised to find herself seized on by wild form, who exclaimed in Welsh, that he seized her as a _waif_, for hawking on the demesnes of Dawfyd with the one eye. At the same time many other Welshmen, to the number of more than a score, showed them-selves from behind crags and bushes, all armed at point with the axes called Welsh hooks, long knives, darts, and bows and arrows. Eveline screamed to her attendants for assistance, and at the same time made use of what Welsh phrases she possessed, to move the fears or excite the compassion of the outlawed mountaineers, for she doubted not that she had fallen under the power of such a party. When she found her requests were unheeded, and she perceived it was their purpose to detain her prisoner, she disdained to use farther entreaties, but demanded at their peril that they should treat her with respect, promising in that case that she would pay them a large ransom, and threatening them with the vengeance of the Lords Marchers, and particularly of Sir Damian de Lacy, if they ventured to use her otherwise. The men seemed to understand her, and although they proceeded to tie a bandage over her eyes, and to bind her arms with her own veil, yet they observed in these acts of violence a certain delicacy and attention both to her feelings and her safety, which led her to hope that her request had had some effect on them. They secured her to the saddle of her palfrey, and led her away with them through the recesses of the hills; while she had the additional distress to hear behind her the noise of a conflict, occasioned by the fruitless efforts of her retinue to procure her rescue. Astonishment had at first seized the hawking party, when they saw from some distance their sport interrupted by a violent assault on their mistress. Old Raoul valiantly put spurs to his horse, and calling on the rest to follow him to the rescue, rode furiously towards the banditti; but, having no other arms save a hawking- pole and short sword, he and those who followed him in his meritorious but ineffectual attempt were easily foiled, and Raoul and one or two of the foremost severely beaten; the banditti exercising upon them their own poles till they were broken to splinters, but generously abstaining from the use of more dangerous weapons. The rest of the retinue, completely discouraged, dispersed to give the alarm, and the merchant and Dame Gillian remained by the lake, filling the air with shrieks of useless fear and sorrow. The outlaws, meanwhile, drawing together in a body, shot a few arrows at the fugitives, but more to alarm than to injure them, and then marched off in a body, as if to cover their companions who had gone before, with the Lady Eveline in their custody. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. Four ruffians seized me yester morn-- Alas! a maiden most forlorn! They choked my cries with wicked might, And bound me on a palfrey white. COLERIDGE. Such adventures as are now only recorded in works of mere fiction, were not uncommon in the feudal ages, when might was so universally superior to right; and it followed that those whose conditions exposed them to frequent violence, were more prompt in repelling, and more patient in enduring it, than could otherwise have been expected from their sex and age. The Lady Eveline felt that she was a prisoner, nor was she devoid of fears concerning the purposes of this assault; but she suffered neither her alarm, nor the violence with which she was hurried along, to deprive her of the power of observing and reflecting. From the noise of hoofs which now increased around, she concluded that the greater part of the ruffians by whom she had been seized had betaken themselves to their horses. This she knew was consonant to the practice of the Welsh marauders, who, although the small size and slightness of their nags made them totally unfit for service in battle, availed themselves of their activity and sureness of foot to transport them with the necessary celerity to and from the scenes of their rapine; ensuring thus a rapid and unperceived approach, and a secure and speedy retreat. These animals traversed without difficulty, and beneath the load of a heavy soldier, the wild mountain paths by which the country was intersected, and in one of which Lady Eveline Berenger concluded she was now engaged, from the manner in which her own palfrey, supported by a man on foot at either rein, seemed now to labour up some precipice, and anon to descend with still greater risk on the other side. At one of those moments, a voice which she had not yet distinguished addressed her in the Anglo-Norman language, and asked, with apparent interest, if she sat safely on her saddle, offering at the same time to have her accoutrements altered at her pleasure and convenience. "Insult not my condition with the mention of safety," said Eveline; "you may well believe that I hold my safety altogether irreconcilable with these deeds of violence. If I or my vassals have done injury to any of the _Gymry_, [Footnote: Cymbri, or Welsh.] let me know, and it shall be amended--If it is ransom which you desire, name the sum, and I will send an order to treat for it; but detain me not prisoner, for that can but injure me, and will avail you nothing." "The Lady Eveline," answered the voice, still in a tone of courtesy inconsistent with the violence which she sustained, "will speedily find that our actions are more rough than purposes." "If you know who I am," said Eveline, "you cannot doubt that this atrocity will be avenged--you must know by whose banner my lands are at present protected." "Under De Lacy's," answered the voice, with a tone of indifference "Be it so--falcons fear not falcons." At this moment there was a halt, and a confused murmur arose amongst those around her, who had hitherto been silent, unless when muttering to each other in Welsh, and as briefly as possible, directions which way to hold, or encouragement to use haste. These murmurs ceased, and there was a pause of several minutes; at length Eveline again heard the voice which formerly addressed her, giving directions which she could not understand. He then spoke to herself, "You will presently see," he said, "whether I have spoken truly, when I said I scorned the ties by which you are fettered. But you are at once the cause of strife and the reward of victory-- your safety must be cared for as time will admit; and, strange as the mode of protection is to which we are to intrust you, I trust the victor in the approaching struggle will find you uninjured." "Do not, for the sake of the blessed Virgin, let there be strife and bloodshed!" said Eveline; "rather unbind my eyes, and let me speak to those whose approach you dread. If friends, as it would seem to me, I will be the means of peace between you." "I despise peace," replied the speaker. "I have not undertaken a resolute and daring adventure, to resign it as a child doth his plaything, at the first frown of fortune. Please to alight, noble lady; or rather be not offended that I thus lift you from thy seat, and place you on the greensward." As he spoke, Eveline felt herself lifted from her palfrey, and placed carefully and safely on the ground, in a sitting posture. A moment after, the same peremptory valet who had aided her to dismount, disrobed her of her cap, the masterpiece of Dame Gillian, and of her upper mantle. "I must yet farther require you," said the bandit leader, "to creep on hands and knees into this narrow aperture. Believe me, I regret the nature of the singular fortification to which I commit your person for safety." Eveline crept forwards as directed, conceiving resistance to be of no avail, and thinking that compliance with the request of one who spoke like a person of consequence, might find her protection against the unbridled fury of the Welsh, to whom she was obnoxious, as being the cause of Gwenwyn's death, and the defeat of the Britons under the walls of the Garde Doloureuse. She crept then forwards through a narrow and damp passage, built on either side with rough stones, and so low that she could not have entered it in any other posture. When she had proceeded about two or three yards, the passage opened into a concavity or apartment, high enough to permit her to sit at her ease, and of irregular, but narrow, dimensions. At the same time she became sensible, from the noise which she heard behind her, that the ruffians were stopping up the passage by which she had been thus introduced into the bowels of the earth. She could distinctly hear the clattering of stone with which they closed the entrance, and she became sensible that the current of fresh air, which had rushed through the opening, was gradually failing, and that the atmosphere of the subterranean apartment became yet more damp, earthy, and oppressive than at first. At this moment came a distant sound from without, in which Eveline thought she could distinguish cries, blows, the trampling of horse, the oaths, shouts, and screams of the combatants, but all deadened by the rude walls of her prison, into a confused hollow murmur, conveying such intelligence to her ears as we may suppose the dead to hear from the world they have quitted. Influenced by desperation, under circumstances so dreadful, Eveline struggled for liberty with such frantic energy, that she partly effected her purpose by forcing her arms from the bonds which confined them. But this only convinced her of the impossibility to escape; for, rending off the veil which wrapped her head, she found herself in total darkness, and flinging her arms hastily around her, she discovered she was cooped up in a subterranean cavern, of very narrow dimensions. Her hands, which groped around, encountered only pieces of decayed metal, and a substance which, at another moment, would have made her shudder, being, in truth, the mouldering bones of the dead. At present, not even this circumstance could add to her fears, immured as she seemed to be, to perish by a strange and subterranean death, while her friends and deliverers were probably within a few yards of her. She flung her arms wildly around in search of some avenue of escape, but every effort she made for liberating herself from the ponderous circumvallation, was as ineffectual as if directed against the dome of a cathedral. The noise by which her ears were at first assailed increased rapidly, and at one moment it seemed as if the covering of the vault under which she lay sounded repeatedly to blows, or the shock of substances which had fallen, or been thrown, against it. It was impossible that a human brain could have withstood these terrors, operating upon it so immediately; but happily this extremity lasted not long. Sounds, more hollow, and dying away in distance, argued that one or other of the parties had retreated; and at length all was silent. Eveline was now left to the undisturbed contemplation of her own disastrous situation. The fight was over, and, as circumstances led her to infer, her own friends were conquerors; for otherwise the victor would have relieved her from her place of confinement, and carried her away captive with him, as his words had menaced. But what could the success of her faithful friends and followers avail Eveline, who, pent up under a place of concealment which, whatever was its character, must have escaped their observation, was left on the field of battle, to become again the prize of the enemy, should their band venture to return, or die in darkness and privation, a death as horrid as ever tyrant invented, or martyr underwent, and which the unfortunate young lady could not even bear to think of without a prayer that her agony might at least be shortened. In this hour of dread she recollected the poniard which she wore, and the dark thought crossed her mind, that, when life became hopeless, a speedy death was at least within her reach. As her soul shuddered at so dreadful an alternative, the question suddenly occurred, might not this weapon be put to a more hallowed use, and aid her emancipation, instead of abridging her sufferings? This hope once adopted, the daughter of Raymond Berenger hastened to prove the experiment, and by repeated efforts succeeded, though with difficulty, in changing her posture, so as to admit of her inspecting her place of confinement all around, but particularly the passage by which she had entered, and by which she now attempted again to return to the light of day. She crept to the extremity, and found it, as she expected, strongly blocked up with large stones and earth, rammed together in such a manner as nearly to extinguish all hope of escape. The work, however, had been hastily performed, and life and liberty were prizes to stimulate exertion. With her poniard she cleared away the earth and sods-- with her hands, little accustomed to such labour, she removed several stones, and advanced in her task so far as to obtain a glimmering of light, and, what was scarce less precious, a supply of purer air. But, at the same time, she had the misfortune to ascertain, that, from the size and massiveness of a huge stone which closed the extremity of the passage, there was no hope that her unassisted strength could effect her extrication. Yet her condition was improved by the admission of air and light, as well as by the opportunity afforded of calling out for assistance. Such cries, indeed, were for some time uttered in vain--the field had probably been left to the dead and the dying; for low and indistinct groans were the only answer which she received for several minutes. At length, as she repeated her exclamation, a voice, faint as that of one just awakened from a swoon, pronounced these words in answer:--"Edris of the Earthen House, dost thou call from thy tomb to the wretch who just hastens to his own?--Are the boundaries broken down which connect me with the living?--And do I already hear, with fleshly ears, the faint and screaming accents of the dead?" "It is no spirit who speaks," replied Eveline, overjoyed at finding she could at least communicate her existence to a living person--"no spirit, but a most unhappy maiden, Eveline Berenger by name, immured beneath this dark vault, and in danger to perish horribly, unless God send me rescue!" "Eveline Berenger!" exclaimed he whom she addressed, in the accents of wonder. "It is impossible!--I watched her green mantle --I watched her plumy bonnet as I saw her hurried from the field, and felt my own inability to follow to the rescue; nor did force or exertion altogether leave me till the waving of the robe and the dancing of the feathers were lost to my eyes, and all hope of rescuing her abandoned my heart." "Faithful vassal, or right true friend, or courteous stranger, whichsoever I may name thee," answered Eveline, "know thou hast been abused by the artifices of these Welsh banditti--the mantle and head-gear of Eveline Berenger they have indeed with them, and may have used them to mislead those true friends, who, like thee, are anxious for my fate. Wherefore, brave sir, devise some succour, if thou canst, for thyself and me; since I dread that these ruffians, when they shall have escaped immediate pursuit, will return hither, like the robber to the hoard where he has deposited his stolen booty." "Now, the Holy Virgin be praised," said the wounded man, "that I can spend the last breath of my life in thy just and honourable service! I would not before blow my bugle, lest I recalled from the pursuit to the aid of my worthless self some of those who might be effectually engaged in thy rescue; may Heaven grant that the recall may now be heard, that my eyes may yet see the Lady Eveline in safety and liberty!" The words, though spoken in a feeble tone, breathed a spirit of enthusiasm, and were followed by the blast of a horn, faintly winded, to which no answer was made save the echoing of the dell. A sharper and louder blast was then sent forth, but sunk so suddenly, that it seemed the breath of him who sounded the instrument had failed in the effort.--A strange thought crossed Eveline's mind even in that moment of uncertainty and terror. "That," she said, "was the note of a De Lacy--surely you cannot be my gentle kinsman, Sir Damian?" "I am that unhappy wretch, deserving of death for the evil care which I have taken of the treasure intrusted to me.--What was my business to trust to reports and messengers? I should have worshipped the saint who was committed to my keeping, with such vigilance as avarice bestows on the dross which he calls treasure --I should have rested no where, save at your gate; outwatched the brightest stars in the horizon; unseen and unknown myself, I should never have parted from your neighbourhood; then had you not been in the present danger, and--much less important consequence-- thou, Damian de Lacy, had not filled the grave of a forsworn and negligent caitiff!" "Alas! noble Damian," said Eveline, "break not my heart by blaming yourself for an imprudence which is altogether my own. Thy succour was ever near when I intimated the least want of it; and it imbitters my own misfortune to know that my rashness has been the cause of your disaster. Answer me, gentle kinsman, and give me to hope that the wounds you have suffered are such as may be cured.-- Alas! how much of your blood have I seen spilled, and what a fate is mine, that I should ever bring distress on all for whom I would most willingly sacrifice my own happiness!--But do not let us imbitter the moments given us in mercy, by fruitless repinings-- Try what you can to stop thine ebbing blood, which is so dear to England--to Eveline--and to thine uncle." Damian groaned as she spoke, and was silent; while, maddened with the idea that he might be perishing for want of aid, Eveline repeated her efforts to extricate herself for her kinsman's assistance as well as her own. It was all in vain, and she had ceased the attempt in despair; and, passing from one hideous subject of terror to another, she sat listening, with sharpened ear, for the dying groan of Damian, when--feeling of ecstasy!--the ground was shaken with horses' feet advancing rapidly. Yet this joyful sound, if decisive of life, did not assure her of liberty-- It might be the banditti of the mountains returning to seek their captive. Even then they would surely allow her leave to look upon and bind up the wounds of Damian de Lacy; for to keep him as a captive might vantage them more in many degrees, than could his death. A horseman came up--Eveline invoked his assistance, and the first word she heard was an exclamation in Flemish from the faithful Wilkin Flammock, which nothing save some spectacle of the most unusual kind was ever known to compel from that phlegmatic person. His presence, indeed, was particularly useful on this occasion; for, being informed by the Lady Eveline in what condition she was placed, and implored at the same time to look to the situation of Sir Damian de Lacy, he began, with admirable composure and some skill, to stop the wounds of the one, while his attendants collected levers, left by the Welsh as they retreated, and were soon ready to attempt the liberation of Eveline. With much caution, and under the experienced direction of Flammock, the stone was at length so much raised, that the Lady Eveline was visible, to the delight of all, and especially of the faithful Rose, who, regardless of the risk of personal harm, fluttered around her mistress's place of confinement, like a bird robbed of her nestlings around the cage in which the truant urchin has imprisoned them. Precaution was necessary to remove the stone, lest falling inwards it might do the lady injury. At length the rocky fragment was so much displaced that she could issue forth; while her people, as in hatred of the coercion which she had sustained, ceased not to heave, with bar and lever, till, totally destroying the balance of the heavy mass, it turned over from the little flat on which it had been placed at the mouth of the subterranean entrance, and, acquiring force as it revolved down a steep declivity, was at length put into rapid motion, and rolled, crashed, and thundered, down the hill, amid flashes of fire which it forced from the rocks, and clouds of smoke and dust, until it alighted in the channel of a brook, where it broke into several massive fragments, with a noise that might have been heard some miles off. With garments rent and soiled through the violence which she had sustained; with dishevelled hair, and disordered dress; faint from the stifling effect of her confinement, and exhausted by the efforts she had made to relieve herself, Eveline did not, nevertheless, waste a single minute in considering her own condition; but with the eagerness of a sister hastening to the assistance of her only brother, betook herself to examine the several severe wounds of Damian de Lacy, and to use proper means to stanch the blood and recall him from his swoon. We have said elsewhere, that, like other ladies of the time, Eveline was not altogether unacquainted with the surgical art, and she now displayed a greater share of knowledge than she had been thought capable of exerting. There was prudence, foresight, and tenderness, in every direction which she gave, and the softness of the female sex, with their officious humanity, ever ready to assist in alleviating human misery, seemed in her enhanced, and rendered dignified, by the sagacity of a strong and powerful understanding. After hearing with wonder for a minute or two the prudent and ready-witted directions of her mistress, Rose seemed at once to recollect that the patient should not be left to the exclusive care of the Lady Eveline, and joining, therefore, in the task, she rendered what assistance she could, while the attendants were employed in forming a litter, on which the wounded knight was to be conveyed to the castle of the Garde Doloureuse. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. A merry place, 'tis said, in times of yore, But something ails it now--the place is cursed. WORDSWORTH. The place on which the skirmish had occurred, and the deliverance of the Lady Eveline had been effected, was a wild and singular spot, being a small level plain, forming a sort of stage, or resting-place, between two very rough paths, one of which winded up the rivulet from below, and another continued the ascent above. Being surrounded by hills and woods, it was a celebrated spot for finding game, and, in former days, a Welsh prince, renowned for his universal hospitality, his love of _crw_ and of the chase, had erected a forest-lodge, where he used to feast his friends and followers with a profusion unexampled in Cambria. The fancy of the bards, always captivated with magnificence, and having no objections to the peculiar species of profusion practised by this potentate, gave him the surname of Edris of the Goblets; and celebrated him in their odes in terms as high as those which exalt the heroes of the famous Hirlas Horn. The subject of their praises, however, fell finally a victim to his propensities, having been stabbed to the heart in one of those scenes of confusion and drunkenness which were frequently the conclusion of his renowned banquets. Shocked at this catastrophe, the assembled Britons interred the relics of the Prince on the place where he had died, within the narrow vault where Eveline had been confined, and having barricaded the entrance of the sepulchre with fragments of rock, heaped over it an immense _cairn_, or pile of stones, on the summit of which they put the assassin to death. Superstition guarded the spot; and for many a year this memorial of Edris remained unviolated, although the lodge had gone to ruin, and its vestiges had totally decayed. In latter years, some prowling band of Welsh robbers had discovered the secret entrance, and opened it with the view of ransacking the tomb for arms and treasures, which were in ancient times often buried with the dead. These marauders were disappointed, and obtained nothing by the violation of the grave of Edris, excepting the knowledge of a secret place, which might be used for depositing their booty, or even as a place of retreat for one of their number in a case of emergency. When the followers of Damian, five or six in number, explained their part of the history of the day to Wilkin Flammock, it appeared that Damian had ordered them to horse at break of day, with a more considerable body, to act, as they understood, against a party of insurgent peasants, when of a sudden he had altered his mind, and, dividing his force into small bands, employed himself and them in reconnoitring more than one mountain-pass betwixt Wales and the Marches of the English country, in the neighbourhood of the Garde Doloureuse. This was an occupation so ordinary for him, that it excited no particular notice. These manoeuvres were frequently undertaken by the warlike marchers, for the purpose of intimidating the Welsh, in general, more especially the bands of outlaws, who, independent of any regular government, infested these wild frontiers. Yet it escaped not comment, that, in undertaking such service at this moment, Damian seemed to abandon that of dispersing the insurgents, which had been considered as the chief object of the day. It was about noon, when, falling in, as good fortune would have it, with one of the fugitive grooms, Damian and his immediate attendants received information of the violence committed on the Lady Eveline, and, by their perfect knowledge of the country, wore able to intercept the ruffians at the Pass of Edris, as it was called, by which the Welsh rovers ordinarily returned to their strongholds in the interior. It is probable that the banditti were not aware of the small force which Damian headed in person, and at the same time knew that there would be an immediate and hot pursuit in their rear; and these circumstances led their leader to adopt the singular expedient of hiding Eveline in the tomb, while one of their own number, dressed in her clothes, might serve as a decoy to deceive their assailants, and lead them, from the spot where she was really concealed, to which it was no doubt the purpose of the banditti to return, when they had eluded their pursuers. Accordingly, the robbers had already drawn up before the tomb for the purpose of regularly retreating, until they should find some suitable place either for making a stand, or where, if overmatched, they might, by abandoning their horses, and dispersing among the rocks, evade the attack of the Norman cavalry. Their plan had been defeated by the precipitation of Damian, who, beholding as he thought the plumes and mantle of the Lady Eveline in the rear of the party, charged them without considering either the odds of numbers, or the lightness of his own armour, which, consisting only of a headpiece and a buff surcoat, offered but imperfect resistance to the Welsh knives and glaives. He was accordingly wounded severely at the onset, and would have been slain, but for the exertions of his few followers, and the fears of the Welsh, that, while thus continuing the battle in front, they might be assaulted in the rear by the followers of Eveline, whom they must now suppose were all in arms and motion. They retreated, therefore, or rather fled, and the attendants of Damian were despatched after them by their fallen master, with directions to let no consideration induce them to leave off the chase, until the captive Lady of the Garde Doloureuse was delivered from her ravishers. The outlaws, secure in their knowledge of the paths, and the activity of their small Welsh horses, made an orderly retreat, with the exception of two or three of their rear-guard, cut down by Damian in his furious onset. They shot arrows, from time to time, at the men-at-arms, and laughed at the ineffectual efforts which these heavy-armed warriors, with their barbed horses, made to overtake them. But the scene was changed by the appearance of Wilkin Flammock, on his puissant war-horse, who was beginning to ascend the pass, leading a party consisting both of foot and horse. The fear of being intercepted caused the outlaws to have recourse to their last stratagem, and, abandoning their Welsh nags, they betook themselves to the cliffs, and, by superior activity and dexterity, baffled, generally speaking, the attempts of their pursuers on either hand. All of them, however, were not equally fortunate, for two or three fell into the hands of Flammock's party; amongst others, the person upon whom Eveline's clothes had been placed, and who now, to the great disappointment of those who had attached themselves to his pursuit, proved to be, not the lady whom they were emulous to deliver, but a fair-haired young Welshman, whose wild looks, and incoherent speech, seemed to argue a disturbed imagination. This would not have saved him from immediate death, the usual doom of captives taken in such skirmishes, had not the faint blast of Damian's horn, sounding from above, recalled his own party, and summoned that of Wilkin Flammock to the spot; while, in the confusion and hurry of their obeying the signal, the pity or the contempt of his guards suffered the prisoner to escape. They had, indeed, little to learn from him, even had he been disposed to give intelligence, or capable of communicating it. All were well assured that their lady had fallen into an ambuscade, formed by Dawfyd the one-eyed, a redoubted freebooter of the period, who had ventured upon this hardy enterprise in the hope of obtaining a large ransom for the captive Eveline, and all, incensed at his extreme insolence and audacity, devoted his head and limbs to the eagles and the ravens. These were the particulars which the followers of Flammock and of Damian learned by comparing notes with each other, on the incidents of the day. As they returned by the Red Pool they were joined by Dame Gillian, who, after many exclamations of joy at the unexpected liberation of her lady, and as many of sorrow at the unexpected disaster of Damian, proceeded to inform the men-at- arms, that the merchant, whose hawks had been the original cause of these adventures, had been taken prisoner by two or three of the Welsh in their retreat, and that she herself and the wounded Raoul would have shared the same fate, but that they had no horse left to mount her upon, and did not consider old Raoul as worth either ransom or the trouble of killing. One had, indeed, flung a stone at him as he lay on the hill-side, but happily, as his dame said, it fell something short of him--"It was but a little fellow who threw it," she said--"there was a big man amongst them--if he had tried, it's like, by our Lady's grace, he had cast it a thought farther." So saying, the dame gathered herself up, and adjusted her dress for again mounting on horseback. The wounded Damian was placed on a litter, hastily constructed of boughs, and, with the females, was placed in the centre of the little troop, augmented by the rest of the young knight's followers, who began to rejoin his standard. The united body now marched with military order and precaution, and winded through the passes with the attention of men prepared to meet and to repel injury. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. What! fair and young-, and faithful too? A miracle if this be true. WALLER. Rose, by nature one of the most disinterested and affectionate maidens that ever breathed, was the first who, hastily considering the peculiar condition in which her lady was placed, and the marked degree of restraint which had hitherto characterized her intercourse with her youthful guardian, became anxious to know how the wounded knight was to be disposed of; and when she came to Eveline's side for the purpose of asking this important question, her resolution well-nigh failed her. The appearance of Eveline was indeed such as might have made it almost cruelty to intrude upon her any other subject of anxious consideration than those with which her mind had been so lately assailed, and was still occupied. Her countenance was as pale as death could have made it, unless where it was specked with drops of blood; her veil, torn and disordered, was soiled with dust and with gore; her hair, wildly dishevelled, fell in, elf-locks on her brow and shoulders, and a single broken and ragged feather, which was all that remained of her headgear, had been twisted among her tresses and still flowed there, as if in mockery, rather than ornament. Her eyes were fixed on the litter where Damian was deposited, and she rode close beside it, without apparently wasting a thought on any thing, save the danger of him who was extended there. Rose plainly saw that her lady was under feelings of excitation, which might render it difficult for her to take a wise and prudent view of her own situation. She endeavoured gradually to awaken her to a sense of it. "Dearest lady," said Rose, "will it please you to take my mantle?" "Torment me not," answered Eveline, with some sharpness in her accent. "Indeed, my lady," said Dame Gillian, bustling up as one who feared her functions as mistress of the robes might be interfered with--"indeed, my lady, Rose Flammock speaks truth; and neither your kirtle nor your gown are sitting as they should do; and, to speak truth, they are but barely decent. And so, if Rose will turn herself, and put her horse out of my way," continued the tire- woman, "I will put your dress in better order in the sticking in of a bodkin, than any Fleming of them all could do in twelve hours." "I care not for my dress," replied Eveline, in the same manner as before. "Care then for your honour--for your fame," said Rose, riding close to her mistress, and whispering in her ear; "think, and that hastily, how you are to dispose of this wounded young man." "To the castle," answered Eveline aloud, as if scorning the affectation of secrecy; "lead to the castle, and that straight as you can." "Why not rather to his own camp, or to Malpas?" said Rose-- "dearest lady, believe, it will be for the best." "Wherefore not--wherefore not?--wherefore not leave him on the way-side at once, to the knife of the Welshman, and the teeth of the wolf?-Once--twice--three times has he been my preserver. Where I go, he shall go; nor will I be in safety myself a moment sooner than I know that he is so." Rose saw that she could make no impression on her mistress, and her own reflection told her that the wounded man's life might be endangered by a longer transportation than was absolutely necessary. An expedient occurred to her, by which she imagined this objection might be obviated; but it was necessary she should consult her father. She struck her palfrey with her riding-rod, and in a moment her diminutive, though beautiful figure, and her spirited little jennet, were by the side of the gigantic Fleming and his tall black horse, and riding, as it were, in their vast shadow. "My dearest father," said Rose, "the lady intends that Sir Damian be transported to the castle, where it is like he may be a long sojourner;--what think you?-is that wholesome counsel?" "Wholesome for the youth, surely, Roschen," answered the Fleming, "because he will escape the better risk of a fever." "True; but is it wise for my lady?" continued Rose. "Wise enough, if she deal wisely. But wherefore shouldst thou doubt her, Roschen?" "I know not," said Rose, unwilling to breathe even to her father the fears and doubts which she herself entertained; "but where there are evil tongues, there may be evil rehearsing. Sir Damian and my lady are both very young-Methinks it were better, dearest father, would you offer the shelter of your roof to the wounded knight, in the stead of his being carried to the castle." "That I shall not, wench," answered the Fleming, hastily--"that I shall not, if I may help. Norman shall not cross my quiet threshold, nor Englishman neither, to mock my quiet thrift, and consume my substance. Thou dost not know them, because thou art ever with thy lady, and hast her good favour; but I know them well; and the best I can get from them is Lazy Flanderkin, and Greedy Flanderkin, and Flemish, sot---I thank the saints they cannot say Coward Flanderkin, since Gwenwyn's Welsh uproar." "I had ever thought, my father," answered Rose, "that your spirit was too calm to regard these base calumnies. Bethink you we are under this lady's banner, and that she has been my loving mistress, and her father was your good lord; to the Constable, too, are you beholden, for enlarged privileges. Money may pay debt, but kindness only can requite kindness; and I forebode that you will never have such an opportunity to do kindness to the houses of Berenger and De Lacy, as by opening the doors of your house to this wounded knight." "The doors of my house!" answered the Fleming--"do I know how long I may call that, or any house upon earth, my own? Alas, my daughter, we came hither to fly from the rage of the elements, but who knows how soon we may perish by the wrath of men!" "You speak strangely, my father," said Rose; "it holds not with your solid wisdom to augur such general evil from the rash enterprise of a Welsh outlaw." "I think not of the One-eyed robber," said Wilkin; "although the increase and audacity of such robbers as Dawfyd is no good sign of a quiet country. But thou, who livest within yonder walls, hearest but little of what passes without, and your estate is less anxious;--you had known nothing of the news from me, unless in case I had found it necessary to remove to another country." "To remove, my dearest father, from the land where your thrift and industry have gained you an honourable competency?" "Ay, and where the hunger of wicked men, who envy me the produce of my thrift, may likely bring me to a dishonourable death. There have been tumults among the English rabble in more than one county, and their wrath is directed against those of our nation, as if we were Jews or heathens, and not better Christians and better men than themselves. They have, at York, Bristol, and elsewhere, sacked the houses of the Flemings, spoiled their goods, misused their families, and murdered themselves.--And why?--except that we have brought among them the skill and industry which they possessed not; and because wealth, which they would never else have seen in Britain, was the reward of our art and our toil. Roschen, this evil spirit is spreading wider daily. Here we are more safe than elsewhere, because we form a colony of some numbers and strength. But I confide not in our neighbours; and hadst not thou, Rose, been in security, I would long ere this have given up all, and left Britain." "Given up all, and left Britain!"--The words sounded prodigious in the ears of his daughter, who knew better than any one how successful her father had been in his industry, and how unlikely one of his firm and sedate temper was to abandon known and present advantages for the dread of distant or contingent peril. At length she replied, "If such be your peril, my father, methinks your house and goods cannot have a better protection than, the presence of this noble knight. Where lives the man who dare aught of violence against the house which harbours Damian de Lacy?" "I know not that," said the Fleming, in the same composed and steady, but ominous tone--"May Heaven forgive it me, if it be sin! but I see little save folly in these Crusades, which the priesthood have preached up so successfully. Here has the Constable been absent for nearly three years, and no certain tidings of his life or death, victory or defeat. He marched from hence, as if he meant not to draw bridle or sheathe sword until the Holy Sepulchre was won from the Saracens, yet we can hear with no certainty whether even a hamlet has been taken from the Saracens. In the mean-while, the people that are at home grow discontented; their lords, with the better part of their followers, are in Palestine--dead or alive we scarcely know; the people themselves are oppressed and flayed by stewards and deputies, whose yoke is neither so light nor so lightly endured as that of the actual lord. The commons, who naturally hate the knights and gentry, think it no bad time to make some head against them--ay, and there be some of noble blood who would not care to be their leaders, that they may have their share in the spoil; for foreign expeditions and profligate habits have made many poor; and he that is poor will murder his father for money. I hate poor people; and I would the devil had every man who cannot keep himself by the work of his own hand!" The Fleming concluded, with this characteristic imprecation, a speech which gave Rose a more frightful view of the state of England, than, shut up as she was within the Garde Doloureuse, she had before had an opportunity of learning. "Surely," she said-- "surely these violences of which you speak are not to be dreaded by those who live under the banner of De Lacy and of Berenger?" "Berenger subsists but in name," answered Wilkin Flammock, "and Damian, though a brave youth, hath not his uncle's ascendency of character, and authority. His men also complain that they are harassed with the duty of watching for protection of a castle, in itself impregnable, and sufficiently garrisoned, and that they lose all opportunity of honourable enterprise, as they call it-- that is, of fight and spoil--in this inactive and inglorious manner of life. They say that Damian the beardless was a man, but that Damian with the mustache is no better than a woman; and that age, which has darkened his upper lip, hath at the same time blenched his courage.--And they say more, which were but wearisome to tell." "Nay, but, let me know what they say; let me know it, for Heaven's sake!" answered Rose, "if it concern, as it must concern, my dear lady." "Even so, Roschen," answered Wilkin. "There are many among the Norman men-at-arms who talk, over their wine-cups, how that Damian de Lacy is in love with his uncle's betrothed bride; ay, and that they correspond together by art magic." "By art magic, indeed, it must be," said Rose, smiling scornfully, "for by no earthly means do they correspond, as I, for one, can bear witness." "To art magic, accordingly, they impute it," quoth Wilkin Flammock, "that so soon as ever my lady stirs beyond the portal of her castle, De Lacy is in the saddle with a party of his cavalry, though they are positively certain that he has received no messenger, letter, or other ordinary notice of her purpose; nor have they ever, on such occasions, scoured the passes long, ere they have seen or heard of my Lady Eveline's being abroad." "This has not escaped me," said Rose; "and my lady has expressed herself even displeased at the accuracy which Damian displayed in procuring a knowledge of her motions, as well as at the officious punctuality with which he has attended and guarded them. To-day has, however, shown," she continued, "that his vigilance may serve a good purpose; and as they never met upon these occasions, but continued at such distance as excluded even the possibility of intercourse, methinks they might have escaped the censure of the most suspicious." "Ay, my daughter Roschen," replied Wilkin; "but it is possible to drive caution so far as to excite suspicion. Why, say the men-at- arms, should these two observe such constant, yet such guarded intelligence with one another? Why should their approach be so near, and why, yet, should they never meet? If they had been merely the nephew, and the uncle's bride, they must have had interviews avowedly and frankly; and, on the other hand, if they be two secret lovers, there is reason to believe that they do find their own private places of meeting, though they have art sufficient to conceal them." "Every word that you speak, my father," replied the generous Rose, "increases the absolute necessity that you receive this wounded youth into your house. Be the evils you dread ever so great, yet, may you rely upon it, that they cannot be augmented by admitting him, with a few of his faithful followers." "Not one follower," said the Fleming, hastily, "not one beef-fed knave of them, save the page that is to tend him, and the doctor that is to attempt his cure." "But I may offer the shelter of your roof to these three, at least?" answered Rose. "Do as thou wilt, do as thou wilt," said the doating father. "By my faith, Roschen, it is well for thee thou hast sense and moderation in asking, since I am so foolishly prompt in granting. This is one of your freaks, now, of honour or generosity--but commend me to prudence and honesty.--Ah! Rose, Rose, those who would do what is better than good, sometimes bring about what is worse than bad!--But I think I shall be quit of the trouble for the fear; and that thy mistress, who is, with reverence, something of a damsel errant, will stand stoutly for the chivalrous privilege of lodging her knight in her own bower, and tending him in person." The Fleming prophesied true. Rose had no sooner made the proposal to Eveline, that the wounded Damian should be left at her father's house for his recovery, than her mistress briefly and positively rejected the proposal. "He has been my preserver," she said, "and if there be one being left for whom the gates of the Garde Doloureuse should of themselves fly open, it is to Damian de Lacy. Nay, damsel, look not upon me with that suspicious and yet sorrowful countenance--they that are beyond disguise, my girl, contemn suspicion--It is to God and Our Lady that I must answer, and to them my bosom lies open!" They proceeded in silence to the castle gate, when the Lady Eveline issued her orders that her Guardian, as she emphatically termed Damian, should be lodged in her father's apartment; and, with the prudence of more advanced age, she gave the necessary direction for the reception and accommodation of his followers, and the arrangements which such an accession of guests required in the fortress. All this she did with the utmost composure and presence of mind, even before she altered or arranged her own disordered dress. Another step still remained to be taken. She, hastened to the Chapel of the Virgin, and prostrating herself before her divine protectress, returned thanks for her second deliverance, and implored her guidance and direction, and, through her intercession, that of Almighty God, for the disposal and regulation of her conduct. "Thou knowest," she said, "that from no confidence in my own strength, have I thrust myself into danger. Oh, make me strong where I am most weak--Let not my gratitude and my compassion be a snare to me; and while I strive to discharge the duties which thankfulness imposes on me, save me from the evil tongues of men--and save--oh, save me from the insidious devices of my own heart!" She then told her rosary with devout fervour, and retiring from the chapel to her own apartment, summoned her women to adjust her dress, and remove the external appearance of the violence to which she had been so lately subjected. CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH _Julia._----Gentle sir, You are our captive--but we'll use you so, That you shall think your prison joys may match Whate'er your liberty hath known of pleasure. _Roderick._ No, fairest, we have trifled here too long; And, lingering to see your roses blossom, I've let my laurels wither. OLD PLAY. Arrayed in garments of a mourning colour, and of a fashion more matronly than perhaps altogether befitted her youth--plain to an extremity, and devoid of all ornament, save her rosary--Eveline now performed the duty of waiting upon her wounded deliverer; a duty which the etiquette of the time not only permitted, but peremptorily enjoined. She was attended by Rose and Dame Gillian. Margery, whose element was a sick-chamber, had been already despatched to that of the young knight, to attend to whatever his condition might require. Eveline entered the room with a light step, as if unwilling to disturb the patient. She paused at the door, and cast her eyes around her. It had been her father's chamber; nor had she entered it since his violent death. Around the walls hung a part of his armour and weapons, with hawking gloves, hunting-poles, and other instruments of silvan sport. These relics brought as it were in living form before her the stately presence of old Sir Raymond. "Frown not, my father,"--her lips formed the words, though her voice did not utter them--"Frown not--Eveline will never be unworthy of thee." Father Aldrovand, and Amelot, the page of Damian, were seated by the bedside. They rose as Lady Eveline entered; and the first, who meddled a little with the healing art, said to Eveline "that the knight had slumbered for some time, and was now about to awake." Amelot at the same time came forward, and in a hasty and low voice, begged that the chamber might be kept quiet, and the spectators requested to retire. "My lord," he said, "ever since his illness at Gloucester, is apt to speak something wildly as he awakes from sleep, and will be displeased with me should I permit any one to be near him." Eveline accordingly caused her women and the monk to retire into the anteroom, while she herself remained standing by the door- communication which connected the apartments, and heard Damian mention her name as he turned himself painfully on his couch. "Is she safe and unharmed?" was his first question, and it was asked with an eagerness which intimated how far it preceded all other considerations. When Amelot replied in the affirmative, he sighed, as one whose bosom is relieved from some weighty load, and in a less animated voice, asked of the page where they were. "This apartment," he said, "with its furniture, are all strange to me." "My dear master," said Amelot, "you are at present too weak to ask questions and receive explanations." "Be I where I will," said Damian, as if recovering his recollection, "I am not in the place where my duty calls me. Tell my trumpets to sound to horse--to horse, and let Ralph Genvil carry my banner. To horse--to horse! we have not a moment to lose!" The wounded knight made some effort to rise, which, in his state of weakness, Amelot was easily able to frustrate. "Thou art right," he said, as he sunk back into his reclining posture--"thou art right--I am weak--but why should strength remain when honour is lost?" The unhappy young man covered his face with his hands, and groaned in agony, which seemed more that of the mind than of the body. Lady Eveline approached his bedside with unassured steps, fearing she knew not what, yet earnest to testify the interest she felt in the distresses of the sufferer. Damian looked up and beheld her, and again hid his face with his hands. "What means this strange passion, Sir Knight?" said Eveline, with a voice which, at first weak and trembling, gradually obtained steadiness and composure. "Ought it to grieve you so much, sworn as you are to the duties of chivalry, that Heaven hath twice made you its instrument to save the unfortunate Eveline Berenger?" "Oh no, no!" he exclaimed with rapidity; "since you are saved, all is well--but time presses--it is necessary I should presently depart--no-where ought I now to tarry--least of all, within this castle--Once more, Amelot, let them get to horse!" "Nay, my good lord." said the damsel, "this must not be. As your ward, I cannot let my guardian part thus suddenly--as a physician, I cannot allow my patient to destroy himself--It is impossible that you can brook the saddle." "A litter--a bier--a cart, to drag forth the dishonoured knight and traitor--all were too good for me--a coffin were best of all! --But see, Amelot, that it be framed like that of the meanest churl--no spurs displayed on the pall--no shield with the ancient coat of the De Lacys--no helmet with their knightly crest must deck the hearse of him whose name is dishonoured!" "Is his brain unsettled?" said Eveline, looking with terror from the wounded man to his attendant; "or is there some dreadful mystery in these broken words?--If so, speak it forth; and if it may be amended by life or goods, my deliverer will sustain no wrong." Amelot regarded her with a dejected and melancholy air, shook his head, and looked down on his master with a countenance which seemed to express, that the questions which she asked could not be prudently answered in Sir Damian's presence. The Lady Eveline, observing this gesture, stepped back into the outer apartment, and made Amelot a sign to follow her. He obeyed, after a glance at his master, who remained in the same disconsolate posture as formerly, with his hands crossed over his eyes, like one who wished to exclude the light, and all which the light made visible. When Amelot was in the wardrobe, Eveline, making signs to her attendants to keep at such distance as the room permitted, questioned him closely on the cause of his master's desperate expression of terror and remorse. "Thou knowest," she said, "that I am bound to succour thy lord, if I may, both from gratitude, as one whom he hath served to the peril of his life--and also from kinsmanship. Tell me, therefore, in what case he stands, that I may help him if I can--that is," she added, her pale cheeks deeply colouring, "if the cause of the distress be fitting for me to hear." The page bowed low, yet showed such embarrassment when he began to speak, as produced a corresponding degree of confusion in the Lady Eveline, who, nevertheless, urged him as before "to speak without scruple or delay--so that the tenor of his discourse was fitting for her ears." "Believe me, noble lady," said Amelot, "your commands had been instantly obeyed, but that I fear my master's displeasure if I talk of his affairs without his warrant; nevertheless, on your command, whom I know he honours above all earthly beings, I will speak thus far, that if his life be safe from the wounds he has received, his honour and worship may be in great danger, if it please not Heaven to send a remedy." "Speak on," said Eveline; "and be assured you will do Sir Damian de Lacy no prejudice by the confidence you may rest in me." "I well believe it, lady," said the page. "Know, then, if it be not already known to you, that the clowns and rabble, who have taken arms against the nobles in the west, pretend to be favoured in their insurrection, not only by Randal Lacy, but by my master, Sir Damian." "They lie that dare charge him with such foul treason to his own blood, as well as to his sovereign!" replied Eveline. "Well do I believe they lie," said Amelot; "but this hinders not their falsehoods from being believed by those who know him less inwardly. More than one runaway from our troop have joined this rabblement, and that gives some credit to the scandal. And then they say--they say--that--in short, that my master longs to possess the lands in his proper right which he occupies as his uncle's administrator; and that if the old Constable--I crave your pardon, madam--should return from Palestine, he should find it difficult to obtain possession of his own again." "The sordid wretches judge of others by their own base minds, and conceive those temptations too powerful for men of worth, which they are themselves conscious they would be unable to resist. But are the insurgents then so insolent and so powerful? We have heard of their violences, but only as if it had been some popular tumult." "We had notice last night that they have drawn together in great force, and besieged or blockaded Wild Wenlock, with his men-at- arms, in a village about ten miles hence. He hath sent to my master, as his kinsman and companion-at-arms, to come to his assistance. We were on horseback this morning to march to the rescue--when--" He paused, and seemed unwilling to proceed. Eveline caught at the word. "When you heard of my danger?" she said. "I would ye had rather heard of my death!" "Surely, noble lady," said the page, with his eyes fixed on the ground, "nothing but so strong a cause could have made my master halt his troop, and carry the better part of them to the Welsh mountains, when his countryman's distress, and the commands of the King's Lieutenant, so peremptorily demanded his presence elsewhere." "I knew it," she said--"I knew I was born to be his destruction! yet methinks this is worse than I dreamed of, when the worst was in my thoughts. I feared to occasion his death, not his loss of fame. For God's sake, young Amelot, do what thou canst, and that without loss of time! Get thee straightway to horse, and join to thy own men as many as thou canst gather of mine--Go--ride, my brave youth--show thy master's banner, and let them see that his forces and his heart are with them, though his person be absent. Haste, haste, for the time is precious." "But the safety of this castle--But your own safety?" said the page. "God knows how willingly I would do aught to save his fame! But I know my master's mood; and were you to suffer by my leaving the Garde Doloureuse, even although I were to save him lands, life, and honour, by my doing so, I should be more like to taste of his dagger, than of his thanks or bounty." "Go, nevertheless, dear Amelot," said she; "gather what force thou canst make, and begone." "You spur a willing horse, madam," said the page, springing to his feet; "and in the condition of my master, I see nothing better than that his banner should be displayed against these churls." "To arms, then," said Eveline, hastily; "to arms, and win thy spurs. Bring me assurance that thy master's honour is safe, and I will myself buckle them on thy heels. Here--take this blessed rosary--bind it on thy crest, and be the thought of the Virgin of the Garde Doloureuse, that never failed a votary, strong with thee in the hour of conflict." She had scarcely ended, ere Amelot flew from her presence, and summoning together such horse as he could assemble, both of his master's, and of those belonging to the castle, there were soon forty cavaliers mounted in the court-yard. But although the page was thus far readily obeyed, yet when the soldiers heard they were to go forth on a dangerous expedition, with no more experienced general than a youth of fifteen, they showed a decided reluctance to move from the castle. The old soldiers of De Lacy said, Damian himself was almost too youthful to command them, and had no right to delegate his authority to a mere boy; while the followers of Berenger said, their mistress might be satisfied with her deliverance of the morning, without trying farther dangerous conclusions by diminishing the garrison of her castle--"The times," they said, "were stormy, and it was wisest to keep a stone roof over their heads." The more the soldiers communicated their ideas and apprehensions to each other, the stronger their disinclination to the undertaking became; and when Amelot, who, page-like, had gone to see that his own horse was accoutred and brought forth, returned to the castle-yard, he found them standing confusedly together, some mounted, some on foot, all men speaking loud, and all in a state of disorder. Ralph Genvil, a veteran whose face had been seamed with many a scar, and who had long followed the trade of a soldier of fortune, stood apart from the rest, holding his horse's bridle in one hand, and in the other the banner-spear, around which the banner of De Lacy was still folded. "What means this, Genvil?" said the page, angrily. "Why do you not mount your horse and display the banner? and what occasions all this confusion?" "Truly, Sir Page," said Genvil, composedly, "I am not in my saddle, because I have some regard for this old silken rag, which I have borne to honour in my time, and I will not willingly carry it where men are unwilling to follow and defend it." "No march--no sally--no lifting of banner to-day" cried the soldiers, by way of burden to the banner-man's discourse. "How now, cowards! do you mutiny?" said Amelot, laying his hand upon his sword. "Menace not me, Sir Boy," said Genvil; "nor shake your sword my way. I tell thee, Amelot, were my weapon to cross with yours, never flail sent abroad more chaff than I would make splinters of your hatched and gilded toasting-iron. Look you, there are gray- bearded men here that care not to be led about on any boy's humour. For me, I stand little upon that; and I care not whether one boy or another commands me. But I am the Lacy's man for the time; and I am not sure that, in marching to the aid of this Wild Wenlock, we shall do an errand the Lacy will thank us for. Why led he us not thither in the morning when we were commanded off into the mountains?" "You well know the cause," said the page. "Yes, we do know the cause; or, if we do not, we can guess it," answered the banner-man, with a horse laugh, which was echoed by several of his companions. "I will cram the calumny down thy false throat, Genvil!" said the page; and, drawing his sword, threw himself headlong on the banner-man, without considering their great difference of strength. Genvil was contented to foil his attack by one, and, as it seemed, a slight movement of his gigantic arm, with which he forced the page aside, parrying, at the same time, his blow with the standard-spear. There was another loud laugh, and Amelot, feeling all his efforts baffled, threw his sword from him, and weeping in pride and indignation, hastened back to tell the Lady Eveline of his bad success. "All," he said, "is lost--the cowardly villains have mutinied, and will not move; and the blame of their sloth and faintheartedness will be laid on my dear master." "That shall never be," said Eveline, "should I die to prevent it. --Follow me, Amelot." She hastily threw a scarlet scarf over her dark garments, and hastened down to the court-yard, followed by Gillian, assuming, as she went, various attitudes and actions expressing astonishment and pity, and by Rose, carefully suppressing all appearance of-- the feelings which she really entertained. Eveline entered the castle-court, with the kindling eye and glowing brow which her ancestors were wont to bear in danger and extremity, when their soul was arming to meet the storm, and displayed in their mien and looks high command and contempt of danger. She seemed at the moment taller than her usual size; and it was with a voice distinct and clearly heard, though not exceeding the delicacy of feminine tone, that the mutineers heard her address them. "How is this, my masters?" she said; and as she spoke, the bulky forms of the armed soldiers seemed to draw closer together, as if to escape her individual censure. It was like a group of heavy water-fowl, when they close to avoid the stoop of the slight and beautiful merlin, dreading the superiority of its nature and breeding over their own inert physical strength.--"How now?" again she demanded of them; "is it a time, think ye, to mutiny, when your lord is absent, and his nephew and lieutenant lies stretched on a bed of sickness?--Is it thus you keep your oaths?--Thus ye merit your leader's bounty?--Shame on ye, craven hounds, that quail and give back the instant you lose sight of the huntsman!" There was a pause--the soldiers looked on each other, and then again on Eveline, as if ashamed alike to hold out in their mutiny, or to return to their usual discipline. "I see how it is, my brave friends--ye lack a leader here; but stay not for that--I will guide you myself, and, woman as I am, there need not a man of you fear disgrace where a Berenger commands.--Trap my palfrey with a steel saddle," she said, "and that instantly." She snatched from the ground the page's light head-piece, and threw it over her hair, caught up his drawn sword, and went on. "Here I promise you my countenance and guidance-- this gentleman," she pointed to Genvil, "shall supply my lack of military skill. He looks like a man that hath seen many a day of battle, and can well teach a young leader her devoir." "Certes," said the old soldier, smiling in spite of himself, and shaking his head at the same time, "many a battle have I seen, but never under such a commander." "Nevertheless," said Eveline, seeing how the eyes of the rest turned on Genvil, "you do not--cannot--will not--refuse to follow me? You do not as a soldier, for my weak voice supplies your captain's orders--you cannot as a gentleman, for a lady, a forlorn and distressed female, asks you a boon--you will not as an Englishman, for your country requires your sword, and your comrades are in danger. Unfurl your banner, then, and march." "I would do so, upon my soul, fair lady," answered Genvil, as if preparing to unfold the banner--"And Amelot might lead us well enough, with advantage of some lessons from me, But I wot not whether you are sending us on the right road." "Surely, surely," said Eveline, earnestly, "it must be the right road which conducts you to the relief of Wenlock and his followers, besieged by the insurgent boors." "I know not," said Genvil, still hesitating. "Our leader here, Sir Damian de Lacy, protects the commons--men say he befriends them-- and I know he quarrelled with Wild Wenlock once for some petty wrong he did to the miller's wife at Twyford. We should be finely off, when our fiery young leader is on foot again, if he should find we had been fighting against the side he favoured." "Assure yourself," said the maiden, anxiously, "the more he would protect the commons against oppression, the more he would put them down when oppressing others. Mount and ride--save Wenlock and his men--there is life and death in every moment. I will warrant, with my life and lands, that whatsoever you do will be held good service to De Lacy. Come, then, follow me." "None surely can know Sir Damian's purpose better than you, fair damsel," answered Genvil; "nay, for that matter, you can make him change as ye list,--And so I will march with the men, and we will aid Wenlock, if it is yet time, as I trust it may; for he is a rugged wolf, and when he turns to bay, will cost the boors blood enough ere they sound a mort. But do you remain within the castle, fair lady, and trust to Amelot and me.--Come, Sir Page, assume the command, since so it must be; though, by my faith, it is pity to take the headpiece from that pretty head, and the sword from that pretty hand--By Saint George! to see them there is a credit to the soldier's profession." The Lady accordingly surrendered the weapons to Amelot, exhorting him in few words to forget the offence he had received, and do his devoir manfully. Meanwhile Genvil slowly unrolled the pennon--then shook it abroad, and without putting his foot in the stirrup, aided himself a little with resting on the spear, and threw himself into the saddle, heavily armed as he was. "We are ready now, an it like your juvenility," said he to Amelot; and then, while the page was putting the band into order, he whispered to his nearest comrade, "Methinks, instead of this old swallow's tail, [Footnote: The pennon of a Knight was, in shape, a long streamer, and forked like a swallow's tail: the banner of a Banneret was square, and was formed into the other by cutting the ends from the pennon. It was thus the ceremony was performed on the pennon of John Chandos, by the Black Prince, before the battle of Nejara.] we should muster rarely under a broidered petticoat--a furbelowed petticoat has no fellow in my mind.--Look you, Stephen Pontoys--I can forgive Damian now for forgetting his uncle and his own credit, about this wench; for, by my faith, she is one I could have doated to death upon _par amours_.Ah! evil luck be the women's portion!--they govern us at every turn, Stephen," and at every age. When they are young, they bribe us with fair looks, and sugared words, sweet kisses and love tokens; and when they are of middle age, they work us to their will by presents and courtesies, red wine and red gold; and when they are old, we are fain to run their errands to get out of sight of their old leathern visages. Well, old De Lacy should have staid at home and watched his falcon. But it is all one to us, Stephen, and we may make some vantage to-day, for these boors have plundered more than one castle." "Ay, ay," answered Pontoys, "the boor to the booty, and the banner-man to the boor, a right pithy proverb. But, prithee, canst thou say why his pageship leads us not forward yet?" "Pshaw!" answered Genvil, "the shake I gave him has addled his brains--or perchance he has not swallowed all his tears yet; sloth it is not, for 'tis a forward cockeril for his years, wherever honour is to be won.--See, they now begin to move.--Well, it is a singular thing this gentle blood, Stephen; for here is a child whom I but now baffled like a schoolboy, must lead us gray beards where we may get our heads broken, and that at the command of a light lady." "I warrant Sir Damian is secretary to my pretty lady," answered Stephen Pontoys, "as this springald Amelot is to Sir Damian; and so we poor men must obey and keep our mouths shut." "But our eyes open, Stephen Pontoys--forget not that." They were by this time out of the gates of the castle, and upon the road leading to the village, in which, as they understood by the intelligence of the morning, Wenlock was besieged or blockaded by a greatly superior number of the insurgent commons. Amelot rode at the head of the troop, still embarrassed at the affront which he had received in presence of the soldiers, and lost in meditating how he was to eke out that deficiency of experience, which on former occasions had been supplied by the counsels of the banner-man, with whom he was ashamed to seek a reconciliation. But Genvil was not of a nature absolutely sullen, though a habitual grumbler. He rode up to the page, and having made his obeisance, respectfully asked him whether it were not well that some one or two of their number pricked forward upon good horses to learn how it stood with Wenlock, and whether they should be able to come up in time to his assistance. "Methinks, banner-man," answered Amelot, "you should take the ruling of the troop, since you know so fittingly what should be done. You may be the fitter to command, because--But I will not upbraid you." "Because I know so ill how to obey," replied Genvil; "that is what you would say; and, by my faith, I cannot deny but there may be some truth in it. But is it not peevish in thee to let a fair expedition be unwisely conducted, because of a foolish word or a sudden action?--Come, let it be peace with us." "With all my heart," answered Amelot; "and I will send out an advanced party upon the adventure, as thou hast advised me." "Let it be old Stephen Pontoys and two of the Chester spears--he is as wily as an old fox, and neither hope nor fear will draw him a hairbreadth farther than judgment warrants." Amelot eagerly embraced the hint, and, at his command, Pontoys and two lances started forward to reconnoitre the road before them, and inquire into the condition of those whom they were advancing to succour. "And now that we are on the old terms, Sir Page," said the banner-man, "tell me, if thou canst, doth not yonder fair lady love our handsome knight _par amours?_" "It is a false calumny," said Amelot, indignantly; "betrothed as she is to his uncle, I am convinced she would rather die than have such a thought, and so would our master. I have noted this heretical belief in thee before now, Genvil, and I have prayed thee to check it. You know the thing cannot be, for you know they have scarce ever met." "How should I know that," said Genvil, "or thou either? Watch them ever so close--much water slides past the mill that Hob Miller never wots of. They do correspond; that, at least, thou canst not deny?" "I do deny it," said Amelot, "as I deny all that can touch their honour." "Then how, in Heaven's name, comes he by such perfect knowledge of her motions, as he has displayed no longer since than the morning?" "How should I tell?" answered the page; "there be such things, surely, as saints and good angels, and if there be one on earth deserves their protection, it is Dame Eveline Berenger." "Well said, Master Counsel-keeper," replied Genvil, laughing; "but that will hardly pass on an old trooper.--Saint and angels, quotha? most saint-like doings, I warrant you." The page was about to continue his angry vindication, when Stephen Pontoys and his followers returned upon the spur. "Wenlock holds out bravely," he exclaimed, "though he is felly girded in with these boors. The large crossbows are doing good service; and I little doubt his making his place good till we come up, if it please you to ride something sharply. They have assailed the barriers, and were close up to them even now, but were driven back with small success." The party were now put in as rapid motion as might consist with order, and soon reached the top of a small eminence, beneath which lay the village where Wenlock was making his defence. The air rung with the cries and shouts of the insurgents, who, numerous as bees, and possessed of that dogged spirit of courage so peculiar to the English, thronged like ants to the barriers, and endeavoured to break down the palisades, or to climb over them, in despite of the showers of stones and arrows from within, by which they suffered great loss, as well as by the swords and battle-axes of the men-at-arms, whenever they came to hand-blows. "We are in time, we are in time," said Amelot, dropping the reins of his bridle, and joyfully clapping his hands; "shake thy banner abroad, Genvil--give Wenlock and his fellows a fair view of it.-- Comrades, halt--breathe your horses for a moment.--Hark hither, Genvil--If we descend by yonder broad pathway into the meadow where the cattle are--" "Bravo, my young falcon" replied Genvil, whose love of battle, like that of the war-horse of Job, kindled at the sight of the spears, and at the sound of the trumpet; "we shall have then an easy field for a charge on yonder knaves." "What a thick black cloud the villains make" said Amelot; "but we will let daylight through it with our lances--See, Genvil, the defenders hoist a signal to show they have seen us." "A signal to us?" exclaimed Genvil. "By Heaven, it is a white flag--a signal of surrender!" "Surrender! they cannot dream of it, when we are advancing to their succour," replied Amelot; when two or three melancholy notes from the trumpets of the besieged, with a thundering and tumultuous acclamation from the besiegers, rendered the fact indisputable. "Down goes Wenlock's pennon," said Genvil, "and the churls enter the barricades on all points.--Here has been cowardice or treachery--What is to be done?" "Advance on them," said Amelot, "retake the place, and deliver the prisoners." "Advance, indeed!" answered the banner-man--"Not a horse's length by my counsel--we should have every nail in our corslets counted with arrow-shot, before we got down the hill in the face of such a multitude and the place to storm afterwards--it were mere insanity." "Yet come a little forward along with me," said the page; "perhaps we may find some path by which we could descend unperceived." Accordingly they rode forward a little way to reconnoitre the face of the hill, the page still urging the possibility of descending it unperceived amid the confusion, when Genvil answered impatiently, "Unperceived!-you are already perceived--here comes a fellow, pricking towards us as fast as his beast may trot." As he spoke, the rider came up to them. He was a short, thick-set peasant, in an ordinary frieze jacket and hose, with a blue cap on his head, which he had been scarcely able to pull over a shock head of red hair, that seemed in arms to repel the covering. The man's hands were bloody, and he carried at his saddlebow a linen bag, which was also stained with blood. "Ye be of Damian de Lacy's company, be ye not?" said this rude messenger; and, when they answered in the affirmative, he proceeded with the same blunt courtesy, "Hob Miller of Twyford commends him to Damian de Lacy, and knowing his purpose to amend disorders in the commonwealth, Hob Miller sends him toll of the grist which he has grinded;" and with that he took from the bag a human head, and tendered it to Amelot. "It is Wenlock's head," said Genvil--"how his eyes stare!" "They will stare after no more wenches now," said the boor--"I have cured him of caterwauling." "Thou!" said Amelot, stepping back in disgust and indignation. "Yes, I myself," replied the peasant; "I am Grand Justiciary of the Commons, for lack of a better." "Grand hangman, thou wouldst say," replied Genvil. "Call it what thou list," replied the peasant. "Truly, it behoves men in state to give good example. I'll bid no man do that I am not ready to do myself. It is as easy to hang a man, as to say hang him; we will have no splitting of offices in this new world, which is happily set up in old England." "Wretch!" said Amelot, "take back thy bloody token to them that sent thee! Hadst thou not come upon assurance, I had pinned thee to the earth with my lance--But, be assured, your cruelty shall be fearfully avenged.--Come, Genvil, let us to our men; there is no farther use in abiding here." The fellow, who had expected a very different reception, stood staring after them for a few moments, then replaced his bloody trophy in the wallet, and rode back to those who sent him. "This comes of meddling with men's _amourettes_," said Genvil; "Sir Damian would needs brawl with Wenlock about his dealings with this miller's daughter, and you see they account him a favourer of their enterprise; it will be well if others do not take up the same opinion.--I wish we were rid of the trouble which such suspicions may bring upon us--ay, were it at the price of my best horse--I am like to lose him at any rate with the day's hard service, and I would it were the worst it is to cost us." The party returned, wearied and discomforted, to the castle of the Garde Doloureuse, and not without losing several of their number by the way, some straggling owing to the weariness of their horses, and others taking the opportunity of desertion, in order to join the bands of insurgents and plunderers, who had now gathered together in different quarters, and were augmented by recruits from the dissolute soldiery. Amelot, on his return to the castle, found that the state of his master was still very precarious, and that the Lady Eveline, though much exhausted, had not yet retired to rest, but was awaiting his return with impatience. He was introduced to her accordingly, and, with a heavy heart, mentioned the ineffectual event of his expedition. "Now the saints have pity upon us!" said the Lady Eveline; "for it seems as if a plague or pest attached to me, and extended itself to all who interest themselves in my welfare. From the moment they do so, their very virtues become snares to them; and what would, in every other case, recommend them to honour, is turned to destruction to the friends of Eveline Berenger." "Fear not, fair lady," said Amelot; "there are still men enough in my master's camp to put down these disturbers of the public peace. I will but abide to receive his instructions, and will hence to- morrow, and draw out a force to restore quiet in this part of the country." "Alas! you know not yet the worst of it," replied Eveline. "Since you went hence, we have received certain notice, that when the soldiers at Sir Damian's camp heard of the accident which he this morning met with, already discontented with the inactive life which they had of late led, and dispirited by the hurts and reported death of their leader, they have altogether broken up and dispersed their forces. Yet be of good courage, Amelot," she said; "this house is strong enough to bear out a worse tempest than any that is likely to be poured on it; and if all men desert your master in wounds and affliction, it becomes yet more the part of Eveline Berenger to shelter and protect her deliverer." CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH Let our proud trumpet shako their castle wall, Menacing death and ruin. OTWAY The evil news with which the last chapter concluded were necessarily told to Damian de Lacy, as the person whom they chiefly concerned; and Lady Eveline herself undertook the task of communicating them, mingling what she said with tears, and again interrupting those tears to suggest topics of hope and comfort, which carried no consolation to her own bosom. The wounded knight continued with his face turned towards her, listening to the disastrous tidings, as one who was not otherwise affected by them, than as they regarded her who told the story. When she had done speaking, he continued as in a reverie, with his eyes so intently fixed upon her, that she rose up, with the purpose of withdrawing from looks by which she felt herself embarrassed. He hastened to speak, that he might prevent her departure. "All that you have said, fair lady," he replied, "had been enough, if told by another, to have broken my heart; for it tells me that the power and honour of my house, so solemnly committed to my charge, have been blasted in my misfortunes. But when I look upon you, and hear your voice, I forget every thing, saving that you have been rescued, and are here in honour and safety. Let me therefore pray of your goodness that I may be removed from the castle which holds you, and sent elsewhere. I am in no shape worthy of your farther care, since I have no longer the swords of others at my disposal, and am totally unable for the present to draw my own." "And if you are generous enough to think of me in your own misfortunes, noble knight," answered Eveline, "can you suppose that I forget wherefore, and in whose rescue, these wounds were incurred? No, Damian, speak not of removal--while there is a turret of the Garde Doloureuse standing, within that turret shall you find shelter and protection. Such, I am well assured, would be the pleasure of your uncle, were he here in person." It seemed as if a sudden pang of his wound had seized upon Damian; for, repeating the words "My. uncle!" he writhed himself round, and averted his face from Eveline; then again composing himself, replied, "Alas! knew my uncle how ill I have obeyed his precepts, instead of sheltering me within this house, he would command me to be flung from the battlements!" "Fear not his displeasure," said Eveline, again preparing to withdraw; "but endeavour, by the composure of your spirit, to aid the healing of your wounds; when, I doubt not, you will be able again to establish good order in the Constable's jurisdiction, long before his return." She coloured as she pronounced the last words, and hastily left the apartment. When she was in her own chamber, she dismissed her other attendants and retained Rose. "What dost thou think of these things, my wise maiden and monitress?" said she. "I would," replied Rose, "either that this young knight had never entered this castle--or that, being here, he could presently leave it--or, that he could honourably remain here for ever." "What dost thou mean by remaining here for ever?" said Eveline sharply and hastily. "Let me answer that question with another-- How long has the Constable of Chester been absent from England?" "Three years come Saint Clement's day," said Eveline; "and what of that?" "Nay, nothing; but----" "But what?--I command you to speak out." "A few weeks will place your hand at your own disposal." "And think you, Rose," said Eveline, rising with dignity, "that there are no bonds save those which are drawn by the scribe's pen?--We know little of the Constable's adventures; but we know enough to show that his towering hopes have fallen, and his sword and courage proved too weak to change the fortunes of the Sultan Saladin. Suppose him returning some brief time hence, as we have seen so many crusaders regain their homes, poor and broken in health--suppose that he finds his lands laid waste, and his followers dispersed, by the consequence of their late misfortunes, how would it sound should he also find that his betrothed bride had wedded and endowed with her substance the nephew whom he most trusted?--Dost thou think such an engagement is like a Lombard's mortgage, which must be redeemed on the very day, else forfeiture is sure to be awarded?" "I cannot tell, madam," replied Rose; "but they that keep their covenant to the letter, are, in my country, held bound to no more." "That is a Flemish fashion, Rose," said her mistress; "but the honour of a Norman is not satisfied with an observance so limited. What! wouldst thou have my honour, my affections, my duty, all that is most valuable to a woman, depend on the same progress of the kalendar which an usurer watches for the purpose of seizing on a forfeited pledge?--Am I such a mere commodity, that I must belong to one man if he claims me before Michaelmas, to another if he comes afterwards?--No, Rose; I did not thus interpret my engagement, sanctioned as it was by the special providence of Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse." "It is a feeling worthy of you, my dearest lady," answered the attendant; "yet you are so young--so beset with perils--so much exposed to calumny--that I, at least, looking forward to the time when you may have a legal companion and protector, see it as an extrication from much doubt and danger." "Do not think of it, Rose," answered Eveline; "do not liken your mistress to those provident dames, who, while one husband yet lives, though in old age or weak health, are prudently engaged in plotting for another." "Enough, my dearest lady," said Rose;---"yet not so. Permit me one word more. Since you are determined not to avail yourself of your freedom, even when the fatal period of your engagement is expired, why suffer this young man to share our solitude?--He is surely well enough to be removed to some other place of security. Let us resume our former sequestered mode of life, until Providence send us some better or more certain prospects." Eveline sighed--looked down--then looking upwards, once more had opened her lips to express her willingness to enforce so reasonable an arrangement, but for Damian's recent wounds, and the distracted state of the country, when she was interrupted by the shrill sound of trumpets, blown before the gate of the castle; and Raoul, with anxiety on his brow, came limping to inform his lady, that a knight, attended by a pursuivant-at-arms, in the royal livery, with a strong guard, was in front of the castle, and demanded admittance in the name of the King. Eveline paused a moment ere she replied, "Not even to the King's order shall the castle of my ancestors be opened, until we are well assured of the person by whom, and the purpose for which, it is demanded. We will ourself to the gate, and learn the meaning of this summons--My veil, Rose; and call my women.--Again that trumpet sounds! Alas! it rings like a signal to death and ruin." The prophetic apprehensions of Eveline were not false; for scarce had she reached the door of the apartment, when she was met by the page Amelot, in a state of such disordered apprehension as an eleve of chivalry was scarce on any occasion permitted to display. "Lady, noble lady," he said, hastily bending his knee to Eveline, "save my dearest master!--You, and you alone, can save him at this extremity." "I!" said Eveline, in astonishment--"I save him?--And from what danger?--God knows how willingly!" There she stopped short, as if afraid to trust herself with expressing what rose to her lips. "Guy Monthermer, lady, is at the gate, with a pursuivant and the royal banner. The hereditary enemy of the House of Lacy, thus accompanied, comes hither for no good--the extent of the evil I know not, but for evil he comes. My master slew his nephew at the field of Malpas, and therefore"----He was here interrupted by another flourish of trumpets, which rung, as if in shrill impatience, through the vaults of the ancient fortress. The Lady Eveline hasted to the gate, and found that the wardens, and others who attended there, were looking on each other with doubtful and alarmed countenances, which they turned upon her at her arrival, as if to seek from, their mistress the comfort and the courage which they could not communicate to each other. Without the gate, mounted, and in complete armour, was an elderly and stately knight, whose raised visor and beaver depressed, showed a beard already grizzled. Beside him appeared the pursuivant on horseback, the royal arms embroidered on his heraldic dress of office, and all the importance of offended consequence on his countenance, which was shaded by his barret-cap and triple plume. They were attended by a body of about fifty soldiers, arranged under the guidon of England. When the Lady Eveline appeared at the barrier, the knight, after a slight reverence, which seemed more informal courtesy than in kindness, demanded if he saw the daughter of Raymond Berenger. "And is it," he continued, when he had received an answer in the affirmative, "before the castle of that approved and favoured servant of the House of Anjou, that King Henry's trumpets have thrice sounded, without obtaining an entrance for those who are honoured with their Sovereign's command?" "My condition," answered Eveline, "must excuse my caution. I am a lone maiden, residing in a frontier fortress. I may admit no one without inquiring his purpose, and being assured that his entrance consists with the safety of the place, and mine own honour." "Since you are so punctilious, lady," replied Monthermer, "know, that in the present distracted state of the country, it is his Grace the King's pleasure to place within your walls a body of men-at-arms, sufficient to guard this important castle, both from the insurgent peasants, who burn and slay, and from the Welsh, who, it must be expected, will, according to their wont in time of disturbance, make incursions on the frontiers. Undo your gates, then, Lady of Berenger, and suffer his Grace's forces to enter the castle." "Sir Knight," answered the lady, "this castle, like every other fortress in England, is the King's by law; but by law also I am the keeper and defender of it; and it is the tenure by which my ancestors held these lands. I have men enough to maintain the Garde Doloureuse in my time, as my father, and my grandfather before him, defended it in theirs. The King is gracious to send me succours, but I need not the aid of hirelings; neither do I think it safe to admit such into my castle, who may, in this lawless time, make themselves master of it for other than its lawful mistress." "Lady," replied the old warrior, "his Grace is not ignorant of the motives which produce a contumacy like this. It is not any apprehension for the royal forces which influences you, a royal vassal, in this refractory conduct. I might proceed upon your refusal to proclaim you a traitor to the Crown, but the King remembers the services of your father. Know, then, we are not ignorant that Damian de Lacy, accused of instigating and heading this insurrection, and of deserting his duty in the field, and abandoning a noble comrade to the swords of the brutal peasants, has found shelter under this roof, with little credit to your loyalty as vassal, or your conduct as a high-born maiden. Deliver him up to us, and I will draw off these men-at-arms, and dispense, though I may scarce answer doing so, with the occupation of the castle." "Guy de Monthermer," answered Eveline, "he that throws a stain on my name, speaks falsely and unworthily; as for Damian de Lacy, he knows how to defend his own fame. This only let me say, that, while he takes his abode in the castle of the betrothed of his kinsman, she delivers him to no one, least of all to his well- known feudal enemy--Drop the portcullis, wardens, and let it not be raised without my special order." The portcullis, as she spoke, fell rattling and clanging to the ground, and Monthermer, in baffled spite, remained excluded from the castle. "Un-worthy lady"--he began in passion, then, checking himself, said calmly to the pursuivant, "Ye are witness that she hath admitted that the traitor is within that castle,--ye are witness that, lawfully summoned, this Eveline Berenger refuses to deliver him up. Do your duty, Sir Pursuivant, as is usual in such cases." The pursuivant then advanced and proclaimed, in the formal and fatal phrase befitting the occasion, that Eveline Berenger, lawfully summoned, refusing to admit the King's forces into her castle, and to deliver up the body of a false traitor, called Damian de Lacy, had herself incurred the penalty of high treason, and had involved within the same doom all who aided, abetted, or maintained her in holding out the said castle against their allegiance to Henry of Anjou. The trumpets, so soon as the voice of the herald had ceased, confirmed the doom he had pronounced, by a long and ominous peal, startling from their nests the owl and the raven, who replied to it by their ill-boding screams. The defenders of the castle looked on each other with blank and dejected countenances, while Monthermer, raising aloft his lance, exclaimed, as he turned his horse from the castle gate, "When I next approach the Garde Doloureuse, it will be not merely to intimate, but to execute, the mandate of my Sovereign." As Eveline stood pensively to behold the retreat of Monthermer and his associates, and to consider what was to be done in this emergency, she heard one of the Flemings, in a low tone, ask an Englishman, who stood beside him, what was the meaning of a traitor. "One who betrayeth a trust reposed--a betrayer," said the interpreter. The phrase which he used recalled to Eveline's memory her boding vision or dream. "Alas!" she said, "the vengeance of the fiend is about to be accomplished. Widow'd wife and wedded maid--these epithets have long been mine. Betrothed!--wo's me! it is the key-stone of my destiny. Betrayer I am now denounced, though, thank God, I am clear from the guilt! It only follows that I should be betrayed, and the evil prophecy will be fulfilled to the very letter." fir? CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH Out on ye, owls; Nothing but songs of death? RICHARD III. More than three months had elapsed since the event narrated in the last chapter, and it had been the precursor of others of still greater importance, which will evolve themselves in the course of our narrative. But, profess to present to the reader not a precise detail of circumstances, according to their order and date, but a series of pictures, endeavouring to exhibit the most striking incidents before the eye or imagination of those whom it may concern, we therefore open a new scene, and bring other actors upon the stage. Along a wasted tract of country, more than twelve miles distant from the Garde Doloureuse, in the heat of a summer noon, which shed a burning lustre on the silent valley, and the blackened ruins of the cottages with which it had been once graced, two travellers walked slowly, whose palmer cloaks, pilgrims' staves, large slouched hats, with a scallop shell bound on the front of each, above all, the cross, cut in red cloth upon their shoulders, marked them as pilgrims who had accomplished their vow, and had returned from that fatal bourne, from which, in those days, returned so few of the thousands who visited it, whether in the love of enterprise, or in the ardour of devotion. The pilgrims had passed, that morning, through a scene of devastation similar to, and scarce surpassed in misery by, those which they had often trod during the wars of the Cross. They had seen hamlets which appeared to have suffered all the fury of military execution, the houses being burned to the ground; and in many cases the carcasses of the miserable inhabitants, or rather relics of such objects, were suspended on temporary gibbets, or on the trees, which had been allowed to remain standing, only, it would seem, to serve the convenience of the executioners. Living creatures they saw none, excepting those wild denizens of nature who seemed silently resuming the now wasted district, from which they might have been formerly expelled by the course of civilization. Their ears were no less disagreeably occupied than their eyes. The pensive travellers might indeed hear the screams of the raven, as if lamenting the decay of the carnage on which he had been gorged; and now and then the plaintive howl of some dog, deprived of his home and master; but no sounds which argued either labour or domestication of any kind. The sable figures, who, with wearied steps, as it appeared, travelled through these scenes of desolation and ravage, seemed assimilated to them in appearance. They spoke not with each other --they looked not to each other--but one, the shorter of the pair, keeping about half a pace in front of his companion, they moved slowly, as priests returning from a sinner's death-bed, or rather as spectres flitting along the precincts of a church-yard. At length they reached a grassy mound, on the top of which was placed one of those receptacles for the dead of the ancient British chiefs of distinction, called Kist-vaen, which are composed of upright fragments of granite, so placed as to form a stone coffin, or something bearing that resemblance. The sepulchre had been long violated by the victorious Saxons, either in scorn or in idle curiosity, or because treasures were supposed to be sometimes concealed in such spots. The huge flat stone which had once been the cover of the coffin, if so it might be termed, lay broken in two pieces at some distance from the sepulchre; and, overgrown as the fragments were with grass and lichens, showed plainly that the lid had been removed to its present situation many years before. A stunted and doddered oak still spread its branches over the open and rude mausoleum, as if the Druid's badge and emblem, shattered and storm-broken, was still bending to offer its protection to the last remnants of their worship. "This, then, is the Kist-vaen," said the shorter pilgrim; "and here we must abide tidings of our scout. But what, Philip Guarine, have we to expect as an explanation of the devastation which we have traversed?" "Some incursion of the Welsh wolves, my lord," replied Guarine; "and, by Our Lady, here lies a poor Saxon sheep whom they have snapped up." The Constable (for he was the pilgrim who had walked foremost) as he heard his squire speak, and saw the corpse of a man amongst the long grass; by which, indeed, it was so hidden, that he himself had passed without notice, what the esquire, in less abstracted mood, had not failed to observe. The leathern doublet of the slain bespoke him an English peasant--the body lay on its face, and the arrow which had caused his death still stuck in his back. Philip Guarine, with the cool indifference of one accustomed to such scenes, drew the shaft from the man's back, as composedly as he would have removed it from the body of a deer. With similar indifference the Constable signed to his esquire to give him the arrow--looked at it with indolent curiosity, and then said, "Thou hast forgotten thy old craft, Guarine, when thou callest that a Welsh shaft. Trust me, it flew from a Norman bow; but why it should be found in the body of that English churl, I can ill guess." "Some runaway serf, I would warrant--some mongrel cur, who had joined the Welsh pack of hounds," answered the esquire. "It may be so," said the Constable; "but I rather augur some civil war among the Lords Marchers themselves. The Welsh, indeed, sweep the villages, and leave nothing behind them but blood and ashes, but here even castles seem to have been stormed and taken. May God send us good news of the Garde Doloureuse!" "Amen!" replied his squire; "but if Renault Vidal brings it, 'twill be the first time he has proved a bird of good omen." "Philip," said the Constable, "I have already told thee thou art a jealous-pated fool. How many times has Vidal shown his faith in doubt--his address in difficulty-his courage in battle-his patience under suffering?" "It may be all very true, my lord," replied Guarine; "yet--but what avails to speak?--I own he has done you sometimes good service; but loath were I that your life or honour were at the mercy of Renault Vidal." "In the name of all the saints, thou peevish and suspicious fool, what is it thou canst found upon to his prejudice?" "Nothing, my lord," replied Guarine, "but instinctive suspicion and aversion. The child that, for the first time, sees a snake, knows nothing of its evil properties, yet he will not chase it and take it up as he would a butterfly. Such is my dislike of Vidal--I cannot help it. I could pardon the man his malicious and gloomy sidelong looks, when he thinks no one observes him; but his sneering laugh I cannot forgive--it is like the beast we heard of in Judea, who laughs, they say, before he tears and destroys." "Philip," said De Lacy, "I am sorry for thee--sorry, from my soul, to see such a predominating and causeless jealousy occupy the brain of a gallant old soldier. Here, in this last misfortune, to recall no more ancient proofs of his fidelity, could he mean otherwise than well with us, when, thrown by shipwreck upon the coast of Wales, we would have been doomed to instant death, had the Cymri recognized in me the Constable of Chester, and in thee his trusty esquire, the executioner of his commands against the Welsh in so many instances?" "I acknowledge," said Philip Guarine, "death had surely been our fortune, had not that man's ingenuity represented us as pilgrims, and, under that character, acted as our interpreter--and in that character he entirely precluded us from getting information from any one respecting the state of things here, which it behoved your lordship much to know, and which I must needs say looks gloomy and suspicious enough." "Still art thou a fool, Guarine," said the Constable; "for, look you, had Vidal meant ill by us, why should he not have betrayed us to the Welsh, or suffered us, by showing such knowledge as thou and I may have of their gibberish, to betray ourselves?' "Well, my lord," said Guarine, "I may be silenced, but not satisfied. All the fair words he can speak--all the fine tunes he can play--Renault Vidal will be to my eyes ever a dark and suspicious man, with features always ready to mould themselves into the fittest form to attract confidence; with a tongue framed to utter the most flattering and agreeable words at one time, and at another to play shrewd plainness or blunt honesty; and an eye which, when he thinks himself unobserved, contradicts every assumed expression of features, every protestation of honesty, and every word of courtesy or cordiality to which his tongue has given utterance. But I speak not more on the subject; only I am an old mastiff, of the true breed--I love my master, but cannot endure some of those whom he favours; and yonder, as I judge, comes Vidal, to give us such an account of our situation as it shall please him." A horseman was indeed seen advancing in the path towards the Kist- vaen, with a hasty pace; and his dress, in which something of the Eastern fashion was manifest, with the fantastic attire usually worn by men of his profession, made the Constable aware that the minstrel, of whom they were speaking, was rapidly approaching them. Although Hugo de Lacy rendered this attendant no more than what in justice he supposed his services demanded, when he vindicated him from the suspicions thrown out by Guarine, yet at the bottom of his heart he had sometimes shared those suspicions, and was often angry at himself, as a just and honest man, for censuring, on the slight testimony of looks, and sometimes casual expressions, a fidelity which seemed to be proved by many acts of zeal and integrity. When Vidal approached and dismounted to make his obeisance, his master hasted to speak to him in words of favour, as if conscious he had been partly sharing Guarine's unjust judgment upon him, by even listening to it. "Welcome, my trusty Vidal," he said; "thou hast been the raven that fed us on the mountains of Wales, be now the dove that brings us good tidings from the Marches.--Thou art silent. What mean these downcast looks--that embarrassed carriage--that cap plucked down o'er thine eyes?--In God's name, man, speak!--Fear not for me--I can bear worse than tongue of man may tell. Thou hast seen me in the wars of Palestine, when my brave followers fell, man by man, around me, and when I was left well-nigh alone--and did I blench then?--Thou hast seen me when the ship's keel lay grating on the rock, and the billows flew in foam over her deck--did I blench then?--No--nor will I now." "Boast not," said the minstrel, looking fixedly upon the Constable, as the former assumed the port and countenance of one who sets Fortune and her utmost malice at defiance--"boast not, lest thy bands be made strong." There was a pause of a minute, during which the group formed at this instant a singular picture. Afraid to ask, yet ashamed to _seem to fear the ill tidings which impended, the Constable confronted his messenger with person erect, arms folded, and brow expanded with resolution: while the minstrel, carried beyond his usual and guarded apathy by the interest of the moment, bent on his master a keen fixed glance, as if to observe whether his courage was real or assumed. Philip Guarine, on the other hand, to whom Heaven, in assigning him a rough exterior, had denied neither sense nor observation, kept his eye in turn, firmly fixed on Vidal, as if endeavouring to determine what was the character of that deep interest which gleamed in the minstrel's looks apparently, and was unable to ascertain whether it was that of a faithful domestic sympathetically agitated by the bad news with which he was about to afflict his master, or that of an executioner standing with his knife suspended over his victim, deferring his blow until he should discover where it would be most sensibly felt. In Guarine's mind, prejudiced, perhaps, by the previous opinion he had entertained, the latter sentiment so decidedly predominated, that he longed to raise his staff, and strike down to the earth the servant, who seemed thus to enjoy the protracted sufferings of their common master. At length a convulsive movement crossed the brow of the Constable, and Guarine, when he beheld a sardonic smile begin to curl Vidal's lip, could keep silence no longer. "Vidal," he said, "thou art a--" "A bearer of bad tidings," said Vidal, interrupting him, "therefore subject to the misconstruction of every fool who cannot distinguish between the author of harm, and him who unwillingly reports it." "To what purpose this delay?" said the Constable. "Come, Sir Minstrel, I will spare you a pang--Eveline has forsaken and forgotten me?" The minstrel assented by a low inclination. Hugo de Lacy paced a short turn before the stone monument, endeavouring to conquer the deep emotion which he felt. "I forgive her," he said. "Forgive, did I say--Alas! I have nothing to forgive. She used but the right I left in her hand--yes--our date of engagement was out--she had heard of my losses--my defeats--the destruction of my hopes--the expenditure of my wealth; and has taken the first opportunity which strict law afforded to break off her engagement with one bankrupt in fortune and fame. Many a maiden would have done--perhaps in prudence should have done-- this;--but that woman's name should not have been Eveline Berenger." He leaned on his esquire's arm, and for an instant laid his head on his shoulder with a depth of emotion which Guarine had never before seen him betray, and which, in awkward kindness, he could only attempt to console, by bidding his master "be of good courage--he had lost but a woman." "This is no selfish emotion, Philip," said the Constable, resuming self-command. "I grieve less that she has left me, than that she has misjudged me--that she has treated me as the pawnbroker does his wretched creditor, who arrests the pledge as the very moment elapses within which it might have been relieved. Did she then think that I in my turn would have been a creditor so rigid?--that I, who, since I knew her, scarce deemed myself worthy of her when I had wealth and fame, should insist on her sharing my diminished and degraded fortunes? How little she ever knew me, or how selfish must she have supposed my misfortunes to have made me! But be it so--she is gone, and may she be happy. The thought that she disturbed me shall pass from my mind; and I will think she has done that which I myself, as her best friend, must in honour have advised." So saying, his countenance, to the surprise of his attendants, resumed its usual firm composure. "I give you joy," said the esquire, in a whisper to the minstrel; "your evil news have wounded less deeply than, doubtless, you believed was possible." "Alas!" replied the minstrel, "I have others and worse behind." This answer was made in an equivocal tone of voice, corresponding to the peculiarity of his manner, and like that seeming emotion of a deep but very doubtful character. "Eveline Berenger is then married," said the Constable; "and, let me make a wild guess,--she has not abandoned the family, though she has forsaken the individual--she is still a Lacy? ha?--Dolt that thou art, wilt thou not understand me? She is married to Damian de Lacy--to my nephew?" The effort with which the Constable gave breath to this supposition formed a strange contrast to the constrained smile to which he compelled his features while he uttered it. With such a smile a man about to drink poison might name a health, as he put the fatal beverage to his lips. "No, my lord--not married," answered the minstrel, with an emphasis on the word, which the Constable knew how to interpret. "No, no," he replied quickly, "not married, perhaps, but engaged- troth-plighted. Wherefore not? The date of her old alliance was out, why not enter into a new engagement?" "The Lady Eveline and Sir Damian de Lacy are not affianced that I know of," answered his attendant. This reply drove De Lacy's patience to extremity. "Dog! dost thou trifle with me?" he exclaimed: "Vile wire-pincher, thou torturest me! Speak the worst at once, or I will presently make thee minstrel to the household of Satan." Calm and collected did the minstrel reply,--"The Lady Eveline and Sir Damian are neither married nor affianced, my lord. They have loved and lived together--_par amours_." "Dog, and son of a dog," said De Lacy, "thou liest!" And, seizing the minstrel by the breast, the exasperated baron shook him with his whole strength. But great as that strength was, it was unable to stagger Vidal, a practised wrestler, in the firm posture which he had assumed, any more than his master's wrath could disturb the composure of the minstrel's bearing. "Confess thou hast lied," said the Constable, releasing him, after having effected by his violence no greater degree of agitation than the exertion of human force produces upon the Rocking Stones of the Druids, which may be shaken, indeed, but not displaced. "Were a lie to buy my own life, yea, the lives of all my tribe," said the minstrel, "I would not tell one. But truth itself is ever termed falsehood when it counteracts the train of our passions." "Hear him, Philip Guarine, hear him!" exclaimed the Constable, turning hastily to his squire: "He tells me of my disgrace--of the dishonour of my house--of the depravity of those whom I have loved the best in the world--he tells me of it with a calm look, an eye composed, an unfaltering tongue.--Is this--can it be natural? Is De Lacy sunk so low, that his dishonour shall be told by a common strolling minstrel, as calmly as if it were a theme for a vain ballad? Perhaps thou wilt make it one, ha!" as he concluded, darting a furious glance at the minstrel. "Perhaps I might, my lord," replied the minstrel, "were it not that I must record therein the disgrace of Renault Vidal, who served a lord without either patience to bear insults and wrongs, or spirit to revenge them on the authors of his shame." "Thou art right, thou art right, good fellow," said the Constable, hastily; "it is vengeance now alone which is left us--And yet upon whom?" As he spoke he walked shortly and hastily to and fro; and, becoming suddenly silent, stood still and wrung his hands with deep emotion. "I told thee," said the minstrel to Guarine, "that my muse would find a tender part at last. Dost thou remember the bull-fight we saw in Spain? A thousand little darts perplexed and annoyed the noble animal, ere he received the last deadly thrust from the lance of the Moorish Cavalier." "Man, or fiend, be which thou wilt," replied Guarine, "that can thus drink in with pleasure, and contemplate at your ease, the misery of another, I bid thee beware of me! Utter thy cold-blooded taunts in some other ear; for if my tongue be blunt, I wear a sword that is sharp enough." "Thou hast seen me amongst swords," answered the minstrel, "and knowest how little terror they have for such as I am." Yet as he spoke he drew off from the esquire. He had, in fact, only addressed him in that sort of fulness of heart, which would have vented itself in soliloquy if alone, and now poured itself out on the nearest auditor, without the speaker being entirely conscious of the sentiments which his speech excited. Few minutes had elapsed before the Constable of Chester had regained the calm external semblance with which, until this last dreadful wound, he had borne all the inflictions of fortune. He turned towards his followers, and addressed the minstrel with his usual calmness, "Thou art right, good fellow," he said, "in what thou saidst to me but now, and I forgive thee the taunt which accompanied thy good counsel. Speak out, in God's name! and speak to one prepared to endure the evil which God hath sent him. Certes, a good knight is best known in battle, and a Christian in the time of trouble and adversity." The tone in which the Constable spoke, seemed to produce a corresponding effect upon the deportment of his followers. The minstrel dropped at once the cynical and audacious tone in which he had hitherto seemed to tamper with the passions of his master; and in language simple and respectful, and which even approached to sympathy, informed him of the evil news which he had collected during his absence. It was indeed disastrous. The refusal of the Lady Eveline Berengor to admit Monthermer and his forces into her castle, had of course given circulation and credence to all the calumnies which had been circulated to her prejudice, and that of Damian de Lacy; and there were many who, for various causes, were interested in spreading and supporting these slanders. A large force had been sent into the country to subdue the insurgent peasants; and the knights and nobles despatched for that purpose, failed not to avenge to the utter- most, upon the wretched plebeians, the noble blood which they had spilled during their temporary triumph. The followers of the unfortunate Wenlock were infected with the same persuasion. Blamed by many for a hasty and cowardly surrender of a post which might have been defended, they endeavoured to vindicate themselves by alleging the hostile demonstrations of De Lacy's cavalry as the sole cause of their premature submission. These rumours, supported by such interested testimony, spread wide and far through the land; and, joined to the undeniable fact that Damian had sought refuge in the strong castle of Garde Doloureuse, which was now defending itself against the royal arms, animated the numerous enemies of the house of De Lacy, and drove its vassals and friends almost to despair, as men reduced either to disown their feudal allegiance, or renounce that still more sacred fealty which they owed to their sovereign. At this crisis they received intelligence that the wise and active monarch by whom the sceptre of England was then swayed, was moving towards that part of England, at the head of a large body of soldiers, for the purpose at once of pressing the siege of the Garde Doloureuse, and completing the suppression of the insurrection of the peasantry, which Guy Monthermer had nearly accomplished. In this emergency, and when the friends and dependents of the House of Lacy scarcely knew which hand to turn to, Randal, the Constable's kinsman, and, after Damian, his heir, suddenly appeared amongst them, with a royal commission to raise and command such followers of the family as might not desire to be involved in the supposed treason of the Constable's delegate. In troublesome times, men's vices are forgotten, provided they display activity, courage, and prudence, the virtues then most required; and the appearance of Randal, who was by no means deficient in any of these attributes, was received as a good omen by the followers of his cousin. They quickly gathered around him, surrendered to the royal mandate such strongholds as they possessed, and, to vindicate themselves from any participation in the alleged crimes of Damian, they distinguished themselves, under Randal's command, against such scattered bodies of peasantry as still kept the field, or lurked in the mountains and passes; and conducted themselves with such severity after success, as made the troops even of Monthermer appear gentle and clement in comparison with those of De Lacy. Finally, with the banner of his ancient house displayed, and five hundred good men assembled under it, Randal appeared before the Garde Poloureuse, and joined Henry's camp there. The castle was already hardly pressed, and the few defenders, disabled by wounds, watching, and privation, had now the additional discouragement to see displayed against their walls the only banner in England under which they had hoped forces might be mustered for their aid. The high-spirited entreaties of Eveline, unbent by adversity and want, gradually lost effect on the defenders of the castle; and proposals for surrender were urged and discussed by a tumultuary council, into which not only the inferior officers, but many of the common men, had thrust themselves, as in a period of such general distress as unlooses all the bonds of discipline, and leaves each man at liberty to speak and act for himself. To their surprise, in the midst of their discussions, Damian de Lacy, arisen from the sick-bed to which he had been so long confined, appeared among them, pale and feeble, his cheek tinged with the ghastly look which is left by long illness--he leaned on his page Amelot. "Gentlemen," he said, "and soldiers--yet why should I call you either?--Gentlemen are ever ready to die in behalf of a lady-- soldiers hold life in scorn compared to their honour." "Out upon him! out upon him!" exclaimed some of the soldiers, interrupting him; "he would have us, who are innocent, die the death of traitors, and be hanged in our armour over the walls, rather than part with his leman." "Peace, irreverent slave!" said Damian, in a voice like thunder, "or my last blow shall be a mean one, aimed against such a caitiff as thou art.--And you," he continued, addressing the rest,--"you, who are shrinking from the toils of your profession, because if you persist in a course of honour, death may close them a few years sooner than it needs must--you, who are scared like children at the sight of a death's-head, do not suppose that Damian de Lacy would desire to shelter himself at the expense of those lives which you hold so dear. Make your bargain with King Henry. Deliver me up to his justice, or his severity; or, if you like it better, strike my head from my body, and hurl it, as a peace- offering, from the walls of the castle. To God, in his good time, will I trust for the clearance of mine honour. In a word, surrender me, dead or alive, or open the gates and permit me to surrender myself. Only, as ye are men, since I may not say better of ye, care at least for the safety of your mistress, and make such terms as may secure HER safety, and save yourselves from the dishonour of being held cowardly and perjured caitiffs in your graves." "Methinks the youth speaks well and reasonably," said William Flammock. "Let us e'en make a grace of surrendering his body up to the King, and assure thereby such terms as we can for ourselves and the lady, ere the last morsel of our provision is consumed." "I would hardly have proposed this measure," said, or rather mumbled, Father Aldrovand, who had recently lost four of his front teeth by a stone from a sling,--"yet, being so generously offered by the party principally concerned, I hold with the learned scholiast, _Volenti non fit injuria_." "Priest and Fleming," said the old banner-man, Ralph Genvil, "I see how the wind stirreth you; but you deceive yourselves if you think to make our young master, Sir Damian, a scape-goat for your light lady.--Nay, never frown nor fume, Sir Damian; if you know not your safest course, we know it for you.--Followers of De Lacy, throw yourselves on your horses, and two men on one, if it be necessary--we will take this stubborn boy in the midst of us, and the dainty squire Amelot shall be prisoner too, if he trouble us with his peevish opposition. Then, let us make a fair sally upon the siegers. Those who can cut their way through will shift well enough; those who fall, will be provided for." A shout from the troopers of Lacy's band approved this proposal. Whilst the followers of Berenger expostulated in loud and angry tone, Eveline, summoned by the tumult, in vain endeavoured to appease it; and the anger and entreaties of Damian were equally lost on his followers. To each and either the answer was the same. "Have you no care of it--Because you love _par amours_, is it reasonable you should throw away your life and ours?" So exclaimed Genvil to De Lacy; and in softer language, but with equal obstinacy, the followers of Raymond Berenger refused on the present occasion to listen, to the commands or prayers of his daughter. Wilkin Flammock had retreated from the tumult, when he saw the turn which matters had taken. He left the castle by a sally-port, of which he had been intrusted with the key, and proceeded without observation or opposition to the royal camp, where he requested access to the Sovereign. This was easily obtained, and Wilkin speedily found himself in the presence of King Henry. The monarch was in his royal pavilion, attended by two of his sons, Richard and John, who afterwards swayed the sceptre of England with very different auspices. "How now?--What art thou?" was the royal question. "An honest man, from the castle of the Garde Doloureuse." "Thou may'st be honest," replied the Sovereign, "but thou comest from a nest of traitors." "Such as they are, my lord, it is my purpose to put them at your royal disposal; for they have no longer the wisdom to guide themselves, and lack alike prudence to hold out, and grace to submit. But I would first know of your grace to what terms you will admit the defenders of yonder garrison?" "To such as kings give to traitors," said Henry, sternly--"sharp knives and tough cords." "Nay, my gracious lord, you must be kinder than that amounts to, if the castle is to be rendered by my means; else will your cords and knives have only my poor body to work upon, and you will be as far as ever from the inside of the Garde Doloureuse." The King looked at him fixedly. "Thou knowest," he said, "the law of arms. Here, provost-marshal, stands a traitor, and yonder stands a tree." "And here is a throat," said the stout-hearted Fleming, unbuttoning the collar of his doublet. "By mine honour," said Prince Richard, "a sturdy and faithful yeoman! It were better send such fellows their dinners, and then buffet it out with them for the castle, than to starve them as the beggarly Frenchmen famish their hounds." "Peace, Richard," said his father; "thy wit is over green, and thy blood over hot, to make thee my counsellor here.--And you, knave, speak you some reasonable terms, and we will not be over strict with thee." "First, then," said the Fleming, "I stipulate full and free pardon for life, limb, body, and goods, to me, Wilkin Flammock, and my daughter Rose." "A true Fleming," said Prince John; "he takes care of himself in the first instance." "His request," said the King, "is reasonable. What next?" "Safety in life, honour, and land, for the demoiselle Eveline Berenger." "How, sir knave!" said the King, angrily, "is it for such as thou to dictate to our judgment or clemency in the case of a noble Norman Lady? Confine thy mediation to such as thyself; or rather render us this castle without farther delay; and be assured thy doing so will be of more service to the traitors within, than weeks more of resistance, which must and shall be bootless." The Fleming stood silent, unwilling to surrender without some specific terms, yet half convinced, from the situation in which he had left the garrison of the Garde Doloureuse, that his admitting the King's forces would be, perhaps, the best he could do for Lady Eveline. "I like thy fidelity, fellow," said the King, whose acute eye perceived the struggle in the Fleming's bosom; "but carry not thy stubbornness too far. Have we not said we will be gracious to yonder offenders, as far as our royal duty will permit?" "And, royal father," said Prince John, interposing, "I pray you let me have the grace to take first possession, of the Garde Doloureuse, and the wardship or forfeiture of the offending lady." "_I_ pray you also, my royal father, to grant John's boon," said his brother Richard, in a tone of mockery. "Consider, royal father, it is the first desire he hath shown to approach the barriers of the castle, though we have attacked them forty times at least. Marry, crossbow and mangonel were busy on the former occasions, and it is like they will be silent now." "Peace, Richard," said the King; "your words, aimed at thy brother's honour, pierce my heart.--John, thou hast thy boon as concerns the castle; for the unhappy young lady, we will take her in our own charge.--Fleming, how many men wilt thou undertake to admit?" Ere Flammock could answer, a squire approached Prince Richard, and whispered in his ear, yet so as to be heard by all present, "We have discovered that some internal disturbance, or other cause unknown, has withdrawn many of the warders from the castle walls, and that a sudden attack might--" "Dost thou hear that, John?" exclaimed Richard. "Ladders, man--get ladders, and to the wall. How I should delight to see thee on the highest round--thy knees shaking--thy hands grasping convulsively, like those of one in an ague fit--all air around thee, save a baton or two of wood--the moat below--half-a-dozen pikes at thy throat--" "Peace, Richard, for shame, if not for charity!" said his father, in a tone of anger, mingled with grief. "And thou, John, get ready for the assault." "As soon as I have put on my armour, father," answered the Prince; and withdrew slowly, with a visage so blank as to promise no speed in his preparations. His brother laughed as he retired, and said to his squire, "It were no bad jest, Alberick, to carry the place ere John can change his silk doublet for a steel one." So saying, he hastily withdrew, and his father exclaimed in paternal distress, "Out, alas! as much too hot as his brother is too cold; but it is the manlier fault.--Gloucester," said he to that celebrated earl, "take sufficient strength, and follow Prince Richard to guard and sustain him. If any one can rule him, it must be a knight of thy established fame. Alas, alas! for what sin have I deserved the affliction of these cruel family feuds!" "Be comforted, my lord," said the chancellor, who was also in attendance. "Speak not of comfort to a father, whose sons are at discord with each other, and agree only in their disobedience to him!" Thus spoke Henry the Second, than whom no wiser, or, generally speaking, more fortunate monarch ever sat upon the throne of England; yet whose life is a striking illustration, how family dissensions can tarnish the most brilliant lot to which Heaven permits humanity to aspire; and how little gratified ambition, extended power, and the highest reputation in war and in peace, can do towards curing the wounds of domestic affliction. The sudden and fiery attack of Richard, who hastened to the escalade at the head of a score of followers, collected at random, had the complete effect of surprise; and having surmounted the walls with their ladders, before the contending parties within were almost aware of the assault, the assailants burst open the gates, and admitted Gloucester, who had hastily followed with a strong body of men-at-arms. The garrison, in their state of surprise, confusion, and disunion, offered but little resistance, and would have been put to the sword, and the place plundered, had not Henry himself entered it, and by his personal exertions and authority, restrained the excesses of the dissolute soldiery. The King conducted himself, considering the times and the provocation, with laudable moderation. He contented himself with disarming and dismissing the common soldiers, giving them some trifle to carry them out of the country, lest want should lead them to form themselves into bands of robbers. The officers were more severely treated, being for the greater part thrown into dungeons, to abide the course of the law. In particular, imprisonment was the lot of Damian de Lacy, against whom, believing the various charges with which he was loaded, Henry was so highly incensed, that he purposed to make him an example to all false knights and disloyal subjects. To the Lady Eveline Berenger he assigned her own apartment as a prison, in which she was honourably attended by Rose and Alice, but guarded with the utmost strictness. It was generally reported that her demesnes would be declared a forfeiture to the crown, and bestowed, at least in part, upon Randal de Lacy, who had done good service during the siege. Her person, it was thought, was destined to the seclusion of some distant French nunnery, where she might at leisure repent her of her follies and her rashness. Father Aldrovand was delivered up to the discipline of the convent, long experience having very effectually taught Henry the imprudence of infringing on the privileges of the church; although, when the King first beheld him with a rusty corslet clasped over his frock, he with difficulty repressed the desire to cause him to hanged over the battlements, to preach to the ravens. With Wilkin Flammock, Henry held much conference, particularly on his subject of manufactures and commerce; on which the sound- headed, though blunt-spoken Fleming, was well qualified to instruct an intelligent monarch. "Thy intentions," he said, "shall not be forgotten, good fellow, though they have been anticipated by the headlong valour of my son Richard, which has cost some poor caitiffs their lives--Richard loves not to sheathe a bloodless weapon. But thou and thy countrymen shall return to thy mills yonder, with a full pardon for past offences, so that you meddle no more with such treasonable matters." "And our privileges and duties, my liege?" said Flammock. "Your Majesty knows well we are vassals to the lord of this castle, and must follow him in battle." "It shall no longer be so," said Henry; "I will form a community of Flemings here, and thou, Flammock, shalt be Mayor, that thou may'st not plead feudal obedience for a relapse into treason." "Treason, my liege!" said Flammock, longing, yet scarce venturing, to 'interpose a word in behalf of Lady Eveline, for whom, despite the constitutional coolness of his temperament, he really felt much interest--"I would that your Grace but justly knew how many threads went to that woof." "Peace, sirrah!--meddle with your loom," said Henry; "and if we deign to speak to thee concerning the mechanical arts which thou dost profess, take it for no warrant to intrude farther on our privacy." The Fleming retired, rebuked, and in silence; and the fate of the unhappy prisoners remained in the King's bosom. He himself took up his lodging in the castle of the Garde Doloureuse, as a convenient station for sending abroad parties to suppress and extinguish all the embers of rebellion; and so active was Randal de Lacy on these occasions, that he appeared daily to rise in the King's grace, and was gratified with considerable grants out of the domains of Berenger and Lacy, which the King seemed already to treat as forfeited property. Most men considered this growing favour of Randal as a perilous omen, both far the life of young De Lacy, and for the fate of the unfortunate Eveline. CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH A vow, a vow--I have a vow in Heaven. Shall I bring perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. MERCHANT OF VENICE. The conclusion of the last chapter contains the tidings with which the minstrel greeted his unhappy master, Hugo de Lacy; not indeed with the same detail of circumstances with which we have been able to invest the narrative, but so as to infer the general and appalling facts, that his betrothed bride, and beloved and trusted kinsman, had leagued together for his dishonour--had raised the banner of rebellion against their lawful sovereign, and, failing in their audacious attempt, had brought the life of one of them, at least, into the most imminent danger, and the fortunes of the House of Lacy, unless some instant remedy could be found, to the very verge of ruin. Vidal marked the countenance of his master as he spoke, with the same keen observation which the chirurgeon gives to the progress of his dissecting-knife. There was grief on the Constable's features--deep grief--but without the expression of abasement or prostration which usually accompanies it; anger and shame were there--but they were both of a noble character, seemingly excited by his bride and nephew's transgressing the laws of allegiance, honour, and virtue, rather than by the disgrace and damage which he himself sustained through their crime. The minstrel was so much astonished at this change of deportment, from the sensitive acuteness of agony which attended the beginning of his narrative, that he stepped back two paces, and gazing on the Constable with wonder, mixed with admiration, exclaimed, "We have heard of martyrs in. Palestine, but this exceeds them!" "Wonder not so much, good friend," said the Constable, patiently; "it is the first blow of the lance or mace which pierces or stuns --those which follow are little felt." [Footnote: Such an expression is said to have been used by Mandrin, the celebrated smuggler, while in the act of being broken upon the wheel. This dreadful punishment consists in the executioner, with a bar of iron, breaking the shoulder-bones, arms, thigh-bones, and legs of the criminal, taking--his alternate sides. The punishment is concluded by a blow across the breast, called the _coup de grace_, because it removes the sufferer from his agony. When Mandrin received the second blow over the left shoulder-bone, he laughed. His confessor inquired the reason of demeanour so unbecoming--his situation. "I only lavish at my own folly, my father," answered Mandrin, "who could suppose that sensibility of pain should continue after the nervous system had been completely deranged by the first blow.] "Think, my lord," said Vidal, "all is lost--love, dominion, high office, and bright fame--so late a chief among nobles, now a poor palmer!" "Wouldst thou make sport with my misery?" said Hugo, sternly; "but even that comes of course behind my back, and why should it not be endured when said to my face?--Know, then, minstrel, and put it in song if you list, that Hugo de Lacy, having lost all he carried to Palestine, and all which he left at home, is still lord of his own mind; and adversity can no more shake him, than the breeze which strips the oak of its leaves can tear up the trunk by the roots." "Now, by the tomb of my father," said the minstrel, rapturously, "this man's nobleness is too much for my resolve!" and stepping hastily to the Constable, he kneeled on one knee, and caught his hand more freely than the state maintained by men of De Lacy's rank usually permitted. "Here," said Vidal, "on this hand--this noble hand--I renounce--" But ere he could utter another word, Hugo de Lacy, who, perhaps, felt the freedom of the action as an intrusion on his fallen condition, pulled back his hand, and bid the minstrel, with as stern frown, arise, and remember that misfortune made not De Lacy a fit personage for a mummery. Renault Vidal rose rebuked. "I had forgot," he said, "the distance between an Armorican violer and a high Norman baron. I thought that the same depth of sorrow, the same burst of joy, levelled, for a moment at least, those artificial barriers by which men are divided. But it is well as it is. Live within the limits of your rank, as heretofore within your donjon tower and your fosses, my lord, undisturbed by the sympathy of any mean man like me. I, too, have my duties to discharge." "And now to the Garde Doloureuse," said the baron, turning to Philip Guarine--"God knoweth how well it deserveth the name!-- there to learn, with our own eyes and ears, the truth of these woful tidings. Dismount, minstrel, and give me thy palfrey--I would, Guarine, that I had one for thee--as for Vidal, his attendance is less necessary. I will face my foes, or my misfortunes, like a man--that be assured of, violer; and look not so sullen, knave--I will not forget old adherents." "One of them, at least, will not forget you, my lord," replied the minstrel, with his usual dubious tone of look and emphasis. But just as the Constable was about to prick forwards, two persons appeared on the path, mounted on one horse, who, hidden by some dwarf-wood, had come very near them without being perceived. They were male and female; and the man, who rode foremost, was such a picture of famine, as the eyes of the pilgrims had scarce witnessed in all the wasted land through which they had travelled. His features, naturally sharp and thin, had disappeared almost entirely among the uncombed gray beard and hairs with which they were overshadowed; and it was but the glimpse of a long nose, that seemed as sharp as the edge of a knife, and the twinkling glimpse of his gray eyes, which gave any intimation of his lineaments. His leg, in the wide old boot which enclosed it, looked like the handle of a mop left by chance in a pail--his arms were about the thickness of riding-rods--and such parts of his person as were not concealed by the tatters of a huntsman's cassock, seemed rather the appendages of a mummy than a live man. The female who sat behind this spectre exhibited also some symptoms of extenuation; but being a brave jolly dame naturally, famine had not been able to render her a spectacle so rueful as the anatomy behind which she rode. Dame Gillian's cheek (for it was the reader's old acquaintance) had indeed lost the rosy hue of good cheer, and the smoothness of complexion which art and easy living had formerly substituted for the more delicate bloom of youth; her eyes were sunken, and had lost much of their bold and roguish lustre; but she was still in some measure herself, and the remnants of former finery, together with the tight-drawn scarlet hose, though sorely faded, showed still a remnant of coquettish pretension. So soon as she came within sight of the pilgrims, she began to punch Raoul with the end of her riding-rod. "Try thy new trade, man, since thou art unfit for any other--to the good man--to them --crave their charity." "Beg from beggars?" muttered Raoul; "that were hawking at sparrows, dame." "It will bring our hand in use though," said Gillian; and commenced, in a whining tone, "God love you, holy men, who have had the grace to go to the Holy Land, and, what is more, have had the grace to come back again; I pray, bestow some of your alms upon my poor old husband, who is a miserable object, as you see, and upon one who has the bad luck to be his wife--Heaven help me!" "Peace, woman, and hear what I have to say," said the Constable, laying his hand upon the bridle of the horse--"I have present occasion for that horse, and----" "By the hunting-horn of St. Hubert, but thou gettest him not without blows!" answered the old huntsman "A fine world it is, when palmers turn horse-stealers." "Peace, fellow" said the Constable, sternly,--"I say I have occasion presently for the service of thy horse. Here be two gold bezants for a day's use of the brute; it is well worth the fee-simple of him, were he never returned." "But the palfrey is an old acquaintance, master," said Raoul; "and if perchance--" "Out upon _if_ and _perchance_ both," said the dame, giving her husband so determined a thrust as well-nigh pushed him out of the saddle. "Off the horse! and thank God and this worthy man for the help he hath sent us in this extremity. What signifies the palfrey, when we have not enough to get food either for the brute or ourselves? not though we would eat grass and corn with him, like King Somebody, whom the good father used to read us to sleep about." "A truce with your prating, dame," said Raoul, offering his assistance to help her from the croupe; but she preferred that of Guarine, who, though advanced in years, retained the advantage of his stout soldierly figure. "I humbly thank your goodness," said she, as, (having first kissed her,) the squire set her on the ground. "And, pray, sir, are ye come from the Holy Land?--Heard ye any tidings there of him that was Constable of Chester?" De Lacy, who was engaged in removing the pillion from behind the saddle, stopped short in his task, and said, "Ha, dame! what would you with him?" "A great deal, good palmer, an I could light on him; for his lands and offices are all to be given, it's like, to that false thief, his kinsman." "What!--to Damian, his nephew?" exclaimed the Constable, in a harsh and hasty tone. "Lord, how you startle me, sir!" said Gillian; then continued, turning to Philip Guarine, "Your friend is a hasty man, belike."; "It is the fault of the sun he has lived under so long," said the squire; "but look you answer his questions truly, and he will make it the better for you." Gillian instantly took the hint. "Was it Damian de Lacy you asked after?--Alas I poor young gentleman! no offices or lands for him-- more likely to have a gallows-cast, poor lad--and all for nought, as I am a true dame. Damian!--no, no, it is not Damian, or damson neither--but Randal Lacy, that must rule the roast, and have all the old man's lands, and livings, and lordships." "What?" said the Constable--"before they know whether the old man. is dead or no?-Methinks that were against law and reason both." "Ay, but Randal Lacy has brought about less likely matters. Look you, he hath sworn to the King that they have true tidings of the Constable's death--ay, and let him alone to make them soothfast enough, if the Constable were once within his danger." "Indeed!" said the Constable. "But you are forging tales on a noble gentleman. Come, come, dame, you say this because you like not Randal Lacy." "Like him not!--And what reason have I to like him, I trow?" answered Gillian. "Is it because he seduced my simplicity to let him into the castle of the Garde Doloureuse-ay, oftener than once or twice either,-when he was disguised as a pedlar, and told him all the secrets of the family, and how the boy Damian, and the girl Eveline, were dying of love with each other, but had not courage to say a word of it, for fear of the Constable, though he were a thousand miles off?-You seem concerned, worthy sir--may I offer your reverend worship a trifling sup from my bottle, which is sovereign for _tremor cordis_, and fits of the spleen?" "No, no," ejaculated De Lacy--"I was but grieved with the shooting of an old wound. But, dame, I warrant me this Damian and Eveline, as you call them, became better, closer friends, in time?" "They?--not they indeed, poor simpletons!" answered the dame; "they wanted some wise counsellor to go between and advise them. For, look you, sir, if old Hugo be dead, as is most like, it were more natural that his bride and his nephew should inherit his lands, than this same Randal who is but a distant kinsman, and a foresworn caitiff to boot.--Would you think it, reverend pilgrim, after the mountains of gold he promised me?--when the castle was taken, and he saw I could serve him no more, he called me old beldame, and spoke of the beadle and the cucking-stool.--Yes, reverend sir, old beldame and cucking-stool were his best words, when he knew I had no one to take my part, save old Raoul, who cannot take his own. But if grim old Hugh bring back his weatherbeaten carcass from Palestine, and have but half the devil in him which he had when he was fool enough to go away, Saint Mary, but I will do his kinsman's office to him!" There was a pause when she had done speaking. "Thou say'st," at length exclaimed the Constable, "that Damian de Lacy and Eveline love each other, yet are unconscious of guilt or falsehood, or ingratitude to me--I would say, to their relative in Palestine!" "Love, sir!--in troth and so it is--they do love each other," said Gillian; "but it is like angels--or like lambs--or like fools, if you will; for they would never so much as have spoken together, but for a prank of that same Randal Lacy's." "How!" demanded the Constable--"a prank of Randal's?--What motive had he that these two should meet?" "Nay, their meeting was none of his seeking; but he had formed a plan to carry off the Lady Eveline himself, for he was a wild rover, this same Randal; and so he came disguised as a merchant of falcons, and trained out my old stupid Raoul, and the Lady Eveline, and all of us, as if to have an hour's mirth in hawking at the heron. But he had a band of Welsh kites in readiness to pounce upon us; and but for the sudden making in of Damian to our rescue, it is undescribable to think what might have come of us; and Damian being hurt in the onslaught, was carried to the Garde Doloureuse in mere necessity; and but to save his life, it is my belief my lady would never have asked him to cross the drawbridge, even if he had offered." "Woman," said the Constable, "think what thou say'st! If thou hast done evil in these matters heretofore, as I suspect from thine own story, think not to put it right by a train of new falsehoods, merely from spite at missing thy reward." "Palmer," said old Raoul, with his broken-toned voice, cracked by many a hollo, "I am wont to leave the business of tale-bearing to my wife Gillian, who will tongue-pad it with any shrew in Christendom. But thou speak'st like one having some interest in these matters, and therefore I will tell thee plainly, that although this woman has published her own shame in avowing her correspondence with that same Randal Lacy, yet what she has said is true as the gospel; and, were it my last word, I would say that Damian and the Lady Eveline are innocent of all treason and all dishonesty, as is the babe unborn.--But what avails what the like of us say, who are even driven to the very begging for mere support, after having lived at a good house, and in a good lord's service-blessing be with him!" "But hark you," continued the Constable, "are there left no ancient servants of the House, that could speak out as well as you?" "Humph!" answered the huntsman--"men are not willing to babble when Randal Lacy is cracking his thong above their heads. Many are slain, or starved to death--some disposed of--some spirited away. But there are the weaver Flammock and his daughter Rose, who know as much of the matter as we do." "What!--Wilkin Flammock the stout Netherlander?" said the Constable; "he and his blunt but true daughter Rose?--I will venture my life on their faith. Where dwell they?--What has been their lot amidst these changes?" "And in God's name who are you that ask these questions?" said Dame Gillian. "Husband, husband-- we have been too free; there is something in that look and that tone which I should remember." "Yes, look at me more fixedly," said the Constable, throwing "back the hood which had hitherto in some degree obscured his features. "On your knees--on your knees, Raoul!" exclaimed Gillian, dropping on her own at the same time; "it is the Constable himself, and he has heard me call him old Hugh!" "It is all that is left of him who was the Constable, at least," replied De Lacy; "and old Hugh willingly forgives your freedom, in consideration of your good news. Where are Flammock and his daughter?" "Rose is with the Lady Eveline," said Dame Gillian; "her ladyship, belike, chose her for bower-woman in place of me, although Rose was never fit to attire so much as a Dutch doll." "The faithful girl!" said the Constable. "And where is Flammock?" "Oh, for him, he has pardon and favour from the King," said Raoul; "and is at his own house, with his rabble of weavers, close beside the Battle-bridge, as they now call the place where your lordship quelled the Welsh." "Thither will I then," said the Constable; "and will then see what welcome King Henry of Anjou has for an old servant. You two must accompany me." "My lord," said Gillian, with hesitation, "you know poor folk are little thanked for interference with great men's affairs. I trust your lordship will be able to protect us if we speak the truth; and that you will not look back with displeasure on what I did, acting for the best." "Peace, dame, with a wanion to ye!" said Raoul. "Will you think of your own old sinful carcass, when you should be saving your sweet young mistress from shame and oppression?--And for thy ill tongue, and worse practices, his lordship knows they are bred in the bone of thee." "Peace, good fellow!" said the Constable; "we will not look back on thy wife's errors, and your fidelity shall be rewarded.--For you, my faithful followers," he said, turning towards Guarine and Vidal, "when De Lacy shall receive his rights, of which he doubts nothing, his first wish shall be to reward your fidelity." "Mine, such as it is, has been and shall be its own reward," said Vidal. "I will not accept favours from him in prosperity, who, in adversity, refused me his hand--our account stands yet open." "Go to, thou art a fool; but thy profession hath a privilege to be humorous," said the Constable, whose weatherbeaten and homely features looked even handsome, when animated by gratitude to Heaven and benevolence towards mankind. "We will meet," he said, "at Battle-bridge, an hour before vespers--I shall have much achieved before that time." "The space is short," said his esquire. "I have won a battle in yet shorter," replied the Constable. "In which," said the minstrel, "many a man has died that thought himself well assured of life and victory." "Even so shall my dangerous cousin Randal find his schemes of ambition blighted," answered the Constable; and rode forwards, accompanied by Raoul and his wife, who had remounted their palfrey, while the minstrel and squire followed a-foot, and, of course, much more slowly. CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST "Oh, fear not, fear not, good Lord John, That I would you betray, Or sue requital for a debt, Which nature cannot pay. Bear witness, all ye sacred powers-- Ye lights that 'gin to shine-- This night shall prove the sacred tie That binds your faith and mine." ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. Left behind by their master, the two dependants of Hugh de Lacy marched on in sullen silence, like men who dislike and distrust each other, though bound to one common service, and partners, therefore, in the same hopes and fears. The dislike, indeed, was chiefly upon Guarine's side; for nothing could be more indifferent to Renault Vidal than was his companion, farther than as he was conscious that Philip loved him not, and was not unlikely, so far as lay in his power, to thwart some plans which he had nearly at heart. He took little notice of his companion, but hummed over to himself, as for the exercise of his memory, romances and songs, many of which were composed in languages which Guarine, who had only an ear for his native Norman, did not understand. They had proceeded together in this sullen manner for nearly two hours, when they were met by a groom on horseback, leading a saddled palfrey. "Pilgrims," said the man, after looking at them with some attention, "which of you is called Philip Guarine?" "I, for fault of a better," said the esquire, "reply to that name." "Thy lord, in that case, commends him to you," said the groom; "and sends you this token, by which you shall know that I am his true messenger." He showed the esquire a rosary, which Philip instantly recognized as that used by the Constable. "I acknowledge the token," he said; "speak my master's pleasure." "He bids me say," replied the rider, "that his visit thrives as well as is possible, and that this very evening, by time that the sun sets, he will be possessed of his own. He desires, therefore, you will mount this palfrey, and come with me to the Garde Doloureuse, as your presence would be wanted there." "It is well, and I obey him," said the esquire, much pleased with the Import of the message, and not dissatisfied at being separated from his travelling companion. "And what charge for me?" said the minstrel, addressing the messenger. "If you, as I guess, are the minstrel, Renault Vidal, you are to abide your master at the Battle-bridge, according to the charge formerly given." "I will meet him, as in duty bound," was Vidal's answer; and scarce was it uttered, ere the two horsemen, turning their backs on him, rode briskly forward, and were speedily out of sight. It was now four hours past noon, and the sun was declining, yet there was more than three hours' space to the time of rendezvous, and the distance from the place did not now exceed four miles. Vidal, therefore, either for the sake of rest or reflection, withdrew from the path into a thicket on the left hand, from which gushed the waters of a streamlet, fed by a small fountain that bubbled up amongst the trees. Here the traveller sat himself down, and with an air which seemed unconscious of what he was doing, bent his eye on the little sparkling font for more than half an hour, without change of posture; so that he might, in Pagan times, have represented the statue of a water-god bending over his urn, and attentive only to the supplies which it was pouring forth. At length, however, he seemed to recall himself from this state of deep abstraction, drew himself up, and took some coarse food from his pilgrim's scrip, as if suddenly reminded that life is not supported without means. But he had probably something at his heart which affected his throat or appetite. After a vain attempt to swallow a morsel, he threw it from him in disgust, and applied him to a small flask, in which he had some wine or other liquor. But seemingly this also turned distasteful, for he threw from him both scrip and bottle, and, bending down to the spring, drank deeply of the pure element, bathed in it his hands and face, and arising from the fountain apparently refreshed, moved slowly on his way, singing as he went, but in a low and saddened tone, wild fragments of ancient poetry, in a tongue equally ancient. Journeying on in this melancholy manner, he at length came in sight of the Battle-bridge; near to which arose, in proud and gloomy strength, the celebrated castle of the Garde Doloureuse. "Here, then," he said--"here, then, I am to await the proud De Lacy. Be it so, in God's name!--he shall know me better ere we part." So saying, he strode, with long and resolved steps, across the bridge, and ascending a mound which arose on the opposite side at some distance, he gazed for a time upon the scene beneath--the beautiful river, rich with the reflected tints of the western sky-- the trees, which were already brightened to the eye, and saddened to the fancy, with the hue of autumn--and the darksome walls and towers of the feudal castle, from which, at times, flashed a glimpse of splendour, as some sentinel's arms caught and gave back a transient ray of the setting sun. The countenance of the minstrel, which had hitherto been dark and troubled, seemed softened by the quiet of the scene. He threw loose his pilgrim's dress, yet suffering part of its dark folds to hang around him mantle-wise; under which appeared his minstrel's tabard. He took from his side a _rote_, and striking, from time to time, a "Welsh descant, sung at others a lay, of which we can offer only a few fragments, literally translated from the ancient language in which they were chanted, premising that they are in that excursive symbolical style of poetry, which Taliessin, Llewarch Hen, and other bards, had derived perhaps from the time of the Druids. "I asked of my harp, 'Who hath injured thy chords?' And she replied, 'The crooked finger, which I mocked in my tune.' A blade of silver may be bended--a blade of steel abideth-- Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. "The sweet taste of mead passeth from the lips, But they are long corroded by the juice of wormwood; The lamb is brought to the shambles, but the wolf rangeth the mountain; Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. "I asked the red-hot iron, when it glimmered on the anvil, 'Wherefore glowest thou longer than the firebrand?'-- 'I was born in the dark mine, and the brand in the pleasant greenwood.' Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. "I asked the green oak of the assembly, wherefore its boughs were dry and seared like the horns of the stag? And it showed me that a small worm had gnawed its roots. The boy who remembered the scourge, undid the wicket of the castle at midnight. Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. "Lightning destroyeth temples, though their spires pierce the clouds; Storms destroy armadas, though their sails intercept the gale. He that is in his glory falleth, and that by a contemptible enemy. Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth." More of the same wild images were thrown out, each bearing some analogy, however fanciful and remote, to the theme, which occurred like a chorus at the close of each stanza; so that the poetry resembled a piece of music, which, after repeated excursions through fanciful variations, returns ever and anon to the simple melody which is the subject of ornament. As the minstrel sung, his eyes were fixed on the bridge and its vicinity; but when, near the close of his chant, he raised up his eyes towards the distant towers of the Garde Doloureuse, he saw that the gates were opened, and that there was a mustering of guards and attendants without the barriers, as if some expedition were about to set forth, or some person of importance to appear on the scene. At the same time, glancing his eyes around, he discovered that the landscape, so solitary when he first took his seat on the gray stone from which he overlooked it, was now becoming filled with figures. During his reverie, several persons, solitary and in groups, men, women, and children, had begun to assemble themselves on both sides of the river, and were loitering there, as if expecting some spectacle. There was also much bustling at the Fleming's mills, which, though at some distance, were also completely under his eye. A procession seemed to be arranging itself there, which soon began to move forward, with pipe and tabor, and various other instruments of music, and soon approached, in regular order, the place where Vidal was seated. It appeared the business in hand was of a pacific character; for the gray-bearded old men of the little settlement, in their decent russet gowns, came first after the rustic band of music, walking in ranks of three and three, supported by their staves, and regulating the motion of the whole procession by their sober and staid pace. After these fathers of the settlement came Wilkin Flammock, mounted on his mighty war-horse, and in complete armor, save his head, like a vassal prepared to do military service for his lord. After him followed, and in battle rank, the flower of the little colony, consisting of thirty men, well armed and appointed, whose steady march, as well as their clean and glittering armour, showed steadiness and discipline, although they lacked alike the fiery glance of the French soldiery, or the look of dogged defiance which characterized the English, or the wild ecstatic impetuosity of eye which then distinguished the Welsh. The mothers and the maidens of the colony came next; then followed the children, with faces as chubby, and features as serious, and steps as grave as their parents; and last, as a rear-guard, came the youths from fourteen to twenty, armed with light lances, bows, and similar weapons becoming their age. This procession wheeled around the base of the mound or embankment on which the minstrel was seated; crossed the bridge with the same slow and regular pace, and formed themselves into a double line, facing inwards, as if to receive some person of consequence, or witness some ceremonial. Flammock remained at the extremity of the avenue thus formed by his countrymen, and quietly, yet earnestly, engaged in making arrangements and preparations. In the meanwhile, stragglers of different countries began to draw together, apparently brought there by mere curiosity, and formed a motley assemblage at the farther end of the bridge, which was that nearest to the castle. Two English peasants passed very near the stone on which Vidal sat--"Wilt thou sing us a song, minstrel," said one of them, "and here is a tester for thee?" throwing into his hat a small silver coin. "I am under a vow," answered the minstrel, "and may not practise the gay science at present." "Or you are too proud to play to English churls," said the elder peasant, "for thy tongue smacks of the Norman." "Keep the coin, nevertheless," said the younger man. "Let the palmer have what the minstrel refuses to earn." "I pray you reserve your bounty, kind friend," said Vidal, "I need it not;--and tell me of your kindness, instead, what matters are going forward here." "Why, know you not that we have got our Constable de Lacy again, and that he is to grant solemn investiture to the Flemish weavers of all these fine things Harry of Anjou has given?--Had Edward the Confessor been alive, to give the Netherland knaves their guerdon, it would have been a cast of the gallows-tree. But come, neighbour, we shall lose the show." So saying, they pressed down the hill. Vidal fixed his eyes on the gates of the distant castle; and the distant waving of banners, and mustering of men on horseback, though imperfectly seen at such a distance, apprized him that one of note was about to set forth at the head of a considerable train of military attendants. Distant flourishes of trumpets, which came faintly yet distinctly on his ear, seemed to attest the same. Presently he perceived, by the dust which began to arise in columns betwixt the castle and the bridge, as well as by the nearer sound of the clarions, that the troop was advancing towards him in procession. Vidal, on his own part, seemed as if irresolute whether to retain his present position, where he commanded a full but remote view of the whole scene, or to obtain a nearer but more partial one, by involving himself in the crowd which now closed around on either hand of the bridge, unless where the avenue was kept open by the armed and arrayed Flemings. A monk next hurried past Vidal, and on his enquiring as formerly the cause of the assembly, answered, in a muttering tone, from beneath his hood, that it was the Constable de Lacy, who, as the first act of his authority, was then and there to deliver to the Flemings a royal charter of their immunities. "He is in haste to exercise his authority, methinks," said the minstrel. "He that has just gotten a sword is impatient to draw it," replied the monk, who added more which the minstrel understood imperfectly; for Father Aldrovand had not recovered the injury which he had received during the siege. Vidal, however, understood him to say, that he was to meet the Constable there, to beg his favourable intercession. "I also will meet him," said Renault Vidal, rising suddenly from the stone which he occupied. "Follow me, then," mumbled the priest; "the Flemings know me, and will let me forward." But Father Aldrovand being in disgrace, his influence was not so potent as he had flattered himself; and both he and the minstrel were jostled to and fro in the crowd, and separated from each other. Vidal, however, was recognized by the English peasants who had before spoke to him. "Canst thou do any jugglers' feats, minstrel?" said one. "Thou may'st earn a fair largess, for our Norman masters love _jonglerie_." "I know but one," said Vidal, "and I will show it, if you will yield me some room." They crowded a little off from him, and gave him time to throw aside his oonnet, bare his legs and knees, by stripping off the leathern buskins which swathed them, and retaining only his sandals. He then tied a parti-coloured handkerchief around his swarthy and sunburnt hair, and casting off his upper doublet, showed his brawny and nervous arms naked to the shoulder. But while he amused those immediately about him with these preparations, a commotion and rush among the crowd, together with the close sound of trumpets, answered by all the Flemish instruments of music, as well as the shouts in Norman and English, of "Long live the gallant Constable!--Our Lady for the bold De Lacy!" announced that the Constable was close at hand. Vidal made incredible exertions to approach the leader of the procession, whose morion, distinguished by its lofty plumes, and right hand holding his truncheon, or leading-staff, was all he could see, on account of the crowd of officers and armed men around him. At length his exertions prevailed, and he came within three yards of the Constable, who was then in a small circle which had been with difficulty kept clear for the purpose of the ceremonial of the day. His back was towards the minstrel, and he was in the act of bending from his horse to deliver the royal charter to Wilkin Flammock, who had knelt on one knee to receive it the more reverentially. His discharge of this duty occasioned the Constable to stoop so low that his plume seemed in the act of mixing with the flowing mane of his noble charger. At this moment, Vidal threw himself, with singular agility, over the heads of the Flemings who guarded the circle; and, ere an eye could twinkle, his right knee was on the croupe of the Constable's horse--the grasp of his left hand on the collar of De Lacy's buff- coat; then, clinging to its prey like a tiger after its leap, he drew, in the same instant of time, a short, sharp dagger--and buried it in the back of the neck, just where the spine, which was severed by the stroke, serves to convey to the trunk of the human body the mysterious influences of the brain. The blow was struck with the utmost accuracy of aim and strength of arm. The unhappy horseman dropped from his saddle, without groan or struggle, like a bull in the amphitheatre, under the steel of the tauridor; and in the same saddle sat his murderer, brandishing the bloody poniard, and urging the horse to speed. There was indeed a possibility of his having achieved his escape, so much were those around paralyzed for the moment by the suddenness and audacity of the enterprise; but Flammock's presence of mind did not forsake him--he seized the horse by the bridle, and, aided by those who wanted but an example, made the rider prisoner, bound his arms, and called aloud that he must be carried before King Henry. This proposal, uttered in Flammock's strong and decided tone of voice, silenced a thousand wild cries of murder and treason, which had arisen while the different and hostile natives, of which the crowd was composed, threw upon each other reciprocally the charge of treachery. All the streams, however, now assembled in one channel, and poured with unanimous assent towards the Garde Doloureuse, excepting a few of the murdered nobleman's train, who remained to transport their master's body, in decent solemnity of mourning, from the spot which he had sought with so much pomp and triumph. When Flammock reached the Garde Doloureuse, he was readily admitted with his prisoner, and with such witnesses as he had selected to prove the execution of the crime. To his request of an audience, he was answered, that the King had commanded that none should be admitted to him for some time; yet so singular were the tidings of the Constable's slaughter, that the captain of the guard ventured to interrupt Henry's privacy, in order to communicate that event; and returned with orders that Flammock and his prisoner should be instantly admitted to the royal apartment. Here they found Henry, attended by several persons, who stood respectfully behind the royal seat, in a darkened part of the room. When Flammock entered, his large bulk and massive limbs were strangely contrasted with cheeks pale with horror at what he had just witnessed, and with awe at finding himself in the royal presence-chamber. Beside him stood his prisoner, undaunted by the situation in which he was placed. The blood of his victim, which had spirited from the wound, was visible on his bare limbs and his scanty garments; but particularly upon his brow and the handkerchief with which it was bound. Henry gazed on him with a stern look, which the other not only endured without dismay, but seemed to return with a frown of defiance. "Does no one know this caitiff?" said Henry, looking around him. There was no immediate answer, until Philip Guarine, stepping from the group which stood behind the royal chair, said, though with hesitation, "So please you, my liege, but for the strange guise in which he is now arrayed, I should say there was a household minstrel of my master, by name Renault Vidal." "Thou art deceived, Norman," replied the minstrel; "my menial place and base lineage were but assumed!--I am Cadwallon the Briton--Cadwallon of the Nine Lays--Cadwallon, the chief bard of Gwenwyn of Powys-land--and his avenger!" As he uttered the last word, his looks encountered those of a palmer, who had gradually advanced from the recess in which the attendants were stationed, and now confronted him. The Welshman's eyes looked eagerly ghastly, as if flying from their sockets, while he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, mingled with horror, "Do the dead come before monarchs?--Or, if thou art alive, _whom_ have I slain?--I dreamed not, surely, of that bound, and of that home-blow?--yet my victim, stands before me! Have I not slain the Constable of Chester?" "Thou hast indeed slain the Constable," answered the King; "but know, Welshman, it was Randal de Lacy, on whom that charge was this morning conferred, by our belief of our loyal and faithful Hugh de Lacy's having been lost upon his return from the Holy Land, as the vessel in which ho had taken passage was reported to have suffered shipwreck. Thou hast cut short Randal's brief elevation but by a few hours; for to-morrow's sun would have again seen him without land or lordship." The prisoner dropped his head on his bosom in evident despair. "I thought," he murmured, "that he had changed his slough, and come forth so glorious, all too soon. May the eyes drop out that were cheated with those baubles, a plumed cap and a lacquered baton!" "I will take care, Welshman, thine eyes cheat thee not again," said the King, sternly; "before the night is an hour older, they shall be closed on all that is earthly." "May I request of your nobleness," said the Constable, "that you will permit me to ask the unhappy man a few questions?" "When I have demanded of him myself," said the King, "why he has dipt his hands in the blood of a noble Norman." "Because he at whom I aimed my blow," said the Briton, his eye glancing fiercely from the King to De Lacy, and back, "had spilled the blood of the descendant of a thousand kings; to which his own gore, or thine, proud Count of Anjou, is but as the puddle of the highway to the silver fountain." Henry's eye menaced the audacious speaker; but the King reined in his wrath when he beheld the imploring look of his servant.--"What wouldst thou ask of him?" he said; "be brief, for his time is short." "So please you, my liege, I would but demand wherefore he has for years forborne to take the life he aimed at, when it was in his power--nay, when it must have been lost but for his seemingly faithful service?" "Norman," said Cadwallon, "I will answer thee. When I first took upon me thy service, it was well my purpose to have slain thee that night. There stands the man," pointing to Philip Guarine, "to whose vigilance thou owedst thy safety." "Indeed," said De Lacy, "I do remember some indications of such a purpose; but why didst thou forego it, when following opportunities put it in thy power?" "When the slayer of my sovereign became God's soldier," answered Cadwallon, "and served his cause in Palestine, he was safe from my earthly vengeance." "A wonderful forbearance on the part of a Welsh assassin!" said the King, scornfully. "Ay," answered Cadwallon; "and which certain Christian princes have scarce attained to, who have never neglected the chance of pillage or conquest afforded by the absence of a rival in the Holy Crusade." "Now, by the Holy Rood"--said Henry, on the point of bursting out, for the insult affected him peculiarly; but, suddenly stopping, he said, with an air of contempt, "To the gallows with the knave!" "But one other question," said De Lacy, "Renault, or by whatever name thou art called. Ever since my return thou hast rendered me service inconsistent with thy stern resolution upon my life--thou didst aid me in my shipwreck--and didst guide me safely through Wales, where my name would have ensured my death; and all this after the crusade was accomplished?" "I could explain thy doubt," said the bard, "but that it might be thought I was pleading for my life." "Hesitate riot for that," said the King; "for were our Holy Father to Intercede for thee, his prayer were in vain." "Well then," said the bard, "know the truth--I was too proud to permit either wave or Welshman to share in my revenge. Know also, what is perhaps Cadwallon's weakness--use and habit had divided my feelings towards De Lacy, between aversion and admiration. I still contemplated my revenge, but as something which I might never complete, and which seemed rather an image in the clouds, than an object to which I must one day draw near. And when I beheld thee," he said, turning to De Lacy, "this very day so determined, so sternly resolved, to bear thy impending fate like a man--that you seemed to me to resemble the last tower of a ruined palace, still holding its head to heaven, when its walls of splendour, and its bowers of delight, lay in desolation around--may I perish, I said to myself in secret, ere I perfect its ruin! Yes, De Lacy, then, even then--but some hours since--hadst thou accepted my proffered hand, I had served thee as never follower served master. You rejected it with scorn--and yet notwithstanding that insult, it required that I should have seen you, as I thought, trampling over the field in which you slew my master, in the full pride of Norman insolence, to animate my resolution to strike the blow, which, meant for you, has slain at least one of your usurping race.--I will answer no more questions--lead on to axe or gallows--it is indifferent to Cadwallon--my soul will soon be with my free and noble ancestry, and with my beloved and royal patron." "My liege and prince," said De Lacy, bending his knee to Henry, "can you hear this, and refuse your ancient servant one request?-- Spare this man!--Extinguish not such a light, because it is devious and wild." "Rise, rise, De Lacy; and shame thee of thy petition," said the King "Thy kinsman's blood-the blood of a noble Norman, is on the Welshman's hands and brow. As I am crowned King, he shall die ere it is wiped off.--Here! have him to present execution!" Cadwallon was instantly withdrawn under a guard. The Constable seemed, by action rather than words, to continue his intercession. "Thou art mad, De Lacy--thou art mad, mine old and true friend, to urge me thus," said the King, compelling De Lacy to rise. "See'st thou not that my care in this matter is for thee?--This Randal, by largesses and promises, hath made many friends, who will not, perhaps, easily again be brought to your allegiance, returning as thou dost, diminished in power and wealth. Had he lived, we might have had hard work to deprive him entirely of the power which he had acquired. We thank the Welsh assassin who hath rid us of him; but his adherents would cry foul play were the murderer spared. When blood is paid for blood, all will be forgotten, and their loyalty will once more flow in its proper channel to thee, their lawful lord." Hugo de Lacy arose from his knees, and endeavoured respectfully to combat the politic reasons of his wily sovereign, which he plainly saw were resorted to less for his sake than with the prudent purpose of effecting the change of feudal authority, with the |east possible trouble to the country or Sovereign. Henry listened to De Lacy's arguments patiently, and combated them with temper, until the death-drum began--to beat, and the castle bell to toll. He then led De Lacy to the window; on which, for it was now dark, a strong ruddy light began to gleam from without. A body of men-at-arms, each holding in his hand a blazing torch, were returning along the terrace from the execution of the wild but high-soul'd Briton, with cries of "Long live King Henry! and so perish all enemies of the gentle Norman men!" CONCLUSION A sun hath set-a star hath risen, O, Geraldine! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison. COLERIDGE. Popular fame had erred in assigning to Eveline Berenger, after the capture of her castle, any confinement more severe than that of her aunt the Lady Abbess of the Cistertians' convent afforded. Yet that was severe enough; for maiden aunts, whether abbesses or no, are not tolerant of the species of errors of which Eveline was accused; and the innocent damosel was brought in many ways to eat her bread in shame of countenance and bitterness of heart. Every day of her confinement was rendered less and less endurable by taunts, in the various forms of sympathy, consolation, and exhortation; but which, stript of their assumed forms, were undisguised anger and insult. The company of Rose was all which Eveline had to sustain her under these inflictions, and that was at length withdrawn on the very morning when so many important events took place at the Garde Doloureuse. The unfortunate young lady inquired in vain of a grim-faced nun. who appeared in Rose's place to assist her to dress, why her companion and friend was debarred attendance. The nun observed on that score an obstinate silence, but threw out many hints on the importance attached to the vain ornaments of a frail child of clay, and on the hardship that even a spouse of Heaven was compelled to divert her thoughts from her higher duties, and condescend to fasten clasps and adjust veils. The Lady Abbess, however, told her niece after matins, that her attendant had not been withdrawn from her for a space only, but was likely to be shut up in a house of the severest profession, for having afforded her mistress assistance in receiving Damian de Lacy into her sleeping apartment at the castle of Baldringham. A soldier of De Lacy's band, who had hitherto kept what he had observed a secret, being off his post that night, had now in Damian's disgrace found he might benefit himself by telling the story. This new blow, so unexpected, so afflictive--this new charge, which it was so difficult to explain, and so impossible utterly to deny, seemed to Eveline to seal Damian's fate and her own; while the thought that she had involved in ruin her single- hearted and high-soul'd attendant, was all that had been wanting to produce a state which approached to the apathy of despair. "Think of me what you will," she said to her aunt, "I will no longer defend myself--say what you will, I will no longer reply-- carry me where you will, I will no longer resist--God will, in his good time, clear my fame--may he forgive my persecutors!" After this, and during several hours of that unhappy day, the Lady Eveline, pale, cold, silent, glided from chapel to refectory, from refectory to chapel again, at the slightest beck of the Abbess or her official sisters, and seemed to regard the various privations, penances, admonitions, and repreaches, of which she, in the course of that day, was subjected to an extraordinary share, no more than a marble statue minds the inclemency of the external air, or the rain-drops which fall upon it, though they must in time waste and consume it. The Abbess, who loved her niece, although her affection showed itself often in a vexatious manner, became at length alarmed-- countermanded her orders for removing Eveline to an inferior cell-- attended herself to see her laid in bed, (in which, as in every thing else, the young lady seemed entirely passive,) and, with something like reviving tenderness, kissed and blessed her on leaving the apartment. Slight as the mark of kindness was, it was unexpected, and, like the rod of Moses, opened the hidden fountains of waters. Eveline wept, a resource which had been that day denied to her--she prayed--and, finally, sobbed herself to sleep, like an infant, with a mind somewhat tranquillized by having given way to this tide of natural emotion. She awoke more than once in the night to recall mingled and gloomy dreams of cells and of castles, of funerals and of bridals, of coronets and of racks and gibbets; but towards morning she fell into sleep more sound than she had hitherto enjoyed, and her visions partook of its soothing character. The Lady of the Garde Doloureuse seemed to smile on her amid her dreams, and to promise her votaress protection. The shade of her father was there also; and with the boldness of a dreamer, she saw the paternal resemblance with awe, but without fear: his lips moved, and she heard words-their import she did not fully comprehend, save that they spoke of hope, consolation, and approaching happiness. There also glided in, with bright blue eyes fixed upon hers, dressed in a tunic of saffron-coloured silk, with a mantle of cerulean blue of antique fashion, the form of a female, resplendent in that delicate species of beauty which attends the fairest complexion. It was, she thought, the Britoness Vanda; but her countenance was no longer resentful--her long yellow hair flew not loose on her shoulders, but was mysteriously braided with oak and mistletoe; above all, her right hand was gracefully disposed of under her mantle; and it was an unmutilated, unspotted, and beautifully formed hand which crossed the brow of Eveline. Yet, under these assurances of favour, a thrill of fear passed over her as the vision seemed to repeat, or chant, "Widow'd wife and wedded maid, Betrothed, betrayer, and betray'd, All is done that has been said; Vanda's wrong has been wroken-- Take her pardon by this token." She bent down, as if to kiss Eveline, who started at that instant, and then awoke. Her hand was indeed gently pressed, by one as pure and white as her own. The blue eyes and fair hair of a lovely female face, with half-veiled bosom and dishevelled locks, flitted through her vision, and indeed its lips approached to those of the lovely sleeper at the moment of her awakening; but it was Rose in whose arms her mistress found herself pressed, and who moistened her face with tears, as in a passion of affection she covered it with kisses. "What means this, Rose?" said Eveline; "thank God, you are restored to me!--But what mean these bursts of weeping?" "Let me weep--let me weep," said Rose; "it is long since I have wept for joy, and long, I trust, it will be ere I again weep for sorrow. News are come on the spur from the Garde Doloureuse-- Amelot has brought them--he is at liberty--so is his master, and in high favour with Henry. Hear yet more, but let me not tell it too hastily--You grow pale." "No, no," said Eveline; "go on--go on--I think I understand you--I think I do." "The villain Randal de Lacy, the master-mover of all our sorrows, will plague you no more; he was slain by an honest Welshman, and grieved am I that they have hanged the poor man for his good service. Above all, the stout old Constable is himself returned from Palestine, as worthy, and somewhat wiser, than he was; for it is thought he will renounce his con-tract with your ladyship." "Silly girl," said Eveline, crimsoning as high as she had been before pale, "jest not amidst such a tale.--But can this be reality?--Is Randal indeed slain?--and the Constable returned?" These were hasty and hurried questions, answered as hastily and confusedly, and broken with ejaculations of surprise and thanks to Heaven, and to Our Lady, until the ecstasy of delight sobered down into a sort of tranquil wonder. Meanwhile Damian Lacy also had his explanations to receive, and the mode in which they were conveyed had something remarkable. Damian had for some time been the inhabitant of what our age would have termed a dungeon, but which, in the ancient days, they called a prison. We are perhaps censurable in making the dwelling and the food of acknowledged and convicted guilt more comfortable and palatable than what the parties could have gained by any exertions when at large, and supporting themselves by honest labour; but this is a venial error compared to that of our ancestors, who, considering a charge and a conviction as synonymous, treated the accused before sentence in a manner which would have been of itself a severe punishment after he was found guilty. Damian, therefore, notwithstanding his high birth and distinguished rank, was confined after the manner of the most atrocious criminal, was heavily fettered, fed on the coarsest food, and experienced only this alleviation, that he was permitted to indulge his misery in a solitary and separate cell, the wretched furniture of which was a mean bedstead, and a broken table and chair. A coffin--and his own arms and initials were painted upon it--stood in one corner, to remind him of his approaching fate; and a crucifix was placed in another, to intimate to him that there was a world beyond that which must soon close upon him. No noise could penetrate into the iron silence of his prison--no rumour, either touching his own fate or that of his friends. Charged with being taken in open arms against the King, he was subject to military law, and to be put to death even without the formality of a hearing; and he foresaw no milder conclusion to his imprisonment. This melancholy dwelling had been the abode of Damian for nearly a month, when, strange as it may seem, his health, which had suffered much from his wounds, began gradually to improve, either benefited by the abstemious diet to which he was reduced, or that certainty, however melancholy, is an evil better endured by many constitutions than the feverish contrast betwixt passion and duty. But the term of his imprisonment seemed drawing speedily to a close; his jailer, a sullen Saxon of the lowest order, in more words than he had yet used to him, warned him to look to a speedy change of dwelling; and the tone in which he spoke convinced the prisoner there was no time to be lost. He demanded a confessor, and the jailer, though he withdrew without reply, seemed to intimate by his manner that the boon would be granted. Next morning, at an unusually early hour, the chains and bolts of the cell were heard to clash and groan, and Damian was startled from a broken sleep, which he had not enjoyed for above two hours. His eyes were bent on the slowly opening door, as if he had expected the headsman and his assistants; but the jailer ushered in a stout man in a pilgrim's habit. "Is it a priest whom you bring me, warden?" said the unhappy prisoner. "He can best answer the question himself," said the surly official, and presently withdrew. The pilgrim remained standing on the floor, with his back to the small window, or rather loophole, by which the cell was imperfectly lighted, and gazed intently upon. Damian, who was seated oil the side of his bed; his pale cheek and dishevelled hair bearing a melancholy correspondence to his heavy irons. He returned the pilgrim's gaze, but the imperfect light only showed him that his visiter was a stout old man, who wore the scallop- shell on his bonnet, as a token that he had passed the sea, and carried a palm branch in his hand, to show he had visited the Holy Land. "Benedictine, reverend father," said the unhappy young man; "are you a priest come to unburden my conscience?" "I am not a priest," replied the Palmer, "but one who brings you news of discomfort." "You bring them to one to whom comfort has been long a stranger, and to a place which perchance never knew it," replied Damian. "I may be the bolder in my communication," said the Palmer; "those in sorrow will better hear ill news than those whom they surprise in the possession of content and happiness." "Yet even the situation of the wretched," said Damian, "can be rendered more wretched by suspense. I pray you, reverend sir, to speak the worst at once--if you come to announce the doom of this poor frame, may God be gracious to the spirit which must be violently dismissed from it!" "I have no such charge," said the Palmer. "I come from the Holy Laud, and have the more grief in finding you thus, because my message to you was one addressed to a free man, and a wealthy one." "For my freedom," said Damian, "let these fetters speak, and this apartment for my wealth.--But speak out thy news--should my uncle --for I fear thy tale regards him--want either my arm or my fortune, this dungeon and my degradation have farther pangs than I had yet supposed, as they render me unable to aid him." "Your uncle, young man," said the Palmer, "is prisoner, I should rather say slave, to the great Soldan, taken in a battle in which he did his duty, though unable to avert the defeat of the Christians, with which it was concluded. He was made prisoner while covering the retreat, but not until he had slain with his own hand, for his misfortune as it has proved, Hassan Ali, a favourite of the Soldan. The cruel pagan has caused the worthy knight to be loaded with irons heavier than those you wear, and the dungeon to which he is confined would make this seem a palace. The infidel's first resolution was to put the valiant Constable to the most dreadful death which his tormentors could devise. But fame told him that Hugo de Lacy was a man of great power and wealth; and he has demanded a ransom of ten thousand bezants of gold. Your uncle replied that the payment would totally impoverish him, and oblige him to dispose of his whole estates; even then he pleaded, time must be allowed him to convert them into money. The Soldan replied, that it imported little to him whether a hound like the Constable were fat or lean, and that he therefore insisted upon the full amount of the ransom. But he so far relaxed as to make it payable in three portions, on condition that, along with the first portion of the price, the nearest of kin and heir of De Lacy must be placed in his hands as a hostage for what remained due. On these conditions he consented your uncle should be put at liberty so soon as you arrive in Palestine with the gold." "Now may I indeed call myself unhappy," said Damian, "that I cannot show my love and duty to my noble uncle, who hath ever been a father to me in my orphan state." "It will be a heavy disappointment, doubtless, to the Constable," said the Palmer, "because he was eager to return to this happy country, to fulfil a contract of marriage which he had formed with a lady of great beauty and fortune." Damian shrunk together in such sort that his fetters clashed, but he made no answer. "Were he not your uncle," continued the Pilgrim, "and well known as a wise man, I should think he is not quite prudent in this matter. Whatever he was before he left England, two summers spent in the wars of Palestine, and another amid the tortures and restraints of a heathen prison, have made him a sorry bridegroom." "Peace, pilgrim," said De Lacy, with a commanding tone. "It is not thy part to censure such a noble knight as my uncle, nor is it meet that I should listen to your strictures." "I crave your pardon, young man," said the Palmer. "I spoke not without some view to your interest, which, methinks, does not so well consort with thine uncle having an heir of his body." "Peace, base man!" said Damian. "By Heaven, I think worse of my cell than I did before, since its doors opened to such a counsellor, and of my chains, since they restrain me from chastising him.--Depart, I pray thee." "Not till I have your answer for your uncle," answered the Palmer. "My age scorns the anger of thy youth, as the rock despises the foam of the rivulet dashed against it." "Then, say to my uncle," answered Damian, "I am a prisoner, or I would have come to him--I am a confiscated beggar, or I would have sent him my all." "Such virtuous purposes are easily and boldly announced," said the Palmer, "when he who speaks them knows that he cannot be called upon, to make good the boast of his tongue. But could I tell thee of thy restoration to freedom and wealth, I trow thou wouldst consider twice ere thy act confirmed the sacrifice thou hast in thy present state promised so glibly." "Leave me, I prithee, old man," said Damian; "thy thought cannot comprehend the tenor of mine--go, and add not to my distress insults which I have not the means to avenge." "But what if I had it in my power to place thee in the situation of a free and wealthy man, would it please thee then to be reminded of thy present boast? for if not, thou may'st rely on my discretion never to mention the difference of sentiment between Damian bound and Damian at liberty." "How meanest thou?-or hast thou any meaning, save to torment me?" said the youth. "Not so," replied the old Palmer, plucking from his bosom, a parchment scroll to which a heavy seal was attached.--"Know that thy cousin Randal hath been strangely slain, and his treacheries towards the Constable and thee as strangely discovered. The King, in requital of thy sufferings, hath sent thee this full pardon, and endowed thee with a third part of those ample estates, which, by his death, revert to the crown." "And hath the King also restored my freedom and my right of blood?" exclaimed Damian. "From this moment, forthwith," said the Palmer--"look upon the parchment--behold the royal hand and seal." "I must have better proof.--Here," he exclaimed, loudly clashing his irons at the same time, "Here, thou Dogget-warder, son of a Saxon wolfhound!" The Palmer, striking on the door, seconded the previous exertions for summoning the jailer, who entered accordingly. "Warder," said Damian de Lacy, in a stern tone, "am I yet thy prisoner, or no?" The sullen jailer consulted the Palmer by a look, and then answered to Damian that he was a free man. "Then, death of thy heart, slave," said Damian, impatiently, "why hang these fetters on the free limbs of a Norman noble? each moment they con-fine him are worth a lifetime of bondage to such a serf as thou!" "They are soon rid of, Sir Damian," said the man; "and I pray you to take some patience, when you remember that ten minutes since you had little right to think these bracelets would have been removed for any other purpose than your progress to the scaffold." "Peace, ban-dog," said Damian, "and be speedy;--And thou, who hast brought me these good tidings, I forgive thy former bearing--thou thoughtest, doubtless, that it was prudent to extort from me professions during my bondage which might in honour decide my conduct when at large. The suspicion inferred in it was somewhat offensive, but thy motive was to ensure my uncle's liberty." "And it is really your purpose," said the Palmer, "to employ your newly-gained freedom in a voyage to Syria, and to exchange your English prison for the dungeon of the Soldan?" "If thou thyself wilt act as my guide," answered the undaunted youth, "you shall not say I dally by the way." "And the ransom," said the Palmer, "how is that to be provided?" "How, but from the estates, which, nominally restored to me, remain in truth and justice my uncle's, and must be applied to his use in the first instance? If I mistake not greatly, there is not a Jew or Lombard who would not advance the necessary sums on such security.--Therefore, dog," he continued, addressing the jailer, "hasten thy unclenching and undoing of rivets, and be not dainty of giving me a little pain, so thou break no limb, for I cannot afford to be stayed on my journey." The Palmer looked on a little while, as if surprised at Damian's determination, then exclaimed, "I can keep the old man's secret no longer--such high-souled generosity must not be sacrificed.--Hark thee, brave Sir Damian, I have a mighty secret still to impart, and as this Saxon churl understands no French, this is no unfit opportunity to communicate it. Know that thine uncle is a changed man in mind, as he is debilitated and broken down in body. Peevishness and jealousy have possessed themselves of a heart which was once strong and generous; his life is now on the dregs, and I grieve to speak it, these dregs are foul and bitter." "Is this thy mighty secret?" said Damian. "That men grow old, I know; and if with infirmity of body comes infirmity of temper and mind, their case the more strongly claims the dutiful observance of those who are bound to them in blood or affection." "Ay," replied the Pilgrim, "but the Constable's mind has been poisoned against thee by rumours which have reached his ear from England, that there have been thoughts of affection betwixt thee and his betrothed bride, Eveline Berenger.--Ha! have I touched you now?" "Not a whit," said Damian, putting on the strongest resolution with which his virtue could supply him--"it was but this fellow who struck my shin-bone somewhat sharply with his hammer. Proceed. My uncle heard such a report, and believed it?" "He did," said the Palmer--"I can well aver it, since he concealed no thought from me. But he prayed me carefully to hide his suspicions from you, 'otherwise,' said he, 'the young wolf-cub will never thrust himself into the trap for the deliverance of the old he-wolf. Were he once in my prison-house,' your uncle continued to speak of you, 'he should rot and die ere I sent one penny of ransom to set at liberty the lover of my betrothed bride.'" "Could this be my uncle's sincere purpose?" said Damian, all aghast. "Could he plan so much treachery towards me as to leave me in the captivity into which I threw myself for his redemption?-- Tush! it cannot be." "Flatter not yourself with such a vain opinion," said the Palmer-- "if you go to Syria, you go to eternal captivity, while your uncle returns to possession of wealth little diminished--and of Eveline Berenger." "Ha!" ejaculated Damian; and looking down for an instant, demanded of the Palmer, in a subdued voice, what he would have him do in such an extremity. "The case is plain, according to my poor judgment," replied the Palmer. "No one is bound to faith with those who mean to observe none with him. Anticipate this treachery of your uncle, and let his now short and infirm existence moulder out in the pestiferous cell to which he would condemn your youthful strength. The royal grant has assigned you lands enough for your honourable support; and wherefore not unite with them those of the Garde Doloureuse?-- Eveline Berenger, if I do not greatly mistake, will scarcely say nay. Ay, more--I vouch it on my soul that she will say yes, for I have sure information of her mind; and for her precontract, a word from Henry to his Holiness, now that they are in the heyday of their reconciliation, will obliterate the name Hugh from the parchment, and insert Damian in its stead." "Now, by my faith," said Damian, arising and placing his foot upon the stool, that the warder might more easily strike off the last ring by which he was encumbered,--"I have heard of such things as this--I have heard of beings who, with seeming gravity of word and aspect--with subtle counsels, artfully applied to the frailties of human nature--have haunted the cells of despairing men, and made them many a fair promise, if they would but exchange for their by-ways the paths of salvation. Such are the fiend's dearest agents, and in such a guise hath the fiend himself been known to appear. In the name of God, old man, if human thou art, begone!--I like not thy words or thy presence--I spit at thy counsels. And mark me," he added, with a menacing gesture, "Look to thine own safety --I shall presently be at liberty!" "Boy," replied the Palmer, folding his arms contemptuously in his cloak, "I scorn thy menaces--I leave thee not till we know each other better!" "I too," said Damian, "would fain know whether thou be'st man or fiend; and now for the trial!" As he spoke, the last shackle fell from his leg, and clashed on the pavement, and at the same moment he sprung on the Palmer, caught him by the waist, and exclaimed, as he made three distinct and separate attempts to lift him up, and dash him headlong to the earth, "This for maligning a nobleman--this for doubting the honour of a knight--and this (with a yet more violent exertion) for belying a lady!" Each effort of Damian seemed equal to have rooted up a tree; yet though they staggered the old man, they overthrew him not; and while Damian panted with his last exertion, he replied, "And take this, for so roughly entreating thy father's brother." As he spoke, Damian de Lacy, the best youthful wrestler in Cheshire, received no soft fall on the floor of the dungeon. He arose slowly and astounded; but the Palmer had now thrown back both hood and dalmatique, and the features, though bearing marks of age and climate, were those of his uncle the Constable, who calmly observed, "I think, Damian, thou art become stronger, or I weaker, since my breast was last pressed against yours in our country's celebrated sport. Thou hadst nigh had me down in that last turn, but that I knew the old De Lacy's back-trip as well as thou.--But wherefore kneel, man?" He raised him with much kindness, kissed his cheek, and proceeded; "Think not, my dearest nephew, that I meant in my late disguise to try your faith, which I myself never doubted. But evil tongues had been busy, and it was this which made me resolve on an experiment, the result of which has been, as I expected, most honourable for you. And know, (for these walls have sometimes ears, even according to the letter,) there are ears and eyes not far distant which have heard and seen the whole. Marry, I wish though, thy last hug had not been so severe a one. My ribs still feel the impression of thy knuckles." "Dearest and honoured uncle," said Damian--"excuse----" "There is nothing to excuse," replied his uncle, interrupting him. "Have we not wrestled a turn before now?--But there remains yet one trial for thee to go through--Get thee out of this hole speedily--don thy best array to accompany me to the Church at noon; for, Damian, thou must be present at the marriage of the Lady Eveline Berenger." This proposal at once struck to the earth the unhappy young man. "For mercy's sake," he exclaimed, "hold me excused in this, my gracious uncle!--I have been of late severely wounded, and am very weak." "As my bones can testify," said his uncle. "Why, man, thou hast the strength of a Norway bear." "Passion," answered Damian, "might give me strength for a moment; but, dearest uncle, ask any thing of me rather than this. Methinks, if I have been faulty, some other punishment might suffice." "I tell thee," said the Constable, "thy presence is necessary-- indispensably necessary. Strange reports have been abroad, which thy absence on this occasion would go far to confirm, Eveline's character and mine own are concerned in this." "If so," said Damian, "if it be indeed so, no task will be too hard for me. But I trust, when the ceremony is over, you will not refuse me your consent to take the cross, unless you should prefer my joining the troops destined, as I heard, for the conquest of Ireland." "Ay, ay," said the Constable; "if Eveline grant you permission, I will not withhold mine." "Uncle," said Damian, somewhat sternly, "you do not know the feelings which you jest with." "Nay," said the Constable, "I compel nothing; for if thou goest to the church, and likest not the match, thou may'st put a stop to it if thou wilt--the sacrament cannot proceed without the bridegroom's consent." "I understand you not, uncle," said Damian; "you have already consented." "Yes, Damian," he said, "I have--to withdraw my claim, and to relinquish it in thy favour; for if Eveline Berenger is wedded to-day, thou art her bridegroom! The Church has given her sanction-- the King his approbation--the lady says not nay--and the question only now remains, whether the bridegroom will say yes." The nature of the answer may be easily conceived; nor is it necessary to dwell upon the splendour of the ceremonial, which, to atone for his late unmerited severity, Henry honoured with his own presence. Amelot and Rose were shortly afterwards united, old Flammock having been previously created a gentleman of coat armour, that the gentle Norman blood might without utter derogation, mingle with the meaner stream that coloured the cheek with crimson, and meandered in azure over the lovely neck and bosom of the fair Fleming. There was nothing in the manner of the Constable towards his nephew and his bride, which could infer a regret of the generous self-denial which he had exercised in favour of their youthful passion. But he soon after accepted a high command in the troops destined to invade Ireland; and his name is found amongst the highest in the roll of the chivalrous Normans who first united that fair island to the English crown. Eveline, restored to her own fair castle and domains, failed not to provide for her Confessor, as well as for her old soldiers, servants, and retainers, forgetting their errors, and remembering their fidelity. The Confessor was restored to the flesh-pots of Egypt, more congenial to his habits than the meagre fare of his convent. Even Gillian had the means of subsistence, since to punish her would have been to distress the faithful Raoul. They quarrelled for the future part of their lives in plenty, just as they had formerly quarrelled in poverty; for wrangling curs will fight over a banquet as fiercely as over a bare bone. Raoul died first, and Gillian having lost her whetstone, found that as her youthful looks decayed her wit turned somewhat blunt. She therefore prudently commenced devotee, and spent hours in long panegyrics on her departed husband. The only serious cause of vexation which I can trace the Lady Eveline having been tried with, arose from a visit of her Saxon relative, made with much form, but, unfortunately, at the very time which the Lady Abbess had selected for that same purpose. The discord which arose between these honoured personages was of a double character, for they were Norman and Saxon, and, moreover, differed in opinion concerning the time of holding Easter. This, however, was but a slight gale to disturb the general serenity of Eveline; for with her unhoped-for union with Damian, ended the trials and sorrows of THE BETROTHED. END OF THE BETROTHED. 
39701	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive.) HEROINES OF CRUSADES. HEROINES OF THE CRUSADES _Adela Countess of Blois. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Berengaria of Navarre. Isabella of Angouleme. Violante of Jerusalem. Eleanor of Castile._ BY C. A. BLOSS. "Old Historic rolls I opened." Engraved by J. C. Buttre. HEROINES OF THE CRUSADES. BY C. A. BLOSS. AUTHOR OF "BLOSS'S ANCIENT HISTORY," ETC. "Old historic rolls I opened." AUBURN: ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO. ROCHESTER: WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO. 1853. Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1853, BY ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Northern District of New York. TO MY PUPILS, The "Heroines of the Crusades" IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. To those whom it has been my privilege and pleasure to lead through the devious and darkened paths of the Past, to all who cordially receive the doctrine that _actions_ and not faint desires for Excellence form the character, I address a few words by way of explanation and Preface. Jerusalem, the capital of Palestine, whether glorious in the beauty of her first temple, and the excellent wisdom of her philosopher king, or veiled in the darkness of that fatal eclipse in which the solemn scenes of Calvary consummated her glory and shame, has occupied a position in the great drama of human events, more interesting and important than any other city on the globe. But Jerusalem, in the gloom of that moral night which gathered over the nations after the fall of the Western Empire of the Romans, exerted a greater influence upon the minds of men than at any former period. The insulting Moslem felt a degree of veneration for the splendid ruins over which he walked with all a conqueror's pride--the African anchorite left his solitary hermitage to weep upon Mount Olivet--the European adventurer wreathed his staff with the branching palm from her holy hills--the despairing Jew sat in sackcloth at her fallen gates, and even the mingled barbarians of the East united with the Christian to revere the spot where art achieved its proudest monument, and poetry found the theme of its sublimest song. This natural reverence, exalted into piety by the decrees of the church, resulted necessarily in the practice of pilgrimage. Anxious, restless guilt, fled from the scene of its enormities to the sweet valleys where the Saviour whispered peace to his disciples; poetry sought inspiring visions on the Mount of Transfiguration; penitence lingered in the garden of Passion, and remorse expiated its crimes in weary vigils at the Holy Sepulchre. At the dawn of the eleventh century, one sublime idea pervaded Christendom. The thousand years of the Apocalypse were supposed to be accomplished, and a general belief prevailed that on the Mount of Olives, whence the Son of God ascended in his chariot of cloud to heaven, he would reappear in all the pomp of his Second Advent. From every quarter of the Latin world the affrighted Christians, deserting their homes and kindred, crowded to the Holy Land--terror quickened devotion, curiosity stimulated enthusiasm. But insult and outrage awaited the pilgrims in Palestine, and in Jerusalem itself they encountered the scoffing taunts of idolatry and infidelity. To free those holy courts from the polluting tread of the sandalled Paynim, to prepare a pure resting-place for the Son of Man, Superstition roused the martial spirit of the age, and enlisted chivalry under the banners of the cross. Thus began the CRUSADES, those romantic expeditions which, combining religious fervor with military ardor, united the various nations of Europe from the shores of the Baltic to the Straits of Gibraltar, and from the banks of the Danube to the Bay of Biscay, in one common cause, and poured the mingled tide of fanatics, warriors and adventurers, upon the plains of Asia. For nearly two centuries the mightiest efforts and best blood of Christendom were wasted in the useless struggle, and it is computed that not less than six millions of people devoted their lives and fortunes to this desperate undertaking. But though the Crusades are so important to the historian as involving the politics of all nations; to the philosopher as fraught with consequences affecting the happiness of succeeding generations; and to the scholar as commencing the era when Genius, brooding over the ruins of the Past, rose Phoenix-like from the ashes of Arabian splendor, and soaring in the clearer light of Christianity, scattered from her wing the dew of refinement upon the barbarians of the North; yet the general reader feels that his knowledge of them is so vague as to detract materially from his pleasure in allusions to them, and continually to force upon his mind a painful sense of ignorance upon points where he ought to be informed. In some measure to supply a deficiency which common history cannot obviate, to make the period of the Crusades interesting, by giving to it the tangible thread of authentic narrative, these biographies of the "Heroines" who inspired the troubadour, animated the warrior, or in person "took the cross," have, with much care and labor, been selected and compiled. The era opens about the time of the Conquest, when William I., unquestionably the greatest ruler of his time, returns in triumph to Normandy. No two writers agreeing as to the age of his children, I have arranged them as best suited my purpose, making Cicely the eldest, the betrothed of Harold; and the second daughter, Agatha, the bride of Earl Edwin; and Adela, whose ambitious character is well authenticated, the Heroine of the First Crusade. The character and superstitions of the Saxons, with their love of "legendary lore," I have endeavored to embody in the early life of Maude, while I have endeavored to make her riper years illustrate the principles and piety of a teacher to whom you are all much attached. The half-infidel Hardrager, who was necessary to show both the plan of Battle Abbey and the causes and character of pilgrimage, might really have been the leader of the Assassins, since they established themselves in Mount Lebanon, and incorporated in their belief some of the doctrines of the New Testament about that period. Eleanor of Aquitaine was one of the few women whose mature years in some measure atoned for a youth of folly. Agnes Strickland cites authorities to show that Fair Rosamond passed nineteen years in a convent, and died with the reputation of a saint. You will excuse me that I permitted death to cut her off in "her young beauty's bloom" to present a more affecting picture of the sad effects of guilt. The ballads are not mine; some I found in obsolete works, and one was versified from a legend of the Early Romancers. For the Tournament, and contest with the lion in Berengaria, I am indebted to the same veracious authority, though I cannot account for Richard's finding the Lion's Heart so conveniently situated at the bottom of the throat, except from the fact that "Physiology and Hygiene" had not then assigned the true position to the internal organs. I was very sorry not to make Joanna as interesting as Edith in the Talisman, but this was clearly impossible--first, from the fact that I had not the genius of Scott; and second, because I made it my study to adhere strictly to truth. It was Saphadin and not Saladin who sought to ally himself with the princely house of Plantagenet, and I found it convenient to console his disappointment by bestowing upon him the fictitious lady I had brought to seek her fortune in the East. Michelet confirms this decision by his statement that this was emphatically the era of women, and that for some years a female exercised the sovereign power over the territories of Islamism. Blondell, upon whose very existence so many doubts have been cast, is, I think, a well-authenticated character, who "_plays his part_" with great fidelity and truth. Had I not been limited as to space, the _ring_ in the hand of Violante's grandson would have projected the catastrophe of the Sicilian Vespers. For the same reason, I could only allude to the strife between the Guelphs and Ghibellines, to the civil wars of France and England, to the Crusade against the Albigenes, and the founding of the Inquisition by St. Dominic, when, in quest of heresy, he traversed the hills and vales of Languedoe, and doomed to death those brave spirits who dared to exercise the right of private judgment. Eva is the only purely fictitious character of any importance in the work, and she was drawn from life, a portrait which some of you may recognize. Fuller, in his "Holy War," contradicts the legend of Eleanora's drawing the poison from Edward's wound, but adds, "he who shall disprove this pretty fiction shall get to himself little credit," and I confess I had not the courage thus warned to attempt it. I would here gratefully acknowledge my obligations to the gentlemen of the Rochester University, through whose politeness I have been permitted to consult several works of early English authors not republished in this country, from which I have made liberal extracts both of facts and language. In conclusion, I can only say I have endeavored to set before you a true history in a series of entertaining stories. In the former, I am confident I have succeeded both as regards events and chronology; of the latter I am somewhat doubtful; but if my "Heroines" have the effect to awaken curiosity and induce research, I shall feel that "they have their reward." CLOVER STREET SEM., _Nov. 30th, 1852_. CONTENTS. Page ADELA OF BLOIS 19 ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE 119 BERENGARIA OF NAVARRE 195 ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME 279 VIOLANTE OF JERUSALEM 307 ELEANORA OF CASTILE 341 FIRST CRUSADE, A.D. 1090 75 SECOND CRUSADE, A.D. 1147 132 THIRD CRUSADE, A.D. 1187 221 FOURTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1198 272 FIFTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1203 281 SIXTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1215 315 SEVENTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1249 347 EIGHTH CRUSADE, A.D. 1272 377 NOTES 461 Leaders of Crusades. GODFREY OF BOULOGNE, FIRST CRUSADE. STEPHEN, COUNT OF BLOIS, " " LOUIS VII. OF FRANCE, SECOND " FREDERIC I. BARBAROSSA, THIRD " PHILIP II. AUGUSTUS, " " RICHARD I. COEUR DE LION, " " HENRY, COUNT OF CHAMPAGNE, FOURTH " CONRAD OF GERMANY, " " THIBAUT, COUNT OF CHAMPAGNE, FIFTH " DANDOLO, DOGE OF VENICE, " " JEAN DE BRIENNE, KING OF JERUSALEM, " " HUGH X. DE LUSIGNAN, COUNT LA MARCHE, " " ANDREW II. OF HUNGARY, SIXTH " FREDERIC II. OF GERMANY, " " LOUIS IX. OF FRANCE, SEVENTH " CHARLES D'ANJOU, KING OF SICILY, " " EDWARD I. OF ENGLAND, EIGHTH " ADELA. [Illustration: Adela. Countess of Blois.] CHAPTER I. THE NIGHT OF THE 20TH OF MARCH, 1067. "Wave high your torches on each crag and cliff Let many lights blaze on our battlements, Shout to them in the pauses of the storm And tell them there is no hope." MATURIN'S _Bertram_. All night long the Lady Matilda, with her becoming children, knelt before the holy shrine in the old Abbey of Feschamp. Anxiously had they watched through the lingering twilight, for the whitening sails of the Conqueror's fleet. No sails appeared, and the night fell dark and stormy upon the English channel. Meet was it that prayer should ascend to Him who rules the destiny of nations, for the hopes of all future times were rocked upon that midnight sea. The field of Hastings was won, Harold was slain, England was subdued, and the ships of William the Conqueror, filled with the flower of Norman chivalry, and followed by the sad remnant of Saxon nobles, were speeding to the Norman coast. Was it Woden the storm-throned, that thus with relentless fury pursued the Viking's progeny,--despoilers of the Saxon race? Was it Thor the thunder-voiced, warning the proud Conqueror that the great heart of England still throbbed with the pulse of Freedom, though the vale of Sanguelac was red with the blood of her bravest sons? Was it the spirit of a milder Faith that prevailed over that night of darkness, spread a calm morning on those troubled waters, and through that all-pervading sunlight scattered blessings countless as the liquid jewels that paved the track of the rescued ships? The Mora with its splendid convoy was in sight, the bells rang out merrily their matin chimes, and while Matilda lingered to unite in the anthem of thanksgiving and praise, the little Adela, escaping from the care of the attendants, found her way through the dim aisles, to the door of the church, where she stood the radiant picture of delight, gazing with childish interest upon the scene before her. The solemn service over, Matilda with her stately train emerged from the Abbey and encircled by a princely retinue of knights and ladies, watched the swelling canvass, which under the pressure of a steady breeze, bore the gallant vessels into port. Impatient of delay, the royal children ran eagerly down the green slope to the water's edge. "Now brothers mine," said the fiery William, "the fair and goodly land of England, to him who in three stones' cast shall twice strike yon fisherman's buoy." Seizing a pebble as he spoke, he was about to hurl it towards the destined mark, when Adela thoughtlessly grasped his arm. The stone dropped idly into the wave, sprinkling the short cloaks, and embroidered tunics of the little group. A derisive laugh followed this exploit, and Adela, familiar with the effects of William's anger, fled from his uplifted hand to the protecting care of Richard, who, sheltering her with his arm, exclaimed, "Robert, imagine yon buoy a Saxon Earl, and try your prowess upon him. I resign all claim to the conquered realm." "Book and bell, latin prayers, and a pilgrimage for my brother Richard," replied Robert, selecting a smooth pebble and preparing to throw, but, ere the stone left his hand, a well directed missile from William struck the buoy, and sank it for a moment beneath the waves. With a look of proud disdain Robert hurled the stone. It fell dimpling the waters far beyond the mark. "England is mine," shouted William, as again with unerring aim he dashed the buoy beneath the surface. "England is mine," he repeated, pointing exultingly to the Saxon banner grasped in the hand of his own effigy upon the prow of the Mora. Robert smiled contemptuously, and rejoined his mother. All eyes were now directed towards the gallant bark which rode proudly into port, amid the joyous flutter of banners, gonfanons, pennons, and streamers which from every mast, spar, and standard, waved and flapped in the morning breeze. A glad shout burst from the assembled multitude, and cries of "Long live the conqueror William! Long live our good Duke of Normandy!" echoed by the clangor of trumpet, and chiming of bells, welcomed the victor on shore. Fondly embracing his lovely wife and children, and graciously receiving the greeting of his rejoicing subjects, he turned to present the noble Saxons, that swelled the pomp of his train. "My Matilda will welcome Edgar Atheling, in whose veins flows the blood of her sire Alfred the Great. The brave Earls Morcar and Edwin, the noble Waltheof, and his beautiful daughter Maude, are also guests at our court, and must lack no courtesy at our hands." While Matilda with high-born grace and dignity received her reluctant guests, the little Adela accustomed to the sight of mail-clad barons, and princely array, felt herself irresistibly attracted by the timid girl, who clung tremblingly to the arm of Earl Waltheof. Other eyes than hers were fascinated by the appearance of the lovely stranger. A yellow kirtle of the finest wool fell in graceful folds to her feet; over this was thrown a purple robe, which confined at the bodice by a girdle exquisitely wrought, draped without concealing the delicate proportions of a figure cast in nature's finest mould. A crimson coverchief half hid the jewelled network, from which her fair brown hair, brightening to gold in the sunshine, escaped in rich abundance over a neck of snow. The steady light of her meek violet eyes fell lovingly on Adela, and the faint tinge upon her cheek deepened into a brilliant blush, as the sprightly child kindly taking her hand, led her forward to receive the kiss of welcome from the Queen Duchess Matilda. CHAPTER II. "But doth the exile's heart serenely dwell in sunshine there?" A succession of brilliant pageants, and knightly entertainments awaited the Conqueror, his nobles and hostages, in their pompous progress through all the towns and cities of Normandy, from Feschamp to Bayeux. Robert already wearing the spurs of knighthood, girt with silver baldric, and bearing high the lance with its pointed banderol, led the van; gallantly conducting the young Earls Morcar and Edwin, and the royal Atheling: while the aspiring Prince William, attaching himself to a band of his father's best trained bowmen, practised on bright winged birds, those feats of archery in which he subsequently became so cruelly skilful. Adela obtained a place near the gentle Maude, and strove by every childish art to charm back the smiles that transiently enlivened the sad countenance of the Saxon maiden. Not less assiduously, and not more successfully did the Duke King, and his haughty consort, employ the fascinations of easy grace, and polished wit, to beguile the gloomy musings of the captive Waltheof. So passed they on, the sad hearts with the gay. So sat they in the halls of mirth, the one keeping strict lenten fast, the other revelling in triumphal feasts; one sole thought embittering the fast, and sweetening the feast--and that thought _England_. In a chamber in the palace of Bayeux were assembled the household of the Conqueror, busy in their daily occupations. Groups of girls, with nimble fingers, wrought silently under the eye of Matilda, the sad epic of England's fall. "Leave thy tangled skeins to these fair maids, and the skilful Turold, and come thou apart with me," said William, abruptly entering and drawing his Queen aside, within the deep embrasure of the window, "'tis of thy glory and mine that I would speak." The conference lasted long. The young princes summoned the maidens to the mimic tourney in the tiltyard, and waiting clouds prepared the gorgeous couch of sun, beyond the hills of Bretagne, ere the wily statesman had completed the unfoldings of all his schemes, for fixing the Norman line securely upon the throne of Edward the Confessor. He revealed his apprehensions from the stern character of Waltheof, and his hopes from the fascinations of his niece Judith d'Aumale. From Edgar Atheling he feared little. The boy reared in a foreign court, a stranger to Saxon language and manners, had neither desire nor capacity to contend for a dignity unsuited to his years. He was already hand and glove with Robert, and subject to the imperious will of the young knight. But Morcar and Edwin were more dangerous foes. Kinsmen of the late king, at the least disaffection they might rouse the friends of the famous Earl Siward, vanquisher of Macbeth; the thegns of Norfolk, Ely, Huntingdon, and Northumbria, stretching far to the Scottish border; and the valiant man of Mercia allied to the terrible Welsh. "The victory at Hastings, my Queen," said William, with his blandest smile, "does not establish peaceful rule o'er all the hills and vales of merrie England. Let policy complete what valor has commenced. Methinks our pretty Cicely might bind the restive Edwin in the silken toils of love, more securely than unwilling homage or extorted oath." "Cicely, the betrothed of Harold!" exclaimed Matilda. "Could'st thou have seen her agony when tidings of Harold's death came with news of thy victory, thou would'st scarcely speak to her of love." "A childish fancy," impatiently cried William, "the breath of praise soon dries the tears on a maiden's cheeks. She must be the Saxon's bride." "It is impossible," replied the Queen. "In Notre-Dame de Bonnes Nouvelles, while my soul was filled with joy for thy safety, did I dedicate thy broken-hearted child to be the bride of Heaven. The holy Lanfranc has already sanctioned the vow." William strode hastily up and down the chamber, tying and untying the rich cordon of his cloak in uncontrollable anger and disappointment. Matilda laid her hand soothingly upon his arm. "Agatha is fairer than Cicely--Adela hath wit beyond her years, and child as she is, will readily comprehend all thy schemes." "Talk not of Adela, she hath a head for intrigue equal to my brother Odo. Wed her to one who might foster her ambition, and neither crown nor throne would be beyond her aspirations." "Agatha hath a loving heart," pleaded Matilda. "Thou sayest truth Bein Aimie, 'tis by the heart woman rules. Agatha shall be the affianced of Edwin before he leaves these shores." Thus it was settled. The new Queen received the title of the manor of Gloucester, and condemned the owner, her former lover, to perpetual imprisonment. The fair Maude was to dwell in exile a hostage for the fidelity of her father, till a fitting opportunity might occur to make her hand the bond of amity between the Conqueror and some disaffected peer. Other hostages with their various possessions were disposed of in a similar manner, and thus the shades of evening stole into that darkened chamber, and brooded like palpable forms over the sacrifices which the new sovereigns covertly laid upon the altar of Avarice and Ambition. The ceremony of betrothal took place on the following evening. There were guests in embroidered garments and costly jewels, there were lights and music, and more than wonted festivity: yet Maude saw only Edwin, and when taking the hand of the little princess, he pronounced with unhesitating voice, "Thine, and thine only," the color faded from her lip and cheek, as if a mortal woe had fastened on her heart. There were gifts and congratulations, and as Edwin presented his bride a miniature shield of silver, saying gallantly, "This shall thy heart from other love defend," a gleam of triumph on the countenance of William assured Matilda that Edwin was won. CHAPTER III. "Oh! the joy Of young ideas painted on the mind, In the warm glowing colors fancy spreads On objects not yet known, when all is new And all is lovely." HANNAH MORE. When the spring deepened into summer, Edwin, exulting in the pride of his youthful elegance and princely alliance, returned loaded with honors to his restored domains. Agatha wept sore at his departure, but no tear trembled on the cheek of Maude. All external emotions were buried in the grave of hopeless love, and thenceforth in her pale, changeless beauty, she looked the ivory shrine, where the ashes of some holy thing were preserved, to work daily miracles upon the restless spirits by which she was surrounded. In her society the turbulent, and self-willed children of the Conqueror became calm and docile. Often in the long still twilight would she hold them a charmed circle, listening with breathless awe to wild tales and ghostly legends of the terrible Vikings; who drove their daring keels into unknown seas, and immured their wailing captives in sunless dungeons of northern ice, or left them naked and shivering upon a barren coast, a prey to the wolfish winds, that lifted and tossed them ever on the red and bristling spears of Aurora's giant demons. The story of the Babe of Bethlehem--cradled among the beasts of the stall--heralded by angels, and worshiped by the eastern sages, passing, a holy presence that diffused joy and comfort to every heart, through the green vales of Judea--walking unsandaled upon the glassy waves of Galilee, and standing in robes white as the light upon the top of Tabor, agonizing in Gethsemane, and suffering upon Calvary for the redemption of a ruined race, recited in the mellow tones of Maude, imparted an interest to the scenes of the Saviour's life and passion, which all the sacred relics and saintly effigies of the church had failed to awaken. But especially did Robert and Adela delight in tales of the turbaned Paynim. The long caravan winding its spicy track through emerald oases, or glistening sands--the dark-browed Saracens with spear and cimeter careering in battle on Arab steeds, fleet as the desert wind--terrible Turks from the wilds of Khosser, swifter than leopards, and more fierce than the evening wolves--swarthy Nubians clustering like locusts in the holy places--toil-worn pilgrims scourged and massacred, and christian children slaughtered to furnish diabolical repasts for Moslem fiends, were themes that never failed to excite the most intense curiosity, and to rouse the direct imprecations of vengeance. From one of these narrations, Robert rose with a determined air, and exclaimed--"My grandsire, Robert le Diable, say the monks, was carried to heaven on the backs of fiends; but if by the favor of St. Stephen, I ever visit the Holy Land, it shall be not with pilgrim's staff, but with sword and lance, to drive those cursed fiends back to their place of torture." "It were a holy work," said Richard, "and one the saints would bless." "Were I a knight, or might a woman set lance in rest," cried Adela, "those heathen dogs should no longer feed upon the flesh of christian babes. Shame to the peers of Normandy, that sit quietly in Rouen while the Holy Sepulchre is in the hands of infidels." "The peers of Normandy will sit quietly in Rouen only till my father returns from his conference with Lanfranc," said William. "Last night a small vessel anchored off the coast, and a messenger came in breathless haste to the palace. I could not gain speech with him, but I know he brings tidings from Fitz Osborne, and our Uncle Odo. Hugh de Glaville conjectures there is treason in England." "My mother dismissed her maidens at an earlier hour than is her wont, and sent away Turold with a frown, when he brought her his pattern of the wooden fort," said Cicely, with a sigh, "my heart misgave me then that some peril was impending." "Pray God it may not reach Edwin," said Agatha, with white lips. "Pray God the troubles may continue till my father moves his court to London," said William, as rising from the mossy bank upon which they had been sitting, the anxious party returned through the pleasance, to the great hall where the evening meal was prepared. When the silent repast was finished, Maude led the weeping Agatha to her own chamber, and lifting the curtain of the oratory, stood with her before an altar covered with a richly embroidered velvet pall. Upon the altar was placed a golden crucifix, before which burned a silver lamp, and in a niche above, an alabaster image of the Madonna. "Daughter of the Norman William," said she, taking Agatha's hands and kneeling before the altar, "with the holy cross before thee, and the eyes of our blessed lady looking down upon thee, tell me truly, lovest thou the Saxon Edwin?" and Agatha whispered low but firmly, "I love the Saxon Edwin." "Turn thy eyes to the stars, emblems of unchanging faith, and tell me truly, wilt thou be to Edwin a guardian Fylgia in weal or woe?" and Agatha answered, "I will guard Edwin in weal or woe." "Lay thy hand upon this holy shrine," again said Maude, lifting the purple pall, and revealing a jewelled casket, "and tell me truly, though father, mother, brother, friend, or priest, compel, wilt thou with Edwin keep thy plighted troth?" and Agatha answered, "I will with Edwin keep my plighted troth." "The pure Mary, the sleepless stars, and this holy relic of St. John the divine aid thee to keep thy vow, Amen." And Agatha responded solemnly--"Amen." All that night the patient Maude wrought with a magic bodkin upon the trothgift of Edwin, inscribing thereon a Saxon charm, that worn upon the breast of his mistress should shield him from danger, defeat, and death! the trusting Agatha keeping silent vigils by her side, while from the court-yard below echoed the tramp of steeds, and the heavy tread of mail-clad warriors hastening preparations for departure. CHAPTER IV. "That cruel word her tender heart so thrilled That sudden cold did run through every vein, And stony horror all her senses filled, With dying fit, that down she fell for pain." SPENSER'S _Fairy Queen_. "When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions." SHAKSPEARE'S _Hamlet_. The conjectures of Prince William were well founded. The peers of Normandy were again summoned from their castles to attend the Conqueror, and the following spring the royal family removed to Winchester. The coronation of Matilda was the most imposing pageant that had ever been seen in England. Foreign princes and peers graced the brilliant ceremonial--a numerous and lordly company of Normans attended her to the church, and a body-guard of Anglo-Saxons, among whom Agatha distinguished Edwin, conspicuous alike for the beauty of his person, and the almost oriental magnificence of his apparel, reconducted the new Queen and her beautiful children to the palace, where a splendid banquet closed the festivities. This season of rejoicing was followed by events of a sad and gloomy character. The peculiar miseries which fell upon England during the disastrous years of 1069-70 compelled the Queen with the ladies of her court, again to seek safety in Normandy. The revolt of Earl Waltheof--the invasion of the Danes--the flight of Edgar Atheling--the hostility of Malcolm, King of Scotland--the destruction of the city of York--the death of Aldred, its beneficent, and much loved bishop--the desolation of Northumberland--the laying waste the county of Hampshire--the confiscation of private property--and the cry of houseless wanderers, perishing of want, furnished a scene of unexampled calamities, while the odious revival of the Danegelt, and the still more odious imposition of the _couvre feu_, goaded the exasperated inhabitants to desperation, and excited constant rebellions and insurrections. The heart of the king, grieved and irritated, became entirely alienated from his Saxon subjects; and when Earl Edwin demanded the hand of Agatha, his claim was rejected with reproach and scorn. Meanwhile the ladies of the Norman court, no less than Matilda, deplored the absence of their lords, and murmurings and complaints succeeded to sadness and discontent, as month after month, and year after year rolled on, and still the troubles in England required the constant exercise of the Norman arms. The unheralded arrival of the Conqueror, with a military escort at Caen, excited a brief sensation of pleasure, but small cause had his family to rejoice in his coming. The princesses were listening with rapt attention while Maude related the romance of a northern Jarl, who each night when the moon hung her silver lamp on high, moored his ocean palace beneath the shadow of a castle, beetling the sea, to woo fair Ulnah the Pearl of the Orkneys. The maiden, leaning spell-bound from the lattice, had yielded to the enchanter's song, and dropped a pale pearl upon the deck of the war-ship; the wizard-bird that nestled in its shroudings had spread its broad wings and hovered broodingly above the casement, when flaming torches--splashing oars--and wild shouts, announced the coming of her father's fleet. At this point of the story a messenger hastily entered and summoned Agatha to the presence of her dread father. With sad presentiments the princess rose and silently obeyed the mandate. None were present with the Conqueror in the audience chamber save Matilda, Lanfranc, and the Saxon secretary, Ingulfus. "Seat thyself beside me, daughter, and listen to my words," said the haughty monarch, with unwonted tenderness. "That I bade thee pledge thy hand to Earl Edwin to secure the peace of England, instead of trusting that event to my good sword, hath long grieved me sore; and often have I prayed the holy saints to absolve me of the sin. Heaven has heard my prayer and averted thy doom." An involuntary shudder shook the slight frame of Agatha, but no sound escaped her lips. "The brave Alphonso, King of Gallicia," continued the king, "has sent to woo thee for his bride; ambassadors wait in the antechamber, and the good Lanfranc has consented to release thee from thy extorted vow. With this costly ring the prince of Spain plights thee his faith." Agatha instinctively drew back her hand. "Nay, shrink not, my daughter. The Saxon was unworthy of thy love. Knowest thou not he is leagued with thy father's foes? Resign thou his troth-gift, I will restore it to the proud Rebel. Bid thy maidens robe thee in apparel befitting thy rank, (certes, the Spanish diadem will well become thy jetty locks.) Even now a splendid convoy of vessels ride at anchor in the harbor to convey thee to thy future lord, and the pious Ingulfus, who hath long desired to visit the Holy Sepulchre, shall attend thee to the coast of Spain." Agatha neither spoke nor moved. "Give me thy troth-gift, silly girl," cried her father angrily, bending his brow upon her, with the terrible frown, at which bold hearts were wont to quail. Mechanically the trembling victim, drew from her bosom the talismanic shield. Lanfranc took it from her hand, placed the ring upon her finger, repeated the words of absolution, and the ceremony of betrothal, and when he ceased, Agatha lay at her father's feet, pale and cold in a death-like swoon. But bitterly as Matilda wept over her suffering daughter, her heart was torn with still keener anguish, at the maledictions pronounced upon her first-born and favorite son. Robert had been betrothed in infancy to the heiress of Maine; and had cherished the most romantic attachment for his affianced bride. On the death of the princess the people demanded him for their lord, and the young regent, generous and rash, had proceeded to take possession of the duchy, and administer justice in his own name. William now required him to resign the fief, not only, but to give his hand to Maude, the beautiful captive, who had so long been the companion of his sisters. With the true spirit of chivalry, Robert indignantly replied; "The lovely Maude hath already bestowed her affections on Earl Edwin, and Robert's bride shall never bear to the altar a reluctant heart. Thou hast sacrificed the meek Agatha to the lust of dominion, but the gentle Maude shall never suffer from thy tyranny, while the sword of a belted knight can defend her. If ever I am king of England, the lands of Huntingdon shall be hers, with free right to choose her own lord." "Boast not thyself of to-morrow, England shalt thou never have. I have won it by mine own good sword, the vicars of Christ have set its crown upon my head, and placed its sceptre in my hand, and all the world combined shall not take it from me," cried the monarch in a paroxysm of rage. "I only demand the suzerainship of Normandy and Maine, which all men say is my just inheritance," replied Robert. "Thou would'st do well to remember the fate of Absalom, and the misfortunes of Rehoboam, and beware of evil counsellors," retorted William. Robert insolently rejoined, "I did not come hither to listen to sermons, but to claim the investiture which has been promised me. Answer me positively, are not these things my right?" "It is not my custom to strip before I go to bed," replied the Conqueror; "and as long as I live, I will not divide my native realm, Normandy, with another, for it is written in the holy evangelists, 'Every kingdom divided against itself shall become desolate.'" "If it is inconvenient for thee to keep thy word, I will depart from Normandy, and seek justice from strangers, here I will not remain a subject," retorted Robert, with equal pride and scorn. "Par le splendeur de Dé," shouted William, half unsheathing his sword. "It is not to be borne, that he who owes his existence to me, should aspire to be my rival in mine own dominions. May the curse of Cain light upon thy undutiful head." Thus they parted, Robert to take refuge with his mother's brother, in Flanders, and William to return to his distracted kingdom, where the fires of civil war still smouldered in the ashes of freedom. In such scenes was Adela nurtured, and thus in an atmosphere of intrigue and superstition, was a character naturally penetrating and impetuous, prepared to devise and carry forward the wildest schemes. Public calamities, and domestic vexations, impaired the peace and irritated the temper of the English monarch. Bodesmen from the north, brought news of leagues and plots against his power, while messengers from Normandy, conveyed tidings of the disaffections of his peers, and the hostilities of the French king. Richard, his most dutiful and affectionate son, had accompanied him to England. The young prince was exceedingly fond of the chase, and often spent whole days hunting in the New Forest of Hampshire. The malaria of the depopulated district, and the painful emotions awakened in his sensitive nature, by the sight of famishing wretches, vainly seeking food and shelter, brought on a delirious fever, which soon terminated his life. He was interred in Winchester Cathedral. The last tone of the curfew bell was reverberating through the silent halls of the palace, when the distracted father, haunted by the piteous lamentations, and reproachful ravings of his departed son, threw himself despairingly upon his couch. "News from beyond seas," said the chamberlain, entering, and presenting him a letter. William cut the silk and read. "In the name of the blessed Mary, ever virgin, St. Michael, and St. Valery, doth thy poor scribe Ingulfus pray, that strength may be given thee, duke William, by grace of God, king of England, to bear the dreadful tidings, which much it grieves me to convey. When this comes to thee thou wilt know that thy sweet daughter, Agatha, liveth no more. From the day of our departure she shed no tears, but a tender wailing sound, like the moan of a wounded dove, issued ever from her lips. Her heart, she said, was devoted to her first spouse, and she prayed that the Most High would rather take her to himself, than allow her ever to be wedded to another. Her prayer was granted. "The faintness which we witnessed at her betrothal, returned upon her by night and by day, but she never murmured; and on the eve of the blessed St. Agnes, having received the rites of our holy Church, she died, with the crucifix in her hand, and the name of Edwin on her lips." The scroll dropped from the hand of the stricken father and a remorseful pang wrung his heart. Again the chamberlain entered ushering in a dark figure wrapped in a long serge cloak, like those usually worn by monks. Kneeling at the monarch's feet, the stranger spoke. "Knowing, oh king! thy munificence to thy faithful servants, and moved by the love I bear thy throne and realm, I have discovered to Fitz Osborne the secret haunts of thine enemies, and to obtain thy royal favor, have brought from the Isle of Ely, that which I hope will please thee well. Behold the head of the Saxon chief." The Conqueror shrank back in horror, as the well-known features of Edwin, pale and distorted with the death agony, and the long, fair locks all dabbled with gore, met his bewildered gaze. "Cursed traitor!" shouted he, starting from his seat, "dost thou think to win my favor by bringing me the head of thy murdered lord? Ho! seneschal, convey this Judas to the lowest cell of the donjon. There shall he learn how William rewards the betrayer of innocent blood." The prisoner was borne from his presence. The monarch buried his face in his hands, and burst into tears of uncontrollable anguish. "Woe is me, my daughter,--Done to death by thy father's unholy ambition--Thy Edwin hunted and slain on his own hearth-stone. What has this sceptre brought me? Toilsome days, and sleepless nights,--a divided household,--and children cut off in the flower of their youth. Truly, saith the Scripture; 'Woe unto him that coveteth an evil covetousness unto his house.'" As he bowed his head his eyes fell upon the fatal, silver shield. Lifting it reverently from the floor, and wiping the clotted blood from its polished surface, with some difficulty, he deciphered the Saxon inscription, which has been thus elegantly translated. "Edwin his pledge has left in me, Now to the battle prest: His guardian angel may she be, Who wears me on her breast. To him true hearted may she prove, Oh! God, to thee I pray; Edwin shall well requite her love, Returning from the fray. But if, forgetful of her vows, May Heaven avert the thought, She sell this love-charm of her spouse, Which never could be bought; If of her own free will she cast This talisman away; May Edwin's life no longer last, To rue that fatal day." CHAPTER V. "Still to the truth direct thy strong desire, And flee the very air where dwells a liar. Fail not the mass, there still with reverent feet, Each morn be found, nor scant thy offering meet, Haste thee, sir knight, where dames complain of wrong; Maintain their right, and in their cause be strong." The last act in the bloody tragedy of England's subjection, was consummated in the year 1074, when Earl Waltheof, having been drawn into a plot against the crown, and betrayed by his Norman wife, Judith, to her uncle, the Conqueror, was beheaded on a rising ground, just without the gates of Winchester, the first Anglo-Saxon that perished by the hand of the executioner. The perfidious Judith had fixed her affections on a French Count, but William had already secured a willing agent of his own purposes, in the person of Simon, a Norman noble, lame and deformed, on whom he designed to bestow her hand, with the rich earldoms of Northampton and Huntingdon. The haughty Judith scorned the alliance, and stripped of rank and power, retired to the wilds of Yorkshire in obscurity and contempt. The bitter tears occasioned by the melancholy fate of Agatha and Edwin, were fresh upon the cheek of Maude, when the heavy tidings of her father's cruel death, overwhelmed her in a tide of deeper anguish. A lingering illness followed, yet sweet dreams stole ever upon her rest, and the watchful Adela comprehended, that transported to the home of her childhood, in the gaiety of life's early morn, she trod again the breezy upland, and fragrant glade, wandered through wood and wold, with Edwin by her side, or sitting by the star-lit fountain, challenged the nightingale from out the leafy holt, with snatches of Runic rhyme, and Saxon melody. But young life combating disease, slowly led her back from the gates of the grave. One by one the bright visions faded, and sadly her eyes unclosed to a consciousness of the dark realities before her. William had determined that the hand of the beautiful heiress of Huntingdon, should compensate the pliant Simon for the mortifying refusal of her stepmother. The betrothal was to take place directly on the Conqueror's arrival in Normandy, but the happy oblivion of Maude, no less than the entreaties of Adela, and the menacing of Robert served to delay the doom they could not finally avert. William had subdued the rebel province of Maine, and moved by the declining health, and incessant pleading of his beloved Queen, had accorded to his refractory son a full pardon for his late rebellion, "promising at the same time, to grant him everything that he could expect from the affection of a father consistently with the duty of a king." Thus peace was restored throughout the Conqueror's dominions, and the royal family happy in their reunion, kept merry Christmas in the capital city of Rouen. "Sweet sister mine," said Robert to Adela, as she sat engaged upon the famous Bayeux tapestry, "pray leave the royal nose of our valiant sire, which thou hast punctured and cross-stitched, till verily it seems to bleed beneath thy fingers, and lend an ear to thy brother's words." "Now, gramercy! Curthose," said Adela, laughing, "thou must have a distinct impression of thy noble father's visage, since thou canst not distinguish his nose from the 'fiery train' of the terrific comet." "Nay," said Robert, taking up the simile, "the Conqueror's fiery train in England, has wrought more terror than all the comets since the days of Julius Cæsar, as the inhabitants of York will testify; but come, lay aside that odious tapestry, I have other work for thy skilful fingers." "My duteous brother would, perhaps, employ them in puncturing his noble sire, at the field of Archembraye, but a maiden's needle wounds less deeply than a warrior's sword," said Adela, archly. "Certes, thy tongue is sharper than thy needle," said Robert, reddening, "and thine eyes outdo thy tongue. On the field of Archembraye I did but wound my father's arm, while one bright shaft from thine eyes has pierced Count Stephen's heart." "Methinks a heart so vulnerable, should be clad in armor," said Adela, reddening in her turn. "Thy woman's wit doth run before my speech and prophesy my errand," said Robert. "The Count Stephen, of Blois, bids me entreat the fair Adela to bind him in _ring armor_, that the friend of Robert may be his brother in arms." "_He_ bids thee!" said Adela, dropping the embroidery. "Is the count, then, in Rouen?" "Even so, bien amie," replied Robert. "Hast thou not marked a noble figure entering the church at twilight, and emerging at sunrise, his regards bent upon the ground except, perchance, when he steals a glance at my charming sister, accompanying her mother to matins or vespers." "In truth, I marked such a youth," said Adela, blushing, "but wherefore frequents he not the court?" "He holds his vigil of arms till twelfth day," replied Robert, "and the Conqueror has promised, that ere the Yule-clog, as Atheling calls it, has ceased to burn, he will himself lay the accolade of knighthood upon the shoulder of the young count. 'Tis my father's wish that his children assist at the ceremony." "My father's wish!" said Adela, in a tone of deep surprise. "Certes, sweet," replied her brother, "thinkest thou the Conqueror sees not the white flocks that range the green pastures of Blois, that he hears not the sound of the busy looms of Chartres, and loves not the sparkling wine, that flows from the blushing vineyards of Champaigne?" "Robert, thou hast broken my needle," said Adela, striving confusedly to hide from the penetrating eyes of her brother, the influence which these considerations exercised over her own ambitious heart. "I have broken thy needle of wool, that thou mightst thread a finer with floss of silk to embroider the scarf for thy gallant knight," said Robert, rising to withdraw. Adela followed him to the antechamber, and dismissing the attendants, concerted with him the arrangements for the pageant. Scarcely confessing to herself the sweet hopes that for the first time agitated her bosom, she quitted the joustings and maskings of the holidays, and passed the festive season in the privacy of her own apartment, where assisted only by the faithful Maude, she wrought upon Tyrian purple the golden lions of Chartres, budded the shining damask with the fleur de lis of Champagne, and sewed the embroidered field azure with the pearly crescent of Blois. The deep tones of the turret clock tolling the midnight hour broke the stillness that reigned through the castle, just as Adela severed the last silken thread from the embroidery frame, and held up the gorgeous baldric in the light of the lamp before the admiring gaze of her friend. "Hush!" said Maude, placing her finger on Adela's lip to repress a joyous exclamation, "we have a proverb in the north that, 'finished works bring prophetic dreams.'--Hasten to seek thy pillow, but beware thy glance wander not from yon bright star that even now glimmers through the casement. Breathe not a word while I wreathe the silken scarf in the folds of thy canopy, and whisper the mystic charm of the morthwyrtha." With an incredulous smile Adela obeyed, and dismissing the tire-women, Maude left her to her solitary slumbers. The sun had scarce risen when Maude again entered the apartment. "The visions of the future have visited thy rest," said she, glancing inquiringly at the thoughtful countenance of the princess. "Question me not," replied Adela, "a promise and a fear have bewildered me--coming years can alone explain the mystery." The great hall of the palace was fitted up for a brilliant ceremony. All the knights and nobles, bishops and clergy of Normandy, and the adjacent provinces, arrayed in the most gorgeous vestments of their several orders, with high-born dames and blushing maidens, sparkling in jewelry, lined the apartment, at the upper end of which stood the family of the Conqueror, beside an altar covered with cloth of gold. The young princes Robert and William after attending Count Stephen to the bath clothed him in white garments, and covered him with a crimson cloak, the one symbolical of the purity of his soul, the other of his determination to shed his blood in the cause of heaven. Arrayed in this simple garb, after the celebration of the high mass, he entered the hall and approaching the altar, presented his sword to the bishop, who blessed and consecrated it to the service of religion and virtue. Lanfranc then addressed him thus. "Thou seekest, Count of Blois, to become a knight--thou art of noble birth--of liberal gifts and high in courage.--Thou must be strong in danger--secret in councils--patient in difficulties--powerful against enemies--prudent in deeds. Lay thy hand upon this holy missal, and swear to observe the following rules." And Stephen laid his hand upon the clasped volume, and repeated slowly, after the priest. "I do solemnly promise and swear to spare neither my blood nor my life in defence of the Catholic faith,--to aid all widows and orphans--to protect the innocent and oppressed--to be humble in all things--to speak the truth from the heart--to seek the welfare of my vassals--to regard the rights of my sovereign--and to live righteously before God and man." Then rising from his knees and throwing off his cloak the neophyte stood with his head reverently inclined toward the priest, while Prince William buckled on the spurs of knighthood, and Edgar Atheling fastened the greaves, and Robert belted the corselet; gracefully he sank upon his knee, when Maude advancing adjusted the helmet upon his closely curling locks, and Constance presented the spear with its drooping pennon; but his head bowed in conscious devotion, and the warm blood glowed eloquently on his manly cheek, while Adela, the lady of his love, tremulous with agitation, passed the scarf about his neck--fitted the silken folds across his breast, and belted the jewelled knot upon the ivory sheath of his sword. Appareled in his splendid armor the young count took the consecrated weapon from the altar, and presenting it to the king, knelt before the throne while the monarch rose and laid upon his shoulder three gentle blows, saying in a voice whose deep tones echoed to the farthest end of the hall, "In the name of St. Michael, and St. Stephen, I make thee knight. Be loyal, bold and true." Following the example of the Conqueror, each knight advanced a step, drew his sword from the sheath, and while the hall gleamed with the flash of burnished steel, the man of God again took up the word, blessing him who had newly undertaken, and those who had long been engaged in holy warfare, and praying that all the hosts of the enemies of heaven, might be destroyed by christian chivalry. The trumpets sounded without, and the knights thronging around their brother in arms, conducted him to the court below, where vaulting upon their steeds, they rode through the admiring crowds, among whom Stephen scattered largesses with a liberal hand. The banquet over, a gallant train of mounted knights and ladies emerged from the wooded park and wound along the banks of the Seine. There was rare sport that day, when the fox broke cover, and the hounds darted away upon his track, and the curveting steeds bounded over the crisp green sward, in the wild excitement of the chase; but the proud barb of Stephen obedient to the rein, curved his glossy neck and moved with lofty step, by the dappled palfrey of Adela, while the young knight whispered words that the princess loved to hear; and thus in sweet converse the day wore away, and when the solemn night came on, beneath the blue cope of heaven, while the stars gazed from their sapphire thrones and the river mingled its low music with the murmur of their voices, Adela plighted her troth to Stephen Count of Blois. But a ceremonial more joyous than a betrothal--more solemn than a burial, occasioned the removal of the court to Feschamp. From the day of Harold's death, Cicely his betrothed, devoted herself to the cloister. Her father had bestowed a princely dower upon the convent of her choice, and fixed the day of her profession upon the high festival of Easter. At the close of the lenten fast, she quitted the scene of her childish pleasures, gazed a last adieu on the hills, vales and streams, over which the early spring of that bright climate was casting its mellow sheen--distributed alms among the mendicant crowds that thronged her route, and bade a kind farewell to the multitudes, that flocked from every village and hamlet, to invoke the blessing of heaven upon her holy purpose. Adela stood again in the old abbey of Feschamp, listening to the joyous sound of the matin chime, but neither the happy associations awakened by the place and hour, nor the warm breath of early love could charm the sadness from her heart. She had entered the dark cloister, and conducted Cicely from her weary vigil beside the holy relics, to wreathe her dark locks with jewels and gold, and array her fair form for the last time in the garb of a princess. With the selfishness of affection, she suffered none but Maude to share the pious task. Fast fell her tears as the whispered sounds of her sister's devotions forced upon her an appalling sense of the final separation. The convent bell had scarce ceased its summons, ere a splendid concourse filled the galleries, and thronged the aisles of the Abbey to witness the holy bridal. Proudly and painfully beat the heart of the king, as his saintly daughter leaned upon his breast--twined her soft arms lovingly about his neck--and imprinted her last kiss upon his cheek; but sympathetic tenderness overmastered all other emotions, as with gentle force he drew her from the last fond embrace of her weeping mother, and the convulsive clasp of the almost frantic Adela, and resigned her in all her youthful beauty, to be immured in a living tomb. Her three young sisters less grieved at the parting, than pleased with the pageant, with hasty adieus prepared to take their place in the ceremony. With a light step nicely modulated to the soft chanting of the nuns, the little Adeliza bearing a jewelled crucifix, led the procession, followed by Constance and Gundred, each carrying a lighted taper and bearing between them a lily-shaped basket of wrought silver, containing the vestal habit and veil which they laid upon the altar. At the solemn call of the bishop, the fair Cicely entered, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband, and supported by the matron sisters passed up the long aisle, her white robes like a gathering mist floating about her fragile form, and her calm and serene countenance, beaming with such angelic sweetness from beneath the gossamer wreath which ornamented her head, that to Maude's fanciful vision she seemed already crowned with the radiant halo of the saints. A brilliant burst of jubilant melody, pealing from the organ, accompanied the nuns in their welcoming hymn, "O Gloriosa Virginium," and a breathless silence pervaded the holy courts as the soft voice of Cicely responded. "Receive me, oh Lord! according to thy holy word." Kneeling before the bishop she begged his benediction and the name of Cecilia her patron-saint. The reverend Father gave her the consecrated name, signed her with the sign of the cross, and sprinkled holy-water upon her garments. The high mass celebrated, and the Kyrie Eleison sung, a waxen taper was placed in her hand, and seated by the chancel, she listened with devout attention, while the archbishop portrayed the beatitude of that high vocation, which had called her from the pomps and vanities of earthly grandeur, to the durable riches of a heavenly kingdom; from the waning light of earthly affection to the ineffable love of the immortal bridegroom;--from the fading lustre of an earthly diadem, to the changeless glory of an eternal crown: and scarcely had he concluded with the gracious words, "Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all," when the whole orchestra took up the note of commendation and "Gloria in Excelsis" sounded through the cloistered aisles, echoed along the vaulted roof, and breathed to the heart of the waiting novice the full reality of joy. The sacred vestments were blessed and replaced in their silver shrine, and the children resuming their precious burden preceded their sister into an inner, apartment, where busy nuns disrobed her of her resplendent array,--despoiled her of her costly ornaments--and one by one shred away her long, bright locks, that never more might stir a thought of pride. The solemn bandeau was bound about her brow, the black serge garment wrapped about her form, and when she again knelt before the bishop, saying, "I am the handmaid of Christ," an ill-suppressed shriek from Adela, told how changed was her appearance, and how gloomy was the fate that awaited her--but the votaress saw nothing, heard nothing, save the sacred mysteries in which she was engaged. Prostrated as if in deep abasement she lay upon the marble floor, while the choir chanted the litany; gently she inclined to the abbess, to be bound by the girdle of humiliation; reverently she bowed her head to receive the veil that should forever shut the world from her sight; joyfully she accepted the ring that sealed the irrevocable vow; and while the choir chanted, "Come, oh spouse of Christ, receive the crown," a coronal of mingled thorns and roses was placed upon her head--and Cicely was a nun. Loud anthems pealed upward to the swelling dome, and every demonstration of joy welcomed the bride to her new home. The royal guests sat down to a splendid repast in the great hall of the convent, and nuns and novices shared in the sumptuous entertainment; but between Cicely and her family was an impassable barrier of an iron grating, and four thick and cold stone walls separated her forever from the friends of her youth. CHAPTER VI. "What is't we live for? tell life's fairest tale-- To eat, to drink, to sleep, love, and enjoy, And then to love no more! To talk of things we know not, and to know Nothing but things not worth the talking of." SIR R. FANE, JR. "Methinks," said Adela, as she sat with Maude in the loved twilight conference, "it were a weary thing, to fast and pray as doth my sister Cicely, and look forever on those dull, cold images of stone or pictured saints, whose holiness we can never hope to reach." "Thou thinkest so, dearest, because on the bright scroll of thy future is pictured a living form glowing with youth and beauty," said Maude; "but when death shuts out the light of hope, the pencil of love illumines the canvass ever with the image of a saint." "I have never seen a Saxon saint but thee, best one," said Adela, affectionately kissing her cheek. "Cicely worships the memory of him who would have wrested the broad realm of England from her father." "And Agatha died for one who loved that father," said Maude, half reproachfully. "I cannot read aright the riddle of life," replied Adela, pensively, "less still the riddle of love. Doth not the heart seek happiness as the flower seeks the light? yet what men call the 'ends life lives for,' wealth and power and dominion, terminate in discontent, despair, and death. No duke of Normandy, since the days of Rou, hath been so successful as William the Conqueror, yet the meanest serf is happier than he: and this love that makes my heart flutter like a joyous bird, has consigned our Agatha to an early grave--immured Cicely in the abhorrent convent--and," she added, with a deprecating glance, "has plucked the last pale rose from the cheek of my lovely Maude." "Thou speakest thus because thou knowest neither life nor love," replied the maiden. "Thou deemest wisely that a lofty purpose must call the strong man to effort, else lying dormant would his faculties perish with the rust of inactivity. Our pious bishop, Aldred, used to say; that any purpose so holy as not to need evil means to work its ends, like the consecration of the wafer, brings to the human soul the _real presence_ of Christ." "Thy riddle is too deep for my poor wit," said Adela. "Tell me of the love I know not--thy love." "Thou fanciest thou lovest Count Stephen," said Maude, with a sigh, "but should he plight his love to another, thou wouldst regard him with hate and scorn." "Aye, verily," replied Adela, her cheeks glowing, and her dark eye flashing, at the thought. "So loved not Maude Earl Edwin. Thy father bade him give his hand to Agatha, and when I marked the undivided current of their lives, flowing on in a stream of bliss, Ambition and Hope were quenched in my heart, but Love went forth to light their pathway, and gilds with heavenly radiance their early tomb." "Maude!" exclaimed Adela, enthusiastically, "thou wert not formed for this sinful world; thou shouldst dwell with the angels, for verily thou art one of them." "Commend me not," said Maude, "thou little knowest the bitter repinings of my heart when I heard I might not enter the convent with Cicely, nor how my soul recoils from this unnatural alliance with Simon." "And thou wouldst rather kneel upon the cold stone floor, and scourge thy tender flesh with knotted cords, than live almost a princess in thy merrie England!" said Adela, with unaffected surprise. "Nay, rather would I work a weary pilgrimage to Palestine, and dwell an eremite in the lonely caves of Engaddi, had choice been left with me," answered Maude. "A pilgrimage were not so sad a fate," said Adela; "the marvellous tales with which thou didst beguile my childhood hours, so wrought upon my fancy, that even to this day the very name of Jerusalem calls up visions bright as the bowers of Eden. Never have I wondered that pilgrims flocked to the Holy Land when they deemed the thousand years of prophecy accomplished, and expected to witness the azure gates unfolding above the holy sepulchre, and the Saviour descending upon the Mount of Olives amid all the terrific splendor of the final judgment." "Scarce a century since," sighed Maude, "men looked for this heavenly kingdom, and verily believed they found in prophecy the confirmation of their hopes. My grandsire died upon the banks of the Jordan earnestly expecting the coming of his Lord." "There is a flash of spears in the moonbeams," interrupted Adela, gazing from the arrow-slit of the turret. "Seest thou not a troop of horse, winding along the brow of the hill? Eye and heart alike deceive me if that be not Count Stephen's plume. Methought, ere this, he had reached the borders of Maine. And there is Robert by his side. Our lady grant their coming bode no ill." "They pass beneath the shadow of the castle," said Maude. "They are not all mounted. Those men on foot, in the garb of friars, how wearily they follow, leaning upon their long staves." "They are pilgrims!" exclaimed the maidens with one voice. "Let us descend to welcome them." Prince Henry met them in the corridor. "Count Stephen has returned," said he, "and awaits my sister in the tapestry chamber." "Come with me, Beauclerk," said Maude, leading away the young prince. "Thou shalt conduct me to these holy pilgrims." "Adela," said Stephen, kissing the hand of his affianced as she entered, "thou art surprised, but I hope not ill-pleased at this unlooked-for return." "I feared me some mischance had occasioned it," said Adela, "but seeing thee well, I am happy--yet wherefore art thou come?" "Thy brother, Robert," replied Stephen, "vouchsafed to escort me with twenty lances to the town of mantes--but when we reached the banks of Eure, we found the bridges swept away, and the fords rendered impassable by the swollen waters. A band of pilgrims were encamped upon the other side, and at the sight of the Norman pennon, they sent forth a piteous cry for aid. We swam our steeds across the turgid stream, and each horseman mounting a palmer behind him, we brought them safely over. And what was my joy to find I had thus rendered some slight service to Ingulfus, the early tutor of my loved Adela." "Our lady be praised, the good Ingulfus has returned. His pupil then shall thank his benefactor as she ought." "He is wayworn and weary," pursued Stephen, "much toil hath he had in his long pilgrimage, and precious are the relics he has brought from Palestine. I craved from his gratitude a portion of the holy dust, for thy oratory. Should danger threaten the unworthy Stephen, the prayers of Adela, at such a shrine, would doubtless avail for his protection." The princess started, and the color fluctuated on her cheek, as with a look of surprise and recognition she regarded the beautiful crystal urn, with its amethystine entablature, on which were engraven the names of Adela and Stephen. "Dost reject my gift, or hath some sudden illness seized thee?" said her lover, anxiously, remarking her strange emotion. "A silly dream--a passing faintness," said Adela, convulsively grasping the urn, and pressing her pale lips upon the inscription. "The hour wears late, to-morrow we will meet again." The young count imprinted a kiss upon her cold brow, and supporting her trembling steps to the antechamber, consigned her to the care of her attendants. When the lovers met the following morning in the chapel to which all the inhabitants of the city repaired, to see the high altar decked with the palms of the pilgrims, and join in the general thanksgiving for their return, all traces of agitation had disappeared from the countenance of Adela. Relieved from his jealous fears, Count Stephen basked in the sunshine of her smiles, and protracted his stay during the festivities consequent upon the affiancing of Constance with Alan, Count of Bretagne. The young bride was dowered with the lands of Chester, once the possession of the unfortunate Earl Edwin. And William, at the same time, accorded his approbation to the love of Stephen and Adela. Every heart seemed filled with gaiety. Entertainment succeeded entertainment. The days were occupied with joustings, hunting, hawking, feats of archery and tournaments; the evenings were spent in games of hazard, or whiled away in listening to the wondrous tales of Ingulfus. CHAPTER VII. "Some upon penance for their sins, In person, or by attorney; And some who were or had been sick; And some who thought to cheat Old Nick; And some who liked the journey; And the staff was bored and drilled for those Who on a flute could play; And thus the merry Pilgrim had His music on the way." SOUTHEY. "On my return to Caen with the remains of my dear lady Agatha," said Ingulfus, "I abandoned all thoughts of pilgrimage, till learning that the clergy of Germany had determined upon a visit to the Holy Land, the desire to worship at the tomb of the Saviour, returned again so strong upon me, that I was induced to unite with a Norman troop, which joined the company of the archbishop at Mentz. We were a goodly band," continued he, "out of every nation, kindred, tongue and people, of the Latin world--and heaven that moved us to this expiation of our sins, opened before us the way, and provided for our sustenance, both in the castles of princes, and in the cottages of peasants. "The monasteries, of which many have been founded by pious men throughout all Germany, furnished resting-places for the weary, and hospitals for the sick. When we entered upon the kingdom of Hungary, which is 'a well-watered and fruitful country,' we found a strange people, whose nobles and warriors indeed live in walled towns, and castles strongly fortified among the rocks; but the common people, for the most part, dwell in tents like Abraham of old, and feed their flocks and herds upon the banks of the streams. These be the people, which the holy fathers thought were the Gog and Magog of sacred writ, and truly they came like a storm into Europe, and like a cloud they covered the land--both they and their bands. And because the time of their coming was near the end of the thousand years prophesied by St. John, many wise men did say, that they were the signs and forerunners of the end of the world. Howbeit since the end is not yet, there be not many at the present which hold this doctrine." "Are there not some who say, that Gog and Magog are the heresies which vex the church?" inquired Robert. "Even so," said Ingulfus; "but such are not led by the true and manifest words of Scripture, but following 'cunningly devised fables' have explained away even the promises of God. Now that these are the people is proved, in that they came from Persia and from the north quarters, and the name in which they most delight is Magyar, which plainly agreeth to Magog, and whosoever shall dwell in the latter days, will see 'wars and rumors of wars' in Hungary, according to my judgment. I have learned many things concerning them; for either for my sins, or the badness of the roads, the beast on which I rode fell lame, and therefore was I forced to leave the horsemen, and follow on foot, supporting the weariness of the way with pilgrim's staff. Among us were those, who from fear and love of adventure, and not from devotion, had undertaken the pilgrimage. Their vain talk and godless manners troubled me sore. There was one who having inserted a shepherd's reed in his staff, played thereon and sang with his voice, not the pious psalms of the church, but the unholy madrigals of the sinful and profane. And for that he saw it pleased me not, he delighted in it the more, and walked by my side, and when I could not rid myself of his company, I questioned him concerning his history. "He was an Anglo-Dane of the north countrie, a born thrall of Earl Edwin, and had led a roving life from his youth. This man, whose name was Hardrager, was the false vassal who betrayed the young noble, and received from the justice of the Conqueror, the sentence of perpetual imprisonment. But the princes of this world are often compelled to use unworthy instruments in carrying forward their plans. When your royal father deemed it expedient for the peace of the realm to punish the treason of Earl Waltheof, and no man was willing to become his executioner, Hardrager purchased free pardon by beheading him." "It was well he sought to expiate his offences by a pilgrimage," said Adela. "Nay," said Ingulfus, "no thought of true penitence had ever entered his mind. Instead of profiting by the clemency of his sovereign, he applied himself anew to wicked practices, pursuing the hare and slaughtering the deer in the New Forest; till finally having suffered the loss of an ear for his crimes, and still continuing to set at naught the game laws, he was condemned to death; but as if the Almighty had raised him up for a 'thorn in the flesh' to his servants, Hardrager again escaped his doom. It pleased your noble sire, when he founded Battle Abbey, on the field of Hastings, and appointed monks to pray for the souls of the slain, to grant to the Abbot the power of showing mercy to the guilty. It chanced accordingly when Hardrager was drawn from his dungeon, and carried toward the gibbet, that the worthy Abbot meeting the cart, caused the procession to stop, and moved with pity for the criminal revoked his sentence, and laid on him the penance of pilgrimage. Hardrager lost no time in quitting England, and found means to join our company, upon the banks of the Rhine. He seemed well provided with purse and scrip, and often on days of fasting, purchased an indulgence from the bishop for himself and other vain persons, to regale themselves with meat and wine; and yet he seemed not to be without a sense of sin, and a certain reverence for the commands of the church. He rose early, and performed his devotions with the most scrupulous regularity, and every night scourged his naked shoulders with a knotted lash; and when I looked for a reformation in his life from this wholesome discipline, he told me he did not that for his own sins, but for the sins of another, who furnished him money for the expedition; for, by reason of his poverty, he had engaged to work out a three years' penance, that had been imposed on his benefactor; and he added, with a light laugh, 'I can better endure the smarting of my flesh by voluntary flagellation, than the loss of it by Compulsory abstinence.'" "By St. Stephen," exclaimed Robert, laughing, "the cunning knave is the true scape-goat of Scripture. It were no bad thought thus to expiate our sins by the vicarious suffering of some poor wretch." "Heaven forefend," said Stephen, "that we should be compelled to raise our own exchequer by such means." "The indulgences and requisitions of the church," gravely continued Ingulfus, "are too often perverted. I thank our blessed lady, who rather than continue me in the society of this wicked one, laid me upon a bed of sickness. For many days, I had with difficulty continued my journey, but Hardrager, who seemed insensible to fatigue, supported me by his strong arm, till coming to the lands of a powerful Hungarian, whose flocks and herds covered the hill-side for many a league, we fell behind the other pilgrims, and my weariness increasing upon me, I sank exhausted and senseless upon the ground. What was my surprise when my consciousness returned, to feel myself upborne in the arms of Hardrager, who was attempting to place me upon the back of a horse which he had stolen from the adjoining pasture, and bridled with the scourge that he wore about his loins. 'Cheer up, holy father,' said he, 'heaven has sent thee help in time of trouble. I will walk by thy side, and we will soon prove to yonder heartless drones that the last shall be first.' In reply to my remonstrance, he added, with a misbelieving smile, 'Nay, is it not written, "The wealth of the wicked is laid up for the just," yon savage Magyar may rejoice in the happy chance which enables him to send a substitute to the holy city.' "Upon my positive refusal to mount, he stood for a moment irresolute, and then, with a smile, 'twixt jest and earnest, fell upon one knee before me, saying, 'Gra'mercy, good monk, I would crave thy blessing and absolution for this sin ere we part, for since thou wilt not accept the bounty of heaven, I must e'en take it myself.' Observing my hesitation, he rose hastily, saying, 'It boots not, 'tis but a few lashes more, and my shoulders are well able to bear them. Adieu, holy father, I grieve that thy conscience stands in the way of thy advancement,' and springing upon the restive beast, he was away with the swiftness of the wind." "Nay, methinks I should have been less scrupulous," said William, laughing. "The fellow's dexterity merited absolution." Ingulfus resumed, "Sick and alone, and much cast down in spirit, I stretched myself upon the grass, and looked only for death, but He who suffers not even a sparrow to fall without his notice, had compassion upon me, and sent a good Samaritan to my relief. Korshah, the noble Magyar, returning from the chase, came where I was, and seeing my low estate, gave his servants charge concerning me, to convey me to his own castle, where I tarried for above the space of a month, till my bruised feet were healed, and my broken health restored." "It was a deed of Christian charity. I would fain learn something of this strange people," said Adela; "do they observe the rites of our church?" "At the beginning of the present century," replied Ingulfus, "St. Stephen, the Alfred of his nation, divided the country into seventy-two counties and twelve bishoprics, but though the people have submitted to baptism, and observe the sacred canons, yet there prevails among them a strange mixture of barbarian fables, with the truths of holy writ; and their language is for the most part colored with the extravagant, but beautiful expressions of the Orientals. And because my mind was intent upon the prophecies, and I would know concerning Gog and Magog and the chief princes of Mesech and Tubal, I questioned the noble Magyar of his country and the people of his ancient land. 'My people,' said he, 'are numerous as the stars of night, and countless as the drops of falling showers. The smallest twig of yonder elm, that throws its shadow across the valley, is greater when compared with its trunk, than is the Hungarian branch, in comparison with the Scythian tree, whose roots strike deep into the soil of China, and whose boughs overshadow the Alps--extend beyond the sea of darkness on the north, and distil dews upon the broad and fruitful regions of Persia and Cathay. Beyond the possessions of our tribes to the eastward,' he continued, 'may no man go; for a desert and a land of darkness lasts from that coast, unto terrestrial Paradise. There are the mountains and hills which arose from Noah's flood, when the soft and tender ground was worn away by the waters, and fell and became valleys. Paradise is the highest part of the world, so high that it touches the borders of the moon. And there by a radiant way through the gates of the morning the angels were wont to descend to commune with our first parents; but that way was closed that Lucifer might return no more to the regions of light after he had tempted them, and thus with them was he driven forth from the garden. And Eve carried in her hand the seeds of the apple which she had given unto her husband, and wherever she wandered she cast them into the earth, and shed her tears upon them, and they sprang up and bore fruit, some good and some evil, and from those seeds came every green tree and herb that grow upon the earth. And this garden is enclosed all about by a wall, which seems not to be of natural stone--and the gate is of carbuncle flashing, with an incredible splendor, and shooting on every side its beams like flaming swords. Wherefore some visionary ones said it was fire, and many became worshippers thereof. And in the highest place in Paradise, exactly in the midst, is a well that casts out four streams, which run by divers lands throughout all the earth, and above the fountain of the streams, the four princes of the stars weave the semblances of what shall be, and cast them upon the waters, and whithersoever these flow there entereth a spirit into the nation or the people that dwell upon the banks, and they go forth conquering and to conquer. And thus were the tribes of Asia inspired to go toward the west, and establish their domain in Europe. Therefore wise men do study the stars, and read in the scroll of heaven the will of the Invisible. And all the sweet waters in the world above and beneath, take their rise from the well of Paradise. The drops of the morning-dew are gendered there, and thither the clouds return after the rain. There the light zephyrs gather rich odors under their wings, and from thence carry them abroad upon all the face of the earth, and give to every flower its perfume. And because of the abundance of precious things that are found therein, many have entered these rivers and essayed to pass by that land of chaos unto Paradise, but they might not speed in their voyage; for many died of weariness, by reason of rowing against the strong waves, and many were dashed in pieces against the dark rocks. And many vessels bound with iron were drawn aside by the shipman's stone, and held that they might never go thence.' I inquired concerning this stone," said Ingulfus, "and he told me there were in the eastern seas 'certain rocks of adamant which attract iron; and that men would break off pieces, and suspend them by a thread, and that one point thereof would turn to the north, and another to the south; and he said also that there are two stars fixed in the heavens, about which all the firmament turns as a wheel upon an axle. He said, moreover, that the earth and sea are of a round form, and that by this stone many mariners have passed the whole compass of the earth, and come again to the same point whence they set out. And these be not half the things that he told me, and there is none of them all but have some reason and understanding in them, and some good points of our belief. But though this man was both learned and devout, it grieved me to see in him the remains of his ancient superstition, for he was accustomed to worship before a hideous idol. And when he knew I was grieved concerning the thing, he said he worshipped not the image, but the virtue which was in it, even as we have images of our Lady and of the saints, which we set before us, to keep their holiness in mind. Howbeit the man showed me no little kindness; and when I was sufficiently recovered, he furnished me with a strong, well-appointed horse, replenished my purse, and accompanied me to the next town on my journey. "I had hard riding to overtake my companions, which I should have failed in doing, had they not rested in Constantinople. * * * * * "This city was first called Byzantium, which name is still preserved in the imperial money called byzants. It was by divine suggestion that its appellation was changed. For when Constantine the Great was pursuing his victorious course to the east, he lodged in that place; and in his dream he saw, and behold there stood before him an old woman, whose brow was furrowed with age; but presently clad in an imperial robe, she was transformed into a beautiful girl, and fascinated his eyes by the elegance of her youthful charms--and he waked and slept again; and there came one unto him and said, 'The woman thou sawest is this city worn down by age, whose walls thou shalt restore, and whose beauty shall signalize thy name to the end of time. Mount thy horse and give him the rein, to go whithersoever he will. Take the royal spear in thy hand, and its point shall describe the circuit of the wall upon the ground.' "The Emperor eagerly obeyed the vision, and employed the most skilful architects in building the city. By casting in masses of rock and sand, they straitened the ancient waters, and thus the sea wonders to see fields unknown before amid its glassy waves, and surrounds and supplies the city with all the conveniences of the earth. Constantine erected there the circus, statues of triumphal heroes, and tripods from Delphi. And all the saints whose bodies he was able to collect out of every country, were brought thither. In Constantinople is the fairest and noblest church in the world, called St. Sophia. It is of a circular form, domed in, and supported with pillars of gold and silver, hung about by lamps of the same precious metal. High mass is offered there on a different altar each day in the year. In its innermost part on the north side, is a large and beautiful apartment, wherein is a chest containing three pieces of our Lord's cross. Three times in a year this chest is brought out into the nave of the church, and placed upon a golden altar, where all the people are permitted to worship it. Howbeit I saw it not, which thing is a grief of mind to me. And they say concerning this cross, that when Adam was about to die, Seth went unto the angel that kept Paradise, to beg the oil of mercy for his father. But the angel gave him only three grains of the tree of life. And Seth buried them in the grave of Adam, and from these grains sprang up three trees, and from these were fashioned the cross on which our Saviour was crucified, as is contained in these words, '_In cruci fit palma cypressus oliva_.' Thus from the death of Adam came life into the world. And when our Lord had risen from the dead, the Jews moved with envy, took the crosses from Mount Calvary, and hid them in the earth. And thus St. Helena, the mother of Constantine, who was descended from the ancient kings of Britain, found them; and when she could not distinguish the cross of the Saviour from those of the thieves, she caused a dead body to be laid upon them, and when it touched the true cross it arose. St. Helena caused these relics to be conveyed to Constantinople; but the cross of Dismas the good thief, was carried to Cyprus, and men worship it there. There also she found the Saviour's seamless coat, and the four nails that pierced his hands and feet; and of one of these the Emperor made a bridle for his horse to carry him in battle, and thereby he overcame all his enemies, and reigned from Persia to the British Sea. They showed me also a part of the crown of our Lord, made of the branches of Aubespine; and I had one of those precious thorns given to me as a great favor, and it hath this virtue; that whosoever beareth it about him, is secure from thunder and from tempest, and from the malevolence of evil spirits and demons. We tarried long at Constantinople, for there were many wonderful things to be seen. Every year the birthday of Jesus is celebrated with rejoicings; and on these occasions one may behold representatives of all the nations that inhabit different parts of the world; and the common people are amused with surprising feats of jugglery and dexterous motions of wild beasts, and birds of prey that have been trained to fight each other. And the Emperor entertained the bishops right royally in the palace of the Blaquernel, in feasts and games, and gave them gifts of gold and silver, rich apparel and costly jewels, so that they were in no haste to depart, and many of the mixed multitudes that followed with us, remained there, and entered the service of the Emperor." Ingulfus was surprised the following day in the midst of his studies, by a secret visit from Adela. "I am come," said she, "to obtain of thee, the precious thorn from the crown of our Lord." The countenance of Ingulfus indicated at once his reluctance to part with the inestimable relic, and his strong desire to gratify the princess. "Nay," said she, observing his hesitation, "I know its value, and am prepared to reward thee at whatsoever cost." "Though it may have been the practice of some unworthy palmers, to trade in relics," said Ingulfus, "I cannot make merchandise of that which pierced the brow of my blessed Lord. It is thine without money, and without price." Tears of gratitude beamed in Adela's eyes. "Good father," she answered, "I know right well, that by reason of thy holiness thou art safe from sudden danger, and therefore thou canst not need this talisman as does thy unworthy pupil; yet it grieves me to take without recompense that which is so dear to thee. Is there no gift in the power of Adela which Ingulfus would accept?" "Thy father hath sometime suggested," returned the friar, modestly, "that he would reward my poor services with a benefice. It would please me well, to spend the few short days that remain unto me, in England. Near the monastery of Croyland was I born, and within the shelter of its walls would I die." "Trust me for the accomplishment of thy wish," said Adela, bowing her head for his benediction. Then wrapping the holy thorn in a piece of silver tissue, and placing it in her bosom, she departed. CHAPTER VIII. "When thou shalt see an old man bent beneath The burden of his earthly punishment, Forgive him, Thalaba! Yea, send a prayer to God in his behalf!"--SOUTHEY. INGULFUS' STORY, CONTINUED. From Constantinople we proceeded across the Bosphorus through Asia Minor. Our route was tedious in the extreme, and after we entered upon the territory of the Infidels, we were continually harassed by flying bands of Arabs; so that many were slain, and some being driven from the main body were lost among the mountains, and we saw them no more. At length with much toil, the pilgrims reached the village of Capernaum, where being hardly beset by the robbers, they were constrained to tarry, until they could obtain a safe escort from the Emir at Antioch. Howbeit I only relate these things as they were told me in Jerusalem; for a strange adventure separated me from my fellows. There are two fountains, Jor and Dan, which flowing down from the mountain, are collected into one, and form the Jordan. When we passed them in our route, I was constrained to linger among the shepherds, who fed their flocks in the green pastures which there abound, and several devout persons tarried with me; and on the morrow, when we had taken our leave, we journeyed on, and straightway we came to the conflux of these streams,--and when we saw the Jordan, each man hasted to divest himself of his garments, that he might bathe in that stream, in which our blessed Lord was baptized. So occupied were we with the holy ceremony, that we had not observed a band of Arabs, who assailed us with a shower of stones and javelins, and separated us one from another. What farther passed I know not, for a blow upon the temple felled me to the ground, and deprived me of sense. When I unclosed my eyes, I thought myself among the fiends of hell; and feeling for my crucifix, I found myself wrapped in many folds of fine cloth, in which I was firmly but gently bound. As my senses gradually returned, I began to note the things about me. The apartment seemed a long, dark cavern, whose limits I could not distinguish, lighted by a fire at the farther extremity, round which half clothed, swarthy figures were engaged in roasting pieces of flesh. Others of the same appearance were seated upon mats, with a cloth spread before them upon the ground, cutting the meat with long, crooked knives, or tearing it with their white pointed teeth, with savage voracity. Apart from the rest, seated upon an elevated cushion with his legs crossed, was a tall, strong-built man, with hair and beard white as snow, hanging over his shoulders, and down to his breast. He took no part with the revellers, but seemed to control by his look their wild, gibbering talk, to the end that it might not disturb my slumbers; for through excessive faintness, I seemed only to exist between sleeping and waking. His regards were fixed upon me, and his appearance recalled a dim recollection which I was vainly striving to trace, when at a word from him, the whole band disappeared behind an angle in the wall. The old man then lighted a torch and approached me, carefully removed the bandage from my head, anointed my wound with sweet-smelling balm, and gave me to drink of a fiery liquid, which spread like an elixir through my veins, and seemed instantly to reanimate me. With a smile at my puzzled look, he plucked away the false beard and hair, and revealed to my astonished sight, the swarthy countenance of Hardrager. "Well met, holy father," said he, with his wonted laugh. "Hast come to bring a blessing to the habitation of Hardrager?" "Is this thine habitation?" said I. "Then I was not so far wrong in thinking myself in purgatory!" (for I was ill-pleased with the strange place and bad company.) "But by what fatal mischance came I hither? Has the Saviour, for my sins, denied me at last the sight of his holy sepulchre?" and I sank back in despair. "Nay," said Hardrager, "but for the mischance which thou deplorest, thou mightest indeed have been in purgatory." "And where am I?" eagerly inquired I. "Thou art in the strong-hold of the Old Man of the Mountain, and guarded by the assassin band of Mount Lebanon," replied he. "The saints preserve me!" said I, ejaculating a prayer. "In truth thou showest little gratitude," said Hardrager, "to one who hath saved thy life, (thanks to the good Hungarian steed that brought me to thy rescue). Knowest thou not the proverb? 'Speak well of the bridge that carried thee safe over!'" Finding from his words, but more especially from the seriousness of his manner, that this wild man had really undertaken to render me an essential service, I began to regard him with more complacency, and finally brought myself to listen with interest to his story. Stung with remorse for his agency in the death of the noble Saxons, Edwin and Waltheof, he had determined, as soon as his pilgrimage was accomplished, to join the Varangians of Constantinople, and make perpetual war upon the conquerors of England. On his route through Syria, he fell in with a band of Arabs, wild and reckless like himself, who, scorning allegiance to any leader, had established themselves among the ruined towers and rocky fortresses of Mount Lebanon, and thence carried on predatory warfare upon all who ventured to travel that way. They wore the Mohammedan garb, and observed some of the institutions of the Koran, but were followers of Ali, uncle of the prophet. The superior abilities and learning of Hardrager, enabled him soon to master their language and their tenets, and by the fortunate solution of some timely mysteries, he impressed them with the belief that he was the prophet of Allah, and soon brought them to take oath to obey all his requirements. But though he had thus apostatized from the faith of his fathers, he retained a copy of the New Testament, and religiously fulfilled his vows at the holy sepulchre, and with honesty worthy a better man continued his nightly flagellations. He had instilled into his wild followers his own hatred of the Norman race, and it was because of this that they fell upon us with such violence at the Jordan. I should have perished with my companions, for the Assassins were proceeding to rip open the bodies of the slain and wounded in search of coin, had not Hardrager recognized my Saxon countenance and interposed for my rescue. With the greatest care and tenderness, he had me conveyed in a litter to their nearest haunt, where, after protracted insensibility, I found myself stretched upon the couch of skins in the cavern. As soon as I was sufficiently restored, he mounted me upon the good steed of the Magyar, which, being unable to walk, I was fain to ride, and accompanied me till we came in sight of the pilgrims encamped upon the Mount of Olives, for by his messengers, Hardrager had intelligence of their movements, and conducted me by the shortest route to join them. "Benedicite, holy father," said he, as he lifted me gently from the horse, and reverently inclined before me, "a blessing in the Saxon tongue would be health to my guilty soul." A tear glittered in his eye, and if it were a sin Heaven assoil me, for I yielded to his importunity and granted him the blessing. "Adieu, good friar," said he, "thou hast taken a load from my heart. Accept from the gratitude of Hardrager that which may stand thee instead, when thy fancied relics are of little avail." So saying, he gave me a small slip of parchment inscribed with Arabic characters, and rode slowly away. I thrust the scroll into my purse, little knowing its value, for my sight and sense were filled with Jerusalem, which I now saw for the first time. As I walked along the brow of Olivet, like my Saviour, I beheld the city and wept over it, for the glory of Solomon's temple had departed; the holy prophets and apostles had passed away, and bands of Infidels whose bright scimeters gleamed in the light of the setting sun dashed through her sacred streets, and encountered each other with barbarian clamor in her holy courts. The sound of the vesper-bell from the church of the Ascension invited us to prayer. With divine rapture we pressed our lips upon the stone imprinted with the last footsteps of our Saviour, and with pious theft we gathered some of the sacred dust from before the altar. Descending from the mountain, we spent the night in fasting and prayer in the garden of Gethsemane, and at the first cock-crowing, arose to pass over the Brook Cedron. In the valley of Jehoshaphat we were met by the venerable patriarch, with the Latin and Syrian Christians of Jerusalem, who conducted us in solemn procession through the midst of the city to the church of the Holy Sepulchre. There, amid the clangor of cymbals, and the sweet sounds of psaltery and harp, we bowed in worship and adoration, while through the cloud of ascending incense streamed the effulgence of innumerable lights, like the Shechinah of the ancient temple, and Jesus Christ the inhabitant of the place, alone knew the sighs we breathed, the tears we shed, the prayers we offered, and the thanksgivings we uttered. Our vows were accomplished, and with the benediction of the patriarch upon us, we went forth, to climb the hill of Calvary, to visit the pool of Bethesda, and to mourn over all the pleasant places which the followers of Mohammed have laid waste. There was one among us, who, for the sins he had committed, and the compunctions of conscience that he suffered, was desirous to yield up his soul at the tomb of the Saviour. This celebrated man, Fulk Earl of Anjou, had compelled two of his servants by an oath, to do whatsoever he commanded, and when we had completed our procession, and obtained absolution, he was by them dragged naked through the streets towards the Holy Sepulchre, one of them holding him by a twisted withe about his neck, the other, with a rod scourging his bare back, while the penitent cried out, "Lord, receive thy wretched Fulk, thy perfidious, thy runagate--regard my repentant soul, oh Lord Jesus Christ." Howbeit he obtained not his request at that time. We were desirous to go down from Jerusalem to Jericho, to worship at Gilgal, and view that sea, whose black waters roll over the cities of the plain; but the wealth of the archbishops had been noised abroad, and the thieves that abound in those parts, fell upon all those who ventured that way, stripped and wounded them, and departed, leaving them to perish by the wayside. But our Norman bands accompanied by a party of Germans, arming themselves with swords determined to visit the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. We accomplished our purpose in safety, and were returning through the fields of the wood, when a band of mounted Saracens, with wild cries, dashed among us. Reluctantly, each man drew his sword and stood for his life. The attack fell heaviest upon the Normans, and despite our vigorous resistance, we should, doubtless, all have perished beneath their javelins, had not the frantic gestures, and more especially the green turbans of our assailants, reminded me of the cave of Hardrager, and recalled his parting words. Hastily opening my purse, I held up the Arabic scroll, before the eyes of a barbarian, whose drawn scimeter was flashing above my head. At sight of it his demeanor instantly changed. He alighted, assisted me to rise, laid his hand upon his heart to express his concern for what had happened, and shouting, Allah ackbar, to his companions, drew them from their work of blood, and forthwith the flying band disappeared. Nearly half our number were slain, and the rest of us wounded and disheartened, slowly retraced our steps to Jerusalem, and relinquished all attempts to visit the other holy places with which the vicinity abounds. Though the patriarch, and the monks of the various monasteries gave us hospitable entertainments, yet, such had been the length, the weariness and discouragements of the way, and such the thinning of our ranks by famine, fatigue, disease, and hostility, that we were fain to choose the readiest means of return. Learning that a fleet of Genoese merchantmen were anchored in the harbor of Joppa, we determined to purchase a passage over seas with them. The archbishops, therefore, gathered the pilgrims together, and numbered them, and of the seven thousand that had set out from Mentz, scarce three thousand remained; and on our way from Jerusalem to the place of embarkation through the rocky defiles which are the favorite haunts of the barbarians, we estimated that another thousand perished. Our voyage to Brundusium was the most prosperous part of our journey. Thence we came to Rome; where I showed my life to our holy father the pope, and was absolved of all that lay on my conscience, concerning many grievous points, as men must needs have that travel in company with so many people of divers sects and beliefs. We then proceeded through Italy, and the archbishops took the route to Germany; and of our band that left Normandy, thirty well-appointed horsemen, twenty miserable palmers, only, repassed the Alps, and entered France on foot, ill, weary, and penniless; and had not a kind Providence sent the noble Earls Robert and Stephen to our relief, we might at last have perished on the banks of the Eure. CHAPTER IX. Can piety the discord heal, Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? Can Christian lore, can patriot's zeal, Can love of blessed charity? The year 1077 opened with great rejoicing in Normandy. The royal family were reunited for the last time, to celebrate the marriage of Adela and Constance, with the wealthy and powerful husbands of the Conqueror's choice. The young Count and Countess of Blois, whose castles were numerous as the days in the year, determined to make a festive progress through their dominions, and the Earl of Bretagne, with his bride, with their young sister, Gundred, and her undeclared lover, the Earl of Warrenne, joined the happy party. In the midst of her happiness Adela did not forget her promise to Ingulfus. The evening before her departure, she visited the cloister of the palmer, and acquainted him with his preferment to the Abbey of Croyland. The good friar's gratitude and pleasure were unbounded. "Holy father," said the countess, "I have yet one boon to crave." "Name it," said the priest. "If it lieth in my poor ability it shall not fail thee." "Because it lieth in thy power do I intrust it to thee," continued she. "The body of Earl Waltheof, the father of our much-injured Maude, is interred at the four cross-roads, without the gates of Winchester; when thou takest possession of thy benefice, as soon as may be, thou wilt give him Christian burial, in the church-yard of Croyland, and cause daily masses to be said for his soul." Ingulfus readily promised compliance. Adela still lingered. "The lovely Maude goes with thee to England. Thou wilt be compelled to marry her to Simon. Soften, as much as possible, her hard fate, and watch over her interests, and comfort her with thy counsels." "It shall be done," said Ingulfus, fervently. "Father, I would confess." And the young countess, in all her beauty and pride, knelt at the feet of the venerable man, and with the simplicity of a child, poured out her soul before him. As Adela had predicted, the Conqueror, on his return to England, took with him Maude, as the bride of Simon. Robert sailed, also, in the same vessel, being commissioned by the king to establish Simon, now Earl of Huntingdon, in his new possessions. William, too, accompanied his father, for he, more than any of the sons, comprehended the policy, and partook of the spirit of the Conqueror. The remaining years of the Queen Duchess Matilda, were passed in splendid solitude, in the royal palace at Bayeux. The early death of the princess Adeliza, the failing health of Constance, together with fresh dissensions in her family, pressed heavily upon her mind, and occasioned the lingering illness that slowly conducted her to the tomb. The loss of his beloved queen, and the undutiful conduct of his sons, aggravated the natural irritability and imperiousness of William, so that according to the English chroniclers, "He became, after her death, a thorough tyrant." He passed the four remaining years of his life in a constant succession of petty annoyances, and fruitless wars, with Philip of France. In the stately castle of Chartres, sat the lovely Countess Adela apparently busy with embroidery, in that age almost the only home occupation of females. A shade of sadness was upon her brow, and an expression of anxious care indicated the mother's sympathy with the suffering child, that an attendant was vainly striving to soothe. "Draw the couch of the little William to my side, Therese," said the countess, observing the tears in the girl's eyes. "Thou hast a tiresome task. Remove these frames," continued she to the maidens, "and go ye all to disport awhile in the pleasance, I will watch my boy's slumbers." The feeble child stretched his hands to his mother, and laying his head upon her breast sank quietly to sleep. "Poor suffering one," soliloquized Adela, "thou knowest naught but thy mother's love. Already thy younger brothers despise thy imbecility--the courtiers regard thee with indifference--and the very menials flout thee. No ducal coronet, or kingly crown will grace the head of my first-born." The sound of heavy steps in the corridor disturbed the slumberer. He lifted his head, moaned heavily, and regarded with a vacant stare the warrior who entered. "Robert, my beloved brother!" exclaimed the countess, the joy of former times flitting across her countenance. With a moody and dissatisfied air the duke returned the frank greeting of his sister, and throwing himself upon a seat by her side, said in a tone of ill-concealed impatience, "Adela, I have come to thee, for the prudent counsel of our mother dwells with thee. I am robbed of my rights and stripped of my heritage." "Art thou not Duke of Normandy," inquired his sister with surprise. "Aye, verily. Our father left me the duchy with a blessing that sounded marvellously like a curse. 'The dukedom of Normandy,' said he, 'I granted unto my son Robert, and having received the homage of his baronage, that honor given cannot be revoked: yet he is a foolish, proud knave, and will be punished with cruel fortune.'" "The saints preserve thee," said the countess with a look of alarm, "and England"-- Robert interrupted.--"'Tis of that I would speak. The Conqueror bitterly bewailing the desolation and woe he had wrought in England, protested that he had so misused that fair and beautiful land, that he dare not appoint a successor to it, but left the disposal of that matter in the hands of God." "Thou shouldst then have been king," said the Countess, "since God made thee his first-born." "So should I have been," said the duke, "but for the craft of William; but while I tarried in Germany, little thinking that my father's illness would terminate so suddenly, the red-haired usurper hastened over sea, and gaining Lanfranc to his interest secured the throne." "Always unready," sighed Adela. "And while the elder sons were thus employed, the young Henry watched by the bed of his dying father. Is it not so?" "Small watching had the Conqueror's death-bed," said Robert, with something between a smile and a sneer. "The filial Beauclerk set off to secure the treasures, and the attendants equally rapacious and inhuman, plundered the house of all the money, plate, and precious furniture, and even stripped the person of the monarch. And after Herlwin had succeeded in conveying the body to the abbey of St. Stephen's, and they were about to place it in the grave, there stood forth an insolent noble, and forbade the interment. 'This spot,' said he, 'was the site of my father's house, which this dead duke took violently from him, and here upon part of my inheritance founded this church. This ground I therefore challenge, and charge ye all as ye shall answer it at the great and dreadful day of judgment, that ye lay not the bones of the destroyer on the hearth of my fathers.' And there, exposed to the jeers of the assembled multitudes, was the body forced to wait, while Henry drove a sharp bargain with the owner of the soil, and purchased leave of burial for the paltry sum of sixty shillings. Oh Adela!" said Robert, rising and striding through the apartment in extreme perturbation, "I am weary of this greatness which makes enemies of brothers, and yields one scarce a grave at last." The head of the countess was bent low over her sleeping child: and the duke continued, "I sometimes wish I were an eremite, and unless thy clear wit can devise some expedient by which I can obtain my rightful inheritance, and chastise the vanity of this presumptuous Rufus, I am resolved upon a pilgrimage." "Thou saidst Lanfranc, assisted William: our uncle Odo hates Lanfranc," said Adela. Robert caught at the suggestion. "My sister, I thank thee," he exclaimed eagerly. "Thou hast made me king. I will to Normandy, and summon my trusty squires to council. Simon of Huntingdon, Hugh of Norfolk, and William of Durham, are already disaffected and ready for revolt. Odo shall head the conspiracy in England." Full of his new project the duke hurried away, scarcely waiting for the pecuniary aid, with which the countess, who knew the impoverished state of his finances, hastened to furnish him. * * * * * The well-concerted scheme of the conspirators failed, through the characteristic indolence and procrastination of Robert. Odo effected an inglorious escape from England, and the rebel earls gladly made terms with the king. Many of the insurgents repaired to Normandy, and suffered the confiscation of their estates; and while the Countess of Blois daily expected a summons to attend Robert's coronation, she was surprised by intelligence that William had crossed the sea with a numerous army, and by menaces, bribery or fraud, had obtained possession of almost every fortress, on the right bank of the Seine. The barons who held lands under both brothers, labored to effect a reconciliation through the mediation of the French monarch. Robert still reckoning upon the liberal aid of his sister and her wealthy lord, resisted all overtures of peace; but Adela comprehending the hopeless defect of a character, that not even a crown could stimulate to promptitude, persuaded him to accept the terms of the treaty. * * * * * As the splendid cortege attendant upon the Countess of Blois, and her young sons Thibaut, Stephen and Henry, swept along the great road from Chartres to Blois, the green arcades of a beautiful grove stretching down to the brink of a small stream that rolled its clear waters to the Loire, invited them to rest during the noontide hours. With loosened rein the steeds wandered at will cropping the tender herbage, or slaked their thirst in the rippling brook; while reposing upon the greensward, the party made a refreshing repast. The children, left to the unrestrained indulgence of their boyish glee, gathered wild flowers for their mother, hallooed to the echoes of the wood, or pursued each other along the banks of the stream. Allured by the sound of their happy voices, the countess left the company and stole after them, catching occasional glimpses of their dancing plumes, as they bounded on before her, till coming to an opening in the glen, she stopped before an antique crucifix that some pious hand had reared upon the verge of a fountain. Occupied with the sweet thoughts suggested by the place, she scarcely noted the absence of her children, till the little Henry, pulling her by the robe exclaimed with a face all radiant with joy, "This way ma mère, Thibaut says we've found a hermit's cell, and Stephen is talking with the hermit." Yielding to his impetuosity the countess hastened forward and discovered sitting at the entrance of a sylvan lodge, just where the shadow of the cross fell longest at sunset, a youthful saint, if saint he was, reading his breviary, and telling his beads with affected sanctity. "Beauclerk!" said the countess after a scrutinizing gaze at his half-concealed features. "Thou knowest me then," said the pretended monk, in a tone of bitter reproach, rising and throwing off his gray friar's gown and cowl. "I thought myself forgotten by all my father's house." "'Tis our uncle Henry," said Thibaut, amazed and chagrined at this transformation of his newly discovered hermit. "And hast thou then doubted the affection of Adela?" said his sister. "It were not strange that I should doubt the love of one leagued with my foes," replied the prince sorrowfully. "How leagued with thy foes?" inquired the countess in great surprise. "Thou surely dost not mock me," said Henry marking the tears trembling on her eyelids. "Thy countenance bespeaks thy sincerity. Have I then been the dupe, as well as the prey of my designing brothers?" "If thou hast distrusted the love of Adela, yes," replied his sister, "but come thou with me. My lord awaits us at the castle of Blois. He shall investigate thy cause and redress thy wrongs." "Come with us, dear uncle," reiterated the children observing his hesitation. "Yield thyself, rescue or no rescue," said the young Stephen balancing a stick as a lance, and leading off the prince in triumph. "And hast thou not heard of the siege of St. Michael's Mount?" said Henry as he rode by the side of his sister, at the head of the cavalcade. "A passing rumor, and much I fear me, purposely perverted to restrain my interference, was all that reached me," replied Adela. "Tell me all." "Thou knowest," continued Henry, "that by the will of our father, the duchy of Normandy fell to Robert, and the rich heritage of England was given to William. Henry had neither patrimony nor domains, some small treasure was all my share. This I gave to Robert in the hour of his need, for the lands of Cotentin, and then passed into England, to secure the dower of my mother. On my return, the prodigal having squandered the moneys received from me, seized and confined me in one of his fortresses. When Normandy was invaded, he released me from my imprisonment, and I did him good service in compelling William to raise the siege of Rouen. In the treaty to which thou didst persuade Robert, I was the principal sufferer, and therefore"--added he with warmth, "did I deem that the guileful duke, had stolen into the sanctuary of my sister's affections, and robbed me of thy love, my choicest treasure." "My much-injured brother," said the countess, affectionately, "I knew not that thy interest was involved, else I had given far different counsel. But proceed with the story of thy wrongs." "My traitor brothers united like Pilate and Herod of old," proceeded Henry, with increasing asperity, "seized my castles in Cotentén, and dogged my steps like sleuth-hounds on the track, till I took refuge in Mt. St. Michael, where the friendly tides kept them at bay; and there I had perished with thirst, had not Robert's tardy compassion ministered to my necessity, and finally effected my release. Since then, I have wandered a fugitive and an outcast, craving scant hospitality of my brother's vassals, and solacing my weary hours with clerkly studies." "Courage, my good brother," said Adela, with enthusiasm. "Thou shalt wander no more. Count Stephen will put thee in the way to mend thy fortunes; and, perchance, thou wilt one day inherit the proud fiefs of both thy brothers. See! yonder gleams the spires of Blois. But what knightly train proceeds up the broad avenue of the castle. Listen! The warder sounds his bugle blast, and the drawbridge is lowered. Put thy horse to his mettle; these laggards may follow at their leisure." So saying the countess and her brother dashed forward, and entered the court-yard just as the retinue of the Duke of Normandy wound up the staircase, leading to the great hall. At sight of Robert, Henry's eye flashed, and with an indignant gesture he turned to depart, but Adela, with a determined air, laid her hand upon his arm. "Remain," said she, "that portcullis bars all egress from the castle, and yon proud duke shall not escape till he has done thee ample justice." Earl Stephen gave a cordial welcome to Robert, and greeted his countess with much affection, but the entrance of Henry threw him into evident perturbation, nor did it relieve his embarrassment to see his wife, with characteristic heroism, advance between the rival brothers, and fix her flashing eyes upon Robert. The noble conduct of the repentant duke happily averted the gathering storm. "Spare thy reproaches, sweet sister," said he, "and thou, my brother, forgive the grievous injuries thou hast suffered, and accept the only reparation that lieth in my power. I restore unto thee Cotentén, and would but for my poverty indemnify thee for thy losses. I have determined on a visit to the Holy Land; and I would dispose my worldly affairs, so that should I never return, man shall not accuse me before the throne of God." The frankness of his confession, and the seriousness of his manner, allayed the resentment of Henry, and effected an apparent reconciliation. Harmony being thus restored, Robert proceeded at proper intervals to unfold the desires and purposes that had brought him once again to counsel with Adela. Since the treaty which confirmed William in the sovereignty of England, not only, but secured to him several strong fortresses in Normandy, the duke had resigned himself to listlessness and luxury. In his aimless expeditions his attention had been frequently attracted by the appearance of a monk, who embodied in himself the spirit of a hermit, a pilgrim, and a soldier. His head was bare, his feet naked. His diminutive figure, attenuated by frequent abstinence, was wrapped in a coarse garment. His prayers were long and fervent, and the enthusiasm that gleamed in his eyes kindled the fires of holy zeal, in every town, village, and hamlet through which he passed. As he rode along, every street and highway was thronged with people, who worshipped the weighty crucifix he bore aloft, and listened with sighs and tears, while he depicted the sufferings of the Christians of Palestine, and with loud and frequent appeals to Christ and the holy mother, challenged the warriors of the age to defend their brethren, and rescue the tomb of the Saviour from the dominion of Infidels. Robert's curiosity was excited. He joined the eager crowds that followed the steps of the monk, and listened to the thrilling words till the latent desire of pilgrimage that had long slumbered in his mind awoke to life and activity, and he became a convert to the preachings of Peter the Hermit. But while he hesitated at the palmer's gown and staff, the united voices of chivalry and religion, bade him don his armor and draw his sword. In the general council of the church, at Placentia, the ambassadors of the Greek Emperor Alexius Comnenus had portrayed the distress of their sovereign, and the danger of Constantinople, from the victorious Turks. The sad tales of the misery and perils of the eastern brethren, drew tears from the assembly, and several champions declared their readiness to march to the East. The Greeks were dismissed with assurances of speedy and powerful succor. Pope Urban had given his sanction to the scheme, and summoned a second council to meet in Clermont the following November, to confer upon measures for sending armed forces into Asia. It was to secure the concurrence of Adela, and the co-operation of Stephen, that Robert now came to Blois. The representations of her brother, and the subject of his discourse renewed, in the memory of Adela, the fancy sketches of her childhood, and called up the half-formed purposes of her early youth. With the clear-sightedness peculiar to her character, she scanned the wide field thus opened to ambition, balanced the possible with the impracticable, determined for her brother the only course that would give free scope to his knightly abilities, and coveting for her husband a share in the glorious enterprise, persuaded him to embrace the scheme, and thus rendered herself really the "_Heroine of the First Crusade_." CHAPTER X. "Onward they came, a dark continuous cloud Of congregated myriads numberless." "To dispose of his worldly affairs so that man might not accuse him before the throne of God," was a more serious and protracted work than the Duke of Normandy had anticipated. The patience of Stephen was in consequence nearly exhausted, in waiting his preparations, and it was not till the council of Clermont had been several days in session, that the nobles entered the district of Auvergne. As they approached the place of meeting, the highways were thronged by the eager crowds that flocked towards the city; and all the plains as far as the eye could reach, were dotted with tents and booths, that afforded temporary shelter for the thousands that could not find accommodation in the town. On the morning of the eighth day, at an early hour, the reverend clergy, with the pope at their head, ascended a wooden pulpit, erected in the midst of the concourse, and declared to them the decrees of the synod, concerning the various matters at that time agitating the church. But ecclesiastical decisions and local interests were lost in the absorbing theme that occupied every heart. The blessing of Heaven was invoked upon their deliberations; and a stillness fell upon the waiting multitudes, like the hush of winds before the mighty storm, while the Monk of Amiens in a voice of persuasive eloquence and power, told them how terrible were the sufferings of their brethren in the East, and how burdensome was the tribute exacted by the inhuman Mussulmans. He stated that lodging in the house of Simon, the patriarch of Jerusalem, he had become an eye-witness of these enormities, and had been commissioned to invite all the princes of the West, to contribute towards their remedy; that on a certain day filled with grief, he had entered the church of the Resurrection, and given himself to prayer, till at length sinking upon the cold stone pavement, there had breathed upon his senses,--first a soft strain like a shepherd's flute, swelling into a heavenly harmony, such as the advent angels sung, and then, triumphant anthems deepening into the trumpet's thunder tone, and the discordant clash of armor; that like Elijah of old he had afterwards heard a still small voice, saying, "Arise, Peter, make haste and fulfil without fear, what I have enjoined upon thee; for I will be with thee. It is time for the holy places to be purified, and for my servants to be succored in their distress;" that immediately after the seraphic vision had beamed upon his sight, the brightness of the light awoke him; when he beheld lying upon the altar a letter containing the words of the Saviour; and his own pilgrim's staff transformed into a sword. The Hermit ceased; and held up the miraculous scroll before the eyes of all the people. A wailing swept over the vast throng, and the whole multitude bowed, as the forest bends before the first rush of the tempest. Seizing upon the favorable moment, the pontiff arose and addressed the assembly. "My brethren and dearest children, whether kings, princes, marquises, counts, barons, or knights, all you who have been redeemed by the bodily passion, and shedding of the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, hear the complaints of God himself, which are addressed to you concerning the wrongs and unlooked-for injuries, which have been done to him in Asia, where sprang the first germs of our faith, where the Apostles suffered martyrdom, and where at the present day, the persecuted christians with stifled sighs, long for a participation in your liberties. Have compassion upon your brethren that dwell in Jerusalem, and in the coasts thereof,--check the insolence of the barbarians, and you will be extolled throughout all ages--let your zeal in the expedition atone for the rapine, theft, homicide, licentiousness, and deeds of incendiarism, by which you have provoked the Lord to anger,--turn against the enemies of Christ those weapons, which you have hitherto stained with blood, in battles and tournaments against yourselves. To those present, I command this; to those absent, I enjoin it. For ourselves we will trust in the mercy of the Almighty God, and in virtue of the power He has given us, and by the authority of the blessed Apostles, Peter and Paul, we absolve all who engage in this holy war, from all the offences which they shall repent in their hearts, and with their lips confess, and in the retribution of the just we promise to the same an increased portion of eternal salvation. And this forgiveness shall extend also to those who contribute by their substance or counsel to its success. Go then, brave soldiers, and secure to yourselves fame throughout the world. God will accompany you on your march--the season of the year be propitious, both by the abundance of fruits, and by the serenity of the elements. Those who shall die, will sit down in the Heavenly guest-chamber, and those who survive will set their eyes on the Saviour's sepulchre. Happy are they who are called to this expedition, that they may see the holy places in which our Lord conversed with man, and where to save them he was born, crucified, died;--was buried and rose again. Take then the road before you in expiation of your sins, and go assured that after the honors of this world have passed away, imperishable glory shall await you, even in the kingdom of Heaven." Loud shouts of 'God wills it,' 'God wills it,' pronounced simultaneously in all the different dialects, and languages, spoken by the nations of which the multitude was composed, for a moment interrupted the prelate. Commanding silence by a motion of the hand, he resumed. "Dear brethren, to-day is shown forth in you, that which the Lord has said by his evangelist, 'When two or three shall be assembled in my name, there shall I be in the midst of them.' For if the Lord God had not been in your souls you would not all have pronounced the same words, or rather God himself pronounced them by your lips, for it was He who put them in your hearts. Be they then your war-cry in the combat, for those words came forth from God. Let the army of the Lord when it rushes upon his enemies, shout but that one cry, 'Deus vult,' 'Deus vult.' Oh brave knights! remember the virtues of your ancestors; and if you feel held back from the course before you, by the soft ties of wives, of children, of parents, call to mind the words of our Lord himself, 'Whosoever loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me. Whosoever shall abandon for my name's sake, his house, or his brethren, or his sisters, or his father, or his mother, or his wife, or his children, or his lands, shall receive an hundred fold, and shall inherit eternal life.' Gird yourselves then, my brave warriors, for the battle, and let him who is ready to march, bear the holy cross of the Lord upon his shoulders, in memory of that precept of the Saviour, 'He who does not take up his cross and follow me, is not worthy of me.'" The agony of conflicting emotions that shook the assembled throngs, burst forth in a storm of sighs, groans, and tears, and as the trees of the forest fall prostrate in the blast, the agitated multitudes sank upon their knees, smote their breasts in sorrow, poured forth their confessions, and consecrated their persons and their property to the Holy Crusade. CHAPTER IX. "There the wild Crusaders form, There assembled Europe stands, Heaven they deem awakes the storm, Hell the paynims' blood demands." CARLYLE. The results of the council of Clermont were speedily felt throughout Europe. No nation was so remote, no people so retired, but, gaining the intelligence by common rumor, or miraculous revelation, commenced preparations for the mighty enterprise. The Welshman forsook his hunting,--the Scot his native mountains,--the Dane forgot his wassail-bowl,--the Norwegian left his fishing-tackle on the sand. Whatever was stored in granaries or hoarded in chambers, to answer the hopes of the avaricious husbandman, or the covetousness of the miser, all was deserted, or bartered for military equipments. "Zeal and sympathy, and indignation and chivalrous feeling, and the thirst for glory, and the passion for enterprise, and a thousand vague, but great and noble aspirations, mingled in the complicated motive of the Crusade. It increased by contagion--it grew by communion--it spread from house to house--and from bosom to bosom--it became a universal desire--an enthusiasm--a passion--a madness." Princes labored like peasants at the forge or in the armory. High-born dames abandoned their embroidery, and employed their delicate fingers in fabricating garments for the retainers of their lords. The Countess of Blois laid aside the famous Bayeux tapestry, which her mother had left for her completion, and accompanied her husband from castle to castle, through all their wide domains, presiding over the labors of her maidens, while with pious zeal they stitched the red cross upon the surcoats of the warriors. Robert pledged his ducal domains to the grasping Rufus, for a sum of money scarcely sufficient to meet the expenses of the expedition; and Edgar Atheling bestowing his orphan nieces in the nunnery of Wilton, joined the train of his friend. Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, a prince of the royal house of France, assembled his followers, from the banks of the Rhine to the Elbe; Raimond of Toulouse, and Adhemar, bishop of Puy, called the Moses and Aaron of the host, collected the Goths and Gascons, and all the mingled people between the Pyrenees and the Alps; Bohemond of Apulia commanded the tribes from the Tuscan sea to the Adriatic, while volunteers from all parts of Europe flocked to the standards of these noble leaders, or joined the band of the Hermit himself. The long-looked-for time was now at hand, when the hoary garb of winter being laid aside, the world clad in vernal bloom, invited the pilgrims to the confines of the East. And in the beginning of March, 1097, the masses of European population began to roll. The first band that swept on through Germany into Hungary consisted of twenty thousand footmen, marshalled under Walter the Penniless. Then followed Peter the Hermit, with forty thousand men, women and children. Next a German priest headed fifteen thousand enthusiasts, and another band of two hundred thousand unarmed and disorderly people hurried on by the same path; and ere these desperate adventurers had reached the borders of the Grecian Empire, Europe glittered with mustering hosts of warriors arrayed in all the pomp and splendor of chivalry, and led by the greatest warriors of the age. Few chieftains brought so many soldiers to the standard of the cross as Stephen, Count of Blois and Chartres. But notwithstanding the precipitate zeal of Robert, and the prompt and politic measures of Adela, the summer was wasted in idle delays; and it was not till the autumnal equinox that these distinguished nobles joined the forces of Hugh, Count of Vermandois, and crossed the Alps, intending to proceed by sea to the Holy Land. They found Pope Urban at Lucca, and received from him the standard of St. Peter. The autumn was passed in the gaiety and dissipation of Italy, where the earls disposed their troops for winter-quarters. Count Stephen returned once more to Blois, already dissatisfied with the prospects of the expedition. In the ensuing spring, one year after the time designated by the pope, with Robert and Hugh, and their united forces, the husband of Adela embarked for Palestine. In the meantime numbers, disaffected by the first encountering of difficulties, returned to claim subsistence from the bounty of the Countess of Blois. "Methinks, my beneficent sister," said Henry, observing her charity towards the miserable wretches, "if thou hadst seen yon beggars sell their flocks and herds for a few shillings, thou wouldst be better inclined to laugh at their folly than relieve their poverty." "Adela counts it not folly for a man to sell all he hath for the kingdom of Heaven's sake." "I fancy," said Henry, laughing, "that those self-sacrificers have an eye to the 'manifold more in this life,' rather than to the heavenly inheritance; and _some_, I trow, understand by the kingdom of heaven, a principality in Palestine." "And were not the establishment of Christian powers in Asia a worthy purpose?" returned Adela, little pleased at her brother's insinuations. "Certes, my beloved sister. But wherefore didst thou detain thy unworthy Beauclerk, is there not kingdom or duchy for him?" "Nay! I scarcely claim the merit of detaining thee," said Adela, "since I suspect that a stronger tie than compassion for my lone estate has withheld thee." "That a tender interest in the declining health of the Red King somewhat influenced my decision I cannot deny," replied Henry, evasively. "And had the superlative beauty of the Red King's ward no influence?" said Adela, pressing her advantage. "Nay, sister, since thou divinest my secret," said Henry, frankly, "I will e'en tell thee all. Perceiving that thy crusades would draw from the Norman power its military strength, I deemed it wise, in case of my brother's death, to entrench myself in the affections of the English people, by uniting my personal interest with the Saxon race. Accordingly, when Robert sent me to England to negotiate the mortgage of his duchy with Rufus, I visited the nunnery of Wilton, with Edgar Atheling." "And thou sawest there the fair novice, Matilda," interrupted Adela. "Call her not novice, she scorns the name, and hath a spirit like a queen. In presence of her uncle the Atheling, she tore the hateful veil from her head, and trampled it under her feet." "And did the spirited damsel smile upon thy suit?" "I proffered no suit save to her uncle." "And what said the Atheling to thy visionary scheme?" "He promised to give her to me with his blessing, on his return from the crusade." "But here comes another son of Cushi, with tidings for the Countess of Blois. Judging from his tattered garments, and limping gait, his story must eclipse all that have gone before. My '_visionary schemes_' shall not claim the attention that should be devoted to this magnificent eastern ambassador;" and with a smile of irony Henry took his departure. The appearance of the individual who entered the presence of Adela, and the tidings he brought, fully justified the sarcastic conjectures of Henry. He was a refugee from the party of Walter the Penniless, a band whose only recommendation for the Holy war was their poverty. Before setting out, each one was searched, and the man upon whose person was found the sum of two sous, was hooted from the camp. Animated by a blind fanaticism, they expected that rivers would be opened for their passage; that flesh would be miraculously supplied; manna rained from heaven upon them, and the smitten rock send forth its cooling stream. The hospitality of the Hungarians confirmed their faith; but when they entered the kingdom of Bulgaria, the illusion vanished, and the famine-stricken multitudes, abandoning their presumptuous trust in heaven, resorted to carnage and plunder. The exasperated inhabitants fell upon them without fear or mercy. Many were slain, numbers fled to the forests, and a remnant of the disappointed devotees attempted to retrace their steps to their own land. After listening to the account of the miserable fugitive, Adela remarked, that the misfortunes of the company doubtless proceeded from their forgetfulness of the last directions of the Saviour: "He that hath a purse let him take it, and likewise his scrip, and he that hath no sword let him sell his garment and buy one." "Ah, lady!" said the wretched fanatic, "think not that our misfortunes arose from our want of money or arms, but rather through our impatience to be gone, that led us to set out on Friday, instead of waiting for the holy rest of the Sabbath." The countess was residing with her family in Troyes, when she gave audience to another of her "eastern ambassadors," as Henry jocosely called them. This man arrived at nightfall, on a sorry mule, the self-same animal that a few months before, under Peter the Hermit, had led greater hosts to battle than Bucephalus under Alexander, and which had enjoyed such a reputation for sanctity that even his very hairs were devoutly treasured as relics. Now, jaded and dispirited, with drooping head and pendant ears, the poor beast slowly paced his heavy way up to the gates of the castle. His rider seemed no less bowed with grief and fatigue, and wearily dismounting, he meekly waited among the servants, till summoned to the presence of his mistress. "You behold, noble lady," said he, "one of those individuals whose fate it is to bring ruin upon every expedition in which he embarks." "Miserable man," exclaimed Adela, "hast thou betrayed the army of the Lord?" "God forbid that I should have been guilty of so foul a deed," said the pilgrim, devoutly crossing himself; "but the curse of Jonah rests upon me. Evil was the day when, impoverished by the wars of Duke Robert, I plundered the sacred vessels of a church, and melted and sold them, to obtain food for my starving family. The crime lay heavy on my conscience, and to expiate its guilt I joined the band of the Hermit. But my sinful love for my children prevailed over my devotion, and Satan tempted me with the thought, that were they permitted to accompany me, they at least might win the crown of martyrdom, though their father should suffer the punishment of his sins. With much difficulty and labor, we scraped together means to purchase a yoke of oxen and a cart, and the charity of my noble countess (heaven reward thee) provided raiment for my poor old father and helpless infants. Heaven pardon me, but my wicked heart was inflated with pride, as seating my precious ones in the vehicle, I walked by their side; and pleased was I as we reached any town or city, to hear the little ones inquire, if that were Jerusalem. Fool that I was not to remember the Saviour's words, 'He that forsaketh not all that he hath, cannot be my disciple.' There were many who, falling into the same error, cumbered the train with useless baggage, and many feeble and sick, both men and women, caused that our route was tedious and slow. The heat of summer came on, and the weariness of the way seemed to increase. My children forgot their innocent prattle, and stretched their tender limbs upon the floor of the cart. The old man, my father, slept, and we could not wake him; and my wife gave me the infant from her breast--it was dead--and we buried them by the wayside. This was the beginning of sorrows. But the _horrors_ of my crime flashed upon me, when certain sons of Belial among our company, set fire to the houses, and commenced to plunder the people through whose villages we passed. The inhabitants armed against us, and I shudder to describe the bloody scenes which followed. Enraged at the wanton attack, they rushed out upon us, fell upon the rear of the army, glutted their wrath with the blood of all that opposed them, and destroyed that part of the multitude whom weakness left without defence. My wife and sons fell victims to their fury, and Therese, my lovely daughter, was torn shrieking from my arms, and carried away by a brutal ruffian." "Unhappy Therese," said Adela, dropping a tear. "My poor William has pined for his patient nurse." "In the extremity of my desperation," continued the pilgrim, "I rushed into the thickest of the fight, and sought for death; but in vain. My crimes were too great, and I was reserved to mourn the loss of those for whose dear sakes I had perilled my soul. "Deploring the ruin that my sins, and the sins of such as me had brought upon the holy pilgrims, I determined to hide myself in a convent, and seek by a life of penance, the pardon I hoped to have found at the Saviour's tomb; and finding the deserted mule of our leader, wandering upon the border of a marsh, I mounted upon his back, and begged my way hither." The countess gave him money for the remainder of his journey, to the monastery of Caen, and with a heavy heart dismissed him. * * * * * A German monk of great sanctity resided in a solitary cell in the forest of Troyes. The fame of cures, effected by him, through the medium of invisible agents, led the countess to consult him with regard to her invalid son. Thibaut and Stephen, with a small train, accompanied her to the hermitage. On their return their way was obstructed by a crowd, collected about a grotesque-looking figure clothed partly in armor, and partly in priestly robes. His head was ornamented with a cap like that of a merry-Andrew, at the top of which flourished a feather cut in the form of a cross. From his shoulders hung numerous thongs, to which were attached boxes and bags of various colors and dimensions, and a rosary of small human bones was suspended about his neck. This he occasionally shook with demoniac glee, as an accompaniment to songs, whose sentiment strangely alternated between piety and profanity. "News from the wars," shouted he approaching the cavalcade. "Holy relics for sinners all, The thumb of St. Peter, the tooth of St Paul." "Yea more--Babylon has fallen--the Jews, the Jews--Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, are consumed in the burning fiery furnace--Ha! ha! How the flames crackled and sparkled--How the Long-beards winced and writhed--Ashes! Ashes!" said he, throwing the contents of one of the boxes into the faces of the spectators--"Yea more-- "The crusaders followed the spirit divine, And water and blood it turned into wine; That made us strong for the slaughter. Drink--heal--wassail,"--and he poured from a bottle a noisome liquid, from which the crowd shrank back in disgust. "The demons shrieked in the forest--and the little fiends winked in the marshes--they showed us the way to the holy sepulchre--bridges of corpses--rusty armor--glaring eyeballs. How the wolves howled on our track--and the black ravens croaked over the dying--'Twas rare sport to hear them groan. "The goat led his followers up the steep rock, The goose flapped her wings, and headed the flock; List to the sound of the martyrs' bones;" and the lunatic broke into a wild fantastic dance, rattling his boxes and shaking his horrid rosary with demoniac frenzy. The countess was here relieved from her involuntary attendance upon the frightful exhibition, by the approach of Prince Henry, who having consigned the madman to proper care, dispersed the crowd, and permitted the train proceed. In reply to Adela's anxious inquiries, he informed her that the miserable creature whom she had seen, had belonged to a mad-rabble, that set off for the Holy Land without leader or guide, held together only by the strange infatuation of adoring a goat and a goose, which they believed to be filled with the divine spirit. Their malignant zeal was directed principally against the Jews, whom they exterminated wherever they came. The Hungarians denied them a passage through the country. The fanatics attempted to force their way across the Danube. The nation rose to arms, and for several days smote them with such slaughter, that the fields were strewed with the slain, and the very waters of the river were hidden by the multitude of the corpses. "Heaven punished their impiety with a loss of reason," said Adela, with a sigh. "Their impiety began with a loss of reason," said Henry, drily. "Thy pardon, sweet sister, but the heralds of thy grand expedition and the tidings they bear, remind one of the evil messengers of Job, each man having escaped alone to tell thee." "We have as yet gained intelligence only from the ill-appointed and barbarous hordes that encumbered rather than aided the expedition. When we shall receive news from warriors, whose heroic courage executes the plans of temperate wisdom, I trust that the disasters of our foes will form the theme of conversation," said Adela, with much spirit. "Nay, I meant not to vex thee," returned Henry, soothingly, "and to prove my desire of peace, I have brought with me a flag of truce," and he handed her a letter from her husband. * * * * * Adela's letter from Stephen contained the most gratifying intelligence. Completely duped by the artful policy of Alexius, the count gave a glowing description of his reception at Constantinople, and the splendid ceremony by which the Latin chiefs did homage to the Greek Emperor, for the cities they hoped to win in Palestine. He described the magnificence of the city, and enlarged upon the advantages which the holy legions would derive from this allegiance, both in supplies of money and provisions. He stated that Alexius had already furnished ships to convey them across the Bosphorus, that a part of the army were already in Asia Minor, and expatiated upon the munificence of their Imperial host, who each week presented the leader of the expedition with as much gold as two slaves could bear upon their shoulders. Delicately alluding to the favors bestowed upon himself, he closed the epistle by presenting the monarch's request to the mother, that her son Stephen should be sent to Constantinople, to receive princely nurture at the most refined and elegant court in the world. Tears of affection and gratification filled the beautiful eyes of the countess, as gazing upon her blooming boy, she murmured, "My son may yet wear the diadem of the Cæsars. My father was styled The Conqueror, because he added a poor island to his duchy of Normandy, but what title shall he bear who restores a continent to the dominion of Christendom?" * * * * * For the three following months the countess received no certain intelligence concerning the fate of the crusade. There were rumors of famine in the christian camp, and stories of dreadful battles with the Infidels; but the statements were vague and unsatisfactory. Prince Henry had been absent for some time quelling an insurrection in Normandy, and the loneliness of Adela's situation, together with the anxiety of her mind, filled her thoughts with melancholy forebodings, and subdued the natural vivacity of her manners. The prince upon his return, was alarmed by the pallor of her countenance, and the sadness of her tones. "Cheer thee, my sister," said he, "thou wert, indeed, a prophet, to declare that the victories of the warriors would compensate for the disasters of the rabble crowds." "Art thou the bearer of good tidings?" said Adela, a flush of hope irradiating her features. "Aye, verity," returned the prince, with exultation, "a well-authenticated account of the victories of the cross, embellished with as pretty a Passage of Arms in Cupid's tilt-yard, as the Romancers could well desire." "Sport not with my impatience," said Adela. "Tell me the name of thy messenger, and the news he brings." "The messenger is Gilbert of Becket, a Saxon esquire of Edgar Atheling, and, therefore, direct from Duke Robert and Count Stephen. He sailed with them across the Ionian Sea, and carried the shield of his master at the grand parade, in Constantinople." Adela interrupted him. "I know all to the time of their departure from that city. How have they sped in their encounters with the Infidels?" "The first place of importance which they attacked," replied Henry, "was Nice, the chief city of Rhoum, occupied by the Seljoukian Turks, who exacted tribute from all the inhabitants of Asia Minor. The Sultan Soliman hearing of the coming of the crusaders, left his capital defended by a strong garrison, and hastened to the mountains levying troops in all directions. The first body of croises that reached the city, was led by Godfrey of Boulogne, and Hugh of Vermandois, who took up their position on the eastern side. Raimond of Toulouse, and the Bishop of Puy, encamped on the south, while Robert of Flanders, and Bohemond of Tarentum pitched their camp upon the north. And of this Bohemond, the noble chief of Otranto, I must tell thee. Forty Norman gentlemen who had distinguished themselves in the wars of our father, returning from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, disembarked in Italy. Learning that the Prince of Salerno was besieged by the Saracens, they threw themselves into that town, and being supplied with arms and horses, soon compelled the Infidels to retire. After their return home, deputies came to Normandy from the prince imploring their further assistance. In consequence of his promises and persuasions, several bodies of adventurers, at the head of whom was Robert Guiscard and his eleven brothers, emigrated together, cleared the south of Italy from the locust-like invaders, and established themselves lords of Apulia and Calabria. Robert Guiscard spent most of his life in wars with the Greek Emperor, and was finally poisoned by Alexius. Bohemond, the son of this Guiscard, espoused the quarrel, and was preparing to avenge his father's death, but when he heard the crusade proclaimed, his chivalric spirit at once caught the flame. Dashing his armor to pieces with his battle-axe, he caused them to be formed into small crosses, which he distributed among his followers, and abandoning his possessions in Italy, joined the pilgrims with his cousin, Tancred, a youth distinguished for beauty, valor, generosity, enthusiasm--" "I care not," said Adela, "though he were as beautiful as Absalom and wise as Solomon. There are two less distinguished chiefs, who possess far more interest for me than all the warriors in Italy." "Of those thou shalt hear anon," said Henry. "When this Bohemond was in Constantinople, the emperor sought to win his friendship." "Return not to Bohemond again," interrupted the countess, "'tis of Stephen and Robert I would hear." "Now, sister," said Henry, playfully, "thou knowest not what thou refusest. Will it not please thy woman's curiosity, to hear of the magnificent rooms of the Blaquernel, filled with stores of money and jewels, costly garments, and rich silks of unheard-of value, that Alexius gave Bohemond to secure his allegiance." "Nothing will please me," said Adela, "but to know what is the fortune of my husband." "And that will please thee well," said Henry, breaking into a playful laugh. "Stephen, triple Count of Blois, Chartres, and Champagne, the husband of my gifted sister," bowing to the countess, "son-in-law of William the Conqueror, father of earls, and I doubt not of kings, the most beautiful, accomplished, eloquent, and _prudent_ man of the times, was chosen president of the council of chiefs." "Heaven bless thee for thy news," said Adela, in a transport of joy; "and Robert?" "Justifies his youthful soubriquet of 'unready.' He came last to the siege of Nice. His troops, however, were fresh and vigorous, and when he approached the city by the west, which position had been left for his encampment, he scanned, with a fearless eye, the double walls, defended by three hundred and fifty towers, filled with bowmen, and spearsmen of the most determined valor. He drew up the warriors of Normandy, with those of Blois and Chartres, and a band from Boulogne, where a great part of the people led by Walter the Penniless and Peter the Hermit had been defeated and slain. The Infidels in mockery had formed here a great pile of their bones, and covered them with earth; so that when Robert arrived with his forces, he pitched his tent just beside the green sepulchre of those who had found martyrdom on that very spot. Peter the Hermit, with the remnant of his forces, soon after joined the besiegers, and the army, as they were then numbered, consisted of 600,000 infantry and 100,000 mailed cavalry. Each man confessed his sins, and the sacrifice of mass being offered, they commenced the erection of engines, and other preparations for the siege. Soliman himself was encamped upon the mountains, scarcely ten miles off, watching in what manner he might best free his city from the enemies that clustered around it. Two of his messengers were intercepted by Godfrey. They confessed that they were sent to concert with the besieged a double attack upon the christian camp. The crusaders immediately prepared for the conflict. By break of day the Moslems began to descend from the hills, and issue from the town. The Christians received them everywhere with determined valor, repulsed them on all points, became in turn the assailants, and all the plain around Nice grew one general scene of conflict. This attack was twice repeated with the same result, and the sultan was at last compelled to retire, astonished at the lion-like courage of the Franks, who with a thousand lances, could charge, and easily put to flight twenty thousand Turks. But amidst these splendid achievements, which the Saxon Gilbert described, with great vividness, he said it was mournful to see the pilgrims at nightfall collecting the dead bodies of their companions and bearing them in sad procession to the cypress groves adjacent, where by the melancholy glare of the torches they buried them without coffin or shroud. "To intimidate the besieged, the croises cut off the heads of the fallen Moslems, and shot them from their engines into the city. "The Turks invented a horrid method of retaliation. Long iron hooks were let down from the walls, by which the bodies of the slaughtered Christians were seized and drawn up through the air, and after being stripped and maimed were again cast forth upon the ground. "Young Gilbert being wounded and lying insensible, was grappled and drawn into the city in this manner, but finding that life was not extinct, they delivered him over to the care of Soliman's physicians, who tended him as a prisoner of note. The siege had been protracted to some length and the Christians had succeeded in undermining a huge tower at the north-eastern angle of the wall. The Sultana, alarmed at the loss of this important defence, determined upon flight. Several boats were prepared, and the Queen, with her train, among whom was young Gilbert, attended by a dark-eyed daughter of an Emir, beautiful as an houri, attempted to make her escape at night by way of the lake. As the little fleet moved stealthily in the shadow of the overhanging cliff, Becket seized a bow, and dexterously discharged an arrow towards the nearest outpost of the christian camp. "The twang of the bow-string attracted the attention of the Moslems, but Zaida perceiving the danger of her favorite smote the strings of her harp, and thus, ingeniously reproducing the sound, made the whole appear the result of accident. "Becket afterwards learned, that the dart fell at the very feet of the sentinel dozing by the watch-fire, who started up, aroused his comrades, and soon the knights of Duke Robert swarmed along the shore. "The Paynims plied their oars in vain, the Normans intercepted their flight. The Sultana was taken prisoner, and only the boat of the Emir with the disappointed Gilbert escaped capture. "The Christians having thus discovered the means, by which the city was supplied with provisions, procured boats from Constantinople and converted the siege into a blockade. All hope now abandoned the Turks, and about the time of the summer solstice they offered terms of capitulation. "The necessary negotiations were in progress, when Tatius, the lieutenant of the subtle Alexius, entered into a private treaty with the besieged, and while waiting for the gates to be opened, with indignation and astonishment the Christians discovered the imperial ensign floating upon the walls of Nice. Alexius endeavored to appease their wrath by distributing rich bribes among the chiefs, and largesses among the private soldiers, but dissatisfied and exasperated they struck their tents, and departed without setting foot within the city they had conquered. "Meanwhile, the captive Becket, was conveyed to the army of the Sultan, and though his ardent spirit chafed at restraint, and panted for the fight, his impatience was soothed by the tender attentions, and sweet songs, of the Emir's daughter. "Soliman, with the whole of his force, amounting to 200,000 men, hung upon the rear of the crusading army, concealing his own evolutions, by his perfect knowledge of the country, and watching those of the croises with the keen anxiety of a falcon hovering over its prey. By some mischance, Robert and Bohemond were separated from the main body of the army. They encamped nevertheless on the banks of a beautiful stream, in the valley of the Gorgon, and passed the night in repose. Scarcely had they commenced their march, on the following morning, when the immense army of the Sultan appeared upon the hills. From his station upon a lofty eminence, Becket had opportunity to watch the progress of the contest, and from christian captives that were brought to the camp, he learned many particulars concerning his companions. "Our brother Robert, with a vigor and promptitude foreign to his character, drew up his forces, formed a rampart of wagons and baggage, and exhorted his men to meet with bravery the overwhelming shock. The terrific cries of the Turks, as they bore down upon the little band, the tramp of cavalry--the ringing of armor--the clash of shields--the trumpets of the christian hosts--the shouts of the chiefs and heralds, raised so fearful a din that none could distinguish the war-cry of friend from foe. Becket perceived, however, that the Christians dropped the points of their long lances, and prepared to receive the heavy charge upon their swords, when suddenly each Moslem raised his bow, as he galloped forward, a thick cloud seemed to hide all objects from his sight, and two hundred thousand arrows dropped death among the followers of the cross." An involuntary shudder shook the frame of the countess, and she pressed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out the dreadful vision. Her brother continued, "The European chivalry spurred up the hill against their assailants. The Turks, as was their habit, yielded ground on every side, avoiding by the fleetness of their horses, the lances of the knights, and like the Parthians of old, continuing their fearful archery, even as they fled. Again they wheeled, and with fiendish yells, fell upon the diminished band, encompassing them within the valley; and fast as the Infidels fell beneath the tremendous blows of the Norman battle-axes, new foes stepped into their places. Borne back by the growing multitude that pressed upon them, the knights gave way before the Saracens, and were driven struggling against the very pikes of the foot-soldiers, that were advancing to their support. The Christians wavered. At this critical moment, Robert revived all the courage of his heart, and baring his head in the midst of the fray, seized his banner, and clear and far above all the roar of the conflict, Becket distinguished his cry of, Normandy! Normandy to the rescue! The crusaders rallied, and stood again to their arms, and the Turks were driven back. Again the Saracens bore down upon them, giving them not a moment of repose. Thick and fast was mown the flower of christian chivalry, soldier beside soldier, and knight beside knight. In the glimpses granted by the rapid evolutions of the Arab cavalry, Becket could see the women of the camp bringing water from the river to the fainting troops, and bathing the wounded and dying. Thus the battle lasted for many hours, when the eye of the Saxon soldier perceived a cloud of dust rising behind the hills. Then came banner, and pennon, and lance, and glittering armor, and the Red Cross fluttering on the wind. In scattered bands spurring on their horses for life, on came the western division of the croises. None waited for the others, but each hastened to the fight, and rank after rank, troop after troop, shouting, '_Deus vult_,' '_Deus vult_,' rushed over the mountains to the valley of the battle. The christian war-cry thrilled the heart of the heroic Gilbert, and he panted once more to join the standard that bore the emblem of our holy religion. Tearing off the white turban that Zaida had bound about his brow, he held it up aloft, vainly hoping to attract the attention of his countrymen, and regain his liberty. But all were too intent upon the rout of the Infidels, to notice the signal, and his heart sunk within him, as the emir, fearing total discomfiture, commanded the slaves to carry away the women and prisoners to a strong fastness in the mountains. As they led him along the brow of the hill, he still kept his longing eye fixed upon the scene of conflict, and distinctly discerned at the head of the division of Raimond and Godfrey, the forms of two canonized martyrs, in armor glittering above the brightness of the sun; and he could perceive that their presence struck terror into the heart of the enemy. But farther particulars concerning the battle he could not learn, except from the Saracens themselves, who seemed sadly discomfited, and hurried on in advance of the christian army, through Phrygia and Cilicia, laying waste the villages, and making a desert of the country through which they passed. At Tarsus he was separated from his faithful Zaida, and lodged alone in a Paynim tower, overlooking the Cydnus. Here he pined in loneliness day by day, gazing through the arrow-slit upon the never-varying hills, or watching wearily the waterfowl sporting upon the bosom of the stream. The christian host passed beneath the very walls of his tower. He distinguished the forms of Robert, and Stephen, and the Atheling, and the armorial bearings and ensigns of the various detachments of European chivalry, and he struggled like an imprisoned bird to be free. He shouted the honored names of the leaders, and the potent war-cry of the Christians; called on the Saviour, and Mary, and every saint in the calendar for release; but in vain. The walls of his prison alone echoed his cry; no ear heard his voice; no eye was lifted towards his lonely turret. He watched till the last cross disappeared in the distance, and overwhelmed with despair, sank in agony upon the floor. "The moon was riding high in heaven when he was awakened by the light touch of a delicate hand, and the soft voice of Zaida whispered, 'Gilbert! England!' the only Saxon words he had taught her. He started up, and an exclamation of joy mounted to his lip. But Zaida, with a warning motion, imposed silence, and beckoned him to follow her. Silently he tracked his stealthy way through the mazes of the castle, guided by the vision that glided on before him, more like a spirit of the air, than a being of earthly mould, and the young Englishman had dizzy work to follow her down a rude stone stair, winding to the base of the cliff, where a little skiff was moored. She motioned him to embark. He obeyed, and turned to place her by his side. She was gone. Far up the steep he saw the last flutter of her white robe. He sprang to follow, but a strong arm dashed him to the bottom of the boat. The rowers bent to their oars, and the little bark glided noiselessly down the stream." "Did he rejoin the christian army?" said Adela. "All along the banks of the river," replied Henry, "he beheld, with torturing gaze, the watch-fires of the christian camp, and heard the pass-word repeated by familiar voices, but the pirates, for such they were, permitted him neither to speak nor move. Reaching the sea of Cyprus, they put him on board a vessel, and he was conveyed to Brundusium." "And were these pirates Infidels?" inquired Adela. "Saracens they were not," said her brother, "but to what extent they believed in our holy religion Becket was not prepared to state. They spoke several dialects of the Europeans, and at the commencement of the crusades, turned their course towards the Holy Land, in the pleasant hope of serving both God and mammon with the sword." "And what farther chanced to the Saxon?" inquired the countess. "He returned through France, and when I saw him at Feschamp, had engaged his passage to England. And now, dear sister, I have come to take my leave of thee, in order to accompany him." "The news thou hast brought has removed a burden from my heart, and nerved me to my duties," said his sister. "But wherefore wouldst thou to England?" "I have learned that the Duke of Bretagne is pressing his suit with the fair Matilda, and I must away to see that the prize be not riven from my grasp." "Hast heard aught of the Countess of Huntingdon?" inquired Adela. "Aye, and strange news concerning her have I for thine ear. Thou knowest 'tis scarce a twelvemonth since the death of her husband Simon; and she has again entered the holy estate of matrimony." "Impossible!" exclaimed Adela. "She who so longed for the quiet of conventual life!" "She was forced to forego her own inclinations to escape the tyranny of Rufus," returned Henry. "Poor Maude!" said Adela, "her life has been a continual sacrifice to the selfish interests of others." "Her patient meekness disarms even her cruel fate," said Henry. "Simon always regarded her with the most devoted affection, and made her sole heir to all her father's former possessions. It is said that our brother Rufus had fixed his eye upon the charming widow, and that to avoid his addresses, she accepted the hand of David, prince of Scotland." "She will then be thy best advocate with David's sister, Matilda." "Truth," said Henry. "The future Queen of Scotland shall aid to place the crown on the head of the future Queen of England. Farewell. When I come again I hope to present thee my lovely bride." "Heaven speed thy purpose," said the countess, fervently, and thus they parted. CHAPTER XII. "I rather tell thee what is to be feared, Than what I fear." The administration of the affairs of her domains, rendered it difficult for the Countess of Blois, in the absence of the most vigorous part of the population, to provide for the numerous families, left dependent by the wars; and the increasing helplessness of her idiot son, added greatly to the burden of her cares. 'Twas Christmas morning, the anniversary of her betrothal. A crowd had assembled in the grand cathedral of Chartres, to unite in the sacred solemnities of the day, and to witness the christening of Lucy, the infant countess. So occupied was Adela with the impressive scene, that she did not observe the entrance of several knights, on whose noble forms and toil-worn habiliments, the eyes of the multitude were riveted with the most intense curiosity; nor did she notice, while the bishop sprinkled the babe with the holy-water, and consecrated it to God, that their leader had advanced to the altar and knelt beside her at the font: but when the warrior stretched out his arm to receive the white-robed cherub from the hands of the priest, she turned to see her _husband_ gazing with unutterable tenderness upon his infant daughter, whom he now beheld for the first time. The unexpected return of their lord gave an additional impulse to the festivities of the day among the numerous retainers of the count. When the joyous greetings and congratulations were over, and Adela and Stephen were left to the free interchange of their own thoughts, the countess, who suspected that some misadventure had occasioned this unannounced arrival, led the way to an explanation. "And wherefore comes not Robert with thee?" she inquired. "Methinks thou mightest spare thine asking," said Stephen, looking fondly upon her. "Robert has not those ties that draw me to my native land. Adventure and war are wife and children to him." "Did wife and children draw my husband from the paths of glory and the cause of God?" replied the countess, apprehensively. "Those paths which thy imagination invests with glory," said Stephen, "are but the tracks where reptiles and savage beasts have found their way, among craggy rocks and thorny bushes, bleeding deadly venom. We followed them through deplorable suffering, and were conducted to disaster and defeat. And as for the cause of God, if thou hadst seen the vices of these _holy_ croises, and the hardships they endured, thou wouldst have deemed either that they were not the people of God, or that the Almighty took little note of the sufferings of his faithful servants." "'Tis the faint heart that feels the toils of the way, and distrusts the care of Providence," said Adela, reproachfully. "Did not the vows of knighthood alone forbid thee to abandon the holy cause?" "To abandon a cause forsaken by God and man, were the dictate of prudence," retorted Stephen, stung by the censure of his beloved countess. "Prudence is born of cowardice," replied she, with unabated warmth. "I have hitherto heard of deeds of valor, not of desertion; of victory, not of defeat." "Thine ignorance then excuses thy violence," said Stephen; "but if thou wilt listen patiently to thy lord, thou mayest perchance become better informed." "I will listen to nothing that brands my Stephen with cowardice!" exclaimed Adela. "My heart exulted in the thought that the president of the chiefs would counsel them to worthy deeds!" and the haughty woman burst into tears of mingled tenderness and mortified pride. "By the crucifix at Lucca!" exclaimed Stephen, rising in wrath, "an thou wilt not listen to reason, 'twere vain to talk." "And if reason determined thy return, wherefore comest thou alone?" said Adela, striving to conquer her emotion. "Alone!" replied the count. "Of the multitudes that left Europe at the preaching of Peter, three fourths have returned already or fallen victims to their folly. The Hermit himself has fled from the sight of miseries that he was impotent to relieve and unable to endure. Baldwin has joined a piratical band that ravage the coast of Cilicia. Raimond, of Toulouse, languishes the victim of a pestilential fever. Godfrey, the soul of the expedition, torn and lacerated, in an encounter with wild beasts, lies prostrate with his wounds; nay, the Count Melun, and Tatius the lieutenant of Alexius, have withdrawn their forces; and when sickness compelled me to retire for a season from the siege of Antioch, fifteen thousand Turks, from the heart of Asia, were on their way to join the myriads that surround the christian camp." "And what kind hand tended thy illness?" said the countess, her tenderness returning at the thought of his suffering. "The bivouac of the soldier admits few of those attentions so grateful to an invalid," replied her husband, much softened. "However, my indisposition was of short duration, and I should have rejoined my companions, had not intelligence reached me that caused me to abandon all hope for the success of the enterprise. "I tell thee that the project of subduing Asia is utterly foolish and vain. The Greek empire, the barrier of Europe on the east, is little less infidel than the sons of Islam; and every conquest of the Christians is claimed by Alexius as feudal lord. He wrested from us the city of Nice in the very hour of victory. On my return, I met him at the head of his army on the way to take possession of Antioch, and by representing the power of the Turks turned him from his purpose." "But do not the people of God always triumph in the battles with the Infidels?" inquired Adela. "In single encounter or in a fair field," replied Stephen, "the croises are uniformly victorious: but valor wields no weapon against famine and disease. Our army, at such a distance from their own land, must be dependent for supplies upon the grace of Alexius, each victory, therefore, but lays the foundation for another contest, and were Palestine delivered from the Turk, it would require still greater exertion, to wrest it from the Greek." The countess was silenced by reasoning which she could not answer, but against which all her feelings revolted. Yet though she apparently acquiesced in her husband's decision, her heart was keenly alive to every rumor that might reflect upon his fame. Nor were her feelings soothed, by hearing that the pilgrims besieged in Antioch, enfeebled by disease and wasted by famine, reproached Count Stephen, as the cause of all their miseries; since he had withdrawn his own forces, not only, but turned back the armies that were hastening to their relief. Her pride and ambition were deeply wounded by these reports, and when she learned that the Christians, at the very point to die of starvation, had bound themselves never to abandon the cause, till they had pressed their lips upon the Holy Sepulchre; that visions of saints and apostles, had reawakened energy and activity in their wasted ranks, that the lance that pierced the side of the Saviour, had been discovered and that a "bright squadron of celestial allies," had closed in with the battalions of the christian army and pursued the Saracen legions from the vale of the Orontes, she felt that her husband had not only tamely resigned an earthly crown, but had by the same cowardly act forfeited an heavenly inheritance. In the agony of her disappointment and chagrin, she vowed she would give him no rest till he returned to the Holy Land, to wipe out with his blood if need be, the foul stain upon his honor. In this state of mind Stephen found it impossible to interest her in any of their accustomed occupations and amusements. News from the Crusade alone restored her wonted animation, and as these tidings, generally, reflected little honor upon himself, he suppressed as much as possible all intelligence from the East, and contrived to pass his time in distant parts of his domains. The torturing suspense of the countess at length induced her secretly to dispatch a messenger to Italy. He returned bearing a transcript of an official letter, which the chiefs of the Crusade had sent to Pope Urban. After giving the details of the march from Antioch along the sea-coast past Tripoli, through the country of Sidon to Ramula, the letter went on. "Thence our troops continued their route to the village formerly called Emmaus, and like the disciples of old 'our hearts burned within us,' when there came to us certain brethren from Bethlehem to comfort us, after all our fatigues, and to welcome us to this holy and beautiful land. Sleep was banished from every eye, and ere midnight was well passed, every man animated by the fervor of hope and the intensity of desire, had girded on his armor and come forth from his tent, prepared for the last conflict. We wandered along the highways and fields, in darkness; but at length the heavens blushed with the glorious suddenness of eastern dawn, and as the sun shot his level rays across the sacred brow of Olivet, the holy city lay before our eyes. 'Jerusalem! Jerusalem!' was repeated with tumultuous wonder, by a thousand tongues. Every fatigue, every danger, every hardship, was forgotten, and the warrior became at once a simple pilgrim; his lance and sword were thrown aside, and the passion which stirred every heart, was clothed with divers gestures. Some shouted to the sky--some wept in silence--some knelt and prayed--some cast themselves down and kissed the blessed earth--'all had much to do to manage so great a gladness.' Taking off our shoes, we trod the sacred ground with naked feet, and thus proceeding, came in front of the city and pitched our camp upon the north, between the gate of St. Stephen and the tower of David. It was early summer, the harvest was upon the ground, the grapes were ripe upon the vines, and before the waters of the autumnal equinox, dropped upon us out of heaven, the ensign of the cross was floating upon the walls of Jerusalem. For having long assailed the bulwarks in vain, we prepared movable towers of great strength, which we rolled to the walls, commenced the assault, not as in former times at the sound of drums and trumpets, but with the inspiring melody of hymns and psalms, while the priests bowed on Mt. Zion and prayed for the aid of heaven on the ensuing conflict. The Infidels, to manifest their rage, erected the symbol of our holy religion, and cast dust upon it, but the Lord was with us, and the sacrilegious insult was well atoned by their blood, for while Godfrey and Baldwin leaped from a tower and planted a banner upon the battlements, Tancred and Robert burst open one of the gates, Raimond and his followers scaled the walls, and thus we have freed the city from the dominion of the Infidels, and avenged the cause of heaven. We laid down our arms, washed our hands from the bloody stains, put on the habiliments of repentance, and in the spirit of humility, with uncovered heads and reverent feet, walked over all those places which the Saviour had consecrated by his presence. The ghost of the departed Adhemar came and rejoiced with us, and the spirits of the martyrs who perished on the road from Europe to Jerusalem, appeared and shared in the felicity of their brethren. The whole city was influenced by one spirit, and the clamor of thanksgiving was loud enough to have reached the stars. Thus in the year of our Lord 1099, was the city of Jerusalem added again to the dominion of Christendom, on the very day and hour of the crucifixion of the Saviour. At this auspicious time, Pope Urban second sits in the Roman see; Henry is emperor of the German, and Alexius of the Grecian empire. Philip reigns in France and William Rufus in England, whilst over all men and all things, reigns our Lord Jesus Christ forever and ever, to whom be honor and glory for endless ages." CHAPTER XIII. "I have deeply felt The mockery of the shrine at which my spirit knelt. Mine is the requiem of years in reckless folly passed, The wail above departed hopes on a frail venture cast." WHITTIER. Acting upon the hint of Adela, Prince Henry repaired immediately to Huntingdon and secured the good offices of Maude and her husband, in effecting a communication with the beautiful novice Matilda. He was thus enabled to counteract the efforts of his powerful rival Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, to whom Rufus had promised her hand. Deeming it unsafe however to quit England, he tarried at court and passed his time in hunting and hawking, according to the manners of the age. The New Forest was the constant scene of dissolute pleasures. The sweet solemnity of the deep woods was daily disturbed by the Bacchanal revel, and the pure echoes of the dell were forced to answer the loose laugh and thoughtless imprecation. Godly men lifted up their voice against the corruptions of the age, and saintly priests warned by omens and dreams, admonished the Red King on a certain day, to avoid the glen in which Prince Richard was supposed to have contracted his fatal disease. But the impious Rufus, with studied contempt led the chase that way, diverting his attendants with ribald jests upon the warnings he had received. "Come, Deer's foot," said Warrenne, tauntingly to Prince Henry, "yonder bounds the stag. The fair hand of Matilda to him who brings the antlered monarch down." "I have broken the string of my arblast, and must repair to the hut of this forrester to replace it," replied Henry coldly. "Come on, ye laggards. Ho! Tyrrel, thou and I alone will be in at the death," cried Rufus, putting spurs to his horse. As Henry entered the cottage, a weird wife rose up as if from the ground before him, chanting in Norman French, "Hasty news to thee I bring-- Henry, thou art now a king. Mark the words and heed them well, Which to thee in sooth I tell." The closing words were interrupted by hurried cries of alarm and distress. The prince turned, and the horror-stricken Tyrrel, whose erring shaft had slain the king, dashed past the door. Comprehending the whole affair at once, Henry remounted his horse and rode full speed to Winchester, forced the keys from the keeper, and took possession of the regalia and royal treasure. The people thronged round him in the streets, and while the nobles and prelates were debating on the claims of Robert, the populace, whose allegiance he secured by the promise of English laws and an English Queen, made the city resound with loud shouts of "Long live King Henry." Within three days he was crowned at Winchester, by the bishop of London. Scarce a month after the Countess of Blois was apprized of these events, the tardy Robert arrived at Chartres. He had lingered in Apulia to woo Sybilla, the fair cousin of Bohemond, and now returned to claim his inheritance, after his younger brother was securely seated on the throne. The countess received him with the greatest joy, and honored his peerless bride with the most distinguishing attentions; but when she learned that he depended upon her good offices with Stephen to secure assistance in a meditated invasion of England, her love for her favorite brother Henry, and her apprehension of the unsteady rule of Robert, moved her to dissuade him from the scheme, and she secretly hoped that he might be made instrumental in inducing her husband to return again to the Holy Land. She learned from Robert the various success of the leaders of the crusade. While some were still carving their way with the sword, Bohemond was Prince of Antioch, Baldwin of Edessa, and Godfrey enjoyed the enviable distinction of being King of Jerusalem. "The voice of fame has spoken oft to me of the prowess of my brother Robert," said she. "Did not his peers deem him worthy a principality in Palestine?" "Nay, it needed not the suffrages of the chiefs, since heaven itself preferred my poor claims above all others," replied Robert. "When a king was to be chosen, the bishops gave to each leader a waxen candle, and directed us to walk in procession to the Holy Sepulchre. As we advanced within the sacred place, a sudden flame kindled upon the taper I held in my hand, but at that moment a whisper of Rufus' death swept across my spirit, and remembering the throne of England I dashed out the light."-- "Unhappy man!" exclaimed the countess. "Thou hast refused the call of heaven. Look not for success in any future enterprise. Hope not that divine sanction will back thine endeavor, and expect not aid or succor by thy sister's intervention." "By the Holy Rood," shouted Robert in wrath, "thou Queen'st it well for a woman whose craven husband was the first to desert his standard. It were indeed the part of a madman to expect assistance from the dastard earl." Before the anger of the countess gave her voice to reply, he strode from her presence. Meantime, Henry hearing that Robert had arrived in Normandy, strengthened his power by conciliating the English nation, and took prompt measures to redeem his promise of giving them an English Queen. But for some unaccountable reason the Saxon princess seemed averse to quitting her gloomy convent, nor would she consent to bestow her hand upon the handsomest and most accomplished sovereign of his time, till he had promised to confirm to the nation all the ancient laws and privileges established by her great ancestor Alfred, and ratified by Edward the Confessor. When a digest of these rights and immunities had been made, and a hundred copies committed to the care of the principal bishoprics and monasteries of England, she consented to become "the bond of peace to a divided nation--the dove of the newly sealed covenant between the Norman sovereign and her own people." The efforts of Robert, delayed till Henry's power was thus consolidated, of course proved ineffectual. He wasted the munificent dower of his beautiful Sybilla, in idle feasting, and having buried his lovely wife the third year after their marriage, he gave up Normandy to Henry, for an annual pension, and was finally taken in a revolt, conveyed to Cardiff Castle, where in a sort of honorable captivity he passed the remainder of his useless life. The spirit of crusade was still active in Europe, and combined with this spirit, was the hope of gain, springing from vague and exaggerated accounts of the wealth and principalities which the leaders of the first expedition had acquired. The devastated lands of Palestine were soon settled by families who immigrated from pecuniary or pious motives, and not long after the death of Godfrey, and the election of Baldwin I. to the throne of Jerusalem, several bodies of armed men set out to join their brethren in Asia. Count Stephen, wearied with the incessant importunities of his ambitious wife, shamed by the example of Hugh, Count of Vermandois, and stimulated, perhaps, by the hope of obtaining easier conquest, and less dangerous honors, consented to return to the Holy Land. At Constantinople they met with Raimond of Toulouse, who was returning for assistance, and proceeded under his guidance. On their way through Asia Minor, they encountered the Turks, lost one hundred thousand men, together with Hugh of Vermandois, who died of his wounds, at Tarsus. Raimond of Toulouse was slain at Tripoli, but Stephen, Count of Blois, with the rest of the leaders proceeded straight to Jerusalem; and having by the completion of his pilgrimage, wiped out the disgrace of his first desertion, embarked on board a vessel to return to Europe. The heart of the countess dilated with pride and joy, as from time to time she heard of his noble deeds, and with feelings akin to the romance of her youthful admiration, she hourly expected his return. One evening, sitting thus alone, a servant announced, that a monk in the anteroom craved permission to speak with her. The countess ordered him to be instantly admitted, and her heart sickened with a sad foreboding, as a diminutive figure veiled in palmer's weeds stood before her. "Speak thine errand quickly," said she, pale and breathless with agitation. "What of my lord?" He replied only by an upward motion of the hand, and Adela knew that her husband was dead. She sank back in her seat and clasped her hands, but kept her eyes fixed with the intensity of the keenest emotion upon the face of the monk. "Tell me all, good father," said she, in a voice nervously firm. "I know little, noble lady," replied the palmer, "and though I have come all the way from Palestine to bring thee tidings, my story will be brief. Thou hast, doubtless, heard of the poor services of Peter the Hermit, in awakening the attention of Europe to the low estate of Jerusalem. When by Divine favor I had been so blest as to conduct the greatest warriors of the age to the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, and had seen the Christians thus relieved from Turkish oppression, fall at my unworthy feet, and call down blessings upon my head, I felt to exclaim like Simeon of old, 'Lord, lettest now thy servant depart in peace, since mine eyes have seen thy salvation.' With the deepest humiliation, for having in a moment of temptation, wavered in faith, I thought to found a monastery upon the shores of Lake Gennesareth, where I might have the example of the sinking Peter ever before mine eyes. One evening, as I walked upon the shores of the sea, revolving these things in my thoughts, I felt myself suddenly seized from behind. A bandage was thrown over my eyes, I was forcibly lifted from the ground, placed upon a mule and hurried forward. I attempted to cry out, but a hand was laid upon my mouth, and a voice whispered in Anglo-Norman, 'Fear not, old man, thou art among friends, and bidden only to labor in thine holy calling.' Thus assured, I ceased my struggles. How far I was conveyed, I know not, but when the bandage was taken from my eyes, I found myself in a wild cave of the mountain, by the side of a dying crusader, and recognized in the pale countenance before me, the lineaments of Stephen Earl of Blois. 'Take courage, noble count,' said the voice that had before spoken in mine ear, 'I have caught a priest whose ghostly counsels will speedily prepare thee for the long journey, which all must sooner or later take.' With a tenderness which one would scarcely look for in such a savage, the chief raised the dying earl, and gently supported him while I received his directions concerning certain affairs, and ministered the last rites of our holy faith. The count pressed me to promise that I would, myself, bring to thee the epistle, which he had with much pain and difficulty indited. And when I hesitated, by reason of the monastery which I had resolved to found, he summoned all his remaining strength, and while I guided his trembling hand, drew for me a deed of the vale of Montier, and bade me bring it to thee for thou wouldst ratify it, and endow the abbey by thy bounty. Scarcely had he finished it, when his wounds bleeding afresh, a deadly faintness seized him. The chief laid him back upon the cushions. I held up the crucifix before his eyes, and murmuring a prayer in which were mingled the names of wife and children, he expired. That night I gave him christian burial beneath one of the cedar-trees of Mount Lebanon, the swarthy barbarians holding torches, and looking with reverent awe upon the solemn scene. Before morning I was again blindfolded, and conducted to the sea-coast, and put on board a vessel bound for Italy." So intent had the Hermit been on his narration, that he had not observed the countess, pale and rigid as though turned to stone; and when she clutched with convulsive eagerness the parcel he extended, he bowed and withdrew. She tore off the envelope, and the scarf which her girlish hand had wrought in the hours of her first sweet love, soiled and blood-stained, fell across her lap, and crept accusingly to her feet. She opened the letter and read-- "To Adela, my best and only beloved, thy Stephen sends this last token of affection. In this my dying hour it is my sweetest consolation to feel that with my sword I have pierced the cloud that has so long been between us, and that could I see my Adela, she would smile upon me as the loved and honored husband of her youth. I have bathed in the Jordan, and worshipped at the sepulchre; but it was the _human love_ and not the _Divine_, that baptized my soul with joy, and whispered pardon to my wounded spirit. I have sought for glory in the land of patriarchs and prophets, and I have found it; but in the accents of fame my ear has heard only the voice of Adela. The Eternal saw mine idolatry and punished it. Adverse winds drove back the vessel that was to bear me to my native land. The King of Jerusalem called upon us again for aid. We fought in the plains of Ramula, seven hundred knights against the whole force of the Turkish army. Hemmed in on every side, we fell, bravely defending the standard of the cross. Fainting from loss of blood, my dull ear heard the cry of 'Allah ackbar.' Like one dreaming I called upon the name of Hardrager. Immediately the _old man_ came to me and stanching my mortal wound, bound it tightly with the scarf which I had thrown across my breast to animate me, for the conflict. I was conveyed away, and awoke as did Ingulfus, in the cave of the Assassins. I know that I shall die. I cannot long sustain the pressure of the ligament, and when once 'tis loosened my last blood will flow. Hardrager has promised me christian burial, and sent for a priest to shrive my parting soul. Think of me kindly, proudly, my best beloved. Teach my sons to honor their father's name, for he died fighting in the Holy Land. Kiss my darling Lucy, the sweet babe who unconsciously smiled upon my return. Darkness gathers upon my sight. The forms that gladdened my youthful days pass before me, and the fairest among them all is my bride, my Adela." A few more words were indistinctly traced, the page seemed blotted with tears, and the name of Stephen was scarcely legible. Years passed over the spirit of the countess in the intense agony of that one night. Her heart-strings strained to their utmost tension by the power of this mighty woe, thenceforth gave no response to the light fingering of ordinary circumstance. The tender solicitude of friendship, the sweet prattle of childhood, the hilarity of mirth, the consolations of religion, and the schemes of ambition, were endured and accepted with the same passionless apathy. She made a journey to Normandy, and arranged a reconciliation between her brother Henry and the primate Anselm with her accustomed wisdom. She visited Boulogne, and presided at the nuptials of her son Stephen with her wonted grace. She gave her Lucy to the Earl of Chester, with a mother's blessing, and saw her depart in the fatal White Ship without emotion. But when she again stood at the door of the abbey of Feschamp to welcome Maude once more to Normandy, the curtain of retrospection was lifted, and the whole drama of her life passed before her. Adela and Maude! The disparity between the happy child and the sad captive was less striking than the contrast between the elegant and stately Countess of Blois, and the serene and gracious princess of Scotland, who now met after life had gathered the bloom of their youthful beauty, and left the indefinable shades which character traces upon the human countenance. Fixed and calm were the features of Adela, once radiant with vivacity, but their repose was the death of emotion, and their calmness was not resignation, but submission to inexorable fate. The face of Maude, still fair and beautiful in the strength of its repose, beamed with the serene benignity of ineffable peace, and she seemed one, the joyousness of whose inner life found occasion for an overflow of beneficence in every outward occurrence. Again they journeyed together through the scenes that witnessed the triumphal progress of William the Conqueror. But it was now the task of Maude to soothe the spirit of her friend, bound with the chain of remorseful regret. Cicely, celebrated for her piety, had become lady abbess of the convent of Caen, and it was the intention of the countess to enter the nunnery under her care. In fitting up her dormitory Adela had laid aside all her accustomed magnificence, and the only relic of her former state was a gorgeous curtain that divided her oratory from the cheerless apartment, chosen as the home of her future years. "Maude," said she, as they sat together there, "rememberest thou the riddle of life and love that once formed our theme of converse in an hour like this? How thy heart pined for the convent, and mine shuddered at its gloom." "Aye," said Maude, "well do I remember it, and often have I smiled at the presumption which made me attempt to solve the greatest mystery of human existence, and arrogate to myself the choice of the future; when the highest wisdom leads only to the faithful performance of daily duties." "I mind me now," replied the countess, "that thy gentle admonition pointed to that effect.--But I scorned control, and when I saw the cruel policy by which my father strengthened his dominion, I determined that my hand should never seal the bond of a political alliance, and it was not till after years that I learned that the meeting between Stephen and myself resulted from a preconcerted plan to bind me to one whose mild virtues would counteract my unholy aspirings. Thy instructions had taught me the power of a righteous purpose, and I sought its aid to compensate for what I considered a defect in my husband's character, vainly hoping that ambition, sanctioned by religion, would secure its reward. With fatal skill I wrought upon his generous affections till he relinquished the dear delights of his family, to seek barren laurels, and find a lonely grave on a foreign shore." "Reproach not thyself," said Maude, tenderly. The countess heeded not her interruption. "Thou and I," said she, "have wrought for different ends, and the results for which I toiled have come to thee unsought." Maude would have replied, but the passionate woman proceeded. "Nay, let me speak; for since my great grief has fallen upon me, I have unburdened my heart to no one. As a captive thou didst bring a blessing to the household of the Conqueror; thy sweet spirit moulded the rude Simon into a benefactor of his dependents, and I know well that it was thy benevolent wisdom which instructed Matilda to secure the liberty of England, and the stability of Henry's throne. Thy silent sacrifices have made the rich current of thy life one stream of beneficence, while my erring spirit has converted the bounties of heaven into fountains of misery. My wicked pride found occasion in the imbecility of my first-born William for ceaseless repining, and sowed the seeds of sorrow in the hearts of my other noble beautiful children. Thibaut is in arms against his sovereign, Stephen a pensioner on the fickle humors of a king, Henry seeks preferment through the church, and my lovely Lucy, the darling of her father, lies entombed in the sea. Oh! Maude! Maude! my best and truest friend, pity her whose only occupation through long years has been 'to write bitter things against herself!' But I might have known it all," continued she impetuously, "for heaven through thy intercession deigned to warn me of my fate, and I would not tell thee lest thy gentle love should win me from it." She drew aside the curtain of the oratory, and led the princess within the shadow. Through the oriel windows the mellow light of the autumnal sun fell softly upon the altar, where stood beside the crucifix the crystal urn containing the hallowed dust of Palestine. The scarf of Stephen, with its golden embroidery rusted, and its bright pearls dimmed with his blood, was wound round the precious love-gift, and fastened with the thorn obtained from Ingulfus. "It seems but yesterday," said she, tenderly detaching the baldric, "since I held this up before thee with pride and pleasure, and in careless wonder saw thee wreathe it in the canopy of my couch. But that dream, now that my whole life looks a dream, seems the one reality of my existence. I shall tell it thee, for my spirit already feels the balm of thy gentle sympathy. "My slumbers were at first broken and disturbed. I seemed with Stephen and Robert in an eastern land, hurrying over rocks and sands, a tiresome, weary way, in pursuit of a crown which constantly tempted, but eluded the grasp. First I missed Stephen from my side, then Robert disappeared, and at last I sank down among myriads of wretches perishing of thirst. I woke in terror, and it was long ere I could compose myself again to rest. Whether I slept again I know not, but as I lay gazing into the depths of the heavens, my vision seemed to pierce beyond the stars; and from the uttermost distance came one winging his way past the bright orbs, till he stood within the casement, the impersonation of my lover. "My scarf lay upon his breast, and his right hand held out to me an urn, pure as though formed of consolidated light, upon whose amethystine entablature was engraven _Human Love_. As I extended my hand, and clasped the precious treasure, the shattered inscription fell to dust in the vase. I raised my eyes,--he threw a pitying smile upon me, and immediately there sprang up from the ashes a celestial flower, and as each living petal unfolded, there floated off a radiant line of light bearing the sacred words _Divine Love_, till the whole air was filled with redolence and beauty. "The ringing of the matin chimes recalled me to consciousness, and my bright vision was absorbed by the flood of glory which the morning sun poured into the apartment. "Thou saidst truth!" exclaimed Maude. "Thy dream is a reality; for in the ashes of _Human Love_, the _Divine_ plants the sweetest hopes of existence." The long sealed fountain of Adela's tears began to flow, and as the gracious drops distilled from her surcharged heart, and her paralyzed sensibilities felt once more the bliss of emotion, the strong, proud woman, became gentle and humble as a child. "Maude," said she, clasping her hands in gratitude, "there was ever a mystery about thee. I had thought to wear out my life in sad penance, and thou hast opened to me a source of happy contemplation: henceforth my desert future, fertilized by the sweet waters that have gushed from the rock at thy magic touch, shall blossom with the flowers of Paradise." The abbess Cicely here entered, and summoned them to the hall of general reception, where Maude embraced her son and received the ambassadors sent by her husband to conduct her to Stirling, the place appointed for her coronation, as Queen of Scotland. "Go," said Adela, with affectionate joy, as she saw her depart. "Go to thy bright destiny. Thou art a living illustration of the truth of scripture, 'Be thou faithful over a few things, and I will make thee ruler over many things.'" ELEANOR. [Illustration: Eleanor of Aquitaine.] CHAPTER I. "In the midst was seen A lady of a more majestic mien, By stature and by beauty marked their sovereign Queen." The southern provinces of France, Poitou, Saintogne, Auvergne, Perigord, Limousin, Angoumois and Guienne, received of the Romans the classic appellation of Aquitaine. This beautiful land, watered by the Garonne and Loire, whose clear and sparkling streams, flowing from vine-clad hills, stretched their silvery arms to irrigate the fairest fields and to enclose the finest harbors in the world, was in the twelfth century, inhabited by the most civilized and polished people on the face of the earth. The arts, and the idealities, and the refinements of life, like the native flowers of its sunny vales, seemed wakened and nourished by the genial airs of a climate, softened by the proximity of the sea, and rendered bracing by the mountain breeze. The numerous and independent sovereigns, whose feudal sway extended over this fair territory, imbibed the spirit of chivalry, and caught the enthusiasm that precipitated the armies of Europe upon Asia. Count Raimond of Toulouse, was one of the first who took the cross, at the council of Clermont. He was styled _par excellence_ the Moses of the expedition. Before leaving for Palestine, on his returnless voyage, he ceded his dominions to his daughter, wife of William IX. of Poitou. The grand-children of William IX. were Eleanor and Petronilla. The father of these fair sisters, William X., left Aquitaine in 1132, with their uncle Raimond, who was chosen prince of Antioch. The poetical taste of Eleanor was early cultivated and developed by the unrestrained freedom she enjoyed in the queenless court of her minstrel grandfather in Gay Guienne. The language that prevailed all over the south of France, was called Provençal. It was the mother-tongue of Duke William, the grandfather of Eleanor, who was one of the most liberal patrons and earliest professors of that style of composition in which the Troubadours celebrated the feats of love and arms. The matchless charms of Eleanor were enhanced by all the accomplishments of the south. Her fine genius found ample exercise in composing the sirvantes and chansons of Provençal poetry, and her delicate fingers wiled the spirit of music from the echoing harp to accompany her voice adown the tide of song. She inherited from her grandfather the political sovereignty of her native dominions not only, but the brilliant talents and ancestral superiority that made her Empress in the realm of Taste, and Queen of the courts of Love. When the gay and licentious Duke William felt the infirmities of age coming upon him, he determined to seek the readiest means to rid himself of the burden of his sins. Accordingly, he resolved to resign the most potent sceptre in Europe to the unpractised hand of his youthful granddaughter, and devote the rest of his days to prayer and penitence in a hermitage of the rocky wilderness of St. James de Compostella. Eleanor had not attained her fifteenth year when her grandfather commenced his career of self-denial, by summoning the baronage of Aquitaine to transfer their allegiance to herself; and the child-sovereign exercised the royal functions of her new dignities while the duke visited the court of Louis le Gros and offered her hand to the young prince. The wise lawgiver of France readily accepted the proposal--for the rich provinces which constituted the dower of Eleanor, held allegiance to the crown, only by feudal tenure; and the son, equally impatient for the possession of his fair prize, set off with a noble train for Bordeaux. The light heart of Eleanor was easily won by the unrivalled attractions of Louis le Jeune, whose courtly graces were illuminated by the prospect of the crown of Charlemagne; while the damsels that composed her court, exercised their blandishments with cruel skill upon the too susceptible hearts of the cavaliers that came in the train of the bridegroom. The parliament of Love deliberated day by day in mock solemnity upon the pretensions of the fair rivals, and the discreet decisions of Eleanor, the presiding genius of the conclave, inspired the songs of Trouveres and Troubadours, who vied with each other in celebrating her charms. A succession of long, bright days, closed the month of July, and on the last evening the court of Love continued its session till the brilliant twilight had faded from the western sky, and the mellow harvest-moon poured a silver flood upon fountains that sprang as if instinct with life to catch and fling the shining radiance upon the gay company that still lingered in the Rose Pavilion. The Queen of the court, attired like Venus, sat upon a throne, canopied with Acaeia, through whose trembling leaves the light fell playfully contending with the envious shadows that seemed striving to hide her smiles. At her feet sat her favorite page, with wings framed of gauze attached to his shoulders, holding a lyre, fashioned to resemble the bow of Cupid, upon which he occasionally struck a few notes to announce a change in the evening's entertainment. Lovely maidens arrayed as Nymphs and Graces reclined upon verdant couches around the fair arbitress of these amorous debates. Groups of light-hearted girls, representing heathen goddesses, listened encouragingly to their favorite minstrels, and strove, by various subtle arts, to win the meed of praise to the verse that celebrated their charms. Sirventes and Chansons had been recited and sung, still the assembly listened with an air of impatience, as if anticipating matters of more general interest. With a smile that at once excited and baffled curiosity, the Queen touched the cheek of her page with her flowery sceptre, saying, "Why slumbers the harp of my pretty Peyrol? Has he no song for the ear of his lady?" "Peyrol cannot sing in the Romance Walloon," said the youth, casting down his eyes with jealous pique. "Proud one," replied the queen, "thou knowest that though the lord of _oui_ and _non_ delights our eye, his language charms not our ear. We would hear a pretty faibleaux of Grenada, or wilt thou give us a fitting apostrophe to the court, where Gaiety and Innocence preside." "Nay, honored lady," said the page, "since Gaiety and Innocence parted company on the plains of Pleasure, harmony hath forsaken the lyre, and not even the goddess of Love can heal the discord." "Thou pratest, pert boy," replied the queen, with a stolen glance at Petronilla. Perceiving from her tone, that he had presumed too far, the page bent over his harp and rapidly swept his fingers across the strings, saying apologetically, "If my lady will accept a lay of Bretagne, Peyrol is ready to do her bidding." "The sweet tones of the langue d'oc little befit the rugged legends of the northern clime," said the queen, "but tune thy lyre without further parley." The page needed no second command, but sang:-- 1. In a province fair of sunny France, Beside a winding river, Over whose waves in joyous dance, The sunbeams gleam and quiver, Stood a castle tall, a goodly sight, With its broad and rich domain, And therein dwelt a noble knight; I ween he had a lady bright And three sweet babes withouten stain. 2. A generous heart, an open hand, To courtlie companie, And eke as any in the land For beggars of low degree. So gentle his mien in lady's bower, So full of courtesie, Yet valiant was he in tournament, And a good bow in the greenwood bent, I wot right dextrously. 3. He had been blest in his earthly state With such fair prosperity, That his heart beat high with pride elate, Forgot he the giver good and great And christian humility. Whereat to punish his arrogance, Our Lady sent him sore mischance, And dire adversity. 4. Sir Isumbras to the hunt has gone, Riding so gallantly, With hawk and hound in the dewy morn, When a vision bright above him born, Appeared in the clear blue sky. He saw a maiden meek and fair, An angel I wist was she, A messenger sent to bid him prepare For chill calamity. 5. A woful man was the knight that day, He turned him home in sore dismay, When his good steed fell and died, And hawk and hound of life bereft, Sir Isumbras in the forest left, With no living thing beside. When to him there came his little foot page, As fast as he might hie. My noble master, a sad message, It is that I bear to thee. "Thy proud castell lies in ruins low, Thy lady and children escaped the blow, But and with jeopardy." 6. The knight bowed meekly to heaven's decree; A wiser and sadder man was he, And with his lady and children, three, Sir Isumbras boune him o'er the sea-- A penitent pilgrim he would be To holy Palestine. Through seven weary lands they went-- The strength of the babes was wellnigh spent, For charity, cold was their nourishment. They came to a wood, with flowers besprent-- To a rapid river of broad extent, Where never the sunbeams shine. 7. His eldest born, Sir Isumbras bore With tenderest care to the farther shore; But ere he returned again, A lion fierce from the thicket sprang-- The little one tore from that cruel strand, Nor him might they regain. 8. He found his lady weeping, full lorn, For in his absence a leopard strong, With a fell and bloody unicorn, The others from her arms had torn. 9. The lady wished that she might die, Or ever this sore calamity, She should have been preserved to see; But the knight with meek humility, To Mary mother a prayer 'gan say, That his penance might soon have end-- When wandering through the weary land, The Sultan's captives they were ta'en Before his face to bend. 10. I trow the Sultan had rarely seen A lady so lovely, in form or mien, Or a knight so bold and true. "Sir knight, I will give thee gold and fee, As much as thou might wish to see, If thou wilt renounce Christianity, And fight for the banners of Paynimrie, And sell thy lady bright to me;" His form to its height he drew. 11. "Our Lady forefend that I should e'er In infidel ranks a standard bear, Or the holy cross betray; And for weal or woe my lady fair, I wed in the face of day; A recreant knight I be when e'er This right I shall gainsay." 12. They have putten off his scarlet mantell Within the goldis shred; They drove him from that land of Baal, And left him as he were dead. The lady was sent to a far countrie, The bride of the Sultan she should be, When from the wars of Chrisendie In triumph he returned. 13. Asleep in the forest the good knight lay And when he awoke at dawn of day He saw his treasure borne away, By an eagle strong in search of prey-- No longer he there sojourned. To the Virgin he made a fervent prayer Invoking for aye her watchful care. Then to Palestine he turned. 14. Through ten long years the knight pursued His weary pilgrimage; Then buckled he on his armor bright, With heart beating free and light, He hath boune him for the fight, A gallant and unknown knight Withouten heritage. 15. Much they marvelled then to see A warrior, unknown as he, Such deeds of valor do. They wist he was no mortal wight, But some weird magician sprite, When in the thickest of the fight The Sultan dread he slew. 16. They have broughten him to the christian king With gladness and great welcoming, And honor and praise had he; But his object fell he did obtain, For his mighty enemy he hath slain. He donned his pilgrim weeds again, And his wanderings pursued. 17. The scorching sun, with a feverish glare, On the burning sands cast radiance clear; When weary and faint the knight drew near, Where stately and tall a castle fair From a green oasis rose. The cool palms waving in golden light, With music of murmuring fountains bright, Beckoning called the fainting knight To bowers of repose. 18. He passed the portals of the hall, And stood 'mong squires and good knights tall, Holding it seemed high festival. 19. A lady beautiful to see, Sat 'neath a gorgeous canopy. She was queen of that countrie, Lady of generous chivalry, And eke of lowly charity. The holy Palmers with reverence, Welcomed she to her residence; Gentle and kind was she. 20. But the knight would not be comforted, For restless recollection shed A sadness over all. In silent mood he wandered Through tower and lofty hall. 21. It fell on a day the Queen with her guest Were seated at the mid-day feast, When entered her favorite page in haste. In the early morning he went in quest Of eaglets' eyries, and on the crest Of a lofty mountain he found a nest, With golden treasure hid in its breast, Wrapped in a scarlet mantel. 22. No sooner beheld she the page's prize, Than the tears o'erflowed the ladie's eyes. My true and loyal knight she cries, (The palmer looked on with mute surprise.) Hast thou Sir Isumbras seen? One moment they gazed in silent survey, The mists of memory rolled away; And locked within his arms she lay-- The lost one found again. And there was feast and festival; Resounded then through bower and hall, The lute and joyous madrigal; And joustings there were in tournament, And breaking of lances in compliment, To the beauty of ladies bright; Then over the Sultan's fair domain, In peace the knight and lady reign; Till the king in all sincerity, Strove with pious zeal to free From the bonds of Infidelity, _His Paynim lieges hight_. 23. But no one there his cause upheld, Save God and the Queen, I trow; And were they e'er so valorous, Never could they withstand An armament so numerous, As the unbelievers' band. 24. Then by a chance miraculous, The tide of war was turned. As they might be sent in our Lady's name, Three knights came pricking o'er the plain, As if the ground they spurned. Came the first on a lion strong; On a leopard the second was borne-- The third bestrode a unicorn. Tall men and brave were they; The hosts of the Saracens fled in dismay, And repenting of their disloyalty, Returned they then to their fealty; And the knight and lady peacefully Together with their children, three Restored to them so happily, Reigned in tranquillity, Prosperously and long. 25. They lived and died in good intent; Unto Heaven their souls went. When that they dead were, Jesus Christ, Heaven's king, Give us aye his blessing, And shield us aye from care. Rousing herself from the abstraction that had prevented her hearing the song of her page, the queen remarked, "Thy story is somewhat long, and for ourself we would have preferred that the husband had won the holy estate of martyrdom 'neath the sword of the Soldan. But thou hast rhymed it right dextrously, and we opine that the moral of thy lay accords well with the ascetic manners of the north." She extended her wand. The herald then stood forth, and sounding a few notes on a chalumeaux, cried, "Comes there no cause of Arrets d'amour, Our gracious liege and sovereign before, From lady, knight, or troubadour?" The flute-like call was thrice repeated, and then a low response to the challenge issued from a mimic grotto, curiously roofed with overhanging vines. "The minstrel of our sister Petronilla has leave to present her cause before our court," said the queen encouragingly, as the troop of the young princess advanced from the shadow into the clear light, and knelt at the footstool of justice. "The lady Petronilla," began the Troubadour, "arraigns before the court her recreant knight, Count Rudolph of Vermandois. Cold greeting gives he for her fair looks, scant courtesy for her warm smiles; his ungloved hand returns not the pressure of her slight fingers, and the banderol she sent him flutters not from his gleaming lance." A slight pause followed this accusation, and the herald again stood forth and demanded if any minstrel or Troubadour could say aught in extenuation of the offence of the accused. Not a voice answered, not a harp string stirred. At the third call the page of Eleanor arose, and with a graceful obeisance begged to be heard. "Rudolph of Vermandois," said he, "witnesseth by me, that since he set lance in rest to do his devoir for the fair Adelais of Champaigne, his eye and smile, and heart and hand, as loyal husband and true knight, are due and devote to her alone." A general murmur attested the disapprobation of the assembly at this new and strange defence; for it had already become a proverb in Guienne, that "True love cannot exist between married persons." The importance of the action, however, elicited a brilliant contest among the rival Troubadours, and never was a case more warmly argued, more skilfully enveloped with the subtleties of logic, or more thoroughly transpierced with the sallies of wit, than that which arose from the efforts of the wily granddaughter of Philippa of Toulouse, to fascinate the husband of the granddaughter of Adela, Countess of Blois. The fair jurors finally, like their successors in modern days, rendered their verdict in accordance with preconceived opinions, independent of justice or argument. The defence being thus found invalid, the culprit was put under ban of the court, and all true ladies were forbidden to smile upon him, except by the grace of his slighted lady-love. The fairy camp then adjourned its sitting to receive the royal guests, who were already on the way to meet them. As Eleanor accepted the assistance of her lover to climb the terraced pathway leading to the castle, she said with her most bewitching smile, "We consign our young sister, Petronilla, to the care of our noble cousin of Vermandois." The count dissembling his reluctance bowed and offered his hand to the sprightly sorceress, and the queen whispered her sister, "The hawk is hooded, it must be thine to bind his jessies." CHAPTER II. Where is the antique glory now become, That while some wont in woman to appear? Where be the bold achievements done by some? Where be the battles, where the shield and spear? And all the conquests which them high did rear Be they all dead, or shall again appear? SPENSER. The first of August, 1137, rose upon a brilliant ceremonial. The princely capital of Bordeaux glittered with all the splendor that Guienne, and its dependent fiefs could supply; for on that day the native subjects of Eleanor assembled to accept the resignation of Duke William, and to give the hand of their liege lady in marriage to the heir of France. Though Eleanor was sufficiently dazzled by the prospect of ruling in the court of Paris, she had the sagacity to accept the proposal of her barons and refuse her consent to the arrangement, till by charter and deed she had secured inviolate the laws and customs of Aquitaine, and the administration of the government to herself alone. Upon the conclusion of the ceremony the duke laid down his robes and insignia of sovereignty, and in presence of his loving subjects and weeping grandchildren, took up the hermit's cowl and staff and departed on his lonely pilgrimage. The royal cortege set out the following day for the north, resting only at the principal towns, where the young duke and duchess received the homage of the feudal lords. At Blois, the Count of Vermandois, who had by circumstances that seemed to him wholly accidental been forced to give his constant attendance upon the artful Petronilla, embraced once more his beautiful Adelais, and pleading her ill health, obtained permission of the prince to absent himself for a time from court. The disappointed Petronilla could scarcely conceal her chagrin at this unlooked-for interruption in her proceedings, and from that moment conceived the most violent hatred of her innocent rival. On their entrance at Paris, instead of the enthusiastic greeting and splendid festivities which Eleanor had anticipated, the bridal party was escorted through silent streets by weeping attendants, who conducted them to the death-bed of Louis VI. The great legislator of France gazed with a look of solemn benignity upon the youthful pair that knelt to crave his parting blessing, and reminding them, that their recent union involved not only their individual happiness, but the peace and prosperity of both the north and the south, added with his expiring breath, "Remember, royalty is a public trust, for the exercise of which a rigorous account will be exacted by Him who has the sole disposal of crowns and of sceptres." On the conscientious mind of Louis, the words of his dying father made a deep impression; but his thoughtless partner was no sooner crowned Queen of France, than she entered upon her career of folly, exerting all her talents, and exercising all her influence in the exciting games of court intrigue. The impassioned verse in which Abelard celebrated the beauty and love of the gifted but frail Heloise, furnished employment for Eleanor's Provençal minstrels, and formed the topic of general remark among the minions of the court. She assisted the persecuted monk in his defence before the Council of Sens, and after his death caused his body to be conveyed to the chapel of the Paraclete, and consigned to the care of the melancholy Heloise. She persuaded Louis that the services of his prime minister Vermandois, were indispensable at Paris, and thus, again, brought that nobleman within the charmed sphere of Petronilla's attractions. She contrived, at the same time, to secure for herself a devoted admirer in the Count of Ponthieu, who became the agent of her slightest wish. Through his gallantry she succeeded in involving the beautiful Adelais in some matters of court scandal, and thus by exciting the jealousy of the Count of Vermandois, and exposing him to the bewitching spells of her sister, she finally persuaded him to divorce his lovely and amiable wife, and espouse the designing Petronilla. Adelais sought to hide her sorrow and her wrongs in the seclusion of a convent; but her brother, the valiant Count Thibault of Champagne, was not inclined to suffer the indignity in silence. Such, however, was Eleanor's power over the plastic mind of her husband, that the count appealed in vain to the sympathy or justice of the king. Finding that his remonstrance could not reach the royal ear, he presented his cause before the pope, who compelled Vermandois to put away the guilty Petronilla, and take back the injured sister of Champagne. The repudiated wife enraged at her own dishonor, and incensed at the undissembled joy with which Vermandois exchanged her dazzling graces, for the long-regretted charms of the weeping recluse, again had recourse to Eleanor. The queen, not less vindictive than her sister, and more practised in diplomacy, succeeded in fanning an ancient feud between Louis and Count Thibault, into the flame of war. The king invaded Champagne at the head of a large army, and commenced a devastating progress through the province. The town of Vitry, strongly walled and fortified, for a long time resisted the royal forces; but the queen, whose apprehensions of the temperate counsels of Suger, prompted her to accompany her husband upon every occasion, privately commissioned a body of Gascons to set fire to the town at the very moment of its surrender. The flames spread from house to house, and finally extended to the cathedral, and thirteen hundred persons who had taken refuge there, were burned to death. The king stung by the cries of his perishing subjects, exerted himself for their rescue, but in vain; and the horrors of the scene made such a fearful impression on his mind, as seriously to affect his health. The vision of his lamented father, repeating in solemn tones, "Remember, my son, that royalty is a public trust, for the exercise of which a rigorous account will be exacted by Him who has the sole disposal of crowns and of sceptres," haunted his slumbers and destroyed his rest. Queen Eleanor journeyed with him from one holy place to another, to entreat the prayers of pious monks in his behalf, but the dejection of his mind increased to such an extent, that even her insinuating blandishments failed to recall him from his gloomy contemplations. Wearied with fruitless endeavors, she petulantly remarked to Petronilla, who now triumphed in the possession of a new lover, the young Count Maurienne, "Fate has given me the name of queen with the destiny of a nun. Would we were again in our native realm, for I tire of this dull life. Instead of the gay minstrelsy of the sweet southwest, I am jaded with perpetual psalmody, and my attempts to beguile the weary hours with the 'joyous science,' are mocked with the mummery of muttered prayers. I have married a monk rather than a monarch;" and the mortified queen burst into tears. While this state of feeling subsisted between the conscience-stricken Louis and his discontented consort, news of the fall of Edessa and the conquests of Noureddin reached Europe, and the sagacious Eleanor saw, in the general sympathy which the intelligence excited, the means by which she might make the melancholy of Louis the instrument of her own pleasure. She forsook at once her gay amusements, joined her husband in alms, deeds and prayers, expressed the greatest pity for the misfortunes of their royal cousins, and constantly wished that she might be permitted to lead her brave Provençals to restore the gallant Courtenays to their lost principality of Edessa. The gracious change in the character of Eleanor delighted the penitent monarch, and he began to listen with interest and pleasure to her oft-repeated suggestion, that a pilgrimage would prove an acceptable penance for the misdeed at Vitry. Animated by a renewed hope, he called a council of the clergy and nobility of his kingdom to deliberate on the propriety of an expedition to the Holy Land, and by their advice despatched deputies to gain the sanction of Pope Eugenius. The vicar of Christ entered readily into the design, and commissioned the famous St. Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux, to preach the _Second Crusade_. Louis and his queen, and all their court, attended on the ministry of the holy man, and such crowds flocked to listen to the eloquent saint that no cathedral, however large, could contain them. His auditors were impressed by his sanctity, persuaded by his enthusiasm, and carried away by his zeal. "The cross!" "The cross!" was echoed from every tongue. Louis and his queen were the first to adopt the holy symbol, and as the multitudes that pressed forward to follow their pious example soon exhausted the supply already prepared, the reverend orator tore his monkish garment into small pieces and fixed them to the shoulders of his kneeling converts. Encouraged by his success, St. Bernard passed into Germany, and every city and village from Constance to Carinthia responded to the call of war. Those who understood not even the language which he spoke, were awed by his gestures, and the dignity of his demeanor, and the miracles that accompanied his presence. The mind of the emperor Conrad III. was moved by his startling delineations of the judgment day, when punishment should be inflicted upon the idle, and heavenly rewards showered upon the faithful, and openly professed that the Lord of the Germans knew and would perform his duty to the church. The romantic purpose of becoming a female crusader now completely occupied the light head of Eleanor, and as she was in the very plenitude of her charms, and possessed sufficient wealth to practise any extravagance, she soon made it the fashion among all the vain sentimentalists of her court. The absurd arrangements which she made for the campaign, gave little promise of rational conquest. The female recruits sent their useless distaffs and embroidery-frames to all the knights and nobles who had the good sense to suppose that Heaven would be better pleased with their remaining in peace at home, than by their going abroad to destroy their fellow-men; and this ingenious taunt had the desired effect upon the doughty knights, who, fearing a woman's raillery, joined an expedition to Syria to prove their valor. The fair warriors clothed themselves in helmet and hauberk, having golden crosses tastefully embroidered upon the left shoulder; gilded slippers, glittering spurs, and silver-sheathed falchions suspended from the side completed the equipment, and mounted on richly-caparisoned steeds, they formed a brilliant squadron, caricoled about Paris and performed a thousand fantastic follies in public, calling themselves the body-guard of the _Golden-footed Dame_. CHAPTER III. A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, Such as the southern breeze Might waft, at golden fall of day O'er blue transparent seas. Louis took the cross in 1146, and in the following year, having received from the pope the consecrated banner as a warrior, and the staff and scrip as a pilgrim, set out for the general rendezvous at Mentz with his queen and her grotesque cavalcade. Here they were joined by an immense number of nobles and knights and soldiers, among whom were crusaders from England and the remote islands of the northern sea. After the lapse of half a century, the second crusade, consisting of two hundred thousand people, tracked their way along the banks of the Danube by the whitening bones of those who had fallen victims to the blind fanaticism of the first expedition. Manuel Comnenus, who now sat on the throne of Constantinople, adopted the same policy that had distinguished the councils of his grandfather, Alexius. His envoys, bearing letters filled with flattery and fair speeches, met the advancing warriors, but the imperial guides were instructed to conduct the soldiers of the west by difficult and circuitous routes, and the purveyors had secret orders to furnish them with sacks of flour mixed with chalk and lime. Conrad, who was the brother-in-law of Manuel, was so indignant at this breach of hospitality, that he crossed the Bosphorus without meeting or conferring with the emperor--but the splendid city of Constantinople presented too many attractions to the female adventurers to be passed in so hurried a manner. The wily Comnenus soon perceived that the readiest means to divide the forces of the crusade would be to amuse the fickle Queen of France. All the voluptuous refinements of the Greek court were accordingly put in requisition to detain his unwelcome visitors, and if the avaricious Bohemond was bribed with the contents of a treasure-chamber in the palace, Eleanor might well be excused if her frivolous fancy was captivated by her splendid suite of rooms adorned with all the luxury of eastern magnificence, and the richly-attired slaves that waited her slightest bidding, and when at last they set forward, the Damascene silks, costly jewels, and precious gifts, which Manuel showered upon the finery-loving Amazons, added not a little to the cumbrous baggage with which the thoughtless queen loaded the expedition. Louis, lulled into security by the flattering assurances of Manuel, had lingered in the Greek empire till the defeat of Conrad at Iconium, when convinced by the report of the discomfited Germans, of the treachery of his royal host, he set forward with his troops along the coast of Asia Minor. They passed Thyatira, Sardis, and Philadelphia without accident, defeated the Turks on the banks of the Meander, and arrived in safety at Laodicea. The freaks of Eleanor and her female warriors were the cause of all the misfortunes that afterwards befell the French army. On the second day after leaving Laodicea, their way led up the mountains, by a winding and difficult ascent. The prudent king sent forward the queen and her ladies, escorted by his choicest troops, under the guard of Count Maurienne, charging them to entrench themselves upon the wooded heights that overlooked the valley of Laodicea. Himself followed slowly with the rearguard, encumbered by the useless baggage, and harassed by the Arabs. The Count Maurienne, with Petronilla by his side, rode gallantly up the steep, and halted at the place appointed, but when Eleanor reached the spot she was so attracted by the appearance of an adjacent valley, cooled by waterfalls, and shaded by thickets, which seemed to beckon them on with an inviting grace, that she insisted upon pressing forward, and forming the bivouac there. The Count Maurienne endeavored to dissuade the queen from her purpose, by representing the danger of abandoning the commanding position designated by the king, but opposition only increased her pertinacity, and aided by the light artillery of Petronilla's eyes, she soon brought the discomfited knight to terms. The scene that opened before them as they descended into the valley, was sufficient to charm away all fatigue and fear. The rocky heights at the west, behind which the sun was just sinking, veiled their bold fronts in the misty fringes of the opal clouds; the blue Mediterranean circled the horizon on the south; and far to the east stretched every variety of woodland, meadow, and glade, till the Taurus ridge, melting into the sky, shut out the sands of Syria. The happy party soon entered the valley. The sumpter mules were speedily unloaded, the light spars planted, the white canvass of the tents stretched upon them, and a cold collation spread out for their refreshment. When the repast was finished Eleanor caused her couch to be placed at the door of the tent, so that wild roses nodded at its pillow, and flinging herself upon it, as the brilliant stars of that eastern clime looked down upon her, she exclaimed, "Petronilla, my sister, seems not this like our own dear Provence? I could almost fancy myself once more in the Rose Pavilion." "Certes," said Petronilla, "and were it not a fitting time and place to hold the festival of our Court of Love? Methinks yon, count," with a mischievous glance at Maurienne, "withstood our entreaties to enter this delightful retreat beyond the limits of gallantry." "Gra'mercy, fair ladies," said the count, with mock gravity, "that I fear the frowns of this august tribunal more than the displeasure of my royal master, is perhaps my sin, and it is with unfeigned apprehensions that I surrender to the court." "I accuse the count--" began the princess. Maurienne interrupted her, "Petronilla my accuser! Then am I lost indeed. I had hoped to hear her eloquent lips plead my excuse." "Nay! nay!" said Eleanor, striking the velvet turf with her tiny foot. "The court forbids these disorderly proceedings. Henry de Blois, arrest thou the Count Maurienne at the complaint of the princess, bind his hands with this string of pearls, and confront him with his accuser. Our brave Warrenne, take thy spear and stand sentinel by yon copse. A prowling Saracen would make an awkward addition to our goodly company. Knights and ladies, recline at ease upon these verdant cushions. When the cause of this culprit shall have received verdict, perchance your own delinquencies may pass review." "Heaven forefend!" exclaimed a chorus of voices, mingling ejaculations with merry laughter and gay pasquinade. The queen, now in her element, succeeded in quelling the tumultuous mirth, though an occasional titter was elicited by the solemn visages of Maurienne and Petronilla, who played their part to admiration. "Where is the petulant Peyrol?" inquired the queen, looking round the circle, "we can no more proceed with our important affairs without the aid of song than could the prophet without the inspiration of music." "Peyrol, my liege, attends upon the king," replied a Spanish cavalier, who had recently rode so constantly by the side of the queen that the courtiers dubbed him her saddle-beau. "Gonzalvo," returned Eleanor, "we have heard that thou stringest a lute upon occasion. Let not our pastime be marred by the defection of this truant boy. Give us a Moorish ballad, if thy memory serves thee with nothing better. Our royal spouse will be here anon and summon us to prayers." "I am but a poor pilgrim, and little skilled in the 'Joyous Science,'" said the Spaniard, with affected modesty; "but the command of my queen must give me the fitting inspiration." He touched a melodious prelude, and sung in a clear, manly voice:-- 1. "I a minstrel of Grenada, Gonzalvo Bercio hight, Once wandering as a pilgrim, found a meadow richly dight, Green and peopled full of flowers, of flowers fair and bright, A place where many a weary man would rest him with delight. 2. "And the flowers I beheld all looked and smelt so sweet, That the senses and the soul they seemed alike to greet, While on every side ran fountains through all this glad retreat, Which in winter kindly warmth supplied, yet tempered summer's heat. 3. "And of rich and goodly trees there grew a boundless maze, Rich grapes and apples bright, and figs of golden rays, And many other fruits beyond my skill to praise, But none that turneth sour, and none that e'er decays. 4. "The freshness of that meadow, the sweetness of its flowers, The dewy shadows of the trees that fell like cooling showers, Renewed within my frame its worn and wasted powers, I deem the very odors would have nourished me for hours." An arrow that pierced the tent, and fell among the strings of the minstrel's harp, interrupted the symphony, and called forth discordant screams of terror. A moment after the Earl of Warrenne, breathless and bleeding, rushed into the assembly, and communicated the startling intelligence, that the Turks had taken possession of the heights allotted for their encampment, and that the king, unaware of his danger, was proceeding to the snare, spread for his whole army. Maurienne hastily cast away his mimic fetters, and counselling his lovely charge to remain as close as possible beneath the shadow of the trees, stationed a small guard to defend them, and hastened back to the assistance of his sovereign. The Syrian moon now rose broad and clear in the east, and the frightened females, huddling together like a flock of timid sheep, could distinctly see the heavy-armed troops on which rested all their hopes, toiling slowly up the mountain, in the face of a tremendous shower of arrows and loose masses of stone which the Moslems threw upon them from above. Men, horses and baggage, overborne by the sudden attack, rolled down the precipitous steep, and the expiring cries of familiar voices could be distinctly heard through the still air. Maurienne soon succeeded in putting to flight the Arabs that had attacked the vanguard, but the most dreadful havoc was made among the followers of Louis, and the king himself was only saved by the greatest efforts of personal valor. Seven thousand of the flower of French chivalry paid with their lives the penalty of the queen's caprice. The baggage containing the fine array of the lady-warriors, was plundered by the Arabs, and the fragments of their dainty supper was the only provision left for their sustenance. The further progress of the French was beset with dangers and privations. The discipline of the army was broken, and they marched or rather wandered, for they knew not the roads, along the coast of Pamphilia, purchasing or plundering food of the frightened inhabitants; and famine thinned the ranks with such rapidity, and so many horses and other beasts of burden perished by the way, that it was finally determined to turn aside from these scenes of desolation and proceed by sea to Antioch. But upon reaching the coast, a new difficulty occurred. A sufficient number of ships could not be procured to transport them all, and the brave peers of France, with honorable pride, agreed that the simple pilgrims, with the women and children, should alone make their passage with the king, while themselves should continue their route on foot. Louis distributed what money he had among the soldiers, who were left to surmount the higher difficulties of the land route, and engaged a Greek escort and guide to conduct them, and taking leave of the miserable beings who had followed him to their own destruction, went on board the ships. The escort soon deserted the French soldiers, the guide betrayed them, and but few if any ever reached Syria. The royal party arrived at Antioch in a condition little short of beggary; but Prince Raimond, the uncle of Eleanor, opened his hospitable gates to them, and by the beautiful stream of the Orontes, the distressed warriors of the cross refreshed themselves after their fatigues, and the thoughtless queen regained once more her roses and her smiles. Recent experience had greatly cooled her military ardor, and the gaiety of the court of Antioch presented greater attractions to her fancy than a journey over the sandy plains of Syria. Prince Raimond, wishing to avail himself of the panic which a new arrival of crusaders had spread among the Turks, to extend the limits of his own territories, set himself at once to prevent the immediate departure of Louis for Jerusalem. The prince was the handsomest man of his time, and directly began to pay the most assiduous court to his lovely niece. The queen, flattered by his attentions, commenced such a series of coquetries with him as greatly scandalized and incensed Louis; but it was not till she attempted to persuade her husband to join Raimond in an expedition against Cesarea that she found she had at last irritated the kind monarch beyond the limits of forbearance. Louis left her in anger, and departed with his forces for Jerusalem, where he was received with the greatest joy. Crowds of ecclesiastics and laymen going out to meet him, conducted him within the holy gates, singing, "Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord." Disappointed in the assistance of Louis, Raimond determined to secure an ally in Saladin, a young Emir of the Sultan. Eleanor, who was at this time moping with chagrin at the desertion of her husband, first saw the handsome barbarian at a Passage of Arms given by Raimond for her amusement, in which the dark-browed Saracen drove a javelin through the target with such skill and grace as completely pierced her heart. She immediately conceived the idea that if she should convert this powerful Infidel to the Christian faith, she should achieve a greater conquest than all the forces of Christendom. Prince Raimond, who gladly availed himself of any attraction that should detain the Arab chief within the walls of Antioch, smiled upon her pious project. But to bring a follower of the Prophet devoutly to consider the tenets of the Latin church, required more familiar intercourse and a greater exercise of personal influence than the ceremonious observances of Eastern society permitted, or the strictly virtuous deemed quite discreet. The zealous queen, however, scorned to be controlled by such fastidious considerations. Her apartments opened upon a terrace which conducted to a garden filled with every variety of odoriferous shrub and fragrant flower, at the foot of which a clump of olive-trees spread abroad their arms to hide a mossy seat from the intrusive rays of the sun. A little wicket concealed by vines led from the garden into the street, and Eleanor kept the key. Through this wicket she admitted her young disciple, and in this retreat, with missionary zeal, commenced her efforts for the conversion of the Mussulman. It was some time before the European and Asiatic succeeded in coming to a perfect understanding; for though Saladin was tolerably well versed in the Lingua Franca, his vocabulary comprehended little else than those terms used in common intercourse or war. Whether the philosophers of that day had taught that though some languages may be deficient in expressions of abstract ideas, all are replete in the dialect of love, certain it is, that both teacher and pupil became aware of the fact in their own particular case. But it was no part of Eleanor's religious plan to entangle herself in a mesalliance, and when the fascinated Emir began to stammer forth his admiration, she playfully told him she could understand love only in the Provençal tongue. The Saracen took his departure, and though she watched anxiously for the arrow tipped with the eagle feather, by which he was wont to announce his coming, she saw him not again for twenty days. When the long-wished-for token at length appeared, and the handsome youth in his crimson robe and green baldric stood again before her, his face radiant with joy, and his dark eyes sparkling with delight; when she heard him pour forth his eloquent passion in the loved Provençal, with all the fluency and ease of a native, she almost fancied a miracle had been wrought, and felt convinced that not to lead such talents to the bosom of the church would be a grievous sin. The Saracen soon persuaded her that love for her alone had endowed him with supernatural powers, and the delicate flattery determined her to exercise to the fullest extent the influence that could produce such wonderful effects. The young Emir belted his tunic with a silken girdle several yards in length. Upon this ribbon Eleanor, still intent upon her design, embroidered a cross which the youth accepted with his accustomed gallantry, saying, "I worship the Divinity it represents." The next day he brought her a casket of diamonds, and an ivory box filled with the sweetest perfumes. As he reclined at her feet she opened the box, and twining his raven hair about her fingers poured the precious liquid upon his head. Peyrol who from his childhood had regarded the queen with the impassioned devotion of the south, had hardly consented to share her heart with Louis. Since her marriage, her ambition for conquest had kept him constantly in a state of jealous excitement. His interested eyes had been the first to discern her stolen interviews with Saladin; and on the day of her acceptance of the diamonds, he contrived to secrete himself in the garden, and thus witnessed the whole affair. Convinced of her danger, he set off direct for Jerusalem, to advertise Louis of her conduct, and while Eleanor fancied herself doing God service in her efforts to convert the lord of the Saracens, though at some slight sacrifice of personal delicacy, the king arrived at Antioch, and hurried her away with small leave-taking of her uncle, and without even allowing her a parting interview with her heathen convert. Eleanor submitted to this unaccustomed harshness of her husband, with a very ill grace. She attempted to explain to him that she was doing more for the preservation of the Sepulchre than King Baldwin himself. She expressed the most violent anger at being the object of unfounded suspicion, and entered the Holy City in a most indignant mood. The upright mind of Louis could not be made to comprehend the piety that led to such an ebullition of temper, nor could he well appreciate the purity of a motive that induced a wife to exchange presents with a lover; and from this time all confidence between them was at an end. The Queen of France was, notwithstanding, received and entertained at Jerusalem, with all the honors due her rank; but Peyrol was instructed to watch her movements, and prevent any further communication with Raimond. A council was held at Ptolemais, composed of the christian powers of Syria and Palestine, and the crusaders from Europe, and though the restoration of the Courtneys to their lost principality was the object of the expedition, it was decided that Damascus was a far more dangerous neighbor to Jerusalem than the remote city of Edessa. The decree to march to Damascus was accordingly passed, and the kings Louis VII., Baldwin III., and Conrad III. brought their troops into the field. The best disciplined parts of the army were the Knights of the Temple, and of St. John. In the early days of pilgrimages, an institution for the care of the sick had been established in Jerusalem. In this friendly hospital the wounded and dying of the first crusade were received and tended with the greatest care. King Godfrey with affectionate gratitude rewarded their pious labors by the gift of an estate in Brabant, whence they derived a steady revenue. The association acquired importance, and finally formed a religious house under the tutelage of St. John the Baptist. They took the usual vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience, and the patriarch of Jerusalem invested them with a black robe, having a white linen cross of eight points upon the left breast. In A.D. 1113, the Hospital was put under the protection of the Holy See, and their revenues increasing beyond the demands of charity, about A.D. 1130, they determined to draw the sword against the enemies of the faith. The Hospitallers were accordingly arranged into three classes, nobility, clergy, and serving brothers, who divided their duties between making deadly war upon the Infidels, healing the wounds of the Christian soldier, and praying for the souls of the departed. The admirers of valor and piety either joined their standard or enriched their coffers. Great men sent their sons to them for instruction, and the Knights Hospitallers soon became a powerful monastic and military order. A few years later, some French gentlemen founded the equally honorable institution of the Red Cross Knights. The original design of this order, was to watch the road and keep open the communication between Europe and the Holy Land. At first they were fed and clothed by the Hospitallers, and to indicate their poverty, adopted a seal with the figures of two men on one horse. They bound themselves to the three great monastic virtues, and added some austerities, which were supposed to give them power with God and man. They were originally styled Milites Christi, but when Baldwin I. assigned them a residence in the royal palace, adjacent to the Temple of Solomon, they assumed the title of Templars, or Knights of the Temple. They wore linen coifs with red caps close over them, shirts and stockings of twisted mail, sapra vests and broad belts with swords inserted, and over the whole was a white cloak touching the ground. This order, too, rose into dignity and power; and the military friars of the Hospital, and the Red Cross Knights of the Temple, soon became the bulwark of Christendom, "the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise." Acquainted with the roads, the Templars led the way to Damascus, and accustomed to succor the weak, the Hospitallers brought up the rear of the Christian army. The eastern and southern quarters of the city of Damascus were defended by impregnable walls; but the north and west were faced by fields and gardens, and protected only by towers and ditches. Here the crusaders pitched their camps; and numerous and long-continued were the engagements between the Christians and Moslems. They succeeded in driving in the outposts of the Infidels and seizing several fortifications looked upon Damascus as their own. But now a more serious contest arose. Should Damascus become an appanage of Jerusalem, a fief of the French crown, or a German principality? Days and weeks passed away in fruitless disputes among the crusaders, and at length it was determined that the prize should be given to the Count of Flanders, because he had twice visited the Holy Land. This decision only increased the dissatisfaction. There were rumors of treason in the camp, and the Templars were accused of accepting bribes. A proposition was made to remove the camp to Ascalon, and while debate fostered delay the Saracens had time to repair the fortifications of Damascus, and to summon assistance from the Sultan. The German emperor, terrified with the report that the Emir of Mosul was marching to the city, was the first to abandon the siege; and the other leaders, discontented with themselves and with each other, gloomily retraced their steps to Jerusalem. Conrad, with the shattered relics of the German host, immediately returned to Europe; but the king of the French lingered several months, visiting the holy places, and seeking opportunities to do military service worthy the expedition; till at length learning from Peyrol that Eleanor, through the connivance of Petronilla, had exchanged letters with Saladin, and was meditating a flight to Antioch; he gathered together the miserable remnant of his army, amounting to three hundred persons, and accompanied by his enraged queen and her crest-fallen Amazons, embarked for Constantinople. Here Eleanor found some small consolation in repairing the sad inroads made upon her wardrobe at the defeat of Laodicea. From Constantinople the dissatisfied pair sailed for France. It was the intention of Louis to put away his wife immediately on his return, but the sagacious Abbot Suger dissuaded him from this course, since he would thus detach from the crown the great duchy of Aquitaine, the probable inheritance of the young Princesses Mary and Alix. She was, however, closely watched, and forbidden to visit her southern domains. In A.D. 1150, Geoffrey Plantagenet, the Count Anjou, came to the court of Louis VII., with his son Henry, a youth about the age of Saladin, whose fine person and literary attainments made him an object of attraction to all the ladies of Paris. To Geoffrey Eleanor confided her troubles, one of the greatest of which was, the refusal of the king to adopt the courtly adornings of the times, particularly the long-toed shoes, fastened to the knee by golden chains; and she was especially vexed that he had, at the suggestion of the clergy, parted with his long curls, handsome beard and mustachios. "Already," said she, "he wears the shaven chin and the serge robe, and he needs only the tonsure and cowl to make him a priest." The duke repaid her confidence by delineating his own domestic afflictions arising from the haughty demeanor of his consort the Empress Matilda, whose irritable temper had not been improved by her ineffectual struggles with Stephen for the throne of England. Altogether they had a very sympathizing meeting. Two years after, Henry of Anjou once more visited Paris to do homage for his domains, and the queen with a facility acquired by practice, transferred to him the partiality she had entertained for his father. The young Plantagenet was a noble, martial-looking prince, with a fair and gracious countenance, and eyes that sparkled with intelligence and energy. In the light of this new attachment, Eleanor discovered that King Louis was her fourth cousin, and farther that the divorce he had threatened was a matter of conscience and propriety. Louis for the first time in many years seemed to find happiness in the same plan that pleased his queen. A council of the church was called at Beaugencie, and in the presence of Eleanor and Louis, and a numerous circle of relatives, the marriage was declared invalid on account of consanguinity. Leaving her daughters in the care of their father, the liberated princess joyfully departed with her sister Petronilla and her Provençal attendants to her own country. On her way southward she stopped some time at the castle of Blois, where the old Count Thibaut, father of Adelais, whose domestic peace she had so selfishly invaded, became enamored of the great Provence dower, and offered his hand to his fair guest. Unabashed by the lady's prompt refusal, the venerable suitor determined to detain her a prisoner in his fortress till she should comply with his proposition; but Peyrol accidentally learning the design, disguised his mistress and her sister in his own apparel, conducted them through the postern by night, and procuring a fisherman's boat, escaped with them down the Loire. Here a new danger awaited them. Geoffrey of Anjou, the young brother of Henry Plantagenet, captivated by the charms of the princess, stationed himself with a strong guard, at the Pont de Tas, with the intention of carrying her off. Before the fugitives reached the spot they perceived the ambush, and the royal ladies, each seizing an oar, concealed their faces by bending to their tasks, while Peyrol ingeniously evaded the questions of the sentinel, by displaying the fishing-tackle and turning the boat into a little creek, as if preparing to commence the morning's sport. Hidden by the willows that shaded the stream, the party pursued their way with the utmost rapidity, and before the count had discovered their escape, they were beyond the reach of capture. The enthusiastic greetings with which the Provençals hailed the return of their beloved duchess, had scarcely subsided into the quiet demonstrations of affectionate obedience, when the young Henry Plantagenet followed her to Bordeaux, and in that wealthy city, with all the pomp that the luxurious Provençal could command, they were married the first of May, A.D. 1152. Thus the sweet provinces of the south became the appanage of the English crown, and a foundation was laid for those desolating wars that for centuries drained the best blood of both France and England. CHAPTER IV. "Imperial being! e'en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, There is power in thy commanding nature." Henry immediately conveyed his bride to Normandy, and installed her in the palace at Bayeux, once the residence of the family of William the Conqueror. The marriage of Eleanor, but little more than a month after her divorce, astonished all Europe. Especially was the King of France incensed by a union which made his already too powerful vassal lord of seven more beautiful and wealthy provinces. He immediately entered into an alliance with Stephen to deprive Henry of Normandy, and incited the baffled Geoffrey to make war upon his brother. "Let the stupid king do his worst," said Eleanor to her husband, as she despatched Peyrol to order the vessels of Bordeaux into the English Channel. "The barons of _oc_ and _no_ will raise the banner of St. George and the golden leopards far above the oriflamme of France, and rejoice at having such fair cause of quarrel with the suzerain and jailer of their princess." The Provençal fleet that was thus brought to guard the coast of England, was of essential service to Henry in quelling the agitations excited by Louis not only, but in securing his peaceful accession to the throne of his grandfather, Henry I. During the six weeks that elapsed after the death of Stephen, before he was ready to assume his crown, the maritime power anchored in the English harbors preserved the public tranquillity, and kept all foreign enemies in awe. Henry and Eleanor, with a brilliant train, landed on the coast of Hampshire, at the beginning of December, A.D. 1154, and proceeded direct to Winchester. The prelates and nobles gathered round them from every part of the kingdom, and their journey from Winchester to London was a continual triumph. Their coronation, which took place in Westminster Abbey, was without parallel for magnificence. The silks, brocades, and velvets shot with silver or embroidered with gold, which the new queen had brought from Constantinople, and the jewels which she had hoarded as mementoes of her self-denying efforts in Palestine, served to illuminate this august ceremony. The dark beauty of the south wore her long, black hair closely braided, and bound about her head, like an eastern tiara, from which flashed the diamonds of her Paynim lover like jewels set in jet. Her snowy kirtle, of the finest Indian fabric, confined at the throat by a collar of gems, and fastened by a jewelled belt at the bodice, fell in an amplitude of drapery to her feet, and the same transparent vesture covered, without concealing, the exquisite roundness of her arms. Over this was thrown an elegant pelisson, bordered with fur, having full loose sleeves, lined with ermine. In fine contrast with his sparkling queen, stood Henry, the first monarch of the warlike Plantagenets. The Saxon lineaments predominated in his face and person, the wealth of his brown locks, and his thick, curling mustachios gave an air of manliness to his somewhat boyish visage, but his calm youthful countenance was not at that period marked with the strong and violent passions that afterwards kindled in his eye, and darkened in his frown. He wore a doublet of crimson damask, and a short Angevin cloak, which gained for him the soubriquet of Courtmantle. The ecclesiastics who graced this ceremony also appeared in gowns and cassocks of silk and velvet, another importation of Eleanor from Constantinople. After the celebration of the Christmas festivities, the royal pair took up their residence in Bermondsey, a pastoral village, nearly opposite London, where was an ancient Saxon palace and a priory. While Eleanor remained in this quiet retreat, Henry devoted his energies to settling the affairs of his government, with a prudence and discretion beyond his years. In one council, he appointed the great officers of the crown; in another he confirmed to his subjects, all the rights and liberties secured under the famous charter of Henry Beauclerk, in a third he induced the barons to do homage to his eldest son William, and in the event of William's death, to his second son Henry, a child in the cradle. He demolished many of the castles reared by the rebellious barons under Stephen, dismissed the foreign mercenaries or Brabancons, that had long infested the kingdom, and compelled Malcolm, grandson of David and Maude, to exchange three northern counties for the earldom of Huntingdon, which the King of the Scots claimed as the descendant of Earl Waltheof. During the stormy period of Stephen's reign, the ecclesiastical tribunals had acquired an authority above the judicial courts; and it was the ardent desire of the monarch to reform this abuse. He owed so much, however, to the friendship and constancy of Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, that he found it difficult to work any innovation upon the jurisdiction of the church so dear to the heart of his venerable friend. Eleanor occupied in her own pleasures, and it is charitably to be hoped in the duties of a mother, took little interest in these affairs; for the death of her eldest boy, and the birth of a daughter, had in some sort awakened her mind to maternal responsibilities. She was particularly solicitous with regard to the tutor to be chosen for her son Henry, and herself made a visit to the archbishop to confer upon the subject. A few days after the king entered her apartments in an unusually facetious mood. "The good Theobald," said he, "who suffered banishment for my mother, has parted with his right hand to benefit her son. He has sent us his own archdeacon as a tutor for Henry." "And how looks the candidate for our favor; is he fair and wise?" asked Eleanor. "Nay, for that," said Henry, "the archbishop, with his wonted sagacity, has shown due regard for the tastes of the family, since the man he has sent is half Saxon, half Saracen." "A Pullani," exclaimed Eleanor, her curiosity at once excited. "I met many of this class in Palestine. Comes he direct from the Holy Land?" "Nay, he was born in London, and except some of the characteristics of his wily race, is as good a Christian as ever attended mass. His father, Guilbert Becket, was taken captive in the first crusade, and confined in the palace of an emir. The daughter of the Infidel fell violently in love with the young Christian, liberated him by night, and pawned her jewels to a band of roving pirates, to engage them to convey him safe to Europe. Thither she followed him through a great variety of dangers, replying only 'London,' 'Guilbert,' to all who questioned her. These two magic words brought her to the metropolis, where she found the object of her search. She was baptized by the Saxon name of Matilda, and Becket rewarded her devotion by marrying her. Thomas à Becket was their only son. He passed his childhood under the care of the canons of Merton; he has studied in the schools of Oxford and Paris, frequented the lectures on Philosophy at Bologna, been bred in a thorough knowledge of the civil and canon law, has visited Rome, stands high in the favor of pope and primate, and with all these qualifications," added Henry, in a tone of exultation, "_he is not a priest_." Eleanor was delighted with the story, and Becket was immediately installed as tutor of Prince Henry. Becket's romantic origin, affable manners, but more especially his nice tact in exhibiting intelligence or ignorance, according to the demands of delicate emergencies, recommended him at once to the favor of both king and queen. The principal residences of the royal family were Westminster palace, Winchester, and the country palace of Woodstock, the favorite abode of Henry Beauclerk and Matilda the good. In this charming retirement, Eleanor amused herself and the ladies of her court, with mysteries and mummeries, contrived and acted by the priests and parish clerks. Even the miracles of the holy volume were degraded from their sacred character, and made the subjects of clumsy efforts at merriment. Eleanor, who delighted in scenic amusements, on one occasion instructed the master of ceremonies to dramatize the miraculous trials of St. Dunstan. So many characters were necessary for this important play, that new recruits of abbots, clerks and scholars were imported from the neighboring priory, and the queen's dames d'honneur were enlisted in the choir, and faithfully drilled in the chanting of most unearthly melodies. The usual services in the chapel were for several days omitted. The carpenters displaced the priests, and instead of the sound of matins and vespers, the walls echoed with the noise of workmen's hammers, preparing a false floor for the mimic purgatory. The trees of the park were robbed of their leafy honors, to fit up a forest over the high altar, which by the removal of a panel, and the addition of dry leaves, pebbles and mosses, answered very well for the hermit's cave. The eventful night arrived, and expectation, so long on tiptoe, quietly settled itself upon the temporary benches to enjoy the intellectual treat, while an imaginary moon broad as the shield of their Saxon fathers, reflected the light of a supposed invisible torch placed behind a window shutter. Owing to the imperfection of the machinery there was some difficulty in raising the curtain, but the queen was privately informed that the creaking was not intended as part of the play. The learned and gifted Provençal must be pardoned if she exchanged some sly criticisms and satirical smiles, with the witty Peyrol, at the expense of the well-meaning performers. The scene opened disclosing a barren heath, in the centre of which was a mound of rubbish, strewed with grass and surmounted with a huge stone, which had been transplanted with much care and labor, from an adjacent cromlech. By its side stood a youth, who bashfully hanging his head and awkwardly twirling a wand, thus unfolded the plan of the drama:-- "Here you see this hill and stone, For that you may know anon. The story of the blest St. Dunstan: For dun is hill, and stone is stane, That is what this here shall mean. To the holy Saint was trouble sent, As we here shall represent--" When young Harlequin had concluded his prologue, he paused in great embarrassment staring up at the curtain, till finding that it refused to fall he stepped to the side of the stage and assisted its descent with all his strength. A considerable bustle then ensued behind the scenes, during which the audience amused themselves as is usual in such cases, by suppressed titters and whispers. The reluctant curtain again rose, and instead of the notable hill and stone, the individual typified thereby, St. Dunstan himself appeared, a burly Saxon priest wedged into his altar-cave; an appropriate arrangement admirably adapted to the tradition, since he could neither sit, stand, nor lie down at ease in it. The holy man was professedly engaged at his devotions, rattling off credos and ave maries in a style showing a lamentable want of familiarity with Latin. The arch tempter was a little behind his time, for the saint had evidently exhausted his stock of prayers, and had commenced a repeat when Lucifer appeared in the disguise of a laborer with spade in hand. Approaching the cave, he held out a bag of gold and invited the holy Father to follow him. The hermit impatiently waved his hand and turned his eyes resolutely away from the glittering lure, while the baffled demon walked off the stage. Confused groans and shrieks from the imps beneath followed his departure, while the choir of unseen angels sung with great emphasis-- "With gold he doth the saint assail, But not with this can the devil prevail." The next scene was of a more striking character. The monk was this time interrupted by the advent of a beautiful damsel, who, gliding like an apparition of light from the greenwood, stopped before the cave, showered roses upon his missal, and in the most enticing manner sought to win him from his devotions. The saint, however, remained firm, and when she laid hold of his arm, he snatched a pair of pincers, conveniently heated for the occasion, and zealously seized the sorceress by the nose, who first cried piteously and then bellowed most lustily--but the heart of the pious priest was not to be moved. In the struggle, the glittering mask unfortunately fell off, carrying with it the whole apparatus of the flimsy disguise, and a saucy-looking page, thus unexpectedly revealed, scampered off the stage, much to the discomfiture of the players and greatly to the amusement of the spectators. This _contre-temps_ produced a most uncommon roaring among the demons below, while the choir sung with renewed vehemence-- "With love he doth the saint assail, But not with this shall the devil prevail." Hardly had the cheering and laughter subsided, when the curtain rose the third time. A sulphurous vapor filled the apartment, and from a trap-door in the staging, amid mimic thunders and faint attempts at lightning, rose his Satanic majesty, in _propria persona_, with the usual adjuncts of horns, hoofs and tail. As if to strengthen the trembling saint for the final conflict, the choir reiterated with great excitement-- "With fear he doth your heart assail, But not with this shall the devil prevail." The fiend advanced with diabolical grimace, and the whole staging trembled beneath his tread, while the terrified devotee shrank to the farthest corner of the cell, and throwing his huge arms round the wooden crucifix, told his beads with startling volubility. It was evidently the fiend's object, to detach St. Dunstan from the cross; but the broad-shouldered priest was more than a match for the sturdy boor, encumbered as he was with the trappings of his new dignities. A terrible struggle ensued, but such was the desperate energy with which the saint grasped the holy symbol, and so intimately was it connected with the whole design of the performance, that in attempting to drag the priest from its protection, the stout yeoman tore the crucifix from the altar, the forest from its foundations, and while the choir were preparing to vociferate a splendid song of triumph, friar and fiend, angels and apparatus were precipitated into the yawning purgatory beneath. At the same moment, the man with the moon abruptly set, leaving the chapel in total darkness. The musical pitch wavered and quavered, and terminated in shrieks of affright, and the audience, apprehensive that the devil had not yet his due, fled in most undignified haste. It was not until the queen had reached her own apartments, and her tire-women one after another came hurrying to her presence in ludicrous disarray, that she forgot her fright and gave way to a genial burst of merriment. The forlorn damsels at length found it impossible not to join in her mirth, and every fresh arrival was hailed with irrepressible peals of laughter. "Welcome, my angeliques," cried the queen. "I feared that your late promotion would unfit you for mortal duties; but I perceive, with pleasure, that a foretaste of the punishment that awaits the unfaithful, has rendered you more than usually alert this evening. For ourself, we feel the necessity for repose, and will gladly be disrobed for our couch." Notwithstanding the unsuccessful efforts of her Saxon clerks, Eleanor was not discouraged. She summoned from Blois a celebrated abbot named William, who, under her patronage, and assisted by her genius, brought out his tragedy of Flaura and Marcus, the first appearance of the regular drama in England. CHAPTER V. For close designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; Restless, unfixed in principle and place, In power unpleased, impatient in disgrace. Thomas a Becket had risen rapidly in the royal favor. His calm discrimination and cool judgment had made him the chosen counsellor of his patron, his sedulous attention to his pupil had won the heart of Eleanor, while his courtly qualities and knightly address made him popular with all classes of people. The king conferred upon him the honors of Eye, the wardenship of the tower of London, and made him chancellor of the realm. The versatility of his accomplishments enabled him to adapt himself to Henry's various moods, and he thus became the monarch's inseparable companion. The rapidity of his rise was equalled only by the splendor of his course. He rivalled the king in the appointments of his household, exercised the most unbounded hospitality towards those who visited the court, and became the medium through which the subjects communicated with their sovereign. The king was his frequent guest, and the monarch and the favorite seemed bound by ties of real friendship. Queen Eleanor had removed her court from Woodstock, to the palace of Beaumont, in Oxford, where the celebrated Coeur de Lion was born, A.D. 1157. On the receipt of this pleasing intelligence, the king set off with his chancellor and train to join his family. As they rode along, conversing upon terms of the most easy familiarity, a miserable beggar followed them asking an alms. The king carelessly bestowed a few pence, and the chancellor observing the tattered garments of the mendicant, facetiously remarked, that the command was not to feed the hungry alone, but to clothe the naked. "Thou sayest truth," said the king, "and art thyself worthy to illustrate thy own doctrine." So saying, he seized the chancellor's cloak, and began pulling it from his shoulders. The favorite resisted this charitable impulse, and put spurs to his horse. The king, however, retained his grasp, and urged his steed to keep pace with that of the close-fisted courtier, and betwixt their struggles and laughter, both had nearly been rolled in the dirt. Becket, finally, released his hold, and the wondering beggar wrapped his shivering limbs in the finest mantle in the kingdom. As their road wound through the rich meadows of Evenlod, they caught occasional glimpses of the nunnery at Godstow, half-hidden among the trees, and before they reached the outer line of the convent walls, they saw at a short distance before them, crossing a rustic bridge, the figure of a beautiful girl, mounted upon a coal-black steed. The ease and grace with which she reined the mettlesome animal, the exquisite symmetry of her form, set off by the rich drapery of her robe, first attracted the king's notice. Her hair of a golden brown escaping from a turban-like riding-cap, floated like a veil over her shoulders, and air and exercise imparted a brilliant bloom to a face of lily fairness, and gave additional lustre to eyes, whose mirror-like depths seemed formed to reflect the light of heaven. Henry instinctively drew rein as the beautiful being dashed across their way and struck into a bridle-path, followed by a venerable-looking serving man, in green livery. "What dazzling vision is this?" said Henry, pausing as if to recall a half-forgotten memory. "I have seen that face before, or my eye is, for the first time, at fault." "The appointments of the servant are those of the Clifford's," said Becket, coldly. "And what is the name of the fair creature with the golden locks?" pursued Henry. "If it be the daughter of Lord Walter de Clifford, her name is Rosamond," said Becket, little inclined to satisfy the monarch's inquiries. "Walter de Clifford!" said the king, with a thrill of recollection. "I mind me now, when the King of Scotland laid the sword of knighthood on my shoulder, it was the Lord de Clifford that buckled on my spurs; and this fair girl, then a child of exquisite beauty, sat among the maids of the queen, who presided at the tournament. A king bred in a foreign land must needs be a sad stranger in his own realm. Canst thou point me to the home of this fair damsel?" Becket, who perceived that the impetuosity of the monarch would not brook evasion, answered; "Clifford castle is some two days' distance, on the banks of the Wye. The Lord de Clifford has been a crusader in Palestine this many a year, and his daughter, who after her mother's death, was in care of the nuns of Godstow, is haply on her way to the convent. The serving man, I see, is old Adam Henrid, her seneschal." "Let us push on," said Henry, "to-night we sup at Godstow. Much I wonder," he added, musingly, "if the sweet girl holds in recollection the image of the boy knight." "Becket," he added, aloud, "there is little about me to betray the king. I will be to-night, the simple Duke of Maine. Be thou my squire. Our men in attendance may proceed to Oxford." So saying, the impatient monarch put spurs to his horse, and galloped forward followed by his reluctant courtier, and alighted at the nunnery just after Rosamond had been received within its walls. The sound of the bell brought to the great gate of the convent the portress, summoned from her evening meal, and still holding in her hand the bunch of leeks and slice of brown bread, which formed the repast. "And what wouldst thou, sir knight?" she inquired, gruffly. "Rest and refreshment," said Henry, in French. "We are weary travellers, and seek shelter for the night." "Ye are from beyond the sea," replied the portress, "and we will none of your outlandish tongue. Yonder lies the way to Oxford." "Becket," whispered the king, "let thy ready wit serve us in this time of need, and thou shalt not find thy lord ungrateful." The wily chancellor, who never lost the opportunity of laying the monarch under obligation to himself, instantly rejoined in Saxon to the nun, "Open to us, good mother. The Duke of Maine is a zealous patron of the church, and perchance thine own convent will be none the poorer for granting him entertainment." The mollified portress immediately admitted them, muttering apologetically, "The wayfarer and benighted are ever received with Christian charity, by the sisters of the blessed St. Bernard." * * * * * The infant Richard was a child of great promise, and his ambitious mother began, at once, to plan for his future advancement. She besought her husband to bestow upon the prince the dukedom of Aquitaine, and to permit her to convey him thither, to receive the homage of the barons, and to arrange a betrothment between him and Philippa, the infant daughter of her sister Petronilla and Raymond of Arragon. To her great joy and surprise Henry acceded at once to the proposal, and co-operated in her scheme for remaining some time as regent in her southern dominions. Louis VII., King of France, had given his two daughters by Eleanor, in marriage to the Counts of Blois and Champagne; and after the death of his second wife Constantia, conferred the crown matrimonial upon their father's sister, Adelais of Champagne, widow of the famous Rudolph of Vermandois. He also bestowed upon the Count of Champagne the office of seneschal of his kingdom, which of right belonged to Henry, as Duke of Anjou, who, enraged at this measure, made war upon his liege lord. The affair was finally compromised by the affiancing of Henry's eldest son with Louis's third daughter Marguerite. Henry and Eleanor repaired to Normandy to celebrate the nuptials, and Becket was sent to Paris to bring the young bride to Rouen. On this important occasion the chancellor travelled in the greatest state. When he entered a town two hundred and fifty boys singing national airs led the procession, while from wagons covered with skins and protected by guards and dogs the populace were regaled with draughts of English beer. Other wagons, each drawn by five horses, led by servants in splendid livery, followed with the furniture of his chapel, bed-chamber and kitchen, his plate, wardrobe, and attendants. Then came twelve sumpter horses each carrying a groom and monkey; then the esquires, gentlemen's sons, falconers with hawks upon their wrists, officers of the household, knights and clergymen, and last of all Becket himself in familiar converse with a few friends. The French, when they saw an ambassador affecting a magnificence greater than their own sovereign could command, exclaimed, "What manner of man must the King of England be, when his chancellor travels in such state." The King of France received Becket with the most distinguishing courtesy, and committed the infant Marguerite to his care. Becket conveyed the little princess to Rouen, where the contract of marriage was solemnized, and the juvenile bride and bridegroom were committed to him for education, and Louis gave to Henry three cities as the dower of his daughter. But a misunderstanding arising with regard to the matter, a fresh compromise was effected by another match. The death of the little princess of Arragon had left the hand of Richard again at liberty. This hand was given as a pledge of amity to Alice, the infant daughter of France, who was also conveyed to England for education. It was the policy of Henry to strengthen his government by powerful alliances: and these early marriages were followed in quick succession by similar unions between Geoffrey his third son and Constance the heiress of Bretagne, and his eldest daughter Matilda with Henry the lion Duke of Saxony. In the midst of these domestic and political arrangements Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, died; and the king entered upon his long-meditated design of reforming the abuses of the church. He had loaded Becket with every demonstration of favor and affection, and counting confidently upon his co-operation, offered him the vacancy. The chancellor objected that he was not a priest, but Henry insisted that the time required to take orders was only a few hours. Still the chancellor seemed to decline the dazzling gift. He protested that were he once a bishop he must uphold the rights of the church, and solemnly told the king the night before his consecration that the mitre would interpose an eternal barrier between them. Henry persisted, and Becket at last modestly accepted the first office in the kingdom. Directly on his investment the new archbishop became as much distinguished for his austerity as he had before been for his ostentation. He resigned his office of chancellor, dismissed his knightly train, clothed himself in sackcloth, fed upon the coarsest fare, drank water nauseous with fennel, and daily upon his knees washed the feet of thirteen beggars, whom he afterwards dismissed with alms. On all occasions he defended the rights of the church in opposition to those of the crown. As he was the most learned man in the kingdom, the most eloquent and the best beloved, he possessed unbounded influence with all classes, and Henry soon found in the man whom he trusted as an ally a most powerful adversary. But the king did not on this account relinquish his plans for reform. A parish priest had been guilty of murder under circumstances that peculiarly aggravated the crime. The judicial courts sought to try the criminal. The bishop contended that degradation from office was the highest punishment that could be inflicted upon a son of the church. The affair created great sensation throughout the kingdom, and Henry finally convened a general council of the nobility and clergy. Several articles, were drawn up called the Constitutions of Clarendon, the drift of which was that no churchman should be entitled to privileges greater than those enjoyed by his peers among the laity. Becket at first refused to sign the articles and the other bishops followed his example. Being threatened with exile or death he at length yielded; but afterwards, learning that the pope did not approve his course, he retracted his consent. The king incensed at the conduct of his favorite, ordered a succession of charges to be prepared, on which the archbishop was cited to trial. Becket declined the jurisdiction of the court and appealed to the pope, finally escaped across the sea and made his way to the King of France. Troubles in Aquitaine had made it necessary for Eleanor to take up her abode there, where, in company with her children, she remained some time exercising the functions of regent with great ability. To detach Prince Henry, who was enthusiastically fond of his tutor, from the party of Becket, the king sent for him to be crowned at Westminster, and admitted to a share of the government. But when the princess Marguerite found that Becket, the guardian of her youth, was not to place the diadem upon her head, she trampled upon the coronation-robes, and perversely refused to leave Aquitaine for London. King Louis took up his daughter's quarrel, and entered Normandy at the head of an army. Henry hastened to defend his domains, and hostilities were commenced, but the two monarchs had a private conference, and Henry finally promised to seek an immediate reconciliation with his exiled primate. The archbishop of Rouen and the bishop of Nevers were authorized to arrange an interview, and the King of England awaited the arrival of his rebellious subject in a spacious meadow, on the borders of Touraine. As soon as Becket appeared Henry spurred on his horse, with his cap in hand, thus preventing any formal recognition, and discoursed with all the easy familiarity of former days. At the gracious words of his master, the archbishop descended from his horse, and threw himself at the feet of his sovereign; but Henry laid hold of the stirrup, and insisted that he should remount, saying, "Let us renew our ancient affection for each other,--only show me honor before those who are now viewing our behavior." Then returning to his nobles, he remarked, "I find the archbishop in the best of dispositions towards me; were I otherwise toward him I should be the worst of men." The king, however, adroitly avoided giving the kiss of peace, a circumstance which the primate observed, and made the subject of the most gloomy presage. Having waited in vain for the money which Henry had promised him, Becket borrowed a sum sufficient to defray the expenses of the journey, and contrary to the advice of his friends, returned to his diocese. He despatched a letter to the king at Rouen, which closed thus:-- "It was my wish to have waited on you once more, but necessity compels me, in the lowly state to which I am reduced, to revisit my afflicted church. I go, sir, with your permission, perhaps to perish for its security, unless you protect me; but whether I live or die, yours I am, and yours I shall ever be in the Lord. Whatever may befall me or mine, may the blessing of God rest on you and your children." * * * * * Before the meeting between Becket and the king, the pope had issued letters of suspension against those who had assisted at the coronation of the young prince, and Becket returned to England with those letters upon his person, and immediately proceeded upon the work of excommunication. These tidings were conveyed to Henry by the first ship that sailed for Normandy, and the outraged monarch exclaimed in a fury of passion, "Of the cowards who eat my bread is there not one to rid me of this turbulent priest?" Four knights, at the head of whom was Reginald Fitzurse, immediately set out for England, and proceeding straight to Canterbury, entered the house of the archbishop, and required him, in the king's name, to absolve the excommunicated prelates. Becket refused, and repaired to the church with the utmost tranquillity to evening vespers. The solemn tones of the organ had ceased, and the archbishop had opened the book and commenced the lesson of the martyrdom of St. Stephen, "Princes sat and spake against me," when the knights, with twelve companions, all in complete armor, burst into the church. "Where is the traitor? Where is the archbishop?" inquired Fitzurse. "Here am I," replied Becket, "the archbishop, but no traitor." He read his doom in the eyes of his pursuers. "Tyrant king," muttered he, "though I die I will be thy undoing." He wrote hastily upon a tablet, "_Woodstock_," and giving it to his only attendant, whispered, "Deliver this to Queen Eleanor. Tarry not till thou find her." Then turning calmly to the knights, "Reginald," said he, "I have granted thee many favors, what is thy object now? If thou seekest my life, I command thee, in the name of God, not to touch one of my people." "I come not to take life," replied Reginald, "but to witness the absolution of the bishops." "Till they offer satisfaction I shall never absolve them," said the prelate. "Then die!" exclaimed the knight, aiming a blow at his head. The attendant interposed his arm, which was broken, and the force of the stroke bore away the prelate's cap, and wounded him on the crown. As he felt the blood trickling down his face, he joined his hands and bowed his head, saying, "In the name of Christ, and for the defence of his church I am ready to die." Turning thus towards his murderers, he waited a second stroke, which threw him on his knees, and the third prostrated him on the floor, at the foot of St. Bennett's altar. He made no effort towards resistance or escape, and without a groan expired. The assassins instantly fled, and the people, who had by this time assembled, crowded into the cathedral. The priests with pious reverence took up the body of the dead archbishop, and laid it in state before the high altar. They tore his garments in pieces, and distributed each shred as a sacred relic. The devout wiped up his blood and treasured the holy stains, and the more fortunate obtained a lock of hair from his honored head. Becket was interred with great solemnity in Canterbury cathedral, and all the power he had exercised in life was but a trifle to the influence of the miracles wrought at his tomb. Henry was celebrating the holidays in Normandy, when the news of this event threw him into the deepest melancholy. The train of calamities, which would inevitably follow the curse of the church, made him tremble for his throne, and the natural horror of the crime alarmed his imagination and partially disordered his reason. He knew not how to receive the murderers, nor yet how to treat with the pope, and finally concluded to give the matter over to the judgment of the spiritual courts. The assassins in consequence travelled to Rome, and were sentenced by way of expiation to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. To evade meeting the legates of the pope, Henry determined to seize this opportunity for his long meditated invasion of Ireland. The same month that witnessed the splendid coronation of Henry and Eleanor, had been signalized by the succession of Nicholas Breakspear, to the throne of the Vatican. This prelate, consecrated under the name of Adrian IV. was the only Englishman that ever sat in the chair of St. Peter; and his partiality for his native sovereign had led him to bestow upon Henry, a grant of the dominion of Ireland. Now when troubles arose in that province and circumstances rendered absence from his own dominions desirable, the king led an army into Ireland. From the time of the marriage of her daughter Matilda with the Lion of Saxony, Eleanor had not visited England. The arrival of Becket's messenger in Bordeaux, conveyed to her the first intelligence of the prelate's death; and the mysterious word _Woodstock_, immediately revived a half-forgotten suspicion excited by the stratagems of Henry, to prevent her return to her favorite residence. Her woman's curiosity prevailed over her love of power, and she intrusted the regency to her son Henry, repaired to England, and lost no time on her way to Woodstock. As she approached the palace, her keen eye scanned every circumstance that might lead curiosity or lull suspicion, but with the exception of a deserted and unkept look, the appearance of the place indicated no marked change. Though she came with a small train and unannounced, the drawbridge was instantly lowered for her entrance, and the aged porter received her with a smile of unfeigned satisfaction. The state rooms were thrown open and hastily fitted up for the reception of the royal inmates, and the servants, wearied with the listless inactivity of a life without motive or excitement, bustled about the castle and executed the commands of their mistress, with the most joyful alacrity. Under pretence of superintending additions and repairs, Queen Eleanor ordered carpenters and masons, who under her eye, visited every apartment, sounded every wall, and tore off every panel, where by any possibility an individual might be concealed. She did not hesitate even to penetrate the dungeons under the castle; and whenever the superstition of the domestics made them hesitate in mortal terror, she would seize a torch and unattended thread her way through the darkest and dampest subterranean passages of the gloomy vaults. All these investigations led to no discovery. The pleasance offered little to invite her search. It had been originally laid out in the stiff and tasteless manner of the age, with straight walks and close clipped shrubbery, but so long neglected it was a tangled maze, to which her eye could detect no entrance. Below the pleasance the postern by a wicket gate communicated with a park, which was separated only by a stile from the great forest of Oxfordshire. Mounted on her Spanish jennet, Eleanor galloped through this park and sometimes ventured into the forest beyond, and she soon discovered that the attendants avoided a thicket which skirted the park wall. Commanding the grooms to lead in that direction, she was informed that it was the ruins of the old menagerie, located there by Henry I., overgrown by thorns and ivy and trees, that shut out the light of the sun. The aged porter assured her that no one had entered it in his day, that wild beasts still howled therein, and that the common people deemed it dangerous to visit its vicinity. He added, that one youth who had charge of the wicket, had been carried off and never again seen; and that all the exorcisms of the priests could never lay the ghost. The old man crossed himself in devout horror and turned away; but the queen commanded him to hold the bridle of her horse, while she should attempt the haunted precincts alone. The thick underwood resisted all her efforts, and she found it impossible to advance but a few steps, though her unwonted intrusion aroused the beetles and bats, awakened the chatter of monkeys and the startled twitter of birds, and gave her a glimpse of what she thought were the glaring eyeballs of a wolf. A solemn owl flew out above her head as she once more emerged into the light of day, and the timid porter welcomed her return with numerous ejaculations of thanksgiving to the watchful saints; but he shook his head with great gravity as he assisted her to remount saying, "I would yon dismal bird had kept his perch in the hollow oak. Our proverb says, 'Woe follows the owl's wing as blood follows the steel.'" Disappointed in the wood, Eleanor relinquished her fruitless search. But by dint of questioning she learned, that though the palace wore the appearance of desertion and decay, it had been the frequent resort of Henry and Becket, and since the favorite's death, her husband had made it a flying visit before leaving for Ireland. Farther than this all inquiries were vain. The unexpected return of her husband, and his look of surprise and anxiety at finding her at Woodstock, again awakened all her jealous fears. His power of dissimulation, notwithstanding, kept her constantly at fault, and during the week of his stay, nothing was elicited to throw light upon the mystery. Henry had been negotiating with the pope to obtain absolution for Becket's murder, and was now on his way to Normandy to meet the legates. The morning before his departure, Queen Eleanor saw him walking in the pleasance, and hastened to join him. As she approached she observed a thread of silk, attached to his spur and apparently extending through the walks of the shrubbery. Carefully breaking the thread she devoted herself by the most sedulous attention to her husband, till he set out for France, when she hastened back to the garden, and taking up the silk followed it through numerous turnings and windings till she came to a little open space near the garden wall, perfectly enclosed by shrubbery. The ball from which the thread was unwound lay upon the grass. There the path seemed to terminate; but her suspicions were now so far confirmed that she determined not to give up the pursuit. A broken bough, on which the leaves were not yet withered, riveted her attention, and pulling aside the branch she discovered a concealed door. With great difficulty she opened or rather lifted it, and descended by stairs winding beneath the castle wall. Ascending on the opposite side by a path so narrow that she could feel the earth and rocks on either hand, she emerged into what had formerly been the cave of a leopard, fitted up in the most fanciful manner with pebbles, mosses, and leaves. She made the entire circuit of the cave ere she discovered a place of egress: but at length pushing away a verdant screen, she advanced upon an open pathway which wound, now under the thick branches of trees, now through the dilapidated barriers that had prevented the forest denizens from making war upon each other, now among ruined lodges which the keepers of the wild beasts had formerly inhabited; but wherever she wandered she noted that some careful hand had planted tree, and shrub, and flower in such a manner as to conceal the face of decay and furnish in the midst of these sylvan shades a most delightful retreat. At last she found herself inextricably involved in a labyrinth whose apartments, divided by leafy partitions, seemed so numerous and so like each other as to render it impossible for her to form any idea of the distance she had come, or the point to which she must proceed. The sun was going down when by accident, she laid her hand upon the stile. Following its windings, though with great difficulty, she emerged into the path that terminated in the forest. The low howl of a wolf-dog quickened her steps, and she arrived at the palace breathless with fear and fatigue. Sleep scarcely visited her pillow. She revolved the matter over and over again in her mind. "Where could Henry find balls of silk? For whose pleasure and privacy was the labyrinth contrived? What hand had planted the rare exotic adjacent to the hawthorn and the sloe? Was this tortuous path the road to a mortal habitation? And who was the fair inmate?" She could hardly wait for the dawn of the morning, and when the morning came it only increased her impatience, for heavy clouds veiled the sun, and a continued rain confined her for several days to her apartments. When she next set out on her voyage of discovery she took the necessary precaution to secure a hearty coadjutor in the person of Peyrol, who silently followed her with the faithfulness of early affection, wondering to what point their mysterious journey might tend. At the secret door she fastened a thread, and with more celerity than she had hoped, traced her former course to the labyrinth; with much difficulty she again found the stile, and after a diligent search perceived a rude stair, that winding around the base of a rock assumed a regular shapely form, till by a long arched passage it conducted to a tower screened by lofty trees, but commanding through the interstices of the foliage a view of the adjacent forest. Here all effort at concealment was at an end. The doors opened into rooms fitted up with all the appliances of wealth, and with a perfection of taste that showed that some female divinity presided there. Vases of fresh-culled flowers regaled the senses with rich perfume. A harp lay unstrung upon the table, a tambour frame on which was an unfinished picture of the Holy Family leaned against the wall, while balls of silk and children's toys lay scattered around in playful disorder. Everything indicated that the tower had been recently occupied, but no inmate was to be found. Retracing their steps into the forest they proceeded by a well-beaten path along the banks of a little stream, to a pebbly basin in which the waters welled up with a faint murmur that spoke of rest and quiet. A sound of music made them pause, and they heard a low gentle voice followed by the lisping accents of a child chanting the evening hymn to the Virgin. Stepping stealthily along they saw, half shaded by a bower inwoven with myrtle and eglantine, a beautiful female kneeling before a crucifix hung with votive offerings. Her face was exquisitely fair, and her eyes raised to the holy symbol seemed to borrow their hue from the heavens above. A soft bloom suffused her cheek, and her coral lips parted in prayer revealed her pearly teeth. The delicate contour of her finely rounded throat and bust were displayed by her posture, and one dimpled shoulder was visible through the wavy masses of bright hair that enveloped her figure, as though the light of the golden sunset lingered lovingly about her. An infant, fairer if possible than the mother, with eyes of the same heavenly hue, lay by her side. He had drawn one tiny slipper from his foot, and delighted with his prize laughed in every feature and seemed crowing an accompaniment to her words. Startled by the sound of footsteps, the mother turned, and meeting the dark menacing gaze of Eleanor, snatched up the baby-boy, which clasped its little hands and looked up in her face, instinctively suiting the action of entreaty to the smile of confident affection. The elder boy before unnoticed advanced as if in doubt, whether to grieve or frown. The deep earnest gaze of his hazel eyes and his soft brown hair, clearly indicated his Norman extraction, and when he passed his arm half-fearfully, half-protectingly around his mother's neck, and the eloquent blood mounted to his cheek Eleanor recognized the princely bearing of the Plantagenets. "False woman," said she, darting forward and confronting the trembling mother with flashing eyes, "thou art the paramour of King Henry, and these your base-born progeny." To the paleness of terror succeeded the flush of indignation not unmingled with the crimson hue of shame, as the fair creature raised her head and repelled the accusation. "Rosamond de Clifford is not King Henry's paramour. My lord is the Duke of Maine; and when he returns from the wars will acknowledge his babes before the nobles of the land." "Aye, the Duke of Maine," retorted Eleanor, in scornful mockery, "and of Anjou, and of Normandy, and through his injured queen lord of the seven beautiful provinces of the south. Thy white face has won a marvellous conquest. The arch-dissimulator boasts many titles, but one that bars all thy claims. He is the _husband_ of Eleanor of Aquitaine!" "Becket! where is Becket, why comes not my friend and counsellor?" exclaimed Rosamond in the accents of despair, as a conviction of the truth flashed upon her mind. "Dead," replied the infuriated woman, approaching nearer and speaking in a hoarse whisper. "Henry brooks no rival in his path, nor will Eleanor." The implied threat and fierce gestures warned Rosamond of her danger, and clasping her frightened children to her breast, she sank down at the feet of the queen in the utmost terror and abasement. "Heaven assoil thee of thy sin," said Eleanor, turning to depart, "at dawn we meet again." CHAPTER VI. "Oh! think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods; Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Fill'd up with horror, and big with death." The first conference of Henry with the legates proved unsatisfactory, but at the second, in the presence of the bishops, barons and people, with his hand on the gospels, he solemnly swore that he was innocent both in word and deed of the murder of Becket. Yet, as his passionate expression had been the occasion of the prelate's death, he promised to maintain two hundred knights for the defence of the Holy Land; to serve in person against the Infidels three years, either in Palestine or Spain, and to restore the confiscated estates of Becket's friends. Pleased with the successful issue of this negotiation, Henry was preparing to return with joyful haste to England, when his peace was disturbed by quarrels originating in his own family. For some unaccountable reason his children seemed all armed against him. His son Henry demanded immediate possession of either England or Normandy, and on being refused appealed to his father-in-law Louis VII. Before three days had elapsed, Richard and Geoffrey followed their brother, and soon after Henry learned to his dismay that Queen Eleanor had herself set off for the court of her former husband. Remembering the perilous vicinity in which he had left the queen, it at once occurred to him that she was the original instigator of the plot. By a skilful manoeuvre, he intercepted her flight, and sent her back to Winchester a prisoner. Immediately his undutiful sons, adding their mother's quarrel to their own grievances, bound themselves by oath to the King of France that they would never make peace with their father except by Louis's consent. The Duke of Flanders joined the league of the parricides, and the King of Scotland poured into the northern counties his strongest forces. Never was the crown of Henry in such danger. While repelling the attacks of the insurgents in Normandy, he received a visit from the Bishop of Winchester, who entreated him to return once more to England, as his presence alone could save the kingdom. Henry at once set out. His countenance was gloomy and troubled, and his mind seemed deeply affected by the rebellion of his children, the perfidy of his barons and general combination of the neighboring princes, and above all, by his fearful uncertainty with regard to the fate of those whom he had so long and so carefully guarded. To ease the torment of his mind, he secretly determined to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the recently-canonized martyr St. Thomas à Becket. He landed at Southampton, and without waiting for rest or refreshment, rode all night towards Canterbury. At the dawn of the morning, he descried the towers of Christ's Church. Dismounting from his horse, he exchanged the garb of the king for that of a penitent, and walked barefoot towards the city, so cruelly cutting his feet with the stones that every step was marked with blood. He entered the cathedral, descended to the crypt, knelt before the holy relics of his former friend, confessed his sins; and then resorting to the chapter-house, bared his shoulders, and submissively and gratefully received three stripes from the knotted cords which each priest, to the number of eighty, applied for his spiritual benefit. Bleeding and faint, he again returned to the crypt, and passed the night in weary vigils upon the cold stone floor. The following morning he attended mass, and then mounted his horse and rode to London, where the fasting, fatigue and anxiety he had undergone threw him into a fever. Scarcely had he recovered, when he learned that his enemies had abandoned the idea of invading England and were concentrating their efforts upon his continental dominions, and that an army more numerous than any which Europe had seen since the expedition of the crusades, was encamped under the walls of Rouen. These circumstances made it necessary for him to embark again for France. In two successive campaigns he foiled the attempts of his rebel sons and their foreign allies, and finally brought them to demand a general pacification. The three princes engaged to pay due obedience to their father, the King of the Scots agreed to hold his crown as a fief of England, and this made it necessary for all parties to proceed to York. Peace being again restored, after a great variety of detentions and delays, Henry at last found himself at liberty to obey the promptings of his heart, and visit Woodstock. He endured with such patience as he could the enthusiastic greetings of the household, and at the imminent jeopardy of his secret, took his way through the pleasance. He was first alarmed by finding the concealed door in the wall wide open, and every step of his advance added to his apprehensions. There were marks of a bloody struggle at the entrance to the tower, and everything within indicated that the occupants had been disturbed in the midst of their daily avocations. The rocking-horse of Prince William stood with the rein across his neck, as if the youthful rider had just dismounted, the pillow of the little Geoffrey still retained the impression of his cherub head; the thimble and scissors of Rosamond lay upon the table, but the embroidery was covered thick with dust, and rust had corroded the strings of the harp. The scene by the Hermit's Well was yet more desolate. Withered herbage and leaves had stopped the welling fountain, and entirely choked the current of the stream. Rosamond's bower, once invested with every attraction, now neglected and deserted struck a chill upon his soul. Rank weeds had overrun the verdant seats, the eglantine struggled in vain with the ivy, whose long and pendulous branches waved and flapped in the night-breeze like the mourning hatchments above a tomb. A bevy of swallows took wing at his entrance, the timid rabbit fled at his intrusive step, and a green lizard glided from beneath the hand with which he supported his agitated frame against one of the columns. Rosamond was gone. But by what means had she been conveyed from the retreat where she had so long dwelt content with his love, and happy in the caresses of her children? Was she a wanderer and an outcast, with a bleeding heart and a blighted name? Had she made her couch in the cold, dark grave? Had her indignant father returned from the Holy Land, and immured her in the dungeons of Clifford castle to hide her shame? Or had some other hand dared to blot out the life so dear to him? The thought was madness. He ran, he flew to the palace. The old porter was summoned and closely questioned. He remembered the time of the queen's last visit, her anxiety to penetrate the wood and search the castle. The night before her departure three of her French servants suddenly disappeared, but as several horses were missing at the same time, and the queen had been employed in writing letters, it was supposed that they were couriers. There were lights seen, and cries heard in the wood. One of the grooms affirmed that the ghost of the youth who some years before was spirited away, appeared in the stable, and a boy belonging to a neighboring peasant had never since been heard of. Though Henry traced this story through all the interpolations and additions that ignorance and credulity could give it, neither his utmost inquiries nor his subsequent researches could elicit any further fact. Satisfied that nothing could be learned at Woodstock, the king hurried to Winchester. The passionate queen, amidst upbraidings and revilings, acknowledged that she had discovered the retreat of his mistress, and that, stung by jealousy, she had threatened to take her life by the poniard or poison; that to prevent the escape of her fair rival, she had stationed two of her Gascon servants, a guard at the tower-stair. But she declared that when she returned on the following morning to execute her fell purpose, she found the grass dripping with gore, and not far distant the dead bodies of her servants, and the corpse of another whom she had known in her early days as Sir Thomas, guarded by a wolf-dog just expiring from a sword-wound; and that, assisted by Peyrol, she had dragged the bodies into the thicket, and then vainly endeavored to trace the fugitives. Notwithstanding all the threats that Henry employed to extort further confession, she persisted in affirming her ignorance of the fate of Rosamond. Little crediting her asseverations, he increased the rigor of her confinement, and installed Alice, the affianced of Richard, with almost regal honors, in the state apartments. This sudden partiality of his father roused the jealousy of Richard, and he demanded the hand of his bride in terms not the most respectful nor conciliatory. Henry felt that the bond between his son and France was sufficiently strong, and ingeniously delayed the nuptials. Then ensued another rebellion led by young Henry; but before the day fixed for battle arrived, anxiety and fatigue threw the prince into a fever, from which he never recovered. On his death-bed his soul became agitated with fear and remorse. He sent messengers to his father to implore forgiveness for his unfilial conduct, and ordered the priests to lay him on a bed of ashes, where having received the sacraments, he expired. The king was about the same period called upon to part, in a more hopeful manner, with his second daughter, Eleanor, who had been for some time betrothed to Alphonso, King of Castile. Henry's affection for his children in their early years, was of the most tender character; and Eleanor's fondness for him for some time subsequent to their marriage, partook of the passionate devotion of the south, but when her fickle attachment was assailed by the demon of jealousy, her love was changed to hate: and as Henry justly imagined, the rebellion of his sons was the consequence of her instructions. His domestic afflictions aggravated the melancholy occasioned by the mysterious disappearance of Rosamond, and he lamented in bitterness of spirit that the tempting lure of wealth and dominion offered in the alliance of Eleanor, had bribed him from his boyish purpose of placing Rosamond on the throne of England. He cursed the ambition that had nurtured foes in his own household, and deplored the selfish passion that had remorselessly poured sorrow into the young life that ventured all upon his truth. The calm heroism of his early character was changed into petulant arrogance. He frequently spent whole days hunting in the forests, or riding alone in different parts of his dominions. In the simple garb of a country knight, he had often sought admittance to the ancient seat of the Cliffords, and the nunnery of Godstowe, but without success. The sight of a crowd of people collected round a returned pilgrim at length suggested another mode of disguise. Procuring a palmer's weeds, he repaired to Herefordshire, and craved an alms from the servants, at Clifford castle. He was at once admitted, and the curious household gathered round the holy man to listen to his story. It had been, he said, a long time since he had left the Holy Wars. He had been a wanderer in many lands, but his heart had led him to his native country, to seek for those whom he had known in his youth. He would fain see, once more, the good Lord de Clifford, for he had saved his life in Palestine. The servants replied that the Lord de Clifford had not been heard from for many a year. "Might he gain a moment's audience of the Lady de Clifford?" The lady died soon after her lord's departure. "Could he speak with Adam Henrid?" The good seneschal had been long dead. His voice faltered as he inquired for Rosamond. An ominous silence was the only reply. "And Jaqueline, the lady's maid?" She, too, lay in her grave. He ran his eye along the group, and said with a look of embarrassment and pain, "There is none to welcome my return. It was not so in the good days when my lord and my lady rode forth to the chase with their gallant train, and the sound of feasting and wassail resounded in the castle hall. Remains there none of Lord Walter's kin to offer welcome or charity in our lady's name?" A proud boy stepped forth among the listeners, and with princely courtesy extended his hand. "Come with me, holy father," said he, "it shall never be said, that a pilgrim went hungry and weary from the castle of the Cliffords." With a step that accorded better with his impatience than his assumed character, Henry followed the lad to an inner apartment, where a repast was soon spread before him. As soon as the servants had withdrawn he entered into conversation with his young host. "Thou art a De Clifford," said he, as though it were an undoubted fact. "What is thy name?" "William," replied the youth; "and this clerk," pointing to a fair boy who sat reading in the deep embrasure of the window, "is my brother Geoffrey." "And how long have you dwelt at the castle?" "Some winters," replied the boy, after a moment's hesitation. "Who brought you hither?" "We came with Jaqueline, from our cottage in the wood." "And where is your mother?" said Henry, making a desperate effort to speak with calmness. "She went with Jaqueline so long ago, that Geoffrey does not remember her." "And your father?" said Henry, with increased agitation. "Jaqueline said our father was a king, and we must never leave the castle till he came for us." "And why did Jaqueline leave the castle?" "She went to the convent for confession; and there was where she died: but it is a long way." The heart of the father yearned towards his sons, as he gazed from one to the other, and compared their features with the miniature that their infant charms had set in his memory, but with the sweet certainty that he had at last found the objects of his search, was born the thrilling hope that their mother yet lived. Then a struggling crowd of thoughts, emotions, and purposes rushed through his mind, and foremost among them all was the idea that Eleanor might be divorced, Rosamond's wrongs repaired, the diadem of England placed upon her brow, and his declining years solaced by the affection of these duteous sons who should take the places and titles of the rebel princes. Yet even in the midst of the tumult of his feelings his wonted self-control taught him not to risk the safety of his new-found joys by any premature discovery. Rising from the table with an air of solemnity, he pronounced his parting blessing in a tone of the deepest fervor, and hurriedly took his leave. Retaining his disguise, but occupied with thoughts that ill-became a palmer's brain, he bent his steps towards the nunnery of Godstowe. Near the close of the second day he entered the confines of Oxfordshire, and found himself, little to his satisfaction, in the vicinity of a country fair, with its attendant junketing, masquerade, and feats of jugglery and legerdemain. To avoid the crowd, he determined to seek lodging in a booth that stood a little apart from the main encampment. The weary monarch had stretched himself to rest, when the sound of uproarious mirth disturbed his slumbers, and a Welsh ballad-singer, whom he remembered to have seen in the service of Giraldus Cambrensis, the tutor of John, commenced in a voice of considerable power and pathos, the following song:-- When as King Henry ruled this land, The second of that name, Besides the queen, he dearly loved A fair and comely dame; Most peerless was her beauty found, Her favor and her face; A sweeter creature in this world Did never prince embrace. Her crisped locks like threads of gold Appeared to each man's sight, Her sparkling eyes like orient pearls Did cast a heavenly light; The blood within her crystal cheeks Did such a color drive, As if the lily and the rose For mastership did strive. Yea, Rosamond, fair Rosamond, Her name was called so, To whom dame Eleanor our queen Was known a deadly foe. The king therefore for her defence Against the furious queen, At Woodstock builded such a bower, The like was never seen. Most curiously that bower was built Of stone and timber strong, One hundred and fifty doors Did to this bower belong; And they so cunningly contrived With turnings round about, That none but with a clew of thread Could enter in or out. And for his love and lady's sake That was so fair and bright, The keeping of this bower he gave Unto a valiant knight. But Fortune, that doth often frown Where she before did smile, The king's delight, the lady's joy Full soon she did beguile. For why, the king's ungracious son Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised wars Within the realm of France. But yet before our comely king The English land forsook, Of Rosamond, his lady fair, His farewell thus he took. "My Rosamond, my only Rose That pleasest best mine eye, The fairest flower in all the world To feed my fantasy, The flower of my affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excel, My royal Rose, a thousand times I bid thee now farewell. "For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose a space, And cross the seas to famous France, Proud rebels to abase. But yet my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortly see, And in my heart, when hence I am, I'll bear my Rose with me." When Rosamond, that lady bright, Did hear the king say so, The sorrow of her grieved heart Her outward looks did show, And from her clear and crystal eyes Tears gushed out apace, Which like the silver pearled dew Ran down her comely face. Her lips erst like the coral red, Did wax both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceived Her vital spirits did fail. And falling down all in a swoon, Before King Henry's face, Fell oft he in his princely arms Her body did embrace. And twenty times with watery eyes, He kissed her tender cheek, Until he had revived again Her senses mild and meek. "Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?" The king did often say. "Because," quoth she, "to bloody wars My lord must pass away. "But since your grace on foreign coasts, Among your foes unkind, Must go to hazard life and limb, Why should I stay behind? Nay, rather let me, like a page, Your sword and target bear, That on my breast the blows may light, That should offend you there. "Or let me in your royal tent Prepare your bed at night, And with sweet baths refresh your grace At your return from fight. So I your presence may enjoy, No toil I will refuse; But wanting you my life is death, Nay, death I'd rather choose." "Content thyself, my dearest love; Thy rest at home shall be, In England's sweet and pleasant soil; For travel suits not thee. Fair ladies brook not bloody wars; Sweet peace, their pleasures breed The nourisher of heart's content, Which Fancy first did feed. "My Rose shall rest in Woodstock's bower, With music's sweet delight, Whilst I among the piercing pikes Against my foes do fight. My Rose in robes of pearl and gold, With diamonds richly dight, Shall dance the galliards of my love, While I my foes do smite. "And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trust To be my love's defence, Be careful of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence." And therewithal he fetched a sigh, As though his heart would break, And Rosamond, for very grief, Not one plain word could speak. And at their parting well they might, In heart be grieved sore, After that day fair Rosamond The king did see no more. For when his grace had passed the seas, And into France was gone, Queen Eleanor with envious heart To Woodstock came anon. And forth she calls this trusty knight, Who kept this curious bower, Who with his clew of twined thread, Came from this famous flower; And when that they had wounded him, The queen this thread did get, And went where Lady Rosamond Was like an angel set. But when the queen, with steadfast eye, Beheld her heavenly face, She was amazed in her mind At her exceeding grace. "Cast off from thee these robes," she said, "That rich and costly be; And drink thou up this deadly draught, Which I have brought to thee." Then presently upon her knee, Sweet Rosamond did fall; And pardon of the queen she craved, For her offences all. "Take pity on my youthful years," Fair Rosamond did cry, "And let me not with poison strong, Enforced be to die. "I will renounce my sinful life, And in some cloister bide, Or else be banished if you please, To range the world so wide. And for the fault which I have done, Though I was forced thereto, Preserve my life and punish me, As you think good to do." And with these words, her lily hands She wrung full often there, And down along her lovely face, Proceeded many a tear. But nothing could this furious queen Therewith appeased be; The cup of deadly poison strong, As she sate on her knee, She gave this comely dame to drink, Who took it in her hand, And from her bended knee arose, And on her feet did stand, And casting up her eyes to heaven, She did for mercy call, And drinking up the poison strong, Her life she lost withal. "Help! ho! Have done with your foolish madrigal," cried a stout yeoman, who had watched the terrible agony depicted upon the face of the king, during this rehearsal; "the holy palmer is well nigh suffocated with your folly." "Give him a taste of one of the psalms of David," hiccoughed a little man from the opposite side of the booth, "the pious aye thrive upon the good book," and he laughed at his own profanity. "A horn of good English beer will do him better," roared a Yorkshire man, pouring out a bumper of ale. "Build up the body, mon, and the soul will do weel eneugh." "Gramercy!" cried the minstrel, going nearer and gazing upon his distorted features. "Some evil demon possesses him. 'Tis a terror to look upon his bloodshot eyes." "An if the evil demon is in him 'twere best to cast him out," interposed the owner of the booth. Suiting the action to the word, he dragged the senseless king from the couch of fern leaves, to a more refreshing bed upon the dewy grass. The cool air at length revived the miserable monarch, and the very torture of returning recollection gave him strength to rise and pursue his course. On he sped through the night, insensible to fatigue and regardless of rest. As he struck into the bridle path where his eyes were dazzled by the bright vision that first led his feet to Godstowe, the faint sound of the convent bell fell upon his ear. He thought it the ringing of the matin chime; but approaching nearer, the solemn toll smote heavily upon his heart, for he recognized in it the knell of a parting soul. He quickened his steps, and by reason of his friar's gown, gained ready admittance to the convent. The messenger that had been despatched for a priest to shrive the dying nun had not yet returned, and Henry's services were put in requisition to perform the holy office. Without giving him time for question or explanation, the frightened sisters hurried him through the long passages of the dormitory and introduced him into a cell, where stretched upon a pallet of straw, lay the pale and wasted form of Rosamond. The faint beams of morning struggling through the open casement, mingled with the sickening glare of waxen tapers, which according to the rites of the church, were placed at the head and foot of the bed. The couch was surrounded with objects intended to familiarize the mind with the idea of death, to fit the soul for its final departure. A coffin half filled with ashes stood near, whereon was placed the crown and robe, in which she had professed herself the bride of Christ, now ready to adorn her for her burial, and the necessary articles for administering extreme unction, were arranged upon a small table, above which hung a cross bearing an image of the dying Saviour. With a despairing glance at these terrible preparations, Henry approached the bed, and gazed upon the unconscious sufferer. Unable to command his voice, he waved his hand and the attendant devotees retired from the room; the lady abbess whispering as she passed, "I fear our sister is too far gone to confess." Hastily throwing back his cowl, he bent over the sleeper, raised her head, clasped in his own the attenuated hand that had so often returned his fond pressure, and in the accents of love and despair, whispered her name. The dying one languidly lifted the snowy lids that veiled her lustrous eyes, and looked upon him, but in the vacant gaze was no recognition. "My Rosamond!" cried Henry, passionately pressing a kiss upon her ashy lips. A thrill ran through her frame, her slight fingers quivered in his clasp, and the world of recollections that rushed back upon her brain, beamed from her dilating eyes. Her palsied tongue assayed to speak, but Henry caught only the low sound, "My children!" "My children"--reiterated the monarch--he said no more--her breast heaved--her lips trembled with the last faint sigh, and a smile of ineffable joy rested on the features of the dead. CHAPTER VII. Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend, More to be dreaded when thou showest thee in a child, Than the sea-monster. The protracted imprisonment of Queen Eleanor infuriated her Provençal subjects. The southern court, deprived of its most brilliant gem, no longer attracted the gifted and the gay from all parts of Europe. The troubadours in effect hung their harps on the willows, and the faithful Peyrol, banished from the presence of his beloved mistress, attempted to console the weary hours of her captivity, by tender _Plaintes_, in which with touching simplicity he bewailed her misfortunes. "Daughter of Aquitaine," wrote he, "fair fruitful vine, thou hast been torn from thy country, and led into a strange land. Thy harp is changed into the voice of mourning, and thy songs into sounds of lamentation. Brought up in delicacy and abundance, thou enjoyedst a royal liberty, living in the bosom of wealth, delighting thyself with the sports of thy women, with their songs, to the sound of the lute and tabor; and now thou mournest, thou weepest, thou consumest thyself with sorrow. Return, poor prisoner--return to thy cities, if thou canst; and if thou canst not, weep and say, 'Alas! how long is my exile.' Weep, weep, and say, 'My tears are my bread both day and night.' Where are thy guards, thy royal escort?--where thy maiden train, thy counsellors of state? Thou criest, but no one hears thee! for the king of the north keeps thee shut up like a town that is besieged. Cry then--cease not to cry. Raise thy voice like a trumpet, that thy sons may hear it; for the day is approaching when thy sons shall deliver thee, and then shalt thou see again thy native land." But the warlike chiefs of Guienne did not confine themselves to expressions of tenderness. Richard and Geoffrey, though often hostile to each other, were always ready to lead the barons of the south to battle, and for two years the Angevin subjects of Henry and the Aquitaine subjects of Eleanor, incited by her sons, gave battle in the cause of the captive queen, and from Rochelle to Bayonne the whole south of France was in a state of insurrection. The melancholy death of Geoffrey added to the afflictions of his already wretched mother. In a grand tournament at Paris he was thrown from his horse and trodden to death beneath the feet of the coursers. He was distinguished for his manly beauty and martial grace, and Eleanor had regarded him with an affection as intense as was the causeless hatred she bore to his wife Constance. His infant son Arthur, for whom Eleanor's namesake had been set aside, inherited the dower of his mother both in possessions and enmity. Not long after the death of her favorite son Eleanor was called upon to part with her youngest daughter Joanna, who became the bride of William II. King of Sicily. Thus deprived of all affection, Eleanor dragged on a monotonous existence during Henry's protracted search for Rosamond. The innocence of his queen being fully proved, the softened monarch began to regard her with more complacency: but the vindictive spirit of Eleanor, incensed by the indignities she had suffered, and enraged by being the victim of unjust suspicions, could not so easily repass the barriers that had been interposed between their affections, and though she accompanied her lord to Bordeaux, she set herself to widen the breach between him and Richard, and he soon found it necessary to remand her again to the seclusion of Winchester palace. When Henry received absolution from the pope for the murder of Becket, he solemnly swore to visit the Holy Land in person, and the day had been fixed for his departure with Louis King of France. The death of that monarch prevented the expedition, and Henry had delayed it from time to time, though the patriarch of Jerusalem and the grand-master of the knights Hospitallers, had made the long and difficult journey to England, and in name of Queen Sibylla, had delivered to him as the successor of Fulk of Anjou, the royal banner and the keys of the Holy City and Sepulchre. Now impressed with a sense of the vanity of human hopes, and the fading grandeur of earthly distinction, he determined if possible, to divert his mind from the endless train of sad recollections, by plunging into the excitement of novel scenes and rekindling his wasting energies at the fane of Religion. The eyes of all the European nations were at this time directed, with peculiar anxiety to the distresses of the Christians in Palestine. At the death of Baldwin III. the sceptre passed to the hands of his brother Almeric, who wasted his subjects and treasure in a fruitless war with the Vizier of Egypt. The crown from Almeric descended to Baldwin IV., his son by Agnes de Courteney, heiress to the lost principality of Edessa. Baldwin IV. was a leper; and finding that disease incapacitated him for performing the royal functions, he committed the government to his brother-in-law Guy de Lusignan, a French knight whom Henry had banished for murder. At the death of Baldwin his sister Sibylla and her husband Guy became King and Queen of Jerusalem, but the Count of Tripoli refused to do them homage. At last he consented to proffer his allegiance to the queen, on condition that she should be divorced from Lusignan and choose a partner who should be able to protect the kingdom. Sibylla was a woman of great beauty, majestic person and commanding talents. She consented to the proposal of the Count of Tripoli, only requiring in return the oath of the barons that they would accept for sovereign whomsoever she should choose. The terms were settled, the divorce obtained, and the ceremony of her coronation took place. As soon as she was crowned, turning proudly to the rebel lords, she placed the diadem on the head of Lusignan, saluted him as her husband, bent the knee to him as king, and with a voice of authority, cried aloud, "Those whom God has joined together let not man put asunder." The simple truth and affection of the queen, and the grandeur of the spectacle awed the assembly; and the astonished barons submitted without a murmur. The famous Saladin, about the same time, began his career of conquest in the East. Tiberius, Acre, Jaffa, Cesarea and Berytus were the trophies of his victories. One hundred thousand people flying from the sword of the Turks crowded into Jerusalem, and the feeble garrison was not able to defend them. Saladin, unwilling to stain with human blood the place which even the Moslems held in reverence, offered the inhabitants peace on condition of the surrender of the city, and money and lands in Syria; but the Christians declared that they would not resign to the Infidels the place where the Saviour had suffered and died. Indignant at the rejection of his offer, Saladin swore that he would enter the city sword in hand and retaliate upon the Franks the carnage they had made in the days of Godfrey de Boulogne. For fourteen days the battle raged around the walls with almost unexampled fury. The Moslem fanatic fearlessly exposed his life, expecting that death would give him at once to drink of the waters of Paradise,--the Christian, hoping to exchange an earthly for a heavenly Jerusalem, poured out his blood in protecting the Holy Sepulchre. When it was found that the wall near the gate of St. Stephen was undermined, all farther efforts at defence were abandoned; the clergy prayed for a miraculous interposition of heaven, and the soldiers threw down their arms and crowded into the churches. Saladin again offered favorable conditions of peace. The miserable inhabitants spent four days in visiting the sacred places, weeping over and embracing the Holy Sepulchre, and then, sadly quitting the hallowed precincts, passed through the enemy's camp, and took their disconsolate way towards Tyre, the last stronghold of the Latins in Palestine. Thus after the lapse of nearly a century, the Holy City that had cost Europe so much blood and treasure, once more became the property of the Infidel. The great cross was taken down from the church of the Sepulchre and dragged through the mire of the street, the bells of the churches were melted, while the floors and walls of the mosque of Omar, purified with Damascene rose-water, were again consecrated to the worship of the false prophet. The melancholy tidings of this event occasioned the greatest sensation throughout the Christian world. The aged pontiff died of a broken heart. The husband of Joanna put on sackcloth and vowed to take the cross. Henry, Philip, the new King of France, the Earls of Flanders and Champagne, and a great number of knights and barons resolved to combine their forces for the redemption of the Holy City. Immediately upon the death of Rosamond, Henry had made all the reparation in his power to her injured name, by acknowledging her children and placing them at Woodstock to be educated with his son John. The boys grew up to manhood, and developed a perfection of personal elegance and strength of character more befitting the sons of a king than any of the children of Eleanor. He promoted them to offices of honor and trust, and made Geoffrey chancellor of the realm. Everything was now ready for the king's departure. In a general council held at Northampton it was enacted that every man who did not join the crusade should pay towards the expense of the expedition one tenth of all his goods; and the Jews were fined for the same purpose one fourth of their personal property. Henry wrote letters to the emperors of Germany, Hungary and Constantinople, for liberty to pass through their dominions, and receiving favorable answers, passed over to France to complete the arrangement with Philip, when the whole plan was defeated by that monarch's demanding that his sister Alice should be given to Richard, and that the English should swear fealty to the prince as heir-apparent to the throne. Henry refused; and his son Richard, in the public conference, kneeling at the feet of the French monarch, presented him his sword, saying, "To you, sir, I commit the protection of my rights, and to you I now do homage for my father's dominions in France." The king, amazed at this new act of rebellion, retired precipitately from the council, and prepared with some of his former alacrity, to meet the combination against him. But Fortune, that had hitherto smiled upon him, seemed now to forsake him. He was defeated in every battle, driven from city to city, his health became impaired, his spirits failed, and at last he submitted to all the demands of his enemies, agreeing to pay twenty thousand marks to Philip, to permit his vassals to do homage to Richard, and above all, to give up Alice, the cause of so much domestic misery. He stipulated only for a list of the disaffected barons who had joined the French king. The first name that caught his eye was that of John, the idolized child of his old age. He read no further, but throwing down the paper, fell into one of those violent paroxysms of rage to which of late years he had been so fearfully subject. He cursed the day of his birth, called down maledictions upon his unnatural children and their treacherous mother, flung himself upon the couch, tore the covers with his teeth, and clutched the hair from his head, and swooned away in a transport of anger and grief. A raging fever succeeded; but in his lucid moments he superintended an artist, who, at his command, painted upon canvass, the device of a young eaglet picking out the eyes of an eagle. Day after day the monarch lingered and suffered between paroxysms of pain and grief, and intervals of lassitude and insensibility; and when others forsook his bedside in weariness or alarm, Geoffrey, unconscious of drowsiness or fatigue, stood a patient watcher by his dying father. The feeble monarch recognized in the voice of this son the tones which his ear had loved in youth, and obeyed its slightest bidding; and the only alleviation of his agony was found in gazing upon the face that revived the image of his lost Rosamond. Taking the signet-ring from his finger, he placed it upon the hand of Geoffrey; "Thou art my true and loyal son," said he. "The blessing of heaven rest upon thee for thy filial service to thy guilty sire. Commend me to thy brother William and his beautiful bride. As for the others, give them yon parable," pointing to the picture of the eagle, "with my everlasting curse." He leaned his head upon the breast of his son, and supported in his arms, expired. * * * * * Eleanor survived her unhappy consort more than twenty years, and in that time made some amends for the follies and vices of her early life. The first step of her son Richard on his accession to the throne, was to release his mother from her confinement, and make her regent of the kingdom. She employed her freedom and her power in acts of mercy and beneficence, making a progress through the kingdom, and setting at liberty all persons confined for breach of the forest-laws, and other trivial offences, and recalling the outlawed to their homes and families. During the absence of Richard in the Holy Land, she administered the government with prudence and discretion, and after the accession of John, resumed the sceptre of her own dominions, slowly and painfully gathering, in the crimes and miseries of her children, the fruit of the evil counsels she had given them in their childhood. At the age of eighty she retired into the convent of Fontevraud, and three years after died of sorrow, when the peers of France branded her son John as the murderer of Arthur. BERENGARIA OF NAVARRE. [Illustration: Berengaria of Navarre.] CHAPTER I. "What thing so good which not some harm may bring? E'en to be happy is a dangerous thing?" "Sing no more, for thy song wearieth me," exclaimed the impatient daughter of Navarre, tossing upon her couch with the heavy restlessness of one who courts slumber when nature demands exercise. The Moorish maiden, accustomed to the petulance of the beautiful Berengaria, arose from her cushion and laying aside her lute, murmured despondingly, "The proverb saith truly, ''Tis ill-pleasing him who is ill-pleased with himself.'" Abandoning further attempts to soothe her mistress, the attendant retired to the extremity of the long apartment and gazed listlessly from the casement. "Art vexed that my ear loved not the sound of thy lute, peevish child?" inquired the youthful princess. "Read me a riddle, or tell me a marvellous tale of the Genii, such as thou hast learned in thy southern land." With the air of one who performs an accustomed task while his thoughts are far away, the girl resumed her seat, and recited A TALE OF ARABY. Once upon a time three Genii, returning from their missions to mortals rested beside the well Zemzem. And as they sat recounting to each other the things that they had seen, behold they fell into conversation concerning the Eternal One (whose name be exalted), the destinies that reign over the fate of men, the characteristics of the world, and the misfortunes and calamities which happen unto all, both the righteous and the wicked. And one said to another, "Declare unto us now what is thine opinion, and what knowest thou concerning this thing. What is that, diffused in air, dissolved in water or concealed in earth, the subtle essence of which, being bestowed upon one of human mould, shall bring him nearest to the throne of Allah, (blessed be his name), and give him right to eat of the tree that standeth in the seventh heaven by the garden of the Eternal Abode?" And the first said, "It is Beauty," and the second, "It is Love," and the third, "It is Happiness." And there arose a contention among them; and when they found that neither could convince the others, they agreed to depart each on his way, to search the elements of all things for that concordial mixture with which he would nourish a human soul into immortality. So they went their way. And after the lapse of a cycle of years, they returned again and sat by the well Zemzem. And each bore in his hand a phial purer than crystal, sealed with the seal of Solomon the wise, the magnificent. Then spake the first, saying, "Earth hath no form of beauty from the flash of the diamond hidden in its deepest caves, through all the brilliant variety of gems and sands of gold; no delicate pencilling from the first faint tinge upon the rose-bud's cheek to the gorgeous dyes of the flowers and fruits that deck the vale of Cashmere; water hath no shade of coloring from the sea-green lining of its coral caves, to the splendid iridescence of its pearly shells; air hath no tint of the virgin stars, no ray of parted light; vapor beareth no beauty in its morning clouds and rainbow hues, from which I have not ravished the subtlest source. Whatever form of Beauty can become apparent to the sense, either as breath of fragrance, sweetness of sound, or grace of motion, sublimated to its purest element, lieth here enclosed for the endowment of whomsoever we shall choose." And he held up the phial, and lo! it contained a liquid having a faint coloring of the rose. Then spake the second and said, "The Almighty (blessed be he) hath given unto me that mysterious power by which I read the thoughts and purposes of men, even as the Holy Prophet (on whom be benedictions) was wont to read the 'Book of Life.' "From the heart of the child that turneth ever to watch the movements of its mother, from the heart of the servant that seeketh the favor of her mistress, from the heart of the sister that exults with pride in the glory of her brother, from the heart of the maiden that beateth bashfully and tenderly at the sound of the footsteps of her lover, from the heart of the bridegroom that yearneth with strong desire towards his bride, from the heart of the father that expands in the fulness of joy at the sight of his first-born, from the heart of the mother that watcheth ever the steps of her child, whether he sporteth in innocence by her side or wandereth with vice in foreign parts; I have gathered the sweetest and purest and truest thought of Love. Its impalpable essence lies hidden in this phial," and he placed it before them. And lo! it seemed filled with a vapor which flushed in their gaze with the hue of the dawn. Then spake the third and said, "It is not permitted unto me the servant of Ifraz the Unknown, to declare unto you in what outward manifestations of human hope or desire, in what inward workings of thought and feeling, I have detected and imprisoned the elusive spirit of Happiness," and he held up his phial before them. And with one voice they exclaimed, "It is empty." And they laughed him to scorn. Then spake he in anger and said, "Truly the fool proceedeth upon probability, and the wise man requireth proof." And they replied, "Go to, now, we will abide the proof." And forthwith they took their way to the land of Suristan. And as they passed by the well of Israel, Ben Izak (on whom be peace), they saw a maiden bearing a pitcher of water. And the first said, "Behold, now, immortality is given unto man by the Almighty the Ordainer of fate and destiny (whose name be exalted), but unto woman it is not given except as her _beauty_ shall delight the heart of man." But the second said, "Except as _love_ gives her a seat by the Well of Life;" and the third, "Except as _happiness_ translates her to Paradise." Then said the first, "Let us contend no more, but let us take this damsel and bestow upon her, each our separate gift, and she shall be a sign and a testimony concerning these things." And thus they agreed together. And when the maiden retired to her couch, and the angel of sleep had laid his finger upon her eyelids, the first genii calling upon the name of God the All-perfect (blessed be he) broke the seal of his phial, and poured a portion of the liquid upon her lips. And the three genii watched her slumbers till the dawn; and thus they did evening by evening. And they beheld her form developing in loveliness, tall and straight as the palm, but lithe and supple as the bending branch of the oriental willow. Her smoothly rounded arms gleamed like polished ivory beneath the folds of her transparent izar, and the tips of her rosy fingers were touched with the lustre of henna. Her lips had the hue of the coral when it is wet with the spray of the sea, her teeth were as strings of pearl, and the melting fulness of her cheek was suffused with the soft bloom of the peach. In her eyes was the light of the stars, and her eyelids were adorned with kohl. Her hair was glossy and black as the plumage of the raven, and when she covered it with her veil, her countenance beamed from it comely as the full moon that walketh in the darkness of the night. Her speech was as the murmur of the waterfall and the clear tones of the nightingales of the Jordan. She was a wonder unto herself and unto her neighbors. Her step had the lightness of the gazelle and the grace of the swan; and when she went forth abroad, the eye that beheld her beauty exclaimed, "Glory be to him who created her, perfected her, and completed her." But the genii beheld with sorrow and mortification that she became vain, and that foolish thoughts sprang up in her heart; so that it was said of her, "Hath God the High, the Great, put an evil spirit in the perfection of beauty?" Then said the second genii, "Ye shall see what the elixir of _love_ shall do." And he entered into her chamber, and he broke the mystic seal which was the seal of Solomon Ben David (on both of whom be peace), and a sweet odor was diffused through the apartment. And the lips of the sleeper moved as with a pleasant smile, and there beamed upon her countenance the nameless charm with which the houris fill with delight the dwellers in the Garden of Eternity. And it came to pass that all who looked upon her loved her and said, "There is none among the created like her in excellence of beauty, or in charms of disposition. Extolled be the perfection of the Creator of mankind." And they strove one with another which should possess the inestimable treasure. And contention and strife arose daily among them; and her heart inclined unto all, and she feared to unite herself with one, lest grievous wars should follow. Therefore her soul was filled with grief, and she ceased not to weep by day and by night, and the tears were on her cheeks. Then said the third genii, "Behold sorrow is of earth, and the beauty and love ye have bestowed have gathered with them the noxious principles inwoven in the basis of human things. Ye shall behold the power of happiness." Then he took the colorless phial, and he broke the seal thereof, calling upon the name of Ifraz the Unknown, and lo, hour after hour the invisible, impalpable elixir seemed to permeate her being, and the light of her eye was tempered to a holy ray, the color blanched on her cheeks, and the vivacity of love gave place to the serenity of content. And as she walked forth the voluptuous and the wise said, "Behold she is too pure for earth, the Terminator of delights and Separator of companions will soon call for her. Extolled be the perfections of the Eternal in whose power it lieth to annul and to confirm." And when the two genii saw that Beauty and Love availed not, they were filled with envy, and they seized the damsel and conveyed her away to the cave of enchantment. And the third genii being transported with grief and disappointment, broke the phial, and that which remained of the elixir of Happiness returned to its primeval source, and entered again into the combinations of human things. But the seal being broken it became known to mortals that the elixir of Life existed in the elements, and hence it is, that those who are skilled in the mysteries of nature have searched its grand arcanum with the powerful agencies of alchemy, and tortured the genii with spells and incantations to wring from them the mighty secret. Berengaria had listened to the story with unwonted interest, and at its close started up from her couch and eagerly inquired, "What has been the result? Have they discovered the long-sought principle? I have heard wondrous tales concerning these alchemists. Men say they deal in the black art; but were there one in Navarre, I would brave the imputation of sorcery to question him concerning the elixir of beauty." "A Moorish physician dwells in the suburbs of Pampeluna," replied Elsiebede, measuring her sentences with timid hesitation, "whom I have often seen in the byways, gathering herbs, it is said he readeth the fates of mortals in the stars." "Let us go to him," exclaimed the princess, "bring me my pelisson and veil." The girl obeyed with a trembling alacrity, that to a less occupied observer, would have betrayed that the expedition was the unexpected accomplishment of a long-cherished desire. "This way," said Elsiebede, drawing her mistress from the public street, now beginning to be thronged with laborers returning from their toil, "the alchemist brooks not impertinent intrusion, and we must beware that no officious attendant, nor curious retainer find the place of his abode." Silently and swiftly the two maidens threaded a narrow alley, leading through an unfrequented part of the town, turning and winding among buildings more and more remote from each other, till it terminated on a grassy heath, surrounding a dilapidated mansion. The sun had already set, and Berengaria, never too courageous, began to shudder at the loneliness of the place. With instinctive fear, she clung tremblingly to the arm of her resolute dependent, whispering, "Whither dost thou lead me? There is here no sign of human life. Let us return." But the spirited slave bent the weak will of the mistress to her purpose; and with alternate assurances of safety and incitements to curiosity, led the way to the rear of the ruined pile, where descending a stone stair, she gave three raps upon a low door. The grating of rusty bolts was heard, the door was cautiously opened, and Berengaria felt herself suddenly drawn within the portal. A glare of dazzling light blinded and bewildered her, and a stifling vapor added to her former terror, almost stupefied her senses. The voice of Elsiebede somewhat reassured her, and as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she took a survey of the scene before her. The apartment seemed to have been originally the kitchen of the castle, one end being occupied by a wide, large chimney, now built up except in the centre, where a furnace, covered with crucibles, glowed with the most intense heat. A white screen with a small dark screen before it, nearly concealed one side, of the apartment, while on the other side from three serpent-formed tubes connected through the wall with retorts, gleamed tongues of colored flame. Various gallipots, alembics, horologues, diagrams, and dusty manuscripts were deposited upon shelves in angles of the wall. The principal occupant was a man of a lean, haggard figure, bowed less by age than by toil and privation. A few black, uncombed locks escaping from the folds of a turban, once white, now begrimed with smoke and dust, straggled over a swarthy forehead, marked with lines caused by intense thought, and abortive speculations. He was dressed in Moorish garments, the sleeves tucked above the elbows, revealing his emaciated arms, while his talon-like fingers grasped an immense triangular crystal, through which he was casting refractions upon the screen. His deep, cavernous eyes seemed to gleam with the fires of insanity, yet he spoke in a tone of deep abstraction, though with something like the voice of affection. "Disturb me not, my daughter, but stand aside till I have completed my experiment." The maidens remained silently by the door, and Berengaria had leisure to note the motions of a dwarf African, who sat diligently blowing the bellows of the furnace, rolling his eyes, and saluting the ladies with smiles which served at once to exhibit his white teeth and his satisfaction at the interruption. Notwithstanding her fears at finding herself in so strange a situation, the curiosity of Berengaria was so excited by the novelty of the scene, that she waited patiently while the philosopher experimented first with one light and then with another, till apparently becoming dissatisfied with the result, he attempted to change the position of the tubes. Scarce was his purpose accomplished, when a deafening explosion rent the air, followed by sounds as of the falling of the ruin overhead. Profound darkness ensued, and the groans of the wounded alchemist mingled with the demoniac laughter of the African, and the echo of her own shrieks increased the terror of the princess almost to agony. Elsiebede alone retained any share of self-possession. "A light, a light, Salaman," exclaimed she. Instantly a line of blue flame crept along the wall, and a tiny torch in the hand of the dwarf mysteriously ignited, revealed again his malevolent countenance, and threw his misshapen and magnified image in full relief upon the screen. An odor of brimstone that seemed to accompany the apparition, did not serve to allay Berengaria's apprehensions. Elsiebede for once forgot her mistress. Hastily snatching the torch from the negro, she lighted a lamp and raising her father from the stone floor, began to examine his wounds. The blood was oozing from a contusion upon the back of his head, one side of his face was dreadfully burned, and his right hand lay utterly powerless. Giving hurried directions in Moorish to the grinning Ethiope, Elsiebede with his assistance placed her father upon a couch behind the screen, and bathed the painful wounds with a balmy liquid from one of the dusty phials, accompanying her soothing appliances with the soft and gentle expressions of affection. Their language was foreign to the ear of Berengaria, but she discovered by the tones of the father, and the tears of the daughter, that he was chiding her as the cause of his misfortune. At length overcome by his upbraiding, Elsiebede drew from her bosom a silken purse, and taking thence a jewel kissed it fervently, and like one resigning her last treasure at the call of duty, put it into his extended hand. The black meanwhile had prepared a cordial, which he intimated would soon give her father rest. The alchemist eagerly swallowed the draught, and soon sank into a heavy sleep. Berengaria, whose impatience had scarcely brooked the delay necessary for this happy consummation, hurried the reluctant Elsiebede away. "I knew not, Elsie," said she, when they were at a safe distance from the ruin, "that thy father dwelt in Pampeluna. I thought thou wert an orphan, when my father moved by thy beauty and distress purchased thee of the rude Castilian. Tell me thine history." "My father," replied Elsiebede, "was when young the physician of the Moorish prince, and occupied himself in separating the hidden virtues of nature from the impurities with which they are combined. When walking abroad to gather plants for the prosecution of his inquiries, he met every day a young flower girl, carrying her fragrant wares to the palace of the Alhambra. Attracted by her beauty, he purchased her flowers, and interested himself in her history. He learned that she belonged to a band of Saracens or Gyptianos, that had recently settled in Grenada. He loved her and she became his wife. "I was their only child. My youth was spent in listening to the wondrous tales of the East, with which my mother delighted me, or in acquiring the elements of science with my father. The sudden illness and death of my mother destroyed all my happiness. My father betook himself again to the most abstruse studies, spent whole nights in watching the stars, practised incantations to the spirits of the air, and pondering continually upon the mystery of death, commenced the search for that mighty principle which is said to prolong human existence. Many wonderful secrets of nature were in this process revealed to his sight; but he became so sad and gloomy, and his eyes beamed on me with such an unwonted fire, that I feared lest grief should dethrone the angel of reason. To divert his mind, I began to lead him forth in his accustomed walks. One day when we had lingered rather later than usual beyond the walls of Grenada, a band of armed Castilians fell upon us, and carried us away captives. The noble Sancho found me singing songs for my cruel master, and redeemed me from my fate." "And what became of thy father?" inquired Berengaria. "He was enabled by some of his medicines to heal a long-established malady of his captor, and thus obtained his freedom: since which, until within a few months, he has wandered through Spain in search of his lost child." "And wherefore didst thou commit to a dying man the precious jewel which I saw in thy hand?" The tears of Elsiebede began to fall fast, and with a choking voice she replied, "Question me not, I entreat thee. Oh, my mistress, concerning the ring, at another time I will tell thee all." Touched with the instinctive reverence that nature always pays to genuine sorrow, the princess forbore further inquiries, and the two maidens completed their walk in silence. The terror that Berengaria had suffered took away all desire to prosecute her inquiries with the alchemist, but with unusual consideration, on the following day, she dismissed Elsiebede at an early hour, giving her permission to pass the night with her father. The poor girl returned in the morning overwhelmed with grief. The alchemist was dead. From her self-reproaches and lamentations Berengaria learned, that in his scientific researches he had consumed all his property, and melted every valuable belonging to his daughter, except her mother's ring. This gem she had steadily refused to give him, both on account of its being a memento and a charm, and the failure of his experiment with its fatal results he had in his dying hour attributed to the lack of the potency of the precious gem. Stung with remorse, Elsiebede declared that if the ring could not save her father's life, it should at least procure him a grave, and telling her mistress that she could never again look upon the jewel without a shudder, begged her to accept it, and to assist her in burying him according to the rites of the Mohammedan religion. In catholic Navarre this was next to an impossibility; but through the generosity of the princess, and the ingenuity of Salaman, the corpse was secretly conveyed to the Moorish cemetery in Grenada. CHAPTER II. "O, such a day So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, Came not till now, to dignify the times." It was a gala-day in Navarre. Sancho the Strong, the gallant brother of Berengaria, had proclaimed a tournament in compliment to his friend Richard Plantagenet, Count of Poitou. In the domestic wars which had vexed the south of France since the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine with Henry of Anjou, these valiant youths had fought side by side, and from a friendship cemented by intimacy as well as similarity of tastes and pursuits, had become _fratres jurati_, or sworn brothers, according to the customs of the age. Both were celebrated for their knightly accomplishments and their skill in judging of Provençal poetry, and each had proved the prowess of the other in chivalric encounter, and provoked the genius of his friend in the refined and elegant contests of minstrelsy and song. The brave Sancho had arranged the lists, giving to his friend the first place as knight challenger, reserving the second for himself, and bestowing the third upon their brother in arms, the young Count of Champagne. The gay pavilions were set, a splendid concourse assembled, and Berengaria, proclaimed Queen of Beauty and Love, had assumed her regal state attended by all the beauties of Navarre, when to the infinite disappointment and mortification of the prince, Count Raimond of Toulouse arrived to say, that Richard, having received letters from his mother, had found it necessary to depart suddenly for England; but that the festivities of the day might not be marred by his absence, he entreated that the bearer of the message, Count Raimond, might occupy his pavilion, bestride his war-steed, and do his devoir in the lists. With a courtesy that ill-concealed his chagrin the noble Sancho accepted the substitute, and conducting him to the tent glittering with green and gold, consigned him to the care of the esquires; while himself went to acquaint his sister with the mortifying fact that the spectacle, for which they had prepared with such enthusiastic anticipations, was yet to want the crowning grace expected from the presence of that flower of knighthood, Richard Plantagenet. To conceal from the spectators the knowledge of this untoward event, their father, Sancho the Wise, who held the post of honor as judge of the combat, decided that Count Raimond of Toulouse should assume the armorial bearings of Richard, and personate him in the lists. These preliminaries being satisfactorily arranged, the heralds rode forth and proclaimed the laws of the tournament, and the games proceeded. The Count of Champagne and the royal Sancho, better practised in the exercises of the lance than the Spanish cavaliers who opposed them, won applause from all beholders; but the crowd seemed to take especial delight in the prowess of Count Raimond, shouting at every gallant thrust, and every feat of horsemanship, "A Richard, a Richard! A Plantagenet!" Notwithstanding the unfavorable auspices under which the tournament commenced, the sports of the day were as gay and animated as the most sanguine could have hoped. The three challengers had overborne all opponents. With a heart fluttering with pride and pleasure, the young Blanche of Navarre had seen her sister confer a golden coronet upon the Count of Champagne, and Sancho had also received from Berengaria a chaplet in honor of his knightly achievements. But the first in honor as in place, was the warrior who had personated Richard. When, however, he laid aside his vizor, to receive the well-won laurel as leader of the victors, the multitude discovered that the hero whom they had greeted with such enthusiastic applause was Count Raimond of Toulouse, and new bursts of acclamations rent the air, while the marshals, and squires, and heralds, forgetting for a moment their duties, gathered round the throne of Love and Beauty to interchange congratulations with the gratified count. In the general excitement no one had noticed the entrance of a _knight adventurous_, one of those wandering cavaliers who, to perfect themselves in feats of arms, travelled from province to province, challenging the skill of all comers in chivalrous combat. The appearance of this knight-errant was such as attracted all eyes. He was mounted on a bay horse of spirit and mettle that hardly yielded to the strong rein; his helmet was surmounted with a crest of the figure of a red hound, while his erect form shielded in brown armor, and the firmness with which he maintained his seat gave him the appearance of a bronze statue, borne along in the procession. Disregarding the indications that the fortunes of the day were already decided, the stranger knight rode directly to the pavilion emblazoned with the arms of Richard, and struck his spear with such force upon the shield, as to summon at once the attendants to duty. "Whom have we here?" exclaimed Sancho, with a hearty laugh. "By our Lady, Count Raimond, this day's sun shall not set till the heathen hound on the crest of yon crusading knight hath bit the dust. Pardieu, I almost envy thee thy good fortune to tilt against so fair a foe." The interest which this new-comer gave to the flagging sports was evinced by the eager inquiries and hurried whispers that went round among the spectators. A breathless silence ensued, as Count Raimond couched his lance and started forward to meet his strange challenger. "A Raimond! A Raimond!" cried the crowd, as the two combatants dashed upon each other. "Long life to the Red Knight," "Success to the Crusaders," was echoed by the fickle multitude, with increased satisfaction, as the hero of Toulouse, overthrown by the violence of the shock, struggled beneath his fallen charger, while the stranger applying rein and spur, caused his gallant steed at one bound, to leap over the prostrate horse and rider, then dexterously compelling the animal to caricole gracefully in front of the queen's galley, and lowering his lance, the victorious knight courteously bowed as if laying his honors at the feet of Love and Beauty. The prizes for the day were already bestowed; but the enthusiastic Berengaria found it impossible to let such prowess go unrewarded. Hastily untying her scarf, she fastened it to the end of his spear, and the Crusader, with the armorial bearings of Navarre streaming from his lance, rode slowly and proudly from the lists. The squires meanwhile had extricated the vanquished Raimond from his perilous position, and conducted him to his tent, where his bruises were found to require the skill of the leech. All were busy with conjectures concerning the unknown, many sage surmises very wide of the truth were hazarded by those best acquainted with heraldic devices, and arguments were rapidly increasing to animosities, when the slight tinkling of a bell again drew the attention of the concourse. "A champion! A champion," exclaimed they again as a second knight, strong and broad-shouldered, sheathed in shining black armor, entered the arena. Glimpses of a ruddy complexion and sparkling eyes, were visible through the jetty bars of his vizor, and a raven with smooth and glossy plumage, its beak open, and a bell suspended from its neck, was perched upon his helmet. His coal-black steed was a war-horse of powerful make, deep-chested and of great strength of limb; his red nostrils distended by his fiery impatience, glowed like the coals of a furnace, while the gauntleted hand that with matchless skill controlled his speed, looked as though it might have belonged to a giant of the olden time. The impetuosity of the black knight left the spectators not long in doubt of his purpose. Count Henry of Champagne was summoned to reassume his armor and make good his claim to his recently won laurels. "Pray heaven thine eye and hand falter not, Count Henry," exclaimed Sancho, as he personally inspected the armor of his friend, and cautioned the squires to see that each ring and buckle was securely fastened. "The issue of this combat should depend upon thine own right arm, not upon a weak spring or careless squire." The courtesy of the black knight seemed proportioned to his strength and skill. Reining his horse to the left, he gave the count the full advantage of the wind and sun, and instead of meeting him in full career, eluded the shock, parried his thrusts with the most graceful ease, and rode around him like a practised knight conducting the exercises of the tilt-yard in such a manner, as to develop and display the prowess of an ambitious squire; and when at last Count Henry lost his saddle, it was rather the effect of his own rashness, than from any apparent purpose of his antagonist; for exasperated to the last degree at being thus toyed with, he retreated to the extremity of the lists, put his horse upon its full speed and dashed upon his opponent. The black knight perceiving the intent of this manoeuvre, brought his well-trained steed at once into an attitude of perfect repose, and sitting immovable as an iron pillar, received the full shock upon his impenetrable shield. The horse of the count recoiling from the effect of the terrible collision, sank upon his haunches, and the girth breaking, the rider rolled in the dust. Something like a smothered laugh broke from beneath the bars of the stranger's vizor, as he rode round his vanquished foe, and extended his hand as though inviting him to rise. But his demeanor was grave and dignified, when he presented himself before the admiring Berengaria, who in default of a better chaplet stripped her tiny hand of its snowy covering, and bestowed the embroidered glove as the guerdon of his skill. "Part we so soon, sir knight?" said Sancho, reining his steed, so as to keep pace with that of his unexpected guest. "I would fain set lance in rest against so fair a foe." Without deigning a reply, the knight put spurs to his horse, and leaping the barriers disappeared in the wood. Rejoining his two friends in the pavilion who were condoling with each other over their inglorious defeat, Sancho burst into a stream of invective. "Ungrateful cravens," cried he, "to repine at heaven's grace. I would have given the brightest jewel in the crown of Navarre, for leave to set lance in rest against either of yon doughty knights." "Thou shouldst have been very welcome," exclaimed Raimond, laying his hand upon his wounded limb. "Our Lady grant henceforth that dame Fortune send all such favors to thee," and he laughed in spite of his discomfiture. A startling blast from the wood interrupted the colloquy, and Count Raimond petulantly exclaimed, "Methinks the foul fiends have congregated in the forest! That hath the sound of the last trumpet." "Aye, verily," replied Count Henry, reconnoitering from the door of the pavilion, "and yonder comes Death on the pale horse. Prince Sancho, thine hour has come, prepare to meet thy final overthrow." There seemed a terrible significance in the words, for upon a snowy charger, whose mane and tail nearly swept the ground, just entering the lists, was seen a knight, dressed in a suit of armor of such shining brilliancy as almost to dazzle the eyes of the beholders. His crest was a white dove with its wings spread, and conspicuous upon his right shoulder appeared a blood-red cross. He carried neither lance nor spear, but an immense battle-axe hung at his saddle-bow. "By my troth," said Sancho, "be he the angel of death himself, I will dispute his empire, even though he bring twelve legions of his mysterious retainers to back him. It shall not be said that the chivalry of Spain, aye, and of France to boot," casting a glance at his crest-fallen friends, "are but trophies of the prowess of these unknown demi-gods." "Heaven grant thou mayest make good thy boast, for truly these demi-gods wield no mortal weapons," said Count Raimond, with a bitter smile, as the prince anticipating a challenge rode forth to meet the white champion. Unpractised in the use of the mace, Sancho, whose ire was completely roused at seeing the honors of the day borne off by strangers, disregarded the laws of the tournament (which required the challenger to use the same weapons as his adversary), and seizing his spear, attacked his opponent with a fierce energy, which showed that he fought for deadly combat, and not for trial of skill in knightly courtesy. The brilliant figure, at the first rush, bowed his head, till the plumage of the dove mingled with the flowing mane of his courser, and suffered the animal to sheer to the right, thus compelling the prince, in his onward career, to make a similar involuntary obeisance as the result of his ineffectual thrust. Completing the demivolte, the two champions again returned to the onset; and now the mace of the white knight describing shining circles round his head, received upon its edge the spear of the prince, clave the tough oak wood asunder, and sent the spear-head whirling through the air almost to the feet of the spectators. A second, a third, and a fourth spear met with the same fate. The welkin rang with the applause of the beholders. "Bravo, sir white knight!" "Glory to the Red Cross!" "Honor to the crusader!" "Death to the Paynim," accompanied the flourish of trumpets and the shouts of heralds, which, together with the flutter of pennons and the waving of signals from the galleries of the ladies, showed the exciting interest of the scene. At length the dove-crested warrior, by a skilful manoeuvre, brought himself into such proximity as to be able with one blow to strike the helmet from the head of his antagonist; at the same moment, however, he extended his hand and prevented the unbonneted prince from falling prone beneath the feet of his horse. The gallant Sancho thus compelled to yield, with knightly grace accompanied his vanquisher to Berengaria's throne. "Thy best guerdon, my sister, for thy brother's conqueror," said he. "Beside the arm of Richard Plantagenet, I thought there was not another in Christendom that could break the bars of my vizor and leave my skull unscathed. Why dost thou hesitate?" exclaimed he, observing her embarrassment. "The daughter of Sancho the Wise is not wont to be tardy when called upon to honor the brave. Has the same blow that still keeps the blood dancing in the brain of thy brother, paralyzed thy hand?" "Nay," said Berengaria, while a brilliant blush suffused her cheeks, "but I would fain see the countenance of the brave knight, who carries off the honors of the field from such a competitor," and drawing the ring of Elsiebede from her finger, she bestowed it upon the victor. Rising from his knees, the knight inclined courteously to the squires, who with a celerity lent by curiosity, unlaced his casque and unfastened his gorget, revealing the face of Richard Plantagenet, beaming fair and ruddy from the bright yellow curls that clustered round it, and eyes that sparkled in the full appreciation of the surprise and merriment that his unexpected apparition occasioned. "Mon cher frère," exclaimed Sancho, grasping his hand, "I am conquered by Richard, then am I victor. Give me joy, knights, ladies, and squires." The heralds taking up the word, sounded the tidings through the field, while the spectators shouted, "A Richard! a Richard! Long live the gallant Plantagenet!" The Counts of Toulouse and Champagne, assisted by their attendants, hastened to the scene, and discovering the scarf and glove of Berengaria resting beneath the loosened hauberk, recognized each his conqueror, and found in that circumstance a greater balm for their wounded pride, than all their bruises had experienced from the mollifying appliances of leechcraft. The knights challengers thus all vanquished by the single arm of Richard, left the field with the highest sense of satisfaction, and the ready wit of their champion, pointed the sallies and directed the mirth of the banquet, which followed, and continued long into the night. CHAPTER III. "Beshrew your eyes, They have o'erlooked me, and divided me; One half of me is yours, the other half yours, And so all yours." In the general excitement attendant upon the discovery of Richard and the breaking up of the tournament, Berengaria had remarked the agitation of Elsiebede, and seized an early opportunity to learn the cause. "Where hast thou known Count Richard?" said she in a tone of feigned indifference. "I have never seen him till to-day," replied the attendant. "But thou didst start and turn pale when the White Knight disclosed the features of Plantagenet?" "Aye, because I saw my lady bring a curse upon his head." "A curse upon him? How meanest thou, silly child?" replied the princess, growing pale in her turn. "Pardon, my dear mistress," continued Elsiebede, falling upon her knees, "I should have told you, the ring bestowed upon a knight, is a fatal gift." "And why fatal?" inquired Berengaria, somewhat relieved that she had no greater cause for disquiet. "I know not why. The jewel of the ring has been in the possession of my mother's tribe for many generations, and whenever man has called it his own, sorrow and distress have followed, till this tradition has become a proverb. "'Twill thwart his wish, and break his troth, Betray him to his direst foe, And drown him in the sea." "Thou art too superstitious," said Berengaria, as her attendant recited the malediction, with an appearance of the most profound sense of its reality; "but to please thee, foolish child, I will regain the toy." Berengaria secretly determined to lose no time in relieving Richard from his dangerous possession, and accordingly lost no occasion for conversing with the prince; but though he treated her with the most distinguished courtesy, the term of his visit to Navarre expired before their acquaintance had ripened into an intimacy that would warrant her venturing upon the delicate task of reclaiming her gift. Months elapsed before Berengaria again saw the knight who had made such an impression upon her youthful imagination, and she began to fear that the ring had, in reality, conducted him to his predestined sepulchre in the sea, when her brother Sancho returning from a tour in France, brought intelligence of the most gratifying character. "Rememberest thou, my sister," said he, "the valiant Plantagenet, who so gallantly bore off the honors of our tournament?" "Aye, verily," replied the princess, casting down her eyes. "He has been wandering through Germany, challenging all true knights to chivalrous combat, and has met with many strange adventures," continued Sancho. "Recount them," said Berengaria, "I listen with attention." "Thou who didst reward his valor, as red, and black, and white knight in one day, canst well appreciate his partiality for disguises," resumed her brother: "and it seems, that during this expedition, one had nearly cost him his life. Passing through the dominions of the King of Almaine, he assumed the dress of a palmer, but being discovered, was cast into prison. Ardour, the son of the king, learning that a knight of remarkable strength and prowess was confined in a dungeon, brought him forth and invited him to stand a buffet. Richard accepted the challenge, and received a blow that laid him prostrate. Recovering himself, he returned the stroke with so much force, that he broke the cheek-bone of his antagonist, who sank to the ground and instantly expired. The king awakened to fresh transports of fury, at the loss of his son, gave orders that the prisoner should be closely fettered and returned to the lowest dungeon of the castle. But the monarch had, also, a daughter, a princess of great beauty, who became exceedingly interested in the man that had so dexterously slain her brother. Learning that a plan was on foot to make the bold knight the prey of a lion, she found means to enter his cell, and acquaint him with his danger. The bold heart of Plantagenet did not fail him in this extremity. Rewarding the solicitude of the tender Margery with a kiss, he desired her to repair to him in the evening, bringing forty ells of white silk, and a supper with plenty of good beef and ale. Thus fortified in the outer and inner man, he calmly awaited his fate. The next day, as soon as the roar of the monster was heard, he wrapped his arm in the silk, and evading the spring of the animal, gave it such a blow in the breast, as nearly felled it to the ground. The lion lashing itself with its tail, and extending its dreadful jaws, uttered a most hideous yell; but the hero suddenly darted upon the beast, drove his arm down the throat, and grasping the heart tore it out through the mouth, and marched with his trophy, yet quivering with life, to the great hall of the palace, where the king with a grand company of dukes and earls, sat at meat. Pressing the blood from the reeking heart, Prince Richard dipped it in the salt, and offered the dainty morsel to the company. The lords rose from the table, and declaring, that since the days of Samson, no mortal had achieved so wonderful an exploit, dubbed him Coeur de Lion, on the spot. The barbarian finding it impossible, longer to detain a prisoner who seemed to enjoy the especial favor of Providence, bestowed upon him gifts and presents, mounted him on a fleet horse, and with great joy, saw him depart. A herald has this morning arrived, to say that he wends his way hither; therefore, prepare, my sister, to receive the lion-hearted prince, with a state becoming his new honors." Berengaria needed no second bidding. She was already more interested in the gallant Plantagenet than she dared confess, even to herself, while the conduct of Richard, upon his arrival, intimated plainly the attraction that had drawn him to Navarre, and the flattering attention with which both the elder and younger Sancho treated him, promised fair speed to his wooing. He was exceedingly fond of chess, and this game served to beguile many hours when the weather precluded more active sports. Though a practised, Richard was often a careless player, and his fair antagonist gained many advantages over him, while he pertinaciously declared himself vanquished by her beauty rather than her skill. The ready blush that followed his compliments gave occasion for renewed expressions of admiration, and often in the midst of triumph the victor found herself covered with confusion. Many gages of trifling value were lost and won between the amicable rivals, but it was not till after repeated defeats that Richard began to suspect there was some article in his possession that his beautiful opponent was particularly anxious to win. He playfully proposed to stake his head against one lock of her hair, and when he lost the game, gravely inquired whether she would accept the forfeit, with its natural fixture, or whether like the vindictive daughter of Herodias, she would require it to be brought in a charger, as was the head of John the Baptist. Re-arranging the pieces before she could interpose a remonstrance, he declared the stakes should next be his heart against her hand. The game was terminated in his favor. Gallantly seizing her hand, pressing his lips upon it, he protested that in all his tournaments he had never won so fair a prize; then suddenly exclaiming, "What magic game is this, in which a man may both lose and win?" he laid his broad palm upon his side, and with an appearance of great concern, continued, "By the blessed mother my heart is certainly gone; and I must hold thee accountable for its restoration." Making a strong effort at recovering her composure, Berengaria asserted that she had neither lost nor won the game, since he had arranged the pieces unfairly, and proceeded to capture her queen almost without her knowledge, and certainly without her consent. The sportive colloquy finally ended in a compromise, Richard agreeing that the affair could justly be accommodated by Berengaria's staking her heart against his hand, and she playfully avowing that a gamester so unprincipled might expect to lose both body and soul, if he did not commit the arrangements to one of greater probity. The keen eye of Plantagenet soon discovered that this game possessed an interest for his fair rival far beyond the preceding ones, and in doubt whether it arose from her anxiety to gain his hand, or from her desire delicately to assure him that he could never win her heart, he suffered himself to be beaten. The result only increased his perplexity; for the princess, though evidently elated by her success, seriously proposed to relinquish her claim upon his hand, in consideration of the ring that glittered upon his finger. Too much interested any longer to regard the game, Richard pushed aside the chess-board, and fixing his eyes upon her, inquired, "Wherefore wouldst thou the ring?" The princess more than ever embarrassed by the seriousness of his voice and manner, stammered forth, "The jewel is a charm." "True," said Richard, with unaffected warmth, "Berengaria's gifts are all charms." "Nay, nay!" said she, with uncontrollable trepidation, "I mean--I mean--it is a fatal possession."--"Of which I am a most undoubted witness," interrupted he, "since by its influence I have lost my head, my heart and my hand." "Have done with this idle jesting, and listen to me," said Berengaria, earnestly. "It will thwart thy dearest wish, and betray thee to thy direst foe." "None but Berengaria can thwart my dearest wish," said Richard, steadily regarding her, "and from my direst foe," he added, with a gesture of defiance, "this good right arm is a sufficient defence." Tears shone in Berengaria's eyes, and she added, "Why wilt thou misunderstand me? I tell thee it will break thy troth." "Our Lady grant it," responded he, with a shout of exultation. "Since the day I first received it, I have not ceased to importune King Henry to cancel my engagement with Alice of France." The baffled princess having no further resource burst into tears. "Nay, weep not, my sweetest Berengaria," said Richard, tenderly, "the gem is indeed a talisman, since by its aid only have I been able to discover the treasure thou hadst so effectually concealed from my anxious search. Fear no evil on my behalf, my poor life has double value since thou hast betrayed an interest in my fate." He stooped to kiss the tears from her cheek, and passing a chain with a diamond cross about her neck, left her alone to recover her composure. CHAPTER IV. "Ah me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth." "A long and secret engagement, replete with hope deferred, was the fate of Richard the Lion-hearted and the fair flower of Navare." The vexatious wars in which Eleanor of Aquitaine constantly involved her husband and children occupied Richard in combats more dangerous than those of the tourney. The heart of Berengaria was often agitated with fears for his safety. She was also compelled to reject the addresses of numerous suitors, attracted by her beauty and wealth, and she thus subjected herself to the imputation of caprice, and the displeasure of her father, when her thoughts were distracted by rumors that Richard was about to consummate his marriage with Alice. An occasional troubadour who sang the exploits of her gallant lover sometimes imparted new life to her dying hopes, and again when a long period elapsed without tidings of any kind, she bitterly reproached herself for permitting him to retain an amulet which she was so well assured would change the current of his affections; and notwithstanding the general frankness of his character, and the unfeigned earnestness of his manner, which more than his words, had convinced her of his truth; she was often tortured with the suspicion that Richard had only amused himself with the artlessness of a silly girl, and had no intention of demanding her of her father. Her only confidant in the affair was her brother Sancho the Strong, who consoled her by violently upbraiding her for the unjust suspicion, and resolutely vindicating the honor of his absent friend. While the mind of Berengaria was thus cruelly alternating between hope and fear, her sister Blanche was wedded to Thibaut, brother of Count Henry of Champagne. On the festive occasion Richard accompanied the bridegroom: and when Berengaria once more read admiration and love in every glance of his speaking eyes, and listened to his enthusiastic assurances of devotion, and above all, when she heard his wrathful malediction against those who interposed the claims of Alice, she wondered how she could ever have distrusted the sincerity of his professions. But though her heart was thus reassured, the first intelligence that she received from Champagne through the medium of Blanche, overwhelmed her with new apprehensions. It was asserted, that an alliance had been formed between Richard and Philip, the young King of France, to wrest Alice from the custody of Henry, and that the two princes, to prove that they looked upon each other as brothers, exchanged clothing, ate at the same table, and occupied the same apartment. The confident Sancho even, was somewhat shaken by this report; particularly as the Gascon subjects of Richard began to prepare for war. Instigated by his own doubts, but more especially by the mute appeals of Berengaria's tearful eyes, Sancho made a journey to the north to prove the guilt or innocence of his friend. At Bordeaux he learned that Richard had gone to Poictiers. At Poictiers it was said he might be found at Tours. At Tours the rumor was confirmed, that Richard had transferred his allegiance from Henry to Philip, and that Henry, in consequence of his son's rebellion, had fallen sick at Chinon, and that Richard had been summoned to that place to attend the monarch's death-bed. Without delay, therefore, Sancho posted forward to Chinon. As he ascended an eminence commanding a view of the road for some distance, he saw a band of armed horsemen riding in advance of him, and thought he discerned, in the van, the crest of Richard Coeur de Lion. Putting spurs to his horse, he joined the rear of the cavalcade, which proved to be the funeral procession of Henry II., led by his erring son to the abbey of Fontevraud. The mournful tones of the bell mingled with the clanging tread of the mail-clad nobles, as solemn and slow they followed the prince up the long aisle of the church. The air was heavy with the breath of burning incense, and the strong and ruddy glare of the funeral torches, revealed with fearful distinctness the deep furrows made by age, and care, and grief in the noble features of the deceased monarch. The walls draped with the sable habiliments of woe, returned the muffled tones of the organ, while drooping banners, that canopied the bier, shook as with a boding shudder, at the approach of the warrior train. One solitary mourner knelt beside the altar, a fair-haired youth, whose features of classic purity, seemed to have borrowed their aspect of repose from the dread presence before him. It was Geoffrey, the younger son of Rosamond. The solemn chanting of the mass was hushed, and the startled priests suppressed their very breath in awe, as heavy sobs burst from the great heart of Coeur de Lion, and shook the steel corselet that was belted above his breast. Geoffrey silently rose, and moving to the head of the bier, left the place of honor to his repentant brother. "My father!" exclaimed Richard, bending over the dead, and lifting the palsied hand, "My father! oh canst thou not forgive?" He stopped in speechless horror, for _blood_ oozed from the clammy lips that till now had always responded to the call of affection. The sensitive heart of Sancho, wrung with a kindred agony, could no longer brook the terrible spectacle. He left the abbey, and was followed by one and another of the crowd till the self-accusing parricide was left alone with the body of his sire. * * * * * When the Prince of Navarre returned to Pampeluna, he forbore to pain his sister's heart by a recital of the melancholy circumstances that had so affected his own, but he carried to her an assurance that _Richard would wed only Berengaria_, sealed with the mysterious jewel now reset as the signet ring of the King of England. He described the splendid coronation of his friend, the wealth of his new realm, and the enthusiastic rapture with which his new subjects hailed his accession to the throne. He also informed her that Richard, previous to his father's death, had taken the cross for the Holy Land, and that all his time and thoughts were now occupied in settling the affairs of the realm for this object; and that the alliance with Philip, which had caused her so much anxiety, was an engagement, not to marry Alice, but to enter with the French monarch upon the _Third Crusade_. The prospects of her mistress awakened all the enthusiasm of Elsiebede. She dreamed by night and prophesied by day of long journeys on horseback and by sea, and she interspersed her prognostications with agreeable tales of distressed damsels carried off by unbelieving Afrites, and miraculous escapes from shipwreck by the interposition of good Genii. But though her tongue was thus busy, her hands were not idle. She set in motion all the domestic springs to furnish forth the wardrobe of her mistress and herself with suitable splendor, and amused the needle-women with such accounts of eastern magnificence that they began to regard the rich fabrics upon which they were employed as scarcely worthy of attention. In the beginning of the autumn of 1190, Queen Eleanor arrived at the court of Navarre to demand of her friend Sancho the Wise the hand of his daughter for her son Richard. The king readily accepted the proposal, for beside being Berengaria's lover, the gallant Plantagenet was the most accomplished, if not the most powerful sovereign of Europe. Under the escort of the queen dowager the royal fiancée journeyed to Naples, where she learned to her mortification and dismay that her intended lord was not yet released from the claims of Alice, and that the potentates assembled for the crusade were in hourly expectation of seeing the armed forces of Christendom embroiled in a bloody war to decide her title to the crown matrimonial of England. The forebodings of Elsiebede did not increase her equanimity. "It is all the work of the fatal ring," said the superstitious maiden. "Did I not tell thee it would thwart his dearest wish?" Berengaria could reply only by her tears. Other circumstances made her apprehensive concerning the fate of the expedition. The Emperor Frederic Barbarossa was among the first of those whose grief arose to indignation at the fall of Jerusalem. He wrote letters to Saladin demanding restitution of the city, and threatening vengeance in the event of non-compliance. The courteous Infidel replied, that if the Christians would give up to him Tyre, Tripoli and Antioch, he would restore to them the piece of wood taken at the battle of Tiberias, and permit the people of the west to visit Jerusalem as pilgrims. The chivalry of Germany were exasperated at this haughty reply, and the emperor, though advanced in age, with his son the Duke of Suabia, the Dukes of Austria and Moravia, sixty-eight temporal and spiritual lords, and innumerable hosts of crusaders, drawn out of every class, from honorable knighthood down to meanest vassalage, set out from Ratisbon for the East. The virtuous Barbarossa conducted the march with prudence and humanity. Avoiding as much as possible the territories of the timid and treacherous Greek Emperor, Isaac Angelus, he crossed the Hellespont, passed through Asia Minor, defeated the Turks in a general engagement at Iconium, and reached the Taurus Ridge, having accomplished the difficult journey with more honor and dignity and success than had fallen to the lot of any previous crusaders. When the army approached the river Cydnus, the gallant Frederic, emulating the example of Alexander, desired to bathe in its waters. His attendants sought to dissuade him, declaring that the place had been marked by a fatality from ancient times; and to give weight to their arguments, pointed to this inscription upon an adjacent rock, "Here the greatest of men shall perish." But the humility of the monarch prevented his listening to their counsels. The icy coldness of the stream chilled the feeble current in his aged veins, and the strong arms that had for so many years buffeted the adverse waves of fortune, were now powerless to redeem him from the eddying tide. He was drawn out by the attendants, but the spark of life had become extinct. The tidings of this melancholy event came to Berengaria, when her heart was agitated by the perplexity of her own situation not only, but by the intelligence that Richard's fleet had been wrecked off the port of Lisbon, and that he was himself engaged in hostilities with Tancred. Coeur de Lion was indeed justly incensed with the usurper of his sister's dominions. Upon the first news of the fall of Jerusalem, William the Good had prepared to join the crusade with one hundred galleys equipped and provisioned for two years, sixty thousand measures of wine, sixty thousand of wheat, the same number of barley, together with a table of solid gold and a tent of silk, sufficiently capacious to accommodate two hundred persons. Being seized with a fatal disease, he left these articles by will to Henry II, and settling upon his beloved Joanna a princely dower, intrusted to her the government of the island. No sooner was he deceased, than Tancred, an illegitimate son of Roger of Apulia, seized upon the inheritance and threw the fair widow into prison. The roar of the advancing lion startled Tancred from his guilty security, and he lost no time in unbarring the prison doors of his royal captive. But Richard required complete restitution, and enforced his demands by the sword. He seized upon Messina, but finally through the intervention of the French king, accommodated the matter by accepting forty thousand ounces of gold, as his father's legacy and his sister's dower. He also affianced his nephew Arthur of Brittany, to the daughter of Tancred, the Sicilian prince agreeing on his part to equip ten galleys and six horse transports for the crusade. Completely reconciled to the English king, Tancred, in a moment of confidence, showed him letters in which Philip had volunteered to assist in hostilities against Richard. This treachery on the part of Philip brought matters to a crisis. Seizing the evidences of perfidy, Richard strode his way to the French camp, and with eyes sparkling with rage, and a voice of terrible power, upbraided him with his baseness. Philip strongly asserted his innocence, and declared the letters a forgery, a mere trick of Richard to gain a pretext for breaking off the affair with his sister. The other leaders interposed and shamed Philip into acquiescence with Richard's desire to be released from his engagement with Alice. Some days after the French king sailed for Acre. But though the hand of the royal Plantagenet was thus free, the long anticipated nuptials were still postponed. It was the period of the lenten fast, when no devout Catholic is permitted to marry. Eleanor finding it impossible longer to leave her regency in England, conducted Berengaria to Messina, and consigned her to the care of Queen Joanna, who was also preparing for the voyage. The English fleet, supposed lost, arrived in the harbor of Messina about the same time, and arrangements were speedily made for departure. As etiquette forbade the lovers sailing together, Richard embarked his sister with her precious charge on board one of his finest ships, in the care of the noble Stephen de Turnham, while himself led the convoy in his favorite galley Trenc-the-mere, accompanied by twenty-four knights, whom he had organized in honor of his betrothment, under a pledge that they would with him scale the walls of Acre. From their badge, a fillet of blue leather, they were called knights of the Blue Thong. Thus with one hundred and fifty ships and fifty galleys, did the lion-hearted Richard and his bride hoist sail for the Land of Promise, that El Dorado of the middle ages, the Utopia of every enthusiast whether of conquest, romance or religion. CHAPTER V. "The strife of fiends is on the battling clouds, The glare of hell is in these sulphurous lightnings; This is no earthly storm." Trustfully and gaily as Infancy embarks upon the untried ocean of existence, the lovers left the harbor of Messina, and moved forth with their splendid convoy, upon the open sea. By day the galley of Berengaria chased the flying shadows of the gallant Trenc-the-mere along the coast of Greece, or followed in its rippling wake among the green isles of the clustering Cyclades; by night, like sea-fowl folding their shining wings, the vessels furled their snowy canvass, and with silver feet keeping time to the waves, danced forward over the glassy floor of the blue Mediterranean, like a charmed bride listening to the sound of pipe and chalumeaux that accompanied the spontaneous verse with which the royal troubadour wooed her willing ear. The treacherous calm that had smiled upon the commencement of their voyage, at length began to yield to the changeful moods of the stormy equinox, which like a cruel sportsman, toyed with the hopes and fears of its helpless prey. Clouds and sunshine hurried alternately across the face of the sky. Fitful gusts of wind tossed the waves in air or plucked the shrouds of the ships and darted away, wailing and moaning among the waters. Then fell a calm--and then--with maddening roar the congregated floods summoned their embattled strength to meet the mustering winds, that, loosened from their caves, burst upon the sea with terrific power. The females crept trembling to their couches, dizzy with pain and faint with fear. The sickness of Berengaria increased to that state of insensibility in which the body, palsied with agony, has only power to assist the mind in shaping all outward circumstances into visions of horror. She was again in the cell of the alchemist; saw lurid flames, heard deafening explosions, with unearthly shrieks and groans proceeding from myriads of fiends that thronged round her with ominous words and gibing leer. She felt herself irresistibly borne on, on, with a speed ever accelerated, and that defied all rescue, and with all there was an appalling sense of falling, down, down, down, into interminable depths. The fantasy sometimes changed from herself, but always to her dearer self. Richard contending with mighty but ineffectual struggles against inexorable Genii, was hurried through the unfathomable waters before her, the fatal ring gleaming through all their hideous forms upon her aching sight; and the confused din of strange sounds that whirled through her giddy brain could never drown the endless vibrations of the whispered words, "'Twill thwart his wish and break his troth, Betray him to his direst foe, And drown him in the sea." The capricious winds at length sounded a truce between the contending elements. The baffled clouds, like a retiring enemy, discharging occasional arrows from their exhausted quivers, hurried away in wild confusion, while the triumphant sea, its vexed surface still agitated by the tremendous conflict, murmured a sullen roar of proud defiance. The Princess of Navarre, relieved from the thraldom of imaginary horrors, became aware of the actual peril which the fleet had encountered. It was in vain that the anxious attendants interposed, she persisted in being conducted to the deck, whence with longing eyes she gazed in every direction for the bark of her lover. Not a vessel was in sight. A wild waste of waters mocked her anxious scrutiny. Her own galley was so far disabled, that it was with much toiling and rowing, the mariners brought it into Limousa, the capital of Cyprus, and no sooner had they cast anchor, than Isaac Comnenus, the lord of the island, assailed the stranger bark with so much violence, that they were forced to row again with all speed into the offing. While the ship lay thus tossing at the mercy of the waves, dismantled fragments of shattered wrecks floated by, the broken masts and spars contending with the waters, like lost mariners struggling for life. While Berengaria gave way to the harrowing conviction that the Trenc-the-mere, with its precious freight, had foundered in the storm, Richard, whose ship had been driven into Rhodes, was collecting his scattered fleet and scouring the sea for his lost treasure. Arrived off Cyprus, he beheld the royal galley, and learning that it had been driven from the harbor by the pitiless despot, he landed in great wrath, and sent a message to Isaac, suggesting the propriety of calling his subjects from the work of plundering the wrecks to the exercise of the rites of hospitality. The arrogant Cypriot answered that, "whatever goods the sea threw upon his island, he should take without leave asked of any one." "By Jesu, Heaven's king, they shall be bought full dear," retorted Richard, and seizing his battle-axe, he led his crusaders to the rescue, and soon drove the self-styled emperor, with his myrmidons, to the mountains. Without loss of time, Richard pursued him thither, and guided by the heron of burnished gold that gleamed from the imperial pavilion, penetrated the camp in the darkness, made a great slaughter of the enemy, and brought away all the treasure; Isaac again escaping with much difficulty. Two beautiful Arab steeds, Fanuelle and Layard, fell to the lot of the conqueror. "In the world was not their peer, Dromedary nor destrère." With this magnificent booty King Richard returned, and taking possession of his enemies' capital, made signals for the entrance of the galley that had so long kept unwilling quarantine without the port. Berengaria, almost overcome with fatigue and fear, and fluttered with joy, was lifted on shore by the strong arms of the conquering Coeur de Lion. As he assisted her trembling steps towards the palace, a Cypriot of beggarly appearance threw himself on his knees before them, and presented to their astonished eyes the talismanic ring! Richard felt his gentle burden lean more heavily upon his arm, and saw in her colorless face, that all her apprehensions were reawakened. Gently whispering her words of encouragement, he turned to the stranger, and bursting into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, "Ha! knave, where got'st thou the bauble? Hast news of my chancellor?" The mendicant replied, that a number of bodies had floated upon the beach, and that from the hand of one he had drawn this ring, which he brought to the English monarch in the hope of ransoming his wife and family, who had been taken prisoners. Richard, rejoiced at the recovery of the valued jewel, readily granted the request of the petitioner, adding as a bounty, a broad piece of gold. Slipping the signet upon his finger, he turned to his fair charge, saying, "Cheer thee, sweet-heart, thy ring has accomplished its destiny. The poor chancellor is 'drowned in the sea,' and thou mayest henceforth look upon it with favor, for to-day it shall _consummate_ my 'dearest wish,' since the good bishop now waits to crown thee Richard's queen." Relieved, that the ring, after all, boded no evil to Richard, and reassured by his words, Berengaria yielded to the sweet emotions that crowded upon her heart, and joyfully permitted him to conduct her into the presence of the archbishop, who, with the knights and nobles, awaited their coming. "And there," according to an ancient writer, "in the joyous month of May, 1191, in the flourishing and spacious isle of Cyprus, celebrated as the very abode of the goddess of love, did King Richard solemnly take to wife his beloved lady Berengaria." The allied crusaders, with the consent of the Cypriots, insisted that Richard should be crowned King of Cyprus, and a double coronal of gems and Fleur-de-lis, was placed upon the head of the bride, as Queen of Cyprus and of England. The daughter of Isaac came soon after to crave the grace of the new sovereigns, and the father, resigning his dominions, was bound in silver chains, and presented a captive to Berengaria. It was now early summer, and the fleet of Richard, refitted and refreighted from the rich harbors of Cyprus, sailed once more for Acre. As they approached the bay, they descried a large ship laden to the water's edge, and despatched a light vessel to inquire whither she was bound, and what was her cargo. They were answered by an interpreter, that she came from Apulia, and was laden with provision for the French army. Perceiving only one man, they insisted on seeing the rest of the crew. Suddenly a multitude of Saracens appeared upon deck, and replied by a general shout of defiance. Immediately Richard gave orders to board the stranger. The officers of the light-armed galleys felt some hesitation in assailing the lofty sides of the Turkish vessel. "I will crucify all my soldiers if she escape," cried Plantagenet. His men, dreading more their sovereign's wrath than all the arrows of the enemy, bent to the oars with all their strength, and drove the sharp beaks of their galleys into the sides of the foe. After a short contest the Infidels surrendered, and the English found upon the prize great quantities of provision, barrels of Greek fire, arms, and treasures of gold and silver, which they had hardly unloaded when the vessel, scuttled by its despairing crew, sank like lead in the mighty waters. Elated by this important capture, the Christians proceeded on their way. Just without the port of Acre they were met by a spy, who reported that the harbor was rendered inaccessible by a vast chain of iron, which the Saracens had stretched across the entrance. This formidable obstacle lent new vigor to Richard's arm. Selecting the largest and strongest galley in the fleet, he filled it with the stoutest rowers, took his station on the bows of the vessel, ordered it to be directed against the middle of the chain, and watching the moment of utmost tension, struck it so violently with his battle-axe, that it gave way, and the whole fleet passed triumphantly into the harbor. CHAPTER VI. SELECTED FROM THE CHRONICLE OF VINSAUF, 1191. "On the Saturday before the festival of the blessed Apostle Barnabas, in the Pentecost week, King Richard landed at Acre with his retinue, and the earth was shaken by the acclamations of the exulting Christians. The people testified their joy by shouts of welcome, and the clang of trumpets; the day was kept as a jubilee, and universal gladness reigned around, on account of the arrival of the king, long wished-for by all nations. The Turks, on the other hand, were terrified and cast down by his coming, for they perceived that all egress and return would be at an end, in consequence of the multitude of the king's galleys. The two kings conducted each other from the port, and paid one another the most obsequious attention. Then King Richard retired to the tent, previously prepared for him, and, forthwith, entered into arrangements about the siege; for it was his most anxious care to find out by what means, artifice, and machines they could capture the city without loss of time. "No pen can sufficiently describe the joy of the people on the king's arrival, nor tongue detail it. The very calmness of the night was thought to smile upon them with a purer air; the trumpets clanged, horns sounded, and the shrill intonations of the pipe, and the deeper notes of the timbrel and harp, struck upon the ear; and soothing symphonies were heard, like various voices blended in one; and there was not a man who did not, after his own fashion, indulge in joy and praise; either singing popular ballads to testify the gladness of his heart, or reciting the deeds of the ancients, stimulating by their example the spirit of the moderns. Some drank wine from costly cups, to the health of the singers; while others mixing together, high and low, passed the night in constant dances. "And their joy was heightened by the subjugation of the island of Cypruss, by King Richard; a place so useful and necessary to them, and one which would be of the utmost service to the army. As a further proof of the exultation of their hearts, and to illume the darkness of the night, wax torches, and flaming lights sparkled in profusion, so that night seemed to be usurped by the brightness of the day, and the Turks thought the whole valley was on fire." CHAPTER VII. "Out upon the fool! Go speak thy comforts To spirits tame and abject as thyself; They make me mad!" BAILLIE. From the port of Acre, the great plain of Esdraelon stretches east to the Lake of Gennesareth, dividing the country into two parts. This plain has been the Aceldama of the nations that have warred in Palestine. There the stars in their courses fought against Sisera, there Saul and his sons fled and fell down slain before the Philistines, there the good King Josiah was conquered by the Egyptians, and there the Christians and Moslems with deadly enmity contended for the sovereignty of the Holy Land. The city of Acre was the possession of the Infidels. Around it the besiegers, gathered out of every nation in Europe, lay in countless multitudes; splendid pavilions, gorgeous ensigns, glittering weapons, and armorial cognizances of every hue and form that individual fancy and national peculiarity could suggest, studding the plain, with all the varied colors that light weaves upon the changing texture of autumn foliage. Beyond the beleaguering forces were encamped the sons of Islam, Turks, Tartars, Egyptians, and Bedouins, covering mountains, valleys, hills, and plains, with white and shining tents, while the black banner of Saladin floated above all in proud defiance of the crimson standard of the cross. The arrival of the English increased the camp of the crusaders, so that it stretched in a semicircle round Acre, from sea to sea, precluding all intercourse between the Soldan and the city, while the Pisans with their light galleys cut off all supplies by sea. Richard with the money he had brought from Cyprus, liberally rewarded the valor of the soldiers and diffused new courage among the troops. The King of England on the coast of Palestine, did not acknowledge himself the vassal of the King of France. In the council of the chiefs he had equal, if not greater influence, and in matters of general interest the rival sovereigns were usually found upon opposite sides. Sybilla, wife of Guy de Lusignan, was dead. Conrad of Montserrat, Prince of Tyre, having married her sister Isabella, claimed the ideal crown of Jerusalem. Philip supported the pretensions of Conrad, while Richard lent his powerful aid to Lusignan. The Genoese and Templars sided with Philip, the Pisans and Hospitallers with Richard. Philip strove to seduce the vassals of Richard in right of his suzerainship, and offered three pieces of gold a month to each of the Norman knights that would join his standard, while Richard, more wealthy and less parsimonious, offered four pieces to such French feudatories as would be induced to fight under the banner of England. These factions destroyed the unanimity so essential to success, and embarrassed every enterprise. In this posture of affairs, both monarchs were attacked with the fever incident to the climate, and thus though the garrison of Acre were suffering from famine, the besiegers were not in a condition to press their advantage. * * * * * King Richard lay tossing upon his couch, consumed with fever and impatience, and scarcely enduring the gentle endeavors of his beloved queen to win him from the vexing thoughts that disturbed his repose. "Drink, my lord," said Berengaria, presenting him a cooling draught, "and compose thyself to rest. The leech saith that sleep is the best medicine for these Syrian maladies." "Talk of sleep to the steed that hears the war trump, but speak not of rest and quiet to Richard while the banner of Islam floats in sight of the Christian camp. But for this cursed fever I should have stood beside the noble Alberic, and my gallant Knights of the Blue Thong on the walls of Acre." Berengaria repressed an involuntary shudder. "Nay then, must I thank God for the fever, since else, we had this night to bewail not the loss of the French count alone, but the destruction of the bulwark of Christendom." "Thou reasonest like a woman, as thou art," said Richard, in a petulant tone. "Thinkest thou the English curtel axe no better weapon than a Gascon's spear?" "My woman's reason follows the fears of my woman's heart," said the queen, her eyes filling with tears, "and teaches me were Richard gone, both Palestine and Berengaria would lie at the mercy of the French king." "By my halidome thou speakest truth," said Richard, tossing uneasily upon his side. "Therefore it chafes me to lie here inactive, lest perchance the crafty Philip first plant his standard upon the towers of Acre." Feeling her utter inability to select topics in which the irascible monarch would not find causes of irritation, Berengaria summoned his favorite Blondel with the lute. But scarcely had Richard consented to listen to a Provençal chanson when the Earl of Salisbury entered. "Ha! Longespee," exclaimed the monarch, "thou hast tidings from the leaders of the christian host." At the first entrance of Richard's warlike brother Berengaria had retired so as to be invisible to her lord, and motioned to silence. Hastily returning Richard's salutation, William conferred apart for a few moments with the queen and Joanna. "The malady increases," said she, in much agitation. "Chafe him not with ill tidings, I do beseech thee. Already the fever burns to the verge of madness. Life depends upon his repose." "What whisper ye?" exclaimed Coeur de Lion, startling them by his energy. "I tell you I will know all. Longsword, shamest thou the blood of the Plantagenet by counselling with women and leeches? Speak, man, I command thee." Not daring farther to irritate the imperious invalid, the son of Rosamond came forward and stated that the Turks, perceiving the christian army very much dejected at the loss of Count Alberic and his scaling party, had sent to beg a truce of eight days, promising at the same time, if the Soldan did not send them speedy assistance, to give up the city, on condition that all the Turks might be allowed to depart with their arms and property. In consequence of the severe indisposition of Richard, the chiefs had deemed it prudent not to disturb him with these matters; and hence the King of France and the Duke of Austria had taken the responsibility of returning a favorable answer to the proposition. "By my father's soul," exclaimed Richard, "the son of France is more craven than I deemed. To give up the prize when just within our grasp is not to be thought of. Send the ambassadors to me. They shall find that Coeur de Lion will not barter glory for a deserted city. Go," added he, observing the hesitation of Longsword, "and venture not into my presence again without the envoys." "But the leech said--" interposed Berengaria. "The curse of sweet Jesus upon the leech! Am I to be subject to nurses, dosed with physic, and soothed with lullabys, like a muling child? Away! or my chamberlain shall enforce thy absence," said he, darting his first angry glance at his trembling queen. Finding all remonstrance vain, the discomfited females yielded to his impetuosity, only obtaining for themselves the grace of being present at the interview. Ill as he was, the monarch was clothed in his robes of state; and with a cheek glowing with fever and eyes sparkling with unwonted brilliancy, was supported by cushions upon a settle, hastily arranged to answer the purpose of a throne. Scarcely were these preliminaries arranged, when the chamberlain ushered in Longsword with the envoys. The swarthy Egyptian Mestoc, with his splendid caftan and white turban, particularly attracted the admiration of the silent females, and seemed to exercise a fascinating power upon Elsiebede, who perused his countenance as though she discerned in it the familiar features of a friend. The anger which Richard had testified towards his attendants, was modified into a haughty courtesy as he conversed with the noble Saracens. He cut off at once all parley concerning the proposition for permitting the Turks to leave the city without ransom, but he graciously accorded his assent to the truce. Berengaria observed with terror that though Caracois exhibited as lively an interest in the negotiations as the gravity of the Turks ever allowed, Mestoc seemed more occupied in scanning the person of the monarch, and regarded with wonder and curiosity the signet that glittered upon his finger. The conference was scarcely over, when Richard sank back pale and exhausted from his recent exertion, and the leech being speedily summoned, insisted that the king should be left alone with him for the remainder of the night. Preparing a sleeping draught, and almost forcing it down the throat of his refractory patient, he moved the light into the anteroom of the tent, and giving the chamberlain strict orders not to admit any one, upon whatever pretext, sat down to watch the effect of his remedies. After a few uneasy tossings and muttered ejaculations of vexation and disquiet, the monarch sank into a heavy slumber, broken only by occasional imprecations against the Infidels, whom he battled in sleep with an animosity that would have done credit to his waking vengeance. As the twilight deepened into darkness, the coolness of the Syrian evening shed the grateful dew of slumber upon the weary eyelids of those who had answered the constant demands of the royal invalid, and brought the happy oblivion of rest to those who had engaged in the more warlike duties of the arblast and mangonel. The sounds of life gradually decreased, and a profound silence reigned throughout the christian camp uninterrupted, save by the tread of the patrol who took his weary round upon the outposts, like the sentinel of a beleaguered city. * * * * * In her protracted efforts to quiet the sobbing queen, Elsiebede learned a curious and inexplicable fact, namely, that a greater draft is made upon the patience and energy of the nurse by the over-excited feelings of the sensitive wife, than by the real wants of the sick man himself. Thus the leech had long been dozing upon his watch, ere the anxious Moorish girl had found it possible to leave the bedside of her mistress. At length the incessant calls upon her sympathy subsided into sighs which gradually relaxed into the regular breathing of healthy slumber, and the impatient attendant stealing noiselessly from the apartment sought among the attendants for the wily Salaman. "Awake, Salaman," she whispered, softly. The black instantly arose, without salutation or remark, and stood before her rolling his eyes in perfect self-possession, as though to repel the suspicion that a person of his active vigilance could have been detected in the weakness of slumber. Laying her finger upon her lip, Elsiebede led the way among sleeping guards to the little enclosure in front of the tent. "Bring me," said she, "the signet-ring from the hand of the king." Salaman, who had long labored under the hallucination that no feat could be beyond his ability, looked absolutely sober at this unheard-of proposition, ejaculating, "It is to put my head into the lion's mouth!" but instantly recovering his self-complacency, he added, "Nothing can be easier. Remain here till I come." Skilfully avoiding the tent ropes, he wormed himself under the folds of the pavilion into the outer apartment, where the chamberlain and guard were snoring in melodious concert, and carefully lifting the curtain entered the royal presence. But through the darkness that reigned, he could not readily discern the precise location of the monarch's couch. Creeping stealthily over the floor, he first laid his hand upon the foot of the physician, which with an instinctive kick warned him of his dangerous vicinity. Finally, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he discovered the sparkle of the jewel upon the hand of the monarch, hanging over the side of the bed. To withdraw the ring from the somewhat attenuated finger was the work of a moment, but the touch, however slight, was sufficient to disturb the slumbering lion. "Ha! the foul fiend!" ejaculated the dreamer, clutching the woolly hair of the negro. "The talisman is safe--cheer--thee--Berengaria--" Inarticulate sounds followed, which finally died away in silence; when Salaman, with practised caution, extricated his head from the lion's paw, and effected his retreat by the same stealthy and tedious process. Elsiebede awaited his coming with torturing impatience. Grasping the ring, she muffled her face in the veil usually worn by eastern females, and bidding him follow her took her way towards the city. The moon, just dipping its silver rim in the Mediterranean with its parting beam, threw the lengthened shadow of the patrol full across their way. Cowering behind the awning of a tent they paused breathless and terrified, while the sentinel, turning his face towards Jerusalem, shouted above their heads in a tone rendered clear and startling by the stillness of the midnight, "Help! Help! Help for the Holy Sepulchre!" The adjacent sentinel took up the cry, repeating the words to his neighbor, who passed the watchword on, till "Help! Help! Help for the Holy Sepulchre!" echoed in all the languages of Europe, smote upon the ear of every sleeper in the christian camp. When the sounds died away in the distance, the patrol continued his round. The terror of Elsiebede afforded infinite amusement to Salaman, whose irrepressible laughter added to her fears of being discovered, and increased her trepidation. After this adventure they pursued their course with renewed speed, and arrived without molestation at the outpost, where the guard challenged their advance. Elsiebede presented the monarch's signet saying, "Delay not our errand," and the guard muttering, "There is ever some woman's prank in the light head of the queen," suffered them to pass. As they took their solitary way between the camp and the walls of Acre, Salaman ventured to inquire, "Whither goest thou, Elsiebede?" "I scarce know," replied the girl, in a husky voice, "but this evening there came before King Richard, one who looked upon me with my mother's eyes; and as he left the pavilion, he whispered me in the language of the Gyptianos, 'Meet me when the moon sets, at the tower of Maledictum.'" "This way lieth the tower," said Salaman, drawing her to the right. They now approached the black and frowning walls of Acre, and turning an angle came close upon a small party of Turks sleeping upon the earth, and were challenged in the Moorish tongue. Salaman readily answered in the same language. Mestoc immediately advanced, and taking the hand of Elsiebede led her apart, and a long and earnest conversation ensued. When she returned to Salaman, tears were on her cheek, and hiding her face in her veil, with no other explanation than, "He is the brother of my mother," she led the way back to the royal tent. "Haste thee," said she, thrusting the ring into his hand. "Should the prince awake, we are lost." Salaman sped on his errand, and repeated his perilous adventure with success. Not daring, however, to place the ring upon the monarch's finger, he laid it upon the covering near his hand, and effected a retreat, as far as the anteroom, where he unluckily stumbled against the settle on which rested the guard. The chamberlain instantly started to his feet, and Salaman quick as thought overturned the light, and escaped into the sleeping apartment of the common attendants, but here his progress was arrested by a half-awakened soldier, who seized his ankle and held him fast. Hither as soon as the lamp could be relighted, he was pursued by the chamberlain, but such was the confusion, betwixt the muttering of those unwilling to be disturbed, and the blunders of those who fancied themselves broad awake, such was the cursing of devil, Turk and Infidel, that no one had the faintest idea of what had happened. Scarcely had the chamberlain fixed his eyes upon the real culprit, when with the angry and important air of a responsible person, most unceremoniously wakened, Elsiebede entered, and advancing straight to Salaman, seized and began to shake him with the greatest violence, thus freeing him from the grasp of the guard. "Waken, minion," said she, "waken, I say. What gambols art thou playing again in thy sleep? I warrant me, thou hast an unquiet conscience. My lady will send thee from her service, if thou dost not confess thy sins, and rest in peace." The black rubbed his eyes, and stumbling about like one but half awake, succeeded in gaining his pallet, and joyfully ensconced himself beneath the covering. "Thou seest," said Elsiebede, turning to the chamberlain, "the knave hath a trick of sleep-walking. Order these that they may remain quiet, for I would not that my mistress should be disturbed." Thus saying, she quitted the apartment. "A trick of walking, he certainly hath," grumbled the chamberlain, "but whether sleeping or waking, misdoubts me. The misshapen unbeliever can bring no good to a christian household." In the royal tent, there was still greater clamor. The monarch roused by the first unlucky step of Salaman, and finding himself in darkness, vociferated loudly for a light; but gaining no answer waxed wroth, and seizing the medicine cup as the readiest missile, hurled it in the direction of the snoring physician. The silver coming in contact with the skull of the doctor, animated him to a remarkable degree; betwixt the darkness and the pain, he plunged about the room without knowing for what intent, till he fell prostrate across the couch of the king, who mistaking him for an invading Turk, beat him terribly with the pillows; and roaring for sword, spear and battle-axe, in the name of all the saints in the calendar, defied him to mortal combat. At this juncture the chamberlain returned with the light, and seeing the king thus inflicting summary justice upon the leech, despite his own vexation burst into a hearty laugh, in which Richard, having already expended the superabundance of his choler, as soon as he comprehended the state of the case, joined with the greatest glee. The doctor meanwhile failed to see the point of the joke, and rubbing his head, declared with professional authority that nothing could be worse for the patient than such immoderate exercise and laughter. Picking up the cup, with a rueful countenance he mixed a fresh potion, which the facetious monarch drank to his health, and so composed himself again to rest. Coeur de Lion received his ring when it was found upon the floor, without any sign of surprise, and readily accounted for its loss, saying, "Our royal signet is scarcely safe upon this emaciated hand, especially since we are liable to do battle for Christendom without gauntlet or sword." The castigation which he had given the doctor put him in such high good humor, that he swallowed the necessary nostrums with great facility, and the worthy leech fully appreciating this part of the joke availed himself of the king's unwonted condescension, to administer those nauseous restoratives which the monarch had before obstinately refused. CHAPTER VIII. "Ah, never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of the brave, Gushed warm with hope and courage yet Upon the soil they fought to save." BRYANT. The eight days' truce was over, and Philip, recovered from his illness, again led the assault to the walls of Acre. Richard, also slowly convalescing, was borne to the scene of conflict, where he directed the operations of his warlike engines, offering a reward for every stone the soldiers dislodged from the tower Maledictum. The French had a machine of great power which they called "Bad neighbor," and the Turks, on their side, opposed to it a similar one named "Bad brother." These engines were plied day and night, and the tower became the scene of every variety of fierce attack and resolute defence, both by single combat and united effort. One morning a gigantic Turk, wearing the armor of Count Alberic, showed himself upon the wall in an attitude of defiance, when Richard, who had yielded to the representations of the chiefs, so far as to refrain from personal encounter, seized an arblast and sent an arrow winged with death to the heart of the Infidel. The exasperated Turks ran together to avenge his fall. The Christians met them with equal alacrity, and a slaughter ensued which continued till the darkness of night separated the combatants. The Christians had commenced undermining the tower, and had proceeded to some distance under the wall, when they encountered a party of Turks who were mining for egress in the opposite direction. The noise of the digging and the uncertain light had prevented each from discovering the other, till the earth, suddenly giving way between them, the foes stood face to face, mattocks and shovels in hand. But when the astonished Turks saw that they had thus assisted the Christians to enter the city, they fled with great precipitation, and at once closed up the entrance. That night a part of the tower Maledictum fell, and the Saracens perceiving that all further resistance would be vain, offered conditions of peace. They agreed to give up the city of Acre with all the treasures contained in it, both in money, arms, and clothing, to pay over two hundred thousand Saracenic talents, and restore the true cross which had been taken by the Moslems in the battle of Tiberias. After much debate the council of chiefs acceded to these proposals, and all the Paynim noblemen in the city were given up as hostages till the conditions should be fulfilled. The preliminaries arranged, the gates were thrown open, and the Turks with grave but cheerful countenance and undaunted demeanor passed out of the city through the Christian camp towards Tiberias. SELECTED FROM VINESAUF. "At last when all the Turks had departed, the Christians with the two kings at their head, entered the city without opposition through the open gates with dances and joy, and loud vociferations, glorifying God, and giving Him thanks, because he had magnified His mercy to them, and had visited them and redeemed His people. Then the banners and various standards of the two kings were raised on the walls and towers, and the city was equally divided between them. They also made a proportionate division of the arms and provisions they found; and the whole number of captives being reckoned, was divided by lot. The noble Caracois, and a large number fell to the lot of the King of France; and King Richard had for his portion Mestoc and the remainder. Moreover, the King of France had for his share the noble palace of the Templars, with all its appurtenances; and King Richard had the royal palace, to which he sent the queens with their damsels and handmaids; thus each obtained his portion in peace. The army was distributed through the city, and after the protracted contest of so long a siege, gave themselves indulgence, and refreshed themselves with the rest they needed." * * * * * No sooner were the Crusaders settled in the city than new troubles arose. Leopold, Duke of Austria, being a relative of Isaac Comnenus, who had joined the Templars, insisted that the Cypriot lady should be transferred to his custody; but Berengaria having become tenderly attached to her, refused to give her up. The quarrel ran high, and the exasperated Richard, in a moment of wrath, tore down the banner of Austria from the walls of Acre. This indignity gave rise to a mortal enmity, which hindered the arms and embarrassed the counsels of the croises during the whole campaign. The Christians, however, repaired the shattered walls and dwellings of the city, the clergy rebuilt and consecrated the altars, and the army watching for the fulfilment of Saladin's promises, rested from their fatigues in the enjoyment of security and luxury. Before the expiration of the period granted for the redemption of the hostages, Philip Augustus, feigning illness, but in reality suffering with a consuming jealousy of the superiority of his rival, declared his intention of returning to Europe. The chiefs assembled in council protested against this unworthy desertion of the common cause, since Saladin, depressed by the fall of Acre, was in no situation to contest their route to Jerusalem. When Richard heard of Philip's determination, he outdid himself in the curses and maledictions he called down upon the recreant prince, and peremptorily refused to hold any communication upon the subject: but at last having expended the violence of his anger, he compromised by giving his consent to the measure on condition that the Duke of Burgundy and a large part of the French should remain in Syria, and that Philip should make oath to leave the realm of England unmolested, till forty days after Richard should himself return to his dominions. The French monarch then left Acre amidst the hisses and imprecations of the spectators. He stopped at Tyre, and resigning to Conrad his claim upon the conquered city, and the ransom of the Turkish captives, sailed for Europe. The term fixed for the redemption of the hostages had well nigh expired, and still Saladin protested his inability to find the true cross, and under different pretexts excused himself from redeeming the prisoners. The palace of the Emir in Acre, with its sheltered verandahs, cooling fountains, and richly cultivated gardens afforded a delightful residence for the household of Coeur de Lion. Elsiebede, in whom it revived the recollections of her childhood in the Alhambra, revelled in luxuries, each of which was endeared by happy associations. A safe retreat being thus provided for his tender charge, Richard, intending as soon as practicable to commence his route to Jerusalem, ordered the petrarias, mangonels, and other warlike engines to be packed for transportation. He also despatched messengers to Conrad, Prince of Tyre, requiring him to repair with his hostages and army to Acre, to receive his share of the ransom, and to be ready to march against the Infidels. The marquis refused; declaring that he dared not venture into Richard's presence, and that if the true cross were ever recovered, he was to receive half of it for the King of France, and until that time he should not give up the hostages. A longer period having elapsed than that which had been assigned for the treaty, the council of chiefs was called to deliberate upon the fate of the captives. To leave three thousand prisoners without a sufficient guard, would be to surrender the city again to the Turks. To attempt to convey them with the army would be an inconceivable burden, attended with infinite danger. To provision such a multitude, whether in the city or camp, would be an intolerable tax upon the rapidly exhausting finances; and to set them free would be to add that number of active warriors to the ranks of their vigilant foe, and so to defeat the very end of the expedition. It was therefore determined that the hostages, on the following day, should be led forth upon an adjacent hill, and executed for the discomfiture of the Mohammedans, and the edification of all true Christians. The noble Mestoc, considered as one of the most important and valuable of the hostages, received distinguishing marks of favor. He was lodged according to his rank, and enjoyed a freedom beyond that extended to the other prisoners, and thus Elsiebede obtained frequent interviews without giving rise to a suspicion of the relationship between them. On the evening of the council of the chiefs, Salaman had managed, by means best known to himself, to hear all that passed, which he faithfully reported to Elsiebede. The following night, as Mestoc was quietly reposing unconscious of the fate that menaced the Turkish prisoners, he was surprised by a visit from his niece, who, informing him of the purposes of the Christians, besought him to make his escape in a disguise she had prepared for the purpose. The noble Egyptian refused, but moved by her pleadings, said to her, "Hadst thou a messenger by whom I might transmit a token to the Soldan--but no, the gray of night already foretelleth the dawn. It is too late. Had the Soldan valued the poor services of his servant, he had not left him to die by the hand of a christian dog. Allah be praised, Death is the key that opens the gate of Paradise." Finding further importunity vain, Elsiebede with many tears took her departure, revolving in her mind other methods of procuring a release. At early morning, the prisoners were conducted in mournful procession through the gates of the city, by a great multitude of the most devout and warlike Christians, who, according to a contemporary writer, "marched forward with delight to retaliate with the assent of Divine Grace, by taking revenge upon those who had destroyed so many of the Christians with missiles, bows, and arbalests." A report from an unknown source was in circulation among the soldiers, that fresh promises of ransom had been received from Saladin, and that if the execution could be delayed till evening, messengers would arrive with the treasure. By this artifice the chief emirs were preserved till long past noon. But no sign of rescue then appearing, those who looked for the downfall of Mohammedanism by the utter annihilation of its followers, caused the work of vengeance to proceed. The calm indifference with which the Turks regarded the terrific preparations for their execution, elicited even the admiration of the Christians. It was not in the heart of a chivalrous knight like Richard, to look unmoved upon the destruction of his brave and gallant foes. "By the holy saints," exclaimed he, "this is a hangman's work. It were enough to tempt the sword of a Christian knight from its scabbard, to see yon lion-hearted warriors slaughtered like a parcel of silly sheep held in the butcher's shambles. Wore they but the cross upon their shoulders, I would sooner reckon them among my followers than the stupid boors of Austria or the tilting squires of France. Longsword, summon our good bishop of Salisbury, with the symbols of our holy religion. Peradventure, Divine Grace may turn the hearts of these brave men to the acknowledgment of the true faith." In obedience to the order of the king, the bishop came forward, and holding up the cross, proclaimed life and liberty to all those who would renounce their heathen superstitions, and reverence the holy symbol. Not a voice replied to the offer of pardon, and as the priest, followed by the executioner, like the destroying angel of the passover, moved among the ranks of the doomed and presented the crucifix, each man answering, "God is God and Mahomet is his prophet," bent his head to the fatal stroke, till of the whole number the noble Mestoc alone remained. King Richard regarded him with a troubled look, as the priest approached, and involuntarily raised his hand to stay the blow. The executioner paused; and the soldiers gazing in silent wonder, turned their eyes doubtfully from their sovereign to his captive, who stood unmoved among the headless bodies of the heroic band, that had with him defended the city to the last extremity, and that now lay stretched around him, the bleeding holocaust upon the altar of a strange faith. The death-like silence that prevailed was broken by the faint sound of a trumpet, and at a distance was seen the flutter of a truce flag borne by a herald riding at full speed. The messenger advanced to the field of blood, hastened to the royal presence and presented a letter. The king cutting the silk with his sword, rapidly ran his eye over the contents, and then advancing, frankly extended his hand to the rescued Mestoc, saying, "Thy Soldan has at length fulfilled the conditions of thy ransom. I grieve that he so little valued the lives of thy brave companions. His tardy measures forced me upon an evil work. Heaven grant that one day I may, upon his own person, be able to avenge their death." Then, ordering the squires to prepare the Cypriot horses, he held the stirrup while the gallant Emir, with the same grave and tranquil air, that had characterized him through the whole of that eventful day, mounted Lyard, and himself vaulting upon the saddle of the beautiful Fanuelle, led the way to the palace. EXTRACT FROM VINESAUF. "On the morrow, therefore, of St. Bartholomew, being Sunday, the army was drawn up, early in the morning, to advance along the sea-coast, in the name of the Lord. Oh! what fine soldiers they were! You might there see a chosen company of virtuous and brave youth, whose equals it would have been difficult to meet with, bright armor and pennons, with their glittering emblazoning; banners of various forms; lances with gleaming points; shining helmets, and coats of mail; an army well regulated in the camp, and terrible to the foe! King Richard commanded the van, and kept the foremost guard. The Normans and English defended the standard, the Duke of Burgundy and the French brought up the rear, and by their tardy movements and long delay incurred severe loss. The army marched from the seashore, which was on its right, and the Turks watched its movements from the heights on its left. On a sudden the clouds grew dark, the sky was troubled, when the army arrived at the narrow roads impassable for the provision wagons; here, owing to the narrowness of the way, the order of march was thrown into confusion, and they advanced in extended line, and without discipline. The Saracens, observing this, poured down suddenly upon the pack-horses and loaded wagons, slew both horses and men in a moment, and plundered a great deal of the baggage, boldly charging and dispersing those who opposed them, as far as the seashore. Then there took place a fierce and obstinate conflict; each fought for his life. Oh, how dreadfully were our men then pressed! for the darts and arrows thrown at them broke the heads, arms and other limbs, of our horsemen, so that they bent, stunned to their saddle-bows; but having quickly regained their spirits, and resumed their strength, and thirsting for vengeance, like a lioness when her whelps are stolen, they charged the enemy and broke through them like a net. Then you might have seen the horses with their saddles displaced, the Turks fleeing and returning, and the battle raging fiercer than before; the one side labored to crush, the other to repel; both exerted their strength with the utmost fury, till King Richard hearing that the rear was put into great confusion, rode at full gallop to their assistance, cutting down the Turks right and left like lightning with his sword. And quickly, as of yore the Philistines fled from Maccabeus, so were the Turks now routed, and so did they fly from the face of King Richard and make for the mountains; but some of them remained amongst us, having lost their heads." This extract is a fac-simile of all the chances and changes that occurred to the Christians on their passage from Acre to Jaffa. CHAPTER IX. "He that hath nature in him, must be grateful; 'Tis the Creator's primary great law, That links the chain of beings to each other." At Jaffa a new contention arose. The French barons, fatigued with marching and fruitless skirmishing, advocated the policy of remaining a time in the city and rebuilding its fortifications; while Plantagenet, anxious to press his advantage, was desirous of proceeding to Ascalon. The soldiers remembering with regret the "loaves and fishes" of Acre, inclined to the counsel of the Duke of Burgundy, and Richard was forced to submit his better judgment to the unanimous voice of his followers. It was in vain that the king urged the soldiers to a rapid completion of the works. The summer faded into autumn, and the fortifications were still incomplete. The Moslems began to collect in the vicinity of Jaffa, and all parties of Christians, whether of foraging or falconry, were subject to frequent surprise and attack. On one occasion, a party of Templars fell into an ambuscade of the Turks, and Richard, hearing of their danger, rushed out with a few troops to their assistance. The conflict was dreadful. Hordes of Infidels fell upon the little band, who, struggling in the midst of their foes, with great loss carved their way to the city. On their return, William Longsword remonstrated with the monarch for this useless exposure of life, to which the generous Coeur de Lion, changing color with indignation, replied, "Richard Plantagenet knows not the prudence that weighs safety against glory, and for the rest it is the office of a king to defend his subjects, and the business of a crusader to destroy the enemies of the cross." The defences of Jaffa being complete, Richard prepared to prosecute the war with vigor. Leaving the city with a small garrison, he led his troops as far as Ramula, and made their camp on the bloody field where Stephen, Earl of Blois, received his mortal wound. A winter of extraordinary inclemency aggravated their hardships. The winds tore up the tents, and the rain spoiled the provisions, and rusted the arms. Through the hovering myriads of Saracens the Christians pressed their way almost in sight of Jerusalem. Richard was animated by the most ardent expectation. But the Templars, Hospitallers and Pisans, represented the impossibility of capturing the city, with their army in its present condition, the impracticability of garrisoning it against the Turks in the neighborhood, and the certainty that the soldiers as soon as the sepulchre was recovered, would return to Europe, leaving the rest of Palestine in the hands of the Infidels. Influenced by these unanswerable arguments, the disappointed king gave orders to fall back upon Ramula, and continued to retrograde with his murmuring and discontented army to Ascalon, a city of great consequence, being the link between the Turks in Jerusalem, and the Turks in Egypt. The pains and perils of this backward march eclipsed all former sufferings, and when the dismantled walls of Ascalon at length received them, Famine stared upon them with her hollow eyes, and Faction with its sharpened fangs tore asunder the remaining cords that bound together the wasted body of the croises. The Duke of Burgundy deserted the standard of Richard, part of the French soldiers retired to Jaffa, others to Acre, and others to Tyre; and while the proudest nobles and the most dignified of the clergy were employed like the meanest vassals, in repairing the ruined fortifications, Leopold wrapped in haughty selfishness surveyed the works with contemptuous sneers, and remarked, "The father of Austria was neither a carpenter nor a mason." The Turkish Soldan aware of the distress of his enemies, considered the war as nearly at an end, and dismissed a portion of his troops. He even extended the courtesies of civilized life to the valiant Richard, furnished his table with Damascene pears, peaches, and other delicacies, and with a liberal hand supplied the snow of Lebanon to cool his wines. The chief emirs who, attracted by curiosity or admiration, visited the court of the British Lion, returned with the most exaggerated accounts of the urbanity and prowess of the gallant "Melech Ric." One morning, at an hour somewhat earlier than his usual levee, Richard was surprised by a visit from Mestoc, accompanied by a female closely veiled. "Welcome, my noble Moor," exclaimed the king, as the Saracen advanced and bowed with the ceremonious obeisance of eastern courtesy. "Heaven bless the chance that hath brought thee hither. Next to a trusty friend, Plantagenet holds in honor a worthy foe." The Saracen gravely replied, "The Melech Ric wrongs the errand of his servant, if he discern not in his ransomed captive, one whom he hath made his friend." "I doubt not the truth of thy saying," replied the king, "since reason and experience teach that ingratitude is incompatible with true courage." "The chief of the Egyptians is, indeed, thy friend," continued Mestoc; "but were he twice thy foe, he brings a passport to the heart of the king, for 'from the place of the beloved, a zephyr hath blown, and thou seest one whose presence is as the breath of the heliotrope.'" Turning to his companion, he lifted her veil, and disclosed the features of Elsiebede. "Elsiebede!" exclaimed the monarch, in astonishment and alarm. "What of my queen? of Joanna? of England?" "My royal mistress is in health," replied Elsiebede, "and by this token," handing him a casket, "commendeth her love to her absent lord: and peace resteth upon the household." "And wherefore comest thou hither? and why under such convoy?" inquired Richard. "The errand of my mistress required a faithful messenger; and the chief will explain the mystery of my coming," replied the girl. With a puzzled look, Richard turned to Mestoc. "It is, perhaps, unknown to the prince of the west," said the chieftain, "that this damsel, Elsiebede, is the daughter of my sister." "How?" exclaimed Richard, gazing with astonishment upon the Moorish girl. "Our fair queen has long blinded our eyes to other beauty, or we should have seen what the most careless observer could not fail to note, that she has the countenance and bearing of a princess." "The family of the Prophet (blessed be he)," said Mestoc, his swarthy cheek reddening with a touch of pride, "boasts not a more noble origin, than the Gyptianos slave of the Frankish queen." "But by what means hath she discovered herself to thee in this strange land?" inquired Richard. "What saith the proverb?" replied the Saracen. "'The heart thrills at the sound of the kinsman's voice.' When the Melech Ric gave audience to the ambassadors of Saladin, the ring upon his finger, once the talisman of our tribe, arrested my gaze; but the maiden's eyes, brighter than the jewel, moved me to speak to her in the Egyptian tongue. She comprehended my words, and met me that night at the tower Maledictum, where I learned her history and made her acquainted with her kindred. She visited me in prison, and when I refused to fly, despatched Salaman to the Sultan to beg my life. For the rest, thou knowest that I thank the brave leader of the Franks no less than the timely ransom for my rescue. Before leaving the camp of the Latins I gave the zealous Ethiope a passport, commanding all true Mussulmans to bring him wherever found, safe to my presence. When, therefore, thy queen, distressed by the enemies in thine own household, sought for means to communicate with thee, Salaman conducted Elsiebede to my tent; and I have hasted to convey her to my deliverer. For what saith the proverb? 'In the sky it is written, on the pages of the air, he who doeth kind actions will experience the like.' Notwithstanding, let the damsel, I pray thee, depart with me; in the tent of my women she shall have careful attendance. If thou wouldst confer with her, the cunning Ysop knows her place of rest." Richard assented, and the Saracens withdrew. The letters from the queen contained intelligence of the most startling character. The Genoese and Pisans, rivals for the carrying trade of the East, had made Acre their seaport, and to give dignity to their commercial animosities had espoused, the one the party of Conrad, the other that of Guy de Lusignan. Their feuds had kept the residents of the city in a constant state of apprehension, and Berengaria entreated her lord to return to Acre, or to cause her immediately to be transported to Jaffa. In the same package were despatches from England, of a nature equally alarming. No sooner had Philip reached Italy than he applied to Pope Celestine for a dispensation from his oath to leave Richard's domains in quiet. When that request was denied, he proceeded in a covert manner to detach Prince John from his allegiance, promised him Alice in marriage, and offered to make him lord of all Richard's possessions in France. The prompt measures of Queen Eleanor had in some degree counteracted this design. Forbidding John, under the penalty of a mother's curse, to invade his brother's rights, she conveyed the hapless Alice to the strong castle of Rouen, where she subjected her to an imprisonment more rigorous than she had herself suffered in Winchester. The principal barons had leagued with John, or against him, and the whole realm was in a state of ferment. The political troubles of England, the treachery of the French king, the solicitude of his beautiful queen, and the dubious prospects of the crusade, raised a tumult of agitating thoughts in the mind of the king, and he passed the night in a state of sleepless excitement. Scarcely waiting for the dawn, he summoned Salaman and despatched him for Mestoc. Impelled by the pressing exigencies of the case, he intrusted the generous foe with a knowledge of the embarrassments of his position, and entreated his good offices in bringing about an accommodation with Saladin, stipulating only for the possession of Jerusalem and the restoration of the true cross. The Saracen undertook the commission, and after three days returned with the answer. With the stateliness of eastern formality the Mussulman declared his strong desire of peace, and his admiration of the courage and abilities of Plantagenet; but he asserted that he could never resign Jerusalem, since the sacred city was as dear to the Moslem as the Christian world, and that the principles of his religion forbade his conniving at idolatry by permitting the worship of a piece of wood. Thwarted in this negotiation, Richard again employed Mestoc to propose a consolidation of the Christian and Mohammedan interests by the establishment of a government at Jerusalem, partly European and partly Asiatic, which should secure to the pilgrims free access to the Holy Sepulchre, and feudal rights to all Christians who should choose to settle in Palestine. Mestoc returned from this embassy accompanied by a young Emir named Saphadin, a brother of the Turkish emperor. The overture of Coeur de Lion had been favorably received by the sagacious Saladin, but foreseeing that a stronger bond than a political alliance would be necessary to bind the two nations together, he had added to the articles the proposition of a union between his brother and the fair sister of Melech Ric. Saphadin was also commissioned to conduct the English king and his followers in safety to Acre. CHAPTER X. "A pen--to register; a key,-- That winds through secret wards; Are well assigned to Memory, By allegoric bards." When Richard arrived at Acre, he found affairs in the greatest confusion. The dissensions between the rival parties had terminated in open hostilities, more pressing messages urging his return had arrived from England, and he was forced to the conclusion that without some concession on his part, the whole crusade would prove an entire failure. The military abilities of Guy, were inferior to those of Conrad. Richard thus found it easy to satisfy his claim by bestowing upon him the rich and beautiful island of Cyprus, while he conciliated the Genoese, by consenting to the coronation of the Marquis of Tyre. Matters being thus accommodated between the jealous mercenaries, the mind of the king recurred to the original project of identifying the interests of the east and west, by uniting the heir of the thousand tribes, with the daughter of Henry Plantagenet. But Joanna, less susceptible of romantic enthusiasm than her mother, steadfastly rejected the offer of her Paynim lover, and the bishop of Salisbury, with other zealous priests sustained her decision, and Coeur de Lion overborne by their clamor, was forced to relinquish his cherished project. As some slight compensation to the disappointed Saphadin, he conferred upon him the honor of knighthood, and dismissed him with the strongest expressions of favor. Coeur de Lion then despatched a band of nobles to bring Conrad, the newly elected king, with all due honor to Acre. Delighted with his splendid prospects, Conrad ordered magnificent preparations to be made for the ceremony of coronation, and gave himself up to the most extravagant joy. But returning one day from an entertainment given by the bishop, he was suddenly seized and stabbed by two assassins, followers of the Old Man of the Mountain. His sudden death threw affairs again into confusion. The French who were encamped outside of Tyre, to the number of ten thousand, called upon the widow to give up the city for the service of King Philip. This she steadily refused to do; declaring that her lord had commanded her with his dying breath to resign it to no one but Richard, or whosoever should be elected King of Palestine. The French at once commenced hostilities, and the siege of the city had been some time in progress, when Count Henry of Champagne arrived in the camp. He was one of the most powerful vassals of the King of France; his mother was the half-sister both of Richard and Philip; his father had twice visited the Holy Land, and he was himself faithful to the interest of the crusade, and a general favorite among the warriors. The French leaders besought him to accept the crown of the kingdom, marry the widow of the marquis, and heal the dissensions that embarrassed the movements of the croises. Richard's consent to this measure was easily obtained. The nuptials were solemnized with royal magnificence, and the new king immediately published an edict, calling upon all his subjects to arm for the ensuing campaign, and join the English forces at Acre. Before they were ready to set out for the final conquest of the Holy City, fresh accounts were received from England of the increasing power of Prince John, and the treachery of Philip Augustus, but Richard disregarding these pressing calls, determined to strike one more blow for the Holy Sepulchre. Hymns and thanksgiving testified the popular joy, and so sanguine were the soldiers of the speedy accomplishment of their wishes, that they carried with them only a month's provisions. When they reached Bethlehem, the heats of summer had already commenced, and Richard began to feel that his force was not sufficient to encounter the hardships of the siege, and keep up communication with the stores upon the coast. It was therefore agreed that a council should be held, consisting of twenty persons; five Templars, five Hospitallers, five French nobles, and five native Christians of Syria, to decide upon the measures to be adopted. They ascertained that the Turks had destroyed all the cisterns within two miles of the city, that the waters of Siloa would be insufficient for the use of the army, and as the siege was therefore utterly impracticable, they gave it as their unanimous opinion that the most eligible plan, would be to proceed direct against Babylon. The French stoutly opposed this project, declaring that they would march nowhere else than to the siege of Jerusalem. The debate grew so warm that the Duke of Burgundy withdrew his forces from the main body of the army, and took up a separate position. Harassed by conjectures concerning the condition of his English subjects, discouraged at the disaffection of his soldiers, grieved at the sight of sufferings which he could not alleviate, and mortified with the prospect of a final failure of his enterprise, Richard strolled from the camp to the brow of an adjacent eminence. Occupied by sad and gloomy meditations, he walked, with his eyes fixed on the ground, unaware of the extensive prospect that spread out before him, nor was he conscious of companionship, till William Longsword taking his arm, disturbed his revery by saying, "This way, sire, from yonder point can be seen where the setting sun gilds the towers of Jerusalem." Instinctively the lion-hearted monarch raised his broad shield to shut out the view, while tears forced themselves from his manly eyes. "Nay, my brother," said he, "since God forbids to my unworthy arm the redemption of his Holy Sepulchre, I may not bless myself with a sight of his sacred city." He turned away, and silently retraced his steps. That night as he lay tossing upon his couch unable to sleep, he was surprised by a stealthy visit from Salaman. The officious black had gained permission of Mestoc to conduct the king to the cell of a hermit, who dwelt in one of the rocky caves with which the wilderness of Judea abounds. The devout man, whose venerable countenance and solemn appearance gave a strong guaranty for his truth, received the king with the deepest respect, and declared to him that a long time ago he had concealed a piece of the Holy Cross, in order to preserve it until Palestine should be rescued from the Infidels. He stated that Saladin had often pressed him with the most searching inquiries concerning it, but he had faithfully guarded the secret, and to the King of England he now committed the precious relic, for the adoration of those brave men who had so valiantly fought in defence of the Christian faith. Reverently wrapping it in a cloth of gold, Richard conveyed it to the camp, and the following day the whole army were permitted to press their lips upon the sacred wood. The troops had then orders to retire towards Jaffa, but civil rancor and fierce dissensions prevailed to such an extent among the forces, that but little discipline or order could be preserved. When they arrived before the place, they found it closely besieged by the Saracens, and on the point of surrender. The conflict which ensued was the most hotly contested of any that occurred during the Third Crusade. Richard performed prodigies of valor. His battle-axe gleamed everywhere in the van of the fight, opening for his followers bloody paths through the centre of the Turkish divisions. The gallant Fanuelle, plowing her way through the serried ranks, bore him proudly on, while the arrows and javelins of the Saracens, rattled idly upon his iron vest, till at length a fallen foe, pierced with a spear the breast of his favorite, and amid the exulting yells of the barbarians, horse and rider fell to the ground. Instantly starting to his feet, he drew his sword, and continued the combat undaunted as before. The generous Saphadin, who from a distance had watched the prowess of the valiant European, despatched a groom to his rescue with a splendid Arabian barb. Remounting, Richard continued the contest till the going down of the sun, when darkness separated the combatants. Jaffa was rescued, and the joy of this signal victory in some measure compensated the English for their bitter disappointment in abandoning Jerusalem. On reviewing his troops, Richard saw from their diminished numbers the utter hopelessness of attempting any further conquest, and this sad conviction strengthened the motives which determined his return to Europe. His late success gave him the vantage-ground in soliciting an honorable peace with the Soldan, who, now that Richard was preparing to depart, was better able to estimate candidly, and appreciate fairly the knightly qualities and heroic courage that had distinguished his career in the Holy Land. The Emperor Saladin and Richard Plantagenet, each with a brilliant train of attendants, met near Mount Tabor, to confer upon the momentous interests that clustered round the Holy City, and to arrange a protracted truce. The preliminaries occupied some days. The Saracens insisted upon the destruction of the fort of Ascalon, the Christians negotiated for the restoration of Jerusalem. It was at last settled, that Joppa and Tyre, and the country between them should be ceded to Henry, Count of Champagne, that Ascalon should be dismantled, and that the Christians should have free access to the Holy Sepulchre without molestation or tribute. The presence of Mestoc and Saphadin contributed not a little to the harmonious adjustment of these intricate affairs. The treaty was to remain in force three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours, a number of mysterious sanctity with the people of the East, and a space which Richard thought sufficient for him to compose the factions in England, and return to complete the conquest of Palestine. Since her expedition to Jaffa, Elsiebede had remained in care of her uncle; and Richard was now informed that Saphadin, disappointed in his suit with the lady Joanna, had transferred his affections to the bewitching Gyptianos. The crosses which Coeur de Lion had borne in the crusade had somewhat moderated the imperiousness of his temper, and taught him the policy of a seeming acquiescence in inevitable necessity; and thus though vividly impressed with an anticipation of Berengaria's frowns, he gracefully acceded to the request of Mestoc, and bestowed the Moorish girl and her swarthy attendant upon his noble friend. The Soldan had arranged the pavilion of the christian monarch with the utmost magnificence, at the southern extremity of the encampment, while his own sable tent had been pitched opposite on the north. Near the close of a bright Syrian day, as Richard sat listening to the strains with which Blondel beguiled the tedium of the listless hours, his chamberlain entered to announce the emperor. The illustrious Soldan came without the usual attendants of his rank, and Richard surprised and not ill-pleased by this mark of friendly familiarity, received him with the frank cordiality characteristic of his nature. The face of the noble Kurd wore a seriousness that seemed the result of thought rather than the habitual gravity of his nation and religion, and Richard, with instinctive delicacy, dismissed the minstrel, and waited in silent wonder for the communication of his honored guest. But what was his surprise when the gifted Saracen, instead of employing the common Lingua Franca, addressed him easily and fluently in the liquid Provençal. "The Melech Ric," said he, "wonders to hear his mother-tongue in a foreign land, but not stranger to thee than to me are my words. Forty and three times have the constellations described their circles in the heavens since my lip assayed this language; but thy presence has been to my heart like the beams of the rising sun that causes the statue of Memnon to speak." Astonishment prevented reply; but every feature of Coeur de Lion evinced the intensest curiosity. "Know then," said Saladin, answering the mute interrogation, "that as the warmth of our Eastern clime flushes the grape with a deeper hue than the temperate north, so it earlier awakens and strengthens the passions in the human breast. Hence was it that though but a youth I saw and loved a beautiful daughter of Frangistan. Her eyes--God said to them, Be--and they were, affecting my heart with the potency of wine. Her voice--it made me forget the spirits that stand about the throne of Allah (blessed be his name), and had not the Prophet ordained that she should suddenly be torn from me, I might have become a convert to the faith of the Nazarene." "Would to heaven thou hadst!" ejaculated Richard, "for Godfrey of Boulogne could not more worthily fill the throne of Jerusalem." Without appearing to note the enthusiasm of Richard, the Saracen slowly unfastened the scarf that bound his caftan, and exhibited the embroidered cross of Aquitaine. "Thou art a Christian in thy secret heart," said Richard, starting up at the sight and grasping the hand of the Soldan. "It solves the mystery of thy victories. I knew that no unbaptized Infidel could have so prevailed against the armies of the Lord." "Nay," said the Mussulman, smiling gravely, "think not the prince of the thousand tribes worships a symbol as do the Franks, though for the memory of her whose slender fingers wrought the emblem, I have sometimes spared the lives of those whom our laws hold accursed--but there is no God but one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet." Somewhat abashed Richard sat holding the scarf in his hand and murmuring half aloud, "The Provençal tongue; the cross of Aquitaine; a daughter of Frangistan." Then raising his eyes he said, with a look of painful embarrassment, "Noble Saladin, thy generous interest in the English crusader is sufficiently explained. Destroy not, I pray thee, the gratitude of the son of Eleanor by alluding to the follies of the mother." "Nay," said Saladin, satisfied that he had correctly interpreted the hereditary peculiarities, which his observant eye had detected in Richard, "the name of the beloved is secure from reproach; but my memory still looks upon her as she was, and I would fain teach my imagination to regard her as she is. Dwells she in the trembling tent of age? or has the angel Azrael drawn around her silent couch the curtain of perpetual night?" "She lives," returns Richard, proudly, "regent of my noble realm. Thousands receive benefits from her hands, which as thy poet saith, 'are the keys of the supplies of Providence.'" "I am content," replied the Saracen. "For the rest, hitherto, I have kept my secret in a house with a lock, whose key is lost, and whose door is sealed. So let it be henceforth between us. The peace of Allah rest upon Melech Ric, and may he die among his kindred." As he arose to leave the tent the voice of the muezzein was heard through the camp calling, "To prayer, to prayer." The noble chief paused upon the threshold, and turning his face toward Mecca, bowed his forehead to the dust, and reverently repeated the Mohammedan blessing. Early on the subsequent day, the Latins prepared for departure, and there remained only the last formalities of ratifying the treaty. As the two monarchs, disdaining the common obligation of an oath, advanced to the centre of that fair and flowery meadow, and extended their hands above the parchment, they seemed the representatives of Mohammedan superstition and Christian enthusiasm, and a prophetic eye might have read in the appearance of these leaders of the belligerent powers, that for a century had caused the earth to tremble beneath their tread, the character and the destiny of the nations which they represented. The form and countenance of the Saracen, erect and calm, but lithe and wary, with a certain air of majesty and repose, indicated a consciousness of the decay of youthful vigor, but a sense of compensation however in the resources of wisdom and skill laid up in the storehouse of experience, for the necessities of declining years. In the compact and muscular frame, and sparkling eyes of Richard, were expressed that reckless spirit of pursuit, that ardor of passion, enthusiasm of love, romance, and religion, that steady self-reliance, born of conscious strength and indomitable will, which characterized the growing nations of Europe, and finally gave the dominion of the world to the Anglo-Saxon race. Grasping each other's hands, these two exponents of Oriental tactics and European chivalry mutually pledged their faith to the treaty, and parted less like deadly foes, than faithful friends, who hoped to meet again. CHAPTER XI. "He that can endure To follow with allegiance a fallen lord, Doth conquer him that did his master conquer, And earns a place i' the story." On his arrival at Acre, Richard learned that the friends of Conrad accused him as the instigator of the assassination, and that reports had been conveyed to Europe impeaching his honor as a king, and his fame as a warrior. Deeming it unsafe to attempt the passage in the Trenc-the-mere, he committed Berengaria and her ladies again to the care of Stephen de Turnham and his faithful Blondel, and saw them safely embarked for Navarre, Sept. 29, 1192. The following month, having provided for the safe return of the soldiers and pilgrims who had accompanied him on his fruitless expedition, he himself last of all, in the disguise of a Templar, sailed from the port of Acre. As the rocky heights of Lebanon and the lofty summit of Carmel faded from his view, he stretched his hands towards the receding shores, and while tears streamed from his eyes, prayed aloud, "Oh Holy Land, I commend thee to God; and, if his heavenly grace shall grant me so long to live, I trust that I shall return according to his good pleasure, and set thee free from all thine enemies." The voyage proved more disastrous than was common, even in those days of unpractised navigation. Many of the English vessels were wrecked upon the shores of Africa, others fortunately reached friendly ports whence the warriors returned by land to Britain. Six weeks after his departure from Acre, the vessel of Richard encountered a pirate ship off the coast of Barbary. Learning from the commander that his misfortunes had become known, and that the French lords were prepared to seize him as soon as he should land in Marseilles, he determined, as his ship was already unseaworthy, to pass up the Adriatic, and make his way through Germany. Landing not far from Venice with six companions, he pursued his route to the north. But news of the dispersion of his fleet had already reached Germany, and orders had been issued, that all travellers should be closely interrogated. His companions were arrested; but the monarch escaped, attended only by a boy who understood the language of the country, and conducted him to houses of entertainment, unfrequented by persons of rank. Thus resting by day and travelling by night, they reached the borders of the Danube. Secure in his disguise, the king began to enjoy the frank hilarity and hearty cheer of the inn kitchen, and with a good nature appropriate to his assumed character, assisted in the preparations for the evening repast. A loitering spy observing a costly jewel upon the finger of the pretended friar, at once reported the suspicious circumstance to the governor. A company of soldiers were immediately despatched to arrest him, the leader of which was an Austrian who had served under him in Palestine. The house was searched, and the landlord subjected to a close scrutiny concerning harboring a man of the description of the hunted monarch. "There be no such person here," indignantly exclaimed the boor, "unless it be the Templar in the kitchen roasting fowls." The officers immediately followed the hint, and surprised the fictitious palmer with the spit in his hand. The Austrian cavalier recognized, at once, the herculean frame and ruddy countenance of the king. "It is he. Seize him," cried he to his minions. Notwithstanding a valiant resistance, Richard was overborne by numbers and conveyed to the castle of Tenebreuse, where for several months all trace of him was lost. * * * * * Meanwhile the vessel containing the princesses arrived safely at Naples, whence they journeyed to Rome. The enmity of Philip, and vague reports concerning the shipwreck of her husband, so terrified Berengaria that she remained here under the protection of the pope till the ensuing spring. During the carnival, the services of the royal ladies were in requisition for a brilliant masquerade. The affair, involving an uncommon call for bijouterie, the queen found no little amusement in searching the shops of the jewellers in pursuit of appropriate decorations. On one of these excursions her attention was attracted by the appearance of a boy clad in mean apparel who was offering a valuable jewel for sale. The eagerness and suspicion with which the shopman regarded it excited her curiosity, and stepping forward she recognized the signet ring of Richard. Hastily purchasing the precious talisman she ordered the youth to follow her, intending to question him further concerning his master; but when she reached her apartments, he had disappeared. She sent messengers in every direction, and caused the most searching inquiries to be made, but all in vain; he was nowhere to be found. Her anxiety for the fate of Richard, found vent in fruitless exertions and floods of tears. The mysterious circumstances reawakened all her superstitious apprehensions. She was convinced that the fatal ring which she had so foolishly given and so weakly allowed him to retain, had finally accomplished his prediction, "betrayed him to his direst foe, or drowned him in the sea." At one moment she bewailed him as dead, at the next upbraided her friends for neglecting to deliver him from the dungeon in which she was positive the Duke of Austria had confined him. Blondel, whose devotion to his royal friend equalled her own, set off at once under the character of a wandering minstrel in search of his master. At length the pope, moved by Berengaria's distress, placed her under the escort of Count Raimond of Toulouse, the hero of the tournament, who, with a strong guard, conducted the queens across the country to Navarre. The valiant Raimond soon found it an easier and pleasanter task to soothe the mind of the lovely Joanna, than to listen to the unavailing complaints of the despairing Berengaria, and so resigned did he become to his grateful duties, that before they reached the end of their journey he had become a candidate for the office during life of sympathizer and protector. In the joy of welcoming her youngest daughter, Queen Eleanor forgot her hereditary enmity to her cousin of Toulouse, and Count Raimond received the hand of Joanna with the resignation of the contested claim to that splendid fief, which had so long filled the south of France with strife and bloodshed. Deprived of the society of the tranquil and considerate Joanna, Berengaria was more than ever lonely and disconsolate, and the death of her father, Sancho the Wise, not long after, added another weight to the sorrow that oppressed her. Eleanor's detention of the Princess Alice had drawn upon Normandy a fierce invasion by Philip Augustus, and the noble domain might have fallen a prey to his rapacity had not Sancho the Strong, moved by the pleadings of his sister, traversed France with a choice band of knights, and compelled his grasping sovereign to abandon the siege of Rouen. * * * * * Meantime the faithful Blondel traverses many a weary league in search of the lion-hearted king. His harp gives him ready entrance to the castles of the great and the cottages of the lowly. Warriors mingle their rude voices with the chorus of his soul-stirring tensons, and light-hearted maidens weep pitying tears at the sound of his tender _plaintes_. Stern jailers, like the Furies that guarded the lost Eurydice, leave their dismal avocations, and "listening crowd the sweet musician's side." The lyre of Orpheus draws back the rusty bolts and opens wide the ponderous doors, and many a hapless prisoner is charmed with the strains of light and love that for years had only visited his dreams. But Richard is not among the minstrels; his voice echoes not in the chorus of the warriors; his sad complaint is not heard among the wail of the captives. The troubadour turns away disappointed from each new trial, but restless affection prompts him to repeated endeavors, and ephemeral hopes continually lead him on. He wanders along the banks of the Danube, he sits beneath the dark shadow of the Tenebreuse, from whose portals no ransomed captive has ever yet come forth to the free light of day. He assays his most thrilling strains, but the guards, insensible as the granite effigies that frown upon him from the lofty turrets, remain unmoved. He throws down his lyre in despair, and hot tears gush from his eyes. The image of Berengaria floats before him, her cheek flushed with hope, and her eyes sparkling with love. He sees her leaning enchanted from the vessel's side, listening to the voice of her royal lover, while the wind with fairy fingers sweeps a wild symphony through the straining cordage of the gallant Trenc-the-mere. With the recollections come the long-forgotten emotions of that blissful season. Instinctively his hand grasps the harp; his spirit kindles with the inspiration; a melodious prelude rings out upon the still air, and he sings, "Your beauty, lady fair, None views without delight; But still so cold an air No passion can excite. Yet this I patient see, While all are shunn'd like me." Is it the voice of the warder mingling with his own in the concluding strain, or has his rapt fancy taught the echoes to mock his impatience with the loved tones of the royal troubadour? He pauses--'Tis neither memory nor fancy. From the lonely turret and the closely barred casements pours a liquid strain, and his fond ear drinks again the clear tones that answered to his own, when in harmonious rivalry each sought the rich reward of Berengaria's smile. "No nymph my heart can wound, If favors she divide, And smile on all around, Unwilling to decide: I'd rather hatred bear Than love with other share." It is the voice of Plantagenet!! The song, the tune are his! He lives! He may yet be ransomed. A rough hand is laid upon the shoulder of the minstrel, and a surly voice bids him, Begone! He departs without question or reply. He courts no danger; for on his safety depends the life of his friend. The listless stroll of the harper is exchanged for the quick firm pace of one who hastes to the accomplishment of a worthy purpose. He avoids the populous cities, and tarries not in the smiling villages. He reaches the sea-coast--he finds a vessel--he lands in England--he obtains audience of the queen regent. She who subscribes herself "Eleanora, by the _wrath_ of God Queen of England," makes all Europe ring with the infamy of those princes who have combined to keep her son in chains. The power of the pope is implored, the mercy of the holy mother is invoked. The Emperor Henry VI. requires the royal prisoner at the hands of Leopold. Richard is brought before the diet at Worms, to answer for his crimes. He is accused of making an alliance with Tancred, of turning the arms of the crusade against the christian King of Cyprus, of affronting the Duke of Austria before Acre, of obstructing the progress of the croises by his quarrels with the King of France, of assassinating the Marquis Conrad Prince of Tyre, and of concluding a truce with Saladin and leaving Jerusalem in the hands of the Saracen emperor. The noble Plantagenet arises in the majesty of his innocence and, "as the lion shakes the dew-drops from his mane," dispels the false accusations of his enemies. The eloquence of truth carries irresistible conviction to the hearts of the congregated princes. They exclaim loudly against the conduct of the emperor, the pope threatens him with excommunication, and the reluctant Henry is compelled from very shame to consent to the prisoner's release. But a heavy fine is required, and the monarch is remanded to his captivity till the sum shall be paid. Every vassal in England and Normandy is taxed for the ransom of his lord. The churches and monasteries melt down their plate, the bishops, abbots, and nobles, contribute a portion of their rent, the inferior clergy a tenth of their tithes, and Eleanor conveys the treasure to Germany, and brings back her long lost-son! CHAPTER XII. "Do you like letter-reading? If you do, I have some twenty dozen very pretty ones: Gay, sober, rapturous, solemn, _very true_, And very lying, stupid ones, and witty ones." LETTER FROM THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN TO RICHARD. "To Richard Plantagenet, by the grace of God, King of England, your poor and unworthy servants of the Hospital of St. John, humbly set forth these things. We remember when it pleased the great Richard to depart from Palestine, leaving the Holy City still in the hands of the Moslems, that he pledged the honor of a knight, to return when the troubles of his own kingdom should be composed, and once more do battle in the cause of the saints. "According to our poor ability we preserved the conditions of the treaty, and the land had rest from war. The mighty sultan, Saladin, then kept his goods in peace. But God has called him to the judgment to answer for his crimes against the christian nations. His brother Saphadin usurps the throne of Jerusalem, and his sons strive to rend the kingdom in pieces, that each may take his share. "Now the Scripture saith expressly, 'A house divided against itself shall not stand,' and the fulfilment thereof is shown in that which they begin to do. A scarcity of food exhausts their forces, and it were easy for a christian army, while they lie torn with faction and reduced by famine, to march through the length and breadth of the land, and make the strong places our own. But the forces of the military friars are insufficient for the pious work; therefore we turn our eyes towards Europe, we fix our regards upon the islands of the sea, and lift our hands to Heaven and pray that the lion-hearted monarch, with his valiant knights, would once more 'come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty.' May God and his saints incline your heart to the divine undertaking, and may the counsels of the Lord prevail. Amen. "Written from Palestine A.D. 1195." ENCYCLICAL LETTER OF CELESTIN III. "To the most Potent Sovereigns of Europe, to the princes, nobles, and barons, who by the favor of God, hold authority over the dominions and vassals of our Lord and Saviour--to the cardinals, bishops, prelates, and other clergy that rule the Church of God, Pope Celestin III. called to be the vicar of Christ, and in virtue of his office heir to the Apostolic See, sendeth greeting. "My brethren, it hath been shown to us that Jerusalem, the city of the Saviour's life and passion, still lieth in the hands of the Moslems, that the Infidels mock the rites of our holy religion even in the land where the sacred mysteries were first instituted, and that the Christians of Syria cry unto the brethren of the west for aid. Wherefore we command you all to spread again the crimson standard of the cross, and march against the persecutors of the faith. By the authority of the blessed St. Peter, from whom we hold the keys of the kingdom of Heaven, whereby we open and no man can shut; we shut, and no man can open; we ordain that all those who in heart and truth obey this, our holy mandate, shall have claim to those indulgences needful for the flesh, in this toilsome warfare; absolution from those sins which they have heretofore committed, or shall hereafter fall into:--and we set before them an abundance of the honors of this life, and in the life to come life everlasting. "Given at Rome, under our hand and seal, this tenth day after Epiphany, in the Year of Grace 1196." LETTER FROM ELSIEBEDE TO BERENGARIA. "Elsiebede to the most honored Queen Berengaria. My noble mistress will pardon the wife of Saif Addin if she intrude upon her gracious attention the story of the changes that have befallen one whom Allah (blessed be his name) hath raised from the low estate of a servant, to the dignity of sole wife of the monarch of the East. Though the voice of love charmed my ear, and made my heart tremble with sweet delight, yet tears overflowed my eyes when it was told me I should look no more upon the face of her whose fostering care had sustained my youth, and brought me to the land of my kindred. My beloved lady and her valiant lord have departed for their own land, but still I hear their names echoed from the base of Carmel, to Damascus the garden of delights. The Arab horseman threatens his steed with the weight of King Richard's arm, the Saracen mother hushes her babe with the fear of the Melech Ric, and blesses her daughter with the benison, 'Allah make thee fair as Berengaria.' But 'The strength of the mighty and the charm of the lovely availeth naught, since death, the terminator of delights, waiteth at the threshhold of every dwelling.' Scarce could the vessels that bore the croises have reached the shores of Frangistan, when Disease, more potent than even the sword of the lion-hearted Plantagenet, laid its hand upon Saladin the Powerful, the Illustrious, and his life was consumed beneath its burning touch. Then the black banner that awoke thy terrors at the first sight of Palestine, and that so often like the wing of Azrael, waved over the fields of the slain, by his last command, was rolled in the dust, and the shroud that was to wrap his body in the grave, was borne aloft in the sight of his people, while the imams and muezzins cried aloud with an exceeding bitter cry, 'Behold all that remains to the mighty Saladin, the prince of the thousand tribes, the vizier of Egypt, the conqueror of Syria, the Emperor of the East. Behold oh man, and prepare to die!' "Until his death the virtuous Soldan had faithfully preserved the peace made with the Melech Ric, and it was the wish of his brother, my lord Saif Addin, upon whom the emirs and atabeks bestowed the kingdom of Syria, still to keep faith and truce with the Christians, but as your holy writing saith, 'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,' even so hath it happened unto my lord. The undutiful sons of Saladin have seized Aleppo, Damascus, and Egypt. They have drawn the sword of battle, and our land again groaneth under the miseries of war. From these things it chanced that certain timid Christians, fearing again the renewal of all those sufferings, from which they had rested during the space of three years, called again on their brethren of Europe for aid. And there came a great company of crusading Germans, brutal and blood-thirsty, to wrest the territory of Palestine from the hands of the sovereign. When the Latins of Acre saw what manner of men they were, they represented to them the virtues and moderation of the noble Saif Addin, and entreated that the Christians of the Holy Land should have space for negotiation and treaty, before the commencement of hostilities. But they would not hear; and so the cruel war was again begun. "Then my lord girding himself for the conflict, showed that the spirit of Saladin survived in his brother. He advanced to the north to meet his foes, and a terrible slaughter took place in the vale of Sidon. The followers of the prophet were slain on every side, and the Latins also were greatly discomfited, and took refuge in Tyre. A portion of the Germans proceeded to Jaffa; thither Saif Addin pursued them, and after a continued siege, took the city and put them all to the sword. On the same night, Count Henry of Champagne, wearing the title, but not the crown of the King of Jerusalem, was killed by a fall, and the Christians being thus left without lord or ruler, concluded a peace with the Emperor. Isabella, the widow of Count Henry, is again a wife, being taken in marriage by Almeric, brother of Guy de Lusignan. "The prophet saith truly, 'Though the storm rage without, there may be peace in the tent,' and I dwell in safety within the sacred walls of Jerusalem. Cohr Eddin, my first-born, already assays to bend the bow of his father, and his infant brother nestling in my bosom, just lisps the name of his warlike sire. Farewell. The blessing of her who was ready to perish, rest upon thee and thine, and Allah make thee happy as Ayesha, the best beloved wife of the prophet, on whom be peace. "Written from Jerusalem in the year of the Hegyra 576, according to the era of the Franks, 1198." * * * * * The _Fourth Crusade_, which the French monarch regarded with indifference, and which the King of England despised as being the enterprise of his German enemies, ended thus without advantage or glory to Christendom. The hostilities which had been engendered in the Holy Land, continued to vex and agitate Europe long after the causes had ceased to operate. The Emperor Henry VI. died of poison administered by his wife Constance, and the pope prohibited his interment until the hundred and fifty thousand marks which he had received for Richard's ransom, should be paid over into the treasury of the Holy See. Insignificant wars exciting the baser passions of human nature and developing few of its nobler qualities, occupied the remaining years of the two great rivals, Richard Plantagenet and Philip Augustus. The Princess Alice was at last surrendered to her brother, and at the mature age of thirty-five, with a tarnished reputation and a splendid dower, was given in marriage to the Count of Aumerle. Richard spent scarce four months of his reign in England, and Berengaria never visited the island. They resided upon his ducal estates in Normandy, or passed their time in Anjou and Aquitaine. It was at the siege of the castle of Chaluz, in the latter province, that Richard met his death. A peasant plowing in the field, pretended that he had discovered a wondrous cave, in which were concealed golden statues, and vases of precious stones, of unrivalled beauty and value. "The lively imagination of the king, heated by the splendid fictions of Arabian romance," led him at once to credit the report, and determined him upon securing the enchanted treasure. He immediately summoned the baron to give up to him as feudal lord, a share of the rich prize. The Castellan declared that nothing had been found but a pot of Roman coins which were at his service. The impetuous monarch could not be satisfied with this explanation of the affair, and immediately commenced a siege. He was pierced by an arrow from the walls, and the wound though not mortal was so inflamed by the unskilfulness of the physician, and the king's impatience under treatment, as to cause his death. Queen Eleanora was at this time in England; but Berengaria attended him in his last moments, and forgetting the years of neglect, and the ebullitions of ill temper that had poisoned her domestic happiness, watched and wept over him with the tenderest care. Scarcely had he breathed his last, when Joanna, Countess of Toulouse, arrived in Aquitaine. She had come to entreat the assistance of the monarch against the haughty barons who had taken up arms against her husband. But when she looked upon the kingly form of her beloved brother stretched in the stillness of death; when she saw that the dull, cold eye kindled not as of yore at the recitative of her wrongs; and when she lifted the powerless hand ever ready for her defence, her long-tried courage gave way and she sank fainting by his side. The weight of this new grief, added to her former afflictions, pressed upon her enfeebled frame, and on the third day she expired, entreating Berengaria to bury her with her brother Richard. The sorrowing queen conveyed the royal remains of her husband and sister for interment to the stately abbey of Fontevraud, and laid them in the tomb of their father Henry II., and within a few short weeks after paid the last tribute of affection to her sweet sister Blanche, wife of Thibaut, Count of Champagne. The world was now a desert to Berengaria. She retired to her dower estate of Orleans, where she founded the noble abbey of L'Espan, and passed the remainder of her life in acts of charity and beneficence. ISABELLA. [Illustration: Isabella of Angoulême.] CHAPTER I. "The lady I love will soon be a bride, With a diadem on her brow; Oh why did she flatter my boyish pride, She's going to leave me now." It is a marvel to those unacquainted with the philosophy of navigation, that ships may sail with equal speed in opposite directions, under the impelling force of the same breeze: and it is often an equal paradox with casual observers of mental phenomena, that individuals may contribute as really to the success of an enterprise by the law of repulsion as by the more obvious exercise of voluntary influence. Thus Isabella of Angoulême, who was perhaps as little occupied with plans military or religious, as any beauty that counted warriors among her conquests could well be, as effectually impelled a noble knight and leader to undertake the Holy War, as did Adela, Countess of Blois, whose whole heart was in the work. Isabella was the only child and heiress of the Count of Angoulême. Her mother was of the family of Courteney, the first lords of Edessa. In very early youth Isabella had been betrothed to Hugh X. de Lusignan, the Marcher or guardian of the northern border of Aquitaine. The little bride dwelt at the castle of her lord, flattered and caressed by every vassal who hoped to win the favor of his master, while the gallant Hugh, surnamed le Brun, watched over her interests, and directed her education with the care of a man anticipating full fruition in the ripened charms and unrivalled attractions of one who looked upon him as her future husband. Count Hugh as a distinguished peer of France, had been summoned to form one of the splendid cortege which Philip Augustus despatched into Spain, to bring home the fair Blanche of Castile, the bride of his son Prince Louis. During his absence the parents of Isabella sent messengers to the castle of Valence, to request their daughter's presence on the occasion of a high festival in Angoulême. The beautiful fiancée of Count Hugh was required to recognize King John of England, as the sovereign of Aquitaine, and feudal lord of the province of Angoumois. Dressed in a simple robe of white, with her hair parted _à la vierge_ upon the brow, and confined only by the golden coronet designating her rank, she advanced with a timid step through the assembly, and kneeling at the feet of the king, placed her tiny hands in his, while with a trembling voice she pronounced the oath of homage. The first peep which the fair child gained of the great world in this brilliant assembly, where she was made to act so conspicuous a part, intoxicated her youthful imagination; and the effect of her artless simplicity on the heart of the dissolute monarch, already sated with the adulation of court beauties, was such as one feels in turning from a crowded vase of gaudy exotics, to contemplate the sweetness of the native violet. Hence was it that Isabella, though scarcely fifteen, entered into all the schemes of her parents, for preventing her return to the castle of her betrothed, and without opposition, gave her hand to a man who had been for ten years engaged in an ineffectual struggle against the canons of the church, for the possession of his beautiful cousin, Avisa, whom he had married on the day of Richard's coronation. Now smitten with the charms of Isabella, John submitted at once to his spiritual fathers, and the archbishop of Bordeaux having convoked a synod to consider the matter with the assent of the bishops of Poitou, declared that no impediment existed to their marriage. The nuptials were, therefore, celebrated at Bordeaux, in August, 1200. Enraged at the loss of his bride, on his return from Castile, the valiant Count Hugh challenged the royal felon to mortal combat; but the worthless king despising the resentment of the outraged lover, sailed with Isabella in triumph to England, where they passed the winter in a continual round of feasting and voluptuousness. Thwarted in the usual method of redress, Count Hugh had recourse to the pope, the acknowledged lord of both potentate and peer. Innocent III. at once fulminated his thunders against the lawless prince; but as the lands, if not the person of the heiress of Aquitaine, were the property of King John as her lord paramount, not even the Church could unbind the mystic links of feudal tenure that barred the rights of Count Lusignan. Disappointed in his hopes of vengeance in this quarter, the count became suddenly impressed with the right of young Arthur of Bretagne, to the throne of England, and being joined by the men of Anjou and Maine, he suddenly laid siege to the castle of Mirabel, where Queen Eleanor, then entering her eightieth year, had taken up her summer residence. The son of Geoffrey entered readily into the plot, for he had little cause to love the grandmother, who had advocated the setting aside his claims in favor of those of his uncle; and it was the intention of Count Hugh to capture the aged queen, and exchange her for his lost spouse. In an age when decent people were expected to break their fast at the early hour of five, King John was surprised at his midday breakfast by a messenger, summoning him to his mother's rescue. Rising hastily in terrible wrath, and swearing a horrid oath, he overset the table with his foot, and leaving his bride to console herself as she could, set off immediately for Aquitaine. Arrived before the castle of Mirabel, he gave fierce battle to his enemies. The contest was very brief, and victory for once alighted upon the banners of John. The unfortunate Count Hugh, and the still more unfortunate Arthur, with twenty-four barons of Poitou were taken prisoners, and chained hand and foot, were placed in tumbril carts and drawn after the Conqueror wherever he went. The barons, by the orders of King John, were starved to death in the dungeons of Corfe castle. The fate of the hapless Arthur was never clearly known. Many circumstances make it probable that he died by the hand of his uncle; and the twelve peers of France convened to inquire into his fate, branded John as a murderer, and declared the fief of Normandy a forfeit to the crown. Thus was this important province restored to the dominion of France, after having been in the possession of the descendants of Rollo nearly three centuries. The only male heir now remaining to the House of Plantagenet, was the recreant John; and Queen Eleanor looking forward with fearful foreboding to the destruction of her race, sought an asylum in the convent of Fontevraud, where she died the following year. The unhappy lover of Isabella dragged on a weary existence in the donjon of Bristol castle, and the heart of the queen, already wounded by the cruelty of John, and touched with pity for the sufferings of Lusignan, began to recount in the ear of her imagination the tender devotion of her first love, and to contrast her miserable, though splendid destiny with the peace and happiness she enjoyed in the castle of Valence. * * * * * The controlling spirit of the thirteenth century was Innocent III. "Since Gregory the Seventh's time the pope had claimed the empire of the world, and taken upon himself the responsibility of its future state. Raised to a towering height, he but saw the more clearly the perils by which he was environed. He occupied the spire of the prodigious edifice of Christianity in the middle age, that cathedral of human kind, and sat soaring in the clouds on the apex of the cross, as when from the spire of Strasburg the view takes in forty towns and villages on the banks of the Rhine." From this eminence Pope Innocent surveyed the politics of Europe, and put forth his mandates to bring the power and wealth of the nations into the treasury of the church. No measures had ever been adopted which combined so effectually to move the passions of an ardent age, in a direction indicated by papal authority, as the expeditions to the Holy Land. Louis and Philip of France and Henry of England had taxed their subjects for the benefit of the crusade. Pope Innocent went a step farther, and gave a new character to the sacred wars by imposing a similar tax upon the clergy. The eloquent pontiff described the ruin of Jerusalem, the triumphs of the Moslems, and the disgrace of Christendom; and, like his predecessors, promised redemption from sins and plenary indulgence to all who should serve in Palestine. An ignorant priest, Fulk of Neuilly, took up the word of exhortation, and with less piety than Peter the Hermit and greater zeal than St. Bernard, itinerated through the cities and villages of France, publishing the command of the successor of St. Peter. The situation of the principal monarchs was unfavorable to the pious undertaking. The sovereignty of Germany was disputed by the rival houses of Brunswick and Suabia, the memorable factions of the Guelphs and Ghibelines. Philip Augustus was engaged in projects to wrest from the King of England his transmarine dominions, and John was incapable of any project beyond the narrow circle of his personal pleasures and preferences. Notwithstanding, therefore, the power of the pope and the fanaticism of Fulk, the whole matter might have fallen through but for the lofty enthusiasm of the descendants of Adela Countess of Blois. In every expedition to the Holy Land, there had not lacked a representative from the house of Champagne; and Thibaut, fourth Count of the name, was the first to unfurl the crimson standard in the _Fifth Crusade_. The young Thibaut held a grand tournament at Troyes, to which he invited all the neighboring princes and knights for a trial in feats of derring-do. The festivities of the day were nearly over, and the victors were exchanging congratulations and commenting upon the well-won field, when the intrepid Fulk appeared in the lists and challenged the warriors to enforce an appeal to arms in the cause of Christendom. Geoffrey Villehardouin, the marechal of Champagne, who held the post of honor as judge of the combat, immediately gave place to the holy man, and the unbonneted chieftains drew around and with respectful regard listened while the subtle priest, from the temporary throne, descanted upon the sufferings of lost Palestina. Encouraged by the example of his ancestors, animated by the distinction acquired by his elder brother as King of Jerusalem, fired with indignation against the Infidel that claimed that brother's crown, and stimulated by a holy ambition to inscribe his own name upon the rolls of honored pilgrimage, the noble Thibaut came forward, and drawing his sword, laid it at the feet of the priest, who blessed and consecrated both it and him to the cause of God. His cousin Louis Count of Blois and Chartres, immediately advanced to his side and made a similar dedication. Then followed his brother-in-law, Baldwin Count of Flanders, Matthew de Montmorenci, Simon de Montfort, Geoffrey Villehardouin, and a host of others, till the whole assembly becoming infected with the spirit of enthusiasm, sprang to their feet, and drawing their swords, held them up in the sight of heaven, and with unanimous voice vowed to engage in the Holy War. This vow was subsequently repeated in the churches, ratified in tournaments, and debated in public assemblies till, among the two thousand and two hundred knights that owed homage to the peerage of Champagne, scarce a man could be found willing to forfeit his share in the glorious enterprise by remaining at home. As Sancho the Strong had died without children, Navarre acknowledged Thibaut, the husband of Blanche, as king; and bands of hardy Gascons from both sides of the Pyrenees flocked to his banners. The feudatories of the other pilgrim warriors, animated by this glorious example, joined the standards of their respective leaders, and crowds of prelates and barons waited but the final arrangements for departure. The perils of the land route to Jerusalem had been often tried. They were such as to intimidate the bravest, and check the impetuosity of the most ardent. At the extremity of the Adriatic sea, the Venetians had found a shelter, during the dark and stormy interval that succeeded the downfall of the Roman Empire. There nestling in the sedgy banks of the islands that clustered around the Rialto, Commerce, through a long period of incubation, had nourished her venturesome brood, and now the white wings of her full-fledged progeny, like the albatross, skimmed the surface of the seas and found ready entrance to every harbor on the coast of the Mediterranean. The Venetian republic had owed a nominal allegiance to the Greek empire, but entering the field as a rival to the Genoese and Pisans for the carrying-trade of Europe at the beginning of the crusades, she had displayed from her towering masts the banner of the cross, while she cultivated a friendly intercourse with the Infidels of every clime. To this avaricious but neutral power the sacred militia determined to apply for a passage to the Holy Land, and six deputies, at the head of whom was Villehardouin, were despatched to the island city to settle the terms of transportation. The ambassadors were received with distinction, and a general assembly was convened to listen to their proposals. The stately chapel and place of St. Mark was crowded with citizens. The doge and the grand council of ten sat in solemn dignity while the marechal of Champagne unfolded thus the purposes of the embassy. "Illustrious Venetians: the most noble and powerful barons of France have sent us to you to entreat you in the name of God to have compassion on Jerusalem which groans under the tyranny of the Turks, and to aid us on this occasion in revenging the injury which has been done to your Lord and Saviour. The peers of France have turned their eyes to you as the greatest maritime power in Europe. They have commanded us to throw ourselves at your feet, and never to change that supplicatory posture till you have promised to aid them in recovering the Holy Land." The eloquence of their words and tears touched the hearts of the people. Cries of "We grant your request," sounded through the hall. The honored Doge Dandolo, though more than ninety years of age and nearly blind, consecrated what might remain to him of life to the pious work, and multitudes imitated his self-devotion. The treaty was concluded, transcribed on parchment, attested with oaths and seals, and despatched to Rome for the approbation of the pope. Villehardouin repaired to France with the news of the success of his embassy. The gallant Thibaut sprang from his bed of sickness, called for his war-horse, summoned his vassals, and declared his intention to set off immediately upon the pilgrimage. The exertion was too great for his feeble frame; he sank fainting in the arms of his attendants, and expired in the act of distributing among his feudatories the money he had designed for the Holy War. A new leader was then to be chosen, and the lot finally fell upon Boniface of Montserrat, younger brother of the celebrated Conrad, Marquis of Tyre. CHAPTER II. "I'll laugh and I'll sing though my heart may bleed, And join in the festive train, And if I survive it I'll mount my steed And off to the wars again." In the spring of the year 1202, the crusaders being joined by numbers from Italy and Germany, arrived at Venice. "On the Sunday before they were ready for embarkation, a great multitude assembled in the place of St. Mark. It was a high festival, and there were present the people of the land, and most of the barons and pilgrims. Before high mass began, the Doge of Venice, who was named Henry Dandolo, mounted the pulpit, and spoke to the people, and said to them, 'Signors, there have joined themselves to you the best nation in the world, and for the greatest business that ever men undertook; and I am an old man and a feeble and should be thinking of rest, and am frail and suffering of body. But I see that no one can order and marshal you like I who am your lord. If you choose to grant to me to take the sign of the cross, that I may guard you and instruct you, and that my son may remain in my place to guard the land, I will go live or die with you and the pilgrims.' And when they heard him they all cried out with one voice, 'We beg you in God's name to grant it, and to do it, and to come with us.' Then great pity took possession of the men of the land, and of the pilgrims, and they shed many tears to think that this valiant man had such great cause to remain, for he was an old man and had beautiful eyes in his head, but saw not with them, having lost his sight through a wound on the crown; exceeding great of heart was he. So he descended from the pulpit and walked straight to the altar, and threw himself upon his knees, pitifully weeping; and they sewed the cross on a large cape of cotton, because he wished the people to see it. And the Venetians began to take the cross in large numbers and in great plenty on that day, until which very few had taken the cross. Our pilgrims were moved with exceeding joy even to overflowing as regarded this new crusader, on account of the sense and the prowess that were his. Thus the doge took the cross as you have heard." But by a singular circumstance the expedition was diverted from its original design. Isaac Angelus, the vicious and tyrannical Emperor of Constantinople, had been deposed by his subjects, deprived of his eyesight, and cast into prison. His brother Alexius was invested with the purple, and rejecting the name of Angelus, assumed the royal appellation of the Comnenian race. Young Alexius, the son of Isaac, was at this time twelve years of age. Escaping from the guards of his uncle in the disguise of a common sailor, he found a refuge in the island of Sicily. Thence he set off for Germany, having accepted an invitation to reside with his sister Irene, wife of Philip of Suabia. Passing through Italy, he found the flower of western chivalry assembled at Venice ready for the crusade, and it immediately occurred to his young and ardent mind that their invincible swords might be employed in his father's restoration. As he derived his birth in the female line both from the house of Aquitaine and the royal race of Hugh Capet, he easily interested the sympathy of the Franks, and as the Venetians had a long arrear of debt and injury to liquidate with the Byzantine court, they listened eagerly to the story of his wrongs, and decided to share the honor of restoring the exiled monarch. The place of their destination being thus changed, the crusaders with joyful haste embarked. "A similar armament, for ages, had not rode the Adriatic: it was composed of one hundred and twenty flat-bottomed vessels, or _palanders_, for the horses; two hundred and forty transports filled with men and arms; seventy store-ships laden with provisions; and fifty stout galleys, well prepared for the encounter of an enemy. While the wind was favorable, the sky serene, and the water smooth, every eye was fixed with wonder and delight on the scene of military and naval pomp which overspread the sea. The shields of the knights and squires, at once an ornament and a defence, were arranged on either side of the ships; the banners of the nations and families were displayed from the stern; our modern artillery was supplied by three hundred engines for casting stones and darts: the fatigues of the way were cheered with the sounds of music; and the spirits of the adventurers were raised by the mutual assurance, that forty thousand Christian heroes were equal to the conquest of the world." As they penetrated through the Hellespont, the magnitude of their navy was compressed in a narrow channel, and the face of the waters was darkened with innumerable sails. They again expanded in the basin of the Propontis, and traversed that placid sea, till they approached the European shore, at the abbey of St. Stephen, three leagues to the west of Constantinople. As they passed along, they gazed with admiration on the capital of the East, or, as it should seem, of the earth; rising from her seven hills, and towering over the continents of Europe and Asia. The swelling domes and lofty spires of five hundred palaces and churches were gilded by the sun, and reflected in the waters; the walls were crowded with soldiers and spectators, whose numbers they beheld, of whose temper they were ignorant; and each heart was chilled by the reflection, that, since the beginning of the world, such an enterprise had never been undertaken by such a handful of warriors. But the momentary apprehension was dispelled by hope and valor; and "Every man," says the Marechal of Champagne, "glanced his eye on the sword or lance which he must speedily use in the glorious conflict." The Latins cast anchor before Chalcedon; the mariners only were left in the vessels: the soldiers, horses, and arms were safely landed; and, in the luxury of an imperial palace, the barons tasted the first fruits of their success. From his dream of power Alexius was awakened by the rapid advance of the Latins; and between vain presumption and absolute despondency no effectual measures for defence were instituted. At length the strangers were waited upon by a splendid embassy. The envoys were instructed to say that the sovereign of the Romans, as Alexius pompously styled himself, was much surprised at sight of this hostile armament. "If these pilgrims were sincere in their vow for the deliverance of Jerusalem, his voice must applaud, and his treasures should assist, their pious design; but should they dare to invade the sanctuary of empire, their numbers, were they ten times more considerable, should not protect them from his just resentment." The answer of the doge and barons was simple and magnanimous. "In the cause of honor and justice," they said, "we despise the usurper of Greece, his threats and his offers. _Our_ friendship and _his_ allegiance are due to the lawful heir, to the young prince, who is seated among us, and his father, the Emperor Isaac, who has been deprived of his sceptre, his freedom, and his eyes, by the crime of an ungrateful brother. Let that brother confess his guilt and implore forgiveness, and we ourselves will intercede, that he may be permitted to live in affluence and security. But let him not insult us by a second message; our reply will be made in arms in the palace of Constantinople." Ten days after, the crusaders prepared themselves to attack the city. The navy of the Greek Empire consisted of only twenty ships. The vessels of the republic sailed without opposition, therefore, into the harbor, and the Croises, with cheerful zeal commenced the siege of the largest city in the world. The Franks divided their army into six battalions: Baldwin of Flanders led the vanguard with his bowmen, the second, third, fourth and fifth divisions were commanded by his brother Henry, the Counts of St. Paul, Blois, and Montmorenci, and the rearguard of Tuscans, Lombards, and Genoese was headed by the Marquis of Montserrat. So far from being able to surround the town, they were scarcely sufficient to blockade one side; but before their squadrons could couch their lances, the seventy thousand Greeks that had prepared for the conflict vanished from sight. The Pisans and the Varangian guard, however, defended the walls with extraordinary valor, and victory was for a long time poised in the scales of doubt. Meanwhile, on the side of the harbor the attack was successfully conducted by the Venetians, who employed every resource known and practised before the invention of gunpowder. The soldiers leapt from the vessels, planted their scaling-ladders, and ascended the walls, while the large ships slowly advancing, threw out grappling-irons and drawbridges, and thus opened an airy way from the masts to the ramparts. In the midst of the conflict, the venerable doge, clad in complete armor, stood aloft on the prow of his galley; the great standard of St. Mark waved above his head, while with threats, promises, and exhortations, he urged the rowers to force his vessel upon shore. On a sudden, by an invisible hand, the banner of the republic was fixed upon the walls. Twenty-five towers were stormed and taken. The emperor made a vigorous effort to recover the lost bulwarks, but Dandolo, with remorseless resolution, set fire to the neighboring buildings, and thus secured the conquest so dearly won. The discomfited Alexius, seeing all was lost, collected what treasure he could carry, and in the silence of the night, deserting his wife and people, sought refuge in Thrace. In the morning the Latin chiefs were surprised by a summons to attend the levee of Isaac, who, rescued from his dungeon, robed in the long-lost purple, and seated upon the throne in the palace of the Blaquernel, waited with impatience to embrace his son and reward his generous deliverers. Four ambassadors, among whom was Villehardouin, the chronicler of these events, were chosen to wait upon the rescued emperor. "The gates were thrown open on their approach, the streets on both sides were lined with the battle-axes of the Danish and English guard; the presence-chamber glittered with gold and jewels, the false substitutes of virtue and power; by the side of the blind Isaac, his wife was seated, the sister of the King of Hungary: and by her appearance, the noble matrons of Greece were drawn from their domestic retirement and mingled with the circle of senators and soldiers." The ambassadors with courteous respect congratulated the monarch upon his restoration, and delicately presented the stipulations of the young Alexius. These were, "the submission of the Eastern empire to the pope, the succor of the Holy Land, and a present contribution of two hundred thousand marks of silver." "These conditions are weighty," was the emperor's prudent reply: "they are hard to accept, and difficult to perform. But no conditions can exceed the measure of your services and deserts." The ready submission of Isaac and the subjection of the Greek church to the Roman pontiff, deeply offended his subtle and revengeful subjects, and gave rise to so many plots and conspiracies, that the newly-restored emperor prayed the crusaders to delay their departure till order was re-established. To this they assented, but the odious taxes for rewarding their services were collected with difficulty, and Isaac resorted to the violent measure of robbing the churches of their gold and silver. Occasions of dissension ripened into causes of hatred. A devastating fire was attributed to the Latins, and in consequence desultory encounters took place, which resulted in open hostility. The feeble emperor died, it is said, of fear; his cousin, a bold, unscrupulous villain, assumed the imperial buskins, and seizing the young Alexius, put him to death. The crusaders at once determined to make war upon the usurper. Constantinople, the empress of the East, the city that for nine centuries had been deemed impregnable to mortal arm, was taken by storm. The right of victory, untrammelled by promise or treaty, confiscated the public and private wealth of the Greeks, and the hand of every Frank, according to its size and strength, seized and appropriated the rich treasures of silks, velvets, furs, gems, spices and movables which were scattered like glittering baits through all the dwellings of that proud metropolis. When the appetite for plunder was satisfied, order was instituted in the distribution of spoils. Three churches were selected for depositories, and the magnitude of the prize exceeded all experience or expectation. A sum seven times greater than the annual revenue of England, fell to the lot of the Franks. In the streets the French and Flemings clothed themselves and their horses in painted robes and flowing head-dresses of fine linen. They stripped the altars of their ornaments, converted the chalices into drinking cups, and laded their beasts with wrought silver and gilt carvings, which they tore down from the pulpits. In the cathedral of St. Sophia, the veil of the sanctuary was rent in twain for the sake of its golden fringe, and the altar, a monument of art and riches, was broken in pieces and distributed among the captors. Having thus taken Constantinople and shared its treasures among themselves, the next step was the regulation of their future possessions and the election of an Emperor. Twelve deputies were appointed, six to represent the interest of the Franks and six that of the Venetians; in the name of his colleagues, the bishop of Soissons announced to the barons the result of their deliberations in these words. "Ye have sworn to obey the prince whom we should choose; by our unanimous suffrage, Baldwin Count of Flanders and Hainault, is now your sovereign and the Emperor of the East." "Agreeably to the Byzantine custom, the barons and knights immediately elevated their future lord upon a buckler and bore him into the church of St. Sophia. When the pomp of magnificence and dignity was prepared, the coronation took place. The papal legate threw the imperial purple over Baldwin; the soldiers joined with the clergy in crying aloud, 'He is worthy of reigning;' and the splendor of conquest was mocked by the Grecian ceremony, of presenting to the new sovereign a tuft of lighted wool and a small vase filled with bones and dust, as emblems of the perishableness of grandeur, and the brevity of life." The splendid fiefs which the ambitious Adela had mapped out for the heroes of the first crusade, now fell to the lot of her descendants in the division of the Greek Empire. One was invested with the duchy of Nice; one obtained a fair establishment on the banks of the Hebrus; and one, served with the fastidious pomp and splendor of oriental luxury, shared the throne of Baldwin, the successor of Constantine the Great. CHAPTER III. "But I'll hide in my breast every selfish care, And flush my pale cheek with wine, When smiles await the bridal pair, I'll hasten to give them mine." While the Eastern Croises were thus engaged in apportioning among themselves, the rich domains of the Greek Empire, Simon de Montfort, who had abandoned the expedition, when its destination was changed from Jerusalem to Constantinople, was not less actively employed in a domestic crusade, published by Innocent III., against the heretics of the south of France. In the province of Toulouse, certain sects had arisen variously known as Believers, Perfects, and Vaudois, but all rejecting some of the tenets of Rome, and from the city of Albi, designated by the general name Albigeois. In his misguided zeal, Innocent III. despatched three legates to constrain these Albigeois to abjure their heresies and return to the bosom of the church. He empowered them to employ for this purpose, "the sword, water and fire, as these good monks should find it necessary to use one or the other, or all three together for the greater glory of God." Though the Albigenses, like other Christians, professed the doctrines of peace, they were somewhat infected with the warlike spirit of the age; consequently becoming exasperated at the executions deemed necessary to bring the lambs into the fold, they rose upon the missionaries, and stoned one of them to death. The pope retaliated by proclaiming the usual indulgence to those who should engage in the holy war, for exterminating the heretics. Count Raimond VI., the husband of Joanna, immediately took up arms in defence of his subjects, and against him Simon de Montfort headed the army of the church. With him came a monk of great austerity, afterwards St. Dominic, the founder of the Dominican order of friars, who encouraged the soldiers in their work of blood. The city of Beziers long held out against them. It was finally taken, the inhabitants given up to slaughter, and when a difficulty arose about discriminating between the heretics and the catholics, "Slay them all," said Dominic, "the Lord will know his own." It is estimated that the number that perished was sixty thousand. The war went on, characterized, as such wars always are, by the atrocity of private murder, and wholesale butchery, till de Montfort led his army to the siege of Toulouse. Count Raimond, beset on every side by foes, applied to his brother-in-law, the King of England, to the King of Arragon, whose sister he had married after the death of Joanna, and to Philip Augustus his liege lord. The first engaged in domestic broils, and the last involved in a contest with the pope, concerning the divorce of Ingeborge, could render him no assistance, but Don Pedro King of Arragon, entered warmly into the contest and fell bravely fighting in the battle of Muret. The count was at last compelled to conclude an ignominious peace with the pope; and thus the forces of the church were victorious in the south of France, as they were in the Greek Empire. * * * * * To return to Isabella. The troubles with which King John had involved himself by the murder of the young Duke of Bretagne, seemed destined never to end. All Aquitaine had been in a state of revolt since the decease of his mother and the captivity of Count Hugh, and his queen finally persuaded him to trust to the magnanimity of her lover, for the peace of his dominions in France. De Lusignan left England in 1206, and by his discretion and valor, soon restored the revolted provinces to the sway of the line of Plantagenet. The intolerance of the king next aroused the animosity of the English barons, and to prevent a popular outbreak, he demanded their sons as hostages, under the plausible pretext of requiring the services of the youthful lords as pages for his queen, and companions of his infant son, Henry. The Lady de Braose, when her children were demanded, imprudently replied, "I will not surrender my boys to a king who murdered his own nephew." The unfortunate words were repeated to the malicious monarch, and measures for vengeance immediately instituted. The Lord de Braose, with his wife and five innocent little ones, were confined in Windsor castle and starved to death. While the husband of Isabella was thus alienating from himself the affections of his subjects, he had the temerity to dare the colossal power of Rome. A dispute arose as in the days of his father, concerning the incumbent of the see of Canterbury. The pope had commanded the monks to choose Cardinal Langton for their primate, without the ceremony of a writ from the king. They complied, and John sent one of his knights to expel them from the convent and take possession of their revenues. The affair went on with admonitions from the spiritual father, and defiant retorts from the refractory king, till Innocent III. laid an interdict upon the realm. This terrible mandate at once covered the whole nation with the garb and the gloom of mourning. The priests with pious reverence stripped the altars of their ornaments, collected the crosses and relics, took down the images and statues of saints and apostles, and laying them upon the ground carefully covered them from the eyes of the profane. No matin chime awoke the pious to their devotions, no vesper bell summoned the youths and maidens to unite in the evening hymn; no joyous peal invited the happy throng to the nuptial ceremony, no solemn toll gathered the sorrowing multitudes to the burial service. The bridegroom took the hand of his bride and whispered his vows with boding fear, standing in the churchyard, surrounded by the silent witnesses, whose very presence was a terror. The father relinquished the dead body of his child to unhallowed hands, that made for it an obscure and unconsecrated grave by the wayside; the tender infant was not presented at the font for baptism, but received the holy rite in the privacy of the monkish cell, and the dying man partook of the last sacrament under circumstances that rendered still more terrible the approach of death. Men neglected their usual avocations, feeling that the curse of God rested upon them; children relinquished their amusements, subdued by the mysterious fear that pervaded all ranks of society. But the tyrant John and his thoughtless queen felt no sympathy with the afflictions of their people, no reverence for the ordinances of religion. They made no concessions, they manifested no signs of repentance. Each was engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, without regard to the other's feelings, or the laws of God. If the fickle and wounded affections of Isabella wandered from her lord to some noble knight, who compassionated her wrongs, her crime was made known only by the terrible vengeance which her malignant husband inflicted upon her supposed lover; nor was she aware that the suspicions of the king had been awakened till retiring to her apartment at night, she beheld with horror the dead body of the nobleman, suspended above her couch, the bloodshot eyes fixed upon her with a ghastly stare, and the pale lips opened as if assaying to whisper in her ear the secret of the dark tragedy. From this haunted chamber she was not suffered to depart for long weary years. But though John thus manifested his righteous horror of his wife's dereliction from the path of rectitude, he was himself unscrupulous in the perpetration of any species of iniquity. Parsimonious and cruel to his beautiful queen, he lavished upon his own person every extravagant indulgence; without honesty or honor. He was a bad son, a bad subject, a bad husband, a bad father, and a bad sovereign. The record of his thoughts is a disgrace to human nature, the record of his deeds, a recapitulation of crimes. Finding his interdict of no avail, Innocent resorted to his most powerful weapon. He excommunicated John, pronounced utter destruction upon his body and soul, forbade all true Catholics to associate with him, absolved his subjects from their oath of allegiance to him, commanded all orders of religion to curse him, and exhorted all christian princes to assist in dethroning him. Philip Augustus found this crusade far more to his taste than the one he had before undertaken in the Holy Land, and Simon de Montfort having enjoyed a short repose from his work of blood in Languedoc, stood ready to enforce the authority of the church. To protect his transmarine dominions from these powerful foes, John found it necessary to solicit an alliance with his former rival Count Hugh de Lusignan, but the perverse bachelor was conciliated only on condition that the queen should be liberated from her irksome imprisonment, and that her eldest daughter, the Princess Joanna, should be affianced to him as a compensation for the loss of the mother. The necessity of the case did not admit of debate or delay, and the little princess was forthwith betrothed to her mature lover, and consigned to the castle of Valence; where she occupied the apartments and sported in the pleasance, that had formerly delighted the childhood of Isabella. With his heart thus reassured, Count Hugh repulsed the army of the French king, and kept the Poictevin border in peace. Philip Augustus disappointed in this attempt, prepared for the invasion of England; but while his fleet waited in the ports of Normandy, the legate Pandulph sought an interview with John, and terrifying him with the prospect of certain ruin brought him to submit unconditionally to the pope. The pusillanimous monarch was thus induced to pass a charter in which he declared he had for his own sins and those of his family, resigned England and Ireland to God, to St. Peter, and St. Paul, and to Pope Innocent and his successors in the apostolic chair; agreeing to hold those dominions as feudatories of the church of Rome by the annual payment of a thousand marks. He consented to receive Langton for the primate, laid his crown and sceptre at the feet of Pandulph, and kneeling down placed his hand in those of that prelate, and swore fealty in the same manner as a vassal did homage to his lord. The legate then revoked the sentence of excommunication, placed the crown upon the head of John, pocketed the first instalment of the tribute money, and returning to France informed Philip that England was a part of the patrimony of St. Peter, and it would be impious in any Christian prince to attack it. * * * * * Isabella was residing with her children at Gloucester, when her inconstant husband, smitten with the charms of Matilda the fair daughter of Lord Fitz Walter, stormed the castle of her father, banished him from the kingdom, and bore away the trembling girl to the fortress of London. There confining her in one of the lofty turrets of the White tower he set himself to win her affections; but the noble maiden spurned all his overtures with virtuous indignation. When the hoary libertine found that flattery and coercion were alike vain, his adoration changed to hate, and the hapless lady fell a victim to poison. This crowning act of villainy completed the exasperation of the English nobles, and a confederacy was formed to resist farther aggressions upon their liberties. Cardinal Langton, in searching the records of the monasteries, had found a copy of the charter executed by Henry Beauclerk upon his marriage with Matilda the Good. From this charter the primate drew up the bill of rights, which has become world-renowned as the Magna Charta. At Runnymede between Windsor and Staines the mail-clad barons met their guilty sovereign, and "There in happy hour Made the fell tyrant feel his people's power." The signing of the great charter of English liberty was soon followed by the death of King John, and the diplomatic talents of Isabella were called into exercise to secure the vacant throne for her son Henry, then a boy of only nine years of age. The diadem of his father having been lost in Lincoln washes, and that of Edward the Confessor being in London, the little prince was crowned with a gold throat collar that she had worn in those happy days while the affianced bride of Count Hugh la Marche. Only a small part of England at first owned the sway of Prince Henry, but the nobles at length rallied around the young Plantagenet, and the valor and wisdom of the protector Pembroke soon drove the invading French from the island. No share in the government was committed into the hands of the dowager queen, and before the first year of her widowhood had expired she set out for her native city of Angoulême. As she passed through the provinces of France her attention was attracted by groups of children, habited as pilgrims with scrip and staff, gathered about the doors of churches, repeating pious ascriptions of praise or tuning their infant voices to sacred hymns. Her curiosity was strongly excited, and she questioned them concerning the motives that influenced to so strange a proceeding. "Fair Solyma lies in ruins," replied the little fanatics, "and it may please God who out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hath ordained strength, to redeem it by our feeble hands." These scenes occurred daily upon her route. In vain the queen employed argument and entreaty, threats and promises to induce them to return to their homes. They followed in the train of a company of monks who, with the diabolical design of profiting by a crime then too common, were working upon their superstitious hopes and fears to decoy them to the sea-coast, where they might be shipped to Egypt and sold as slaves. Thirty thousand misguided innocents were thus collected from Italy and Germany, and most of them fell a sacrifice to the mercenary motives of those who traded in the bodies and souls of men. When Isabella arrived at Angoulême, the valiant Lusignan was absent from his territories, fighting under the banners of the cross, and her maternal heart was allowed the solace of frequent intercourse with Joanna, the little bride of her former lover. CHAPTER IV. "I'll hang my harp on the willow-tree, And off to the wars again; My peaceful home has no charms for me, The battle-field no pain." Convinced by the crusade of the children that the spirit which had moved the former expeditions to the Holy Land was still active in Europe, Pope Innocent exclaiming, "While we sleep these children are awake," determined once more to arm the Christian world against the Moslem. The commands of the Vatican calling upon men to exterminate the Infidel were hurled upon every part of Europe. In a circular letter to sovereigns and clergy the pope declared that the time had at last arrived when the most happy results might be expected from a confederation of the Christian powers. Count la Marche was among the first to hear and obey the mandate of the spiritual head. With the Duke of Nevers he commanded the French croises that in 1215 sailed for Egypt, where he was actively engaged in the Holy warfare when Isabella visited Valence. The siege of Damietta was carried on with the usual atrocities. Tidings of the death of Saphadin weakened the forces of the garrison, and Camel, younger son of Elsiebede, lord of the fertile country of the Nile, was compelled to seek refuge in Arabia. The first success of the crusaders was followed by disaster and discord; and when after a siege of seventeen months Damietta was taken, they found in pestilence and famine more terrible foes than in the sixty thousand Moslems that had perished beneath their swords. Queen Isabella was seated in her former apartment in the castle of Valence describing to her daughter the person of the young King of England and his noble brother the Prince Richard, and painting to the imagination of the child the charms of the infant Princess Isabella, when the horn of the warder rang out shrill and clear on the evening air. The window of the turret commanded the view of the drawbridge. From that window where, eighteen years before, Isabella had watched with delight for the return of her gay knightly lover, she now beheld with palpitating heart the advance of a jaded, weary troop, at whose head rode one whose proud crest drooped as though the inspiration of hope had ceased to animate the warrior-frame, and the heart bereft of the blissful fervor of love no longer anticipated the sweet guerdon of his lady's smile. A tide of recollections swept over her spirit; dizzy and faint she sank upon a seat in the embrasure of the window, and veiled her agitation in the curtaining drapery. She heard his tread upon the stair, no longer the elastic step that she had been wont to welcome with the sportive gaiety of a heart free from care; the door was thrown open, her daughter with bounding footstep so like her own in former days, flew to meet him as he entered. She saw the childish fingers unlace the helmet, unbind the gorget, unbelt the sword, and lay aside the armor. The form of the warrior was slightly bent, there were furrows upon the sunburnt cheek, deep lines upon the noble brow, and threads of silver among his dark locks. A heavy sigh was the first salutation of his little bride. He drew the fair girl to him and pressed his lip upon her cheek, but the anxious observer saw that the look and the smile were the expression rather of paternal regard than of lover like fondness; they were not such as had lighted up his countenance and kindled in his eyes when with gleesome alacrity she had rendered him the same gentle service. Her agitation subsided, and when the little Joanna took the hand of the Count la Marche, and led him forward to present him to her mother, she received his embarrassed greeting with the stately courtesy of a queen and the dignity of a woman. The marvellous beauty that won for Isabella the appellation of the "Helen of the middle ages" soon eclipsed the infant graces of the princess, and reinstated her in the heart once all her own. We accordingly find in the records of the year 1220, that "Isabella, Queen Dowager of England, having before crossed the seas, took to her husband her former spouse, the Count of Marche, in France, without leave of the king, her son, or his council." Notwithstanding this romantic change in their relations, Joanna continued to reside at the castle of Valence, under the care of the gallant count, who remained her steady friend and protector. She was of infinite service to her parents and her country. The English were greatly incensed at the marriage of Isabella, and the council of the regency withheld her jointure as the widow of John, and neither the representations nor threats of her valiant husband could induce them to repair the wrong. A war soon after occurred between England and Scotland, and Alexander II., the chivalric descendant of Maude, declared that he could not trust the strength of a political treaty without the bond of a union with the royal family of England. King Henry therefore despatched a messenger with an affectionate letter to his mother, demanding the restoration of his sister. Count la Marche refused to resign the guardianship of his lovely step-daughter until the dower of his wife should be restored. The young king had then recourse to Pope Honorius III., traducing his mother and her husband in no measured terms, and praying him to lay upon them the ban of excommunication. By a process almost as tedious as the present "law's delays," the pope investigated the affair, till Alexander becoming impatient, Henry was glad to accommodate the matter by paying up the arrears of his mother's dower. The little princess was then sent to England, and married to Alexander II., at York, 1221. She was a child of angelic beauty and sweetness, and though only eleven years of age, had thus twice stopped a cruel war. The English styled her Joan Makepeace. The domestic bliss of Count Hugh and Isabella was less exquisite than might have been anticipated from the constancy of his love, and the romantic revival of her attachment: nor did the birth and education of eight beautiful children concentrate their affections or afford sufficient scope for their ambitious aspirations. Differences constantly arose between the King of France and her son Henry, and it was often the duty of her husband to fight in behalf of Louis, his liege lord, against her former subjects of Aquitaine. It was her sole study, therefore, to render French Poitou independent of the King of France. She "was a queen," she said, "and she disdained to be the wife of a man who had to kneel before another." Causes of mortification on this point were constantly occurring. Count la Marche sought to obviate the difficulty by allying his family with the blood royal. He offered his eldest daughter in marriage to the brother of the French king, but the prince refused her, and gave his hand to Jane of Toulouse. On this occasion the king made his brother Count of Poictiers, and thus it became necessary for Count Hugh and his haughty wife to fill the rôle of honor, and do homage to the young couple as their suzerains. From this time forward the unfortunate count found that the only way to secure domestic peace was to make perpetual war upon the dominions of his sovereign. As a good soldier and a loyal knight who hangs his hopes upon a woman's smile, he perseveringly followed the dangerous path till he was utterly dispossessed of castle and patrimony, feudatory and vassal. There remained then no resource but to cast themselves upon the charity of the good king. The repentant count first despatched his eldest son to the camp of Louis, and encouraged by the gracious reception of the youth, soon followed with the remainder of his family. The monarch compassionated their miserable situation, and granted to his rebellious subject three castles on the simple condition of his doing homage for them to Alphonso, Count of Poictiers. After this humiliating concession, Count Hugh was disposed to dwell in quietness: but the restless spirit of Isabella was untamed by disaster. The life of King Louis was twice attempted, and the assassins being seized and put to the torture, confessed that they had been bribed to the inhuman deed by the dowager Queen of England. Alarmed for the consequences, she fled for safety to the abbey of Fontevraud, where, says a contemporary chronicler, "She was hid in a secret chamber, and lived at her ease, though the Poictevins and French considering her as the cause of the disastrous war with their king, called her by no other name than Jezebel, instead of her rightful appellation of Isabel." Notwithstanding the disgrace and defeat that Count Hugh had suffered, no sooner was the fair fame of his wife attacked than he once more girded on his sword and appealed to arms to prove the falsehood of the accusation upon the body of Prince Alphonso. Little inclined to the fray, Alphonso declared contemptuously, that the Count la Marche was so "treason-spotted" it would be disgrace to fight with him. Young Hugh, the son of Isabella, then threw down the gage in defence of his mother's reputation, but the cowardly prince again declined, alleging that the infamy of the family rendered the young knight unworthy so distinguished an honor. The last interview between Hugh de Lusignan, Count la Marche, and Isabella of Angoulême, ex-Queen of England, took place in the general reception room in the convent of Fontevraud. The dishonored noble sought his wife to acquaint her with the ruin of all their worldly prospects and the stain upon their knightly escutcheon. The last tones that he heard from those lips that once breathed tenderness and love were words of indignant upbraiding and heart-broken despair. All his attempts at consolation were repulsed with cruel scorn. She tore herself violently from his last fond embrace, sought again the secret chamber and assumed the veil, and for three years sister Felice, most inaptly so named, was distinguished among the nuns by her lengthened penances and multiplied prayers. The land of his nativity no longer possessed any attractions for the bereaved and disappointed count. All the associations of his youth became sources of painful reflection, and anxious to escape from the scenes where every familiar object was but a monument of a buried hope, he determined to share the crusade which St. Louis was preparing against the Infidel. He fell, covered with wounds and glory in one of the eastern battles, fighting beside his old antagonist Alphonso Count of Poictiers. VIOLANTE. CHAPTER I. "'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time She crowded the impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, Which waked every feeling at once into flower!" The fall of Constantinople had not been without its effect upon eastern politics. The christian Prince of Antioch acknowledged the feudal superiority of Baldwin, the new Emperor, and Saphadin, the Sultan of Syria, justly apprehended that an easy and ready communication being thus opened with Europe through the Greek Empire, the splendid conquest might result in the carrying out of the original plan upon Palestine. To avert this danger, he repaired to Antioch to conclude, if possible, a treaty for six years' peace with the Christians. The sons of Elsiebede were permitted to accompany the army of their father on his most distant expeditions; and through the enlightened policy of Saphadin, or Saif Addin, during his absence, contrary to the usual Oriental observances, the Moorish European filled the office of regent of Jerusalem. Under her benign administration the pilgrims had access to the holy places, and protection in the practice of all the rites of Christianity. Salaman, whose self-complacency and curiosity gave him a benevolent interest in all matters pertaining to politics, humanity, or religion, was the usual medium of communication between the empress and those who had occasion to solicit favors from her hand. He was the Mercury to convey safe conducts, the Apollo to usher petitioners into her presence. The garb of the pilgrim had consequently become to her a familiar sight, and it was therefore without surprise that she saw her attendant enter with a toil-worn man leaning upon a palmer's staff. Her beneficence to the Christians, and her affability towards all her dependents had made her a frequent listener to the tales of pilgrims, and intent upon her own thoughts she heard with an abstracted air the story of the mendicant, till he uttered the name of Richard. Instantly she was all attention. The old man had been the confessor of Henry II., but won by the cordial frankness and generous impulses of Coeur de Lion, he availed himself of every opportunity afforded by his intimacy with Henry to forward the interests of the young prince. The king had confided to the priest, as his spiritual father, his attachment to the fair and frail Alice of France; and the monk had betrayed the secret of the confessional to Prince Richard. By a law of Henry I., all priests guilty of this crime were condemned to perpetual wandering, and Richard, in his first agony and remorse, at the death of his father, caused the penalty to be strictly enforced. The poor monk, therefore, had for nearly twenty years practised a weary pilgrimage from one holy place to another, resting in monasteries, walking unshod before shrines of peculiar sanctity, and kneeling or watching in every cave or hermitage where the hallowed remains of a saint might be supposed to avail for his absolution. Pursued thus by the furies of remorse, and the curses of the church, he had visited the shrines of St. Wulstan, St. Dunstan, St. Thomas of Canterbury, St. James of Compostella, the crucifix of Lucca, the congregated Saints at Rome, the cave of St. Cyprian in Africa, and had now come to pray God to release his soul at the church of the Holy Sepulchre. At the mention of St. James of Compostella, Elsiebede seemed agitated, and when the monk ceased his story, she anxiously inquired whether in his travels through Spain, he had rested in Pampeluna. "I tarried there some days," returned the pilgrim, "but it is several years since, and but for a strange circumstance it might have faded from my memory; for he who thinks ever upon his own sins has little leisure to study that which pleases or benefits others." "Relate to me this circumstance," cried Elsiebede, eagerly. "As I knelt at high mass," resumed the priest, "a noble lady, closely veiled, bowed at the altar by my side. When the solemn ceremony was over, and she rose to depart, an attendant whispered me to follow. She led the way to her oratory in the palace of the king, where she showed me that she was the widow of my deceased lord, Richard Coeur de Lion." "My dear lady Berengaria," exclaimed Elsiebede, the tears falling from her eyes like rain. "It was, indeed, that honored queen," said the pilgrim; "who learning that I had loved and served the noblest prince in Christendom, sent for me to confess the follies of her past life, and to entreat me to perform for her in Palestine certain vows which she had made during the long and painful imprisonment of her royal husband. It was her purpose to expiate her own sins by a life of voluntary penitence and devotion in the convent of L'Espan: but before retiring from the world, she desired to make one more effort for the people of God in the Holy Land. She made me acquainted, therefore, most noble lady, with thy former estate in her household, and how God had exalted thee to be the spouse of a prince and ruler, as he did afore-time the royal Esther, who came to be Queen of Persia. She bade me remind thee of the kindness that had been shown thee, when thou wert a stranger in a strange land, and she commendeth her love to thee by this precious jewel, that thou mayest look upon it, and show mercy to those who are ready to perish for the faith of our holy church." With a pious precision that mocked the impatience of Elsiebede, he drew from his scrip a small reliquary which he slowly unclasped, and taking thence the magic ring, around which clustered so many associations, presented it to the sultana. Salaman, who had lost not a motion nor a word of the pilgrim, at sight of the ring, forgot the respectful observance that had been enforced since his residence at the eastern court, pressed forward and gazed upon the precious talisman. The emotions of Elsiebede precluded utterance, and the monk waited her reply in silence, till Salaman comprehending her wishes in the matter, accompanied the pilgrim to the house of the patriarch, and made the necessary arrangements for the performance of his vows. The gratitude of Elsiebede for the return of her long-loved, long-lost treasure, bringing before her as it did, the image of her widowed mistress, and the tender sympathy, which years of intimacy had engendered, warmed her heart still more to the Christians, and she studied to inculcate in the minds of her children, an amicable disposition towards the Latin inhabitants of Palestine. The sister of Sybilla, Isabella, firstly, widow of Conrad, secondly, widow of Henry, Count of Champagne, and thirdly, widow of Almeric of Lusignan, the twelfth King of Jerusalem, at last died, leaving her proud pretensions and her disputed possessions to Mary, her daughter by Conrad. Alice, her daughter by Henry, was married to Hugh of Lusignan, the son of her last husband, and had been already proclaimed Queen of Cyprus. The claim of Mary, therefore, to the throne of Jerusalem was undisputed, and as Palestine was at that time without lord or ruler worthy to sway the ideal sceptre that cost so much blood and treasure, the Bishop of Acre, and the Lord of Cesarea were deputed by the christian knights to wait upon Philip Augustus, King of France, and demand of him a husband for the young princess. While the potentates of Palestine and Europe were thus occupied in the benevolent enterprise of procuring her a husband, the orphan, Mary, dwelt quietly at Acre; and it occurred to the politic Saif-Eddin, that a union between the young princess and his eldest son, Cohr-Eddin, might cement a peace between Syria and Palestine. The ambitious youth became very much interested in the affair, and readily entered into his parent's plan for his aggrandizement. The magnificent embassy despatched by the Emperor of the East, to demand the hand of the fair heiress for his son, set out from Damascus loaded with most rare and costly gifts. Cohr-Eddin, with the enthusiasm of a lover, determined to exercise the liberty of the European princes and gain an interview with his intended bride. Before setting out he received from his mother a fragment of the true cross, and thus armed with what he thought would render him irresistible to the christian maiden, he rode gaily along at the head of the splendid cavalcade, beguiling the way in converse with a celebrated Howadji, learned in the precepts of the Koran, and in the gorgeous and metaphorical fictions of eastern poetry. In the desert, as in the sea, the eye takes in a vast circle without obstruction from forest or dwelling: the scouts on the second day, therefore, easily discerned, far in the rear, a solitary horseman upon a fleet Arabian barb. He did not, however, join the troop, but passing it to the north, disappeared in the distance ere conjecture had settled upon his identity, or the cause of his sudden apparition. When the hour for evening prayers arrived, on the last day of the journey, the cortêge turned aside into a small grove of palms, and sought refreshment by a fountain, which threw up its clear waters, and with untiring voice, warbled its perpetual hymn. The breath of the evening was scented by the odor of the sorrowful nyctanthes, and as they entered, they observed that the place had been rendered sacred by the burial of one whose marble tomb, destitute of name or inscription, was shaded by the tender leaves of the sensitive mimosa. The repast being over, the story-loving Saracens gathered around the Howadji, who continued to unfold the stores of his learning, descanting upon the beauties of the place, and the influences of the stars, that, like the generations of the earth, follow each other in solemn procession, through the heavens; and drawing from his memory gems of poetry appropriate to the time and occasion. Thus said he:-- "Open thine eyes to consider the Narcissus, Thou wouldst say it is the circle of the Pleiades around the sun; Yet since the Rose has removed the veil from before her cheek, The Narcissus has become all eyes to gaze upon her." "The Violet has felt humbled and concealed her head under the purple mantle that covers her; One would say that the verdure has formed beneath her feet inviting unto prayer." "Yet as the sun among the stars, and the rose among the flowers of the garden, So is the Beloved to the partial eyes of the lover." A voice singing or chanting in the Persian, seemed to reply from the precincts of the tomb:-- "Child of Adam, heir of worldly glory, let not Hope deceive thee, For I passed an undistinguished grave in the midst of a garden, And the narcissus, and the rose, and the violet clustered round it, And the star-like anemone shed its red light upon it. And I said, whose tomb is this? And the soil answered, Be respectful, for this is the resting-place of a lover." "So I said, God keep thee, oh! victim of love, For thou hast fallen beneath the simoom of passion, Or perished with the mildew of disappointment." The voice ceased--the company waited in silence for the renewal of the song: but the nightingale alone took up the strain, and the spreading of the tents and the sweet slumber that falls upon the weary, effaced the remembrance of the mysterious serenade from the minds of all but Cohr-Eddin. A superstitious fear weighed upon the spirit of the lover, and haunted his imagination. It was destiny warning him of disappointment, it was a rival triumphing in his chagrin; in either case it argued ill for the success of his suit, and robbed him of his rest. When they set forward the following morning, they again caught a glimpse of the unknown cavalier, spurring on before them, and a messenger, mounted on the fleetest steed of the party, was despatched to overtake the stranger, and learn his purpose. The mission was unsuccessful, and the affair was passed over in silence. The embassy was received with great distinction by the christian lords in charge of Acre. The advantages of the proposed alliance were such as carried conviction to the most obtuse minds. The ardor of the lover, enforced by his presence, and by an animation unusual to the formal Orientals, gave to the Templars the strongest hopes of being able to make their own terms with the Sultan, and they eagerly advocated the propriety of a betrothal between the parties, before the messengers could return from Europe with the husband provided by the French king. But as the Princess Mary had been made fully aware of the importance of her hand to Christendom, and as her imagination might have been captivated by the glowing descriptions of the western knight who should lay his honors at her feet, the affair was considered of too delicate a character to admit of their interference: they concluded, therefore, to leave the lover to plead his own cause with the proud queen. As Cohr-Eddin was conducted to the hall of audience, he encountered an individual, whose person seemed familiar, but whose face was studiously concealed, and who evidently sought to escape observation. When he entered the royal presence the lady appeared agitated, and despite her efforts at self-control tears forced themselves from her eyes, yet the unpropitious omen at the same time gave such a subdued and tender expression to her lustrous beauty, that the young Moslem acknowledged at once the power of her charms. But neither the stately courtesy, nor the florid flatteries of eastern compliment, nor the rich presents which he laid at her feet, nor the tempting offer of the crown matrimonial of Syria, nor even the piece of sacred wood which he brought to back his suit, had power to move the heart of the christian maiden. She steadfastly plead her engagement to abide by the arrangements of her ambassadors. The penetrating Saracen perceived, however, that it was the state of her affections, and not her principles that made his case utterly hopeless. He could not escape the suspicion that the mysterious horseman was in some way connected with his disappointment; but as he could not learn the name or rank of his rival, his wounded pride had not the usual alleviation of meditated revenge. On his return to Damascus, he found that during his absence a division of the Empire had been determined upon; that his younger brother had been made Sultan of Egypt, while to himself was committed the sovereignty of Syria and Palestine. Affairs were in this posture when Jean de Brienne, the nobleman designated by Philip Augustus, with a train of three hundred knights arrived at Acre. The next day he received the hand of Mary in marriage, and shortly afterwards was crowned King of Jerusalem. CHAPTER II. ----"Death grinned horribly A ghastly smile."---- A few years of unsuccessful conflict with the politic and warlike Saphadin, sufficed to acquaint the new king with the condition of affairs in Palestine. He displayed his valor in many a fierce encounter, and saved his states from utter annihilation, but he foresaw the approaching ruin of the holy cause, and wrote a letter to the pope, stating that the kingdom of Jerusalem consisted only of two or three towns, which by a vigorous action on the part of his foes, might be wrested from him at any moment. Innocent III. answered by a circular letter, calling on all the sovereigns and clergy of Christendom, to seek a crown of glory in the sacred wars of Palestine; and by an epistle to Saphadin, in which he reminded the powerful Infidel, that the Holy Land was in the possession of the Mussulmans, not on account of their virtues, but the sins of the Christians. The anger of Heaven, however, he said, was tempered with mercy, and the time was at hand when that mercy would be shown in an especial manner, and he finished by exhorting the Sultan to resign peacefully, a country which was a source of more inconvenience than profit to the Moslems. As the dignified Saracen made no overtures of capitulation, the pope found it necessary to put this boasted mercy to the proof, and the _Sixth Crusade_ was accordingly preached in every church of Europe. A general council was held in the palace of the Lateran, A.D. 1215, for the important but dissimilar purposes of crowning Frederic II. grandson of Frederic Barbarossa, and for chastising vice in its various forms and condemning heresy in all its phases, and also for the sake of inducing princes and people to join the expedition to the Holy Land. "There were present the Patriarchs of Constantinople and Jerusalem, the ambassador of the Patriarch of Antioch, seventy-four metropolitan primates, and three hundred and forty bishops. The abbots and friars numbered eight hundred, but the representatives of the higher clergy could not be calculated. The Emperor of Constantinople, the Kings of France, England, Hungary, Jerusalem, Arragon, and the sovereigns of many other countries, were represented in the assembly." After the general interests of the church had been considered and the heretics summarily given over to all the miseries of this life, and the pains of that to come, war against the Saracens, was declared to be the most sacred duty of the European world. The usual privileges and indulgences were accorded to the pilgrims, all tournaments during the three years appointed for the crusade, were prohibited, and universal peace was decreed, to all christian kingdoms for the same period. Frederic II. was crowned on condition of joining the expedition. The troubadours again took down their harps, and the voice of song echoing through castle and hall aroused the enthusiasm of youth, and awoke the slumbering energies of age. The pontiff himself declared his intention of visiting the Holy Land, and the warriors said one to another, "Let us spread our sacred banners and pass the seas; let us impress upon our bodies the sign of the cross; let us restore Christ to his inheritance, and by our deeds of arms merit the admiration of men, and the approbation of Heaven." This crusade is divided into three parts. The expedition of Andrew II. King of Hungary; the war in Egypt, led by the Pope's legate and King Jean; and the campaign of the Emperor Frederic II., the first two divisions with their multiplied and sanguinary events, shaping the destiny and affecting the fortunes of Violante, the infant daughter of John de Brienne and Mary, King and Queen of Jerusalem. Not long after Philip Augustus furnished from his dominions so wise and noble a knight to protect the rights of Mary and Jerusalem, he was called upon to exercise again his royal prerogative of match-maker and king-maker by deputies from Constantinople. The first Latin sovereign of the Greek Empire, Baldwin of Flanders, left his crown to his brother Henry. This prince dying without children, the next heir was his sister Yolande, widow of a French noble, and mother-in-law to Andrew II. King of Hungary. But the sceptre of empire in Constantinople, as well as in Jerusalem, could be swayed only by the firm hand of a warrior, and the deputies besought Philip Augustus to provide at once a husband for Yolande, and an emperor for the throne of the Cæsars. The choice fell upon Peter Courtenay, cousin of the French king. The bridegroom--monarch elect, was conducted by a noble retinue to the Court of Hungary, where the marriage ceremony was performed by the successor of Innocent, Pope Honorius III. King Andrew then, in setting off for the crusade, accompanied the bridal party, dignified by the presence of the sovereign pontiff to the gates of Constantinople, where he witnessed the august ceremony of investing the monarch with the imperial purple, and saw the pope place the diadem of the East upon the head of his royal father-in-law. From Constantinople the Hungarian leader sailed for Cyprus, where he was admitted to an audience, with Hugh and Alice, king and queen of that island and thence with favorable winds passed over the Levant, and landed in safety at Acre. This city was at that time the metropolis of the Holy Land, and in the palace formerly occupied by the queens Berengaria and Joanna, the stern western warriors knelt and did homage to Violante, the young Princess of Palestine. Saphadin had retired from the constant toils of royalty, and blessed with the respect of his people, and the sweet affection of Elsiebede, resided in security at Damascus. Cohr-Eddin, the reigning monarch, unprepared for the sudden invasion of his territories, was unable to call together his scattered tribes in sufficient force to hazard a general battle with the croises. The King of Hungary therefore led his army unmolested across "that ancient river, the river Kishon," over the plain of Jezreel, to the valley of the Jordan. They bathed in the sacred river; made the pilgrimage of the lake Gennesareth; visited the scenes made sacred by the miracles of the Saviour, and returned to Acre. On the mount of Transfiguration the Saracens had built and fortified a tower of exceeding strength, and the soldiers, anxious to achieve something worthy the expedition, clamored to be led to the siege of this fortress; but hordes of armed Mussulmans were every day crowding to the vicinity, and the restless Andrew, afraid to undertake anything further, resolved on a return to Europe. Neither the entreaties nor threats of the Latin Christians, who had received him with hospitality, and exhausted their supplies in his entertainment, could persuade him to venture a blow for Palestine. Taking with him most of his soldiers, he returned through the Greek Empire, collecting relics from every holy place on his route, having so impoverished his kingdom by the expenses of the expedition, that it did not for years recover its pristine state. Thus ended the first division of the Sixth Crusade. Still the Latins of Palestine were not left destitute. The Duke of Austria remained with a company of German crusaders, and the next year, when a reinforcement arrived, King Jean de Brienne with the Templars and Hospitallers, decided to transfer the seat of war to the dominions of Melech Camel, the youngest son of Saphadin and Elsiebede. Damietta was considered the key of Egypt, and thither the crusaders sailed in the month of May, A.D. 1216. A gallant band, selected from every nation in the army, led the assault against the citadel on St. Bartholomew's day. The garrison defended themselves with valor, but finally capitulated, and the rest of the city was looked upon as an easy conquest. It was at this time that the Counts La Marche and Nevers arrived at the head of the French division of the crusade, but notwithstanding this new importation of knightly valor, the siege of Damietta went on but slowly. The legate of the pope advanced a claim to the office of commander-in-chief in right of his spiritual superiority; the Syrian Christians rallied around their King Jean de Brienne, and the French would yield obedience to none but their native leaders. Thus the captured castle of Damietta became a very Babel, from the confusion of tongues. Seventeen months were passed in furious attacks and idle skirmishes. The Saracens fought many well-contested battles with the Christians in their camp, but the issue of most of these conflicts was disastrous to the Moslems. While the valiant Melech Camel was thus engaged in the gallant defence of his dominions, the death of Saif-Eddin deprived him of the counsels and assistance of the most successful chieftain that ever ruled the East. When the news of the sad event reached Egypt, the subjects of the Sultan withdrew from their allegiance and joined the standard of a young Emir who attempted to make the sufferings of his country the means of his own aggrandizement. Melech Camel, obliged to escape for safety, fled over to Arabia, and thence directed his course toward Syria. Passing through El-akof, or territory of the winding sands, he came to the valley of Kadesh, where he descried a caravan encamped for the night. In doubt whether the convoy was guarded by the tributaries of his brother, or by a hostile tribe of Bedouins, he cautiously approached the well around which tethered horses and mules were browsing upon the scanty herbage, and multitudes of camels were lying in quiet repose. White tents like a setting of pearls around a central diamond encircled a silken pavilion of unrivalled magnificence, on the top of which gleamed a silver crescent, at once the symbol of the Moslem faith, and the reflection of its bright archetype in the sky. The watch-fires burned low, and no sounds of life broke the profound silence that reigned throughout the extended realm of night. Dismounting and throwing the rein of his steed across his arm, to be prepared for any emergency, he advanced stealthily to the entrance of the circle. As he lifted the awning a small, dark, misshapen figure, like the fabled genii that guard the treasures of the East, rose up before him, and one glance at the ugly but welcome visage of Salaman assured him that he was among friends. The intelligence which he received from the faithful black, was even more gratifying than his appearance. The caravan was laden with provisions for the suffering soldiers in Egypt. Elsiebede herself occupied the royal pavilion, and Cohr Eddin was levying forces to come to the rescue of Damietta. Salaman led the way to a tent where, after listening to these satisfactory details, the fugitive monarch was left to the enjoyment of a repose to which he had long been stranger. The meeting between Elsiebede and her favorite and unfortunate son, was of the most tender character. She acquainted him with the particulars of his father's death, and of the affairs that disturbed the peace of the empire. When Cohr-Eddin, returning from his unsuccessful suit to the heiress of Jerusalem, found that his brother had been sent to Egypt, he was confirmed in the suspicion that his rival was no other than Melech Camel. He recalled the figure of the solitary horseman, the voice at the tomb, and the disguised stranger, and, incensed at the thought that his brother had supplanted him in the affections of the princess, he determined to pursue him to his new dominions and take summary vengeance upon him. To soothe the irritated and jealous feelings of Cohr-Eddin, Elsiebede had been under the necessity of revealing the secret which her younger son had confided to her on the eve of his departure for Egypt, namely, his early attachment for Mary formed during a residence at the Latin court, the hope he had cherished of uniting the kingdoms by a union with the object of his affections, and the struggle it had cost him to relinquish those pretensions. Cohr-Eddin, less noble than his brother, could scarcely be brought to credit the assertion that Camel's visit to Acre had originated in a desire to leave Mary free to accept his proposals, but as it was then the festival of the Ramadan, in which it is not permitted for the faithful to make war upon each other, the execution of his revenge was necessarily delayed, and before the expiration of the sacred period, his presence was required upon the frontiers of his kingdom to repel the irruption of the Mongols. * * * * * The timely relief afforded by the stores of the caravan, and the warlike fame and forces of his brother, soon reinstated Camel in his possessions; but their united efforts were insufficient to drive the Christians from Egypt. Before leaving Palestine, Cohr-Eddin apprehensive that his own territories might be garrisoned against him, destroyed the wall of Jerusalem, and broke down its defences with the exception of the tower of David, and the temple of the sepulchre; and after many gallant battles, deeming it impossible to raise the siege of Damietta, he proposed to the Crusaders peace. The Moslems, he said, would give up the piece of the true cross, release all the Christian prisoners in Syria and Egypt, rebuild the walls of Jerusalem, and relinquish the sacred city to its Latin king, John de Brienne. The French and the Germans hailed with joy the prospect of a speedy termination of the war; but the fanatical devotees of the church, the Templars, legates, and bishops were deaf to the counsels of moderation, and it was decided to pursue the siege with vigor. Damietta was taken; but with such determined valor had the Moslems defended their city, that of the population, which, at the commencement of the siege, consisted of seventy thousand souls, scarce three thousand upon the day of final attack appeared upon the ramparts. A gate was forced, and the warriors of the cross rushed forward to commence the work of plunder. They met neither a resistant nor a suppliant enemy. The awful silence struck a chill upon their souls. They passed along the deserted streets. The waysides were strewn with dead bodies in every state of putrescence. They entered the dwellings. In every room ghastly corpses, with visages shrunken by famine or bloated by pestilence, glared upon them. Turk and Mameluke, Copt and Arab, master and servant, rich and poor, were heaped in undistinguished masses, the dying with the dead. Infants appealing in vain to the pulseless breasts of famished mothers, lifted their feeble cries for sustenance; dogs ran about the streets, and pestilential effluvia rose like an exhalation from the vast charnel-house, whose appalling stillness the Christians had invaded with songs of triumph and rejoicing. They had overcome the Moslems, but they found the conqueror Death seated on the throne of dominion. Awe-struck and abashed they fled from before the presence of the King of Terrors, gladly granting life and liberty to the surviving Moslems, on condition of their performing the horrid and melancholy task of cleansing the city from the remains of their relatives and friends. The way into Palestine was now open, and King Jean proposed to the victorious Christians to march immediately thither; but the legate of the pope insisted that the complete conquest of Egypt should first be effected. His arrogance overruled wiser counsels, and it was resolved to pursue Melech Camel to Cairo. The croises accordingly advanced on the eastern bank of the Nile, till their progress was arrested by the canal of Ashmoun, on the south side of which the forces of Islam were stationed. Every emir of Syria had sent assistance to Melech, and the Latins were prevented from leaving their position, till the period of the annual influx of the Nile, when the Mussulmans opened their sluices, inundated their enemy's camp, cut off all communication with the sea-coast, and enclosed them like fish in a net. The tents and baggage were swept away; the provisions spoiled, the terrible scourge that had destroyed the inhabitants of Damietta, appeared in the camp, and the humbled Christians made overtures of peace, promising to evacuate Egypt, on condition of being permitted to return in safety to Acre. The generous Melech Camel acceded to this proposal. Hostages were exchanged for the performance of the treaty, and the noble King of Jerusalem, together with his wife and their daughter, Violante, were among the number. The Sultan of Egypt received his guests with distinguished honor, and provided for their princely entertainment in Cairo. As the sympathetic Latin chief took leave of his suffering followers, tears overflowed his manly cheeks. "Why do you weep?" exclaimed the compassionate sultan. "I have cause to weep," returned the king, "the people whom God has given to my charge, are perishing amidst the waters, dying with hunger, or falling a prey to the pestilence." "Despair not," replied the noble Melech, "for what saith the proverb? 'To everything there is an end,' therefore, mourn not, for misfortunes shall find a termination." He turned to his soldiers, and gave orders that the granaries of Egypt should be opened for their suffering foes. As the royal hostages approached the palace of the Sultan, they were preceded by troops of vassals, called apparitors, who, sword in hand and with great clamor, led them through narrow and winding passages, where at every gate cohorts of armed Ethiopians, bowed with their faces in the dust before the Sultan, and welcomed his triumphant return, with the harsh dissonance of the Saracen drum, and the shrill tones of the Syrian pipe. They entered next upon a broader space open to the clear light of day, where were galleries wainscoted with gold, and ornamented with marble pillars and sculptured images of the old Egyptian deities; and paved with mosaics of colored stone. There were basins filled with limpid waters, which glided in shining streams over rocks arranged to resemble the ravines and grottoes of the wilderness. The branches of the olive, pomegranate and fig were loaded with fruit, and the place resounded with the warbling of birds of varied and gorgeous plumage; while through vistas pleasantly opening to them as they passed, the eye caught glimpses of artificial forests in which bounded the silver-footed antelope, and the bright-eyed gazelle, with multitudes of graceful and beautiful animals, "Such as painters imagine in the wantonness of their art, such as poetic fancies describe, such as we see in dreams, and such as are found only in the lands of the Orient and the South." The open court turned upon a corridor, and at the entrance beneath a crystal floor, there rolled a clear stream through which the glittering gold fish sported, and the mottled trout pursued the shining insects with restless avidity. The little Violante unpractised in the deceits of art, lifted her robe and stepped daintily upon the glassy surface, as if to lave her tiny feet in the translucent waters. Finding that the firm basis yielded not to the tread, she passed on with a puzzled look of surprise and pleasure, till her attention was attracted by the sound of a multitude of voices, and melodious harpings with which the satellites of the ante-chamber greeted their approach. Bands of Mamelukes dressed in robes of the greatest magnificence, prostrated themselves thrice before their Sultan, and then raised their feathery wands to bar the progress of the train to the inner court of the harem. The gates rolled back upon their golden hinges, and a troop of maidens fair as the houries, approached to receive the christian females, while the Sultan with the king and his knights turned away from the closing gates, like lost spirits banished from the bowers of Elysium. Welcomed by the inmates of the seraglio, the royal ladies were conducted to baths, where all sense of fatigue was lost in the plastic embrace of the fragrant waters; after which reclining upon couches they enjoyed delicious repose, while their dark-eyed attendants plaited their hair according to the eastern fashion, and apparelled them with the flowing and graceful drapery of the Egyptian court. Thence they were ushered into a refectory, where seated upon divans, they regaled themselves with a simple collation of cakes and fruits, inhaling the balmy air redolent with accumulated sweets, gathered from the fragrant gardens that bordered the Nile. From the banquet room they passed to an apartment magnificently adorned with all the appliances of Oriental luxury. Lofty windows admitted the light, which, shaded by curtains of varied colors, was tempered to a soft radiance that filled the apartment with an indefinable bloom. Suddenly the silken partitions inwoven with pearls and gold in the midst of the hall, were drawn aside, and Elsiebede, descending from a canopied throne, and resigning the stately dignity of the queen, greeted her European guests with the gracious familiarity that she had learned in the household of Richard Coeur de Lion. Reclining upon cushions that offered rest and inspired a soft languor, they listened to her sweet assurances of favor uttered in the welcome language of Frangistan, or watched the airy motions of sportive girls, who keeping time to the tinkling ornaments that decorated their delicate limbs, sported before them in the joyous evolutions of the dance. The unaffected grace of the little Violante, who joined the performers, gave infinite delight to the almé or learned women, who accompanied by the Syrian lute, sang verses in compliment to the distinguished guests. Upon the evacuation of Egypt by the Christians, the volunteers returned to Europe, and the Barons of Syria and the military orders retired to Acre. The hostages being now at liberty, the king set off for Palestine, leaving his wife and child to travel by the imperial caravan, under the safe conduct of the Sultana. He found his kingdom in a distracted state. The Templars were in effect the lords of Palestine, and a cessation of hostilities with the Infidels, was but a signal for the breaking out of animosities between the rival Christians. Disheartened with the gloomy aspect of things, the disconsolate king sat in his palace at Acre, devising schemes to mend his broken fortunes, each one of which, upon mature consideration, he was forced to abandon as hopeless and impracticable, when the chamberlain entered and presented a letter. The epistle was from Elsiebede, and brought the melancholy intelligence of the death of his beloved Mary, whose remains, preserved in wax, and attended by her own christian maidens, had been brought to Acre under the convoy of the fleet of Melech Camel. With the delicate tenderness of one who had tasted grief, the Sultana dwelt upon the virtues of the deceased queen, and consoled the bereaved husband with assurances that her disease had been treated by the most learned leeches of the royal household, and her last hours been blest with the attendance of a christian priest, and the performance of the rites enjoined by the christian faith. Concerning the orphan, Violante, she continued, "Let the damsel, I pray thee, abide with me, that I may show kindness unto her for her mother's sake. She shall have the nurture of a princess in the house of the Egyptian, for God hath made her unto me as Moses to the daughter of Pharaoh. The angel of the storm rideth upon the sea, while the winter remaineth, but when the queen of the flowers shall ascend her throne of enamelled foliage, thou mayest require her, and she shall come to thee, by the blessing of Allah (whose name be exalted), and by the blessing also of thy prophet Jesus, in whom thou trustest." The burial-ground of Acre was crowded with christian graves. The best and noblest of the brave sons of the West, champions and martyrs of the cross, had there gained worthy sepulture; but it was meet that the Queen of _Jerusalem_ should find her last resting-place among the ancient kings of that time-honored metropolis. By the favor of Cohr-Eddin permission was gained to convey her body thither; mass was said for her soul in the church of the Holy Sepulchre; her grave was made in the valley of Jehoshaphat; and Christian and Saracen stood together in reverent silence, while the Patriarch of Jerusalem committed "Earth to earth, and dust to dust," to wait the morning of the resurrection. CHAPTER III. "The death of those distinguished by their station, But by their virtue more, awakes the mind To solemn dread, and strikes a saddening awe." When the loss of Damietta and the evacuation of Egypt was known at Rome, Pope Honorius III. reproached the emperor, Frederic II. with being the cause of the signal failure of the christian arms in the East, and threatened him with excommunication if he did not immediately fulfil his vow, by leading his armies against the Infidel. This insolence roused the indignation of the prince, and excited him to hostility. He proceeded to claim the kingdom of the two Sicilies, in right of his mother, Constance, and marching thither, drove out the partisans of the Holy See, established bishops of his own choosing in the vacant benefices, and even threatened to plunder Rome. Honorius discovering that he had involved himself in strife with a powerful enemy, wrote a conciliatory letter to the emperor, saying, "I exhort you, my dear son, to recall to your recollection, that you are the protector of the Roman Church; do not forget what you owe to that good mother, and take pity on her daughter, the church of the East, which extends towards you her arms, like an unfortunate, who has no longer any hope but in you." Frederic, too much occupied in his plans for adding Italy to the German Empire, to undertake a distant expedition that afforded so little prospect of an increase of patrimony or glory, was, notwithstanding, willing to avail himself of the popular enthusiasm. He professed his intention to obey the mandate of the holy father, and prepared for the pious work, by causing his son Henry to be crowned King of the Romans, and by adding the imperial to the kingly diadem upon his own head, 1220. It is even probable that the subjugation of Italy, and the assertion of the rights of the temporal against the spiritual power, might have prevented Frederic from ever attempting anything for Palestine, had not the sagacious pontiff found an irresistible ally in the beautiful Violante, Queen of Jerusalem. Wearied of endeavoring to convert his marital rights to the sovereignty of Jerusalem, into actual and firm dominion, Jean de Brienne listened to the suggestions of the Roman legate, that his claims to the nominal crown might be transferred with the hand of his daughter to some powerful prince of Europe. Accompanied by the patriarch of Jerusalem, Jean de Brienne sailed for Egypt on his route to Italy. Melech Camel received his guests with a pompous distinction calculated to impress them with the security and prosperity of his government; and Violante, whose sojourn with Elsiebede had been protracted to several years, welcomed her father with the timid reserve consequent upon the harem-like seclusion in which she had been nurtured. Her dress was Oriental, both in richness of material and peculiarity of costume. She returned the king's embrace gracefully and affectionately, but when the patriarch fixed his admiring eyes upon her, she instantly concealed her blushing countenance behind the folds of her veil, and the prelate observed that though the prayers she repeated in her agitation, were such as the church prescribed, she held in her hand an "Implement of praise," or Moslem rosary, of thrice three and thirty precious stones, and that she involuntarily mingled with her more orthodox devotions, "Ya Alla khalick, ya Alla kareem." He would fain have relieved her of the Infidel charm, but the spoiled princess resisted his pious endeavor, and sought refuge from his remonstrances in the female apartments of the palace. The stay of Jean de Brienne in Egypt was marked by an event of great consequence, both to the Christians and Mussulmans. The health of Elsiebede had long been declining; and in the maturity of years, passed in benevolent efforts to harmonize the discordant interests of those among whom she dwelt a stranger and a sovereign, she sank to her rest. Violante wept bitterly at the loss of her patron and friend, but the Moorish maidens, to whom she had rendered herself inexpressibly dear, were not permitted by their law to indulge in expressions of sorrow, though an involuntary tear accompanied the consolatory words with which they addressed Melech Camel: "Alla wills it. May the blessing of the All-merciful rest upon thee." Violante had so long dwelt in the house of Elsiebede, that the distinctions of faith were forgotten, and she was allowed to mingle with the mourning-train that carried the body to the burial: but King Jean de Brienne and the patriarch of Jerusalem were prohibited from profaning the sacred ceremony by their presence. The serene dawn of an Eastern morning was gilding the domes and minarets of Cairo, as the body of Elsiebede was carried forth to the mosque, to be prepared, according to the faith of her fathers, for its final home. As the bearers entered the door, the congregation repeated in solemn cadence, "Praise be to God, the Lord of the worlds, the most merciful, the king of the day of judgment. Thee do we worship, and of thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray." The imam then stood up and called upon one and another to testify concerning the life of the illustrious dead; and each vied with the other in recounting her acts of beneficence and piety, till the priest concluded with, "She was more glorious than the four perfect women who dwell in the bowers of the blest. She was more bountiful than Fatima; she had the virtue of Kadijah; she was more constant than Asia; she had the purity of Mary." Wrapped in fine linen impregnated with spices and perfumes, and laid in a coffin of cypress, the remains were then carried to the place of interment, where a crowd of females who were not permitted to enter the mosque, sat closely veiled upon the ground in the utmost abandonment of silent sorrow. Others embraced the pillars that ornamented the graves, and cried out, "A leaf hath withered on the tree of life, a new guest cometh to the City of the Silent." The body was preceded by a noble Moor, who bore upon his head a box of cendal wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Arrived at the grave, the bearers set down the bier, and the imam called upon all to join him in prayer. Scarcely had the air ceased to vibrate with their voices, when the muezzins, placing frankincense in golden censers, touched it with burning coals, and a fragrant cloud laden with the breath of their petitions, seemed to float away towards heaven. The imam standing at the head of the grave, opened the cendal box, and taking thence the leaves of the Koran, distributed them among the people, and all began to read in a low recitative chant, the words of the holy book, "By the brightness of the morning; and by the night, when it groweth dark; thy Lord hath not forsaken thee, neither doth he hate thee. Verily the life to come shall be better for thee than the present life; and thy Lord shall give thee a reward wherewith thou shalt be well pleased. Did not he find thee an orphan, and hath he not taken care of thee? And did he not find thee wandering in error, and hath he not guided thee into the truth? And did he not find thee needy, and hath he not enriched thee? Wherefore declare the goodness of thy Lord." The coffin was deposited in the ground, and every friend and every bystander cast a portion of dust upon it, until the grave was filled. The imam then called out to the loved one, "Oh Elsiebede! daughter of Eve, say that God is thy God, say that Mohammed is the prophet of God." He paused a moment as if listening for her response, and then continued, "Certainly thou hast acknowledged God for thy God, Islamism for thy religion, Mohammed for thy prophet, the Koran for thy priest, the sanctuary of Mecca for thy Kibla, and the faithful for thy brethren." He turned to the congregation, and spreading forth his hands repeated the benediction, "Oh Lord pour patience on us, and cause us all to die Moslems." Melech Camel, as chief of the household, then approached, and planted a sprig of cypress on the right and on the left of the grave, and each friend and relative performed the same sad duty, and then all standing together with their hands stretched out above the resting-place of the beloved Sultana, repeated the portion of the sacred writings appointed for the closing service: "By the sun and its rising brightness--by the moon when she followeth him--by the day when he showeth his splendor--by the night when it covereth him with darkness--by the heaven and him who built it--by the earth and him who spread it forth--by the witness and the witnessed--by the soul and him who completely formed it, and inspired into the same its faculty of distinguishing and power of choosing wickedness and piety--now is he who hath possessed the same happy--" The procession then slowly and sadly departed from the hallowed precincts, and none marked the bowed and wasted figure of Salaman leaning upon the broken turf that hid from his dimmed and aged eyes the face of his only friend. His attachment for Elsiebede had been such as is common to animals remarkable for sagacity and fidelity, and the range of his intellect introducing him to no personal aspirings, all his thoughts had been concentrated in the one idea of serving his mistress. He had shared her confidence and favor in weal and in woe, and followed her fortunes with a zeal and industry that engrossed all his powers. Now that she was no more, there remained for him neither aim nor purpose, neither hope nor desire. Without a country, without a religion, he had worshipped Mass with the Christians, and repeated the Creed with the Moslems; but since Elsiebede had entered upon an untried state, his desire to insure to her every possible good, led him, at great personal inconvenience, to procure an ebony cross, that if she failed of the Mohammedan paradise, she might, through its influence, gain an entrance into the Christian's heaven. With a feeble hand that scarce obeyed the promptings of his generous affection, the faithful black hollowed a place for the venerated symbol, and with great difficulty planted it firmly at the head of the grave. The pious task accomplished, he knelt to repeat a christian prayer which they had learned together in the household of Berengaria. The familiar words overwhelmed him in a tide of long-forgotten reminiscences, and he fell prostrate upon the mound. The following morning Violante obtained permission to accompany the maidens to the burial ground, and assist in garlanding the grave of the Sultana. At the sight of the silent worshipper they hushed their voices, but he heeded not their approach. The princess ventured to lift the hand that rested upon the cross. It was stiff and cold. She drew aside her veil and gazed upon his face. The faithful Salaman had expired upon the grave of Elsiebede. CHAPTER IV. "Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour And sumless riches from Affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship--therefore pray!" Violante, the eastern beauty, whose hand held the keys of all the seaports of the Levant--the sceptre of the Latin kingdom of Palestine, and the diadem of Jerusalem--and whose voice alone could pronounce the magic "Sesame" that should open the gates of commerce, and pour the treasures of Sheba, and Dedan, and Ophir into the coffers of the church, created a great sensation in Europe. The titular king, John de Brienne, was ready to resign all the real or fancied good that might appertain to his daughter's dominions, in favor of any candidate whom the pope should select as her future husband; and the presumptive queen, whose eastern preferences led her still to retain the timid reserve in which she had been educated, was not supposed to have any choice in the matter. The wily pontiff desirous to bind the Ghibelline faction like a victim to the horns of the altar, proposed a union between the son of the Emperor Frederic, and the daughter of John de Brienne. The young prince was delighted with his brilliant prospects, and readily assured the legate of the pope, that his sword should be ready at all times and in all places to execute the decrees of the church. Since her arrival at Rome, Violante had lived in almost utter solitude, mourning for the girlish sports that had given wings to the flying hours in the palace of Cairo, and weeping at the remembrance of the constant beneficence and tender counsels of the good Queen Elsiebede. She received the advances of the royal heir of Hohenstaufen with an embarrassment that might portend either success or failure to his suit. He repeated his visits, and at each interview made desperate efforts to impress her with a sense of his devotion and to win in return some token of her regard; but his self-felicitations reached no farther than a general conviction, that she was very beautiful and very bashful. John de Brienne represented to his daughter the necessity of fixing the affections of the young king. She listened with respectful silence, and interposed no objections to the arrangements making for her future happiness. The nuptials were to be celebrated on the occasion of a high festival, at Ferentino, and the emperor with the chief dignitaries of his court was to grace the splendid ceremony. The week before the appointed day, Frederic arrived in Italy, and prompted by curiosity, sought an interview with his prospective daughter. Violante received the majestic emperor with the same maiden coyness that had characterized her interviews with her lover; but Frederic, whose ardent fancy was captivated by the fascinating Oriental, was not to be baffled by her shyness. After attempting an indifferent conversation, in the French language, he changed his tactics, and modulating his voice to the low, deep tones of the Arabic, spoke to her of her former life, of her mother, of her future home. Suddenly the countenance of the delighted girl became radiant with animation, the eloquent blood mounted to her cheek, her eyes dilated with joy, and the admiring monarch listened in mute surprise, while in the graceful and poetical language of the East she narrated the particulars of her sojourn at Cairo, and described the games and sports she had enjoyed in the company of the Moorish maidens. She showed him her jewel rosary, with its pendant charm, the talisman of the Gyptianos, the last gift of Elsiebede; but when she essayed to speak of the virtues of the sultana, tender recollections crowded so fast upon her, that her lips refused their office, and gushing tears alone finished her tale of gratitude and love. Her royal auditor soothed her agitation with assurances of sympathy and kindness, and on leaving the apartment, was flattered by her urgent request, that he would visit her again. Engagements of this sort, the amatory monarch seldom failed to fulfil. Each interview increased the charm, and deepened her affection; and before the expiration of the week, he waited upon the pope to apprize his holiness, that Violante had rejected the son, in favor of the father. The pontiff, well pleased with the turn affairs had taken, interposed but one condition, and Frederic having solemnly promised to undertake the crusade within two years, took the place of Henry at the altar, and espoused the heiress of Jerusalem. Pleased with his lovely acquisition, and occupied with the affairs of his realm, Frederic delayed under various pretexts the fulfilment of his vow, and neither the expostulations of pope nor peer had any influence upon his purposes, till he learned that Honorius had entered into a league with his son Henry, the disappointed bridegroom, and instigated the cities of Lombardy to revolt. Alarmed at the disaffection of his subjects, Frederic renewed his promise, and went so far as to consign his kingdom to the protection of the church, during his absence. The death of the pope, in 1227, afforded him another temporary respite. He had, however, in this change of pontiffs, as little matter of congratulation, as the fox in the fable: Gregory IX. proving a more voracious and intolerant scourge, than his predecessor. After making arrangements to prosecute the designs of Honorius upon the Albigenses, the new pope published the eastern crusade, and called upon Frederic to set out without loss of time. The lovely Violante was drooping in her European home. The harsh and guttural language of the Germans, offended her ear, their rude and unpolished manners presented an effectual barrier to the light and graceful amusements, which she sought to introduce in her court, and her delicate frame chilled by the severity of a climate to which she was unaccustomed, shrank from every exposure. She pined to revel once more, in the bland and balmy airs that sweep the fragrance from Hermon, and to be served with the courteous reserve, and graceful observances which she had enjoyed in the harem of Cairo. Her only hope of returning to her native land, was in the fulfilment of her husband's vow; but finding that her mild entreaties served only to irritate his imperious temper, she refrained to press the subject, and confined her anxieties to her own breast. While the lovely exotic was thus withering under the blighting influence of the uncongenial atmosphere of the north, Jean de Brienne visited the German court. Alarmed at his daughter's pale and wasted appearance, he regarded her with a tender sympathy, such as he had never before manifested towards her; and the heart-broken queen poured out her sorrows before him, and entreated him to take her back to Palestine. The sweet pensiveness so like the expression of her mother's countenance, and which had already become habitual to her youthful features touched a secret chord in his heart, and the thought that Frederic had squandered the wealth of her affection, and repulsed her winning caresses with coldness and contempt, roused his indignation. He expostulated with the monarch in no measured terms. The emperor admitted, that he had won the affections of Violante, by his apparent interest in the Holy Land, and gained her hand by a promise to restore to her, her rightful inheritance; but he sneeringly insinuated, that these courteous condescensions, were the fanciful gages staked by all lovers, which as husbands they were not bound to redeem. He laid down the proposition that oaths in religion, politics, and love were but means to an end, only binding, in so far as they accorded with the convenience of those who made them. He cited examples of the clergy, with the pope at their head, who wedding the church, and professing to live alone for her interests, made her the means of their own aggrandizement, the pander of their base passions; the policy of kings, who, receiving the sceptre of dominion for the ostensible purpose, of securing peace and happiness to their subjects, pursued their own pleasure, without regard to civil commotion or discord; and he illustrated his theory by multiplied instances in the domestic life of the sovereigns of Europe, who, for the gratification of personal pique, put away those whom they had promised to love and cherish to the end of life. Violante listened to this discourse like one who for the first time comprehends the solution of a problem, that has long taxed the ingenuity and embarrassed the reason. His sentiments explained the mystery in his manner, the discrepancy between his professions and performances, and like the spear of Ithuriel, dispelled at once the illusion of her fancy, and made him assume before her his own proper character. She fixed her large dark eyes upon his countenance, as though striving to recall the image she had worshipped there. She saw only the arrogant sneer of skepticism, and the smile of selfish exultation. Her sensitive heart recoiled with horror at the prospect of the cheerless future, which in one fearful moment passed like a vision before her, and with a piercing cry she fell fainting to the floor. The husband calmly summoned the maids as he left the apartment, while the father, with a heart distracted between pity and anger, tenderly lifted her lifeless form and conveyed her to a couch. Robert, the second son of Peter Courtenay and Yoland, succeeded his father upon the throne of Constantinople. An inglorious reign of seven years left the empire in a distracted state, and an early death transferred the crown to his infant son Baldwin. The barons of the Greek Empire felt the necessity of placing the sceptre in the hands of a man and a hero; and messengers were despatched to the veteran King of Jerusalem, to beg him to accept the imperial purple, and become the father of the young prince, by bestowing upon him the hand of his second daughter in marriage. The position and authority of Jean de Brienne as the Emperor of Constantinople, gave him power to punish Frederic's baseness, and he speedily signified to the emperor, that the might of his sword, backed by the strength of the Greek forces, was now ready to enforce the decrees of the pope. Frederic, finding that he could no longer with any safety defer his pilgrimage, ordered a general rendezvous of his troops at Brundusium preparatory for departure. Before however the appointed time for sailing had arrived, a pestilence broke out in the camp, numbers died and greater numbers deserted, and the emperor himself, after having embarked and remained at sea three days, returned, declaring that his health would not admit of his taking the voyage. Exulting in the fortunate circumstance that had released him from the dreaded expedition, he hastened his march to Germany. As he entered his palace, he was struck by the grave and serious manner with which his retainers, usually so enthusiastic, received him. An ominous gloom reigned in the court, and as with lordly tread he passed through the long corridors, he felt that his step was breaking the silence of death. In the anteroom of the queen's apartment, he found her maidens indulging in the utmost expressions of grief. The feeble wail of an infant smote upon his ear, and striding through the hushed and darkened chamber, he sought the couch of the neglected Violante. That couch was a bier. Those lips, upon whose sportive accents he had hung with exquisite though momentary rapture, were forever dumb. Those features, that had kindled with a glow of love at his every word of tenderness, were now settled in their last calm repose. Poor Violante! Thy pilgrimage was brief. The first sweet stage of childhood scarcely passed, Fancy led thy willing footsteps through the Elysian fields of Love, and robed the object of thy young affections with a halo of purity and truth.--The life-long experience of woman--the indefinable slight and wrong that press home upon her, the bitter sense of utter helplessness and dependence, the inexplicable woe of the primeval curse,--crowded into the little span of a few short months, brought thee early to the sepulchre,--seventeen summers, and a winter whose rigor congealed the very fountain of thy life,--to hope, to love, to give thy life to another, and die.--Such is thy history, beautiful Violante, Queen of Jerusalem, Empress of Germany, Heroine of the Sixth Crusade. ELEANORA. CHAPTER I. THE PARENTS OF EDWARD I. Of all the royal suitors that ever stooped to woo the love of woman, Henry III. son of John Lackland and Isabella of Angoulême, appears to have been the most luckless and unfortunate. He first fixed his affections upon the Princess of Scotland, who was dissuaded from listening to his suit, by her brother's assurance that the king was a squint-eyed fool, deceitful, perjured, more faint-hearted than a woman, and utterly unfit for the company of any fair and noble lady. Disappointed in Scotland, the monarch next offered his hand to the heiress of Brittany, but the rugged Bretons, too well remembering the cruelty of his father, to their beloved Prince Arthur, returned a haughty refusal. He then proposed to confer the honor of his alliance upon a daughter of Austria, but the fair descendant of Leopold inherited all her grandfather's enmity to the princely house of Plantagenet, and rejected his addresses with disdain. The Duke of Bohemia, to whom he next applied, civilly answered that his child was already plighted to another, and it was not until Henry reached the mature age of thirty that he received a favorable response to his matrimonial proposal; and when at last the marriage contract was signed between himself and Joanna, daughter of Alice of France, the roving affections of this royal Coelebs were beguiled from their allegiance by the sweet strains of the youthful poetess of Provence. Eleanor la Belle, second daughter of Count Berenger, perhaps the youngest female writer on record, attracted the attention of the fickle King of England, by a poem which she composed on the conquest of Ireland. Dazzled by her genius and personal charms, Henry's vows to Joanna were forgotten, and his ambassadors received orders to break off the negotiations, while his obliging counsellors recommended a union with the very lady he so ardently admired. His habitual covetousness intruded however into the courtship, and had well-nigh subjected him to a sixth disappointment. He intrusted his seneschal to demand twenty thousand marks as the dower of Eleanor, but privately empowering him to lessen the sum if necessary to fifteen, ten, seven, five or three thousand. He quite disgusted the haughty count her father, by his sordid bargaining, and at last wrote in great terror, to conclude the marriage forthwith, either with money or without, but at all events to secure the lady for him and conduct her safely to England without delay. In the splendid festivities with which Henry welcomed his young bride to London, and in the preparation of her coronation robes, he displayed a taste for lavish expenditure altogether inconsistent with the state of his finances, and in ridiculous contrast to his former penuriousness. Like his father the greatest fop in Europe, but not like him content with the adornment of his own person, he issued the most liberal orders for apparelling the royal household in satin, velvet, cloth of gold and ermine, expending in the queen's jewelry alone a sum not less than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. About the same time he bestowed his sister Isabella upon the Imperial widower Frederic II., and personally designated every article of her sumptuous wardrobe. It was on this occasion that he first learned how imperative a check a sturdy British Parliament may be on the lawless extravagance of a king; for when he petitioned the Lords for a relief from his pecuniary difficulties, they told him they had amply supplied funds both for his marriage and that of the empress, and as he had wasted the money he might defray the expenses of his wedding as best he could. It would be difficult to say whether the king, the queen, or the royal relations, proved the greatest scourges to Britain during the long and impotent reign of Henry III. One of Eleanor's uncles became prime minister; to another was given the rich Earldom of Warrenne, and a third was made Archbishop of Canterbury, and numerous young lady friends of the romantic queen were imported from Provence and married to the king's wealthy wards. Henry's mother, not content with sending over all her younger children to be provided for by the impoverished monarch, involved him in a war with Louis IX., which ended disastrously for the English arms, in the loss of a great part of the rich southern fiefs and the military chests and costly ornaments of the king's chapel. Henry's ambition for his children brought still greater difficulties upon the realm. His eldest son, Edward, was appointed viceroy of the disputed possessions in Aquitaine, and being too young to discharge his important trusts with discretion, so mismanaged affairs as greatly to increase the discontent of his father's French subjects. His eldest daughter Margaret, married to her cousin Alexander III., the young King of Scotland, was taken prisoner by Sir John Baliol, and subjected to the most rigorous confinement, thus making it necessary for Henry to undertake a Northern campaign for the rescue of his child. But his second son, Edmund, proved more expensive to the British nation, and innocently did more to project the civil war than any other member of the royal family; for the pope, having conferred the crown of Sicily upon the young prince, the delighted father eagerly engaged in a prospective war, and promised to defray the whole expense of substantiating the claim. Again the barons resisted the onerous tax which this new attempt at family aggrandizement would impose upon them, and the first subsidy was raised from the benefices of the church only by the exercise of spiritual authority. When the ambitious king had exhausted all his resources, the pontiff coolly transferred the coveted crown to Charles d'Anjou, brother to the King of France, leaving poor Henry to cancel his debt with the lords of exchequer as best he might, getting to himself in the eyes of his subjects little glory and great loss. Such was the character, the political and the social position of the parents of Edward I., who commenced about the middle of the thirteenth century to take an active part in the affairs of Europe. A splendid concourse were gathered in the spacious palace of the old temple at Paris, A.D. 1254. The royal families of England and France were convened on terms of cordiality and kindness, such as they had never enjoyed since the day when Normandy was wrested from the descendants of Charlemagne. The banquet was given in honor of Edward, the heir-apparent of England, and his sweet young bride, Eleanora of Castile. In the place of honor sat the good St. Louis King of France, on his right, Henry III. of England, and on his left, the King of Navarre, the royal descendant of Thibaut of Champagne, and Blanche the sister of Berengaria. At this magnificent entertainment, Beatrice the Countess of Provence enjoyed a reunion with her beautiful daughters, their noble husbands and blooming offspring. The eldest, Margaret, was the wife of Louis IX., Eleanor, of Henry III., Beatrice, of Charles d'Anjou, and Sancha, of Richard of Cornwall, King of the Romans. But the queen of this Feast of kings, the fair young Infanta, around whom were gathered the nobility of a Continent, though but a child of scarce ten years, concentrated in herself more romantic associations and excited higher hopes than any of the crowned heads present. Her brother Alphonso X., the astronomer, was the most learned prince in Europe, and neither priest or peer could boast that devotion to the arts, or that success in scientific discoveries that characterized the King of Castile, surnamed _Il Sabio_, the wise. Her mother Joanna, had been the affianced bride of her royal father-in-law Henry III., had been rejected for the more poetic daughter of the Count of Provence; and her grandmother, Alice of France, had been refused by the gallant King Richard, in favor of Berengaria of Navarre. Her brother Alphonso, and her husband's uncle, Richard of Cornwall, were candidates for the crown of the German Empire, in opposition to the rights of Conrad, son of Frederic and Violante, and her husband, a graceful youth of fifteen, who had received the honors of knighthood at his wedding tournament, was heir to the goodly realm of England and the beautiful provinces of Southern France. The tourney, the banquet, and the procession, had marked their progress from Burgos, in Spain, to the Parisian court. At Bordeaux, King Henry expended 300,000 marks on their marriage feast, a sum, at that time so extravagant, that when reproached for it, he exclaimed in a dolorous tone, "Oh! pour la tête de Dieu, say no more of it, lest men should stand amazed at the relation thereof." At Chartres, the palace once occupied by Count Stephen and Adela, was ornamented with the most brilliant decorations to honor their presence. St. Louis advanced to meet, and escort them to Paris. The cavalcade consisted of one thousand mounted knights in full armor, each with some lady by his side, upon a steed whose broidered housings rivalled the richness of the flowing habiliments of the fair rider, while a splendid train of carriages, sumpter mules, and grooms, and vassals completed the magnificent retinue. The nuptial festival with its usual accompaniments of hunting, hawking, and holiday sports, continued through eight days, and a brilliant cortêge attended the bridal party to the coast of France, on their departure for England. The passage was rough and gloomy, and the fleet that conveyed Eleanora to her new home encountered a storm upon the Channel, and approached the harbor under the cover of a fog so dense, that the white cliffs of Dover were entirely veiled from sight. The child queen, terrified at the profound darkness, strove to silence her own agonizing apprehensions, by repeating those words of sacred writ, which she supposed exercised some mysterious influence upon the elements. Suddenly a terrible crash made the ship groan through all its timbers. Piercing shrieks from without told a tale of horrors, and the echoing screams within rendered it impossible to ascertain the nature or extent of the danger. At length it was found, that the royal vessel had in the darkness encountered and sunk a small bark, supposed to be a fishing smack, that had been driven out to sea by the wind. Prince Edward immediately ordered the small boat to be lowered, and despite the entreaties of his parents and little bride, sprang into it, in hope of rescuing the perishing crew. Alarmed for his safety, Eleanora added to the anxieties of her parents, by hastening to the deck, where leaning from the vessel's side, she scanned with intensest gaze the narrow circle of waters illuminated by the lights of the ship. A brave sailor, buffeting the waves with powerful arm, escaped the eddies made by the sinking craft, and grasping the rope which was flung to his assistance, sprang up to the vessel's side. Another object soon after appeared rising and sinking upon the crest of the billow. Now it seemed but the sparkling foam, and now it lay white and motionless in the dark trough of the sea. At length it floated beyond the line of light, and seemed lost in the impenetrable gloom, but not till the prince had fixed his eye upon it, and ordered his rowers to pull in the direction of its disappearance. One moment of agonizing suspense, and the heir of England again appeared nearing the vessel, carefully folding a motionless form in his arms; the sailors plied the windlass, and the boat with its crew was safely received on board. Scarcely heeding the curious inquiries of those who gathered around him, the prince made his way to the cabin and deposited the precious burden upon a couch. The dripping coverings were speedily removed, and delight, admiration, and pity, were instantly excited in the hearts of the spectators, at the sight of a lovely child, apparently less than two years of age. Eleanora watched the resuscitation of the little stranger, with anxious tenderness. She chafed its dimpled hands in her own, and strove to recall animation by soft kisses and gentle caresses. As vital warmth gradually returned, and the faint hue of life glowed on the pallid cheek, the suffering one opened her blue eyes, and whispering some indistinct words, among which they could distinguish only "Eva," sank again into unconsciousness. The clothing of the little foundling was such as indicated rank and wealth, and a bracelet of Eastern manufacture, clasped upon her tiny arm, excited much wonder and curiosity among the queens and their attendants. The prince had found the infant lashed to an oar with a scarf of exquisite embroidery. There seemed to be also an armorial design upon it, but the green shamrock, with a rose of Sharon, was a device which none present could decipher. The rescued sailor stated that the lost ship was a coasting vessel, and that, in an Irish harbor, they had taken on board a lady and child; but, as he had only seen them at the time of their embarkation, he could give no farther account of them. The partiality which Eleanora manifested to the orphan, thus suddenly bereft of every friend, gained for it a home in the bosom of the royal family, and at the castle of Guilford, where her father-in-law established her with much state, she passed many pleasant hours in the care of her tender charge. The little Eva added to her infantile charms a disposition of invincible sweetness, relieved by a sportive wilfulness that elicited a constant interest, not unmixed with anxiety, lest a heart so warm might become a prey to influences against which no caution or admonition could shield her. She could give no account of her parentage or home; but sometimes spoke of her mamma, and birds and flowers, as though her childish memory retained associations that linked her thoughts with pleasant walks and tender care. Her perceptions were exceedingly quick, but her best resolutions were often evanescent, and she lacked a steadiness of purpose in the pursuit of the studies to which Eleanora invited her attention. An appeal to her heart never failed to induce immediate repentance for any fault, and she was altogether the most winning, but vexatious pupil, that ever engaged the affections of a queen. But the accomplishments of Eleanora herself were not complete, and in 1256 she was again conveyed to Bordeaux, for the purpose of receiving instruction from masters better qualified to conduct her education. At her earnest request, Eva was permitted to accompany her. Her young husband was meanwhile engaged perfecting himself in every knightly accomplishment, "haunting tournaments," and carrying off the prizes from all competitors, with a skill and grace that gave him a renown, not inferior to that of his great uncle Richard Coeur de Lion. At Paris, he formed an intimacy with the Sire de Joinville, companion of St. Louis in the seventh crusade, and he listened to the account of affairs in the East with an interest that inflamed his young and ardent imagination. The Lord de Joinville, high seneschal of Champagne, was one of the most erudite and affable nobles of the thirteenth century, and it was an agreeable occupation for the experienced soldier, to enlighten the mind of the young prince with an account of the customs and manners of the East, and the state of the Latin kingdom in Jerusalem, which had so much influenced the politics of Europe. After the return of Frederic, Gregory IX. excommunicated him for declining to combat the enemy of God; but so long had been the contest between the emperor and the pontiff, and so divided were the minds of men upon the rights of the cause, that the clergy published the sentence with many explanatory clauses, that greatly modified its effect. A curé at Paris, instead of reading the bull from the pulpit in the usual form, said to his parishioners, "You know, my brethren, that I am ordered to fulminate an excommunication against Frederic. I know not the motive. All that I know is, that there has been a quarrel between that prince and the pope. God alone knows who is right. I excommunicate him who has injured the other; and I absolve the sufferer." Frederic, in revenge, employed his Saracen troops, of which he commanded not a few, in southern Italy, to ravage the dominions of the church, and convinced all his subjects of the wisdom of his former refusals, by taxing them heavily for the expenses of the expedition on which he determined to embark. Finding that Frederic was thus placing himself in a posture to enlist the sympathies of Christendom, the pope prohibited his undertaking the Holy War till he should be relieved from ecclesiastical censure. The emperor notwithstanding sailed directly for Acre, and was received with great joy by the Christians. The next ships from Europe brought letters from the pontiff to the patriarch, repeating the sentence of excommunication, forbidding the Templars and Hospitallers to fight under the banner of the son of perdition. In this state of embarrassment, Frederic found his military operations limited to the suburbs of Acre; and dwelling in the palace, and gazing on the scenes which Violante had so often and so eloquently portrayed, his mind reverted, with a touch of remorseful tenderness, to the enthusiasm with which she had anticipated a return to her eastern home. The rapture with which she had dwelt upon the virtues of the Empress Elsiebede, and her noble son Melech Camel, inspired him with the thought that he might avail himself of the generous friendship entertained for his much injured wife, to further his own plans in Palestine. Acting upon this selfish policy, he opened negotiations with the Sultan of Egypt, now heir to all Saphadin's dominions by the death of Cohr-Eddin. The Saracen emperor lent a gracious ear to the overtures of the successor of Jean de Brienne, and a truce of ten years was concluded between the belligerent powers. Jerusalem, Joppa, Bethlehem and Nazareth, with their appendages, were restored to the Latins. The Holy Sepulchre was also ceded, and both Christians and Mussulmans, were guaranteed the right to worship in the sacred edifice, known to the former as the temple of Solomon, and to the latter as the mosque of Omar. The Emperor repaired to Jerusalem, but no hosannahs welcomed his approach. The patriarch forbade the celebration of all religious ceremonies during his stay, and no prelate could be induced to place upon his brow accursed, the crown of Godfrey of Boulogne. Frederic, notwithstanding, advanced to the church of the Sepulchre, took the crown from the altar, placed it upon his own head, and then listened with great apparent satisfaction, to a laudatory oration, pronounced by one of his German followers. Thus the memory of the gentle and loving Violante, more powerful than the heroic frenzy of King Richard, or the misguided devotion of the military orders, established the kingdom of Palestine, once more upon a firm basis, and gave the sceptre into the hands of one able to defend its rights. CHAPTER II. DE JOINVILLE'S STORY OF THE SEVENTH CRUSADE These particulars de Joinville faithfully narrated, at various times, to Prince Edward, who was an indefatigable listener to whatever pertained to feats of chivalry and arms.--But he dwelt with far greater circumlocution and precision upon the events of the Seventh Crusade, in which he was personally engaged with Louis IX. "You must know, gracious prince," said the good knight, in the quaint language of the times, "that though the Christians in Asia had possession of the holy places, by the treaty with Melech Camel, the mildew of discord continually blighted all their plans for the improvement of the state, and as soon as the truce had expired, the Saracens again fell upon them in their weakened condition, and slaughtered great multitudes of pilgrims. For this cause it was, that Gregory IX. called again upon the devout children of the church, to take arms against the Infidels." "I remember," replied Edward, "the departure of my uncle Richard of Cornwall, and the valiant Longsword, with their knights, and retainers for Palestine, and I have heard that his very name was a terror to the Saracens, inasmuch as they mistook him for the great Richard Coeur de Lion. God willing, Sire de Joinville, the name of Edward shall one day, frighten his enemies as well." To this De Joinville gravely replied, "Thou wouldst do well to remember that which the good King Louis said, when, to secure the tranquillity of his subjects, he relinquished so great a portion of his territory to thy royal sire: I would rather be like our Lord, who giveth freely to all, than like the conquerors of the earth who have made to themselves enemies in grasping the rights of others!" "In sooth," replied Edward, "the sentiment savoreth more of the saint than of the king," a little piqued that his ambitious tendencies elicited no warmer approbation. "And yet," returned de Joinville, "King Louis is the greatest monarch in Europe, and often by his wise counsel accommodates those differences which involve other countries in bloodshed. He has, thou knowest well, already composed the dissensions between thy father and his haughty brother-in-law, Earl Leicester." "Aye, verily," returned Edward, his eyes flashing with the presentiment of vengeance, "this good sword shall one day teach the misproud earl better manners.--Had my father, less of those meek virtues which thou prizest so highly, he would never have ratified the statutes of Oxford, and made England the prey of Simon de Montfort's rapacity." "The poor inhabitants of Albi and Carcassonne, albeit many of them, I fear me, were miserable heretics, teach their children to curse the name even more bitterly," answered de Joinville, "than thou dost." "He who slaughters women and children," answered Edward, with proud disdain, "even though it be by the commands of the church, stains his fair fame more deeply than his sword. To my poor wit it seems good sire, that this crusade against our own vassals in happy France, bears a hue far different from the wars in Palestine." "So thought my good lord," returned de Joinville, "for though his soul loveth peace, his conscience was often unquiet with the thought of the sufferings of the Christians, who, pressed by the Turks, cried out for aid, and yet he knew not how he might leave his people for a foreign war. At length his doubts were resolved on this wise.--Being grievously ill at Paris, his soul as it were departed from his body. He saw standing before him Count Raimond of Toulouse, who, being in the torment of purgatory, cried out, 'Oh! that I had employed my people in chasing the children of Satan from the Holy Land, then would they not have had leisure to have devised those heresies by which they have destroyed both their souls and bodies in hell.' When the soul of the king returned, he heard those who had nursed him speaking together, and one would have covered his face with a cloth, thinking that all was over, but another (so God willed it) declared continually that he was alive. Then he opened his eyes and looked upon them, and he desired one of them to bring him the crucifix, and he swore upon it that if God should please restore him to health, he would, in person, undertake the Holy War. In like manner as the king put on the cross, so did his three brothers, Robert, Count d'Artois, Alphonzo, Count de Poitiers, and Charles, Count d'Anjou, the venerable Hugh le Brun, Count le Marche and his sons, with many others of rank and dignity, and many lords whom Simon de Montfort had deprived of their patrimony in Languedoc, and many others who had fought against the heretics. Thus did the pious king make the Holy War the means of expiation and of universal reconcilement. But so wise was he withal, and so careful of his people, that he thought also to make the expedition the foundation of a great colony in Egypt. Thus many of the transports were laden with spades, pitch-forks, plows, and other implements for the tilling of the ground, together with seeds of various kinds, for the better prospering of the new state. You must know, before the king left the realm, he summoned all the barons to Paris, and there made them renew their homage and swear loyalty to his children, should any unfortunate event happen to himself during this expedition. "Magnificent dresses were on this occasion bestowed upon all the courtiers, and the next day the cavaliers were surprised to find, that to every cloak a splendid gold cross had been affixed by the art of the goldsmith, thereby intimating the king's desire that they should join him in the Crusade. "It was in the month of August that we embarked at the rock Marseilles, and the priest and clerks standing round the king, sang the beautiful hymn, 'Veni Creator,' from the beginning to the end. While they were singing, the mariners set their sails in the name of God, and soon, with a favorable wind, the coast disappeared from our view, and we saw nothing but the sea and sky. We landed first at Cyprus, where we made a long stay, waiting for Count Alphonzo, who headed the reserve. Here ambassadors from all nations came to pay their court to the French monarch. The great Chan of Tartary paid him many fine compliments, and bade his servants say that their master was ready to assist him in delivering Jerusalem from the hands of the Saracens. The King of France sent likewise to the Chan a tent, in the form of a chapel, of fine scarlet cloth, embroidered on the inside with the mysteries of our faith. Two black monks had charge of it, and were also instructed to exhort the Tartars, and show them how they ought to put their belief in God." "Are not the Tartars of the same race as the Turks?" inquired Edward, with great curiosity. "I understand not well the genealogy of the people of the East," replied de Joinville, "but I consider Tartary as a general name for a vast country, whence have issued, at various times, certain tribes called Scythians, Hungarians, Turks, and Mongols, which have overrun the fertile provinces that skirt the Mediterranean." The prince, feeling greatly enlightened at this comprehensive answer, listened respectfully while de Joinville resumed. "There came also ambassadors from the Christians of Constantinople, Armenia and Syria. Envoys likewise from the 'Old Man of the Mountain,' of whom there runs so many strange stories. King Louis also formed a league with the leader of the Mongols against the two great popes of Islamism, the Sultans of Cairo and Bagdad. From Cyprus we sailed to Damietta, which King Louis attacked sword in hand. The Infidels, by the favor of God, were put to the worse, and the city fell into our hands. We found great spoil in Damietta, and were comfortably lodged there. But the king's officers, instead of well-treating the merchants, who would have supplied the army with provisions, hired out to them stalls and workmen, at so dear a rate, that they departed from us, which was a great evil and loss. Barons and knights began to give sumptuous banquets, one to the other; the commonalty also gave themselves up to all kinds of dissipation, which lasted until the day we set forward toward Cairo, on the route formerly travelled by Jean de Brienne. We were stopped at Mansourah many days by a branch of the Nile, where it was necessary to construct a dyke, and there they assailed us with the Greek fire, by which we were in great danger of perishing. This fire was in appearance like a great tun, and its tail was of the length of a long spear, and the noise which it made was like thunder, and it seemed a great dragon of fire flying through the air, giving such light by its flame, that we saw in our camp as clearly as in broad day; and when it fell upon a knight in armor, it penetrated through the scales thereof, and burned to the very bone. Thus our army suffered greatly, and were prevented from making farther progress. "The king called his barons to council, and it was concluded to return to Damietta. But so many of our army had fallen sick, that it was necessary to make preparations to embark upon the Nile. The king himself suffered greatly with the pestilence, and our march was stopped by the Saracens, who lay in wait for us upon the banks of the river, and as the prince would not desert his people, we were all made prisoners together. After we had suffered many things, both in body and spirit, the Sultan, who had been recently elected by the Mamelukes, agreed to accept as ransom for the captives, the city of Damietta and the sum of 500,000 livres. When the Sultan found that King Louis complied with the first demand without striving to drive a bargain, 'Go and tell him from me,' he said, 'that I retract one-fifth of the sum, because I have found him both generous and liberal.' "After the affair was concluded, my royal master empowered me to accompany the envoys to Damietta, and to receive from Queen Margaret the money for the ransom. When I came to the palace where the queen was lodged, I found her apartment guarded by an aged knight, whom, when she heard of her royal husband's captivity, she had caused to take oath that, should the Saracens enter the town, he would himself put an end to her life before they could seize her person. My royal mistress received me graciously, and gave me the money which the king had commanded, and she also bade me look upon the son she had borne to Louis during his absence, that I might assure him of their health and comfort. The misfortunes that had attended our arms caused us to quit Egypt; and, sailing at once for Acre, we were received with great joy by the Christians of the East. We employed ourselves in restoring the fortifications of the principal towns, but the monarch, through dejection at the failure of his enterprise, returned to France without making a pilgrimage to the holy places." "By my faith," replied the young prince, "it were a matter of surprise that such well-appointed expeditions should suffer such total loss. Methinks a good soldier should never sheathe his sword till the hour of victory." De Joinville regarded the inexperienced youth with a benevolent smile, remarking only, that caution and prudence are virtues as essential to a ruler, as courage and prowess. CHAPTER III. THE RELICS BROUGHT FROM CONSTANTINOPLE. The young bride Eleanora, in her residence at Bordeaux, had formed the acquaintance of Guy de Lusignan, second son of the ex-queen Isabella and Count Hugh le Marche, and through his kindly attentions she had been apprized of the events that agitated England. She learned that her royal parents had been under the necessity of taking up their residence in the Tower of London, almost in the condition of state prisoners, and that her gallant husband had exchanged the sports of a knight for "the game of kings." Anxious for his safety, and desirous to assist in the release of the royal family, or share their captivity, she besought Count Guy to conduct her thither. He represented the danger of such a proceeding, and strove by every argument to induce her to remain in France, but in vain. The traits of character, that subsequently made her the heroine, already developed in unchanging affection, and invincible firmness, overbore all opposition, and with a retinue scarcely suitable for her rank, and insufficient for her protection in case of attack, she set off for England. They reached the island without accident, and had approached in sight of London, when the great bell of St. Paul's startled them with its hurried peal, and they almost instantly found themselves surrounded by an infuriated mob. The simplicity of their attire shielded them from observation, and they passed some time unmolested among the crowd, but the vindictive shouts of the multitude, crying, "Down with the Jews! down with the followers of the virago of Provence!" so alarmed the little Eva, that she was unable to keep her seat upon the pillion of the knight who had her in charge, and Sir Guy at length obtained for them a shelter in an humble tenement upon the banks of the Thames. From the window of the cottage, they beheld the terrible massacre that characterized the first popular outbreak against the government of Henry III. The harmless Jews were dragged from their houses and mercilessly slaughtered, amidst protestations of innocence, and heart-rending cries for pity, while the furniture of their dwellings, and valuables of every kind, were hurled into the streets, and distributed among the crowd. A venerable man, Ben Abraham, of majestic demeanor, was pursued to the door of the house in which the royal fugitives had taken refuge. Count Guy in his agitation sprang to bar the entrance, but the young queen with readier tact removed the bolt, and throwing open an opposite door, motioned all the armed retainers to retire. Scarcely had the helpless old man crossed the threshold, when the mob with demoniac cries, rushed in after him, and the leader seizing him by his long white beard, severed his head from his body, and held it up a grim and ghastly spectacle for the plaudits of his followers. The terrified Eva, clinging close to Eleanora, shrunk behind the open door, and the queen controlling her own agitation, placed her hand over the child's mouth to repress her screams, while the murderers dragging the bleeding corpse upon the pavement, began to search the body for gold. Down the street rolled the tide of blood. Mad yells of vengeance and frantic cries of terror mingled on the air, and swept away toward the river. Now the roar seemed advancing and now retreating, when a barge loosing from the tower stairs, drew the concourse in that direction. It was the Queen of Henry III. with her children, seeking to escape to Windsor castle, where Prince Edward was quartered with his troops. Cries of "Drown the Witch! Down with the Witch! No favor to foreigners! Death to the Italians!" rent the air. The mob tore up the paving stones, stripped the tiles from the houses, plundered butchers' shambles, and hucksters' shops, and a shower of deadly missiles rained upon the river. The boat approached the bridge, at the west end of which thousands of fierce eyes glared for its appearance, and thousands of bloody hands were raised for its destruction. At this moment the figure of an armed knight, of lofty stature, appeared upon the bridge. Forcing his way through the mob, he shouted to the sailors as the boat was about to shoot the arch, "Back! Bear back!! upon your lives!!! Return to the tower!!!!" The frightened boatmen turned at the critical moment, and the knight, by the prowess of his single arm, diverted the attack to himself, till the queen was again sheltered by the walls of the fortress. Roar upon roar again swelled through the streets. The crowd hurried on in search of prey, swaying to and fro, like trees in a tempest. Again the feeble walls that sheltered the fair Castilian, felt the terrible presence of demons in human form. The sight of a French attendant again raised the cry of "Death to foreigners," and madly they rushed to the onslaught. But the strange knight was already at the door, and backed by Guy de Lusignan and the retainers, for some hours kept the infuriated multitude at bay, but at every moment the crowd became denser, the cries more terrific, and Eleanora drawing the little Eva to her bosom, and surrounded by her own maidens, and the females of the household, was striving to recall the prayers for the dying, when a distant shout of rescue swelled upon the breeze. The shrill blast of a trumpet confirmed the uncertain hope, and the defiant threats of the multitude began to give place to the howlings of baffled rage. On came the tramp of horsemen, the clangor of armor; louder roared the din of the fight; not now the sounds of falling dwellings, flying missiles, and female shrieks, but the ringing clash of Damascus steel, and the regular tramp of mounted horsemen. The warlike shout of "Edward to the rescue," "Give way to the prince," drove on the motley mass like sands before the desert wind, and scattered them through all the lanes and alleys of the vast metropolis. At the sound of her husband's name, Eleanora sprang from her knees and rushed to the door-way, where she beheld, advancing at the head of the troops, taller than all his compeers, more firmly seated upon his noble destriar, and more gracefully managing the rein and wielding the sword, her long-absent lord. He raised his vizor, as he paused to return the salutation of his uncle, De Lusignan, and his fine, manly features, radiant with pleasure, and flushed with triumph, his fair hair curling round his helmet, made him appear to Eleanora, more brave and beautiful than a hero of romance. But the eye that "kindled in war, now melted in love" at the unexpected apparition of his bride, who with tearful eyes gazed upon him, uncertain whether her presence would more embarrass or pleasure him. It was not, however, in the heart of a chivalric prince to frown upon any distressed damsel, much less upon the beautiful young being, whose fair face, the sensitive index of every emotion, now paled with fear, now flushed with joy, seemed each moment changing to a lovelier hue, while she awaited his approach in doubt as to the greeting she should receive from her lord. The generous prince hastily dismounting, and clasping her in his arms, tenderly reassured her with words of affectionate welcome, not however, without a gentle upbraiding, that she had not tarried at Dover till he had been able, with a retinue befitting her rank, himself to escort her to Windsor. The little Eva, meanwhile, had found a safe asylum in the arms of the stranger knight, and, through the bars of his vizor, obtained a glimpse of eyes, whose color and expression she never forgot, and listened to words that made a lasting impression upon her mind. Prince Edward found it necessary to establish his mother and queen, with the ladies and attendants, under a strong guard, at Bristol castle, where they remained during a part of that stormy period, consequent upon Leicester's rebellion. Restricted to the narrow enjoyments which the castle walls afforded, and to the society of the few knights who had them in charge, the royal ladies found their chief entertainment in the volatile spirits, and restless gaiety of the orphan Eva. No caution nor command could prevent her mingling with the dependents, and listening to and relating to her mistress every flying report that reached the castle. But so gentle was her temper, and so ready her submission, that it was impossible to be seriously offended with her, and her light footsteps and joyous laugh were equally welcome in the royal apartments, and in the servants' kitchen. The maids of honor, who were the most frequent victims of her pranks, surnamed her, "Dame Madcap," while her cordial interest in inferiors caused the retainers to dub her with the equally appropriate soubriquet of "Little Sunbeam." One day, the Princess Eleanora, passing the hall of audience, was surprised by hearing shouts of irrepressible laughter. Suspecting that her protegée was engaged in some frolic, she cautiously opened the door and stood an unobserved spectator. Every piece of furniture capable of being moved, had been torn from its mooring, and placed in some fantastic position. The arras had been stripped from the walls, and hung in grotesque festoons at the farther extremity of the room, above and around a throne, ornamented with every article of embroidered velvet and silk brocade, that the royal wardrobe afforded, on which was seated her Madcap majesty, bedecked and bedizened with all sorts of holiday finery, while every maid and retainer, not on duty, was passing before her, and repeating the oath of fealty in giggling succession. The fair queen, meanwhile, diversified her state duties by lecturing her new subjects upon the indecorum of such ill-timed levity. The princess, in doubt what notice to take of the affair, prudently withdrew, but not till Eva had caught sight of her retreating figure, whereon, she assured her vassals, that they had all been guilty of high treason, and that, no doubt, the Don Jon, or some other Spanish cavalier would soon have them in close keeping. When Eva again appeared in the presence of the princess, she fell on her knees and begged pardon with an air of mock humility that changed Eleanora's frowns to smiles in spite of herself, though she felt it necessary to remonstrate with her upon the oft-reiterated subject of her undignified familiarity with dependents. "I was but acting the queen, your majesty, and would be glad of more exalted subjects," said she, archly, in extenuation of her fault. "Royalty is but a pageant, and I shall doubtless exercise the prerogative of a sovereign, when it is proved that the wicked little Eva de la Mer is heiress of the gallant Strongbow." "Thou, Queen of Ireland!" exclaimed Eleanora. "Who has put this foolish conceit into thy young head? Thou must beware, sweet one, of these odd fancies. Rememberest thou not the words of the confessor, that the pomps and vanities of the world lead the soul astray?" Tears filled the blue eyes of Eva, but instantly dashing them away with spirit, she exclaimed, "And why not I a queen! 'Tis sure I would be a better sovereign than most. They should not say as they do of our liege, King Henry, that I robbed my subjects to make presents to my favorites." "Eva, Eva," gravely rejoined the princess, "the Scripture saith we should not speak evil of dignities." But Eva was in the vein, and her volubility was not to be silenced. "I would not be a queen," exclaimed she, "for then I should have none to love me or to tell me the truth." "None to love thee!" replied Eleanora. "Do not the people love her gracious majesty, my royal mother?" "Thou shouldst hear what all men say of her," exclaimed the child, almost frightened at her own audacity. "And what do men say?" inquired Eleanora, her curiosity getting the better of her judgment. "They say," continued Eva, "that all the troubles in England are owing to the queen and her relations. That King Henry took the marriage portion of his sister Isabella to furnish the decorations for the coronation; and thou knowest well, my lady, that she hath nine garlands for her hair, besides a great gold crown most glorious with gems." "In sooth," returned the princess, "thou knowest more than I of the queen's wardrobe. But how learnedst thou these things?" "Her maidens, who love her none too well, tell me everything." "And dost thou encourage them in evil speaking of their mistress, by listening to their idle tales?" "Nay, I told them they were sinners, and that the father of evil would surely get them; but they only laughed, and said, in that case, I should certainly bear them company." Eleanora, looking gravely, said, "I fear my darling is learning sad ways, and I must henceforth keep her always by my side." Eva threw her arms around the princess, and pillowing her fair cheek upon her bosom, whispered, "Let not my noble mistress omit this punishment, for in her presence 'tis easy to be good." There was a pause of some minutes, when the child gently resumed, "My lady will one day be a queen, shall Eva then speak only the words of adulation, such as the false dames d'honneur employ in the presence of her majesty? I heard them whispering low concerning the queen's gold, and the extortions and exactions she had brought upon the people, and when she inquired what they whispered, they turned it with some fine compliment. I sought to tell her of the falsehood, but the ladies would not give me entrance to her apartment. I will tell thee, for thou art wise and mayest perchance warn her of her false friends. What first caught my ear was the name of my lord, Prince Edward. They said that when he was a lad of eight years, his royal father brought him forth with his brother Edmund and his sisters Margaret and Beatrice, and had them all weighed up like the calves at the butchers, and then scattered their weight in coin among the ragged beggar children that stood in the court below, laughing at the screams of the royal babies." "Eva! Eva! How couldst thou listen to such vain parlance?" "Oh! my lady, this is not the half of the vile things they told. They said that when the king had oppressed the people till he could wring no more money from them, he broke up his court, and then, to avoid the expense of keeping his family, he invited himself with his retinue to the castles of the nobles, and after being feasted right royally, he begged gifts at his departure, telling them it was a greater charity to bestow alms upon him than upon any beggar in the realm." "Eva! darling! no more of this," said Eleanora, in a decided tone. "I will give thee for thy penance three paternosters and a creed. Repair to my oriel, and let me hear thee prate no more." Eva received so much spiritual benefit from her devotions in the oratory, that the next day she was permitted to go where she pleased, and her first works of supererogation were distributed among those who had participated in her offence. Accordingly, the princess found her robed in the chaplain's gown, and receiving the confessions of those who had assisted at her coronation the previous day, in which capacity she exhibited a wonderful facility in prompting treacherous memories and callous consciences. In the midst of the scene, a sharp blast from the warder's horn startled the merry group. In times of public calamity, every unexpected event seems fraught with a fearful interest. Each vassal hurried to his post, and the females hastened away, while Eva, dropping her sacred character, ran with all speed to reconnoitre from the arrow-slit of the turret. The portcullis was raised, the sound of hoofs was heard upon the drawbridge, and the next moment a messenger, toil worn and travel-stained, dashed into the court. The tidings which he brought were of the most important character. King Henry, apparently on the most friendly terms with Leicester, was, in reality, a prisoner in his castle, and subject to the will of the earl. Prince Edward was rapidly preparing for war with the rebel barons, and, deeming the royal ladies unsafe in England, had sent to bid them haste with all speed to the court of the good King of France. Straining her eyes to command a view beyond the castle walls, Eva discerned a band of huntsmen lingering in the skirts of an adjoining wood, but in the bustle of departure, she could not find opportunity to communicate the suspicious circumstance to any in authority. Apparelled in the utmost haste, the parties set forth, and slacked not their riding till they reached the port. There seemed to be a great crowd in the vicinity, of sailors, boatmen, clowns, in cartmen's frocks, and occasionally a man in armor. Eva fancied that she discerned among them the huntsmen of the wood, and her fears were confirmed when a moment after the royal train were completely environed by the band. But so adroitly was the manoeuvre effected, that the fugitives had scarcely time to feel themselves prisoners, when a troop of Leicester's men appeared in the distance, and they comprehended that, but for the timely interposition of these unknown friends, their retreat would have been cut off. As the vessel receded from shore, swords were drawn, and a fierce contest ensued between the huntsmen and the soldiers, and Eva recognized in the leader of their defenders the figure of the tall knight who had rescued them at London bridge. At the court of Queen Margaret, the exiled princesses received a cordial welcome, and the piety of Eleanora was strengthened by intercourse with the good St. Louis: while Eva's vivacity soon made her a favorite with the ladies of the French court. The unaffected piety of the saintly monarch was scarcely a fit subject for the humor which Eva exercised without discrimination, upon the grave and gay. But many of the superstitious observances of the church, ridiculous in themselves, excited her native merriment; nor could all the penances of the confessor restrict the playful license of her tongue. The Latin dynasty of Constantinople was now tottering to its fall. The young Greek emperor Baldwin, deprived of the counsels of his father-in-law, Jean de Brienne (who had taken the habit of St. Francis, and died on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem), was exposed to the attacks of every disaffected noble that chose to rebel against him. He had made every possible concession to avoid open warfare with his enemies, and had suffered every conceivable inconvenience from utter poverty. He had given his niece in marriage to a Turkish emir, and ratified a treaty with a haughty pagan by tasting his blood. He demolished vacant houses in Constantinople for winter fuel, stripped the lead from the churches for the daily expense of his family; mortgaged his father's estates in France to increase the public revenue; and pawned the heir of the purple at Venice, as security for a debt. One only treasure yet remained, the Holy Crown of Thorns; but piety forbade him to make merchandise of that which all Christendom regarded with such superstitious veneration. It was therefore determined to present the precious bauble to the most honorable prince in Europe, and rely upon his pious gratitude to make suitable return. A wooden box conveyed the inestimable relic to France. It was opened in the presence of the nobility, discovering within a silver shrine in which was preserved the monument of the Passion, enclosed in a golden vase. St. Louis, with all his court, made a pilgrimage to Troyes, to receive the precious deposit. And the devout monarch, barefoot, and without other clothing than a simple tunic, carried it in triumph through the streets of Paris, and placed it in La Sainte Chapelle, which he prepared for the purpose. This solemn ceremony roused all the mirthfulness of Eva, nor could the habitual reverence of Eleanora so far prevail over her good sense, as to prevent some slight misgivings concerning the authenticity of the various and multiplied relics that then formed so lucrative a branch of commerce. "I warrant me," said the madcap, Eva, to the maidens, "we shall all of us be compelled to kneel upon the cold pavement before that prickly emblem, as a punishment for our many transgressions." Shocked at her impiety, yet inwardly amused, the merry party mingled their reproaches with encouraging peals of laughter. "No doubt," continued she, "it will cure all diseases, at least it has humbled the holy king like St. Paul's thorn in the flesh. For me, though I strove to wear a devout face, I could not help laughing at the sight of his royal shins." The volatile French ladies, who had experienced very much the same sensation, joined in the merriment. "I hear," said Eva, "we are to have another procession of the same kind ere long, and mayhaps they will require us to transport the holy relic in the same flimsy guise. Thou, Felice, who art so jealous of Sir Francis d'Essai's attentions to me, shall carry the cross. And the sharp-witted Beatrice shall bear the lance. Thou, Caliste, who hearest all and sayest naught, shall wear the sponge, and as for me, I shall take the rod of Moses and smite your rocky hearts, till the waters of repentance flow forth." "Hush! hush!" exclaimed the damsels, "her majesty approaches." Scarcely were their countenances composed to the approved pattern of court propriety, and their eyes fixed upon their embroidery, when Queen Margaret entered, and, in her serenely gracious manner, informed them that his highness, the Emperor Baldwin, had presented another invaluable gift to her royal husband, and she counselled them, by fasting and prayer, to put themselves in readiness to join the court in a procession to deposit the sacred relic in St. Chapelle. While each maiden dropped her head with apparent assent, but in reality to conceal her smiles brought up by the prospective realization of Eva's panorama, the facile girl devoutly crossed herself, and with a demure look replied, "We have heard of the noble Courtenay's munificence, and have endeavored, according to our poor ability, to prepare our minds for the solemn duty." No sooner had the queen departed, than in a tone of mock gravity, she exhorted them to be diligent in their worship, for now she thought of it, she resolved to smile upon the young Squire Courtenay, who had besought her to embroider a shamrock upon his pennon. Winning him, she should doubtless one day share the imperial purple, in which case she should reclaim those sacred treasures, and they would then be under the necessity of making a pilgrimage to Constantinople, for as Baldwin's last heir was in pawn, the crown would doubtless descend to the younger branches of his house. CHAPTER IV. THE ESCAPE. In the court of France, the royal princesses received constant intelligence of the progress of the struggle between the English barons and the king, or rather, between Simon de Montfort and Prince Edward, who headed the opposite factions. Their hopes were raised by accounts of the gallant conduct of the young prince, and by the disaffection that arose between the confederate barons, but sudden misery overwhelmed them, when, after several years of torturing suspense, Wm. de Valence arrived at Paris, bringing news of the death of Guy de Lusignan, in the disastrous action at Lewes, and the captivity of King Henry and his gallant son. Queen Eleanor immediately determined to proceed to England, and her daughter-in-law Eleanora insisted upon accompanying her. Young de Courtenay, who had recently received the honors of knighthood, from his royal master, and Sir Francis, who had enlisted as his rival for the smiles of Eva, now a beautiful girl of fifteen, begged permission to join the escort, with a band of armed retainers. They landed at Plymouth, and lay concealed for some time in the wilds of Devonshire, while the gallant knights, Sir Henry and Sir Francis, scoured the country in all directions, for information concerning the captive princes. They learned that the royal army had retreated to Bristol castle, under the command of seven knights, who had reared seven banners on the walls, and with determined valor held out against Leicester, and that the princes were confined in Kenilworth castle. The difficulty of communicating with the prisoners exercised the ingenuity of the little council for many days, but every plan involved danger, both to themselves and to the royal cause. Eleanora, whose clear sense and unwavering reliance on a higher power, led her to a practical demonstration of the sentiment, "To hope the best is pious, brave, and wise," was the life and soul of every arrangement, and the soother of those fainter spirits, who were ready to yield, to despair at every sign of failure. Their residence was in a little hamlet of the better class of peasants, faithful to the interests of the king. A deep forest extended on the west to a great distance, and in those wilds, spite of all caution, Eva delighted to ramble. One day she had been so long absent that even Eleanora, becoming alarmed, despatched her attendant in quest of her, and herself joined the search. As she passed along through the glades of the deep wood, her attention was arrested by the sight of a pretty boy, lying asleep beneath the shade of a spreading oak, whose dress from his embroidered shoes, to the ruby that fastened the plume in his velvet cap, was of the most exquisite beauty, and taste. The page was clad in a hunting suit of "Lincoln green," slashed with cloth of gold, that gleamed from the mossy bank upon which he rested, as though the sunshine had fallen and lingered there. A crimson baldric curiously wrought with strange devices, lay across his breast, a sword with burnished sheath, was suspended from his belt. As Eleanora approached, and gazed upon the sleeping boy, she thought she had never beheld so lovely a youth, and an instinctive desire rose up in her heart, to enroll him in her service. "Wake, pretty one," said she, softly touching his cheek, "wake, and go with me." The youth started and gazed upon her, and a flush of surprise and pleasure suffused his countenance. "Whose page art thou?" said Eleanora, "and how hast thou wandered into this wild?" "Noble lady," returned the boy, casting down his eyes with modest hesitation, "my hawk hath gone astray, and I sought him till aweary, I fell asleep." "Thy friends have left thee in the greenwood," returned the princess, "and thou may'st not find them. Wilt go with me, and I will give thee gold and benison, and if thou art loyal, an errand worthy thy knightly ambition." "Nay, treason may be loyal, or loyalty treason, in these troublous times," said the boy. "One says follow my lord of Leicester, another, draw thy sword for the good Prince Edward." "And if I say, draw thy sword for the good Prince Edward, wilt follow me?" The youth replied evasively, "I love my lady, and I may not engage in other service, till I bring her proud bird back to the perch." Something in his earnest tone arrested the attention of the princess, and scanning the countenance of the youth with more curious scrutiny, she marked the rosy hue in his cheek, and the tear trembling in his blue eye, and exclaimed, "Eva! Eva!! How is this?" "Nay, an thou knowest me, I will e'en venture on thy knightly errand," said the blushing girl, falling on her knees, and repeating the oath of fealty, rapidly as possible to hide her emotions. "Rise," said the princess, with all the sternness she could command, "and tell me whence this disguise." "I know not, lady, more than thou, save this. Scarce a week since, I met in this wood the tall knight who hath so nobly defended us, and yesternight I braved the fear of thy frown, and came to this trysting-place. He hath concerted a plan for the liberation of my royal master, and brought me this disguise, which must be sufficient, since it so long baffled thy quick discernment. Accident has betrayed me, else it had not rested with my lady, whether Eva should trust the stranger, and aid in restoring the proud bird of England to his royal perch." Eleanora paused one moment, while her mind, ever clearest and most active in emergency, poised between the possibility of danger to her favorite, and rescue to her lord. "The knight has twice preserved our lives, he must be bold and true, and heaven hath raised him up for our deliverance, since God conceals us from our enemies, and reveals our lurking-place to him. It were treason to doubt this divine Providence, since it would imply neither trust in man, nor faith in God. Go, Eva," said the princess, her eyes filling with tears, as she pressed her to her bosom, and imprinted a warm kiss upon her cheek. "Heaven will protect and prosper thee, and my noble Edward know how to reward thy devotion." She stood gazing fondly on her in silence, while Eva's color went and came as though she essayed, what yet she feared, to utter. At length she stammered forth, "My lady will send Sir Francis with his band to guard the fords of the Exe till my return." "Sir Francis," reiterated the queen, in a tone of surprise; "methought Sir Henry were more agreeable escort." Eva tried to hide her crimson blushes beneath her delicate fingers, as she whispered, "If my mistress please, I would that Sir Henry should be ignorant of this unmaidenly disguise." "Thou lovest Sir Henry, then?" said Eleanora. "Nay, lady, I know not that," replied Eva; "but there is something in him that commands my regard despite my will, and I would not needlessly forfeit his esteem." "I will answer for thee, sweet," replied the princess. "Sir Francis shall go according to thy wish. But must I leave thee here alone and unprotected?" "The monarch of the forest spreads his broad arm for my protection, and thou shalt envy my repose, in my sylvan eyrie," replied Eva, lightly springing into a fantastic seat, formed by the twisted branches of a gnarled oak, and completely concealed by the foliage. Firmly ensconced in her rustic lodge, she leaned forward and whispered a gentle farewell, as the princess, bearing in her mind a vision of a bright face, peeping out from among the green leaves, turned and rapidly retraced her steps to the hamlet. That night Sir Francis set out with his train, and as two maidens accompanied the band, one wearing the dress of Eva, her absence excited no suspicion. Meanwhile the sprite remained in her place of concealment, till the gathering shadows of the trees stretched stealthily across the glade the appointed signal for the gathering of the outlawed bands. The tall knight soon appeared, and, lifting her gently from the tree, placed her on a beautiful Spanish jennet, and smilingly handing her an ivory whistle, terminating in a silver cross, bade her summon her satyrs. She placed it to her lips, and blew a shrill call, and forthwith from the leafy bosom of every bush and shrub there issued a huntsman, clad in forest green, and carrying only such weapons as were used in the chase. The knight gave them hasty directions for the different points of rendezvous, at which they were to watch the safety of the young squire, warned them against those places where they would be most likely to encounter the malcontents, and then mounting the noble steed that stood pawing the turf in impatience by his side, and laying his hand upon the rein, recalled Eva to herself, by saying, with emphasis, "Sir Launfal, we must away, or morning will dawn ere we cross the fords of Exe." They rode at a brisk pace for some time in silence, the mind of each being too much occupied for words. The knight at length spoke abruptly. "Thou hast a turn for adventure, pretty page, and I'll warrant me, ready tongue, but how dost thou think to gain speech with Prince Edward?" "Nay, that I leave with thee," returned Eva, "since I know neither the place to which I am bound, nor the duty I am to perform." "And that I scarce know myself," replied the knight. "The lady Maud Mortimer has the swiftest courser in all England, a coal-black Arabian, brought by Richard of Cornwall as a gift to her ladyship, on his return from the Holy Land. My Lord Mortimer is a partisan of Leicester, but is somewhat cooled in his devotion to the proud earl, from an affront received since the battle of Lewes. The lady, therefore, to be revenged, has volunteered her steed for the escape of Edward. There riseth, however, another difficulty. The prince is constantly surrounded with guards, so that no stranger may accost him. My merry men have beset the castle in every kind of disguise, but to no purpose. Of late, the prince rides forth of a morning, closely attended, and I have brought thee, hoping that thy woman's wit may effect more than all our dull brains have yet accomplished." As the captive prince, sick with hope deferred, languidly mounted his horse and rode forth upon his monotonous round, he was surprised by the appearance of a saucy-looking page, who mingled carelessly among the attendants, and challenged the younger squires to test the speed of their horses. "And who art thou, pert boy?" inquired the captain of the guard. "Who but the squire to my Lord de Mortimer? Thou must be learned in heraldry an thou knowest not the device of the noble earl," replied the page, with an air of nonchalance that easily satisfied his interrogator, and eager of sport the whole party joined in the race. They were thus led far beyond their usual limits. But the prince, whose heart was sad, evinced little interest in the animated scene till the page, loudly entreating him to put his steed to the mettle, found opportunity at intervals to whisper, "To-morrow when the horses of the guards are blown, seek the copse by the Hazel Glen." As if disgusted with the familiarity of the page, the prince slowly turned away, but not till he had exchanged a glance of intelligence with his new friend. The following morning the gallant Sir Launfal stood in the copse holding the reins of his own palfrey, and the steed of Lady Mortimer, till he was faint and weary. The expected hour for Edward's arrival had long passed, and notwithstanding his effort to appear the brave squire he personated, it must be confessed he felt very like a timid girl, whose active imagination peopled the wood with a thousand unknown dangers. He turned the whistle nervously in his fingers, and almost essayed to try its magic powers in summoning around him the brave outlaws who waited his bidding, when the welcome sound of advancing hoofs reassured him, and a moment after the prince dashed into the thicket. "Keep to the highway till we meet at the cross-roads," said the page, resigning the rein into his hand. The shouts of the pursuers were already on the air, as the prince vaulted into the saddle and took the direction indicated. Striking into a bridle path, Sir Launfal reached the cross-roads just as the prince appeared, and together they rode gaily on towards Bristol. The pursuers soon after gained the same point, where they encountered a woodman, jogging on slowly after two loaded mules, of whom they inquired concerning the fugitive. "He be's gone yonder," replied the boor, pointing in the direction opposite to the one which the prince had taken, where upon an eminence appeared an armed force. The baffled guards, fearing that the conspiracy might have been more extensive than they had anticipated, made the best of their way back to Kenilworth. "And who art thou, my pretty page?" inquired Edward, "that hast so dexterously redeemed thy prince, and whither dost thou conduct me?" "I wear the badge of Mortimer," replied Sir Launfal. "The Lady Maude is the constant friend of thy royal mother." "Canst tell me aught of the movements of the rebel barons, or the fate of my brave knights?" "Nay, my giddy brain recks little of politics or war," returned the boy, "but there are can give thee tidings." A moment after they turned an angle in the road, and the boy putting the whistle to his mouth sounded a sharp note, and a party of huntsmen, apparently in quest of game, darted across the path, while one shouted, as if to his companions, "To the right, the game lies by the Hermit's Cross." The page immediately turned his palfrey, motioning to silence, and led off into the path through the wood, and after several hours' hard riding arrived at the appointed place of rendezvous. At the foot of a large wooden cross, weather-stained and somewhat decayed, sat a monk, closely robed in gown and cowl, who rose at their approach, saying in a low voice, "The benison of our Lady of Walsingham rest upon you;" and with great strides conducted them deeper and deeper into the wood, till they came to a hunter's lodge, which, though much in ruins, gave signs of having been recently repaired, with some view to the rank and comfort of those who were to occupy it. The prince made light of the trifling inconveniences to which they were subjected, remarking, "A soldier has little choice of resting-place." But poor Eva, wearied almost to death from the unaccustomed fatigues of the day, now that the stimulus of excitement was over, had leisure to think of her own situation; and scarcely able to restrain her tears, crept silently to her couch of fern, and beneath the russet covering, soon slept from very exhaustion. The prince and the monk meanwhile conferred apart in low tones, concerting measures for present and future security. "Gloucester is with us," said the priest, "and Sir Roger de Mortimer has a party of picked men on the road to Evesham. My band have charge of every ford and pass between this and Hereford. The scouts report that Leicester's men are much wasted by their long residence on the Welsh frontier, and my jolly fellows are this night engaged in breaking down the bridges across the Severn. For we churchmen have a fancy, that baptism is necessary to wash away the sins of rebels." "I fear not all the rites of the Church can absolve the black-hearted traitor," returned Edward, with great asperity. "But proceed with thy news." "The country is beset with Leicester's spies," continued the monk, "else had I been less guarded in my communications with thee. Bands of men are daily mustering in every direction, making the high-roads unsafe for honest travellers like myself." "Thou wilt join our forces with the brethren of thy chapter," suggested the prince. "Our chapter are somewhat too much tinctured with heresy to hail the ascendency of the odious De Montforts," replied the monk; "thou mayst, therefore, depend upon their most earnest intercessions in thy behalf. But for me, I must restore pretty one," nodding his head significantly towards the spot where Eva lay asleep, "to his mistress. It is a matter, not of selfish interest alone, that the loyal page be restored unharmed." "Thou art right," returned Edward. "I would not that the charming boy should lose one raven curl for me, though he hath risked his freedom and, perhaps, his life to save me." CHAPTER V. THE DETERMINATION. After the battle of Evesham, in which Edward entirely overthrew the party of the rebel barons, and re-established Henry's throne, Eleanora resided alternately in the palace of Savoy and at Windsor castle. The care of her three beautiful children occupied much of her attention, and in their nurture the streams of her affection deepened and widened, until they embraced all who came within the sphere of her influence. The now charming, but still volatile, Eva occasioned her infinite anxiety. Since the day when Sir Francis had received her from the tall knight, at the ford of the Exe, he had held her by the two-fold cord of obligation and the possession of a secret; and from the first moment he discovered that she was sensitive upon the subject, he had not ceased to use his power to his own advantage. She was thus obliged to treat him with a favor which he ill deserved; yet such was the natural transparency of her character, that her real sentiments so often betrayed themselves, as to keep him in a constant state of irritation. Sir Henry de Courtenay, whose sincere and ardent nature gave him little taste for mysteries, could not brook the inconsistencies that constantly presented themselves in her manner, and determining that his hand should never be bestowed where there was not the basis of confidence, withdrew himself from the sphere of her attractions. Eva grieved at his departure, but it was in vain that the princess represented, that the readiest escape from her difficulties was a courageous and candid confession of the truth. Eva "did not care if he could be piqued by such trifles, as her smiling upon Sir Francis, when she heartily wished him among the Turks, he might e'en seek his fortune elsewhere. And for the matter of that, who could tell that it was desirable for the heiress of Strongbow to marry a simple knight." But these heroics usually ended in violent fits of weeping, and profound regrets that she had ever forfeited the confidence of De Courtenay. Meanwhile, Edward began to feel the languor of inglorious ease, and as his dreams of ambition returned upon him, his thoughts reverted again and again to the unsolved problem that had exercised the political mathematicians of Europe for nearly two centuries. Could a permanent christian kingdom be founded in Palestine? All the blood which the French had shed, and all the wise counsel that Louis lavished in the Seventh Crusade, had failed to erect the necessary defence, or compose the disorders that oppressed the Syrian Christians. Nor were the Mussulman lords of Syria in much better condition. The noble dynasty of Saphadin had fallen a prey to the ruthless Mamelukes, and a blood-stained revolution in Egypt had placed the fierce Almalek Bibers on the throne. An excuse was not wanting for the invasion of Palestine, and the holy places were again bathed in the blood of their gallant defenders. The military orders were nearly annihilated, and the country was ravaged with fire and sword, almost to the very walls of Acre. About this time an event, no ways connected with the East, turned Edward's attention to the adoption of the cross. He had challenged Sir Francis to a game of chess. In the midst of the play, from an impulse unaccountable to himself, he rose and sauntered towards the embroidery frame, to relate to Eva his adventure with the page whose ingenuity had once saved his life. Sir Francis, curious to enjoy her artful evasions, followed him; and a moment after, the centre stone of the groined ceiling fell with a terrible crash on the very spot where they had been sitting. This almost miraculous preservation induced the prince to believe that he was destined to perform some great service for God. It recalled to his mind the benizon of our Lady at Walsingham, and, accompanied by Eleanora and a goodly train, he set off the following day to offer on her shrine at Norfolk an altar-cloth of gold brocade, and to crave her protection upon the expedition that he now seriously meditated. "Eva," said the princess, very gravely, when they sat one day alone, "thou knowest my lord contemplates a pilgrimage." "The saints preserve us!" said Eva. "Are there not holy places enough in England, but my lord must risk his life upon the sea, and encounter the black Infidels whose very presence is a terror?" "'Tis not alone to visit the holy places," replied Eleanora, "though that were a work well worthy knightly daring; but to redeem our christian brethren from the power of their foes, and to establish the kingdom of Christ, in the land where He died for his people." "And have not the holiest men and the bravest warriors in Europe, from Peter the Hermit to Fulk of Neuilly, and from Godfrey of Boulogne to the good St. Louis, all attempted it and failed? My lord, I warrant me, has been reading the tales of the romancers, or been deceived by the cunning manifestos of the pope," returned Eva. "Eva, dear one, when shall I teach thee to treat with respect those in authority." "I know that I am wrong," said Eva, "but why does not his Holiness take the cross himself, if he considers it such a pious work?" "And if the Sovereign Pontiff be one of those who say and do not, the Scriptures still require us to obey those who sit in Moses' seat," replied the queen. "Thy goodness reproveth me beyond thy words. I would that I could be always truthful and pure as thou," said Eva. "Nay," returned the queen, "I do but repeat that which the confessor this morning told me." "Forgive my irreverent prating," replied the maiden, "but it seemeth strange to me that one, who lacks the grace of christian charity himself, should dictate the devotions of my lady who is love itself." "Ah! partial one," returned the princess, "hadst thou lived in Beziers, St. Dominick would have had thy head for thy heresy. But seriously, my Eva, thy praises humble me, for methinks had my life really exhibited those graces for which thy partial fondness gives me credit, I might ere this have taught thy restless spirit the composure which trust in God always gives." Alarmed by the grave tone of her mistress, and anxious to conceal the emotions that welled up in her heart, Eva replied, with assumed gaiety, "Nay, what canst thou expect from a sea-sprite? Surely I must rise and fall like my native element." "Ah! darling, this is that which hath so often forced home upon me the thought I would not willingly apply to thee, 'Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel.' And this it is makes me solicitous to gain thy candid ear while I unfold my husband's plans." Tears rolled over the fair girl's cheeks, but she remained perfectly silent. "Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn, whose noble heart thou knowest well, hath demanded thee of Edward, being pleased to say that thy fair hand would be sufficient guerdon for his gallant conduct in the wars. My royal father will give thee fitting dowry, and I would see my sweet friend well bestowed with some worthy protector before I embark upon that voyage from which I may never return." "Thou embark for Palestine!" exclaimed Eva, forgetting her own brilliant prospects in the contemplation of her lady's purpose. "Bethink thee, my most honored mistress, of all the perils that beset thy course." "I have counted them over, one by one," replied the princess, calmly. "Thou hast thought of the dangers of the sea, perhaps, but rememberest thou the dreadful pestilence?--the horrors that Queen Margaret told?--how the leeches cut away the gums and cheeks of the sufferers, that they might swallow a drop of water to ease their torments?" "I remember all--I have considered well," returned the princess. "And this also do I know, that nothing ought to part those whom God hath joined; and the way to heaven is as near, if not nearer, from Syria as from England, or my native Spain." "Then I go with thee," said Eva, throwing herself at the feet of Eleanora, and pressing her lips upon her hand, "for if God hath not joined me to thee, he hath left me alone in the world. Thou hast been to me more than Naomi, and I shall not fail to thee in the duty of Ruth. Where thou goest I will go, where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The poor, lone Eva, whose mother lieth in the deep, deep sea, and whose father is perchance a wanderer or an outlaw, shall no more strive to veil the sadness of her orphan heart by the false smiles and assumed gaiety that grieve her truest, only friend. Henceforth I will learn the lesson thou hast, with such gentle patience and sweet example, ever strove to teach me." Eleanora mingled her tears with those of the impassioned maiden, and, anxious to end the painful scene, said, "Thou shalt go with me, love, to danger, and perhaps to death, since such is thine election; but what answer shall Edward return to Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn?" "Let my lord assure Sir Warrenne," said she, rising proudly, "that Eva de la Mer is not insensible of the honor he intends, but that she will never add the shamrock to a knight's escutcheon, till she knows by what title she claims the emblem." CHAPTER VI. THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. The benevolent Louis could not rest in the palace of Vincennes while the Mamelukes were slaughtering the Christians, or destroying their souls by forcing them to renounce their faith. In his protracted devotions in the Sainte Chapelle, he fancied he heard the groans of the dying in Palestine, and his soul was stirred for their relief. He convened the barons in the great hall of the Louvre, and entered bearing the holy crown of thorns. He took the cross in their presence, and made his sons and brothers take it, and after those no one dared refuse. Especially did he exert himself to gain the concurrence of the English. Edward joyfully assented to the proposal, and Eleanora, with her female train, departed in the spring of 1270 for Bordeaux, where she superintended the preparations for the crusade campaign. Thither Edward followed her when his own arrangements were complete. From Bordeaux they sailed for Sicily, where they remained the winter, and where they heard the melancholy intelligence of the death of King Louis, who had advanced as far as Tunis on his way to Egypt. With his last breath, the sainted king whispered the name that was set as a seal upon his heart. "Oh! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" His brother, Charles d'Anjou, King of Sicily, attempted to dissuade Edward from prosecuting the expedition. But the noble prince, striking his hand upon his breast, exclaimed, with energy, "Sangue de Dieu! if all should desert me, I would redeem Acre if only attended by my groom." When Edward turned the prow of his vessel up the Mediterranean, Acre was in a state of closer siege than it had formerly been, at the advent of Richard Coeur de Lion. But now it was the Mussulmans who lay encamped around its walls, and the Christians who feebly defended it from their fierce attack. The fate of the principality of Antioch was closely connected with that of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem. The family of Bohemond, the first sovereign, who married Constantia, daughter of Phillip I., King of France, had reigned there in unbroken succession nearly to the period of the last Crusade--though the State was tributary to Frederic II. and to his son Conrad. The last king was made a knight by St. Louis. When the Egyptians commenced their conquests in Syria, Antioch surrendered without even the formality of a siege, and thus the link between the Greek Empire and Palestine was sundered, and all prospect of aid from that quarter entirely cut off. In Acre were assembled the last remains of all the Christian principalities of the East; the descendants of the heroes who, under Godfrey of Boulogne, took up their residence there; the remnants of the military friars who had so long and so strenuously battled for the ascendency of the "Hospital" and the "Temple" no less than for the redemption of the Holy Sepulchre; and all the proselytes who, through years of missionary efforts, had been gathered from the Pagan world. But the defenceless were more numerous than the defenders, and the factions which divided their councils would have ripened into treachery and ended in ruin, had it not been for the presence of Sir Henry Courtenay. From the day of his estrangement from Eva, he had bestowed his devotion upon those objects which he thought best calculated to fill the void in his heart. At the first news of the disasters in Palestine, he had assembled all the partisans and vassals of the noble house of Courtenay, and, furnishing them from his own purse, rallied them around the standard _or torteaux_, and led them to the rescue of their eastern brethren. He reached the city at the critical moment when, wearied with the strife, the Templars had begun to negotiate with Melech Bendocar upon the terms of a capitulation. His courteous and noble bearing harmonized the jarring spirits, and his ardent valor inspired them with new hopes, and enabled them to maintain the last stronghold in Palestine, till the arrival of Edward. The knowledge that a Plantagenet had come to lift the dishonored banner of the cross from the dust, spread terror and dismay among the ranks of the Moslem, the Sultan of Egypt fled from the city of Acre, all the Latins in Palestine crowded round the standard of the English prince, and Edward found himself at the head of seven thousand veteran soldiers. With this force he made an expedition to Nazareth, which he besieged with the most determined valor. In the fight, Edward was unhorsed, and might have perished in the mêlée, had not Henry Courtenay relinquished his own steed for his master's use. The gallant youth then took his station by the side of a tall knight, whose falchion gleamed in the front of the battle like the sword of Azrael. They were the first to mount the scaling-ladders and drive the Moslem from the walls. Nazareth was thus, by one decisive blow, added to the dominions of Christendom. But the wing of victory was paralyzed by the scorching sun of Syria. Edward was prostrated by the acclimating fever that wasted the energies of Richard Coeur de Lion, and in the palace of Acre he longed, in vain, for the cooling draughts of iced sherbet, that the courteous Saladin had bestowed upon his royal predecessor. Sir Francis d'Essai had followed the fortunes of Edward, or rather of Eva, to Palestine, hoping to win the favor of his lady's smiles. The sight of de Courtenay roused all his former jealousy, and the cordial manner of Eva towards his rival almost drove him to desperation. Various circumstances had excited an apprehension in Edward's mind, that the count was seeking to make common cause with the Arabs, but as no tangible proof of treasonable practices appeared, the suspicion passed away. The illness of the monarch continuing, Eleanora determined to make a pilgrimage to the Jordan, to pray at the shrine of St. John for her husband's recovery, and, at his own earnest solicitations, Sir Francis was permitted to conduct the party. Eleanora afterwards remembered that he rode most of the way in close attendance upon Eva, and seemed engaged in earnest conversation, though several muttered oaths gave her the impression that the colloquy was not so satisfactory as he could have wished. They accomplished their pilgrimage safely, and commenced their return, when, stopping to refresh themselves in a small grove near Mount Tabor, a band of mounted Saracens fell upon them. There was a fierce struggle, and, for a few moments, the gleaming of swords and the flash of scimeters seemed to menace instant destruction. Both the assailants and defenders were scattered through the wood, and a few of the frantic females attempted flight. The Moslems at length retreated, but when the princess summoned her retainers to set forward, neither Sir Francis nor Eva could be found. Alarmed for the safety of her lovely companion, Eleanora caused the vicinity to be searched in every direction. Her palfrey was discovered idly cropping the grass, but all trace of its fair rider was lost. With a bursting heart the princess gave orders to proceed with all haste to Acre, that scouts in greater numbers might be sent in quest of the lost jewel. The state of Edward's health was such, that it was not deemed advisable to acquaint him with the melancholy result of their pious enterprise. But de Courtenay at once comprehended the plot. Such a mêlée, without bloodshed, proved no hostile intention on the part of the Arabs, and there could be no doubt that Sir Francis was the instigator of the attack, and the possession of Eva, its object. His impatience to set off for her rescue did not prevent him from taking every precaution, both for the safety of Acre, and the success of his expedition. Eleanora, whose characteristic self-possession had left her at liberty to observe, described with the most scrupulous exactness the circumstances of the fray, and each trifling peculiarity in the appearance of the robbers. Fortified with this intelligence, he set off at once, with a select party, and a few hours after leaving Acre, was unexpectedly joined by the tall knight, and a reinforcement of converted _Pullani_. From him he learned that the Arabs had taken the direction of Mt. Lebanon, and from his knowledge of the Assassin band, his heart sunk within him, at the thought of what might have been the fate of his lovely Eva. In his anxiety for her rescue, all her faults were forgotten, and he only remembered the gentle kindness that characterized every action, and the nameless charm, that made her friends as numerous as her acquaintances. Prompted by these considerations, they spurred forward, stopping only to refresh their wearied steeds, till they began to wind among the rocky passes of Mt. Lebanon. The tall knight seemed perfectly familiar with the locality, and guided the pursuers directly to the tower, called The Vulture's Nest, which was the chief residence of the Old Man of the Mountain. There seemed to be an intelligence between the tall knight and all the marabouts who guarded the entrance to this "Castle Dangerous." Leaving their followers, the two leaders advanced, and the knight presenting a piece of shrivelled parchment to an Arab, who filled the office of porter, they were ushered into a long hall, at the door of which stood a swarthy Turk, partly leaning upon an immense battle-axe, the handle of which was stuck full of daggers. The Sheik received them with an obsequiousness scarcely to be expected from one of his bloody trade, and in answer to the knight's eager inquiries, motioned his attendant, and instantly that which had appeared a solid masonry, rolled silently back, as if by magic, revealing an apartment fitted up with every appliance of eastern magnificence. Before they recovered from their surprise, voices were heard from the farther extremity of the room, soft female pleading, and then the loud menacing tones of passion. "Eva, thou shalt be mine! I swear it by all the fiends of hell. Nay, anger me not by thy cold repulse. Thou art now beyond the protection of the smooth-tongued de Courtenay." He seized her arm as he spoke, and a piercing shriek rang through the hall. "Traitor! viper! release thy hold," exclaimed de Courtenay, springing forward and receiving the fainting girl in his arms. "And who art thou, that darest to cross the purpose of D'Essai? By what right dost thou interfere between me and my bride?" "By the right of a father," said a deep, stern voice at his side, and the tall knight advancing, tenderly clasped his unresisting daughter to his heart, and stood by like one lost in a tide of long-repressed emotions, while the two nobles fiercely drew their swords, and with deadly hatred, each sought the life of his foe. But the Sheik interposed, reminding them, that his castle walls were sacred, and that if his tributaries chose to slay one another, they must seek the open field for the pastime. Reluctantly, and with eyes that glared with baffled vengeance, the lords sheathed their swords, and the tall knight, laying his daughter gently upon a couch, spake a few words apart to the Sheik. The Old Man made a sign of assent, and instantly two Arabs sprang forward, seized D'Essai, bound him with thongs, and conveyed him from the apartment. Relieved of her fears, and reassured by the presence of a father, for whose affection she had always pined, and a lover, on whom she now contrived to smile in a way that completely satisfied his heart, Eva declared herself impatient to set off immediately for Acre. The Sheik pressed them to partake of some refreshments, and while Eva enjoyed a few moments' delicious conversation with her sire, a troop of slaves prepared and set before them an entertainment that would have done honor to the palace of a king. As the cavalcade set out, the tender heart of Eva was pained to see Sir Francis placed upon the back of a mule, blindfolded, with his face to the crupper, and his arms firmly pinioned to the body of the Arab who had him in charge. "Thou seemest on excellent terms with the Sheik of the mountain, noble Clare," said de Courtenay, as they rode along. "Had I not a guarantee in thy kindred," said he glancing at Eva, "I should somewhat challenge the familiarity that has given such success to our expedition." "Nay, and that thou well mightst," returned the Clare, "for the history of mankind does not furnish the idea of so daring and desperate a band as these assassins of Mt. Lebanon." "Heaven save us!" exclaimed Eva, her lips white with fear. "From what terrible fate have I been delivered! That vile Sir Francis declared that he had snatched me from the hostile Arabs, and would bring me safe to Acre, and that it was in pity for my fatigue he turned aside to a castle of christian natives. It makes me shudder, even now, to think that I have been in the presence of the man whose very name hath made me tremble, when beyond the sea, in merrie England." "Nay, love," said her father, tenderly, "the Sheik owed thee no malice, and might have rescued thee, had not Sir Francis been his tributary." "They exact, then, toll and custom?" said Courtenay, inquiringly. "Thou sayest well _exact_," replied the knight. "Didst not mark the battle-axe of the rude seneschal? 'Tis said the Danish weapon once belonged to the founder of the band, and each dagger stuck in the oaken helve, inscribed with a sentence in a different dialect, is significantly pointed against the prince or ruler who shall dare withhold tribute from their chief. One of my ancestors, I reck not whom, once resided in the vicinity of Croyland, and received from the venerable abbot the parchment which thou sawest me use with such marvellous effect. My ancestor fought in the first crusade under the Atheling, and, unlike most of his companions, returned in safety, whence a tradition arose in the family that the scroll was a charm. "On my setting out for the holy wars, I placed the heirloom in my _aumonière_, and had nearly forgotten its existence, when a startling circumstance recalled it to memory. My plan for the redemption of Palestine (for I have not been without ambition) was the organization of troops collected from the mixed races which are now an important part of the population. I was warned at the outset that tribute would be demanded by the chief of the assassins, but I steadily resisted every tax-gatherer who presented his claims, till I awoke one morning in my tent, surrounded by my faithful guard, and found a dagger stuck in the ground not two fingers' breadth from my head. I examined the inscription upon the weapon and found it the same with that upon the scroll, and forthwith determined to form the acquaintance of this rival chief. He respected my passport and showed me the wonders of his habitation, which heaven grant I may never see again. So perfect is the discipline of his followers, so invincible their faith, that every word of their chief is a law. He led me up a lofty tower, at each battlement of which stood two Fedavis. At a sign from him, two of these devotees flung themselves from the tower, breaking their bones, and scattering their brains upon the rock below. 'If you wish it,' said the chief, 'all these men shall do the same.' But I had seen enough, and I resolved from that hour never to tempt the enmity of the Old Man of the Mountain. "I have ransomed yon traitor, at heavy cost, for I would that Edward should know and punish his baseness. You are now beyond the reach of danger. I may not enter Acre--the reasons shall be told ere long. Farewell, my daughter, sweet image of thy sainted mother; guard my secret safely till we meet again. Adieu." He dashed the rowels into his steed, and was soon lost among the hills. CHAPTER VII. Meantime the palace of Acre had been witness of a fearful scene. Since the fall of Nazareth the Emir of Joppa had opened negotiations with Edward, professing a desire to become a christian convert. So eager was the king for this happy consummation that he cherished the deceitful hope, held out by the Infidel, and granted him every opportunity for gaining information concerning the tenets and practices of the church. Letters and messages frequently passed between them, and so accustomed had the English guards become to the brown haick and green turban of the swarthy Mohammedan, who carried the despatches, that they gave him free ingress to the city and admitted him to the palace, and even ushered him into the king's ante-chamber almost without question or suspicion. The day had been unusually sultry, even for the Syrian climate. The heat of the atmosphere somewhat aggravated the symptoms of the disease from which Edward was slowly recovering, and Eleanora had passed many weary hours in vain endeavors to soothe his restlessness and induce repose. As the sun declined a cooling breeze sprang up from the sea, seeming to the patient wife to bear healing on its wings, and the invalid, stretched on his couch before the casement, began at length to yield to the soothing influence of slumber, when the chamberlain entered to say that the emissary from Joppa waited an audience. "Now have I no faith in the conversion of this Infidel," said Eleanora, with an impatience unusual to her gentle spirit, "since his messenger disturbs my lord's repose." "Verily thou lackest thine accustomed charity," replied Edward. "I had thought to hear thee declare the conversion of this Saracen my crowning glory in Palestine. But thou art weary, my love. Go to thy rest, thy long vigils by my side have already gathered the carnation from thy cheek." "Yet, my lord--" interposed Eleanora. "Nay, nay," said Edward, "disturb not thy sweet soul; perchance more than my life depends upon the interview. I will straight dismiss the envoy, and then thou canst entrust my slumbers to the care of the faithful Eva." At the mention of Eva a new and not less painful train of associations was awakened in the mind of Eleanora, and with a heavy sigh she withdrew as the messenger entered. A moment after there were sounds as of a violent struggle and of the fall of a heavy body, and Eleanora, who had lingered in the ante-chamber, scarcely knowing why, rushed back into the apartment, followed by the chamberlain and guards. The assassin lay upon the floor in the agonies of death, his head broken by the oaken tressel from which she had just risen. Prostrate by his side lay the prince, in a state of insensibility, the blood faintly oozing from a wound in his arm. The princess comprehended at once the risk her husband had incurred, and shuddered with apprehension at the thought of the danger that yet might menace him; and while the attendants lifted him from the floor, she tenderly raised his arm to her lips, and began to draw the venom from the wound. But no sooner did Edward revive from his swoon, than, forcibly thrusting her aside, he exclaimed, "Eleanora my life, knowest thou not the dagger was poisoned?" "Even so, my lord," said she, with steadfast composure, still firmly persisting in her purpose, notwithstanding his constant remonstrance. The fearful intelligence of their leader's peril spread with lightning speed through the city, and self-sent messengers hurried in every direction, and summoned leeches and priests to cure or shrive the dying monarch. The Grand Master of the Temple, who was somewhat practised in the habits of the assassins, appeared in the midst of the exciting scene, and commending the timely application of Eleanora's loving lips, bound up the wound with a soft emollient, and prescribed for the princess an antidote of sovereign efficacy. Scarcely had silence resumed her dominion in the palace, when the porter was again aroused to admit de Courtenay and his rescued Eva. The traitor D'Essai had been lodged in the tower of Maledictum, to wait Edward's pleasure concerning him; and Eva, her heart overflowing with rapture in the assurance of Sir Henry's restored confidence, and the security of a father's love, passed the livelong night with Eleanora, in that free communion of soul which generous natures experience when the gushings of a common emotion overleap the barriers of conventionalism and formality. * * * * * Edward was himself again. The steady ray of reason had subdued the fevered gleam of his eye, and the ruddy hue of health replaced the pallor of wasting sickness upon his cheek. His athletic frame had wrestled with disease, and come off conqueror over weakness and pain; and as he assumed his seat of judgment, clad in his warlike panoply, the royal Plantagenet "looked every inch a king." The great church of Acre was thrown open, and knights in brilliant armor, and Templars and Hospitallers in the habiliments of their orders, bishops and priests in their sacred robes, and vassals in their holiday array, crowded up the long aisles, and filled the spacious choir, as though eager to witness some splendid ceremonial. But instead of gorgeous decorations, wainscot and window draped with black diffused a funereal gloom, and the solemn reverberation of the tolling bell seemed to sound a requiem over the grave of Hope. Sir Francis d'Essai had been tried in a council of his peers, and found guilty of treason to religion and knightly devoir; and this day, the anniversary of his admission to the rank of knighthood, his companions in arms, the vassals whom he despised, and all those actuated by curiosity or enmity, were assembled to witness his _degradation_. Eva shuddered at the terrible doom of her former lover, and de Courtenay, with instinctive delicacy, had obtained permission to absent himself from the scene on a visit to the Holy Sepulchre. As king-of-arms, and first in rank, it was the duty of Edward to preside over this fearful ceremony, which, by the true and loyal, was regarded as more terrible than death itself. At the first stroke of the great bell, the pursuivants, having robed Sir Francis for the last time in his knightly habiliments, conducted him from the _Cursed Tower_ toward the church. As they entered the door, the doleful peal sank in silence, and, after one awful moment, his fellow-knights, with broken voices, began to chant the burial service. An elevated stage, hung with black, had been erected in the centre of the nave, and upon this the pursuivants, whose business it was to divest him of every outward insignia of courage and truth, placed the culprit, in full view of all the vast concourse. When the chanting ceased, Prince Edward spoke in a voice that thrilled to every heart, "Sir Francis d'Essai! thou who didst receive the sword of knighthood from the hand of the good St. Louis, dost stand before us this day attaint of treason to thy God, thy truth, and the lady of thy love. Wherefore thy peers have willed that the order of knighthood, by the which thou hast received all the honor and worship upon thy body, _be brought to nought_, and thy state be undone, and thou be driven forth outcast and dishonored according to thy base deserts." Instantly the brazen tongue from the belfry ratified the fiat, and announced the hour of doom. At the word, the squire with trembling hand removed the helmet, the defence of disloyal eyes, revealing the pale and haggard countenance of the recreant knight, and the choir resumed the mournful dirge. Then each pursuivant advanced in his order to the performance of his unwelcome duty. One by one the knightly trappings of D'Essai were torn from his body, and as cuirass, greaves, brassarts, and gauntlets rang upon the pavements, the heralds exclaimed, "Behold the harness of a miscreant!" Trembling and bent beneath the weight of shame, the craven stood, while they smote the golden spurs from his heels, and brake his dishonored sword above his head, and the terrible requiem wailed over the perished emblems of his former innocence. The Grand Master of the Templars then entered upon the stage, bearing a silver basin filled with tepid water, and the herald, holding it up, exclaimed, "By what name call men the knight before us?" The pursuivants answered, "The name which was given him in baptism,--the name by which his father was known,--the name confirmed to him in chivalry is Sir Francis d'Essai." The heralds again replied, "Falsehood sits upon his tongue and rules in his heart; he is miscreant, traitor, and Infidel." Immediately the Grand Master, in imitation of baptism, dashed the water in his face, saying, "Henceforth be thou called by thy right name, Traitor!" Then the heralds rang out a shrill note upon the trumpets, expressive of the demand, "What shall be done with the false-hearted knave?" Prince Edward in his majesty arose, and in a voice agitated with a sense of the awful penalty, replied, "Let him with dishonor and shame be banished from the kingdom of Christ--Let his brethren curse him, and let not the angels of God intercede for him." Immediately each knight drew his sword, and presenting its gleaming point against the now defenceless D'Essai, crowded him down the steps to the altar, where the pursuivants seized him, and forced him into his coffin, and placed him on the bier, and the attendant priests completed the burial-service over his polluted name and perjured soul. At a sign from the king, the bearers took up the bier, and all the vast congregation followed in sad procession, to the city-gates, where they thrust him out, a thing accursed, while the great bell from the lofty tower of the cathedral told the tale of his infamy in tones of terrible significance, "Gone--gone--gone--virtue, faith, and truth; lost--lost--lost--honor, fame, and love." From Carmel's hoary height to Tabor's sacred top, each hallowed hill and vale reverberated the awful knell, "Gone and lost--lost and gone"--and the breeze that swept the plain of Esdraelon caught up the dismal echo, and seemed hurrying across the Mediterranean to whisper to the chivalry of Europe the dreadful story of his _degradation_. Stung by the weight of woe that had fallen upon him, the miserable D'Essai rose and gazed across the plain. An arid waste spread out before him like the prospect of his own dreary future, blackened and desolate by the reign of evil passions. Life, what had it been to him? A feverish dream, a burning thirst, a restless, unsatisfied desire! Virtue--honor--truth--idle words, their solemn mockery yet rang in his ears. He ran--he flew--anywhere, anywhere to flee the haunting thoughts that trooped like fiends upon his track. He neared the banks of the river, its cooling waters rolling on in their eternal channel, promised to allay his fever and bury his dishonored name in oblivion. He plunged in--that ancient river swept him away, the river Kishon, and as he sank to rise no more, a deep voice exclaimed, "So perish thine enemies, O Lord!" It was the voice of Dermot de la Clare, who, passing southward at the head of his troop, from the opposite bank became an involuntary witness of the frantic suicide. The week following the ceremony last described, Eva entered the apartment of Eleanora, each fair feature radiant with pleasure, bearing in her hand a carrier-pigeon, whose fluttering heart betokened the weary length of way that had tried the strength of its glossy pinions. "Whence hast thou the dove, and what is his errand?" exclaimed the princess, equally eager for any intelligence that might affect the fate of the East. "A Pullani brought it to the palace," she replied, and hastily cutting the silken thread, she detached a letter from beneath the wing of the bird. It contained but these words: "The Sultan of Egypt is hard pressed by the Moslems. It is a favorable moment to commence negotiations." The seal of the Shamrock was the only signature, but Eva well understood that the Clare had been engaged in devising an honorable scheme to release Edward from an expedition which could not result in glory to the christian arms. The prince had now been fourteen months in the Holy Land. His army, never sufficient to allow of his undertaking any military enterprise of importance, was reduced by sickness, want and desertion, and he therefore gladly accepted the hint of his unknown friend, and despatched de Courtenay to Egypt with proposals of peace. It was a glad errand to the knight, though the timid and (she could not conceal it) loving Eva warned him most strenuously against the artifices of the Sultan, Al Malek al Dhaker Rokneddin Abulfeth Bibers al Alai al Bendokdari al Saheli, whose name, at least, she said, was _legion_. "And were he the prince of darkness himself, the love of my guardian Eva would protect me against his wiles," gallantly returned the count. "Alas!" said Eva, humbly, "thou little knowest the broken reed on which thou leanest. My weak will mocks my bravest resolutions, and makes me feel the need of a firmer spirit for my guide." "Heaven grant that I may one day receive the grateful office," returned her lover. "Heaven help me become worthy of thy noble devotion," said Eva, remembering with regret the cruel test to which she had subjected his generous affection. De Courtenay found little difficulty in settling the terms of a ten years' truce with the formidable Mameluke; for the Sultan had far greater reason to fear his Moslem than his Christian foes. There was no occasion for the farther sojourn of the English in Palestine; and Edward, having accomplished nothing more than his great-uncle, and leaving a reputation scarcely inferior to Coeur de Lion, departed with his retinue for Europe. Notwithstanding the peaceful termination of the expedition, this crusade, the last of the chivalrous offspring of Feudalism and Enthusiasm, like its elder brethren, found a premature grave in darkness and gloom. The son of St. Louis, Philip the Hardy, returning from Tunis, deposited five coffins in the crypts of St. Denis. They contained the remains of his sainted father, Louis IX., of his brother Tristan, of his brother-in-law, Thibaut, descendant of Adela, of his beloved queen and their infant son. Weak and dying himself, he was almost the only heir of his royal family. The ambitious Charles d'Anjou, the rival and the murderer of Corradino, grandson of Frederic and Violante, plundered the stranded vessels of the returning crusaders, and thus enriched his kingdom of Sicily, by the great shipwreck of the empire and the church. Death, too, had been busy in the palace of Windsor. The two beautiful children of Edward and Eleanora had been laid in the tomb, and their grandfather, Henry III., with their aunt Margaret, Queen of Scotland, soon followed them to the great charnel-house of England, Westminster Abbey. The melancholy tidings of these repeated bereavements met the royal pair in Sicily, and cast a pall over the land to which they had anticipated a triumphant return. The great problem of the conquest of Palestine was not yet solved to the mind of Edward, but the progress of the age trammelled his powers and limited his ambitious aspirations. The orders of knighthood, exhausted by the repeated drafts made upon their forces, by these eastern expeditions, began to decline in the scale of power; and the lower ranks, finding new avenues to wealth in productive labor and commerce, began the great battle with military organizations and hereditary aristocracy, which has been going on with increased advantage to the working classes from the middle ages to the present glorious era. Gregory X. made some feeble attempts to rouse Europe once more for the redemption of the Holy Sepulchre, but his earnest appeal received no response from the sovereigns of Christendom, and within three years the last strain of the great anthem "Hierosolyma liberati" that began with the swelling tones of mustering warriors and sounded on through two centuries in the soul-stirring harmonies of jubilante peans, alternating with the mournful measures of funeral dirges, ended in a last sad refrain over the diminished remnants of the military orders, who, in a vain defence of Acre, dyed the sands of Syria with their blood. From Sicily the royal crusaders proceeded to Rome, where they were cordially welcomed and splendidly entertained by Pope Gregory X., who, having long filled the office of confessor in their household, had been recalled from the Holy Land, to occupy the chair of St. Peter. In the train of the King of England was his cousin, Henry, son of Richard of Cornwall, a gallant young noble who had led the detachment that opposed the band of Leicester, and, by his warlike prowess, greatly contributed to the successful issue of the sanguinary conflict at Evesham. His zeal and loyalty during this doubtful period, commended him to the confidence of Edward, and he had still more endeared himself to his royal patron, by his ardor in battling against the Infidels, and his brilliant achievements at the siege of Nazareth. The young Henry was the affianced husband of the Princess Mary, in consequence of which, Eleanora had admitted him to an intimacy, and evinced for him an affection almost equal to that enjoyed by the royal children themselves. During the stay of the king at Rome, the devoted Henry obtained permission to make a pilgrimage to a celebrated shrine near Naples, for the consecration of sundry relics which he had collected in Palestine. As he knelt at the foot of the altar and closed his eyes in prayer, he was not aware of the entrance of his mortal enemy, Guy de Montfort, son of the Earl of Leicester. With stealthy tread the assassin approached, bent over the suppliant youth, and exclaiming, "Die! murderer of my father!" thrust his sword into the heart, beating warm with life and hope, and sprinkled the holy relics with the blood of another martyr. With a vengeful frown of satisfied hate, he wiped the sword, returned it to its scabbard, and strode from the church. One of his knights, fit follower of such a master, inquired as he rejoined his troop, "What has my lord Guy de Montfort done?" "Taken vengeance," was the fiendish reply. "How so?" rejoined the knight. "Was not your father, the great Leicester, dragged a public spectacle, by the hair of the head through the streets of Evesham?" Without a word the demon turned to his yet more malignant triumph, and seizing the victim, whose pale lips yet moved with the instinct of prayer, dragged him from the attendants, who were vainly striving to staunch the life-blood welling from the wound, to the public place, and left him a ghastly spectacle to the horror-stricken crowd. It was now necessary for the murderers to think of self-defence. The English retainers of Earl Henry had raised the cry of revenge, and the Italian populace excited by the fearful tragedy that had been enacted in the very presence of the virgin and child, began to run together and join the parties of attack or defence. The train of de Montfort immediately raised the shout of, "d'Anjou! Down with the Ghibelines!" and when the armed forces of the Duke Charles rode into the midst of the throng to investigate the cause of the tumult, Sir Guy joined their ranks, and departed for Naples under their escort. Tidings of this melancholy event were soon carried to Rome, and Edward immediately appealed to the pope for justice upon the murderer. Gregory, who feared to offend Edward, and who was almost equally alarmed at the prospect of a rupture with the tyrant of Sicily, had recourse to various ingenious methods of delay. Finding however that the King of England had determined to postpone the obsequies of his noble relative, until a curse was pronounced upon the assassin, he was forced to the exercise of ecclesiastical measures. Clothed in his pontifical robes, Gregory X. entered the church at Orvietto, and proceeding to the high altar, took the bible in his hand, and, after setting before the awestruck assembly the guilt of the culprit, proceeded thus to fulminate his anathema against the assassin. "For the murder of Henry of Germany, slain before the shrine of St. Mary, in the face of day, we lay upon Guy de Montfort the curse of our Holy Church. In virtue of the authority bestowed upon us as the successor of St. Peter, we do pronounce him excommunicate, and alien to all the privileges and consolations which our blessed religion affords. We permit every one to seize him--we order the governors of provinces to arrest him--we place under interdict all who shall render him an asylum--we prohibit all Christians from lending him aid, and we dispense his vassals from all oaths of fidelity they have made to him; may none of the blessings of this holy book descend upon him, and may all the curses contained therein, cleave unto him;" and he dashed the bible to the ground. Lifting the waxen taper, he continued, "Let the light of life be withdrawn from him, and let his soul sink in _eternal night_." With the word he threw the candle upon the pavement, and instantly every light in the church was extinguished, and amid the gloom, the trembling congregation heard the voice of the pontiff, ringing out full and clear, "I curse him by book, by candle, and by bell." A solemn toll proclaimed the malediction, and amid the darkness and the silence, the multitude crept one by one from the church, as though fearful of being implicated in the terrible denunciation. Edward, having thus placed his cousin under the ban of the church, disdained to persecute him with farther vengeance, and taking an amicable leave of the pontiff continued his route to France. Learning that England was quiet under the regency of the queen-mother, he improved the opportunity to make the tour of his southern dominions, and, in gallant sports and knightly adventures passed several months upon the continent. Edward and Eleanora arrived in England, August 2d, 1273. The English welcomed their return with the greatest exultation. Both houses of parliament assembled to do honor to their entrance into London, and the streets were hung with garlands of flowers and festoons of silk; while the wealthy inhabitants, showered gold and silver on the royal retinue as they passed. Preparations were made for their coronation on a scale of magnificence hitherto unrivalled. Fourteen days were spent in erecting booths for the accommodation of the populace, and temporary kitchens for the purpose of roasting oxen, sheep, and fowls, and preparing cakes and pastry, for the expected banquet. Hogsheads of Bordeaux wine, and pipes of good stout English ale, were ranged at convenient intervals, and flagon-masters appointed to deal them out to the thirsty crowds. The night before the expected ceremony, the presumptive king and queen were indulging in reminiscences of the early days of their married life, and comparing those troublous times, with the splendid future that seemed to stretch in bright perspective before them. "Methinks, sweet life," said Edward, tenderly taking her hand, "those days when thou dwelt a fugitive in the wilds of Devonshire, and I languished within the walls of Kenilworth, gave little promise of our present peaceful state." "True, my lord, yet had I not dwelt in the humble hamlet, I might never have known the pure loyalty of English hearts." "By our Lady, thou hast a better alchemy than thy clerkly brother, the Castilian monarch, for his science finds only _gold_ in everything, while thy diviner art finds _good_ in all, and loyalty in outlaws." "I remember me," replied Eleanora, with an arch smile, "there was a gallant outlaw, in whom my woman's heart discerned every noble and knightly quality. But small credit can I claim for my science, since it was the alchemy of love that revealed his virtues." "No other alchemy hath e'er found good in man, and, sinner as I am, I might fear the judgment of thy purity, did not the same sweet charity that discovers undeveloped virtues transmute even errors into promises of good. To-morrow, God willing, it will be in Edward's power to constitute Eleanora the dispenser of bounty. Whom would she first delight to honor?" "Since the prince of outlaws puts it in my power," said Eleanora, with a look of grateful affection, "I would e'en reward those bold foresters who delivered my Edward from the enemies that sought his life." "Thou sayest well, dearest," replied Edward, "and now that thou remindest me of my escape from thraldom, I pray our Lady of Walsingham aid me to discharge an obligation that hath long laid heavy on my conscience. Yesternight, methought I saw, among the yeomen busy in the preparations for the approaching pageant, the tall outlaw, who, in his gown and cowl, one moment gave me priestly benizon, and the next, advised me of Leicester's movements, with the sagacity of a practised warrior. Such length of limb and strength of arm, once seen, does not escape my memory; and, if my eye deceive me not, 'twas he, with Courtenay, who led the assault at Nazareth; and furthermore, it runneth in my mind, that I have seen him elsewhere and in other guise." "Mayhap it was the tall knight who defended Eleanora at the Jews' massacre, till thy arrival dispersed the rabble mob," returned the queen. "By the soul of St. Bartholomew thou divinest well," said the king; "and, since thou knowest the monk, perhaps thou canst give me tidings concerning the shrewd-witted boy, who managed to gain speech with me, when all my partisans had failed. So fair a squire must, ere this, have earned the spurs of knighthood; and much would it pleasure me, to lay the accolade upon his shoulder, in return for his dextrous plotting. That the lad pertained not to the household of Mortimer, I knew right well; but whether he were a retainer of the bold outlaw who organized the royal forces, or some young noble whose love of adventure set him upon the work, I could never yet decide." "And if he were retainer of the outlaw?" said Eleanora, inquiringly. "My gratitude should none the less reward the service of one who risked his life for mine," replied the king. A smile of satisfaction beamed on the countenance of Eleanora, and opening her gypsire, and taking thence the small ivory whistle, she despatched an attendant with the token to Eva. Shortly after, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an attendant, who announced that a page from Lady Mortimer craved an audience of his majesty. "Let him be at once admitted," said Edward, casting a significant glance at Eleanora. The door was thrown open, and the beautiful boy, whose image at that moment filled the mind of the king, entered with trembling step, and proceeding straight to the monarch, knelt at his feet, and with clasped hands began to plead earnestly for the pardon of the banished Earl Dermot de la Clare. "How is this?" exclaimed Edward, gazing with astonishment, first upon the kneeling page, and then upon his wife. "How is this? by the Holy Rood, my heart misgives me, thou art witch as well as alchemist. Here is the identical page I have vainly sought for nine long years, conjured up by the magic of an ivory whistle." "Earl Dermot de la Clare!" said he to Eva, lifting the boy tenderly from his knees, "why has the banished outlaw sought thy fair lips to plead his cause? Let himself present his claims to our clemency, and we will promise justice for ourself, and perchance a better guerdon from our loving spouse, who would ever have mercy rejoice above judgment. "And thou, sweet dove," said he, gazing admiringly upon the doubting Eva, "'who wearest the badge of Mortimer,' and whose 'giddy brain recks not of politics,' demandest manor and lordship for an outlawed man! Didst crave it for thyself, not twice the boon could make me say thee nay." "'Tis for myself I crave the boon, royal liege," said Eva, falling again upon her knees. "Dermot de la Clare is the sire of thy poor orphan charge." "Thy sire!" exclaimed the prince, greatly moved. "How knowest thou this?" "First, by the story of the rescued sailor, who was one of the band with which my father thought to regain possession of his fief, when the act of attainder had branded him an outlaw. He it was with the cartman's frock, who waited our coming at the cross-road on the memorable day of my lord's escape. Next, by the shamrock, the ancient cognizance of the house of Strongbow, and by the rose of Sharon, which my mother wrought upon the scarf in memory of her husband's pilgrimage. But Eva finds the strongest proof in the promptings of her heart; for from the day since she rested in his arms at London bridge, to the time when he drew her from the Vulture's Nest at Mount Lebanon, she hath trusted in his love, and obeyed his bidding, with such confidence as none but a father could inspire." "Thy eloquence hath proved thy cause," said the king, raising her and seating her by his side; "and were I a needy knight, requiring royal favor, I'd bribe thy pleading eyes to back my suit, and never fear denial." Eva essayed to stammer forth her thanks, but tears choked her utterance, and Eleanora, pitying her confusion, reassured her with playful allusions to her childish aspirations for the sovereignty of Ireland. "I fear me," said Edward, gazing upon her varying color with admiration, "that to reward all my subjects and vassals, according to their merit, will exhaust my exchequer. The audacity of these benefactors exceeds all belief! It was but this morning that one more bold than his fellows demanded the fairest flower of our court as a recompense for his knightly service in the eastern campaign." The conscious Eva looked imploringly at her mistress, who graciously accorded her permission to depart, while Edward continued his raillery. "I referred the gallant unto thee, love," said he, "for he must be a brave man who dares transfer the possessions of his wife." "To the marriage of de Courtenay with our beautiful ward," returned the queen, "there riseth but one objection. From the similarity of her name, she ever fancied herself the heiress of the former King of Leinster, and hath cultivated a taste for decorations befitting royalty. I fear me that Sir Henry, being but the younger branch of his house, will scarce be able to maintain a state suited to her desires." "God grant she have not the ambition of Earl Strigul, else might we find it necessary to do battle for our fief of Ireland," said Edward. "Nay, from the ambition of Eva, thou hast nought to fear; her heart would incline her rather to bestow benefices upon her friends, than to hoard treasures for herself. Therefore it is that I desire for her worthy alliance and princely dower," returned the queen. "Thou hast it in thy power, best one, to obviate thine own objections and to bless the loyal hamlet that protected thy seclusion, by giving them so gracious a mistress." Tears of gratitude filled the eyes of the queen, as looking affectionately upon her husband she replied, "How lost were Eleanora to the love of God did she not daily thank Him for making her the wife of one who finds his own happiness in promoting the welfare of his subjects." "Not all his subjects regard him with thy partial fondness," said the king. "Our brother, Alexander of Scotland, has refused to renew the oath of homage, which his ancestor made to Henry II. for his crown, and will attend our coronation only as kingly guest; while the bold Llewellyn refuses to set foot in London." "The troublous period through which the realm so lately passed, pleads their best excuse for these unjust suspicions," suggested the queen. "When the wisdom and magnanimity of my Edward shall become known, they will learn to trust their interest in his hands with the confidence of vassals." "Thou would'st fain persuade me," said Edward, laughing, "that I may love my enemies." "I would persuade thee," said Eleanora, with a smile of confident affection, "to make thine enemies thy friends. Suspicion ever breeds hatred. There be many warm, true hearts in England, at this hour, who, having followed the fortunes of Leicester, for what they deemed the public good, are withheld by fear, from uttering the shout of loyalty." "And how would'st thou purpose that I should bind them to their allegiance?" said Edward, curiously. "By the same rule that our blessed Lord restored this fallen world," returned the queen, timidly. "He declareth his love toward us, even while we are sinners, and thus we learn to confide in Him." "Verily, there seems truth in what thou sayest," said the king, thoughtfully; "but it were a thing unheard of--for a ruler to illustrate the principles of forgiveness, and place his kingdom at the mercy of traitors." "The good St. Louis," urged Eleanora, almost fearful of pressing the matter too far, "leaned ever to the side of mercy; and no king of France hath enjoyed a more peaceful or glorious reign." "It shall be as thou sayest," said Edward, after a pause, during which he gazed upon her pleading countenance, whose every feature mirrored the intense interest of her heart in the welfare of their subjects, and the honor of her lord. "It shall be as thou sayest. Heaven cannot suffer me to err in this matter, since it hath sent an angel for my counsellor." Then resuming his accustomed tone of affectionate pleasantry, he added, "Thou think'st it well, dearest, for a warrior like myself to perform some work of supererogation, to cancel the sins into which my love of power may yet lead me. But small merit may I claim for my clemency, since it were not in the nature of man to withstand the sweet earnestness with which thou dost enforce thy gentle counsels." CHAPTER VIII. THE CORONATION. Nearly a century had elapsed since an occasion like the present had called together the different ranks and orders of the English population. Native Britons, Saxons, Danes and Normans, hereditary enemies, had, by years of unavoidable intercourse, and by a community of interests, been fused into one mass, and now vied with each other in manifesting their loyalty to a king in whose veins mingled the several streams of the great Scandinavian race. The independent Franklin, the stout yeoman from the country, and the rich citizen and industrious artisan, the curious vassal, the stately knight, and lordly baron, alike instinct with love for feasting and holiday show, hastened to witness the ceremony. The coronation of John had been unpopular, both from the well known malevolence of his disposition and the rival claims of his injured nephew. That of Henry III. took place in a remote part of the kingdom, when a portion of the island was in the possession of the French, and the minds of the people were distracted between a fear of foreigners and a detestation of the reigning family. Not a man in the realm, therefore, could remember so grand a spectacle as the coronation of Edward and the beautiful Eleanora of Castile. When the crown was placed upon their heads by the Archbishop of Canterbury, a murmur of joy arose from the assembled throngs; but when the herald stood forth and proclaimed an _indemnity_ to all those who had been engaged in the civil commotions of the former reign, and the repeal of the cruel statutes, that had made so many worthy citizens outlaws and aliens in the sight of their English homes, the enraptured multitude made the welkin ring with shouts of--Long live King Edward!--Long live our gracious Queen Eleanora! Tears dimmed the beautiful eyes of the gratified queen, for she read in the enthusiastic acclamations with which the act of Indemnity was received, an incontrovertible testimony to the wisdom of the course she had so warmly advocated, and an earnest of the peace which this display of her husband's magnanimity would secure to his realm. Foremost among those who hailed his accession, Edward discerned the commanding figure of the outlaw, who had so long and so successfully eluded his search. No sooner was he seated upon his throne, than he commissioned the lord-high seneschal to cause the mysterious personage to approach. As he came forward, and knelt at the monarch's feet, Eleanora recognized the tall knight to whom she owed her own life and her husband's liberty, and heard him with more pleasure than surprise announced as Dermot de la Clare. "Rise, noble Clare!" exclaimed Edward, "to thee thy monarch owes his life and the security of his realm, and the honors and titles of thy house are henceforth restored, to which we add the forfeited manors of Leicester, not more a recompense for thy knightly service than a guerdon for the sweet affection of thy lovely daughter." Scarcely had Earl Dermot retired among the nobles, who crowded around him with words of congratulation, when the monarch summoned Henry de Courtenay, and, in consideration of his services in the holy wars, created him Earl of Devon--whispering aside to the conscious noble, "Our gracious queen, who excelleth in charity, will give thee pity and dole of that which she hath in royal keeping, and for which thou wilt doubtless be more grateful than for all the lands of which we have this day made thee lord." Other faithful vassals of the crown were rewarded, and then the joyous multitude adjourned to the feasting and games, with which the day was closed; and the marriage of Eva and Sir Henry, which took place the following day, added another fête to the coronation festivities. Among the various disorders to which the kingdom had fallen a prey during the weak and uncertain rule of Henry III., none excited more universal dissatisfaction, than the adulteration of the coin. As the Jews were the principal money-lenders in the kingdom all embarrassments of this kind, were by common consent attributed to their characteristic avarice. Edward's crusade to the Holy Land, had not softened his prejudices towards this people, who, more than the Infidels poured contempt upon the rites of Christianity. In his zeal for the public welfare he proscribed the obnoxious race and confiscated their estates to the crown, and banished no less than fifteen thousand valuable inhabitants from the kingdom. Notwithstanding these rigorous measures he still retained in his employ certain of the hated sect to assist in the correction of the currency. The trivial circumstance of a change in the form of the penny gave rise to some of the most important occurrences that transpired during his eventful reign. The Welsh, deriving their ancestry from the early Britons, placed the most implicit confidence in the prophecies of Merlin, which in an oracular manner set forth the destiny of the nation. One of these half-forgotten traditions, asserted that when the English penny should become round, a prince, born in Wales, should be the acknowledged king of the whole British island. No sooner, therefore, had the new coin begun to circulate west of the Menai, than the bards commenced to ring their changes upon the mysterious circumstance, and to inflate the minds of their countrymen with the hopes of conquest. The successes of Llewellyn, their prince, in reconquering all the territory that had been wrested from them by the Normans, gave great encouragement to their ambition. Not availing himself of the act of indemnity the Welsh prince still maintained his allegiance to the party of the Montforts, and was plotting with the remaining adherents of that powerful faction for assistance from France. To intercept these hostile communications, Edward ordered his fleet into the channel under the command of Earl Dermot de la Clare, both to testify a regard for the Irish noble, and a confidence in his abilities. De Courtenay was residing with his bride at Exeter, when he received intelligence that the Earl of Clare was on his way to pay them a visit, and the following day Eva welcomed her father to her new home. The earl was accompanied by a lady whom he intrusted to his daughter's care, desiring that she might be kept in safety till Edward's pleasure concerning her should be known. At first the fair captive was inconsolable, but she at length found some alleviation of her grief in recounting her eventful history in the sympathizing ear of Eva, now Marchioness of Devon. The Lady Eleanora was the only daughter of Simon de Montfort, and inherited the firm and relentless characteristics of her house, which the sedulous instructions of her mother Eleanor Plantagenet had somewhat softened and subdued. Her brother Guy, having gained absolution from the terrible malediction of the church, had sought to carry out his plans of vengeance by making an alliance with the Welsh, and to cement the treaty, he had consented to bestow his sister upon Llewellyn, and the young lady was on her way to meet her bridegroom when her vessel was intercepted, and herself made prisoner by Earl Clare. Her position as the prospective Queen of Wales more than the enmity of her brother, made her fear the severity of her cousin, the King of England, but Eva assured her that the sentiments of Edward were characterized by the most generous chivalry, and that no feelings of malice or revenge could actuate him to any ungallant procedure against her. Notwithstanding the confidence with which Eva made this asseveration, the fair bride of Llewellyn listened with a faint smile of incredulity, and answered with a sigh, "Ah! lady, the poor daughter of de Montfort covets thine ignorance of the dark passions that rankle in the human breast!" "Thy fair young face gives little evidence of experience in worldly ills," returned Eva, with some surprise. "Events, not years, confer experience," replied Elin, "and young as I am, I have marked cherished resentment ripen into deadly enmity. The unjust aspersion of Henry III. wrought upon the mind of my father, till it well nigh ruined the broad realm of England. Thou canst never know the bitter sorrow that weighed upon my mother's heart during all the cruel strife between her husband and her brother. I well remember," said the agitated girl, proceeding impetuously with her sad reminiscences, "the fatal day of Evesham--how, chilled with fear at my mother's agony, I laid aside my childish sports and crept cowering to a corner of her apartment in Kenilworth castle, while she paced the floor beseeching heaven alternately to spare her husband and save her brother. O! it was terrible," added she, pressing her hands upon her eyes, while the tears gushed between her fingers, "when my brother Guy rushed in with the tidings of our father's defeat and death, and took his awful oath of vengeance." "Speak not of it," exclaimed Eva, shuddering in her turn at the recollection of the murder of young Henry, and the subsequent anathema pronounced upon Sir Guy. "It is little pleasure to recall these dreadful scenes," said Elin, gloomily, "but thou mayst learn from my brief history how little hope I have in one who aspires to power or has aught to revenge." "But her gracious majesty Queen Eleanora," said Eva, "will delight to soothe thy sorrows, and the sweet companionship of her daughters will win thee to happier thoughts." "Nay, sweet lady, think me not ungrateful that I cannot trust thy kind presages. Whether it be a retribution, I know not, but since my grandsire's crusade against the Albigeois, evil has been the lot of our house. Hope, that seems ever to light the pathway of the young, hath never smiled on me." This despondency continued to depress the mind of the captive during all the period of her residence at Exeter, nor could Eva's ingenuity in devising schemes for her diversion, nor hopeful predictions concerning her future happiness with Llewellyn lure her to happier thoughts. But the courteous manner of Edward, when he came to receive his cousin and conduct her to Windsor, confirmed these promises; and the unaffected kindness of Eleanora, while it soothed her afflictions, had the effect to awaken some degree of confidence in the mind of the despairing maiden. The capture of his bride infuriated Llewellyn beyond all bounds, and led him to invade England with the fiercest valor. His efforts were repulsed by the gallant conduct of the troops under the command of the Earl of Devon, and after four years of fruitless endeavor he consented to the required homage, and came to Worcester to claim his bride. The cherishing sympathy of Eleanora had not been lost upon the heart of her stricken ward, and these years of tranquillity, the first the orphan Elin had enjoyed, so enhanced to her mind the blessings of peaceful security that she steadfastly refused to fulfil her engagement with Llewellyn, without his solemn pledge of continued amity to the English nation. When the bridegroom finding all other expedients in vain consented to the required homage, the King of England gave away his fair kinswoman with his own hand, and Eleanora supported the bride at the altar and presided at the nuptial feast with the affability and grace so peculiarly her own. The Prince and Princess of Wales then accompanied their suzerains to London and performed the stipulated ceremony, the Snowdon barons looking on fiercely the while, with the air of warriors who were resigning their ancient rights. This discontent gave rise to various murmurings. They disdained the English bread, they were disgusted with the milk of stall-fed kine, they detested the acridity of the London porter, and they pined for the sparkling mead concocted from the honeyed sweets gathered from their own breezy hills. They saw that their national costume and dialect conferred an uncomfortable notoriety upon them, and they more than suspected that they were the objects of jeering contempt. They therefore endured with great impatience the protracted entertainments with which Edward honored his guests, and finally left their uncomfortable quarters murmuring with stifled imprecations, "We will never more visit Islington except as conquerors." The unremitting influence of Elin, notwithstanding, counteracted the complaints of the malcontents, and Llewellyn religiously maintained friendly relations with England during her brief life. This interval of uninterrupted peace was employed by Eleanora in prompting her husband to measures for the public good, and England long enjoyed through the wise administration of her beneficent sovereign a respite from those evils under which the nation had groaned since the Norman conquest. By a royal patent Edward erected boroughs within the demesne lands and conferred upon them liberty of trade, and profiting by the example of Leicester, permitted them to send representatives to parliament, which was the true epoch of the House of Commons--the first dawn of popular government in England. The lower or more industrious orders of the state were thus encouraged and protected, and an interest in the commonwealth diffused through all the ranks of society. CHAPTER IX. CONQUEST OF WALES. The death of Joanna, mother of Eleanora, leaving the domains of Ponthieu and Aumerle, made it necessary for the king and queen to visit France, to do homage to Philip the Bold for their new possessions. They passed several months on the continent ordering the affairs of their feudaltories, but their return was hastened by tidings of fresh disturbances in Wales. On her arrival at Windsor her daughter, Joanna of Acre, presented the queen with a letter which she said had been brought to the castle by a strange-looking priest who refused for some time to give it into any hand save that of Eleanora, but who was finally persuaded to intrust the precious document to herself on her promise to deliver in person to her mother. The letter was from Elin the Princess of Wales. It read as follows:--"To my gracious sovereign Lady Eleanora of England the wife of Llewellyn sendeth love and greeting. "I had hoped once more to see the face of my noble mistress, and to visit the scenes hallowed by the first happy hours of my sad life. I had thought to crave thy blessing on my lovely infant, for my lord had promised that on the return of spring we should be conveyed to England, and this hath cheered me through the weary hours of sickness and languishing when my heart hath pined for the sweet communion which I sometimes enjoyed in the castle at Windsor. But the hills are already changing under the softening airs of spring, and my step is more feeble and my breath more faint, and I no longer indulge the anticipation of thanking thy goodness for the pleasant thoughts with which thy holy counsels hath blessed my memory. But I am resigned to die! and I know that before the flowers come forth my sad heart will find rest in the grave. One anxiety alone disturbs the serenity of my few remaining days. "Already my little Guendoline returns her mother's smile. Who will cherish her infant years and guide her youthful footsteps to those fountains of peace which the light of thine example hath so lately revealed to my erring sight? "Struggling with weakness and pain, thy dying Elin pens this last earnest prayer. Let the damsel abide with thee. Let her be nurtured in the practice of those gentle virtues which her obdurate race have abjured. "Commend me to Edward, our sovereign, and those fair daughters that cluster round thy board and gladden thy life with their smiles. Again let me beg a place in thy heart for my orphan child, and oh! remember in thy prayer the soul of the exile, who from thy lips first learned to hope in the mercy of Heaven." The letter bore the date of March, and it was now early June, and to Eleanora's anxious inquiries for further tidings concerning the lady Elin and her child no answer could be given. The king however had better sources of information. Scarcely was he recovered from the fatigue of travel when the lords were summoned in council to deliberate upon the petition of David and Rodric, brothers of Llewellyn, who had applied to the English court for assistance. From these barons Edward learned that the Welsh prince had violated the promise made to his princess on her death-bed, of conveying their daughter to the care of Eleanora, and that stimulated by the songs of the bards and the long-smothered anger of the malcontent barons, he had resolved to break his oath of allegiance to the King of England, and had dispossessed his brothers of their inheritance as a punishment for their loyalty. The council decided to assist David and Rodric in the recovery of their possessions, and Edward not displeased with the occasion of making an absolute conquest of the country, advanced with his army into Wales. The English at first suffered some reverses, but in the great battle of Builth, Llewellyn was slain, his forces put to flight, and the gold coronet taken from his head was offered by Prince Alphonso at the shrine of Edward the Confessor. But the war was not yet ended. Prince David now claiming the title of king, as the heir of his brother, assumed the command of the Welsh, and it needed the constant presence of Edward to keep down the rebellious spirit of the people. The same steadfast affection which had supported Eleanora during the tedious hours of her anxious sojourn in the wilds of Devon, and that had prompted her to brave the varied dangers of the Syrian campaign, led her now to follow her lord's fortunes through the rugged defiles and rocky fastnesses of the Welsh mountains. For her security, Edward built and fortified the strong castle of Caernarvon, which now, after the lapse of nearly six centuries, presents the same external appearance as on the day when Queen Eleanora first entered its stupendous gateway in company with her royal lord. The battlements with which the walls were defended, stand unchanged in their hoary strength and grandeur, and the statue of Edward I., carved to the life, still protects the entrance of the castle, and with its drawn dagger, menaces the intruder who would venture within its guarded precincts. The eagle tower yet nestles in the defences of the rocks, though the royal fledglings have deserted the comfortless eyrie of Snowdon for the softer luxuries of Windsor Castle and Hampton Court, and the oaken cradle of the second Edward, suspended by ring and staples from carved supporters, yet occupies its little nook in the secluded chamber where his infant eyes first opened on the light. Eleanora's experience of the conquering power of love, made her solicitous to employ a Welsh attendant for her son, but such was the fear which her husband's name had inspired among the families of the fierce mountaineers that she was forced to abandon the project till accident procured for the amiable queen the domestic she needed not only, but threw into her hands the fate of Wales. From the irregular surface of their territory the Welsh were necessarily a pastoral people, and their simple manner of life exposed them to certain defeat when the conquest of their country was steadily and prudently pursued by the well-trained warriors of England. But like the hardy sons of all mountainous districts, the Welsh seemed to inhale the spirit of liberty from the free breath of their native hills, and hunted as they were from one retreat to another, they still rallied around their ancient standard, and listened with rapture to predictions of their future greatness. Edward followed them with untiring patience through rugged defiles and rocky fastnesses till his heavy armed troops were ready to sink with fatigue. Everywhere they found evidences of the straits to which the miserable inhabitants were reduced. Deserted hamlets, abandoned fields, and famishing animals, betokened the last extremity of suffering. It was just at night-fall when they came suddenly upon a strong body posted within the narrow precincts of a valley. The lowing of the herds that began to suffer from the want of forage, was the first sound that attracted the attention of the English scouts, and by a circuitous path the whole detachment were conducted to a position commanding a full view of the enemy. The bivouac consisted of rude huts or booths, constructed for shelter rather than defence, in and around which sat barbarians in various attitudes of attention or repose. The watch-fires gleamed luridly upon the wild figures that circled around them, with dark and frowning brows, while from the centre of the encampment echoed the sounds of hoarse voices, accompanied by the martial strains of music. The barbarous language made the song of the bards incomprehensible to the English, but they divined its spirit from the effect upon the rude auditors, who, at every pause in the agitating refrain, sprang to their feet, struck their spears upon their shields, and mingled their shrill voices in a responsive chorus of muttered vengeance. In the enthusiasm which the patriotic songs awakened, Edward read the secret of the protracted resistance, and saw that the destruction of these bards would insure his conquest. The trumpets were immediately ordered to sound, and his army, wearied as they were, summoned their fainting energies and rushed to the conflict. The Welsh, surprised in the midst of their fancied security, stood to their arms, and fought with the courage of desperation, the exhilarating strains of the bards rose to a shrill wail of agony, then sank in the voiceless silence of death. This final strain of the national poetry, was the requiem of Welsh liberty. King David made his escape through the defile of a mountain followed by a few of his nobles, and the Earl of Devon, in attempting to cut off his retreat, surprised and captured a company of frightened females who had been lodged in the rocky fastness for greater security. With knightly courtesy he extended to his helpless captives every delicate attention that would soften the rigor of their fate. His sympathies were especially excited by the distress of a woman of an appearance somewhat superior to her companions, who exhibited the greatest solicitude for the safety of a child that, all unconscious of the tumult, lay quietly sleeping in its cradle of twisted reeds. De Courtenay approached, anxious to relieve her fears, when the nurse, expecting to be torn from her tender charge, exclaimed, in barbarous English, "Take not the princess from me! I promised the Lady Elin never to resign her save to the hands of the good Queen of England." "Comfort thee, good woman," said the earl, kindly. "I will myself convey thee, with the babe, to Caernarvon, where thou mayest discharge thy trust by bestowing the little orphan with the royal friend of her mother." Consigning the other captives to the care of his knights, he gave the nurse in charge to his groom, and himself carefully lifting the wicker cradle with its lovely occupant to the horse before him, led the way towards the castle. Eleanora received the daughter of Elin de Montfort with tears of tender welcome, and lavished upon the child the same affection that she bestowed upon her own infant Edward. The little cousins were nurtured together, and the nurse soon became tenderly attached to both children, and conceived an almost reverential devotion to the pious queen; and as Eleanora gave her frequent opportunities for communion with the natives of the vicinity, she lost no occasion of publishing the virtues of her mistress. She represented that Eleanora and little Edward were scarce inferior in beauty to the Madonna and child, and that they were as good as they were beautiful; and, she added, on her own responsibility, that since the queen treated Guendoline with as much affection as though she were her own daughter, there could be no doubt that she looked upon her as the future bride of the young prince. Meantime, Edward had prospered in his military plans. David could never collect an army sufficient to face the English in the field, being chased from hill to hill, and hunted from one retreat to another, and was finally betrayed to his enemy and sent to England. The Snowdon barons, deprived of their leader, and aware that their princess Guendoline was in possession of the English king, and somewhat mollified by the prognostication of her future greatness, at length obeyed the summons of Edward to a conference at Caernarvon. The hardy mountaineers agreed to tender their final submission to him as lord paramount, if he would appoint them a native Welshman for their prince, who could speak neither Saxon nor French, for those barbarous languages they declared they could never understand. Edward graciously acceded to the request, and the preliminaries being arranged he brought from the eagle tower the little Edward, assuring them that he was a native of Wales, could speak neither of the reprobated tongues, and, under the tutelage of his lovely instructress Guendoline, would doubtless soon become a proficient in Welsh. "The fierce mountaineers little expected such a ruler. They had, however, no alternative but submission, and with as good grace as they might, kissed the tiny hand which was to sway their sceptre, and vowed fealty to the babe of the faithful Eleanora." CHAPTER X. THE ASTRONOMER AND THE JEW. Peace being thus happily established, King Edward transferred the residence of his queen from the rugged strength of Caernarvon to the magnificent refinements of Conway castle; where, surrounded by her ladies and children, she enjoyed, for a brief period, a repose from anxiety and care. Here seated in a chamber of state, whose windows of stained glass opened upon a terrace, commanding a beautiful view of the varied landscape, Eleanora passed her mornings, receiving those who were honored by being present at her levée, while her tire-women combed and braided the long silken tresses which shaded and adorned her serene and lovely features. This condescension of the queen, had a most gracious and softening effect upon the rude customs of the Welsh, and the first aspirations of this semi-barbarous nation for christian refinement, date from the period in which they felt the winning influence of her gentle manners. But though Eleanora was thus happy in her domestic relations, blessed in the love of her subjects, and thrice blessed in the consciousness of exercising her power for the happiness of others, she did not forget the kindred ties that bound her to her native Spain. Indeed there seems to be this peculiarity, observable in the influence of the gospel on the character, a paradox in philosophy, but a fact in christian experience, that while it increases the intensity of the social affections, it expands the heart to the remoter relations of life, awakening a cordial response to the command, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." For Eleanora to know that she could render assistance to another, was sufficient motive to arouse her activity; and constant habit made that an inspiring impulse, which had commenced in a rigid adherence to the requisitions of duty. When she learned, therefore, that her beloved brother Alphonso X. had been deposed by his undutiful son, Sancho, she besought her heroic husband to undertake the difficult task of his restoration. Edward, whose principles of government were of a very different character from those of the royal philosopher, listened somewhat reluctantly to her anxious pleadings, but at last consented to accompany her into Castile. The royal progress was one of the utmost pomp and splendor. Their cousin Philip received them in Paris with the greatest distinction. They reposed some months among the elegancies of Bordeaux, and thence journeyed across the Pyrenees to Burgos. The brave Sancho welcomed them to his palace with unaffected pleasure, and listened with easy good-humor to the questions and remonstrances of the queen. "My father," said he, "is happier in the retirement of his prison, than he was ever in the administration of public affairs. In truth, he has for these last years been so occupied with the motions of Mars and Jupiter, that he has had little leisure to attend to the movements of his subjects, and, but for what seemeth my undutiful interposition, our fair Castile would have been one scene of anarchy and confusion." "But if my brother desired the repose of private life, he had surely the right to appoint his successor," suggested Eleanora. "Nay, concerning that, men differ in opinion," replied Sancho. "Our ancestors, the Goths, confer the crown upon the second son, in preference to the heirs of the elder brother, and by this right I reign." "But by this right, thou takest from the prince all power," returned the queen. "And wherefore," said Sancho, "should the word of a prince prevail against the will of the people, whose interest no king has a right to sacrifice to his ambition?" "Certes, there is great semblance of truth in what thou sayest," added Eleanora, thoughtfully; "and much I wonder me that, while some are born to such high estate, others in heart possessed of noble feelings are doomed to perpetual servitude. My poor brain has been ofttimes sadly puzzled in this matter; but when I bethink me of the miseries fair England suffered during the rebellion of Leicester, I content myself to believe the holy writ, 'The powers that be, are ordained of God.'" "Thy scripture well establishes my claim," cried Sancho, laughing heartily. Eleanora sighed. "Forgettest thou, brave Sancho," said she, "that the God who gave to thee the estate and rule of king, (since thou dost so wrest my words to prove thy usurpation,) forgettest thou that _He_ hath also ordained, 'Thou shalt honor thy father?'" "Nay, nay, my most gracious aunt, now thou accusest me beyond my desert. The wise Alphonso is not restrained from his clerkly studies, but--" "He is in prison," interrupted Eleanora. "It is my care," continued Sancho, "to grant him everything, but freedom to disturb my kingdom. Jews and Arabs, his chosen friends, doctors of Salerno and Salamanca, friars and priests, (though, sooth to say for them, he careth little save as they bring him mouldy manuscripts from the monasteries,) jugglers and mummers, a worthy retinue, have free access to his presence. To-morrow thou mayest see the philosopher, surrounded by his motley courtiers, and methinks thou wilt then pronounce him as do others, either fool or madman." King Edward, who from conversation with the nobles of Castile, no less than with Sancho, had arrived at the same conclusion with his royal nephew, made no efforts to release Alphonso from his confinement, but gladly accepted an invitation to accompany the King of Castile on an expedition against the Moors in southern Spain. During their absence Eleanora remained in Burgos, and devoted herself to the care of her brother, for whose sanity she began to entertain serious fears. Alphonso's affection for his lovely sister so far prevailed over his excitable temperament, that he permitted her to enter his apartments at all hours without exhibiting any annoyance, and often turned aside from his abstruse studies to indulge in reminiscences of their youthful sports, and to satisfy her inquiries concerning his present pursuits. Eleanora possessed that genial spirit which discovers something of interest in every occupation, and that exquisite tact which enabled her to insinuate a truth, even while seeming not to contradict an error; and it was soon apparent that, though the philosopher still uttered his absurdities with great complacency,--his temper became more tranquil, and his manners far more affable to all who approached him. The queen listened patiently to his tedious explanations of the motions of the planets, and exerted her utmost powers of perception to comprehend the diagrams which he contended were illustrative of the whole theory of Nature, and the great end and purpose of her solemn mysteries inscribed on the scroll of the heavens, forming an elder Scripture more authoritative than the divine oracles themselves. "Thou seest, my sister," said the enthusiast, "that our maturity like our childhood is amused by fables: hence do the ignorant believe that this great array of worlds was formed for the contemptible purpose of revolving around our insignificant planet, and all the glittering circle of the stars made to serve no better end than to enliven a winter night." "In truth the doctrine savors much of the arrogance of man," gently returned the queen, "and reminds one of the false systems of a monarch who considers his subjects but tributaries to his pleasure." "False systems," returned the astronomer, apparently unheeding the point of her remark, "have disgraced the world in every age. Pythagoras approached nearest the true idea, and yet was lost in the wilderness of error." "Heaven save us from a fate so evil," solemnly ejaculated the queen. "The philosopher, who rejecting the dogmas of the church, listens to the voice of Nature speaking to the ear of reason, is in no danger of error," said Alphonso pompously. "Thy Mosaic Testament asserts that God created the heavens and the earth in six days; but they bear no marks of such creation. Their course is eternal. And as for appointing the glorious sun with no higher mission than to enlighten the earth, had the Almighty called me to his counsel, I would have taught Him a wiser plan of compassing day and night." Shocked at his impiety, Eleanora calmly replied, "The Holy Word which thou despisest, directs us to 'prove all things.' How canst thou sustain such assertions?" Alphonso, pleased with what he considered her docility, lifted a small globe, and placing it at a convenient distance from the lamp, caused it to revolve upon its axis, making her observe that the regular vicissitudes of light and darkness were produced without any change in the position of the luminary. "At what infinite expense," said he, "would the lamp revolve around the globe to produce only the same effect, and to furnish only one world with light; while any number of globes might gyrate about the lamp without loss, save an occasional eclipse." Struck with the simplicity and evident truth of the illustration, Eleanora gazed admiringly upon her brother, but scarcely had she essayed to frame an answer, when the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of an individual--the expression of whose countenance awoke a painful association in her mind, although in vain she tasked her memory to decide where or when she had before beheld him. His figure, though concealed by a Spanish doublet, and slightly bent with age, had evidently been once tall and commanding, and his swarthy countenance was illuminated by keen black eyes, whose quick penetrating glance, seemed at once to fathom the purposes, and divine the thoughts of those about him; and a long flowing beard, somewhat inclining to gray, imparted an air of dignity to his whole appearance. With a profound, though silent salutation to the royal pair, he crossed the apartment, and carefully laying aside his cloak, quietly seated himself at a side table covered with manuscripts, and commenced his labors; while Alphonso answered the inquiring gaze of Eleanora, by remarking, "'Tis our excellent Procida, my trusty Hebrew scribe." "Hebrew or Arab," said Eleanora, in a low tone, "I have seen that face before." At the sound of her voice the stranger looked up, while Eleanora placed her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful vision. "It cannot, cannot be," she exclaimed, "but so looked the Jew, slain at my feet on that dreadful day when I first entered London." "My good Procida," said Alphonso, misinterpreting her emotion, "I fear me we must dispense with thy presence, since my sister is too good a Christian to look upon a Jew, save with feelings of abhorrence." The Jew arose. "Nay, my good brother," said the queen, "forgive this weakness. I would fain speak with thy friend." Procida came forward and stood in respectful silence waiting her commands. "Hast ever been in London?" inquired she, earnestly regarding him. "My noble queen recalls not then the face of Raymond Lullius, who coined _rose nobles_ for her royal lord. She may, perhaps, remember the curiosity of the young Prince Alphonso, whose little hand no doubt still bears the scar of the melted metal he snatched from the crucible." At the mention of her son, the mother's tears began to flow. "My sweet Alphonso sleeps in the tomb of his ancestors," replied she, when she had somewhat recovered her composure; "but I mind me of the accident, though surely 'tis another scene that hath impressed thy features on my memory." "Your majesty refers to the slaughter of the Jews," returned Procida, in a sorrowful tone, "and the victim slain at your feet was my aged father Ben-Abraham. Of all my family I alone escaped, through the timely interposition of the gallant Prince Edward." "Ah! now I comprehend thy haste to serve my brother," interrupted Alphonso. "Thou must know, sweet sister mine," said he, turning to the queen, "that the secrets of our art are for the learned alone, but king as I am, I found it impossible to prevent my worthy Procida from leaving my court to aid the English sovereign in increasing his revenue by transmuting mercury into gold." "It is then true that metals can be thus transmuted," said Eleanora, with an incredulous smile. The alchemists exchanged glances of intelligence, but Alphonso, remembering her ready appreciation of his astronomical theory, answered Procida's hesitating look, with "Nay, 'tis but for once--our sister is an earnest seeker of truth, and if she comprehend will not betray our secret." Thus saying, Alphonso threw open a door and conducted the queen, followed by Procida, into a small laboratory filled with all the mysterious appurtenances of his art. The learned doctor busied himself in clearing a space in the centre of the apartment and arranging in a circle sundry jars and a brazier, while the philosopher king, opening a cabinet, took thence some dried and withered sea-weed, which he threw into the brazier and kindled into a flame. The blazing kelp was soon reduced to ashes, which Procida carefully gathered into an old empty crucible, and set before the queen. Alphonso advancing took up the crucible, saying, "What seest thou, my sister?" "A dull, gray powder," she replied. He then placed a tube from one of the jars within the crucible, and bidding her regard it attentively, submitted it to a chemical process which she did not understand, repeating his question. "I now see," replied Eleanora, with astonishment, "the dull powder transformed into little shining globules like silver." "Thou mayst take them in thine hand," said the philosopher, after a pause; "they will not harm thee." With some timidity the wondering queen received the metallic drops, almost fearing that her brother was a necromancer as the priests affirmed. "Canst judge if it be a metal?" said Alphonso, enjoying her confusion. "My sight and touch assure me of the fact. Yet whence--" "Is it not a miracle," interrupted the philosopher, laughing, "more real than thy fancied transubstantiation?" A frown gathered on the serene brow of the lovely queen--but commiserating his impiety as sincerely as he pitied her ignorance, with forced gayety she replied, "Nay, heaven works not miracles by the hands of such unbelievers as thou. I fear me lest evil spirits have aided thee, as they did the Egyptians with their enchantments;" and she handed the globules to the philosopher. "Keep them safely until the morrow," said he, "they may form the basis of another experiment." As the Queen of England left the prison, Procida followed her and craved an audience. CHAPTER XI. THE JEWESS. The conference between the queen and Procida was not limited to one audience. Day after day he sought her presence, under various pretexts--some unimportant business, some message from Alphonso--and each time he lingered as if anxious to prolong the interview; till at length his strange manner convinced Eleanora that something more momentous than philosophical researches detained him in Castile. When the mind is agitated upon any particular subject, fancy connects every mysterious appearance with the prevailing thought; and the lovely queen became impressed with the idea that some impending danger threatened her royal brother. She therefore strove to win the confidence of Procida, and encouraged him to confide his secret to her keeping. "Is there aught," said she, "of interest to thyself or others in which I can aid thee?" finding that his anxiety and hesitation seemed rather to increase than diminish. "Most gracious sovereign," returned Procida, apologetically, "the despised outcasts of Israel have little hope to enlist the sympathies of Christians in their behalf." "Nay," replied the queen, "thou forgettest that our gospel saith, God hath made of one blood all the nations of the earth." "And if _I_ have forgotten it," said Procida bitterly, "it is because the practice of the church agreeth not with the precept." "It is true," returned Eleanora, with a sigh, "that our lives exhibit too little the holy influence of the faith we profess: but tell me, how can the wife of Edward serve the alchemist?" "Noble queen," said Procida, speaking earnestly and with great agitation, "thou knowest not the peril in which thy generosity may involve thee." "Speak, and fear not," reiterated she, "Eleanora fears no evil in the practice of kindness." Fixing his keen eyes upon her face, as if to detect every emotion which his words might awaken, the Jew replied bitterly, "Procida for his attachment to the noble house of Swabia, is proscribed and hunted from Sicily, his daughter, a Jewess, can scarce claim the protection of law; and concealed as she is in the suburbs of Burgos, her beauty has already attracted the curiosity of those from whom her father cannot defend her. Did I dare claim so great a boon I would beg a place for her among thy maidens." Eleanora paused. The prejudice against the Jews was so intense as to affect even her upright mind; and the scandal it might bring upon the royal household to enroll an unbeliever among its inmates, startled her apprehensions: but the father stood before her with the air of one who had intrusted his last treasure to her keeping, and she could not find it in her heart to crush his confidence in her generosity. "Bring thy daughter hither," added she, thoughtfully, "with me she shall be safe." "The blessing of him that is ready to perish, rest upon thee," said the scholar, fervently, as he left her presence. When the Queen of England next visited the apartments of her brother, she was accompanied by a young girl of such surpassing loveliness as to attract the attention of the philosopher himself. Her features were of that perfect form generally described as Grecian, while her dark hair and soft black eyes, suggested the idea of a brunette; but the fairness of her complexion and the brilliant color of her cheek, that varied with every emotion, gave a character of exquisite delicacy and sensibility to her countenance. "Does thy realm of England abound in such comely damsels?" inquired Alphonso, while Agnes blushed at the king's encomium. "England may rival Spain in the beauty of her daughters," answered Eleanora, evasively. "My gentle Agnes is curious like her mistress to learn the wonders of thy art: hence do we crave thine indulgence to pass some weary hours of my lord's absence among thy folios." "Thou art ever welcome," returned Alphonso, benignantly, "and this young disciple shall receive the benefit of serving so good a mistress." "I have pondered much," said the queen, who had been for some time attentively regarding the care-worn lineaments of his face, "upon thy theory of the planets. The globe moved around the lamp because thou didst bear it in thine hand. By what power is our Earth carried around the Sun?" "There is some invisible influence which retains it with its sister-orbs in the eternal round, but the subtle essence has thus far eluded my investigations," replied Alphonso. "Thou believest then, my brother," said Eleanora, in her gentlest tone, "in a power whose existence thou canst not demonstrate by thy 'Tables' or diograms?" "Verily, such a power is a matter of _necessity_," returned the monarch. "And thy unlearned sister," replied the queen, hesitating, "finds the same _necessity_ to believe in a God, whose existence she can demonstrate only by the contemplation of his glorious works." "It is well for the ignorant to repose in this idea," replied Alphonso, "and it may perchance restrain the wicked from his misdeeds, to believe that an ever-present Intelligence regards his actions." "And it may comfort the sorrowing," said Eleanora, "to feel that this Infinite Power can satisfy the needs of the human soul." "Hast thou brought the metal I gave thee?" said Alphonso, abruptly changing the conversation. "I have it in my gypsire," said she, unclasping the bag and unfolding the paper--"Lo! my brother, what a transformation is here," exclaimed the queen, in amazement. "Thy silver has again become ashes." "Grieve not," said the alchemist, with an air of superior wisdom, "Science will achieve new wonders with these dull atoms." He now placed the powder in the crucible as before, and taking from a shelf what seemed a fragment of rock, pulverized it to a like powder, and mingled both in the crucible, which he placed upon the brazier and subjected it to a most intense heat. "What dost thou now observe?" said the alchemist. "A melted glowing mass of a ruby color," said Eleanora, with great interest. Taking a small rod in his hand he lifted the adhering particles, and drew them into thin, fine hair, like threads of a shining whiteness, which he presented to Agnes, saying, with a smile, "I will bestow these frail crystals upon thee, fair one; perchance thou mayst preserve them in memory of the mad philosopher." Every day the Queen of England became more interested in the society of her lovely ward, whose sprightliness was tempered by a sweetness, and a delicate discrimination, that never gave offence. It was gratifying to observe, in a fancy cultivated by the poetic legends of the South, and stored with the splendid fictions of Arabian romance, an ardent love of _truth_, and a strict adherence to its dictates; and Eleanora saw with pleasure that her most playful and entertaining sallies, though sometimes pointed at the peculiarities of those around her, never betrayed ill-humor, nor degenerated into sarcasm. Her beauty and gayety forcibly recalled the image of Eva; but the reliance which the obedient Jewess inspired, was in strong contrast to the anxiety ever awakened by the lovely, but volatile daughter of Clare. The charming Agnes not only amused the queen with her vivacity, but afforded her a sense of repose, by her amiable observance of every admonition, and her evident desire to regard the wishes no less than the positive commands of her royal benefactress, and especially did she win the love of the mother by her graceful attentions to the infant Princess Beatrice. While Agnes was actuated by the most dutiful affection to her father, she seemed by a happy trustfulness to escape participation in that gloom and care which daily deepened upon the clouded brow of the Sicilian. Desirous to relieve what she deemed his apprehensions for the future welfare of his daughter, the queen took occasion, upon one of his visits, to assure him of her increasing attachment to her lovely charge. "Thy generous interest in the despised exile softens my bitter fate," said he, "but could the unhappy Procida enlist the influence of England's gracious sovereign in the great project that preys upon his being, he would feel that he had not lived in vain." "My lord the king is ever ready to assist the unfortunate," said Eleanora, encouragingly, "and is free from those prejudices which embarrass weaker minds. If thou deemest it proper to reveal thy secret, his queen will herself endeavor to redress thy wrongs." "Procida seeks not the redress of a personal affront, nor restoration to his island home; my project is," said the Sicilian, drawing near the queen, and speaking in a low tone of terrible emphasis, "_revenge!_--death to the infamous Charles d'Anjou!" The startled Eleanora essayed no reply, but gazed in mute terror at the dark and malignant face of the conspirator. "Yes," continued he, his tall figure dilating with long repressed and cherished passion, "I will rouse all Europe with the wrongs of the noble house of Suabia." "I know," said the queen, the words faintly struggling through her white lips, "the woes inflicted upon our cousins of Suabia by the relentless fury of the Guelphs, but I dare not assume the office of their judge. It is written, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay it, saith the Lord.'" "Aye, verily," replied the Jew, fiercely, "but how does the Lord repay vengeance? Is it not by the hand of man he brings retribution upon the guilty? Did he not commission the sword to cut off the Canaanites, the Midianites, the Assyrians, and those who vexed his people in every age? Who can say he hath not inspired the heart, and nerved the arm of the proscribed and outcast Jew to execute his wrath upon the proud tyrant of Sicily?" "_Thou_," inquired the queen. "By what title claimest _thou_ allegiance to that fallen house?" "I know," said Procida, stung by her remark, "full well I know, that your Holy Church denies to the son of Abraham all the tender ties that bind the lord to his vassal, or the vassal to his lord. He may have neither house nor land, he may not dwell in Jerusalem the city of his fathers, or be buried in consecrated ground. His possessions become the spoil of the tyrant, his innocent offspring the victims of brutal passion; and yet your priests say,--Be meek--Be patient--Obey the precepts of that gospel which we trample under foot." He paused, struck by the compassionate gaze of Eleanora, who, for the first time, comprehended the hopeless misery of the hapless race. "Thy pardon, noble queen," said Procida, softened by her tender pity. "Were there more like thee, 'twere easier for the Jew to embrace the faith of the Nazarene. Thou didst inquire by what tie I followed the changing fortunes of Hohenstaufen." In a gentler tone he continued-- "The Jew loves gold. Loves he aught else? Yea, to the death his friend. The Emperor Frederic was free from the chains of superstition. Christian, Saracen, or Jew, found equal favor in his eye, and learning and genius not less than military prowess were rewarded with titles and lands. "Know me, then, royal lady, miserable and destitute as I appear, as favorite physician of the emperor, created by him Count de Procida, lord of the fairest island in the Bay of Naples." CHAPTER XII. THE FATE OF THE HOUSE OF SUABIA. The soft climate of the south, and the rich and varied scenery upon the banks of the Arlanzon, invited Eleanora to long walks in the suburbs of Burgos: and she found the greatest delight in watching the changing foliage, which announced the approach of the mellow autumn. Her recent interviews with the philosopher had given a new direction to her thoughts. She experienced a pleasure before unknown in studying the various aspects of nature, and contemplating the subtle arrangement by which all these beautiful phenomena were produced. New proofs of an All-creative Intelligence were daily forced upon her with peculiar distinctness, and her mind was thus fortified against the cold, insinuating doubts, with which her brother continually assailed her faith. Often she became so lost in reflection as to be insensible to all external circumstances, and her ladies, loosed from the restraints of court etiquette, revelled in the unwonted freedom of these rural strolls. Eleanora was often lured from her speculative abstraction by the sportive gayety of their amusements, and she saw with benevolent pleasure the ready tact with which the young Jewess avoided every inquiry that might lead to a discovery of her nation or position, without in the least compromising her truthfulness or transgressing the rules of courtesy. During one of these rambles, a mendicant of the order of St. Francis approached the queen, and asked an alms. The smoothly-shaven chin of the monk, closely clipped hair, and unsandalled feet, at first completely imposed upon her credulity, but his voice at once betrayed Procida. With a troubled look she gave him a few _denier_, as if desirous to escape all parley. But the monk lingered; and after a pause, hesitatingly remarked in a low tone, "I am about to leave Burgos, and I would fain confer with the queen before my departure." "But wherefore the monkish habit? Has the Jew resolved to do penance for his sins?" inquired Eleanora. "Nay," replied Procida, evasively, "if my gracious mistress will grant me an audience, I will unfold to her the purpose that hath moved me to this disguise." "I cannot tell," replied the queen, with a tone of unwonted reproach, "if it be desirable to entrust thy plans to my keeping, since I may not encourage deceit, and I would not that thy Agnes, so innocent of guile, should learn that her father, for some dark purpose, has assumed the garb he abhors." Tears glistened in the eyes of Procida, as he replied, "Thou sayest well and wisely. The sweet child knoweth not more of the secret schemes of her father, than do the angels of the dark deeds of fiends. But--" "I hear the voice of my maidens," exclaimed the queen impatiently, "expose not thyself to their observation." "_Benedicite_," murmured the counterfeit priest, turning away to avoid the scrutiny of the approaching group. But Procida was so determined to secure the approbation of the queen, that the following day he craved an audience at the palace. "My royal mistress," said he, "must permit me once more, to plead the rights of the illustrious house of Suabia, before I depart on my pilgrimage, that if I never return, she may justify my acts in the eyes of my daughter." "Speak," said Eleanora, moved by the sorrowful earnestness of his manner. "My royal master Frederic," began the Jew, "had little cause to love the church. Hated by the pope, for that with a strong arm he claimed his hereditary possessions in Italy, he was excommunicated for refusing the pilgrimage, and again cursed for fulfilling his vow; and had not the honest pagan, Melech Camel, been more his friend than the christian troops by whom he was surrounded, he would have perished by treason in the Holy City itself. "Freed from superstition, he looked upon all religions as formed to impose upon the vulgar; and it was through his instructions, that I learned the policy of conforming to the prejudices of mankind, and now avail myself of the privileges of an order, who wander everywhere, and are everywhere well received. "The emperor, like thy brother Alphonso, was a man of science. He opened schools in Sicily, and maintained poor scholars from his own purse, and by every means promoted the welfare of his subjects; but he could not escape the toils spread around him by his great enemy the church." As he said these words the queen beheld in his eyes the same vengeful fire that once had before so startled and shocked her. "Thy pardon, sovereign lady," said he, recollecting himself, "but the wrongs of the master have well-nigh maddened the brain of the servant. "His own son Henry, wrought upon by the malicious representations of the pope, revolted, and his beautiful boy Enzio, pined away his young life in the prison of Bologna. The great Frederic died; and his wretched Procida vowed to avenge him upon his murderers." He paused a moment overcome by his emotions, and then continued, "There yet remained Conrad and Manfred: the former, only son of the Queen of Jerusalem, and the latter, illegitimate offspring of a Saracen woman. Conrad passed into Italy to claim his inheritance, only to be poisoned by the pope; while Manfred, calling around him the friends of his mother, battled for his father's strongholds and treasures. He was brave, generous and noble. He would have made peace even with his enemy, but the tyrant d'Anjou spurned his overtures, and insultingly replied to the messenger, 'Go tell the Sultan of Nocera, that I desire war only, and this very day I will send him to hell, or he shall send me to Paradise.' He prepared for the conflict. As he fastened on his helmet it twice slipped from his grasp. 'It is the hand of God,' was his exclamation, and with a presentiment of his fall, he hurried to the fight. I stood by his side in the bloody battle of Benevento, and we made a holocaust of our enemies; but a fatal spear pierced his brain! The implacable d'Anjou would have the poor excommunicated corpse remain unburied, but the French soldiers, less barbarous than their master, brought each a stone, and so reared him a tomb." "Tell me no more horrors," exclaimed the queen, with a look of painful emotion. "Ah! lady," said the artful Procida, sadly, satisfied that his recital had so moved his royal auditor, "thou art grieved at the very _hearing_ of these atrocities, but bethink thee of the misery of the poor daughter of Frederic, wife of the Duke of Saxony. When the family fell, the duke repented of his alliance with the house of Suabia. From cold neglect and scorn, he proceeded to violence--he brutally struck her. She, unhappy woman, thinking he sought her life, endeavored to escape. The castle rose upon a rock overhanging the Elbe. A faithful servant kept a boat upon the river, and by a rope, she could let herself down the precipitous descent. An agonizing thought stayed her footsteps. Her only son lay asleep in the cradle. She would once more fold him to her breast. She would imprint her last kiss upon his cheek. With a maddening pang she closed her teeth in the tender flesh, and fled, pursued by the screams of her wounded child. The treacherous rope eluded her grasp, and the frantic mother fell, another victim from the doomed race of Hohenstaufen. "The little Corradino, who should have been King of Jerusalem, had also a mother, tender and fond, who would fain have detained him from funereal Italy, where all his family had found a sepulchre; but ere he attained the age of manhood the Ghibelline cities called to him for aid, and no entreaties could withhold the valiant youth. Accompanied by his dearest friend, Frederic of Austria, and a band of knights, he passed the Alps to claim his inheritance. There was a battle--there was a defeat--there was a prisoner--The Vicar of Christ, showed he mercy? He wrote to d'Anjou, 'Corradino's life is Charles's death.' Judges were named, a strange and unheard-of proceeding; but of these some defended Corradino, and the rest remained silent. One alone, found him guilty, and began to read his sentence upon the scaffold. But outraged nature asserted her rights, d'Anjou's own son-in-law leaped upon the scaffold and slew the inhuman judge with one stroke of his sword, exclaiming, ''Tis not for a wretch like thee to condemn to death so noble and gentle a lord.' But the execution proceeded. I stood among the spectators a shaven priest, _honoring the decrees of the church_! I heard the piteous exclamation of the hapless youth, 'Oh my mother, what sad news will bring thee of thy son.' His eye caught mine, he slipped a ring from his finger, and threw it into the crowd. I seized the precious jewel, and renewed my vow of vengeance. The faithful Frederic of Austria stood by his side, and was the first to receive the fatal stroke. Corradino caught the bleeding head, as it fell, pressed his own upon the quivering lips, and perished like his friend. 'Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in death they were not divided.'" Tears for a moment quenched the fire in the old man's eyes, and Eleanora wept in sympathy. "And Enzio--?" she said, mournfully. "Enzio yet languished in prison, the delicate boy, the idol of his imperial father. I found my way to Bologna, gold bribed his guard. An empty wine-cask was at hand, I enclosed him therein, and brought him safely to the gates. A single lock of hair betrayed my secret. 'Ha!' exclaimed the sentinel, ''tis only King Enzio has such beautiful fair hair.' I escaped with difficulty, but the boy was slain." "Lives there not one of all the princely house?" inquired the queen. "Frederic the Bitten lives, the deadly enemy of his father, and the daughter of Manfred is the wife of the Prince of Arragon. To her I carry the ring. A Saracen servant of the emperor ascribes to it magic virtues. It shall be the talisman to bind Europe in a league against the infamous d'Anjou." "My brother! knows he of thy purpose?" inquired Eleanora, apprehensively. "I entered Castile to secure his assistance, and devoted myself to the practice of alchemy, to gain his confidence; but the philosopher is too intent upon the science of dull atoms to mingle in political strife." "Thank heaven! that his studies keep him innocent of human blood," ejaculated the queen. "Wouldst ought with me?" inquired she, after a pause, observing that the Jew remained silent with his eyes fixed upon her. "Let my gracious queen pardon her servant, that he hath so long detained her with his tale of horror. Something I would add concerning my sweet Agnes. Call her not a Jewess. Her father hath long since abjured the burdensome rites of Judaism, and her mother--'tis enough to say that she resembled the Queen of England. Though I trust not in the pious fables of the priests, they seemed to charm her gentle spirit into peace. Let Agnes, therefore, I pray thee, be instructed in her mother's faith." "Thy wishes shall be strictly regarded," replied Eleanora, "and may the same peace thou covetest for thy daughter, yet find its way to thy own unquiet breast." CHAPTER XIII. TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. Each time the queen visited the laboratory of Alphonso, he made her acquainted with some new fact in philosophy, or some new device of alchemy, which awakened curiosity and gave rise to inquiry. The Spanish king, having made some discoveries in advance of the age, had fallen into the popular error of philosophers, that of repudiating all pre-established doctrines and maxims. Having laid down the theory that matter was eternal, and all external appearances the result of natural change, he was at infinite pains to account for all phenomena so as not to conflict with this proposition. The unbiased mind of Eleanora often detected in his assertions a vagueness of expression which passed for argument, but which evidently imposed less upon his auditors than upon himself. "Nature," said he, "arranges her work in circles: hence is the sky a dome, the earth a convex ball, and each minute atom of a globular form. The seasons roll their perpetual round, and as a ring hath neither beginning nor end, so must the material universe be eternal. The acorn groweth into the oak, and the oak again produceth the acorn; all outward manifestations are but parts in the great universal machine." Eleanora, who had been attentively regarding an ingenious invention of the king's, interrupted this tirade, by remarking, "A few months before I left England, I visited the cell of friar Bacon, in Oxford. But I saw nothing in his laboratory so curious and wonderful as this work of my brother's." The philosopher, flattered with the encomium, turned at once to exhibit the design of the machine. She followed his explanation with the greatest apparent interest; and when he had finished, replied, "In all these curious arrangements, I trace the wisdom of my brother; and it is that which gives me the greatest pleasure; and when I see the beneficent purposes for which it is designed, I feel a deeper veneration for the mind that could plan so skilfully." She took a bunch of flowers from the hand of Agnes and approached the king. "I have been observing," said she, "the curious arrangement of these frail leaves, five green supporters, five yellow petals, five slender threads, and one central spire. I have gathered thousands of them in my rambles, and the same perfect number is found in every one. It has led me to inquire if Nature be not like my brother, a mathematician." The workings of Alphonso's face showed how closely the simple truth of this proposition had driven home. "Nature," said he, "is an active principle, whose changes neither add to, nor detract from, the original matter of the universe. The metals," continued he, seeing she was about to respond, "the metals, my philosophical sister, form the basis of everything. I have detected iron in human blood, and a lustrous substance like that thou sawest in common ashes; hence do the alchemists believe that gold, the most precious of all, is scattered through nature, as the seeds of vegetation are scattered in earth, requiring only the proper gases to develop it and make it abundant as the pebbles on the shore." "And have these gases been able to effect the desirable changes?" inquired the queen. "There are innumerable obstacles in the way of these momentous inquiries," said the enthusiast. "Nature resists intrusion into her arcana, and I grieve to say, that we have not yet been able to bring about a definite result. Science has achieved only the procuring of the gases, while there remains still the nicer problem--to mix them in their right proportions, at their proper temperatures; for the nascent metal is more delicate than the embryo plant, and an excess of heat or cold destroys like frost or blight." "Ah, me!" said Eleanora, with a sigh; "before this great end be accomplished I fear me my brother will have passed away, and then all this toil and research will be lost." "My sister," said Alphonso, abandoning his labors and seating himself, "thou hast unconsciously touched the thorn that rankles deepest in my breast. In nature, nothing seems made in vain; even decay produces new life, and man alone, the crowning work of all, seems made to no purpose." "I have sometimes thought," said Eleanora, as if answering her own reflections, rather than replying to her brother's remarks, "that man might perhaps be made for the pleasure of a higher order of intelligence, as the lower orders of creation seem formed for our gratification, and that all our miseries spring from an attempt to thwart this plan." "If thy thought be not the true solution of man's destiny, I know not what end he serves in the great scheme of existence," returned Alphonso, sadly; "I have passed through various vicissitudes of life, from the greatness of earthly state to the poverty of a prison, and I have derived more pleasure from the achievements of science than from all my hereditary honors. And yet even these do not satisfy the longings of my nature." "The scripture teaches us, that the superior intelligences find delight in benefitting mortals; and acting upon this hint the good have taught us, that to be blest ourselves we must seek to bless others," said Eleanora. "True," replied the philosopher, breaking out once more into his old enthusiasm, "I have sometimes found alleviation from the weariness of my thoughts in the reflection, that the sciences in which I am engaged will one day exercise a wider and more perfect control over the destiny of the human race, than all the military orders backed by the sanction of ecclesiastical decrees. Science will open the door to Art; and her triumphant offspring, in a train of skillful inventions, shall pass on through long ages, breaking down the stern barriers of kingdoms, and uniting mankind in a common interest; war shall give place to useful Labor, and Science abrogating labor in its turn, shall satisfy the wants of the human race, accomplishing by a touch that which requires the might of thousands. Men shall then have leisure to perform the rites that lift the veil of Isis, and perhaps find means to _question_ Nature even in the innermost recesses of her temple." "Oh! life! life!" said the philosopher, in an accent of despair, "why art thou so brief? Why must I die without discovering the sublime agencies?" Eleanora waited in compassionate silence till her brother resumed in a calmer tone, "Think me not mad, my sister. If the feeble attempts of an imprisoned king, and a cloistered friar, can produce the wondrous results of which thou hast been witness, what shall the end be, when men free to pursue these investigations shall win the rich guerdon of fame and pecuniary reward? Thou hast heard, perchance, of the magician Albertus Magnus, who constructed a human figure, which performed the office of a servant; and of the stupid priest Thomas Aquinas, who, alarmed by the appearance of the automaton which opened the door and ushered him in with ceremonious obeisance, destroyed with one blow the work of years." "I can forgive his terror," said Eleanora, "for I well remember my own affright, when the brazen head contrived by Friar Bacon, rolled along on the table towards me, and uttered '_pax vobiscum_' with startling distinctness." "Albertus Magnus performed a still more astonishing work," continued Alphonso. "At a banquet which he gave in the garden of his cloister, in the depth of winter, trees appeared covered with leaves and flowers, which vanished as if by enchantment, when the guests rose to depart." "By what means were these wonderful works produced?" said Eleanora, with astonishment. "With the mode of this operation I am not familiar," returned the philosopher. "Doubtless by some of the powerful agents alchemy reveals to its votaries." "And what dost thou consider the chief agent in the universe?" said Eleanora, with the air of one inquiring after truth. "Nature," returned the philosopher, emphatically. "And will it pain my brother, if his unlearned sister call that great agent, who brings the flowers and leaves upon the trees in their season, by the name of God?" "Certainly, the name can affect nothing," replied Alphonso; "and if thy priest require it of thee, sin not against him, by a more liberal view." "And if the ignorant mass, who cannot be enlightened by thy theories, are restrained from vice by the thought that an Omniscient Being takes note of their actions, would it be well to free them from the necessary monitor?" inquired his sister. "It is doubtless well for man to be deterred from evil by salutary fear, till he rises to more exalted capabilities," replied Alphonso. "And art willing," suggested Eleanora, cautiously, "to administer to this wholesome necessity until thy divine philosophy become sufficiently perfected to renovate their character." "What priestly scheme hast thou in hand?" said her brother, regarding her with a look of mirthful curiosity. "Thou knowest how dearly I love the Castilian language," returned the queen, "and I would that my brother should perpetuate his fame by that which will benefit his subjects. The sight of thy Jewish scribes, suggested the thought that it would be easy for thee to procure the translation of the Scriptures into our mother tongue." The philosopher remained silent for a moment, and then answered, "knowest thou the effect of the measures thou proposest?" "I conceive," replied Eleanora, "that it will make thy people more virtuous and happy, and," added she, mindful of his foible, "prepare them to receive all the additional light to which thy investigations may lead." "There will be another effect, which, perhaps thou dost not anticipate," replied Alphonso. "It will overthrow the power of the priesthood; for as now each man inquires of his confessor concerning his duty, he will, if enabled to read the boasted oracles, claim the right to interpret for himself. But thy experiment shall be tried, and now I bethink me, those learned scribes which _our benevolent son Sancho_ hath permitted us to employ in transcribing the laws of Spain into the language of Castile, shall be placed under thy direction for this important work." Thus the object for which Eleanora had so long and so patiently prayed and planned, progressed under the auspices of a man who affected to despise the truths he yet condescended to propagate; and while the philosopher gave critical attention to the correctness of the work, he found leisure to complete his Astronomical tables, and to commence the first general history of Spain. CHAPTER XIV. AN ACCIDENT. To the monotony of a winter which the absence of the gallant cavaliers had rendered doubly tedious to the ladies of the royal household, succeeded a balmy spring. The favorite haunt of Eleanora, by the side of a noisy stream, which escaping from its icy chain among the hills, hurried away through the ravine, leaping up to clasp the overhanging rock in its wild embrace, and showering its silver spray upon the weeping boughs that fringed its bank, was again carpeted with mossy green, and draped with the bright garniture of May. The view from this romantic spot commanded upon the right the city of Burgos, built upon the declivity of a hill, and on the left, a flowery path leading along the bank of the stream, which it crossed by a foot-bridge, wound up the cliff till it entered upon extensive plains that stretched out to the west, and afforded rich pasturage for numerous flocks which fed upon the luxuriant herbage. One sunny afternoon, Eleanora, becoming deeply absorbed in her brother's history of the reign of their father, Ferdinand the Holy, allowed the maidens, protected by the squires and pages, to climb the prohibited cliff, which, ever since it had begun to assume its summer garb, had been a strong temptation to their footsteps. Occupied with her manuscript, she was unconscious of the lapse of time, but an occasional sound of merry voices, mingling harmoniously with the pleasant reflections that filled her mind, inspired her with a feeling of security and peace. It was nearly sunset when she finished her task, and the chill dews admonished her of the lateness of the hour; but when she raised her eyes, not a human being was within call. The sentinel page, presuming upon his mistress' abstraction, had strolled across the bridge and ascended the hill after his companions, and the queen began to be alarmed lest the giddy party should defer their return till darkness had increased the danger of the mountain path. She gazed in every direction, and listened intently to every sound. The breeze rustled the branches, and the river gurgled on its way, but all else was still. Suddenly she perceived on the extremity of the cliff, the rocks of which sank sheer down to the water's edge, her maidens hurrying to the rescue of a lamb, that, having strayed from the care of the shepherd, startled the echoes with its piteous cries. Agnes was foremost, and as she tripped along unconscious of the abyss which the pendant foliage concealed from her sight, and clasped the snowy foundling to her lovely breast, her slight figure bathed in the bright gold of the western sky seemed the impersonation of the angel of mercy. With a glad shout of exultation she turned to exhibit her prize, when the treacherous earth gave way beneath her feet, and with her fleecy burden she was precipitated into the stream, nearly opposite the spot which the queen, breathless with alarm, had just reached. Screams of helpless terror rent the air. The squires ran each in a different direction, hoping to find some point from which they could descend the cliff, while the poor girl floated rapidly down the stream, rising and sinking with the swelling waves. Quick as thought, Eleanora caught up a fallen branch that lay upon the bank, and extended it for her rescue. The drowning Agnes seized it with one hand, and the queen, with great exertion, had drawn her almost to the shore, when the frail support gave way, and the mad waters again enveloped her form. As she sank, the animal struggled from her grasp and gained the bank. "Save her! Oh God in mercy save her!" exclaimed Eleanora, clasping her hands in agony. At this moment a solitary pedestrian turning an angle in the path, approached, and attracted by the cry of distress quickened his pace. "There! there!" exclaimed the queen, pointing with a frantic gesture to the spot where Agnes had disappeared. Without a word, the stranger threw his staff and cloak upon the ground, and plunged into the stream. But the rapacious tide had borne her beyond his reach. On he swam, buffeting the waves with a strong arm, now searching the depths, and now scanning the ruffled surface, till finding every effort unavailing, he paused amid the whirling eddies, as if irresolute to seek the shore or continue the fruitless search. At this moment a small fair hand gleamed in the water before him, vainly clasping the idle waves, as if reaching for the broken reed that had so deceived its hope. He grasped the tiny hand in his own, raised the sinking form, and, renerved by the joy of success, and the shouts of those who approached in tumultuous haste, by a few strokes of his powerful arm gained the shore. Every hand was extended for his assistance; but the stranger heeded not the proffered aid, and kneeling upon the velvet turf he pressed the senseless form in his arms, and regarded the face that lay so fixed and still upon his breast, with a mute anxiety that held his features almost as rigid as those on which he gazed. While the balance thus trembles between life and death, every voice is dumb and every breath suppressed. The queen hangs motionless over her unconscious favorite, and the attendants stand chilled and paralyzed with doubt and dread, till a sudden gleam of satisfaction irradiates the stranger's face, and a faint sigh heaves the bosom of Agnes. "My God, I thank thee!" exclaims Eleanora, fervently, while every frame dilates with a full deep inspiration of returning hope. But the stranger, with an authoritative wave of his hand, repels all attempts to relieve him of his lovely charge. Gently he disengages the long silken locks that cling dripping to his arm, tenderly he raises her head to catch the breeze that fans her pallid cheek, and 'tis not till returning life quivers in the languid eyelids, that pressing his lips upon her snowy hand, he resigns her to her royal mistress. At once the maidens crowded around, some weeping and some laughing under the excess of the same emotion, eager to assist in the resuscitation of their lovely friend; and the squires and pages busied themselves in constructing a litter of boughs, upon which Agnes was conveyed to the palace. Meanwhile, the innocent cause of the catastrophe crept shivering to the feet of the queen, who compassionately ordered one of the attendants to carry it forward; and thus while the shades of evening stretched over the landscape, the saddened party re-entered the streets of Burgos. In the general confusion the strange deliverer had disappeared, and no one knew the direction he had taken; but the ladies had not been so much occupied with their anxiety, that they had failed to mark his noble figure and princely bearing; and Eleanora remembered that his face was one of peculiar beauty, though marked by a scar, conspicuous upon the right cheek. CHAPTER XV. FREDERIC THE BITTEN. The slight illness that followed the accident which had so nearly proved fatal to the young Jewess, was attended by no dangerous symptoms, and the maidens amused her convalescence with conjectures concerning her mysterious deliverer. Their pleasantries acquired new zest, when they discovered that a rosy blush, no less than an evasive reply, answered their reiterated prediction that the stranger would one day return, no longer a simple knight, but a noble lord, or powerful prince, and claim the fair hand on which he imprinted his parting kiss. Thus the weeks wore away, and the affair at length ceased to be the engrossing topic of conversation: the inhabitants of the palace resumed their accustomed employments, and indulged in their usual rambles. Eleanora received frequent despatches of the most satisfactory character from her husband. The Christian arms had been everywhere successful against the Moors, and the King of Arragon had added to his former conquests, Majorca and Valencia, together with numerous castles and churches taken from the Infidels. Edward proposed to return by sea to Bordeaux, where he appointed his queen to meet him within the following month. But the tidings she received from Procida, through an ambassador that craved a private audience, created a more agitating interest than even the affairs of their own realm could awaken. At sight of the stranger, she recognized the saviour of Agnes, and her first impulse was to thank him for his generous exertions in behalf of her fair ward. But the grave formality of his manner checked the graceful condescension. He seemed but the bearer of a letter, and received her greeting merely as the messenger of Procida, and presuming upon his avowed character, she proceeded to peruse the despatch in his presence. The epistle from the Jew commenced abruptly without date. It acquainted the queen with the rank and title of the bearer, "Frederic the Bitten," Duke of Saxony, grandson of the illustrious Emperor of Germany, and commended him to her courtesy as the suitor of the young Agnes. Procida alluded darkly to negotiations and plots, which he trusted would accomplish the deliverance of his country, but towards the close of the epistle, the _father_ triumphed over the _conspirator_, and the expressions of paternal love subdued the tone of vengeance to the accents of tenderness and apprehension. "I was anxious my royal friend," said he, "now that rugged winter has been smoothed by a softer breath, I was anxious to write and to address thee some grateful strain, as the first-fruits of the spring. But the mournful news presages to me new storms; my songs sink into tears. In vain do the heavens smile; in vain do the gardens and groves inspire me with unseasonable joy, and the returning concert of the birds tempt me to resume my own. I cannot behold with dry eyes the approaching desolation of my kind nurse Sicily. Which shall I choose for her, the yoke, or honor? I see that in the confusion of insurrection numbers of her innocent children must perish. Shall I then leave her under the power of the tyrant? Shall our beautiful Palermo be defiled by strangers? Shall the powerful and noble Messina rest in quiet with the foot of her oppressor on her neck; or shall I, while feigning peace, organize a war, rousing Sicily and the world to revenge? Revenge! at the word all thoughts of pity and tenderness leave me. The concentrated rage of Etna seems warring in my bosom; it heaves at sight of the miseries of my unhappy people. The island is full of preparations against the Greeks: but, when the sword is drawn, shall it not be buried in the breast of him who drains the life blood from his helpless subjects? "But in that hour Procida may perish, and the King of Arragon fail to restore the sister of Manfred to her ancient rights. There will then remain of the house of Suabia only 'Frederic the Bitten.' If the daughter of Procida favor his suit, detain him till the '_Ides of March_' be passed, for with Frederic, dies the last hope of the Hohenstaufen." Eleanora closed the letter and pondered a moment upon its contents. In the plan of Procida to detain Frederic from the approaching conflict in Sicily, she most readily acquiesced, but the difficulty of managing so delicate an affair became instantly apparent to her ready perception. When, however, she adroitly endeavored to draw from the young duke his knowledge of the purposes of Procida, her apprehension was relieved by discovering that the affair had been planned in such a manner as to require from her, neither entreaty nor subterfuge, since the wily Jew had exacted a promise from the young noble, that he would spend a twelvemonth, at the court of his cousin Edward, before he demanded the hand of Agnes in marriage. Procida had not indeed, left the duke ignorant of his ultimate purpose, but he had led him to look for its accomplishment at a much more distant date than that designated in the letter, and Frederic consequently feeling no anxiety for an immediate return to Sicily, readily accepted the queen's invitation to form part of the royal escort to Bordeaux. Eleanora in taking leave of her brother, was comforted with the thought, that he was occupied with a more healthful and profitable pursuit than were the abstruse researches into the mysteries of nature, in which she had found him engaged. She had also the satisfaction of knowing that the deposed monarch had laid aside all his ambitious projects for empire, and now busied his thoughts in calculating the immense advantage and glory that would accrue to mankind from the Castilian literature he had in preparation. The affectionate farewells were exchanged, and, accompanied by her two beautiful children, Beatrice and Berengaria, her maidens and the attendant squires, and a small band of Spanish cavaliers, among whom rode the Duke of Saxony, she set off to meet her lord in Aquitaine. In the genial society of the queen and her maidens, whose spirits were exhilarated by the exercise and incidents of the journey, Frederic seemed to breathe an atmosphere to which he had been unaccustomed, and which served to enliven his habitual gravity, and develop the gentler qualities of his naturally generous character. The maidens amused themselves with constant allusions to the happy accomplishment of their prediction, and the wit of the fair Agnes was sorely tested, in meeting and parrying their playful attacks. The courteous attentions of the duke, were so impartially distributed among the ladies, that not even jealousy itself could find cause for complaint; yet it was only the voice of Agnes that had power to rouse him from his frequent reveries, and when he spoke, his eye instinctively turned to read in her countenance approbation or dissent. Disciplined in the school of adversity, he manifested a strength and severity of character, tempered by a pensive tenderness, which showed that his mother's wrongs had wrought in his heart a sentiment of sympathy for the suffering which made him hesitate to involve his country in the exterminating wars, that he foresaw would follow a renewal of the strife between the Guelphs and Ghibellines; and though he felt an enthusiastic admiration for the ardor and zeal of Procida, yet the unscrupulous Jew, who studied the character of all he met with reference to their availability in the approaching crisis, too accurately estimated the probity and truth of the young noble, to attempt to engage him in the dark plot for the overthrow of d'Anjou. Still he loved the duke, as the descendant of his great patron, and honored him for those qualities, of which he felt himself destitute; and thus it was with a feeling of joyful security, rather than of pride at the princely alliance, that he consented to bestow his only treasure upon the man, who least of all sympathised in the one purpose of his life. The royal party arrived at Bordeaux a few days in advance of the King of England, and during these hours of leisure, Frederic unfolded to the queen the mystery of his first appearance in Burgos. Procida had entrusted him with despatches for the King of Arragon; and to execute his commission with the more secresy, and at the same time to enjoy the freedom of the mountain solitudes, he travelled without retinue or insignia of rank. Thus he was leisurely pursuing his way along the bank of the stream, communing pleasantly with his own thoughts, when the cries of Eleanora attracted him, just in time to save Agnes from a watery grave. Time had so developed her loveliness that at first he failed to recognize in the fair being before him, the beautiful child he had been accustomed to admire in her father's castle of Prochyta; but when the first flush of returning life glowed upon her countenance, his admiration became lost in a deeper emotion, and from that hour he determined to lay the ducal coronet of Saxony at the feet of the beautiful daughter of Sicily. The return of the royal family was an era in the annals of English prosperity, from the number of valuables imported from Spain. In the catalogue of the queen's plate, mention is made of a crystal fork, the parting gift of her brother Alphonso, from which the first idea of these articles of table luxury was derived: but the lamb, which had so nearly cost the life of Agnes, proved a benefit to the nation, whose value can never be estimated; and the shepherd of Cotswold to this day, has reason to bless the queen, who bestowed the cherished pet in an English fold. During his southern campaign, King Edward had contracted an alliance between his eldest daughter Eleanora, and Alphonso, the young Prince of Arragon. The next sister, Joanna of Acre, who most of all resembled her mother in beauty and strength of character, was about the same time, married to the first peer of the realm, Gilbert the red Earl of Gloucester, and the third daughter wedded to John, the Duke of Brabant. At these nuptials the queen presented a golden cup of benison to each of the brides, inscribed with appropriate passages of Holy Writ; and though, in consequence of Frederic's promise to her father, the betrothment between himself and Agnes could not then take place, Eleanora bestowed upon her lovely ward a similar gift, bearing these words, "Thou hast been unto me as a daughter." CHAPTER XVI. LETTER FROM PROCIDA TO DON PEDRO, KING OF ARRAGON. * * * * * * * "Thou didst tell me in Arragon, that to restore Sicily to the house of Suabia, was the chimera of a maddened brain; that the strong arm of the church would be lifted to crush the Ghibellines in their final struggle; that gold was wanting to bribe the soldier to draw his sword in behalf of the doomed race, and that the enemies of Charles of Anjou could not be brought to act together against their common foe. Recall now the cruel words that drove Procida from thy court, a Mendicant, '_Conquer these impossibilities, and the fleet of Arragon is ready to substantiate the claim of the daughter of Manfred to the throne of Sicily_.' Goaded by the mocking promise, the mendicant wanders in Sicily. Now, companion of the tax-gatherer, he wrings the last drachmè from the hard hand of toil, and now with the agents of tyranny, he hides the skins of stags or deer in the huts of the peasant, and then robs the goatherd as a penalty for the offence. Thus, he listens and observes. Thus, he tugs at the chain that festers in their shrinking flesh, to show his countrymen their thraldom. Anon, a _shepherd_ or a _herdsman_, he traverses the valley, or scales the rock, joins the youthful throng that stealthily sport beneath the mountain chesnut, or mingles with the vexed vassals who wait their sovereigns' will, and whispers in the ear of each repining soul, 'The avenger of Manfred holds the vigils of Freedom in the cave of the forest of Palermo.' At sunset, a _traveller_, he seeks the rendezvous: the husbandman is returning to his cottage, his reaping-hook hanging idly from his arm, the Frenchman has gathered the grain from his fields. The herdsman drives his lowing flocks across the lea--the kine and the goat have been robbed of their young, and their fleecy robes been stripped from the bleating tenants of the fold. The peasant of Hibla returns mourning the swarm which the wind bore beyond his reclaim, but still more the honied stores which during his absence the hand of the spoiler ravished from his unprotected apiary. There comes no voice from the vineyard--the vintagers have trodden the wine-press, but the ruby current flows in the goblets that enliven the banquets of their foreign masters. Oh my people, Sicilians! Listen to him who whispers in the ear of each, 'Carry thy wrongs to the cave of the forest of Palermo.' They come--barbarians, Arabs, Jews, Normans and Germans--those who rejoiced in the tolerant reign of the Suabians, those who have suffered from the tyrant French--Etna groans with the prescience of coming vengeance, and with her thousand tongues of flame, summons the guilty oppressor to abide the 'judgment of God' before the altar. * * * * * * "A vessel sails from Brundusium, the mariners, hardy Calabrians, spread their sails and bend to their oars with patient purpose; but there is _one_ among them who never leaves his post, in calm or in storm--one thought gives strength and vigor to his iron arm; and though a scorner of puerile beadsmen, he almost prays the God of the wind to speed him on his course. Should the Greek Emperor refuse his aid--_he_ will tell him that, which will make him tremble for his throne and force the gold from the reluctant coffers. The crafty Paleologus hesitates, but he stands aghast, when Procida acquaints him that Venice hath lent her ships to D'Anjou, and another Dandolo is already embarked to repeat the _Fifth Crusade_! The Greek exclaims in despair, 'I know not what to do.' 'Give me money,' replies the _mariner_, 'and I will find you a defender, who has no money, but who has arms.' Michael Paleologus opens his treasures and satisfies even a Jew's thirst for gold. Most of all, Paleologus desires a complete reconciliation with the pope; most of all Procida desires an interview with the sovereign pontiff. "More swiftly returns the galley; and the ambassador of the Greek stands upon the prow, wrapped in courtly vestments; but not the less anxiously does he watch the winds and waves that return him to Rome. The feeble Nicholas trembles at thought of the vast undertaking, but Procida has fathomed the old man's ambition for his house. He reminds him of the reply of D'Anjou, when the pope proposed a marriage between his neice and Charles' son, 'Does Nicholas fancy because he wears red stockings that the blood of Orsini can mingle with the blood of France?' The stinging remembrance of the taunt determines the pontiff, and the treaty with Paleologus is delivered into the hands of the ambassador. Behold now, King of Arragon, '_The impossibilities are conquered_,' and thou art bound by the very vow of thine unbelief to '_substantiate the claim of the daughter of Manfred to the throne of Sicily_.'" Before the letter of Procida reached Don Pedro, Pope Nicholas died, and Charles had sufficient interest with the college of cardinals to procure the election of one of his own creatures to the Holy See. These events darkened the horizon above the Sicilians: but the dauntless spirit of Procida rose superior to this alarming turn of affairs. Though aware that Charles had been made acquainted with his designs, he remained upon the island, stealthily riveting the links of the conspiracy, and binding the discordant interests of the various ranks in an indissoluble confederacy, for the overthrow of foreign oppression. The cave of the forest of Palermo was piled with bundles of faggots, in which were concealed the weapons that the inhabitants had forged in secresy and in darkness, for by the prohibition of the French no Sicilian was permitted to wear arms. The grand conspirator knew well the Sicilian character, ardent, gay, voluptuous,--he chose his time with his wonted sagacity, when the beautiful island rejoicing in the fullness of bloom, invites her children to banquet upon her charms; when the long abstinence of Lent being over, the senses, reanimated by flesh and wine, start from languor to revel in the enjoyment of luxury and the exhilaration of passion. Easter-Monday, March 30th, 1282, dawns upon Sicily with fair promise for the festal day. The citizens of Palermo look one upon another with furtive glances of restrained impatience, and prepared for the annual _fête_ with busy alacrity, while the foreigners, made apprehensive by the gathering multitudes, come armed to assist in garlanding the very church of God. At sunset a bride and bridegroom go forth, attended by all the inhabitants of the city, both men and women, up the beautiful hill Monréale, to present their vows at the altar of the blessed Virgin:--a traitor whispers the warning, "The Sicilians have arms beneath their robes." The leader of the French hurries forward and seizes the weapon of the bridegroom--he lays his licentious hand upon the bride. Procida draws his sword, and with a cry of "Death to the French!" buries it in the heart of the brutal enemy. At the moment the sound of the Vesper bell floats from the temple of our lady, on the mount of Monréale. It is the appointed signal for vengeance, and "Death to the French!" echoes from lip to lip, through all the ranks of the Sicilians. Everywhere the tyrants are cut down--the houses of the foreigners bear each a fatal mark, and the Destroying Angel spares not even women and children, and the night spreads her solemn pall over the bodies of slaughtered thousands. Intelligence of the accomplishment of Procida's purpose soon reached Eleanora; but the horrors of the massacre were suppressed, nor did Agnes ever know the cruel part her father had played in the grand tragedy of the _Sicilian Vespers_. She learned, indeed, that the Queen of Arragon had rescued the only son of D'Anjou from his pursuers, and conveyed him away in safety from the island; but the insurrection had not reached its final triumph, when she left the court of England as the Duchess of Saxony; and it was from that time the care of her husband that her gentle spirit should not be pained by a knowledge of the sanguinary scenes that resulted in the death of D'Anjou, and in the re-establishment of the house of Suabia upon the throne of Sicily. It would have been natural for Edward, in this struggle, to throw the weight of his influence on the side of his uncle D'Anjou; but the circumstance of his daughter's betrothment to Alphonso of Arragon, held him neutral. He, however, negotiated a peace between the pope and Alphonso, by which D'Anjou's son, Charles the Lame, was released from his captivity in Arragon, and permitted to assume his authority in Naples. Eleanora's love for her husband, not less than her delicate appreciation of excellence, had led her to weigh with wise discrimination the effect of political events upon his character; and the truth was reluctantly forced upon her, that ambition, nurtured by the uniform success of his enterprises, was gradually absorbing the nobler qualities of his nature, and steeling his heart against the claims of justice and humanity. King Alexander III. of Scotland, the last direct heir in the male line from Maude, died 1285, and this circumstance was the precursor of that period, fatal to Edward's honor, and to the long-established amity between the two kingdoms. To avert the consequences which she foresaw would follow Alexander's demise, she had influenced Edward to propose a matrimonial alliance between the Prince of Wales and the Maid of Norway, heiress of the Scottish crown. The states of Scotland readily assented to the proposition of the English, and even consented that their young sovereign should be educated at the court of her royal father-in-law. But, while Eleanora was anticipating the pleasant task of rearing the future Queen of England, she was overwhelmed with sorrow by the intelligence, that the tender frame of the priceless child, unable to sustain the rigors of the voyage, had fallen a victim to death at the Orkneys, on her way to England. Her loss was the greatest calamity that ever befell the Scottish nation, fully justifying the touching couplet, "The North wind sobs where Margaret sleeps, And still in tears of blood her memory Scotland steeps." The succession of the Scottish crown became at once a matter of dispute, and all the evils which Eleanora had foreseen began to darken the political horizon. The line of Alexander being extinct, the crown devolved on the issue of David, Earl of Huntington, who figures as Sir Kenneth, in the "Talisman". The earl had three daughters, from one of whom descended John Baliol, from another Robert Bruce; and the rival claims of these two competitors having for some time agitated the kingdom, it was agreed to submit the arbitration of the affair to Edward, in the same manner as Henry III. had made Louis IX. umpire of his difficulties upon the continent. But the noble virtues of the saintly monarch were poorly represented in the English king. Edward at once claimed the crown for himself as lord paramount of the country, appointed Baliol as his deputy, and sent six regents to take possession of Scotland. The brave men of the north resisted this aggression with a spirit that fully proved their Scandinavian origin, and Edward hastened to the Scottish border to enforce his claims. Queen Eleanora was absent in Ambresbury, to witness the profession of her daughter Mary, who there, with the Welsh Princess Guendoline, was veiled a nun under the care of her royal mother-in-law, Eleanora of Provence. But no sooner was the ceremony concluded, than she complied with her husband's earnest request, that she should follow him to Scotland. Regardless of fatigue, she hurried forward, though sensible that an incipient fever preyed upon her strength. As the dangerous symptoms increased, she redoubled her speed, hoping at least to reach Alnwick castle, and die in her husband's arms. But at Grantham, in Lincolnshire, her strength utterly failed, and in the residence of a private gentleman, who had belonged to their household in Palestine, she awaited the coming of the King of Terrors. A courier was immediately despatched to Edward, with news of her alarming illness. At the gentle call of conjugal love, all other considerations gave way in the heart of Edward. He turned southward instantly, and by forced stages, hurried towards Grantham. The dying Eleanora watched for his coming with an anxiety born of an intense devotion to the welfare of her husband and his subjects. She longed to repeat with her last breath the tender counsels that had ever influenced him to clemency and mercy, and which she had enforced by the strongest of all arguments, the daily example of a holy life. But the last sad duty to the cold remains of his beloved consort, was the only consolation left to the bereaved monarch, when he arrived at Lincolnshire. With a sorrow that found relief in every outward testimonial of woe, he followed her corpse in person during thirteen days in progress of the funeral to Westminster. In every town where the royal bier rested the ecclesiastics assembled, and in solemn procession conducted it to the high altar of the principal church, and at each resting-place, Edward set up a crucifix in memory of "_La chere reine_," as he passionately called his lost Eleanora. Charing Cross, erected upon the site now occupied by the statue of Charles I., was the London monument of this saintly queen. An English writer, in a tribute to her memory, thus enumerates her virtues, "To our nation she was a loving mother, the column and pillar of the whole realm; therefore, to her glory, the king her husband caused all those famous trophies to be erected, wherever her noble corpse did rest; for he loved her above all earthly creatures. She was a godly, modest and merciful princess; the English nation in her time was not harassed by foreigners, nor the country people by the purveyors of the crown. The sorrow-stricken she consoled, as became her dignity, and she made them friends that were at discord." Her sorrowing lord endowed the Abbey of Winchester with rich donations for the perpetual celebration of dirges and masses for her soul, and waxen tapers were burned about her tomb, till the light of the Reformation outshone the lights of superstition; but her imperishable virtues survive every monumental device, illume the annals of history, and illustrate the true philosophy of female Heroism. NOTES. NOTES. NOTE A.--PAGE 19. "_The Lady Matilda._"--Hlafdigé, or lady, means the giver of bread. Few of the Queens of England can claim a more illustrious descent than this princess. Her father, Baldwin V., was surnamed the gentle Earl of Flanders: her mother Adelais, was daughter of Robert, King of France, and sister to Henry, reigning sovereign of that country, and she was nearly related to the Emperor of Germany, and most of the royal houses in Europe.--_Queens of England_, p. 24. NOTE B.--PAGE 19. "_Woden and Thor._"--Two of the most powerful deities in northern mythology. The ancient Saxons honored Woden as the God of War, and the Germans represented Thor as the God of Thunder. NOTE C.--PAGE 20. "_The Royal Children._"--The sons of Matilda and William the Conqueror, were Robert, afterwards Duke of Normandy, Richard, who died young, William and Henry, afterwards kings of England, Cicely, Agatha, Adela, Constance, Adeliza and Gundred. No two writers agree as to the order of their ages, except that Robert was the eldest and Henry the youngest son, Cicely the eldest and Gundred the youngest daughter.--Vide _Queens of England_, p. 33-82. NOTE D.--PAGE 20. "_The Mora._"--While the fleet destined to invade the Island waited in the port for a favorable wind, William was agreeably surprised by the arrival of his duchess at the port, in a splendid vessel of war called the Mora, which she had caused to be built, unknown to him, and adorned in the most royal style of magnificence for his acceptance. The effigy of their youngest son, William, in gilded bronze, most writers say of gold, was placed at the prow of this vessel, with his face turned towards England, holding a trumpet to his lips with one hand, and bearing in the other a bow with the arrow aimed towards England.--_Queens of England_, p. 40. NOTE E.--PAGE 21. "_William the Conqueror_" was of low origin on the mother's side. He was not ashamed of his birth, and drew around him his mother's other sons. At first he had much difficulty in bringing his barons, who despised him, to their allegiance. He was a large, bald-headed man, very brave, very greedy, and very sage, according to the notions of the times, that is very treacherous.--_Michelet's History of France_, p. 193. NOTE F.--PAGE 21. "_Edgar Atheling._"--Edward, the son of Edmund Ironside, being sent to Hungary to escape the cruelty of Canute, was there married to Agatha, daughter of the Emperor Henry II. She bore him Edgar Atheling, Margaret, afterwards Queen of Scotland, and Christina, who afterwards retired to a convent.--_Hume_, p. 115. NOTE G.--PAGE 22. "_The one keeping strict lenten fast._"--By a mixture of vigor and lenity, he had so soothed the mind of the English, that he thought he might safely revisit his native country, and enjoy the triumph and congratulation of his ancient subjects. He left the administration in the hands of his uterine brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and of William Fitz Osberne. That their authority might be exposed to less danger, he carried over with him all the most considerable nobility of England, who, while they served to grace his court by their presence and magnificent retinues, were in reality hostages for the fidelity of the nation. Among these, were Edgar Atheling, Stigand the primate, the Earls Edwin and Morcar, Waltheof the son of the brave Earl Siward, with others eminent for the greatness of their fortunes and families, or for their ecclesiastical and civil dignities. He was visited at the Abbey of Fescamp, where he resided during some time, by Rodulph, uncle to the King of France, and by many powerful princes and nobles, who having contributed to his enterprise, were desirous of participating in the joy and advantages of its success. His English courtiers, willing to ingratiate themselves with their new sovereign, outvied each other in equipages and entertainments; and made a display of riches which struck the foreigners with astonishment. William of Poictiers, a Norman historian, who was present, speaks with admiration of the beauty of their persons, the size and workmanship of their silver plate, the costliness of their embroideries, an art in which the English then excelled, and he expresses himself in such terms as tend much to exalt our idea of the opulence and cultivation of the people. But though everything bore the face of joy and festivity, and William himself treated his new courtiers with great appearance of kindness, it was impossible altogether to prevent the insolence of the Normans; and the English nobles derived little satisfaction from those entertainments, where they considered themselves as led in triumph by their ostentatious conqueror.--_Hume_, vol. 1, p. 184. NOTE H.--PAGE 22. The celebrated Bayeaux tapestry, distinguished by the name of the _Duke of Normandy's toilette_, is a piece of canvass about nineteen inches in breadth, but upwards of sixty-seven yards in length, on which is embroidered the history of the conquest of England by William of Normandy, commencing with the visit of Harold to the Norman court, and ending with his death at the battle of Hastings, 1066. The leading transactions of these eventful years, the death of Edward the Confessor, and the coronation of Harold in the chamber of the royal dead, are represented in the clearest and most regular order in this piece of needle-work, which contains many hundred figures of men, horses, birds, beasts, trees, houses, castles, and churches, all executed their proper colors, with names and inscriptions over them to elucidate the story. It appears to have been designed by Turold, a dwarf artist, who illuminated the canvas with the proper outlines and colors.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 54. NOTE I.--PAGE 23. "_Cicely, the betrothed of Harold._"--William also complained of the affront that had been offered to his daughter by the faithless Saxon, who, regardless of his contract to the little Norman princess, just before King Edward's death, strengthened his interest with the English nobles by marrying Algitha, sister to the powerful Earls Morcar and Edwin, and widow to Griffith, Prince of Wales. This circumstance is mentioned with great bitterness in all William's proclamations and reproachful messages to Harold, and appears to have been considered by the incensed duke to the full as great a villany as the assumption of the crown of England.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 35. NOTE J.--PAGE 24. "_Condemned her former lover._"--Brithric, the son of Algar, a Saxon Thane, is stated in Domesday, to have held this manor in the reign of Edward the Confessor; but having given offence to Maud, the daughter of Baldwin, Count of Flanders, previous to her marriage with William, Duke of Normandy, by refusing to marry her himself, his property was seized by that monarch on the conquest, and bestowed seemingly in revenge upon the queen.--_Ellis's History of Thornbury Castle._ NOTE K.--PAGE 25. "_The terrible Vikings._"--Sea kings among the Danes or Normans; leaders of piratical squadrons who passed their lives in roving the seas in search of spoil and adventures. The younger sons of the Scandinavian kings and jarls, having no inheritance but the ocean, naturally collected around their standards the youth of inferior order, who were equally destitute with themselves. These were the same who, in England and Scotland, under the name of Danes, and on the continent under the name of Normans, at first desolated the maritime coasts, and afterwards penetrated into the interior of countries, and formed permanent settlements in their conquests.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE L.--PAGE 27. "_The Danes confided much in the Fylga or Guardian Spirit._"--They have certain Priestesses named Morthwyrtha, or worshippers of the dead. NOTE M.--PAGE 29. Edgar Atheling, dreading the insidious caresses of William, escaped into Scotland, and carried thither his two sisters, Margaret and Christina. They were well received by Malcolm, who soon after espoused Margaret, the elder.--_Hume's History of England_, vol. 1. NOTE N.--PAGE 29. "_The laying waste of Hampshire._"--There was one pleasure to which William, as well as all the Normans and ancient Saxons, were extremely addicted, and that was hunting; but this pleasure he indulged more at the expense of his unhappy subjects, whose interests he always disregarded, than to the loss or diminution of his own revenue. Not content with those large forests which former kings possessed in all parts of England, he resolved to make a new forest near Winchester, the usual place of his residence; and for that purpose he laid waste the country in Hampshire for an extent of thirty miles, expelled the inhabitants from their houses, seized their property even, demolished churches and convents, and made the sufferers no compensation for the injury. At the same time he enacted new laws, by which he prohibited all his subjects from hunting in any of his forests, and rendered the penalties more severe than ever had been inflicted for such offences. The killing of a deer or bear, or even a hare, was punished with the loss of a delinquent's eyes; and that, at a time, when the killing of a man could be atoned for by paying a moderate fine.--_History of England_, vol. 1, p. 214. NOTE O.--PAGE 29. "_Odious Danegelt, and still more odious Couvrefeu._"--William, to prevent the people of the land from confederating together in nocturnal assemblies, for the purpose of discussing their grievances, and stimulating each other to revolt, compelled them to couvrefeu, or extinguish the lights and fires in their dwellings at eight o'clock every evening, at the tolling of a bell, called from that circumstance, the curfew or couvrefeu.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 57. NOTE P.--PAGE 30. "_Lanfranc will absolve thee from thy oath._"--Lanfranc exchanged his priory for the Abbey of St. Stephen, at Caen, in Normandy, and when William, the sovereign of that duchy, acquired the English throne by conquest, the interest of that prince procured his election, in 1070, to the Archbishopric of Canterbury, then become vacant by the deposition of Stigand.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE Q.--PAGE 41. "_Adela stood again in the old Abbey of Fescamp._"--In the year 1075, William and Matilda, with their family, kept the festival of Easter with great pomp at Fescamp, and attended in person the profession of their eldest daughter Cicely, who was there veiled a nun, by the Archbishop John.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 63. NOTE R.--PAGE 36. "_A maiden's needle wounds less deeply than a warrior's sword._"--It was on the field of Archembraye, where Robert, unconscious who the doughty champion was, against whom he tilted, ran his father through the arm with his lance, and unhorsed him.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 71. NOTE S.--PAGE 37. "_Accolade._"--The more distinguished the rank of the aspirant, the more distinguished were those who put themselves forward to arm him. The romances often state that the shield was given to a knight by the King of Spain, the sword by a King of England, the helmet from a French sovereign. The word dub is of pure Saxon origin. The French word adouber is similar to the Latin adoptare, for knights were not made by adapting the habiliments of chivalry to them, but by receiving them, or being adopted into the order. Many writers have imagined that the accolade was the last blow which the soldier might receive with impunity.--_Mill's History of Chivalry_, p. 28. NOTE T.--PAGE 48. "_The Saxon Secretary Ingulphus._"--In the year 1051, William, Duke of Normandy, then a visitor at the court of Edward the Confessor, made Ingulphus, then of the age of twenty-one, his secretary. He accompanied the duke to Normandy--went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and upon his return was created abbot of the rich monastery of Croyland--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE U.--PAGE 47. "_I craved a portion of the Holy dust._"--Even the dust of Palestine was adored: it was carefully conveyed to Europe, and the fortunate possessor, whether by original acquisition or by purchase, was considered to be safe from the malevolence of demons. As a proof that miracles had not ceased in his time, St. Augustine relates a story of the cure of a young man who had some of the dust of the Holy City suspended in a bag over his bed.--_Mill's Crusades_, p. 14. NOTE V.--PAGE 47. "_Pilgrim, and Palmer._"--On his return, he placed the branch of the sacred palm tree, which he had brought from Jerusalem, over the altar of his church, in proof of the accomplishment of his vow; religious thanksgivings were offered up; rustic festivity saluted and honored him, and he was revered for his piety and successful labors.--_Mill's Crusades_, p. 14. NOTE W.--PAGE 48. "_Joined the Archbishop._"--The clergy of Germany had proclaimed their intention of visiting Jerusalem; and Ingulphus, a native and historian of England, was one of a Norman troop which joined them at Mayence. The total number of pilgrims was seven thousand, and among the leaders are the names respectable for rank of the Archbishop of Mayence and the Bishops of Bamberg, Ratisbon, and Utrecht. Their march down Europe, and through the Greek Empire, was peaceable and unmolested; but when they entered the territory of the infidels, they fell into the hands of the Arab robbers, and it was not without great losses of money and lives that the band reached Jerusalem.--_History of Crusades_, p. 17. NOTE X.--PAGE 49. "_The Gog and Magog of sacred writ._"--Magyar is the national and oriental denomination of the Hungarians; but, among the tribes of Scythia, they are distinguished by the Greeks under the proper and peculiar name of Turks, as the descendants of that mighty people who had conquered and reigned from China to the Volga.--_Gibbon's Rome_, vol. 5, p. 411. NOTE Y.--PAGE 50. "_Battle Abbey._"--William laid the foundation of the Abbey of St. Martin, now called Battle Abbey, where perpetual prayers were directed to be offered up for the repose of the souls of all who had fallen in that sanguinary conflict. The high altar of this magnificent monument of the Norman victory was set upon the very spot where Harold's body was found, or, according to others, where he first pitched his gonfanon.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 50. NOTE Z.--PAGE 51. "_Did not that for his own sins._"--It is a maxim of the civil law, that whosoever cannot pay with his purse must pay with his body; and the practice of flagellation was adopted by the monks, a cheap, though painful equivalent. By a fantastic arithmetic, a year of penance was taxed at three thousand lashes, and such was the skill and patience of a famous hermit, St. Dominic, of the iron cuirass, that in six days he could discharge an entire century by a whipping of three hundred thousand stripes. His example was followed by many penitents of both sexes; and as a vicarious sacrifice was accepted, a sturdy disciplinarian might expiate on his own back the sins of his benefactors.--_Gibbon's Rome_, vol. 5, p. 58. NOTE AA.--PAGE 53. The story of the noble Magyar is taken from early travels in Palestine. NOTE BB.--PAGE 60. "_The assassin band of Mount Lebanon._"--Hassan, with his seven successors, is known in the East, under the name of the Old Man of the Mountain, because his residence was in the mountain fastness in Syria. These Ismaelians, therefore, acquired in the West the name of Assassins, which thence became in the western languages of Europe a common name for murderer.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE CC.--PAGE 68. "_Thou shouldst have been King._"--His eldest son, Robert, was absent in Germany, at the time of his death. William was on his voyage to England; Henry, who had taken charge of his obsequies, suddenly departed on some self-interested business, and all the great officers of the court having dispersed themselves,--some to offer their homage to Robert, and others to William, the inferior servants of the household plundered the house, stripped the person of the royal dead, and left his body naked upon the floor.--_Queens of England_, vol. 1, p. 85. NOTE DD.--PAGE 69. "_Our uncle Odo hates Lanfranc._"--The Duke William was brave, open, sincere, generous; even his predominate fault, his extreme indolence and facility, were not disagreeable to those haughty barons, who affected independence, and submitted with reluctance to a vigorous administration in their sovereign. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Robert, Earl of Montaigne, maternal brothers of the conqueror, envying the great credit of Lanfranc, which was increased by his late services, enforced all these motives with these partisans, and engaged them in a formal conspiracy to dethrone William Rufus.--_Hume's History of England_, vol. 1, p. 221. NOTE EE.--PAGE 71. "_Siege of St. Michael's Mount._"--Prince Henry, disgusted that so little care had been taken of his interests in this accommodation, retired to St. Michael's Mount, a strong fortress on the coast of Normandy, and infested the neighborhood with his incursions. Robert and William, with their joint forces, besieged him in this place, and had nearly reduced him by the scarcity of water, when the eldest, hearing of his distress, granted him permission to supply himself, and also sent him some pipes of wine for his own table. Being reproved by William for his ill-timed generosity, he replied, "What, shall I suffer my brother to die of thirst--where shall we find another when he is gone?"--_Hume's England_, vol. 1. NOTE FF.--PAGE 73. "_Crowds followed the steps of the monk._"--The lower order of people attached themselves to one Peter the Hermit, a monk of the city of Amiens. He had at first led a solitary life under the habit of a monk; but afterwards, men saw him traversing the streets, and preaching everywhere. The people surrounded him in crowds,--overwhelmed him with presents, and proclaimed his sanctity with such great praises, that I do not remember like honors having been rendered to any one. In whatever he did or said, there seemed to be something divine in him, so that they would even pluck the hairs out of his mule, to keep them as relics; which I relate here, not as laudable, but for the vulgar, who love all extraordinary things. He wore only a woollen tunic, and above it a cloak of coarse dark cloth, which hung to his heels. His arms and feet were naked; he ate little or no bread; and supported himself on wine and fish.--_Michelet_, p. 209. NOTE GG.--PAGE 78. "_Deus Vult._"--Urban was about to continue, when he was interrupted by a general uproar; the assistants shed tears, struck their breasts, raised their eyes and hands to heaven, all exclaiming together, "Let us march, God wills it! God wills it!"--_History of the Popes_, p. 384. NOTE HH.--PAGE 79. "_Stitch the red cross._"--All mounted the red cross on their shoulders. Red stuffs and vestments of every kind were torn in pieces; yet were insufficient for the purpose. There were those who imprinted the cross upon themselves with a red-hot iron.--_Michelet_, p. 210. NOTE II.--PAGE 82. "_Walter the Penniless._"--Sixty thousand were conducted by the Hermit. Walter the Penniless led fifteen thousand footmen, followed by a fanatic named Godeschal, whose sermons had swept away twenty thousand peasants from the villages of Germany. Their rear was again pressed by a herd of two hundred thousand, the most stupid and savage refuse of the people, who mingled with their devotion a brutal license of rapine, prostitution, and drunkenness. Some counts and gentlemen, at the head of three thousand horse, attended the motions of the multitude to partake in the spoil; but their genuine leaders (may we credit such folly) were a goose and a goat, who were carried in the front, and to whom these worthy Christians ascribed an infusion of the divine spirit.--_Gibbon's Rome_, vol. 5, p. 553. NOTE JJ.--PAGE 84. "_Inquire if that be Jerusalem._"--In some instances the poor rustic shod his oxen like horses, and placed his whole family in a cart, where it was amusing to hear the children, on the approach to any large town or castle, inquiring if the object before them were Jerusalem.--_Mill's Crusades_, p. 31. NOTE KK.--PAGE 87. "_Adela's Letter from Stephen._"--Alexius expressed a wish that one of the sons of Stephen might be educated at the Byzantine court, and said a thousand other fine things, which Stephen reported to his wife as holy truths.--_Mill's Crusades_, p. 49. NOTE LL.--PAGE 105. "_Of English laws and an English Queen._"--Matilda is the only princess of Scotland who ever shared the throne of a king of England. It is, however, from her maternal ancestry that she derives her great interest as connected with the annals of this country. Her mother, Margaret Atheling, was the grandaughter of Edmund Ironside, and the daughter of Edward Atheling, surnamed the Outlaw, by Agatha, daughter of the Emperor Henry II. of Germany.--_Queens of England_, p. 91. NOTE MM.--PAGE 110. "_We fought in the Plains of Ramula._"--The small phalanx was overwhelmed by the Egyptians! Stephen, Earl of Chartres, was taken prisoner and murdered by his enemy; he was the hero who ran away in the Crusade. His wife was Adela, a daughter of King William I. of England, and this spirited lady vowed she would give her husband no rest till he recovered his fame in Palestine. He went thither, and died in the manner above related.--_Mill's Crusades_, p. 95. NOTE NN.--PAGE 111. "_The daughter of Earl Waltheoff, Matilda_," was the wife of David, afterwards King of Scotland, and the mother of the first Earl of Huntingdon.--_Dr. Lingard._ NOTE OO.--PAGE 113. "_Lucy lies in the sea._"--Besides the heir of England, Prince William, there were lost in the White ship, Richard, Earl of Chester, with his bride, the young Lady Lucy, of Blois, daughter of Henry's sister Adela, and the flower of the juvenile nobility, who are mentioned by the Saxon chronicle as a multitude of "incomparable folk."--_Queens of England_, p. 131. NOTE PP.--PAGE 120. "_Courts of Love._"--Eleanora was by hereditary right, chief reviewer and critic of the poets of Provence. At certain festivals held by her after the custom of her ancestors, called Courts of Love, all new _sirventes_ and _chansons_ were sung or recited before her by the troubadours. She then, assisted by a conclave of her ladies, sat in judgment and pronounced sentence on their literary merits.--_Queens of England_, p. 188. NOTE QQ.--PAGE 121. "_Romance Walloon._"--The appellation of Walloon was derived from the word Waalchland, the name by which the Germans to this day designate Italy. William the Conqueror was so much attached to the Romance Walloon, that he encouraged its literature among his subjects, and forced it on the English by means of rigorous enactments, in place of the ancient Saxon, which closely resembled the Norse of his own ancestors. Throughout the whole tract of country from Navarre to the dominions of the Dauphin of Auvergne, and from sea to sea, the Provençal language was spoken--a language which combined the best points of French and Italian, and presented peculiar facilities for poetical composition. It was called the langue _d'oc_, the tongue of "yes" and "no;" because, instead of "_oui_" and "_non_" of the rest of France, the affirmative and negative were "_oc_" and "_no_." The ancestors of Eleanora were called _par excellence_--the Lords of "_oc_" and "_no_."--_Queens of England_, pp. 60-186. NOTE RR.--PAGE 122. "_In a Province fair._"--This ballad is from the early English Metrical Romances. NOTE SS.--PAGE 127. "_The Lady Petronilla._"--The sister of the queen, the young Petronilla, whose beauty equalled that of her sister, and whose levity far surpassed it, could find no single man in all France to bewitch with the spell of her fascinations, but chose to seduce Rodolph, Count of Vermandois, from his wife.--_Queens of England_, p. 189. NOTE TT.--PAGE 130. "_Abelard._"--Abelard, Peter, originally Abailard, a monk of the order of St. Benedict, equally famous for his learning and for his unfortunate love for Héloise, was born in 1079, near Nantes, in the little village of Palais, which was the property of his father, Berenger.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE UU.--PAGE 132. "_St. Bernard._"--St. Bernard, born at Fontaines, in Burgundy, 1091, was of noble family, and one of the most influential ecclesiastics of the middle ages. He was named the _honeyed teacher_, and his writings were styled _a stream from Paradise_. He principally promoted the crusade in 1146, and quieted the fermentation caused at that time by a party of monks, against the Jews in Germany.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE VV.--PAGE 135. "_Valley of Laodicea._"--The freaks of Queen Eleanora and her female warriors were the cause of all the misfortunes that befel King Louis and his army, especially in the defeat at Laodicea. The king had sent forward the queen and her ladies, escorted by his choicest troops, under the guard of Count Maurienne. He charged them to choose for their camp the arid, but commanding ground which gave them a view over the defiles of the valley of Laodicea. Queen Eleanora insisted upon halting in a lovely romantic valley, full of verdant grass and gushing fountains.--_Queens of England_, p. 190. NOTE WW.--PAGE 140. "_Series of Coquetries._"--Some say that she was smitten with Raymond, of Antioch; others with a handsome Saracen slave; and it was, moreover, rumored that she received presents from the Sultan.--_Michelet_, p. 233. NOTE XX.--PAGE 141. "_Twenty days._"--The "Queens of France" record that he learned the Provençal tongue in twenty days. NOTE YY.--PAGE 143. "_Knights of the Temple._"--A celebrated order of knights, which, like the order of St. John and the Teutonic order, had its origin in the crusades. It was established in 1119, for the protection of the pilgrims on the roads in Palestine. Subsequently, its object became the defence of the Christian faith, and of the Holy Sepulchre against the Saracens. Uniting the privileges of a religious order with great military power, and always prepared for service by sea and land, it could use its possessions to more advantage than other corporations, and also make conquests on its own account; in addition to which it received rich donations and bequests from the superstition of the age. The principal part of the possessions of the order were in France: most of the knights were also French, and the grand-master was usually of that nation. In 1244, the order possessed nine thousand considerable bailiwicks, commanderies, priories and preceptories, independent of the jurisdiction of the countries in which they were situated. The order was destroyed in France by Philip the Fair, about the beginning of the fourteenth century.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE ZZ.--PAGE 144. "_Hospitallers._"--The Knights of St. John, or Hospitallers of St. John, afterwards called Knights of Rhodes, and finally Knights of Malta, were a celebrated order of military religious, established at the commencement of the crusades to the Holy Land. It was the duty of the monks, who were called brothers of St. John or hospitallers, to take care of the poor and sick, and in general, to assist pilgrims. This order obtained important possessions, and maintained itself against the arms of the Turks and Saracens by union and courage. In 1309 the knights established themselves on the island of Rhodes, where they remained upwards of two hundred years. In 1530, Charles Fifth granted them the island of Malta, on conditions of perpetual war against the infidels and pirates. From this period, they were commonly called _Knights of Malta_.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE AAA.--PAGE 146. "_On her way Southward._"--Eleanora stayed some time at Blois, the count of which province was Thibaut, elder brother to King Stephen, one of the handsomest and bravest men of his time. Thibaut offered his hand to his fair guest. He met with a refusal, which by no means turned him from his purpose, as he resolved to detain the lady prisoner in his fortress till she complied with his proposal. Eleanora suspected his design, and departed by night for Tours. Young Geoffrey Plantagenet, the next brother to the man she intended to marry, had likewise a great inclination to be sovereign of the south. He placed himself in ambush at a part of the Loire called the Port of Piles, with the intention of seizing the duchess and carrying her off and marrying her. But she, pre-warned by her good angel, turned down a branch of the stream toward her own country.--_Queens of England_, p. 114. NOTE BBB.--PAGE 151. "_Becket._"--Thomas Becket, the most celebrated Roman Catholic prelate in the English annals, was born in London, 1119. He was the son of Gilbert, a London merchant. His mother was a Saracen lady, to whose father Gilbert was prisoner, being taken in the first crusade. The lady fell in love with the prisoner, and guided by the only English words she knew--"Gilbert--London"--followed him to London, where he married her. He was recommended by Archbishop Theobald, to King Henry II., and in 1158 he was appointed high chancellor and preceptor to Prince Henry, and at this time was a complete courtier, conforming in every respect to the humor of the king. He died in the fifty second year of his age, and was canonized two years after. Of the popularity of the pilgrimages to his tomb, the "Canterbury Tales" of Chaucer will prove an enduring testimony.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE CCC.--PAGE 155. "_Regular Drama._"--Besides the mysteries and miracles played by the parish clerks and students of divinity, the classic taste of the accomplished Eleanor patronized representations nearly allied to the regular drama, since we find that Peter of Blois, in his epistles, congratulates his brother William, on his tragedy of Flaura and Marcus, played before the queen.--_Queens of England_, p. 199. NOTE DDD.--PAGE 165. "_Adrian IV._"--Adrian IV., an Englishman, originally named _Nicholas_ Breakspear, rose, by his great talents, from the situation of a poor monk, to the rank of cardinal, and legate in the north. He was elected pope in 1154, and waged an unsuccessful war against William, King of Sicily. The permission which he gave to Henry II., King of England, to invade Ireland, on the condition that every family of that island should pay annually a penny to the papal chair, because all islands belong to the pope, is worthy of remark. On this grant the subsequent popes founded their claims on Ireland.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE EEE.--PAGE 184. "_The wasted form of Rosamond._"--It is not a very easy task to reduce to anything like perspicuity the various traditions which float through the chronicles, regarding Queen Eleanor's unfortunate rival, the celebrated Rosamond Clifford. No one who studies history ought to despise tradition, for we shall find that tradition is generally founded on fact, even when defective or regardless of chronology. It appears that the acquaintance between Rosamond and Henry commenced in early youth, about the time of his knighthood by his uncle, the King of Scotland; that it was renewed at the time of his successful invasion of England, when he promised marriage to the unsuspecting girl. As Rosamond was retained by him as a prisoner, though not an unwilling one, it was easy to conceal from her the facts that he had wedded a queen and brought her to England; but his chief difficulty was to conceal Rosamond's existence from Eleanor, and yet indulge himself with frequent visits to the real object of his love. Brompton says, "That one day, Queen Eleanor saw the king walking in the pleasance of Woodstock, with the end of a ball of floss silk attached to his spur, and that, coming near him unperceived, she took up the ball, and the king walked on, the silk unwound, and thus the queen traced him to a thicket in the labyrinth or maze of the park, where he disappeared. She kept the matter secret, often revolving in her own mind in what company he could meet with balls of silk. "Soon after, the king left Woodstock for a distant journey; then Queen Eleanor, bearing this discovery in mind, searched the thicket in the park, and found a low door cunningly concealed; this door she had forced, and found it was the entrance to a winding subterranean path, which led out at a distance to a sylvan lodge, in the most retired part of the adjacent forest." Here the queen found in a bower a young lady of incomparable beauty, busily engaged in embroidery. Queen Eleanor then easily guessed how balls of silk attached themselves to King Henry's spurs. Whatever was the result of the interview between Eleanor and Rosamond, it is certain that the queen neither destroyed her rival by sword nor poison, though in her rage it is possible that she might threaten both. The body of Rosamond was buried at Godstow, near Oxford, a little nunnery among the rich meadows of Evenlod. King John thought proper to raise a tomb to the memory of Rosamond; it was embossed with fair brass, having an inscription about its edges, in Latin, to this effect, "This tomb doth here enclose The world's most beauteous rose Rose passing sweet erewhile, Now nought but odor vile." _Queens of England._ NOTE FFF.--PAGE 185. "_Imprisonment of Queen Eleanor._"--Queen Eleanor, whose own frailties had not made her indulgent to those of others, offended by the repeated infidelities of the king, stirred up her sons, Richard and Geoffrey, to make demands similar to that of their brother, and persuaded them, when denied, to fly also to the court of France. Eleanor herself absconded; but she fell soon after into the hands of her husband, by whom she was kept confined for the remainder of his reign.--_Pictorial History of England._ NOTE GGG.--PAGE 187. "_Turning proudly to the rebel lords._"--Hoveden, and some other English writers, have recorded a story, that the Count of Tripoli and his friends proffered their allegiance to the queen, upon the reasonable condition that she should be divorced from Lusignan, and should choose such a person for the partner of her throne as would be able to defend the kingdom. She complied, and after she had been crowned, she put the diadem on the head of Lusignan.--_Mills' Crusades_, p. 137. NOTE HHH.--PAGE 190. "_Thy brother William and his beautiful bride._"--The Earl of Salisbury was the son of King Henry II., by fair Rosamond. His christian name was William, and his wearing a longer sword than was usual gave him his surname. His half brother, King Richard I., gave him in marriage Ela, eldest daughter and coheiress of William de Eureux, Earl of Salisbury and Rosemer; and also raised him to the title of earl. Ela was granddaughter of Patric Earl of Salisbury, murdered by Guy de Lusignan.--_Mills' Crusades_, p. 198. NOTE III.--PAGE 195. "_The well Zemzem._"--Zemzem is believed by the followers of Mohammed, to be the identical spring which gushed forth in the wilderness for the relief of Hagar and Ishmael; and marvellous efficacy is ascribed to its waters, in giving health to the sick, imparting strength of memory, and purifying from the effects of sin.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE JJJ.--PAGE 200. "_Pampeluna_"--a city of Spain, and capital of Navarre, situated on the Arga, in a plain near the Pyrenees, founded by Pompey.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE KKK.--PAGE 220. "_Blood oozed._"--When Richard entered the abbey he shuddered, and prayed some moments before the altar, when the nose and mouth of his father began to bleed so profusely, that the monk in attendance kept incessantly wiping the blood from his face.--_Queens of England_--_Eleanora of Aquitaine_, p. 220. NOTE LLL.--PAGE 227. "_Driven from the harbor._"--Queen Joanna's galley sheltered in the harbor of Limoussa, when Isaac, the Lord of Cyprus, sent two boats, and demanded if the queen would land. She declined the offer, saying, "all she wanted was to know whether the King of England had passed." They replied: "they did not know." At that juncture Isaac approached with great power, upon which the cavaliers who guarded the royal ladies, got the galley in order to be rowed out of the harbor at the first indication of hostilities.--_Bernard le Tresorier._ NOTE MMM.--PAGE 242. "_Battle of Tiberias._"--In the plain near Tiberias the two armies met in conflict. For a whole day the engagement was in suspense, and at night the Latins retired to some rocks, whose desolation and want of water had compelled them to try the fortune of a battle. The heat of a Syrian summer's night was rendered doubly horrid, because the Saracens set fire to some woods which surrounded the Christian camp. In the morning, the two armies were for awhile stationary, in seeming consciousness that the fate of the Moslem and the Christian worlds was in their hands. But when the sun arose, the Latins uttered their shout of war, the Turks answered by the clangor of their trumpets and atabals, and the sanguinary conflict began. The piece of the true cross was placed on a hillock, and the broken squadrons continually rallied round it. But the crescent had more numerous supporters than the cross, and for that reason triumphed.--_Mills' History of the Crusades_, p. 139. NOTE NNN.--PAGE 250. "_Courtesies of life._"--Through the whole of the war Saladin and Richard emulated each other as much in the reciprocation of courtesy, as in military exploits. If ever the King of England chanced to be ill, Saladin sent him presents of Damascene pears, peaches, and other fruits. The same liberal hand gave the luxury of snow, in the hot season.--_Hoveden_, p. 693. NOTE OOO.--PAGE 254. "_Union between his brother._"--Political disturbances in England demanded the presence of Richard, and he was compelled to yield to his necessities, and solicit his generous foe to terminate the war. He proposed a consolidation of the Christian and Mohammedan interests, the establishment of a government at Jerusalem, partly European and partly Asiatic; and these schemes of policy were to be carried into effect by the marriage of Saphadin with the widow of William, King of Sicily. The Mussulman princes would have acceded to these terms: but the marriage was thought to be so scandalous to religion, that the imams and the priests raised a storm of clamor, and Richard and Saladin, powerful as they were, submitted to popular opinion.--_Mills' Crusades._ NOTE PPP.--PAGE 258. "_This way sire._"--A friend led him to a hill which commanded a view of Jerusalem: but, covering his face with a shield, he declared he was not worthy to behold a city which he could not conquer.--_Mills' History of the Crusades_, p. 164. NOTE QQQ.--PAGE 266. "_Count Raimond._"--The young count so well acquitted himself of his charge, that he won the affection of the fair widow, Queen Joanna, on the journey. The attachment of these lovers healed the enmity that had long subsisted between the houses of Aquitaine and that of the Counts of Toulouse, on account of the superior claims of Queen Eleanora on that great fief. When Eleanora found the love that subsisted between her youngest child and the heir of Toulouse, she conciliated his father by giving up her rights to her daughter, and Berengaria had the satisfaction of seeing her two friends united after she arrived at Poitou.--_Berengaria of Navarre_, p. 16. NOTE RRR.--PAGE 267. The song of Richard and Blondell is found in _Burney's History of Music_, vol. 2, p. 236. NOTE SSS.--PAGE 271. "_The black banner._"--Finding his end approaching, Saladin commanded the black standard, which had so often led the way to victory, to be taken down, and replaced by the shroud which was to wrap his body in the grave. This was then borne through the streets, while the cries called all men to behold what Saladin, the mighty conqueror, carried away with him of all his vast dominion. Saladin died, a monarch in whose character, though the good was not unmixed with evil, the great qualities so far preponderated, that they overbalanced the effects of a barbarous epoch and a barbarous religion, and left in him a splendid exception to most of the vices of his age, his country and his creed.--_James' History of Chivalry_, p. 264. NOTE TTT.--PAGE 273. "_The Fourth Crusade._"--Saphadin marched against them, and the Germans did not decline the combat. Victory was on the side of the Christians; but it was bought by the death of many brave warriors, particularly of the Duke of Saxony, and of the son of the Duke of Austria. But the Germans did not profit by this success, for news arrived from Europe, that the great support of the crusade, Henry VI., was dead. The Archbishop of Mayence, and all those princes who had an interest in the election of a German sovereign, deserted the Holy Land.--_Mills' History of the Crusades_, p. 172. NOTE UUU.--PAGE 277. "_Blanche of Castile._"--This queen, so justly celebrated for her talents in the administration of government, as well as her lofty character and the excellent education her son received under her direction, was granddaughter of Eleonor of Guyenne. She was born at Burgos, in Spain, in 1185, and was the daughter of Alphonso IX., King of Castile, and of Eleonor, daughter of Henry II. of England.--_Queens of England_, p. 164. NOTE VVV.--PAGE 284. "_Suabia._"--In 1030, Frederic of Staufen, Lord of Hohenstaufen, displayed so much courage in battle, that the Emperor, Henry IV., bestowed upon him the Duchy of Suabia, and his daughter Agnes in marriage. Thus was laid the foundation of the future greatness of a house, whose elevation and fall are among the most important epochs in the history of the German empire. The inextinguishable hatred of the Guelphs, against the house of Hohenstaufen (Ghibelines) resulted in a contest which involved Germany and Italy in accumulated sufferings for more than three hundred years.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE WWW.--PAGE 288. "_Submission of the eastern Empire to the Pope._"--If the French would place Alexius on the throne, religious schism should be healed; the eastern church should be brought into subjection to the church of Rome; and Greece should pour forth her population and her treasures for the recovery of the Holy Land.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE XXX.--PAGE 291. "_St. Dominic._"--The Dominicans originated in 1215, at Toulouse. The principal objects of their institution was to preach against heretics. This passion for heresy-hunting established the order of the Inquisition. The Dominicans were called Jacobins in France, because their first convent at Paris, was in the _rue_ St. Jaques. Their order is now flourishing only in Spain, Portugal, Sicily and America.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE YYY.--PAGE 296. "_Magna Charta._"--The Great Charter of Liberties, extorted from King John, in 1215. The barons who composed the army of God and the Holy Church, were the whole nobility of England; their followers comprehended all the yeomanry and free peasantry with the citizens and burgesses of London. John had been obliged to yield to this general union, and, June 15th, both encamped on the plain called Runneymede, on the banks of the Thames, and conferences were opened, which were concluded on the 19th. The thirty-ninth article contains the writ of _habeas corpus_, and the trial by jury, the most effectual securities against oppression which the wisdom of man has ever devised.--_See Encyclopedia._ NOTE ZZZ.--PAGE 307. "_Filled the office of Regent of Jerusalem._"--In the 13th century we find woman seated, at least as mother and regent, on many of the western thrones. Blanche, of Castile, governed in the name of her infant son, as did the Countess of Champagne for the young Thibaut, and the Countess of Flanders for her captive husband. Isabella, of Manche, also exercised the greatest influence over her son, Henry III., King of England. Jane, of Flanders, did not content herself with the power, but desired manly honors and ensigns, and claimed at the consecration of St. Louis, the right of her husband to bear the naked sword, the sword of France. By a singular coincidence, a woman, in the year 1250, succeeded, for the first time, a sultan. Before this, a woman's name had never been seen on the coin, or mentioned in the public prayers. The Caliph of Bagdad protested against the scandal of this innovation.--_Michelet's History of France._ NOTE AAAA.--PAGE 308. "_St. Dunstan._"--Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury, in the year 948, possessed complete ascendancy over King Edred and the councils of state. He lived for some time in a cell so small that he could neither stand nor sit in it, and was honored with remarkable dreams, visions, and temptations. He it was who introduced the order of Benedictine monks into England.--_Parley's History._ NOTE BBBB.--PAGE 309. "_Convent of L'Espan._"--Queen Berengaria fixed her residence at Mans, in the Orleannois, where she held a great part of her foreign dower. Here she founded the noble Abbey of _L'Espan_.--_Queens of England._ NOTE CCCC.--PAGE 314. "_Sultan of Egypt._"--Saphadin's son, Coradinus, the Prince of Syria and Palestine, did not proclaim the death of his father till he had secured himself in the possession of the royal coffers. Discord and rebellion were universal throughout Egypt when the news arrived of the death of Saphadin, and his son Carnel, lord of that country, was compelled to fly into Arabia for protection from his mutinous people.--_Mills' Crusades._ NOTE DDDD.--PAGE 320. "_Mongols._"--Genghis Khan, the chief of a mongrel horde, in 1260, conceived the bold plan of conquering the whole earth. After the death of Genghis Khan, in 1227, his sons pursued his conquests, subjugated all China, subverted the Caliphate of Bagdad, and made the Seljook Sultans of Iconium tributary. NOTE EEEE.--PAGE 323. "_Wainscoted with gold._"--This description of the Sultan's palace is taken from William of Tyre's glowing account of the "House of Wisdom," found in a note of _Michelet's France_, vol. 1, p. 206. NOTE FFFF.--PAGE 327. "_Moslem Rosary._"--A rosary of ninety-nine beads, called Tusbah, or implement of praise. In dropping the beads through the fingers, they repeat the attributes of God, as, O Creator, O merciful, &c., &c. This act of devotion is called Taleel. The name Allah is always joined to the epithet, as "Ya Allah Kalick, Ya Allah Kerreem," found in note to the Bahar Danush. NOTE GGGG.--PAGE 328. "_Congregation repeated 'Praise be to God.'_"--_See Griffith's description of Mahomedan funeral._ NOTE HHHH.--PAGE 330. Kibla, or Cabbala, signifies oral tradition. The term is used by the Jews and Mahomedans to denote the traditions of their ancestors, or, most commonly, their mystical philosophy.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE IIII.--PAGE 333. "_Tones of the Arabic._"--Frederic II., the grandson of Barbarossa, was successively the pupil, the enemy, and the victim of the church. At the age of twenty one years, in obedience to his guardian, Innocent III., he assumed the cross; the same promise was repeated at his royal and imperial coronations, and his marriage with the heiress of Jerusalem forever bound him to defend the kingdom of his son Conrad. For suspending his vow, Frederic was excommunicated by Gregory IX.; for presuming the next year, to accomplish his vow, he was again excommunicated by the same pope. He was well formed, of a fair and fine complexion, and a gentle and kind expression of the eye and mouth. He was brave, bold, and generous, and possessed great talents, highly cultivated. He understood all the languages of his subjects--Greek, Latin, Italian, German, French and _Arabic_. He was severe and passionate, mild or liberal, as circumstances required; gay, cheerful, and lively, as his feelings dictated. He was a noted Freethinker, and regarded men of all religions with equal favor. NOTE JJJJ.--PAGE 346. "_Opened Negotiations with the Sultan of Egypt._"--Frederic signed a treaty with Camel, which more effectually promoted the object of the Holy Wars than the efforts of any former sovereign. For ten years the Christians and Mussulmans were to live upon terms of brotherhood. Jerusalem, Jaffa, Bethlehem, Nazareth, and their appendages, and the Holy Sepulchre, were restored to the Christians. NOTE KKKK.--PAGE 348. "_Simon de Montfort._"--The family of Montforts seems to have been fiercely ambitious. They trace their origin to "Charlemagne." Simon de Montfort, the true leader of the war against the Albigeois was a veteran of the crusades, hardened in the unsparing battles of the Templars and the Assassins. On his return from the Holy Land he engaged in this bloody crusade, in the South of France. His second son seeking in England the fortune which he had missed in France, fought on the side of the English commons, and threw open to them the doors of Parliament. After having had both king and kingdom in his power, he was overcome and slain. His son (grandson of the celebrated Montfort, who was the chief in the crusade against the Albigeois) avenged him by murdering in Italy, at the foot of the altar, the nephew of the king of England, who was returning from the Holy Land. This deed ruined the Montforts. Ever after they were looked upon with _horror and detestation_.--_Michelet._ NOTE LLLL.--PAGE 351. "_Richard of Cornwall_," in the spring of the year 1240, embarked for the crusade. The Christian name of the Earl of Cornwall alarmed the Saracens. The very word Richard was dreaded in Syria; so great was the terror which Coeur de Lion had spread. NOTE MMMM.--PAGE 351. "_Greek Fire._"--This was invented in the 7th century. When the Arabs besieged Constantinople, a Greek architect deserted from the Caliph to the Greeks, and took with him a composition, which by its wonderful effects, struck terror into the enemy, and forced them to take flight. Sometimes it was wrapped in flax attached to arrows and javelins, and so thrown into the fortifications and other buildings of the enemy to set them on fire. At other times it was used in throwing stone balls from iron or metallic tubes against the enemy. The use of this fire continued at least until the end of the 13th century, but no contemporary writer has handed down to us any accurate account of its composition. NOTE NNNN.--PAGE 351. "_King Louis._"--The superstition of a French king, and the successes of the savage Korasmians, gave birth to the seventh crusade. One night during the Christmas festival (A.D. 1245), Louis caused magnificent crosses, fabricated by goldsmiths, to be sown on the new dresses, which, as usual upon such occasions, had been bestowed upon the courtiers. The next day the cavaliers were surprised at the religious ornaments which had been affixed to their cloaks; but piety and loyalty combined to prevent them from renouncing the honors which had been thrust upon them. NOTE OOOO.--PAGE 351. "_Statutes of Oxford._"--The English barons assembled at Oxford, on the 11th of June, 1258, and obliged the king and his eldest son, then eighteen years of age, to agree to a treaty by which twenty-four of their own body, at the head of whom was De Montfort, had authority given them to reform all abuses.--_History of England._ NOTE PPPP.--PAGE 355. "_Mamelukes._"--Slaves from the Caucasian countries, who, from menial offices, were advanced to the dignities of state. They did not, however, form a separate body; but when Genghis Khan made himself master of the greatest part of Asia, in the thirteenth century, and carried vast numbers of the inhabitants into slavery, the Sultan of Egypt bought twelve thousand of them, and had them instructed in military exercises, and formed a regular corps of them. They soon exhibited a spirit of insubordination and rebellion, and in 1254 appointed one of their own number Sultan of Egypt. Their dominion continued two hundred and sixty-three years.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE QQQQ.--PAGE 355. "_Damascus Steel._"--Damascus was celebrated in the middle ages for the manufacture of sabres, of such peculiar quality as to be perfectly elastic and very hard. NOTE RRRR.--PAGE 358. "_Eva Strongbow._"--Dermot, King of Leinster, formed a treaty with Pritchard, surnamed Strongbow, earl of Strigul. This nobleman who was of the illustrious house of Clare, had impaired his fortune by expensive pleasures, and being ready for any desperate undertaking, he promised assistance to Dermot on condition that he should espouse Eva, daughter of that prince, and be declared heir to all his dominions.--_Hume's History of England._ NOTE SSSS.--PAGE 362. "_Queen Gold._"--One great cause of the queen's unpopularity in London originated from the unprincipled manner in which she exercised her influence to compel all vessels freighted with corn, wool, or any peculiarly valuable cargo, to unlade at her hithe, or quay, called Queen-hithe, because at that port the dues which formed a part of the revenues of the queens-consort of England, and the tolls, were paid according to the value of the lading. In order to annoy the citizens of London, Henry, during the disputes regarding the queen's gold, revived the old Saxon custom of convening folkmotes which was in reality the founding the House of Commons.--_Queens of England._ NOTE TTTT.--PAGE 365. "_Holy crown of Thorns._"--This inestimable relic was borne in triumph through Paris by Louis himself--barefoot and in his shirt, and a free gift of ten thousand marks reconciled the emperor, Baldwin de Courtenay, to his loss. The success of this transaction tempted him to send to the king a large and authentic portion of the true cross, the baby linen of the Son of God, the lance, the sponge, and the chain of his Passion.--_Gibbon_, vol. vi. p. 122. NOTE UUUU.--PAGE 367. "_Lay concealed._"--During the captivity of her husband and son, it is asserted that Eleanor, of Provence, made more than one private visit to England, but she ostensibly resided in France with her younger children, under the kind protection of her sister, Queen Marguerite. Robert, of Gloucester said that she was _espy_ in the land for the purpose of liberating her brave son.--_Queens of England._ NOTE VVVV.--PAGE 373. "_Shouts of pursuers._"--Lady Maud Mortimer having sent her instructions to Prince Edward, he made his escape by riding races with his attendants till he had tired their horses, when he rode up to a thicket where dame Maud had ambushed a swift steed. Mounting his gallant courser, Edward turned to his guard, and bade them "commend him to his sire the king, and tell him he would soon be at liberty," and then galloped off; while an armed party appeared on the opposite hill, a mile distant, and displayed the banner of Mortimer.--_Queens of England._ NOTE WWWW.--PAGE 386. When the Old Man rode forth, he was preceded by a crier who bore a Danish axe with a long handle, all covered with silver, and stuck full of daggers, who proclaimed, "Turn from before him who bears the death of kings in his hands."--_Joinville_, p. 97. NOTE XXXX.--PAGE 387. "_Fedavis._"--Henri, Count of Champagne, visiting the grand-prior of the Assassins, the latter led him up a lofty tower, at each battlement of which stood two fedavis (devotees). On a sign from him, two of these sentinels flung themselves from the top of the tower. "If you wish it," he said to the count, "all these men shall do the same."--_Michelet._ NOTE YYYY.--PAGE 390. "_Loving lips._"--"It is storied," says Fuller, "how Eleanor, his lady, sucked all the poison out of his wounds without doing any harm to herself. So sovereign a remedy is a woman's tongue, anointed with the virtue of a loving affection. Pity it is that so pretty a story should not be true (with all the miracles in love's legends); and sure he shall get himself no credit, who undertaketh to confute a passage so sounding to the honor of the sex." NOTE ZZZZ.--PAGE 406. "_Earl of Devon._"--The Courtenays derive their ancestry from "Louis the Fat." Beside the branch that was established upon the throne of Constantinople, a part of the family settled in England, and twelve Earls of Devonshire of the name of Courtenay were ranked among the chief barons of the realm, for a period of more than two hundred years. By sea and land they fought under the standard of the Edwards and Henrys. Their names are conspicuous in battles, in tournaments, and in the original list of the Order of the Garter; three brothers shared the Spanish victory of the Black Prince. One, the favorite of Henry the Eighth, in the Camp of the Cloth of Gold broke a lance against the French monarch. Another lived a prisoner in the Tower, and the secret love of Queen Mary, whom he slighted perhaps for the princess Elizabeth, and his exile at Padua, has shed a romantic interest on the annals of the race.--_Gibbon's Rome._ NOTE AAAAA.--PAGE 407. "_Merlin._"--Merlin Ambrose, a British writer who flourished about the latter end of the fifth century. The accounts we have of him are so mixed up with fiction, that to disentangle his real life from the mass would be impossible. He was the greatest sage and mathematician of his time, the counsellor and friend of five English kings, Voltigern, Ambrosius, Uther, Pendragon, and Arthur. He uttered many prophecies respecting the future state of England.--_Encyclopedia._ NOTE BBBBB.--PAGE 408. "_Unjust Aspersion._"--When Leicester brought his newly-wedded wife, the king's sister, to pay his devoir to Eleanor of Provence, he was received with a burst of fury by Henry, who called him the seducer of his sister, and an excommunicated man, and ordered his attendants to turn him out of the palace. Leicester endeavored to remonstrate, but Henry would not hear him, and he was expelled, weeping with rage, and vowing vengeance against the young queen, to whose influence he attributed this reverse.--_Queens of England._ NOTE CCCCC.--PAGE 416. "_Daughter of Elin de Montfort._"--The first mischance that befell the Welsh was the capture of the bride of Llewellyn, coming from France. The young damsel, though the daughter of Simon de Montfort, Edward's mortal foe whom he had slain in battle, was at the same time, the child of his aunt, Eleanor Plantagenet. He received her with the courtesy of a kinsman, and consigned her to the gentle keeping of his queen, with whom she resided at Windsor Castle. The fair bride of Llewellyn died after bringing him a living daughter. This daughter whose name was Guendolin, was brought to Edward a captive in her cradle; she was reared and professed a nun in the convent with her cousin Glades, only daughter of Prince David.--_Queens of England._ NOTE DDDDD.--PAGE 421. "_I would have taught him._"--Alphonso, tenth King of Castile who flourished in the 18th century. When contemplating the doctrine of the epicycles, exclaimed, "Were the universe thus constructed, if the deity had called me to his councils at the creation of the world, I would have given him good advice." He did not however mean any impiety or irreverence, except what was directed against the system of Ptolemy. NOTE EEEEE.--PAGE 425. "_Motley courtiers._"--Alphonso was not in good repute with his people, either as a Spaniard or a Christian. A great clerk, devoted to the evil sciences of Alchemy and Astrology, he was ever closeted with his Jews, to make spurious money or spurious laws--adulterating the Gothic laws by a mixture of the Roman.--_Michelet's France._ NOTE FFFFF.--PAGE 423. "_Raymond Lullius._"--A story is told of this famous alchemist, that during his stay in London, he changed for King Edward I., a mass of 50,000 pounds of quicksilver into gold, of which the first _rose nobles_ were coined. NOTE GGGGG.--PAGE 433. "_Everywhere well received._"--The Mendicants strayed everywhere--begged, lived on little, and were everywhere well received. Subtle, eloquent, and able men, they discharged a multiplicity of worldly commissions with discretion. Europe was filled with their activity. Messengers, preachers, and at times diplomatists, they were then what the post and press now are.--_Michelet's France._ NOTE HHHHH.--PAGE 435. "_Slipped a ring._"--Procida offered the ambitious Peter of Arragon, the crown of Sicily, which that monarch might justly claim by his marriage with the daughter of Mainfroy, and by the dying voice of Conradin, who from the scaffold had cast a ring to his heir and avenger.--_Gibbon._ NOTE IIIII.--PAGE 437. "_Friar Bacon._"--Though an extraordinary man, could not entirely free himself from the prejudices of his times. He believed in the philosopher's stone, and in astrology. There are to be found in his writings new and ingenious views on optics, on the refraction of light on the apparent magnitudes of objects, on the magnified appearance of the sun and moon when in the horizon. He also states that thunder and lightning could be imitated by means of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal. Hence he had already an idea of gunpowder. NOTE JJJJJ.--PAGE 440. "_Albertus Magnus._"--During the year 1280, died the celebrated Albert the Great, of the Order of Preaching Friars, less known as a monk than a magician. The prodigious diversity of his learning, and the taste which he had for experiments in alchemy, which he himself called magical operations, caused a superhuman power to be attributed to him. Besides the automaton which St. Thomas de Aquinas, his disciple, broke with a club, it is affirmed that Albert entertained William, Count of Holland, at a miraculous banquet in the garden of his cloister and that though it was in the _depth of winter_, the trees appeared as in spring, covered with flowers and leaves, which vanished as if by enchantment, after the repast.--_History of the Popes._ NOTE KKKKK.--PAGE 446. "_I was anxious._"--This passage is quoted from Falcando, an Italian historian of the twelfth century. NOTE LLLLL.--PAGE 449. "_Shepherd of Cotswold._"--To Eleanora, is due the credit of introducing the Spanish breed of sheep into England. NOTE MMMMM.--PAGE 452. "_Red stockings._"--According to Michelet, Procida influenced the pope to sign the treaty with the Greek Emperor, by repeating the insulting allusion of Charles to the purple buskins worn by the pontiff. NOTE NNNNN.--PAGE 453. "_Easter Monday, 1282._"--The intelligent readers of history will observe an anachronism in placing the Sicilian vespers after the Welsh war. They will also discover a mistake in representing Alphonse as the rival of Conrad, rather than of Rodolph, of Hapsburg, for the crown of the German empire. NOTE OOOOO.--PAGE 454. "_Rescued._"--Constance of Arragon, fortunately arrived in time to prevent the Sicilians, from putting Charles the Lame to death. She carried him off from Messina in the night and sent him to Spain. When Charles of Arragon was informed of the defeat of his troops, and the captivity of his son, he fell as though struck down by a thunderbolt, and succeeding attacks of epilepsy carried him to the tomb in a few months. Through the mediation of Edward, Charles the Lame, surrendered to Alphonse of Arragon, all claims to the crown of Sicily, and thus gained his liberty. He reigned over Provence in right of his mother, and was the progenitor of Margaret of Anjou. 
41549	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals. Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error. [=] combined with a letter, example [=a], indicates a macron over the letter. * * * * * "GOD WILLS IT" [Illustration: logo] [Illustration: "IN A TWINKLING RICHARD WAS AT THE HEAD OF THE RAGING BRUTE"] "GOD WILLS IT!" A Tale of the First Crusade BY WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS AUTHOR OF "A FRIEND OF CÆSAR" WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOUIS BETTS _"Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens."_ --HEBREWS xi. 33, 34. New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1901 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. _Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood, Mass., U.S.A._ To my long-time Friend ARTHUR WASHBURN I DEDICATE THIS TALE OF THE DAYS OF FAITH PREFACE The First Crusade was the sacrifice of France for the sins of the Dark Ages. Alone of all the Crusades it succeeded, despite its surrender of countless lives. No Richard of England, no St. Louis led; its heroes were the nobles and peasants of France and Norman Italy, who endured a thousand perils and hewed their victorious way to Jerusalem. In this Crusade united Feudalism and Papacy won their greatest triumph. Notwithstanding the self-seeking of a few, the mass of the Crusaders were true to their profession,--they sought no worldly gain, but to wash out their sins in infidel blood. In this Crusade also the alien civilizations of Christendom and Islam were brought into a dramatic collision which has few historic counterparts. Except in Scott's "Count Robert of Paris," which deals wholly with the Constantinople episode, I believe the First Crusade has not been interpreted in fiction. Possibly, therefore, the present book may have a slight value, as seeking to tell the story of the greatest event of a great age. I have sometimes used modern spellings instead of unfamiliar eleventh-century names. The Crusade chronicles often contradict one another, and once or twice I have taken trifling liberties. To Mr. S. S. Drury and Mr. Charles Hill, University friends who have rendered kind aid on several historical details, I owe many thanks. W. S. D. HARVARD UNIVERSITY. CONTENTS PROLOGUE PAGE HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE CRY 1 CHAPTER I. HOW BARON WILLIAM SALLIED FORTH 13 II. HOW RICHARD WON THREE FRIENDS 24 III. HOW RICHARD WON A BROTHER 37 IV. HOW RICHARD WENT TO PALERMO 46 V. HOW RICHARD WON TWO FOES 53 VI. HOW ROLLO MET INSULT 64 VII. HOW DE VALMONT SENT HIS GAGE 74 VIII. HOW IFTIKHAR SPED A VAIN ARROW 81 IX. HOW TRENCHEFER DROVE HOME 94 X. HOW IFTIKHAR SAID FAREWELL TO SICILY 113 XI. HOW RICHARD FARED TO AUVERGNE 121 XII. HOW RICHARD CAME TO ST. JULIEN 127 XIII. HOW RICHARD SINNED AGAINST HEAVEN 138 XIV. HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED 148 XV. HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX 158 XVI. HOW LADY IDE FORGAVE RICHARD 168 XVII. HOW RICHARD SAW PETER THE HERMIT 179 XVIII. HOW RICHARD MET GODFREY OF BOUILLON 187 XIX. HOW RICHARD TOOK THE CROSS 195 XX. HOW RICHARD RECEIVED GREAT MERCY 206 XXI. HOW RICHARD RETURNED TO LA HAYE 214 XXII. HOW RICHARD PARTED WITH HIS BROTHER 224 XXIII. HOW IFTIKHAR'S MESSENGER RETURNED 235 XXIV. HOW THEY SLEW THE FIRST INFIDEL 247 XXV. HOW DUKE GODFREY SAVED THE DAY 258 XXVI. HOW RICHARD WAS AGAIN CHASTENED 272 XXVII. HOW THE ARMY CAME TO ANTIOCH 283 XXVIII. HOW RICHARD REGAINED HIS BROTHER 293 XXIX. HOW IFTIKHAR BORE HOME HIS PRIZE 302 XXX. HOW THERE WAS FESTIVAL AT ALEPPO 315 XXXI. HOW MARY REDEEMED HER SOUL 328 XXXII. HOW MORGIANA PROFFERED TWO CUPS 341 XXXIII. HOW EYBEK TURNED GRAY 354 XXXIV. HOW MUSA PRACTISED MAGIC 367 XXXV. HOW RICHARD HEARD A SONG 381 XXXVI. HOW THE ISMAELIANS SAW TRENCHEFER 402 XXXVII. HOW ROLLO CARRIED WEIGHT 415 XXXVIII. HOW RICHARD AND MUSA AGAIN PARTED 428 XXXIX. HOW PETER BARTHELMY HAD A DREAM 444 XL. HOW THE HOLY LANCE WAS FOUND 457 XLI. HOW LIGHT SMOTE DARKNESS 472 XLII. HOW MORGIANA WOUND HER LAST SPELL 483 XLIII. HOW THE ARMY SAW JERUSALEM 489 XLIV. HOW MORGIANA BROUGHT WARNING 499 XLV. HOW RICHARD HAD SPEECH WITH MUSA 510 XLVI. HOW IFTIKHAR CEASED FROM TROUBLING 522 XLVII. HOW TRENCHEFER WAS BROKEN 535 XLVIII. HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE 546 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute" 16 "The cup trembled, as at the very thought she shuddered" 40 "The lad lay with his bright locks in a crimson pool" 146 "'How may I lift eyes to you when I belong to the cause of Christ?'" 222 "Iftikhar took from the seat a little lute, touched the strings, and sang" 327 "All blindly, he knew they were mounting stairways" 401 "And in his hand the rusted head of a lance" 462 "The infidel gave way" 542 GOD WILLS IT! PROLOGUE HOW HILDEBRAND GAVE A BATTLE CRY High noon in Italy. Without, a hot sun, a blue bay, a slow sea-breeze; within, a vaulted chamber, bare stone walls, a few blazoned pennons upon the pillars, here and there pictured tapestries, where one might see many a merry tourney and passage-at-arms. Very gentle were the footfalls, though the room was not empty: the whispers were so low that the droning buzz of a bee, which had stolen in at the narrow window, sounded loud as a mill wheel. There were a score of persons in the chamber: tonsured priests in white stoles, and monks in black cassocks; knights in silvered hauberks; a white-robed Moor with the eyes of a falcon and the teeth of a cat; and a young lad, Richard, son of Sir William the castellan, a shy boy of twelve, who sat upon the stone window seat, blinking his great eyes and wondering what it all might mean. No eye rested on the lad: the company had thought only for one object,--a figure that turned wearily on the velvet pillows, half raised itself, sank once more. Then came a thin voice, gentle as a woman's:-- "Abd Rahman, come: feel my wrist, and do not fear to speak the truth." The Moor at the foot of the bed rose from the rushes whereon he had been squatting; stole noiselessly to the sick man's side. From the arch of the vault above dangled a silver ball. The Moor smote the ball, and with his eye counted the slow vibrations while his hand held the wrist. Even the vagrant bee stopped humming while the sphere swung to and fro for a long minute. Then without a word Abd Rahman crept to a low table where a lamp was heating a silver vial, and on which other vials and spoons were lying. He turned the warm red elixir into a spoon, and brought it to the dying man. There was a rush of color to the pallid cheeks, with a striving to rise from the pillow; but the Moor again held his wrist. Another long silence,--then the question from the bed:-- "Do not hesitate. Is it near the end?" Abd Rahman salaamed until his turban touched the rushes. "Sheik Gregorius, all life save Allah's is mortal," said he in mongrel Latin. At the words, there ran a shiver and sobbing through all the company; the priests were kissing their crucifixes; the monks were on their knees,--and had begun to mutter _Agnus Dei, qui tolles peccata mundi, miserere nobis!_ The sufferer's voice checked them. "Sweet children, what is this? Sorrow? Tears? Rather should you not rejoice that God has remembered my long travail, and opens wide the doorway to the dwellings of His rest?" But the answer was renewed sobbing. Only Abd Rahman crouched impassive. To him death was death, for Nubian slave or lordly Kalif. "Draw nearer, dear brothers, my children in Christ," came the voice from the bed. "Let me see your faces; my sight grows dim. The end is not far." So they stood close by, those prelates and knights of the stout Norman fortress city of Salerno, on that five-and-twentieth of May, in the year of grace one thousand and eighty-five. None spoke. Each muttered his own prayer, and looked upon the face of the dying. As they stood, the sun dropped a beam athwart the pillows, and lit up the sick man's face. It was a pale, thin, wasted face, the eyelids half drooping, the eyes now lack-lustre, now touched by fretful and feverish fire; the scanty gray hair tonsured, the shaven lips drawn tensely, so wan that the blue veins showed, as they did through the delicate hands at rest on the coverings. Yet the onlookers saw a majesty more than royal in that wan face; for before them lay the "Servant of the Servants of God." They looked upon Gregory VII, christened Hildebrand, heir of St. Peter, Vicar of Christ, before whom the imperial successor of Charlemagne and Cæsar had knelt as suppliant and vassal. The silence was again waxing long. "Dear children," said the dying Pope, "have you no word for me before I go?" Whereupon the lordliest prelate of them all, the Archbishop of Salerno, fell on his knees, and cried aloud:-- "Oh, _Sanctissime_! how can we endure when you are reft from us? Shall we not be unshepherded sheep amongst ravening wolves; forsaken to the devices of Satan! Oh, Father, if indeed you are the Vicar of Our Lord, beg that He will spare us this loss; and even now He will lengthen out your days, as God rewarded the good Hezekiah, and you will be restored to us and to Holy Church!" But there was a weary smile upon Gregory's pale face. "No, my brother, be not afraid. I go to the visible presence of Our Lord: before His very throne I will commend you all to His mercy." Then the dim eyes wandered round the room. "Where is Odon? Where is Odon, Bishop of Ostia? Not here?--" "_Beatissime_" said old Desidarius, Abbot of Monte Casino, "we have sent urgent messages to Capua, bidding him come with speed." A wistful shadow passed across the face of Gregory. "I pray God I may give him my blessing before I die." He coughed violently; another vial of Abd Rahman's elixir quieted him, but even the imperturbable face of the Moor told that the medicine could profit little. "Let us partake of the body and blood of Our Lord," said Gregory; and the priests brought in a golden chalice and gilded pyx, containing the holy mysteries. They chanted the _Gloria Patri_ with trembling voices; the archbishop knelt at the bedside, proffering the pyx. But at that instant the lad, Richard, as he sat and wondered, saw the Pope's waxen face flush dark; he saw the thin hands crush the coverings into folds, and put by the elements. "I forget; I am first the Vicar of Christ; second, Hildebrand, the sinner. I have yet one duty before I can stand at God's judgment seat." The archbishop rose to his feet, and the holy vessel quaked in his hand; for he saw on the brow of Gregory the black clouds, foretelling the stroke of the lightning. "What is your command, _Sanctissime_?" he faltered. And the Pope answered, lifting himself unaided:-- "Speak! how has God dealt with the foes of Holy Church and His Vicegerent? Has He abased Guibert of Ravenna, the Antipope, very Antichrist? Has he humbled Henry, the German, Antichrist's friend?" The voice was strong now; it thrilled through the vaulted chamber like the roar of the wind that runs herald to the thunders. And Desidarius answered feebly: "Holy Father, it is written, 'He that is unjust let him be unjust still.' Guibert the Antipope, who blasphemes, calling himself Clement the Third, still lords it in the city of Peter; in Germany Henry the accursed is suffered to prosper for yet a little season." Whereupon Richard saw a terrible thing. The face of the Pope flushed with an awful fury; he sat upright in the bed, his eyes darting fire, and night on his forehead. Abd Rahman rose to quiet him--one glance thrust the Moor back. None seconded. The Pope was still Pope; his were the keys of heaven and hell,--perdition to deny! And now he spoke in harsh command, as if handing down the doom of kingdoms, as indeed he did. "Hearken, bishops and prelates! I, Gregory, standing at the judgment seat of God, am yet the Vicar of Christ. Of me it is said, 'Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven;' and let my last act on this sinful earth be this--to devote to the devil and his angels the souls of Henry, king of the Germans, who vaunts the name of emperor, and Guibert, whose sin shall be forgiven never, for he is Antichrist." The pontiff gasped for breath; his voice sounded again. "Take vellum, and write the formula of the greater excommunication against the two accursed. Make haste: for all the rest of the world I will forgive, but they shall be parched forever. Then let me, like Pope Zacharias, sign the anathema with the very blood of Our Lord. Haste; for the time grows short." They obeyed like mute slaves. Richard saw a priest's pen racing over the parchment, and shivered to his young self; for two of the world's highest were being handed over to eternal torment. The Pope still sat. In his eye flashed a fire born of passion passing reason. "Yes," he ran on. "I am the son of the carpenter of Saona, the poor monk at St. Mary of the Aventine. Yet I have been set above kings. At Canossa the prince of this world has knelt at my feet, confessing his imperial majesty lesser than mine. I have made and unmade kings; I have raised up and pulled down; and the holy bride of Christ shall come unblemished to her marriage. The Church--the Church--shall wax forever; and this has been the work of my hands!" The Pope raved,--all knew it,--but who should say him nay? Still he stormed on in his passion: "They have driven me to exile, but mine is the victory. I die, but the Church advances to triumph! Kingdoms fall,--the Church is established. The earth passes away,--the Church sits down to the marriage supper with the Lamb: for the gates of hell shall not prevail against her!" Gregory saw the priest lift his eyes from the writing-desk. "Is it written?" "It is written, Holy Father." "Bring it to me, and bring the chalice and the pen; for I will sign." The archbishop brought the vellum and the holy cup, and knelt at the bedside; and others had brought lighted candles, twelve in number, each held by a prelate or priest who stood in semicircle about the bed. Then while they chanted the great psalm of wrath, they heard the bell of the castle tolling,--tolling,--not for the death of the body, but for the more grievous death of the soul. "_In consummatione, in ira consummationis_"--"Consume them, in wrath consume them," swelled the terrible chant. "Give me the crucifix," commanded Gregory. Desidarius placed one of silver in his hand. A priest at either side bore him up from the bed. Softly, but solemnly as the Judge of the last Great Day, Gregory read the major anathema:-- "I, Gregory, Servant of the Servants of God, to whom is given all power in heaven, on earth, and in hell, do pronounce you, Henry, false Emperor, and you, Guibert, false Pope, anathematized, excommunicate, damned! Accursed in heaven and on earth,--may the pains of hell follow you forever! Cursed be you in your food and your possessions, from the dog that barks for you to the cock that crows for you! May you wax blind; may your hands wither; like Dathan and Abiram, may hell swallow you up quick; like Ananias and Sapphira, may you receive an ass's burial! May your lot be that of Judas in the land of shades! May these maledictions echo about you through the ages of ages!" And at these words the priests cast down their candles, treading them out, all crying: "Amen and amen! So let God quench all who contemn the Vicar of Christ." Then in a silence so tense that Richard felt his very eyeballs beating, Gregory dipped in the chalice, and bent over the roll. The lad heard the tip of the pen touch the vellum,--but the words were never written.... Darkening the doorway was a figure, leaning upon a crooked staff; in the right hand a withered palm branch,--the gaze fixed straight upon the Vicegerent of God. And Gregory, as he glanced upward, saw,--gave a cry and sigh in one breath; then every eye fastened upon the newcomer, who without a word advanced with soft gliding step to the foot of the bed, and looked upon the Pope. None addressed him, for he was as it were a prophet, a Samuel called up from his long rest to disclose the mysteries hid to human ken. The strange visitor was of no great height; fasting and hardship had worn him almost to a skeleton. From under his dust-soiled pilgrim's coat could be seen the long arms, with the skin sun-dried, shrivelled. Over his breast and broad shoulders streamed the snow-white hair and beard. Beneath the shaggy brows, within deep sockets, were eyes, large, dark, fiery, that held the onlooker captive against his will. The pilgrim's nose seemed like the beak of a hawk, his fingers like dry talons. And all looked and grew afraid, for he was as one who had wrestled with the glamour and sin of the world for long, and had been more than victor. Pope and pilgrim gazed upon each other: first spoke Hildebrand:-- "Sebastian, my brother-monk!" "Hildebrand, my fellow at St. Mary's!" Then the apparition fell on his knees, saying humbly:-- "And will not the Pope bless Sebastian the palmer from Jerusalem?" What the pontiff replied was lost to all about; then louder he spoke:-- "And has Sebastian the palmer forgotten his love for Hildebrand the monk, when he reverences the Vicar of Christ?" But the stranger arose. "I kneel, adoring Gregory, Vicegerent of God: I stand to lay bare to Hildebrand, the man, his mortal sin." A thrill of horror ran through all the churchmen, and the archbishop whispered darkly to Desidarius, but the Pope reproved:-- "And I implore the prayers of Sebastian, a more righteous man than I; let him speak, and all Christians honor him." So they stood. The palmer drew close to the bedside, pointing into the pontiff's face a finger bare as that of one long in the grave. "Listen, Hildebrand of Saona! I am come from my pilgrimage to the tomb of our dear Lord. I have come hither to fall at your feet, to bid you remember the captivity of the city of Christ, and His sorrow at the wrong done Him through His little ones. I come to find the Vicar of Christ like the meanest of humankind, nigh to death, and preparing to stand naked at God's tribunal. I find him not forgiving his enemies, but devoting to hell. I find him going before God, his last breath a curse--" But the Pope was writhing in agony. "Not this, my brother, my brother," rang his plea. "O Sebastian, holier man than I," and he strove to turn from the palmer's terrible gaze, but could not. "Not in my own wrath and hatred do I this. Henry and Guibert blaspheme Christ and His church, not me. Did I not freely forgive Censius the brigand, who sought my life? Have I ever been a worldly prelate, whose cellars are full of wines, whose castles abound with plate and falcons and chargers? Has simony or uncleanness ever justly been laid at my door? Not so, not so,--I am innocent." But Sebastian never wavered. "You and I were fellow-monks at St. Mary's, friends, as one soul dwelling in two bodies. But the pleasure of God led us wide apart; you became maker of popes, very Pope--I remained a simple monk; for our Lord spared me the burdens of greatness. Now for the third time I have been to the tomb of Christ, to plead pardon for my many sins and I bring from Palestine treasures more precious than gold." The whole company was about the palmer when he drew forth a little packet. "See--the finger-bone of the blessed St. Jerome; this flask is filled with water of Jordan; this dust my poor hands gathered at the Holy Sepulchre." And now all bowed very low. "This splinter is of that wood whereon the price of all our sins was paid." Hildebrand took the last relic, kissed it, placed it in his bosom lovingly. Then came the slow question. "And are the Eastern Christians still persecuted, the pilgrims outraged, the sacred places polluted?" "Look, _Sanctissime_" was the answer, tinged half with bitterness and scorn; and Sebastian bared his arm, showing upon it a ring of scarce healed scars. "These are tokens of the tortures I endured by command of the Emir of Jerusalem, when I rejoiced to be counted worthy to suffer for Christ's dear sake." "Wounds of Our Lord!" cried the archbishop on his knees, "we are unworthy to wash the feet of such as you!" "No," replied the palmer. "It was but merciful chastening. Yet my heart burns when I behold Christians cursing and slaying one another, while so many infidels rage unslain and the Holy City mourns their captive. Therefore I stand here, _Sanctissime_, to reproach you for your sin." Again Gregory broke forth: "Unjust Sebastian, eleven years since I pleaded with King Henry, setting forth the miseries of Jerusalem; ever has my soul been torn for her captivity. Did I not profess myself ready to lead over land and sea to the Holy Sepulchre? Then the devil stirred Henry to his onslaught on the Church, and God has opened no door for this righteous warfare." Sebastian leaned over, speaking into the Pope's face. "You have put your hand to the plough and looked back. You promised Michael Ducas the Greek aid against the Turks. You anathematized him for heresy. You wrote of holy war. War blazed forth in Saxony, where your underling, Rudolf of Swabia, slew his fellow-Christians with your blessing, while Christ's children in the East were perishing. You called to Rome Robert Guiscard, that man of sin, whose half-paynim army spared neither nun nor matron in its violence when it sacked, and led thousands of Roman captives to endless bondage in Calabria. Where then your anathemas? You cared more for humiliating Cæsar than for removing the humiliation of Christ. Therefore I reproach." There were great beads of sweat on the Pope's forehead; he was panting in agony; again and again the splinter of the cross was pressed to his breast, as if the very touch would quench the raging flame within. "_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!_" he was repeating. Next he spoke aloud: "Sweet friends, bear witness,--all my life I have loved righteousness and hated iniquity; therefore, in exile, here at Salerno, I die. Yet our old enemy, Satan, has been too strong. I am a very sinful man, thinking too much of the glory of Peter, too little of the sorrow of Christ. Pray for me,--for Hildebrand, chief of sinners; for Gregory the Pope is nigh his end." When the pontiff's breath failed, there were again shadows in the doorway, and two figures entered treading softly; the one a tall and handsome churchman, in a high prelate's dress, the second a cavalier, not tall, but mighty of limb and shoulder, the jewels flashing on his baldric, the gold spurs at his heels. The warrior threw back his helm, and all saw the long, fair beard, the steel-blue eyes, the mien of high command. "Odon, Cardinal of Ostia, my dear son!" cried the fainting Pope, as the prelate knelt at the bedside, beseeching the blessing. "But--you?" and he wondered, looking upon the knight. The other bowed his head. "Holy Father," said he, in the tongue of northern France, "do you not know me? I have greatly sinned: I have fought with Henry against Holy Church. I repent; assign any penance--for from Rome I have come, seeking absolution at the hands of the true Vicar of Christ." "And you are--?" came from Hildebrand's thin lips. "Godfrey of Bouillon." And the knight knelt beside the cardinal. The light was again in the Pope's eye. "Fear not," came his words. "As you have been the foe of Holy Church, so now you shall become her champion. Your sins are forgiven; what you shall do, learn hereafter." Another spasm of coughing; Abd Rahman administered his last elixir. All knew the end was very near. But again the pontiff spoke. "I must say farewell, sweet children. Make Desidarius my successor, for he has served Holy Church full long. But he is old, and after him"--his eyes went over to Odon--"you shall sit upon the throne of Peter." The prelate was in tears. "Say it not," he cried. "Unworthy!--Anselm of Lucca, Hugh of Lyons, they are better men than I." "No," said Gregory, gently, "you will succeed in due time, and do not refuse the service of the Lord." Then he turned to Sebastian. "Dear brother, O for ten years of life, five, one! I have been an unfaithful shepherd of my sheep! But God is all wise. Never in this body shall I call the soldiers of the West to arm against the enemies of Christ! Yet--yet--" the voice faltered, steadied again--"the time cometh when God wills it, and you, Odon, shall call forth the warriors of the Cross; and you, O Godfrey,--be this your penance,--you shall lead the host to Jerusalem. And the host shall move victoriously, Frank, German, Italian! The Holy City shall be rescued from her spoilers! And this be your battle cry, against which paynim or devil may not prevail, '_God wills it!_' For what God wills, may no man or archfiend stay!" His voice pealed like a trumpet, like the shout of a dauntless captain leading through the deathly press. All looked on him. When his hands stretched on high, every other hand was outstretched. Nearer they crowded, and the swords of the Norman knights leaped from their scabbards,--there was the clang of mail, the flash of light on bare steel,--highest of all the sword of Godfrey. Hildebrand struggled to rise; Sebastian upbore at one side, Odon at the other. The Pope gazed upward toward the vaulting--seemingly through it--beyond-- "I see the heavens opened," was his cry. "I see horses and chariots; a mighty host; and Michael and all his angels with swords of fire. I see the earth covered with armies innumerable, and red with the carnage of countless battles. I see the great host of those who have shed their blood for Christ, ascending into heaven, with psalms of praise, clothed in white robes, while their comrades below march on to victory." A pause,--a final burst of ecstasy,--"I see the Cross triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem! And all this shall be not now, yet speedily; for so God wills it!" The Pope reeled; Sebastian caught him; they laid him on the bed. Abd Rahman was beside--no need of his skill--a great rush of blood surged from Gregory's lips, one brief spasm--he was dead. "Christians," spoke Sebastian the palmer, "think not the Vicar of Christ has left us unaided in this sacred task. At the throne of God he will pray that our fingers be taught the sword, that we be girded with strength for the battle. And now while his spirit is borne on high by angels, let us take on ourselves the vow of holy war." The lad Richard, whose young wits had been sadly perplexed by all he had seen since at early morn he had been sent to watch in the sick-room, that his weary father the castellan might rest, made as if to glide from the chamber; but Sebastian by a glance recalled. They stood around the bed, looking upon the dead man's face, their arms stretched on high. "We swear it! That soon as the path is plain, we will free Jerusalem. So God wills it!" Thus cried Odon, thus all; but loudest of all Godfrey of Bouillon. Then Sebastian, turning to Richard, said:-- "And you, fair young sir, whom the saints make the sprout of a mighty warrior for Christ--will you vow also?" Whereupon Richard, holding himself very lordly, as became his noble Norman blood, replied with outstretched hand, in right manly fashion:-- "Yes, with St. Maurice's help, I will slay my share of the infidels!" "Amen," quoth Abbot Desidarius, solemnly, "Gregory the Pope is dead in the body, but in the spirit he shall win new victories for Holy Church and for God." CHAPTER I HOW BARON WILLIAM SALLIED FORTH It was early dawn in May, 1094. The glowing sun had just touched the eastern mountains with living fire; the green brakes and long stretches of half-tropical woodland were springing out of the shadow; a thin mist was drifting from the cool valleys; to the north the sea's wide reach was dancing and darkling. Upon a little height overlooking the Sicilian town of Cefalu three men were standing, very unlike in age and dress, yet each with attention fixed on one object,--a white falcon which the youngest of the party had perched on his fist. Two of the men were past the prime of life. Of one, the swarthy countenance, sharp features, bright Oriental dress, ponderous blue turban, and crooked cimeter proclaimed him at once a Moor, undoubtedly a Moslem; the other, taller, thinner than his comrade, wore a coarse, dark mantle; his hood was thrust back, displaying a head crowned with a tight-fitting steel cap, a face stern and tough, as if it were of oxhide, marked almost to deformity by plentiful sword scars. He wore a grizzled gray beard; at his side jangled a heavy sword in battered sheath; and in his hands, which lacked more than one finger, he held a crossbow, the bolts for which swung in a leathern case at his thigh. The two stood by their third companion, who was holding up the falcon on a gold-embroidered glove, while the other hand readjusted the feather-tufted hood over the bird's eyes. "By St. Michael," the young man was declaring, "say to me, Herbert, and you also, Nasr, there was never such a falcon; no, not in all Count Roger's mews." The speaker stood at least a head taller than the others, and they were not short men. He was a strong-limbed fellow of perhaps two-and-twenty; with a face not regular and handsome certainly; the cheek-bones were too high, the features too rugged, the mouth too large for that. But it was an honest, ingenuous face; the brown eyes snapped with lively spirits, and, if need be, with no trifling passion; the mouth was affable; the little brown mustache twisted at a determined curve; and the short dark hair--he was bare-headed--was just curly enough to be unruly. He wore a bleaunt, an undercloak of fine gray cloth, and over this was caught a loose mantle of scarlet woollen,--a bright dress that marked out his figure from afar. The young man had been speaking in Norman French, and his comrade in the steel cap, who answered to the name of Herbert, broke out loudly:-- "Aye, my Lord Richard, there is not such a falcon in all Sicily from Syracuse to Trapani; not such a bird as will strike so huge a crane or heron from so far, and go at the quarry so fearless." And the old man held up a dead crane, as if in proof of his assertion. "I am glad to think it," replied the other, "for I have no small hope that when next I go to Palermo, I may show that haughty Louis De Valmont I know somewhat of hawking, and can breed a bird to outmatch his best." "Allah!" grunted Nasr, the Moor, "the young _Cid_ is right. Never have I seen a better falcon. And he does well to harbor the old grudge against the boisterous De Valmont, who will get his dues if the Most High will! Ha, ha!" And the old rascal began croaking in his throat, thinking he was laughing. Nasr had spoken in Arabic, but his companions understood him well enough; for what tongue was not current in Sicily? The young man's face was clouded, however, as if by no very pleasant recollection; then he burst out:-- "By the Mass, but I will not forget the high words that pompous knight spoke to me. If it be a sin to harbor an enmity, as Sebastian the chaplain says, why then"--and he crossed himself--"I will do penance in due time. But the quarrel must be wiped out first." And he clapped his hand on his sword-hilt to confirm his word. "_Ai!_" muttered Herbert, "the churchmen talk of the days when spears shall be beaten into pruning-hooks--so they say it; but I say, let old Herbert be dead before that time dawns. What is life without its grudges? A good horse, a good sword, a good wife, and a good grudge--what more can an honest man want, be he knight or 'villain'?" Richard yawned and commenced to scratch his head. "Ah!" he commented, "it was very early we rose! I have not yet rubbed the vapors out of my crown. Sir Gerald, the knight travelling from Palermo who lodged with us, was given hospitality in my bed, and we talked of his horses and sweethearts till past midnight. Then Brochart, my best dog, was not content to sleep under the bed, as is his wont, but must needs climb up and lie upon me, and I was too slumberous to roll him off; so I have dreamt of imps and devils all night long." He drew the strap tight that held the falcon to his glove, and led the way down the slope, remarking that since he had tested the new bird thus early, he would not hesitate to display her keenness to his father the Baron, who proposed to ride hawking that day. So they passed down the hill towards Cefalu with its white houses and squat-domed churches spreading out below them, a fair picture to the eye; for the summer sea, flecked by a few fishers' sails, stretched beyond, and the green hills far to either hand. Before them on a sheer eminence rose the battlemented keep of the castle, an ancient Saracenic fortress lately remodelled by the new Norman lords, the dawn falling bright and free on its amber-gray walls, and lending a rich blush to the stately crimson banner that from topmost rampart was trailing to the southern wind. As the three went down the slope they struck the highroad just beyond a little clump of palm trees, and at the turn they ran on a travelling party that was evidently just setting forth from Cefalu. There were several women and priests on palfreys and mules, one or two mounted men-at-arms, and several pack animals; but the centre of the whole party was found in an enormous black horse, who at that instant had flung off his rider, and was tossing his forefeet in the air and raging and stamping as if by a demon possessed. Two stout Lombard serving-men were tugging at his bits, but he was kicking at them viciously, and almost worrying out of their grasp at every plunge. The women were giving little shrieks each time the great horse reared; the priests were crossing themselves and mumbling in Latin; and all their beasts were growing restive. In a twinkling Richard was at the head of the raging brute, and with a mighty grip close to the jaw taught the foaming monster that he felt a master hand. A moment more and the horse was standing quiet and submissive. Richard resigned his hold to a servant, and turned to the strange travellers. A fat man in a prelate's dress, with a frosty red face, was pushing his white mule forward; Richard fell at once on his knees, for he recognized in the churchman My Lord Prelate Robert of Evroult, the Bishop of Messina. The good father was all thanks. "_Dominus vobiscum_, my son; you have subdued a savage beast, to which I, a man of peace and not of war, should never have given harborage in my stables. And who may you be, for I have seen your face before, yet forget the name?" "_Beatissime_, I am Richard Longsword, son of William Longsword, seigneur of this Barony of Cefalu." "A right noble knight you will prove yourself, no doubt," commented the bishop; "when at Palermo do not fail to wait on me." And then, when he had given his blessing, he signed for the cavalcade to proceed. "I thank your episcopal grace," quoth Richard, still very dutifully; and then his eye lit on another of the travellers,--one much more to his liking than the reverend prelate; for a lady sitting on a second white mule had thrust back the yellow veil from before her face, and the Norman caught a glimpse of cheeks red as a rose and white as milk, and two very bright eyes. Only a glimpse; for the lady, the instant he raised his gaze, dropped the veil; but she could not cover up those dark, gleaming eyes. Richly dressed was she, after the fashion of the Greeks, with red ribbons on her neck and a blue silk mantle and riding-hood. Her mule had a saddle of fine, embossed leather, and silver bits. At her side rode an old man in a horse-litter led by foot-boys; he also daintily dressed, and with the handsome, clear-cut features and venerable white beard of a Greek gentleman. The lady had dropped her veil at his warning nod, but now she bent over the mule and half motioned to Richard. "You understand Greek, Sir Frank?" was her question; not in the mongrel Sicilian dialect, but in the stately tongue of Constantinople. In her voice was a little tremor and melody sweet as a springtime brook. The Norman bowed low. "I understand and speak, fair lady," replied he, in her own tongue. "How brave you have been!" cried the Greek, ingenuously; "I feared the raging horse would kill you." Richard shrugged his shoulders and laughed:-- "It is nothing; I know horses as my second self." But the lady shook her head, and made all the red ribbons and bright veil flutter. "I am not wont to be contradicted," said she; "a brave deed, I say. I did not think you Franks so modest." The old man was leaning from the litter. "Let us ride, my daughter," he was commanding. The lady tapped her mule on the neck with the ivory butt of her whip. "Farewell, Sir Frank; St. Theodore keep you, if you make so light of peril!" Richard bowed again in silence. He would not forget those eyes in a day, though he had seen many bright eyes at Count Roger's court. "_Ai_," cried he to his companions, "to the castle, or the hawking begins without us." So they struck a brisk pace, whilst Herbert related how he had heard that the Greek gentleman, though a cripple, had stood high at the court of Constantinople, and that he had come to Cefalu on a Pisan ship a few days before. It was declared he was in exile, having fallen out of the Emperor's favor, and had been waiting at Cefalu until the bishop came up, giving them escort for the land journey to Palermo. "As for the daughter, ah! she is what you have just seen,--more precious than all the relics under a church altar; but her father watches her as if she were made of gold!" "I am vexed," replied the young man. "I did not know this before; it was uncourtly that persons of their rank should lodge in Cefalu, and no one of the castle wait on them." Then because one thought had led to another: "Tell me, Nasr, have you learned anything of that Spanish knight whom they say keeps himself at the country house of Hajib the Kadi? Assuredly he is no true cavalier, or he would not thus churlishly withdraw himself. There are none too many men of spirit here at Cefalu, for me to stick at making acquaintance." Nasr showed his sharp, white teeth. "Yes, I have gained sight of the Spaniard. From the brother-in-law of the cousin of the wife of the steward of the Kadi, I learn that he is called Musa, and is of a great family among the Andalusian Moslems." Richard chuckled at the circuit this bit of news had taken; then pressed:-- "But you have seen him? What is he like?" "If my lord's slave"--Nasr was always respectful--"may speak,--the Spanish knight is a very noble cavalier. I saw him only once, yet my eye tells if a man has the port of a good swordsman and rider. Assuredly this one has, and his eyes are as keen and quick as a shooting star." "Yet he keeps himself very retired about the country house?" "True, _Cid_, yet this, they say, is because he is an exile in Sicily, and even here has fears for his life; so he remains quiet." "Foh!" grunted Richard, "I am weary of quiet men and a quiet life. I will go back to Palermo, and leave my father to eat his dinners and doze over his barony. I have the old grudge with De Valmont to settle, and some high words with Iftikhar, captain of the Saracen guards, will breed into a very pretty quarrel if I am bent on using them. Better ten broils than this sleepy hawking and feasting!" So they crossed the drawbridge, entered the outer walls of the bailey, with its squalid outbuildings, weather-beaten stables, the gray, bare donjon looming up above; and entering a tiny chapel, Richard and Herbert fell on their knees, while a priest--none other than Sebastian, who had stood at Hildebrand's side--chanted through the "_Gloria_" and "_Preface_" But when it came time for the sermon, the baron's two bears, caged in the bailey, drowned the pious prosings with an unholy roar as they fell on one another; and the good cleric cried, "Amen!" that all might run and drag them asunder. There by the cage Richard greeted his father,--a mighty man even in his old age, though his face was hacked and scarred, and showed little of the handsome young cavalier who had stolen the heart of every maid in Rouen. But in his blue Norman eyes still burned the genial fire; his tread was heavy as a charger's, his great frame straight as a plummet; a stroke of his fist could fell a horse, and his flail-like sword was a rush in his fingers. He was smooth-shaven; round his neck strayed a few white locks, all his crown worn bare by the long rubbing of his helmet. One could have learned his rank by the ermine lining on his under-mantle, by the gold plates on his sword belt and samite scabbard; but in a "villain's" dress he would have been known as one of those lordly cavaliers who had carried the Norman name and fame from the Scottish Marches to Thessaly. Father and son embraced almost in bear-fashion, each with a crushing hug. Then Richard must needs kiss his mother, the fair Lady Margaret of Auvergne, sweet and stately in her embroidered bleaunt, with golden circlet on her thick gray-gold hair; after her, Eleanor, a small maiden of sixteen, prim, demure, and very like her mother, with two golden braids that fell before her shoulders almost to her knees; and lastly, Stephen, a slight, dark lad, with a dreamy, contemplative face and an eye for books in place of arrow-heads, whom the family placed great hopes on: should he not be bishop, nay Pope, some bright day, if the saints favored? "Hola, Richard!" cried the Baron, with a spade-like paw on his son's shoulder. "So you made test of the white falcon; does she take quarry?" "A crane large enough to hold a dog at bay!" "Praised be St. Maurice! Come, let us eat, and then to horse and away!" So they feasted in the great hall, the plates and trenchers clattering, enough spiced wine to crack the heads of drinkers less hardened, the busy Norman varlets and Greek serving-maids buzzing to and fro like bees; for who could hawk with hunger under the girdle? A brief feast; and all had scattered right and left to make ready; but not for long. Soon they were again in the court, the Baron, his sons, and Herbert, with Aimeri, the falconer, who had brought out his pride, as fine a half-dozen of goshawks and gerfalcons as might be found in all Sicily. The birds were being strapped fast to each glove, the grooms were leading out the tall palfreys, and the Baron stood with one hand on the pommel of his saddle, ready to dig his spurs and be away, when a mighty clangor arose from the bronze slab hanging by the gate. "By St. Ouen," cried he, in a hot Norman oath, pausing in his spring, "what din is that? I have no mind to put off the hawking to bandy words with some wandering priest who would stop to swill my wine!" But Herbert, the seneschal, had gone to the gate, and came back with his wicked eyes dancing in his head. "Ho! My lord, there will be no hawking to-day!" he was bawling with all his lungs. "Why not, rascal?" growled the Baron; yet he, too, began to sniff an adventure, like a practised war-horse. "These people will make it clear to my lord." And after the seneschal trooped three very dissimilar persons, who all broke out in a breath into howls and cries. The first was a well-fed priest, but with a tattered cassock and a great red welt swelling upon his bare poll; the second, a dark-eyed Greek peasant of the country in a dress also much the worse for wear; and the third, a tall, gaunt old Moor, whose one-time spotless white kaftan and turban were dust-sprinkled and torn. They all cried and bellowed at once, but the priest got out the first coherent word. "Rescue, noble Baron, rescue, for the love of Christ! My master, the Bishop of Messina, is fallen into the hands of the men of Belial, and I, even I, of all his following, am escaped to tell the tale. Rescue--" And here the Greek broke in:-- "Oh! most august Frank, by St. Basil and St. Demetrius, I adjure you, save my sister, whom the pirates have carried away." But the old Moor, with tears in his eyes, knelt and kissed the Baron's very feet. "Oh! fountain of generosity, save my master, for the Berber raiders seek not his ransom, but his life. Rescue, O champion of the innocent!" "By the splendor of God!" roared the Baron, with a great oath, "I make nothing of all this wind. What mean they, Herbert?" And the seneschal, who stood by all alert, replied curtly: "I gather, Moorish pirates have landed below the town toward Lascari to kill or kidnap the Spanish knight who dwells with Hajib the Kadi; and doubtless the Bishop of Messina and his company have fallen into their hands while passing along the road. It may be, my lord,"--and the sly fellow winked, as if the hint would be needed,--"that if we ride forth, we may nip them before they regain the ship. The Kadi's villa is far inland." Baron William was no man of words when deeds were needed. In a trice he had clapped to his mouth the great olifant--the ivory horn that dangled at his baldric, and its notes rang out sharp and clear. Twice he wound a mighty blast; and almost before the last peal died away the castle was transformed. The Norman men-at-arms, dozing and dicing in the great hall, were tearing their shields from the wall, their lances from the cupboards and presses. Forth sounded that merriest of jingling, the clinking of good ring-steel hauberks as they dragged them on. In the stables feverish grooms girt fast the saddles on the stamping _destrers_--the huge war-horses. And up from other parts of the castle rose the boom of kettledrums, the clash and brattle of cymbals, as the Baron's Saracens, nigh half of his garrison, came racing into the bailey, clattering their brass-studded targets with their bow staves, and tossing their crooked cimeters. Richard and his father had rushed into the donjon, but were back quick as thought with their mail shirts jangling about them, and stout steel caps hiding all the face save the eyes. The good Baron was snorting and dancing for the fray as if it had been his first battle; or as if he were what the _jongleurs_ said of Charlemagne, "two hundred years old, scarred by a hundred fields, yet the last to weary of the mêlée." Good Lady Margaret stood by the gate as the troops rode out, after her son and husband had kissed her. Dear woman! it was not the first time she had seen them ride forth perchance to deadlier fields, but she had not yet learned to love the blasts of the war-horn. Until they returned she would spend the time in the chapel, betwixt hope and fear, telling it all to "Our Lady of Succors." "Will you not come with us?" cried Richard, gayly, to Sebastian, the old priest, who stood at his mother's side. "Play Roland's Bishop Turpin, who slew so many infidels." The good man shrugged his shoulders, and said with a sigh: "Not slaying infidels, but slaying for slaying's sake you lust after, my son. When you ride for Christ's love only, then perhaps I ride with you; but St. George shield you--if not for your sake, at least for ours." The troops cantered forth, twenty good Norman men-at-arms; as many light-mailed Saracen riders,--the Baron and his son in full armor. At the turn in the road below the castle Richard waved his kite-shaped shield, as last salute to the little group by the drawbridge. "Let us go to the chapel, my children," said Lady Margaret to her younger son and her daughter. "We can do nothing here." CHAPTER II HOW RICHARD WON THREE FRIENDS Little heeded Richard Longsword the warnings of priest or mother, as with a good horse between his knees, a stout shield tossed over his back, and the white hawk blinking under her hood and perched upon his shoulder, he spurred ahead of his troop, leading their mad gallop. One thought, be it confessed, was uppermost in his mind,--the Greek lady with the yellow veil and red ribbons,--she the booty of Berber raiders, while he was near by with a keen sword in his scabbard! St. Maurice forbid! So furious was his riding that the Baron, who was foaming behind, must needs shout to him not to outpace the company. The ground sped fast under the flying hoofs. A fair and fruitful country it was, had he given it heed: fields of cotton, orchards of orange and lemon, flower masses scattered here and there bright as the rainbow, and the great mountains swelling up above all, with Pizzo Antenna and San Salvadore in the background, their mighty summits standing forth as brown and green crystal against the azure. There was a kind, sweet wind creeping in from the sea, bearing a breath of the pure brine; and to the sea were threading the silver rivulets from the meadows, the racing brooks from the mountain sides. Small place had all this in the young Norman's mind. Already as they cantered westward toward the foothills, his keen eye had lit on a sluggish column of smoke, at sight whereof he gave his flying steed another thrust with the rowels; and all the riders at his back, when they saw, set up one gleeful yell,--they were on track of the raiders. Now frightened Moslem or Greek peasants scampered past them, too scared to whimper out more than a word as to where the foe awaited. Then as they swung round a turn in the road, and cleared a clump of manna trees, a woman came flying to meet them,--old, but decently dressed, and throwing up her hands she gave one mighty howl to Richard. "Oh! Sir Frank; rescue, rescue for my dear mistress! Save her from the Hagarenes!" For so the Greeks called all the race of Ishmael. Richard bent low in his saddle. "Never fear, good woman; where are the raiders? I will rescue your lady!" "There!" cried the old woman, screaming again. "Oh! they will kill us all! St. Irene, St. John, St. Basil--" But Longsword did not wait for her to finish her adjuration. Right at the turn in the road were advancing a knot of men in bright barbaric dresses with tossing spears and brandished cimeters. When they caught sight of their galloping pursuers, they set up a hideous din from horns and cymbals and tabors; and the shout of the Baron's party was met by a louder from fourfold as many throats. The Baron had pricked up abreast of his son, and one sweeping glance over the freebooters' array told the story. "Nigh two hundred," he muttered under his helmet, "and think themselves too strong to be molested. We have met them as they return to their ship. Berbers mostly, but I see the fair skins of some Christian renegadoes. They have captured some horses, and their prisoners are strapped to them, in the centre of the band. By the peacock! it will be a pretty fight ere we get at them! But we have our mounts, and one rider matches ten on the ground." The pirates stood on a little clearing flanked by vineyard hedges; and a low stone wall lay betwixt them and their assailants. The horde were drawing up in close mass: the best-armored men without, bowmen within, prisoners and booty in the centre. A tall mounted African in a splendid suit of silvered armor and in gilded casque was wheeling about, ordering, brandishing his long cimeter,--evidently the chief. Just before the pirates lay the wall, which a mounted enemy must clear at a bound to strike them. Baron William turned to Herbert. "Ready, my men?" "Ready, lord." Then again the Baron wound the horn, and the restless horses felt no spur when the whole band as one swept forward. Right as they came to the leap of the wall a deadly arrow fire smote them. Three steeds went down: four riders reeled; but the others took the bound and crashed upon the Berbers. Four and five to one were the odds, but not a rider that had not slain his tens and scattered his hundreds; and the weight of the Norman sword and axe the luckless raiders felt with cost. Like a sledge shattering the wood the impact smote them: there was one struggle, one wild push and rally to maintain the spear hedge. It was broken, and the Baron's men were cutting hand to hand, and hewing down the Berbers. Loud ran out the Norman war-cry, "_Nostre Dame, Dieu ay nous ade_," and the very shout struck terror to the hearts of the quaking pirates. An instant of deadly fencing man to man, and they were scattered. Like rats they were breaking through the thickets and dashing down the hillside; close on their heels flew Nasr and his Saracens, shooting and hewing with might and main. But Richard had higher foes in view. The instant the pirates scattered, their six riders had struck out boldly, pushing their beasts over the walls and through the groves and hedges, all flying northward toward their only safety,--the ships. Now behind each of four riders was strapped a prisoner, and it was on these last that Richard cast chiefest eye; especially on one, for from the prisoner's throat he could see trailing red ribbons. Leaving the men to hunt down the fugitives on foot, he thrust his steed by a long leap over a hedge and was away after the mounted raiders, little recking whether he had a follower. The wind whistled in his teeth as his good horse sped across ploughed lands, and took ditch or garden wall with noble bounds. Now he was gaining on the rearmost fugitive, a lean, black African on a stolen steed, who was weighted in his race by no less a prisoner than the reverend bishop. Richard laughed behind his helm, as he saw the holy man writhing and twisting on his uneasy pillion, and coughing forth maledictions at every jolt in the mad chase. The Norman swung up abreast the Moor, and struck out with his sword. The raider made shift to wield his cimeter, but one stroke cleft him down, and as he fell he dragged the bishop with him, who landed on the crupper with a mighty thud that made him howl to all the saints. Richard glanced back; two or three of the Baron's men were in the far distance, the rest scattered; only Herbert on a well-tried horse flew close at hand. "Help, fair son! _Maledicte_, I perish--I die a martyr, butchered by paynims!" groaned the bishop. But Richard left him to salve his own bruises, and pricked the faster. Be the foe two or twenty, he would follow the lady of the red ribbons. Swift as a dream he flew on. Before him on the greensward lay the old Greek, thrust from the pillion to lighten the load of his captor. Feebly he struggled to rise as Richard swept past. "Ah, young Frank, for Christ's dear sake save my daughter!" was his cry and groan. "That will I!" snorted the Norman, and he smote his steed's neck with the flat of his great sword. The bishop, the Greek had vanished; hedge, ravine, brooklet, he swept through them, over them; nor knew how often St. George saved him from headlong fall. The Berbers were lashing and prodding with their cimeter points; but Richard was well mounted, only the great black horse bearing the captive lady sped ahead despite all Richard's speed. A stone wall,--all the fugitives cleared it saving the last, behind whom was strapped a young man, fast prisoner. As Longsword flew, he saw this rider miss the leap, crash downward. In a twinkling all the pursued, save the guard of the lady, wheeled, charged back. But Richard had reached the wall, passed with a bound, and for a long instant it was foil and fence, his life dancing on three cimeter points at his breast. Then, sudden as a thunderclap, there was a new blade opposed to the Berbers,--the erstwhile captive had burst his bands, leaped from under the kicking charger, disarmed his guard, and was in the midst of the fray, giving blow for blow. But at sight of him, all three pirates forsook the Norman, and rained their blows upon the prisoner. "_Allah!_ Hew him down, though we die for it!" was the shout of their chief. The captive parried all three as one; ere the second stroke, Richard had sped the first raider past sword-play. His new ally beat down a second with a sweeping blow. The third cried "Mercy!"--but neither gave him heed. The released prisoner, a light-skinned young Moslem of Spain, wiry as a hound, nimble as a cat, had caught the rein of a fallen Berber, and swung himself into the dead man's saddle, touching no stirrup, almost ere Richard could admire. "As the Most High lives," cried the Spaniard, as if rescue were mere incident, "after the lady! The ship is near!" And ride they did, though the black horse was far ahead now, despite his burden. "Ride, Frank, ride!" shouted the other, leaning over his steed's neck, and seeming to lend speed by very touch and voice. "Allah smite us, if she is taken!" Over the foothills, across the rolling country, the feet of their horses springing like on-rushing winds, raced the twain. They saw blue water before an orange grove, and not far away the pirate's refuge,--the ship. And still the black horse held them in chase, though losing slowly. Richard flung the target from his back, to make greater speed. He could see the lady struggling on her uneasy pillion. Her captor with one hand gripped her fast; with the other, smote and prodded with his cimeter. The flecks of blood were on the black steed's flanks. The lady plucked at the Berber's throat with strength born of despair. "Rescue, rescue, for the love of Christ!" rang her cry; and as if in answer, the great charger began to plunge in his gallop, nigh casting his double mount. The Berber wrestled him down, with a mighty strain on the reins; but in the instant Richard had gained apace. "Ai! St. Michael!" he thundered, his good sword swung almost in stroke. But at the shout there was a wild yell from beyond the orange trees, and as he swept on he saw a score or more pirates rushing with drawn swords to greet them,--and through the grove the tacklings of the ship. Straight toward the midst of the Berbers sped the black horse: a moment,--the lady would be lost indeed! "Rescue for the love of Christ!" again her wail in reply to the triumphant howl of her captor. The Norman's hand was on his shoulder; down he plucked the white falcon, unhooded, tossed in air,--one circle she cut, then sped straight in the flying raider's eyes. Vainly he strove to buffet away with a fist; the instant the grip on the reins relaxed, the black horse was plunging, rearing, and Longsword was abreast. With one long stroke he smote the Berber from the saddle; the lady reeled also, strapped fast. But the Norman, proud in his might, calmed the black horse with one hand on the bits; drew his blade once across the thong, releasing the captive. The pirate tumbled to earth with never a groan. Barely in time--the twenty were all about them now; but Richard Longsword fought as twenty, the Spaniard as twenty more. "A houri! A great prize! A great ransom!" howled the raiders, seeking their prey; but they ran on doom. For the Norman mounted, and in his armor dashed them down with his heavy sword; and those whom the Spaniard's cimeter bit never cried more. Yet with all the death twinkling about, Richard held his steed and mailed breast betwixt the foe and the lady. Even while he fought, her clear Greek voice encouraged. "Holy Mother, that was a well-struck blow! Oh, were I but a man with a sword!" How long the mounted two could have beat back the unmounted twenty only the wise saints know; for just as Richard's hauberk had turned the third javelin, and his eyes danced with stars when his helmet dinted, a new cry rang from behind. "Forward, brothers! Slay! death!" And a bolt from Herbert's crossbow crashed through a pirate's target,--herald of the advent of the man-at-arms and fifteen riders more; at sight whereof the pirates--guessing at last that it was all over with their comrades who had gone inland--fled like partridges through the grove, over the white sands; and before Herbert could rein in his steaming beast, they heard the blocks creaking, as feverish hands made sail and warped the ship to sea. Not all thus to escape; for the Normans nipped several, whom they tugged away, strapped to the saddle-bows, after having searched them for jewels down to their shoes. Richard looked about him. The lady, agile as a _fée_, had alighted, and was standing, clinging with both hands to an orange tree, panting for breath,--as did all. The Spaniard had dismounted also, and stood leaning against the saddle. While waiting breath for speech, Longsword surveyed the rescued, finding in both need of more than one glance. The costume of the Moor had been sadly dealt with, but his silken vest and the shawl at his girdle were of the finest silk, and set off a most shapely frame. He was tall, wiry, supple as a blooded charger; and no dress would have concealed a face so intelligent, ingenuous, winsome, that, as Richard looked thereon, he had but a single thought,--"I would know more of this man." The countenance was a fine oval, the forehead not high but prominent; the eye, brilliant, deep, and dark; the small mouth, shaded by a black curly beard; the skin not swarthy, yet tinged with pale brown, a gentle bronzing of the sun-loved vegas. But these are parts only, and the whole--how much fairer was it than any part! For the face thrilled with eager, active intelligence, and the eyes seemed but open windows to a soul,--a soul perchance to admire, to reverence, to love. And as Richard beheld him, he felt a magic current of fellow-feeling drawing him to the Spaniard, ere they had spoken ten syllables. Yet not all the Norman's gaze was for the Moslem--far from it. The lady no longer wore her yellow veil: the red ribbons were in tatters round her throat; her blue mantle had many a rent; but of these, who would think? She stood with her brown hair all dishevelled to the winds, and underneath the flying tresses one could see those bright eyes--dark, bright, and very merry; a high, white forehead, small red lips, and features that seemed smoothed and rounded like some marble image of the old pagans, which Sebastian had called "a snare of Satan." But this was no snare; for these cheeks were moulded with a soft texture and bloom like a pale rose; not quite fair, like Norman maidens, but just tinted enough to show the breath of the sun. All this Richard saw, and was not awestruck nor abashed, as in the presence of many handsome dames; but simply delighted, and, as chance would have it, the lady herself broke silence. "By St. Theodore, Sir Frank," quoth she, holding out both hands to Richard, "will you say again to my face that you can do nothing brave?" And here she laughed so merrily, that the Norman was laughing too when he replied, having taken the hands:-- "Ah! dear lady, it is the white falcon you should thank, if any praise be due." "And no praise for the falcon's trainer?" quoth she, still laughing; then with a sudden turn, while the tears almost stood in her eyes, "_Eu!_ Brave, noble sir, what may I do to repay! Kneel, fall at your feet, kiss them?"--and half she made to do so, but Richard shrank back, as if horrified. "St. Michael forbid!" cried he; "rather this, let me kneel and kiss your hand, blessing Our Lady she has suffered me to save you!" "But the peril was very great!" protested the lady, while Richard did as he wished, and kissed a hand very small and white. "But the joy of peril is greater in such a cause!" he flashed back, rising. There was a shadow flitting across that bright face. "My father?" the question came slowly. "He is--safe?" "I saw him released; have no fear. I swore to him I would save you." And the flush of pleasure was Richard's tenfold payment. "Let us go to him," said the Norman, as he bade one of the men-at-arms arrange a pillion and ride back with the Greek toward the scene of the first battle. "Ah! may all the dear saints bless you and your good men--I would give my life for my father!" said she. So while the lady rode ahead, Richard galloped stirrup to stirrup with the Spaniard. He had needed no words to tell him that the Moslem was a notable cavalier, and the Spaniard had dispelled all doubts by a frank declaration of his name and position. "Know, O Frank, that you have this day won the eternal gratitude of Musa, son of Abdallah, the late Vizier of Al'mu'tamed, King of Cordova, though I am better known as 'the Sword of Granada,' for in that city have I spent much of my life." And the Christian bowed his casqued head in humblest reverence, asking:-- "Then truly have I saved that famous knight, who, they say, held the lists at Toledo, during the truce, against the Cid Campeador and all his cavaliers?" "I had that fortune," said the Spaniard, smiling, and returning the bow; "but," and he spoke lightly, "I would not have you, Sir Frank, regard me in an awesome fashion; for, believe me, after striking the blows I saw you give to-day, you may, I think, break lances with the best, and owe deference to none." "Ah, my lord," cried Richard, "it has been a great privilege for a simple 'bachelor' like myself to be of service to so great a warrior." The Moslem laughed, and made reply: "No, I will not be 'lorded' by you. I think I know an equal and a friend when I set eyes on him. To you my name is Musa; and yours--?" "Richard Longsword," was the answer. "Then, O Richard, we know one another and are brothers." Then and there, while the horses were at a merry pace, the two young men leaned over their saddles and caught one another's hands. And at that moment was stricken a friendship that was destined to bind with hooks of steel through more than one fateful year. As if to cement the tie, Longsword passed the flask at his belt to the Spaniard. "Drink, friend, for you have seen enough this day to chill your veins, even if your prophet forbids wine." "I am but a lax Moslem," replied Musa, with another of his soft smiles. And taking the flask, he clapped it to his lips. "'Wine of Paradise'!" cried he, when he took it away. "Ah, an hour since I expected that I would be soon drinking from the cups of the houris in the real Paradise, or more likely"--with a sly wag of the head--"scorching in no gentle fire!" "Then the raiders sought your life, not your ransom?" asked the Norman. "Assuredly; do not think I have lain so hidden here at Cefalu because, like a dervish or one of your monks, I enjoy solitude. I fled Spain because my blood is too princely to make my presence safe to Yusuf, the Almoravide, who has come from Africa to save us Spanish Moslems from conquest by the Christians, and who has conquered us himself. When Granada fell and its treasures were scattered as booty to his rude Berber officers, and when Seville and all Andalusia were in his hands, imprudently I spoke of the days of our great Kalifs. The words were remembered by enemies and duly reported. Presently I heard that Yusuf suspected me of leading a revolt in Cordova against his rule, and that he keenly desired my head. I will not tell how I escaped to my Cid Campeador at Valencia, and thence to King Alfonso of Castile. But the Almoravide's arms are long. Nowhere in Spain would I be safe. So I came to Sicily, where I have relatives, hoping by lying close to elude his agents; but in vain, as has just been proved!" "So," asked Richard, "this raid was on your account?" "Of course," replied Musa; "I was surprised at the country house of Hajib this morning, and taken before I could kill more than two of the pirates. In their chief I recognized a corsair long in the service of Yusuf. They aimed to bear me in chains to Cordova, that the Almoravide might gloat over me alive, ere calling the headsman. You saw how they rained their blows at me, when they saw rescue at hand." "The saints be praised, I saved you!" exclaimed the Norman. "You were indeed in the very jaws of death." "Aye," was the careless answer, "and I owe you all thanks; yet this is not the first time I have imagined I would see no more mornings." "Ah, my lord, you are a great cavalier!" cried Richard, enthusiastically. The Spaniard shook his hand in warning. "I am not 'lord' to you, brother! If Allah favors our friendship, what brave adventures shall we not have together!" Longsword made no reply. The Moor had captivated him: he felt that he could ride through a thousand men-at-arms with such a friend at his side. Presently they drew rein under a wide-spreading, venerable chestnut tree that bowed over the highway. Here were gathered the Baron and most of his men: here was my lord bishop sitting on the ground upon a saddle, still groaning and rubbing his bruised shins, while two scared priests were shivering beside him, and muttering a _gratias Deo_ for their deliverance from the infidel. The old Greek was also there, resting on a saddle-bag; but when the young Norman galloped up he made shift to rise; and his daughter, who had already left her pillion, hastened to say:-- "This, my father, is that brave Frankish nobleman to whom we owe so much," and then to Longsword: "And this is my father, the Cæsar Manuel Kurkuas, late of Constantinople, but who now is exile, and travelling to Palermo." The old Kurkuas, despite his lameness, bowed in the stately fashion of that ceremonious courtesy which was his inheritance. "Lord Richard," said he, in his sonorous native tongue, for he already knew the Norman's name, "the blessings of a father be yours; and if at any time, by word or deed, I may repay you, your wish shall be my highest law." But the daughter broke out, a little hotly:-- "Oh! father, not in so solemn and courtly a manner thank him! We are not in 'His Divine Majesty's' palace, by the Golden Horn. Take him by the hand as I have done; tell him that we are his friends forever, and that if we go back to Constantinople, we will take him with us, and share with him all the riches and honor that would belong to a real Kurkuas." The old man listened to her flow of eager words, half pleased, half alarmed; then, with a deprecatory shrug, exclaimed:-- "Pardon a thousand times, my lord, if I am too old to speak all that lies at heart, save in a cold and formal way. Yet pardon, also, my daughter; for she has so unbridled a tongue that if you come to know her, strong must your friendship be, or she will drive you from her by sheer witless chatter." Whereupon, before Richard could reply, the lady returned to the charge. "Yes, truly, I am half of Frankish blood myself. And I think it better to speak from my heart and declare 'I love you' and 'I hate you,' than to move my lips softly and politely and say things that mean nothing." The Greek shrugged again, as if accustomed to such outbursts. "You have lost your veil," he said gently, raising his eyes. "Assuredly," was the answer; "nor do Frankish ladies wear them." Then, turning to Richard, "Tell me, Sir Norman, do you see anything about me to be ashamed of, that I must veil my face?" The remark was advanced so naturally, in such perfectly good faith, that Longsword, without the least premeditation, answered as readily as if to his sister:-- "I see no reason why you should veil, my lady." "Then do not speak of it again, dear father," said she. The mules of the bishop's party, which had been taken when the pirates fell upon them, had been recovered, and the bishop began to stop groaning over his bruises. The Baron remarked that, although the baggage had been retaken, it was too late to repack and make the journey that day. One and all, they must go back to Cefalu and enjoy the hospitality of the castle. The bishop demurred, when he saw that the Moslem Musa was bidden to share the feast; but he was very hungry, and reflected that Christ and Mohammed were impiously good comrades in Sicily. He and the priests with the Greek and his daughter mounted the mules and started away, just as Herbert rode up with the tidings that the Berbers' ship had long since put to sea. As for the great black horse that had nigh carried Mary away from her rescuers, the grateful prelate bestowed him upon Richard. "He was an unruly beast," declared the bishop, "_furiosus, impetuosus, perditus equus_, in whom a devil beyond all doubt had entered; and if the Baron's son desired him, he was welcome, though he feared, instead of a gift, he was bestowing a cursing." But Richard beheld the huge crupper and chest of the great beast, watched his mighty stride, and reflected that such a _destrer_ would bear quite as safely in battle as one with the prized white coat and greyhound feet. Therefore he thanked the bishop and led the horse away. So they fared back to the castle, while the Cefalu people gave them cheers and flowers as they passed along the way; but the fairest welcome was on Lady Margaret's face when they all pounded over the drawbridge. CHAPTER III HOW RICHARD WON A BROTHER A notable feast it was the good Lady Margaret set before her unexpected guests; for if the warning was short, the eager hands were many, and the day before there had been rare hunting. The worthy Baron, her lord, took pride in the goodly Norman habit of sitting long at table, and would have found eight hours none too many for meat and drink, had there been another to keep him company. And if this feast ended sooner, there was no lack of good food and better cheer. Hincmar, the stately chamberlain, marshalled his guests up to the fountain at the door of the great hall, where they washed their hands in punctilious order of precedence. The hall itself was hung with rare tapestries, the floor was strewn with fresh mint and cornflags; over the diners' benches were cast rich carpets of the East, and for the host and his immediate relatives and guests were gilt chairs of embossed leather. Then the serving-lads went in and out, bringing wine-soup in three kinds in remembrance of the Trinity, and flesh and fowl, from a stuffed cormorant to a haunch of bear's flesh. Last of all the great drinking-horns began to pass to and fro, and the skins of Cyprian wine from the cellars, to empty. The Baron had placed the bishop at his right hand at the head of the long table, on his left the Greek Cæsar. But a little lower sat Richard, and beside him Musa and Mary Kurkuas; and while they were busy over the trenchers talk flew fast, and these in brief were the stories they told one another. William Longsword, the present Baron of Cefalu, had been a Norman seigneur of noble lineage and slender estates near the ducal capital of Rouen. The Longswords were an ancient house. They boasted their descent from that notable William Longsword who had succeeded to the sovereignty of Rollo the Norman; yet, as too often, a great name did not mean great fiefs, and young William's best fortune was the weight of his battle-axe. But that battle-axe was very heavy. At Val-es-Dunes, when William the Bastard crushed his rebellious barons, Longsword had won the great Duke's highest favor. At Hastings none had struck doughtier blows than he. For a moment he had dreamt of a broad English barony and a Saxon heiress. But when the new king was at York there rose ill-blood and a hint to the monarch that the mutiny of certain Anjou mercenaries was due to his vassal. One morning Longsword finding that fetters, not fiefs, waited him in England, fled just in time to Flanders, and went south to _gaaignant_, "to go a gaining," as the Normans put it, seeking fortune wherever the saints favored. In Auvergne he had married the daughter of a mountain baron, but had drifted on to Italy, had served with Counts Robert Guiscard and Roger, his brother, in Calabria, Epirus, and Sicily; and at last when Noto, the last Saracen stronghold in Sicily, fell, and Count Roger rewarded his faithful cavaliers, William Longsword had found himself Lord of Cefalu, with a stout castle and a barony of peaceful and industrious Moslems and Greeks for vassals; now for four years past he had ceased roving, and dreamed of handing down a goodly seigneury to his firstborn. Thus Richard told his father's story, and Mary related more briefly how her father--and she proudly recounted his titles--was the "preëminently august" Cæsar Manuel Kurkuas; whose family was of the most noble and wealthy of the whole imperial city. He had been a great warrior in his day, until a crippling wound in the Patzinak war had forced the one-time "commander of the guards" to accept the peaceful office of "first prefect" of the capital. And in this position he might have died in honor and prosperity, had it not come to Emperor Alexius's ears that he had intrigued in favor of Constantine, the son of the dead sovereign Romanus, who was just raising the rebel standard. "And so," explained his daughter, quite simply, for she was bred at the Grecian court, "the Princess Anna Comnena, who is my kind friend, gave me to understand that all was not well with my father, and the Grand Chamberlain let fall that 'his eyes were in danger.' Therefore, with the aid of St. Basil and our cousin, the High Admiral, we made escape on a Venetian ship, and it was well we did; for Constantine, I hear, has been captured and blinded, and if we had been taken, the like would have befallen my father, and I would have been cast into the convent of Antiochus 'to live with the angels,' as they call taking the veil, at Constantinople." "Allah forbid!" cried Musa, who had been following all her story, and Richard winced when he thought of those brown locks falling under the shears. The Greek gave a little shrug and shiver. "Ah!" said she, "let us not speak of it. Yet I do not blame the Emperor. He has many enemies to guard against." And she paused. "But you said you were half a Frank," said Richard, wishing to turn the conversation. "Yes, truly, my father was envoy to the Duke of Aquitaine. In Provence he met my mother, daughter of the Baron of La Haye. She must have been a beautiful woman. They say all Constantinople was at her feet, when my father brought her there--his bride. But she died when I was a very little girl. I can only remember her bright eyes and sweet face." Another pause; and Richard did not try to break it. Was he not conscious in his innermost soul, that there were bright eyes and a sweet face very close to his own? That for an hour past, as the fashion was, he had been dipping his hand in the same bowl where also dipped another hand, soft, and white, and delicate? The evening was stealing on. Now the ruddy torches were sputtering in their cressets along the wall; and the glow fell softly over the feasters, seeming to hide witchery and sweet madness in every flickering shadow. For the first time in his life Richard Longsword felt a strange intoxication stealing over him. Not the wine--he had not drained a beaker. Up at the head of the table the Baron and the bishop were matching bumpers, and the former, between his draughts, was trying to tell Cæsar Manuel some tale of the Durazzo campaign in which they had both fought, though on opposing sides. At the foot of the table the Norman men-at-arms were splashing their liquor, and roaring broad jests at the Greek serving-maids. Musa, having satisfied hunger, sat with his long eyelashes cast down in dreamy Oriental revery. Only for one face and for one voice did Richard have sight or hearing. The princess held the Majolica cup to her lips, tasted, held it toward the Norman. "See," said she, softly, "you have saved my father's liberty--perhaps his life--and me"--the color half left the wonderful face while she spoke--"from death or worse." The cup trembled as she shuddered at the thought. "When the Berbers seized me, I pleaded with all the saints to let me die,--better a thousand deaths than to breathe out one's life captive in an African harem!" "By Our Lady, speak not of it," came from Richard,--he, too, trembling. But the brightness had darted again into the Greek's eyes while she continued: "And now attend--the reward! Know, brave Frank, that three months since a 'supremely august' prince, close to Alexius's self, would have given half his inheritance for gift like this!" And with her own hands she held the cup to his lips. Richard drank. What else possible? He felt himself caught in a tide irresistible, too delicious in its caress to escape from if he might. Was the wine fire, that it burned through every vein? Yet the very flame bore a sweetness, a delight beyond all thought; the hot pain drowned in the ecstasy. He did not know what he replied, but the lady was answering. "_Eu!_ What joy I take in you Franks, whom I have never seen before to-day. When first did we meet? This morning beside the raging horse? I think I have known and admired you these score of years!" [Illustration: "THE CUP TREMBLED AS AT THE VERY THOUGHT SHE SHUDDERED"] "I?" quoth Richard, wool-gathering. The lady laughed at her indiscretion. "You do well to ask. At times my father rails at me; 'Daughter, you open your mind to strangers like a casket.' Again I am silent, hidden, locked fast, as my mood alters. Be it so, I am the open casket to-night. I will speak it all forth. The saints grant I may dwell amongst you Franks; how much better to crush down a raging horse with one touch, than to know all the wisdom of Plato!" "Why better?" asked the Norman, never taking his gaze from that face all rosy in the flickering light. "Why?" her voice rose a little, and the brightness of the torches was in her eyes. "Let others con the musty parchments,--a thousand times better are the men who _do_, as you of the West,--than the weaklings who only _know_. Plato babbled foolishness describing his 'perfect nation,' for when he strove to realize it--failure!" "These are riddles, sweet lady!" cried Richard; "who was this Plato--some pagan long since in hell?" Whereat the princess began to laugh afresh; not offensively, but sweetly as a running brook; so that the other would have said a hundred witless things to make her continue. Then she answered, her eyes dancing, and Richard thought he saw the lips of the dreamy Spaniard twitch: "Yes, for all his mist-hung cobwebs, he must have broiled in no common fire. But I love better to talk of coursing and falconry; that science better befits a Christian!" "St. Stephen!" blurted out the Norman, pricking his ears, "can you ride and hawk?" "Do you think I sat smelling inkhorns and tangling silk yarn all day in our palace by the Golden Gate? I had my own Arabian palfrey, my own dear goshawks: not four months have flown since I hunted with the Princess Anna over the lovely hills of the Emperor's preserves beyond the Sweet Waters of Europe. O"--and Richard almost thought her about to weep--"St. Irene, pity my horse and the birds, their mistress so far away!" "By the Mass," began Richard, more flighty than ever, "you shall find our Sicilian birds put the best of Constantinople to shame. But the saints are very kind not to let you grow more sad over your loss; next to losing one's kinsfolk, what worse than to lose horse or falcon!" The lady had kissed a second cup, and pressed it to his lips. "Drink, then, in token of the merry rides we shall have side by side, if you come to wait on us at Palermo!" And Richard drank, while all the time he felt the tide of intoxication sweeping him onward. Glancing into the Greek's eyes, he knew in a half-conscious way that a like spirit possessed her too. Had they been alone, only the saints know what might have befallen. Richard's voice was very loud when he answered, "No, by the Splendor of God, you must stay at Cefalu,--you shall ride my best palfrey; fly the white falcon!" The lady cut him short with another laugh, her face still very merry: "St. Basil, make them deaf; they all look at us! What have we been doing!" Richard started, as from a dream: father, mother, bishop, the Cæsar, were all looking upon them. The Lady Margaret was turning a warning face upon Richard, but the Cæsar addressed his daughter austerely. "My child, these noble Franks and your valiant rescuer will take away strange tales of your conduct at this feast. Believe me, kind lords, my daughter is commonly less bold and unmaidenly than to-night. This has been a strange day for us, and we must pardon her much." "You forget the princess is not your sister," added Lady Margaret, severely, her eyes on Richard; and the Baron was ready with his own word, but the younger Greek cut all short. "Yes, by St. Theodore," was her saucy cry, "this has been a strange day for us all. And if you, my father, think my saving is over-dear at two cups of wine, let the Berbers snatch me off again! But give no blame to my Lord Richard, for it was I that began, led on, and made the fire tenfold hotter." Cæsar Manuel hobbled to his feet. "I do not blame my Lord Richard," said he, curtly; "I only fear lest closer knowledge make him repent your friendship. Most gallant Baron, and you, noble lady," continued he, bowing in courtly fashion to both, "I am feeble, and my daughter has diverted you enough. With your pardon, let us go to our chambers." The Baron muttered something to the effect that there was still much wine--a pity to miss it. Mary rose and deliberately allowed Richard to bend and kiss her hand, courtesied before the Baron and his lady, knelt while the half-tipsy bishop hiccoughed out a benediction. Stately as a queen, she drew herself up, but her last shaft was darted at the Cæsar. "Dear father, are you not sorry I am so little contrite?" then to Richard, "And you, my lord, do not forget we go to Palermo!" There was a rustle of her dress; Manuel limped after; three serving-varlets brought up the Greeks' rear. They were gone. Richard started again--looked about. His mother and sister had risen also. The Baron and the bishop had reached that stage of joviality where the holy man was commencing to sing and brandish his flagon. Richard tasted the wine--insipid; how unlike the sweet fire of the cups proffered by the lady! Musa had glided from his revery,--was casting about sharply. "My head throbs, though I have drunk little," professed the Norman. "Do you wish more?" Musa shook his head. "Then come upon the battlements; the bishop's bellowing makes one mad." They mounted through darkened chambers, up dizzy ladders, to the summit of the donjon. It was a murky, cloudy night that greeted them as they emerged from the trap-door and stood alone on the stone-girt platform, with the land and the sea one vague black haze below. No moon, no stars; only a red flash on the ground where the light streamed from a loophole in the great hall. No sound save the faint shouts of the drinkers, echoing from far below, and their own measured footfalls. They paced the platform for a few moments in silence. Then the Norman broke forth in Arabic:-- "Musa, son of Abdallah, we have sworn brotherhood. Our friendship is young: may I put it to a test?" "My hands, my wits, my head if need be, all yours, my brother," replied the Spaniard, never hesitating. "Help me to gain the hand of this lady!" Their hands rested on one another's shoulders. Richard felt--but perchance he was wrong--a quiver run through the Moslem; only for an instant, if at all. Very naturally Musa replied:-- "Had you said, 'Kill me this enemy,' how easy to aid you! But to win the lady, what may I do? I am no magician to mix you philters. In her eyes I am only Moslem, and Infidel. She has not learned, as have you Sicilian Normans, that Christian and Moslem may be friends. I would be a sorry pursuivant in your behalf." Richard was silent; then cried out:-- "_Ai_, it is all madness! I have no need to be told. I set eyes on her first this morning. Holy Mother, what sin is mine that I should be afflicted thus! Never before have I loved a maid so much as my white falcon. Yet were I longing for a drop of water in Purgatory, I could not have greater desire. It is sin; it is madness; I must never see her again, or great sorrow will come of it!" But Musa pressed his arm closer, and more kindly. "No," said he, softly, in his rich Spanish accent; "if it is mere fleeting passion, it will end; and the upright man is none the worse. Is it a sin to take delight, when Allah reveals to us what seems a glimmer of Paradise? And as for the future, that lies in the hands of the Most High. Whatever is written in the books of our dooms--what power may withstand? To-day, call it madness, and speak not of it. To-morrow, if it live, call it passion--speak in whispers. A month, a year; call it love--it will speak for itself. It is a fire--all men see it. And who would then hide its brightness?" "Ah," answered the Norman, "what day is this! How dare I stand and speak thus to you of what I ought to hide even from myself? How long have I known you?" "How long?" replied the other, dreamily. "Friendships are made in the heart of Allah. Before the earliest star was created, before He said to the earth, 'Be,' it was destined that friend should be joined to friend, and when two such souls in the body meet face to face, they are not strangers. In each other they see a fellow that they have loved, while they dwelt as thoughts in the bosom of the Eternal." "Yes," said Richard, caught in the pensive mood of the other, "we are friends. Why? We know not. To what end? A mystery! It is well we both believe God is good." "He is good," said Musa, reverently, and they descended. CHAPTER IV HOW RICHARD WENT TO PALERMO The yawning servants had carried the bishop from under the table, long before Baron William that night found the bottom of his last flagon. Yet early the next morning, none was more nimble and jovial than he. The Greeks did not come down to the great hall; they were fatigued, said Sylvana the old servant who had adjured Richard to rescue them during the fight. The Cæsar's wound was paining him, and he required the care of his daughter. So it was noon before Richard set eyes again on the princess, as she came into the bailey with her father on her arm, to help him into his litter. The bishop was impatient to be away. What with the clamor of the foot-boys and grooms, and the neighing of impatient steeds, there was little chance for ceremonious leave-taking. The bishop had thanks and blessings for his rescuers and hosts. The Cæsar gave a few courtly phrases of gratitude; his daughter bestowed on Lady Margaret and Eleanor each a hearty kiss, and for Richard, one smile from her bright eyes, and the words, "Fail not to wait on us, if you come to Palermo." So the troop started, leaving Richard to stare after them until the cavalcade was a speck on the roadway, and for the rest of the day to resolve many times that to Palermo he would go ere many months be sped. But in the days that followed he was not idle. First of all the bishop's gift, the great black horse, had to be wrestled into submission; no light task, for the mighty beast would rage like a bull; but in the end the brute was conquered, and "Rollo"--such was his christening--became Richard's boon comrade and second self; dear as those horses whereof the _jongleurs_ sang, that would snatch their masters from the midst of a host of foes, or recognize them returning home after seven years, when the riders' own wives had forgotten them. But this was the least the raid of the Berbers had brought to Richard, for he and Musa became grappled to each other by bonds of friendship that tightened each day. The Spaniard had sealed his gratitude by the gift of a Valencia hauberk, inwrought with gold wire, light almost as velvet, on whose links once the sword of Cid Campeador had turned. And Musa brought also a wonderful chessboard of rock crystal with men of silver, over whose magic squares the Norman was to puzzle many an hour; but beyond all else, Musa brought himself--more a marvel every hour to Richard Longsword. What had he not learned and done! A swordsman whose prowess in the fence tested Richard's utmost skill; a poet whose musical Arabic must have charmed many a fair brunette by the darkling Guadalquiver. He could talk of elixirs, alembics, and horoscopes. The learning of the University of Cordova was his; he could read Greek and Latin, and had a smattering of the Languedoc. Only a consistent Moslem he was not,--neither going to the mosque on Fridays, nor abstaining from wine nor remembering the fasts; and when Richard asked, "Will you turn Christian?" Musa had replied, laughing, "I am of the rationalist school of the Kalif Mamun,--reason alone is the father of religion; even the commands of Al-Koran are not fetters to bind, when reason directs otherwise." Richard could only shake his head. Moslems, he was very sure, were likely to scorch in eternal fire, but at least he conceived they ought to be consistent in supporting their superstition, if they held to it at all. As for himself, when he compared his life and acquirements to Musa's, he grew exceeding humble; born in a camp in Campania, his boyhood spent now in this, now in another Italian or Sicilian castle, from a lad he had learned to wield a sword as became the son of a doughty sire. But he had neither the gentle troubadour's art, as the knights of Provence, nor the deeper lore of the Spaniard. Reading, thanks to Sebastian's patience, he might make shift with; he could barely scrawl an awkward fist. One accomplishment his south-Italian life gave him: he could speak Greek, Arabic, Latin, the Languedoc, and the Languedoil; but with these and some skill in hawking and jousting his learning ended, and it was small enough. As day sped into day, Musa was ever at the castle of Cefalu. He had relatives in Palermo who desired him there, and declared the city safe against kidnapper or assassin; but he was not tempted to leave the country house of Hajib. The Baron smiled on the friendship; he had long since learned to love infidels, if they were only brave knights; Sebastian alone was all fears and frowns, and had many a wordy tilt with the Spaniard. "Ah, Richard," cried the chaplain once, when the two friends sat at chess in the great hall, "know you not Holy Church condemns chess as no less perilous to the soul than very dicing?" And when Richard, despite prickings of conscience, would not leave the game, Sebastian admonished in private:-- "Remember the words of the Apostle: 'Be not unequally yoked with unbelievers, for what concord hath Christ with Belial?' Be warned; bitter sorrow or perdition will come of this friendship; have you forgotten your vow to slay the unbelievers and free Jerusalem?" "But we await the will of God, father," answered Richard, carelessly. "And the will of God is that you first cast off these ties of Satan, and make ready for holy warfare, or assuredly God will remember your sin and punish you." But Richard would not hear. Ever he drew closer to Musa; the reckless paladin Roland and his "sage" friend Oliver were no nearer comrades, and in the after days Longsword likened their love to nothing less than the bonds betwixt David and Jonathan. Yet Sebastian never forbore his warnings. "Dear son," he said, when Musa was telling his wondering friend of the marvellous mountain of Kaf, which encircles the earth, and whither the Almighty had banished the rebellious genii, "be not seduced by the wisdom which cometh from the Father of Lies. Though Musa called himself Christian (and were not damned already), yet his soul would be lost because of his sinful learning. It was so with Gerbert, whom the Devil even aided to become Pope, yet in the end snatched away his soul; in testimony whereof his bones rattle in their tomb, every time a pope lies nigh to death." "_Wallah!_" cried the Spaniard, gently, "your mind, friend, is as wide as the bridge Es-Sirat, which bridges Hell on the road to Heaven,--finer than a hair, sharper than a sword-edge." "Mock me not, Child of the Devil," retorted the unappeased churchman. "Nay," was the mild answer, "I am not obstinate. Convince me, satisfy my reason; I will then turn Christian." "Ah," replied Sebastian, sadly, "have you never heard the words of the holy Anselm of Canterbury, 'Let the intellect submit to authority, when it can no longer agree therewith'?" Musa shook his head. "Let us not wrangle to no purpose," said he, extending a frank hand; "our own Prophet commands us, 'Dispute not with those who have received the scriptures'--the Christians and Jews--'save in the mildest manner.' Think not we blaspheme the Son of Mary. No good Moslem speaks His name without adding 'on whom be peace.' We too hold He was born of a pure virgin, by a miracle of God, and Al-Koran says 'He is the word of God, and a spirit proceeding out of Him.'" "Aye," made answer the priest, stripping his arm, and smiling grimly as he pointed to his scars, "and is this not a token of your tolerance and reverence?" Musa shrugged his shoulders. "_Mâshallah!_ Those Seljouks at Jerusalem are but barbarians. We Arabs love them a little less than we do most Christians!" "One fire awaits you all," muttered the obdurate priest, withdrawing. So days sped, and a letter came to Musa from Palermo, from his uncle the great merchant Al-Bukri, the "general syndic" of the capital. There was promise of patronage and high office with the Fatimite court at Cairo. Would the Spanish knight come down to Palermo for consultation? And Richard vowed loudly he would travel to the city too, only his heart grew sad when Musa spoke of parting and a career in Egypt. "Be not troubled, brother mine," quoth Musa, lightly; "what is fated, is fated; as for my fortune, so far as man may dispose, I say as did once an Egyptian kalif, 'I carry my kingdom here!'" and he slapped the hilt of his cimeter. And Richard, when he thought of what awaited in Palermo, went about with his head in the air. Night and day had the vision of the Greek been before his face. Would he not hew through hosts to possess her? Had he not already won a name and a fame--as a true sprig of the Longswords? Was not the lady in his debt, had she not shown all favor? What hindered him to recount his father's fiefs to Manuel, and say, "Sir, give me your daughter!" "But the lady may be dowerless," objected old Herbert, who had been Richard's confidant since earliest boyhood; "I have little liking for cat-hearted Greeks who spit, not bite. And I fear the Emperor has snapped up all the exiled Cæsar's estates." "No," was his answer; "I hear that through Venetian merchants, Cæsar Manuel saved much ready money. But"--and Richard's voice rose high--"were she mine with only our old Norman dower,--a chaplet of roses and a mother's kiss,--by St. Michael, I swear I would take her; for the tips of her fingers are dearer than red gold!" "_Ai_," cried the old daredevil, "you have indeed a merry passion. Well, go your way, and the Holy Mother favor you!" The Baron consented half reluctantly to his son's desires. He did not love most Greeks; but Cæsar Manuel had been a brave cavalier, and had saved the wreck of his great fortune; and the Baron was too fond of his eldest to refuse him anything in reason. Only, before starting, he gave Richard this advice:-- "Be not over-anxious to brew up more quarrel with that Louis de Valmont. I know he comes from your mother's country of Auvergne, and his family and hers have been long at feud. But he is a knight of great renown, and till you have won your spurs, do not bear yourself loftily. He is a haughty man, high in favor with Count Roger, and a broil with him may breed you little glory." So Richard vowed discretion after his careless way. The two friends were to sail from Cefalu upon a Tunisian corn-ship, that made Palermo on her homeward voyage. Herbert was to follow by land, bringing down the retinue and horses; and his young master went on board, laughing and promising himself that when next Cefalu lay under his eyes, at his side should be another. * * * * * Brief voyaging and a kind west wind brought the Tunisian soon in sight of the red crags of Monte Pellegrino, which dominated the "City of the threefold Tongue," where dwelt Greek and Latin and Arab in peace, brotherhood, and prosperity. Before Longsword and his friend stretched Palermo, its white palaces, its domes and minarets bright as snow under the morning's azure sky; around them lay the fair wide crescent of the harbor running away to the wooded headland of Capo Zafferana; and on the emerald waves loitered the rich argosies of Pisa, Amalfi, Venice, and Andalusia, beating out against the laggard wind. Behind the long reach of the city stretched the "Golden Shell," one long green vega, thick with orchards of olive and orange; broken with feathery palm groves, tinted with flowering thickets bright as the sunset; threaded by the circling Preto, and many another silver rivulet hurrying to the sea. A fair picture, thought Musa; while Richard repeated the proud boast of its citizens, that Palermo was indeed _prima sedes, corona regis, et regni caput_. Then their ship made anchor off the old Saracen castle of Castellamare, where now lay the Norman garrison. Busy boatmen set them down on the quay in the harbor of Khalessa, where were the warehouses of the great Arab merchants, and where all around brawled the crowd and clamor of a half-Eastern traffic. And even Musa's eyes were amazed at the wealth and splendor of this busy city, which had hardly yet realized that her masters now went to church and no more to the great mosque. At the stately house of Al-Bakri courtly hospitality awaited them. The grave syndic was all smiles and flowery compliments to his nephew's preserver, and cried out when Richard made to go to the castle. On the next day a messenger came for the Norman, with words that made his sun shine very bright and the sea-breeze sweet as nard of Araby--Cæsar Manuel Kurkuas begged Richard to wait on him at the "Palace of the Diadem," which lay without the city by Monreale. CHAPTER V HOW RICHARD WON TWO FOES The "Palace of the Diadem" had been the pride of some haughty Kelbite emir in the days when Palermo was a prime jewel in the Arabian crown; but the glory of its builder's family had long since been laid low. Moslem had slaughtered Moslem in the feuds that racked Sicily. Byzantines and Pisans had menaced the capital and ravaged its emerald vega. Now at last the Norman had come to conquer, and remained as lord; so that the owners of the palace had long sought purchaser. Then the Greek Cæsar came, an exile, but with a good store of bezants held in trust by Venetian merchants, and the palace had passed into his hands. It lay on the first slopes of the hills rising back of Monreale, close by the Norman count's hunting lodge; the steep mountain sides crowding down upon it from above; before it, to the north, the broad sweeps of the Golden Shell; and around, dense groves of locust and almond, palm trees and judas trees, with thickets in perennial bloom. Here, all the year long, little brooks kept the greensward moist and sweet; and in springtime the orange blossoms glistered whiter than clouds against rare green foliage. At evening, from behind clustered thickets would drift the notes of the nightingale, while the still, shy moon crept upwards in the sky. Such the gardens about the palace. And the palace itself? It was a lyric in stone. One could wander through long halls and wide courts in a soft half-light, with no rude sun venturing to touch a vulgar ray upon the stalactite vaults, the mazy colonnades, the red granite and jasper shafts, the tile work and moulding of red and blue and gold. Buried in the midst of these halls, where the air ever breathed of musk, and rose-water, and frankincense, what effort to lie through the round year, and hear the fountains plash their music, and dream of love, joy, and the kiss of the houris? Here dwelt the Cæsar and his daughter. Not alone; thither came all Palermo, from Count Roger downward. True, Manuel was in exile, but there were many roads back to Alexius's favor, and once regained, the Cæsar's friendship was worth the winning. And as for the princess, all the young knights quarrelled in secret for the chance to offer her holy water at church, or to ride in Countess Adelaide's train when she took the fair Greek hawking. Much ill-blood was brewed, and some little shed; for the Norman and Saracen knights alike would almost have given their heads for one smile from her. Yet the hottest rivals were the one-time friends, the great knight, Louis de Valmont of Auvergne, far-famed as a jouster, and Iftikhar Eddauleh, commander of Count Roger's Saracen guards, reputed the stoutest lance in Sicily. Thus it befell that Louis and Iftikhar (who, despite his creed and dark skin, was all gallantry to the Christian ladies) had ridden to Monreale to pay their _devoirs_ to the princess on the selfsame day Richard and his friend rode thither also. The Cæsar affected something of his native state at Monreale; he met his guests in a marble court, where a gilded swan was pouring tinkling water from its curving throat; and scattered about the alabaster basin, in the mild half-light, lay rug-covered divans, gay carpets, and a great cushioned armchair for the aged Greek. The Cæsar wore the insignia of his rank,--buskins of green leather, and a gem-set, open cap, whence dangled a long lappet of pearls over either cheek. And his daughter, too, was another and far statelier lady than she whom Richard Longsword had plucked from the Berbers. She stood to greet her guests, all radiant in purple tunic, a silken cape about her shoulders which shone with gems worth a baron's ransom; and when she spoke, it was with the nod and mien of one whose life it had been to command. Yet they were very merry. De Valmont had equal fame as troubadour and as cavalier. He had brought the princess an "improvised" _canso_, wherein he protested his abject wretchedness when the light of her face was hid from him, professed himself her slave, and conjured heaven, since she still remained so cold, to take away his life, that he might no more suffer. At this poem Mary professed herself delighted; for she was long past blushing at lip service. Then Iftikhar, swelling with jealousy, matched the Provençal with his Arabic, which Mary, like any cosmopolitan Byzantine, understood well; he sang how all the black-eyed maids of Paradise burned in jealousy of the Greek, how before her beauty each nightingale forgot his song, and a hundred genii flitted about her, feasting their ravished eyes. Whereat Louis, in rivalry, would have capped his song with another, when a serving-lad announced Richard Longsword and Musa of Granada. Longsword knew Iftikhar and De Valmont well, yet in years to come he dated their contact from this hour. Splendid was the emir in form and face, with broad shoulders and lordly height and poise. His swarthy Egyptian skin became him as a bay coat a charger; his ponderous hands, full black beard, red morocco-shod feet, the huge cimeter at his side, all spoke one word--"power"; a prince in very deed, from his jewelled black turban downward. And beside him stood Louis,--short, but great of limb, fair-haired, handsome, save for a certain smile more arrogant than affable. His beard was trimmed to a little beak, his hair carefully shaven across his forehead, as the fashion was; and he wore his native high black boots, the bane of all Provençal-hating Normans. On the gold plates of his sword-belt were jewel-set rosettes, and despite the heat of the day he did not disdain to show a mantle lined with rare sable,--no poor cavalier's dress. Mary greeted the newcomers warmly; warmly--yet to Richard how different was she from that merry girl who had pressed the cup to his lips that fateful evening at Cefalu! He had come expecting to demand, and to carry away; and behold! the laughing maid was a stately princess; her suitor was one of a score of young men who loved without hope; his rivals were the most valorous cavaliers in all the broad island. He had but set eyes on De Valmont and the emir, when he saw his day-dreams vanish in thin air. What had he, unknighted, comparatively unrenowned, to proffer, when such champions sought her grace? Still, for a while the talk ran gayly. Mary told of her rescue, and praised Longsword's valor; but his joy was tempered as he saw the patronizing smile that sat on De Valmont's face, when the recital finished. "Our young friend comes of my own Auvergne stock," said the knight, with venomous urbanity; "when he reaches due years he will break lances with the best." The Norman's cheek flushed, but he mastered his temper. "You say well, fair sir; I am indeed a very young cavalier. Yet I hope I am not unworthy of my mother's family of St. Julien, which has won some small credit in its feuds with its neighbors." There was an arrow in this reply; for the houses of St. Julien and Valmont were at bitter strife, and thus far the saints had given glory to the former. So the knight frowned in his turn, and shot back:-- "Yet, I think, good squire, that you are Norman rather than Provençal. No gentleman of the South Country preserves that worthy old custom, whereby the father hands down his festival clothes to the son through three, and here, I imagine, four generations." The insult was palpable enough, but Longsword reined in his anger. "You are wrong, Sir Louis," quoth he, very softly; "my bleaunt is new, though I have no Provençal tailor; for I remembered the saying of certain holy churchmen: 'He who dresses after the godless fashion of the men of the Languedoc, puts in peril his soul.'" The parry and thrust had gone on long enough to promise little honor to De Valmont, and the knight ended by saying blandly: "It grieves me, dear friend, that you listen to such slanders. Be assured there are no Christians better than those of Provence." Richard affected to be appeased. Yet every moment his soul was crying out against this rival, who disdained and mocked him as a mere boy. And bitterer grew his wrath, when Louis continued:-- "Come, heir of Cefalu; can you not match with me in singing the praise of the adorable mistress of our hearts, the ever incomparable Princess Mary Kurkuas,--flower of the Greeks, star of the Moslems, sun of all Christian cavaliers! Let us hold our _tenso_; and contend,--not with sword,--but with verses, singing the matchless worth of our lady." Richard felt the anger swelling within him. He had prudence in dealing with Louis, but not to bear tamely a thrust of sheer malice, likely to permit a display of his rival's superior accomplishments before the princess. Well enough De Valmont had known that the Norman was no troubadour. "Louis de Valmont," answered Longsword, haughtily, "I am no clerk in your 'courts of love,' whereof you Provençals boast so often. When I will praise man or maid, I find blunt speech good enough, if they have wit to hear. When I have difference with any gentleman, I have a good horse and a good sword--and let St. Maurice judge between us." "By St. Martin," cried the Provençal, bursting into a laugh, "hear you this, my Lord Iftikhar! Our excellent Norman, when I speak of a contest of _cansos_, at once talks of hauberks and lances." The emir cast a disdainful eye upon Longsword. "_Allah akhbar!_" he commenced, then more mildly: "yet how can we say aught against so excellent a young man, as he who plucked our princess from the pirates?" Richard's gorge was rising; but before his hot words broke forth, Musa, who had bided his time, interposed:-- "Tell me, Cid Louis," said he, in his broken Languedoc, "men say you have served in Spain; is that not so?" "I saw service there with Raymond of St. Gilles," was the answer, "and with King Alfonso, and Cid Campeador." "And brave cavaliers they are," continued the Andalusian. "None better, Christian or Moslem, so far as knightly courtesy is known." "You say well," asserted the Provençal; "they are splendid knights. By the Cross," he added deprecatingly, "I count myself no poor lance, with St. Martin's help; but in Spain every cavalier was nigh my peer." "I rejoice you found such noble comrades; but, by Allah, know this, O Frank: I have ridden against all the good lances of Spain, and Richard Longsword of Cefalu is as firm a saddle as the best!" The Spaniard had drawn himself up haughtily; there was fire in his eye, half a threat in his voice. Neither De Valmont nor Iftikhar cared to contradict him. And when Louis, vainly endeavoring to turn the tide that was setting against him in the princess's presence, again proposed a _tenso_, Richard was again able to answer in tones of lofty scorn. "Have you no shame, fair sir, to rehearse here the frivolous songs you doubtless learned at the court of William of Aquitaine, whose _cansos_ and _tornadas_ are all in praise of his paramours--a new love and a new song each day?" "Have a care, young sir, have a care!" quoth the southern knight, angrily. "I seek no quarrel," was the reply;--"nor shun one." This last, under the breath. Louis stepped before the Norman with his hands on his hips. "Heir of Cefalu," said he, in undertone, "if it is true you are a good lance--well. But remember this, that is told in Auvergne. On the mountains near the castle of Valmont lies a chapel, whither often I went to pray, waiting some champion to come and test my valor; but none has ever dared, nor have I ever ridden against my match, save against my own brother Raoul, the Seigneur of Valmont." "Do not threaten," said Richard, still in undertone. "Threaten? I?" replied the knight. "I speak of the past, not of the present. Yet those are sorry who cross my path." They said no more. The emir and De Valmont were the first to take leave. Mary gave Louis her hand to kiss, and Iftikhar salaamed very low. When the two were gone, all who remained were happier; and the princess, who had been silent long, found her tongue. "You are not a friend of Sir Louis, or the emir?" said she. "I would not be their foes," replied Longsword, looking into the bubbling fountain; "yet it is true Sir Louis is very willing to think himself above an unknighted cavalier. And the emir and I know each other little." "Ah," said the lady, her eyes also resting on the water, "it is sad it is thus. Believe me, Lord Richard, you and De Valmont should be friends. He is a gallant cavalier. I have heard much of his valor. He is a poet also. What lady would not lose her heart at his compliments?" Now all this was gall and wormwood to Richard, but he made shift to reply. "Yes, doubtless he is a splendid knight." "But you are not his friend? Why?" "Lady," replied the Norman, a little sourly, "if to be the cavalier is only to wear the wreath in the tourney, and sing _cansos_ in the 'courts of love'--behold Louis de Valmont; from the Scottish Marches to our Sicily none knightlier. But," and his eye kindled, "with God's help, when in my turn I win stroke of the accolade, they shall say of Richard Longsword that he was more than mere jouster or troubadour; for I am no soft Provençal like De Valmont. My ancestors snuffed the bleak north wind, and laughed at the cold and storm. I hold that the belted knight is consecrated priest: standing in the world, should behold its sin and violence, and keep his own heart pure, should lay low the wicked, and lift up the weak; for God has set him apart to pray, not with his lips, but with his good sword; and he should ride to each _mêlée_ as to a sacrament." "Verily," cried she, smiling; "it is you that are now the poet!" "Not so," was the half-gloomy answer; "I repeat the words of Sebastian, our chaplain, who is one of the saints of God." "You will be a noble cavalier," said Mary, when the two friends arose to leave her. "Yet," she added, "I will not have you a foe to Louis de Valmont. That my friends should be enemies among themselves, would be a heavy grief." Richard kissed Mary's hand, and rode away. He and Musa had been bidden to come again and often to Monreale; but he had no great joy in the prospect. Rather his thoughts were darksome as the night. * * * * * The shadows were falling when the Norman and his friend left the Palace of the Diadem. The half-light of the marble arcade was fading into a soft haze, wherein the gauzy tracery that pierced the pillared stone work was barely visible. Manuel Kurkuas lay on his cushions, sunk in silent reveries; his daughter had stolen to his side, cast one arm about his neck, and with her other hand softly, slowly, stroked his long white beard. Neither spoke for a long time. Presently in came an Arab serving-man with noiseless step: tiny lamps began to twinkle red and green up against the vaulting, throwing the mazy mosaic work into flickering shadow. The tinkle, tinkle of the fountain never ceased. They could hear the note of the nightingales from the grove, sweet, tremulous, melancholy. The servants set a tray before the Cæsar with silver cups, and fruit, and cakes, salaamed and retired. Then the fountain and the _bulbuls_ alone broke the evening calm. Presently the old Greek raised his head. "They have brought the tray?" he asked, still dreamily. "Yes, there is a sleeping powder in your wine. Will you drink?" "Not yet," said the Cæsar, still musing; then half stirring: "Ah! my daughter, do you remember where we were one year ago this night?" "We were at our summer house by Chalcedon, and doubtless had just returned from a sail to the Isles of the Princes on the Emperor's own galley." "It is beautiful, that Bosphorus; and our noble capital," ran on Manuel, dreamily. "No church in the world like to our Hagia Sophia! No dwelling like the 'Sacred Palace' of our Emperor! No river fairer than the blue Bosphorus! Ours are all the trophies of the art of Greece at her prime; ours the books preserving the ancient learning; the speech of Plato, of Demosthenes, so unlike this Frankish magpies' chatter! Do you not long to be back? I shall be recalled. You will be again a great lady at Constantinople; marry some '_pan-sebastos_,' or perhaps the heir of the purple buskins himself." Mary was silent; the old man continued: "No reply? I know your thoughts. You are half a Frank and love them better: better to watch these mad knights at tourney than read Polybius with the Princess Anna?" "Yes, my father," was the simple reply; "we have glory, art, learning, a name never to die. But the future is with these Franks--so boisterous, so brutish! For high resolve and higher action make people great, not gazing at statues, and reading of brave deeds done of old." More silence save for the bulbuls and the fountain. "Daughter mine," replied the Cæsar, "you say well. We have fought a good fight,--we of the Rome by the Bosphorus: we have flung back Avar and Arab. The Turks press hard, yet we may hold them at bay a little longer; but our race is indeed grown old, and our glory, too. And you love the West? What wonder! your mother spoke this Languedoc in which this De Valmont sings. And doubtless you will give your hand to him; men say he is a mighty cavalier; as his wife you will be a great lady among these Franks." "Father!" cried out Mary, in protest. "No," said the Greek, still smiling, "I will not give you away against your will. If not he, whom? Does the Moslem Iftikhar find favor? Religion sits light in this strange Sicily." But Mary shook her head angrily. "Ah, then you perhaps were glad when young Richard of Cefalu came to-day. But he is no poet like De Valmont. His manners may prove as rough as his blows." "I will not give myself to a chamberlain or a troubadour. Shall I receive _cansos_ when my hair is gray, or my face wrinkled? If I wish soft manners, let it be one of the eunuch-courtiers about the Emperor's palace." The Cæsar laughed softly. "You have seen this Richard but little; he saved us both; we owe him all gratitude. He shall come often. I am a shrewd judge of men, and read their faces. His I like well. Just now he thinks De Valmont has you snared, and is very sorrowful. But no trial harms the lover. To-day he worships your face, as do all. Later let us see if he looks deeper, and loves you with all your faults!" "My faults?" "Yes," with another soft laugh, "you are over-fond of the applause, and glitter, and whir of admiration. You know your face is very fair to see, and love to let men see it. And though in action you are often prudent and demure, yet--as on that night at Cefalu--you are like a coiled spring,--such as moves the singing bird of the Emperor: one touch will make you flash forth in some madness. But beneath all I know you are pure and strong, and will make a noble woman." "You temper praise with blame, my father," was her answer. "Now let me sup and go to rest; and while I drink, take your lute and sing. Not from the choruses of Æschylus; nor Pindar nor Anacreon: sing me Proclus's hymn to the Muses, the last pagan poem in our Greek, which is worthy to stand beside our best; and the burden of the hymn, too, fits with my mood to-night." So Mary took up the lute, let her fingers wander over the strings, and then, while the fountain babbled accompaniment, sang sweet as a silver bell:-- "Glory and praise to those sweet lamps of Earth, The nine fair daughters of Almighty Jove: Who all the passage dark to death from birth Lead wandering souls with their bright beams of love. "Through cares of mortal life, through pain and woe, The tender solace of their counsel saves: The healing secrets of their songs forego Despair: and when we tremble at the waves "Of life's wild sea of murk incertitude, Their gentle touch upon the helm is pressed, Their hand points out the beacon star of good, Where we shall make our harbor and have rest:-- "Hear, heavenly Sisters, hear! O ye who know The winds of wisdom's sea, the course to steer; Who light the flame that lightens all below, And bring the spirits of the perfect there, "Where the immortals are, when this life's fever Is left behind as a dread gulf o'erpassed, And souls, like mariners, escaped forever, Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!" The lute was still. Naught but the plash, plash of the fountain, the distant call of the birds. In through the marble tracery stole the silent panels of moonlight. Manuel Kurkuas sat long in deeper revery:-- "'Throng on the happy foreland, saved at last!'" he murmured; "ah! daughter mine, it is late: we must seek rest." CHAPTER VI HOW ROLLO MET INSULT On the next day Richard rode again to Monreale, this time without Musa. But on the way, just as his horse brought him clear of the city, and he was speeding past the straggling Saracen village that stretched far up the hills to Baidha, the canter of two riders going at a mad pace thundered behind him, and he saw Louis de Valmont with Iftikhar Eddauleh close at his heels. The Provençal knight was bravely accoutred with silk mantle and boots of the latest fashion, and was bestriding a splendid white palfrey that made Richard shiver the tenth commandment then and there. The emir was no less gay in flaming scarlet vest, and trailing to the wind a red and yellow kaftan; while on his head tossed a great blue turban, whereon the gems were sparkling. Clearly the two had set forth independently, and had no mind for comradeship; for Richard soon learned that Iftikhar had put his horse to his speed to outstrip De Valmont, and the latter had ridden away from him. When the Provençal drew close upon Richard, however, the Norman, nowise anxious to be the last, spurred on also, and soon all three were in the race; which ended by De Valmont shooting ahead, and leaving the others side by side. As the knight vanished in a cloud of dust, Iftikhar reined in his good bay, and turned to Longsword. "He passes us both, Cid Richard," quoth the emir, showing his white teeth, while he laughed. "Truly, emir," was the answer, "they say there is no rider like him in all the South Country." The Egyptian grinned again, a little angrily. "_Wallah!_ Let him go. I will reach Monreale soon enough. Not even Louis de Valmont shall cross my path save when I choose; neither he nor any other." "You wax bold, my lord. And may I ask why you speak thus? Surely, it is no wound to your honor or mine that he chances to-day to outride us both." Iftikhar laughed aloud, was silent a moment, then broke forth. "Verily, Cid Richard, why ride we all, you, I, De Valmont, to Monreale! _Ya!_ do you still ask why I say I 'let none cross me'?" Richard's hand started towards his hilt. "My Lord Iftikhar, we all seek the good favor of that incomparable lady, Mary Kurkuas." The Egyptian's hand was on his cimeter also. "You speak well," came back his haughty answer; "but I speak to a young cavalier like yourself this word of warning--do not carry your passion too far. As for De Valmont, let him know this, good lance that he is: I am as sure a saddle as he, and I am more." Iftikhar leaned, as he rode, and half whispered to Richard, "Do you know the brotherhood of the Ismaelians?" "The secret confederacy among Moslems, whose god is the dagger?" Iftikhar spoke very low: "Know, O Norman, that I am a grand prior amongst the Ismaelians. Soon as Allah wills, I return to Syria. At my nod will be countless devotees, who rush on death as to a feast. Therefore I am not lightly to be thwarted by De Valmont even. _Ya!_" And the emir laughed grimly. Richard kept silence, but swore in his heart that laugh should be like Roland's laugh at Ganelon,--a laugh that cost Roland his life. When they came to the Palace of the Diadem, De Valmont was there before them, and had the lady's ear. He was telling of a marvellous hunting party that was on foot for the morrow, and how Count Roger's daughter, the young Countess Blanche, had especially bidden him to ride with the princess to the chase. And Richard, and Iftikhar also, had perforce to stand by, while Mary gave the Provençal her sweetest thanks, and promised him her glove to wear at the next jousting. Sorry comfort it was to Longsword, especially as the princess gave him and the emir only enough of the talk to let them know she remembered they were there. As for Iftikhar, black jealousy drove him forth quickly. He salaamed himself away, and went tearing down the road to Palermo, uttering invocations to all the evil jinns, to blast Louis de Valmont's happiness for many a long year. But Richard would not own to such defeat; while Louis and Mary bartered merry small talk, he sat beside the old Cæsar, and found in the noble Greek, after the crust of dignity was broken, a man of the world who could tell his story. And Richard found that Manuel had been a mighty warrior in his youth, though not after the Norman fashion. Richard learned with wonder how armies were marshalled according to careful rules in the military books of Nicephorus Phocus and Leo the Wise; how campaigns could be worked out, and armies shuffled about dexterously as chessmen, instead of depending on chance _mêlées_ and bull valor. The Cæsar had stirring tales to tell of wars and paladins Richard had never before heard of,--Zimiskes and his terrible fight with Swiatoslaf the Russian, when St. Theodore himself, men said, led the charge through the pagan spear-hedge; of Basil, the terrible "Bulgarian slayer"; of the redoubtable champion, Diginis Akritas, grim lord of the Cilician Marches, the terror of the border Arabs; only Manuel's face clouded when he spoke of the present darkened fame of his people. "I was with Romanus Diogenes," said he, bitterly, "at Manzikert, that fatal day when by the treachery of Andronicus, general of the reserve, our Emperor and all Asia Minor were betrayed to Alp-Arslan the Seljouk. Oh! Sir Frank--" and his dim eyes lighted, "never saw I harder fight than that: all that mortal men might, did we, riding down the Turkish hordes with sword and lance all day. But at nightfall we were surrounded, and the hosts rolled in around us. Treason had cut off our succor. Our divisions perished; our emperor was a prisoner; and the force that Alexius Comnenus led against you Normans at Durazzo was a shadow, a mockery, of what had been our army in the days when the Kalif of Bagdad trembled at the advance of the terrible Romans!" When Richard left the palace it was in company with Louis de Valmont. Mary had been very gracious to the Norman in parting, and Manuel had urged him to come again. He was an old man, time was heavy on his hands; he was rejoiced to tell his tales to whoever would listen. But it was Louis who had the last word with the princess, Louis who whispered at the farewell some soft pleasantry that had a deeper ring than the common troubadour's praise and compliment. Longsword and the Provençal rode back towards Palermo side by side. De Valmont was in a happy enough mood to be very gracious. "Heir, of Cefalu," said he, while they cantered stirrup to stirrup, "I did wrong yesterday. I thought you sought to cross me in a quest--what shame for me to avow it--after the hand of this lady. But to-day by your discreet carriage I see you have no such rashness. Who can but fall at the princess's feet, and sigh with passion! And her father, though a Greek, must have been a fine man once in the saddle." The Provençal's words were like flint striking steel; Richard replied very slowly, sure warning that fire was near at hand. "Sir Louis de Valmont, with our eyes on the lady, no marvel we possess only one thought. Yet not I only, but Iftikhar Eddauleh may cry 'Hold!' ere you carry this fair game to an end. The emir this day boasted to me he was become grand prior of the Ismaelians, the devotees of the dagger, and that not even so good a lance as you might cross his road when he minded otherwise." The knight frowned blackly. "The emir and I are friends no longer. The princess may love the gems in his turban, his Arabic verses; but not even here in Sicily will she wed an infidel. He has more than one woman in his harem in the city. Over his devotees and his own lance I lose little slumber." "You say well, fair sir," said Richard; "yet honor forbids me to conceal it. I think you will not take Mary Kurkuas to the priest before you have tried the temper of my sword, though Iftikhar do what he lists." "Take care, my brave lad!" cried the Provençal, dropping his jaw in a sneer. "I wish to splinter no lances against such as you." "By St. Michael, I swear it; aye, and will make it good on my body!" And Richard raised his hand in an oath. "Fie!" cried the other, pricking ahead. "In the morning you will repent of this folly. I can win no glory in a broil with you; which, if I follow up, will end with your funeral mass." And before Richard could make reply De Valmont's white palfrey had swept far in advance, leaving the Norman with only his raging thoughts for company. In this state he rode into the town, seeking the house of Al-Bakri. But close by the door a noisy crowd was swelling: Pisan sailors, Greek peasants come to market, Moslem serving-lads, and chief of all several men-at-arms in leather jerkins and steel caps, all howling and shouting in half a dozen tongues, and making the narrow street and bare gray house-walls ring with their clamors. "A hair, a hair of the wonderful horse of Cefalu!" was braying one of the men-at-arms in the very centre of the throng. "Pull out his tail; let him drag a cart! What knight ever rode such a _destrer_? And this is the best-loved steed of my Lord Richard! Like master, like horse!" While others shouted: "Give up the fellow! He is ours! We claim him for our master, Louis de Valmont. What need has your Lord Richard of a _jongleur_--mountebank himself?" And then in the midst of the press, Longsword saw his old retainer Herbert, sitting upon Rollo; perched behind on the great steed a small, scared-looking man, with the little bright eyes and peaked nose of a mouse; with a strange dress of blue and red stripes, and hugging a great viol under his arm. So far the crowd had confined itself to noise; but it was pressing so madly around the entrance to the court, that the porter had hesitated to throw open the gate lest the mob press in with the rider. There was an angry glint in Herbert's eyes; and the veteran had his fingers round his hilt with the blade half drawn, while Rollo had tossed up his great black head, and was snuffing and pawing as if his hoofs were ready to fly out on his besetters. "A thousand fiends!" cried Richard, pushing into the throng, "what have we here! Dogs, devils, back all of you!" And he struck right and left with his riding whip, making a red scar on more than one swarthy cheek. "Out of the way, rascals, or your heads pay for it!" There was no resisting this menace. Rollo himself had struck out with his mighty hoofs, and a sailor went down upon the pavement with a groan. The crowd slunk back, cursing and threatening under breath; but no man wished to come to an issue with his betters. "Now, Herbert," cried the Norman, "what means this? Has Satan uncovered the Pit, and his imps flown out? Who is this man with you?" "May all the saints blast them!" and here the veteran doomed all his assailants to pitiless and eternal torment. "To be brief, good lord, this man is by name Theroulde, a right good fellow; as you see by his viol, a _jongleur_. Before your father fled England, I knew him well, when we both were younger. I found him as I rode by the quay, landed from a Pisan merchantman, and seeking to escape the men-at-arms of Louis de Valmont, who, seeing him a stranger and likely to prove a merry fellow, wished to carry him to the castle, willy-nilly, to give them sport over their cups; and this sailor gang fell in with them. Then when I saw that he did not like their greeting, and that he recognized me as an old comrade, I took him up behind me, and rode away; but this pack," with a contemptuous snap of the finger, "travelled behind us like the curs they are; and I think they would have learned how my sword could bite, had you not come up." "Theroulde? Theroulde?" repeated Richard to the _jongleur_, who had leaped to the ground and stood bowing and scraping, but still hugging his beloved viol; "are you not son of that Taillefer, the brave minstrel to whom Duke William granted that he should ride first at Senlac, singing of Roland and Roncesvalles, and who died a cavalier's death that day?" "I am his son, gracious lord," said the man, with another bow and wide grimace. "I am Theroulde of Mount St. Michael, and well I loved and served your father in the brave days of the English war." "By the peacock," cried Longsword, "and what lucky saint sends you to Sicily, to enter my father's service once more, if you will?" "Ah! lord," was the doleful answer, "glad I am to see Sicily; but no merry thing brings me hither. I was in the service of my dear Lord Henry, son of William the Bastard, and dwelt in his court at Mount St. Michael, with a warm nook by the fire and a flagon of good drink always mine for the wishing. But three years since I was driven out an exile, when William, the wicked 'Red King,' and Duke Robert besieged Henry their brother, and took the stronghold. So ever since I have wandered over Champagne and Burgundy and the Ile de France; and then I went down to Aquitaine and thence to Dauphiny. But I did not learn to love the chattering Provençals, who think songs of mawkish love better than our northern _chansons_ of valorous knights. Then I heard that your noble father had been blessed with a fair barony here in Sicily; and hither I came to seek his bounty, though I did not expect to find in his son so grand a cavalier." Richard laughed a little sourly. Now he had a new grudge against Louis de Valmont; to the sins of the master had been added those of the men. A knight did not always as yet keep squires of as gentle blood as himself. De Valmont's crew of attendants were but little better than "villains." The insults to Herbert and Rollo were not to be forgiven in a moment. And in this new fury Richard rode into the courtyard; while Theroulde, delighted to be under friendly patronage, rattled on, rehearsing his wares. "Know, most valiant sir, that I boast myself versed in all the noble histories of that wise Trojan priest, Dares, and of the rich Greek cavalier, Dictys of Crete; I can tell you all their tales of Sir Hector and of Sir Ulysses and of the fair and never too much praised Countess Medea. I have set in new verse the whole tale of Roland and Oliver, and how Count Ganelon betrayed them; and I can tell you the story of Oberon, king of faery, who was begotten by Julius Cæsar at the isle of Cephallenia, while he was at war with King Pompey." So he would have run on forever had not Richard thrust him away and gone in to Musa, with a face dark as a thundercloud. The _jongleur_ was left to the hospitality of the Moslem servants of Al-Bakri, who treated him kindly though he eyed them askance; for to his mind they all were servants of Apollin, the pagan demon of the sun. Presently a messenger went from Richard to the castle, where De Valmont lay, bearing a letter,--a letter which demanded of the Provençal that he either inflict summary chastisement on his men who had insulted Richard through his favorite horse, or make good the affront by a meeting face to face. Richard spent the next two hours in the little court of the syndic, pacing moodily under the orange trees that stood around the fountain basin; while Musa lolled on the rugs upon the divan under the arcade, and tried to persuade his friend to sit down with him at chess. "By the Mass, Musa," cried the Norman, twisting his mustache with nervous energy, while his eyes studied the black and white tiled pavement, "Moslem that you are, I had rather see Mary Kurkuas yours than De Valmont's. What with all the brave tales you tell of your sweethearts in Cordova and Granada, you must know the way to a woman's heart." "_Allah!_" exclaimed the Spaniard, taking a cushion from the divan and flinging it merrily at his friend. "Do you not know, I am like the Arab youth who died fighting at Emesa?" said he. "I see the black-eyed girls, the houris looking at me; and one for love of whom all the world would die, beckons me, saying, 'Come hither quickly, for I love thee.' Not that I would slander the beauty of your Greek; but," with half a sigh, "he who has seen the maidens of Andalusia can long only for the houris of Paradise." "You speak folly," cried the Norman, pettishly. "Where are your eyes?" But at this moment Hugh, the serving-lad who had gone to the castle with the cartel, returned. "A letter from Sir Louis de Valmont," he announced. It was a roll of parchment, written by some priest or monk, with only a rude mark over the signature, in another hand; for Louis with all his "gay" science was no clerk. It ran thus:-- "Louis de Valmont, Knight of Auvergne, to Richard Longsword, greeting: I am astounded that an unknighted 'bachelor' like yourself, who has won neither spurs, nor vassals, nor fame in arms, should venture to address me with such insolence. As for my men they had their frolic, and only a fool will quarrel about it. As for your defiance, I will win small honor by slaying a boy like yourself in the lists, as I could well do, and my honor is in no wise hurt when I say I will not meet you. Farewell." Richard tore the parchment into shreds and strode to and fro in bootless fury. "By the splendor of God!" cried he, stretching his arms aloft, "the day shall come when this Louis and all the spawn of his sinful house shall curse the hour he sent me this. So may Our Lady help!" Musa could do nothing to comfort. Richard told his trials to Sebastian, just come down from Cefalu. And in Sebastian he found a counsellor very like to those of long-tormented Job. "Ah! dear son, this is because all love is sorrow except it be the love of heaven. Says not the Apostle, 'Love not the world, neither the things in the world,'--" "Not so," broke in Richard; "in loving Mary Kurkuas I love an angel of light." Sebastian shook his head solemnly. "Dear son, this is a chastisement sent on you from heaven for forgetting your vow, now that you are come to man's estate. Often have I invoked my patron saint, Sebastian, by the arrows that pierced his side, that you would put by all these carnal lusts, this friendship for Musa, the paynim, and dedicate life and might to the freeing of the Holy City." But Richard was in an impious mood that day. "I was a child when I took the vow. Let the saints smite me, if they will, only first let me humble De Valmont!" "Alas!" came the answer, "they will indeed smite you, until in very agony for your sin you will plead to go to Jerusalem." CHAPTER VII HOW DE VALMONT SENT HIS GAGE Richard's fury lasted more than one angry day, Musa's comforting counting for nothing. Sebastian's warnings--twanging the same old string--only made his rage the hotter. He wrote to Cefalu, saying it was all over with his suit, and received a letter dictated by his father (who wrote only with his battle-axe) that it was as well; he could marry a daughter of the Baron's old friend, the Count of Foix. William had not seen her, but she would bring a large dowry, and a messenger could sail with proposals for Toulouse at once. Richard returned answer that he could not marry the lady--she came within the forbidden degrees through some ancient alliance of his mother's house with that of Foix. But his heart burned more than ever. Then respite came: Count Roger was summoned to Campania by his nephew and suzerain Duke Roger Bursa, to help crush certain malcontent barons, and away he sailed, taking Iftikhar and his much-prized Saracen guard. With him also went Musa and Richard Longsword, who was finding Palermo a dreary place, and gladly bartered gloomy thoughts for hard campaigning. Louis de Valmont remained. Every morn he fared to Monreale to bask under the smiles of Mary. Very pleasant these days to her. As Manuel had said, she was more than fond of the praise of men; knew her eyes darted madness, and was not ashamed to show them. Palermo was not Constantinople; no polished Greek as spoken in the circle of Psellus, the philosopher, and of Anna Comnena; no splendid state ceremonies. But life was free; men spoke of their loves and hates plainly; did not prattle friendship and misty compliment and stab in the dark. Yet in the end Louis's homage began to pall on her. She heard unpleasant stories touching him through Sylvana, her nurse, an indefatigable gossip-monger. The Provençal, she learned, was accounted a hard master to his men; his peers praised his courage, but not his courtesy; he had fought a duel in Catalonia with a baron, in a broil concerning the latter's lady; he had two Moslem sweethearts in Palermo; some said three. All these tales did not go to prosper Louis's suit, and he began to find the morning chatter growing dull and the princess meeting his _cansos_ with sober and troublesome questions. Manuel Kurkuas said little; he was a shrewd man, and knew it was easier to lead than to drive. What with De Valmont's hollow gallantry and boasting of his own great deeds, he fell daily in the daughter's eyes. Then one day two carrier pigeons fluttered to the casements of the Palermo castle, and Sylvana came to Mary itching with a tale. The princess had just bidden Louis farewell. His importunity was great, her perplexity greater; for she did not love the man, yet things had gone too far for her to dismiss him without bitterness and gossip all over the city. "_Hei, despoina!_" quoth the old woman; "Bardas, the groom, is come from Palermo--a terrible story. Richard Longsword in deathly peril!" And Sylvana, sly sinner, who knew Mary better than Mary knew herself, had expected the start, and flush, and little cry. "No, by St. Basil, he is safe enough," protested she, consequentially. "He was with Count Roger in Italy in the war against William of Grantmesnil, who has turned rebel. Let him tell the whole tale himself. But the chief part is this: There was a castle which my Lord Count and his kinsman, Duke Roger Bursa, swore they would take, but it was defended as though held by very devils. The engines beat a breach in the walls, and the next thing was the storming. But to make the breach and to go through it are not the same thing, as Nicetas, who was my uncle's son, and fought in Syria, once told." "I have heard that story," cried the lady, impatiently; "go on." "Well, as I said, the breach was stoutly defended. My Lord Count orders up his boasted Saracen guard, and bids my Lord Iftikhar lead the storm: once, twice, they charge--are beaten back--the third time when ordered, say they are not fond of dying--too many comrades are fallen already. Then while the emir hung back, forward comes my Lord Richard and Musa, his friend; they will lead the storm. A few mad Franks follow them. They win the breach and the castle. St. Theodore must have aided. They say my Lord Richard had as many wounds as you have fingers, when they took him up. No, do not stare about thus: Bardas said he only lost a little blood. But they have made him a knight after the fashion of these Franks, by Duke Roger's own hand; and to Musa they gave I know not what presents. And now seeing that the rebels have sued for mercy, the Count is coming back with all his men, and sent off pigeons from Stromboli saying that he will arrive to-morrow." To-morrow came and went, and De Valmont held aloof, half to Mary's satisfaction, half to her vexation. Nor did several succeeding days see him. But finally it fell out that he and his rival sallied forth from Palermo by different roads, and both came to Monreale and into the Princess's presence at about the same time. And now it was Louis's turn to let his sharp little beard curl up in impotent anger. For Mary gave never a glance to his high-peaked Anjou boots with which he swelled in pride, but only had eyes for the golden spurs that were twinkling significantly upon Longsword's heels, and the broad white belt that girt him. "Ah! Sir Richard," cried she, with a pretty stress on the "sir," "now at last you will not deny that you can do a brave deed or two!" The Norman blushed manfully; for praise from her lips was dearer than from Pope or Emperor. "Dear lady," said he, humbly, "thanks to the valor of my good comrades, and the help of the blessed angel Michael, men are pleased to speak well of me." "And the sword you wear," continued she, "it is not the one I saw glance so bright at Cefalu. Who gave it?" And she added, while Richard drew forth the weapon: "How long! How heavy! What magic letters are these upon the blade?" Richard had bared a mighty weapon, which he held outstretched while the sun glinted on the long, polished steel, and the gold chased work on the guard shone bright. "Know," he said proudly, "that from this weapon we Longswords take our name. This is 'Trenchefer,' passed from father to son, so far as memory may reach to the days when our house came down from the Northland with Duke Rollo, and hewed away our duchy from the weakling Emperor. Never has a Longsword carried this blade and endured captivity. Never has a hostile hand gripped its hilt; never has a first-born of my race"--Richard held his head still higher--"lacked a first-born who could not toss it like a twig." And he brandished the great gleaming blade on high. "As for these strange characters, they say they are an incantation, pagan no doubt, but it still holds good: a rune-song, they call it, which makes Trenchefer cut iron like wool and steel like fagots. Here in the hilt is the reliquary, set there by my pious grandfather to destroy the sin of the spell, and make it stronger; here is a tooth of St. Matthias, and a clot of the blood of St. Gereon the Martyr. All his life my father has borne this, and never yet has Trenchefer failed in the sorest need. Now that my father is old, and I a belted knight, I have taken Trenchefer to bear until my own first-born can wield it worthily." Mary stepped beside him, took the hilt in both her little hands, and made shift to raise the great sword. It was very heavy. The blood mounted to her cheeks; she smiled, but bit her lips, and made a mighty effort. Once she raised the blade, then dropped it with a clang, and laughed merrily. "_Eu!_ Sir Richard," she cried in Greek, "what a pretty toy for a maid like myself! I will let you always swing it for me." "It is not heavy," quoth the Norman, his iron wrist tossing it lightly. "Not heavy!" was the reply. "You Franks are born, I half think, in armor; slaying is to you a pleasant art." "And why not, sweet lady?" answered the other, seriously. "Is there anything better befitting a brave gentleman, after a noble life, than to be rocked to sleep in a fair battle with the swords clinking merry music above, and angels to convoy his soul?" But at this moment De Valmont, who had stood by gnawing his mustachios all this while, stepped up and took the sword out of Richard's hand. "Assuredly, Sir Richard," said he, holding up the sword, though truth to tell he found it nothing easy, "you have here a mighty weapon. You will be the thirteenth of Charlemagne's twelve peers, and contest the captaincy with Roland's self." He sheathed the sword, and laughed dryly. There was no need for any special wits to see that Louis was seeking a quarrel at last. "I trust it will be found keen enough to satisfy any who question _now_ my knighthood," came back the hot retort. But Mary intervened with haughty mandate:-- "Sir Louis! Sir Richard! what is this in my presence? How often have I bidden you be friends, if you would keep my favor! Must you brawl under my very eyes?" "I cry pardon of Sir Richard," began the Provençal, feeling he had made a misstep; but Longsword cut him short. "And I grant none; but this is no place. Let us begone!" "I warn you!" cried De Valmont, in black fury, "if we meet, but one shall ride away. Hitherto you have crossed swords with weaklings, and I give you a proverb, 'Amongst the blind, the one-eyed man is king.'" "And I return proverb for proverb," blazed back the Norman: "'It is well to let the sleeping dog lie.' Let God judge if I have sought this quarrel!" "Sirs," commanded Mary Kurkuas, with her haughtiest gesture, "get you gone both, nor return till this strife be ended!" And she pointed towards the door. Richard collected himself with a mighty effort. "I obey, lady," was all he said; while he bowed, kissed the hem of her mantle, and stalked out of the palace. De Valmont did not follow him, but stood staring darkly about, as though wanting half his wits. "Sir Louis," repeated the princess, still at her lordly poise, "did you not hear what I said?" "Ah! _Dona!_ beautiful mistress!" cried the Provençal, half threatening, half entreating; "what words are these? Depart? Will you dismiss me? By St. Martin, I swear life will be all night without you! Oh, pity, favor me; have mercy on my distress!" Mary looked upon him, and saw that half his profession sprang from his troubadour gallantry; but the rest--the mad light in his eyes proved how genuine! "Give me your hand!" raged on De Valmont, half beside himself. Then with a step nearer--"No, not your hand, your lips!" Mary flushed in turn with her anger; quail she did not. "Sir Louis, recollect yourself," she commanded sternly; "let what has slipped you be forgotten. I repeat--depart, or I call my father's servants; and come not again, until your quarrel with Richard Longsword be ended." "Then, by Christ's wounds, I will have his life!" roared the Provençal with a great oath, and tore out of the room, leaving Mary quaking amid hysteric laughter. When Manuel Kurkuas heard what had passed, he grew very grave. "Enemies they have been since first they met here at Monreale," was his comment, "and now I fear they will strike friendship only in heaven, unless," he added dryly, "their sins be such--and they are many--they will perchance meet elsewhere." So his daughter spent the remainder of the day in no little trepidation and sorrow; for it was no pleasant thing to feel that two gallant gentlemen, for whom she had cared much, were to risk immortal souls, perhaps on her account. About noon the next day, Sylvana came to her gleefully with the whole story. "_Ei_, my lady," chattered she, "all Palermo is talking of it, and Bardas has brought me all they say. It is told that this morning Sir Richard went to the Cathedral, and confessed to a priest and received the host; then he set hand on a box of holy relics and swore something secret, but doubtless terrible. A little later, lo! in comes Sir Louis and does the very same. Then right in the porch of the church they came face to face, and Sir Louis broke out with revilings terrible to hear, and finally cried, 'You are not an equal fit to kiss my cheek; "villain" you are, or little better, who should kiss my spurs!' Whereupon Sir Richard gave him a great box on the ear, which nearly knocked him down, crying, 'This is the kiss I give you!' And then and there they would have drawn, but other gentlemen dragged them asunder by main force, and took them to Count Roger, who, when he found he could not compose their quarrel, demanded of each his knightly word that they would remain apart until the great tourney, which will be when the envoys from the Egyptian emperor come. Then the two will meet, and Our Lady guard their lives!" Mary Kurkuas did not sleep soundly that night. Often as the dreams came to her, they took form of champions in armor, charging, charging, ever charging! And when she awoke, it was with the last words of De Valmont ringing in her ears, "By Christ's wounds, I will have his life!" A long time after all the palace was still, she arose, lit a taper, and knelt before a stiff little Byzantine painting of the Holy Mother that was by her bedside. "O pure and blessed Lady," she prayed, "have mercy on me! Have mercy on them both! I have sinned in leading them on so madly; they have sinned in loving me so madly! Oh, pity, mercy; have compassion on us all!" So ran her prayer. After a while she was a little comforted, and fell into troubled sleep. CHAPTER VIII HOW IFTIKHAR SPED A VAIN ARROW News from over the sea,--from Italy! News that set old Sebastian declaiming, and wandering about all day with a mad fire in his eyes and a verse from Isaiah the prophet on his lips. For it was bruited abroad that a wonderful pilgrim had come from the East, Peter of Amiens, once a noble and a warrior, but one who had forsworn the world and gone to the Holy City to expiate his sins. Now he had returned, and stood before Pope Urban with messages from the down-trodden Patriarch of Jerusalem; also with a marvellous tale,--that Christ had appeared in vision to him, and bidden him summon the soldiers of the West to the deliverance of the City of God. And the Holy Father had believed, and given him letters bidding all men hear him and obey. Nor was that all. There was a great council of the Church soon to convene at Plaisance to move all Italy to go against the infidel; and if Italy were too sunken in her civil strifes and unknightly commerce, the Pope had sworn he would appeal to his own people, the French--"bold cavaliers so dear to God." When Sebastian heard this tale, brought by a Genoese, he was all eagerness to take the next ship for Marseilles with Richard. "It was the acceptable day of the Lord; who was not for Him was against Him: beware lest the laggards endure the reproach of Deborah upon Reuben, that abode by his sheepfold, and Dan, who remained in his ships." But Richard only swelled with desire to see De Valmont prone upon the sands; and Musa smiled in his soft manner, saying, "Have not you Franks broils enough among yourselves, that you must seek Jerusalem?" Whereupon Sebastian had cried, "Ah! Child of the Devil, you seek to pluck away Richard's soul; but every night I wrestle with God in prayer, beseeching God He will sever this unholy friendship. And my faith does not fail!" Musa gave no answer; silence was the stoutest armor against the churchman. Presently all thoughts of Italy and France were chased from mind by the coming of the long-awaited embassy from the Egyptian kalif to Palermo. A great and splendid embassy it was, headed by no less a person than Hisham, son of Afdhal, vizier to the kalif Abul Kasim. There were long trains of stately Abyssinian eunuchs and negro guardsmen in gay liveries; a mighty glitter of scarlet and purple caftans, jewel-decked turbans, gold-sheathed cimeters, a present of dazzling gems for the Count and the Countess. The echo of the earthquake in France and Italy had been heard in Africa, and the kalif had been anxious to forestall the joining of the redoubtable Sicilian Count to the Crusade by early display of friendship. Then, too, it was told that the kalif had especial love for Count Roger, because in crushing the Sicilian emirs he had only chastised rebels, who had a little earlier cast off their fealty to the Cairo Emperor. And Count Roger, bound to do his guests full honor, sent out his heralds over the length and breadth of Sicily, proclaiming a grand tournament. Forth went the messengers "crying the tourney," till their mules were dust-covered and their voices cracked. To the remotest Norman castle and Saracen village in the mountains they went, and man and maid made ready their best, and counted the days; for the Count had ordered there should be games and combats for Christian and Moslem alike. The days sped slowly for Mary Kurkuas. De Valmont and Longsword were bound by pledge to Count Roger not to wait on her till after the tourney. Bitterly Mary reproached herself for her folly. Did not all Palermo know how she had given her glove to De Valmont? And Richard? Why had she held that cup to his lips that night at Cefalu? Mere gratitude? Was not that repaying her preserver with more than friendship? And was she not willing to pay? Such her questions--never answered. Poor little Countess Blanche, Count Roger's daughter, soon to be exiled as given in marriage to the king of Hungary, would have laughed with glee to have two such gallant cavaliers joust with her name on their lips. But Mary's heart told her that it was very wrong. Her father's health failed fast; she was filled with foreboding. Musa and Iftikhar were the only visitors at Monreale now. Musa was ever the same,--gentle, sweet-voiced, courtly, never unduly familiar. Iftikhar at times swelled with a passion that nearly betrayed him; but Mary was too accustomed to ardent lovers to take alarm. Yet at times, to her dismay, she saw he really held that their religion was no barrier between them, and that he would gladly have stood on equality with Richard and De Valmont. One day it befell that the fire in the emir nearly flashed out. He had paid a more than commonly florid compliment, and Mary twitted him. "But you Moslems in truth cannot care much for women, for all your verses and praise; we are not even granted immortal souls by your law!" "Oh, believe it not," cried the emir, hotly; "for in Paradise the true believer will rejoice in the company of all the wives of his mortal state!" "Yes," interposed Musa, with a soft laugh. "He will if he desire them, otherwise not; and there are many husbands and many wives!" The princess saw the frown that swept over the brow of the emir at this interference. "Come, my lord," commanded she, pointing to the lute, "you shall sing to me! Sing of love, and mirth, and laughter, for I am in a doleful mood to-day." But Iftikhar only frowned the more. "O Brightness of the Heart!" he replied gloomily, "I too am not merry. Were I to sing, it would be Kalif Rahdi's poem, of which the burden runs, 'Man is but the child of woe!' You would not care for such melancholy?" "Assuredly not," laughed the lady. "Then you shall play the minstrel, Sir Musa. First you shall tell us of those wonderful poets' gardens in your Spain; then you shall sing one of the songs that win the sighs and blushes in the harems of Seville or Granada." And she held out the lute. Musa obeyed, tightened the strings, tinkled a few notes, and said in his musical, liquid Arabic:-- "Know, O lady, that we Spaniards are not like the Moslems of the East; we do not hide our wives and daughters in prison houses. To us marriage is born of true love, and he who would win love must be a poet; therefore all Andalusians are poets. Would you hear of the wooing of my mother? She was the daughter of the emir of Malaga, and on the day my father came to her father's court, he saw her in the gardens, dancing with her women; and his heart was as fire. Sleep left him. Three days he spent in sighs and sorrow, and on the fourth he stole under the garden wall and sang his passion: how she was lovelier than the Ez-Zahra, 'City of the Fairest'; her voice was sweeter than the murmur of the Guadalquiver glancing in the sun; her eyes more beautiful than the stars when they twinkle in the lake, and a smile from her lips surpassed all wine. Then, on the next night as he sang, she answered him in like manner in verse; how her love was strong as the Berber lion; his white teeth more precious than pearls; his head more beautiful than garlands of roses; and his words cut her heart more keenly than cimeters of Murcia. So my father rejoiced, for he knew he had won; and went boldly to the emir and demanded his daughter in marriage." "And what are the songs which your poets sing by the Guadalquiver and the Darro?" asked the princess. "Ah, lady," answered Musa, dreamily, "no true poet can sing his love-song twice. See; I will wish myself back at Cordova, in the orange groves I love so well, and will sing as move the genii of song." And the Spaniard ran his hands over the echoing strings, and sang in low, weird melody:-- "Sweet as the wind when it kisses the rose Is thy breath! Blest, if thy lips had but once on me smiled, Would be death! Give me the throat of the bulbul to sing Forth thy praise: Then wouldst thou drink the clear notes as they spring All thy days! Nard of far Oman's too mean for thy sweetness, Eagle wings lag at thy glancing eyes' fleetness; By thy pure beauty, bright gems lack completeness; Lady, ah, fairest! Were I a genie, with rapture I'd seize thee; I'd haste away To magic-wrought cavern, all jewelled and golden; There I'd stay While the long glad years with printless feet wheeling Leave no trace, Save only new beauty and soft love revealing In thy face. The speeding of ages would breed us no sorrow; I'd shrink from no past, and dread naught of the morrow; The laugh in thine eyes, that alone I would borrow, Lady, ah, rarest!" "_Ai_, Sir Musa," cried Mary, when the strings were still, "were you Louis de Valmont or even my Lord Iftikhar, I should say in my heart, 'How much you are my slave!' But to a Spaniard like yourself the making of such a song--it means nothing?" "Nothing," answered the Andalusian, his dreamy eye wandering over the marble tracery on the wall above. The emir broke forth hotly:-- "_Wallah_, you Spaniard, what mean then your pretty songs, your chatter of praise and compliment, if they are words, words, and nothing more? In the East, whence I come, we thrill, we feel, we make no shame to flame with a mighty passion. Aye, and make our deeds match our fine words." Musa laid down the lute, and stared at the emir unconcernedly. "My good lord," answered he, "do you not know that when I sing love, I sing not the love of any one lady? And think not I despise our princess--she is peerless among women. Rather I praise that divine essence which reveals itself in every bright eye and velvet cheek from east to west,--this pure beauty sent down from Paradise by the favor of Allah, I adore; and whenever I behold it, its praise I must sing." "You are trained in the heathen philosophy of your schools of Cordova," retorted the emir; "I cannot follow your thought. To me it is better to have the taste of one cup of wine than be told of the sweetness of ten thousand. Enough; the Count requires me." And he arose to bow himself out. Musa had arisen also, and courteously thrust his right hand in his breast, where he murmured the farewell, "Peace be on you." Iftikhar's answer hung for a moment on his lips, then he gave the customary reply among Moslem friends, "And on you be peace, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings!" Mary sighed when the emir was gone. "You are not gay, dear lady," said the Spaniard; "if I can do aught to aid, command me." Half petulantly the princess caught a sugared cake from the tray by the divan and threw it into the fountain, where the greedy fish in the basin waited. "I should be very happy, should I not?" exclaimed she, with a laugh not very merry. "See, since I have come to Palermo, here are Richard Longsword and De Valmont with blades drawn on my account; the emir sighs like the west wind, and is all gloom and restlessness; and you, Sir Musa," she went on boldly, "were you to speak out your own heart, are wishing them all three dead, that you might have no rival. Holy Mother," added she, with half a sob, half a laugh, "I am too much loved! What am I, silly girl, that so many brave cavaliers should pawn their souls for my poor sake!" "Sweet mistress," replied the Spaniard, very slowly, flinging a second cake into the fountain, "you are wrong. Your friend, your admirer, I will ever be. Were we both Christian or Moslem, had I no memories of moon-lit nights and sun-lit orchards in Spain--but enough of that! Know that I am the sworn brother of Richard Longsword; that he loves you purely and honorably; that after the manner of his people he will become a great man, whom any lady, be she however high, might love to call her lord. And that you may smile on him, is my first and only prayer." Mary's whole face crimsoned at this, for Musa was not now playing the poet. There was a ring of command in her voice when she made answer:-- "Sir Musa, I cannot have another say for them what Richard and Louis de Valmont may not say to my face. Let us await the tourney. Who knows lest your friend will woo no more after that day? I hear--God spare them both--that Louis is a terrible knight; he will ride against Longsword as though all the fiends were in him." "They are in the hands of the Most High," said the Andalusian, still very gently; "yet, believe me, the Provençal may have ridden down many stout knights, and yet not the peer of Longsword. But--" and he in turn salaamed, "I have also to hasten. And perhaps even my presence is burdensome." "No," cried the Greek, extending her hands, "come, come often; I have too many lovers, too few friends. My father sinks day by day; Christ pity me! I am alone in a strange land; I have borne myself foolishly. The beauty you sing of is half a curse. If truly you would be my friend, and nothing more, do not desert me. I am very wretched." There were tears in her eyes; her voice choked a little, but she stood proud and steady, the great princess still. Very low was the reverence paid by the Spaniard. He kissed the bright rug at her feet; then rising, answered:-- "Star of the Greeks, not you, but Allah who has put enchantment in your eyes, has bred this trouble, if trouble it be. But as for me, I swear it, by Allah the Great, you shall never call on me in vain!" "You are a noble cavalier, Sir Musa," said the lady, now all dignity; "I thank you." So the days went by, and it was the evening before the tourney. All around Palermo spread the tents, bright pavilions of silk with broad pennons above, whipping the slow south wind. The gardens of the Golden Shell buzzed with the clatter and hum of a thousand busy squires. In the city, every house--Christian, Moslem, or Jewish--was thrown open to guests. There were flags at every door and window; and within pealed the laughter of feasters, the note of viol and psaltery and tabor at the dance. All the house walls without and within were decked in tapestries, cloth of gold, and priceless _pail_e and _cendal_ silk, some from the looms of Thebes or Corinth, some from the farthest Ind. Mixed with these Orient stuffs, the storied Poitou tapestry shook to the breeze in long folds, displaying kings and emperors and the legion of the saints. Much wagering there was with knight and villain on the issues of the day. Many cavaliers of the baser sort had entered, merely in hopes to fill their purses by the ransom of defeated combatants; most of all, men chaffered over the coming duel between Richard and Louis. "Longsword would never stand one round," ran the vulgar tongue; "De Valmont had no peer unless it were Iftikhar. The saints have mercy on the younger knight in Purgatory!" As for Mary, she had spent the afternoon in no common vexation. Her father was worse, and could not go to the tourney. Countess Adelaide had bidden the princess sit with her, but Mary had little joy in the prospect. That evening as she sat with a taper at her reading-desk, the purple vellum leaves of George of Pisidia's learned epic brought little forgetfulness. While she was staring at the words, Bardas, the serving-man, startled her: "The emir Iftikhar to see the gracious princess." And without awaiting permission the Egyptian entered. He was in his splendid panoply,--gold on the rings of his cuirass, two broad eagle wings on his helmet, between them burned a great ruby. Under the mail-shirt hung the green silk trousers with their pearl embroidery, gems again on the buckles of the high shoes, more gems on the gilded sword hilt. "You are come in state, my lord," said the Greek, while he made profound obeisance. "What may I do for you?" "O lady of excellent beauty," he began abruptly, "will you indeed give your hand to him who conquers to-morrow?" The wandering eye, the flushed cheek, the mad fire of his words--all these were a warning. Mary drew herself up. "You ask what you have no right, my lord," answered she; "I am in no way pledged." Unlucky admission: in a twinkling the emir had moved a step toward her and stretched out his arms. "Oh, happy mortal that I am! O lady with the wisdom of Sukman, nephew of Job, the beauty of Jacob, the sweet voice of David, the purity of Mary the Virgin! Listen! Favor me!" "Sir!" cried the Greek, recoiling as he advanced, "what is this speech? No more of it. I am Christian, you a Moslem. Friends we have been, perhaps to our cost. More than that, never; we part, if you think to make otherwise!" Iftikhar fell on his knees. All the flame of a terrible passion was kindling his eyes. Even as she trembled, Mary could admire his Oriental splendor. But she did not forget herself. "I must bid you leave me!" with a commanding gesture. "If our friendship leads to this--it is well to make an end!" "Not so," burst from the Egyptian, still supplicating; "none worship you as do I! To me you are fair as the moon in its fourteenth night, when the clouds withdraw. For your sake I will turn Christian. To win you--" But Mary was in no gracious mood that night. "Madman," she tossed back, all her anger rising at his importunity, "do you think you will buy me with such a bribe? Forswear Mohammed for your soul's sake, not for mine! I do not love you. Were I to look on any Moslem, why not Musa? he is a noble cavalier." Iftikhar was not kneeling now. His eyes still flashed. His voice was husky; but he mastered it. "Lady," he said a little thickly, "think well before you say me nay. Listen--I am a man of great power among both Franks and Moslem. Were I to go to Syria, even higher things await me,--commands, cities, principalities," his voice rose higher, "kingdoms even; for you should know that I am a chieftain of the Ismaelians, one of the highest _dais_ of that dread brotherhood, whose daggers strike down the mightiest, and at whose warning kalifs tremble--" Mary cut him short; her poise grew more haughty. "I do not love you. Were you kalif or emperor, I would not favor you. Depart." "Hearken!" cried the Egyptian, with a last effort; "my breast bursts for the love of you; the light of your eyes is my sun; a kiss from you--my arms about you--" But here the Greek, whose face had crimsoned, snatched a tiny baton beside a bronze gong. "Away from me!" she commanded fiercely, as he took an uneasy step toward her. "Away! or I sound the gong and call the grooms." "Woman!" came from his lips hotly, "what is such a threat to me? I would have you with your love if I might. But, by the Glory of Allah, you I will have, though your every breath were a curse. Your grooms!" with a proud toss of his splendid head; "were they ten, what have I to fear? I, the best sword in all Sicily, in all Syria, Egypt, and Iran, perchance." And he came a step still nearer; and now at last Mary began to dread, but still she did not quail. "I doubt not your valor, my lord," she said very coldly. "But my heart and hand are not to be won with a cimeter, as was won that castle breach which Musa and Richard Longsword, not you, entered first." Scarce were the words out of her mouth before terror seized her. For in a twinkling Iftikhar had snatched the gong from her reach, and caught her wrist in a grasp of iron. She could feel the hot breath from his nostrils in her face, see the mad blood swelling the veins of his forehead. In her panic she screamed once, and instantly Iftikhar was pressing her very throat. In his mighty hands she was dumb and helpless as a child. "Hear me," came from his lips in a hoarse whisper. "I have not come hither alone. I had come to bear away the pledge of your love. You spurn me. All is provided. My slave Zeyneb is without, and with him fifteen men, all armed, hidden in the gardens. What resistance could your servants make, were you to cry ever so loudly? My men are devotees of our order--would kill themselves at my bidding. A ship lies in the harbor at my command. It is night. You are helpless. I will carry you aboard. Before morning we are beyond sight of Sicily, beyond pursuit. And you are mine, be it in love or hate, forever--forever!" Iftikhar pressed his face nearer. Mary thrilled with horror beyond words. She had one thought,--her father, her father. "To Egypt," Iftikhar was repeating, "to Syria. There is a palace of mine at Aleppo, beside which this is a cottage. And it shall be yours and you mine. _Allah akhbah!_ How beautiful you are; your lips, a kiss--" But even as Mary's senses reeled, she heard a step, a familiar step, and Iftikhar had let her drop from his hands as though her form were flame. She caught at a column, steadied herself, and looked upon the face of Musa. The Spaniard was standing in the dim light of the hall, dressed in sombre black armor; but the red plumes danced on his helmet. His shield was on his arm, naked cimeter outstretched. "The peace of Allah be with you, fair lady, and noble lord," said Musa, bowing in most stately fashion, first to the shivering Greek, then to Iftikhar. The Egyptian already had his weapon drawn, but the Andalusian did not fall on guard. "Most excellent emir," continued he, very gently, "Count Roger bids me say, if you will go at once to the castle, it will please him well. And your men in the gardens shall be no care to you. I have ridden from Palermo with forty lancers, who will give them all good company on return." Night was never blacker than the frown of the Egyptian, when he replied huskily: "And, Sir Spaniard, why does Count Roger favor _you_ with bearing me his orders? And why come you here unbidden, with cimeter and target?" "Because," answered Musa, his brow too darkening, "I know too well why the Commander of the Guard is here." Then, more sternly, "And that I have come barely in time--praise be to Allah--to save him from a deed at which the very jinns of hell would cry out!" He took a step closer to Iftikhar, and the two blades went up together. But Mary sprang forward, with the cry:-- "Not as you live! You shall not. Would you kill my father by fighting here, and for me?" Musa let his point fall, and bowed with courtly ease. "You say well, Star of the Greeks. The emir will speak with me elsewhere." Iftikhar made no attempt to conceal his rage. "Cursed be you and all your race! What enchanter has told you this--has humiliated me thus?" "You ask what I may not tell," and Musa smiled in his gentle way. "Enough, I was told all that was in your heart, about an hour since,--the ship, the men, the design. Count Roger also knows; and, my lord, he has been none too well pleased with your faithfulness of late. I have come with forty given me by the Count. They do not know their errand; they are to move at my nod. Ride back with me to Palermo, my lord, and pledge me your word, by Allah the Great, said thrice, that you will not molest Mary Kurkuas so long as you remain in Sicily, or--" "And if I will not--" broke from the raging emir. "Then, my lord, I shall carry you to the castle in fetters. My men are also without--" Iftikhar had half started upon the Spaniard, swinging his cimeter. "Never!" came between his teeth. Musa beckoned away Mary with his own weapon. "To your father!" he commanded. But the Egyptian let his point sink. "Allah make you feel the fire of Gehennah!" was his curse. "I am trapped, I will swear." "Then, my lord, saving Count Roger, and the lady, and myself, none shall ever know of this," said Musa softly, and he pointed with his cimeter to the doorway. Iftikhar repeated the great oath--the most terrible among Moslems--thrice; bowed to the Spaniard; made a profound salaam to Mary; the samite curtains in the passage closed behind him; his footfalls died away; he was gone. Musa bowed in turn:-- "Allah is merciful, dear lady. Do I prove a faithful cavalier?" "Ah, Sir Musa!" cried Mary, still faint and weak, "God requite you. I offer you all I have, except love--and could I give that, it were mean repayment." Musa's plumes almost brushed the pavement as he again saluted. "I may not tell how I learned of this plot. I was warned secretly by a strange Arabian woman, who required of me solemn oath not to reveal her. To her, owe the thanks! But my mistress's words are more precious than as if each syllable were treasures of gold; the praise, flashed from her eyes, beyond gems; her voice sweeter than all the nightingales of Khorassan. I am well repaid." He, too, departed. Mary stood long clinging to the pillar, now shivering, now laughing. What had she not escaped? When might she forget the unholy desire on the emir's face when he departed? Had he indeed forsaken his passion for her forever? "St. Theodore," she cried with a sad, wild laugh, "I am cursed with too much love!" Then she went to her father. CHAPTER IX HOW TRENCHEFER DROVE HOME November sixth; feast of St. Leonard, the warrior hermit; third hour of the morning. In the monastery church the monks were chanting "terce" to an empty nave. When the muezzins climbed their minarets to bid all Moslems "come to prayer," few heard. Mary Kurkuas sat in the pavilion of Countess Adelaide, viewing the lists and wondering if even the vision of the Golden Horn and Constantinople might be more fair. The lists were set in the broad plain betwixt the city and Monte Pellegrino, the loftier western height of Castellaccio and Monte Cuccio. All about lay the matchless country--Palermo, its masses of white buildings crowned with gilded minarets; the blooming "Golden Shell" a sea of olive trees, palm, fig, orange, running down to that other sea of emerald; and in the background rocks of saffron topped by the broken peaks beyond. Against the stout wooden barriers with pointed palings, pressed and jostled a vast swarm of city folk,--Greek, Frank, Arab, Jew,--their busy tongues making babel. Within the barriers, but behind the low inner fence, loitered the impatient squires, splendid in bright mantles and silvered casques, ready, the instant conflict joined, to rush to the _mêlée_, and drag dismounted combatants from under the horses. But for the ladies--"the stars of the tourney"--were set shady pavilions,--wooden lodges, brightly painted, flag-covered. Now their rising tiers of seats were filled by a buzzing throng, rustling their silken mantles and satin bleaunts. And the sun was glancing on many a gemmed fillet and many a ribbon-decked, blond tress that fell nigh to its proud owner's knees. These on the western side. On the eastern fluttered gauzy veils, feathery fans, blazing brocade of Mosul, and kerchiefs of Kufa. Dark eyes flashed from beneath the veiling. But Moslem watched Christian in peace. A clang of trumpets was drifting down the wind--the tourneyers were coming from Palermo. Fifty viols braying in the hands of marching Frankish _jongleurs_; fifty Egyptian timbrels clattering; kettledrums, northern horns; heralds in blue mantles, Christian and Moslem side by side--the combatants two abreast--Norman, Provençal, Sicilian, Arab, Egyptians of the embassy,--a goodly company; gold on every Toledo hauberk, silver on each bit and bridle; a trailing pennon on every lance, save when a prouder banner streamed--the silken stocking of some fair dame, gift of love to her chosen cavalier. So the procession entered. Behind them trailed a new horde of common folk who had come from watching two blindfolded varlets chase a pig in a ring; these, too, now pressed against the palings, peering and edging for a glimpse within. Then, while the actual combatants rode to the tents at either end of the lists, two cavaliers--Count Roger de Hauteville and Prince Tancred, his nephew--came to take seats in the Countess's lodge; for they were judges of the games. A lordly cavalier was the Sicilian count despite threescore years and more; fire still in his blue eyes, command and power in his voice; worthy suzerain of so fair an isle. At his side stood his nephew,--stranger as yet to Mary Kurkuas; but at once she noted his flaxen hair and crafty "sea-green" eye, and stature above that of common men. She was told he had fame as the most headlong cavalier in all south Italy; but she little dreamed what deeds God destined him to dare. Very ceremonious was the Prince, when he saluted the Greek lady. He spoke her own tongue fluently, and never in Constantinople had she met a gentleman more at his ease in courtly company. Their talk ran soon to the tourney and the combatants. "I wish you joy, fair princess," protested Tancred; "not often may any lady see two stouter champions ride with her name on the lips of both!" Mary shook her head. "Would God they might do anything else! They tell me Sir Louis has sworn to have Sir Richard's life; and the Auvergner is a terrible cavalier." Tancred shot a glance keen as an arrow. Did he know that Mary's heart would ride with one of the train and not with the other? "Spare him your tears," was the answer. "Louis de Valmont is a famous knight; but I do not think he will down Richard Longsword in one joust,--or in seven." "St. Basil spare both--and forgive both!" was the unuttered reply. But she asked, "Yet I saw neither among the combatants?" "True; both protested they could not meet in the regular tourney and take the required oath to fight solely to gain skill. Fight on the same side they will not; therefore they will come forward when the general games end." Tancred was cut short by a word from the Count. "See, my princess--a cavalier asks your favor." None other than Musa had reined before the pavilion on a prancing white Berber. His plain black mail fitted his fine form like a doublet. His mettled horse caracoled under his touch with a grace that made a long "Ah!" come from betwixt more than one pair of red lips. His glance sought the Greek. Mary rose deliberately; long since had she learned not to dread the public eye. "See, Sir Musa," cried she, loosing the red ribbon from her neck. "Wear this in the games and do me honor!" More than two heads had come together. "Has De Valmont a new rival?" ran the whisper. But Mary knew her ground. "Your reward for service untold," she tossed forth; and only the Count and two more knew what her words implied. Musa caught the ribbon with a flourish of his lance; pressed it to his lips, then wound it deftly around the green, peaked cap which he wore Andalusian fashion in lieu of turban. "You honor a gallant cavalier," said the Count, applauding. "I offered him much to join my service; but he listens to the proffers of the Egyptian envoys." "Look!" came Tancred's voice; and Mary saw Iftikhar Eddauleh, on a dappled Arabian and in his panoply of the night before, come plunging down the lists. Abreast of Musa he drew rein in a twinkling, and the two riders came together so close that no other might hear the words which flew between them. But ten thousand saw Musa's hand clap to hilt, and Iftikhar's lance half fall to rest. "Holy Mother--keep them asunder!" was Mary's whispered prayer. Count Roger had risen. "Sirs--what is this? Brew quarrels under your lady's very eyes? Go apart, or I forbid you to ride in the games." Iftikhar bowed his head,--in no very good grace, it seemed,--and cantered sulkily to the upper end of the lists. "I fear Iftikhar Eddauleh and I must soon seek other masters," remarked the Count to Tancred, in Mary's hearing. "Rumor has it, he has dealings with the Ismaelians. He grows haughty and insubordinate. A good captain and a matchless cavalier; yet I shall not grieve to see him return to the East." But now the Christian heralds were calling on the Normans and Provençals to range themselves in two companies and do battle, after the rule of that knightly paragon, Geoffrey de Preully,--"for the love of Christ, St. George, and all fair ladies." Of the passage at arms that followed, needless here to tell. Many a stout blow was struck despite blunted weapons; ten good knights fell senseless from their horses; the squires took up two dead; sent for a priest to anoint a third. Before the fray ended, little Countess Blanche and her ladies had fluttered and shrieked till wild and hoarse. They had torn off ribbons, necklaces, lockets, bracelets, and tossed forth madly "gauntlets of love" to favorite cavaliers, until they sat--or stood rather--dressed only in their robes and their long, bright hair. Then came respite, while the lists were cleared for the Saracens' games,--for the wise Count suffered no ill-blood to breed by letting Christian ride against Moslem. The Egyptian cavaliers took part--stately men, in red, silver-embroidered tunics, with blue, gem-set aigrettes flashing in their turbans. No less gallant were the Sicilian Saracens, and Iftikhar most brilliant of them all. A small palm tree was set in the midst of the arena,--the trunk bronze, the leaves one sheen of gold-foil. A silver dove dangled from a bough, in the bill a golden ring. Then the Arab heralds proclaimed that each horseman should ride in turn, catching the ring upon his lance; and he who once failed should not try again. So they rode, twenty or more. The first round none missed; three in the second; and so till the ninth, when there were but two,--and these Iftikhar and Musa the Andalusian. "Beard of the Prophet!" cried Hasham, the Egyptian envoy, who sat at the Count's side, "the two are as enchanted. Not in all Egypt--in all Syria and Khorassan,--such horsemen!" "And the All-wise alone knows," responded the Count, "which of the two be the better! Yet I wish any save these two were contending. See! Again!" And the twain rode many times; till Mary, whose cheeks were very hot and eyes very bright, forgot to count the rounds. At last a shout:-- "Iftikhar fails!" The ring was still in the dove's mouth. Musa swung lightly his horse; dropped lance-point, dashed at the tree at a gallop, fleet as the north wind, amid a cloud of dust; but as he flew down the lists a mightier shout was rising. The ring glittered on his spear. The Count placed the prize in Mary's hand, when the heralds led the victor to the judges' lodge. "Sir Musa," said she clearly, while he knelt and she fixed the diamond-studded aigrette upon his cap, "you have so ridden that all your friends grow proud. May it be ever thus!" "Could each gem be a thousand," answered the Spaniard, in his musical accent, "they were less precious than your words to-day." "There spoke the true cavalier of Spain!" cried Count Roger, who loved Moslems so that priests grumbled he dissuaded them from Christianity. And Hasham added, "Verily, the efreets bewitched the Almoravide when he exiled such a horseman!" "By the brightness of Allah!" replied Musa, with a sweeping bow to the ladies, "who could not ride through a thousand blades with such gaze upon him!" The Andalusian started to ride slowly back to his station, when the Count summoned him again. "Sir Musa, all is not smooth between you and Iftikhar Eddauleh. In the game to follow I desire that you ride on the same side. I will not have you meet. What were those words between you?" The Spaniard's teeth shone white when he answered:-- "Bountiful lord, the emir deigned to tell me that if ever we met face to face and naught hindered, I would do well to commend my soul to Allah." "And you?" "Made answer that the secrets of Allah were hid, and no man knows whether the Book of Doom assigns death to Iftikhar or to Musa when they meet; as Musa for his part prays they may." "Mad spirits!" laughed Roger; "but I cannot have more than De Valmont and Longsword sacrifice themselves to-day. Your word that you will not seek Iftikhar's mischief in the games!" "Given, my lord." "Good!"--then to an attendant knight, "Send the emir to the pavilion." But the emir had withdrawn himself, and was not to be found, until amid the clash of Eastern music the arena was cleared and the Moslem game of the wands began. The ten riders who had contended best for the rings were drawn up, five against five. Light round targets were brought them, and in the place of pointed lances, long brittle reeds. He who failed to break his reed on an opponent's target, when they charged at gallop, fell out of the game, unless his rival fared no better. Iftikhar Eddauleh and Musa were arrayed on the same side, with three combatants between. The Count had seen the shadow flit across Mary's face, and reassured: "They will not meet unless the other eight are worsted before either of them--and that can scarcely be; for all are great cavaliers." Then the kettledrums boomed, while the ten dashed together. A fair sight, without the bloodshed of the Christians' tourney. As each rider swept forward after breaking his reed, he dashed on past attendants standing with a sheaf of unbroken lances, dropped his shivered butt, snatched another, and spurred back to the contest. The horses caught their masters' spirit, and threw up their heels merrily as they flew on charge after charge. Well matched were all; only on the seventh round did an agile Sicilian, by a quick crouch in the saddle, elude an Egyptian's reed while fairly breaking his own. The dust rose high. The horses panted. One by one the combatants dropped out. At last, after the multitude had howled and cheered till weary, the dust cloud settled, and revealed that of one party of five not one remained contesting; of the other, side by side sat Musa and Iftikhar Eddauleh. The great Count shook his head, and Mary had little joy. They at least knew what fires would spur on the emir, when he rode; but to deny the crowd their sport would have meant riot,--nay, bloodshed,--what with their thousands standing on the benches, pressing the palings, shaking earth and air with tumult. The two contestants mounted new horses and sat face to face; behind each stood an attendant with the sheaf of reed lances. Count Roger swept his eye over the lists. "Ha! who is that dwarfish fellow behind the emir?" demanded he; and a knight beside answered:-- "Zeyneb, Iftikhar's body-servant and shadow." Roger did not need to see the cloud that spread on Mary's face. "Holla!" cried the Count, "_he_ is not admitted to the lists! A venomous cat, I hear." A new roar from the benches drowned his voice. The two had charged amid deafening din. Three times past, and the reeds fairly broken; four times,--never drawing rein,--the emir broke only by a great shift; five times, both shivered fairly; sixth time, the Egyptian shattered only his tip, which still dangled from the butt. "The Spaniard wins!" cried a thousand throats. But the emir had spurred by, dashed up to his attendant, snatched lance, wheeled instantly, and thundered back, Musa flying to meet him. "Ho!" trumpeted the Count, leaping up, "Iftikhar's lance! See!" In a twinkling the lists rang as never before. The Spaniard reeled in his saddle; his target flew in twain; he clapped his right hand to his shoulder and drew it away--blood! Prince Tancred had bounded into the arena. "Felony!" his shout; "the emir had a pointed weapon. Sir Musa is run through. Physicians--aid!" A dozen squires and grooms buzzed around the Spaniard, making to lift him from his horse. He sat erect--dispersed them with an angry gesture. "Nothing--_Bismillah!_ The lance turned as it split the target. My side was grazed, and a little blood drawn--it is nothing!" "Lead Iftikhar Eddauleh this way," raged Tancred, his green eyes fired with his wrath. The emir had deliberately ridden back unbidden. From the benches came countless curses and jeers--Frankish and Arabic; he heeded none. "What is this doing of yours?" demanded Tancred, very grave. "You rode with a pointed lance--no reed." The Egyptian drew himself up very proudly. "By the soul of my father!" swore he, outstretching his hand to Musa, "all men saw we were riding madly, and paying little heed to what was thrust in our hands. Just as we struck, I saw the steel--too late. A pointed lance must have been hidden in the reeds. Allah be praised, you are not slain!" "This is not easy to believe," began Tancred. Musa cut him short:-- "I accept his oath--I am not disabled. Ride again!" He cantered to his stand at the head of the lists. Tancred returned to the Count. "Where is Zeyneb, the emir's dwarf?" demanded Roger. "By Our Lady," cried the Prince, with a glance--"gone!" "After him!" thundered Roger. "His was felony or foolishness, best paid by hanging. Lay him by the heels!" Men-at-arms rushed away; but in neither the multitude nor the city found they Zeyneb. The two rode once more--met; broke fairly. Men heard their voices for an instant raised high--curse and defiance, doubtless. Who might say? A second time--all eyes following. Mary saw the Spaniard swing nimbly in his saddle. The emir's lance overshot harmlessly; his own snapped fairly on the target. Another mighty shout--Musa had won! "Again I wish you glory!" said Mary, as she fixed a second diamond aigrette on the cap of the kneeling Spaniard. "May God ever guard you as now, and let you shed glory on your friends!" But this last was in a tone few around might hear. "And I protest," replied Musa, no louder, "I crave no honor greater than that of serving you." Mary blushed. She knew the Andalusian meant all he said; yet she was not afraid, as she had been if Iftikhar or De Valmont had so spoken. A page served Musa courteously, bringing him a basin of perfumed water, towels of sweet white linen, and a goblet of cool Aquillan wine. Then he sat with the Count and his party during the noon interval, protesting that Iftikhar had given him but a slight bruise which needed no stanching, though Mary feared otherwise. Very tolerantly he listened to the tale of Gerland, militant Bishop of Girgenti, how in his diocese he had turned his cathedral into a castle--the unbelievers being so many. The squires brought fruit and cakes and wine. The Greek monks--Cosman and Eugenius--whom Count Roger patronized for their poesy, sang a new hymn in honor of the Blessed Trinity; an Arab rival presented a tale in verse of the Count's late raid to Malta, and so the hour passed. The multitude scattered a little, but did not disperse. The best wine had been kept till the last. What were blunted swords or riding with reed lances, beside a duel betwixt gallant knights under their lady's very eye; swords whetted, and life--perchance soul--at stake! Mary found her heart beating fast. The moments crept slowly. People, she knew, were staring at her,--pointing, whispering her name. Sweet no doubt to feel that scarce a young knight but would nigh give his right hand for a gracious speech from her, hardly a woman but would almost pawn hope of heaven to sit in her place! But when the pure heart of the Greek turned to her dying father and the gallant gentlemen who were hazarding body and soul on her account,--even the bright sun shone darkly. * * * * * Richard Longsword had watched the tourney from a lodge at the northern end of the lists beside his fidgeting father and grave-faced mother, trying to enjoy the contests and to forget himself in the tale Theroulde told, while they waited, of the redoubtable paynim knight Chernubles, who could toss four mules' loads like a truss of straw. Herbert growled advice in his ear. Sebastian said never a word, but Richard knew he had lain all that night before the altar, outstretched like a cross while invoking heavenly legions to speed his "spiritual son." Only when Musa and Iftikhar contended, Longsword forgot himself; thrilled at his friend's peril, rejoiced at his victory, and swore a deep, if silent, oath that the emir should not go scatheless on so poor excusings. The interval ended at last--praised be all saints! The heedless chatter of the ladies, the braying laughs of the men-at-arms, were a little chilled. Slowly a great hush spread across the lists. Richard kissed father and mother, wrung Herbert's great scarred paw, and vanished in a tent at the northern end of the close. Here waited Sebastian and friendly Bishop Robert of Evroult, who brought the Host and heard Longsword's confession and shrived him. Richard vowed two tall candlesticks of good red gold to Our Lady of the Victory, if all went well; made testaments, if the day went ill. "_Dominus absolvat_," the Bishop had said ere the young man rose from his knees. But Sebastian was murmuring in his heart, "Oh, if he were but to ride for the love of Christ and His Holy City, and not for unchristian hate and love of the eyes of a sinful maid!" Then Musa came to the tent, thrusting all the Cefalu squires aside, and himself put on the Norman's hauberk, drew the chainwork coif over the head for shield of throat and cheeks, clapped on the silvered helm, and made fast the leather laces, till Richard was hid save for the flashing of his eyes. When all was ready they led him out, and Theroulde strode before, proud to play the knight's pursuivant. From the end of the lists the _jongleur_ sounded his challenge:-- "Ho, Louis de Valmont! Ho, Louis de Valmont! My master awaits you! Here stands the good knight, Sir Richard of Cefalu, armed for fair battle, ready to make good on his body against cavalier or villain who denies that Louis de Valmont is base-born, unknightly, unworthy to wear his spurs of gold!" Whereupon, from the other end of the arena, advanced a second pursuivant, Bernier by name, a dapper Provençal in a fantastic blue cloak, answering shrilly:-- "Ho, bold man! Who are you that mock Sir Louis de Valmont? He has no lance save for his peers." Then Theroulde threw back, still advancing:-- "So tell your master to be well shriven, for my Lord Richard of Cefalu swears he will number him among the saints ere sunset!" And Bernier paid in return:-- "Foolish crow cawing folly, you are! Not the saints, but the very devil, shall be Richard Longsword's company this night!" But Theroulde was undaunted, and boasted haughtily:-- "My master's sword is trenchant as Roland's 'Durindana'; his strength that of all the paladins in one. He is terrible as King Oberon with all his magic host!" So they bandied their vauntings, and the crowd roared in mirth at each sally, until two trumpets pealed forth, one from either end of the lists, and out from the tents came the combatants in full armor, a herald at each bridle. Louis de Valmont was a notable figure, mailed. He bestrode a high-stepping white _destrer_, with huge crupper, hair like silk, eyes like fire, ears carefully cropped away after the French fashion. The high saddle glittered with gilding and chased work; the brass knob of the kite-shaped shield on the left arm shone, and the steel covering flashed as though of flame. Louis wore a hauberk enamelled red, with black wire embroidered into the sleeves; but the red crest of his tall helm was brighter than all the rest. No less bravely panoplied in his white hauberk sat Longsword, but no skill of his could give grace to the awkward gait and uncouth form of Rollo. A great wave of jeering laughter swept down the benches as the black monster passed. "Ho, steed of Cefalu! Are you an unhorned ox?" "Defend us, saints! This horse is sired by Satan!" "His limbs are iron, they drag so heavily!" These and a hundred more shouts flew out. Men did not see Richard's muscles grow hard as steel, and his face set like rock, when he caught their mockery; for every insult to the horse was the like to the master. But the vows that rose then from his heart boded little good to Louis de Valmont; for they were sparks from the anvil of a mighty spirit. Neither did he know--as Mary Kurkuas knew--that the most battle-scarred knights in the Count's pavilion jeered not, but muttered darkly; and Prince Tancred whispered to Roger: "They are wrong when they say De Valmont has the better chance. I know a horse and a man at sight,--and here are both." They brought the two knights to the barrier opposite the Count's pavilion. Very lightly, though armed, the twain dismounted, and stood side by side before their suzerain. "Sir knights," quoth Roger, soberly, "I like this combat little. You do ill, Sir Richard, to seek quarrel with a cavalier of long renown; you too, Sir Louis, to press a contest that will breed small glory if won, much sorrow if lost." Before either could reply, Mary Kurkuas arose and spoke also. "Since on my account you are at strife, as you love me, I command, even at this late hour, put wrath by. Be reconciled, or perchance whoever wins, I will forbid you both my face forever." And Richard, as he looked on those red cheeks, the brown hair blown out from the purple fillet and waving in little tresses to the wind, nigh felt a spell spread over him,--was half-ready to bow obedient and forget all hatred, not to displeasure so fair a vision. But Satan had entered into Louis de Valmont's heart, prompting him to answer, hollow and fierce, from the depths of his helmet. "Sweet lady, gracious lord, I am touched in honor. Gladly will I put all by with Sir Richard, if only he will confess freely that he spoke presumptuously for one of his few years, and was indiscreet in affecting to cross a cavalier of my fame in quest of gallantry." If Louis had been bent on dashing the last bridge of retreat, he had succeeded. "After Sir Louis's words," came the reply from Richard's casque at its haughty poise, "I see I need make no answer. Let us ride, my lord, and St. Michael speed us!" The Count frowned upon the Auvergner:-- "Except you call back your words, Sir Louis, I must perforce order the combat. Yet you may well seek honorable reconciliation." "I have offered my terms, my lord," returned Louis; and deliberately mounting, he rode to his end of the lists. Tancred had stepped beside Richard. "Fair sir," said he, softly, "you are a young cavalier, but a right knightly one. Trust in St. Michael and your own stout heart. De Valmont seeks your life, but do not fear. And know this: I pass for a keen judge of man and maid,--if it is you that conquer, the Princess Mary will not greatly grieve." "Holy Mother, how know you this?" and Richard's hands dropped from the bridle. But Tancred only smiled. "Does a woman speak only with her lips? I saw your sword-play in Italy, and learned to love you. And now I tell you this, thinking it may make your blade dance swifter. Go, then,--and all the saints go with you!" "Let God judge betwixt them; and let them do their battle!" announced Count Roger, gravely, while the combatants were led to their places. Before each horse attendants stretched a cord, made fast to posts. Others measured two lances of equal length,--lances not blunted, but with bright steel heads and little pennons, Louis's with golden border; Longsword's, green blazoned with a silver lion. Then a herald made sure that neither knight had fastened himself to his saddle. The attendants scattered from the lists. De Valmont's horse was pawing and sniffing uneasily, but Rollo stood firm as a rock. The champions sat face to face, featureless, silent as of granite. No chatter now in the pavilions. Theroulde broke the stillness with his cry, "Go forward, brave son of a valiant father!" And Bernier forced a broad jest as he glanced at the ladies, "Joy here to pick out one's wife!" Richard was very calm. The moment had come. He and Louis de Valmont were face to face, under the eyes of Mary Kurkuas. Betwixt his helmet bars he could see that wonderful face, the head bent forward, the eyes brighter by day than ever stars by night,--at least to him. Holy saints! what deed could he not do with that gaze upon him, with the love of the Greek staked upon his strong arm and ready eye! "For Mary Kurkuas!" That was his battle-cry, though sounded only in his soul. It became stiller--he could hear Rollo's deep breathing. Count Roger had turned to Bishop Gerland. The prelate rose, held on high a brazen crucifix, at which both champions made the sign of the cross with their lance points. Four men with hatchets approached the cords before the chargers. "_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen_," came the words slowly; and at the last, Roger signed to the four. "Cut!" his command. The axes fell as one. Their sound was hid by the bursting tumult. Quick as light the horses caught the greensward with mighty strides. Behind, the dust spumed thick. As they flew, each rider swung lightly forward, lance level with thigh, shield over the crouching chest. Crash! Both steeds were hurled on haunches, and struggled, tearing the ground. The riders reeled, staggered in the saddle. Then with a mighty tug at the reins, brought their beasts standing, and rode apart,--in the hands of each a broken butt, on the ground the flinders of stout hornbeam lances. Din unspeakable rang along the lists, as the two swung back to their stations. No more banter and jeers at Rollo. Old Herbert, whose eyes had danced with every gallop, muttered in the ear of poor Lady Margaret:-- "Good cheer, sweet lady! The lad is a good lad. Did you see? The Auvergner was half slung from the saddle, but Richard met his lance like a rock." They brought new lances to the knights, and, while both waited for breath, Bernier came down the lists with his master's message. "My lord bids me say, fair knight," declared he to Longsword, "that he loves good jousting and did not expect so smart a tilt. Yet he warns Sir Richard, in fair courtesy and no jesting, he will make this next bout Sir Richard's last--therefore, if there be any parting message or token--" Sebastian, who stood by, cut him short. "Bear this back to Louis de Valmont, the murderous man of sin: It is written, 'Let not him that putteth on his armor, boast like him that taketh it off.'" And while Bernier was returning, half crestfallen, the good cleric was muttering: "Ah, blessed Mother of Pity, spare Richard, thy poor child. Make him conscious of his sin--his unholy passion, and presumption. Yet--it will be a rare thing to see De Valmont on his back. Holy saints--what do I say!" Again they rode; again the last vision before Richard's eyes, ere Rollo shot on the course, was that figure,--white face and brown hair, and those eyes upon him. All men knew Louis spurred with Satan behind him on the charger. Another shivering crash--more lances broken. When they parted, both shields were dinted by the shock. Many heard knights cry that the two were riding more madly than ever. A third time--behold! Louis de Valmont had been half lifted from his saddle; one foot had lost its stirrup; but Longsword sat as a tower. Those at the southern end heard the Auvergner cursing his squires and grooms, calling for a new horse, and invoking aid of all powers in heaven and hell when next he rode. A great hush again down all the lists. The pursuivants had no heart to cry. For a fourth time Richard Longsword and Louis de Valmont sat face to face,--and rode. The horses shot like bolts of lightning. The crash sounded from barrier to barrier. In the whirling murk of dust one could see naught; but out of it all sounded a shout of triumph,--Richard's voice: "St. Michael and Mary Kurkuas!" Then while men blinked, the dust was settled, and Louis de Valmont was rising from the sand, smitten clean from his horse. None beheld his face; but his mad cry of rage they heard, as his great sword flashed forth, when on foot he ran toward his foe. But lightly as a cat, Longsword had bounded from the saddle, faced the Auvergner, whom the tall Norman towered high above; and for the first time the multitude saw the sun glint on the long blade of Trenchefer. Right before Roger's pavilion, under Mary's eye, they fought, leaping in armor as though in silken vest, making their huge swords dance in their hands like willow wands. The blade of De Valmont rained down blows as of hail upon the bowing sedges. Fury and wounded pride sped might through his arm. For a twinkling Longsword gave way before his furious onset; as quickly stood firm, paying blow for blow. Not for life the Auvergner battled,--for dearer than life,--his knightly name. The best lance in the South Country dismounted, then mastered by a boy scarce knighted? A thousand deaths better! Thrice, all his strength flew with a downright stroke,--a smithy's sledge less crushing. But when he smote on Trenchefer the steels rang sharp; the blow was turned. From under their helms each beheld madness in his foeman's eyes, and flashed back equal madness. Richard fought the more slowly, his casque dented and his shield; but the Valencia mail was proof. After the first, he yielded not a step; and at each blow parried, at each stout stroke paid, the saints, if none other, heard him mutter across his teeth: "This, to win Mary Kurkuas! This, for the love of the Greek!" But still the Provençal pressed, and still the Norman held him. Mary saw De Valmont's blade shun Trenchefer. His sword half turned as Richard attempted parry,--but smote the Norman's helm-crest. Mary almost thought she could see the fire-spark leap in bright day. But ere she could thrill with dread, Longsword had staggered, recovered, returned the stroke. Quick, deep as from huge bellows, heard she their breaths. Each moment her heart cried, "All is over!" as some doughty blow fell. But it would be parried, or turned on the good mail. On they fought,--fought till mild women rose from the benches and shouted as not before in that day's mad games; and old cavaliers, who set a battle before a feast, stood also with a terrible light in their eyes, blessing the saints for showing them such sword-play! As Mary watched, her thoughts raced thick and fast: now she longed to laugh, now to weep; now only to hear no more of the click and clash of those long swords. Would it never end? But now Prince Tancred was again with his head beside Count Roger. "The Auvergner fails!" Men began to cry out that De Valmont no longer gave back the Norman's blows; only parried. And, of a sudden, Mary saw the iron tower of Richard Longsword, that had stood firm so long, leap as with new life. Twice Trenchefer sprang high, and crashed upon De Valmont. Twice the Auvergner tottered. Thrice--De Valmont's guard shivered as a rush--through shield, hauberk, gorget cleft the Vikings' blade. The shield flew in twain. The Provençal fell with a clash of mail, and, as he reeled, Mary could see the spout of blood where the sword had bitten the shoulder. The Count was standing. He beckoned to Longsword--tried to speak. One mighty shout from Frank and Moslem drowned all else. "Richard Longsword! Richard of Cefalu!" All the lists were calling it. The bright mantles and gauzy veils were all a-flutter. Richard stood over his adversary, Trenchefer swinging in his hand. Again the Count beckoned--still uproar. Roger flung his white judge's wand into the arena. "_Ho! Ho!_" thundered he,--and there was hush at last. "Sir Richard Longsword," spoke the Count, "you have won after such sword-play as I have never seen before. De Valmont's life is yours, if still he lives. Yet if you will, kill not--though he promised you small mercy. For he is a gallant Cavalier, and proved to-day a mighty knight, though no victor." "And I," returned Longsword, under his helm, "give him his life. Let him live--live to remember how Richard of Cefalu humbled him before the eyes of Mary Kurkuas!" So he turned to walk to the end of the lists, but others swarmed about him; Musa foremost, who unlaced his casque in a trice, and kissed him heartily on one cheek, while Herbert croaked and shed great bull tears on the other. Prince Tancred ran down to him, and many nobles more, while Baron William and his dame sat very stately in their lodge, their hearts full, but saying nothing--a thousand eyes upon them. Count Roger had turned to Mary:-- "My princess, I too must speak with this new paladin; and you need have no shame to go with me." The Greek's forehead was very red; but while her words were hanging on her tongue, a serving-lad from Monreale touched her mantle:-- "Gracious mistress--my lord, the Cæsar Manuel, is newly stricken, and lies very low. He sends for you." Mary bowed to the Count:-- "My lord, you see it is impossible for me to go to Sir Richard. Yet tell him I have prayed long he might have no hurt. And now I must go to my father." So Roger went down alone, and led the great throng that swept around the victor as amid the din of harps, viols, and kettledrums uncounted they bore him to his tent. Few saw the squires that carried Louis de Valmont away. He still breathed. A Saracen physician said he was fearfully smitten, but that life was strong within him, and he would live. But who then cared for the fate of the vanquished? They bore Richard back to Palermo in high procession. All the knights swore that he had outdone all the cavaliers of the tourney, and must receive the chief prize. A great banquet and dance was held at the castle; the halls rang with music and the clink of wine-cups; the floors shook beneath a thousand twinkling feet. The young knights to prove their hardihood danced in the armor worn all day,--chain mail jingling in time to the castanets. The _jongleurs_ sang new _chansons_; the ladies blazed in brighter silks and velvet; a myriad flambeaux flickered over all. Only Mary Kurkuas was not there, nor was Emir Iftikhar, delight of the ladies. To Richard and to Musa there were homage and flattery enough to addle wiser wits than theirs. Richard danced till the morn was paling, despite two great welts on his forehead. Two young ladies--"flowers of beauty," the _jongleurs_ cried--brought to him the prize of honor, a shield set with jewels and blazoned with four stripes of gold. Each added to her pleasant words a kiss. In truth, not a cavalier's daughter there that night would have said nay to Richard Longsword, had he prayed for anything. When at full dawn he fell asleep, it was to dream of gallant sword-play, throbbing music, and bright eyes, but the eyes were always those of Mary Kurkuas. CHAPTER X HOW IFTIKHAR SAID FAREWELL TO SICILY Richard Longsword spent the winter in Palermo. There had come a letter oversea from his grandfather, old Baron Gaston of St. Julien in Auvergne, beseeching his daughter to send to France her son, who, fame had it, was a mighty cavalier. He was needed to set right his barony, for he himself grew weak and his vassals quarrelsome. But though Richard's eyes danced when he thought of France, and he won from Musa a pledge to postpone any Egyptian service till the new adventure was well over, he lingered in Sicily. For the life of Cæsar Manuel that winter ebbed fast. In early spring came a stately dromon streaming with purple flags, to bear him back to Constantinople, and a great letter in vermilion ink sealed with gold, pledging the favor of Alexius to his "dear cousin," and entreating his return to the palace by the Golden Gate. But on the day the imperial messenger landed, they were bearing Manuel Kurkuas to his last rest. The Greek Bishop of Palermo was there, also Count Roger, Tancred, and many seigneurs. Then when it was over, and Mary had seen all and done all, with the white face and dry eyes of those true women who can weep for little things but not for great, she found herself alone in the world and utterly desolate. The house of Kurkuas had been a decaying stock. Even at Constantinople her relatives were distant. Only in Provence, at La Haye, dwelt her uncle, whom she had never seen,--brother of her long-dead mother. Either she must go to him or return to Constantinople, where were many ministers and admirers, but only the Princess Anna to be her true friend. Yet Mary would not leave Monreale. The Palace of the Diadem was hers. All day long she would sit in its twilight courts beside the fountain, reading or trying to read, with only Sylvana for companion. When Richard or Musa went each day to ask for her, she would send kind greetings; but said she could not see them. Sylvana, however, was a wise woman as became her years; and one day, behold! Musa was led into the court of the fountain unheralded, and the princess must needs speak with him. "Ah! Sir Spaniard," said she, with a wan smile, "for my father's memory I would have bidden you stay away. I am in no mood for your songs of the orange groves by the Darro. Yet"--and here flashed forth her old arch brightness--"now that Sylvana has circumvented me, I am very glad you are here!" Musa smiled sweetly and gravely. "Dear lady, would that all your sorrows were but monsters, that I might slay them. What may I proffer you,--music? But your heart is too heavy. Words? The lips are but unskilful revealers of the soul. And mine,"--he added with a sincere glance, "is very full for you." "Do as you will!" cried the lady, suddenly; "say as you will. Look! My father is dead; at Constantinople I have few that love me. What matters it what befall me? I am alone--alone; and to whom am I a care?" "Brightness of the Greeks," replied the Andalusian, "say not, you are alone; say not, you are a care to none. To me you are a friend, and"--he went on quite steadily--"much more than a friend to another." And Mary looked at him very steadily also, when she replied: "It is true. When Richard Longsword comes to me, I will have something to say." * * * * * Musa rode from Monreale at a racing gallop that afternoon. All the staid Moslem burghers stared at him as he pounded up the city streets; and just as the sun was sinking Richard Longsword was leaping from the steaming Rollo without the gate at the Palace of the Diadem. When Bardas led him within, he heard the princess's little wind-organ throbbing and quavering. He stood in the court, and saw her bending over the keys, while all the silver pipes were ringing. The notes, marked red and green on the parchment, were spread before her. Sylvana had her hand on the bellows, as her mistress sang the mad old pagan chorus of Euripides:-- "O Eros, O Eros, how melts love's yearning From thine eyes when the sweet spell witcheth the heart Of them against whom thou hast marched in thy might! Not me, not me, for mine hurt do thou smite, My life's heart-music to discord turning. For never so hotly the flame-spears dart, Nor so fleet are the star-shot arrows of light, As the shaft from thy fingers that speedeth its flight, As the flame of the Love-queen's bolts fierce burning, O Eros, the child of Zeus who art!" Richard stepped softly across the rugs. The bell-like voice died away, the organ notes wandered, were still. Mary rose from the music. Flushed indeed was her face, but her voice was steady. "I have sent for you, Sir Richard!" she said. "I am glad you have come." But Richard, foolish fellow, had run to her, and crushed her to his breast in his giant arms, and was trying to say something with his lips very near to hers. And Mary felt his touch and kiss as blest as a heaven-sent fire. "O sweetest of the sweet!" he was crying, "what have I done that I should have such joy? For one such touch from you, I would have beaten down a thousand De Valmonts." "And do you think, Richard," said she, piteously, "that all I love in you is this?"--and she pressed her hand around the knotted muscles of his arm. Then she began to weep and laugh at once, and they both wept and laughed, like the children that they were; and Sylvana smiled softly to her sly old self, and bore away the organ. "And what was in your heart, Mary," cried the Norman, when he found a steady tongue, "that night when you held the goblet to my lips at Cefalu?" "And what was in yours when you drank? Oh, I was all madness that night. I said to myself, 'Here is the kind of man I would fain be born,--with a twinkling eye and an arm like iron.' Had not my father's gaze been on me, St. Theodore knows what I would have done! What with your head so close to mine, and the wild deeds of the day making us as friends for a thousand years! But now," and she began to laugh again softly, "you will have to tame me a great deal. I may look a wood-dove, but I have the heart of a hawk. It will be a long time before I can be content to obey any one;" then with a naughty toss of her pretty head,--"even you." "Ah!" exclaimed Richard, "it is I that need the taming; I, whose wits are in my hands, who love the ring of good steel better than all Musa's roundelays." "Let us not settle too much of the future," answered she, pertly; "we shall perhaps know each other better as time speeds." So they twittered and laughed, till long after the last bird-song had died into silence, the last bulbul had folded his weary head under a wing. A full moon was overhead when Richard swung onto the back of Rollo. His lips were still sweet with the nectar of a warm kiss; the wind was just creeping over the orange grove, which was whispering softly. Here and there the fireflies flashed out tiny beacons. Rollo threw up his great muzzle, and shook his raven mane, as if he knew, rascal that he was, of the joy in his master's heart. Then, swift as the north wind he flew toward Palermo, and for Richard, as he rode, the night shone as a summer's morn. * * * * * The gossips at Palermo bandied the tale about, almost before those concerned in it knew it themselves. No one marvelled; all said that Richard Longsword had fairly won his prize, and Mary Kurkuas would never have shame for her lord. Only the Emir Iftikhar communed darkly with his own heart, and with certain sworn followers of his in the Saracen guard. The good syndic Al-Bakri was a mighty newsmonger. A certain neighbor brought him a story; he in turn dealt it out to Musa; and the Spaniard gave Richard Longsword strong reasons for wearing his Valencia mail shirt under his bleaunt. Baron William had returned to Cefalu. But when a letter came from his son, the seigneur sent straightway, bidding Richard come home, and bring with him Mary Kurkuas, who it was not meet should remain alone, with only Sylvana and the serving-men and maids at Monreale. Richard, hasty mortal, would have had her to church before setting out. But Mary shook her head. The turf was not yet green over the grave of the Cæsar, and she owed a duty to her mother's kinsfolk in Provence. If Richard was to go to Auvergne, she would go with him to La Haye, the barony of her uncle, and there might be the wedding. So with Sylvana as duenna, away they went to Cefalu. There dear Lady Margaret opened her heart wide to the motherless Greek; and they spent many a merry day, with guests and good company coming from far and near to drink at the Baron's board, and to pledge the health of "the peerless lady, Mary Kurkuas, the fairest of her age in all Sicily and France." Day after day Richard and Mary rode forth together; for the Greek was as mad a rider as though born on the saddle. The white falcon was on her wrist; they chased the luckless quarry over thicket and brake, while Longsword laughed as he saw how Mary dashed beside him. And there were long evenings, when in the soft gloaming, and no other was near, they could sit in Lady Margaret's bower outside the castle walls, with the sleeping flowers clinging all about, and a little stream tumbling gently in the ravine below. Here every breath was eloquence, every word a poem, and the voice of Mary sweeter than Musa's lute. Only Mary,--for Richard was all blind these days,--noticed that Musa and Herbert were ever watchful; that Musa always insisted that his friend wear the Valencia shirt; that even when the lovers rode off seemingly alone, there would be Musa or Herbert or Nasr riding within bowshot. All the castle had opened its heart to Mary,--even Sebastian; though the churchman did not capitulate without a struggle. "Lady," said he once to her, "you Greeks are in peril of your souls. You communicate with leavened, not unleavened, bread, for which you may all go to perdition; and in your creed you do omit _Filioque_, in speaking of the Holy Ghost, which I do conceive is the sin whereof Our Lord speaks, saying, 'He that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.' And for this sin Pope Leo Third had your patriarch excommunicated, and delivered over to be buffeted by Satan." But Mary only answered very gravely:-- "Are not men created in God's image?" "Certainly, daughter," replied Sebastian, soberly. "And is Nasr, the abominable devil-visaged Saracen here, a man?" "A man," began poor Sebastian, wavering, "yet created for--" "Surely," cried Mary, cutting him short, "God has a strange image, if it is like Nasr. Unless, indeed, he be of the race Vergilius the heretical philosopher describes: born in the Antipodes, not descended from Adam, and for whom no Redeemer died." "Daughter, daughter," protested Sebastian. "Do not be angry," came the reply, "only I will answer for my heresy when you explain concerning Nasr." And with this Sebastian was content to drop the encounter. Then of a sudden came a day when the even flow of life at Cefalu was rudely shaken. Richard and Mary had ridden with some retinue to games which Baron William's neighbor, the Lord of Pollina, had been holding. The jousts had been hot, though not so fierce as to be bloody. Richard had refused to ride, for all the country-side stood in some awe of him. Musa had won the hearts of all the ladies, as he ever did, by his dashing horsemanship and grace. Evening was beginning to fall. They were still two miles from Cefalu, and before them opened a long, shaded avenue of holm-oak and cypress, through which shimmered the failing light. Mary touched whip to her fleet palfrey. The good horse shot forward, and beside her raced Richard, leaving the rest behind. They had swung into the avenue, the steeds were just stretching their necks for a headlong pace, when lo, as by magic, behind a thicket rose three men, and in a twinkling three arrows sped into Longsword's breast! The clang of the bow and Mary's cry were as one. But even as Richard reeled in the saddle, Musa and Nasr were beside him, at a raging gallop. The Norman shivered, sat erect. One arrow was quivering in his saddle leather, two hung by the barbs from his mantle. "You are wounded!" was the cry of the Greek. But Richard put her by with a sweep of the hand. "For me as for you, Musa, this Spanish mail is a guardian saint. The arrows were turned. I am unhurt." "Mother of God!" Mary was crying, all unstrung, "what has befallen us!" But Nasr and Herbert had shot ahead. They could hear horses crashing through the thickets; other men plunged in after them on foot. Then a great shout, and forth they came, haling two very quaking and blackguardly-looking Egyptians, in the hands of one a strong bow. "By the glory of Allah!" Nasr was swearing, "these men are of the Emir Iftikhar's guard. We shall have a tale to tell when next we fare to Palermo." They dragged the wretches into the light. Nasr's identification and their guilt were beyond dispute. Their comrade had made his escape. But when Musa began to question them as to who prompted their deed, they had never a word, only cried out, "Have pity on us, O Sword of Grenada; like you, we are Moslems, and we sought an infidel's life!" "By the beard of the Prophet!" protested the Spaniard, "good Moslems you are in truth. Well do you remember Al Koran, which saith, 'He that slayeth one soul shall be as if the blood of all mankind were upon him;'" and he added cynically, "Console yourselves, perchance you will be martyrs, and enter the crops of the green birds in Paradise." "Mercy, mercy, gracious Cid!" howled the Egyptians. "Away with them!" cried Richard, who saw that Mary was very pale and trembled on her horse. "At Cefalu we have for them a snug dungeon, thirty feet underground, with straw beds floating in water. There they can recollect, if Iftikhar Eddauleh put this archery in their heads!" So Herbert and Nasr trotted the prisoners away, strapped to the saddles. That night, after Sebastian had said mass in memory of the merciful preservation of his "dear son," Baron William and Herbert taught the Egyptians how Normans were accustomed to eke out meagre memories. They began by sprinkling salt water on the prisoners' feet, and letting goats lick it; and then, as Sebastian aptly expressed in his Latin, _sic per gradus ad ima tenditur_, they at last called for red-hot irons. In this way, though the Egyptians were stupid and forgetful at first, in time they remembered how Iftikhar had sent them to Cefalu, to do what, except for the Valencia mail, they nearly accomplished. They had acted in a spirit of blind obedience, fully expecting to be captured and to suffer; and when they heard Baron William ordering the gallows, they only blinked with stolid Oriental eyes, for they saw that groanings availed nothing. Very early the next day a messenger flew post haste to Palermo, with a formal demand from Baron William that the High Mufti, who judged all the Saracens of Sicily, should hear charges against the Emir Iftikhar. But the messenger was late. The third assassin had secured a fast horse, and outstripped him by half a day. Iftikhar was already out to sea, bound, it was said, for Damietta. CHAPTER XI HOW RICHARD FARED TO AUVERGNE Now when the south wind blew gently with the advancing spring, Richard set forth for Auvergne. With him went Sebastian, rejoiced to see "that very Christian country of France," and Herbert his arch-counsellor, and Nasr with a score of tough Saracens, very fiends as they looked, Baron William's old retainers, who would have followed the devil with a stout heart so long as he led to hard blows and good plunder. Just before he started, Richard was admonished by his father not to rush into quarrel with Raoul, the brother of Louis, whose lands of Valmont lay close by St. Julien. "A rough, bearish fellow," William called him, who had won the name of the "Bull of Valmont" by his headlong courage. He had broiled with Louis, chased him from the fief, and now lived alone with his mother, the Lady Ide, and young brother Gilbert. Just now, report had it, he was at sword's points with the abbot of Our Lady of St. Julien, who claimed freedom from tolls upon the Valmont lands, and William warned his son against being used by the monk to fight his unchurchly quarrel. So Richard promised discretion, kissed his mother for the last time; and away he went on a stanch galleon of Amalfi headed for Marseilles, and making Palermo on her voyage from Alexandria. A short voyage, too short almost for Richard and Mary, who found even the evenings grow enchanted, while they sat on the gilded poop watching the sun creep down into the deep; or listened to the tales of Theroulde, who set Mary a-laughing when he told of King Julius Cæsar, and how he built the walls of Constantinople, and wooed the "very discreet Fée," Morgue, who became his wife. But the joy was rarest to be alone upon the poop, with the soft breeze crooning in the rigging, the foam dancing from the beak and trailing behind its snowy pathway where trod the dying light. "Ah," said Mary one evening, as the first star twinkled in the deep violet, "one year it is since I set eyes on you, my Richard; since you plucked me from the Berbers. In this year I have lost my father, and gained--you!" And there were both sadness and joy upon her face. "A year!" quoth Richard, his eyes not upon the stars, but upon a coronal of brown hair. "How could I ever have lived without you? Since you have entered into me, my strength waxes twenty-fold. By St. Michael, I will seek a great adventure to prove it!" "Do you think to give me joy by risking life at every cross-road to prove your love? Does a true lover think so meanly of his love, that he is willing to tear her heart by thrusting his precious self in peril?" "No," protested he, taking her right hand in his own, then the other; and holding both captive in his right, while she laughed and struggled vainly to get free. "But what do you love in me? The only thing I have;--an arm that is very heavy. And shall I not use that gift of the saints? Are there not haughty tyrants with no fear of God in their hearts, who must be overthrown by a Christian cavalier? Is the world so good, so free from violence, and wickedness, and strife, that he who can wield a sword for Christ should let it rust in the scabbard? You would not have me always in your bower, listening to those Greek books which I called Churchmen's frippery, until you made them all music. Only yesterday I heard Sebastian grumble, 'St. Martin forbid that the princess play the Philistine woman to our Samson, and shear his locks; so that Holy Church fail of a noble champion!'" "I will never play the Philistine woman to you, my Richard," answered Mary, lightly. Then as a sweet and sober light came into her eyes: "Oh, dear heart, I know well what you must be! It is true the world is very evil. We are young, and the light shines fair; but there is a day to dance, and a day, not to mourn, but to put by idle things. You will be a great man, Richard," with a proud, bright glance into his face; "men will dread you and your righteous anger against their wickedness; God will give you mighty deeds to do, great battles to win, great wrongs to right, and perhaps"--here with another glance--"they will think you grow hard and sombre, when it is only because you dare not turn back from your task, but must think of duty, not of childish things. But I will still be with you; and when you go away to the wars, as go you must, I will never weep till your banner is out of sight; and if I do weep, I will still say, as you said, 'It is no dreadful thing for a brave gentleman to die, if he dies with his face toward the foe, and his conscience clear.'" "You will make me a very saint," said Richard, still holding fast her hands; "but it is by your prayers alone, dear saint, that I may dare have hope of heaven." "No," replied the Greek, smiling, "you are not a saint. Oh, you will do very wrong, I know! But God and Our Lady understand that your heart is true and pure. It is our souls that go to heaven, not our tongues with their harsh words, nor our hands with their cruel blows. And when you are fiercest, and the tempting fiends tear you, and the sky seems very black, then I will kiss you--so--and you will recollect yourself, and be my own true cavalier, who wields his sword because the love of Christ is in his heart." "But you will not always be with me," protested Richard. "When I am alone and sorely tempted--what then?" "Then you must love me so much that my face will be ever before your eyes; and by this you will know when you strike for Christ, and when for worldly passion or glory." "Ah!" cried Richard, "what have I done that God should send down one of His saints to sit by me, and speak to me, and dwell forever with me?" "Forever!" said Mary, lugubriously; "we shall all be in heaven in a hundred years. How well that there is no marriage nor giving in marriage there, or some of those lovely saintesses might make eyes at so fine a warrior-angel as you; then I would wax jealous, and St. Peter, if he is the peacemaker, might have his wits sore puzzled." But here soberness left them both, and they laughed and laughed once more; till Musa and Theroulde, who had discreetly withdrawn to the cabin, came forth, and the _jongleur_, looking up at the now gleaming planets, told how wise beldames said, those lights sang a wondrous melody all night long, and a new-born child heard their music. Richard was still holding Mary's hands, and she saucily told Musa that she had begun early those lessons of obedience which her lord would surely teach her. "Flower of Greece," laughed the Spaniard, "in Andalusia the women are our rulers; at their beck palaces rise, wars are declared, peace is stricken. The king of Seville for his favorite wife once flooded his palace court with rose water, to satisfy her whim. Come with me to Spain, not Auvergne." "No," answered Mary, tugging free her hands and shaking a dainty sleeve of Cyprian gauze, "we will never turn infidel and peril our souls--not even to please _you_, Sir Musa." She saw a dark shadow flit over Musa's face: was it as the ship's lantern swayed in the slow swell of the sea? But he replied quickly:-- "Alas! I am not such a friend to the lord of Andalusia to-day that I can proffer there princely hospitality." Then their talk ran fast on a thousand nothings; but the shadow on Musa's face haunted Mary. She resolved in her heart, she would never again remind him that their faith lay as a gulf between them. * * * * * The stout ship reached Marseilles, where she was to barter her Eastern wares for Frankish iron, oil, and wax. Her passengers sped joyously to La Haye, a rich and stately castle in the pleasant South Country, where Baron Hardouin, Mary's uncle, received his niece and future nephew with courtly hospitality, as became a great seigneur of Provence. And when Richard rode again northward with a lock of brown hair in his bosom, he had a promise that, when he returned in autumn, there should be a wedding such as became the heiress of a Greek Cæsar and a great Baroness of the Languedoc. Never again was Longsword to ride with fairer visions and a merrier heart. He was in France, the home of knightly chivalry, of Christian faith. As they passed through Aix and Avignon and Orange, and all along the stately Rhone, the wealthy lords and ladies entertained him in their castles, Theroulde paying by his stories for all the feastings and wassail. And Richard carried his head high, for the fame of his deeds in Sicily had run overseas; and men honored him, and the great countesses gave soft looks and words,--with more perchance, had he only suffered. "Verily," thought Richard in his heart, "the _jongleurs_ did well to sing that when King Alexander the Great lay a-dying, he had only one sorrow,--that he had not conquered France, head of the whole world." But for the ladies, their troops of troubadours and their "courts of love," Richard had only pleasant words, no more. For Longsword had a vision before his eyes that two years before he had never dreamed. Fairer than all knightly glory, the sweet delirium of battle, the cry of a thousand heralds proclaiming him victor, rose the dream of a strong and beautiful woman ever beside him; her voice ever in his ears, her touch upon his arm, her breath upon his cheek; and from year unto year his soul drawing to itself joy and power merely by looking upon her--this was the dream. And Richard marvelled that once his life had found rest in hawking and sword-play. So as he rode northward, all the little birds upon the arching trees sang that one name "Mary"; and the great Rhone, hastening seaward, murmured it from each eddy and foaming boulder; and the kind west wind whispered it, as it blew over the pleasant corn-lands of Toulouse and Aquitaine. Thus ever toward the north; at last they touched the domain of the Count of Vaudan close to Auvergne, and near St. Flour they entered Auvergne itself. Then around them rose the mountains like frozen billows of the angry North Sea, their jagged summits crowned with cinder-filled craters; upon their bold flanks patches of basalt, where clinging pines shook down their needles. On nigh each cliff perched a castle, black as the rock and as steep; and amid the clefts of the mountains were little valleys where browsed sure-footed kine; where the people were rude, rough men, with great beards, leather dresses, surly speech, and hands that went often to their sword-hilts. "Sure, it is a wild land I have come to set right!" cried Richard, gazing at the fire-scarped ranges of _puys_; and he rejoiced at thought of ordering his grandsire's barony with a strong hand. But Sebastian again was only gloom and warnings. "Ah, dear son, how much better to leave your grandfather's petty seigneury to its fate, and heed the word of holy Peter the Hermit, who is preaching the war against the infidels." "Not while Mary Kurkuas lives will I quit her to go to Jerusalem," proclaimed Richard, boldly, and Sebastian shook his head, as was his wont. "'The woman tempted me, and I did eat,'" was his bitter answer; "God is not mocked; your pride shall yet be dashed utterly." CHAPTER XII HOW RICHARD CAME TO ST. JULIEN Now at last they were drawing near to St. Julien, whither Richard sent advance messengers. And as he saw how, despite the rocks and the ragged landscape, fair meadow valleys began to spread out, and wide fields bursting with their summer fatness, he grew still more elated and arrogant in soul. How many gallant adventures awaited beyond those hills! How he would rule with a strong hand his grandsire's seigneury! Nay more, he would do better: he would some day ride over this road with Mary Kurkuas at his side, and hear knight and villain hail him, "Richard, by the Grace of God, Count and Suzerain of all Auvergne." With only five horsemen had Robert Guiscard left Normandy, and when he died, half Italy and nigh all Sicily were at his feet; and should not Richard of Cefalu do better, with a fair, rich barony to build upon? Presently, after a long day's ride, the young knight's company came forth from the last pass amongst the hilltops, and before them--St. Julien. Richard could see the tall square towers of the distant castle shining yellow gray in the dying sun; he could see the long reaches of ploughed land, the glebe of the Abbey of Our Lady of St. Julien, to whose abbot the local baron paid each year six bunches of wild flowers, token of nominal fealty. Far away were the dun masses of the monastery's many roofs and walls; about the castle nestled the thatches of a little town, a fair stream ran through the valley, and all around the beetling mountains kept watch. "A goodly land," cried Sebastian, shading his eyes with a gaunt hand; "a goodly land; ah, dear Christ, grant that the hearts of the men within it be as pure as thine own heavens above!" "And have I done wrong," declared Richard, pointing from corn-land to castle, and thence to river, "to come so far to possess it? Does not God will rather that I should play my part here, than throw away life and love in a mad wandering to Jerusalem?" But Sebastian shook his head. "They say the devil can appear as an angel of light; God forfend that the earthly beauty of this country breed perdition for your soul." So they went down the hillside, laughing and singing, and pricking on their flagging steeds, though Richard saw that Musa was only half merry. "Tell me, brother mine," said he, "why are you not gay? Do you envy me my first inheritance?" The Spaniard threw up his hands in inimitable gesture. "_Wallah_; is not your joy my joy, soul of my soul!" cried he, earnestly. "Not gay? Allah forbid that there be truth in portents. As at noon we rested, and I slept under the trees, I dreamt that I was grievously plucked by the hair." "And that forbodes--?" "That some calamity or ill news comes either to me or to some dear to me. So our Arabian diviners interpret dreams, and so some years since Al-A[=a]zid, my master at Cordova, instructed me." "Christ defend us!" quoth Richard, crossing himself. He was not imagining ill for himself nor for Musa, but for Mary Kurkuas. "Be not troubled," continued the Spaniard; "the surest presages often fail." Richard rode on in silence. The melancholy of his friend was contagious. A cloud drifted over the sun; the bright landscape darkened. As they passed by a wayside cross on the hillside, a skeleton swung from an oak in the hot wind--some brigand or villain, who had enraged the seigneur. A wretched beggar met them, just as they plunged into the trees to enter the valley. "Alms! alms! kind lord," he croaked, his face red with bloody patches; and as he spoke he lay on the ground, and foamed as if grievously ill. "Away with you!" growled Sebastian, angrily; "you have smeared blood on your face, and there is a bit of soap in your cheeks." So they left, and heard his shrill curse, when he saw Richard tossed forth never a _denier_. "No good omens," muttered Herbert, in his beard. "Ride faster," commanded Richard, touching spur to Rollo. So they hastened, while above them the canopy of leaves grew denser, and more clouds piled across the dimming sun. Then as they swung round a turn, they came upon a man with a great load of fagots on his back,--a tall, coarse-faced fellow, with a shock head and unkempt beard, hatless, dressed in a dirt-dyed blouse held by a leathern belt, woollen trousers, and high, rude boots. Herbert rode up to him, as he stood staring with dazed, lack-lustre eyes at the company. "Ho, sirrah; and are we on the Baron of St. Julien's land?" No answer; then again, "Are we on the Baron of St. Julien's land?" Still no answer, while the scoundrel gazed about like a cornered cat, looking for chance to escape. Herbert grasped his ear in no gentle pinch. "I work miracles," bellowed he. "I make the dumb speak!" Then as he twisted the ear, the man howled out:-- "Yes, this is his land." "And why not all this before?" roared Herbert. "I love my lord," growled the fellow; "how do I know but that you seek his ill? Sorrow enough he has, without need of more." "Ha!" exclaimed Richard, "what is this? Speak out, my man. I am his friend and yours!" But before he could get answer, the pound, pound, of several horsemen was heard ahead. And they saw in the road four riders, two accoutred men-at-arms, two others, by their dress and steeds evidently gentlemen of the lesser sort. One of these, a tall young man of about Richard's age, spurred ahead; and as he drew near, he dropped his lance-head in salute. "Noble lord," said he, "do I speak with Richard Longsword of Cefalu, grandson of the Baron of St. Julien?" "I am he, fair sir," replied Richard, with like salute. "I am rejoiced to see your safety. Your messengers have arrived. We expected your coming. Know that I am Bertrand, squire of the Baron, your grandfather; and this is his good vassal the castellan, Sir Oliver de Carnac; in our Lord's name we greet you well and all your company." So Richard thanked them for their courtesy, and then questioned:-- "And is my lord the Baron well?" But at his words a great cloud lowered on the face of the squire, and he turned to De Carnac; and that stern-faced knight began to look very blank, though saying nothing. Then Bertrand began hesitatingly:-- "It grieves me, fair lord; but the Baron is very ill just now; the skill of the monks of St. Julien does nothing for him." "Ha!" exclaimed the Norman. "I give him joy; I have here a famous Spanish knight, who, besides being a mighty cavalier, knows all the wisdom of the paynim schools, which, if very bad for the soul, is sovereign for the body." "No skill avails, lord," said Bertrand, looking down. "He is blind." "Blind!" came from Longsword. "When? how? he did not write." "No, fair sir; three days since it happed; and I have a sorry tale to tell." "Briefly then." Musa saw the Norman's face very calm and grave, and he shuddered, knowing a mighty storm was gathering. "Lord," said Bertrand, "over yonder mountain lies the castle of Valmont: its seigneur, Raoul, has for years been at feud with your grandfather, my lord. Much blood has flowed to neither's advantage. When Louis went away, the two barons made a manner of peace; but of late they quarrelled, touching the rights to certain hunting-land. The suzerain, Count Robert of Auvergne, is old; he gave judgment against Raoul, but had no power to enforce. Four days since Baron Gaston went upon the debatable land to lay a hound; with him only Gaspar, the huntsman. Raoul and many men meet them; high words, drawn swords; and after our Baron had slain three men with his own hands, the 'Bull of Valmont' takes him. Raoul is in a black rage, and his enemy in his power." Richard's face was black also, but he was not raging. "Go on," said he, very calmly. "Raoul says to my lord, 'It is a grievous thing to take the life of a cavalier, who cannot defend himself. I will not do it, yet you shall never see that pleasant hunting-land more.' Then he calls John of the Iron Arm, a man-at-arms and chief devil at Valmont, who is after his own heart, and bids him bring the 'hot-bowl.'" "The 'hot-bowl'?" "Yes, lord; a red-hot brazier, which they passed before our Baron's eyeballs, until the sight was scorched out forever." Richard was turning very pale. "Mother of God!" muttered he, crossing himself; but Bertrand went on:-- "Then Raoul struck off Gaspar's right hand, and bade him lead his seigneur home with the other, and let them remember there was brave hunting on the Valmont lands." "And what has been done against Raoul?" asked Richard. "Nothing, lord. De Carnac is our chief; but when we knew you were coming, and heard how you had laid the Bull's brother, Louis de Valmont, on his back, great knight that he was, we waited; for, we said, 'When Sir Richard comes, we shall be led by one of St. Julien's own stock, and we shall see if he loves Raoul more than do we.'" "You have done well, dear friend," said Richard, still very quietly. "Now tell me, how is my grandfather; well, save for his eyes?" "Alas! he was nigh dead when he came back, and to-day the monks declared he would slip away; only desire for revenge keeps his soul in him." "I must see him," said Longsword, simply; then to Musa, "Ha! my brother, will you be at my side in this adventure?" "_Allah akhbar_," cried the Spaniard, his eyes on fire, "that Raoul shall feel my cimeter!" "Softly, softly, dear son," quoth Sebastian, who had heard all, "_Omnia licent, sed omnia non expediunt!_" "No Latin now, good father," was the Norman's prompt retort, and he turned to Bertrand: "To the castle with speed!" Forward they rode through the squalid little village, where ragged peasants and slatternly women opened their eyes wide, and crossed themselves as their eyes lit on the "Saracen devils"; then they clattered onto the stone bridge, and past the toll-keeper's booth at the drawbridge in the middle span. Before them across a stretch of cleared land rose the castle: not a curiously planned system of outworks, barbicans, baileys, and keeps, as Richard saw in his older days, but a single massive tower, square, built from ponderous blocks of black basalt that could mock at battering-ram. It perched upon a rocky rising, at the foot a moat, deep, flooded by the stream, where even now the fish were leaping; outside the moat, a high wooden stockade; within this, the stables. From the crest far above, the eye could sweep to the farthest glens of the valley. Ten men could make good the hold against an army; for where was the hero that could mount to the only entrance--that door in the sheer wall thirty feet above the moat, and only a wooden drawbridge to reach it, which pulleys could lift in a twinkling? Richard looked at the castle and shrugged his shoulders. "Is the hold of Raoul de Valmont like to this?" he asked. "As you say, lord; only the outer wall is higher," replied Bertrand, while they left their steeds at the foot of the dizzy bridge. Richard blew through his teeth. "St. Michael," cried he, "there will be a tale to tell ere we get inside!" When they came within the great hall, dark and sombre, with slits for the archers its only windows, there were all the castle servants waiting to do Richard honor, from the gray old chamberlain and the consequential cellarer to the "sergeants" that kept the guard. But Longsword would have none of their scrapes and bows. "Take me to my grandfather," he commanded, after turning down a horn of mead. So they led him up blind ladders to a room above. Here the windows were scarce larger; there was a great canopied bed, a _prie-dieu_ chair, two or three clothes-presses; on the floor new, sweet rushes. The day was sultry, but there was a hot fire roaring in the cavernous chimney-place. The glowing logs sent a red glare over all the room; in every corner lurked black shadows. Before the fire stretched two enormous wolf-hounds, meet hunters for the fiercest bear. There was a huge armchair deeply cushioned before the fire, the back toward the doorway. As Richard entered, the hounds sprang up, growling, with grinning teeth, and a sharp brattling voice broke out:-- "Out of the room, pestilent monk. Away to perdition with your cordials, or I set the dogs on you. Give me the head of Raoul de Valmont, then stab me if you will!" "Grandsire, it is I!" cried Richard, and ran beside the chair, and fell on his knees. A great hairy hand reached out for him, and he saw a face, hard as a knotted old oak, beaten by storm, scorched by lightning. Strength was there, brute courage, bitter hate, and an iron will. Only the lips now were crisped, the white beard was singed to the very jowl, and across the eyes was drawn a white bandage, stained with blood. "Mother of God!" moaned the old man, groping piteously. "Is this the welcome that I give you, sweet grandson?" But Richard, who thought it no shame to weep, held the mighty hand to his lips and sobbed loudly, while "the water of his heart" ran down his cheeks. "_Ai_, dear grandsire," said he, when he had his voice, "it is well I have come. I too bear no love for the race of Valmont." The old Baron felt for the Norman's arm; caught it; ran his hands from wrist to shoulder; gripped tight on the iron muscles. "It is true, it is true!" he half laughed; "you are of my stock, and your father was a mighty cavalier. You will be worthy to have the barony." "Say it not, sweet sir," cried Richard; "please God, you will yet live many a year!" "Ho!" roared the Baron, in anger, "would you have me live as a blind cow! What is life without hawks or hounds or tourneys or war! God willing, I shall die soon. Hell were nothing worse than this. I do not fear it!" "Christ forbid you should speak sincerely!" protested Richard, crossing himself. "No; it is true," raged the old man; "there is good company down below. Do not say Bernard the Devil is not there, these seven years, and he was my good friend. I am as bad as he. Fire can't hurt a man, if he can only _see_. What have I to do with your saints and prayers and priests' prattle! Heaven for them; and for men who love good sword-play and a merry lass--" But Richard cut him short. "Don't blaspheme! How know you that this is not a reward for all your sins?" "Raoul used by the saints to reward me? Ha, ha--" and the Baron this time bellowed a wild laugh in earnest. "Grandfather," said Richard, very gently, "you are in no mood for further talk. I will leave you, and come again." "Come, and say that Raoul has gone to the imps!" raged the Baron; then, as Richard's steps sounded departing, "and if you take John of the Iron Arm, Raoul's chief under-devil, alive, give him a bath in boiling lard to remind him of what awaits him yonder!" Barely had Richard reached the great hall when Bertrand was at him again:-- "Their reverences, the abbot of Our Lady of St. Julien, the prior, and the sub-prior, come to see your lordship." So the three monks in their black Benedictine habits came in before Richard, who bowed very low, remembering the wise maxim: "Honor all churchmen, but look well to your money." The abbot was short and fat, the prior short but less fat, the sub-prior leaner still. Otherwise they seemed children of one mother, with their pale, flabby faces, their long gray beards, and black cowls and cassocks. "_Benedicte_, fair son," began the abbot; "we trust the true love of God and Holy Church is in your heart." "Of God and Holy Church," repeated the prior. "Of God and Holy Church," chanted the sub-prior. "I am a great sinner, holy father," quoth Richard, dutifully, "yet I hope for forgiveness. What may I do for you?" Then the abbot ran off into a long, winding discourse as to how the barons of St. Julien had ever been the protectors and "advocates" of the abbey, and how of late "that man of Belial, Raoul de Valmont," had oppressed the monks in many ways. "And even now God has mysteriously deigned," continued the prelate, "that he should commit a sin, the like whereof have been few since the days of Judas called Iscariot." "And what may this be?" asked Richard, soberly. "When our _refectarius_," solemnly went on the abbot, "passed over the Valmont lands, driving three black pigs, and with twelve fair round Auvergne cheeses amongst other gifts of the pious in his cart, this man of blood cruelly possessed himself of the pigs and cheeses, saying, 'The holy brethren will find prayers rise strongest when they have pulse in their bellies'--blasphemous sinner!" "Accursed robber!" cried the prior. "Friend of the fiends!" echoed the sub-prior. "And therefore," wound up the abbot, "we do warn you, on the peril of your soul, to cut off this child of perdition root and branch; to call forth to arms the _ban_ and the _arrière-ban_; to make his castle a dunghill and his name a byword and a hissing!" Richard was smiling. When the abbot finished, he gave the holy fathers a merry laugh that made them half feel their weighty mission a failure. But Musa, as he looked upon his friend, trembled, for he did not like that kind of smile or laugh. Richard flashed forth Trenchefer, and laid his hand on the knob that contained such holy relics. "See you, holy fathers, gentlemen and vassals all. I, Richard Longsword, setting my hand on the holy relics of the blessed Matthias and the blessed Gereon, do swear before God Most High, that I will have the life of Raoul de Valmont, and of every man or lad of his sinful race; and God and these holy saints do so to me, if I show mercy!" And all the men-at-arms, and Bertrand and De Carnac, saw that they had to do with a born leader of warriors, and cried out "Amen!" with a mighty shout, so that the solid rafters quaked and reëchoed. But Sebastian as well as Musa shuddered when he beheld Longsword; for the Norman's words rang hard and sharp as whetted steel, and the good churchman's heart was heavy with new foreboding. "This is a cruel vow, my son," he broke in. "Raoul de Valmont must suffer for his sin; but Louis,--he whom you spared when at your feet,--will you seek his life also, and that of the lad Gilbert, the younger brother?" But Richard flung out hotly:-- "Silence, Sebastian; cursed am I for sparing Louis de Valmont. Cursed for sparing an accursed race! I will have the lives of all--all; and will right my grandsire and myself also. So help me God!" Sebastian had one last appeal. "For the sake of Mary Kurkuas, do not rush into this blood-feud. God will not bless you if you go beyond Raoul!" Longsword threw back his head. "I were unworthy of Mary Kurkuas if I yielded a hair! No power shall shake me! Let Christ pity them; I will not!" Sebastian turned away. "Dear Lord," he prayed, "Thou seest how my sweet son is torn by the fiends who seek his soul; first he forgets Jerusalem, now will dip his hands wantonly in Christian blood. Spare him; pity him; restore him to himself." That night Richard sat at chess with Musa; played skilfully, laughed loud. His talk was merry, but his face was very hard. CHAPTER XIII HOW RICHARD SINNED AGAINST HEAVEN Night was falling. There was a gray mist creeping over the mountain; the ash trees and beeches loomed to spectral size; the sky was thick with dun cloud-banks. But De Carnac, as he looked upward, muttered to Longsword in a bated whisper, "The clouds are less heavy; wait two hours--they will break and give us the moon." "Hist, men!" Richard cautioned the band about him; "not yet; we must wait for darkness." Long had they already waited,--those score of Saracens and fifty or more St. Julien men, lying in ambush behind the trees, north of the crag whereon perched the Valmont castle, the only side where an easy road led up to the outer rampart, within which still lowered the great keep. They had seen men go in and out, but none molested them in the safe shadow of the trees. Their hearts had leaped at the chirp of each cricket, the call of each wood-bird. The sounds died away; naught followed; each man listened to the beating in his own breast. It grew darker. Now the last light shimmered between the leaf-laden branches; a murky haze overspread tree and shrub and moss-covered ground until all objects were lost in the black night. The castle was a good three hundred paces away, but it was so still that they heard the rattle of the porter's keys when he made fast the great outer gate. The chains of the drawbridge rattled; they could see a lantern flash on a steel cap as its owner made the parapet rounds; a few glints of light from the narrow windows in the keep faded one by one; then--silence. Richard felt for his sheath and loosened Trenchefer; then whispered to a shock-pated "villain," whose wrists were bound, and the cord in Herbert's keeping:-- "Now, Giles of the Mill, serve us true in this; for as I hope in heaven, your hands shall be stricken off, and the stumps plunged in hot sulphur, if you play false!" "Never fear, lord," answered the fellow. "Raoul hung my eldest son for fishing in his stream after mid-Lent; never fear his brother will fail to let down the ladder." Richard rose to his feet very slowly. It was so dark under the trees that the keenest eye saw only blackness. On the western hill-crest, where the clouds gave way, the last bars of pale light still hung, but dimming each moment. "_Nox ruit interea, et montes umbrantur_," repeated Sebastian, softly, at Longsword's elbow. "_Ai_, father," muttered the Norman, turning, "why did you not remain in the glen by the horses? We will call you, if any need shriving." "And shall not the shepherd go with the sheep?" said Sebastian, solemnly. "Ah! dear son, if God bless you this night, slay the guilty, but spare the innocent!" "Time enough," protested Richard, "to consider, when we see the inside of that keep. By St. Michael, it will be no jaunty hawking!" Sebastian laid his great, iron-capped mace upon his shoulder. "This weapon I bear," said he, "that I may not live by the sword, and so by the sword perish." "Now, my men!" commanded Richard, his voice still very low; and silently the long line of dark figures rose from the fern brake. As they rose, a distant bell pealed out many miles away, the notes stealing in among the trees like echoes from an untrodden world. "They toll some one who has died in Bredon," whispered Bertrand, the squire. "Let us pray," said Richard. And all the Christians knelt. The Saracens stood dumbly, but perhaps said their word to "Allah,"--for who among them was fated to see another morning? So Richard prayed--a wild, unholy prayer, as became his unholy frame of mind; and he ended, "Thus I confide myself to the stout heart Thou hast given me, and to my good sword, and my good right arm; but last of all to Thee!" And one may hope the Most High rejoiced that He was not utterly forgotten. "Come!" commanded Longsword, rising. "Keep your shields from banging, all the crossbows ready, and the swords loose. De Carnac, you have torches; we shall need them; and you, Herbert--the great axe." Softly as birds upon the wing, those seventy mad spirits stole across the band of open ground betwixt forest and castle. Then they halted before the looming outworks. They heard the sentinel above tramp along the platform. A stray gleam of light touched his lance-head. He might have tossed a pebble down upon Longsword's helm. Herbert laid down his great axe, set his crossbow, laid a quarrel and levelled into the dark. "Not as you love me!" growled Richard, clapping a hand on the reckless veteran; "will you blast all now?" Tramp, tramp; the sentry was gone round behind the other side of the keep. Richard crept up to the wall, and at his side Musa. It was so dark here, they only knew the barrier by their hands. "Now, Giles, your signal!" Longsword passed the word. And then sounded a low bird-call, a second, a third; then silence again. More steps on the parapet above; and a voice very far away, and mysterious in the dark. "Below there?" "Yes," answered Richard. "Here; the ladder; I have fastened it." And something whirred down into the gloom, and struck the ground lightly. It was the end of a rope ladder. Richard groped for it, caught, and gave command. "Stand by, men; I will go first; who second?" "Who but I, brother?" protested Musa, in his ear. "Good; let us gain the parapet, if we may, in silence; then storm the drawbridge and the keep-gate before the alarm. And now"--and he gripped Trenchefer in his teeth and began to climb. Two rounds he had mounted, when there was a second step above; then a shout, cry, scuffle:-- "Devil! Traitor! Help!" and in an eye-twinkle there was a torch flaming on the parapet. Richard paused a moment. Right at the crown of the battlement stood a figure in armor, and behind the bulwark was the noise of struggle. Louder the shout:-- "Treachery! attack! to arms!" Twenty voices had it now. A mighty horn was blaring; a great bell was tossing up its brazen throat in ringing clangor. "Down, lord, down!" it was Herbert who called. "Follow me, all who love God!" flung back Richard; and he sped up the ladder, and Musa after him. Twenty rounds there were to clear; and at the top, one who was swinging his sword to cut the cords. But in the torchlight Herbert again levelled, and whing!--his quarrel had sped clean through the man-at-arms. A second was there, a third, but a flight of Saracen arrows smote them. Richard never knew how he climbed those rounds. He was grasping the battlement--a long leap cleared it. He had won the platform; beside him was Musa; and beside Musa stood Herbert. The parapet was theirs--and what a sight! Upon the summit of the great keep a huge bonfire had sprung up, and the tall flames leaped toward the inky heavens. Down the long bridge from the keep-door were running men in armor,--ten, twenty, twoscore,--and their swords were flashing. And two mighty shouts came swelling from within and without:-- "God and De Valmont!" "Our Lady of St. Julien!" Richard saw a man in a silvered casque running down the drawbridge--a dwarfish man with the shoulders of a bull; over his head danced the spiked ball of an armed whip. "Ah! St. Julien dogs!" was his shout. "To the fiends with them all!" "Up, men!" roared Richard, his voice swelling above battle-shout, bell, and fire. But a great curse came from Herbert. "God spare our souls! One rope of the ladder is snapped!" "Make it fast," flew back the answer. "Musa and I will cover you. Ha, my brother?" And while Herbert tugged at the cords, the Spaniard's cimeter swung side by side with Trenchefer. A great rush: the Valmont men, tall mountain giants, were at the two and about them in a twinkling. One sweep should have flung the twain to the court below; fools!--they knew not that all the South Country had no better swordsmen. Richard struck right, Musa left; and their blades grew red. The attackers recoiled as from live fire. A second rush--a second repulse; once more--the parapet was narrow; the Valmont men reeled back, and some cried out in terror. "Out of the way, dogs!" Raoul was bawling. "I will beat them down!" But as he rushed, Herbert rose from his task. The great axe was swinging over his head; and as it poised, first De Carnac, then Nasr, then the rest by tens cleared the wall. "God is with us!" burst from Richard, and he leaped from the parapet into the court below. Right amongst the swarming Valmonters he plunged, and Trenchefer cleared the path. At his right pressed Musa, at his left Herbert, and with such guardian saints all hell might rage in vain against him. Man to man they fought and right valiantly; but our Lady of St. Julien smiled on her votaries that sinful night. They flung wide the door to the court; the Saracens swarmed in, biting like cats with their crooked cimeters. "Devils! Paynim devils!" howled the Valmonters, as they still more gave way. "Christ save! We are lost!" "Back to the keep!" thundered Raoul, who had laid more than one foeman low. "Back, and I will guard the bridge!" The Valmonters surged back. They swarmed upon the drawbridge. The wood creaked with their rush, the stout chains tightened. Raoul, whose flail had made even De Carnac give way, turned to follow, but Richard was on him. "Now, torturer of old men!" the Norman hissed it through his teeth while he felt Trenchefer leaping on high, as though it were a breathing thing. "Now, St. Julien hound!" and Raoul ran down the bridge to meet him. They were above the moat--a misstep, death. Richard knew it all, yet in strange way knew nothing. Fear--what was it? He saw Raoul's great spike dash down upon him; his head rang, strange lights glared in his eyes; but all his strength sped into the hilt of Trenchefer. The good sword caught the tough oak of the flail, cleft it as a reed, and Raoul de Valmont gave one great cry, and showed a face all gnarled with deathly hate as he reeled into the darkling moat. "God is with us!" again Richard cried, and he leaped upon the drawbridge. The great door slammed fast in his face; he could hear the bolts rattle; feverish hands strained on the levers to the bridge-ropes. But just as the planking sprang up, the axe of Herbert drove through the ropes like pack thread, and Richard rushed onward to the door. "Quarter, kind lord, quarter!" voices were crying from within. "Mercy! our lives! as you love Christ!" "Down with the door!" raged Longsword, whose head seemed one ball of fire. Herbert poised the great axe, and the solid wood sprang in with the blow, but the bolts were strong. "Give it me!" and Richard snatched the axe like a toy. Three times the door gave back under the shattering shock; and with the fourth it reeled inward. From the battlement above, beams and stones snowed down upon him. What recked Longsword? He knew they would not hurt, and cared not if they should. Where in his mind was Mary Kurkuas when he felt the hot blood streaming on his torn forehead, and the fury of demons in his heart! "God is with us!" a third time he called it. Before, opened the dark, narrow, vaulted way to the great hall. There were flashing eyes and tossing blades in the passage. What were these at such an hour! The Valmonters had lived as devils, as devils they fought; but what could they do, save die? Three minutes of hard cutting hand to hand, and the way was cleared. Longsword and his men--that were left--stood in the great hall. The cups still lay on the long tables, scraps of food on the trenchers; for the evening's carousal had not been cleared away. For a moment there was darkness, then a cresset on the wall flashed up, another and another, and all was light. "Fire! Death! Sack!" the St. Julien men were shouting, and who should say them nay? There were women and little children cowering on the settles, young girls ran screaming up the swaying ladders to the lofts above, and after them the raging victors. Richard's voice was a trumpet calling above the stormy chaos. "Up to the parapet, Nasr! Let not a man escape! Search the dungeons, Herbert, lest any hide!" "Kill! kill!" threescore throats were echoing. But Richard had caught an old woman by the arm, and dragged her from her knees. "They say Raoul had a young brother. Where is he? Speak, if you wish to live." His sword was swinging, very red. "Pity, lord," moaned the shivering creature. "Spare Gilbert. He is harmless as a dove!" "Where is the boy, woman?" belched the Norman, and struck at her with his knotted fists. "Oh, mercy!" screamed she; "his mother, Lady Ide, took him to the chapel." "After me, men!" blazed Richard; and he ran towards a rude stairway leading to a chamber below. Musa caught his arm. "My brother!" he cried in his ear, "you are beside yourself! This is no work for a cavalier. Your grandfather is avenged. Call off the men!" "By the Splendor of God!" flashed forth Longsword, "not even _you_ shall stop me now!" He thrust back Musa with one sweep of his arm, and flew down the stairway, twenty blades at his heels. Above, raged the roar of conflict: the moans, cries, agony, battle-shouts, all blending in one hideous, echoing storm. For a moment after the red glare of the hall, Richard blinked in the dark; then in the lower chamber he saw an altar, and four tall candles burning upon it; and around the altar clung white-clad figures, moaning and praying in one breath. Straight across the little chapel sped Richard; and as he did so he saw amongst the women two men, one tall and in armor, with a sword at his side; the other a youth, with a fair girl's face and curling golden hair. As he strode, one of the women rose and stood before him; very queenly she was in her flowing gray hair, and her brave sweet face; for she was Ide of the Swan's Neck, once the fairest lady in all Auvergne. "As you hope in God--" began she. But as she spoke the man in armor sprang from the altar, sword in hand. "Ha! John of the Iron Arm!" laughed De Carnac at Richard's side. "By the Cross!" cried the Valmonter, "you shall not take me here like a cornered rat!" And before he could raise to parry, Richard saw the other's blade swing straight upon him. One flash--one thought of Mary Kurkuas--crash! The great mace of Sebastian had dashed the sword aside, and De Carnac smote the man-at-arms so that he toppled with a dull cry. Richard saw John of the Iron Arm at his feet. "Seize! Bind!" he shouted; "let him be as Baron Gaston said." And he strode straight on toward the altar. Lady Ide caught at his hands. "As you hope in God," she pleaded, "do not harm my son! Revere the altar!" And Richard, with all the fiends in his heart, smote her so that she fell without a moan. He saw the boy clinging to a box on the altar--sacred relics doubtless. In one hand the lad held up a brazen crucifix, and stretched it forth--defence against the slayer. "Pity, pity, for the love of Christ!" he was pleading. He was only a young lad. Sebastian tore at Richard's arm. "As you love Our Lord!" cried the churchman, "spare him!" Richard glared round the room. "Some of you strike down this boy!" was his command to all about. De Carnac, mad sinner, started forward, gave a glance at the relic box and crucifix, recoiled, crossing himself. "Deliver us from evil!" he was muttering. "You, Abul Kadir," cried Richard to a grinning Saracen. "Pluck the boy away! Hew him down!" But the Moslem, though his fingers twitched round his hilt, did not stir. "Away, away!" pleaded Sebastian, dragging at the Norman's arm. "Our Lady spare this wickedness!" "Pity, sweet lord!" moaned the lad, his fair head bowed beneath the crucifix. Richard shook himself from Sebastian's hand. Trenchefer had sprung on high; at his shout the vaulting rang. "I have sworn it! Christ died not for the spawn of Valmont!" The great sword dashed down the crucifix, shattered the sacred box; the lad lay with his bright locks in a crimson pool. Then silence more horrible than any noise. In the rooms above they were still chasing, plundering, slaughtering; it sounded very far away. All the tapers save one had been dashed out by the stroke; in the pale flicker Richard could see strong men with their heads bowed, and their lips moving in prayer. Musa leaned against a stone pillar, his cimeter dropped, his face buried in his hands. Only Sebastian was raising his hand in adjuration. "Come out of him, thou unclean demon," he was saying slowly and solemnly. Richard looked left, looked right. Why did men stare at him, and shrink away from his glance? Why did his head throb as if the veins were bursting? He held up Trenchefer--how red the blade was! What had he been doing? Lady Ide on the hard flags was beginning to quiver and moan--how came she there? The other women had fled the chapel. The gray shadowy walls seemed turning round and round; Richard caught the altar-rail to stand steady. [Illustration: "THE LAD LAY WITH HIS BRIGHT LOCKS IN A CRIMSON POOL"] Now a mightier shout in the halls above. "Out! Out! The castle burns!" And with the shout a rising roar and crackle, and the sniff of creeping smoke. Still Richard stood; almost he felt as a man waking from a dream. Would it not all flee away and leave him at Cefalu in his mother's bower? or at Palermo in the genii palace with Mary Kurkuas beside the plashing fountain? Musa had stepped to him and touched his arm gently. "Dear brother, the castle burns quickly. We must haste, if all would get out!" Richard shook himself; his head steadied. "Come, my men!" He led them up from the chapel. Already the flames were mastering the upper lofts. The parapet was a pyramid of glowing fire. The victors rushed down the drawbridge with their spoil; a great copper dresser, plate, gold cups, tapestry--the plunder of Raoul de Valmont for many a long year. Only Musa stayed long enough in the chapel to bear the Lady Ide outside the bailey, where some of the castle women were not too terrified to care for her, and take her to the cottage of a peasant not far away. Richard stood outside the gate. The fire was climbing downward and mounting upward. Now from every loophole spouted a blazing jet. The sky had cleared, but the eddying smoke veiled stars and moon. The great keep was a flaming beacon against the dark; ten leagues away lord and vassal would see it, and say that Raoul the Bull of Valmont had met his deserts at last. The St. Julien men crowded around their chief, gave him cheer on cheer, and cried out that with him to lead no emperor might withstand them. Richard stretched up his hands toward the glowing fire-mount. "Let God Himself undo my deed this night!" he cried. Then they walked to the glen, took horse and were away, and saw St. Julien before dawn. All the ride Richard was laughing and boasting, and saying that he wished a Raoul every month that he might have such rare sport; but Sebastian and Musa said little, and their thoughts were none the most gay. CHAPTER XIV HOW RICHARD'S SIN WAS REWARDED There was mirth and dancing in the St. Julien castle when Longsword and his band returned. Seventy and more had they gone away, scarce fifty came back, some of the women howled long for the husband or brother whom they brought home on the shields; but save for these, who was there but had a laugh and a cheer for Richard, who had borne himself a very paladin in the fight? When the knight dismounted at the castle gate, forth came the gray-haired steward with the great horn goblet of the urus-ox,--a mighty cup centuries old, ornamented with strangely wrought silver bands, and brimming with home-brewed mead. "Drink, fair lord," he commanded, "for you have proved a right noble seigneur of St. Julien. None but a cavalier of wondrous valor is suffered to drink from this." So Richard drained the great horn. "To the perdition of every Valmonter, and to the bright eyes of Mary Kurkuas!" Then he went to the chamber of his grandfather, who had sat all that night, gnawing his nails, crying to the varlets to run to the parapet to see if the sky was aglow toward Valmont. As Richard came in the old man staggered up to him, caught him by the arm, and sniffled piteously when Richard told how they won the outwork and the bridge and the keep. "By the Cross!" swore the Baron, half laughing, half moaning, "I would have given half my life to be there,--there and strike one good blow, and feel the steel eat through Raoul de Valmont." "Raoul de Valmont will never feel another sword," said Richard, softly; "he is gone to his account." "Aye," cried the Baron; "gone, so the varlets who ran here told me; gone, and a long time St. Peter will have of it reading off the list of his sins. By Our Lady, they were not a few; and perhaps mine are as many, ha! Well, even the devil will not frighten me much, after what I have lived through!" "You must live and undo your misdeeds if you can, dear grandfather," said Richard, whose own conscience was as yet very easy. "Yes, I must have a talk with the abbot. Live like a demon, then square at the end with the priests! Two or three fields added to the glebe, a few _sols_ ready money, and the saints forget all about you, and let you crawl under the gate of heaven--that is the way a man of spirit should live and die! But the Valmonters--the boy Gilbert?" "I killed him," said Richard, deliberately. "Good; he had never done any harm; neither have wolf whelps; but we kill them just the same. And John of the Iron Arm?" "He is here. De Carnac struck him down, but he is alive; they have him in the dungeon now." "Good again; I can hear him whistle his tune before we let him die. _Ai_, lad, you will be a right good seigneur for this old castle. I shall sleep in the ground more snugly because I know you possess all. I have fought, scraped, and lied to make the barony larger. No man shall ever say Gaston forgave a foe, or failed to square off a grudge, and now Raoul has been paid--ha!" So Richard left the old man to chuckle in his darkness. The next day the abbot came over with congratulations, blessings, and a request for the great altar cross of Valmont,--which was due, because the "_aggrave_ and _reaggrave_," double and triple anathema, he had thundered against the Valmonters, doubtless went far to blast their prowess; and Longsword all piously gave the cross. The monks chanted _Te Deums_ and enough masses to lift every fallen St. Juliener promptly out of purgatory. Richard went about with merry face and loud laugh. "After the feast comes the dance!" he would cry, when all marvelled at his nimbleness after so hard a _mêlée_. At the great feast in honor of the victory, Richard sat at the head of the long horseshoe table, drank with the deepest, and never blushed when Theroulde likened him in valor to Huon of Bordeaux or even to Roland. "You seem very joyous to-night, dear son," said Sebastian, who appeared gloomier than ever. "And why should I not?" quoth Richard, stretching forth for more wine. "Have I not blotted out my grandfather's enemy; have I not a noble barony; have I not the love of the best of friends," with a glance at Musa, "and of the fairest woman in the world?" "Ah! sweet son," replied Sebastian, sighing, "all these shall pass away! The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; there will come a time when you will cry, 'Would God I had been mindful of my vow and gone to Jerusalem.' Even now it is not too late; let us go and hear the holy Peter of Amiens, called Peter the Hermit." Richard cut him short with a direful oath. "Speak not again of Jerusalem. I care more for Mary Kurkuas and for Musa than for ten thousand Jerusalems! Let others who have more sin on their souls, and are more frighted by priests' patter, go if they list. For me I give you the good Arab saying:-- "'Begone all eating cares this night! Who recks to see the morning light?'" Then, to a serving-varlet: "Here, fellow, another horn." And Richard stood up with all eyes upon him. "To Mary Kurkuas," he drank, "and long may she be the liege lady of St. Julien." Every man present, except Sebastian, roared out the pledge; but Sebastian only sat still, and prayed to the saints. Thus sped some weeks, and old Baron Gaston breathed his last. Before he died John of the Iron Arm had gone before him, in a manner better surmised than said. The Baron had felt his sins coming home upon him as his time drew nigh. The abbot went to see him very often. Gaston wished to die as a monk. The brethren put on him the monk's robe and scapulary, the sub-prior pronounced over him some words of consecration, and the dying sinner muttered some half-articulate vows. Yet he seemed more concerned as to what would befall his good horse Fleuri when he was gone, than about the welfare of his soul. Around his bed night and day sat his petty nobles and neighbors watching in solemn silence, except to cross themselves when a magpie croaked, or when it was said that a vulture hovered over the castle--sure sign of the death-angel's approach. The moment the Baron was dead, the serving-boys ran through the castle, emptying every vessel of water, lest in one the straying soul should drown itself. The monks gave him a funeral as became one of their own order, and one who had made over to them so wide a stretch of farm-land. Ten days after Gaston was buried, they proclaimed Richard Baron of St. Julien. Lady Margaret was her father's only heir; but she was far away, and a man with a strong arm was needed in that troubled seigneury. So Richard Longsword sat down in the Baron's high seat at the end of the great hall, and all the lesser nobles came before him, knelt, placed their hands in his, and swore themselves "his men." And Richard raised each up, kissed him on the mouth, and promised love and protection so long as he observed fealty. Fealty, Richard himself owed in name to the Count of Auvergne, with the young William of Aquitaine as overlord of all. But times were turbulent, Aquitaine and Toulouse at bitter feud. Richard looked upon the castle, the stout men, the broad lands, and the blue sky: "No power can say me nay," was his laugh, "saving God and Mary Kurkuas." And one fears he did not greatly dread the former. But the barony he ruled with a strong hand, and ended the petty tyrannies of the lesser nobles upon their serfs; while Sebastian as chancellor chased from office the chaplain of St. Julien, a rollicking, hard-swearing sinner, with a consort, six children, and wide fame as a toper. In his stead reigned Sebastian himself, who soon crossed swords even with the abbot: first, because there were fowls in the abbey kettles Fridays; second, because the brethren bartered smacks with the bouncing village maids. "_Peccatum venale!_" cried the abbot to the last charge, and defended the former by saying that fowls were created along with fish on Friday, and who that day refused fish? So both good men complained to Richard, but he merrily said that Nasr, as an impartial infidel, should compose their quarrel. And ignoring their war, Longsword rode up and down the barony, setting the crooked straight, making the "villains" worship him for his ready laugh, his great storehouse of humor, his willingness to stand with the weak against the strong. Only men who had followed him at Valmont whispered about him. One day Richard heard two men-at-arms with their heads together, while he sat at chess with Musa. "Our seigneur is a terrible man. You should have seen him in the chapel." "From what I was told, he smote the very relic box. He must shudder lest the hand of God be laid on him." "He shudder? Lord Richard would not shrink, if he saw a thousand fiends. His heart is made of iron, like his hands, if only you could see it. Yet sometimes I tremble lest we all be smitten a deadly blow for his deed. We all stood by consenting, though the stroke was his." Richard heard, and the whispers so shook his mind that he made a false move, lost a piece, lost the game. Musa saw that he was silent for once that evening. A messenger had come the day before from La Haye: Mary was well and joyous; they would have a bridal that would be a tale through all the South Country. Yet Richard was no longer merry. Musa confided his anxiety to Herbert, who had become his firm friend. "The Cid my brother is not well. He talks in his sleep; he boasts before men, but fears to be left alone. Last night he cried out on his bed to take away Gilbert de Valmont and his fair, blood-stained hairs." Herbert shook his head. "The 'little lord'"--for so he fondly called his mighty nursling--"has done a deed, even I," he laughed grimly, "who have a few things to tell the priests, would not like to dip hands in. Slaying the lad was no wrong, mind you. But the altar! the altar! Better kill fifty in cold blood than shatter a relic box!" "No, I think he fears lest Allah requires the boy's blood at his hands." Herbert brayed out a great laugh. "God will never wink twice, caring for those Valmonters. They say Louis is coming north with a band to take vengeance. Pretty fighting--no music sweeter than that of sword-blades." "I would that the princess were here," said Musa, "to lift Richard from his black mood." But when the news came that Louis was trying to induce the Counts of Aquitaine and Toulouse to make peace and march against St. Julien, Richard only laughed loudly as Herbert. "By St. Maurice, let all come; and bring the king of France and Duke of Lorraine. Valmont was too easy a task; let me match my strength against great lords now!" Musa only shook his head. "Allah grant," was his prayer, "that naught befall unhappily, until we go back to La Haye for the wedding. Mary Kurkuas's bright eyes will scatter all this darkness." But day after day went on, and no bolt fell. Richard continued to ride hard, hunt hard, drink hard. Musa began to feel, however, that the shadow was beginning to lift. Louis had been unable to induce Toulouse and Aquitaine to compose their feud; there was little to fear from his quarter. Then one afternoon came the stroke from heaven. A fair sunny afternoon it was, in the late summer. Richard had been up with the dawn, following a great boar over the mountains. The dogs had brought the beast to bay, and his white tusks had killed three hounds, before Longsword had ended all with a stroke of his Danish hunting-axe. The boar was a giant of his kind. They brought him on a packhorse, that staggered beneath the weight. The carcass was laid out before the huge fireplace of the hall, and all the castle girls and women stood round pinching his shaggy sides, feeling of his white teeth, laughing, chattering, and screaming. Richard, having put off his hunting-boots, was calling to a serving-boy for water, when the bronze slab at the gate began to clang, proclaiming a stranger. "_Héh_, porter, open to me!" was the cry without, and there was a scurry of many feet on stairways, for few visitors made their way to St. Julien. Presently they led into the hall a wandering pedler. He had a weighty pack of Paris pins, of ribbons, of Eastern silks, and fifty kinds of petty gewgaws that set the women oh-ing and ah-ing. But when he undid his bundles, he dragged forth a letter, a roll of parchment, carefully sealed. "This, fair lord," said he to Richard, "I was bidden to bring you from Marseilles, where a shipmaster put it in my hands." "From Sicily--from Cefalu, then." Richard had not expected a letter so early, but so much the merrier. Only he was puzzled when he saw that the superscription was not in the hand of his brother Stephen, the usual scribe for his father. Richard broke the seal, which he did not recognize, unrolled, and read; while the girls swarmed round the pedler, ransacked his wares, and pleaded with the men to be generous with the spoils of Valmont, and buy. But Musa, as he looked at Richard reading, saw sudden sweat-beads standing on his forehead. The letter ran thus: "Robert of Evroult, Bishop of Messina, to his very dear spiritual son, the valiant and most Christian knight, Sir Richard Longsword, sends his greeting and episcopal blessing. "May the grace of our Lord, the pity of our Blessed Lady, ever Virgin, the sweet savor of the Holy Ghost, be upon you. May Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, the great and all-adorable archangels, spread their shields about you, to deliver you. May all the company of the saints on high intercede for you at the throne of the Father of all mercies, and bless you; and may God Himself grant unto you strength and peace. "Fair son, it has pleased the Most High to lay upon me a burden which makes my bones to cry out, and my nights to be spent in tears and in roarings. Yet who better than I may write you? Bow to the will of God, and listen. Ten days since it befell that Moslem corsairs landed by night at Cefalu, and stormed your father's castle. The tales we have heard are scanty, for few who saw what befell are here to tell. From a man-at-arms who escaped, it would seem that the castle was surprised about midnight. The garrison was small; for my lord, your father, had sent many of his men into the mountains to chastise some robbers. They say your father laid about him as became a Christian and a cavalier, and slew many; yet at the end, seeing there was no hope, stabbed your mother with his own hands to spare her captivity amongst the infidels. They say, too, that your brother Stephen died fighting with a valor worthy of his father and brother. As for your sister Eleanor, I hear nothing. Therefore, we dare hope, if indeed it is a thing to hope, that she is not dead, but carried away captive by the unbelievers. Soon as the alarm was spread, Prince Tancred, who was near Cefalu, took ships and followed after the pirate's two vessels. One outsailed him; he captured the other after much struggle. The prisoners confessed their chief was the Emir Iftikhar, one time in Count Roger's service. The emir was on the vessel which escaped with your sister, so said the captives. The prince put to death his prisoners in a manner meet to remind them of the greater torments waiting their unbelieving souls. Rumor has it, Iftikhar has sent a creature of his, one Zeyneb, to France to seek your hurt. This is incredible, yet be guarded. I have had masses said for the souls of your kinsfolk; and consider, sweet son, even in your grief, how now they are removed far from this evil world, and have their dwelling with the saints in light. May the tender pity of Christ comfort you, and give you peace. Farewell." A great cry, inarticulate, terrible, burst from Richard's lips. He staggered as he stood. Herbert grasped him round, to steady. The parchment fell heavily from his hand. Musa caught it, read a few lines. "My brother! Allah have compassion--" he sobbed, his own heart melting fast. "Where is Sebastian?" came the choking whisper from Longsword. "Gone to the village, lord," hesitated Bertrand, "to confess two thieves. He is staying to the feast for the executioner and priest after the hanging!" "My God! My God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?" Richard was moaning. His face was ashen. They looked on him, some about to stop their ears at his blasphemy; but one glance told it was no blasphemy, but bitter truth. He was putting by Herbert lightly as a child, and springing toward the door that led down to the drawbridge. At the sight of his face the women began to weep. "My brother! my brother! stay!" Musa was calling. He might better have cried to the whirlwind. "Halt him, men!" shouted Herbert, leaping after. "He is mad; he will slay himself!" Two or three men-at-arms leaped out, as if to stop him. At one flash from his eyes they fell back, crossing themselves. Richard ran out upon the drawbridge. They could see his feet totter; all held breath--the moat was very deep; he recovered, ran on. Herbert made a trumpet of his hands and shouted to the porter at the outwork:-- "Stop him! Close the gate!" But Richard ran right past the gazing fellow, and reached the open. Musa had sped after him. "Richard, you are mad! Where are you going?" was his despairing call. Longsword only ran the faster. They saw him leave the beaten road, and fly along over garden walls, ditches, hedges, with great bounds worthy of a courser. Musa pressed behind, but soon found himself completely outdistanced. Richard was heading straight for the lowering mountain. The Arab turned back, panting for breath. Already the Norman was out of sight, lost in the forest. Musa hastened to the castle. "Call out all the men, send word to the village," was his command to De Carnac; "beat up the mountain with dogs, or you will never see your baron again!" CHAPTER XV HOW RICHARD FOUND THE CRUCIFIX As Richard Longsword ran across field and fallow that bright afternoon, had the warm sun turned to ink, he would scarce have known it. Sight he had not, nor hearing. He did not feel the bushes that whipped smartly in his face as he dashed through them; he did not see the wide ravine of the brook brawling at his feet. Only by some mad instinct he leaped and cleared it, and ran on and on; fleeing--from what? His head was throbbing, though he had touched no wine; there was a great weight in his breast, numbing, crushing. He even tried to stop himself, to look about, to call back sense and reason. Useless; the passion mastered him, and still he ran on. As he ran, he prayed; prayed aloud, and knew not what he prayed. "Holy Mary, pray for me! Holy Mother of God, pray for me! Holy Virgin of Virgins, pray for me! Mother of divine grace, pray for me!" And still on! Would the fire in his brain never quench? He stumbled over a fallen tree, and knew he was in the forest. He rose, glanced back; he could see at last,--the tower of St. Julien was still in sight. And in the tower were men and maids who could laugh, and chatter, and love the sunshine. Away from them! Richard broke in among the crowding trees, and ran yet faster. Presently, though his pain grew not the less, it ceased to be one aching blur of feelings. Forms, faces, were darting before his eyes; now among the trees; now peering from the thickets; now flitting along some grassy mead on the mountain side. They were not real. He knew it well. When he fastened his gaze on them, they were nowhere. But still he ran. His feet flew like those of the hunted roe. And was he not hunted? Was he not fleeing? From what? Richard had known his Latin, cavalier that he was. The words of the service were ringing in his ears--who uttered them? "Whither shall I go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in hell, behold Thou art there." The words sounded and sounded again. Richard clapped his fingers to his ears. Still he heard them. And he must run, run as never before, if he would escape from his pursuer. Presently he stumbled over a second log; fell headlong beneath a pine tree upon a slipping carpet of dead needles. The fall was heavy; he felt his head thrill with a new pain. For a moment he lay still; and a cool fern pressed comfortingly against his cheek. It was good to rest quietly and look upward into the dark tracery far overhead. He could just see a little patch of the blue shimmering through the pine boughs, a very blue bit of sky. If heaven lay beyond that azure, how fair a land it must be! Richard pressed his hands to his brow, and held them there for long. The throbbing had a little abated. He sat up; looked around. Not a sound except the drone of a mountain honey-bee hanging over some blossom. Trees, trees, before, behind. His eye lost itself in the ranges and mazes of gray-black trunks. There was no path; he had no recollection of the way. He called aloud--only echoes from far-off glens. Richard rose and sat upon the log; and his fingers tore at the wood's soft mould. Would God his mind had been in His hands! The Cefalu folk--they were all before him--father, mother, sister, brother. He should never see them more in this world--and in the next? Oh, horror! what part could his sainted mother have with her unholy, murderous son! His father had sinned after his kind, yet to him little had been given of holy teaching, and little would be required. But he, Richard Longsword, had he not been brought up gently by his mother, as became a high-born Christian cavalier? Were not her prayers still in his ears? Had there not been at his side for guide and counsellor Sebastian, who was one of the elect of God? Had he not given his mother a pious and holy kiss when he fared away to Auvergne? and did she not send him forth with his virgin knightly honor, to do great deeds for the love of Christ? and how had he kept that honor? He had slain Raoul, and there was never a stain upon his conscience; but Gilbert the lad, the innocent boy who had poured out his blood at the very altar--was it for the love of Christ that he had slain _him_? And that vaunt he had flung to heaven when the keep of Valmont burned: "Let God Himself undo the deed!" Lo, it was made good--not even God, were Gilbert de Valmont to stand forth with breath, could take back that sinful stroke of Trenchefer! Richard cried aloud in his agony; and the black woods rang, and birds flew screaming from their haunts, as though the hawk were on them; echo and reëcho, then the woods were still. Richard roused himself by a painful effort. The tree trunks were darkening; the patch of blue above waxed dim; night was approaching. "St. Michael!" he muttered, "I must get away quickly, or sleep under the trees." But a native of the region might well have wandered in that dusky maze, and where were Richard's wits for woodcraft? He plunged heedlessly onward, forcing aside saplings by brute strength, his mind on anything but his path. One thing alone he knew and cared for,--never on earth, never in heaven, would he see his mother again, or his father, or Stephen, the brother at whose learning he had mocked, but in secret revered. And his sister? Well for Iftikhar Eddauleh five hundred leagues lay betwixt him and Richard Longsword, or the emir might have found his proof-panoply become his shroud! Still Richard wandered. It darkened fast. He began to find himself peering askance into every shadow. He lengthened his stride, for the forest was proving too dense for running. His speed led nowhere--trees, and ever trees, and still the light was failing. Richard raised his voice for a great halloo. Echoes again, but out of the gloom came more,--a low, deep growl; and the Norman knew its meaning well. There was a little break in the forest; the gloaming was a trifle stronger. Richard saw before him two eyes, bright in the twilight as coals of fire, and the vague outlines of a huge, dark form. All the battle instinct of the Norman leaped into life. "Good," cried he to the woods, "a bear!" He snatched at his side, no sword--unbuckled at the castle, just before he read the letter. But he laughed in very delight at what might master his chief enemy--conscience. "Good!" cried he again, and he plucked up a great stone. At the moment he felt as if he could grapple the brute in bare hands and come off victor; and if otherwise--what matter? With all his might he dashed the stone between those gleaming eyes. A mighty snarl. Richard tore the bough from a tree with giant grip, and sprang to the battle. Another snarl and growl, and behold! the brute instead of rearing and showing teeth, shambled away, and was lost in the shadows of the forest. Doubtless it had just been feeding, and would not fight unless at bay. But Richard cried out, cut by his pain:-- "Dear God, even the beasts turn from me, I am so accursed!" He sat again upon a log; it was very dark. He could just see the tall columns of the trees. The patches of sky were a violet-black now. He stared and stared; he could go no farther; to wander on were madness. There were deep ravines on the mountain side. Richard remained still a long time. As the darkness grew, his sight of things past increased. His boyhood; his life in South Italy and Sicily; his first meeting with Mary; his duel with Louis; his parting with Mary; the storming of Valmont; his mother, ever his mother. She had nursed him herself--rare mark of devotion for a seigneur's lady. She had been proudest of the proud, when he had won his honors. She had whispered to him an hundred sweet admonitions that dear, bright night he was last at Cefalu. Did he love her more than Mary? Praises be to God, there are loves that never war; and such were these! Oh, had he but been at Cefalu, with his good right arm, and Musa, and Herbert, and Nasr--how different, how much better! And now all were dead save Eleanor, his bright-haired sister, and she--the captive of Iftikhar. Why, if God had been so wroth with him, had He not stricken him, and let the innocent go free? He was strong; his will was adamant as the blade of Trenchefer; to save those dear ones a single pang--what would he not suffer! Were they not--all save his sister--happy now? Surely the saints had taken joy to welcome his mother and brother; and within, his father's soul was white, if some little seared without. "Ah!" cried Richard, "if my own heart were clean, I would not grieve. I would pray for their souls, and love Mary Kurkuas, and know that pure angels intercede for me at God's throne; but now--what with the blood of Gilbert de Valmont, the shattering of the altar--what is mine but torment eternal!" And Richard saw, he was quite sure, as he strained his eyes in the dark, a fair green country strewn with flowers, and in the midst a battlemented city, and within that a glittering throne with myriad bright angels, playing lute and harp unceasing. Upon the throne sat an old man, with a white beard falling to his girdle, crowned with gold, and holding an orb and sceptre; and Richard knew this was God the Father. Then he saw angels bringing up men before the throne: Raoul de Valmont, John of the Iron Arm, and all their sinful crew. And God said to them: "Why have you come here, your sins unrepented, unshriven, all unprepared to die?" And they answered: "Richard Longsword has sent us; he was wiser than Thou, Lord, and could not bear with us as Thou hadst done so long." Then God said: "Your sins are very great. Depart to the lake of fire!" Then they brought a fair-haired, girlish boy, and God said: "Why hast thou come, dear child, when thou hadst not done on earth that which I designed for thee?" And the boy answered: "Richard Longsword is wiser than Thou; he did not wish me to be on earth." So the angels gave the lad white wings like their own, and a great viol like a _jongleur's_. But God said: "Concerning Richard Longsword it is written, 'Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.'" Then some angels, very terrible, approached Richard as he gazed, to lead him to the throne; and lo! he was stripped naked as an infant at the font, and all the strength had sped out of him!... A mighty peal of thunder! the jagged lightnings springing above the trees; now all the woods were lit by the white bolts, now all was black; and on high, giants were dragging down pinnacles of a mighty fortress. Richard cowered on his seat. The raindrops smote him, but could not cool his glowing temples. The tale of the great storm that presaged Roland's death came to him--how from Mount St. Michael to Cologne there was pitch darkness at noonday. Would God this were omen of his death only--not of his perdition! Betwixt the lightnings could he not see children running about with two heads, and all the boughs swelling out with heads of serpents--sure sign of the presence of the devil? And, in the darkness, what was that flickering will-o'-the-wisp form, unless it was Herodias's daughter dancing, dancing with glee, as they said she ever did when she saw a soul devoted, like herself, to Satan? Would the night ever pass? Richard cowered on his seat. At last--and who might say how long it was in coming?--there was a faint tinge among the tree tops, a low flutter of wings on the branches. One shy bird commenced his morning call; another, another. The blank maze of tree trunks began to unravel into moss-strewn avenues. The dawning was at hand, and the sky fast coming blue. The only traces of the rain were the diamond drops hanging on twig and flower. A warm, moist odor was rising in the wood; the day would be very hot. Richard roused himself. His clothes were wet; he flung away his fur-lined "pelisson"; the heat of the heavy coat was intolerable. His head swam, as he stood up; but he summoned his strong will. His brain steadied. He looked about. "I am lost," reasoned he; "there is only one way to find the path to St. Julien; I must go above the trees. From the mountain crest I can see which side to go down." So he climbed, though now his steps were no longer strong, and his feet ached wearily. At last--the saints above knew after how long--he saw the pines thinning, then the rocks shone black and bare in the sun. One last effort--and he was out of the forest; the jagged summit still towered above him, but he could look forth--on what a view! Far and wide stretched the pleasant Auvergne country; corn-land and orchard, green but browning with the dying summer. The mountains pressed in on every side, north and west the great volcanic _puys_ tossed their bleak crests far into the blue, as if piers to upbear the heavens. Away to the east were more hills--the Cevennes; and beyond, very near the sky line, what was that whiteness through the scattering haze--the Alps? As he looked up, an eagle rose with hoarse scream from a crag above, and flew into the sky straight in the face of the sun, until his broad pinions were only a speck against the glowing blue. Richard looked downward. To his right and far away lay a village, monastery buildings, a tall bare tower--St. Julien--very small; he must have travelled far. But below him, at his feet, so that he felt he could cast a stone upon it, was another tower--black, smoke-stained; its bare parapet open to heaven, a great charred mass around--Valmont! Richard gazed and shuddered. "Dear God," he cried softly, "why hast Thou led me here, to show me the place of my sin? Am I not enough punished?" The scream of the eagle had died away. Higher and higher climbed the sun. All the valleys were springing out of the receding shadow. There was a soft, kind wind upon the mountain. Its kiss was sweet and comforting; but Richard needed more than the wind. It was not all pain of the heart that tore him now. His head was very heavy; he felt his knees beating together; at times his sight grew dim. "I am ill, in fever," he muttered to himself; "I must hasten to some house, or I shall die, and then--" But he never completed. He could see peasants' cottages beyond the Valmont tower; perhaps the dwellers had been wronged by his men the night of the sack, and would make him scantly welcome; but it was better to risk that, than lie down on the naked crest of the _puy_. He staggered downward, ever downward. Thrice he fell; thrice rose by a mighty effort. At last he dimly realized that the ground before him no longer sloped; he was clear of rock and trees, and before him, seared and bare, was the keep of Valmont. Richard fell again, this time on soft grass, and lay long. His head had ceased to pain him, but he felt weak as a little child. "I shall die! Christ pity me!" was all his thought. But again he rose, rose and staggered onward. The ruin drew him towards it, as by an enchanter's spell. He found his way past the outer wall, through the open gate where the weeds were already twining. One side of the tower had fallen, filling the moat; within, the other three walls rose, bare, fire-scarped, cavernous. Still Richard dragged forward. He was upon the cinders now; charred beams, benches. Here was a shivered target, there a shattered lance. As he advanced, three crows flew, coming from some carrion spoil they had found within. He was inside the enclosure of the keep; the sun no longer beat on him. It was cool and still. His strength was at an end. On a pile of dust and ashes were little green weeds springing. It was soft. He lay down, and tried to close his eyes and call back some prayers. "Here it is I shall die!" his wan lips muttered. But as he rested, something hard pressed his head. He took it, dragged it from the dust. Behold! a brass crucifix, and right across the body of Our Lord a deep, rude dint! "The crucifix held by the boy when I slew him!" moaned Richard. Then he looked on the face of the Christ. The lips moved not, the eyes gave no sign; but as Richard kept gazing, he felt the brass turning to fire in his hands,--pain, but pain infused with a wondrous gladness. "Christ died not for the spawn of Valmont!" had been his blasphemy; had Christ died for _him_? "Ah! Sweet Son of God," cried Richard from his soul, "Thou didst not come to earth and suffer for the pure and righteous, but Thou didst come for such as I. Thou didst pardon the thief on the cross; canst Thou pardon even me? I have committed foul murder, and insulted holy relics, and made the heavens ring with my blasphemies. I have no merit; I were justly sent to perdition for my sins; I lie here, perhaps dying. Have mercy, Lord, have mercy!" Did a voice speak from the blue above? Was it only some forest bird that croaked in Richard's disordered ear? "Lord," cried Richard, half rising, "if Thou canst forgive, do not let me die; let me live, and, by Thy holy agony, I swear I will remember the vow of my youth; I will remember the sorrows of Thy Holy City; and I will rest not day nor night, I will spare not wealth nor love nor blood, till I see the Cross triumphant upon the walls of Jerusalem, or until I die--if so God wills it!" And he knew nothing more until some one was dashing water in his face, and above him he saw the villain, "Giles of the Mill," who had been the betrayer of Valmont. "Ah, lord," he was saying, "well it was that Americ, the leper, wandering here in search for red adders, found you and told me!" "Americ, the leper?" asked Richard, his wits wandering. "Yes, lord; we keep him shut in a little hut outside the hamlet. But early in the mornings we let him go out hunting for red adders with white bellies; for if he eats enough of them with leeks, he is cured. But you, fair sir, are grievously ill. I must take you to my cottage." Then Richard lapsed again into a stupor; and when next he saw the world, he was in the miller's house. The good-wife was making a great fire with vine branches, and hanging a huge iron pot to heat water. They had laid Richard on the bed, the only one in the whole house, broad enough for both parents and the half-dozen dirty, shock-headed brats, that were squalling round the single room, and chasing the little pigs who belonged there as much as themselves. The children would steal up to the bed softly on tiptoe, and make curious glances at the "great seigneur," who had avenged their elder brother by slaying the terrible Bull of Valmont. Then their mother would cry out to them to keep their distance: "Who were they to set eyes on the mighty lord, who could send them all to the gallows if he listed?" But Richard, as he gazed on the unkempt, freckled faces, said in his heart, "Ah, if I could give all the St. Julien lands for the one white conscience of that little girl!" Giles of the Mill presently had out his plodding horse, and pounded away on the road to St. Julien, while his wife called in two wrinkled old crones, who looked at Richard, and shook their heads, then whispered almost loud enough to let him understand. The women put strange things into the pot: the feet of a toad, many weeds and flowers, the tail of a kitten, and a great spider. Then when the water was very hot, they brought some to him in a huge wooden spoon. Richard, though he knew what Arabian physicians could do, was too weak to resist them. Presently there was a clatter of hoofs without, and Herbert, Musa, and Sebastian were coming into the cottage. The face of Musa was very grave when he touched Richard's wrist; his next act was to empty the kettle on the earthen floor. The Norman's last strength was gone: he had tried to rise to greet his friends, sank back; his words were but whispers. Sebastian bent over him. "Dear father," the priest barely heard, "pray for me, pray for me; I have sworn to go to Jerusalem." But Richard's eyes were too dim to see the light breaking on Sebastian's face. Herbert and Musa devised a litter, and they bore the knight back to St. Julien. CHAPTER XVI HOW LADY IDE FORGAVE RICHARD Richard Longsword lay betwixt death and life for many a long day. Sebastian hardly left him for an hour, nor did Herbert; but it was Musa that saved him. Sebastian had a plainly expressed dislike for the Spaniard's ministrations. "It is suffering Satan to cast out Satan," said he, to the Andalusian's face, "to suffer an infidel, such as you, to try to heal Richard." "Verily, learned sheik," answered Musa, with one of his grave smiles, "if it is better that Richard should die and dwell with your saints, I will not use my art." "No," sighed Sebastian, who had not lived in Sicily with eyes quite closed, "the lad is reserved for great things, for God and Holy Church. He must not die; use your arts, and I will pray Our Lady that she will defeat the evil in your science, and retain the good." So Richard was medicined according to the teachings of the world-famed Abul Kasim, and Sebastian went so far as to side with Musa, when the Arab forbade the officious sub-prior--who boasted himself a leech--to speak again of poulticing the Baron's head with sheep's lungs. A wandering Jewish doctor from the school of Montpellier gave more efficient aid. The abbot brought over a finger bone of St. Matthew to put under Richard's pillow,--sure talisman against madness. And it was sorely needed. Many a time those about the bed would shiver when they heard Longsword scream aloud that Gilbert was standing beside him, his face red with blood. "Remember Mary's tale," Richard would cry, "of the evil Emperor Constans, who slew his brother, and how the dead man stood before him in sleep, holding forth a cup of blood, saying, 'Drink, my brother, drink!' So with me, Gilbert de Valmont holds the cup, I cannot drink it! Holy Saints, I cannot! Away, away with him!" And in half-lucid moments, Richard would hear Sebastian pray, "Dear Lord, if by penance and sacrifice of mine I gain merit in Thy sight, lay it not up for me, but for Richard, my dear son. For I love him, Lord, more than any other, saving Thee; and he has sinned grievously, and Thy hand is heavy upon him. But pity him; he repents, he will go to deliver Thy tomb and Holy City." After this, when Richard lapsed again into his mad spells, he would howl that he was being cast into the burning abyss of Baratron with the devils Berzebu and Nero. But at last the fever left him wan and weak, with a face grown ten years older in two months. The castle folk rejoiced. The abbot came with congratulations and a tale how Brother Matthias, admittedly a little near-sighted, had seen in broad day St. Julien himself, accompanied by his stag, who had signified that the Baron should recover, and give five hundred "white deniers" to the abbey as thank-offering. Sebastian firmly forbade any generosity. "Do you doubt the vision?" asked Richard. Sebastian smiled grimly. "I do not doubt. But St. Julien asked for money for himself; and your all is dedicated to a higher than St. Julien--Christ. Our Lord did not bid us bestow riches on the rich. Need there will be of all money and good swords and strong right arms, before our sinful eyes see the deliverance of the Holy City. Let not even pious gratitude turn your thoughts aside." So the monks growled helplessly, for Sebastian had the Baron's ear now, and all the people venerated him as being one who seldom touched fish or flesh, slept little, prayed long, and always cast down his eyes when he passed a pretty maid. Then came another letter, from La Haye, in Mary Kurkuas's neat Greek hand. "Mary Kurkuas to her dearest heart, Richard Longsword, sends tears and many kisses. Life of my life, I have heard the news from Sicily, and my heart is torn. It was for my sake that you earned the wrath of Iftikhar, because I said 'I love you' to you, not to him. Each morning and sunset I kneel before my picture of the Blessed 'God-bearer,' praying her to have pity on you, to make you strong, to stanch your heart. From my wise Plato and Plutarch, I draw no healing; but when I look on the face of the Mother of God I know all is well, though human eye may not see. There has come a travelling _jongleur_ from Auvergne, who tells a wonderful tale of your deed at Valmont. In the midst of my sorrow I yet rejoice and thank the saints, that my own true cavalier was spared, and was suffered to slay that horrible Raoul. Yet I am glad it was all hid from me till safely over. I know you have a great work to do in Auvergne, and would not call you hence. Yet remember now that the summer is just sped, that I am waiting for you at La Haye. Then when you come, I can touch your face, and smooth away all the pain, and we will look no longer back but forward. And so with a thousand kisses more, farewell." This letter made the gloom on Richard Longsword's brow settle more darkly than ever. She knew of his sorrow, of his storming of Valmont--of the death of Gilbert, not a word! Here was fresh sorrow; to his own mortal pain must be added that of giving anguish to one dearer than self. Who was he, with innocent blood almost reddening his hands, with blasphemies nigh upon his lips, to take in his arms a beautiful woman, pure as an angel of light? Richard ground his teeth in his pain. "Dear Sebastian," cried he once, despairing, "can even the great pilgrimage wipe out my sin? Did not Foulques of Anjou go thrice to Jerusalem before earning peace for his soul?" "My son," was the answer, "fear not; your sin is great, yet not as Foulques's, for he tortured his brother to death in a dungeon. No other pilgrimage--to St. James of Compostella, to St. Martin of Tours--is like to that to Jerusalem. And now you are to go, not with staff and scrip, but with a good sword, and to win great battles for God and His Christ!" So for a moment Richard brightened; then, lapsing in gloom, he groaned: "Unworthy, all unworthy am I so much as to look upon the City of God! Let me turn monk, and seek peace in toil and fast and vigil." But Sebastian shook his head: "Well I know that too often the very seat of Satan is within the cloister--spiritual arrogance, worldly lust, even in the great abbey of Clugny itself. And did God give you a grip of steel and an arm of iron to let them grow weak in some monkish cell? You have a great work before you, sweet son. Fear not, be patient. God will bring it to pass!" There was a strength, a simple majesty, about Sebastian, when he spoke, that made all doubts for the moment flee away. So Richard continued to possess himself in such peace as he might. Day by day he grew stronger; and at last, just as October began with its cool evenings and crystal mornings, he was again riding about upon Rollo. All the St. Julien vassals fell on their knees when their dread lord passed their hamlets, and they put up a prayer of thanksgiving; for they said, "The seigneur is a kind and just man, with the love of God in his heart, despite his fury at Valmont." But now came messengers out of the south. Louis de Valmont had raised a great force; all the roving bandits of the woods had gathered around him; the war between Aquitaine and Toulouse lagged, and many landless cavaliers had come under his banner. When Herbert heard the news he began to talk of victualling St. Julien for a long siege, and sending to Burgundy and Languedoc for help. But Richard would hear none of it. "The saints know there has been enough Christian blood spilled, since I came to Auvergne. There shall be no more in my quarrel," declared he; and he sent back a messenger to Louis, saying that he prayed him to enter on no new feud, but to grant a meeting where they might compose their quarrels without arms. Three days sped, and back came the envoy with a letter, which three months earlier would have made Richard swear great oaths and draw out Trenchefer. "Louis de Valmont," ran the reply, "will come to St. Julien and there meet Richard Longsword, and five hundred lances will come with him. As for composition, let Richard make what terms he could with the saints, for on earth he need beg for no quarter." "By the Glory of Allah!" declared Musa, when the letter was read, "we will make them cry 'Hold!' before many arrows fly!" And Herbert began to call to arms the vassals of the barony, and chuckled when he thought of the brave times ahead. But Richard, when he had slept on the letter, called for Sebastian, and was with him long alone. Then he unbuckled Trenchefer, put on a soiled, brown bleaunt, and bade them bring a common palfrey for himself and a mule for Sebastian. He commanded Herbert to keep strict guard of the castle, to yield to none, to attack none. Even to Musa he would not tell the object of his journey. With the priest at his side he rode out of the village, and turned his face toward the south, where the road climbed over the mountains. They journeyed on till the sun lacked a bare hour of setting. Then before them, on a smooth meadow where ran a little river, they saw many rude tents, horses picketed to lances thrust in the ground, the smoke of camp-fires; and heard the hum of a hundred voices. Presently into the road sprang half a dozen surly, hard-visaged men with tossing pole-axes and spiked clubs. They demanded of knight and priest their business, in no gentle tone. "Tell your master, Louis de Valmont," said Sebastian, mildly, "that a cavalier and a servant of Holy Church would speak with him." "A servant of Holy Church, ho!" cried one of the men-at-arms, with a covetous glance at the mule; but Sebastian fastened his firelike eyes upon the fellow, who dropped his gaze and began to mutter something about the evil eye. They led the two into the midst of the camp, where a great press of disorderly varlets and petty nobles swarmed around, pointing, laughing, whispering loudly. Only the largest tent was carefully closed, and about it stood sentries in armor. A man-at-arms went to this, thrust in his head, and was back with the message:-- "Sir Louis de Valmont and his mother, the noble Lady Ide, have no time to waste words with every wandering knight and priest that come this way. They bid you state your errand to me and begone, or we strip you of steeds and purses." "Tell Louis de Valmont," said Richard, in a voice that many might hear, "that the Baron of St. Julien and his chaplain desire speech with him, and that speedily!" There was half a hum, half a growl, in the crowd about. Swords waved on high; lances tossed; voices began to shout, "Seize! Strike!" Sebastian swept round upon the soldiery with his terrible gaze, and all recoiled. Richard stood stern and motionless as a rock. Then the flap of the tent dashed aside, and forth strode a figure in silvered casque and hauberk. "Sir Louis de Valmont," said Richard, very gravely, advancing with outstretched hand, "I greet you well. Let us meet in peace in Christ's name!" A dark scowl knotted the brow of De Valmont. "By all the fiends, what devil persuaded you to come into my presence? As God lives, you shall die this night, though you kiss my feet and beg for life." But Sebastian answered for Richard. "It shall be as you say, Louis de Valmont; but first you shall look into your own soul, and see if you be a meet instrument to execute God's will. We cannot speak here. Let us enter the tent." Louis stood obdurate; but with a single sweep of his hand and a second lightning glance, Sebastian scattered the men-at-arms, and he and Richard strode right past De Valmont into the tent. Dimly within they saw the rude camp furniture, bedding and rugs on the ground, where were laid out some silver dishes and flagons, and two serving-maids were making ready a meal; but as they stepped in, before them rose a figure, a woman with gray hair and a face ashen with a great sorrow, who sprang forth to Richard with a bitter cry. "Away, away, wretch, murderer! Hew him to death, Louis! Ah! my boy! my boy!" It was the Lady Ide. And at her cry Richard's face also grew ashen, but he did not quail. "Dear lady," answered he, "I am all you say. Yet let me speak. Your son's men are all around; my life is in Louis's keeping." "Away! away!" moaned the mother, "and as they kill you, let my curse still be in your ears! Each night I cry to God to remember the blood of Gilbert. Oh, may God's wrath be heavy upon you!" "Lady," replied Richard, turning even paler, "God's wrath has indeed been heavy upon me! Let them seize and torture me, I do not fear." And here Louis broke in, raging:-- "Enough of this! In Satan's name, will you add to your infamy by reviling my mother to her face? Ho, Robert, Aimeon,--this way!--drag him forth!" But Sebastian looked straight into De Valmont's eyes. "Peace, man of sin! Know that if Richard Longsword be indeed so accursed as you deem him, yet he is as Cain; for God has set a mark upon him, lest any finding him should slay him!" And under the priest's terrible gaze the Provençal's hand left his sword-hilt, and he held down his head. Then to Lady Ide, Sebastian spoke:-- "Daughter, your sorrow is great. Nevertheless, I warn you. As you would stand at the judgment seat on the great Day, listen to the words of this knight." And Lady Ide also bowed her head. Then Richard began: "Noble lady, the first cause of your sorrows lies not in me. My grandfather and your son Raoul quarrelled; on what account I know not. But as God is my just judge, the thing Raoul did to Baron Gaston, when he held him prisoner, cried to heaven. I slew Raoul in fair battle after he had tortured my grandfather, fettered in a dungeon." And at this the mother burst forth:-- "Oh, holy St. Martin, but Raoul was a terrible man! Yes, I confess it, though it was I that bore him. Did I not plead with him not to torture Baron Gaston, and tell him the saints would requite tenfold?" "Amen, daughter!" commented Sebastian, sternly. "But Gilbert, my youngest, innocent as song-thrush! gentle as a little girl!" the lady wailed. "And I will speak of him also," continued Richard. "Before I came to St. Julien, I had had quarrel with Sir Louis. Yet we warred in knightly fashion. Sir Louis lost the day, but there was no stain upon his honor. Still there was little love betwixt me and any of the De Valmont name when I went to Auvergne. Then I came to St. Julien, and saw my grandfather. Holy Cross! dear lady--could you have seen him, you would have melted with pity--all seared by fire, those sightless eyeballs!" "No more! by every saint, no more!" moaned Lady Ide. "When I saw him, and heard of Raoul, and heard that he had a younger brother Gilbert, I swore a great oath to Heaven that the Valmonts were a godless brood, and I would slay them all--all. For in my eyes Gilbert was but as his brother." Lady Ide groaned, but Richard went on: "Then when I stormed Valmont, I fought Raoul face to face and man to man, and he perished as befits a valiant cavalier. Whether my own sins are not now as great as his, let God judge; but if he died, he died--I dare to say it--not without cause." "It is true! Dear Christ, it is true! And I was his mother." Lady Ide had her face bowed on her hands, and shook with her sobs. Richard drove straight on:-- "Then the devil entered into me. I was mad with lust of slaying and the heat of battle. My veins seemed turned to fire. I knew all that I did, yet in a strange way knew not--only beheld myself striking, shouting, running, as if I stood a great way off. I struck you down foully. I slew Gilbert at the altar, and all the time that I raged, I felt deep within--that what I did, was a sin against God. I shattered the holy relics; I blasphemed heaven. There are those who have sinned more than I, but they are not many." The lady was not weeping now. She was staring at Richard with hard, tearless eyes,--all the picture of that fearful night standing, as in a vision, before them. "But I have been punished,--punished, perhaps, after my sins,--yet scarce has God given me grace to bear. I had a mother who held me dear--dearer, if I may say it, than you held Gilbert." "It cannot be!" cried Ide, starting up, but Sebastian frowned and she was quiet. "I had a mother, a father who also loved me, a brother gentle as Gilbert, and a sister," and when Richard spoke the word even Louis turned away his gaze, there was such agony on Longsword's face. "And now tidings have come from Sicily that father, mother, and brother are dead, slain wantonly by Iftikhar Eddauleh, whom Louis knows well; and my sister! holy Mother of God, drive the thought from my heart! is the captive of that paynim. So think you not the sin I committed against you and yours has not met its reward? Think you I shall greatly fear, if Sir Louis calls in his men and bids them slay me? What is death beside the pains that I bear here!" And Richard smote his breast. Then Louis burst forth:-- "But why, by the Holy Cross, did you venture hither? You know I have sworn to have your life." "Right well," answered the Norman, dropping his gaze; "and doubtless you expected to find me holding St. Julien with all my vassals, and much blood ready to be spilled. But I again have sworn an oath,--and the oath is this: 'For my sins, and for the souls of my parents and brother, I will go to free the Holy City from the unbeliever. And I will shed no more Christian blood until I see the Cross triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem, or until I die.' Therefore I stand before you, asking to be forgiven; and if you will not, I do not fear death." A long silence; then the woman broke it:-- "My boy! my boy! You have killed him! You must suffer!" "I am willing, lady," said Richard, never stirring. But Sebastian now had his word:-- "Take care, daughter, lest you too sin in the sight of God! What said Our Lord upon the cross? 'Father, forgive them!' And has not this Richard Longsword been chastened? been brought very low? You lost your two sons; but one of these, by your own lips, is confessed worthy of death, and for the slaying of the other this man has been repaid. He slew one innocent: he has lost three--and one worse than dead. And he is a chosen vessel of the Lord. For God has cut him short in his sins, even as He cut short Paul when breathing forth threatenings and slaughter. For I say unto you: I had granted unto me a vision,"--and Sebastian's voice rose to a swelling height,--"no flitting dream of the night, but clear as the noonday; I saw Richard Longsword standing on the walls of Jerusalem, and above his head the cross. And he shall fight great battles for Christ, and endure great tribulation more; but shall see the desires of God upon the wicked. Therefore, you and you, deal pitifully with him. For he has sinned, but has repented, and now is one of God's elect." And as Sebastian spoke, lo! Lady Ide's eyes were bright with tears, and her frame shook with a mighty sobbing; for, as she looked on Richard Longsword's face, she saw it aged with an agony beyond any curse of human thought. "Ah, dear God!" she cried, lifting up her hands, still very soft and white, "Thou knowest it is hard, yet I--I forgive him!" Richard knelt and kissed the hem of her robe. "Sweet lady," said he, "you have given water to one who seemed parched in nigh quenchless fire. For when such as you may forgive, I may look to heaven, and say, 'Christ is not less merciful.'" Lady Ide only pressed her hands to her face. Richard turned to Louis. "And am I forgiven by you also?" was his prayer. But Louis answered:-- "My mother forgives you. That is enough. I am not made like the angels, as is she. I will do you no harm. Since I cannot take my men to St. Julien, we will go to Clermont, where the Pope will hold the council, and brave adventures will be set afoot. Between us there is a truce. Let forgiveness and friendship wait." So Richard bowed his head and went out of the tent. CHAPTER XVII HOW RICHARD SAW PETER THE HERMIT Thus Richard returned to St. Julien, to the great joy and wonderment of Musa and Herbert, who had never expected to see him again after learning his quest. As the days of autumn advanced, Richard began to make ready for his progress to Clermont. For hither, report had it, all France was flocking, small and great. In July Urban II, who, as Cardinal of Ostia, had once knelt at the bed of the dying Gregory, had crossed the Alps to see once more his native land,--for he was a Frenchman, born near Chatillon-sur-Marne,--and now that he had become the Vicar of Christ he did not forget that the best servants of Our Lord prayed to Him in the Languedoc or the Languedoil. And so, leaving behind Italy, with its wrangling prelates, its sordid city-folk, its Antipope, and half-phantom emperor, he returned to his own people. And lo! all France felt a thrill at the pontiff's coming--for who did not know that wonders past thinking were at hand! The sense of sin hung heavy on each man's soul: fast, penance, alms, gifts to abbeys, gifts to rear cathedral walls, the vows of the monks--all these too feeble to lift the pall of guilt! Richard was not the only despairing baron who cried after this fashion,--"Miserable man that I am--who shall save me from the body of this death!" Sin there was in France, lust, violence; but also a spark of "the fire not of this world." Let the breath of the spirit blow; let the prophet's voice cry to the four winds; and the spark would spring to a flame, the flame to a roaring, the roaring would echo to the ends of the earth. The sky was bright over beloved France; day by day new castles were rising, cities also, and cathedrals mounting up to heaven. All without grew more joyous every day; but men, looking within, saw their sins beyond reckoning. With France so fair, and "heaven so like thee, dear France," who would not give all to possess so lovely a country forever!--yet their sins--they were so many! Urban had crossed the Alps in July; in August he was at Nimes; in September he crossed the Rhone, thence to Clugny, "Queen of Abbeys," where he had been a humble monk years before. As November advanced, he set his face toward Clermont, in Auvergne; and when St. Julien's folk made preparation to journey thither, Sebastian could scarce restrain his own impatience. All day he roamed about, his eyes bright but vacant. Richard did not share his joy; for he thought not of the pilgrimage only, but of Musa, and his mind grew darker. How he loved the Arab! And yet was not this bond betwixt Christian and Moslem a sin not lightly to be punished? "_Ai_, my brother!" Richard would cry in despair; "turn Christian; go with me to Jerusalem; when we return, take half of the St. Julien lands!" Whereupon Musa laughed in his melancholy way, replying:-- "And why may not I bid you become Moslem and speed to Egypt?" "Well that my faith is strong!" returned the Norman, bitterly. "But we must part--must part! Yet God has made you flesh of my flesh. We see love in each other's eyes. We hear each other's voices, and hear joy! Were we both of one faith, where we two were, there would be heaven! Yet, O Musa, we are sundered by a gulf wider than the sea!" The friends had been pacing along the clearing without the castle; and now Musa thrust his arm around the shoulder of the mighty Norman, and the two strode on a long time silent. Then Richard continued:-- "Tell me, Musa, if you go to Egypt, and we Franks to Jerusalem, and it befalls that you have chance to fight in defence of the Holy City, will you embrace it? You are not a strait Moslem." The Spaniard answered very slowly, his eyes on the ground:-- "What is written in the book of our dooms, that may no kalif shun. Says Al-Koran, 'The fate of every man, we have bound about his neck.' And again it says, 'No soul can die unless by the will of Allah, according to that which is written in the book containing the destinies of all things.' Therefore why ask me? The Most High knows what will befall, whether you Christians will have your will, and see your cross above the Holy City, or whether you will all be lying with the dead." "Amen!" answered Richard, solemnly. "Only to the Christian there can be no doubt as to the will of God, unless, by the unworthiness of our sinful hearts, we are denied the boon of setting free the tomb of Our Lord. But, my kind brother, it is not of this that I would speak. I dread this parting from you. Think! here stand I, with many vassals to fear me, a few, like Herbert, to worship me; but--" and the strong voice was broken--"on all the wide earth there are but three that love me,--Sebastian, Mary Kurkuas, and you. And how may I lift eyes to Mary now? And you--you are to be taken away." Musa only looked on the grass at his feet. Then he said sweetly:-- "Ah, my brother, though now we part, I do not think our friendship will have brought bitterness only. So long as we live we shall think each of the other as the half of one's own soul that has traversed away, but will in some bright future return. And who knows that your churchmen, and even our prophet (on whom be peace), are wrong alike? That every man and maid who has walked humbly in the sight of the Most High, and striven to do His will, will not be denied the joy hereafter? Do you think Allah is less compassionate than we, who have dwelt together these many days, and to whom our faith has been no barrier to pure love?" Richard shook his head. "God knows," said he, half piteously; "Sebastian says to me each day: 'The Spaniard is of the devil. Take heed! He stands on the brink of the lake of quenchless fire; send him away, if you are truly devoted to the service of Our Lord.'" "And he is right," answered Musa, bending down and plucking a late floweret; "our paths lie far asunder. You will go to Jerusalem, and if you fare prosperously, you will return with the great load lifted from your soul, and rule here as a mighty baron with Mary Kurkuas at your side. And I--doubtless I shall gain favor at Cairo. They will give me work to do. I shall become a great emir,--vizier perhaps--no--I will better that; what may not a good sword hope with favoring start? May I not be hailed in twenty years 'Commander of the Faithful'?" And Richard, catching the lighter mood, answered: "And will you go forever mateless? At Palermo how many bright eyes smiled on you! As kalif the fifty houris of your harem will chase from mind the memory of Richard the Frank." Musa tore in pieces the floweret, and blew away the petals. "A harem? Allah forefend! My father had three wives, and was the slave of each at once. Never wittingly will I yield myself to love, save of one who shall be the fairest of the daughters of Allah and gifted with His own wisdom!" "You speak of Mary Kurkuas!" cried the Norman, starting. "_Wallah_, to every lover his mistress is the only fair one!" So Musa made merry. A few days afterward he rode away with the Saracens to La Haye, to tell Mary that for the sin of her betrothed, Richard dared not hail her his bride. A sorry story! but only Musa could make the best of it. Nasr and his Saracens were to be shipped back to Sicily. As for Longsword, he set forth with a few men-at-arms westward for Clermont. As they travelled, more and more people met them, and all were going the selfsame way. At Chanterelle the lord of the castle had to send to Richard begging pardon, but there were already so many cavaliers with their retainers halting with him for the night, that he could offer no hospitality. At Valbelaix, lo! a great crowd of peasants, men with long hair and shaggy beards, foot-sore women and little children, were on the road; and when Richard asked them how they durst leave their seigneur's lands and brave his wrath, an old man fell on his knees and answered:-- "Ah, gentle knight, our seigneur may be angry, but God is still more angry. For we have all many sins, and they say that at Clermont the Holy Father will tell us how we may be loosed from them." Then Richard bowed his head very humbly and bade Herbert cast a whole bag of silver obols amongst the good people, and was very glad when the children cried out in their sweet, clear voices: "God bless you, good lord," and "Our Lady remember your kindness." As the company rode toward Courgoul, they came on another knight with his train. The cavalier was a thick-pated, one-eyed old warrior, who had a life of hard fighting and foul living written all over his face. But when Richard inquired whither he journeyed, the old sinner made reply:-- "To Clermont, brave sir." "And why to Clermont?" "Ah! you have two eyes. You can see; my sins are more than the leaves on the trees. I could never remember them all at confession. But even I," and he crossed himself, "am a Christian; and if by riding a few jousts with the infidels the saints will think more kindly of me, St. Anastaise, it would be no irksome penance!" So they travelled, and Richard began to see that he was not the only one who felt the hand of God very heavy upon him. When the troop came to Courgoul, a great band of country folk, farmers, petty nobles, and two or three greater lords were overtaken, all hurrying and shouting, so that for a long time Longsword could learn nothing from them. Then, at last, men began to cry, "He is here! he is here!" just as they turned in before the little village church. "Who is this 'he'?" pressed Richard. And twenty tongues tossed back: "Are you a stranger? Peter of Amiens! Peter the Hermit, the apostle of God!" So the whole band swarmed to the church door, but could not enter, for within there was no room to stand. And an old priest came forth, and scarce obtained silence:-- "Back, back, good Christians, the saintly Peter will come and speak to you under the great tree." Then all surged again to a wide-spreading oak before the church, and the building emptied like bees pouring from a hive; but last of all, with a sacristan guarding at either side to keep off the people, came a little man, almost a dwarf in stature. He had his eyes on the ground; his carriage was ungainly; head and feet were bare. His hair was unshorn, his brown beard fell upon his breast. One could see that his cheeks were wan with fasting. He wore a gray hermit's cloak, and beneath that a rude, dirty cassock, girt With a cord. And this was the man who was setting France aflame, and doing that which King Philip or his greatest vassal could not with all their lieges! "Your blessing, father, your blessing!" voices began to cry. And now a woman, who had tried to kiss his cloak's hem, but had been thrust back by a sacristan, fell on her knees, and was kissing the sod where the hermit's foot had pressed. More voices: "Your blessing, father! Our sins are great! Pray to God for us--He will hear you!" And the baron whom Richard had met was on his knees before the anchorite, bowing his wicked old head, and moaning and sobbing and gasping out all sorts of petitions. Peter had reached the foot of the great tree. It stood on a slight rising, and the crowd all gave back a little. Peter fell on his knees, beat his breast, and prayed silently. And with him all knelt a long while, each repeating his _mea culpa_. Then the hermit rose. At the flash of his eyes, bright as carbuncles, a fire seemed to burn to each hearer's deepest soul. "Listen, Christians of Auvergne!" One could hear a leaf rustle, it was so still. "You say your sins are many?" "Yes, yes!" came from a thousand voices, all moaning at once. A slight gesture; they were silent. "And you say well. God is very angry with you. He sent His dear son, Our Lord, to this world more than a thousand years ago. How wicked it still is! Who of you is guiltless? Let such go hence. I have no word for him. But you," with a lightning gaze about, "have given way to lustful passion; and you--have blasphemed the name of God; and you--have shed innocent blood. It is so. I see it in all your eyes." And now a terrible commotion was shaking the crowd. Strong men were crying out in agony; women wailed; there were tears on the most iron cheek. Peter went on: "I am not the Holy Father. Come to Clermont, if you wish to learn how to be loosed from your sins. But hear my tale and consider if the acceptable day of the Lord be not at hand,--the day when your sins which are as scarlet shall be washed white as wool. Know, good people, that not long since I was in Palestine, in the dear home land of our Blessed Lord. Ah, it would tear your hearts too much, were I to tell you all that I there saw: how the unbelievers pollute churches and holy altars with vile orgies; how the blood of the oppressed Christians has run in the streets of Jerusalem, like brooks in the springtime; how even the Rock of Calvary and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre have been defiled--by deeds which the tongue may not utter!" A pause. The crowd was swaying in emotion beyond control. Peter held on high a large crucifix, and pointed to the Christ thereon: "Look at the body of Our Lord. His wounds bleed afresh; they bleed for His children who have forgotten Him, and turned away to paths of wickedness, and left His sacred city to unbelievers. O generation of vipers, who shall save you from eternal wrath?" The cord was strained nigh to breaking. The people were moaning and tossing their arms. A great outburst seemed impending. "Come to Clermont. For I say unto you that God has not turned away His face utterly. There the Holy Father will tell you what you shall do to be saved. Thus long has God seen your wickedness and been angry with you. But He has not kept His anger forever. Be sober and of good courage, for a great day is at hand. When I was in Jerusalem, I communed with the saintly Simeon, the patriarch, and wept bitterly over the griefs of the Christians there and the arrogancy of the unbelievers. And I declare to you that when I knelt one day at the Holy Sepulchre, I heard a voice: 'Peter of Amiens, arise! Hasten to proclaim the tribulations of My people; the time cometh for My servants to receive help and My holy tomb to be delivered!' And I knew it was Our Lord Himself that spoke. Therefore I rested not day nor night until I had bidden the Christians of the West put forth their might in God's most holy war!" For a moment stillness; then Peter broke forth again: "Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord! Awake as in the ancient time, in the generations of old! Then shall the redeemed of the Lord return, and come singing into Zion; and they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and mourning shall flee away!" Then there was a strange thing. The people did not cry out, the moaning was hushed, all kept motionless; and the hermit stood holding up the crucifix, with his hand outstretched in benediction!-- "To Clermont!" was his command; "to Clermont, men of Auvergne! There you shall have rest for your souls!" He went down from the little rising, and the people again began to flock about him. But he called for his mule, and when he mounted it, made away, though the crowd pressed close, and found holy relics in the beast's very hairs. Richard had been stirred as never before in his whole life. Was it true that all the world was guilty and sinful even as he? He felt himself caught in a mighty eddy, bearing he knew not whither; he, one wavelet amid the sea's myriads. Yes, to Clermont he would go,--Musa, Mary Kurkuas, honor, life,--he would give them all if need be, only to have his part in the war ordained by God. CHAPTER XVIII HOW RICHARD MET GODFREY OF BOUILLON Under the dead craters of the Monts Dôme in the teeming Limagne basin lay Clermont, a sombre, lava-built town, with muddy lanes; and all around, the bright, cold, autumn-touched country. Far beyond the walls stretched a new city,--tents spread over the meadows even; for no hospitable burghers could house the hundreds of prelates and abbots come to the council; much less the host of lay nobles and "villains." Daily into the Cathedral went the great bishops in blazing copes, and the lordly abbots beneath gold-fringed mitres, to the Council where presided the Holy Father,--where the truce of God was being proclaimed between all Christians from each Wednesday set-of-sun till Monday cockcrow, and where Philip of France and his paramour Queen Bertrade were laid under the great anathema. But no man gave these decrees much heed; for when Richard Longsword rode into Clermont on a November day, and pitched his tents far out upon the meadows,--all near space being taken,--he wondered at the flash in every eye at that one magic word, "Jerusalem!" All had heard Peter; all burned for the miseries of the City of Our Lord; knew that their own sins were very great. From Pérignat to Clermont, Richard accompanied a great multitude, growing as it went. After he had encamped, the roads were still black with those coming from the north, from Berri; from the west, from Aquitaine; from the east, from Forez. One could hear the chatter of the Languedoil, of the Ile de France, and of Champagne--all France was coming to Clermont! Beside Richard encamped an embassy from the Count Raymond of Toulouse, headed by a certain Raymond of Agiles, a fat, consequential, good-natured priest, his lord's chaplain; a very hard drinker who soon struck hands with Longsword,--much to the scandal of Sebastian, who did not love tales of lasses and wine-cups. With him was a half-witted clerk, one Peter Barthelmy, of whom more hereafter. But Richard cared little for their jests. Could even the Holy Father give rest to his soul? Could a journey to Jerusalem write again his name in the Book of Life? Richard went to the church of Our Lady of the Gate. Kneeling by the transept portal, with strangely carved cherubim above him, he looked into the long nave, where only dimly he could see the massy piers and arches for the blaze of light from two high windows bright with pictured saints. As he entered, a great hush and peace seemed to come over him. He turned toward the high altar; the gleaming window above seemed a doorway into heaven. He knelt at a little shrine by the aisle. He would pray. Lo, of a sudden the choir broke forth from the lower gloom:-- "That great Day of wrath and terror! That last Day of woe and doom, Like a thief that comes at midnight On the sons of men shall come; When the pride and pomp of ages All shall utterly have passed, And they stand in anguish owning That the end is here at last!" Richard heard, and his heart grew chill. Still the clear voices sang on, till the words smote him:-- "Then to those upon the left hand That most righteous Judge shall say: 'Go, you cursèd, to Gehenna And the fire that is for aye.'" Richard bowed his head and rocked with grief. But when he looked again up toward the storied windows and saw the Virgin standing bathed in light, her eyes seemed soft and pitiful. Still he listened as the music swelled on:-- "But the righteous, upward soaring, To the heavenly land shall go 'Midst the cohorts of the angels Where is joy forevermo': To Jerusalem, exulting, They with shouts shall enter in: That true 'sight of peace' and glory That sets free from grief and sin, Christ, they shall behold forever, Seated at the Father's hand As in Beatific Vision His elect before Him stand." Richard sprang to his feet. "_Ai!_" were his words, half aloud; "if hewing my way to the earthly Jerusalem I may gain sight of the heavenly, what joy! what joy!" A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He looked about, half expecting to see a priest; his eye lit on a cavalier, soberly dressed, with his hood pulled over his head. In the gloom of the church Richard could only see that he was a man of powerful frame and wore a long blond beard. "Fair knight," said the stranger, in the Languedoil, in a voice low, but ringing and penetrating, "you seem mightily moved by the singing; do you also wish to win the fairer Holy City by seeking that below? I heard your words." There was something in the tone and touch that won confidence without asking. And Richard answered:-- "Gallant sir, if God is willing that I should be forgiven by going ten score times to Jerusalem, and braving twelve myriad paynims, I would gladly venture." The strange knight smote his breast and cast down his eyes. "We are all offenders in the sight of God, and I not the least. Ah! sweet friend, I know not how you have sinned. At least, I trust you have not done as I, borne arms against Holy Church. What grosser guilt than that?" The two knelt side by side at the little shrine for a long time, saying nothing; then both left the church, and together threaded the dirty lanes of the town, going southward to the meadows where was Richard's encampment. As they stepped into the bright light of day, Longsword saw that the stranger was an exceeding handsome man, with flashing gray eyes, long fair hair, and, though his limbs were slender and delicate, his muscles and frame seemed knit from iron. When they passed the city gate, Richard asked the other to come to his tent. "You are my elder, my lord; do not think my request presumption." "And why do you say 'my lord'?" asked the stranger, smiling. "Can I not see that your bleaunt, though sombre, is of costliest _cendal_ silk? that your 'pelisson' is lined with rare marten? that the chain at your neck is too heavy for any mean cavalier? And--I cry pardon--I see that in your eye which makes me say, 'Here is a mighty lord!'" The knight laughed again, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Good sir," said he, at length, "I see you are a 'sage' man. You desire to go to Jerusalem?" "Yes, by Our Lady!" "So do I; and I have come no small journey to hear the Holy Father. Let us seal friendship. Your name?" "Richard Longsword, Baron of St. Julien," answered the Norman, promptly, thrusting out his hand. "And mine," replied the other, looking fairly into Longsword's face, with a half-curious expression, "is Godfrey of Bouillon." But Richard had dropped the proffered hand, and bowed very low. "Godfrey of Bouillon? Godfrey of Lorraine? O my Lord Duke, what folly is mine in thrusting myself upon you--" But Godfrey cut him short. "Fair sir, do not be dismayed; your surmise is true! God willing, we shall ride side by side in more than one brave battle for the Cross; and I count every Christian cavalier who will fight with the love of Our Lord in his heart to be my good comrade and brother." "O my lord," began Richard again; and again the elder man stayed him with, "And why not? Will God give a higher place in heaven to the sinful duke than to the righteous peasant? Are we not told 'he that exalteth himself shall be abased'? And why have I, man of sin from my birth, cause to walk proudly?" The last words came so naturally that Richard could only cry out in despair: "_Ai_, Lord Duke, and if that be so, and you, who all men say are more monk than cavalier, are so evil, what hope then for such as I, who have sinned nigh past forgiveness?" "And what was your sin, fair knight?" "I slew an innocent boy with his hands upon the altar." Godfrey crossed himself, but answered very mildly: "You have greatly offended, yet not as I. For when you slew only a mortal boy, I crucified My Lord afresh by bearing arms against His Holy Church. Eleven years since with the Emperor Henry, in an evil hour, I aided him to take Rome from the saintly Pope Gregory. For this God let me be stricken by a great sickness. I was at death's door. Then His mercy spared me. And when I recovered, I swore that I would ride forth to the deliverance of the Holy City; in the meantime, under my silken robe I wear this," and he showed a coarse haircloth shirt, "as a remembrance of my sin and of my vow." "But you are without state?" asked Richard, wondering; "no vassals--no great company?" Godfrey smiled. "What are the pomps of this world?" said he, crossing himself again; "yet in the eyes of men I must maintain them; such is the bondage of the ruler. Just now my affairs are such in Lorraine and Brabant that were it to be noised abroad that the Duke were gone to Clermont, there would be no small stir, and then, perhaps, many would conspire to resist me. But now they think me hunting, to return any day, and they dare not move in their plots. Yet my heart has burned to see the Lord Pope, and hear the word that he must speak. Therefore I have come hither, in the guise of a simple knight, riding with all my speed, and only one faithful lord with me, who passes for my man-at-arms. And I must get the blessing and mandate of the Holy Father, and be back to Maestricht ere too many tongues begin wagging over my stay." And then with a flash of his keen eyes he turned on Richard: "And you, my Lord de St. Julien,--are you not the son of that great Baron, William the Norman, who rode the length of Palermo in the face of all the Moslems during the siege, and were you not also victor in the famous tourney held last year by Count Roger?" "I am, my Lord Duke; yet how could you know me?" Godfrey laughed lightly. "I make no boast, fair sir," he answered, "but there are very few cavaliers in all Christendom of whom I do not know something. For this war for the Cross is no new thing in my heart; and I strive to learn all I may of each good knight who may ride at my side, when we battle with the paynim; and I rejoice that your dwelling in half-Moslem Sicily has not made your hate for the unbeliever less strong." "Ah!" cried Richard, "only lately have I resolved to go to Jerusalem; I have fought against it long. To go I must put by the wedding of the fairest, purest woman in all the world,--perhaps forever. Yet my sin is great; and the blood of my parents and brother, slain by the infidels, will not let me rest. But it is very hard." "Therefore," said Godfrey, solemnly, with the fervor of an enthusiast kindling his eyes, "in the sight of God, your deed will have the more merit. Be brave, sweet brother. Put by every worldly desire and lust. I also have sworn to live as brother to mine own dear wife, till the paynims defile the city of the Lord no more. Our Lady grant us both the purer, uncarnal love, the glory passing thought, the seats at God's right hand!" And the great Duke strode on, his head bowed in deep revery, while Richard drew new strength and peace from his mere presence. Richard brought Godfrey to his own tent, letting De Carnac and the others know little of the story of his guest; and with the Duke came Count Renard of Toul, his comrade, a splendid and handsome cavalier, who seemed singularly ill-matched with his man-at-arms jerkin and plain steel cap. Longsword called Theroulde, and the _jongleur_ was at his best that night as he sang the direful battle of Roncesvalles, the valor of Roland and Oliver, and the gallant Bishop Turpin; and of Ganelon and his foul treason, King Marsillius and his impious attack on the armies of Christ; the death of the dreadful paynim Valdobrun, profaner of Jerusalem, and a hundred heroes more. As the tale ran on, it was a thing to see how the Duke swelled with holy rage against the infidel. As Theroulde sang, sitting by the camp-fire, the Duke would forget himself, spring from the rugs, and dash his scabbard upon the ground, until at last when the _jongleur_ told how Roland wound his great horn thrice in anguish, after it was all too late and the Frankish army far away, Godfrey could rein himself no more: "By the Splendor of God!" was his shout, "would that I had been there and my Lorrainers!" Then Theroulde was fain to keep silence till the terrible lord (for so he guessed him) could be at peace. Late that night they parted. On the morrow, report had it, the Pope would address all the Christians at Clermont from a pulpit in the great square. "And then,--and then,"--repeated the Duke; but he said no more, for they all knew their own hearts. Richard lay down with a heart lighter than it had been for many a dreary day. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The name was talisman for every mortal woe. * * * * * Long after Richard had fallen asleep, Herbert sat with Theroulde, matching good stories before the camp-fire. The man-at-arms lolled back at full length by the blaze, his spade-like hands clasped under his head, his sides shaking with horse-laughs at Theroulde's jests. Suddenly the _jongleur_ cut his merry tale short. "St. Michael! There is a man lurking in the gloom behind the Baron's tent. Hist!"--and Theroulde pointed into the dark. Herbert was on his feet, and a javelin in his hand, in a twinkling. "Where?" he whispered, poising to take aim. "He is gone," replied the _jongleur_; "the night has eaten him up." "You are believing your own idle tales," growled the man-at-arms. "Not so; I swear I saw him, and the light as on a drawn dagger. He was a misshaped, dwarfish creature." Herbert sped the javelin at random into the dark. It crashed on a tent-pole. He ran and recovered it. "No one is there," he muttered; "you dream with open eyes, Theroulde. Tell no tale of this to Lord Richard. He has troubles enough." CHAPTER XIX HOW RICHARD TOOK THE CROSS With the dawn that twenty-sixth day of November a great multitude was pouring through the gates of Clermont. A bleak wind was whistling from the north, mist banks hung heavy on the eastern hills, veiling the sun; but no one had turned back. A silent crowd, speaking in whispers; but all manner of persons were in it--seigneur and peasant, monk and bishop, graybeard and child, lord's lady and serf's wife,--all headed for the great square. Richard, with Duke Godfrey and Renard of Toul, fought their way through the throng; for what counted feudal rank that day! They came on a richly dressed lady, who struggled onward, dragging a bright-eyed little boy of four. "Help, kind cavaliers!" came her appeal. "In the press my husband has been swept from me." The three sprang to aid. She was a sweet-faced lady, reminding Richard of Mary Kurkuas. "And who may your husband be?" he asked, setting the lad on his own firm shoulder. "He is Sir Tescelinde de Fontaines of Burgundy," answered she, "and I am the Lady Alethe. We wished our little Bernard here should say when he grew old, 'I heard the Holy Father when he sent the knights to Jerusalem.'" "And he shall see and hear him, by St. Michael!" cried Richard, little knowing that his stout shoulder bore him whom the world in threescore years would hail as the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux. The boy stared around with great sober eyes, looking wisely forth after the manner of children. "Yes," repeated Richard, while Godfrey and Renard cleared a way to the very centre of the square, right under the rude pulpit set for the occasion. There was a high stone cross standing in front of the platform, and Richard seated his burden on one of its long arms. "Now, my little lord," cried he, "you shall be under the Pope's own eye, and your mother shall sit on the coping below and watch you." "You are a good man!" declared the child, impulsively, stretching out his little fat arms. "Ah!" replied Richard, half wistfully, as his glance lit on Louis, who had struggled to the front, "would that all might say likewise!" Richard looked about. The ground rose a little around the pulpit; he could see a great way,--faces as far as the eye could reach, velvet caps and bare heads, women's bright veils and monkish cowls, silver-plated helmets of great lords, iron casques of men-at-arms,--who might number them? Pennoned lances tossed above the multitude, banners from every roof and dark street whipped the keen wind. Each window opening on the wide square was crowded with faces. The Norman did not see a certain, dark-visaged hunchback, who strove to thrust himself through the throng to a station beside him. For when Godfrey's sharp eyes and frown fell on the rascal, he vanished instantly in the press. But Longsword waited, while men climbed the trees about and perched like birds on the branches, and still the multitude pressed thicker and thicker; more helmets, more lances, more bright veils and brilliant scarfs. Would the people come forever? Yet all was wondrously silent; no clamor, no rude pressure; each took post and waited, and listened to the beating of his own heart. "The Pope is in the cathedral. He is praying for the special presence of the Holy Ghost," went the low whisper from lip to lip. And the multitude stood thus a long time, many with heads bowed in prayer. The chill wind began to die away as the sun mounted. Richard could see rifts in the heavy cloud banks. The shadow over the arena lifted little by little. Why was it that every breath seemed alive with spirits unseen? that the sigh of the flagging wind seemed the rustle of angels' wings? that he, and all others, half expected to see bright-robed hosts and a snow-white dove descending from the dark cathedral tower? More waiting; little Bernard began to stir on his hard seat. He was weary looking at the crowd. His mother touched him. "Be quiet, dear child, bow your head, and say your 'Our Father'; the Holy Spirit is very near to us just now." At last--slowly the great central portal of the cathedral opened. They could hear the low, sweet strains of the processional streaming out from the long nave; the doors swung wider; and forth in slow procession came priests and prelates in snow-white linen, two by two, the bishops crowned with white mitres, and around them floated a pale haze as the faint breeze bore onward the smoke from a score of censers swinging in the acolytes' hands, as they marched beside. But before all, in a cope where princely gems were blazing, marched the grave and stately Adhemar of Monteil, Lord Bishop of Puy, and in his hands, held on high, a great crucifix of gold and ivory. And as the white-robed company advanced the multitude could hear them singing the noble sequence of St. Notker:-- "The grace of the Holy Ghost be present with us, And make our hearts a dwelling-place to itself; And expel from them all spiritual wickedness!" While the procession advanced, the people gave way to right and left before it; and a great swaying and murmur began to run through them, waxing more and more when, at the end, the clear voices sang:-- "Thyself, by bestowing on the apostles of Christ a gift immortal and unheard of from all ages, Hast made this day glorious." "Verily the Holy Spirit is not far from us," said Duke Godfrey, softly, as the last strains rang out. Still more prelates, more priests; forth came Dalmace, archbishop of Narbonne, William, bishop of Orange, Matfred of Beziers, Peter, abbot of Aniane, and a hundred great churchmen more. Then, last of all, with his cardinals all about him, and a heavy cross of crystal carried aloft, came the Vicar of God on earth. Richard beheld the glowing whiteness of the bands of his pallium, whereon black crosses were embroidered; the jewels flashing on the cope and its golden clasp; the gold on his mitre higher than all the rest. He could see the face of the pontiff, pale, wrapt, spiritual, looking not at the mighty crowd about, that was beginning to sink to its knees, but up into the heavens, as though beyond the dun clouds he had vision of fairer heavens and fairer earth. Then the chanting clerics sang again, and advanced more boldly. And as they moved, two knights striding at either side of the Pope raised lances, and shook out long banners of white silk, upon each a blood-red cross. Loud and joyful now was the singing:-- "The Royal Banners forward go; The Cross shines forth with mystic glow; Where He in flesh, our flesh who made, Our sentence bore, our ransom paid. "O Tree of beauty! Tree of light! O Tree with royal purple dight! Elect on whose triumphal breast, Those holy limbs should find their rest!" Louder the singing. As the people gave way, the prelates and priests stood at either side, while the Pope ascended the pulpit, at his side Peter the Hermit. First spoke Peter. The little monk was eloquent as never before. He told the familiar tale of the woes of the Jerusalem Christians, so that not a soul was untouched by mortal pang. At times it seemed the multitude must break forth; but no sound came: only a swaying and sobbing as from ten thousand hearts. Then a long silence, when he ceased. It was so still, all could hear the gentle wind crooning over the tree-tops, and when a little child began to wail, its cry was hushed--affrighted at its own clamor. Then stood forth the Pope. And if it had been silent before, there was deeper silence now. The very wind grew still, and every breath was bated. Far and wide over that mighty throng the pontiff threw his voice, clear as a trumpet, yet musical and soulful. His words were not in the stately Latin, but in the sweet familiar Languedoc, and entered men's hearts like live coals from off the altar. "Nation of France: nation whose boast it is you are the elect of God, glorious in your faith and love of Holy Church, you I address. For you have heard and your souls are torn with the sorrows wrought at Jerusalem by that race so hateful to God. You have heard, and I know well what moves within your hearts. Shall I repeat the words of this holy hermit? Shall I tell how churches are beaten down, or--Christ forbid--become temples of the accursed worship? Shall I tell how Christians have bathed the very altars in their blood; how your brethren have chosen martyrdom, rather than deny Christ's name? O Holy Cross of Christ, verily thy dumb wood must cry out, nay, the stones break silence if the Christians of the West harden their hearts and will not hear; if no sword flashes forth in vengeance, no army hastes to succor the Sacred City." And Urban had gone no further when there was again a swaying, throbbing, sobbing in the crowd. For an instant the Pope's voice was drowned, not by outcry, but by one vast murmur. He beckoned; there was silence, then higher rose his voice. "O saintly spirits of Charlemagne, and of Louis his pious son, scourges of Saracens, why do ye sleep? Awake; awake; tell your children of France that holy war is theirs! O souls of the martyrs, long at rest, awake, awake; stir the cold hearts of these Christians that I may not speak in vain! O Holy Tomb of Our Lord, and thou Calvary, where the price for all our sins was paid, speak forth the sorrows of Christ's servants to these hard Western hearts. Kindle our hearts, O Lord, and grant Thine own spirit, that I may speak as becometh Thee and Thy Holy City--Jerusalem! "Sweet children in Christ, hear the cry of that city; hear the cry of those holy fields where trod the Son of God; hear the moan of the Christian virgins torn to captivity by paynim hands; hear the cry to God of ten thousand souls whose blood smokes to heaven! How long! O Lord, how long! When will come vengeance on the oppressor!"--Again the multitude were quaking,--a deep roar springing from a myriad throats, and hands were on hilts, and pennons shook madly. But Urban dropped his voice, and again commanded silence. "Wherefore has God suffered this? Does He take pleasure in the woes of His children? Is He glad when unbelievers pollute His altars, hew in pieces His holy bishops, and cry, 'See how helpless is your crucified Lord!' Ah, sweet children, look into your own hearts, and search if you are meet instruments to do His pleasure. Let us weep, let us weep over Jerusalem! Let us weep, let us weep over our own sins, for each one of us has more than the hairs of his head; and in the sight of God none is worthy even to behold the Holy City from afar; and if not worthy of the earthly city, how much less of the heavenly! All, all have sinned in God's pure sight. I see cavaliers, sworn defenders of Holy Church; your hands are red with Christian blood wantonly shed. I see great prelates, touched with the sacred chrism,--unworthy shepherds of Christ's sheep; you are stained with pride, hypocrisy, lust of power. I see men and women of mean estate; selfishness, lust, unholy hate, are strong within you. All, all have sinned!" And now strong men were kneeling and groaning, "No more!"--were stretching out their arms to heaven, and moaning, "Mercy! mercy!" and here one man and there another was crying out that he had committed some direful deed, calling on all around to pray God with him for pardon. But Urban kept on. "Be of good cheer, sweet children; your sins are great, but greater is the mercy of God. For I stand before you clothed with power from on high. Mine are the keys of heaven and earth and hell. And I say to you, despite your sins, you are forgiven. Shed no bootless tears; for deeds, not tears, to-day avail. The heritage of the Lord is wasted; the Queen of cities groans in chains--who, who will spring to her release? "Warriors who own the name of Christ, you I address,--you, who have slain wickedly in unholy war, rejoice! A holy war awaits! You who have sped fellow-Christians to death, rejoice! God will give you to trample down the alien! Draw forth the sword of the Maccabees, and go forward. To him who lives, God will give the spoils of the heathen for an inheritance; him who dies, Christ Jesus will confess before his Father. Draw forth the sword, Christians of France! Draw forth, and let it flush red in the unbelievers' blood! For this is the Lord's doing, and he who enters upon it, casting out all hate for his brother from his heart, and with the love of Christ strong within, is purged of all sin, be it however great, and his name is written in the book of life!"--A mighty din was rising, but Urban's voice swelled above it all. "_Soldiers of Hell, become soldiers of the living God!_" was his cry, facing straight upon Richard; "lands, fame, home, friends, love,--put them all by; remember the wounds of Christ, the moans of Jerusalem; for now again Christ says to you, 'He who loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me; if any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me--" No more; for there rose a thunder as when storm-driven billows break upon the beach. "God wills it!" From Richard's lips it had sprung, all unbidden. Godfrey had caught it--Hildebrand's battle-cry. And as if the shout had reached high heaven, that instant the dun clouds parted. The sun streamed on naked swords and tossing lances innumerable; the flashing of the brightness was terrible as celestial light. "God wills it!" Every tongue had caught the cry. It swelled forth, unbidden, the voicings of the passion in ten thousand breasts. The sun glanced on the crystal cross in the Pope's hand: those who saw were dazzled, and looked away. "Yes," cried Urban, across the sea of quivering steel, "God sends His own sign from on high. Truly, thus 'God wills it!' To-day is fulfilled the Saviour's promise, that where His faithful are He will be. He it is that has put these words in your hearts; choose them as battle-cry; for on your side will be the God of battles, and at His will you shall trample down the unbeliever." Then Urban raised on high the fire-bathed cross. "See," cried he once more, his voice rising above the swelling din, "Christ Himself issues from the tomb, and gives to you this cross. It shall be the sign lifted among the nations which is to gather together the outcasts of Israel. Wear it upon your shoulders, upon your breasts; let it shine upon your arms, surety of victory or palm of martyrdom; unceasing reminder that as Christ died for you, so ought you to die for Him and His glory!" Again rose the clamor, and until they chanted his death-mass Richard forgot not that hour. One wild cry went up, the scope of heaven shook, the earth quaked; and now the shout was, "The Cross! the Cross! to Jerusalem!" The swords danced more madly, and little Bernard rose from his seat, tossed his tiny fists in the air, and joined the mighty cry. Louis de Valmont, who had stood opposite Richard all the time, and drunk in each word, ran out before all men, flung his mailed arms round Longsword's neck and kissed him, while tears streamed down his face. "O sweet brother," cried the Auvergner, all melted, "I too have sinned greatly in God's sight. I cannot go to Jerusalem with hate upon my soul. I forgive the death of Gilbert; pray that Our Lord may forgive me!" The other men who had nursed unholy wrath one to the other began to embrace, and to beg for pardon; and many more kneeling stretched up their arms, calling heaven to witness they would shed no more Christian blood till the Holy City was redeemed. Urban stood upon the platform, silent, and looking out upon the throng with a smile that the beholders thought was not of this world. But when the surgings of the multitude were a little stayed, the Pope again beckoned, and there was great silence. Then Cardinal Gregory came forward, and all knelt and beat their breasts, repeating the _Confiteor_. "I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault," repeated the thousands; "therefore I beseech the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, the blessed Michael, the archangel, the blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles, Peter and Paul, and all the saints to pray to the Lord Our God for me." Then when every casqued head was bowed low, the Cardinal proclaimed in a voice which the most distant might hear, "To as many as shall from pure love of Christ take the cross to go for the deliverance of Jerusalem, the same I do absolve from all their sins, and declare them spotless and perfect, in sight of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. Amen!" And the words fell on Richard's soul like water on fevered lips. Another great cry, "The Cross! the Cross!" and the thousands surged with one impulse toward the pulpit, demanding the sacred token at the pontiff's own hands. And nigh foremost was Richard; not first, for Bishop Adhemar of Puy, his heart burning with holy fire, was already kneeling before the Pope, and Urban was pinning a red-cloth cross upon his shoulder. But Richard had sprung upon the platform and was next. The Pope smiled when he saw his mighty frame and sinews of iron--a direful foe of the infidels! "Father, Holy Father, do you not know me?" cried Richard. "I do not, sweet son," said Urban, pinning fast the cross. "I am that lad Richard who stood by Pope Gregory's bedside; but I have greatly sinned." "Be of good cheer!" said the pontiff, gently; "you have remembered your vow. Your sin, however great, is forgotten of God." So Richard stood back, while Godfrey of Bouillon knelt to receive the cross. At sight of him Urban smiled again, and would have spoken; for he recognized the great Duke. But Godfrey whispered, "Not here, Holy Father, not here; but soon from Metz to Antwerp I will be calling out my vassals to go to Jerusalem." Then Godfrey stepped back, with the red badge upon his breast; after him came Renard of Toul; after him Louis de Valmont; and then the merry priest Raymond of Agiles, merry no longer, but with a grave and consequential cast upon his face. As he knelt before the Holy Father, he said he took the cross both in his own name and in that of his lord and patron Raymond, sovereign Count of St. Gilles and Toulouse, who pledged himself to the war with all his southern chivalry. Then there was more shouting and rejoicing, and it seemed as if the clamor would never end, nor the train of knights and barons cease advancing to kneel before the Pope and receive the cross. Hour after hour sped by, still Urban stood and gave his blessing, and a brave and pious word to each stout cavalier who came. The priests brought red cloth from the presses in the bishop's palace, and more and more. Still not enough; and gayly dressed knights gave up their scarlet bleaunts for the Holy Father to tear into the sacred emblem. Then at last, when the sun was near its setting and men finally felt a bleak wind biting, the Pope spoke again. "Dear children," said he in closing, "you have done a great thing this day. What you have promised may cost you dear in blood and worldly estate; yet, remember the warning to him who putteth the hand to the plough and looketh back. I bid any who would withdraw, to do it now; and he commits no sin." Again the cry, "To Jerusalem! God wills it!" and no man stirred. "Then," continued Urban, "let him who hereafter shall turn back, be excommunicate and anathema. Anathema upon him who shall hinder the soldiers of the Cross! Anathema upon him who shall harm their family or estate, while they fight the Lord's battles. Gladly would I go with you to win the crown of martyrdom or of victory, but the Antipope is still in Italy; the Emperor and the king of France still defy Holy Church. Adhemar of Puy I appoint my legate, and under his guidance you shall go forth. And now my blessing and absolution upon you all. Amen." So the great multitude scattered far and wide; upon the breast of every man a red cross, and in his heart a joy as of another world; for it was as if a voice had spoken to each and all out of a cloud, "Thy sins which are many are forgiven." Richard strode back to his tent with Louis de Valmont beside him; and all the air seemed sweet, and their words came fast, as between two long-time friends, while above in the crisp night the stars burned like cressets lit by the angels. CHAPTER XX HOW RICHARD RECEIVED GREAT MERCY In later days wise monks wrote that at the moment the great cry went up at Clermont, all the Christians of the world from cold Hibernia to parching Africa thrilled with joy ineffable, and on all the paynims there fell fear and trembling. Be this true or false, from the Pyrenees to the Rhine over wide France ran a fire; from Auvergne to Aquitaine, to Anjou, to the Ile de France, to Normandy. There were signs and wonders in the heavens--stars fell from the firmament; the clouds pictured armies and knights who wore the red cross on their breasts. The shade of mighty Charlemagne was seen coming forth in his hoary majesty, with sword pointing toward Jerusalem. Not knights only, but women and little children ran after those who preached the gospel of steel and fire. Quiet monks forgot their abbey kitchens; hermits forsook their solitudes on the hills--greater merit to win the pilgrim's absolution! The peasants wandered from their fields in masterless companies, roving on aimlessly, conscious only that Jerusalem lay toward the sun-rising. And bandits left their lairs, confessing their crimes, eager to take the cross. Up and down France went Urban and Peter; at Rouen, at Tours, at Nimes, there were other Clermonts: each bishop called forth his flock. Too often the tales of Eastern gold and of paynim beauties were more enticing to the roistering knights, than summons to holy warfare. But the sense of sin hung heavy on the land. No avarice drove Stephen of Chartres to take the cross, great count that he was with more castles than days in the year; nor did Robert of Flanders pour out his father's princely treasure in hopes of pelf; nor Robert of Normandy pawn his duchy. In the south, Raymond of Toulouse, haughtiest lord in France, whom more lances followed than followed even the king, set forth for Palestine, determined there to leave his bones. With him went his wife, the Princess Elvira of Spain, and at Raymond's back were all the chivalry of the south country, of Gascony, Languedoc, Limousin, and Auvergne, along with Bishop Adhemar, and the great prelates of Apt, Lodève, and Orange. So from the least to the greatest all were stirred; and if King Philip, and William the Red, and Emperor Henry moved not--what matter? For the might of Christendom lay not in its phantom kings, but in its great barons and knights whose good swords would hew the way to Jerusalem. Thus the winter sped, and with the coming of spring France was ready to pour forth her flood of life! * * * * * So with France. And how with Richard? He had returned to his tent after the great day at Clermont with a light heart and a merry laugh. Duke Godfrey was with him, and Renard of Toul and Louis de Valmont. They had left little Bernard with his father, and Richard saw the lad no more, until after many years he heard him preaching as never Peter the Hermit preached, and calling on men not to go to Jerusalem, but to cast from their hearts their own dark sins. The night was cold, a keen wind was again whistling from the western _puys_, and Richard brought all his friends with him to his tent, to cement friendship by passing the night in his company. Before the roaring camp-fire they sat a long time, talking of the brave days in store. Godfrey gulped down eagerly all that Louis and Richard had gathered in Sicily of the country and manners of warfare of the infidels, and they knew in turn that a great captain and master-at-arms was speaking with them. Already Godfrey was ordering his campaign. "And the number of the unbelievers?" he would ask. "More than the sea-sands," Longsword replied, "and they say they are all light cavalry and archers." "By Our Lady of Antwerp!" cried the Duke, "we must pray then for a close country and a hand to hand _mêlée_!" "Ah!" declared Renard of Toul, "what matter how we fight! Is not the Lord on our side, and St. Michael and St. George!" The Duke laughed merrily. "You are the same mad Renard as ever," said he. "Is it not written, 'Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God?' But," continued he, gayly, "in good time let me see the Holy City on high; yet not until I have had a good joust, chasing the paynims from that on earth!" Thus ran the talk, but presently Louis said:-- "And did you, De St. Julien, see in the multitude a certain dwarfish, dark-skinned fellow, who stood right back of you all the time the Holy Father was speaking, his eyes fastened not on the Lord Pope, but on you?" "I did not; why did you ask?" "Because, though I was some little way off, I could have sworn that he was Zeyneb, the body-servant of Iftikhar Eddauleh, and he seemed as if devouring you with his eyes." "Zeyneb? He who gave his master the iron lance instead of the reed, when Iftikhar rode against Musa the Spaniard?" Louis nodded. "You are bewitched, fair sir," laughed Richard, gayly; "the rascal was long since in Syria or Egypt." And here his face grew dark, as he thought of the sack of Cefalu, and that Eleanor might be in the clutches of Zeyneb himself that moment. It was well to forgive Christian enemies, but to hate infidel foes took on new merit by wearing the cross, and Richard was not minded to forget Iftikhar Eddauleh. "On the relics I could swear I saw him!" protested Louis. "It is true," added Godfrey; "I set eyes on such a knave. Not that I set him down as infidel. But I had little liking to have such a fellow within arm's length; my ribs nigh itched with a dagger at merely seeing him. When he sidled up to us, I gave him a frown that made him hide his black head in the crowd." "Well, fair Duke," said Richard, "rest assured, he has not come to hear the Holy Father, if this is Zeyneb, the slave of Iftikhar. Bishop Robert wrote something of his coming to France, but entirely doubted the tale." "By St. Michael of Antwerp," declared Godfrey, "what do infidels at Clermont?" Richard shook his head, but Herbert, who heard all, came to him only a moment afterwards and led him aside. "Little lord,--you must wear the ring-shirt." The Baron resisted. "You grow fearful as an old woman, Herbert. Godfrey and Louis dream, when they say a creature of Iftikhar is in Clermont." But Sebastian urged as well. "Theroulde and Herbert have seen him also. As you love our Lord, do not peril your life. Why has Zeyneb come to Clermont, save to do what failed at Cefalu?" "Faugh!" growled Richard, "will not God despise me, if I shiver at every gust of danger?" "As you love my Lady Mary, do this!" pressed Herbert shrewdly, and at Mary's name Richard submitted meekly as a lamb. Thus all that evening Longsword grumbled at the precaution, and swore he would wear no more mail till he came face to face with the unbelievers. But he grumbled no longer, for just as the stars told it was past midnight, he was waked from sound sleep by a blow that sent him to his feet blinking and staggering. And lo, the wall of the tent against which he lay was pierced clean through by a dagger that had broken against the Valencia shirt; for a bit of the blade lay on the canvas. Herbert and De Carnac were swearing loudly that they had not closed an eye all night, but it was Louis who darted into the darkness, and came back with a strange fellow held in no gentle grip. He dragged the prisoner to the dying firelight; they saw his coarse villain's blouse, a spine so bent that he was nigh hunchback, a poll of coarse black hair that scarcely came up to Richard's elbow, a face not unhandsome, but with black eyes very small and teeth sharp and white. One shout greeted him, as he was held before the fire. "Zeyneb! Zeyneb, the slave of Iftikhar Eddauleh!" The fellow held down his head, and twisted his face as if to defy recognition. "Ha!" cried Renard of Toul, "he has a dagger-sheath in his belt! Empty? Ah, the crows will love his bones!" Richard had found his tongue. "And does my Lord Iftikhar," asked he in Arabic, "think it cavalier-wise to send out assassins like your worthy self, when he cannot reach his foe with his own arm? This and the deeds at Cefalu put me greatly in his debt--let him be well paid!" "The arm and eye of the grand prior of the Ismaelians reach to farthest Frankland, my Cid," quoth Zeyneb, standing very limp in Louis's clutch. "And the arm shall be soon lopped off," retorted the Auvergner. But at that instant his firm hold weakened. Untimely slackening! with a lightning twist and turn Zeyneb had slid from De Valmont's clutches, as if of oil; gone in the dark before the knights could cry out. The night swallowed him as if he were a spectre. "After! after!" thundered Godfrey. "Fifty Tours deniers to him that seizes!" There was a mighty shout. All the neighboring tents were in uproar. A friendly baron loaned bloodhounds; but which of the many trails was Zeyneb's who might say? All night they beat the camp; a hundred idle knaves were haled before Richard, each one of whom doubtless would have been the better for being knocked on the head; but none was the dwarf. At dawn Richard went wearily to rest, but criers scoured the country, calling on all good Christians to begin the Crusade by catching this infidel assassin. Several townspeople told how the fugitive had come to Clermont a few days since, pretending he was an Eastern Christian exiled by Moslem persecutors. They had given him great compassion, and answered his questions as to the whereabouts of Richard de St. Julien, whom he said he was seeking. But all the search brought nothing. "Strange," commented Richard, "Iftikhar should use him as agent; his crooked back stops all disguise." "You do not know him, little lord," answered Herbert. "Satan has given him a heart as darkly crafty as his black eyes. I have heard his fame at Palermo. Undisguised, he is a rat sly enough to creep through a hole too small for a beetle." And Sebastian piously admonished:-- "Dear son, now that you have taken the cross and your sins are forgiven, great mercy is shown you. Be very humble, for God has some wondrous service in store!" The admonition Richard treasured in his heart; but he did not so far tempt Providence as to put by the Valencia hauberk, and Herbert kept guard over him night and day. Also a courier speeded to La Haye with a letter bidding Baron Hardouin have a care that Iftikhar did not try to repeat his Cefalu raid, and to leave no Syrian dwarf unhanged in his barony. A few days thereafter the great gathering at Clermont scattered; and Heaven knew there was much to be done, if the hosts of the Lord were not to set forth with scrip and staff merely! The Duke of Bouillon parted with Richard and Louis as became Christian brothers-in-arms, and went homeward to rouse his vassals. As for De Valmont, he had need to go to Champagne; but Longsword rode straight for St. Julien. Every peasant he met on the road, when they saw he was a gallant knight, begged him to be their leader to Jerusalem. Almost every breast wore the red cross; women bore it, and little children. "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" That was the one cry. Yet Richard was sad at times; for he saw that men acted in ignorance, and that their very zeal would destroy them. As for Sebastian, he had a word of the prophets at all moments in his mouth, and saw in everything a manifest sign that the days foretold in the Apocalypse were at hand, when "the Beast" and all that served him were nigh their end, and the righteous should rule forever. "Now is fulfilled the word of the Lord!" was his cry. "Fear not, for I am with thee. I will bring thy seed from the East and gather thee from the West; I will say unto the North, 'Give up,' and to the South, 'Keep not back; bring my sons from far and my daughters from the ends of the earth.'" Only Richard saw that the shrewd cleric was not lacking in worldly wisdom. When they passed two shouting monks, who were showing their naked breasts on which they had branded the Cross, and whom many were declaring to be saints indeed, Sebastian had only the shake of the head. "They are blind leaders of the blind," was his comment; "they will suffer pains enough before they see the Holy City to forget all their fiery zeal. The kingdom of heaven is not to be won by tortures inflicted for the praise of men." When they reached St. Julien, there was work for Richard all that winter. The Baron convoked his "_Ost_," the fighting-men of the seigneury, and, standing upon the great stone before the castle, told how for his own sins and the souls of his kinsfolk he had taken the cross--"and who would go with him?" Whereupon, as Sebastian declared, "A new pentecostal fire spread among the St. Julieners;" and so many cried they would make the crusade, that Richard had trouble to make it plain, enough must stay behind to care for the aged, the harvests, and the castle, and that no family be left to charity. Up and down the barony went Sebastian, showing his scars inflicted by paynims, drawing all after him. Even the lord abbot was stricken in conscience, confessed his lax rule, and wished to go to Jerusalem. But Sebastian told him God were better pleased to have him remain and teach the brethren fasts and vigils. Yet to the fighting-men the priest had but one message, "that now was come the time for the righteous to wash their hands in the blood of the ungodly." And Richard was busy on his part arranging the seigneury, raising money by sale of rights to pig pasture held on certain lands, and more money by allowing a rich Jew, who dwelt in the barony and now wished to go to Spain, to buy his right of departure; for a rich Jew was a very precious possession to a seigneur, who never let him withdraw, with his wealth--for a trifle. Richard was happier in this work than he had been for many a long day. The blood of Gilbert de Valmont no longer hung heavy on his soul. Louis de Valmont was his friend. He could look up into heaven and see there only peace and mercy. But he was sad when his thoughts ran to Mary Kurkuas and the many years that might speed before he could call her his bride; for this was no time to think of home and marriage. Even a greater sadness came over him, when he thought of Musa. All his faith, all the teachings of Holy Church and her ministers, left him only the assurance that the Spaniard's soul was doomed to the fire unquenchable. This life so short, the after-life so long, and Musa thus doomed! Why did God create amongst the unbelievers such high manhood, such knightly prowess, and then consign it all to the same torments reserved for the utterly wicked? Yet could he doubt his own religion--he, the ardent champion of the Cross, whose new-found happiness depended on this very belief, that the death of infidels was most pleasing in God's sight? At times Sebastian could see that his mind was still clouded, and would say:-- "Dear son, do not hide what makes your face so sad." "_Ai_, father, I am thinking of Musa, and how I love him, and how terrible is the state of his soul." "Love him not," Sebastian would cry sternly; "as for his soul, it is given to be buffeted of Satan, at which all good Christians should rejoice." "But we are bidden to 'love our enemies,' and Musa is no enemy; I count him as my brother." Then Sebastian would frown more fiercely than ever. "Yes, love 'our' enemies, not those of Holy Church. Give heed lest to your former sins you add not a greater--that of sinful pity toward the hated of God!" CHAPTER XXI HOW RICHARD RETURNED TO LA HAYE Long before Assumption Day, the appointed time for setting forth, soon as the balmy spring winds blew, all France was marching. Not the great lords first,--for worldly wisdom was plentiest under gilded helmets,--but the peasants took the road by thousands on thousands. Day after day the long procession by St. Julien, serpent-like, trailed on,--priests and bandits, petty nobles, old crones on crutches, little children on lumbering wagons; for weapons, often only boar spears and wood axes. "And is this fortress not Jerusalem?" the children would often cry when they saw the castle; and their fathers and mothers hardly knew if they ought to tell them nay. Hoary sires crept along on their staffs, followed by sons and sons' sons and daughters also. To each stranger they would cry: "Come! God wills it! Let us die at Jerusalem!" And Richard's heart grew sad, knowing they would indeed die, but far from the Holy City. At first he bade the butler and cellarer open the castle vats, and supply food and drink to all; but those worthies protested that three days of such charity would ruin the fief, and Richard was forced to let the pilgrim hordes roll by, subsisting on what they carried with them. Full soon their means would be at an end; then they must plunder or starve. But Longsword's bounty would have been only a drop in their bucket. Sometimes, however, there came sturdy bands that clamored at the castle gate, demanding food. "Food?" roared old Herbert, one such day; "and have you taken nothing in your wallets?" "No," quoth a hulking peasant, showing an empty pouch; "the priests say, 'God who nourishes the sparrows will not let His dear children suffer;' so we have gone forth trusting in His bounty to feed us." "Begone!" cried Sebastian, from behind the portcullis; for the pilgrims had begun to threaten. "I also am a priest, and say to you, as says the Apostle, 'If any would not work, neither should he eat.' God has given you better wits than have sparrows. Sin not by misusing them!" But too often the rascals fell to plunder, and reluctantly Richard sallied forth; slew some, and hanged others for a warning. Very grave grew Longsword when he heard of the outrages wrought through the bands led by Volkmar the priest and Count Emicio in the Rhine cities, for he knew this was no way to win Heaven's blessing. "Their sins are great," commented Sebastian. "God is pleased to lead them to destruction." And of Peter the Hermit, who headed a like band, as not a few had desired Sebastian himself to do, he only prophesied, "He listens to the praise of men; God will abase him!" As indeed came true. So with the peasants. But at last the seigneurs were moving. Richard rode from St. Julien with five-and-twenty petty nobles, thrice as many full-armored men-at-arms, four hundred stout "villains" on foot; and above his head the great banner of his house, St. Julien's white stag blazoned on a red field. The baron's heart was gay when he saw the long line of casques and lances. But beside them trailed a weeping company; old men and women, who went a little way, making a long farewell. "Ah, sweet lord," the pretty maids would cry, "how long will it be, ere you ride back with Peter and Anselm and Hugo?" and so with fifty more, wailing out the name of husband, brother, or sweetheart. Then Richard would bang Trenchefer in a way to hearten the most timorous, and swear, "In two years you shall see them all again, and I will make every good man-at-arms a knight!" So when the women saw his bold, brave face, they took courage. But there were tears and to spare, when they came to the last wayside cross, and Herbert went down the line, calling gruffly to every man and maid not bound for Jerusalem to drop from the ranks. So the lines were closed, and the long files of helmets and hauberks went over the mountain side. Many an eye went back to the groups of red, blue, and yellow clustered round the cross; and many an eye was wet that had been seldom wet before, as they saw tottering old Bosso, Sebastian's vicar in the parish, hold up the crucifix, and all the bright gowns bend in prayer. But none fell from the ranks, no step lagged. Richard nodded to Theroulde, whose mule was plodding beside Rollo. The _jongleur_ clapped his viol to his shoulder; the trumpets blew; the kettledrums boomed until the crags echoed; and then once more the shout went down the lines as so many times before: "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" Whereupon the drums thundered faster, the feet twinkled more nimbly. When they came to the pass of the mountains, Richard ordered no halt; but he drew rein on Rollo, and let the column swing past. Each man cast one glance over his shoulder; louder the viols, the trumpets, the drums; again the cry: "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" Richard saw the backs of the last rank and turned his gaze toward the valley. There it lay--fair as when, nigh a year before, he had seen it from that same hillside, crowned with the bursting summer. He could see the tower of the great keep, the abbey, the village--all. And in that year what had not befallen! His grandfather dead; Raoul de Valmont dead; Gilbert de Valmont dead; ah! pity, his father, mother, brother--all dead; and his sister worse than dead! And yet the sky could be blue, and God sit calm above it, despite the wickedness of His children! Richard's shield-strap had slipped; in readjusting it he saw his face in the bright steel, clear as a mirror, and he knew lines of pain and grim resolve and deathly battle were marked thereon that would never in this world be smoothed away. Yet he was the same: the same debonair young knight who had laughed when he looked upon this valley, and vowed it should all be one love-bower for Mary Kurkuas. And now he was the stern Baron of St. Julien, at whose nod five hundred fighting-men trembled; who had blood on his hands, and, merciful saints, more blood on his soul, even if the sin were absolved! Mary, the soft, sweet life in Cefalu, the sunlit dreams of one short year ago, of love, of bright tourneys, of victories won without a pang--where were they now? As he turned, he saw Sebastian riding his palfrey beside Rollo. "Ah, dear father," said the Norman, half sadly, "this is a pleasant country to leave behind. Is Palestine, even with Jerusalem, more fair than Auvergne? When we have taken the Holy City, we will return, and I will pray the Lord Pope to make St. Julien a bishopric, and you shall be the _sanctissimus_ of the country-side!" Sebastian smiled at this forced banter. "Dear son," said he, "this is indeed a fair country, as I said when a year ago we first saw it from this height. But something in my heart says to me: 'Sebastian, God is hearkening to your prayers. Your journey in this evil world will some day end. After you have seen the Cross victorious on the walls of the earthly Zion, then you shall straightway behold the heavenly.' Therefore I shall never see St. Julien again." "These are fancies, father," said the knight, laying his heavy hand affectionately on the priest's tonsured head; "you shall live to a yet riper age. You shall see the Holy City purged of infidels. Then at last it will be no sin to fulfil my dream. Here in St. Julien Mary Kurkuas and I will dwell, and you beside us; and if God bless us with children, what greater joy for you than to teach them all things, as you have taught me, and make them tenfold better (Christ pity me!) than their father." "Yes, sweet lad," replied Sebastian, gently, "that would indeed be joy; but the will of Our Lord be done. And now let us be about His business." Whereupon he turned his palfrey. Richard cast one glance over mountain, valley, tower, and farm-land--a vision never to fade; then:-- "Come, Rollo!" he urged, and flew after the column. The music crashed ever faster; the marching men raised a mad war-song; Richard's voice rose above them all. As they sang, they struck the downward slope, and the crags hid St. Julien. * * * * * Southward they marched; for the Auvergners went in company with Raymond of Toulouse, by the southern route across Italy, though Richard would have desired the German route with Godfrey. At Orange the Norman met the great Count of Toulouse and St. Gilles,--a tall, haughty man, with flowing silver hair and beard; brusque to strangers, but underneath the sternness a high-minded Christian soul. With him was his handsome and valiant friend, Viscount Gaston of Béarn, a winsome cavalier who became Longsword's close friend. At Orange Richard rejoined the band with Raymond of Agiles, Toulouse's chaplain, and found Louis de Valmont. On that spot was cemented a long-time friendship, to be ended only after they had all seen deeds, knight or cleric had never dreamt before. But while the host lay at Orange, Richard's heart was elsewhere; presently there came a letter that set him to mount and ride right quickly. "Mary Kurkuas, to her sweet lord Richard: kisses and greetings more than words may tell. "DEAR HEART: I have heard all from Musa, and I may not write how my heart is torn for you. The fiends have been many in your soul, have tempted you grievously, and you have fallen. Do you think I shrink from you, that I bless the saints I am not yet your wife and can escape a hateful bond? Sweet life,--love is not made of such feeble stuff! You do well to go to Jerusalem, but will you go without one word, one look? I have somewhat to say to you, which can only pass when face to face. Come to La Haye. Musa tells me I am still as beautiful as at Palermo, and I hope in your eyes also this will prove true. I think my words, songs, and love will not make you a meaner soldier for Christ. To Him you belong first, but after Him to me. Ride swiftly, for I sit watching to see Rollo coming down the castle road bearing my own true love. So come. Farewell." Whereupon, when Richard read, all his resolution to go through Provence, turning to neither right hand nor left, sped from him as dust before the south wind. To his surprise Sebastian did not oppose. "Dear son," said the churchman, "love is of God. There is a love of man to woman; a love of man to the Most High; happy are they to whom the higher and lesser are at one." "But in former days you did not smile on my suit to Mary." "Verily," said Sebastian, while Herbert made the horses ready, "I saw in it the hand of Satan to prevent you from going to the Holy City. But now that you have taken the great vow, and I see in your face that you are strong, I have no fear. Yet remember, your duty is to God, and not to women; when you ride toward Palestine, do not leave your soul snared in a silken net in Provence." "Ah," cried Richard, "you know not what you say. Did you ever have love for a pure and beautiful maid?" Sebastian's face was very grave. "Many things have befallen in my life, God is lengthening my days. In the years of my youth--what may not have happened? But she died--she was very young; so was I. I have mastered all earthly lusts, praise be to God!" And this was the only word Richard had ever heard Sebastian speak, of what befell him before he entered the monastery, and the long shadows of his life's renunciation fell over him. But of more moment was the speech Richard had with Herbert, as they rode along. "I marvel that no mention was made in the letter of the messages I sent to La Haye, to warn against that dark-faced devil, Zeyneb." Herbert fell into a long study, his eyes fixed on the way that was gliding by under their merry canter. "The roads were safe. All the brigands have left their lairs to go to Jerusalem--ha!"--this, with a sly grunt and chuckle. "However, if my lady writes thus three days since, nothing has befallen." "True," replied the Baron, spurring Rollo more hotly, "yet as I think of it, I begin to misdoubt. Iftikhar Eddauleh is of that accursed brotherhood amongst the infidels--the Ismaelians. Their guile reaches to the ends of the earth. Twice he has sought my life, and only St. Michael saved me. I would I could see that Zeyneb dancing at a rope's end." "The rope or the axe will be his confessor at last!" muttered Herbert; then they all rode harder. When Richard came within sight of the towers of the castle of La Haye, not even Rollo's mighty stride made the ground speed swift enough. All around stretched the vineyards and orchard bowers of the pleasant South Country; the wind blew softly over great fields of blossoms; the peasant and wayfarer trudged on peacefully with no sword at his side, and feared not raid nor robbers, for safety and ease reigned everywhere in fair Provence. When they drew near to the castle, they could see a score of bright banners tossing on the rampart, while a great crash of music greeted them; for the Baron of La Haye was a valiant troubadour, and kept as many _jongleurs_ as grooms. But what cared Richard? As he thundered up the way to the drawbridge, he reined in Rollo short, was out of the saddle, and his arms were about some one in white that had run from the orchard to greet him. And he felt a soft breath on his cheeks, soft hands in his hands, soft words in his ear; and his own words came so fast, they would scarce come at all. Then he knew that all the castle folk were standing by, smiling and laughing in friendly manner. Soon Baron Hardouin came down and gave him a stately speech, after the best courtesy of the South Country; and Richard, holding Mary's hand in his own, looked upon all about, and spoke out boldly: "Fair lord and good people, I have no skill in speech, but this I say: the Princess Mary Kurkuas is the fairest and noblest maiden in all the earth, and to him who says me nay, I will make it good upon my body." Whereupon he half drew Trenchefer, but all cried out, "Long life to the valiant Baron de St. Julien! long life to our fairest princess!" And Richard went into the castle with his head in the air, seeing only one face out of the many, and that very close to his own. Only when Hardouin had feasted his guest, and had made him listen to a dozen _jongleurs_ and their minstrelsy, Richard found himself alone with Mary in the castle orchard, just as the long afternoon was spreading out the shadows. They sat on the turf, with a gnarled old apple tree rustling above them. All around the bees were humming over the roses; the birds were just beginning to carol the evening. Then the question was, "And where is Musa?" Whereupon Mary answered: "He is gone forth hawking; for, said he, 'I think Richard will come to-day; and though I am his brother, there are hours when even brothers are better loved afar off.'" "What a noble soul he is," said Richard, his eyes wandering dreamily up into the waving canopy of green; "how often I wonder that he has never courted you, nor you given him favor. Almost I love him too well for jealousy." "But not I!" cried the Greek, firing; then with a laugh: "See, your eyes are open wide, for you are fearful lest I take your words in earnest. Ah, dear life, I can love but one; and with you my heart is a full cup. Yet to Musa I would give aught else--all but love. Yet fear him not. He is the most generous of men. Often as we have been together, his talk has been of you,--praising you after his Arab fashion, till even I cry out at him, 'Richard Longsword is a wondrous knight, yet not so wondrous as you make him!' Then he will laugh and say, 'In my eyes there was never Moslem or Christian a greater cavalier than my brother.'" "So he has been at La Haye all the winter?" "Yes; he sent away your Saracens to Sicily; and I need not tell the shifts he had to save their skins, such was the cry against infidels in all the country. But here in Provence, where there are so many Jews and unbelievers, not to speak of the Cathari and other heretics that are so strong, a Moslem knight may dwell without annoy; for I fear my uncle--" and she fetched a sigh--"likes his troubadours and courts of love too well to leave them for the war of the Holy City." But at the mention of Jerusalem Richard's brow grew dark. "Dear heart," said he, "what madness to come to La Haye! How may I lift eyes to you, when I belong to the cause of Christ; and what time is this for marriage and giving in marriage! And if God grants that I return alive from Palestine,--and well I know the dangers, if some do not,--how many years for you must it be of weary waiting--years plucked out of the joyousness of your own dear life! Ah, sweetest of the sweet, I hold your hand now, and see heaven in your eyes. But I know you would not have me always thus; we cannot sit beneath the trees forever." "No, my beloved," said the Greek, very softly, "this is no time for marriage or giving in marriage; yet--" and she spoke still more softly--"shall I not go with you, to nurse the wounded, and give cold water to the sick; to lay a cool hand on you--thus--if you are very weary or tempted? Are there no noble ladies who go with the army,--the Countess of Toulouse, the wife of Baldwin, brother of great Duke Godfrey, and many more? And shall I not be one? Listen: my sins too are very great; yes,"--for Richard was raising a hand in protest; "I am too fond of the pomps and praise of this world, and my heart too often will not bow to the will of God. For my own sins and for the sins of him I love better than self, I would pray at the tomb of Our Lord. Yet I cannot fly out alone--a poor defenceless song-bird, amongst all the crows and hawks. Therefore I have sent to you, that you might hear me say this, 'Let us be wedded by the priest full soon, for the Holy Father has forbidden unprotected maids to go to Jerusalem; but let us not be to each other truly as husband or wife until the Sacred City is taken, and we can kneel side by side at the Holy Sepulchre." Richard had risen, and as he stood he held Mary's hands in his own, and looked straight into her eyes. [Illustration: "'HOW MAY I LIFT EYES TO YOU WHEN I BELONG TO THE CAUSE OF CHRIST?'"] "Dear life," cried he, "do you know what you say? Peril, toil, hardships,--yes, death even, and worse than death,--captivity--all these may await! And is your little body strong enough for the long, long way to Jerusalem?" "It is, Richard," said she, looking back into his face with a sweet, grave smile; "how I wish I could do something very great, only to show my love for you!" He was bending over to snatch her in his arms; her hair was touching his cheek; when Mary shrank back with a frightened scream:-- "Richard!" And before the other word could pass her lips, a strange misshapen form had darted from under the tree. A flash on bright steel, a cry, a stroke--but at that stroke Mary snatched at the wrist, caught, held an instant. "The jinns curse you!" the hiss, and Mary felt the wrist whisk like air from her hands. Another stroke, Richard half reeled. There was the click of steel on steel. A second curse, and the assailant ghost-like was gliding amongst the orchard trees. Longsword was still staring, trembling, reaching for Trenchefer; but Mary gave a loud cry. And at that cry, lo! Musa was swinging from his saddle, and grasping in no gentle grip the cloak of the dwarf Zeyneb. CHAPTER XXII HOW RICHARD PARTED WITH HIS BROTHER The dwarf was writhing, twisting, biting with long, venomous teeth, but the grasp of the Spaniard was as steel. His eye was not on his captive, but on Richard. "_Wallah!_" was his greeting, "are you wounded?" Richard stood erect, his hand at his side. "Again you have saved me. The Valencia shirt was proof once more." Musa was advancing, dragging Zeyneb, who still struggled, but helpless as a mouse in a cat's mouth. The Spaniard picked up the dagger that lay on the grass, and frowned darkly when his eye fell on the edge. "Poison," was his biting comment. "I did indeed suppose Iftikhar Eddauleh could at least trust to clean steel, even if he must place it in the claws of such vermin as this!" And he shook the dwarf till the latter howled with mortal fright. Mary, now that the shock was past and the danger sped, was calling out to all the saints amid hysteric laughter and crying, and Richard, too, felt very strangely--thrice now his life had thus been sought. Musa's fingers knit round the dwarf's wretched neck, and he seemed to find joy in watching the latter's agony. "Beard of the Prophet!" he repeated, "Iftikhar shall wait long before he find another such servant!" "Guard, hold fast!" admonished Richard. "Surely the fiends aid him; he escaped Louis de Valmont's grasp as by magic." "He will need a stouter spell to-day, by the glory of Allah!" retorted Musa. The dwarf at last found tongue. "Laugh now, my masters, and you, my lady; but you shall all whistle otherwise ere you hear the last of poor Zeyneb." The Spaniard laughed scornfully. "Aye, truly," declared he, "you are like to live many days, my merry sir, after your feat just now." The dwarf only hung down his head, while all around them swarmed the castle folk talking each at once, and making a mighty din. Baron Hardouin sent his niece away with her maids, to have her temples bathed in strong waters, for snow was no whiter than her cheeks. But four sturdy men-at-arms haled Zeyneb within the castle, and then the Baron blew out on him his fury. He should be torn by wild horses, fed to the bloodhounds, grilled over hot coals; and any other device for leaving this world in an agony was told over to him. Zeyneb did not stir. After his first howl and rage, he only blinked sharply out of his little black eyes and twisted his lips. But when Richard asked the Baron if he had received no letter concerning the attempt at Clermont, the dwarf broke forth in French. "He has not, Cid Richard, and with good reason. I met your messenger and killed him." "Killed him!" the word went round the circle with a shiver, through braver hearts than those of the maids; for there was an uncanny light in the hunchback's eye, that made the boldest chary. "Assuredly," continued Zeyneb, holding up his hands. "I met him on the road, a simple fellow; it was dark; he could not recognize; the dagger passed under the fifth rib; he gave one cry." "_Maledicte!_" exclaimed Sebastian, crossing himself. "Have we here the very devil in human guise?" "Be he man or devil," protested Hardouin, with a great oath, "he shall find the pit more joysome than the dungeons of La Haye." "Pardon," replied Zeyneb, looking about unflinchingly, and speaking very good Languedoc. "You will find you have no power at all. You cannot slay me--" "Cannot?" flew from Hardouin. "Truly," was the calm answer. "All things are in the hand of God. Without His will you can do nothing." "Silence, blasphemer!" thundered Sebastian, smiting the dwarf on the mouth. "Who are you to utter God's name?" "I?" retorted Zeyneb, a little proudly, holding up his head. "I? Know, Christian, that we Ismaelians are chosen by God Himself to execute His will. Our sovereign here below says to us, 'Do this,' and we do it, knowing that no harm can befall, save as it is foreordained by the Most High." "Away! Away to the dungeon!" raged Hardouin; "to-morrow you shall have cause to remember your sins!" Strong hands were on Zeyneb's shoulders, but he almost writhed out of them, and stood before Richard. "_Ya!_ Cid Richard; thrice now have I sought your ending. Well--Allah preserves you! Sometimes death is sweeter than life. Would you have me tell of what befell at Cefalu? I saw your mother die, your brother, your father, your sister--" "Away!" roared Longsword, "or I shall kill him, and he will escape too mercifully." The men-at-arms tugged Zeyneb down the dark stairs. Herbert had him very tightly by the scruff. "_Ai_, my dear fellow," the veteran was croaking, "tell me why you were at La Haye after your adventure at Clermont." "Because I knew your master would come hither as sure as a dog sniffs out a bone. My lord Iftikhar had said to me, 'See that Richard Longsword troubles no longer,' and I had bowed and answered, 'Yes, master, on my head.' Therefore I came to Auvergne, and when Allah did not favor, to Provence." "Where Allah has mightily favored!" chuckled the man-at-arms. "_Héh_, fellow," grunted a second guard, "I have seen you before lurking about. By the Mass, I wish then I had slit your weasand." And the grasp on Zeyneb tightened. "I owe you no grudge, gentle Franks," quoth the dwarf, as they pushed back the door of a cell that was all dust and murk. "Allah requite you! Greet Richard Longsword and the right noble Mary Kurkuas; I shall meet both, I trust, in Palestine, whither they wish to go." "Ha!" growled Herbert, driving him in with a mighty kick. "To-morrow, to-morrow!--Double fetter! Remember your good deeds, if you have any." And so they left him; yet Herbert, for all his jests, could not shake off the strange horror that smote him when he recalled the dwarf's gleaming black eyes, and that direful laugh. Richard had gone to Mary, who was lying in the ladies' bower, a long, brightly tapestried chamber, with here and there a tier of saints or knights in stiff, shadeless fresco. The couch lay by the grated window that commanded a broad sweep of the fair land. As he entered, one of the maids rose from beside her mistress, bearing away the silver bowl of lavender water. Mary's long brown hair lay scattered over the silken pillows, the sun making dark gold of every tress. She was pale; but smiling, and very happy. Richard knelt and spoke not a word, while he put the soft hair to his lips and kissed it. Then he said gently:-- "Ah! sweet life, I feel all unworthy of so great a mercy. And it was you that saved me!" "I!" cried Mary, starting. "By St. Michael, yes. For the dagger was aimed at my throat, where the mail did not guard. Had you not seized, I should long since have needed no physician. But it is not this which now gives me fear. Zeyneb is a terrible dwarf. To-morrow he shall have cause to mourn his sins. But if you go with me to Palestine, you go to certain danger. Iftikhar Eddauleh, I learn, is a great man in Syria. Of this Ismaelian brotherhood I know very little; but if their daggers can reach even to France, what is not their might in the East? I may see a day when no ring-shirt may save me. Yet their power I do not fear; for it is no great thing to die, were it I only, and absolved of soul. But think, if in the chance of war or of plotting, you should fall into the hands of Iftikhar! Death once past would be joy for a dear saint like you, whom Our Lord would stand ready to welcome; but a living death--captivity, life-long, to the emir--dear God, forbid the thought! Yet there is danger." Mary had risen from the couch. She was still very pale; what with her flowing hair, and her bare white neck, Richard had never seen her more beautiful. "Richard Longsword," said she, slowly, "I have said I wish to do something very great to show how much I love you. Well,--I am a soldier's daughter. Manuel Kurkuas was no mean cavalier in his day, though you frown on us Greeks. My fathers and fathers' fathers have fought back Moslem, and Bulgar, and Persian, and Sclave. I am of their blood. And will you fright me with a 'perhaps'? Let Iftikhar Eddauleh lay his snares, and whisper to his dagger-men; I think Trenchefer"--with a proud glance at the iron figure before her, and the great sword--"and he who wields it a sure bulwark." "Sweetest of the sweet," said Richard, laying his great hands on her smooth shoulders, "something tells me there may be great sorrow in store. I know not why. God knows I have had grief and chastening enough. Yet I still have dread." "And I," said Mary, gently, lifting her eyes, "know that so long as Richard Longsword keeps the pure and spotless knight of Holy Church, whatever may befall, I can have no great woe!" "Ah!" cried the Norman, his eyes meeting hers, "you speak well, pure saint. For without you, the fiends will tear me unceasing, and with you beside I may indeed look to heaven. You shall go; without you I am very full of sin!" He bent and kissed her. It was the pledge of love, more pure, more deep, than ever had thrilled in him before. "_Ai_, dear heart," he said, holding her from him that he might see the evening light on her face, "in Sicily I loved you for your bright eyes; but now--I love that in you which is within,--so far within that no _jongleur_ may see, to sing its praise." * * * * * That night Baron Hardouin and Herbert slept on the gentle pleasures they had prepared for Zeyneb, the dwarf; but in the morning Aimer the seneschal came to his lord with a face long as a sculptured saint. "The paynim dwarf!" was his trembling whisper; "he is gone!" "Gone!" cried Hardouin, dropping the hawk's hood in his hand. "Truly, my Baron," continued the worthy, "this morning, as we went to the dungeon, behold! Girart, the guard, was stretched on the floor dead, as I am a sinful man!" "Fellow--fellow--" broke out the nobleman, beginning to quake. "Art-magic, and direct presence of Satan, it must have been," moaned the seneschal, wringing his hands. "Girart was ever a sleepy knave; yet the infidel had slipped off his fetters. The lock was all pried asunder, and Girart's head beaten in, as though by a bit of iron, while he snored." "Mary, ever Virgin!" swore the Baron, crossing himself. "Shall the devil go up and down in my own castle? Out, men, boys, varlets, all! scour the country! send riders to all the seigneurs about!" And so they did, more thoroughly than ever in the camp at Clermont; but again the dwarf had melted out of human ken. True, when the messengers went as far as Marseilles, they heard a vague story that a dark-skinned hunchback had embarked on a merchantman of Cyprus; but even this tale lacked verification, and the simplest and most satisfactory account was that of old Nicole, the gate-keeper's wife, who protested by St. Jude that she had seen two horrible red dogs creeping around the barriers just as she went to bed,--sure sign of the presence of the dreadful devil Cahu, who was on hand to rescue his votary. Only some days after, a groom found scratched on the stones of the castle's outer wall this inscription in Arabic: "To Cid Richard: three times are not four. There is a dagger that may pierce armor of Andalus. Remember." And below this, the rude sign of a poignard encircled by a noose. "The token of the Ismaelians," commented Musa, when he read it. "Allah grant that the boast prove as vain as his earlier strokes! Yet I would you were going anywhere but to Syria." * * * * * Day sped into day. The great host of Raymond of Toulouse was preparing to set forth for Italy. The hours of dreaming in the orchard under the ivy-hung castle wall at last saw an end. Musa had received by the latest ship to Marseilles from the East, a long and flattering letter from Afdhal, the vizier of the Fatimite kalif himself. The offer was a notable one, a high emirate in the Egyptian service. There would be fighting in plenty in Tripoli and Ethiopia, not to mention Syria and beyond; for the Cairo government had on foot a great project to break the power of the Abbaside rivals at Bagdad and their Seljouk masters and guardians. Musa brought the letter to Richard and Mary, as the two sat beneath the great trees, each hearing no music save the other's voice. And when he had finished, Richard said calmly: "Yes, brother mine, now at last you must leave us. Yet, please God, you shall see no service in Syria till we have sped our arrow at Jerusalem, for good or ill. Our hopes and hearts go with you; but you must go." Musa bowed his head; then to Mary: "And you, Brightness of the Greeks, are you bound irrevocably to go to Palestine?" "I go with my husband," said Mary, simply, looking straight upon him with her frank, dark eyes. "Then remember this," replied the Spaniard, very gravely, "if at any time--and so Allah wills--I can serve you with wit, or sword, or life, remember I am Richard Longsword's brother, and, therefore, your own. What I said at Palermo, I say once more. And who is so wise that he will say: 'Musa the Moslem shall never again give succor to Mary, the Star of the Christians'?" "_Hei_," cried Mary, trying to laugh, a little tearfully, "your face is sad as though you saw me in the clutch--" she was about to say, "of Iftikhar," but the shadow of the memory of that scene at Palermo, when the emir's mad breath smote her cheek, passed before her mind, and she was silent. "Sweet lady," answered the Spaniard, smiling, yet after his melancholy way, "I have scant belief in omens. Men say I am reckless in danger, as though tempting Allah to write my name in the book of doom. Listen: when I was young my father had the astrologers of the king of Seville's court cast my horoscope. And they came to him, saying: 'Lord, your son will be a great cavalier; he shall escape a thousand perils; a thousand enemies shall seek his life; he shall mock them all. Nevertheless he shall perish, and that because of the passion for a maid, whose beauty shall outrun praise by the poet Nawas, whose loveliness shall surpass the houris of Paradise; yet even she in her guilelessness shall undo him.'" "But you distrust prophecies!" exclaimed the Greek, blushing. "Even so," continued the Andalusian, stroking his beard; "yet see. If it be true as the astrologers say, I may run to myriad dangers and stand scatheless; for where is the maid who shall put madness in me saving you," with a soft smile; "and are you not my sister, in whose love for my brother I joy?" "You speak riddles," said Mary, this time casting down her eyes. "Riddles? There is little profit in the unweaving. Perhaps in Egypt, in that warm, enchanted Nile country, in some genii-haunted island of the great river where the cataract foams, and the sun makes rainbow ever on the mist,--who knows but that I may find my temptress--my destruction!" "Ah!" cried Richard, laughing now, "she must indeed be more than human fair, for I think no mortal maid will stir the heart of Musa, son of Abdallah, if--" But he paused, and his eyes were on Mary, who clapped her hand upon his lips. Musa was humming gently a weird Spanish song, then laughed in turn in pure merriment. "See, we almost draw swords, because I will not confess myself covetous of Richard's bride!" "Silence, or I wed neither!" came from Mary; and perforce the two made her blush no more. Then before the sober days that awaited them came, there was the wedding. Musa was soon to take ship to Palermo, thence to Egypt; so they hastened the bridal, and Baron Hardouin gave them one which was long the talk of the country-side. Never before was the sky more blue, the air more sweet, the village church bells' pealing merrier. A hundred guests from far and near; amongst them Counts Raymond and Gaston, ridden over from Orange. A noble procession it was to the church, the _jongleurs_ leading in their brightest motley; the bride all in violet silk, gold lace and ermine at her fair throat; on her hair a great crown of roses red as her own red lips; behind pranced Rollo, bearing his lord on an ivory saddle; then all the guests, the great ladies crowned with gold; and flowers upon every neck, upon the beasts, upon the roadway; till the throng came to the church porch, where Sebastian stood to greet them. In his hands was a book, and on it a little silver ring. Mary stood before the priest, and Richard Longsword at her side. Her eyes were cast down--"She has neither father nor mother to give her away, ah! dear lady," all the women were lamenting. But Baron Hardouin advanced to her, took her hand in his, laid it in the hand of the Norman; and the latter--the words coming from his very soul--repeated the great vow: "Forever I swear it, by God's strength and my strength; in health or in sickness, I promise to guard her." Then Sebastian took the ring: he said a little prayer over it, and gave to Richard; and Richard placed it on three fingers in succession of the little hand that lay in his. "In the name of the Father!"--then, "of the Son!"--then, "of the Holy Ghost!" And on that third finger the ring should abide till life was sped. As it slipped to its place, the women gave a little laugh and cry, "Good omen! it glides easily! She will be a peaceful bride!" For when the ring stuck fast, there was foreboding of shrewings and sorrow. Then into the church--dim, awesome; two candles on the altar; a cloud of incense; a vast company still pressing about with curious whisperings. In the gray nave they knelt for the benediction; distant, mysterious as from another world, "May God bless you, and show Himself favorable unto you, your bodies and your souls." Then they received the host at the altar; and Richard, as was appointed, in the sight of a thousand, with a great crucifix above and Christ Himself in the golden dove beneath the altar, took Mary in his arms, and gave her the kiss of peace--the peace of the love that may not die in earth or in heaven. This over, back to the castle, the trumpets making the azure quake; banners on every house; flowers rained upon the bride; her black mule treading a scarlet carpet. All shouted, "Joy, joy and long life to the noble Lady of St. Julien! Joy to the valiant Baron! Joy to both!" So there were fêtes and tournaments eight days long, as the custom was. Mary and Richard went to their wedding mass, and during the service the bride, as did all good brides, they told her, made vows to obey her lord, to call him "Monsire," or, better, the good Latin "_Domine_." But she straightway disproved this promise, and mocked the great De St. Julien to his face. On the ninth day Musa said farewell. Richard and Mary rode forth with him for a long way, to see him well towards Marseilles. Neither he nor Richard spoke the word nearest their hearts,--"What will befall the soul of my brother?" But they had many things to say, of when the Crusade should be over, and Moslem and Christian might be friends at least in this world. But that hour seemed very far away. At last they came to the fork, and the two could go no farther. Musa turned to bid farewell. "Remember," said he, in his musical Spanish Arabic, "remember the mercy of Allah surpasses all human mercy. We are all in the hollow of His hand; Christian and Moslem alike in His keeping. By His will we shall meet, and naught shall sever." "Amen!" said Richard, looking down. They had all dismounted. Without speaking, he cast his arms about Musa, and gave him a close embrace. And when the two stood apart, the Spaniard's eyes rested on Mary, then on Longsword. The Norman smiled and nodded. "Are you not my sister?" said Musa, simply. And he laid his hands upon her arms, and kissed her forehead, while she resisted not, nor even blushed. Only her long lashes were bright, when she answered:-- "Yes, my brother, my heart is very full. I cannot speak all the things I feel." Musa swung into his saddle; the men-at-arms of Hardouin who were to escort him to Marseilles cantered after. They saw the Spaniard climb a hillock; just at the curve he gave one sweep of the hand--was gone. Mary laid her head on Richard's shoulder, and spoke nothing for a long time. Then they rode to La Haye together, and neither had heart for idle speech. At the castle gate Sebastian met them, his face--so far as he ever suffered it--twisted with a smile. "Glory to St. Raphael! The unbeliever is departed!" "Musa is gone," answered Richard, soberly. "Praises to God! the devil hath reclaimed his own! the lake of unquenchable fire--" But he spoke no more. Richard had knotted his fist and with one buffet felled the priest, so that he did not speak for a good while; and when he did, Mary observed that never by word or deed did he recall the Spaniard. CHAPTER XXIII HOW IFTIKHAR'S MESSENGER RETURNED It was the twelfth day of the sacred month Ramadan, in the year of the flight of the Prophet four hundred and ninety,--according to the Christian reckoning in the month of August, one thousand and ninety-six,--that Iftikhar Eddauleh sat over his sherbet in the palace El Halebah, which is by the Syrian city of Aleppo. Now good Moslems were not presumed to enjoy food or drink from rise to set of sun during the sacred month, therefore the grand prior of the Ismaelians sat shaded on the _liwan_, a raised hall opening off the great court of the palace. Here, with the door covered by Indian tapestries, and with silken carpets of Kerman deadening the footfalls of each soft-stepping Persian slave, the great man could lie upon his purple couch, and let his eye rove from the bright, inlaid stones of the alabaster walls to the ceiling beams of gilded teak. Without the sun beat hot, the parching south wind from the desert swept sand-dust in the eyes of man and beast; but within all was cool, darkened, fragrant with frankincense from the smouldering brazier. Iftikhar was in that mood of sleepy indolence to which men wonted to a life of restless action are often prone. He was clad only in a loose under-mantle of green cotton; and while he dozed a dark-eyed maid of Dekkan was bathing his feet with perfumed water from a porcelain basin. A second maid stood by the couch, and often, as the master languidly held out his cup, refilled it with the sweet rose sherbet from a brass cooler of snow. Iftikhar drank again, and again, speaking not a word; till at last the first Hindoo, having borne away the bowl, stood at his head with a great fan of bright feathers. So far as speech or expression was in question, his ministers might have been moving statues, so noiseless, so mechanical, was every action. Presently Iftikhar began communing with himself, as was his wont, half aloud. "One year in Syria; _wallah!_ truly if prosperity is not my destiny, all the jinns deceive. I have been to Alamont, the 'Vulture's Nest,' have seen Hassan ben-Sabah, Lord of the Ismaelians, and all the 'devoted' have been bidden to obey my word as they would the 'Cid of the Mountain.' At my nod ten thousand daggers flash, ten thousand riders go forth. Let emir or sultan offend:--he lies down on his bed, his memlouks about; he awakes--in paradise; for in all Islam who may escape our daggers? _Mashallah!_--let others boast; what may not I, Iftikhar, accomplish? I, who was left a foundling in the great Cairo mosque El-Azhar, and was reared by the compassionate Imam Abdul Aziz? Power, riches, glory--there shall be no bound to my fortune!" The Egyptian leaped up and began to pace the floor. "Much yet to do," ran he on; "I have Hassan Sabah's pledge that I shall be his successor. Every barrier must be plucked down betwixt the Ismaelians and empire over all Islam, such as Harun or Mansur never held. 'All is permitted, naught feared,'--such is our watchword, taught the initiated at the grand lodge in Cairo. Let him who stands in our way be snuffed out like a rushlight,--Barkyarok the arch-sultan, the Bagdad kalif, who is Barkyarok's puppet--all--all!" As the Egyptian spoke, a huge negro, shining with great earrings, and, save for a red cincture, clothed only in his ebony, glided from behind the curtained door. In his hand was a naked cimeter of startling length. Never a word he said, but only pointed with his weapon to the passage, then salaamed. "The dervish Kerbogha?" asked Iftikhar, stopping his pacings. The negro, who was a mute, only bowed almost to the floor. "Bid him enter." The giant salaamed a third time, and was gone. An instant later a stranger entered. His robe was spotless white, but the shoes and belt were red. He was a man just in the turn of life, with a powerful military frame, the nose of a hawk, and a hawk's keen eye; a grizzled beard, very thick, that swept his breast; his head crowned with a peaked felt hat, also white. The sun had long since tanned his skin to a rich bronze; there were scars on cheeks, forehead, hands. He strode with the springing step of one who loved hardship for hardship's sake; and no second glance was needed to tell that power and command were second nature. Iftikhar bowed very ceremoniously, thrusting one hand in his bosom, and the stranger doing the like, while the formula was exchanged: "Peace be on you." "On you be peace, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings." Then the Egyptian bade the Hindoos bring new water and sherbet. The stranger flung himself upon the divan, and words flew fast. "You have been to Antioch?" asked Iftikhar. "I have," replied Kerbogha,--for such was the new comer's name. "Yaghi-Sian is willing to link hands with us. His pride has been humbled mightily since he attacked your friend Redouan, lord of Aleppo, and was defeated. Now he sees that only by joining the Ismaelians can he hope for success." "And you promised--?" "That if the plans of Hassan Sabah fail not, we shall have the puppet kalif, Mustazhir, and his master, the arch-sultan Barkyarok, at our mercy in two years. Then each prince who is of our party shall divide the spoils, and rule every one in his own land, sending some tribute to Alamont in sign of fealty to the order. I have engaged, you will warn Redouan, that Yaghi-Sian is not to be attacked; and if he refuse, let him remember how our daggers found Nizam ul-Mulk, the great vizier. To-day I am at Aleppo, to-morrow I go to Mosul, thence to Alamont to tell my tale to Hassan Sabah." Whereupon Iftikhar replied, while the slaves bathed Kerbogha's feet:-- "I see all goes well. The Seljouk power declines since the death of Malek Shah. Yet Barkyarok is not to be despised; he can still summon the Turkish hordes. The 'devoted' cannot do all. The dagger throws down many thrones, raises none. To strike kalif and sultan we need more--an army--myriads; how gather it? A whisper at Ispahan, 'Kerbogha is of the Ismaelians; he moves disguised as a dervish to seduce the emirs.' How long then does the arch-sultan delay to send the bowstring?" Kerbogha set down his sherbet cup and laughed dryly. "_Wallah_, can one always play at backgammon,[1] and win? So in life; fortune and skill must go together. Let us play our game, and take what Allah sends without a quiver." "An army, an army; where an army, to break the arch-sultan's might?" Iftikhar was repeating, when the curtain was thrust away. The giant negro was salaaming again. "Another stranger?" The mute nodded. "Can he be trusted?" the second question from Kerbogha. A second nod. "Let him come in." And the curtains gave way for none other than the dwarf Zeyneb, travel-stained, with a ragged beard and a very tattered costume. At sight of his master and Kerbogha, the dwarf bowed to the rugs, then laid his hand on lips and forehead. At last Iftikhar spoke:-- "You come from Frankland?" "I have been amongst the Franks, lord, as you deigned to command." "And Richard Longsword, whom my soul hates?" came eagerly. The dwarf looked his master full in the eye. "He still lives, and to my knowledge prospers." "Child of Eblees the Devil, have you failed yet again? at Palermo, at Cefalu, and now in France?" And Iftikhar put forth his hand for the ivory staff that lay by the divan. "Sluggard, an hundred strokes on your bare heels for this!" [Footnote 1: Arab name: T[=a]wulah.] The dwarf still did not flinch. "Master, once at Clermont where the Frankish lords were all gathered to prepare for taking Jerusalem, I stabbed at him through the walls of his tent; some jinn prompted him to wear a Valencia hauberk. Barely I made away. Again in Provence, when he stood by the Star of the Greeks, I would have stricken him in her arms; but that chain shirt, enchanted doubtless, turned the blow. I was cast into a dungeon, and only because Allah granted that I should know how to pick loose fetters, and because He shed sleep upon my guard, did I escape being food for dogs. Therefore, if I deserve stripes, lay on; yet my small wit could do no more. The hand of Allah protects Richard Longsword." Iftikhar controlled himself by no common effort. "You have ever been a trusty slave, Zeyneb; no man may contend against the Most High. I do wrong to be angry. Depart, and when refreshed, return and tell all; of the Star of the Greeks and of the commotions amongst the Franks; for of these last the Lord Kerbogha will be glad to hear." But as Zeyneb was bowing himself out of the _liwan_, a low, weird song stole from the chambers within; now softly rising as the breeze, now mounting shriller, shriller, till the gilded stalactites trembled, and the whole hall throbbed with the wailing melody, then fainter, dying like the retreating wind. Again and again the three heard the wild song rise, throb, fall, and a strange awe spread over them, as if more than mortal accents drifted with the note. "The song of Morgiana," said Iftikhar, dropping his eyes; "she is fallen in her trance. My Lord Kerbogha, let us go to her. For her eyes now see things hid to all save Allah!" The three tiptoed down a long, dark way, Zeyneb following as a matter of course. At the end was a door where stood a second eunuch, a tall, beardless, ebony skeleton, with naked sabre held before him. The black knelt while his master passed. Iftikhar knocked thrice at the door; it turned on its pivots slowly, noiselessly, by some unseen power. As the three stepped within, they were nigh dazzled by the intense white light. They were in a court surrounded by a two-storied arcade, the delicate columns, the fantastic capitals, fretwork, and panelling, all in alabaster and marble. Below, the eye wandered over gilt mosaics, winding scroll into scroll, till sight grew mazed and weary. In the centre of the court sprang a tall silver pipe, embossed with strange figures, discharging itself aloft in a fine cool spray that drifted downward on all beneath. Perfume mingled with the spray, and what with the blinding light, shot through the mist, and the wandering song which ever grew nearer, sense lost itself as amid an enchanter's spell. Iftikhar led past the fountain, into the arcade; and in the shadows apart from the misty outer air a brazier was smouldering, and a heavy fragrance rose with the gray smoke. Still the song, very loud now, but no word heard clearly. Iftikhar spoke. "Morgiana!" And Kerbogha saw sitting in the dark niche, behind the brazier, a woman, her head thrown back, drinking in the rising vapor. She was dressed only in a violet robe that fell from throat to feet. There was a girdle of silver chain-work; no sleeves; arms, neck, face, all bare; the skin, not so dark as of most Eastern women, rather a fine olive. Black and slightly waving was the long hair that tossed heedlessly over the shoulders. In the shadow Kerbogha could only see that the face presented a profile of marvellous symmetry, and the eyes--wonder of wonders,--now flashing with a half-drunken fire--were steel-blue. As Iftikhar spoke, the woman tossed her head, but continued the song. They heard her words:-- "Armies advancing; the vultures appearing, Wheel for their prey. Now the hosts mingle, a thousand blades flashing; Hid is the day By the twittering arrows; as, quaking like aspen, The warring hosts sway!" "Morgiana!" again Iftikhar commanded. The song sank into wild moanings, dimmer, dimmer,--was gone. The strange singer now spoke, yet still in wild rhythm:-- "Wherefore, man, do you come to me, the blue-eyed maid of Yemen! See, the smoke-drug is strong; let me drink, drink, drink, and tread beyond the stars." "Moon of the Arabs," spoke Iftikhar, softly, as though stepping delicately, "I heard your song; the power of the drug is upon you. I would have you speak before me and the Lord Kerbogha. Make known to us the way of the jinns. Reveal--is it written in the smoke that Barkyarok perish? that the Master of the Devoted be hailed Commander of the Faithful in Bagdad?" The eye of the maiden was wandering, now on Zeyneb, now on Kerbogha--a long silence, then of a sudden:-- "My sight is dim; I see nothing; the smoke weaves no picture; I cannot see the sultan; my ears hear the question, my eyes are blind." "Wait," whispered Iftikhar to Kerbogha, who, man of war that he was, felt the very air awe-laden. Morgiana bent over the brazier, blew the smouldering leaves; again the smoke rose thickly. Twice she breathed it deep; when she raised her head, the fire glittered once more in her eyes. "Behold! behold!" and she half started from the niche. Iftikhar hung on each word. She continued, first slowly, then faster, faster, finally running in half song, half chant; arising the meantime with outstretched arms, shaking the flowing tresses as she swayed:-- "Again armies; tens of thousands, horseman and footman, in the armor of the Franks, the red cross of Issa upon their breasts; another host; Arab, Seljouk; tens of thousands; battle. Allah can number the slain, not man; death, death upon every wind!" She swayed still more wildly, as if mastered by the vapor. "One face I see, the Greek, the Greek, Mary Kurkuas. She is struggling--in vain; a mighty arm holds her; a great warrior bears her. Allah! I know him; I would not tell his name!" But Iftikhar had broken forth almost sternly:-- "Speak, speak, woman! Who is the warrior you see against the smoke?" The words turned the trend of the spell. Morgiana moved more gently as she repeated in quick rhythm:-- "Now the smoke weaveth in mystical figure; I see the hosts marching, I see the hosts warring, I see the strife swaying Like wrestling swift winds! "'Twixt Frankland and Eastland the conflict sore wageth; I see the Greek flower transported beside thee, Thine eyes,--they behold her; Thy arms,--they enfold her; Thy heart is as flame!--" "_Allah akhbar!_" burst from Iftikhar, starting. And at the cry, Morgiana had given another, and fell so suddenly that only a quick snatch by Zeyneb saved her from striking the brazier. She was speechless, pallid, when they lifted her; Kerbogha would have declared her dead. But Iftikhar drew from his bosom a crystal vial, in which glowed a liquor red as vermilion. Three drops he laid upon her lips; and lo, there was a flush of color, and in a moment the woman was sitting upon the rugs and glancing at them with shy, scared eyes. Iftikhar beckoned to Kerbogha, who bowed and withdrew; but Zeyneb remained. All the glitter and madness had passed from Morgiana's face. Zeyneb knelt and kissed her hand, which lay limp within his own. "You see I have returned safe from my long journey, Moon of Yemen; can you wish me no joy?" The languid eyes lighted a little. "Allah is merciful; I am very weary." This last to Iftikhar. "Verily," cried the Egyptian, "you should not make the magic smoke; see, you are frail as a lily of Damascus; a sigh of the south wind would destroy you. Have I not forbidden it?" "Lord," replied the lady, raising her eyes, now touched with a soft, sweet fire, "the hour came to me to-day. As the bird must fly north in springtime, so must I drink the hemp smoke, when the genii bid, or die. Ah, lord--I saw in the smoke shapes--terrible shapes--they are gone; the shadow still hangs over me; yet I know this--woe, woe, woe, awaits,--for you, for Zeyneb, for me. I am sad; my heart is torn." Iftikhar knelt beside the divan, and looked into her face. "Life of my own!" said he, half passionately, "why sad? What is the desire? A palace--can any be more fair than El Halebah? Jewels, robes?--the riches of Aleppo are yours. Servants?--a hundred maids of Khorassan and Fars and Ind are your ministers, most beautiful of the daughters of men, save as you outshine. The pang? The wish? Your will is law to me, and to all the 'devoted' of Syria." But Morgiana turned away her head. "Lord," said she, half bitterly, "will palace, and riches, and slaves bind up a bruised heart? Is gold a cordial for the soul? Does the dagger say, 'I am sovereign physician'?" "Riddles--" commented Iftikhar, still kneeling. Morgiana flushed; there was a flash in her eyes now, but not of softness or delirium. "It is past," cried she, bending her henna-dyed hand across her brow, as if to drive away a vapor. "The vision is gone. But I see--O Iftikhar, whom I have loved,--soul of my soul,--what do I not see! I see your love for me, true, and pure, and strong, when you bought me and Zeyneb, my brother, at the slave market in Damascus. And when we were with you in Sicily, and you served amongst the Christians, what nest of the wood-thrush more joyous than our home at Palermo? As you won honor after honor, and Christian and Moslem lauded you, was your gladness greater than mine? Then came the day when you listened to the cursed envoys of Hassan Sabah, and sold yourself to this fiend's brotherhood, who live by the dagger of stealth, and not by the sword of manhood,--that was the first sorrow. And then--" she hesitated, but drove on, and her eyes flamed yet fiercer--"came that hour when the old Kurkuas and his daughter came to Palermo,--and you set eyes on her Greek beauty. I have seen her; she is fair, I own it--and your heart grew chill toward me. Me you left in the harem, with a few fawning, glozing words, and went about sighing, dreaming of the Greek; and my joy was at end. Almost, even then, you would have possessed her; but I was crafty beyond you and Zeyneb. Remember the hour in the Palace of the Diadem, when Musa the Spaniard saw you with your arms--" "As Allah lives!" thundered Iftikhar, leaping up, "how knew you this? No more--witch, sorceress!" "Rage as you will!" tossed forth Morgiana, throwing back her head; "it was I that warned Musa. Ah! you both are weak--weak, though you vaunt yourself so strong." Iftikhar was foaming; his fury was terrible. But Morgiana never quivered. "So you fled Sicily after devising murder in vain. Then the deed at Cefalu--and that accursed child Eleanor still remains to drive me wild with her moans and her sorrow. Again this Zeyneb, worthy brother, returns from Frankland. He has failed. I saw Richard Longsword's form in the smoke, and the smoke shows only the living. But he and Mary Kurkuas will come,--come with the Frankish hordes,--and then! Woe to you and woe to me, if your heart remember her beauty!" "And the smoke mist says true, fair sister," quoth Zeyneb, naught abashed. "Richard Longsword goes to Jerusalem, and with him Mary Kurkuas, wedded, though not yet truly his wife; so I heard from her own lips." And he darted a swift glance at his master. "Lord, lord!" cried Morgiana, suddenly falling on the pavement. "Do not listen! forget! forget! Put her from your heart! See! I embrace your knees, I kiss your feet. By Allah the Great and His prophet, I conjure you. She loves you not. I would die for you with a laugh on my lips. Oh, the heart of Zeyneb my brother is black, as his body misshapen! Death is woven for us all, if you continue this quest. Remember our love, our joy,--the little babe that died in Palermo. Have I ever deceived? If you remember Mary the Greek, I say it, 'Woe, woe for us all!'" But the jinns of a headlong passion had mastery of Iftikhar that day. He saw Morgiana of Yemen at his feet; but he saw another--that had been before his eyes day and night since that hour in Palermo when Mary Kurkuas's lips had been so near his own. "Eblees seize you, woman!" came from his throat; and he spurned her. Morgiana said not a word; without a groan she arose, and sat on the divan, looking upon him tearlessly. Iftikhar brattled forth a forced laugh. "_Ya_, Zeyneb, let us go back to Kerbogha. Your sister is all tears and foreboding to-day. We must not let her sit over the hemp again." And with that the two left the white court and returned to the _liwan_, where the Prince of Mosul awaited them. The two chiefs of the Ismaelians listened long to the tales Zeyneb had to tell of the assembling of the Franks. Then Iftikhar cried:-- "Glory to Allah! The fish drift into the net!" "I do not understand, my lord," said the dwarf. "I know these Christians," the chief replied. "Lions in battle, but beast-strength will not win Jerusalem. Under cover of destroying them, we can gather a mighty host, unsuspected by Barkyarok. When they are blotted out, we take the sultan and kalif unawares! The Most High delivers the empire into the hands of the Ismaelians. Is it not so, Kerbogha?" And the prince called Allah to witness that their troubles were at an end; that three years should see them masters of all Islam. Only the dwarf shook his head, and when questioned, replied, "Lords, you are mighty men-of-war; yet this I say, 'You will fail.'" "And wherefore?" came from Kerbogha. "Because I have been among the Franks, and there is a fire burning in their hearts that a thousand leagues of deserts cannot blast, nor ten myriad sword-hands quench, nor all your Ismaelians' daggers." "You, too, prate evil, like your cursed sister!" cried Iftikhar. Then he asked Zeyneb very carefully as to the route likely to be taken by the Crusaders, the time of their arrival in Asia, and the like. After that he sent for a certain Eybek, one of the trustiest and most skilful of the "devoted," and dismissed him with this last command:-- "But Richard Longsword slay not. In my own time will I deal with him, man to man. Rather let him live, and eat his pangs as I have eaten mine, and know that I have borne away his prize." CHAPTER XXIV HOW THEY SLEW THE FIRST INFIDEL Richard and Mary made the toilsome journey across Lombardy and Dalmatia with trials enough to expiate many sins, before Count Raymond's host reached Constantinople. There also Emperor Alexius gave the Crusaders chill greeting, and earned many curses. Yet when Richard saw the riches of the "City guarded of God," and heard how the first hordes, led by Peter the Hermit and Walter Lackpenny, had lighted like locusts on its suburbs, and had sacked palace and church as though despoiling very infidels, Longsword did not marvel that Alexius thought needful to deal warily with later comers. Here for the first time he learned the fate of the first peasant hordes,--how, to save his city from ruin, Alexius had ferried them across the Bosphorus. Left then to the Turks' tender mercies, the Sultan of Nicæa had pounced upon them with his light cavalry and cut them short in their sins. Peter the Hermit had escaped to Constantinople; his followers had perished almost to a man; and so began the great outpouring of life-blood in the long agony of the Crusade. Small wonder Alexius Comnenus saw in his later guests doubtful friends or worse! Or that with all his matchless guile he sought pledges from them, that their coming might bring blessing rather than destruction to his empire; for the blunt Franks openly swore that the schismatic Greeks were but one degree better than Moslems. So day followed day of intrigue and lie-giving; the Augustus bickering and haggling with Raymond, Godfrey, and the other Latin chiefs. In the meantime Richard had time to learn the marvels of this great city of the Cæsars. What city like it! Palermo had not one tithe its wealth. Its walls might mock all the chivalry of France. Where in the West was one building so notable as were a score along the Mesa, the great street from the "Golden Gate" to the "Sacred Palace"? Everywhere Corinthian columns, veined marbles, bronzes that nigh seemed breathing, palaces, churches a hundred and more; great _fora_ where swelled a mighty traffic; merchants whose shops boasted the luxurious wares of Persia, China, Ind; and multitudes on every street--Greek, Bulgar, Russian, Armenian, Jew. To Richard the scene was for long an enchanted confusion; and he marvelled to see how to Mary the pomp and bustle alike came as the common course of life. When he rode at her side through the humming city, or felt the light bark spring under the oar, as they shot up the Golden Horn or toward Chrysopolis, he was fain to question how any one here born and bred could find joy in coarser, wilder Frankland. Together the two had been in St. Sophia, monarch of churches, had seen the great dome swimming on its sea of light above its forty windows; had heard the choir sing as angels the praise of "Mary, God-bearer, Giver of Victory." And Richard's soul had been almost carried aloft by the throb of the stately service. Again in the street, he said: "Dear life, I feel as if I were but just plucked down from heaven. What have I done that you love me so; that you can so cheerfully leave all this, and dwell with me in our rude, bare West?" And Mary, as she rode beside him, answered, smiling: "Why? And can one live forever in the great church, and eat and drink music? Is all life a rowing from Chalcedon to Prinkipo? Ah, Richard, could I be happy to spend my days after the manner of these ladies of Constantinople,--watched like cats by sleek eunuchs, and kept close that our masters may stroke us? Is it better to listen to the music of St. Sophia and to read Sophocles and Herodotus; or to ride, hawk on fist, over the merry country with you at my side, to feel the wild wind tossing my hair, to sniff the breeze in the free woods, and think how sweet a thing is life?" "Then you are true Frank at heart!" laughed her husband, "despite your Greek name and learning." "I am the wife of Richard de St. Julien," answered she, very seriously; "and he is a mighty baron of France." So they viewed the great city through each other's eyes, and Richard grew humble as he saw how much wit heaven had granted those Greeks he once despised. At last the negotiating ended; the Emperor came down from his dignity; the princes swore him a loose manner of fealty; Bohemond of Tarentum, the most covetous of the chiefs, abated his demands. On a day never to be forgotten, the imperial galleys bore the host across the narrow strait. "Asia!" the cry of each knight as he kissed the very soil; at last they were fairly set to go to Jerusalem! And now the all-reigning desire was to slay infidels. Not many leagues away lay a great paynim stronghold, Nicæa, capital of Kilidge Arslan, sultan of Roum,--with fighting promised of a right knightly kind. Merry the music, and merrier the hearts of the hundred thousands, that May season, as the host swept in flashing steel and unsoiled bleaunts past old Nicomedia under the blue Bithynian sky, the hills all bright and green in springtime glory. "Sure, Our Lord is with us!" cried Richard. "I feel a giant's strength!" But Sebastian plodded on with bowed head. "Boast not," was the reply; "for our sins we all may yet be sorely chastened." "But is not God on our side, father?" "Yes, truly; but it shall be even as with the band of Gideon. Of thirty and two thousand there were left to fall on the Midianites three hundred; and to be among these, may we be worthy!" At this Richard laughed, looking off to the long lines of bright hauberks and forests of lances, far as the eye could reach; yet he had not laughed, had he known that of the six hundred thousand of fighting-men that crossed into Asia, scarce fifty thousand were to see with mortal eye the Holy City. But for the moment the skies seemed very bright, and the shadows commenced creeping only when forth from the forest stole ragged wretches, nigh starving, refugees from Peter the Hermit's rout. These told how Kilidge Arslan had slaughtered man, woman, and child, when he stormed the camp of Walter Lackpenny. Then, when the host advanced a little farther, they came to a wide heap of bones, more than could be counted, bleaching in the sun, and the crows still a black cloud above; for here had been the first battle and the first defeat. Loud rose the oaths and threats of vengeance from peasant and baron; the lines advanced in closer array, the music lessened, every lance was ready; for now at last they were treading on the soil of the infidel. Richard Longsword rode with the three thousand pioneers that Duke Godfrey sent ahead to plant crosses by the wayside as guides to the hosts who came after. Thus it befell, the saints granted that he should be among the first knights to set eyes on the unbelievers. With Prince Tancred, Bohemond's valiant nephew,--who had not forgotten the lists at Palermo,--Richard saw a band of horsemen whizzing ahead, and, lo, as the Christian riders drew near, the Turks' little crooked bows began spitting out barbed arrows, which glanced harmlessly on the chain mail, but now and then wounded a horse. "Rash infidels,--singled out doubtless by Satan for destruction,"--so Prince Tancred cried when he couched his lance; and away went the whole squadron of knights. The Seljouks wheeled like lightning, and were off; their bony Tartar horses flew madly under the spur, while the men, bending dexterously in their saddles, launched their shafts. But destruction was upon them; the Christians rode them down one after another; some were lanced, some taken; a few escaped, howling in a truly devilish fashion, to tell the tale to their fellow-unbelievers. It had been so easy for the cavaliers, that they rallied one another on the prowess of the day. "Ha! De St. Julien," Tancred would cry,--"how many paladins have you slain?" And Richard would answer, "As many as you, fair lord; but who is this grand soldan you have strapped to your stirrup? Will he fetch a thousand byzants' ransom?" They brought the luckless prisoners into camp, and scarce knew what to do with them. Shock-headed, small-eyed fellows they were,--all bones, teeth, and sinew. None could speak their language. Raymond of Agiles, worthy chaplain, stood before them with a crucifix, and discoursed an hour long in Latin on the perilous state of their souls, hoping that some word of the truth might lodge in their hearts through a miracle of grace. But the wretches only blinked out of their little eyes, and never moved a muscle nor gave a sign on their stolid faces. Theroulde advised that, following Charlemagne's precept, they should be put to death. "None of the Moslems did remain But had turned Christian, or else was slain!" prattled he, jauntily; but Sebastian counselled that due time for repentance should not be denied them. "Let them be as the men of Gibeon," he recommended, "hewers of wood and drawers of water." So the poor Turks were suffered to live, and Mary Kurkuas sent one of her maids to the tent where they lay bound, with cordials for such as were wounded. Many good Christians frowned at this, and Count Pons of Balazan hinted to Richard he would do well to rebuke his wife; "it was not seemly to have pity on God's enemies." But Richard belched out a great oath. "By St. Michael, who saveth from peril, he who bids me rebuke the Baroness de St. Julien shall walk up the length of Trenchefer!" and Count Pons, who was a discreet man, had to plead no desire for a quarrel, remembering the fate of the Valmonts. Thus tamely the Holy War began; but on the sixth of May the army found itself under the walls of Nicæa--an infidel city now, but forever sacred to Christians, since here had been framed the great Creed. The knights laughed at sight of its lofty battlements, as promising doughty fighting, and sat down for the siege, awaiting the coming of Raymond from Constantinople. While the siege-engines made the firm rock quake with the attack, Richard and the other barons rode forth into the country seeking adventure; for Kilidge Arslan was sending down his light riders from the hills, and there was steady skirmishing. Each morning as Richard went abroad he looked back at the face of Mary--the lips smiling, but not the eyes; and each evening when Rollo lumbered wearily homeward--perhaps with his lord's target battered deeply--there would be laughter, kisses, and merry talk, as they sat before the camp-fire, saw the red flames weaving pictures, and Longsword told of the brave deeds of the day. So sped two weeks around Nicæa, and on a Friday Richard sallied forth in company with Bohemond and Tancred, who led the scouting party. As their troops climbed the foothills that lay south of the city, the eagle eyes of Tancred lit upon three men who were stealing from grove to grove, as if wishing anything rather than to be seen. Then there was a headlong race among the knights to see which would strike first, and Rollo tossed out his great hoofs and led them all. Thus Richard caught the three just as they were plunging in a thicket, and bade them stand and yield. One indeed made a bold break for freedom, but just as he dashed among the trees, Tancred's javelin smote him, and his fellows held up their hands and howled for quarter. When the two were fairly on the way back to camp Richard observed that one was a Seljouk, but the other--a brown, black-eyed, wiry-limbed fellow--cried out in Arabic when addressed: "Ah, Christ be praised! I am amongst Christians; mercy, kind lord, on a fellow-believer,--release these bands!" "Christian?" protested Richard, still holding the cord knotted round the prisoner's hands. "I call Our Lord to witness," exclaimed the captive, "I am a baptized Christian of Syria, and have endured captivity and persecution for the sake of the Gospel;" and at this he cast down his eyes and began to sigh. "Our Lady pity you!" cried all the knights, touched to the quick instantly; "and how came you with these two infidels?" "Ah! noble lords," declared the Arab, a great tear on each cheek, "I have been long captive among the unbelievers, the slave of Kilidge Arslan. Know that on Sunday the Sultan will fall upon you with all his host, and we three are messengers sent to bear the tidings into the city through your lines." "Fellow! fellow!" began Tancred, pricking up his ears, "a Christian, and yet the private messenger of the infidels?" "Yes, Cid," was the ready answer, "I have, alas!"--another great sigh--"been false to my faith and apostatized; yet I said in my heart, 'Let me go with these messengers, and by betraying them to the Franks, undo my own sin and gain liberty among Christian people.'" "By St. Theodore," swore Tancred, "you speak smoothly; if it is as you say, you shall not go unrewarded, and Bishop Adhemar shall give you full absolution." "Even so, Cid," replied the Arab, whose hands Richard had set at liberty, but who made no effort to fly. "Put to torture this Turk, my companion; he will confess all that I have told." "You are a stout-limbed varlet," commented Bohemond, the sly-eyed Prince of Tarentum; "you shall serve with me in my suite as guide and interpreter, for language and country you must know well." But the Arab only bowed, and answered:-- "My lord is a fountain of generosity, yet it is my desire to seek service with the husband of that very noble lady the Princess Mary Kurkuas, who it is told is the great emir, Richard Longsword." "St. Michael," burst out Richard, "I am he! Yet why do you call my wife by name?" The stranger salaamed almost to the dust. "God is gracious beyond my sins in granting so noble a lord as husband of the daughter of my dear master. Know that fifteen years past, before the Moslems took Antioch, I was house-servant to Manuel Kurkuas, 'domestic' of Syria. Oftentimes have I held the very august princess on my knee, and even in her childhood all declared she was of beauty passing St. Thecla." Richard had only to hear one praise Mary Kurkuas to become that man's friend straightway. And he put his hand on the hilt of Trenchefer, taking oath upon the relics that if the stranger, who called himself Hossein, told an honest tale, he should never lack a patron. Only Tancred, viewing the Arab with his sea-green eyes, was heard to remark, "This fellow invokes the saints glibly, but his faith has more profession in it than is to my liking." However, when they brought the two before Duke Godfrey and threatened the Turk with torture, he broke down and told the interpreter a tale exactly like Hossein's--that Kilidge Arslan waited in the mountains with a great host and would fall on the besiegers the next day. So the Arab's credit was high when Richard brought him to the tent of his wife. Hossein cast one glance upon her, and fell upon his knees, kissing her robe and crying:-- "Praises, praises to St. John of Damascus! I behold the daughter of my beloved lord Manuel, and God has verily clothed her as an angel of light!" "Good man," said the Greek, a little confused, "I know you not. When have you served my father?" "O preëminently august lady!" broke forth the Arab again. "Do you not remember Hossein, who was in the Cæsar Manuel's palace at Antioch? How he told you the tales of his people and sang you the wondrous song of Antar, and the stories of the jinns and the spirits of the air?" "I was indeed in Antioch when my father ruled the city, but I was very young. I recall nothing," replied Mary. "Alas! I had hopes your memory had not failed," declared Hossein, still kneeling; "yet it is true, O noblest of the Greeks, you were very young. Enough; my devotion can repay the daughter what I owe to the father. For the most excellent Cæsar saved me from cruel death at the hands of the infidels, my fellow-countrymen." "You are an honorable man," said the lady, touched at his demonstration, "to discharge a debt incurred so long ago. Perhaps"--and she ran over all her early girlhood in her memory--"I recall something of you, yet my father had many servants. I crave pardon if I forget. And how have you fared all this while among the Turks?" Whereupon Hossein flew into the most pitiful tale as to his life of captivity and persecution, so that the lady's eyes grew wet, and her heart right sore. "Good Christian," said she, at last, "surely you have endured much for your faith. God grant that under like persecution I do not apostatize more deeply. And what may I do for you? Have you home, friends, kin?" "Alas! most august princess, Heaven has taken all away. Let me be your slave, your bodyguard, and sleep without your tent by night with a naked sword. Perilous times await, and"--here he choked in his speech--"the foe shall only touch you by stepping across my poor body!" "You are a noble and pious man," said Mary, smiling. "It shall be as you say. I will ask the Baron to make you my guardsman." Whereupon Hossein invoked all the saints of the calendar to witness his delight; and the princess had her varlets and maids clothe and feed him. When Herbert and Theroulde came to look at him, however, they wagged their heads; and Sylvana, the nurse, who went wherever her mistress went, came boldly to Mary, saying:-- "Save for his pious talk, we all swear this man is infidel. I knew all your father's servants at Antioch, and he was not of them." But Mary answered her sharply:-- "Must one have a white skin to love Our Lord? No man could come before me with such a lie. Your memory fails you. The Cæsar had a great household. Besides, this Hossein has just revealed all the plots of Kilidge Arslan, and my husband says he is to be trusted." The word of Richard Longsword was not to be contradicted before his wife, as Sylvana knew well; so she held her peace. Only Theroulde arranged with Herbert that one of them should always watch their lady's tent along with the suspected Hossein. But the Arab's revelations proved true to the letter. On the next day, while Raymond of Toulouse with the rear of the Provençals was making his way to camp, three huge bands of Seljouk cavalry swooped down on them and on the forces of Duke Godfrey. Then followed a battle of the true knightly sort, the Turks trying what they became too wise to attempt again,--to ride down the Franks in fair onset, with sheer weight of numbers. Long and fierce the struggle; every Christian chief proved a paladin. Generalship there was not; every baron and his knights fought his own little battle with the hordesmen confronting. Then in the end the surviving Seljouks were driven from the field like smoke; the heads of their fallen comrades slung into Nicæa by the engines, forewarning of what awaited the garrison. There were masses for the Christian dead, the first martyrs; _Te Deums_ for the victory. Richard Longsword, men cried, had slain as many infidels as Duke Godfrey's self. When he stood in his bloody hauberk before Mary that night, she cast her arms about him and kissed him, saying: "O sweet lord, how beautiful you must be in battle! How God must rejoice in your holy service!" "Dear life," answered Longsword, pressing her to his mailed breast, "it is when I think of the pure saint on earth who is praying for me that my arm grows strong." "Then it must be very strong, Richard," said she, with half a laugh, half a sob, "for I love you more than words may tell; and my prayers are many and all for you." So they were glad that evening,--at least all who had not lost a friend. But when Mary had gone to rest, Herbert talked gravely with Richard. "Little lord," said he, affectionately, "put no trust in this Hossein. The saints are on his tongue, yet he stumbled when Sebastian tried to make him say the Creed, even in his own Arabic; and Theroulde swears that to-night when he thought none watched, he knelt toward Mecca in Moslem fashion, as if to pray, and muttered the incantations of their Al-Koran." Richard laughed. "Theroulde smells danger at all times; and Sebastian thinks, to speak Arabic is to squint toward perdition. Hossein has revealed a secret which has given the infidels the mightiest stroke that was theirs since Charlemagne marched to Spain. And yet you accuse him of being one of them? Have shame for your suspicions on a persecuted fellow-Christian! Treat him as a brother, and pray that your own souls be in no greater peril than his." "Nevertheless--" began Herbert. "I hear no more," replied his master, abruptly; "I must go to rest. A cursed story told by Count Renard's _jongleur_ runs in my head;--how Robert the Norman and his father, King William, once fought hand to hand, helmets closed, and Robert nigh killed his father ere they knew one another. St. Michael, what if Musa and I should meet thus! But I must sleep." Herbert grumbled long to himself, and Theroulde and he renewed their vow never to leave Hossein a moment alone to work his own devices. CHAPTER XXV HOW DUKE GODFREY SAVED THE DAY The host lay before Nicæa many a weary day before the starved and despairing garrison declared for Emperor Alexius and the Franks saw the Greek standards floating from the battlements. Loud was the rage against this trick that robbed them of the plunder of so fair a city. "Back to Constantinople!" howled the men-at-arms and petty nobles. "The Greeks are schismatics and scarce better than Moslem!" But the judicious presents of Alexius silenced the cries of the chiefs, and they in turn controlled their people, though from that hour little love was wasted on the Emperor. On the twenty-fifth day of June the Army of the Cross struck its tents about Nicæa, and set out for the march across Phrygia, through the heart of the dominions of Kilidge Arslan. Soon after starting the host divided; for water and forage would be none too plentiful, the guides said, in the plains and mountains before, and to keep together might mean ruin. So Duke Godfrey led away the larger half of the army with Raymond, Adhemar, and Hugh the Great; while the second corps followed Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of Normandy. Being himself Norman, Longsword went with this last division, although he would gladly have kept company with the Duke of Bouillon. He was ill pleased to see with how little order each host marched, and how scant was the effort to keep close enough each to the other for help in case of need. Still, for a day or two, all went well. They passed through a pleasant rolling country, with abundant grass and water. All the villages, to be sure, had been burned by the Turks, and scarce a peasant met them. But around them like an invisible net the Sultan's light-horsemen hovered, and now and then the long line of baggage mules and plodding infantry would be attacked, a few beasts hamstrung, a few footmen wounded, before the knights could charge out and chase the Seljouks over the hills. On the third day, however, the attacks grew more violent. Longsword had been sent back by Bohemond to cover the trailing rear-guard, where were the staggering sick, the defenceless _jongleurs_, and the women in heavy carriages. As the afternoon advanced, he sent a message to the Count of Chartres that unless he had speedy succor his St. Julien men could not hold back the thickening squadrons; and quick as the reënforcements came, there was a sturdy _mêlée_--lance to lance, sword to cimeter--before the Turks broke. When at last they were flying, Richard pushed the sure-footed Rollo up a hill where any horse saving he would have stumbled; and behold, from the hilltop Longsword could see a score of heavy dust clouds rising, north, south, east, west,--cavalry galloping. When he rode down he met Tancred himself. "Fair lord," was his report, "the infidels surely plan to attack us in force to-morrow. If my eyes are good, there are thousands of Turkish horse around us. Kilidge Arslan must have called round him all his easternmost hordes, and intends battle. I advise that before nightfall a strong escort be sent to Duke Godfrey, bidding him hasten to our relief." "By the Mass!" swore Tancred, his knightly honor touched. "Of all men, you, De St. Julien, should be the last to cry 'Rescue!' We are well able to scatter Kilidge Arslan's thousands, and Godfrey shall rob us of no glory." So Richard held his peace, though for some strange reason his heart was not as gay as it should have been when about to engage in glorious battle with the infidel. He accompanied the rear as it toiled into the encampment, already plotted by the van. Longsword saw with anxiety that, though the camp was protected in the rear by a reedy marsh, and on one side by a shallow stream, no palisades were being raised, nor any other defences. The weary men set their tents as they might, lighted fires, feasted, and were asleep, heavy with the toilsome march. Mary Kurkuas stood at the tent door as was her wont, and greeted her husband. "You ran more than your share of peril to-day. The fighting was hard. Ah! I was frightened." "_Ai!_" cried Richard, taking off his heavy helm, "if I never come nearer death than to-day, like a stork I shall live to be a thousand. But there is a bandage on your wrist--what? blood?" and his face grew troubled. "Yes," answered Mary, smiling now, and holding up the wrist. "While you were so valiantly guarding the rear, a squadron of Turks flew out of a defile just before us, and ere Prince Bohemond could ride up with his knights, had charged very close, shooting arrows." "Mother of Mercies, you were in danger! But were you frightened?" "Not till it was all past. For Hossein sprang in front of me, at his own peril, and covered me with his target, catching three shafts upon it otherwise meant for me. Then the Prince flew up with his band and chased the Turks away; and I found that my wrist was bleeding where a barb had scratched." "Ha, Herbert!" cried his master, "will not my lady make a noble cavalier? She wins honorable wounds; she shall have lance and hauberk, and ride beside me. As for Hossein, what do you say? Be he Moslem or Christian, he has shielded your mistress at risk of life." The man-at-arms scratched the thin hairs on his crown. "True; perchance I have wronged him. Yet yesterday we could not persuade him to taste a bit of pork, and he has that cast of eye which 'wise women' call malignant." "You are all suspicions and jealousy," declared Mary, pouting. "Did I let you, I believe you would clap Hossein in fetters." "I would I saw them on his wrists!" muttered the veteran, as he went away to his supper. But Richard and Mary sat a long time before their tent, sipping the spiced wine of Lesbos they had brought from Constantinople, and watching the stars peep out one by one from the deepening sky. The camp buzzed all about, yet dimly, as if each man was in love with quiet. It was very warm, and the soft wind bore the scent of drying wild-flowers and parching heather, as it crept down from the sun-loved uplands. It was a sweet and peaceful hour, one which stayed as a pure and holy vision in both their minds for many a long, sad day. "Sweetheart," said Richard, when they grew tired of counting the budding stars, "though Prince Tancred and the rest will not hear it, there will be a mighty battle to-morrow. I have seen Kilidge Arslan's hosts all around us. We shall fight in the morning as never at Nicæa." "Ah! Richard," answered Mary, still in laughing mood, "you must let me ride with you. See!"--and she caught the dagger from his belt--"can I not strike as manfully as any dapper little squire, and make the infidels flee before me, as ever did your Frank hero, great Roland?" "Verily," cried her husband, his eyes on her face, "I think if the Moslems saw you coming, they would drop every man his sword,--your darts would pierce them." "My darts?" asked she. "Yes, truly,--these," and he laid his fingers on her eyes. "No," was the answer, and she shook him off. "Listen: my eyes are my sorrow,--first, because they captured the Baron de St. Julien, who deserves no such bondage;" then, more gravely, "next, because they nigh undid Louis de Valmont; and last--O Richard! still I have mighty fear of Iftikhar Eddauleh; he is seeking your life, and God knows whether his unholy passion for me is still in his heart! Swear, swear to me, Richard, that rather with your own hands you will take my life than suffer me to fall into _that_ man's power. He is Moslem, but on that account I do not hate him; yet death were better than to be his bride!" Richard was accustomed to these changing flashes of gay and grave; but he knew there was no common ring of entreaty in Mary's last words, and he answered very soberly:-- "Heart of my heart, I am here in all my strength, with Trenchefer at my side, and around are thousands of good Christian knights. When they are all slain, and I also, then you may fear Iftikhar Eddauleh. Till then, think of likelier things to dread." Mary was silent, watching the stars for a moment, then replied:-- "You say well, Richard, you are very strong. I am proud of you. Yet I have a strange fear that all your strength cannot shield me from Iftikhar. But no more of my folly,--perchance I am moonstruck. Let me go to the tent, to say one prayer to the Holy Mother to keep you safe to-morrow, and then to sleep, to dream how happy we shall be when we go back to France." So he kissed her; and when the flaps of the tent had closed behind her and her maids, he called Hossein. "Good fellow, to-morrow we expect battle. To-day you have been a gallant guard of the princess. Remain by her to-morrow; defend her with your life. As I live, if you do your duty, reward shall not fail." "Cid," answered the Arab, kissing the Baron's feet, "I hear and obey. I swear, on my head, no unfriendly hand shall touch your very noble wife." As Richard looked about, he saw Theroulde standing in the firelight. "And you, too, Sir Minstrel," said he, "shall stand guard with Hossein over your lady." As he spoke, he thought he heard a low curse, "Eblees confound him!" burst from under Hossein's breath. "Ha! What said you, Arab?" asked Longsword. "I was but sighing as I thought of my many sins, Cid," answered the fellow, very dutifully. Richard did not reply, but repeated to himself ere he fell asleep: "It is as well Theroulde will be with Mary. Despite everything, I mislike this Hossein, for some reason." * * * * * Richard slept heavily, and was awakened by a hand on the shoulder. It was the St. Julien knight, De Carnac, who commanded the watch of his baron's command. "Up, fair lord!" the warrior was urging, "the Seljouks are closing round. Our sentinels are being driven in. I am bidden summon you to council with the Prince of Tarentum." And with this Richard staggered to his feet and stared around. It was very dark in the tent as he put on hauberk and helmet. Without there was hum of many voices, distant shouting, baggage cattle chafing and clinking their chains, and presently a clear French war-cry, doubly piercing in the night, "_Montjoye Saint Denis!_" A moment later a trumpet blared out, then another and another. Richard stepped from the tent; the sky was graying in the east; encampment--men, horses, all--were vague black shadows just visible. He was buckling fast Trenchefer when the flaps of the next tent parted, and forth came a figure--his wife. In the dim twilight he could only see the whiteness of her bare throat and the soft, unbound hair, waving on forehead and shoulders. She came to him, and embraced him without a word. Then at last she said, "Now, dear life, you must ride out and fight God's battle, and if I cannot gallop at your side, you shall know that my heart and my prayers ride with you; and you must be very brave and very strong, and I will wait here and be brave also." "Ah! beautiful," answered he, before he swung into the saddle of the waiting Rollo, "God will have pity on me for your dear sake. You know no words can tell you all I feel." "Our Lord be with you!" and with that word upon her lips she kissed him; and he mounted, took lance, and rode away, with all the St. Julien men saving a few grooms, also Theroulde and Hossein, who were to remain by the tents. With the breath of the last kiss on his lips, and his head held very high, Richard Longsword led his troop out of the gray maze of the encampment. Battle was before him--a great battle against countless infidels, such as he and his peers had often made merry to think of; yet Longsword felt no joy that morning. Fear for himself he had none; the battle might sweep over him, the war-horns blow his funeral mass--what matter? Yet in a way his heart was sad. It would have been better had Mary remained at La Haye; better were he to fight for himself and the cause of Christ alone. But he knew not why he should grieve. That the Seljouks should so prevail over the soldiers of the Cross as to menace the encampment, scarce entered his head. Only he had been happier, could he have recalled his command to Hossein, taken the Arab in his troops, left another to guard the lady. But the fellow had twice proved his devotion. Why mistrust? And all such thoughts sped from his mind when he saw, dimly ahead, armed cavaliers sitting on their tall _destrers_, and Prince Bohemond's voice called:-- "Who rides? De St. Julien?" "The same, my lord prince; what news?" "Praise St. Michael, you are here! We need all our wits. The infidels are closing round, and dark as it is we can hear the hoof-beats of tens of thousands. We must prepare for battle with the dawn." "And have you taken my advice, my Lord Tancred," asked Richard, "and sent messengers to the Duke?" "Two knights and ten men-at-arms have ridden an hour since," replied Tancred, for he was among the horsemen. "Yet I would vow Our Lady two gold candlesticks, were I sure they could get through the hordes. You may mock me, De St. Julien, if you will, for not heeding your warning last evening." "Mockery is of little profit this morning, my lord," said Richard, soberly; "how may I serve you?" But at this moment came another cavalier, in armor that gleamed in the wan light, and behind him a great train. "Hail, fair Duke Robert!" cried Bohemond; "what news do your outposts bring you?" The son of William the Conqueror swore a deep Norman oath, and replied: "In my quarter arrows pelt like hailstones; all the fiends are broke loose. They only wait the light to strike us. God grant we are all well shriven, for we may sleep with the saints ere another morning!" "Fair lords," said Tancred, "we must go to our posts and array the battle. De St. Julien, bid the varlets and footmen place the baggage wagons round the camp, to make what barricade they may. After that, put your men at my right, for by the Virgin, we shall see stout fighting!" So the council broke up, there being nothing to advise save to fight heartily. Richard sent the heralds through the camp and, with cry and trumpet, roused the sleeping host, though the alarms of the night already had waked many. A great confusion there was: a thousand voices shouting at once, women wailing, war-horns blaring, wheels creaking, all trebly loud in the murk of the breaking day. Long before the wagon barrier, also, was as it should be, a great cry began to swell: "The foe! the foe!" and the infantry commenced to bang their shields and clatter their pike-staffs, for discipline was none the best. Richard rode away with his hundred St. Julien troopers,--men that he could trust to the last pinch,--and drew them up beside the personal command of Prince Tancred. Prince Bohemond and the Norman Duke had arrayed their mailed cavalry in a solid rank, the line stretching far down the plain, every man in complete armor, with a good horse between his knees. As the light strengthened, Richard could see the long files of lances, ten thousand bright pennons whipping the wind, and the new sun shone on as many burnished casques and flashing targets--noble sight; yet not so strange as that which he beheld when he looked northward just east of the little town called Dorylæum. The hills, so far as eye could reach, were covered with an innumerable host, thousands on thousands, and all on horseback. He could see the gay red and green turbans, the bright scarfs and mantles, pennons, banners--past counting; and even as the sun lifted above the hills, and sent its weird red light over the valley, a mighty roar of tambour, kettledrum, and cymbal came rolling from the foe, and a shout from myriad throats, wild, beastlike, shrill as the winter wind. With the shout, as if at magician's wand, all the hills seemed moving; and the Seljouk hordes charged straight upon the Christian lines. It was a wondrous spectacle; far as the eye might pierce, only horsemen, and more horsemen, speeding at headlong gallop. "Christ pity us!" more than one bronze-faced cavalier muttered in his beard. And some cried, "Charge!" But Tancred held them steady. The hordes swept on as one man, nearer, so near that the dust-cloud blew in the Christians' faces; and all braced themselves for the shock. But just as the crash was about to tremble on the air, lo! the foremost Turks had wheeled like lightning, and arrows flew out that darkened the sky by their number. And as the first horde rolled off to one flank, still shooting, the next, the next, and yet another whirled past, pouring forth their volleys. "Stand fast, Christians!" was Tancred's shout, as the first shafts dashed harmlessly on the good mail; and for a moment the Franks sat, their steeds immovable, and let the blast of steel beat on them. Yet only for a moment; though but one arrow in a hundred struck home, here and there men were bleeding, wounded horses plunging. Each instant Crusaders were falling; should they sit forever and be shot to death? Duke Robert was the first to charge. "_Dex aiè!_" cried his Norman knights, and lance in rest they spurred straight in the face of the wheeling myriads. Vain courage! A few Seljouks they struck and rode over in a twinkling; but the vast horde parted before them like water, and rained in arrows and ever more arrows from safe distance. The Duke regained his lines, but one-fourth of his men had been stricken, and the terrible horse-archers were shooting a more deadly shower than ever. "The foot! the crossbowmen!" was the cry of the raging knights. And their archers and arbalisters, coming to the front, tried to return the fire as best they could. Many a Seljouk rode no more after their volley, but their shafts were as a bucket on a holocaust. Horsemen, and yet more horsemen, were rolling in. More and more rapid the arrow fire, the sky was dark with flying dust, the ear deafened with the thunders of hoofs uncounted, the clash of the kettledrums, the yell and howl of the Seljouks. Flesh and blood could stand the strain no more. Either the Turks must be routed, or the Franks would perish to a man. "Charge! Charge!" this time the cry went down the line on every lip. Two arrows had grazed Rollo, despite his leathern armor. Thrice had Richard felt the sting on his ribs, where the mail had turned the shaft. Only one desire had he now,--to ride through or over his tormenters. "God wills it! Normandy! Normandy!" came from Duke Robert's cavaliers. "_Montjoye Saint Denis!_" rang from the Count of Chartres. "_Biez!_" thundered the Auvergners; and the whole steel-mailed line swept upon the Seljouks, like an avalanche. And now a crash! They smote the Turks with might irresistible; the _destrers_ trampled down the frail Tartar horses by thousands. What guard were light targets and cotton turbans to the swords of the men of France? For a moment, when Richard reined in Rollo, he believed the foe annihilated. "God wills it!" myriad voices were calling. Yet even as the dust hung in the air, the arrows began to beat down again. Like flies the Turks had scattered; like flies they returned, new hordes making good all loss. And now the Christians were in deadly peril, for their ranks were all broken into little handfuls, and the Seljouks swarmed round each, trying to trample it down by weight of numbers. Richard led his men back from the charge. Trenchefer was very red. How many Turks opposed the St. Julieners he could not tell, but by the grace of the saints the line was re-formed at last. Prince Bohemond, crafty of heart, but a very lion in battle, flew down the line to steady it. "We have slain a thousand infidels!" the Count of Chartres was crying. "One more charge and we have victory!" "One more such victory and we are crowned martyrs!" Prince Tancred made answer. "Robert of Paris is slain, and William, my brother, and a hundred good knights more; and we are being shot down like sparrows." Another onrush of the Seljouks, this time nearer. Richard felt the moments creeping by with leaden feet. The possibility of a disaster beyond thought stared him in the face. It was one thing to go to death in a fair fight with the sword hot in one's hand--another to sit passive and feel destruction beating down. Yet he was thinking, not of himself, but of another. Prince Tancred, burning to avenge his brother's loss, charged out with his own troop. The Seljouks closed around him like the sea. Bohemond flew to aid, and rescued his nephew. Richard saw Tancred riding back within the lines bareheaded and bloody, his lance broken. "Christ keep our souls, the Seljouks have our bodies," murmured the Breton Count Rothold, "I will not die here!" and he also charged out with his shrill native war-cry, "_Malo! Malo!_" In a twinkling the hordes rolled round him; Richard and the St. Julieners saved him. But now Robert, the Norman, spurred up to Longsword. The Duke's casque was beaten and gory, his long white pennon red-dyed, his horse wounded. "De St. Julien, we are lost unless Godfrey and the rest rescue. The first messengers are surely slain. Are your troop still left, and your horses unwounded?" The noise of the Turks made his voice nigh inaudible, but Richard bowed his head. "Then for the love of Our Saviour, ride, and bring succor. On you hang all our lives!" "Men of St. Julien," cried Richard, "will you follow me?" "Through ten thousand devils!" roared back De Carnac and the rest. Richard clapped spurs to Rollo. "Christ guard us!" was his cry; but his glance was toward the encampment. He led the Auvergners to the left of the battle, where the Seljouk horde seemed thinnest. And what followed was ever to Richard Longsword as one long wild dream whereof the memory lingered; the reality was blotted out. He knew that he charged his men against the horde, and, as ever, the Turks gave way before them--more victims to be swallowed in their quick-sands. But these Franks, having made their charge, did not turn back. The arrow fire smote them; yet on and on they spurred, still chasing back the foe. And then, when the tribesmen saw that these mad Franks would not wheel back to the encampment, from the fatal line around the Turks closed in, shield to shield, lance to lance. Richard never knew what saint gave strength to his arm that day, and made Trenchefer terrible to the unbelievers. Only after a long delirium of hewing and riding, he saw the open country before. A look backward--behold, he was upon a hill. The Turkish lines stretched away to his left; he had cleared their flank, and the battle raged in its mad carnival behind him. He looked for his men--how few! They had ridden from camp a hundred; scarce fifty were at his back. But the deed was done. They had cleared the Seljouks, and now to Duke Godfrey! "Lord, I am a very sinful man," prayed Richard, as they pushed their wounded steeds down the hill southward; "unworthy of this mercy. Surely it was through the prayers of a dear saint whose peril is still great." "Ride, men, ride!" he commanded, and gave head to Rollo, whose tough hide had turned more than one barb. The great black horse tossed out his hoofs and was away. No other St. Julien steed could pace him. He left the band behind, and Richard flew toward the long line of tents he saw nestling under a distant hill. The mighty steed ran like a beast of steel, unwearying, unslacking; hillocks he raced over, gullies he cleared with unfailing leap. The wind whistled in Longsword's hair--his helmet had gone, the saints knew whither; he felt the horse speeding too fast for thought. A few roving stragglers from the Seljouk host pricked after him, two or three arrows twittered overhead. Rollo dropped them all, their small steeds blown and weary, while on the Northern monster ran. And now he drew near the camp. Men were shouting to him, a great crowd of varlets staring. Rollo ran down the streets of tents, a thousand eyes upon the thundering black horse and his blood-stained rider. "The Duke! the Duke!" Richard was shouting, as he drew rein before the wide, silken pavilion. A score of knights and squires swarmed around. A strong hand was needed to stay Rollo. Richard sprang breathless to the ground, and stood face to face with Godfrey, just emerging from the tent. "Lord de St. Julien," cried Bouillon, "alone? Covered with blood?" But Richard cut him short. "Rescue, rescue, as you love Christ! Our host is surrounded, and nigh perishing; Robert of Paris and Prince William are slain. The Seljouk arrows are hail. Rescue, or all is lost." "By Our Lady of Antwerp!" thundered Godfrey, all action, "blow horns, sound trumpets! Horses; arm; mount!" No need of more! The word flew through the encampment swifter than light. Now the Duke's war-horns sounded, now Count Hugh's, now Count Raymond's. But Godfrey was foremost. Scarce had Richard quaffed a helmet of water, before the Duke stood before him in his silvered hauberk, and the fifty picked knights of his bodyguard were in saddle. "Give me a horse!" cried Richard. "A horse, my lord duke! for mine has ridden hard, and is wounded." "By the splendor of God," cried Godfrey, "you will have your fill of fighting! Bring the best spare _destrer_ and a new helm!" So Richard was again on horseback; and if he was wounded and weary, he did not know it till later on that fateful day. Rollo he left in safe hands, and followed the Duke. "To the east, my lord. Their flank is unguarded," he urged. "You may have them all." And Godfrey rode madly ahead with his bodyguard. After him streamed the Christian heavy cavalry, they too thousands upon thousands--the finest squadrons ever arrayed in sinful war. Then again for Richard the mad delight of the ride! But this time with countless comrades about him; and as the host swept up over the eastern hills, the sun hung in mid-heaven, and made the arms and shields one tossing sea of light. Before and below lay the Seljouk horde and the thin lines of the Christians--very close now; for Kilidge Arslan was pressing in to pluck his prey. But at the sight one mighty cry rolled from fifty thousand throats, "God wills it!" For God had delivered the infidels into Duke Godfrey's hands. CHAPTER XXVI HOW RICHARD WAS AGAIN CHASTENED Forward the great host swept. And if the sight of the onrushing Turks had borne terror to the Christians that morning, what terror must have sped among the hordesmen that noon. For the whole army of Kilidge Arslan was caught in a fatal triangle,--the hills where no cavalry might wheel, the lines of Bohemond and Tancred, and the squadrons of Godfrey. "God wills it!" again the cry; and every knight in the onrushing squadrons was holding his lance steady--no sitting in rank now and feeling the beat, beat of the arrows. The Seljouks might not scatter, if they would. A howl of mortal fear was rising from the unbelievers. The tale later spread that they saw two Christian knights in armor fiery-bright, who rode before the advancing squadrons, whose mail was unpierced by the stoutest lance-thrust, who slew with lightnings flashed from their flaming swords. The cry grew louder and louder. The Christians knew the Turks were calling on Allah and their Prophet to save them,--vain hope! for all the host of Michael and his angels were fighting for the Cross that day. As he swept on, Richard saw the hordesmen dash their thousands upon Bohemond's thin line,--no arrows now, but striving to crush by mere weight of numbers. He saw the wearied Normans and Bretons spur out to the charge. And then indeed there was fair battle,--the Christian host nigh swallowed in the infidel myriads; but still over all tossed Tancred's white silk banner blazoned with its blood-red cross; and above the howl of the Seljouks rang the cry which the unbelievers that day so learned to dread:-- "God wills it!" At this moment Godfrey and Raymond, with their fifty thousand mailed cavalry, struck the Turkish hordes, and swept them toward the hills like dust that scurries before the west wind. "God wills it!" The Seljouks were riding for life, the Christian knights trampling them down with their huge _destrers_; and sword and battle-axe reaping their bloody harvest. "God wills it!" Richard heard the horns of the Sultan's picked guard sounding the retreat; and the last resistance melted away as the Seljouks fled to a man toward the hills. As Godfrey and his thousands came on, Bohemond, Tancred, and Robert of Normandy charged forth with their wearied knights--not wearied now--catching the hordesmen on flank and rear, trampling, slaying, pursuing. And when the rescued cavaliers saw Longsword flying at Bouillon's side, another great shout went down the line, "Richard Longsword! Richard de St. Julien!" Then the Norman held his head very proudly, for he thought, "What joy will this be to Mary!" "On! on!" urged Duke Godfrey, never drawing rein, while the rout and chase swept forward. "To the hills after them! Let none escape! God and Our Lady are with us!" "_Dex aiè_," thundered the rescued Normans, and the whole host flew faster. Swift were the Seljouk horses; but the shivered hordes, crowding together in the narrow valley, were mown as grass before the Christian onset. Up among the rocks the pursuit was driven; steeds fell, their riders trampled down instantly. The Seljouks gained the crags where lay their camp, dismounted, stood at bay. But the Franks had dismounted also, and spread around the hills a forest of lances. On the front attacked Raymond; on the flanks Robert of Flanders, Duke Robert, Godfrey, Hugh, and Tancred; while brave Bishop Adhemar led the attack from the rear. Then came the final stand. The Turks fought as beasts at bay. But the Christians were raging lions; they stormed the camp, broke the spear wall, scattered the bodyguard of Kilidge Arslan himself. The Seljouks, like frighted partridges, scampered over rocks and craggy peaks, where their heavy-armed foe might not follow. So some escaped, but a score of thousands then and there perished; for quarter none asked or gave. Foremost in the press had been Richard. He long since had cast away his shattered shield; but the hauberk of Valencia was bulwark against a dozen deaths. Every time his good arm brought low an infidel he was glad; was he not performing to God a holy service? When the Seljouks broke once more after the storming of the camp, Longsword regained his horse to chase down those who hazarded flight in the plain country. The sun was hanging low in the heavens now. Old knights were praying Charlemagne's prayer at Roncesvalles--that the day might lengthen while they hunted the Moslem. Richard rode with Gaston of Béarn, who had been not the least valiant of the many brave that day; and as he rode, again and again he came across fugitives, not in the fantastic colors of the Seljouk, but in a dress all white with red girdles and sandals. Often as they came on such, the pursued would turn and charge Gaston's whole troop with a mad fury that Frankish valor could scarce master. Presently, just as the shadows began to spread on the hills, Longsword saw before him a band of horsemen, clothed in white, in their midst the figure of a mighty warrior in gilded mail, upon a tall bay charger, and across that rider's saddle it seemed a prisoner in pale dress with fluttering red ribbons,--to Richard's mind, a woman. "After! After! A prisoner!" cried Gaston, putting his horse at a last burst of speed,--a good steed, but he had been ridden hard; and the fugitives still drew ahead. Richard clapped spurs to his mount; the beast, one of the best of Duke Godfrey, shot past Gaston, and the distance betwixt Richard and the strange rider lessened. Richard could see now that the captive was indeed a woman, that she was struggling in the arms of her captor. Once he thought he caught her cry, despite the yells of the flying Moslems, who were invoking all the jinns to give them speed. He rode past the rearmost fugitive, who turned for fight, saw before him a brown-faced Arab, saw the cimeter dancing in his face; felt the steel edge glance on his helmet--a great rush of blood nigh blinding; a stroke of Trenchefer cleaving something--the Arab was gone. Richard dashed away the blood with his fist, pressed the spurs harder. The prisoner leaned out and shook forth her ribbons--Mother of Mercies! how like the ribbons of Mary! And had he never seen that splendid rider before? Again he spurred, and slapped his steed with the flat of his sword. Faster and faster; the blood once more blinded; once he brushed it away; long since his lance had been shattered in pieces, but Trenchefer was brazed to his arm. A last burst of speed; he could see the Arab warrior struggling with his arms about the captive; one instant more and he would breast the strange champion. But even as he pressed the spur, the good horse stumbled, plunged, was down, and Richard dashed upon the ground. An instant only. He was bruised; but he staggered to his feet, Trenchefer still in hand. "_Allah akhbar!_" rang the shout of the Arab, a voice he knew full well, yet had heard--where? Longsword dragged the kicking _destrer_ from the ground. The good horse stood, made a step--he was lamed; walking were pain. And as Richard looked, his quarry sped over a hillock, was gone; while he stood staring after, scarce knowing that from head to heels he was bruised, and that the warm blood was streaming over his face. Only the darkening landscape seemed circling round and round, and his ears were ringing, yet not with the shout of receding battle. Gaston of Béarn had ridden up with his men. "Holy St. Barbara," the viscount was crying, "you are sorely hurt, fair friend. Your horse is lamed. Ho! Peter, dismount and put my Lord de St. Julien in your saddle. We must ride for the camp. Already it is darkening." "No!" exhorted Richard, "continue the chase. Do not let those Arab fiends escape. They have a Christian prisoner, a lady, I swear by the four Gospels!" "A lady!" exclaimed Gaston. "No prisoner! doubtless she is one of their tent women, whom the riders are trying to save. How could any Christian maid fall into their hands? Fighting we have had to a fill to-day, and none more than you, fair knight." They put Richard upon the man-at-arms's horse. He was so weak now that Gaston rode at one side, and a squire at the other, to guard against a fall. As they rode back toward the encampment the stars were peeping out, and the moon had begun to climb above the hills. There was a thin gray haze spreading from the shallow river and marsh. Men talked in whispers, save as here and there they passed one lying wounded and moaning. All over the plain torches were moving about, priests and women seeking the Christian wounded, giving water to the dying, and with them camp varlets,--rabbits during the battle, but brave enough now,--plundering the fallen Turks, and slaying those who still breathed. Richard saw the great spoil of the Seljouk camp borne off in triumph: gold-threaded carpets, coin, horses,--many camels, that the marvelling victors, who had never seen such ill-shaped bulks before, thought the devil himself must have begotten. Closer to the Christian camp the Frankish dead lay thickly on the ground. Raymond of Agiles was making the sign of the cross above each. "Blessed are these!" cried he; "already St. Michael leads them before Our Father; they have white robes and palms, and raise the anthem everlasting." They rode on, and to them joined the Count of Chartres, shouting: "Praised be all angels, De St. Julien! You saved us all; the infidels were in the very camp!" "The camp!" cried Richard, starting from his seat. "Assuredly; Stephen of Blois and Bohemond strove to drive them out; there is a rumor certain women were carried captive. A scared horse-boy's tale, I trust! Holy Mother! You are wounded, my Baron! You nigh fall from the saddle!" And Gaston of Béarn and Chartres caught Longsword, as he reeled. "Unhand me, sirs!" shouted Richard, thrusting them both back roughly; "I am unhurt. I must go to the camp!" And he spurred away headlong, his bruise nowhere, one horrible thought mastering all. Yet as he reached the camp, now very dim in the twilight, a deadly sense of weakness and weariness was stealing over him. Food? Save for a mouthful of bread while he buckled on his armor, he had tasted none that direful day. Water? He had not touched a drop since leaving Duke Godfrey's camp. Wounds? He was bleeding in a dozen places. He felt the firm earth spinning. Would there never be end to the frightful pound, pound of the horse under him? His sight was dimming, ears rang; but, summoning all his will, he controlled himself. "Dear Christ," was his prayer, "do not let me faint until, until"--but he could go no farther. When, however, he passed more knights and men-at-arms bringing in the spoil, laughing and boasting over their valiant deeds, his breast grew lighter. When the infidels had been so utterly broken, what was there to fear? The rush of faintness passed, he again sat steady in the saddle. And as many as recognized him in the dusk raised the cry that swelled as the rest caught it: "Ho! De St. Julien! Hail! De St. Julien! Our Lady bless you, fair lord, you have saved us all this day!" But the shout that had been music in his ears two hours earlier he scarce heard. Prince Tancred passed him, called on him to stay; he spurred on, though the poor soldier's horse under him nigh dropped of weariness. In the camp at last. The fires were being rekindled; around each little groups, over the loot of the Turkish camps. The wounded were groaning on the dry turf, men were bringing in the dead, and here and there women wailing. Richard knew the way to his own encampment, as if by instinct. And as he rode his blood chilled yet more when he saw here and there tents down, their walls torn, pegs wrenched, poles shattered, and contents scattered around. Then it was true the Seljouks had stormed the camp! Before him he saw the little group of pavilions over which the St. Julien banner had waved that morning--the banner was gone! His horse stumbled over a body. He dismounted. The moon was rising; in the pale light he saw the face of one of his own grooms--set in death. Men were standing before the tents, some tugging at the cords as if to retighten them, some kindling a fire, some in groups, talking in low, scared whispers. In the dimness they did not see Richard, as he came up on foot. "Holy St. Maurice," one was muttering, "may I not be the first to tell the tale to my lord!" "Fellow!" thundered Richard, bursting into the little group, and clapped a hand heavy as a millstone on the man-at-arms's shoulder. "Rascal! Speak! Speak! What is this? Dumb as a mute? Why no banner? The tents in disorder? Where is--" But the words came not, for his dry tongue clove fast in his mouth. No answer. The retainer turned as pale and quaking as if the devil's self had accosted him. "Speak! speak!" raged Richard, making his victim writhe under his iron grip. Still nothing. He looked at those around; silent all. He was too fearful to be angry. "Mary! Mary de St. Julien!" cried he, finding the name at last; "if you are here,--one word,--or I am in perdition!" Still silence. He saw one of the men-at-arms crossing himself; he saw that the pavilion where he had left his wife was half overturned; he saw lying across the entrance a dead body, and the firelight showed the white dress and the red girdle and shoes. "For the love of Christ!" was his plea, "will no one speak? or must I kill you all?" In his frenzy he half drew Trenchefer. And just as all gave way, when they saw the moonlight waver on the blade still red, there was a step, and a voice--Sebastian's voice--spoke:-- "Sweet son, bow to the will of God. Listen! I have just returned to the camp with Herbert and the rest. Mary Kurkuas is not here. Theroulde will tell all." They heard a groan from Richard, that none forgot to his dying day. A javelin was lying against a tent-pole; as Theroulde stepped reluctantly out from the silent circle, the Baron sent the dart whistling past his head. "Die!--coward! traitor!" then Longsword cursed terribly when the cast missed and flew into the dark. Sebastian had him by the arm. "Gilbert de Valmont!" whispered he, never trembling when Richard raised his fist to strike. "Remember him! Add not one sin to another! Listen to Theroulde!" "Traitor!" stormed Richard, but the priest held him fast. "Why could you not die defending your mistress?" "Hearken, my Lord de St. Julien, then call me traitor and coward if you will!" cried the minstrel, brave at last. "And see if there be no worse traitors than I? Would God you had listened to the warnings of us all against that smooth-tongued Hossein,--as if Christian faith could ever lurk beneath so swart a skin." Richard had steadied himself. "Go on, my man," he said, very quietly now, yet in a tone that set all a-quaking; for they could not comprehend. They only knew a strong spirit was in agony. "Lord," said Theroulde, "if one jot of what I say be other than truth, so smite me dead, and let Satan own me forever. As we lay in the camp after you had led forth most of the fighting-men, soon we heard the rush and roar of battle, and presently some came flying, who said the cavaliers were hard pressed, and many slain. And all the time my lady sat before the tent upon the rugs we laid for her, resting her chin on her hands, and saying nothing. Yet she was not tearful nor pale, at which we marvelled, for we knew she thought that every roar and shout might betoken your fall, and her mind had only room for that. Then after the battle had raged long, and stragglers and wounded began coming in with tales that grew ever blacker, I said to Hossein, who sat by me, 'Brother, go to the edge of the camp, see if the St. Julien banner still towers high, and bring back word to my lady.' For I did not intend to quit her side, and was glad to have him gone. So he went without delay and was gone a long time, while the din of battle continually grew louder and nearer. Yet when he returned, he said, 'I went so close to the battle lines that--see! two arrows grazed me!' Then to your wife, 'Most august mistress, your lord's banner is not in sight; but fear nothing. He is not slain, they tell me, but has ridden to summon help from Duke Godfrey.' Then my lady's cheeks began to glow, and I imagine she was thinking of your return and the victory." "For Our Lord's sake, no more of what you imagine!" came from Richard. "Tell only what you _know_!" "Scarce had he returned"--went on Theroulde, his voice faltering--"when we heard a frightful clamor from the rear and flank of the camp by the river and marsh. Soon grooms and women ran by crying, 'The infidels are on us, slaying all!' And sooner than thought, we beheld the Seljouk horsemen, sword in hand, dashing among the tents, cutting down old man, priest, and woman, without quarter. Then I laid hands on a crossbow. 'Hossein,' cried I, 'if you are true Christian, die with me for our mistress!' But he only smiled, and drawing his cimeter, gave a mighty howl that rose above all other din. Ere I could look upon my lady, lo,--there were horsemen by our tents--Arabs--not Turks--in white, with red girdles; and Hossein shouted in their speech, 'This way, Cid Iftikhar; here is the Star of the Greeks!' And I saw Iftikhar Eddauleh himself upon a splendid horse, in flashing armor. Then I sped a crossbow bolt through one of his riders, cut down a second with my sword, and struck at Hossein, thinking to end his treachery. But Iftikhar swung once at me,--I knew no more. When I came to myself I found that I was under the wreck of the tent. Hours had sped; the battle had drifted away. The emir's sword had turned in his hand; the blunt edge smote me. I had a mighty blow, but will be none the worse--praise the saints! I looked for my lady--gone! All the grooms and varlets are slain, and old Sylvana the nurse. Hossein gone--and the devils ride with him! And for me, my Lord de St. Julien, if I have been coward or traitor, strike off my head. You are my judge." Richard tore from his neck his heavy gold chain. "You are a right valiant man, Theroulde, and no boaster. I believe your tale," said he, throwing him the gold links; "and now a horse--a fresh horse!" Sebastian still held him. "Madness!" cried the priest; "it is dark; you have been up since before dawn! For what is this horse?" "To ride after Iftikhar Eddauleh," came from between Richard's teeth; "and if I find him not--to slay as many of his cursed race as I may; and then to curse God and die!" While he spoke the moonbeams rested full on his face, and all beholding saw that it had aged in one hour; the lines wrought on it by the death of Gilbert were still there--and more. Had his hair shone white, none would have been amazed. "Christ pity him!" muttered old Herbert, the most fervent prayer of the veteran for many a wicked day. But Sebastian would not let Richard go. "As you fear God," commanded the priest, "be quiet; do not fling your life away!" "I fear God no longer," was Richard's cry. "I only hate Him!" Sebastian led him into the tent, with a touch soft and tender as a woman's. "Dear lad," he said gently, "God will not be angry unduly with you for what you have just said, though its sin is very great. You think, 'How can this thing be and God be still good?' Remember the words of holy Anselm of Canterbury, 'I ask not to understand that I may believe; but I believe that I may learn to understand.'" "Father," said Richard, with a terrible calmness in his voice, "if for my own sins I had been doomed to some great woe, I could say '_mea culpa_,--merciful chastisement'; but since the chief suffering will be that of as pure a saint as ever breathed this air, I cannot endure without a groan. I only know that the hand of God is exceeding heavy upon me, and my burden is more than I can bear." Then, to the infinite relief of Sebastian and the rest, he let them take off his blood-soaked armor and shirt, and stanch the wounds, which were none very deep, but so many that he was weak from loss of blood. Presently Herbert came in and reported: "Little lord, our men took thirty Turks prisoners when the camp was stormed; shall we keep them to put to ransom?" Richard was not too feeble to leap from the rugs. "Kill! kill!" he foamed out; "if Satan wait long for their souls, let him have mine too!" Herbert smiled grimly and went out of the tent. "_Ai_," cried Longsword to Sebastian, when the priest forced him to lie down once more, "I do well to be cruel,--for there is no sweet angel now to teach me mercy. God reward me double beyond present griefs, if I slay not my share of the infidels! Therefore let me grow pitiless and terrible." "You should hate and slay the Lord's enemies, dear son," said Sebastian, crossing himself; "yet beware lest you fight for your own revenge, and not for the glory of God." "Enough if I slay them!" was the answer. Then Richard took food and drink, and toward morning slept. So ended the day of Dorylæum, the battle where, as the pious chronicler puts it, "by the aid of St. James and St. Maurice the Christians had a great deliverance from their enemies, and twenty-three thousand infidels were sped to perdition; such being the singular favor of God." CHAPTER XXVII HOW THE ARMY CAME TO ANTIOCH To the surprise and joy of Sebastian and Herbert, Richard recovered from his wounds with miraculous rapidity. When the host marched again, many a voice cheered him. But those who loved him best saw the stony hardness of his face, beyond anything that came after the great stroke at St. Julien. No ragings and thunders now, but a calm and fearful laugh that made men shiver. He led a band of picked knights after the Seljouks, no more reckless cavalier in all the host than he. The Turks had been utterly routed. Two days' marches from the battle Richard found horses ridden dead by their panic-struck masters. Of all the prisoners taken Longsword had only one question, "Whither fled Iftikhar and his band?" But no prisoner could tell--they were only ignorant hordesmen. So Richard rode on, and only God knew what passed in his heart. The army, now in one huge column, commenced the march across Phrygia, which journey, of all the unforgetable scenes of that Crusade, those who survived it were least likely to forget. Richard remembered the tales told by old Manuel Kurkuas, and laid in what provision he could for his men. Those of his friends who heeded him did likewise. But the multitude--noble and villain, creatures of a day--scarce stuffed their wallets, and went forward, little dreaming of the things in store. For the march was one long horror. Kilidge Arslan had ridden ahead with a band that still remained by him. If he could not stamp out the Christians with his hordes, at least he could make famine and thirst fight against them. He burned harvests; he devastated cities; the wretched inhabitants he hurried into exile,--with Phrygia, Pisidia, Cappadocia, to the gates in Mount Taurus, one desert for the bears and the wolves to hunger in. As the Crusaders advanced, they saw only fields seared and black, roofless houses, with swallows flitting above them; and forth from the caves in the hills crept gaunt, starved wretches, praying for a bit of bread in the name of Our Lord or Allah. The host climbed on the first day the crest of the "Black Mountains," fit presage for the blacker things before; so far as eye could stretch there was utter desolation. And on the next they entered the terrible valley called Malabyumas, and were there many days, hemmed in by precipices and beetling crags, while the great snake of the column dragged its slow length along. At first, while there was yet water on the hillsides and food in the wallets, the host toiled on with only the pitiless summer sun for foe; then, as the little streamlets grew rarer, the dry, dark crags pressed closer, and the food was failing, the misery began. Misery past imagining! for if it is terrible for one mortal to suffer and go out in agony, what is it when hundreds of thousands suffer? when horses and mules are falling like flies by the roadway; when men and women trudge onward like dogs, with their tongues hanging from their mouths; when the sun hangs, from morn till evening, a flaring, coppery ball, bright and merciless, drying up all the sap of life; while against the blue ether show the countless flocks of crows, that whir and caw as they pounce upon the dying ere the breath has sped or the living marched away? The very hugeness of the host hindered its hasting through this land of torment. One Sunday five hundred persons fell down and perished with thirst, and those who toiled on called them happy; for in heaven one never dreams of cool fields and sweet, cold water, yet all the time is burned within by fire unquenchable. When a tiny stream was reached--what was it among so many? Women fell dying, with their babes sucking at their breasts; and the host pressed on, for help there was none from man! The horses, poor brutes, died by scores; knights wept when they saw their _destrers_--often better loved than brothers--sink down; saw their dear falcons and hunting dogs perish. Yet who could think of beasts, where men were staggering with open mouths, gasping for each breath of wind to lighten their burning torments? Still the host pressed on, though, far back as eye might scan, the carcasses and the crows marked out the line of marching. On and on! and in the midst of the torment there were strange hours of ecstasy, of rapture over visions passing human ken. Men raved of angels and a heavenly city, and streets of gold and living fountains; and the last word of the dying was "Jerusalem!" while the shout that went down the parching host when the sun beat fiercest and all the watercourses were dust, was, "God wills it! Jerusalem!" So the march kept on; and though thousands fell, none turned back, nor would have, had the backward track been of less peril than that before. Richard bore the privations with a steadiness which made good the opinion of his followers that his frame was built of iron--not of flesh and blood. Yet his heart was cut, as never in this way before, to see his men dying before his face, and he unable to aid. Many a poor Auvergner called to his lord, and bade him tell some mother or wife or sweetheart in far St. Julien that he had struggled hard to gain the Holy City, but God had willed otherwise; and the seigneur would bear witness that he had been a faithful vassal and true Christian. Rollo, great steed, endured the thirst with a quiet fortitude that let him survive when half the cavaliers of the army were bestriding mules and oxen. Sebastian, too, bore up, shrewdly remarking, as was his way, that his life of fast and abstinence had advantages in this world as well as in the world to come. Herbert, too, seemed unconquerable; but what with the losses at Dorylæum and the thirst, Richard saw his company thinned in a way to make his heart sick, even had this been all. Finally, one day, when the last watercourse was dried up and death stared all in the face, certain knights saw their dogs slinking into camp, and behold, sand on their coats and mud on paws! Keen eyes tracked them; and, hid behind the bleak mountains, the searchers found a river, broad, still, stately, sweeping through its narrow gorge. Hither rushed all the host, soldier and beast. Had the Seljouks been by then, they could have slain their foes to a man, for the Christians forgot all save water--water!--sweeter, more precious, than spiced wine. They drank till from very surfeit they fell down stricken; and three hundred died, slain by the element of life. This was the end of the great horror. They found new streams; the parching valleys began to sprinkle with green; they saw once more fields and trees and vineyards. "I, the Lord, will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of valleys; I will make the wilderness a pool of water and the dry land springs of water;" so repeated good Bishop Adhemar, the father of the army; and all who heard cried "Amen." And the cry was again, "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" not despairing now, but rejoicing, confident; for after so great a trial to their faith, need the Most High prove them more? Then the march quickened, the _jongleurs_ played merrily, there were jests and tales around the camp-fires; and they began to hope for one more passage-at-arms with the infidel before taking the Holy City--as if Heaven had not saved them once already! Yet there was a tone of sadness in the host, for the line was much shorter now. Where was he who had left no friend on those burning sands or at Dorylæum? Troopers were trudging on foot; extra arms and baggage had been thrown to the wolves long ago; not a man in the army that had not grown a dusty beard. Once when Richard polished his shield so that it shone as a mirror, he saw his face upon it. He scarce knew himself, what with the stiff beard and the fresh scars of the battle, and those lines drawn above the eyes. "_Héh_," cried he, forcing a jest to Theroulde, who sat by the tent mending a crossbow, "how would the fair ladies at Palermo who danced with me after the tourney regard me now?" Theroulde tugged at the hairs on his own chin. "If we see no razor ere long, fair lord, we may swear by our beards as did Charlemagne, were they but whiter, and, as the song has it, of two hundred years' growth." "Verily," answered Richard, making shift to keep a merry face, "I think I have lived two hundred years in the past month; and if troubles make white hairs, the saints know I am like to become most venerable." Theroulde said no more, and Richard, looking into the shield, thought in his heart, "Were Mary to see me now, would she still love me?" But the answer came, "Though your face were changed black as an Ethiopian's, yet she would love you!" Then the further thought, at which Richard's soul grew black as night: "Should he never--never in this world--set eyes on Mary again? Why had God dealt with him thus? Why should she suffer for his sin,--even if it had not been purged at Clermont?" Each day Richard's face grew more terrible; men feared him and praised his holy zeal against the infidels. Thus the host came to the pleasant city of Antiochetta. Time would fail to tell of all their later troubles: how Tancred and Baldwin, brother of Godfrey, took Tarsus and quarrelled over its mastery; how Baldwin seized Edessa and founded there a principality; how the great army trudged its weary way across Lycaonia and mounted the rugged steeps of the "Mountain of the Devil." Many a stout man-at-arms died by the way, of sheer weariness; but the host pressed on. "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" was still the cry, and the ranks closed up. Then leaving Marash and descending Taurus, they met new foes: no more Turks, but bronzed Arabs on roe-limbed steeds, men armed with cimeters of Damascus, and bright with the silks and cottons of Ispahan and Bussorah. Richard was a busy scout-master now, for he and the few other Christians who came from Sicily alone could speak the Arabic, and need not trust to uncertain interpreters. So he rode before the host with his forty knights, no spirit madder than he,--a very St. George when he fell upon the Moslems. When they were close to Artesia on their way to invest Antioch, several Arab riders fell into Richard's hands, and he put to them the inevitable question:-- "Dogs,--can you tell me if Iftikhar Eddauleh, one time emir in Sicily, is in Syria, and where did he part company with Kilidge Arslan?" And the men answered, all trembling:-- "Mercy, O Cid! Your slaves only know that the Emir Iftikhar is great among the Ismaelians. Report has it that he has now gone to Alamont to see his lord Hassan-Sabah." "And you know nothing--nothing--" words spoken with awful intensity--"of a certain Christian lady, his captive?" The men saw he had gladly paid them their weight in gold, if they could have told aught; but they dared not lie. "Nothing, lord;--we are of the following of Yaghi-Sian of Antioch, and know of the Emir Iftikhar only by name." "_Fiat voluntas Tua_," muttered Richard, and he sent the prisoners to the rear to be further questioned by Duke Godfrey. But he was more reckless now in the forays and skirmishes than ever. All men said he was seeking death; and Sebastian gave him warning:-- "Son, you are a chosen warrior of Our Lord. His cause is not served by throwing your life away. Beware lest, in running into peril, you do great sin!" "Ah, father!" was the response, "what have I left save to slay as many infidels as I can and die! Yet you are right; die I must not, until I have struck down Iftikhar Eddauleh and avenged--" but he did not speak the name. The next day Richard led his men under the city of Aleppo, and scattered some of the best of the light horse of Redouan, the local emir. But the walls were high. Report had it there was plunder in the palaces without the walls; some of the knights wished to attack. "We fight for Christ, not for gold and jewels!" said Richard, sternly, and led away. And now they were in Syria. Before them lay a rolling green country, fairer than Sicily even,--a deeper blue, a brighter sun, than in Provence. The warm wind bore to them the sniff of the sand-dunes, spiced groves, and genii's islands far to southward. They trod a strange soil, strange flowers underfoot, strange birds in the air, strange leaves on the trees. All the sunshine, however, did not brighten Richard Longsword. Gone! Parents, brother, sister,--ah, God! wife also, and only knightly honor and revenge left. Let him slay Iftikhar and see the cross above Jerusalem, and then! but he fought back the black thoughts, as he had many a time before. Day and night he rode at the head of his men, who whispered his bones were steel, he was so tireless. Then the host drew close to the great city of Antioch, the first Moslem stronghold to resist since the fall of Nicæa. And noble adventure awaited when the Norman Duke led the van to force the "Iron Bridge" which spanned the Orontes, key to the northern approach of the city. Long and stoutly did Yaghi-Sian's horse-archers and infantry dispute the passage, but Robert's mad knights swept all before them. "With an hundred and thirty knights Roger won all Sicily at Ceramis!" cried the valorous Duke. "Shall we fail now with St. Michael and Our Lady to aid?" So forward it was; and the Saracens heard the great "_God wills it!_" rolling down the Christian line,--that battle-cry which made the fight blaze tenfold fiercer, and which infidels so learned to dread. A great victory, but something better for Richard. In the press he and De Valmont fought side by side; and when a sling-stone laid Louis prone, Longsword had stood above him, covering with his shield, and saved the Auvergner from the tramplings of friend or foe. Then when they cried "Victory!" and the scared infidels raced for their lives to get behind the walls, Richard bore Louis to his own tent; for the Auvergner's was far to the rear. "Ah, Richard," said De Valmont, when they had pitched after the battle, "you would not have stood above me thus in Sicily." "No, fair knight," answered Richard, frankly; "but God has seen the sins of us both, and we are rewarded." "Come," cried the Provençal, firing, for he had a good heart under a haughty shell; "we swore forgiveness at Clermont; let us swear brotherhood, for we know each other now. We both are valiant men; we two fought with honor at least, though to my cost,--shall we not be as strong in friendship as in hate?" So Richard took the Auvergner's hand, and gave him the kiss, not of peace, but of brotherhood. And when Sebastian, coming by, saw them, he smiled:-- "You do well, dear sons, for two friends have the strength of four apart, and true affection is of God!" As soon as Louis was well enough to ride once more, the twain were ever together. And the companionship of Louis was an unspeakable boon; for to one whom he held his equal, De Valmont was a frank, open-hearted, merry-tongued fellow, the very comrade to chase off the imps of gloom that had of late encamped round Longsword's soul. But as they scoured the country, bringing in forage and seeking news of the enemy, Richard always had the same question for any prisoners:-- "Do you know aught of the Emir Iftikhar Eddauleh?" And when they told him no, he was most likely to give a nod to Herbert, which meant that the captives' heads were forfeit. Louis pitied him from the bottom of his soul. "Dear friend," said the Provençal once, when they waited without Duke Godfrey's tent to report a skirmish, "you let this loss of Mary Kurkuas eat your heart away. Believe me, I loved her once as much as you, and yet--" here he laughed at memory of his own discomfiture--"I am still a very merry man. Are you angry?" Richard shook his head. "Then hear me out. Your Greek beauty was a very _fée_, as Roland's Aude. But hers are not the only bright eyes and red cheeks in the world. Cannot the Lord of St. Julien have the best and the fairest?--in Sicily, in France, in Syria? Mark what I have done,--my heiress in Toulouse could hold her head beside the Greek, and no shame to either. Say to yourself, 'The saints are unkind; I will not let them make me pout forever. Another cast of the dice, and better fortune--'" But here he stopped, for on the face of Richard was, not indeed rage, but a darkening of passion that Louis knew he had scarce dreamed of. And Richard answered very gently:-- "Sweet knight, we have sworn brotherhood; I know you speak out of the goodness of your heart. When you say, 'Once I loved Mary Kurkuas as much as you,' and then boast your happiness, and add that she is not alone fair, you show but this,--you loved her eyes and her hair, but not her true self, as do I. As for what more you say, I only answer thus: I have sworn that henceforth I will look in love on no woman, if not on her, but will fight as best I can for God and Holy Church, and trust that after the sacred city is taken Our Lord will admit me into His peace. Till then let me be a good friend, and as merry as I may." While he spoke, the tent doors flapped aside, and Duke Godfrey himself strode forth. There was strength and joy by merely glancing into the eyes of that noble man. He put his hand on the shoulder of Richard, and said as a father to his son: "Richard de St. Julien, fear not that God is unmindful of your sorrow and prayers. We all, who love and honor you, have shared your grief, and He who loves you more than we, must share the most. Be strong, and either He will give you the desire of your heart, or you shall enter into the peace no mortal man may know." There was a ring and sweetness in the words of the mighty Duke which no priest could fuse into his speech, for Richard knew that Godfrey himself had walked through the moil and toil of life, and was crowned already victor. "I will trust in God!" he said, when he left the Duke. At his tent he sat a long time with Louis over some rare wine they had taken that day; called for a backgammon board, and played against Louis, winning seven games running. Herbert, who was standing by, was glad when he heard his lord give a hearty, unforced laugh--not of the fearful kind which had been his custom before. When Richard prayed that night, he put forth a new petition: "Master, if I have been chastened sufficiently, and it is Thy will, grant that I may see Musa once more, for next to one whom clearly Thou willest I should not possess, I desire him beyond all the world." And this prayer he repeated night after night. Louis de Valmont was grown a dear friend,--but the Spaniard! Richard never dreamed of making the Auvergner a rival. "Musa! Musa!" The longing to see him was too deep for words. CHAPTER XXVIII HOW RICHARD REGAINED HIS BROTHER When the Christians sat down before Antioch in the autumn time, the delights of the country--the abundance of provisions and drink, the dark eyes of the sinful Syrian maids who swarmed to the camp--made the Franks intent on everything save warfare. The massy walls mocked all storming; and though Bohemond blockaded from the east by the Gate of St. Paul, Count Hugh on the north, and Godfrey and Raymond on the northeast, the south was open to every wind, and provisions entered the city freely. Much ado had Richard to keep discipline amongst his own men. "My merry masters," said he once, when even De Carnac clamored for a carouse over some skins of heady Laodicean, "whether we see the heavenly or the earthly Jerusalem, let us see it with pure hearts and pure bodies." And with Trenchefer he slit all the wine-skins. So that night, at least, the St. Julieners kept sober. But the tide soon turned. A miserable winter it was; chill rains; the ill-placed camps swimming in water. Swords rusted in a night. There was hardly an hour when the heavens did not pour down their floods, until scarce a dry back was in the army. And as the floods continued, the provisions, once squandered so recklessly, began to fail. Longsword rode forth with Bohemond and Robert the Norman to sweep the country, and too often met only roving Saracen horse, who gave them hard blows and little booty. Then at last came the inevitable pursuer,--pestilence! and men began to die by scores; their faith all gone, cursing God and the saints, and the folly that drove them from lovely France on a fool's own errand. Evil tidings came in daily. Sweno the Dane, it was told, who was leading fifteen hundred horsemen across Cappadocia, had been overwhelmed by the Seljouks. And other ill news flowed fast as the rain torrents. Even the stoutest began to think more for their own lives than for ever seeing the Holy City. Some fled to Baldwin at Edessa; others to Cilicia. Duke Robert went to Laodicea, and only returned when admonished thrice in the name of Our Lord. William de Melun, the mightiest battle-axe in the whole army, fled away,--the infidels he did not fear, but who was proof against famine? Yet many did not falter; Tancred did not, nor Count Raymond, nor Godfrey who, before all others, was the reproachless warrior of his Lord. Bishop Adhemar thundered against the vice in the camp, holding up the fate of Babylon and of pagan Rome, mother of harlots. Stern measures were taken against sins of the flesh. Blasphemers were branded with a hot iron. When some of Yaghi-Sian's spies were taken, Bohemond had them butchered and cooked, to spread the tale in Antioch that the Christians ate their captives, and that those who came after be discouraged. But when Peter the Hermit took flight by stealth, the whole army raged in despair. "If he flee, whom may we trust? Sooner expect a star fall from heaven!" was the cry. Tancred pursued after and brought him back. "Father," quoth the Prince, "do you well to lead Christians into a strait like this,--then valorously depart?" "Alas!" moaned the one-time prophet, "the flesh is weak, though the spirit willing! Would I had never preached the Crusade! When I see the sins of the army, I fear lest I am 'that Egyptian,' as St. Paul was accused, 'who led forth into the wilderness four thousand men that were murderers.'" "Hark you, father," cried the Prince, with a bitter laugh. "I am a warrior and no churchman; but I think it shame for knight or villain to call the devil above ground, and then cry because he has a sting in his tail! Back you shall go, will you, nill you; and let us have no more long chatterings about the sinful sloth of the warriors of France until the praters themselves rule their lives by their own gospel." So they fetched Peter again to Antioch. Before all the army he swore an oath on the Scriptures that he would never desert. And to his honor be it said, this lapse was his last. In the after days he won yet more glory and confidence, despite this showing of human frailty. Thus the winter wasted. With the spring came better food and more fighting. Richard had kept his men in moderate health and spirits; first by his iron discipline, second because he remembered a hint given by Manuel Kurkuas on Eastern campaigning, and had pitched his tents on a plot that was sheltered by a hill from the malarial winds of the lowlands. Now rumors began to come into camp that great preparations were making among the Moslems for sending a huge host to the relief of Antioch. As the sun smiled warmer, the hearts of the Crusaders lightened. Their camp beside the green-bowered Orontes was a noble sight,--one sea of pennons and bright pavilions,--and all about a wide moat and a palisade. The knights rode in their tourneys, and tinkled their lutes in praise of some maiden in far and pleasant France. But still Yaghi-Sian made Antioch good, and Jerusalem seemed very far away. Richard told himself that even Mary would not know him now,--what with the thinness of his cheeks and his beard that almost brushed his breast. The first bitterness of his loss was beginning to pass. Mary had doubtless become wise, and submitted to her lot. Iftikhar, he knew, would give her every sensuous delight. He prayed that she might learn to be reconciled. As for himself, there was much work to do. Men honored his great sword. Though his seigneury was small, the greater lords called him to their council, because he spoke the infidels' tongue, because his heart was in the Crusade and not in worldly advantage; above all, because in him they saw a born leader. He was still the reckless and headlong cavalier whose squadrons could scarce keep Rollo in sight when their chief was in the saddle. "Beware, De St. Julien," said Godfrey, one day, while it was arranged that Richard should lead a picked band of forty down toward the port of St. Simeon to cut off some Arab skirmishers. "Life is not to be thrown down like a cast of dice. Remember Oliver's warning in the tale:-- "'Valor and madness are scarce allied; Better discretion than daring pride.'" "True," answered Richard, smiling, while his eye wandered vacantly over the fine-wrought "life of Moses" pictured on the tapestries lining the good Duke's tent. "But were I struck dead as I stand, who would feel a pang? My old watch-dogs, Herbert and Sebastian, Theroulde the minstrel, Rollo, my horse--who more, my Lord Duke?" Godfrey touched the young knight's hair gently when he answered: "Fair son,--for so I will call you, if you take no offence,--all are put in this world for some great and glorious work,--and to us especially is granted the task of wresting Christ's own city from the unbelievers. You would not shun your task. Is it not as wrong to fling life away as to turn the back on the foe in fair battle? And if aught befell you, say not that none would mourn. Believe me, we all love and honor you; for we see that in your heart burns a rare and mighty love for Christ, and your fall were a grievous loss." "You say well, my lord," said Richard, bowing; "and were I to fall, men would mourn 'another stout swordsman and good lance gone'; for I am honored for my strong arm. But that might be cut off, yet I were still Richard Longsword; then who would care if I died a thousand deaths!" "As Our Lord lives, not so bitterly!" remonstrated the good Duke. But Richard only replied as he went out, "I thank your kindness; but if I meet the infidels to-day, let the saints judge between us, and we shall have a noble battle!" "By Our Lady," swore Godfrey, when Richard departed, "I have great sorrow for that lad; for lad he is, yet with so old a face!" And Bishop Adhemar, who had stood by after the council broke up, replied: "And I too am torn for him. For his sorrow is beyond human comfort. Alas! poor baroness! I met her often on the march. May she and he alike learn to bow to the will of God!" But Richard had flown back amongst his men, and called loudly, "To horse!" "_Laus Deo! Gloria! Gloria!_" he shouted to Herbert; "as you love me, saddle with speed. Scouts bring in that a squad of the emir of Emessa's cavalry lurk around the port. I ride to cut them off." "Horse and away, then!" bawled the man-at-arms. "Yet why so merry?" And Richard answered, laughing:-- "I know not, dear fellow; yet I feel as if some angel had said to me, 'Richard Longsword, some great joy to-day awaits!'" "And what joy?" "By St. Maurice, I know not, and care less; most likely I shall slay twenty infidels, and be slain by the twenty-first!" "The saints forbid!" "The saints forbid nothing. I have said in my heart, 'Ill-fortune, enough of you! Begone!'" And the others marvelled at Longsword's merry mood. "Forward, and St. Michael with us!" his command. "Forward! forward!" came from all the rest, for they sniffed adventure when Richard Longsword led. Richard gave Rollo a little tap on the flank, that sent the huge brute racing better than any spur, and they plunged away at a brisk gallop. Very fair that spring day. Underfoot the wild flowers were springing; the turf had a fresh green, and all the silver poplars and oaks were putting on young leaves. When the troop watered their steeds by a tinkling brook, they saw the water strewn with scattered apple blossoms. Everything was sweet, balmy, and kind. Who under such a sun could keep sad, and grimace at God and His world? Not Richard Longsword. He broke into a gay battle-song of Theroulde's; then the others took it up, and they made the myrtles and oleanders quiver with their chorus as they rode along. "Surely the saints are with us this day!" cried Richard, when the last catch died on the air. They were skirting the Orontes, now hidden by the trees, now riding by its bright current, and watching the swans spread their white sails to the soft east wind. But Longsword had not forgotten the more serious duty that called him afield. "You, De Carnac, and two more, dismount. Walk to the crest of this hillock, and get a long sweep of the valley," was his order. Presently the three came back with tidings that there was a company of horsemen, Saracens presumably, camped in the meadow just beyond a little terebinth grove. Richard drew up his men with the promptness born of a score of like encounters. "God wills it! At them!" such his shout. And the forty, all as one, swept from their covert over the grassy savannah--were round the grove and upon the infidels before one could count an hundred. Easy victory; for the Moslems, perhaps three score, had many of their horses picketed, and were preparing a meal. The false Prophet had beguiled them into setting no sentry. "Strike! Strike!" the Christians were riding them down in a twinkling; a dozen were crushed before they could rise from the ground; others drew, and made some slight defence; more stood dazed, and while calling on Allah were made prisoners. Richard was reining in Rollo, and growling that he had not struck a single fair blow, when a cry from Herbert startled him. "By the Mass! Look! Hossein, as I am a sinner!" And Richard saw before his eyes a white-robed, catlike Arab, swinging upon a picketed chestnut charger. No need to glance twice to know the traitor--Longsword could have singled his face from ten thousand. But as he gazed a flash of the Arab's dagger had cut the lariat;--a whistle to the high-bred desert steed, and the splendid creature shot away, fleet as a startled hart. "For the love of God, shoot down the horse!" thundered Richard, making Rollo leap under the spur. Herbert levelled, and sent a crossbow bolt. Too hasty,--long range, and he missed. And every twinkling was making the distance grow long between the rider in the white dress and the Christians. "Chase! Ride!" rang Longsword's command. "A hundred byzants to take him alive!" But Rollo himself was soon heading all the forty. Never had Richard ridden as now, never had Rollo felt the spur so deep; but the speed of Borak, steed of the lightning, was in the mount of Hossein. Seldom had Rollo so nearly met his match. Almost before one dreamt it, the forty were specks in the rear. "Faster, faster, dear Rollo!" urged Richard, for his voice was ever the keenest spur to the great brute. And Rollo indeed ran faster, but the desert steed faster too; and for a long time the distance between neither waxed nor waned. Grove, thicket, gully, fallen log (for their way lay along none the most beaten road), the kind Powers led them past, when a stumble would have dashed rider and steed to certain death. Richard pressed Rollo again, and the huge horse putting forth all his powers began slowly as a snail, yet steadily, to gain on the Arabian. For some moments they raced thus; then the road became clearer, shut in on either side by trees that arched down, and slapped their green banners in the riders' faces. Who recked? Already Richard could see Hossein swaying in the saddle, clearly deliberating whether he could slacken to dismount and speed up the hillside. But the Arabian was running for dear life now, and though his rider tugged at the bit, he hardly swerved. Rollo, black monster, was coming up bound upon bound. Richard dropped his lance into rest. He would have Hossein at mercy before one could say three _Credos_. Was his hand steady enough to pin the Arab through the thigh where flesh was thick, and so take him prisoner? For Hossein's life would be precious--for a while. "Ah, traitor!" cried Longsword in Arabic, "call on Allah now!" The only answer was a fresh bound from the chestnut charger, a final burst of speed that carried him ahead for a moment. Then the steady gallop of Rollo told once more--another furlong, and the Ismaelian would face his doom. "_La ilaha ill' Allah!_" broke forth from the fugitive; and half involuntarily Richard drew rein, while the prey nigh in his hands flew onward. For lo! in the road directly ahead was a company--horse and foot, in Oriental dress,--advancing rapidly, not a bowshot away! Richard wavered for an instant. He saw a horseman in flashing armor and blood-red turban come pricking toward them. Almost ere the thought could speed through his mind, Hossein was among the newcomers, and a score more came dashing forward to confront the solitary Christian. A glance back--not one of his men in sight! Rollo blown and panting! Escape up the hillside--impossible!--he in armor, and the Moslems nimble as rats! "God wills it!" Richard's soul cried. "This is the good fortune; to ride down the foe, fight valiantly, die gallantly, and then peace--rest--peace!" He threw down the lance, and drew forth Trenchefer. "The last time you will strike for a Longsword, good friend!" quoth he, with a loving eye on the keen blade, "and you shall not strike in vain!" Then he pressed Rollo once more, "On again, my horse!" And the huge brute caught the hard road under his hoofs and went forward at a headlong pace. Richard could see the leading warrior, a splendid figure on his steed, coming on with drawn cimeter--a noble comrade in death! He would strike him first. And Richard made Trenchefer dance high while he flew. "God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" So the woods rang with his battle-shout. He could see the Moslems, staring half amazed, as he came on headlong, one against their scores; saw bows bend; heard the arrows scream past. The leader he had singled as his prey was dashing down the road to meet him. How fair a combat! "God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" Richard gave it as his last battle-cry, and swung Trenchefer to beat through the Moslem's guard; when lo! the strange warrior had dropped cimeter and shield--reined short--and from him, as if by echo, there came: "Mary Kurkuas! _Allah akhbar_, you are Richard Longsword!" And Richard let Trenchefer clatter in the dust. "Musa! my brother!" Then, all in armor as they were, they flung their mailed arms about one another for very joy, and cried, shedding great tears, as do only strong men when moved too deep for speech. For a moment the other Moslems, as they swarmed about, were ready to run Richard through, thinking he had taken their chief captive by some magic art. But Musa motioned them aside. When the two again found words, the first question from the Spaniard was, "And how is it with the Star of the Greeks?" But at this, the face of Richard grew dark. CHAPTER XXIX HOW IFTIKHAR BORE HOME HIS PRIZE Iftikhar Eddauleh rode over the dusty road from Turmanin to Aleppo with only thirty about him of the hundred riders that had followed him to Dorylæum. But Zeyneb was at hand, and Eybek, who had gone on the secret mission months before; and beside the grand prior moved a horse-litter containing a treasure Iftikhar would not have parted with had the heads of all his men and his own been at stake. Mary Kurkuas was his. The scene when he took her in the Christian camp had been terrible; how beautiful she had been, standing at bay, dagger in hand--no lioness more dreadful! He had disarmed her without marring one spot on a skin that was soft as the rose-petals. How she had cried and pleaded! He had been cruel? Yes; the poets all sang love was either cruel or sweet; and Iftikhar would be all sweetness now. As the troops rode past the khan which stands on the Aleppo road, about twelve furlongs' journey beyond the gates, Iftikhar drew up his horse beside the litter, which Zeyneb was carefully guarding. The curtains were closed, but he spoke in his soft, melodious Arabic: "Star of the Greeks, if you will,--look forth! For we are approaching Aleppo, and now you may set eyes on the palace El Halebah, which, by the blessing of Allah, is mine, and therefore yours!" Mary thrust back the curtains. Her face was very pale now; the red spots on either cheek seemed to glow with hidden fire. But her eyes were dry and bright--the hour of outward agony had been long since passed. "A beautiful country!" were her words. And it was even so; for, bowered in gardens and framed by a sky of purest azure, lay Aleppo, whose white walls, white houses, gilded minarets seemed stencilled in silhouette against the blue. Crowning the city rose the citadel, high above the proudest domes with its sheer brown rock. On it, too, shone the gold work of its battlements, and its gaudy banners streaming. Iftikhar pointed out the lofty dome of the great mosque Jami-Zakarya, whose minaret seemed to climb to the very bow of the heavens; the stately Jewish synagogue, the domes of the Christian churches, the tall houses of the merchants clustered round the bazaar. "Beautiful, truly!" said Iftikhar, his eyes not on the stately city, but on the face of the Greek; "fair as the two gardens by the river of milk prepared for the beloved of Allah! Yet you see but the outward husk, O Soul of my Soul! For yours is the palace which Seïf Eddauleh, one-time lord of Aleppo, prepared for a maiden like yourself of the blood of the Greeks; and what was her joy shall be yours as well. See--we are at the gates of El Halebah!" Mary thrust back the curtains farther, leaned on the cushions of brocade of Tostar, and saw the troop swing down a stately avenue of poplars. Soon the glittering city and dusty highway were hid from view. Between green thickets and leafy arbors she could see the silver stream of the Kuweik creeping silently in its flower-banked bed. Soon the trees were so dense that the sunlight only filtered down a soft haze, and the ground under the horse-hoofs was cool, where the moist leaves had fallen. A strange hush seemed to pervade the wood, and Iftikhar himself, as if awed, rode on in silence. Several minutes thus; and Mary felt a strange thrill, as if a voice had spoken, "You enter now into a magic world!" The horses had fallen to a slow walk. They could hear bird calling bird far within, among the myrtles and laurel hedges. The soft rush of a hidden waterfall crept upon them; one could almost feel the fine spray, yet only heard the plashing music. Presently, as if by enchantment, four men in bright armor, with naked sabres, stood across their way, and a voice rang out, trebly loud in the hush of the wood: "Stand! Who dares set foot within the precincts of El Halebah?" But Iftikhar had ridden in advance of the troops. "By the dirk and the cord!" were his words, when he held up a finger where a gem-stone glittered. "The grand prior! Hail, master!" And the white turbans of the four almost touched the turf while they saluted. An instant more, and they were gone. "See!" said Iftikhar, when the seeming apparition had vanished among the trees. "Though El Halebah seem unguarded, save by the owls and bats, I say to you not a snake could wind under the dead leaves, but the eyes of my Ismaelians, keeping watch and ward, would find him. Fear nothing, O Rose of the Christians! About you this hour are three thousand blades, and over them all must a foe ride ere he lay hand on you! You are safe, as though in the bosom of Allah!" Mary made no reply. The iron had long since entered her soul. Iftikhar was to have his day; the Holy Mother knew it was like to prove a long one. Yet even in her plight the magic wood had a strange charm for the Greek. And at last she asked, "How far about extends the grove of the palace?" "How far?" answered Iftikhar. "One might wander a league and more to the north, and find naught save glen and fern-dell and fountains. Seïf built it for his fair ones and poets to roam, and think themselves in Allah's paradise. The singer Motenabbi found his words too faint to sing its praise. Now by the will of the Dispenser of All Things it has become the possession of the Ismaelians. Not Redouan, lord of Aleppo, himself dare set foot within the groves, save at nod of mine. Here we may dream we are upon the Fortunate Islands, a thousand leagues away in the Western Sea; and watch the stars go round the pole; and listen to the bulbuls and the brooks singing,--singing ever of revel, and laughter, and love, so long as mortal life may be." Mary held her peace; Iftikhar, too, fell to day-dreaming. Of a sudden they passed from the wood, and saw before them a wide prairie of emerald grass. Beyond this rose a palace--one wide stretch of domes and pinnacles, and fantastic colonnades, and beyond the palace spread a blue lake, close girded by the forest. In the midst floated a green island covered with gay kiosks. A light skiff, blue as the waters, was shooting across the glassy surface under a steady oar. As Iftikhar's eyes lit upon the rowers in the skiff, he gave a cry:-- "Morgiana!" "Did you speak to me?" asked Mary. "No, Soul of my Soul," was the answer. "Yet see the boat; in it glides one whom, Allah granting, you shall love right well! At least"--and now he muttered under his breath--"either you shall love each other, or, as the Most High lives, I know whom I can part with best, and it will not be the Greek!" And now they were at the portal. The brass-cased doors swung open without warning; a hundred gaudy flags tossed out upon pinnacles and domes; a great crash of music greeted them--trumpet, timbrel, hautboy, and cymbal,--and a line of twenty negro eunuchs, naked save for skirts of red silk whereon gold lace was flashing, each holding a ponderous cimeter. At sight of Iftikhar they knelt and bowed their heads to the mosaic pavement. Then a single eunuch stepped forward, tall, spare, gorgeously dressed in Susangird damask, the jewels gleaming from ears, hands, and shoes; upon his beardless, ebony face a perpetual smile. He also knelt at his lord's feet. And Iftikhar questioned:-- "The messenger I sent ahead from Afrin came promptly?" "He did, O Fountain of our Being; and all is prepared to receive and make joyous the Star of the Greeks!" "You have done well, O Hakem!" replied the emir. Then when two of the negroes had lifted Mary from her litter, Iftikhar led her forward. "This, mine own, is my good slave, and yours too, by name Hakem, the chief of my eunuchs and ruler of my harem." Hakem had risen when his lord addressed him, but now at sight of Mary his smile became more blooming than ever, and his violet cap swept her feet as he bowed. "Hakem," continued his master, "except I command otherwise, the tiniest word of the Star of the Greeks is your law. Deny her, and the stake is ready for your impaling!" "I hear and obey!" replied Hakem, still smiling, and touching his head, to proclaim his willingness to lose it. "Go before us to the harem!" Iftikhar went on, and with only the eunuch and Mary Kurkuas, the emir advanced within the palace. Mary saw, as they passed, court after court, fountains, domes, a wealth of jewel-mosaic on floor and wall, glass sconces of rainbow-tints hanging from golden chains. Then in a cool inner apartment where the sun stole dimly through marble tracery in the high ceiling, Iftikhar halted; and as he entered three women, dark-eyed, bronze-skinned, but beautiful as houris, stood--then knelt before Mary. "Your slaves," said Iftikhar, pointing to them. "Command them; if they fail to please, a word to Hakem, and their lives are snuffed out." "I thank your kindness, master," said Mary, very softly. "Master?" exclaimed Iftikhar. "Assuredly; am I not your slave as much as these women here? Is it not your pleasure, rather than my right, that keeps me from their servile tasks? Does not my very breath tremble on your nod?" And Mary stood before Iftikhar with folded hands, her eyes cast upon the silken rug of Kerman. The emir broke forth with the heat of glowing fire. "O Flower, whose beauty shames the rose of Khuzistan! Star, whose light I have followed these years, seeking, hoping, praying, striving! Who the slave, you or I? For your sake have I not sent to the ends of the earth? For you have I not prepared this palace, than which is not a fairer from Andalus to Turan? What is my life without you? What my power among the Ismaelians? My hopes of sovereignty, such as Zubaida, beloved of Harun, might have joy to share! For you,--it is all for you! Without you the palace is dungeon; the earth, wilderness; the fairest of Arabian maidens, jinns of black night." And in the delirium of the moment he caught her, held her in his arms, kissed her once, twice. But her lips were icy. The touch of her form chilled him. He shrank away as from a statue of marble. "Master," said Mary, never resisting, "I am your slave. You have the power. I cannot resist; I fear I cannot flee away. You may do with my poor body as you list; but me,--Mary the wife of Richard de St. Julien, the soul throbbing behind this flesh and blood,--_me_ you can never hold in power. No! not, were your three thousand sword-hands myriads. For my true self is as far beyond your unholy touch as though I sat above the stars! Do with me as you will,--I laugh at you; I mock your impure wiles; for till you hold me, soul as well as body, I am free--free in the sight of God, though you pour all your passions on me! I love you not, and never shall, till the day breaks in the west, and the seasons cease to wheel." As she spoke, her eyes glowed with a fire that lit another fire of mingled desire and rage in the eyes of Iftikhar. "Hearken, Star of the Greeks!" and he again stepped toward her. Mary stood calm as a statue; only her eyes shone yet brighter. "I have heard you often, master; but I will listen." "I command you, style me no more 'master,'" raged Iftikhar, feeling he had conjured up a demon that greater power than his must chain. "I can style you no otherwise," was the reply; "for so you are. Punish my disobedience. I can bear much." There was a little table at hand; on it stood a rock-crystal goblet and a silver cooler filled with snow-water and rose sherbet. "Mary Kurkuas," said Iftikhar, controlling himself by a great effort, and holding up the goblet, "think not I seek the deeds of mad passion and violence. My power? The might that flashes in your eyes were a myriad times more! Love? Yes, truly; I would have your lips seek mine, as two doves flit to the same nest. See! A pledge!--by the great angel Israfil, at whose trumpet the dead shall spring for judgment, I swear: I will do you no hurt! nothing! I will teach you to love me, until Constantinople, and Sicily, and France shall be as a forgotten dream, and of your own free will you shall be mine own, till Allah cut us asunder." He held high the goblet. "To Mary Kurkuas, fairest of women!" he cried, drank, bowed low, and was gone, leaving Mary with Hakem the eunuch. * * * * * The heavy tapestries in the doorway closed noiselessly. Mary stood gazing half stupidly at Hakem and the maids. Then at last the eunuch spoke, his imperturbable smile swelling to a fulsome grin. "O my little birdling, what friends shall we not become! How sweetly shall we pass the days together!" Had his words been hot irons, he could not have affected Mary more. In a trice she had sprung toward him, her eyes flashing flame. She was in poise and voice the great princess of the house of Kurkuas, born to rule. "Toad!" came across her teeth, "did I bid you speak? Out of my sight, you and these wenches, or as I live--" "Mercy, gracious _Citt_, gracious mistress!" began Hakem, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes, for he knew that he faced his match. "You are travel-worn; your dress--" Mary took a step toward him, snatched him by the shoulder, whirled his face toward the door in an instant. "Away!" was her command; "or if Iftikhar did not mock me, the next word I have for him is to ask your head!" Hakem shuffled out of the room like a whipped hound. To the maids Mary gave not a word--simply pointed toward the passage. The flash in her eyes sufficed. They were gone; and the Greek found herself alone--oh, bliss!--alone! The room was large, high-domed; the walls covered with gold and colored enamel in fantastic arabesques. Here and there an inscription from one of the poets in silver mosaic. On the silken carpet the feet moved noiselessly. The light trickled through the piercings in the dome, and spread a restful twilight around. There were divans of priceless Chinese silk, an ebony table whereon lay silver and crystal cups and coolers, fruit and honey cakes. Upon the divan lay ready a dress, silk also, plainly prepared for Iftikhar's new favorite, gold lace, jewel embroidery: in France worth a count's ransom; even in Constantinople worthy of the Empress herself. It was very still. Mary sat upon the divan beside the table and rested her face on her hands. She was more weary than one may tell. Despite the care of Iftikhar, the journey had been no easy one. And now this was the end! Here was the golden cage in which the bright bird was to be kept fast! Mary shed no tears now. Iftikhar had given her a pledge. She felt sure he would be patient within reason. But in time? Mary knew herself well enough and Iftikhar well enough to be sure that both were made of mortal stuff. After all, she was his slave--to be sold in the market if he chose. She had taken her vows touching Richard Longsword while life lasted. But was he not dead to her? Perhaps dead to all the world? Did men only die to one another when they stopped eating, talking, and sleeping? She could struggle, could put on her majesty, could say "No" a score of times; but in the end!--what end could there be saving one! So Mary sat in her revery, her thoughts as dark as the ebony table beneath her eyes. Suddenly, as if awaking from a dream, she heard laughter,--laughter musical as a little stream, but with a mocking, angry tinge that left a sting. Mary lifted her eyes, raised her head. More laughter--louder, still musical. The Greek almost started. Could she not even have sorrow in peace? "Have I not bidden you all begone?" was her cry, and at last the tears were not far from her eyes; for this defiance was the last drop to her cup of sorrow. "No," came back a voice, clear and melodious as a zithern note; "no, you have commanded me nothing." "Then now I say 'away'--leave me alone!" "How sweet to see you angry! I will not leave you. See! I enter. I wish to look at you face to face." The curtains at the farther end of the room opened. As they did so a score of little bells upon them tinkled, and Mary saw a woman standing in the mild half-light. Instantly the Greek rose, and the two looked into each other's eyes. Morgiana was dressed in a manner only possible to one who felt the vulgar eye far removed. She wore loose green silk trousers that gathered a little below the knee; her feet were hid only by white slippers, where the gem-stones were flashing, and white silken stockings; arms and neck were bare; a gauzy Indian shawl, white also, was wrapped about her; on her girdle shone the gold chain work, another gold chain around her neck; the abundant black hair streamed loosely over the shoulders from under a jewel-set fillet. The two women stood facing one another for a long moment. Then each broke forth in one breath, but the Arab first. "How beautiful you are!--I hate you!" "How beautiful!--I wish to love you!" The two sentences blended into one; and instantly Morgiana burst again into laughter. "So this is the Star of the Greeks! I give you joy; you are worthy of Iftikhar Eddauleh! _Ya_; were you a peri of the deep, you could not be fairer!" Mary bowed her head. "Lady," was her answer, "who you are I know not; but this I know, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and if Iftikhar possesses you, God alone knows why he casts eyes on me!" Yet again Morgiana laughed. "God alone knows?" was her cry; "verily, I doubt it. Were He knowing, and yet able to change the world, wicked He must be to suffer the deeds of men! You think me a stranger. Well, Morgiana the slave of Iftikhar greets Mary the slave of Iftikhar, and Morgiana adds that she will kill Mary, as surely as the evening follows the morn!" "Pray God that you may have your wish full soon!" answered the Greek, looking down. Her words seemed to have touched a new spring in Morgiana. The Arab threw her hands on high. "Cursed are you, O Greek! Cursed your beauty! Cursed all who look in love upon you! Let the jinns of the abyss swallow you! Let Eblees, Lord of Darkness, have mastery of you! May your bright eyes be turned to blindness, your white skin scorch, your smooth arms wither--" But here Mary interrupted, humble no longer now, her own proud fire flashing in turn. "Silence--madwoman! It is you the evil powers will curse! Do I need maledictions from you to make my lot less darksome, my cup less bitter? Curse Iftikhar Eddauleh, if you will, whose sin and passion blast your joy and mine! Curse him, not me!" And at this Morgiana broke forth fiercely:-- "No, no, not Iftikhar Eddauleh! Were he tearing me with tortures, yet would I bless him. Were he foul as the rebel angels, his kiss were honey. Dwelt he in parching Gehennah, to be with him--paradise! No word against him, or here and now I slay you!" Mary made no immediate answer. Morgiana's face was aflame with passion; as she spoke she swayed in half frenzy. Under her breath the Greek murmured, "She is mad!" "As Allah lives!" cried Morgiana, her mood veering swift as the flight of birds, "I have frightened you! Unjust, cruel, my heart is half ice and half fire. I have given you arrows instead of tears. You are blameless, wretched, helpless,--what may I do for you?" And she had caught Mary's hands within her own, and was drawing her close and kissing her forehead. "They do well to call you star and flower of the Greeks! _Mashallah!_ how could Iftikhar and all the world fail to give all to gain you! From Cairo to Samarkand there is none like you!" Mary did not answer. To her Morgiana was fury, houri, and angel all in one moment. She knew not what to think, and so kept peace. But the Arab ran on: "I saw you at Palermo. It came to my ears that you were very beautiful. I saw you ride to church once with your father. I, of course, was veiled and guarded by Hakem; and when my eyes lit on you, I said, 'She is not over-praised.' Yet there was a throng, and you were not near. But now, face to face, I say, 'Not all the poets from Imr ul-Kais to An-Nami could paint in verse your beauty; no, nor all the angels who sing about the throne of Allah!'" "Praise it not," cried Mary, finding her tongue; "it is, as you say, cursed,--cursed for me, at least; please God, not for those who have loved me! I say naught of Iftikhar; let God judge him, not I!" Morgiana bowed her head in turn. "You say well. Let the Most High judge Iftikhar. And now"--raising her eyes--"tell me; shall we be friends?" Then and there the two kissed one another, cried on each other's necks, and swore--so far as spirits like theirs may--to be friends and sisters. For the burden of each was great. When they had ceased crying and could talk once more, Morgiana led Mary to the divan, exclaiming:-- "_Wallah!_ But you are all travel-stained and weary. Where are Hakem and the maids?" "As you love me," protested the Greek, "do not call them. I will not see that sleek eunuch's face again. I sent them all away." "Hakem!" repeated Morgiana, with a sniff; "he is a harmless lizard, after you grow accustomed to seeing him trail his nose around. His teeth look very sharp, but they must not frighten you. Nevertheless, if you will not--" Mary shook her head. "Then I will play the tiring maid!" cried the Arab; and she laughed when she drew the pins from Mary's hair, and let it fall over her shoulders, a shining, brown mass. "_Wallah!_ How beautiful you are!" Morgiana repeated again and again. She led Mary into a bath, where the air was heavy with perfumes of saffron and date-blossoms, then put on the Greek the Eastern dress which had been made ready. Mary's heart was very full when Morgiana laid aside the Frankish bleaunt; for in that mantle she had ridden beside Richard Longsword over the weary road to Constantinople; he had given it to her on their wedding day. But when the Arab wished to draw the little silver ring from her finger, the Greek shook her head. "Silly!" commented Morgiana, "it is not worth a dirhem; I will bring you a casket of a hundred--ruby, onyx, beryl--" "My husband set it there," replied Mary, thrusting back her hair and looking full into the Arab's face. "It was to remain there till I die." Morgiana tossed up her head. "Your husband? Richard Longsword, that boorish Frank, who has a bull's strength with a baboon's wits? How dare you love him, when you may have the love of Iftikhar Eddauleh!" "Nevertheless," said Mary, very slowly, never moving her gaze, "Richard is my husband. I love him. Do not speak ill of him, or our friendship dies the day of birth." "I have a very cruel heart!" cried Morgiana, kissing the Greek again; and the ring was left in its place. They had completed the toilet. There was a long silvered mirror in the room, and Mary saw herself dressed after the fashion of the East, from the mother-of-pearl set upon her yellow shoes, to the gold-spangled muslin that wound above her flowing hair. "Holy Mother of Pity," she whispered, looking down at the little ring, "but for this, I were already become an infidel!" The next moment the voice of Iftikhar demanded entrance, and the two women stood before him. "_Bismillah!_" he exclaimed, smiling, and looking more handsome and lordly than ever, "I see two of the houris! You are friends?" "We are sisters," replied Morgiana, a little defiantly. "I fled out upon the lake that I might not meet you when you returned,--but now!" and she took Mary by the hand. "I will wait on you no more to-day," said Iftikhar, bowing in most stately fashion. But when he had gone, Morgiana gave a bitter cry:-- "Allah pity me; Allah pity you also! His words were for us both, but his eyes on you alone! I have lost him, lost him forever. The Most High keep me from some fearful deed!" "I do not dread you," said Mary, gently. "No," came the answer, "you need dread nothing. Christian you are, and Moslem I; but one God hears us both. Oh, let us pray,--pray for His mercy; for lesser help may not avail!" * * * * * Mary slept that night in the same chamber as Morgiana, an airy, high-vaulted room, in an upper story of the palace. Through the tracery of the lattice came the warm breeze, bearing the narcotic scent of those tropic gardens. But Mary was long in falling asleep on her soft pallet. In the darkness she heard the trumpet-voiced muezzins in the distant Aleppo, calling the midnight _Oola: "Allahu akhbar!_ _Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar!_ I testify there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah! Come to prayer! Come to prayer! Prayer is better than sleep!" The words pealed out in the night like voices from another world. Mary stirred and kissed the silver ring. "Dear Mother of God! Dear Christ who suffered for us all, give me strength to bear all, to resist, to endure! Keep my own heart true to Richard Longsword and our love. Save me utterly, if that may be, and if not, be merciful and let me die; for the temptation will be very great!" Morgiana started in her sleep; the curtain above her bed rustled. "Dear sister," she said softly, "go to sleep. The day has troubles enough, without letting them steal peace from the night." So Mary kissed the ring, folded her hands, and at last was dreaming. CHAPTER XXX HOW THERE WAS FESTIVAL AT ALEPPO After the winter rains were past, and when all the birds were singing in the groves about El Halebah, Mary Kurkuas could see that Iftikhar Eddauleh was waxing restive in soul; both on her account and on account of something which was stirring in that great world which lay beyond the palm trees, the lake, and the silver Kuweik. What those events without were Mary could scarce guess, for had she been transported into another planet, she could not have seen less of what passed in the realm of armies, and princes, and battles. The moment the enchanted groves of the palace closed about her, all beyond had been blotted out; she saw no men save Iftikhar, Zeyneb, and Hakem with his fellow-eunuchs, if these last were indeed men. Once she had asked Hakem whether the Crusaders had been driven back when they strove to cross Asia Minor, and whether the expedition to Jerusalem had been abandoned. The sleek creature had only salaamed, and smirked deprecatingly. "O Rose of the Christians, my ears are deaf, my eyes blind to all beyond the precincts of El Halebah!" was his sole reply. Zeyneb she loathed from the depths of her soul. The dwarf saw her seldom, although he affected to seek the company of his foster-sister. Mary induced Morgiana to ask him to tell of the outside world, and was met by a blank refusal. "Let him twitter once, and Iftikhar would lift his head from his shoulders!" As for Iftikhar, when Mary demanded to know the success of the Crusade, he replied with one of his flashes of mingled authority and passion: "Soul of my Soul! ask me nothing. My lips are sealed, save when I speak of the love that burns me and of the brightness that blazes from your eyes!" And no appeal could draw from him more. Once during the autumn Mary thought she saw from the uppermost balcony a squadron of armed horsemen riding furiously from Aleppo. That day too she heard one negro eunuch say to a fellow, "Allah grant that they come no nearer!" and the other, "As you love life, breathe nothing to your own soul! If the _Citt_, Mary, should hear!" But this was all. Day sped into day. No change in the monotonous ease and routine of the harem. Mary had grown wonted to the unending round. She no longer lay awake to hear the muezzins. Sometimes she wondered if she would forget her Greek and her French, hearing only Arabic, save when she talked with Eleanor. Eleanor had been held as captive by Iftikhar, not because he had any unwonted passion for her, or grudge against her; but she was beautiful, and he liked to feel that he held one of the Longswords in his harem. The young Norman had long since bowed her head to her fate. After a manner she had been kindly treated. Less full of energy and unquenchable vigor than the Greek, she had grown content to stay all day in the harem, bathing in the perfumed waters, embroidering, drinking sherbet. Morgiana, seeing she was not likely to become a rival, had patronized and protected her against the insolence of the eunuchs. Mary had been greeted by Eleanor rapturously, as if she were an angel. As for Morgiana, the "maid of Yemen" was alternately to her sister and fury. For days together she would have never a word for Mary save an occasional malediction or threat; then without warning she would repent in tears, implore forgiveness, become gentle, loving, clinging as Eleanor; and so until the next cloud of jealousy came over her. It was one day in the early springtime when the eunuchs spread canopies on the palace roof. Here, with the green groves stretching on every hand, the three women had idled out the warm, sweet afternoon. Mary was aiding Eleanor over her embroidery frame. And now it was that Morgiana told what she had never told before--the story of how she fell into the hands of Iftikhar. "Know, O sweet sister," said she, laying down the guitar on which her long, shapely fingers had been wandering, "that I am the daughter of Jaafar bin Shirzâd, who was the _Hajib_, that is, Lord Chamberlain, to the Commander of the Faithful, Al Muktadi the Abbasside, and that I was born in my father's palace which lay by the Tigris in Bagdad. My father had four wives and many fair female slaves, fair as moons; but most of all he loved my mother, Kharka, who was peerless among the women of Bagdad. She was the daughter of Abu Ahmed, emir of the free desert tribes of Yemen. From her I gain my name; from her my blue eyes, which are found sometimes among the Arabs of the great waste. My mother was brought up after the fashion of her people; not pent in harems, guarded by eunuchs, but free as youth--would to Allah this were the custom in all Islam! From her love of freedom comes my own proneness to rush to unwomanly things. At Bagdad my mother pined for her native sand plains, and died when I was young, leaving me to my nurse,--mother of my accursed foster-brother, Zeyneb. Then came the direful day when my father lost his head by demand of Melik Shah, the arch-sultan; and I and all his harem were plunged in slavery. I was sixteen when I and Zeyneb stood in the slave market at Damascus. At Iftikhar's first sight of me unveiled, the love sprang to his eyes as flame leaps on a torch. He bought us; and for years he and I were to each other as two souls in one body; the thought of him, joy! sight of him, joy! touch of him, joy! So he to me. And in love for me he cast all the other women from his harem. Then--luckless day!--he went to Sicily to find service among the Christians. There at Palermo I was mother of his child; merciful Allah! why couldst Thou not spare my little Ali? But he died--sorrow passing words! After that I saw that Iftikhar was drifting away from me. First he bought other slave women, though still he gave me chief place, and love of the lips. Then on a day"--and Morgiana's eyes seemed fiery daggers searching Mary's very soul--"I heard Hakem, chief eunuch, speak of the beauty of Mary the Greek; then I first heard your name, and learned to curse you! Aye, curse you, as I have a thousand times since. Since that hour, day by day, despite my wiles, and my beauty, and my sorrow, unceasingly he has drifted from me farther and farther; and now he has you--your body already, when he wills; your soul, too, full soon. And I have lost him; have lost him forever!" Mary raised her head to reply; but Morgiana swept on: "Oh, it is not the pain of seeing another mistress of El Halebah; of knowing I am second when I should be first; of feeling, 'One whisper from the Greek, and at her wish Iftikhar would slay me.' But I love him. To possess him, though clothed in rags and loaded with fetters--enough! To hear him say, 'I love you,' as once he did, and know that it was not tongue but eyes also that spoke--that were my paradise!" Morgiana bowed her head, and broke into wild sobbing. The Greek put her arm about her. "Dear sister, I, like you, am the slave of Iftikhar Eddauleh--at his mercy, his toy, his sport for an idle hour--but never fear that I will love him. Till I know Richard Longsword sleeps with the dead--" Morgiana lifted her face angrily. "Why speak of Richard Longsword? Who dares compare him to Iftikhar Eddauleh? Is he not a boorish Frank? And Iftikhar?--were it not there is but one Allah, would I not call Iftikhar a god!" "You worship him; yet you are his slave?" "Yes! what shame? Do I wish to be free? Are not all mortals slaves of Allah? And is not Iftikhar to me in the place of Allah? Let men bow down to a God; but what God may a woman own save a strong man, whose love is her all--her all!" The words of Morgiana sank to a sob. She flung her face in Mary's lap and wept. "Oh," she cried, "I see well enough how it is with you. I have eyes, and wits. On the first days you were here you loathed Iftikhar as if he were a snake. But he knows his game. He has drawn his net about you. Each day you note his dark Eastern splendor, so unlike the West; his speech like music, his professions of love; and each day you say, 'I hate him.' But you do not say it with the sting of months ago. Richard Longsword is becoming very dim before your eyes; Iftikhar Eddauleh, very real. The change is slow; yet I am not wrong. By Allah, I am not wrong! For I see two fires in your cheek, another on your forehead. You do not shudder, as you once did, at thinking, 'All my life I must spend in a golden prison like El Halebah.' It will be very pleasant. Iftikhar is to become the lord of all Islam, if naught fails. The Ismaelians will overthrow Sultan and Kalif, and Iftikhar is declared heir of Hassan-Sabah. So much I know, though we hear so little. And you will reign with him--Sultana! Empress!" "As you love me, speak no more!" Mary found voice to beg. "Love you!" cried Morgiana, in her mood; "do I not hate you with fury passing death? Last night, when Iftikhar spoke to you soft and low, I could see your eye following his as a weaver's the shuttle. You are yielding, yielding; soon--" But Mary had clapped her hand upon the Arab's mouth. "Love me or hate me, do not torture! What can I do?" was her plea. "Day and night I call to Our Lady, 'Save me, or let me die.' And I am growing weak, weak! I cannot fight the will of Heaven much longer. How easy to defy Iftikhar the day he bore me hither! How easy to feel my will each day growing more helpless to resist! God is angry with me; some sin that I have forgotten, yet that must be very great. Oh, pity me, for I am only a weak girl!" So they comforted one another, those two, whose hearts were too full for words. While they yet sat side by side, Iftikhar came upon the balcony. Splendid he was, in his jewelled turban, golden belt, and dress of _izar_--the gold-embroidered cloth of Mosul. He made a profound reverence to Mary, then spoke. "O Star of the Greeks! I your slave have remembered that perchance even the charm of the halls of El Halebah may grow weary. Deign, I pray you, to be dressed this evening in such a dress as I have commanded Hakem to provide; for to-night all the daughters and maidens of Aleppo have been bidden to make free in these gardens, and there will be festival, such as Bagdad has seldom seen since the great feast of Moktader." "I thank your lordship, I obey," said Mary, bowing. The emir's face lit with pleasure. "And you, Morgiana," continued Iftikhar, more lightly, "you, with Eleanor, of course will not fail me. I would show these beauties of Aleppo that here hid in our groves are the fairest eyes in Syria." "Cid," said Morgiana, haughtily, "if you command me, I will obey; otherwise, let me sleep and the rest dance." "_Ya!_" cried Iftikhar, testily; "you are gloomy as Gann, lord of the evil jinns! No doing of mine can please you. _Wallah_, be it as you will! The Star of the Greeks is more kind. To-night! I swear the poets of Emir Redouan shall sing of the fête the whole year long!" So he was gone, and Morgiana turned fiercely on Mary. "Eblees and all his 'Sheytans' of the Pit pluck you away! What have you done? You said yes as though Iftikhar's words were sweet as honey of Lebanon. He will conquer you to-night! Are you blind? Not for the maidens of Aleppo, but for you, this fête is prepared. To-night he will be master of you, soul as well as body. Blind! blind!" Mary looked into the Arab's face. "O dear sister," came her words, "you say well. But I am not blind. What more can I do? Love him I do not, as you. But I am helpless; Iftikhar is lord. Better to have an end. Hate him I do not as I did once. Time is kind. I must bow my head, and pray God make me forget the past. There is no other way--none. I can fight the battle no more." "Dearest heart," cried the Arab, "it is all true. You can do no more. If you were not so pure and lovely, I would have killed you long ago. Only do not triumph over me, when you have learned to love Iftikhar as do I." "No, blessed soul," said the Greek, softly; "that may never be." * * * * * That night all the heavens about El Halebah glowed with the light of myriad torches; lights on the domes and soaring towers; lights flitting among the palm trees; lights tossing behind every myrtle and laurel brake; lights twinkling from under the cool colonnades, and making the mist of the fountains a shimmering spray of diamonds. There were flowers scattered over every walk; flowers festooned about each column; the air made heavy with the breath of rose, pink, and violet. All about were set innumerable banners, streaming to every wind. Fires flashed from the islands upon the lake; and down the enchanted path that led through the woods to the Aleppo road there was a cordon of flambeaux, making the avenue light as day. So much saw Mary Kurkuas, peering from her lattice, while the maids made her ready and clothed her in robes such as Iftikhar himself had never sent her before. At last the emir stood outside her door with the petition, "O flower more sweet than the rose, I, your slave, pray you, come forth--come forth; the fête is ready; the stars await the moon!" Mary let them wrap round her face the veil of gauze of Baalbec, and went to meet Iftikhar. Never had the emir been more darkly handsome; his eye flashed with fire out-vying the blaze of the great gems at his girdle. He wore a tiara worth thrice the revenues of the king of France. The sheath of his long cimeter was of beaten gold. And when Mary looked upon him, a strange thrill passed over her--what a man this was, who had loved her even against her will! "Come forth, O Fairest of the daughters of the Christians! And let the maidens of Syria blush beneath their darker skin: let them mourn, 'Our beauty cannot compare with the loveliness of the Greek who is beloved of Iftikhar Eddauleh!'" So spoke the emir, and a mysterious spell seemed to fall on Mary. Under his word and nod she was passive as a little child. Once, once only--the vision of Richard Longsword--rough-featured, firm-lipped, framed of iron--passed before her eyes,--how dim it all was! How very far away! Iftikhar took her hand, and led her through the mazy colonnades. And women fair as the dawn brought her a great wreath of cool flowers that she hung about her neck; others threw upon the air a spray of perfumes of Mazendran, while as the two advanced, the lights and torches ever multiplied; they trod onward in a glow of brightness. "See!" Iftikhar had led her to the balcony of the colonnade, where thronged the nobles of the court of Redouan, all in dresses bright as the sun, but Iftikhar's brightest. Before them and around stretched a wondrous vision. Mary saw the maids and young women of Aleppo, of Sultan Redouan's harem and of his grandees, dancing, as was their custom, in wide circles hand in hand; their white dresses flying, their brown arms twinkling, their violet-black hair streaming to the wind. First they danced yet veiled; then as the dances maddened, they one after another cast the veils aside, and their dark eyes flashed in the torchlight. Round the women in wider circles were others,--three thousand men,--also in white, but with each a glittering cuirass and cimeter. And as the maidens danced the men broke from their ranks, and danced after their kind; crying aloud, and beating their swords against their targets. But the crash of the cymbals, the boom of the copper kettledrums, the wild wail of the hautboys, the flutes, and the tinkling Persian harps, sounded above all. The dancers caught up torches, and made the ground spring with whirring light. As the music quickened, the dances wound their maze yet faster. And now the Ismaelians rushed among the women, mingling with them in the dance; plucking away the veils that were still clinging; catching the cymbals from the musicians' hands and crashing them yet louder. The whole scene seemed fast becoming pandemonium. Mary's eyes throbbed under the flashing of the torches; a desire seemed to spring through her to sway with the mad music--to join in the madder whirl. But as she gazed, Iftikhar lifted his hand, and one of the musicians upon the balcony, putting to his lips a tiny flute, blew across the raging sea of light one note, clear, piercing, tremulous as the bulbul's call. At that note men and maids were stilled, and stood gazing toward the colonnade where was Iftikhar Eddauleh with his captive at his side. Then Iftikhar stepped to the edge of the parapet, and stood in his blazing dress--a very genie in mien and glory. While he stood, lo! every knee was bowed. The women also with the Ismaelians swept their foreheads to the ground; and while they did obeisance, Iftikhar's voice rang out over lawn and grove: "Ye 'devoted' of the Ismaelians; and ye women of Aleppo; slaves of the lord of Alamont, of me his deputy, and his vassal Redouan--behold! Kneel, tremble, adore! For I will show to you the peerless creation of Allah; the Lady of Beauty, the Star of the Greeks, who by the grace of the Most High shall, ere two years speed, be hailed sovereign princess from the western sea to the river of India! Fall down before her! For I say to you: the man or maid who shall cross her will or refuse her adoration shall surely die! Since under Allah she shall hold the lives of you all in the hollow of her hand!" At the word, the Ismaelians bowed again to the earth; then standing, three thousand voices cried, "We swear by Allah the Omnipotent, our lives and destinies shall hang upon her grace!" But Iftikhar called, "Let Masudi of Bozra stand forth!" A tall, handsome young Syrian stepped forward and stood before the balcony, his eyes cast on the ground. "O man 'devoted' to Allah!" commanded the grand prior, "lay your cuirass upon the earth." The mandate was implicitly obeyed. "Take your cimeter! Fall upon it!" Had the emir said, "Drink of this wine," there had not been less change in the Syrian's face. Not an eyelash quivered, nor did the lips twitch, when he held the keen blade at his breast and dashed himself upon the ground. A single spasm of the limbs, a red glow on the green sward,--that was all. Through all the great host standing under the torchlight there ran not so much as shiver or murmur. "See, my children!" cried Iftikhar again, "this moment Masudi, your brother, sits down with the maids whose bodies are pure musk,--they who sit waiting by the stream of honey flowing from the root of the tree Tûba. Who else, at my summons, will take the journey thither?" And the shout came back: "I!" and "I!" and "I!"; so all the three thousand cried it, and many sprang eagerly forward. "No, my children," warned the emir, upraising his hand. "Allah and our lord on earth, the Cid Hassan Sabah, have need of you. Full soon shall you win all the glory and riches of this world, or the kiss of the houris! And now bear the poor dross of Masudi away, and think on his bliss." As the eunuchs bore off the dead, Iftikhar spoke to Mary:-- "O Soul of my Soul, bethink you, here are three thousand of like mind to this man; and in the rest of Syria nine thousand more. With such a host we shall conquer the world--the world; and over it, you, my own, shall be sovereign sultana!" "O Iftikhar," came from the Greek, "who am I to be thus worshipped!" The voice, the throb behind the voice,--the word "Iftikhar," not "master"--were they Mary's own? She felt herself snatched in a current she might not resist. Drifting, drifting, and she knew whither, yet in some strange way did not shrink. Why did the light flash still more brightly in Iftikhar's eyes? Why did his dark beauty become more splendid? "Come!" was all he said. And in that word there rang a triumph, clearer than if sounded by trumpets. Her hand in his, he led her down the steps of the portico, all strewn with white bells of lilies, a carpet of blooming snow. At the foot of the stair a car which shone like a huge carbuncle; and harnessed to the car two lions, tame as oxen, yet tossing their shaggy manes, and their eyes twin coals of fire. Mary saw the beasts, but did not shrink. She looked upon the emir's face; in it confidence, pride,--and passion beyond words. How splendid he was! How one ought to worship this lord of men, to whom the lords of the beasts crouched submissive! How he had loved her with a love surpassing thought! She entered the car. They put in her hands reins of silken white ribbon. But Iftikhar himself stood at the heads of the lions, leading as if they were camels. Then he spoke: "Shine forth, O Moon, to the beautiful stars! Unveil!" And Mary, her hand answering his nod, swept the gauze from her face. In the same flash all the palace grounds shone with the red glare of Greek fire, so that the flambeaux made shadow; and Mary stood erect in the car, the light making her face bright and fair as the white cloud of summer. As she stood, she knew a tremor ran through the multitude and through the great lords on the portico; and a thousand voices were crying, not by forced acclaim, but out of their hearts: "Beauty of Allah! Fairest of the daughters of genii or men!" Such, and many more, the cries. Mary looked about; eyes past counting were on her. She held her head very proudly. Captive or queen, it was her triumph; and to Iftikhar she owed it all! The emir led the lions down the long avenue opened for them by the ranks of the Ismaelians, amid the admiring women,--straight toward the lake; and as the car moved, the Greek fire sprang from the very water, red and blue, fantastic flame-columns, whose brightness blotted out the stars. As they advanced, the multitude closed after them; the torches on the palace doubled, trebled; every dome and minaret was traced in light; the music swayed and throbbed like the sighs of an ocean surf. They reached the shore; a second carpet of lilies; a boat, long, narrow, bowered in roses; a high canopy of flowers in the bow; a single negro eunuch standing like an ebon statue at the stern, poising his oar. "Come!" so again Iftikhar spoke; Mary dismounted. He led her to the boat, seated her upon the roses. The multitude upon the shore stood in silence, all their praises in their eyes. The music was hushed for an instant. Iftikhar nodded to the rower. The oar dipped noiselessly. The boat glided from the shore gently as the tread of a spirit. Iftikhar sat upon the flower-strewn floor of the skiff, looking up into Mary's eyes. This was the end, praise God it was the end; she would do no more now! Iftikhar had conquered. Who of mortal stuff would fail to bend before such love as his; and he--was he not worth all loving? Neither said a word for a long time. The distance betwixt quay and boat widened slowly. The lights from the gardens spread out shimmering paths of fire upon the black waters. The only sound was the distant music once more throbbing from the palace, the dim shouts of the revellers within the groves, and the drip of the water from the noiseless oar. On high above the feathery palms crept the round disk of the moon. At last Iftikhar, never taking away his gaze, said: "O Mary, my own,--at last, at last,--I have made all good. You are mine now--body, soul, forever; for even in Paradise those who love are not sundered. For you will I strive to win glory as never man strove; a year, two years, and I lead you into Bagdad, first princess of the world. Hassan Sabah grows old; his glory passes to me, to you, whose slave I am,--and you shall be adored from the rising of the sun to its setting." "Ah! Iftikhar--" but Mary said no more; the emir had interrupted her. "Mine are no vain dreams. Kerbogha, lord of Mosul, is gathering all the might of Mesopotamia for our service. Amaz, emir of Fars, is with us; and the exiled Vizier Muejjed. The Fatimite kalif of Cairo is our ally, if all else prosper. Soon--soon--Bakyarok, the arch-sultan, is fallen, the phantom kalif of Bagdad vanished away, and the hour for the Ismaelians is come." Again Mary's lips opened; but the emir checked her. [Illustration: "IFTIKHAR TOOK FROM THE SEAT A LITTLE LUTE, TOUCHED THE STRINGS, AND SANG"] "O my own! why speak of this to-night? Hark, let me sing if I may, as Antar the hero sang the praise of Abla, whose love he won by labors greater than mine; hearken." And Iftikhar took from the seat a little lute, touched the strings, and sang, while his rich voice stole softly over the waters:-- "Moonlight and starlight clear gleaming, Over the slow waters streaming, Glint on the lake's shining breast; Fairer my love's eyes are beaming, Where the dark wavelets lie dreaming, By the soft oar lightly pressed! "Now while the shore lights are dying, Now while with swifter stroke plying, Flit we across the dim deep; Let us in rapt delight lying Hear the mild wind gently hying Where th' sprites night watches keep! "O that for aye I might, sweeping Where the long willows hang weeping, Feel the musked breeze of the west Over our blessèd bark creeping; Then would I smile in my sleeping By my love's white arms caressed!" When he raised his eyes to Mary, she could see they were touched by a gleam of awful fire; and her own breast and face grew warm, flushed with strange heat. The oar of the negro had stopped; the skiff drifted on slowly, slowly. Here toward the centre of the lake the water stretched beneath the moon, a mirror of black glass. "Mary, my beautiful!" cried Iftikhar, half rising, and he outstretched his arms. And Mary, as if his beck were a magician's, started toward him--the end! But as she stirred, her eye glanced downward; the moonbeams lit on something gleaming upon her hand--the silver ring of Richard Longsword: and a voice sounded, from the very heavens it seemed:-- "Mary de St. Julien, what price may a Christian wife give in exchange for her soul!" CHAPTER XXXI HOW MARY REDEEMED HER SOUL Near midnight--Morgiana had gone to her chamber early, but not to sleep. The throb of the music, the crash of the cymbals, the shoutings and laughter of the thousands,--all these nigh drove her mad. Twice had she tried to shut all out by a fierce resolve to hear no more, and sleep. Useless; sleep was a thousand leagues away. She had stood by her lattice and seen the multitudes swarming down to the illumined quay, had heard the praises of Mary Kurkuas ring up to heaven, had seen the boat glide into the darkness. And the Arab had cast herself on her cushions, and wept and wept, until her tears would no more flow. How long a time sped thus, she might not tell. When next she knew anything save her grief, she heard a light hand thrusting back the curtains from her bed. "Morgiana." Mary stood holding a little silver lamp. The coronet was still flashing on her flowing hair, the dim light shining on her bare neck and swan-white shoulders. Never in the eyes of her rival had she seemed fairer. Morgiana stirred, stared into Mary's face. "You have yielded! You are his--his forever! Oh, sorrow, sorrow!" So cried the Arab; but the Greek touched her cheek softly. "Hush, dear sister! I have not yielded. I have defied him; and this time there is a gulf sprung between us that only death can close. It was an angel from heaven that spoke; I must, I will--escape him! I must fly, fly--or it is best to perish!" "Fly!" cried Morgiana, startled now. "Allah the Compassionate! You are mad!" Mary checked her. "No, not mad; only I know that I cannot sell my soul to Iftikhar Eddauleh, though he led me sultana through Bagdad. Listen: I had a terrible scene with him in the boat. God knows what I said or did; I recall nothing, save as out of a frightful dream. But one thing I know, I am the wife of Richard Longsword, and till I know he is numbered with the dead, I will lift eyes to no man, nor angel either; but to Iftikhar Eddauleh never--till the endless ages end! Dear God--I can endure no more. I must--I will--fly!" "O dearest one," cried Morgiana, troubled greatly, "how may I comfort you? say what? do what? Allah pity us both!" "He will have pity!" burst out the Greek. "Follow me. When Iftikhar rowed back to the shore he was in a black rage. I hoped he would strike me dead. He did not. The Sultan Redouan and his lords were feasting in the palace. Said Iftikhar to the eunuchs at the quay, 'I must join the revelling, but lead the accursed woman back to the harem; for seven days she shall not see my face, since she likes it so ill.' But the eunuchs were reeling with their wine. I wrapped a veil about me, and evaded them. Then I wandered through the palace, as did the other women come from Aleppo. No one knew me. And as I strayed by the great banqueting hall, I saw one whom they styled Aboun Nedjn, vizier of Redouan, rise and shout the pledge, 'To the confusion of the Christians, and may they soon fight their last before Antioch!' Then I turned to one of the women, and said, 'And are the Christians besieging Antioch?' and she replied: 'How ignorant! All Aleppo knows that they have lain about that city all winter; certain prisoners of theirs have been brought to Aleppo; and now the Lord Iftikhar makes ready to join the great host which Kerbogha, emir of Mosul, is gathering to deliver Antioch and its prince, Yaghi-Sian.' Then I listened no more, but fled straight to you. For I must fly this very night. Think, Morgiana: at Antioch are the Christians; at Antioch are Duke Godfrey, and Raymond, and Tancred; at Antioch, oh, joy! is Richard Longsword, whose soul is more dear than my own!" "But, sweet sister," protested the Arab, "Antioch, I believe, is twenty of our Eastern leagues away, perhaps sixty of your Frankish miles. How can you make the journey? Alone?" "To-night!" cried Mary, tearing the gold from her hair. "To-night! All the palace is drunken. Even the 'devoted' are in stupid sleep. No watch is kept, I saw that well. A late slave boy returning to his master in Aleppo--no questions." "But the dangers of the way! Full of bandits, roving horsemen, the scum of both armies--for such must be afield. You on foot! The hardships; deathly peril!" "Light of my heart," exclaimed the Greek, "let the jackals prey on me--beasts or more cruel men,--if they be not Iftikhar Eddauleh!" "Curse him not," blazed the other; "not even you shall speak him ill. Fool, that you do not love him!" Mary was tearing off her silken dress. "Morgiana," she said very quietly, "you know the presses where the eunuchs keep their clothes:--bring me a vest and mantle, and a turban,--the coarsest you can find; and heavy shoes, if any fit me. St. Theodore," she cried, looking down at the white thongs of her sandals, where the gems were shining, "how miserable to have such small feet!" Morgiana obeyed without a word. "Your skin! Your face white as milk!" she protested, when Mary stood in the costume of a serving-page. The Greek laughed. "Have I not mocked you often for your Persian 'light of the cheeks' which you keep in that casket? Take your pencils and your _kohl_, and make me dark and tanned as a true Syrian! Haste; the night is flying!" As she spoke, an iron ball dropped from the water-clock in the corner upon a bell. "An hour after midnight. Quick, if you love me and love yourself!" Morgiana did her task with all deftness. "They will search for you. You will be pursued at dawn!" "Say to Iftikhar," was the ready answer, "that I have wandered from the palace vowing to cast myself in the lake. Let him bid his 'devoted' seek me there." "_Wallah!_ You are a terrible maid!" cried the Arabian. "But how beautiful a serving-boy!" "Now," continued Mary, desperately, "shears! my hair!" "Never," protested the other; "not as I live, shall I touch it. See, I will bind it up beneath your turban. But oh, think better; do not go. The danger is terrible!" "Morgiana," was the answer, "my husband is at Antioch. Naught can befall me worse than I suffer here. You have been a sweet sister to me; and I leave my kiss for Eleanor. May we never meet again! Farewell." They kissed each other. Mary saw Morgiana standing in the dim lamplight, her head bowed upon her hands. Then the Greek stole through the dimly lighted halls. When she stepped past the nodding eunuchs who were standing guard at the harem entrance, she felt a little quiver. They gave her never a sign. She wandered across the great entrance hall; only two lamps twinkling high up from the stalactites by the dome,--weird, ghostly light. She stumbled on some form--a man sleeping in his drunkenness; for the law of the Prophet against wine, who had observed that night? She saw dimly low gilt and ebony tables beside the divans, the food still on them. She caught some cakes of bread and thrust them under her girdle, then tasted a cup that had not been drained. The wine was sweet, she did not like it. She wandered on. Here was the portico, where another guard stared at her stupidly. She passed outward, two others passed in; a dying flambeau showed the features of Iftikhar and Hakem. Mary trembled, but one of the pillars was good shelter. The emir had been over his cups, and his face was flushed, his speech thick, rapid. The eunuch as ever was smiling. "By every evil efreet!" Iftikhar was swearing, "I will make her bend. In the boat I thought to win her kiss; she spat upon me! struggled so that scarce my strength could keep her from casting us into the lake! called the name of her accursed husband! See to her, Hakem. Bring her to more tractable state, and I give a thousand dinars; but let her spurn me again, and by the Brightness of Allah I will teach her she is slave indeed!" "The Fountain of Omnipotence," replied the eunuch, smoothly, "is too kind. Let the Star of the Greeks be given into my full custody. Let her learn to bow her head to poor Hakem; and it will go hard, unless she is all smiles to Iftikhar Eddauleh." "_Mashallah!_" cried the emir, "it shall be as you say. Well, I have sworn I will see her no more for seven days. Tame her, as you will. Sometimes I curse the hour when first I set eyes on her. Why shall I not deal with her as with any slave? Why speak of her love, her favor?--her body I own, assuredly. As for her soul,--_Wallah!_ to us Ismaelians of the upper degree, if man or maid have a soul--it is of too strange stuff to be reckoned with. But come, good slave! I have drunk too deep to-night. Soon I expect word from Kerbogha that our host must move to Antioch; and then I shall have other things in mind than flambeaux and the eyes of a maid." "My lord speaks with the wisdom of Allah!" fawned the eunuch. "I will go to our little bird to see that she sleeps secure, and in the morning she shall know your will." They passed within the palace. Mary glided up to the great gate. The yawning porters were just closing. "Eblees possess you!" cried one, holding up a lantern. "Back into the palace! Will you wander home to Aleppo at this hour? The city gates are barred long ago." But Mary's wits could work fast just now. "Good brother," said she, jauntily, "I have stayed over-late, I know. But if I fail to return, my master makes my back pay with cold stripes. And I have a friend on the watch at the gate who will open when I call." "_Mashallah!_ you speak a strange Arabic!" protested the man. "Your hands are small as those of the Star of the Greeks that they say our lord loves better than El Halebah itself." "And you too, friend," was her reply, "speak a tongue that makes me half believe you Christian! And no man living would liken your hands to any save ditcher's spades!" "By Mohammed's beard!" exclaimed the fellow, good-naturedly, "you have a sharp tongue in your little body. Well, go; and let the kind jinns fly with you. Though almost I think you are girl, and would cry to you 'a kiss!'" "Never to such as you!" the retort. The gate closed behind her. All was dark. The last lamps on the great domes were out. Mary stole on in silence. There was not the slightest sound of bird, beast, or stirring leaf; just light enough to see where amid the trees the avenue led away from El Halebah to the outer road. Along that roadway--sixty miles due east, so she had reckoned--lay the camp of the Christians--and Richard Longsword! She was alone, and free! For a while neither weariness nor fear smote her. The ground could not fly fast enough under her feet. Again and again she wandered against thicket or trunk in the dimness of the trees, but the way led on, and she did not lose it. There was a strange gladness in her heart. "To Richard! to Richard!" O had she but eagle's wings to lend speed to her going! Suddenly the trees stopped. She was at the edge of the palace groves. To one side under the starlight she could just see the untraced masses of something--Aleppo; to the other side, the east, the stars told her, the hill and plain country stretched out scarce discernible. Mary turned her face toward the east, and saw the grove sink out of sight in the darkness. Then she walked yet faster. * * * * * It was noon, and the Syrian sun beat down pitilessly. The spring foliage and buds seemed wilting under the fiery eye. The little brooks on the hillside had already dried to a trickling thread. Everywhere the eye lit on reddish sand; red sand-hills and plain country with here and there a tree. The road had faded to the merest trail, where a few horses had trodden the thin weeds a day or two before. Mary rose from the stone by this roadway, where she had been sitting beneath a solitary sumac. She had eaten her bread, had lifted the water in her hands out of the tiny pool. She was weary--utterly weary. Had she been told she had traversed a thousand leagues since setting forth the night before, she could well have believed it. Yet reason bespoke that she had come less than a score of miles. She was footsore, hungry, frightened. The caw of the distant crow bore terror; the whir of the wind over the sunny plain half seemed the howl of desert wolves. Already her feet trudged on painfully, while her unaccustomed dress was dusty and torn. Each moment the utter folly of her flight grew upon her. She was alone, a helpless maid in the midst of that often harried country which lay between Antioch and Aleppo. Only once had she met human kind. During the morning two swarthy-skinned peasants, flogging an obstinate ass toward Aleppo, had stopped, and gazed curiously at this solitary youth in page's dress, but with the face of one of Sultan Redouan's harem beauties. "Brother," one of the peasants had cried, "do you know that from Antioch to Aleppo scarce one house is inhabited? The Christians--may Allah bring them to perdition!--have sacked Dana and Sermada, and left only the dogs alive. All honest folk have fled nearer to Aleppo or southward." "I thank you, kind sheik," came the answer in an Arabic that made the peasant marvel, "but I know my road. Yet are there any Christians now at Dana?" "Praised be the Compassionate! Since the battle at Harenc they keep closer to their camps, though Allah that day vouchsafed them victory. It is told that Yaghi-Sian is making so many sallies, they are more than taxed to repel him, glory be to the Most High!" "I thank you, good sheik; peace be with you!" And Mary had hastened on her way, leaving the peasants to wonder. One said: "Let us go back. This youth is no common wayfarer. Let us question him further." But the other wisely answered:-- "The day is hot. What is written in the book of doom is written. Leave the youth to God! Let us reach Aleppo and rest!" So they fell again to beating the ass, while Mary dropped them out of view. She had been made less weary then, and the dialogue had lent wings to her feet. Presently she came to a wretched village: squalid, dark, rubble houses with thatched roofs; a few poor fields around, with the weeds growing higher than the sprouting corn. She hesitated to walk through the single street, but not a soul met her. The doors of the houses gaped open; within was scanty household stuff scattered over the earthen floors. Every house bore signs of hasty leaving. Two or three were mere charred shells, for the torch had been set to their thatches. Over in the field a flock of crows and kites were wheeling,--some carrion,--but Mary did not go near. Yet, as she walked this street, as it seemed of the dead, forth ran snapping and barking several gray, blear-eyed dogs. For a moment she quaked lest they tear her in pieces. But at the sound of her voice they sank back whining, and followed on a long time, sniffing the bread under her girdle, and hoping to be fed. She shook them off at last, half glad, half sorry, to have nothing living near her. And now she was sitting by the roadway, looking down into the tiny pool and thinking. She took off her shoes and let her little white feet trail in the water,--very little and very white, never fashioned by the Creator, so she told herself with a sobbing laugh, to be bruised by the hard road. Once Musa at Palermo had composed verses in praise of her feet; how they were shaped only to tread upon flowers, or to whisk in dances, or be bathed with perfumes worth an emir's ransom. Holy Mother! and what were they like to walk over now! She looked at her hands; as she dipped them in the brook nearly all the bronzing of Morgiana had washed away. They too had been praised, times past numbering. A learned poet at Constantinople had written some polished iambics, likening them to the hands of Artemis, virgin huntress on the Arcadian hills. How helpless and worthless they were! Mary saw her face in the pool also. Her beauty--despite the disguise--her curse; the bane of so many lovers! "Better, better," came the thought, "a thousand times I had been foul as an old hag, than to have my beauty lay snares for my soul!" And then the thought followed: "No, not better, whatever be my fate; for by my beauty I won the love of Richard, and the memory of his love cannot be taken from me in a thousand years!" Then, speaking to herself, she said resolutely: "Now, my foolish Mary de St. Julien, though your feet are so weary, they must prepare to be still more weary. For there is many a long league yet before you see the Christian camp at Antioch, and set eyes on your dread Frankish lord." So, telling herself that she was a soldier's daughter and a soldier's wife, that the toils of travel would be as nothing to her father's campaign with the Patzinaks, she arose to continue the toilsome way. But as she stood over the little pool, the water looked more cool and tempting than ever. It was tedious to drink from the hands--a cup! Her hands went up to her hair, where was the blue muslin turban so carefully wound by Morgiana; and underneath it a silken skullcap. She unwound the turban, her hair fell in soft brown tresses all over her shoulders. As she bent to fill the cap, in the water she saw again her face, framed now in the shining hair. "Allah!" she cried, after the manner of the Arabs, "how beautiful I am! how Richard will love me!" And she laughed at her own complacency. A sudden shout made her start like a fawn when the hounds are baying; then a rush of hoofs, an outcry. "Iftikhar! He is pursuing!" her thought; and Mary sprang to run up the sandy hillside. Not Iftikhar; from behind the little sand-hill to the west six horsemen had appeared in a twinkling: all on long-limbed, sleek-coated desert steeds. Mary ran as for dear life, scarce knowing what she did. "_Ya! Ya!_" came the shout, in a mongrel Arabic, "a maid; seize! capture! a prize!" It was all over in less time than the telling. Mary never knew how it befell. She was standing once more by the roadway; two men, dismounted, were holding her. The other four still sat on their saddles. All six were devouring her with their eyes, and pelting her with questions she had no wits to answer. Her captors, she began to judge, were roving Syrian cavalrymen--half warriors, half bandits, tall, wiry-limbed, swarthy, sharp-featured. They and their steeds were gorgeously decked out with strings of bright silk tassels. They wore light steel caps polished bright; at their sides were short cimeters; over their shoulders were curved bows and round, brass-studded targets. When they opened their bearded lips to chatter, their teeth shone sharp and white as of hungry cats. At last Mary found words. The blood of the great house of Kurkuas was in her veins. Even in this dire strait she knew how to put on pride and high disdain. "Slaves," was her command, "unhand me! Who are you, so much as to look upon my face! By what right will you treat me as is unfit to one of your own coarse brood?" The curve of the lip and the lordly poise for an instant disconcerted even the Syrians. But soon one of them answered, with a soldier's banter:-- "By the soul of my father, pretty one, I half dream you a sultana. Does Allah rain houris in youths' clothes upon the waste land betwixt Sermada and Harenc? _Bismillah!_ we do not light every day on a partridge plump as you!" "Let me go, fools," cried the Greek, turning very pale, but more with wrath than fear, "or you will find my little finger large enough to undo you all." But at this the six only roared their laughter, and for a moment ogled their captive with sinful eyes that made Mary's soul turn sick. She made one last appeal, and only her own heart knew what it cost her to say the word. "Act not in folly. Carry me to Aleppo, and deliver me safely to the great emir, Iftikhar Eddauleh. He will give you for me my weight in gold." Another laugh, but the six looked at one another. "Tell me," quoth the earlier speaker, "O Star that falls in the Desert, how you come here, if you are possessed by Iftikhar Eddauleh?" Mary only flushed with new anger. "Beast, who are you that I should answer? Do as I bid you, or it will be to your hurt!" "Truly, O Yezid," began a second Syrian, "it may be as she says. Let us ride to Aleppo." But Yezid, who seemed the leader of the band, gave a deep curse. "To Aleppo? We are too little loved by Redouan to risk our heads within bowshot of his executioner. Look upon the maid; she is one of the Franks, whoever she be. She will fetch a hundred purses in the market. Yet I am minded myself to possess her!" Mary looked at the Syrian; noted his coarse, carnal eye, and the impure passion in it, and felt her heart turning to stone. "Dear God," ran her prayer, "give me strength to bear all; for I am in the clutch of demons." But the other five had raised a great outcry. "Verily, O Yezid," shouted one, "you are a river of generosity. Six of us capture the maid, and you protest that she is yours alone. May Allah cut me off from Paradise if I part with my claim to her." "And who are you, O Zubair," raged back Yezid, his teeth more catlike than ever, "to dispute my right? Am I not the chief? When we held the rich Jew without water four days since, did I not share the ransom equally? And now that we possess this maid, whose form and face fit my eye as my sword its sheath--" and as he spoke he laid his hand on Mary's bare neck, making the white flesh creep under his foul touch, and lifting the soft mass of her telltale hair. The five cut him short with one yell. "Never, insatiate one!" And Zubair added: "Let the maid be sold, and the money divided. If we may not take her to Aleppo, let us swing her across a saddle and spur away to Hamath, where there is a good market! As you have said,--a hundred purses for such an houri of the Franks. Better profit twenty fold than watching these roads, when the Christians have swept the country clean!" Yezid grinned more savagely than ever; and Mary closed her eyes that she might not see his leer. "I have sworn it," cried he. "This once must you sons of Eblees give way. I like the girl well. Not for an hundred purses would I part with her. Is she not my captive? shall I not bear her away to the mountains where is our camp, and the other women?" Mary closed her eyes tighter. She knew _then_, if not before, that it had been a mad boast indeed when she said to Morgiana, "Naught can befall me worse than I suffer here at El Halebah." The evening before she had been hailed princess, sovereign of thousands--and now! Her eyes she could close; not her ears, and the foul speech of the angry Syrians smote them, though her sense grew numb by sheer agony. Louder and louder the quarrel. Presently she heard a great shout from Yezid. "By the Beard of Mohammed! either you shall give the girl up to me, to work my will, or my cimeter is in her breast." His clutch tightened, and Mary saw through her eyelashes a bright blade held before her. "Death at last, the Blessed Mother be praised!" and she closed her eyes, and tried to murmur the words of "Our Father." But the voice of Zubair grew conciliatory. "Valiant captain, not so angry. You have the chief claim, but not the only one. Let us not broil, good comrades that we are. True the Prophet--on whom be peace--forbids dice; but Allah will be compassionate, and I have some about me. Let us cast for the maid. You win and possess her. We,--she goes to Hamath, and the sale's money is divided amongst us five!" Yezid began to growl in his beard, but the shout of the rest silenced him. "Let it be as you said!" he muttered. And Mary, opening her eyes, now saw Zubair and the chief standing by the rock, and shaking the dice in the hollows of their hands. How strange it all looked! On the cast of four bits of ivory her own weal or woe was hanging! The fortune of her--a Grecian princess, a baroness of France, a Sultana of the Ismaelians! Was it not a dream? One cast,--a curse from Zubair. A second,--Yezid smiled and smirked toward her. Again Zubair cast,--again he cursed; and when Yezid lifted his hand he gave a loud, beastly laugh. "Praises be to Allah! You have all lost. This houri, comes she here from the clouds or from Aleppo, is mine. _Ya!_ I can wait no more to kiss her!" But just as Mary felt sight and sound reeling when he seized her, there was a great howl from the Syrians. "Flight! To horse! O Allah, save!" And down the eastern road Mary saw, not six, but sixty, cavalrymen in headlong gallop; all with white robes and turbans, and at the head a rider whose armor was bright as the sun. "Away, my peacock!" shouted Yezid, who, even in that moment, tried to swing Mary into his saddle before him. But as the words sped from his sinful throat, a shaft of Iftikhar went through his horse's flank, and the wounded beast was plunging. "_Allah akhbar!_" the yell of the Ismaelians as they swept around Mary's captors, almost ere the luckless bandits could strike spur; and it was Iftikhar's own hand that plucked Mary from the clutch of Yezid. "Bind fast!" his command. "_Bismillah!_ what were they about to do?" "This beast had won me at dice. He was to carry me to his den in the mountains, he boasted," Mary said, with twitching lips. "Mercy, O Sea of Compassion!" Yezid was whining; "how should I know that I offended my lord?" "_Ya_," hissed Iftikhar; "strike off the heads of these five here; let the jackals eat them. But their chief shall go to Aleppo, where we will plunge his head in a sack of quicklime." Then, with not a word to Mary, he had his men devise a horse-litter, placed her in it, and the whole troop headed again for Aleppo. CHAPTER XXXII HOW MORGIANA PROFFERED TWO CUPS It was the next morning at El Halebah that Mary found Morgiana in her aviary. Here, in a broad chamber at the top of the palace, too high for any vulgar eye that chanced across the Kuweik to light on the dwellers of this wind-loved spot, the Arabian had her eyry. The high openings in the walls were overhung with fine, nigh invisible nettings, the floor strewn with white sand; and, despite the height, means had been found to keep a little fountain playing in a silver basin; and just now two finches were gayly splashing in its tiny pool. All around in deep tubs were growing oleanders, myrtle, laurel, although the birds made difficult the lives of the blossoms; there were hairy ferns, and the scent of sweet thyme was in the air; around the arabesqued columns roved dark, cool ivy; in and out through the meshes of the netting buzzed the adventurous honey-bee, flying thus high in hopes of spoil. Everywhere were the birds--finch, thrush, sparrow, ring-dove, and even a nightingale that, despite the drooping for his vanished freedom, Morgiana had by some magic art persuaded to sing evening after evening, and make the whole room one garden of music. As the young Arabian stood, upon her shoulder perched a consequential blackcap cocking his saucy head; and a wood-pigeon was hovering over her lips trying to carry away the grain there in his bill. Morgiana had named all the birds, and they learned to answer to their calls. As for fearing her, they would sooner have fluttered at their own shadows. Mary pushed back the door, stepped inside, and as she did so a whir of wings went through all the plants, for she was not so well known to the birds as was their mistress. But after the first flash and chirp there was silence once more, save as the doves in one corner kept up their coo, coo, around a cherished nest. Morgiana opened her lips; the pigeon swept away the grain, and lit upon a laurel spray, proud of his booty. Then the Arabian turned to her visitor. The Greek was very pale; under her eyes dark circles and red, as if she had slept little and cried much. For a moment she did not speak. Then Morgiana brushed the blackcap from her shoulder, and ran and put her arms about Mary. "Ah! sweet sister,--so I have you back again! It was as I said, folly, impossible madness." "Yes, madness!" answered the Greek, very bitterly. "I was indeed mad to forget that I am naught but a weak woman, made to be admired and toyed with, for strong men's holiday. But oh, it was passing sweet at first to think, 'I am free--I am going to Richard!'" And at the name of the Norman, her eyes again were bright with tears. "O dearest and best!" cried Morgiana, clasping her closer, "what can I say to you, how comfort you? I heard the eunuchs tell of the plight in which Iftikhar found you. My blood runs chill as I speak. Allah! There are worse things than to be a captive of Iftikhar Eddauleh!" "You say well, my sister; but how came Iftikhar to follow me? You did not betray? You told the tale I gave you?" "Yes," protested the Arab, with half a laugh. "But in the morning, while Iftikhar foamed and the eunuchs dragged the pond, there came on me the desire to breathe the hemp smoke, and when the craving comes, not all the jinns of the abyss may stop me. And as I reeled over the smoke, I saw you in direful peril, clutched by wanton hands, facing a fate worse than death! Then I fought with myself. You were gone at last! And my evil nature said to me, 'Leave the Greek to her living death. Iftikhar is yours alone, you may win back his heart again, and be happy--happy!' But, O dearest, when I thought of your agony, I could not be silent. I told Iftikhar whither you had fled, and he spurred after and saved you." "Yes," echoed Mary, "he has 'saved' me, as you well say. Not a word did he speak to me on the homeward journey. Last night I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. Oh, bliss, how sweet that long sleep was! And in it I saw Richard Longsword, and he was holding my hand, and I could look up into his face. Then I awoke--Hakem, near me, saying that by the command of the emir hereafter he was to have my ordering! It was passing from heaven to nethermost hell. And here I am again! Helpless, passive, for others to work their will upon! while twenty leagues away lies Antioch and Richard and perfect joy. Yet I thank you, sister,--there is something worse than to be in the hands of Iftikhar, but God alone knows if there be anything I may pay you for the debt I owe." "Do you believe in a good God?" said Morgiana, stepping backward and looking into the Greek's eyes. "Do not Christians and Moslems alike believe in Him?" was the wondering answer. "Then," persisted Morgiana, a fierce ring coming into her tone; "why does He suffer you to endure such sorrow?" "He alone knows," was the reply. "It is as I said,--some fearful sin that I have committed and forgotten; or else"--and there was a new brightness in the eye of the Greek--"I am permitted to endure some pain that my husband had otherwise been made to bear." "O foolish one!" came the retort of the Arabian. "You sin? The soul of Allah is not whiter than yours; no, not as white! Richard Longsword is strong enough to endure his own pains; yes, and has endured them if you are to him as he to you! I will curse God--you may not stay me. Unkind, cruel, He is! All-powerful indeed, yet using His power to plunge His creatures into misery!" The Greek shuddered. "Beware! He will strike you dead!" her warning. "Dead?" echoed Morgiana, lifting her dark bare arms high, as if calling down heavenly wrath, and bidding it welcome; "almost I think His power ends there! If He had mercy on me, I were dead long ago. But no--I go on, living, breathing, talking, laughing,"--and here she did indeed laugh, in a terrible manner that made Mary quake. "Pity me. God is angry enough with us already. Anger Him no more!" cried the Greek. Morgiana laughed again. "_Hei!_" she continued, "let us look at our case with both eyes. You are back again at El Halebah. By your flight Iftikhar assuredly considers his pledge to you at an end. What do you expect?" "To be treated like any other captive of his 'bow and spear,' as you people say. To be at his will, sometimes to be caressed as these birds are by you, sometimes neglected; when I grow old or out of favor to see new women thrust before me, as, St. Theodore pity me, I have supplanted you. I shall in time grow sleepy, fat, and in a poor way contented; for such is the manner of the harem. Within four walls and a garden I shall live out my life. If God is still angry, I shall become very old. At last I shall die--when I shall have been among you Moslems so long that I can scarce remember 'Our Father.' Where my soul then will go, I know not; it will be worth little; sodden and dried by this cageling's life till an ox's were nobler." "O dearest," cried the Arabian, laughing, but half in tears now, "your words are arrows to my soul. You must be free, free--either you or I. What would you give to be truly free? Give for rest, peace, joy, an end of sorrow, struggle, longing?" "That waits only beyond the stars," answered the Greek. But she started when she saw the wandering glitter in Morgiana's eyes, and there was a wild half-rhythm in the Arabian's words when she replied: "Why not the stars and beyond? Why not seek out the pathways of the moon, the gates of the sun, the enchanted islands of the sweet West, and rest, rest, sleep, sleep--pangless, painless, passionless!" "Morgiana!" exclaimed Mary. The other answered still in half-chant. "Yes, there is a way--a way. I will go, will return, and to one of us the door is opened,--opened wide!" Then with a gliding, uneasy step she started away. "Back!" warned Morgiana to Mary, who attempted to follow. "I will do myself no harm. I return at once." Almost immediately she reëntered, in each hand a silver cup, the cups identical, each filled with violet sherbet. She set them upon the slab by the fountain. There was no madness in her glance now. "I am thirsty," said the Greek, simply; "may I drink?" "Drink?" repeated the Arabian, with a strange intonation. "Yes, in Allah's name, but first hearken! Many years ago, in Bagdad, a wise old woman taught me of an Indian drug, two pellets, small as shrivelled peas, in a little wine. Drink, and go to sleep--sleep so sound that you waken only when Moukir and Nakir, the death angels, sift soul from body. In Palermo, Iftikhar brought to his harem a Moorish girl. It was the hour of the beginning of my sorrow. A little made my breast fire, and my jealousy was swifter than the falling stars, which are Allah's bolts against the rebel efreets. One night when the Moor drank sherbet, she tasted nothing, she went to sleep; they found her body with a smile on the lips--her soul--? Ask the winds and the upper air." Mary's eyes were fastened on the silver cups; were they brimmed with nectar of the old Greek gods that they should charm her so? She heard her heart-beats, and bated her breath while Morgiana continued: "You wish to be free. So do I. Life is terrible to you; only when you sleep is there peace, fair visions, joy. Do you know, I had resolved, when I learned Iftikhar was bringing you to Aleppo, that you should drink of sherbet from my hands the first night of all; and wake--where even Iftikhar's eagle eye could never follow you?" "Holy Mother! why did you spare me?" came across Mary's teeth. "Why? Because, when I saw you pure as a lily of the spring, and so fair that the rose blushed in redder shame before you, and knew that your sorrow passed mine,--I had no will to kill you. Yes, your very love for death disarmed my hate. And now?"--she pointed to the cups. Mary felt herself held captive as her spellbound gaze followed Morgiana. The Arabian knelt by the marble slab; took up the two cups; held them forth. "Mary, Star of the Greeks," said Morgiana, looking straight into the Christian's eyes, "you believe in God; that He is good; that He orders all things well. Be it so. Then either He ordains that you spend your life the slave of Iftikhar, or that you be free. Either He ordains that I should possess Iftikhar, and he me--me only, or that I should flit far hence, where pang and remembrance of my loss can never follow. Therefore I say this. Here are two cups, alike as two drops of the spraying fountain. In one,--but I say not which,--I have placed the pellet of the Indian drug. The cups I cannot tell apart, save as I remember. You shall take the cups. I leave the room. You shall place them where you will, only so that I may forget which has received the magic pellet. I will then return. You shall drink of one, whichever you choose,--I the other. We shall kiss one another three times, lie down on the divan, and rest. Whom Allah wills, shall awake beyond the stars; whom Allah wills, shall awake in El Halebah! All is left to God. There is no taste, no pang; only sleep, sweet as a child on its mother's arm. For every day my love for you grows; but every day my heart says, 'Except Mary the Christian and Morgiana the Moslem be sundered by seven seas, woe--only woe--for both!'" Still the Greek did not reply. What were these visions flitting before her eyes? Not the birds; not the feathery palm groves waving beneath the palace walls. All her past life was there,--her father's stately house in Constantinople; the glory of the great city; the wild scenes of the escape to Sicily; Richard Longsword plucking her from the Berbers; the tourney--De Valmont in his blood; the hour when Richard touched her lips with the first kiss; the marriage; the last sight of her husband in the morning twilight at Dorylæum. Scene upon scene, a wild, moving pageant; yet behind all seemed to hover the shadow of Iftikhar--Iftikhar, the cause of sorrow and tears unnumbered. Still Morgiana held out the cups. "Taste!" she was saying. "You cannot tell. All is in the hands of God,--whether you bow your head to your fate, or to-night the moonbeams are your pillow; or whether I am escaped from all my heartache; can flit over your couch on unseen wing, and teach you to endure, as best you may, till the hour comes when hand in hand we can fly up the path of the sun and join in the dance of the winds." As bidden, Mary touched her finger first in one cup then in the other, placing each drop in turn on her lips. The same--she might have drained both goblets and known no difference. Truly the issue was with God! And still Morgiana proffered. "Take; we have been dear sisters together. How can I bless Allah when I desire to love you so, yet know that your life is misery to me, as misery to you? You have many times said you prayed for death." And then Mary spoke, a wondrous spell binding her:-- "Not so, Morgiana,--unfair. Why should I live and you die? Let me drink alone of this blessed drug that makes the heart cease bleeding. And you may live--live and be glad with Iftikhar." Morgiana shook her raven-black hair, and spoke with an awful smile. "Always is death sweet--I will not shun it, if Allah so wills. All I know is, we twain cannot live together; not in this world. Perhaps it is the Most High's will that I should go out, and you remain to give joy to Iftikhar. We leave all to Him. Then let us drink; and each await the other. Therefore--take." Mary had received the cups. "Place them where and as you will; I return speedily." And Morgiana was gone. The Greek gazed on the magic liquor as though on her lover's face. Almost she seemed to feel herself transformed, transfigured; clothed with wings white as swans' sails, and soaring upward, upward into perfect freedom. She saw her father, her mother,--that fair angel face of childish years. She thought of Richard Longsword. There would be no time for her, while awaiting the golden morning when her husband could look upon her face with naught to dread. Did thus God will? She had set the cups on the railing by the windows. "Come back!" was her call to Morgiana. The Arab glided straight to the cups; took one; lifted to her lips. "Let Allah have pity on one of us!" her words. But as Mary's hand stretched out to do the like, she gave a mighty cry. Her goblet fell: the other was dashed from Morgiana's hand. "Dear God! What do we?" cried the Greek. "Spare me this temptation! Nor do you commit this wickedness. Never shall we so tempt God. Though the grief be a thousand times more great, yet will I trust His mercy. I am a Christian, and Our Lord did not hang on the tree in vain to make us strong to bear. Death would be sweet. But had we God's wisdom, our present pangs would seem nothing, hid in the speeding ages of joy. Let us, each after our manner, call on God to show us pity. But never shall one of us stand before His face unsummoned, and cry, 'I am too weak to bear what Thou appointest!'" Morgiana's face flushed livid; she staggered back. "Then let Allah, if He may, have mercy; our need is great!"--such her cry from twitching lips. But as the words came, Mary saw the Arab's eyes set in a glassy stare; the lithe form fell heavily. Mary caught her round the waist, and laid her on the marble floor by the fountain; then dashed water in her face, and shouted for help. Help came--the under-eunuchs, Hakem, Zeyneb; and finally Iftikhar, lordly and splendid, in a suit of perfectly plain black armor with two white hawks' wings nodding on his helmet, spurred and girded as for a foray. The eunuchs brought cordials, strong waters, and pungent perfumes. But Iftikhar first knelt by Morgiana's side, drew forth the little red vial, and laid the magic, fiery drops upon her tongue. The Arab shook herself; her form relaxed; the eyes opened. They bore her into a room leading from the aviary, and propped her on the divan cushions. Not till then did Iftikhar speak a word. Now one gesture sent all save the two women and Zeyneb from the chamber, when the emir broke forth:-- "In the name of Allah Omnipotent, what means this, Morgiana? I demand it; speak!" And the Arab answered with her gaze full on Iftikhar. "Cid, I asked Mary the Greek to drink out of one of two goblets, in one of which was a sleeping potion from which the sleeper awakens never. She refused, saying it were better to endure than to tempt the Most High. That is all." A flash of terrible rage crossed the emir's face. "Witch! sorceress! Have you sought to make the Greek take her life? As the Most High lives, you shall be impaled!" "Peace, master," said Mary, gently. "I have refused her proffer. Be assured I will find strength to bear until I see once more my true husband, or having endured your unholy will, in God's own time I die." But at the word the face of Iftikhar was blackened with yet deeper fury. "Your husband!" came thickly. "Yes, master," answered the Greek; "for, living or dying, Richard de St. Julien is my true husband." Iftikhar cut her short: "Dying? What if dead?" A frightful suspicion crossed Mary's mind. It was her face that was pallid now. But Iftikhar reassured her with a forced laugh: "_Ya_, how easy to tell you, 'Richard, the Frankish barbarian, whose sport is slaying guileless boys, has gone to his long account in the fighting around Antioch.' But I say to you, he lives, and I go to Antioch to seek his life." The Greek was herself once more. Very steadily she answered: "Master, let God judge Richard de St. Julien for slaying Gilbert de Valmont, since Zeyneb I see has learned and told the tale. But let God also judge Iftikhar Eddauleh, who is mightier with the dagger of his underlings than with his own sword, and who finds iron lances as light in his hand as those of reed." The words of the Greek were slingstones whirled in the emir's face. In the blindness of his fury he sprang toward her, and struck. The woman tottered, recovered; then tore back the muslin from her neck and shoulders:-- "Strike!" cried she, "strike again! Are you not master? Are you not lord of this body of mine you so lust after? What is a little pain, a few blows, beside what I ever bear!" Iftikhar's muscles grew tense as springing steel when he reined in his passion. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky: "Woman, you drive me to all bounds. You do well to call me 'master.' Truly I am, as you shall own with sorrow, if not with joy. But two evenings past you were queen, with the heir of Hassan Sabah your slave. But now--" he was silent, but broke forth again--"my pledge to you is at an end. You are mine. I will break your will, if I may not win it. You still hold the face of Richard Longsword dear?" "Yes, by every saint!" flashed the defiant Greek. "Hark, then," was the laugh of hate; "I go soon to Antioch in company with the great host Kerbogha of Mosul gathers to rescue Yaghi-Sian besieged by the Christians. I go second in command, with the twelve thousand 'devoted' of Syria, to whom death is less than sleep, who can stanch thirst with the vapor from the sunburned sand, whose steeds find food sniffing the desert blast. We will gird round the Franks tight as a ring girds the finger. I know the bull valor of your Christians. But they shall die as die the flies, or fall one and all our prey--prisoners. And Richard Longsword--" "Look him fairly in the face--as at Dorylæum!" cried the Greek, in hot scorn. "As at Dorylæum!" "And Richard Longsword," continued Iftikhar, still steadily, "as surely as the sun moves from east to west, I will slay in battle, or, taking alive, you shall see him my captive. Yes; by the brightness of Allah! When I go to Antioch, you go also; with your own eyes you shall see the fate of those Franks you love. You shall see Richard borne asunder on the cimeters of the 'devoted' or haled fettered before me." He paused, expecting an outburst. None! The Greek was standing proudly, her head poised high, eyes very bright. "And at the end you shall indeed touch the head of your Richard. The head,--for you shall hear the crier traverse the city, proclaiming, 'He who would amuse himself, come to the great square,--the body of Richard the Frank is exposed to the dogs!'" Mary took two steps toward the Ismaelian; her voice was low; she was pale, but did not tremble. "Lord Iftikhar, if God suffered and you placed even now the head of Richard Longsword in my arms, rest assured I would kiss it with never so much love. For I would know a brave and noble spirit waited on high till it were granted me to stand at his side, all his sins washed white by God's mercy. But, my Cid, better to think of bearding the lion than of celebrating the hunting. For, hear my word; go to Antioch, you, the 'devoted,' the hordes of Kerbogha,--go all, and meet there men with a love for God in their hearts, a heaven-sped strength in their good arms. Not with dagger and stealth shall you meet; but man to man, breast to breast, sword to sword,--and Christ shall conquer!" "Silence!" tossed out the emir, losing self-control. "Well you cry 'silence'! First silence your own dark soul--silence reproach for blood spilled wantonly, for tears your deeds have made to flow. At heart you Ismaelians believe in no God! Believe then in devils; tremble! For many await you! And this you shall find: men can die for Christ no less than for Allah! Aye, and can live for Christ; by His strength, make you Moslems die! As for me I shall not die; in some strange way, by some strange voice, I am warned God will save me utterly; and I shall see you blasted, stricken, accursed--and that were joy of joys!" Mary's voice had risen higher, fiercer; her hands outstretched in imprecation. Before the wild gust of her passion Iftikhar had shrunk back like a timid beast. For a moment the Greek was master, queen as never before. Then sudden as the flame had flashed, it died. Mary stood with drooping head, silent, statue-like. "Away! From my sight!" commanded Iftikhar. His captive did not move. Hakem had reëntered. "Take her away," cried his master; "keep her close,--let her lack nothing; but as Allah lives, her will shall bow. Let her go to Antioch when I go; but I will not see her face again until I can show her Richard Longsword dead or my captive. And now--begone!" Mary followed the eunuch with never a word. But Morgiana, silent long, broke forth:-- "Cid--seek no more blood in private quarrel. Keep the Greek. I do not pray for her or for me. But for your own sake--for you who are still the light of my soul, despite all the wrongs--do not go to Antioch. Ruin awaits you there. Even the 'devoted' shall fail. True is _Citt_ Mary's warning. Allah will fight with the Christians. Leave Kerbogha to the decree of doom; leave to doom Richard Longsword. I have said it--ruin, woe awaits at Antioch. I have said it, and my warnings never fail!" Iftikhar swore a great oath. "Then by Allah that liveth and reigneth ever, they shall fail now! Let doom decree what it will, to Antioch I go, and to Gehenna speeds Richard Longsword!" He turned on his heel, while she made no reply. "Zeyneb," quoth he to the ever ready dwarf, "in your head are hid half my wits. You are a faithful servant. In my cause you would outwit Eblees' self. I declare, by the great name of Allah said thrice, when they proclaim Iftikhar the kalif, they shall proclaim Zeyneb the vizier." The dwarf wagged his ears after his wont, to show how highly he prized such praise. "In a few days," continued the grand prior, "I go to join Kerbogha. You know all my plans, my secrets. While at Antioch there may come to El Halebah from Alamont and our other strongholds messages needing instant despatch. You must answer. I give you this signet: seal them in Hassan Sabah's own name." Iftikhar drew from his bosom a tiny silk bag, and took forth a ring set with a single emerald, worth an emir's treasure house. "The ring of Hassan Sabah!" exclaimed the dwarf. "_Mashallah!_ is it not a talisman?" came the reply. "Graven with the sign of the 'dirk and the cord,' no Ismaelian dare refuse anything commanded by the bearer, whosoever he be, under pain of forfeit of the pearl-walled pavilion of Paradise. Even the bidding of a grand prior, except he be present in person to order otherwise, is over-ridden by a fisherman wearing this ring. Therefore guard as the apple of your eye. Place it in the strong box where I keep my gems; only wear the key about your neck." The dwarf knelt and kissed his master's robe. "Cid, you overwhelm me with your confidence! How may I requite?" Iftikhar only laughed carelessly; the dwarf's eye roved round the room. "Morgiana has seen and heard," suddenly he whispered. The grand prior's answer was a second laugh. Then he added: "Morgiana? She would shed half her blood before twittering such a secret. Smell out greater dangers, my Zeyneb!" CHAPTER XXXIII HOW EYBEK TURNED GRAY "And how is it with the Star of the Greeks?" repeated Musa, while Richard Longsword's face grew gnarled as a mountain oak. At the Norman's silence, the Arab also became grave as death, and in a whisper that scarce left his throat, he asked:-- "As you are my friend, tell me, was it in the mountains where they say you suffered so from thirst? or in the camp where was the plague and fever?" Richard shook his head; then at last came the words:-- "She lives--at least I fear so!" "Allah the Compassionate!" was the Spaniard's cry, "you 'fear' she lives?" The Norman's casqued head was bent upon the shaggy mane of Rollo; he groaned in his agony:-- "Mother of Christ, pity me, if I be not beyond all pity! In the great battle at Dorylæum, of which you must have heard, our camp was stormed. I was away summoning help from Duke Godfrey. Before the Turks were driven out, they made prisoners." "Prisoners! Allah pity us indeed!" Musa rocked in his saddle, and pressed his hands to his head. But Richard drove straight forward, having begun his tale. "I continued in the chase of the Seljouks. My horse ran ahead of the rest. I saw a squadron of riders clothed in white, not Turks, but Arabs. I saw that the leader of the band was holding a woman before him on his saddle. I was almost measuring swords with him, when my horse failed. I returned to camp torn with forebodings, and found--" But here he stopped, even he startled at the agony written on the Andalusian's face. "Tell it all, dear brother," said Musa, raising his head by a mighty effort. "I found that Iftikhar Eddauleh and a band of his infamous Ismaelians had led the storming of the camps. He had carried Mary away in his flight; and at this moment she is in his harem,--his slave, till God may have pity on her innocency and let her die." Then Richard told Musa why he had pursued Hossein, and the Spaniard called on his men to join in the chase of the fugitive, who had not taken refuge among them, but had flown on as swift as his steed could carry. But the Ismaelian seemed to have bidden the earth open, and it had swallowed him. So after futile search the whole party turned toward Antioch; and Musa explained that he came against the Christians with no hostile intent, but as commander of the armed escort of the embassy the Egyptian Kalif Mustaali was sending the Crusaders. For the Egyptians, as Musa explained, had little love for the Turks, since the Turks were the foes of Ali, successor of the Prophet, whom the Egyptians venerated. Moreover, twenty years before, the Seljouks had plundered to the very gates of Cairo. And now that Mustaali had conquered Jerusalem and Palestine from the Turks, he would be glad to strike hands with the Christians, and grant them free access to the Holy City, if only it could remain in his hands. Therefore he had sent a pompous embassy of fifteen deputies to proffer the Crusaders honorable peace or deadly war. "And do you imagine, O brother," said Richard, when he had heard this, and they were riding on together, "that we Franks will have anything less than the complete mastery of the Holy City, or be turned back by the threats of your kalif?" "Allah is all-knowing," was the gloomy reply. "I forewarned the Vizier Afdhal that nothing would come of this; for have I not seen your France with my own eyes? But I can only obey. The smooth speeches I leave to the deputies." Then, with a quick turn: "As Allah lives, I can think of nothing but of what you have told me. Mary Kurkuas the slave of Iftikhar,--of Iftikhar! O Allah, if indeed Thou art omnipotent and merciful, why may such things be?" "Peace, sweet brother," said the Christian, gently. "I am trying to learn to bow to the will of God. Do not make my task harder. Mary Kurkuas was my wife; but what was she to you?" "What to me?" The words came across Musa's white teeth so quickly that he had spoken ere he could set bridle to his tongue. Then slowly, with a soft rhythm and melody attuned so well by his rich voice, he answered: "What to me? Shall I say it again; are you not my brother, is not Mary the Greek my sister? Are not your joys my joys; your sorrows--what sorrows are they not!--mine? Allah pity me; my heart is sad, sad. And what have you done to seek for her?" So Richard told as well as he might of his questionings of the prisoners, and of the report that Iftikhar had gone to Persia, to Alamont the trysting-place of the Ismaelians. But Musa shook his head at this. "Either the man spoke false or was ignorant. I am close to the gossip of the court at Cairo. Iftikhar is in Syria. He keeps still, lest he rouse Barkyarok; but I think report had it he was dealing with Redouan of Aleppo." "Aleppo?" repeated Richard. "I rode close to the city. But it is impossible to gain news. War blocks all roads. These Syrians will lie, though there be a dagger at their throats. Had we but captured Hossein--" "Forgive that my coming made him escape you," broke in the Spaniard. "Forgive?" continued the Norman; "what have I to forgive touching you, my brother? Perhaps even Hossein could have told nothing; but vengeance is sweet." "_Wallah_, and it shall not be small!" swore Musa. So the company rode back to the camp of the Christians; and Richard's men were astonished to meet their chief trotting side by side with an unbeliever. But he reassured them, and brought the embassy with all courtesy before Duke Godfrey, who entreated the Egyptians very honorably. Richard, however, took Musa to his own tent, and the two spent together an evening long and sweet. Richard told of the fighting around Nicæa, of Dorylæum, the desert march, the unfruitful siege; and Musa told a story of a campaign in Nubia against negro nomads, and showed the gem-hilted cimeter that the Fatimite kalif had himself bestowed when the Spaniard returned to Cairo victorious. "And I had another reward offered me," continued Musa, smiling. "The kalif said to me: 'Cid Musa, you are a gallant emir. As Allah lives you shall be my son-in-law; you shall have the hand of Laila my daughter; whose beauty is as a fountain bursting under palms.'" "So you are wedded at last," cried the Norman, and he held up his wine-cup. "To Laila, wife of the great Emir Musa, son of Abdallah!" was his cry. But the Spaniard checked him with a laugh. "No, I put the offer by, though it was not easy to refuse such a gift and yet save my head." "St. Maurice, you refused!" "I did; a sly eunuch let me see the princess unveiled. To some men she is beautiful: eyes that need no _kohl_ to deepen, feet too small for silken slippers, her smile that of a lotus-bloom under the sun,--but she was not for me." "Foolish!" cried the Christian, "you sing love ditties ever, but bear love for none." "I am yet young. Wait,--in the book of doom what is written is written. Leave me in peace!" was the laughing answer. But neither Norman nor Spaniard laughed in heart when they lay down to sleep that night. Richard knew that Musa had made a great vow; he could nigh guess its tenor, though the Moslem kept his counsel well. The Egyptian envoys came on a barren embassy; infidels were infidels to the Franks, came they from Bagdad or Cairo. When the ambassadors hinted that the Crusaders would be welcome at the Holy City if they would only enter unarmed, the answer was fiery: "Tell the kalif that we do not fear all the power of Asia or of Egypt. Christians alone shall guard Jerusalem." So the envoys prepared to journey homeward. The Franks were to send with them a counter-embassy, proposing peace if Jerusalem were surrendered; but few expected any good to come of the mission. Yet, despite the brave words, it was a gloomy council of the chiefs that met in Duke Godfrey's tent the night after they had rejected the Egyptian terms. Tancred was not there, nor Richard Longsword. Godfrey's face was careworn as he sat at the head of the table, on his left Raymond, on his right Bohemond. "Dear brothers," he pleaded, after a long and bitter debate, "we do not fight, I remind you, for gold or glory. Therefore do you, my Lord Raymond, recall your bitter words against Bohemond--Christ is ill served by His servants' wranglings." But Raymond answered haughtily: "Fair Duke, I, too, love Our Lord. But now the Prince of Tarentum comes demanding that whosoever shall take Antioch shall be lord of the city. I sniff his meaning well. His intrigue with Phirous the Armenian who wishes to betray the city is well known. Would God we had Antioch! But I will not sit by and see one man gather all the fruits of our toil when we have labored together as brothers, and poured out blood and treasure; will not see the spoils all go to one who hopes to prosper by base artifice or womanish stratagem." Bohemond had bounded to his feet. "Yes, Count of Toulouse, you do well to say Phirous the Armenian will betray Antioch at my bidding, and at none other. Have I put nothing at risk in this Crusade? Have I not played my part at Nicæa, Dorylæum, the battles around the city? If you have a better device for reducing Yaghi-Sian, make use, and win Antioch yourself! They tell that the lord of Mosul, the great Kerbogha, is not many days' march away, with two hundred thousand men, swept from all Mesopotamia and Persia. Will his coming make our task easier? Time presses; to-morrow? Too late, perhaps. Promise me that if I win Antioch I shall become its lord, and Phirous is ready to yield three towers into our hands." A deep growl was coming from the other chiefs. "By Our Lady of Paris and St. Denis," swore Count Hugh of the French blood-royal, angrily, "this Prince of Tarentum shall not beard us thus. Let half the army watch Antioch, the rest go against Kerbogha. God willing, we can crush both." But good Bishop Adhemar interposed. "To do so were to betray the cause of God. The host is weakened by war and famine. One-half will never suffice to confront Kerbogha; only the saints will give the whole the victory. We cannot raise the siege, nor endure attack from Kerbogha in our camp. Let us not blame the Lord Bohemond. With God's will every prince and baron shall win a fair lordship in this Syria; there is room for all." Silence lasted a moment; then in turn Robert the Norman cried, "By the splendor of God, my Lord Bohemond, think well if this Phirous has not deceived you!" "He has not!" attested the southern Norman, hotly. "Good!" retorted Robert, "he has taken your money and spoken you fair. So? You cannot deny. Nevertheless, fair princes, I have a man here with a tale to tell." A dozen voices cried: "What man? What tale? Bring him in!" Two squires of the Norman Duke led in an Arab, muscular, bright-eyed, decently habited. Robert explained that this man had come to him, professing to be a native Christian, well disposed to the Crusaders, and to have just escaped from the city. Through the interpreter he gave his name as Eybek, and answered all the questions flung at him with marvellous readiness and consistency. "Yes, he had ready access to the circle of Yaghi-Sian, and knew that the city was capable of making a very long defence. The emir was looking for help in a very few days. If the Christians did not raise the siege at once and march away, it would need a miracle from St. George and St. Demetrius to save them from the myriads of Kerbogha." Only once, when the fellow raised his head--for he had a manner of holding it down--Bohemond muttered to Godfrey:-- "Fair Duke, I know not when, yet once--I swear it by the thumb-bone of St. Anthony in my hilt--I have seen his face before." But the Duke replied:-- "How before, my lord? Not on the Crusade, surely. Perhaps among the Arabs of Sicily." Bohemond shook his head. "Not there." And the examination of Eybek went on. Then the Christian chiefs pressed him closer, and Hugh of Vermandois demanded: "But what of Phirous? For the Prince of Tarentum tells us this Armenian is high in the favor of Yaghi-Sian, that he is a Christian at heart, having been a renegade, and anxious to return to the only true faith." "Noble lord," replied the Oriental, through the interpreter, "if the Emir Bohemond believes the tales told him by Phirous, he is less wise than I deemed him. Phirous is in the confidence of Yaghi-Sian day and night." "_Ha!_" interposed Duke Godfrey, dropping his jaw, and Bohemond's sly face flushed with wrath and incredulity. "Is it not as I said, fair lords?" cried Robert of Normandy, bringing his fist down upon the long oaken table before him. "What has the Prince of Tarentum been trying to lead toward, save shame and disaster?" "Insolent!" roared Bohemond, on his feet, with his sword half drawn; "you shall answer to me for this, son of the Bastard!" Then the Norman Duke's blade started also. But above his angry shout rang the cry of Bishop Adhemar. "In the name of Christ, sweet sons, keep peace! Sheathe your swords! You, Prince of Tarentum, rejoice if we learn the deceit of Phirous in time. You, Robert of Normandy, do not triumph; for Bohemond has only sought to advance the victory of Our Lord!" "Fair lords," commanded Godfrey, sternly, "let us save our swords for the unbelievers, and be quiet while we hearken to this Arabian. In truth he appears a pious and loyal man." Then all kept silence while Eybek continued to explain that Phirous had been all the time in the counsels of the emir, that there was a plot to induce the Christian chiefs to adventure themselves inside the walls by pretending to betray a tower. Once inside, an ambush was to break out, and the flower of the Christians would be destroyed. Bohemond raged, and stormed, and tried to browbeat the fellow into contradictions. The Prince spoke Arabic and needed no interpreter; but the other clung to his tale unshaken. Only men noticed that he hung down his head, as if afraid to let the red glare of the cressets fall fairly on his face, and that when there was a stir among the lesser chieftains as a certain newcomer took his seat at the foot of the table he averted his gaze yet more. Presently, baffled and willing to own his hopes blasted, the Tarentine turned away. "St. Michael blot out that Armenian! He has taken my gold and deceived me. This Arab's story clings together too well not to be true." And the Prince started to leave the tent with a sullen countenance, for he had come to the council with swelling hopes. "The finger of God is manifest in this," commented Godfrey, piously. "Had not Duke Robert brought this man before us we would all, with Bohemond, have stepped into the pit dug by our enemies." "Verily," cried Adhemar, "this Eybek is a true friend of Christ; his reward shall not fail him." The Arab bowed low before the bishop and Bouillon, and muttered some flowery compliments in his own tongue. "Lead him away," commanded Duke Robert to his squires. "In the morning we will question further." As they obeyed, one took a torch from its socket on the tent-pole, and, holding it high, the ruddy light fell full on the face of the Arabian. An instant only, but with that instant came a cry, a shout. "Hossein!" and Richard Longsword had bounded from his seat as if an arrow dashed from a crossbow. One snatch and the torch was in his hand, held close under the Arab's face. The luckless man writhed in a clutch firm as steel. Richard held up the light so that every feature of his victim lay revealed. "The man!" And at the exclamation, and sight of the iron mood written on Longsword's face, Eybek's bronzed face turned ashen pale. There was silence in the council tent for one long minute. Then Richard was speaking very calmly:-- "Fair lords, we are all deceived. This man is no Christian escaped from Antioch. What he is, those who know the manner of the captivity of Mary de St. Julien, my dear wife, can tell. On the day of the coming of the Egyptian embassy he was in company with a band of infidel horsemen that I dispersed. The tale he has told you touching Phirous is doubtless a lie, to cast discredit on the Armenian, and bring his scheme to naught, if Yaghi-Sian has not been warned by him already." At Longsword's words a howl of wrath went round the council table. "Traitor! Dog of Hell!" Duke Robert was threatening; "he shall know what it is to play false with the heir of William the Norman!" "_Te Deum laudemus!_" Bishop Adhemar was muttering. "Verily we were all deceived in him, as we believed ourselves deceived in Phirous; yet God has brought the counsels of the crafty to naught; they have fallen in the pit they had digged for others!" And Duke Godfrey added: "The Prince of Tarentum will thank you for this, De St. Julien. Let this accursed Arabian be led away and fettered." But Richard held his prey fast. "Fair lords, this is the boon I crave: give me the life or death of this fellow. By Our Lady I swear he shall not find either road an easy one." Then twenty voices chorussed, "Yes! yes! away with him!" So Richard led, or rather dragged out his victim. Eybek struggled once while they traversed the long tent-avenues of the sleeping camp,--and only once; for he found that in Longsword's hands he was weaker than a roe in the paws of a lion. The Norman did not speak to the captive, or to any in his train, until outside his own tents. The ever watchful Herbert, standing sentry, hailed him. "Does Musa sleep?" was all Richard said. And in a moment the Spaniard had glided from the tent, and was crouching by the smouldering camp-fire. "Ever awake?" asked Longsword, wondering; and the reply was, "Allah will not grant sleep when I think of--" But here the Andalusian's ready tongue failed. "Look!" Richard drew the captive down by the red coals, and whispered his name. Then Herbert gave a great shout, which brought Sebastian, Theroulde, De Carnac, and more from their tents, and they lit many torches. Now what befell Eybek that night we need not tell. For the ways of Herbert and De Carnac were not those of soft ladies, who embroider tapestry all day in a rose bower; and the Ismaelian was no sleek serving-page, who cried out when the first thorn bush pricked him. But before Richard Longsword lay down that night he had heard somewhat of Iftikhar Eddauleh, and of another more important than Iftikhar, which made his sleep the lighter. At dawn he was outside Godfrey's tent awaiting speech with the good Duke. When Bouillon heard what he was seeking, the Norman was instantly admitted; and Godfrey marvelled and rejoiced at sight of the fire and gladness that shone in Longsword's eyes. "Well met, and ever welcome, fair Baron," was the Lorrainer's greeting; "and will you ride to-day with your men toward Urdeh, and southward to see if you may sweep in a few droves of beeves and a corn convoy?" "My Lord Duke," quoth Richard, curtly, "I cannot ride to Urdeh to-day or to-morrow." The Lorrainer gave him a shrewd glance. "Fair son," said he, half affectionately, "you have been dreaming on what that captive spy threw out. Do not deny." "I do not deny, my lord. And now I come to ask you this: Will the cause of Christ suffer great hurt if I ride on no more forays for the week to come, or for the next, or, if God so will,"--he spoke steadily,--"or never?" The Duke's gaze was more penetrating than before. "Beware, De St. Julien; you ride to death if you trust the word of that Eybek, even under torture. We only know of him this--the Father of Lies is no smoother perjurer." Richard answered with a laugh:-- "Eybek has said to me thrice, 'Cid, as Allah lives, I swear I warn you truly,--strike off my head or torture as you will,--know this: you ride to death when you ride to Aleppo.'" "To Aleppo?" demanded Godfrey. "At Aleppo Iftikhar Eddauleh holds Mary Kurkuas prisoner, and I go to Aleppo to seek my wife," was Longsword's half-defiant reply. "Madman!" The Duke struck his heavy scabbard on the ground to double his emphasis. "'Mad' only as I set the love and joy of one of God's pure saints before peril that no cavalier, who is true to his knightly vows, could have right to shun." "How will you go? Antioch resists. We can detach no large force. Your own St. Julieners can do nothing." "My lord," said Richard, steadily, "I shall go alone, save for one comrade--my brother, Musa the Egyptian emir,--who will fail me when God Himself loves evil. He is Moslem, but I would sooner have him at my side than any Christian cavalier from Scotland to Sicily; for what human craft and wit and strength can do, that can he." The Duke, leaning heavily upon his sword, a smile half sad, half merry, upon his face, slowly replied: "You are both very young; God loves such--whatsoever their faith! You are right, De St. Julien--you must go. I will ask Bishop Adhemar to pray for your safe return." So Richard returned to his tents and made the last preparations, said farewell to many, and last of all to Sebastian. The priest's heart, he knew, was very full when Richard knelt for the words of blessing, and at the end Sebastian gave him the kiss of peace. "Go forth, dear son," was the word of Sebastian; "fight valiantly for Christ; fear not death. But by the grace of God bring the lost lamb home. And I--I will wrestle with God, beseeching that Michael and Raphael and Gabriel, the warriors of heaven, may spread their broad shields over you. And may He who plucked the three children from the fire, and Daniel from the paw of the lion, and Peter from the dungeon of Herod, deliver you also, and her whom you seek! Amen." When Sebastian had finished, Richard mounted Rollo. He wore no armor save the Valencia hauberk beneath his mantle; but Trenchefer was girded to his side. Musa was beside him on a deer-limbed Arabian. They crossed the Orontes on the bridge of boats behind the camp of Duke Godfrey. The tents and bright river orchards were fading from sight; on before lay the sunlit rolling Syrian country. Suddenly the thunder of a charger at speed came up behind them. Richard turned inquiringly. A moment later the strange rider had dashed abreast--had drawn rein; and Longsword rubbed his two eyes, doubting his vision--beside him was Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine. "My lord--" the Norman had begun. The Duke, he saw, was in no armor, and bore only his sword. Godfrey galloped along beside Rollo. "Fair son," said he, smiling, "has the noble lady, Mary the Greek, less chance of succor if three cavaliers ride to her aid than if only two?" "Impossible!" cried Longsword, distrusting now his ears; "it is you that are mad, my Lord Duke. Your position, your duties, the army! Doubtless we ride to death, as you well said." Godfrey's laugh was merry as that of a boy. "Then by Our Lady of Antwerp three swords will keep heaven farther away than two! Know, De St. Julien, that to my mind nothing stirs in the camp for the next two weeks. I grow sluggish as a cow, listening to Raymond's and Bohemond's wranglings. Renard will spread in the camp that I have led a foray southward, and let men miss me if they will. Enough to know my arm and wits can do more for once at Aleppo than at Antioch." "Yet this is utter rashness," urged Richard, in last protest; "to ease my own conscience, turn back--for my sake do it!" "For your sake," was the smiling answer, "I will keep my Marchegai neck to neck with Rollo. I am not so old a knight that I have forgotten the sniff of an adventure. When I put on the chieftain, I could not put off the cavalier." Richard did not reply. To shake off Godfrey was impossible. Presently the Norman in his own turn laughed. "On, then, to Aleppo! To Aleppo, be it for life or death!" cried Musa; and Richard added: "Tremble, Iftikhar,--the three best swords in the wide earth seek you!" Then each gave his horse the head. CHAPTER XXXIV HOW MUSA PRACTISED MAGIC In the city of Aleppo, close by the great Mosque Jami' el-Umawi, there stood a warehouse that was more than commonly busy on a certain spring morning. This warehouse was of two stories, built of coarse brown rubble, and only entered from the narrow, dirty street by a plainly arched passageway. Once within, however, the newcomer beheld a large court, surrounded on the lower floor by little shops; and on the upper floor, the whole length of the four sides of the court, ran a wooden gallery, behind which were storerooms and lodgings for the wayfaring merchants, who made this spot a sort of hostelry and rendezvous. The shops below were humming with busy traffic. Here on one side lay the _sook_ of the jewellers, and on the opposite were arrayed the tiny stalls of the dealers in copper wares. The court was crammed with braying donkeys, bright-robed Syrians, and the ubiquitous _sakkas_, the water-bearers, who for a trifle poured a draught from the camel-skin sacks on their backs, to any who wished. The _sakkas_ were jostled by the sellers of orange-flower water; these in turn by the tall, black eunuchs who were clearing the way for a closely veiled lady intent on visiting the jewellers; while through the midst of men and beasts swept a stately, venerable sheik from the college at the mosque, who rained down a curse, devoting to _Hawiyat_, the seventh and nethermost hell, the luckless donkey-boy that had brushed a dirty hand upon the doctor's red silk scarf over his shoulders. The worthy jeweller Asad, whose shop was on the right side of the court, had long since spread out his array of gemmed rings, silver cups, tiring pins, and Indian necklaces, and sat back in his little niche nodding sleepily, now and then opening one eye to see if the lady who followed the eunuchs was coming to visit him. But the wares of his rival Ibrah[=i]m kept her busy, and Asad contentedly closed his eye, and nodded once more, saying: "Leave to Ibrah[=i]m her trade. To-day his, to-morrow mine. So Allah will prosper us both!" And, despite the fact that one of the serving-lads who followed the sheik was casting a covetous glance upon the handy treasures, the good Asad nearly fell asleep on the mat-covered seat. Presently a question roused him. "Worthy sheik, can you tell me if you possess any Andalusian corals? If so, be so gracious as to show them. Not that I would buy--" But here Asad, with a keen scent for business, had opened both eyes, and was looking at his inquirer. A well-formed, handsomely featured Arab was standing before him; the lines of the face young, but the hair and beard not a little white. The stranger was dressed decently enough, but the long, loose _aba_ over the jacket was worn and soiled with dust, as were also the white leather shoes. "A Moslem gentleman of good breeding, but perhaps decayed family," was the estimate of the jeweller. And he answered slowly:-- "Be welcome in peace! Sit with me upon the rug! Here, boy, run to the confectioner's and bring us cups of sherbet." So the stranger put off his shoes and crossed his feet on the carpet, facing Asad. The shop was so small that a second visitor would barely have found room. Asad opened a little chest, and brought forth a tray of coral necklaces, which he submitted to his visitor. "_Bismillah!_" cried the other, "I feel the water hang on my eyelids when I see this red coral! My heart goes back to my own country I have not seen for many a year." "Verily," exclaimed the jeweller; "and have you come from Spain? Your speech shows you no Syrian." "It is true; from Spain. Five years since I left my dear home in Malaga for Mecca, to visit the city of the Apostle--on whom be peace! Allah confound the robbers that stripped me as I returned across the desert! I had taken upon myself a vow not to return until I had gained sevenfold the thousand dirhems with which I set forth. Being nigh penniless, I have wandered far and near,--Medina, Bagdad, Ispahan, Bussorah, Damascus, Cairo,--all I have visited, and little by little Allah blesses me with gain. Now I am in Aleppo seeking to sell some woollen cloaks of Shir[=a]z; but my longing for my own country is so great, I said to myself, 'Let me but spend a trifle on some corals of Andalusia, to remind me of my dear Malaga!'" "The Most High favor you!" responded the good jeweller, who knew that kind wishes cost nothing. "See,--this necklace--it is worth twenty dirhems--yet receive it as a gift,--it is yours for ten." The Spaniard's only response was a grunt. Then, after long silence: "Have I the treasures of Solomon the Wise? I care little for the coral,--a poor necklace; it were dear at three!" It was Asad that grunted now, but he only answered: "Have I not three wives and seven children? Will you impose on my generosity?" And then both men, knowing perfectly well they were on the highroad to a fair bargain, took the cups which the boy had brought, and began to converse on quite alien matters. "A noble city is this Aleppo," began the Spaniard; "only Cordova and Malaga, saving always Bagdad, are finer!" "_Ya!_" cried Asad, "you over-praise your Spain. Yet Aleppo is a noble city. Would to Allah we had as noble a prince to rule over it!" "So!" exclaimed the other; "then Redouan is not loved?" Asad spat far out into the court to prove his disgust. "On the last day Sultan Redouan's good deeds will weigh less than an ant's. Hear--three years since he slew his brothers, Bahram and Abouthaleb, as caution against conspiracy. His tyranny drives another brother, Dekak of Damascus, into revolt. He makes Yaghi-Sian of Antioch his enemy. Aboun Nedj'n, his vizier, is all cruelty and beheadings. Last of all, we are delivered over to the clutch of Iftikhar, the Ismaelian, whose evil deeds Allah requite!" "Iftikhar? I have heard the name." "Cursed be the day of his birth! The sultan cringes to him as to the very kalif! He has become possessed of El Halebah, the wonderful palace outside the city." "And he is there now?" "Yes; though soon he departs. In a few days he will lead off his band of Ismaelians to join the host which Kerbogha of Mosul is leading against the Christians at Antioch. Eblees pluck them also! There is a rumor that if the two overcome the Christians, they turn their arms against the kalif and the arch-sultan next. But woe for us! taxes grow each day. The gatherers are insatiate. Redouan grinds us at Iftikhar's bidding." "_Wallah_, I am interested; tell more of this Iftikhar." "Alas, brother, I know little to tell. These Ismaelians keep too close. They talk only with their daggers." Asad lifted the necklace; the Spaniard eyed it carelessly: "Four dihrems?" suggested he. "I wrong my household; yet say six," was the answer. The other shook his head. Asad dropped the necklace; then cried, "_Ya!_ Khalid, come hither and tell this worthy sheik of Iftikhar Eddauleh!" And at the shout a tall, gaunt Arab in a muezzin's flowing robe and ample green turban came groping through the crowd, dexterously threading his way, though entirely blind. Then there were greetings, and Khalid squeezed himself betwixt the others and was seated. "Blind?" answered he, in reply to a question. "Yes, blind by the blessing of Allah. Once I had sight and starved as a beggar. Then one day I stole, and the High Kadi put out my eyes. Next, the old muezzin at the great mosque died. They desired a blind man to succeed him, for the minaret is so high those with eyes can peer into the vizier's harem court and squint at his women. So I was chosen, and never since have lacked good bread and a warm sleeping-mat,--thanks to the Compassionate!" "But I desired to hear of Iftikhar, the Ismaelian," said the Spaniard, smiling. "Verily," ran on the blind man, "I can tell you a tale concerning him, for there is no gossip in all Aleppo that does not blow into my ears. They say he has a captive of marvellous beauty--a Christian." "A Frank?" was the question. "No, a Greek; more fair than the maids of Paradise, who are tall as palm trees. He has her in the palace El Halebah, and seeks to win her love, so the eunuchs tell." "_Mashallah_, I am astonished. Why should he ask her love if once he possessed her?" The blind man blinked slyly. "A strange tale; I had it all from Wasik, who was one of the eunuchs that guarded her. It seems the Ismaelian has once been among the Christians (Allah broil all in Gehenna!); there he saw and loved her, but she would have none of him. Then war threw her into his hands, and he moved earth and heaven to make her favor him. Gifts, dresses, fêtes, serving-maids fair as the moon--he gave all, with El Halebah to be her dwelling; and she repaid only pouts and high words. At last he learns that she still sets great store on her husband, a Frankish emir with their host at Antioch." "Her husband?" asked the Spaniard, carelessly. "You have heard his name--Richard of the Great Cimeter--a terrible emir who slays his captives ruthlessly." "I have heard of him; go on." "_Ya!_ Iftikhar prepares his band to go to Antioch, and swears he will take this houri with him, that she may see the fate of her dear Franks with her own eyes. He vows likewise he will give her Emir Richard's head to fondle, since she loves it so." "Verily he is a bloody man," commented the Spaniard. "It is so; yet his captive will find she had best put the clouds from her face and try to please him. He is a man of will harder than Damascus steel." The Spaniard took up the coral necklace and eyed it critically. "Five dirhems?" suggested he. "Take it for five, yet count it as a gift. Alas, my profit!" sighed Asad. The other drew the coins from a lank pouch, waited while Asad bit each to prove it, placed the coral under the folds of his turban, then whispered to the muezzin, "Friend, follow me,"--the same time slipping a coin into his closing palm. Asad's eyes shut in a contented cat-nap when adieus were over; profit enough gained for one day. Khalid followed the stranger into the bustling street. "Good father," said the stranger, affably, "do you know, this tale of the Emir Iftikhar is most interesting. Why? Because it is most marvellous any prince should go to such lengths to court favor with a mere captive, be she brighter than the sun. But you surely repeat gossip on the streets, you do not know the eunuchs, or have access yourself to El Halebah?" Khalid chuckled, "I swear by Mohammed's beard there is not a courtyard about Aleppo I may not find and enter, blind though I am. The gate of El Halebah is as open to me as to a glutton the way to his mouth, and I chatter all day with the eunuchs." His questioner began to rattle his money-bag. "Friend," said the Spaniard, "you appear an honest man. Now swear thrice by Allah the Great that you will not betray me, and to-night you shall count over fifty dirhems." "Allah forbid!" cried the muezzin, raising his hands in holy horror. "I cannot know what wickedness you desire to make me share." "And I swear to you I have no attempt against any man's goods, or wife, or life, or honor; and you shall count seventy dirhems?" "I cannot; how can I go before the Most High on the last day with some great sin on my soul!" "_Ya!_ Eighty, then?" A long pause; then Khalid answered very slowly, and his seared eyeballs twinkled:-- "Impossible!--yet--a--hundred--" "They are yours!" was the prompt reply. "Oh, fearful wickedness! how can I satisfy the Omnipotent? Yet"--and the blind eyes rose sanctimoniously toward heaven--"the divine compassion is very great. Says not Al Koran, 'Allah is most ready to forgive, and merciful'?" "You will swear, then?" demanded the other, promptly. "Yes," and Khalid folded his hands piously while he muttered the formula; then added, "Now give me the money." "Softly, brother," was the reply. "Remember well the other words of the Apostle, 'violate not your oaths, since you have made Allah a witness over you,' The money in due time; now lead me and do as I shall bid, or in turn I swear you shall not finger one bit of copper." * * * * * Now it befell that on the afternoon of the day when Khalid the blind muezzin sold his conscience for a hundred dirhems, Hakem and his fellow-eunuch Wasik sat by the outer gate of the great court of El Halebah with a _mankalah_ board between them, busy at the battle they were waging with the seventy-two shell counters. As they played, their talk was all of the languishing state of the Star of the Greeks, and how since her attempted flight to Antioch all the temper seemed to have burned out of her mettle. "I protest, dear brother," quoth the worthy Wasik, studying the game-board, "doves of her feather cannot perch all day on a divan, saying and doing nothing, and not droop and moult in a way very grievous to Cid Iftikhar." "The Cid's commands are very strait--refuse her nothing in reason, only make plain to her that he is the master. _Wallah_, I little like this manner of bird! To my mind there hatches trouble when a woman refuses so much as to rage at you. This very day I said in my heart, 'Go to, now, Hakem; pick a quarrel with the Star of the Greeks; she will be happier after giving a few pecks and claws.' I call the Most High to witness--she submitted to all my demands meekly, as though she were no eaglet, but a tethered lamb! An evil omen, I say. Allah forbid she should die! Iftikhar would make us pay with our heads!" And Wasik shrugged his shoulders to show agreement with Hakem's last desire. Before he replied there was a loud knocking at the gate; the lazy porter stopped snoring, and began to shout to some one without. "For the sake of Allah! O ye charitable!" was the cry from outside, evidently of a beggar demanding alms. "Allah be your help! Go your way!" the porter was replying, and adding: "Off, O Khalid, blind son of a stone-blind hound! Must I again lay the staff across you!" But a second voice answered him:-- "Not so, O compassionate fellow-believer; will you drive away a stranger whom the excellent Khalid has led here, craving bounty? Allah will requite tenfold any mercy. See, I am but just come from Mecca. Behold a flask of water from the holy well Zemzem, sovereign remedy for the toothache. I ask nothing. Let me but sit awhile in the cool of the porch. I am parched with the heat of the way." Hakem had reputation for being a pious personage. "Let the worthy pilgrim come in!" he commanded, the porter obeying. Wasik had his doubts. "This is Saturday, the most unlucky day; beware!" he muttered. But Hakem would have none of him. Behind Khalid there entered a tottering fellow, bent with age, gray and unkempt; a patch over one eye, his blue kaftan sadly tattered, his turban a faded yellow shawl. He swung a huge hempen sack over one shoulder and trailed a heavy staff. "Allah requite you and your house!" was his salutation, as he dropped heavily upon the divan under the shaded arcade. "And you also," replied Hakem, ever generous at his master's expense. "Be refreshed. Eat this cool melon and be strengthened." The pilgrim put aside the plate. "Give to Khalid. Alas! I can eat nothing that was not eaten by the Prophet (Allah favor and preserve him!); such is the rule of my order of devotees. And who may say the Apostle did or did not eat the rind of a melon!" The eunuchs laid their heads together. "A very holy man!" "A most worthy sheik; a true saint; a _welee_!" their whispered opinions. So they kissed the old man's hand; called him "father"; brought sherbet, dates, and bread. After the stranger had eaten and edified them all by his pious conversation, presently his one eye began to twinkle very brightly, and he started to unpack his sack. Suddenly he drew forth a long iron spike, and plunged it down his throat to the very butt; then drew it out, laughing dryly at the wide eyes of the eunuchs. "Verily," cried he, "I am versed in 'high' magic--the noble art handed by the obedient angels and genii to devout Moslems. I know the 'great name' of Allah, uttering which bears me instantly to the farthest corner of the world; see!" A puff of smoke blew from his mouth; a flash of fire followed. Hakem was all eyes when the sheik rose, drew from his sack a number of brazen pots, placed them on the pavement, blew a spark seemingly from his mouth, and the bowls gave forth a blue aromatic smoke. The eunuchs began to quake under their ebony skins. The sheik turned toward them. "My sons--I show great marvels; many should see. Your master--away? But are there no 'flowers of beauty' in the harem who would admire the one-eyed Sheik Teydemeh, the greatest 'white' magician in all the land of Egypt?" Hakem put his mouth to Wasik's ear. "Bring out Morgiana and the Greek. Let them be thickly veiled." Wasik hesitated. "We are bidden to keep the Greek closely in the harem," he remarked. "We are bidden to see that she does not pine away with naught but grief to think of. Bring both forth." Before the magician had finished unburdening his mysterious sack, Wasik led in a lady all buried in silks and muslins. Hardly were her dark eyes visible under the veils. "I bring the Greek," whispered Wasik to Hakem; "she obeyed me like a dumb ox, but Morgiana is in her moods and will go nowhere." The lady sat upon the soft divan listlessly, hardly so much as rustling her dress. The sheik rose, mumbled words doubtless of incantation, and commenced reeling cotton ribbons from his lips till they littered the floor. Then he drew from his teeth a score of tin disks big as silver coins, again poured water into a borrowed cup, and gave it to Hakem to drink--behold, the water was become sugar sherbet! Then the magician blew on a tiny reed flute a strain so sweet, so delicious, Hakem verily thought he heard the maids of Paradise; and as he sang the sheik began to juggle with balls, first with one hand, tossing three balls; then laying aside the flute he kept six flying, all the time dancing and singing in a low quaver in some tongue that the eunuch did not understand, but thought he had once heard spoken among the Franks of Sicily. Presently the sheik threw up two more balls, making eight speed in the place of six; and he danced faster, spinning round and round amid the smoking bowls, until he came to a stand right before the veiled lady, who was no longer listless now, but sat erect, eager, her bright eyes flashing from beneath her veil, though Hakem did not see--all his gaze was on those flying balls. The sheik halted before her, spinning upon one foot, yet keeping his place. Suddenly he broke off his chant in the unknown tongue and sang in Arabic with clear, deep voice:-- "Sweet as the wind when it kisses the rose Is thy breath; Blest, if thine eyes had but once on me smiled, Would be death. Give me the throat of the bulbul to sing Forth thy praise, Then wouldst thou drink the clear notes as they spring All thy days; Nard of far Oman's too mean for thy sweetness, Eagle-wings lag at thy glancing eyes' fleetness; By thy pure beauty, bright gems lack completeness, Lady, ah! fairest!" And Hakem did not see the rustling nor hear the little sigh under the muslin and silk, for the sheik had sped round in his dance once more; again chanting in that foreign tongue some incantation, doubtless to unseen powers to aid him in his art. Then the wonder-worker halted, wiped the foam from his lips, and began new tricks; blowing a little earthen bowl from his mouth,--drawing a live rabbit from one of the smoking bowls,--and performing many marvels more, till the eunuchs showered on him all the small change they had about them, and gave him a great basket of dates and figs to carry to the khan where he said he lodged. That night as Hakem, with clear conscience, went to bed, he observed to Wasik: "Truly, the visit of the one-eyed juggler was better than fifty elixirs for bringing back bloom to the Star of the Greeks! Surely, if one such mountebank can cheer her thus, she shall be fed on white magic each day. Cid Iftikhar will summon hither every skilful conjurer from Damascus to Bagdad." And Wasik answered: "By the Prophet, it is true. We are to tame _Citt_ Mary, but not to break her spirit. Give her mind its food as well as her body. She is not like our Arab maids, whose Paradise a new necklace can girdle!" So these good servants took counsel. * * * * * That night also Richard and Godfrey took their counsel with Musa the Spaniard. Safe hidden in the gloom of a stall that joined the great court of the khan, which stood on the Alexandretta road without the western gate of Aleppo, they had no fear of eavesdroppers. An irksome day it had been for the two Franks. Long since, the sun had burned them bronze as many a Moor, and what with their black dyed hair and their coarse Oriental dress, none had questioned when Musa, who passed himself as a travelling Berber merchant, declared them his body-servants. But Godfrey had little Arabic. Richard's accent would soon betray. Common prudence forced them to sulk all day in the stall of the khan, while Musa went forth to make his discoveries. Now that he was back, their tongues flew fast. "And have you seen her?" That was Richard's first question. "_Bismillah_, I have; or at least two eyes bright as suns, peering from under a great cloud of veils! Recall how I made you think at Cefalu I was possessed by 'sheytans,' because of my art-magic!" answered Musa, laughing in his noiseless fashion. "_Ya!_ When did old Jam[=i]l at Cordova dream, while he taught an idle student his art, that by it I would earn six dirhems and a mess of figs? I met a mountebank conjurer, bought of him his gear--wretchedly poor tricks they were,--and then found a worthy blind muezzin, in a way I will tell, to get me entrance into the very court of El Halebah. Enough; the good eunuch Hakem thought me a true _welee_, and brought out one of his cagelings to see my magic. I was bound to make sure she was truly _Citt_ Mary who was pent up in the palace before you and I thrust our necks into peril; also I knew the chance of failure was less if she were warned. So I sang an incantation--in your Provençal, and clapped on to that a verse I composed before her at Palermo. When I saw her muslins and silks all a-flutter, I sang my French again, and it was more of being ready for a visit in the night than of the efreets and jinns that aid a true magician. Therefore I say this: All is ready. To-night the Star of the Greeks says farewell to Iftikhar or--" But Musa repeated no alternative. "And the way of escape?" asked Godfrey. "By St. Nicholas of Ghent, this is no bachelor's adventure!" Musa laughed again. "Verily, as says Al Koran, 'No soul knoweth what it shall suffer on the morrow, but Allah knoweth;' nevertheless, so far as human wit may run, much is prepared. Understand, Cid Godfrey, that Iftikhar has sent away from El Halebah the greater part of his Ismaelian devotees to join the force of Kerbogha. About the palace lie two hundred at most; a few stand sentry upon the road from Aleppo, a few more lie in the palace; but nearly all have their barrack in the wood beside the Kuweik, some distance northward." "St. George!" swore the Duke, "how discover all this? Can you see through walls as through Greek glass?" Musa laughed again: "Allah grants to every man separate gifts! To me to grasp many things with few words and few eyewinks. I am not mistaken." "It is true, did you but know him, my lord; it is true," added Richard. Musa continued: "Round dirhems smooth many paths, even amongst the Ismaelians. With the aid of the reprobate muezzin I discovered that _Citt_ Mary is held in the westerly wing of the palace, and guarded by Hakem and a few other eunuchs. I ate salt with the chief of the watch on the Aleppo road--a generous man who will take a hint swiftly! He understands I have desire to bear away an Armenian maid belonging to Beybars, the chief steward. When I come up the way in company with two comrades, he and his men are blind. We go up to the palace; we go away; no questions. Beside the highroad to Antioch will be tethered our horses. I have bought in the Aleppo market a desert steed swift as the darts of the sun. We enter the palace with the armed hand--shame indeed if our three blades are no match for the sleepy eunuchs! Once possess her, rush for the horses--then, speed,--speed for Antioch, trusting Allah and our steeds. For as the Most High lives, there will be hot pursuit!" "There is no better way," commented Richard, drawing up a notch in his sword-belt. "St. Michael and St. George!"--swore Godfrey again--"a noble adventure! Joy that I came from Antioch!" "Joy or sorrow we shall know full soon," was Musa's sober reply. "We shall read a marvellous page in the book of doom this night; doubt it not!" "And we set forth--?" continued Richard. "At once,--the night grows dark for the eye of an owl," answered the Spaniard. "Darkness is kind; we must not waste it." "Lead, then," commanded Godfrey. "The horses are ready; there is food in the saddle-bags." "Follow,--and Allah be our guide!" and the Andalusian took his own steed by the bridle. There was darkness and silence in the court of the great khan. The arrow-swift horses of a Persian trader slept in one stall; a tall dromedary shook his tether in another. Richard brushed upon a shaggy donkey; trod upon a mongrel dog, that started with a sullen howl. From one remote stall came a ray of torch-light, and the chatter of merchants discussing the profits of the last Oman caravan. A single watchman stared at them when they led their beasts through the wide gate. The three were under the stars. Musa took the bridle of the horse just bought, and the others followed him. Richard trod on as in a dream; twice he passed his hand before his eyes as if to brush away the blackness that was unbroken save for the star mist. "To-night! To-night!" he was repeating. "What, to-night?" asked Godfrey. "To-night I may touch the hair of Mary Kurkuas. Is not that chance worth the hazard of death? But you?" "I serve Christ best to-night when I serve one so loved by Him as the Lady of St. Julien. Let us hasten." They said little more. The night was dark indeed, but Musa seemed bat-eyed. He led across the Kuweik, through the orchards--dim and still, until at a tamarisk bush he halted. There they left the horses. Richard made sure that the lady's saddle on the fourth horse was strapped fast. Musa spoke not a word, but led away swiftly. They were entering the wood. Richard was treading at an eager pace, with a swelling heart, when suddenly he heard a sound behind him,--looked back,--and behold, on all sides, as if called from earth by enchantment, were the dim figures of men! And he could see, even in the darkness, that the dress of each was white. CHAPTER XXXV HOW RICHARD HEARD A SONG Now what befell came so swiftly that in after days Richard could never tell it all. Sure it is, that had Trenchefer and Godfrey's sword and Musa's cimeter left sheath, there had been another tale. For in the twinkling that Richard cast a backward glance, a noose whistled through the air and closed about the Norman's shoulders, locking his arms helpless. And with the whistling rope came a rush of feet and many hands seizing him. One struggle--he could scarce gather wits to resist; he was helpless as a birdling before the snake. At the same instant came the crash and gasp of two desperate conflicts more--Godfrey and Musa likewise seized. As Richard grasped it, the Spaniard succumbed as readily as he. But the great Duke was not lightly taken. Draw he could not, but his mighty hand tore clear of the rope and dashed more than one assailant down before, with ten upon him, he was mastered. All was done in less time than the telling. Almost before Longsword's soul cried "danger," a torch was flashing in his eyes, and a dozen dark Syrian faces pressing close. The torch was held high, and flashed before him twice. Blinded by the glare, he saw nothing beyond the ring of faces. From the dark shadow came a voice--a voice he had heard before: "_Bismillah!_ The Frank, Richard Longsword, at last!" The Norman did not cry out. Native sense told him that help there was none, and all the teaching of the stern school wherein he was bred had taught him to bear in silence. All stood while Richard saw the torch carried to the other knots of white-robed men. Then again the voice: "This is the Spaniard, Cid Musa, the son of Abdallah." And now a great shout of triumph: "Praised be Allah, destroyer of His enemies! We take the Emir Godfrey, chief of the Frankish unbelievers!" Longsword had no need to be told that this was Zeyneb's voice. He was about to break forth with defiance and curses upon the dwarf, when in the torchlight he saw a form taller than the others, the plumes of a haughty helmet, the flash of gilded steel. The captors gave way to right and left as the chieftain--so he clearly was--advanced until face to face with Richard. "Do you know me? I am the one-time commander of Count Roger's guard, the Egyptian Iftikhar Eddauleh." The grand prior had spoken naturally, without bravado. And Richard answered in like vein:-- "I claimed the honor of your friendship once, my Lord Iftikhar. Fate has kept us long asunder." Iftikhar's plumes nodded. "And brings us together at last. Doom leads to El Halebah you and the valorous Cid Musa and this noble emir, who is strange to me. The night advances; let us go." Before his captive could reply, the Egyptian had faded in the dark. An Ismaelian laid his hand on Richard's sword-belt to disarm him. Trenchefer clanked. Iftikhar spoke out of the gloom:-- "Leave the sword, Harun. A Frank cavalier loves better to part with life than with weapon. _Wallah!_ Let them keep their blades and feel them at their sides; but knot fast,--their strength is as seven lions!" They passed a second cord around Richard's arms, drawing back and pinioning them tight above the elbows. A heavy hand on either shoulder urged him forward. The Norman steeled his muscles, made one effort as never before to snap the bands. Useless; even his giant strength failed. Unresisting he was led blindly on through the gloom, the captors treading rapidly. They were soon in a grove of trees, where the matted leafage cut off the least ray of light. The torch, which only flared when shaken, sank to a glow dim as a firefly. Underfoot Richard could feel dry twigs crack, and he smelt the fresh earthy odor of fern brakes and bird-loved thickets. The only sounds were the footfalls and the chirp, chirp of the crickets. Then a faint gloaming shone where the trees arched and opened: they were again beneath a clear sky. The Norman saw the silver band of a stream creeping to the Kuweik--barely flashing under the starlight, for moon there was none. His guards led forward; under their tread a floating bridge rang hollow, and the water gurgled up around the casks. For one moment Richard pondered whether he could leap into the water, and drift down-stream with his arms pinioned. Folly--had he not his mail-shirt, and Trenchefer still at his side? A stone would float lighter! They had passed the bridge; again were in the woods. Some uncanny night bird was flapping from bough to bough; he could hear the whir of heavy wings, hoarse cries, blending with the song of the crickets. Did not ravens croak when men drew nigh their dooms? Was it river mist only that was hanging in cold beads upon his brow? Still the white-robed company led onward. Not a word spoken--when might this journey end? Richard listened to the beating of his own heart--merciful saints, why so loudly? Behind he knew were led Godfrey and Musa; they two walking to death, and for his cause! The Mother of Mercies knew it had been by none of his willing. Out of the dark was creeping that vision dreaded so often,--repelled so often,--which he had vainly hoped had faded away forever. Gilbert de Valmont slain beside the altar! Richard looked up at the stars shimmering between the leaves. "Ere these stars fade in sunlight"--spoke a voice (from within or without, what matter?)--"you, Richard de St. Julien, will be accounting to God for the soul of that guiltless boy." And though Longsword thought of the Pope's pledge of absolution, of all the infidels he had himself slain in the name of Christ, of all his sufferings in the chastisement at Dorylæum,--all merit seemed turned to sin, and the word of Urban weak to unlock the mercy of God in His just anger. "_Mea culpa! mea culpa! mea maxima culpa!_" Other prayers came not, nor did his heart find room for curses against Iftikhar or grief for Mary. He thought of her; but truth to tell he was too numbed to dwell on her agony, on the certitude of her lifelong captivity. And still the white-robed company led him onward, onward. The grounds were opening before him. The wood broke away to right and left. Richard saw the vague tracery of a wide-stretching palace,--colonnades, domes, pinnacles, all one dim maze in the starlight. For the first time he spoke to his guards. "This is El Halebah? Tell me--why are our heads not struck off at once?" "The grand prior wills otherwise," replied Harun, at his side. "Are we to be put to death speedily, or long reserved?" The Ismaelian became confidential. "Cid, you talk as becomes a brave man. I should like to see you with your great sword in battle. Who am I, to know the desire of Iftikhar? Yet I think this: if Christians may enter Paradise, ere midnight you will be sitting at banquet with the maids of pure musk." "Then why this delay--this endless journey?" Harun shook his head. "I am only the grand prior's hands and feet. You will see." Richard had faced death in battle twenty times and more, and never yet had felt a tremor. But riding to battle was not walking to meet the doom handed down by Iftikhar Eddauleh. The Norman feared not death, but life. Life through the ages of ages! Life shaped for eternal woe, eternal weal, by the deeds of a few earthly moments. Hell earned by that instant at Valmont! Heaven grasped for in the transfiguration at Clermont! And the issue mystery! mystery fathomless! Kept with God, the All-merciful; but behind all, ordering all, His awful righteousness! Richard knew as well as he knew anything that never in earthly body would he see that mist of stars again; he looked up into the violet-black dome, and trembled, for he knew he was drawing near the Almighty's throne. They trod up the smooth gravel leading to the palace. The great valves of the portals opened noiselessly at some unseen bidding, then closed behind. A single flickering lamp went before, as they glided through long corridors, or under airy domes, where the wan light struggled up to colored vaulting,--gleamed, vanished. The feet touched soft rugs, and clicked on marbles. More doors opened. The Norman was led down stairways, along stone galleries, where the air was foul and chill. Presently there were more lamps ahead, the ceiling was higher. Richard sniffed sweet fresh air. They were in a room of no great size; floor, walls, vaulting, of gray stone; a stone bench running along the walls; one or two niches, where perhaps in daytime a few rays struggled in. Bronze lamps swung from chains, casting a wavering, ghostly light, as they puffed in the wind that crept through the scanty windows. Others had preceded the captives into this chamber. Two figures advanced to greet them, as the three were halted,--the lofty Iftikhar, the dwarf Zeyneb. It was the latter that first spoke. To Musa he paid an obsequious salaam. "The peace of Allah be yours, most noble Cid Musa," his greeting. "And with you, the strife of Eblees!" replied the Andalusian, whose tongue at least was not pinioned. "O valorous cavaliers!" protested Zeyneb, raising his hands. "What misfortune! Bow to the Omnipotent's will; what is doomed is doomed! It was doomed that I should behold you, son of Abdallah, creeping about Aleppo and El Halebah. Clever disguises,--not my Lord Iftikhar himself could have penetrated so admirable a conjurer. How adorably was Hakem toyed with! Wallah, I could scarce have bettered it myself!" Musa repaid with one of his softest smiles. "Were my wealth that of Ormuz, how could I repay your praise, O Kalif of the black-hearted jinns! I equal in guile Zeyneb, the crooked-backed toad of the gallant Iftikhar? Forbid it, Allah!" Zeyneb laughed, not very easily. He wished Musa's tongue were as fast as his arms. The dwarf salaamed again. "No more; I leave you to my Lord Iftikhar. Enough, you know it was I--I, Zeyneb the dwarf, the hunchback--who discovered the wiles of Musa the great cavalier; who led him and his two valiant Frankish comrades into my master's power. And remember, Cid Richard, the word on the wall at La Haye: 'Three times is not four. There is a dagger that may pierce armor of Andalus.'" A third salaam, then, "The mercy of Allah be with you; my lord will tell how many moments are left in which to rain curses on your poor slave Zeyneb." Musa shrugged his shoulders, a gesture more eloquent than any he could make with his hands. "And think not," he answered still sweetly, "my friends or I have breath or wind to waste cursing such as you. I thank your courtesy; we shall never meet again to requite it." "Never?" queried Zeyneb, cocking his evil head. "Not on the Judgment Day when, says Al Koran, 'Allah shall gather all men together, and they shall recognize one another'?" The Spaniard cut him short. "Fly! Think not the All Just will so much as raise again your soul, even to plunge it into the hell where wait garments of fire. Soul you have not, unless base vermin have. When they rise from the dead, so will you--no sooner!" Zeyneb would have ventured reply, but Iftikhar pointed down a passage. The dwarf vanished instantly. Musa spat after him. "Purer air, now his stench is not by!" his comment. Iftikhar, who had been silent, turned to his captives. "My lords," said he, gravely, speaking Provençal, "we meet again at last, as I have long desired." "You are wrong, my emir," interrupted Longsword. "At Dorylæum I sought you long and vainly." "And I think it well," continued the Egyptian, flushing, but not raising his voice, "since we shall not soon meet again, that I say a few things. This Duke Godfrey, as your friend, shall fare as do you." "Say it out, fledgling of Satan! Say it out," roared the Duke. "You will summon the headsman. By Our Lady of Antwerp, you will find those before Antioch who will not forget!" "Gallantly done, my lord," taunted Richard. "At Palermo you boasted you loved to talk with a foe over two sword-blades; Syrian nard softens your courage and your arm." Iftikhar lost control for a moment, and boasted wildly. "_Ya_! You may well curse, for I have triumphed. As a lion you have lived; as a dog you shall die. The grudge is old; the vengeance sweetens with the years. Father, brother, mother, sister, I have taken from you. Yes, by the splendor of Allah, your bride also! Mary, Star of the Greeks, is mine! I will place your head before her. I will say, 'See, see, Richard, your lord, your husband.' For I have conquered--have conquered utterly!" He paused to gather breath. Richard was silent, repeating to himself the proverb that "stillness angers most." The Egyptian recovered his control, and went on. "You, Richard Longsword," said he, "you, Cid Musa, and you, Duke Godfrey, have come to Aleppo to steal away my prize. You fail. You shall, as Allah reigns, count out the price! I designed to start for Antioch to-morrow, intent on taking your heads to the Star of the Greeks. And I should not have failed. Kerbogha's host is but ten leagues from your Christian camp. You know nothing. You will be struck as by a bolt from the clear sky. Knight and villain, you shall die far from Jerusalem,"--the Egyptian broke off in a laugh; for the Duke, steel against his own peril, had turned gray at this tale of danger to the army. "Ah! my Lord Godfrey," went on Iftikhar, "it matters little to you whether you end all at Aleppo or at Antioch. For on my faith as a cavalier, I swear there shall not one man of all your host escape. Already Kerbogha advances beyond Afrin, and not a Christian dreams. Your scouting parties are gallantly led, fair Franks!" "Dear God," prayed Richard, "not for our sakes, but for the love of the army of Thy Son, suffer us even now to escape this Thine enemy!" But Iftikhar continued: "I speak too long. Enough that I shall bring you this night before the tribunal of the Ismaelians, since the dagger is only for those whom our judgments cannot otherwise reach. You shall stand before our _Daïs_, that is to say the 'masters,' and our _Refiks_, that is the 'companions,' and it will be asked you if you sought the hurt of any Ismaelian. Make what defence you may. If the tribunal decide against you, you are delivered over by the court, and the world hears of you no more." "Spare the mockery," thundered Richard, blazing forth at last. "Slay; but summon no judges who are sworn against all mercy!" Iftikhar's answer was a gesture toward the passage. "Look!" and Richard leaped forward, bound as he was, so fiercely that he nigh flung down the three Ismaelians that held him. Two eunuchs were leading Mary Kurkuas into the chamber. Longsword had never known a moment like this. Then, if never before, he felt the pains of hell. Angry God and angry devil might devise nothing worse. Mary was led before him. She was very white,--white dress, white hands, white face; and her eyes seemed to touch the bare gray room with brightness. They must have told her what awaited, else she had never been so calm and still and beautiful. So beautiful! Was Mary, Mother of God, sitting upon the Heavenly Throne, fairer than she? Blasphemy?--but the thought would come! And she did not moan, nor cry in agony. That was Mary's way,--Richard knew it,--that she was ready to turn Iftikhar's desires against himself, and make her last vision one of strength and of peace. With all the pain,--pain too deep for words,--under the influence of her eyes, he felt a sweet, holy spell creeping over him, and knew that the bitterness of death was past. The two negroes led her until she stood beside Iftikhar. The Egyptian towered over her, splendid as Satan when robed as angel of light. The grand prior looked upon her face; and Richard knew he saw all the brightness of heaven therein. But a cloud passed across the countenance of Iftikhar, as if in that moment of earthly triumph he felt there was something passing betwixt his captive and his slave which not all the might of the "devoted" could win for his own. The Egyptian pointed from Mary to the Norman--his voice very proud. "Look, Star of the Greeks, my vow is made good. Behold how Allah has favored Iftikhar Eddauleh. You indeed see Richard de St. Julien, your husband." Mary was stately as a palm when she answered. "And do you think, Cid, that you have led me hither to see me kneel at your feet, to hear me moan for mercy for these men? I know you over-well, Iftikhar Eddauleh. No human power can turn that heart of yours when once it is fixed. But God in His own time shall bow you utterly. I do not fear for Richard, for these his friends, for myself. Life sometimes is nothing so precious that it is worth buying with too great a price. For these to whom God says 'Go,' the time will not seem long; and for me, to whom He says 'Stay,'--I shall be given strength to bear your power or that of other demon. But there is greeting in the end with naught to sunder. And to you,--to you,"--her eyes were not lamps now; they were fiery swords, piercing the Ismaelian through,--"God perhaps lengthens out many days of sin and glory, that for every instant on earth there may be an æon hereafter of woe." Iftikhar's face had turned to blackness. He raised his hand to smite. Richard thought to see him fell the Greek to the stones; but his uplifted arm lowered, the spasm of madness passed. "Ask anything, anything but the lives of these men!" cried he, half pleading, to turn away the bitterness of her curse; "and as Allah lives I will not deny!" "Take Richard Longsword, and then take all else. For God and His angels witness, you spread betwixt you and me a sea ten thousand years shall see unbridged!" "I cannot! I cannot spare!" the words came from Iftikhar as a moan. "Let Richard Longsword live, and I shall win you never!" And Richard was about to cry that life was worthless if Mary humbled herself in his behalf. But the Greek spoke for him. "One boon, Cid Iftikhar. I do not plead for these men. I know my husband and Cid Musa would rather die by your cord than see me on my knees before you. Kill or spare, you can never win more of me than my body, held already. But now let me go; I can do nothing here." Iftikhar motioned to the blacks to lead her away. "Richard, my husband," said she, softly, "you and Musa and my Lord Godfrey did wrong to come hither; but I love you for it more. God will be kind. You will not find it long to wait for me in heaven." "May Christ pity you, sweet wife!" answered the Norman. "He will pity, do not fear." That was all she said. She was gone. Her wondrous eyes lit the room no more; but a peace was lighted in Richard's heart, which naught could take away. Iftikhar turned abruptly the moment the Greek had vanished. "My friends," declared he, with an ill-assumed irony, "I can do nothing further to serve you. Before midnight our long accounting is ended. Leave to Allah the rest. Others will care for you at the tribunal." Richard held up his head proudly. "And I, Richard Longsword, standing in the presence of death, do cite you, Iftikhar Eddauleh, to stand with me before no less a tribunal than the judgment seat of Almighty God. There to answer, not as Moslem to Christian, but as man to man, for the blood you have shed wantonly, the foul deeds you have plotted, the pure women you have wronged, the very saint of God you have brought to agony. At His judgment seat I will accuse you, and you shall make answer to Him and all His holy angels. So say I!" "And I!" thundered Godfrey. "And I!" cried Musa. They saw the Ismaelian's face flush once more. By an effort he reined his curses. Without a word he vanished. Richard turned to his comrades. "Dear friends, this is the last adventure," said he. "Heaven is witness I did not pray you to go with me to Aleppo." "You did not," was the answer of both. And Musa added: "My brother and you, fair lord, we are at the end. You are praying to your gentle Issa; I to Allah, the One. Yet our hearts are pure; and be you right or I, do not think God will lift some to Paradise, and speed some to hell, because your mothers taught to call on Christ, and mine to call on Allah."' The Spaniard fixed his sweet and winning gaze upon the great Duke of Lorraine, upon Godfrey, the chief of the slayers of the infidels; and the Duke answered (only Richard knowing what the words meant from such lips):-- "No, by Our Lady of Pity; be you Moslem, be you Christian, Sir Musa,--I would that many of the army of the Cross stood so blameless as you in the sight of God. For never in all my life have I met more spotless cavalier than you have proved. I am proud to call you comrade." One of the white-robed Ismaelians had entered the chamber, and uplifted his hand. "The tribunal waits," he announced. "Come!" * * * * * Iftikhar Eddauleh left the gallery in the cellars of El Halebah with a strange storm raging in his breast. Victory, pride, the sense of having at last settled all grudges--in this he exulted. But with it all came the knowledge that the death of Richard Longsword meant the death of the last hope to make Mary the Greek other than his slave. She had truly said,--the Egyptian knew it,--old age might come, æons might speed, but henceforth Iftikhar would be only to her as malevolent jinn. The grand prior cursed himself for the mad folly that had led him to bring Mary and Richard face to face. She had been brought to give agony; she had given strength. Iftikhar knew that the sight of her presence, the sound of her voice, had stolen away the sting of death from the Norman. Likewise he knew that, with all the "devoted," with all the glory of his state, he was weaker than the will of this unshielded woman, that he could put forth all his might to crush that will, and do it in vain. In the eyry apartment of Morgiana, he found the four around whom, next to himself, the life of El Halebah revolved--Mary, Zeyneb, Morgiana, and Hakem. The Greek was standing beside the divan whereon sat the Arabian wife. Her face was very pale, her eyes so bright that their fire seemed not of this world. She was calm, and her words came soft and slow. But not so Morgiana; Iftikhar foresaw the lightnings the moment he entered. He was, however, in no mood to quail. Ignoring the others, he strode to Morgiana, and began half severely:-- "Moon of the Arabs, it is late. I commanded you to retire early." Morgiana lifted her blue eyes. "I have heard. Well?" "Do you disobey before my face?" retorted the grand prior. The answer came when Morgiana leaped to her feet. "Away, away, hound of Eblees! Away, away, begotten of the sheytans! Get you gone, or even I shall curse you!" Iftikhar doubted his ears. Never had Morgiana reviled him thus. "Silence; my will is law!" And he struck her with his open palm on her mouth. Struck once, then recoiled, for a flame of wrath flashed with the red flush on Morgiana's face, such as the Egyptian had never seen before. Now he saw, and drew back. Morgiana spoke very slowly, sign of deepest anger. "Strike--strike--again! and by the Great Name of Allah, I swear I will bide my time, and murder you in your bed." And Iftikhar, man of passion and blood, felt his own blood creeping chill. Half he felt a knife at his throat. His answer died on his lips. Morgiana was speaking rapidly now:-- "Look on the Greek, Iftikhar Eddauleh! Look on the Greek. Do you know what pain is, and agony, beyond your conceiving? See it there--see it there--and tremble! For I say to you, every tear that Mary, the Star of the Greeks, shall shed, every drop her torn heart bleeds, is reckoned against your name in the great book of Allah. Yes; and you, Iftikhar, shall pay the price--the price--the price--through the long years of eternity. Therefore tremble, for earth and sea shall be confounded ere the All-Just forget one pang, one deed of darkness!" Iftikhar tore the dagger from his belt. He had words at last now. "You are mad. I will kill you!" "Kill me?" Morgiana threw back her black hair, and laughed as would an invulnerable jinn. "Kill me? Can you think of nothing worse?" And again she laughed. The Egyptian shrank back a step or two, as she advanced. Suddenly her laughter ended, her voice became calm. "Cid Iftikhar," she said quietly, "you see I am in no mood to receive commands to-night. Neither does _Citt_ Mary crave your company. You have triumphed, my Cid. Doom favors you. You must not exult mercilessly. Be magnanimous; leave us alone this night." Iftikhar responded almost perforce to this appeal. "I grant anything in reason, Morgiana. Rage no more, I will leave you." And he was gone with a low salaam. Zeyneb made to follow him, but his foster-sister recalled. "Zeyneb," said she, "I wish you to tell us of the state of the prisoners. Will Iftikhar return to see the execution?" The dwarf showed his white teeth. He marvelled that Morgiana should question thus with Mary present, but, nothing loth, replied: "He will not; he goes to his chamber to sleep. In the morning they bring him the heads." Mary's white cheeks grew whiter, but the Arabian did not hesitate. "And when will the execution take place?" Zeyneb grinned again. "The bells on the water-clock say it is the end of the fourth hour of the night; at the end of the fifth hour, unless the tribunal clears them,"--his grin broadened,--"Harun twists the cord." Morgiana drew up one little foot on the divan, and clasped it with both hands. "_Wallah!_ How admirable has been your trap, foster-brother. Mary had told nearly all you had done, before Iftikhar broke in upon us. Woe to us, and joy to you! Allah grant we may have our day also. So it was you alone that penetrated the disguise of Cid Musa. Allah himself might hardly outwit you!" Zeyneb smiled at the flattery. "I am honored, foster-sister." "And tell this," demanded she, letting her foot drop to the rugs, "are the faithless sentries warned?" "_Mashallah_, no! They think all is well. In the morning they are seized and beheaded. We led the prisoners to the palace by another way." "What escapes you, my Zeyneb!" cried the other, rising and stepping toward the doorway. "But tell me this,--are the horses of these three adventurers taken?" Zeyneb gave a start and a curse. "Blasted am I! Forgotten! Iftikhar left all in my hands. The horses are still where they were tethered. They will be taken by morning. I will go and send for them at once." Before he could cry out, Morgiana had dashed to the door and shot the bolt. "_Wallah!_ You rave," howled the dwarf, smitten with fear. "Help, Hakem!" For Morgiana, with arms outstretched, stood before the door, her face flaming defiance. "Mary," cried Morgiana, "are you very strong? Pluck that adder Hakem round the neck, and hold fast! For the life of Richard Longsword, hold!" Dwarf and eunuch had sprung on Morgiana, but the Greek also. Right round the body of the effeminate Hakem Mary cast her white arms, caught him, held him; for the strength of an angel was given her, and the eunuch's strength was that of a fatted sheep. Meantime Morgiana and Zeyneb waged their fiercer battle. "Mad woman!" raged the dwarf, writhing, struggling, snapping as for dear life. "You shall be flogged for this, beheaded, flayed! Release, or you die! Release! Let go, or--" But Morgiana wrested him almost from his feet as they struggled, and every time he saw the terrible purpose in her eyes his heart sank lower. And still they wrestled. "Help! Rescue!" shrieked the dwarf, feeling himself nigh mastered. Even louder howled Hakem, tight held in the vise of Mary's arms. Shrill above their cry was the laugh of Morgiana. "Aye, shriek! Call as you will," sped her boast. "Louder!--louder! Call Iftikhar, the eunuchs, the 'devoted.' Far below, none hear. Cry louder--we are alone in the tower of the palace. Call! Call! None hears save Allah, and it is He who fights for me! Call again! Make the stars pity, and rain their aid--naught is nearer!" Zeyneb wrested one hand free. For a twinkling he brandished a dagger. A second twinkling, it flew from his hand across the room. "_Ya!_" rang the shout of his assailant. "See! I am strong, strong, and Allah fights for me,--for Morgiana the blue-eyed maid of Yemen! _Bismillah_, it is done!" And with the word Zeyneb's feet spun from beneath him. He fell heavily to the floor; so heavily that despite the rug he was senseless in a flash. Morgiana, with a great cry of delight, bounded after his dagger, secured it, was at Mary's side. Hakem was struggling desperately. He could not shake the Greek's hold, and dared not do her harm. The Arabian held the knife edge to his throat. "Hakem," came her voice, hard as steel on steel, "let your heart say the 'Great Prayer,' the _Fat'hah_. You are going to die." "Spare," pleaded the Greek, beginning to tremble, "spare that God may spare us!" "Dead snakes never bite!" came the answer. Mary never forgot the terrible glow on Morgiana's face when that deed was done, which made the Greek shiver. The body of the eunuch dropped from her arms, lay upon the rugs, the blood spurting from the neck. The Arabian was kneeling over the prone form of Zeyneb. She thrust away the vest, laid a hand on his heart. "Living!" whispered she, raising her eyes. "I may do wrong, but he is my foster-brother, and faithful to Iftikhar." The Greek was too faint to do anything; but Morgiana rapidly plucked the curtain from the doorway, tore into strips, knotted about the dwarf's arms and feet. Then she felt in his bosom and drew forth a small key. * * * * * The three bronze lamps high up in the vault were flickering dimly. The shadows of the pillars lay long and dark across the gray slabs of the pavement. Upon the floor in irregular semicircle sat a score of figures in white mantle and turban, red girdle and shoes. The figures were rigid as marble, features moving not, lips speaking not; only the dark eyes flashed back the shimmerings of the lamps. In the centre of the group, and facing the others, another figure was standing, habited like the rest, save that the turban was black, and a great diamond, bright as a tiger's eye, twinkled against it. This figure was speaking. "Musa, son of Abdallah, and you, Godfrey and Richard, lords of the Franks,"--the words came cold and metallic,--"you have been brought before the tribunal of the holy Order of Ismael. You have been accused of being the foes and plotting the hurt of the Grand Prior of Syria, Iftikhar Eddauleh. Nor have you denied this; you have confessed you desired his hurt, you have boasted you desired his death and dishonor. And now it behooves to ask, were you acquainted with the lot of those who so much as imagine harm to the least 'aspirant,' a _Las[=i]k_ of the sacred Ismaelians, far from comparing such to the vice-gerent of our Lord Hassan Sabah's self?" Whereupon Musa, facing the semicircle, with Richard and Godfrey at his side, answered in his melodious Arabic:-- "We well understand that he who offends against one of your order shall sooner receive mercy from Eblees than from you. Knowing that, we went forth; knowing that, we stand here. Our foe is Iftikhar Eddauleh. You are his slaves; bought cattle were not his more utterly. Proceed to sentence." Rain beating an iron wall had made deeper dint than his words on that array of stony features. A long silence--then the former speaker looked upon his colleagues. Slowly he began: "It is the custom, O Ismaelians,--and it is here observed,--that those admitted to the degrees called _Tessis_ and _Teevil_, the sixth and seventh of our holy brotherhood, shall sit in judgment upon those brought within danger of the cord. You have heard these men and the accusation. The mysteries of our order, the mandate of our Lord Hassan Sabah, are known to you. Yet let me repeat the word of the first of the seven Imams, the Lord Hossein the martyr, as runs the revered tradition, 'He that offendeth the least of you, let him wash away his guilt in his own blood.' Therefore I command that whosoever of you may believe these men cleared and worthy of liberty, let him speak forth; but whosoever thinks they should endure the cord, keep silence. For speech is life, and silence is death. I have spoken." Silence--while the lamps flickered, flickered, and the shadows swung on floor and walls; and still the chief stood facing the twenty, who moved not, nor gave sound. Then at last--after how long! he spoke,--a voice as from the grave. "There is no word. Let the law be fulfilled. Judgment is pronounced. The cord!" The chief seated himself and there was stillness as before, until a distant bell pealed out, once, twice, thrice, four times,--five! With noiseless step, the tall Harun glided from behind a pillar and plucked Musa's elbow. "Doom!" Harun held up a silken noose, plaited tight, and pointed to the floor. "Kneel," he commanded softly; "you are Moslem, I grant you this joy, you shall not see your friends die." Musa turned to the Franks. Their hands were bound, but their eyes could greet. "Sweet friends," said he, smiling as ever in his gentle, melancholy way, "we must part. But my hope in Allah is strong. We shall meet before His throne!" "God is with us all!" answered Richard. "He is very pitiful." But Godfrey did not speak. Longsword knew his thoughts were not of Musa, nor of the tribunal, nor even of the shadow of death; but of the Christian host surprised by Kerbogha, and of the Holy City left in captivity. "I am ready," said Musa to Harun; and he prepared to kneel. * * * * * A tremor, a wind of the spirit, seemed passing over all those chiselled faces. Musa and all others heard music,--a song,--quavering, sighing, throbbing melody, wafted down the long underground galleries from very far away. At first no clear word was borne to them, but the sweetest note Richard in his life had heard. Was the great change come so nigh that one heard God's white host singing? Musa stood fast. Harun was rooted also, the cord hung limp in his hand, all forgotten, save the wondrous song. Now at last the burden came dimly:-- "Genii who rule o'er the tempest and wind, Peris who tread where red coral lies deep, Show forth your haunt that my fleet foot may find Where the cool moss caves 'neath the green waves sleep. "Lie they under the sea that by Ormuz darkles, Or the broad blue bay of the Golden Isles? Or where breeze-loved haven in far west sparkles, Alight with the sun's ne'er-vanishing smiles?" The voice swelled nearer; the rhythm was quicker, measure shorter, words stronger. The song became a prayer, a cry. "Away! away from the grief and jarring Of this toilsome life and its pang I'd be! Forgetting earth and all strife and warring, Wrap me away to the breast of the sea! "Wreathe me chaplets with sea-flowers brightest, With the feath'ry sea-mosses make me dressed! Make my pillow the wind-spray whitest; Rock me to sleep on the storm-waves' crest!" Was it day that was dawning on each of those stony faces? Why this whisper; this rustle of white gowns; this mutter "Allah! Allah!" under the snowy turbans? "Truly God's angels come!" Richard's soul cried. He thought to see the vaulting open; the heavens fleeing away as unclean. What angel could sing of paynim genii and peris? But the voice yet approached, ever louder, clearer:-- "Sing, oh, sing, all ye fair, pure spirits! Spirit I, to your band I'd flee; Blest the soul who for aye inherits To rove with you through your kingdom free!" Now the song was so near that all eyes ran into the dark for the oncoming singer, and every white robe had risen when the last lines sounded:-- "Clearer, clearer the silvery pealing Of enchanted bells steals my heart afar! Soon I'll see, all the mists unsealing, The genii's lord on his pearl-wrought car!" Silence. They saw a light flash in the low doorway, saw it glisten on jewels, an empress's pride. A woman entered, tall as a spear, stately as a palm, black tresses flowing as a fair vine, and eyes and face to shame the houris. Around her bare throat flashed a great chain of emeralds; there were diamonds and rubies on her coronet; gold and gems on her bare brown arms; gold and gems on her sandals, that hid not the shapely feet. Her robe was one lustrous sea of violet silk, rippling about her as she glided, not walked. And as she came, she spread abroad a new melody; no words now, but only a humming, a soft, witching note, as if bidding all the spirits of the air flit at her footsteps to do her behests. Her left hand upraised the lamp; her right was held high also, and on one finger flashed something that doubled the quivering flame--a ring set with a single emerald. Onward she came; and right and left the company made way for her. And Harun dropped his cord, began to mutter: "_Allah akhbar!_ The maids of the Gardens of Fountains have come down to dwell amongst men!" But the stranger--spirit or woman, who might say?--came on till she stood before the three captives. At the mandate in her eyes all other eyes followed her. No more she sang, but spoke, proud as the queen of the genii legions. "Hear! tremble! obey!" She held the emerald higher. At the sight thereof there was a new stir, new whispers; the Ismaelians were bowing to the pavement. "Behold it! The ring of Hassan Sabah, your lord! I say to you, whoever shall disobey the command of the bearer of this ring, be his merits never so great, Allah shall cut him off from the joys of Paradise! Obey! and the honeyed kiss of the daughters of the land of the River of Life is on your lips!" She swept the flashing ring to and fro before the eyes of the cowering twenty. "Reverence therefore the will of the bearer of the ring," she ran on; "obey, were it on the camel-driver's finger; obey the more, since it is on mine,--I, at whose word the hosts of the darkness fall trembling, at whose nod the troops of the upper winds fly obedient!" Needless her exhortation. One cry from twenty: "We obey! We are your slaves, O lady of Allah's own beauty! O empress of genii and men!" And the stranger, scarce pausing, rushed on:-- "See! your judgment is false! See, I am sent by Allah to bring to naught your desires! I command--I, the blue-eyed maid of Yemen, whose walk is with the stars! Release these captives. Their doom is unwritten." [Illustration: "ALL BLINDLY, HE KNEW THEY WERE MOUNTING STAIRWAYS"] Richard had beheld all as does the man treading in a dream; who knows he dreams, yet cannot waken. Dreaming, he had seen this strange spirit enter; dreaming, he heard; dreaming, he saw a quiver, as of resistance, pass round that ring of sculptured faces; the eyes bright as snakes, and more pitiless, questioned once,--once only. The deliverer shot across their company one lightning glance--majesty, supremacy, scorn. Still dreaming, Richard saw in her hand a dagger; and then--dreamt he still?--he felt the bands upon his arms sever. He stood free--and Godfrey and Musa free! But his protectress was speaking again:-- "Behold--I say to you, Allah has cast his mantle over these three to deliver them. Forget this night. Follow me not; for, as the Most High rules, you shall curse disobedience in the quenchless Gehenna! Tremble again--you have seen great things--and now, farewell." Richard felt her hand upon his arm. "Come," she said softly, "and Allah will yet aid you!" The chamber of the tribunal, the semicircle of white robes, Harun and the cord--all were gone. Richard was still in his dream. He trod onward, feeling no floor beneath his feet. The wavering light of his protectress went before him. In the narrow galleries they traversed, the darkness closed after him. All blindly, he knew they were mounting stairways, were gliding through murky passages. Suddenly the air was again sweet; Richard saw around him the dim vista of a line of white columns, and above, the hazy canopy of a great dome. The woman halted, again upraised her lamp. "I see Cid Richard Longsword," said she, "and his good comrades, Cid Musa and Cid Godfrey. If Allah favor us, I will now lead you to Mary the Greek!" At these words Richard knew he dreamed no longer; his belief was--God had already raised him to heaven. CHAPTER XXXVI HOW THE ISMAELIANS SAW TRENCHEFER The voice of Musa recalled the Norman to the things of earth. "_Citt_, protectress sent from Allah!" the Andalusian was crying, "do my ears fail? Is your voice strange? When have I heard it before? In Palermo?" "In Palermo," reëchoed the stranger, "in Palermo, when by the Most High's favor I warned you against Iftikhar Eddauleh." The name of his enemy roused all the fires in Richard's breast. "Lead on!" boasted he, nigh fiercely. "Lead on! and in the name of every saint, Trenchefer shall weigh out his price to the Ismaelian to-night!" His voice was rising to a war-cry, when Musa clapped his hand on his friend's mouth. The lady had upraised a warning finger; a tremor of mingled fear and wrath seemed shaking her. "Hist, Cid Richard! Are you mad? The palace is full of armed men. Safety is leagues away. And I declare to you, that unless you swear by the great name of Issa you worship, to do Iftikhar to-night no hurt, I will cry aloud, and you perish as surely as by Harun's bowstring." "Iftikhar?" questioned Richard, in amaze. "Iftikhar? You have given freedom to his arch foe, and yet you say to me, 'Spare'?" "My lord," said the lady, gently, "Mary the Greek shall tell you why I do this. Swear, if you would see her face--not die." And, conjured by that all-potent name, Richard took a willing oath; Godfrey likewise, and Musa after his manner. The lady raised her lamp once more. "Follow softly," she warned; "many sleep all about us. I must lead you the length of the palace." Then came another journey through the enchanted darkness, lit only by the lamp and the gleam of the gems at the strange deliverer's throat. They crossed the great hall, treading gently, Richard's hand on the hilt of Trenchefer, for nigh he expected to see goblins springing from the dark. Once across, the lady halted; opened a door. In the glow of the lamps Longsword saw a giant negro prone upon the rug, at his side a naked sabre. Trenchefer crept halfway from the sheath, as he turned, unfolding his mighty hands. But their guide gave him no heed. The black slumbered on. The door closed. They sped down a long gallery, swift and silent as flight in a dream; another door, another guardsman. This time the negro was awake, standing at his post. "Now!" came between Godfrey's teeth; and three swords were ready to flash. The lady smiled, sprang before them. At sight of her the sentry bowed low. "Habib," said she, gently, "these are they I said I would bring you. Remember--you have for them neither ears nor eyes." "I am blind and dumb, my _Citt_," was the answer. She beckoned, the three followed; the guardsman was lost in the gloom. "I begged his life of Iftikhar a year since," explained the lady, "therefore Habib is grateful." A second gallery, an open arcade, a sight of the stars twinkling between the plumes of the palm trees, and the puff of the sluggish southern wind. They came to a new door, where a lamp burned low. The door was open. A stairway wound upward lit at intervals by flickering sconces. The lady halted. "Cid Richard," said she, "you shall go up with me, and take your wife; let these two remain below in the shadow." Musa smiled and salaamed; Godfrey laughed in his beard. "You need no comrade now, fair knight," said he to Richard. The Norman's step was on the stairway, as he leaped ahead of the lady. At last! At last! That was all he knew. God had indeed "stopped the mouths of the lions, had quenched the violence of fire!" Three steps Richard had covered with his bound; but at the fourth he was frozen fast. A cry, a cry of terror, of despairing pain, sped down the stairway:-- "Morgiana! Help me, for the love of God!" Whose voice? Longsword knew it above ten thousand; and with it flew others--curses, howls, cries for help. "Hakem dead! Zeyneb bound! Rouse Cid Iftikhar! Morgiana,--death to Morgiana!" Louder the din; Richard turned to his protectress half fiercely: "What is this? Shall I go up?" She had covered her face with her hands. "Allah pity! Allah have mercy!" moaned she, quaking with sobs. "He fights against us. Go or stay, we shall soon die." Now at last leaped forth Trenchefer. "Follow who will," thundered Richard to Godfrey and Musa, who needed no bidding. Fast sped they; faster, Richard. Had he wings when he mounted the stairway? A second cry of utter despair, the rush of more feet. Longsword saw the last stair, saw the room, many torches and many forms; black eunuchs all, some clutching at a struggling woman, some bending over a prostrate form, some standing around Zeyneb, whose hands were upraised in malediction. "Iftikhar! Send for Cid Iftikhar!" he was raging; and every voice swelled the babel. But above them all pealed the thunder of the Norman. What profit silence now! "God wills it. St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" Eblees leaping from the cloven rock smote no greater terror than Richard bounding upon the blacks. Arms some had, but arms none used; for Trenchefer dashed them down as the flail smites, ere one could raise or draw. Richard sought Zeyneb; but the dwarf, the only one with wits enough to fly, darting through a door, was gone into the darkness. "God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas." Richard again flung out his battle-cry; but none stood against him. He stared about the room, saw the dead form in the corner, a negro dying beside him, a second prone by the head of the staircase, the rest all fled,--all save one. Richard felt his knees smiting together, and a darkening mist veiling his eyes. He tried to speak; there came no word. Trenchefer fell clanging to the floor. Something was touching him, pressing him. Into the ringing in his ears stole one name, his own; out of the mist before his eyes floated one face. Then God gave back sight and speech. "Mine for life and for death!" came from his lips. "What is death if once you kiss me!" flew the answer. But neither said more, nor thought more. What soul may have thoughts in such an instant! Only Richard knew that never in his whole life had Heaven granted him joy like this. Mary was laying her warm, smooth hands upon his shoulders. Her lips were close to his own. She was speaking. "Richard, the peril is very great. You should have fled the moment Morgiana saved you. For my sake you all have committed great sin!" "And would you not thus have sinned for me?" replied the Norman. Mary did not reply. Her own heart told that Richard spoke well. Then she said softly:-- "Sweet husband, I will not be frightened. I can fear nothing now. Only you must not let Iftikhar possess me again. Holy Mother of God! you must not let him regain me!" And Richard, who knew what she meant (for when did he not read all in her eyes?), answered, holding out Trenchefer:-- "Iftikhar shall not regain you. By the wounds of Christ I swear it. Ah, how Our Lord will welcome a sweet angel like you when you fly up to the gate of heaven!" And Mary laughed at his words, for many things had become more terrible than death. "I rejected once the escape of death as a sin," said she, "but I know it will be no sin now. What, with you beside, is there left to fear, living or dying?" "Living!" cried the Norman, snatching a cloak to cast about her. "God will not suffer the wicked to torture such as you. St. Michael speed my arm with all the strength of heaven!" He had not seen Godfrey and Musa mounting to the chamber, or Morgiana following. He had not heard the tenfold din rising in the palace and without. But now he heard a howl of fury fit to pass a demon's lips. "May you scorch forever!" Richard turned. He saw Iftikhar Eddauleh, cimeter in hand, springing through the doorway. The Ismaelian was without armor; he wore the white robe of his order only. Rage unspeakable almost drowned the curses in his throat. "Die! Die, both of you!" that was his mad cry. Before Richard could grasp Trenchefer the Egyptian was on him, had torn Mary from his arms, was shortening his weapon to run him through. But Longsword needed no weapon. "For Mary's sake!" cried his soul; while one hand caught Iftikhar's sword wrist, the other clutched the Ismaelian's body. A struggle, a crash, and the grand prior measured length on the carpet. Richard bent over him, Trenchefer in hand. One thrust through the body, and Iftikhar Eddauleh would have passed from the wrath of man. The great sword was rising when Morgiana tore at the Norman's arm. "Your oath!" cried she, with livid face; "spare!" Longsword paused. "What is he to you, woman?" demanded he, sternly. "He is to me as Mary the Greek to you," answered the Arabian, defiantly. Richard withheld his hand. Iftikhar was staggering to his feet, but was weaponless. His conqueror pointed toward the doorway. "Fair cavalier," said he in Provençal, "get you gone. For sake of my oath to this woman, I spare you once. When we next meet, God judge betwixt us." The Egyptian drew himself up proudly. "Do not deceive yourself, Cid Richard. You will be overwhelmed by numbers. Though you spare me, I will not spare you." Longsword in turn threw back his head. "Nor do I ask it. We owe each other--nothing. Go!" And Iftikhar foamed out of the room, gone as suddenly as he had entered. There was silence for a moment. "My friends," said Richard, "let us make haste. Shall we not fly?" Morgiana laughed, as so often, very scornfully. "Verily you Franks are fools. Do you say 'go'? Are you angels with swords of fire, that you can blast ten thousand? Hark! fifty approach the door by which we entered! All the Ismaelians about El Halebah are alarmed. Iftikhar boasts well; we are soon hewn in pieces." There was indeed a din, hundreds of voices, many torches shaking and flitting about the groves, and coming nearer, dogs barking, armor clanging. The whole cantonment of the Ismaelians was astir to avenge the violation of the palace. Musa had bowed his head. "Alas! dear brother," said he, after his gentle manner, "clearly Allah has written our dooms! We pass from death to death. But we can now die sword in hand!" Then Richard held up Trenchefer, so that the reddened blade glittered in the lamplight. "This is no time to die!" cried he; "let others die! Let us do the deeds God has appointed. The life of my wife, the safety of the army of Christ, are at stake, and with Our Lord's help we shall make our boast over Iftikhar!" The others looked at him. For the first time Mary saw that mad fire in his eyes which once burned the hour when he wrested triumph from death at Valmont--a thing terrible to see, but Mary did not quail. In a strange way the sight of him told her they were then not to die; for a prophet stood before her, a prophet whose evangel would be given that night with steel. Richard surveyed the room. It was square, of no great size, lighted in day by a high lantern. On his right descended the stairway to the arcade of the palace; before him opened the wide door that led down the dark corridor. The door itself was of wood and weak. The winding stairway was steep and narrow; one man could make good the ascent against a host. But to defend the door was nothing easy. Just beyond it the passage widened, making space for numbers. Longsword turned to Morgiana. "Is there no other door?" he demanded. She shook her head. "None that will open." She tore back the Kerman tapestry, and revealed a solid door in the wall, barred and bolted into the casement. "This door has been sealed for years; the firm wall is little stronger. It leads to another stairway, but the former masters of El Halebah closed it." Duke Godfrey, who had swept the room with a captain's eye, snorted with satisfaction. "Good!" cried he, "only two entrances to defend. By St. Michael, the _jongleurs_ shall have some brave strokes to sing, before we are amongst the angels!" Mary looked from one to the other of her terrible protectors. Musa had put off his despair; Richard leaned on Trenchefer, a lion crouching for his spring; Godfrey--terror of the paynims--pranced up and down the doorway, clattering his great blade, and calling on every Moslem devil to draw nigh and be satisfied. Mary knew then, if never before, that to her mighty husband and his peers death was a very pleasant thing, if only it came in knightly guise. There was redoubled din in the passage, more din below the stairway. Richard addressed Musa, "Guard the stairs, the Duke and I can care for the door," and he sprang to Godfrey's side. The Greek threw her arms about him, beseeching. "Dear husband, as you love me,--strike once, and free me from Iftikhar forever!" And she held down her head. But Richard laughed, as St. George might, crushing his dragon. "Yes, by the splendor of God,--as I love you!--I will strike not once, but many times; and Iftikhar shall never touch you!" He caught her in his giant arms, pressed her to his breast, put her away. "Pray for us!" his words; "your prayers will outweigh Trenchefer!" But Mary only stared about in dread, wishing to cry, to shout, but her voice was frozen. Morgiana's hand plucked her away. "Back!" commanded the Arabian; "you can do nothing. They are all in Allah's hands. Let us await doom." Morgiana forced her to a corner of the room, and thrust her upon a divan. Mary heard a thunderous command in the voice of Iftikhar, a rush of many feet, a clash and crash of targets and sword-blades,--then, in mercy, sight and hearing fled. Down the passage, lit by wavering lamps and flambeaux, charged the white-robed Ismaelians, the commands and curses of the grand prior speeding them. Not a man but was a trained sword hand, and had been in the battle press a score of times. But they never knew before how deep the Frankish bear could bite. Side by side--armed only with their great blades--Godfrey and Richard met them in the passage. Then came the rush, the shock. Godfrey swung to left; to right whirled Trenchefer. Left and right, each felling his man; and cimeters dashed from hands as stubble, shields were smitten through as if of gauze. After the shock came the recoil; new charge and new repulse. The long Frankish swords hewed down the Ismaelians before their short cimeters could strike. There were three corpses before the door, but the two were still standing. Third charge--again flung back! Iftikhar raged at his men. "Scorpions! Lizards! Will you let two men mock you? Is it thus you earn Paradise?" "We may fight men, not jinns!" howled an old _daïs_. Richard brandished Trenchefer. "Come you, Iftikhar Eddauleh! The account is long!" The grand prior forced himself forward. "It is long!" foamed he. "Eblees pluck me if it is not paid." "Back, Cid," pleaded the Ismaelians; "they have the might of the rebel efreets!" "Fools!" thundered Iftikhar, putting all by; "follow, who dares!" His eye lit on Morgiana within. "Allah blast me utterly, wench," rang his menace, "if you see the dawning." Morgiana's answer was to tear the ring from her finger, and dash it in his face. "See, see! You have cursed, mocked, triumphed! But I conquer! You shall possess the Greek, never, never!" Iftikhar cut her short by dashing on Richard as a stone from a catapult. Twice sword and cimeter clashed; thrice, and the Norman's strength dashed through the Ismaelian's guard. Iftikhar fell, but Trenchefer had turned in the stroke. He was not maimed. Ere Richard could strike again, the "devoted," with a great cry, flew after their chief, to drag to safety. Godfrey slew one, but his body became the shield. They plucked Iftikhar from danger. He stood, blaspheming heaven. There was blood on his shoulder, but he snatched for a weapon. "_Allah akhbar!_" groaned Morgiana, falling on her face; "he is nigh slain!" Richard laughed in derision. "Slain? He has strength to kill many good men yet; cursed am I, that my wrist turned." "Again! Again!" raged the grand prior; and the "devoted" dashed upon the two Franks, but only to be flung back as before. At the narrow stairway, many had tried to ascend; none had passed Musa, "Sword of Grenada." Mary was awaking from her oblivion. Still the clatter of swords, the howl of the Ismaelians, the loud "Ha! St. Michael!" of the two Franks. Never had she loved Richard Longsword as now, when she saw him standing beside the great Duke--the two o'ermatching the fifty. Heaven was very near, she knew it; but the vision of God's White Throne could hardly be more sweet than the thought--"Richard Longsword is doing this for me, for me!" And the Norman? How changed from the helpless ox the Ismaelians had dragged to slaughter! How the touch of warm breath and soft hair on his cheek, by a great mystery, had sped the might of the paladins through his veins! The "devoted" renewed the onset. When Iftikhar sought to lead them, they thrust him back. When the Frankish swords proved again too strong, they brought lances and javelins. With darts they would crush down these destroying jinns. But Godfrey plucked up a low ebony table, tore three legs clear, holding the table-top by the fourth before him as a shield, and dashed the other three amongst the foe. A javelin quivered in the casement; he tore it clear, and sped it clean through target and cuirass of a bold Ismaelian. No more darts were flung: to supply weapons to this man were madness. Iftikhar urged yet another attack; he was met by stolidity and silence. "Sheytans!" howled he, "are you not 'devoted'? Will you pawn Paradise for Gehenna?" It was Harun the executioner who answered. "My Cid--sweet is Paradise, but the journey these promise is too swift. Strike off our heads at will,--Allah defends your enemies." Iftikhar laid down his cimeter, and with outstretched arms approached the fateful doorway. The two were awaiting him, blood on their cheeks, their hands, their dress. But he knew their strength was still terrible; in their grasp were those swords,--those swords he in his arrogancy had left them, when he should have disarmed. Richard bowed and saluted with Trenchefer. "We are hardly winded, my lord," quoth he, though in truth his breaths came fast. "I reproach the saint that ended our adventure together!" Iftikhar came a step nearer. "De St. Julien," said he, in a voice that shook, in mere striving for calmness, "you are indeed a valiant man; and you also, my Lord Godfrey. I honor you, and cry against Allah that we must meet as foes not friends. But you are no jinns, though my cowards bellow it. You have wounds both. You must soon go down. Ten you may slay, but not hundreds. I make you a fair proffer of life and honor"--he dropped his voice--"of life, honor, and safety for the army of the Franks." Godfrey's hand almost dropped the hilt at this last; but he answered:-- "I am simply companion to my Lord de St. Julien. In this adventure he leads. Make conditions with him." Iftikhar faced Richard. "Ride free, then," said he; "receive your horses. I swear it is not too late for your host to be warned. My Ismaelians shall conduct you through the net spread by Kerbogha; but on this condition--that you give back to me--" his voice faltered; his eye wandered to the corner of the room within--"give back to me alive the Star of the Greeks." Richard felt as though dashed by a thunderbolt. Yield Mary to Iftikhar as price of his own life? God knew he never thought on that! But should he set her joy and his before the lives of dear comrades, who had ridden lightly to the jaws of death in his quarrel? Above all, should he peril the army of the Cross because Mary loved peace in heaven rather than the pleasures of El Halebah? No words came to his lips; he turned appealing eyes to Godfrey, who spoke nothing. But in the silence Mary spoke. She had risen, had advanced to the doorway. The two enemies--the Egyptian, the Norman--gazed at her as upon a treasure for which life were a trivial price. "Dear husband," her voice came, sweetly as bells across the misty sea, "you know what you should say. God will avenge me in His own time, and reward me and reward Iftikhar each according to justice. I have borne so much, I can bear a little more. You must save yourselves, must warn the army. It was a sin to go to Aleppo; now Heaven allows you to ride away scatheless. Do not distrust Iftikhar; he violates no oath." What might Richard say? His wife before him--in all her beauty! To save her he would have felt it untold joy to die. He knew that she herself loved death more than life in this renewed captivity. And yet there she stood, pleading--pleading, as never before, to be left to her captivity. What might he do? Mother of God, he was of too frail stuff to answer! But the great Duke, whose hand was the heaviest, whose heart the purest, in all broad France, made answer for him. Very gravely he was replying to Iftikhar. "My lord, I have faith enough in God to believe that He will not suffer His army and His cause to perish, because we withhold this price--the agony of one of His angels. Go back to your men, my lord. We shall hold them at bay as long as He wills. And rest assured that, before they master us, the Lady de St. Julien shall have granted her, as she has prayed, a swift death at our swords, rather than a slow one in your palace." "Think better, for the love of Christ, my Duke!" pleaded Mary, making to fall on her knees. But Godfrey had spoken; and Richard spoke too and very gently:-- "Sweet wife, you will find heaven no darksome place. Please God I shall be good enough sometime to see you there." Then he turned to Iftikhar, his poise high, his voice hard. "Go back, my lord, uncover the pit, unchain the fiends, lead on your devils! Yet know that the first foe that crosses this threshold will see my wife's dead body!" "Dear Son of God!" cried Mary, "will you throw your lives away? Musa, you are wise, plead with them." But the Spaniard, who had been playing a part equal to the others, turned at his post by the stairway, and salaamed after his fashion. "I have heard my brother and Cid Godfrey. Allah indeed pity us, if we yield the Star of the Greeks!" Richard raised Trenchefer. "Now, Iftikhar Eddauleh!" commanded he, "again--begone! Or, unarmed as you are, I kill you!" The Egyptian knew by his foe's eye it was no idle boast; he knew also that prayers were futile upon the three. "Brave cavaliers," said he, with a bitter smile, "I can do nothing for you. Wonderful are your Frankish swords and that of Cid Musa. But you shall feel a cimeter that will test their temper, be it never so keen." He was gone, and disappeared behind the band of Ismaelians who eyed the Franks from a safe distance down the passage. Mary saw him vanish, and turned first to Musa, then to Godfrey, then to Richard, and kissed the first two on the forehead, her husband on the lips. "Dear friends," she said gently, "you add sin to sin for my sake. The end cannot be far away. But God is very near, and I fear nothing." CHAPTER XXXVII HOW ROLLO CARRIED WEIGHT Iftikhar had vanished. The Ismaelians on guard had retreated down the long gallery. Musa from his post declared that only a few sentries remained at the foot of the stairs. Morgiana, who had crouched in silence on a divan during the combat, arose, and without a word opened a cupboard in the side of the wall. She drew forth a silver flagon and cups, proffering each of the three combatants a spiced wine that sent new life through their weariness. Godfrey relieved Musa at the staircase, and the Spaniard, going to the open window, leaned forth to espy the next move of Iftikhar. In the starlight he could only see the tracery of the forest of palms, and here and there, ghost-like, a white dress flitting. The lamps in the chamber were flickering low. Morgiana extinguished most, and poured the remaining oil into two,--leaving barely enough light to break the gloom in the vaulted chamber. It had suddenly become very still through the palace. Almost was Richard persuaded that the Egyptian by some magic had departed with all his "devoted." In the oppressive silence none tried speech. Mary had returned to her post on the divan, and Richard knew she was sobbing, though no sound came. Musa stole noiselessly about the room, completing his inspection. Once he paused at the sealed door, and flung himself against it--adamant had scarce seemed firmer. He came to Richard's side and shook his head. "Some new attack is preparing," was his whisper; "in what way, Allah alone knows! I see no road to escape." "The sealed door?" asked Longsword. "The spell of Solomon has turned it to iron. We can escape only over the Ismaelians, or on the wings of Roc, the giant bird, whose back upbears an army." "Then over the Ismaelians be it!" quoth the Norman, laughing grimly; and he added, "Ah, brother, you know well my proverb: 'Easier go through the wall than mount it'!" But Musa did not laugh in reply. "Brother mine," said he, "I think you and Cid Godfrey are each mighty as Jalut, whom you call 'Goliath.' But Iftikhar says well; you are no jinns. In the last charge the Ismaelians nearly passed you, and all would have been over." Richard made an angry gesture. "Good, then! What is left to fear? I think Trenchefer can still sting before his master's fingers loosen." But his voice grew very grave in turn,--"Were it not for my wife! But we have chosen!" "We have chosen, my brother. Trusting in Allah we went to Aleppo; trusting in Him let us wait. But we have not struck in vain. Iftikhar shall never set eyes on the sorrow of the Star of the Greeks." A cry from Godfrey brought Musa to his side. "Now by St. Nicholas of Ghent!" swore the Duke, in Languedoil. "What new devil's devisings? Look, Sir Musa! What do you see in the dark?" He pointed from the casement by the stairs, into the night. Musa strained his eyes. "I see many men; they are bearing bales, I think; perhaps of straw and grass. They are approaching the door at the stairway." Without a word Godfrey caught a second of the ebony tables,--nothing light,--raised it to the sill--cast it down. A great howl of pain, and many curses; then the rush of a score of feet. The defenders awaited a new attack by the stairs, where Musa's cimeter had already sped three; but the Ismaelians did not ascend. They fled back into the gloom, and an instant later half a dozen arrows twittered in at the window and dashed harmlessly against the wall. "Cover the lamps!" commanded Godfrey; "they give light to aim." Morgiana hid them behind a curtain. But despite the darkness there came more arrows, and yet more; in vain hopes to harm by a chance shaft. "They waste bowstrings," muttered the Duke. "Lie close a little longer!" As he spoke a short moan came from Mary's divan. Richard quitted guard, and was beside her instantly. "Lights!" ordered he. And Morgiana brought a lamp, despite the danger. There was an arrow pinning the Greek's left arm just below the elbow to the cushion, and the blood was flowing. Before her husband could cry out, she plucked fourth the shaft with her own hand. There was no tremor, and her lips were firm, though very white. "It is nothing!" said she, looking upward. "Do you forget my wound the day before Dorylæum?" But Richard was nigh to weeping when he saw the blood. "Dear God!" cried he, "wilt Thou suffer even this?" Mary smiled. "Now, by St. Basil, you almost weep, while your own face is all wounds." "And are not seven drops of your blood seven lakes to me?" declared Richard. The arrows flew past him, but he stood with his mailed body between Mary and the window, until Musa had made a bandage of the tapestry and Morgiana could hide the light. Brave were his wife's words, and brave her face, but Longsword heard her murmur, "Sweet Mother of Jesus--let the next arrow touch my breast, and end there all the pain." "Ah! little wife," said he, when he kissed her, "I do not think God will vex you much longer. Surely He will save us soon for earth, or for heaven!" A voice was ringing down the darkened gallery,--Iftikhar's voice. "You Franks and Cid Musa: again, I demand, will you yield the Greek and go free?" "We will not!" thundered Godfrey, unhesitatingly. "_Bismillah!_" came reply. "You have chosen. Behold!" A kettledrum boomed once, twice; and as a fresh flight of arrows dashed into the room, suddenly lights darted across the palace lawn below. A cry broke from Godfrey:-- "Fire! They have brought straw to the entrance and will so destroy us. Iftikhar is mad thus to ruin his palace!" Morgiana looked at him quietly. "He is no more mad than for many a day. You know little his passion for Mary. This wing of the palace is partly severed from the rest; but Iftikhar will burn all El Halebah to destroy us!" Already below sprang a crackle, a roar, as the night wind caught the flame. In a moment up drifted a puff of smoke, a red glare ever brightening. "The palace is marble," declared Godfrey, leaning over the parapet, despite the shafts. "Enough also of wood and stucco to glow like Gehenna!" replied Musa, grimly. "Such is the manner of our palaces." The smoke blew thicker, the arrows pelted so rapidly that even Godfrey was fain to drop behind the casement. There was another rush of feet in the gallery. Richard bounded to the door. "Praised be St. Michael!" shouted he; "there is still food for Trenchefer." But the Ismaelians halted at a safe distance; did not advance; only stood with swinging cimeters, as if awaiting attack. "Hear their feet below!" growled Godfrey; "they bring more fuel! Hark the roar! The very palace burns." Musa thrust his head into the scorching smoke eddy. "You say well, Cid Godfrey; we are in Allah's hands, and shall see Him face to face full soon!" A crash below was followed by a second, a third. Up the stairway shot a wavering shaft of flame; the smoke that had been rising to the vaulted dome began to sink and stifle. Richard turned to Morgiana. "Lady," he said, while he leaned on Trenchefer, "God may reward you for your deed to-night, but not ourselves. Had not His will been otherwise, you would have saved us. You can do nothing more. Fly down the gallery." As if in echo came Iftikhar's voice:-- "Morgiana need not think to escape. Verily her body shall scorch now, as her false soul hereafter." Even at that dread moment Richard shuddered at the passion the Egyptian struck forth from Morgiana's eyes; but her only answer was the cry:-- "Then shall my curse light on you forever!" And at that curse, no blame if Iftikhar trembled. Thicker the smoke, brighter the glare, higher the flame. They felt the pavement under the rugs grow warm. Iftikhar thundered once more:-- "For the last time--choose life and freedom, or the fire!" Godfrey had leaped beside Richard. "Ha! This is the end of the hunting. Well, St. George aid us, we will not be grilled here, with that gallery open and fifty cimeters ready to speed us to heaven!" Richard cast a look forward,--behind. "There is nothing else!" said he. But Trenchefer shook in his hands, for Mary was standing at his side. "Dear lord and husband," said she, once more, "you have promised. I know your arm is strong. Let us go away together,--far away, far away,--to the love and light and peace!" And she held down her head. But Richard that moment felt his muscles hard as bands of steel. Should she die, with him so strong, with the might of the saints shed over him as never before? Should she die, and by his hand? "I wait, dear heart," she was saying, "hasten!" The fire shot up the stairway in one raging, devouring column. But Trenchefer did not strike. "Morgiana!" was Richard's fierce cry, "if the sealed door were shivered, is there escape?" The Arabian had crouched upon the floor. "Yes!" gasped she, "when Allah sends a miracle." "And that He shall! _God wills it!_" and Richard sent the Crusader's war-cry out into the smoke and fire. The very shout made his might fivefold. Through the smoke he bounded to the sealed portal, dashed against it, a lion against his cage. It stood firm; but he felt the bolts give way in their fastenings. A marble pendant hung betwixt the windows. He wrenched it from its mortar setting, swung it on high, and crashed it upon the door. In after days men found this marble in the wreck and marvelled at the might of the Christians. At the first blow the wood and iron sprang inwards as with a groan. Twice!--the stones in the casement crumbled, the pivots started. Thrice!--and before the iron of Richard's north-sprung strength the weaker iron of the door gave way. "God wills it!" Over the storm of fire again he flung the cry. Iftikhar had seen--the Ismaelians had seen the attack on the door--the miracle! One and all had sped forward,--at the doorway had met Godfrey and Musa, and their tireless blades. A crash below; the firm floors were shivered; flames leaped between. But the sealed portal--it was sealed no longer! Richard was back in the press at the other door. The marble block was lifted on high, and as it sped from his hand it dashed down the tall Harun, who never felt his hurt. Trenchefer was again flashing in the Ismaelians' faces. They drew back, crying:-- "No deed of man! We may not fight with Allah!" and Iftikhar with them. Three steps forward leaped Richard--not a man loved death enough to meet him face to face. The floor was quaking beneath them. "Back, back, for the love of Christ!" rang the shout of Godfrey; for Longsword in his pride would have charged them all. It was Musa who plucked Mary in his arms, and bounded through the fire. Morgiana flew across the flame as though on wings. Godfrey caught Richard by an arm, and drew him after. From the new opening Richard glanced backward. Red flames roared betwixt him and Iftikhar. The wreck before him held his gaze as by enchantment, but the others dragged him away. The smoke was eddying after them into the new portal; soon the fire would follow. Haste was still their sole safety. Before them were the dimly lighted rooms of the palace; and Morgiana led their way. Well that they had such guidance. The command of Iftikhar sounded loudly to cut off the fugitives when they should come forth. But Morgiana sped on before them, swift as the flight of a dream, through dark galleries and under arcades where the flame glared all around. They followed witlessly, not knowing whether she led to life or death. Suddenly, as if by magic, the palace and its blazing battlements were left behind them, their feet trod soft grass; their nostrils drank in the pure air; and above the haze of vapor and sparks glittered the fairer haze of the stars. The Arabian led them far on into the wood. "Where were your horses tethered?" demanded Morgiana, halting. "At the tamarisk by the road to the palace," answered Musa. "Good, then," replied she; "follow this shorter path you see in the starlight. Mount, spur, and Allah spread the cloak of compassion over you. I can do nothing more!" "St. Maurice!" swore Richard and Godfrey together, "shall we never reward you?" They could see Morgiana's eyes flash in the firelight. "This will be reward--never again to hear the name 'Mary'!" Before they could say more the Arabian had flung her arms about the Greek, kissed her once, and vanished in the night. * * * * * Despite the danger of pursuit, Morgiana's departure for an instant broke the spell of delirium that had possessed the fugitives for the hour. They were under the canopy of the forest. They heard the roar of the burning, which was dimmed by the dense barrier of the trees. The chamber of judgment; the chamber of battle; the struggle for life and death; Morgiana, their good angel--all had vanished--whither! For a moment the four were silent, drinking deep of the sweet air, their hearts stirred by emotion too strong for words. It was the Spaniard whose wits returned first. "_Allah akhbar!_ What is this, down the path?" And his whisper plucked back the others to the world of danger. A party of men and horses were coming straight toward them from the palace. "Now, by St. George!" cried the Duke, "we need our prayers! They have taken horse to follow." The hoofs were thundering behind them. Richard felt Mary trembling in his arms with mortal dread. To have endured so much and to fail now! "Holy Mother!" she was crying softly, "are the horses far away?" But Richard laughed aloud and the others also. Then he trumpeted through his hands, and Godfrey and Musa did likewise. Down the road they heard a stamping and snapping of tether-ropes. And as they ran three great beasts came prancing out of the dark to meet them--Rollo puffing with his huge mouth in his master's face. The others were mounted in a twinkling; but Richard gazed in vain for the Arabian prepared for Mary. There was a crash in the road not forty paces away. Over his head flew many arrows. The grip of his arm about Mary tightened. "Little wife," spoke he, in her ear, "will you trust Rollo?" "I will trust _you_!" came the answer. No other way; with his right hand Richard gripped the pommel and leaped with his burden. And at the press of weight, Rollo gave a long leap forward, as close upon them in pursuit swung another, a rider on a tall horse; behind him, a mass of dark forms, sparks striking from the flying hoofs. Richard felt his wife shrink closer to him, and above the yell of the Ismaelians heard her cry:-- "Carry us safe, dear Rollo, for the love of Christ! The need is great!" Iftikhar was breasting them, on a steed the pride of El Halebah's stables. The Ismaelian drew bow, and sent a shaft crashing against them. The leathern saddle-flap turned it, and Richard taunted: "Truly you love the Greek! Will you strike her?" "Better dead than yours!" came back, and with it a second arrow, against Longsword's shoulder. He reeled, but the Valencia mail was not faithless. Tightening his grasp, Richard swung Mary so that his own body was between her and the Egyptian. He drew Trenchefer. Rollo needed no bridle. At touch of the knee, the beast swerved so suddenly that Iftikhar's mount was nigh over-ridden. Before the Egyptian could cast away the bow and draw, the Christian sword fell. The Ismaelian barely shunned it. Not so his horse; for the good sword cleft through the saddle and severed the spine. Iftikhar went down with his falling steed, while Rollo tossed out his heels and flew onward. But a precious moment had sped, brief though the encounter. Almost as Iftikhar fell, the Ismaelian band closed upon his conqueror. The dawn was strengthening. Richard could see the foe about him--dark Syrians, white-robed, with crooked bows, cimeters, and brass-studded targets. They raised a mighty yell as they saw the prey they had tracked so long locked, seemingly, in their hands. A thousand marks Longsword would have pledged for his good target to cast behind Mary; but his own body was the living shield. No place this, to swing Trenchefer now. Speed, the speed of Rollo,--in that and in Our Lady he trusted. "_Bismillah!_ Glory to Allah! The Christian jinn is taken!" roared the foremost Ismaelians, with their screaming arrows. One shaft home, and Rollo was crippled. But he, great brute, was wiser than many men. He needed no word, no spur. Close to the ground, after his wont, he dropped his muzzle. Then when he felt the reins slack on his neck and Richard's fingers gently combing his mane, he struck out in a stretch no steed of Fars or Khorassan could outpace. Two bounds, it seemed, plucked him out of that circle of death; with the long way clear, and the press behind. Through eyes half opened, Mary saw hills, rocks, trees, speeding past under the pale light, as though runners in a race. They had left the green wood; were on the highroad, flying westward. Eastward, behind the howling pack, all the sky was bright, but not all the glow was from the dawning. A tower of fire was leaping toward heaven. All the groves were traced darkly against the red glare, but faded swiftly as Rollo thundered westward. Arrows, or what she deemed arrows, were whistling past her head. There were a score of mad voices close behind: "Shoot! Slay! Strike the horse! The grand prior's houri! A great reward!" Then more arrows; but it was nothing easy to send a shaft from a plunging saddle into the dimness, and strike a dragon flying as Rollo flew. She heard Iftikhar shout once more--the fall had not harmed him, for he was again mounted--"To every man a hundred dirhems, if you bring down the horse!" Her fear had become overmastering now. She was frightened as a little child. Her face was very close to her husband's. Despite the pace, she spoke. "Richard, do not forget. You have promised. Strike, before too late." The other's answer was a glance behind into the half-light. Mother of Pity, how close the infidels were! Then he bent forward, and spoke to Rollo,--not in Greek, Arabic, or Provençal, but in his own Norman French. "On, my horse; on, my sweet swallow! Will you be run to death like a fawn? Shall the paynims say, 'There are no steeds like the steeds of the East?' Remember your glory, my Rollo! Remember the lists at Palermo! How you outpaced the winds at Dorylæum. And the brave days at Antioch, gone by! And will you now fail, swiftest of the _destrers_ of France?" Did the black brute understand? Did he know that he had been born and bred, that for those few moments, double-mounted as he was, he should speed swifter, ever swifter, beyond range of those shafts whereof one must soon strike home? But the Ismaelians saw, and Iftikhar saw, who cursed his men by every sheytan, vowing stake and torment if they failed. Longsword still urged:-- "Onward! Onward! the _jongleurs_ sing of Ogier's Broiefort, of Bayard the fleet steed of Renaud, but swiftest of all shall they set Rollo bearing master and lady, casting shame on the beasts of the Moslems. Bravely done, yet faster! Faster, and faster yet! See, the arrows are falling short! Hear,--they curse and call on their Prophet vainly for aid. On, Rollo; as I feel your stride, I grow proud, yet you can make it longer. On, Rollo; another such shaft, our riding is ended! On, Rollo; you bear rarer than gold in the saddle now! On, Rollo; God loves a good horse's speed. They shall deck you in ribbons, my Rollo, and Herbert shall kiss your dear black lips when I tell the tale. All the Julieners shall be glad; in old age they shall say, 'No steed now like to Rollo, the great horse of our seigneur.'" And Rollo? Long had been his stride, longer now; swift, swifter now. No reed-limbed southern-born he; spaniel-sleek, and spaniel-tender. Where the road was rough, his great hoof bit out the rock and sent it flying; where smooth, the Ismaelians saw no wings, but they saw his flight. Godfrey and Musa led the chase, but not as Rollo. No arrows for them; the pursuers knew their prey. The eyes of the Ismaelians' steeds were blood-shot, bits foaming; arrow after arrow sped,--fell shorter. Mary saw yawning before them a wide gully, cut deep by the spring torrent. Life--death--flashed up in an instant. She felt Rollo draw his huge limbs together,--a bound, and cleared; a safe recovery; the horse ran on. Godfrey passed safely. Musa's charger stumbled, but reined up dexterously, recovered, flew on. The Ismaelians struck the gully together; two leaders went down, were trampled out in a breath, horse and man. The rest still spurred after. But Richard, as he counted the ells betwixt him and the black mass of the pursuit, saw the patch of dark road widening slowly, but surely. More arrows now; when these flew very wide, a single rider shot ahead of the rest. In the brightening dawn Richard saw the pursuer prodding with a cimeter-point to add to the spur sting. Again Richard put his head close to his steed's ear. "Faster again, my Rollo; faster yet, I say! Only a little more. Iftikhar pricks cruelly now, cruelly. When did I that, to give you speed? Ha, we are better friends! You are winning a great race--are heading the fleetest steeds of Fars, of Khorassan. You are winning! I grow more proud--proud of Rollo, king of the _destrers_ of France!" The answer was a final burst of speed, and Richard knew he had never ridden so before. Iftikhar's men vainly strove to keep pace with their leader; one after another goaded, dashed forward, dropped from the chase. Musa's peerless Arabian, Godfrey's Marchegai ran neck to neck behind Rollo, but they bore no double burden. Richard's heart went with his eyes when he saw the last effort of the pursuit. For a moment the space betwixt pursued and pursuers lessened,--but only for a moment. Then the precious stretch of road grew wider, ever wider. There came a moment when even the steeds of El Halebah could do no more. Iftikhar still led; but he was not mad enough to pursue alone three such spirits. Richard heard his last curse of bootless rage. There was a last vain flight of arrows: one chance shaft whirled past Rollo's ear; the blood was started. That was all. Musa waved his cimeter as a parting defiance. The Ismaelians had halted. For the first time Mary and Richard had eyes for other things than the flying Rollo. They saw and marvelled that the darkness had gone. The sun had risen and was hanging a ball of red gold on the eastern horizon. Aleppo, El Halebah, and its gardens had vanished, as though but a vision of the night. All about were the rolling, arid Syrian fields. * * * * * When Iftikhar returned to El Halebah, the fire had utterly destroyed the wing of the palace containing the harem. Only through desperate efforts by the Ismaelians who had not joined in the pursuit was the remainder of the building saved. The grand prior's first act was to order search to be made for Morgiana. The "devoted" failed in their quest as completely as in the chase of the fugitives. The Arab seemed to have bidden the rock open and receive her. Breathing forth his vows of vengeance, Iftikhar had retired for the evening, before riding to join Kerbogha; but Zeyneb wandered from the half-wrecked palace into the gardens. He was alone in one of the remotest glades, when of a sudden his arm was plucked, and glancing about he beheld in the dimness the face of Morgiana. Where she had hidden, he did not know nor did she tell. He tried to shout; she plucked his throat as fiercely as on the previous night when she had mastered him. "_Ya_," he heard her demand; "will you call the 'devoted'? Will you deliver me up to Iftikhar?" "He swears he will have you flayed alive," gasped the dwarf; "why should I save you after what you have done to me?" "Why?" laughed Morgiana. "Listen, Zeyneb. Did Hakem awake after I cut his throat? What hindered me to do the like to you." Zeyneb hung his head. "It is true," he confessed; "you spared me." "I spared you," she reëchoed, laughing after her unearthly manner, "not through love--Allah forbid!--but because you were my foster-brother, and faithful to Iftikhar. The Greek is gone--gone forever--praised be the Most High! Iftikhar in his mad pride will go to Antioch, where--and the omens of the smoke never lie--only woe awaits. He casts me away, but I will not leave him. He curses; I will never forsake. I am strong, I can yet save." "Allah!" cried the dwarf--her spell once more over him--"what do you desire?" "That you aid me to go to Antioch. You have means and wits. Then, unknown to him, I shall be at Iftikhar's side, to stand betwixt him and the danger." CHAPTER XXXVIII HOW RICHARD AND MUSA AGAIN PARTED Rollo had dropped to a slower pace; at last had halted. Richard had set Mary down on a grassy hummock and gone back to his steed. The great beast was reeking with sweat, panting in strong gusts such as blow from a smithy's bellows. Richard plucked off his outer mantle--long since tattered--and rubbed the steaming flanks and back of the brute; while all the time he patted him, and praised him for having done a deed right worthy of a Christian _destrer_ pacing the steeds of the unbelievers. But it was Mary who rose, and put her fair white arms round black Rollo's neck, and her cheek against the white spot on his forehead. "Ah! dear Lord Jesus Christ," said she, "if there be indeed a heaven where good horses go, surely our Rollo will be there, a very angel!" Richard laughed merrily, when he imagined the huge brute duly decked with halo and with wings. But Rollo, sensible fellow, who knew that he had only done his duty as became an honest horse, sniffed for water, found none, and then began to munch the thorny wayside thistles with as much relish as might a desert camel. Musa and Godfrey had dismounted, and were praising their steeds also. Well they deserved it, but neither had borne the burden of Rollo, or run as did he. When Richard turned once more to Mary, she gave a great cry. "Mother of Sorrows," began the knight, "were you wounded?" "I!" the Greek was saying. "They have nigh slain you! You have a hundred wounds!" In truth Longsword was no pretty sight. For one could not fight and ride a night long, and not have bloody cheeks, bloody hands, and a cut on the right thigh where a cimeter had brushed away the Valencia mail. Richard wiped it off as best he could. "It is nothing!" protested he, gayly; "ten times have I bled worse, and never been the sadder,--at Dorylæum, and time and again about Antioch." "Ah, Richard," said she, "some day it may befall that if not you, another will be sadder if you risk your dear life lightly." "And why not risk it, when I deemed you were worse than dead to me?" Mary lifted her face. "But I am not dead, sweet husband; for my sake do not throw your life away. Above all, swear you will shun to meet Iftikhar. He is a terrible man." But the Norman shook his head. "Dear life--say to me 'Pluck me down three stars,' and I will try; but avoid Iftikhar I cannot. God created us both; but not a world large enough to hold us both. Yet do not fear." "Ah! Richard," said she, smiling in turn, "you also are a terrible man as well as Iftikhar. I tremble when I think I have the love of beings so grand, so valorous, as you. I know my love and my pain stand often but one step apart. But I have chosen you. And you must play your game, and--when God wills--die your death in your own way; while I will love and trust you to the end." Though his face was bleeding, she kissed him. "I am a cavalier's daughter, and a cavalier's wife," said she, more lightly; "red wine and white must be alike to me." Then Musa and Godfrey came up, courteously asking if the lady was well, and heaping praise on Rollo. "There lies a ravine with a sweet spring, beyond the next hillock," said Musa, who never forgot a road once travelled. "Let us ride thither. From its crest we can command a wide view, if any party approaches. Let us rest a little--the Star of the Greeks slept none too much last night." Mary pouted at the suggestion that they must wait for her alone. But in truth the horses sadly needed a halt. Richard knew Godfrey's heart was in the camp at Antioch lying unwarned of the impending danger. But even his Marchegai walked wearily as they climbed the little hill. The sun was fast mounting upward, promising a clear, hot day. Beyond the hillock, as the Spaniard had said, was a deep, cool ravine, an oasis in the desert of dry grass and thistle, where a little spring bubbled from the limestone, and threaded down a rocky bed. Over all swayed a few aged cypresses, an oleander thicket, ferns, and the twining wild vine. Here they drank till thirst was ended. Then while the three horses nibbled the grass, Richard found bread, and cheese, and broken meat in the saddle-bags, and they had their feast. That ended, the men saw the eyes of the Greek were very heavy, though she vowed she was not weary. "No fear, dear lady," quoth Musa. "As we watch, not a crow can fly within a league without our seeing. It is safest to ride by night. Let me stand sentry for a time; then I will rouse Richard, and Lord Godfrey shall relieve in turn." So, having resaddled the horses, and prepared for instant flight, he took his cimeter and climbed to the summit. Godfrey cast himself beneath a cypress, and his snoring soon told its story. Mary's eyes were scarcely peeping now. "Come, my Lord Baron," said she, smiling drowsily; "let your little wife fall asleep with her head in your lap." And lying under the spreading trees, she did as she wished; for how could Richard refuse her? She cast a last look into his face. "How you have changed! How fierce your great beard makes you! You will be more marked with scars than your father. Once I thought the only man I could love must be a beautiful youth like the Apollo of Scopas in our Constantinople home. How different! I ought to fear you, as all men fear you. But I do not--do not. For you are--Richard." The last words had come very slowly; there came no more. There was a little flutter of her breast and lips when she turned in her sleep. Richard sat a long time; his hands--great clumsy hands--now on her hair, now on her forehead, now on her neck. What had he done so pleasing to Heaven that he had been possessed of this--of this! The events of the past night buzzed about him--the shadow of death in so many forms!--how unreal the horrors seemed as they flitted by! He knew he ought to lay Mary's head upon the grass and relieve Musa's watch. But his eyes also were very heavy. He could not bring himself to disturb that crown of hair. The ravine and the trees grew dim. At last Richard thought he was back in St. Julien a-hunting, only the dogs were pulling down Harun, the Ismaelian, in place of a stag. This also passed away; he seemed drifting onward, onward,--until he heard a voice close by:-- "_Wallah!_ How beautiful she is, and how she loves him!" Richard raised his head. Musa was standing beside him; the sunbeams were slanting from the west. "Holy cross!" exclaimed the Norman; "the day is sped. I have slept through all. And Duke Godfrey?" Musa smiled. "Look!" The good Duke was still in the sleep of the righteous. "You have been sole sentinel. Why did you not wake us?" cried Richard. Musa again laughed. "If I can wield no cudgels of marble, I have a manner of strength. Many a night long at Cordova I have counted the hours over my books. My fellows said, 'Musa is like Allah; he never sleeps.' No foe in sight; no need of haste." There was a stir on Richard's lap; the long lashes unclosed. "Have I slept very long?" said the Greek, with a pretty sigh. "None too long," answered the Spaniard. "I have made bow and arrows, and killed two desert partridges. Let us sup and be off." Godfrey awoke and cursed the devil that made him sleepy. Musa had made a fire. They ate with a relish. Then Richard swung his wife into the saddle, and Rollo pranced gleefully as he took the road with his precious burden. They rode steadily until far into the night, meeting no one; then halted, resting on the dry grass until the moon had risen and lit the way. As they galloped onward, once or twice they thought they heard hoof-beats and saw distant objects moving; but nothing came close to threaten. The sun had but just risen when they climbed a commanding height east of the Orontes, where the fair valley, spreading down to Antioch, lay full in view. Godfrey was leading, when Richard saw him rein Marchegai short, and heard a bitter cry. "God Himself is leagued against us!" Below the whole plain was covered with the squadrons of a countless host! * * * * * From their hilltop they could view the strange army in its fulness. Near by, a squadron of light horsemen were speeding, their arms flashing under the brightening sun. Farther on a brown line was winding--small as of creeping ants; but Longsword knew he beheld footmen on the march, and their numbers were thousands. Perched on a knoll in the hills were gay pavilions, and above them glittered a sultan's twin banners, silver and gold. Beyond them was a second pair, enringed by other tents; beyond these a third, a fourth; and the eye grew weary counting the companies. Iftikhar had indeed boasted well--Kerbogha and all the might of the East was moving to the succor of Antioch. God alone knew if the Christian host would be warned in time! The Norman brushed his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel this ill-fraught vision. But vision it was not. The innumerable host, the marching columns, the sultans' and emirs' encampments, still were there. For a moment all were dumb. Musa spoke first. "As the Most High lives, this is a magician's work!" Godfrey only smiled gravely. "No, fair sir, it is the army of Kerbogha. When I quitted camp, we hoped he was still delaying before Edessa. But come he has, and unless I greatly fail, there are none in the army that dream he is so near." "So near, and not discovered?" demanded Longsword. The Duke laughed wearily. "Even you, De St. Julien, do not know how feeble has been our scouting. From the lowlands about Antioch we can see little of this host; only a few advance squadrons that will retire when charged. I greatly fear--" But Richard interposed: "That the Army of the Cross is near surprise, as Iftikhar vaunted. But are not Christ and Our Lady still with us? Has God ceased to hear prayer?" The elder knight crossed himself. "It is true, fair sir, our faith is very weak. We are still stronger than ten thousand thousand paynims!" Then he turned almost fiercely upon Musa. "And you, Sir Infidel, is your heart with this army and its purpose? They are of your own faith. Do you wish them well?" Musa shook his head thoughtfully:-- "They fight not for Islam, but for their own dark ends. Can any good thing come from Kerbogha, Iftikhar's ally? I serve the kalif of Egypt, not the emir of Mosul." They said no more. What was left to say? The hopes of a day had been blasted in an instant. Seemingly the army of the emir lay directly across their road to the city. As the hilltop was exposed to view, they retired behind to where a tiny brooklet started amid a clump of date palms. And well they did, for as they drew rein came a click and canter, and a single Arab horseman whirled down the hill slope, thinking least of all to meet an enemy. Before any knew it, he was face to face with them, had halted with a yell, stared once, turned to fly; but Godfrey had touched Marchegai, and he bounded beside the Arab, whom the Duke unsaddled before he could draw cimeter. Richard ran to him, as also Musa. So they held the prisoner fast, and led him to the brooklet, nipping his throat tightly to choke an outcry. Then, when the horse also had been taken, and his captors had him on his back, Godfrey held a dagger at his throat to give good reason for talking softly. The rascal whined piteously to be killed without torture; for, he moaned, the Franks were wont to broil prisoners alive for eating. "Stop croaking, frog," commanded Longsword, fiercely. "Only as you speak truly, may you keep a whole windpipe;--if not--" The silence was the most terrible threat. So the wretch told a story that seemed likely enough. He was a light rider serving with Dekak of Damascus. Kerbogha's host had advanced from Edessa, constantly swelling in numbers. There were twenty-eight emirs from Syria and Mesopotamia with him; Kilidge Arslan, burning to avenge the defeat at Dorylæum, the former emir of Jerusalem, and many princes more had led their myriads. The army had solemnly sworn by the beard of the Prophet to leave not one Christian to return to Frankland to tell the tale. They had advanced by stealthy marches from Afrin, and were now within a few leagues of Antioch itself; but to the prisoner's best knowledge the Christians had not discovered them. Then came an astonishing piece of news: while Kerbogha had advanced, Antioch had fallen. Two days earlier,--so the tale in the Moslem camp ran,--Phirous the Armenian had betrayed a tower to Bohemond, and all the city except the citadel had fallen to the Crusaders. This was the sum of the fellow's tale, and Godfrey liked it little. "So Bohemond made shift to take the city while he thought me away on the southern foray!" growled he, almost bitterly. "_Gratias Deo_,--I ought to say. But I know the manner of these knaves that follow us. Seven days long they will plunder, kill, and revel, thinking of ten thousand things before scouting. They will be snared one and all. Kerbogha will surprise the city. It will be their grave,--the grave of fools!" "And why is not the army moving?" demanded Richard. "We wait for Cid Iftikhar with all his Ismaelians. Men whisper that it is he in private council, not Kerbogha, who will rule the war." Richard smiled grimly. "Cid Iftikhar has had cause to delay. But tell me: does the line of Kerbogha compass the whole city? How may we enter?" The dagger's edge was cold against the Arab's throat, a goodly check to lying, and there was something in Richard's eye that made it dangerous to haggle with the truth. "Cid,--I tell you truly,--it will be a great peril for any Christian to try to enter Antioch. But if you ride to the south and then westward, touching the river below the city, I think you might pass, if Allah favor." Longsword withdrew the dagger. "See!" commented he; "the word of a Frank is inviolate. Swear you will whisper, not even to the winds, you were met by us; and you are free. Only we must keep your horse." The Arab swore by the "triple-divorcement" (an oath Musa declared all-abiding), and rejoiced to struggle to his feet. "I am secret as the Judgment book, my Cid!" quoth he, in his gratitude. Godfrey motioned him away. "Remember your oath, then, and begone." The fellow climbed the hillside, blessing Allah he was still alive. But those he left had a gloomy council. They were in no state for high and brave speech. Presently Richard began in his quiet way, sure token of determination: "We cannot remain here. Others may pass, in greater numbers. We have captured a fresh horse, and must make over the saddle for my wife." But Musa stood listless, his eyes on the ground. "We are in Allah's hands, brother," said he, with a despairing wave of the hand. "We have done all men might. Useless--fate is wearied with saving us. We can do nothing more. If our doom is written, it is written." And Richard saw that the proud spirit of his friend was bowed at last. The heart of Musa was sprung from the East; the word "fate" was a deadly talisman to him, as to all his race. But the Norman caught him roughly by the shoulder. "Rouse up, Musa, son of Abdallah! Do not anger God by saying, 'He puts forth His arm to save us all in vain,--to save from the cord, the cimeter, the fire, and the arrow, only to wait for slaughter like cows!' We have good swords and strong hearts still! Bowed heads never won triumph. Rouse up; your wits are not frozen. When one wills to have victory, victory is at hand." Musa lifted his face; his eyes were again flashing. "You say well, brother; I am turned coward. Do what you will; I follow." Richard swept his arm around in a circle. "We cannot recross this barren country; no refuge there. And Antioch must be warned. But there is safety for my wife and for you." "Safety for me and for Musa? What?" Mary, long silent, demanded. Richard hesitated; then drove on into seemingly reckless words. "You have wits keener than your cimeter, Musa, and can tell a tale to deceive sage Oberon. Take my wife; ride boldly into the camp of Kerbogha. Say you are an Arab gentleman with a Greek slave fleeing from the Frankish raiders at Alexandretta; that Turkomen bandits met your party on the way and scattered it. Dress up the tale--they will believe you. Unless you meet Iftikhar or Zeyneb face to face, none will doubt. At first chance sail for Egypt, and be safe." "And you and Cid Godfrey?" Richard pointed over the hill toward Antioch; then drew back his mantle. Upon the ring-shirt was the red cross of the Crusade. "We are soldiers of Christ, and must warn our brethren." "_Mashallah!_ You shall attempt nothing," cried the Spaniard. "You rebuked me; yet you rush into the arms of death! Your wife!" And Godfrey added eagerly:-- "Yes, by St. Denis,--my duty calls to Antioch, but not yours. One can pass as safely as two. Think of your wife, De St. Julien. If Musa prospers at all, he can pass you for a body-servant or the like. I alone will go to Antioch." Richard was very pale, and Mary likewise; but before he could answer, she thrust herself between the Norman and his friends. "You say well, my lord and husband," said she, simply; "you belong first to Christ and then to me." "O sweet lady," broke out Musa, "pray him for your sake, if not for his own, to go with us; to forget his madness." Mary looked from one to the other. Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously, but her voice was calm and sweet. "No, brave Musa, I cannot say to Richard 'turn back,'--though my Lord Godfrey says it. Cursed would be my love for him, and his for me, if thus he was turned from his vow to Our Lord, and from duty to his comrades. I did not love him, to make him slave to my fears and desires. Rather I saw him as something higher far than I; like a mountain whose shadows would cover me; but whose height I would not lessen. For my heart--as your heart and Duke Godfrey's heart--tells me his duty is in the city, not with me. And whether he dies--which Christ forbid!--or lives to see the victory, I shall know my love has been sweeter than all the pain." Mary stood with her head erect; her eyes bright, but not with tears. Richard turned to the others, smiling. "Ah; good friends, how can I be weak when my dear wife is so strong!" They did not answer. Then he touched Musa, leading him aside. "I must speak with you." The Andalusian's eyes were wet. He was no ice-bound northerner, to nurse his fires deep within, and to wax more stony the more they burned. "Musa," said Richard, very directly, "we have been to each other as few brothers and fewer friends. God knows why you have run this peril. Yet I believe you care more for the Greek than for any woman, if you have loved any, save as a sister." The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders almost gayly. "If to any woman I could yield," said he, lightly, "it were to her, peerless from Andalus to Ind! Alas, I am clothed in some magic armor the darts of the eyes of the houris may not pierce; yet if any eyes could pierce, it would be those of Mary de St. Julien." Richard held his lips close to the other's ear. "Musa," said he, "I may get into Antioch; but a long road lies still to Jerusalem. Where the arrows sing, I must be. And if I fall"--he spoke lower--"Mary will be alone. She cannot go to La Haye and be wedded to another by her uncle, as would surely be her fate. Not a kinsman remains at Constantinople. You must"--he hesitated--"you must swear to me that you will love her; that if I die, she shall be your wife. For Moslem as you are, no man breathes I would rather see with his arms about her than you. You alone can make her forget me; make her look forward and laugh in the sunlight." Why were beads of sweat on the Spaniard's brow? Why came his breath so swift and deep? But he answered steadily:-- "Brother mine, you ask a great thing; yet I accept it. If it is written by the stars that you fall, I swear I will stand in your place to the Star of the Greeks. May she never want love and service while life is mine! But till that day I will be to her as a brother, no more, no less; and let Allah speed the hour when I can give her back spotless to your arms." They said no more, those two strong men; their clasped hands sealed the pledge. Richard walked back to Mary. "Dear heart," said he, "we Franks have a proverb, 'Hunger drives the wolf from the woods.' We cannot stand here forever. Why should we grieve? Have I not seen your face two nights and a day; and do I not commit you to the noblest friend in all the wide earth? When I enter the city, I will show three red shields above the Gate of St. George; and if all goes well with you, let Musa contrive to set three lances with red pennons before it at an arrow's flight, as sign that your tale is credited and you are safe in Kerbogha's camp." "We will not fail," said Musa, calmly. Richard adjusted the saddle of the captured horse so that Mary might ride. No stragglers were at the moment in sight. The Norman kissed his friend on both cheeks. He pressed the Greek once to his breast. Death was not paler than she; but she did not cry. "You are my cavalier, my saviour, my husband," said she, lifting her eyes. "You are your Roland and our Greek Achilles! Dear God, what have I done that for an hour you should love me?" "Our Lady keep you, sweet wife!" was the only answer. "And you, Richard mine." That was all that passed. Musa spoke his farewell with his eyes. Godfrey bowed ceremoniously to the Spaniard; kissed the lady's hand. His honest heart was too deeply moved for words. Richard swung onto Rollo without touching stirrup. He did not look back. Marchegai cantered beside. The horses whirled their riders over the hillside. Soon the view before and behind was hid by the close thickets that lined the foothills. Richard rode with his head bent over Rollo's black mane, letting the horse thunder at will at the heels of Marchegai. The Norman's thoughts? Drowning men, report has it, live a long life through in a twinkling. Richard's life was not long; yet not once, but many times, he lived it over during that ride--the good things, the evil; and the evil were so many! And always before his sight was the vision of that face, pale as marble, the eyes fairer than stars--that face he had put away because of the love for the unseen Christ. Now of much that passed in that ride Richard remembered little; but he followed Godfrey blindly. And a voice seemed to repeat in his ears time and again: "Turn back, Richard Longsword, turn back. You can yet rejoin Musa and Mary. There is safety in the camp of Kerbogha. You are not needed in the threatened city. Leave the army to God. You have long since slain enough Moslems to clear your guilt and vow." But Richard would cross himself and mutter prayers, calling on every saint to fight against the assailing devils. As he rode, he saw remnants all about of the old pagan world where there had been love of sunlight, of flowers, of fair forms, and men had never borne a pain or struck a blow for love of the suffering Christ or the single Allah. They were on a road, he knew, that led to the Grove of Daphne. He had heard Mary tell of the sinful heathen processions that once must have traversed this very way,--revellers brimming with unholy mirth, their souls devoted to the buffets of Satan. Once he and Godfrey drew rein at a wayside spring to water the horses. Lo, beside the trickling brook was a block of weather-stained marble, carved into the fashion of a maiden fair as the dawn. Mother of Christ! Was it not enchantment that made that stony face take on the likeness of Mary the Greek? What heathen demon made the lips speak to him, "Back! back! Do not cast your life away"? "St. Michael--away, the temptress!" he thundered, and with Trenchefer smote the stone, so that the smile and the beauty were dashed forever. "_Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!_" prayed Richard; "Holy St. Julien, patron of my house, forbid these fiends to tempt me!" Yet all the wood seemed full of witchery and the voices of devils,--the old pagan devils, Pan, and Apollin, and Dian, and Hercules, and countless more,--who whispered ever that Christ and His heaven were very far away; that life was sweet, the sun was sweet, and sweetest of all a woman's love. But Richard muttered his prayers and rode onward; trusting that they might meet the infidels in flesh and blood, not sprites of the air whose arrows no ring mail could turn. At last, after the sun had climbed high, and the horses had dropped to a weary pacing, there was a shout behind, --an Arab yell,--the clatter of scabbards and targets. Down a leafy way charged a squadron of Bedouin light horse, twenty, perhaps, and more. But Rollo and Marchegai had a fair start, well out of arrow range; and the unbelievers soon learned the speed of Frankish steeds. A long race, though not such as that when Iftikhar had led the chase. When at last the Bedouins turned back, their beasts all spent, the knights' mounts too had little strength to spare. Woods were still on every hand, when the two painfully walked beside their horses. As they climbed the slopes of Mount Silpius in the early afternoon, on the last stage to the city, suddenly from beyond a bend in the trees came the pounding of horsemen, fifty at least; and the sound neared fast. Richard cast a glance at Godfrey. "My lord," said he, "Rollo is at the end of his speed. We cannot run from fresh horses." The Duke shook his head when he heard the deep pants of Marchegai. "It is true," he answered. "I think we had best say 'Our Father,' and look to our swords." But down the forest lane came a clear voice, singing lustily the sweet Languedoc:-- "Merrily under the greenwood flying, _Zu, zu_, away to my Mirabel! Swift! For my lady waits long,--is sighing! _Zu, zu_, more speed to my Mirabel!" "De Valmont's voice, as I hope for heaven!" cried Richard, dropping the bridle. And straight toward them cantered a merry body of cavaliers and men-at-arms, Louis's broad pennon leading. "_Ahois!_ Forward! Infidels!" thundered the Valmonter, couching lance as he saw the two awaiting him. But there was a loud laugh when the two knights were recognized. "Holy Mass!" swore Louis; "and were not you, my Lord Godfrey, on the foray to Urdeh?" The Duke shook his head, the instinct of a leader once more uppermost. "I was not," quoth he, curtly, explaining nothing. "And you, De Valmont? What means this party so far from the walls?" "We rode after Sir Philip of Amiens, who rode with a few knights this way from the city this morning, and has not returned. We fear they met Arabs. It is rumored the Prince Kerbogha is as near as Afrin, and advancing!" "By the Holy Trinity, he _is_ advancing!" shouted the Duke, mounting with a leap. "Leave Philip of Amiens to God; he is long since passed from your aid. Back to the city with speed, if you wish not for martyrdom." And wearied though Marchegai was, Godfrey made him outpace all the rest as they raced toward Antioch. Richard saw the Christian banners on the walls as he drew near. Once inside the gates he needed nothing to tell him the city had been sacked in a way that bred slight glory to the soldiers of the Cross. He left Godfrey to rouse the chiefs, and to spread the dread tidings of Kerbogha's approach. His own St. Julieners he found in the house of a Moslem merchant they had unceremoniously slaughtered. They were so drunken that only Herbert and Sebastian were able to receive him. A gloomy tale they gave him--the city stormed, then a massacre of the Antiochers,--Christian and Moslem alike,--so terrible that even the fiends must have trembled to find mortal spirits more bloody than they. After the orgy of killing had come days of unholy revellings, drunkenness, and deeds no pen may tell. To crown all, the provisions found in the city had been so wasted, that starvation was close at hand. Richard in his turn told how it had prospered with him at Aleppo. Sebastian sighed when he heard of Mary in the custody of Musa. "Can honey come out of wormwood?" cried he. "God may allow this infidel to serve Christians in their peril; yet even then with danger to the soul. Ah, dear son, either you must break this friendship with the Spaniard of your own will, or rest assured God will break it for you. Doubt not--light and darkness cannot lie on the same pillow; neither can you serve God and this Mammon whose name is Musa." "Father," said Richard, "had you stood as I and Musa did, both in the presence of death, you would not speak thus." But the answer was unflinching. "I declare that had you both died, your soul would have gone to heaven, or purgatory, and his to the nethermost hell, to lie bound forever with the false prophet and rebel angels." Richard's thoughts were very dark after Sebastian's words. Was there a great gulf sundering him eternally from the Spaniard? But soon he had little time for brooding on puzzles for the churchmen. The walls had barely been manned on Duke Godfrey's orders, and the foraying parties called in, before the hosts of Kerbogha swarmed down the valley, seemingly numberless. The Moslem garrison of the citadel made desperate sallies. On the day following Richard's return the party led by the gallant Roger de Barnville was cut to pieces before the walls. Each day the bread-loaves grew dearer and smaller. There was ceaseless fighting by sunlight and starlight. Each day the taunts of the Arabs were flung in the Crusaders' teeth, "Franks, you are well on the way to Jerusalem!" Truly the besiegers were become the besieged. As the days crept by the Christians were few who did not expect to view the Holy City in heaven before the Holy City on earth. CHAPTER XXXIX HOW PETER BARTHELMY HAD A DREAM On Saturday, the fifth day of June, in the Year of Grace one thousand and ninety-eight, Kerbogha appeared before Antioch with a countless host. On the Saturday following a small loaf of bread sold among the Christians for a gold byzant; an egg was worth six deniers; a pound of silver was none too much for the head of a horse. Men who had endured bitter sieges in the home-land, who had marched across the parching deserts of Isauria without a groan, now at last began to confess their sins to the priest, and to prepare to die. For help seemed possible from none save God--and God was visibly angry with His servants for the blood and passion at the city's sack. On the day after his entrance, Richard Longsword showed three red shields on the minaret, and after a little, to his unspeakable joy, there were three lances with red pennons set close together before the Gate of St. George. Mary and Musa were safe in the camp of Kerbogha, and Richard blessed St. Michael and our Lady ever Virgin. Yet for a while he was angry with Heaven. If he had entered the city so easily, might not Mary have come in at his side? What need of parting? But he did not keep these feelings long; and his thankfulness was deep when he knew that at least his wife was not seeing gallant seigneurs, even the very Count of Flanders, begging in the city streets for a bit of bread, nor was herself enduring the awful hunger. For the famine was the last stroke of the wrath of God upon His unworthy people. Thousands had died when the first hordes, led by Peter the Hermit and Walter Lackpenny, had been cut off by Kilidge Arslan; thousands more at Dorylæum; tens of thousands when they tracked the desert and besieged Antioch. But this was the crowning agony. When the news came that Kerbogha was approaching, the princes had indeed done what they could. Messengers had rushed down to the coast to bring up provisions landed by the friendly Italian merchants; foraging parties had been sent to sweep the country. But nine months long Syria had been harried by the armies. In a few days all the Christians were face to face with starvation. Pleasanter far to spend their last strength in the daily battles with Kerbogha, who ever pressed nearer, than to endure the slow agony in the city. Yet the infidels won success upon success. The Moslem garrison of the castle made continual sorties; the outlying forts of the Christians were defended gallantly, but in vain. Each day drifted into the starving city some tale of the pride and confidence of Kerbogha--how when squalid Frankish prisoners were haled before him, his _atabegs_ had roared at his jest, "Are these shrunken-limbed creatures the men who chatter of taking Jerusalem?" and how he had written to the arch-sultan: "Eat, drink, be merry! The Franks are in my clutch. The wolf is less terrible than he boasted!" In the city the cry again was, "God wills it!" But the meaning was, "God wills we should all perish or become slaves;" and on every hand was dumb lethargy or mad blasphemy. New misfortunes trod upon old. In a sortie Bohemond the crafty and brave was wounded; Tancred's and Godfrey's valor ended in repulse. The foe pressed closer, damming the last tiny stream of provisions that trickled into the doomed city. Boiled grass, roots, leaves, leathern shields, and shoes; the corpses of slain Saracens--the Franks had come even to this! Richard feasted with Duke Godfrey on a morsel from a starved camel. The good Duke sacrificed his last war-horse except Marchegai, and then the lord of Lorraine was more pinched for food than the meanest villain on his distant lands. As day passed into day despair became deeper. Many, once among the bravest, strove to flee in the darkness down to the port of St. Simeon and escape by sea. Many went boldly to the Moslem camp, and confessed Islam in return for a bit of bread. "Rope-dancers," howled the survivors, of those who by night lowered themselves from the walls. And Bishop Adhemar talked of the fate of Judas Iscariot. But still desertions continued, from the great counts of Blois and of Melun down to the humblest. One day Richard was cut to the quick by having Prince Tancred, who kept the walls, send him under guard one of his own St. Julien men, who had been caught while trying to desert. Richard had prided himself on the loyalty of his band, and his fury was unbounded. "Ho! Herbert, rig a noose and gibbet. Turn the rascal off as soon as Sebastian has shriven him!" rang his command. To his surprise a murmur burst from the men-at-arms about, and he surveyed them angrily. "What is this, my men? Here is a foul traitor to his seigneur and his God! Shall he not die?" Then a veteran man-at-arms came forward and kissed Richard's feet. "Lord, we have served in the holy war leal and true. But it is plain to all men that God does not wish us to set eyes on Jerusalem! We have parents and wives and children in dear France. We have done all that good warriors may, now let us go back together. To-night lead us yourself along the river road, and let us escape to the port of St. Simeon." No thundercloud was blacker than Richard Longsword's face when he answered, hardly keeping self-mastery:-- "And does this fellow speak for you all?" "For all, lord," cried many voices. "Did you not promise to bring us home in safety, to lead us back safe and sound to Nicole, and Berta, and Aleïs? Surely we did not take the cross to die here, as starving dogs. Let us die with our good swords in our hands as becomes Christians, or in our beds, if God wills." Richard had drawn out Trenchefer, and swept the great blade round. "My good vassals," he said in the lordly fashion he could put on so well, "you know your seigneur. Know that he is a man who has thus far gone share and share to the last crumb with his people, and will. Does not my belly pinch? do not I live without bread? But I say this: this man shall die and so shall every other die a felon's death who turns craven, or I am no Richard, Baron de St. Julien, whose word is never to be set at naught." There was a long silence among all the company that stood in the broad court of the Antioch house. They knew well that Richard never made a threat in vain. They did not know how great was the pain in the heart of their seigneur. There was silence while the body of the deserter was launched into eternity. "Amen! Even so perish all who deny their Lord!" declared Sebastian. Richard's heart was very dark when he visited Rollo that day. Thus far, by great shifts, he had secured forage. All the other St. Julien beasts had perished; men muttered at Longsword for sparing the horse. But after that ride from Aleppo he would sooner have butchered Herbert. But was this to be the end of the Crusade? of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit at Clermont? of the agony of the march? Better if all had ended with the bowstring at Aleppo. No, not better; for Mary was saved. A gloomy council came that afternoon at the Patriarch's palace, under Godfrey's presidency; no hope--the Greek Emperor they had awaited was reported retreating! The iron men at the council groaned. Guy, brother of Bohemond, cried out against God Himself. "Where is Thy Power, now, Lord God?" rang his despairing blasphemy. "If Thou art all-powerful, why dost Thou let these things be? Are we not Thy soldiers, and Thy children? Where is the father or the king who would suffer his own to perish when he has power to save? If now Thou forsakest Thy champions, who will henceforth fight for Thee?" "Peace!" interrupted Bishop Adhemar; "is not God angry with us enough already? Will you rouse Him further by your blasphemies?" And Guy retorted madly:-- "Angry, _Sanctissime?_ Look on our faces, my lord bishop. Do they look as if we had feasted? There are mothers lying dead in the street this moment, with babes sucking at their milkless breasts. I say we have nothing more to fear from God. He has shown us His final anger; mercy, indeed, if with one great clap He could strike us all dead and end the agony. What is to be done, if not to die, one and all, cursing the day we put the cross upon our breasts?" And the speaker almost plucked the red emblem from his shoulder. Adhemar did not reply, and Raymond of Toulouse asked very gravely, turning to Godfrey:-- "Have you sent the heralds to Kerbogha, as the council agreed, offering to yield the city and return home, on sole condition that our baggage be left to us?" Godfrey's face was even darker than before when he replied: "Yes, Lord Count; there is no need of many words, nor to examine the heralds. Kerbogha will listen to only one surrender--submission at discretion--after which he will decide which of us he will hale away into slavery, which put to death." The Norman Duke and Gaston of Béarn had risen together. "Fair princes," cried the latter, "we are at our wits' end. There will soon be no strength left in a man of us to strike a blow, and the Moslems will take us with bare hands. Dishonor to desert, and we will never separate. Yet let us bow to God's will. His favor is not with the Crusade. Let us cut our way down to the port, and escape as many as can." "And so say I," called Duke Robert. "And I," came from Hugh of Vermandois. "And I," shouted many of the lesser barons. But Tancred, bravest of the brave, stood up with flashing eyes. "I speak for myself. I reproach no man, seigneur or villain. But while sixty companions remain by me, of whatever degree, I will trust God, and keep my face toward His city!" "There spoke a true lover of Christ," cried Adhemar, his honest eyes beaming; and Godfrey's haggard face brightened a little. "You are a gallant knight, my Lord Prince," said he. "These others will think differently when they have slept on their words. Better starve here than return to France, if return we can. We have asked Kerbogha's terms--we have them. 'The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,' as says Holy Writ. How can we return with all the paynim nations jeering at us, crying, 'See! See the boasted Frankish valor!' We can do no more to-day; let us meet again to-morrow." "To-morrow we shall be yet hungrier," muttered Guy of Tarentum, as he went out at Longsword's side. "Except a miracle come of God, Kerbogha has us." "Except a miracle!" repeated Adhemar. Richard carried home the words. Had God turned away His face from His children? Were the brave days when the Red Sea swallowed Pharaoh's myriads, when four lepers delivered starving Samaria from the Syrian hosts but as _jongleurs'_ tales of things long gone by? He told Sebastian what had passed among the chieftains, and Sebastian only answered with a wandering gaze toward heaven. "These are the days of God's wrath! Now appears the host foretold in the Apocalypse--the four angels loosed from the river Euphrates, come forth with their army of horsemen, two hundred thousand, and for an hour, and a day, and a month, and a year, shall they slay the third part of mankind." "Father," said Richard, "do you know what the princes say? 'Except a miracle, we are delivered to Kerbogha.' Are the days of God's mercy spent? Were the Jews more righteous than we, that they should be saved by wonders from heaven, and we perish like oxen? I speak not for my own sake--though the saints know it is hard to keep a stout heart over a nipping belly--but for my men, for the whole host. Pestilence is treading behind the famine. This day five thousand have died in Antioch--cursing the hour they took the cross and the God who led them forth. I say again: How can these things be--God sit silent in yonder blue heaven, and still be good?" Sebastian brushed his bony hand across his face as though driving away a mist, and ran on wildly:-- "Kerbogha is the beast foretold in the beginning! The beast and the false prophet, which is Mohammed, have deceived those who have the mark of the beast; and all such with those that have worshipped his image shall share with the beast and the false prophet in the lake of fire, burning with brimstone." "Yes, dear father," said Richard, simply; "but the vengeance of God is long delayed!" Sebastian gave no answer. All that afternoon he went among the dying, who lay like dogs in the streets, holding up the crucifix, telling them of the martyrs' joys; that death by sickness and famine was no less a sacrifice to God than death by the sword. "Fear not, beloved," were his words to those whose last speech was of home and longed-for faces, "you are going to a fair and pleasant country, very like dear France, only brighter and richer than France, if that may be. There, as far as you can see, is a plain of soft green grass, and the sky is always blue; and there is a lovely grove with whispering trees laden with fruit of gold; and the fountain of 'life and love' sparkling with a thousand jets, and from it flows a river broader and fairer than any in the South Country. Here all day long you will dance with the angels, clothed in bleaunts of red and green, and crowned with flowers as at a great tourney; and all your friends will come to you; there shall be love and no parting, health and no sickness; nor fear, nor war, nor labor, nor death; and God the Father will smile on you from His golden throne, and God the Son will be your dear companion." So many a poor sufferer flickered out with a smile on his wan lips at Sebastian's words, while he thought he was catching visions of the heavenly country, though there was only before his dying eyes the memory of a sunny vineyard or green-bowered castle beside the stately Rhone or the circling Loire. Thus Sebastian spent his day. But Richard heard him repeat many times--"A miracle! except we be saved by a miracle!" And toward evening the Norman saw his chaplain deep in talk with the half-witted priest, Peter Barthelmy, and another Provençal priest named Stephen. * * * * * Count Raymond sat at the end of the day in his tent before the castle, and facing him was Bishop Adhemar. There was no hope, no courage, left in the army at the close of that gloomy day. Bohemond had had to fire his followers' barracks to drive them forth to fight on the walls. When the alarm trumpets sounded an attack, men only muttered, "Better die by the sword than by a month-long death of starving." Gloomy had been the dialogue, and at last the Count asked:-- "Dear father, have masses been duly said, and prayers offered Our Lady that she will plead with Christ for His people?" And Adhemar answered: "Prayer day and night. All night long I and the Bishop of Orange lay outstretched after the form of the cross, beseeching Our Lord. The cry rises to heaven unceasingly. But God remembers all our sins; there is no sign save of wrath." And the good Bishop was stirred when he saw a tear on the bronzed cheek of the great Count of the South. "I must go among the men," said Raymond; "the saints know I can say little to hearten." But he was halted by his worthy chaplain, Raymond of Agiles, now grave and consequential. "My Lord Count, and you, your Episcopal Grace," began he, importantly, "there has been a notable mercy vouchsafed this poor army,--a miracle,--a message sent down from very Heaven!" "Miracle? Miracle of mercy?" cried the Count, banging his scabbard. "These are strange words, my good clerk; we have none such to hope for now!" "Beware," interposed Adhemar, warningly, for he saw that the chaplain was flushed and excited. "When men's bodies are weak, the devil finds his darts lodge easily. Beware, lest Satan has cast over your eyes a mist, and held out false hopes." But the chaplain would not be denied. "Noble lords," quoth he, boldly, "here is a man who declares to me, 'St. Andrew has appeared in a dream, saying, "You shall find the Holy Lance that pierced our dear Lord's side, and by this talisman overcome the unbelievers!"' Will you not hear his tale?" "And who is this fellow?" urged Adhemar. "Who, save the unlettered and humble priest, Peter Barthelmy, whom your Episcopal Grace knows well." Adhemar shook his head hopelessly. "There can be no help in Peter Barthelmy. There are in the host ten thousand saintlier than he, and wiser, and no vision has come to them." "Yes, my Lord Bishop," cried the chaplain, eagerly; "but is it not written, 'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed them unto babes?' Cannot God, who made the dumb ass speak, and who appeared unto the child Samuel and not to the wise Eli, make His instrument the untaught clerk Peter of Marseilles?" There was an honest ring in the chaplain's words and a pious faith behind them, that made Bishop Adhemar grow humble and cross himself. "_Mea culpa, Domine_," he muttered, "grant that my pride in my own high estate and wisdom should be rebuked by making this unlearned priest indeed Thy instrument of deliverance." Then aloud, "Admit this man; let us question him, and see if he be of God or Satan." So Count Raymond waited, and his chaplain went forth and led in the priest Peter Barthelmy. A rough-featured, heavy-handed peasant's son was this Peter. He had gone into holy orders, he scarce knew why; his highest hope had been a little village "cure," where he could tell saints' stories to the girls, and baptize the new-born babes, and enjoy a pot of wine on feast-days, and grow old in peace. But men said that he loved to pray, was very humble, also was fond of having long and circumstantial dreams. When he found himself before the great Count of the South, and Adhemar "the Father of the Army," his speech came thickly, and his knees smote together under his cassock. But Adhemar, whose heart was compassion to all save infidels, told him not to fear, if he had a clean conscience, but to tell them boldly; for they would not despise him, even if poor, untaught, and a villain's son. So Peter found his tongue, and his tale ran after this wise:-- During the siege of Antioch, one midnight there had been a great earthquake, and as Peter called to Heaven in his fear, lo, two men in bright garments stood before him in his hut,--one young and more beautiful than any born on earth, the other old, with hairs all gray and white, his beard long and divided, his eyes black, his countenance very terrible, and he bore a transverse cross. Then the elder man had said, "What do you?" And Peter, trembling, answered, "And who are you, good lord?" Then the other replied: "Arise, and fear not. I am Andrew, the Apostle. Gather the Bishop of Puy, and the Count of St. Gilles and Toulouse, and say, 'Why does the Bishop neglect to preach and to warn and to bless the people?'" Then St. Andrew told Peter he would show him the lance with which the pagan centurion, Longinus, pierced the side of Christ, and this lance he must give to Count Raymond, for such was the will of God. So St. Andrew led Peter through the Saracens into Antioch to the Church of St. Peter by the north gate, and opened the ground before the steps of the altar and showed him the lance. And Peter held in his hand the precious metal, with the water and blood still rusted upon it. St. Andrew commanded him to go to the church with twelve men, after the city was taken, and dig, and he should find it. Then the saint replaced the lance, led Peter back to his own hut, and disappeared. "But why did you conceal this so long?" asked Adhemar; "why did you disobey the Holy Saint?" "Ah, my Lord Bishop," was the answer, "your Grace sees I am a poor, stammering wretch. Not once, but four times, has the Holy Saint appeared to me, warning and threatening, because I feared to make bold and come before the princes and your Grace with my commission." Then Peter told how he had tried to escape the commands of the saint, and how the saint had pursued him, until his fear of punishment from heaven was greater than his fear of the scoffs of man, and thus he had come to the Count and Adhemar. When the priest was finished, the Bishop and Count sent him away, and sat for a long time deep in thought; for whether he spoke out of malice, or fancy, or inspiration from above, who might say? The chaplain, Raymond of Agiles, waited without the tent, and received the decision of Adhemar. "Let him abide until to-morrow. During the night let us pray again earnestly, and see if the night and the morning bring any sign that the wrath of God is turned away." So the night came, and a thrill went through all the starving city, when it was rumored that the Bishop would go to the Church of St. Peter to offer solemn petition for a sign from God, whether He would vouchsafe a miracle. And as a hundred thousand despairing eyes watched the heavens, about midnight there came a sortie of the Turks from the citadel, and there was fighting in the streets. But, lo! just when the strife was fiercest, and the Christians almost gave way, there was a rushing noise in the upper heavens; Crusaders and Moslem saw a great star of glowing fire rush downward, so that the city and the camps of Kerbogha were lit bright as day. Then the star burst in three pieces over the paynim camp, as if God were raining down fire upon the unbeliever, as upon old Sodom; and for the first time in many weary days the Christians dared to raise their heads, and cry: "God wills it! He will still have mercy!" The night passed; and in the morning there came the priest Stephen, who went before the princes as they sat in council beneath the castle. And he in turn told a story that made men cross themselves and mutter their _Glorias_. For according to Stephen's tale, he had gone to the Church of the Holy Virgin, believing the Turks were broken in, and wishing to die in God's house. But when the foe did not come, and all his companions slept, a young man with a blond beard, the most beautiful form he had ever seen, appeared to him, and a bright cross shone above the head, token that this was Our Lord. Then while Stephen adored, Christ said to him, "I am the God of Battles; tell me the name of the chief of the army." And Stephen replied, "Lord, there is no one chief; but Adhemar is most revered." Whereupon Our Lord answered: "Tell Bishop Adhemar to bid the people return unto me, and I will return unto them. Let the cavaliers invoke my name when they ride into battle. And after five days, if my commands are obeyed, I will have pity on my people." Then at Christ's side appeared a lady, more beautiful than day, who said, "Lord, it is for these folk in Antioch I have made intercession for Thy favor." So Our Lord and His Blessed Mother vanished, and Stephen could hardly wait for the day to tell his story to the army. Now when the stories of Stephen and Peter Barthelmy had run through the host, it was a marvel surpassing to see how the skies were brightened; and if a man doubted, he stifled his doubts within his breast, as being little less than blasphemy. Richard Longsword in days to come was accustomed to wonder what it was that Sebastian had said to the two priests, when they talked so earnestly together. But he spoke to no man, only gave thanks in silence. "Let us cast all sin from our hearts," admonished Adhemar in the council; "for it is manifest God will not keep His anger forever." Then all the princes took a great oath to remain faithful to the Holy War; and when the Arabs cried to the sentries on the walls: "Out, Franks, out! Show us the Christian valor!" the reply came boldly now: "Patience, Sons of Perdition! The devil double-heats his fires against your coming!" So the appointed five days sped, and though many yet died, the very famine seemed easier to bear. Every gaunt Frank whetted his sword, and if prayer and vigil avail aught, or one cry to God from thousands on thousands, it should have availed them. No more blasphemy and scoffings now; only one desire: "The lance! the lance! Then rush against the infidel!" "Sebastian," said Richard, "do you know, if the lance is not found, the whole host will curse God; perhaps turn infidel for a loaf of bread?" "I know it," came the solemn answer; "but it is sin to doubt." "Yes, but I am weak in faith. How great is the power of Kerbogha!" Sebastian's answer was an uplifted hand. "Would God I could do as did Elisha to his servant, and open your eyes; for now, as then, the host of the ungodly lie round the city, but behold the mountains are full of horses and chariots of fire to deliver the Lord's elect!" CHAPTER XL HOW THE HOLY LANCE WAS FOUND In the morning the Crusading Chiefs prepared to dig for the Holy Lance. Richard was touched when he left his men, to see how, despite their murmurings, the honest fellows tried to put on a brave face. "Ha, Herbert!" cried De Carnac, "the rats we feasted on last night were better than a St. Julien boar." And the man-at-arms forced the counter-jest, "After so much rat-flesh I shall lose all taste for venison." "Three of our rats," snickered Theroulde, "are better than giant Renoart's dinners--five pasties and five capons all for himself." But this was strained merriment. Richard at the council found he was appointed to go with Count Raymond, Raymond of Agiles, the Bishop of Orange, Pons de Balazan, Ferrard de Thouars, Sebastian, and five more, to dig for the lance. Bishop Adhemar, good soul, lay ill, but his prayers were with them. The twelve took Peter Barthelmy and went to the Church of the Blessed Peter, a gray stone building, domed after the Eastern manner. When they came to the threshold they knelt and said three _Paternosters_ and a _Credo_; then the Bishop of Orange blessed their spades and crowbars, sprinkling each implement with holy water. All about the church in the narrow streets stood the people, far as the eye could see--gaunt skeletons, the bronzed skin drawn tight over the bones, the eyes glittering with the fire of dumb agony. When the company entered the church, there went through the multitude a half-audible sigh, as all breathed one prayer together; and many started to follow the twelve, though none cried out or spoke a word. But Count Raymond motioned them back. Then all who were in the church--and like all the churches during the siege, it was crowded with men and women--were bidden to rise from their knees and go away. Slowly the church was emptied. Then when the last worshipper was gone, the twelve put-to the gates; and all, saving the Count and the Bishop, took a spade or crowbar. Peter Barthelmy led them up to the stairs leading to the high altar, at its south side. Here the priest turned, and pointing to the pavement said, in awestruck whisper, "Here! at this spot the holy saint took the lance from the ground, and laid it back again, in my dream." "Amen! and amen!" repeated the Bishop. Then all the rest knelt a second time, while he blessed them, making over each the sign of the cross. When they arose, they remained standing until he gave the word. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen!" The pickaxe in the hands of Raymond of Agiles smote first on the pavement. There was a crash, as the mosaic pattern shattered. Then the others bent to their toil. The costly glass and stone work flew out to every side, then the gray cement, then the chill, dark earth, and with all the speed and strength that was theirs the twelve slowly pushed downward. It was a strange scene. The windows of the church were very small. Over the altar, with its painted and gem-crusted ikons of the saint, twinkled a pair of candles; above the heads of the thirteen, far up against the dark dome, shone a pair of silver lamps, flickering, with a ruddy glare. The shadows hung upon the cold pillars of the old basilica. They saw faint images of painted martyrs and angels peering down from the frieze and vaulting. Every stroke of their tools rang loud, and awakened echoes that died away behind the maze of far-off arches. Digging and still digging, the earth flew fast under their eager hands. The Count forgot his proud title and broad baronies, caught a spade, and toiled as became a villain bred to the soil. All the time they labored the Bishop chanted psalm after psalm, and the sound of his voice was a double spur to the work, if spur were needed. But after they had labored a great while, and the trench was growing broad and deep, every man began to have a half-confessed sinking of heart. They laid down their tools, searched the great pile of earth that was rising in the aisle; found in it only pebbles and a few bits of broken pottery, but no wonder-working lance! Yet Peter Barthelmy encouraged them. "Dear lords and brothers," said he, undauntedly, "do not grieve. Believe me, the Blessed Andrew went far deeper into the earth than have we. You have not dug down yet to the sacred relic." So, though their arms were growing weary, they fell again to the toil, and the Bishop chanted louder than ever:-- "'In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me.'" More and more feverish grew the toil. Richard drove his own spade down, as if very life depended on each stroke, and who might deny it? "By St. Michael!" was his oath, "we will find the lance, though we dig to Satan and his imps to pluck it up!" So for a still longer time they wrought, until their hands were sore, arms and backs lame, and still only dark earth and sandy pebbles. When at last they paused for breath, each one looked in his fellow's face, and saw reflected there his own waning hope. But still Peter urged:-- "Be confident, dear friends and lords; deeper yet was the lance when I saw it. Do not distrust the saint!" They toiled still longer, until by noting the shortening of the candles on the altar they knew that noon was long past, and the day was speeding. None dared utter his doubts. But at last Count Raymond declared that he could stay no more; it was his turn to go and command the fort before the Gate of St. George. Richard could see the anguish on the face of the great lord of the South. "What shall I say to the people who are waiting without the church?" demanded he of Peter Barthelmy; "they will be plunged in despair when they know we have failed." "Ah, Lord Count, do not lose faith in the saint! That were mortal sin! Can St. Andrew lie?" replied Peter, between the strokes of his mattock. "St. Andrew cannot lie, but Provençal priests can," was the Count's menacing retort. "Think well on your sins, my good clerk. If you have been tempted by the devil to deceive us in this--rest assured the people will pluck you in pieces." "I do not fear," said Peter, steadily, with the stolid resignation of the peasant born. "You shall be taught to fear," muttered the Count; then to the others, "My Lord Bishop, my other lords, and you good Christians, I say farewell;" and he added bitterly,--"and let God have mercy upon our souls, for we can hope for nothing more on earth." The Count was gone. And then for the first time, like the howling of a distant gale, they heard a raging and roaring around the basilica, creeping in through the thick walls and tiny windows. "The multitude grows angry," muttered Pons de Balazan. "They have waited long." Then he went forth, and tried to calm the impatient people, and called in other proper men, to take the places of such of the twelve as had grown weary. But no man took Richard's place. Not his own life, but the lives of a hundred thousand, shut up in that starving Antioch, hung on their toil. The chance of failure was so frightful, that not even he, whose fingers had learned so well to fight, to whom the life of a man was so small a matter, dared look that future in the face. Had the rest all forsaken, he would have toiled on, spading forth the earth, raising the dark mound higher, ever higher. And all the company wore grim, set faces now, as they wrestled with their strengthening despair, except Peter Barthelmy and Sebastian. The monk was working with an energy surpassed only by Richard himself. Longsword saw that he was still calm, that the light in his usually terrible eyes was even mild; and as the two stood side by side in the trench, Sebastian said to him: "Why fear, dear son? Are we not in God's hands? Can He do wrong, or bring His own word to naught?" The Norman answered with an angry gesture:-- "Truly our sins must be greater than we dreamed, to be punished thus--to be promised deliverance, and have Heaven mock us!" Sebastian's reply was a finger pointed upward to the painted Christ, just behind the two lamps. "Be not fearful, O ye of little faith!" Richard fought back the doubts rising in his soul, and flung all his strength anew into his work. The noise without the church was louder now. They could hear shouts, curses, threats, rising from a thousand throats. "Deceiver, the devil has led him to blast us with false hopes! Impostor, he dreamed nothing! Out with them; out with them all! The whole company is leagued with Satan! Kill the false dreamer first, then yield to Kerbogha; he can only slay us!" These and fifty more like shouts were ringing fiercely. Presently there was a crashing and pounding at the gates of the church. "Open, open! There is no lance! Slay the deceiver!" Richard turned to the Bishop, who in sheer weariness had ceased chanting. "_Reverendissime_, the people are getting past control. In a moment they will break in on us and commit violence at the very altar; go and reason with them while there is yet time." "Open! open! Death to Peter the Provençal!" The roaring had swelled to thunders now. The strong iron-bound gates were yielding under the strokes of mace and battle-axe. Richard flung down his spade, and gripped Trenchefer. He would not defend the deceiving priest; but no unruly men-at-arms should touch a hair of Sebastian, if he also was menaced. But just as the portals began to give way, Peter Barthelmy, stripped of girdle and shoes, his hands empty, and only his shirt on his back, leaped into the deep black pit. Even as the doors flew open, but while the crowd stood awed and hesitant at sight of the dim splendor of the nigh empty church, Raymond of Agiles fell on his knees and prayed loudly:-- "O Lord God of battles and of mercy, have pity on Thy people. Have mercy! Give us the lance, sure token of victory!" And the moment his words died away, Peter Barthelmy lifted one hand up from the pit--and in his hand _the rusted head of a lance_!... Now what followed no man could tell in due order. For afterward Raymond, the chaplain, was sure that he was the first to seize the lance from Peter, and kiss it fervently; and Sebastian and the Bishop and Richard Longsword each claimed the same for themselves. But all the toilers were kneeling ranged behind the Bishop, as he stood in the centre of the great aisle, and upheld the relic in sight of the multitude thrusting its way in. "Kneel! Thank God with trembling!" rang the words; "for He has had mercy on His army, has remembered His elect! Behold the lance that pierced our Saviour's side!" And at these words a wondrous sobbing ran through the swelling company; after the sobbing, a strange, terrible laughter, and after the laughter one great shout, that made the dark vaulting echo with thunder. "_Gloria in excelsis Deo! et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis!_" so they sang in the church. But now the tidings had flown on wings unseen to the thousands without, and all the streets were rolling on the greater doxology: "_Laudemus te; benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te; gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam!_" When Richard came out of the church, he was met by a cry from countless voices: "Hail! Richard de St. Julien! You were one who found the Holy Lance! The favor of God and the love of Christ go with you! May you ever prosper. You were one of those who saved us all!" [Illustration: "AND IN HIS HAND THE RUSTED HEAD OF A LANCE"] "No, sweet friends," said the Norman to those who could hear. "We are all saved by the favor of God. I am only like you, a very sinful man." And he bowed his head, remembering his misdeeds, and wondering why he was chosen to have part in so great a mercy. But the people would not listen to him or his fellows. They carried the twelve, and Peter Barthelmy at their head, borne on high to the palace of the Patriarch; and there the dear Bishop Adhemar was roused from his sickness, and cured in a twinkling by the cry that shot on ahead of the company, "_Gloria! Gloria!_ The lance! The lance! Let us fall upon Kerbogha!" The cry came to the men on the walls, and to Duke Godfrey, who crossed himself and swore seven candlesticks of gold to our Lady of Antwerp. The Moslems heard it, and those who were wise said, "Let us pray Allah to shield against the Frankish valor, if once it be kindled." * * * * * Only one shout now throughout the city. From the weakest and hungriest, "Battle!" But Godfrey restrained those who wished to fight that very night. "Nothing rash," he urged; and it was determined to send an embassy to bid Kerbogha raise the siege or offer fair combat. They sent as envoys Peter the Hermit, and one Herluin who knew the infidels' speech; also Richard Longsword, because he likewise spoke Arabic, and could cast a soldier's eye on the emir's camp. The parley sounded, and a gorgeously dressed _atabeg_ met the envoys at the Bridge Gate to lead them to Kerbogha. The Moslem made large eyes at the little monk with his rope girdle and tattered cassock, the humble interpreter, and the ponderous Frankish baron, in threadbare bleaunt and clattering a sword no arm from Tunis to Bokhara could wield. "And is this embassy clothed with power to deal with our commander?" demanded the wondering _atabeg_. "The passions of the Lord Kerbogha are swift. Do not play with him." "Friend," said Richard, soberly, "you shall find that we lack not authority." Therefore the three were led into the paynim camp, of which the chief part lay north of the river. Here they saw that the might of the East had indeed gathered about Kerbogha: wiry Seljouks of Kilidge Arslan, brown Arabs from the Southern deserts, graceful Persians, dark-eyed Syrians in the white dress of the Ismaelians, gaudily clad Turkoman cavaliers from Khorassan and Kerman, Tartar hordesmen from the steppes of the far East; all stood about, pointing, whispering, jeering at the three Franks. "Were these the terrible men who had won Nicæa and Dorylæum, and taken Antioch?" ran the titter. But no one molested them, as the _atabeg_ escorted through the avenues of black camel's-hair tents, interspersed with the gayer silken pavilions of the emirs. Then at last they found themselves before the palace tent of Kerbogha. Here they were led at once before the Moslem chief himself, who was clothed in gold, silk, and jewels, worth ten baronies in France. He was surrounded by the emirs and petty sultans, standing close about his throne; on his left hand was Kilidge Arslan the Seljouk, and Dekak lord of Damascus; on his right a figure Richard knew full well, clothed though he was in gilded, jewel-set armor from head to heel, Iftikhar Eddauleh! All around the tent were ranged Kerbogha's bodyguard, three thousand picked Turkish horsemen, panoplied in flashing steel; while the three envoys were led up a lane of giant negro mace-bearers, whose eyes followed the least beck of their lord, whose golden girdles and red loin-cloths shone doubly bright against their ebony skins. Richard, as he came, saw the stores of food and wine laid out for the pleasure of the infidels, while good Christians were starving. He saw the camels of the hospital corps of Kerbogha, and the host of physicians waiting here with their medicine chests, while in Antioch thousands had died of pestilence. Then his heart grew hard, and he held his head very high, as he and his companions walked down the file of negroes and stood before Kerbogha. Now the chamberlains who were at the foot of the throne had motioned to the Franks to bow down, and kiss the carpet before Kerbogha; but the three stood like statues. When the silence was long, Kerbogha spoke forth, not veiling impatience. "Fools, how long will you carry yourselves so arrogantly? It is yours to humble yourselves, not play the part of lords. A strange embassy this--who are you? What do you seek?" And Harluin respectfully, but firmly, answered:-- "Lord, we are the envoys of the princes in Antioch; and this venerable hermit named Peter will speak for us." A thousand eyes were on the little monk when he stepped forward. There was no sign of fear, his own eyes were very bright; he returned the haughty gaze of Kerbogha as if he were himself arbiter of life or death. Harluin strove to interpret for him; but Peter had recalled his Syriac learned on the pilgrimage, and some angel gave him the gift of tongues. Then right in the teeth of Kerbogha and the emirs the tattered monk flung his challenge:-- "Your Highness, the assembly of the chiefs shut up in Antioch have sent me to you to bid you cease from this siege of the city which the mercy of God has restored to us. The blessed Peter, prince of the Apostles, has by virtue of the will of God plucked it from you, never to return. Now, therefore, take choice: raise the siege of this city without delay, or prepare for instant battle. If you will, send any number of champions into the lists, and let them meet an equal number of our own; but if you will not--know that God is preparing to cut your host short in its sins! Nevertheless, our word is still--peace. Return to your own country, the Christians will not molest you. We will even put up prayers that your hearts may be touched with the Gospel and your souls delivered from perdition. Sweet indeed to call you brethren, to conclude betwixt Frank and Turk abiding peace! Otherwise, let there be war; and let the just God of battles judge between us! Surprise us, you cannot; neither will we steal victory. But in fair field, man to man, will we meet you,--with few or with many,--and teach your haughty mouths the taste of Christian valor!" When the monk had finished, there ran a low growl and bitter laugh amongst the emirs and guardsmen, while Iftikhar laughed loudest of them all. "Ha! noble monk!" he cried in French, "and you, my Lord de St. Julien, one would never think such bold words could flow out of such empty bellies!" Richard made him no answer. He saw Kerbogha's right hand twitch, as if to sweep it from left to right, the sign for instant decapitation of the envoys,--an order that fifty eager negroes would have fulfilled. But the general frowned on his guards who started forward, and reined in his fury. "Peter, take back to Antioch the only resolution left to you and your starving host, whose feasts are on grass and vermin. Let the beardless youth deliver themselves up to me, and I will let them live as my slaves, and of my friends and vassals. Let the young girls come out,--they shall be kept safe in our harems; they say the Frankish maids are fair. As for all those with beards or white hair, it shall rest with me to put them all to the edge of the sword, or slay some, and load the rest with chains;" and as he spoke he pointed to the leg irons and manacles which lay in great heaps all about the pavilion, ready for the Christian captives. "Yield now, and to _some_ I may show mercy. Let not your babbling priests deceive you. Allah has turned against you. Where are your crucified Messiah and your false apostles, that they let you perish like gnats? Yield now; the axe is kinder than death by starving. To such as become Moslem, Al Koran commands to show compassion; for the rest, they must yield themselves into my hands, and take what I will. Do not wait until to-morrow; if you are taken _then_, cry on your God, who could not save even himself from the cross, to save you from my fury!" When Kerbogha was finished, a great shout went up from the Moslems. "_Allah akhbar!_ Away with the infidels!" and there was a rush, as if to hew the three in pieces then and there. But the general motioned them to keep peace, and Peter, whose daring passed a lion's, flashed back his reply:-- "To-morrow, lord of Mosul, you shall judge whether Mohammed, the false prophet, can prevail against the crucified Christ." "Away! They rush on ruin!" shouted Kerbogha. "Back to the city with them!" The little monk cast one last glance of defiance at the figure on the throne, and with a slow and steady step the three Christians turned their backs on the gorgeous company, unheeding a thousand threats that buzzed around their ears. Last of all went Richard, and, as he went, a voice called after him in French:-- "Ho! Richard Longsword, stay!" The Norman halted; he was face to face with Iftikhar Eddauleh. The Ismaelian had thrown back his helmet, so that the gilded plates no longer concealed his face, which wore a very ugly smile. His teeth shone white and sharp as a tiger's, but his poise was lordly as ever. "I am at your service, my lord!" said the Christian. Iftikhar dropped his voice to a whisper:-- "You are well fed in Antioch! Your cheeks are thinner than on the day you held the lists at Palermo!" "And I have done many things since then, my lord, as have you," came the answer. Iftikhar's eyes seemed hot irons to pierce through his enemy, when he replied:-- "Between us two lies so great a hate, that if we were both in Gehenna, I think we would forget our pains in joy of seeing the other scorching." "That is well said, my lord. But why detain me? I know all this." Iftikhar's voice sank yet lower, that none of the great company might hear. "You had your day at Aleppo, but to-day is mine. Kerbogha holds your host in the hollow of his hand, yet at my word he will let you march unhindered to Jerusalem." "I do not follow you, Cid Iftikhar." The voice became a mere whisper, but how hoarse! "Deliver up to me Mary Kurkuas safely, and I will swear by Allah the Great, that Kerbogha raises the siege!" Richard laughed in his turn now, for it was joy to see his enemy's pain. "My lord, you cannot tempt me! Praise God Mary Kurkuas is anywhere but in Antioch among our starving host!" But even the Norman almost trembled when he saw the storm of blind fury on the Ismaelian's face. "Where, as Allah lives,--where is the Star of the Greeks?" raged Iftikhar, his voice unconsciously rising. "Not all your deaths and torments in the dungeons of El Halebah will wring that from me." "Then by the Apostle of Allah!" foamed Iftikhar; and he clutched at the Norman's arm, while seeking his own hilt. Kerbogha cut him short:-- "Cid Iftikhar, the Christians are madmen; yet respect the embassy. Let this fellow go!" Iftikhar flung the arm from him. "Go then, go," rang his threat in Arabic, which a hundred heard. "To-morrow we will clear the reckoning. It grows ever longer. Do you know," and he showed his white teeth, "I have killed your sister Eleanor with my own hand?" Richard bowed in his stateliest fashion. "My lord," said he, "my sister was long since worse than dead; I did not know she was in El Halebah when I came to Aleppo, or I might have rescued. Our Lady is merciful; she has peace. And as for me--ask your own heart if I am a harmless foe; remember you fell at Aleppo twice, thrice, and by my strength! So let God judge us, and give fair battle!" "Let Him judge!" retorted Iftikhar, turning, and Kerbogha shook out his handkerchief, the signal for the breaking up of the assembly. So the three Christians were led away, and they did not quail when wild desert dervishes flourished bare cimeters over their heads, and chanted from Al Koran:-- "Strike off their heads and strike off their fingers! "They shall suffer because they resisted Allah and his apostle! "Yea, the infidels shall suffer the torment of hell fire!" While Richard heard Peter muttering softly to himself:-- "Happy shall he be who rewardeth thee, as thou hast served us! "Happy shall he be that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones!" At last, despite the curses, the three were again safe and sound before the Bridge Gate. They entered, and were surrounded by a vast crowd demanding the result of the embassy. When Peter wished to tell the people of the threats and ragings of Kerbogha, Duke Godfrey, who had been the first to hear, feared lest any should be discouraged. So Peter merely declared that Kerbogha wished instant battle, and was taken before the chiefs. There he and Longsword told of the might and splendor and insolence of the Moslems, how Kerbogha had blasphemed the name of Christ and breathed forth cruelty against the besieged. Then even among the chieftains, despite the miracle of the lance, a few faint hearts trembled. But Bishop Adhemar, standing up, lifted his eyes to heaven and recited solemnly:-- "This is the word of the Lord concerning Kerbogha, as once against Sennacherib, king of Assyria:-- "'Whom hast thou reproached and blasphemed? and against whom hast thou exalted thy voice, and lifted up thine eyes on high? even against the Holy One of Israel. "'But I know thy abode, and thy rage against me. "'Because thy rage against me and thy tumult is come up into mine ears, therefore will I put my hook in thy nose, and my bridle in thy lips, and I will turn thee back by the way thou camest. "'For I will defend this city, to save it, for mine own sake and for my servant David's sake!'" When Adhemar had spoken, there was only one thought at the council,--battle on the morrow! and the heralds-at-arms went through the city, bidding every man prepare to march with the dawn. It was very late, but no man sought his bed. Richard was long with Bohemond, Tancred, Duke Robert, and Godfrey, telling all that he had seen in the Moslem camp: how that despite the numbers and the splendor, discipline seemed lax, and the divisions very ill placed. Even while the chiefs were in council, all Antioch was rejoicing over a great boon--another favor of Heaven. A secret magazine of corn had been discovered; and a meal of good food was set before every man that night, something that was priceless gain to those who were to struggle for their lives at cockcrow. There was no despairing now; no helpless lethargy, no longing for "gentle France." One had thought the victory already gained, to go among the host and hear everywhere the _Te Deums_ in honor of the Holy Lance and the battle-cry,--so cheerful now,--"God wills it! To Jerusalem!" The whole host made ready for battle that night with prayer and sacrament. The priests went their rounds through the army, confessing each man; and many a hardened sinner, who had taken even the cross lightly, had his heart melted when his comrades were exchanging the kiss of love, and saying, "God keep us all, dear brothers; who knows but that to-morrow night we shall be sitting with the angels!" It was almost the gray of dawn when Richard went among his men. He found them cheerful, arms ready, anxiously awaiting the signal for battle. "My good vassals," said the Norman, "we all stand in the presence of God, seigneur and peasant. You have been faithful vassals to me, and I have tried to be a kindly and just lord to you. Yet if any man have a grievance against me--say on! Let all hear him." But many voices answered, "You have been a father and elder brother to us, lord; may we all die for you if need be!" "And I for you!" replied the Baron, deeply touched. Then, after a pause, "Now, my men, are we prepared--body and soul--for victory on earth, or the sight of God the Father?" "Ready," gruffly replied Herbert; "Sebastian has made us all spotless as young lambs." "You have many sins to confess, brother," slyly hinted Theroulde. "Sad if you have forgotten some odd killing, that will rise up for judgment!" "Think of your own lies and cheating," snapped the man-at-arms. But Sebastian only cried, "Peace! peace!" and told how the meanest villain who died fighting on the morrow was sure of a heavenly throne and a kingdom greater than that of Philip of France. If their past had been wicked, here was an easy penance--given by Bishop Turpin at Roncesvalles, "to smite their best against the infidels"; and always let them remember that all the angels clapped their hands when an unbeliever fell under the sword, and there was joy unspeakable in the heart of God. With a vast company the St. Julieners marched through the Bridge Gate at red dawn. "God wills it!" arose the shout from thousands on thousands, while the monks and priests upon the walls began to thunder forth the great psalm:-- "Let God arise: let His enemies be scattered!" There was a terrible gladness in all hearts--they must fight paynims unnumbered; defeat was death. But death meant welcome to Christ's right hand; victory, the spoiling of Kerbogha. CHAPTER XLI HOW LIGHT SMOTE DARKNESS Now the full story of the battle of Antioch can be told only by that strong angel in whose book are treasured the records of the brave deeds done in faith. When that awful book is unsealed, it will be known why the spirits of evil beguiled Kerbogha into sitting idly in his tent at chess, while the Christian host was issuing from Antioch; why the two thousand Turks who held the head of the Iron Bridge scattered like smoke at the Crusaders' first bolts, to let the starving Franks lead their twelve "battles" across the river, and put them in close array confronting the Moslem line. Long, however, before the grapple came, Kerbogha and his _atabegs_ had taken the saddle, and the Christians saw arrayed against them horse and foot innumerable; a wide sea of flashing steel, of bright turbans and surcoats, tossing pennons and lances on plunging desert steeds. From the extreme left wing with the Holy Lance as special talisman borne by Raymond of Agiles where Bishop Adhemar commanded, to the right of the long line where Hugh of Vermandois led, there ran a thrill, and each man whispered to his neighbor "Now!" and steeled his muscles for the shock. No jests and laughter as often before a battle; not a soul now had heart for that. But every eye was bright, every lip firm, and the breath came quick and deep. There was dead hush when Adhemar in mitre and stole went down the line followed by a great company of priests bearing smoking censers, and in their midst a high crucifix. And when he spoke each casqued head bowed, each knee was bent. At the sight even the Moslems seemed to keep silence. "The peace of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be in your hearts and keep you. And in the name of the Holy Trinity do battle. Amen!" So sounded the great benediction. When all rose to their feet, and were locking close the spear hedge, Richard Longsword, one of the few mounted knights who rode as guard around the Holy Lance, heard as it were the roaring of a tempest coming down the wind from the host of Kerbogha, a wild clangor of _atabals_ and kettledrums, and the clash of myriad cymbals, and higher and shriller than all, the yell from the mad devotees of Arabia and Khorassan:-- "_La ilaha ill' Allah! La ilaha ill' Allah!_" The cry pealed from a hundred thousand throats; and the stoutest soldier of the Cross felt a shiver and a tingling, though he were veteran from many a well-fought field. Now, at last, was the issue left to their good swords and God! But while the Moslem war-shout rent the cloudless dome of morning, an answering echo rolled onward from the Christians, and as if the very shout were the signal, the long line rushed forward, the thousands moving as one. "God wills it! Death to the unbelievers!" The lines sprang toward each other like lions of the waste; the broad plain country that stretched northward from the river grew narrow under their swift feet. Then avalanche smote avalanche, light wrestled with darkness! No horseman's and archer's battle as at Dorylæum; no passage at arms between chieftains while the hosts stood by! But man to man they fought; the starving Franks looking into swarthy faces, where black eyes glanced fire and white teeth flashed hate. So for a moment the Turkoman cavalry strove to break through the Christian spear hedge,--for few French fought mounted that day. But the blooded chargers recoiled from the dense line of lances, and swinging swords, and battle-axes, as from a barrier of live fire, and reeled back to leave the plain red with dying steeds and stricken riders. The first blood only. For when Kerbogha saw that his horsemen could not ride down the defiant foe at will, he flung forward his archers and javelin-men, until the air grew dark with flying death that searched out the stoutest armor. Then while the arrows yet screeched, and men were falling fast, the Arabians and Turks charged home. Charged--but though the spear wall wavered, it was not broken--while above the shouts and howls of the infidels beseeching Allah, sounded the chanting of the psalm from the priests who stood behind the men-at-arms:-- "Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him, flee before Him!" So for the second time the Moslems reeled back. And when Kerbogha, sitting in the midst of his guard at the rear of the battle, saw it, he tore his beard in rising fury, and bade Kilidge Arslan the Seljouk lead his squadrons in circuit to fall on the Christians' rear. Now a third time the Moslems came forward, slowly now, horse and foot, their imams and ulamas crying to them to remember the beauty of the houris, the joys of martyrdom, and to hew in pieces the blasphemers of the Prophet. At this Richard, who knew Arabic and the fury of the unbelievers, called to his men to lock close about the Holy Lance, for now indeed was the fated hour. Then the Christians heard, outrunning the breeze, the wild howl of the dervishes, to whom death was more welcome than a quiet sleep:-- "Hell and Eblees are behind you! Victory or Paradise before you! Forward!" "Stand fast, men of Auvergne!" rang the Norman's command; and every lance was braced when the third shock smote them. No charging, recoiling, countercharging, in this supreme wrestle between Christ and Mohammed. The dead piled themselves higher, higher. The desert steeds were spitted like birds on the Frankish lances. The stoutest spears shivered like reeds, and targets were cleft as wicker; but the hand-to-hand combat never slackened. Kerbogha was throwing into the press all his numbers. Again and again Richard Longsword, with Gaston of Béarn, the Count of Die, and Raimbaut of Orange, who fought under Adhemar's banner, charged out, and did deeds of valor to be forgotten only with the last _jongleur_. Each time, as the foe gave way, the hard-pressed Christians set up their _Laus Deo_, dreaming they had the victory. But each time the infidels surged back to the onset; pressing closer, smiting harder, and drowning the Crusaders' prayer to Our Lady with their mad "Allah! Allah!" Richard, who fought about the Holy Lance, twice saw it reel in the hands of Raymond of Agiles, as fifty unbelievers pressed close. But the Christian footmen around it were a living wall, and not a dervish who put out his hands to grasp the lance turned back alive. Still the battle wavered. Rumors came down the line, now that Godfrey on the centre was victorious, now that Bohemond was desperately beset by Kilidge Arslan. Richard looked to his men; gaps in the lines. Brave fellows whom he loved well were moaning or speechless under those red heaps. But the infidels were still thronging in. The gaps were closed. The fight raged as though the blood spilled were but oil cast into a furnace. And presently as Richard fought around the lance, he saw a stately figure in gilded armor that he knew well despite the closed helmet,--saw it come pressing through the ranks of the Moslems. "Ho! Iftikhar Eddauleh," rang the Norman's challenge, as the roar of the conflict lulled for a twinkling, "face to face, and man to man!" The only answer by the Ismaelian was a lowered lance, and Rollo flew out to greet the charge. For a moment those standing by gave place. They met unhindered. Under the shock each lance flew to splinters, and the good steeds were flung on their haunches. "Again!" burst from the emir, as his cimeter glanced in the sun. "Again!" And Richard with Trenchefer rode straight at him, the unspeakable hate blinding to all things save his foe. Three times they fenced, and the sparks flew at every stroke. With the fourth, Trenchefer sheared off the black plumes on the Ismaelian's crest. A sweeping blow from Iftikhar answered, but Richard's stout shield parried it. "God wills it! St. Julien and Mary Kurkuas!" shouted the Norman, flinging his old battle-cry in the face of his mortal foe. But the ruling powers would not let these mad spirits fight longer. Suddenly, in a way none could foresee, the line of battle, as it will, swayed in a great shock; and here Moslems were thrown back, here forward, and comrades were torn asunder. The two were caught in the eddy and whirled wide apart, bitterly against their wills. "The lance! The lance is in danger!" the Christians were shouting; and Richard saw the holy standard sink out of sight in the seething vortex of battling men and beasts. "Rescue, rescue, Christian cavaliers!" Bishop Adhemar was moaning; and all unarmed as he was, the prelate was about to thrust himself from behind the protecting shield wall into the death-press. But Gaston of Béarn and Die and Orange, as well as Longsword, were before him. Richard saw Gaston snatch the lance out of the clutch of two Turkomans who grasped it, and hew down both--a blow for each. Then the lance was raised once more, and all Crusaders praised God, and fought more stoutly. So for long the battle raged; no man knowing how it had fared farther down the line, having wits only for his own struggle, and fighting even that blindly. But suddenly upon the wind black smoke came driving down upon the Christians. At first they scarce knew it in the fierce delirium. Then the smoke came denser, hotter; dimming their eyes, and setting all a-gasping. And almost sooner than the telling, the very grass under their feet was in a flame, fanned onward by a breeze that dashed the fire in their faces, while the deadly blast swept away from the Moslems. Whereupon, for the first time that day, a terrible panic fell on the Christians, as even the dead soil seemed thus to rise up and war against them. Men cast down their swords to flee,--all the horses plunged wildly; while with a shout of triumph, the infidels, blessing their Prophet, pressed on to snatch the victory. But at the very moment when all the world seemed turned to ruin, Bishop Adhemar ran down the line up-bearing the crucifix. A hundred paynim arrows sped toward him; not one flew true, for some angel turned all aside. "See!" was his cry above the howls of the dervishes. "See, Christians, the sufferings of your Lord! Stand fast, if you would prove that Christ died not in vain!" And when the Franks thought of their God upon the tree,--of the Holy Agony,--their own agony was forgot. Wounded men, whose life was running out in blood, sprang to their feet and fought like Roland's peers; those who had turned to flee, looked back, ran again into the press through the mad flames, and gave the Moslems blow for blow. Yet this could not last forever; the limit to what human might could do was very near. Denser the smoke, hotter the fire. Barely with all his strength could Richard now hold Rollo, and he knew while yet he fought, that unless the smoke were turned, the boast of Kerbogha would not be vain. A wail of despair was rising from the Christians: "_Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!_" and the triumphant "_Allah akhbar!_" of the Moslems seemed the sole answer. Then, even with his sinful and corporeal eyes, each Crusader had proof that on his side strove the Lord of Battles! For as the smoke blew blinding, with a great gust the wind changed, and the fire that Kilidge Arslan had lit for his foes' destruction turned to his own. Strong and fresh from the west came a piping sea-breeze, and the smoke swept in one heavy cloud into the faces of the infidels! So sudden the deliverance, that the Franks stood speechless, marvelling at this great act of God. And while thus they stood, Bishop Adhemar pointed with his staff toward the northern hills. "Behold, Christians! Three knights clothed in white armor, the succor promised by God! The martyrs George, Demetrius, and Theodore fight for us! Forward, all who love Our Lord!" Forward and ever forward. No faltering now, for it was the Moslems that were howling to the Prophet to save them from the smoke and the flame, and were shrinking back in panic. Down the line the Christian trumpets were sounding the charge, and the news flew fast that Godfrey and Tancred were sweeping all before them, while Hugh and Bohemond held their own. Then a marvellous madness seized the host of Adhemar. It was midday; they were starving; they had fought for life since dawn, but each man felt his feet wings when crossing that fire-seared plain. "God wills it! Death to the infidels!" At the cry even the dervishes gave way. The onrush of the Christians made the unbelievers scatter to the four winds; the fleet desert-steeds of the horsemen, caught in the press and panic, struggled vainly to escape and lead the flight. The Franks were upon them! the Franks had been granted victory by Allah! It was fate! Let who could shun his doom! "And the stars in their courses fought against Sisera!" cried Sebastian, swinging his mace at the head of the St. Julien men as they joined in the onset. Then suddenly as had changed the wind, the Christians hardened their ranks to endure again the shock; for, brushing aside their fleeing comrades, came the white-robed "devoted,"--the Ismaelians, held by Iftikhar as a last reserve,--sent forth to snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat; twelve thousand wild spirits whose one longing was to slay Christians, and hasten to the embraces of the black-eyed maids of Paradise. Fair upon the Frankish line, broken and disorganized even by victory, Iftikhar flung his thunderbolt. Over the dead and over the living charged the Ismaelians. With them went again the battle-shout raised by so many Moslem armies, never in vain:-- "_La ilaha ill' Allah! La ilaha ill' Allah!_" "Bear up, Christians! This is the last charge!" urged Gaston of Béarn, but more than brave words were needed to turn that blast. The "devoted" smote the Frankish spear hedge, and for the first time that day broke through it. The Holy Lance went down under twenty slain; the Christian war-cry was drowned by the howl of the Ismaelians: "_Allah akhbar!_ Victory! Victory!" As out of a dream, Richard saw that the battle had swept round him, with only hostile faces on every side. But he had no time to think of peril; for he was face to face again with Iftikhar Eddauleh himself, and at the sight he sent Rollo straight against the grand prior. "Again! Cid Iftikhar, let God judge between us!" he cried. But the Ismaelian avoided the shock, swerving to one side, and answered: "Fool! Allah has already judged! Take him prisoner, slaves! Pluck him from his horse!" Nothing easy; for though twenty of the "devoted" leaped to the ground to do as bidden, they found nothing sweet in the taste of Trenchefer. Richard put the face of Mary Kurkuas before his eyes while he fought: should he never see her more? The thought made his arm strong as forged steel. But just as the Ismaelians were crying to their lord that the terrible Frank could never be taken alive, and begging to use their swords, a blow of a mace crushed Longsword's right shoulder. His arm sank at his side, and Trenchefer nigh dropped from the numbed fingers. He saved the sword with his left hand, casting away the shield. "Yours! Seize! Bind!" exhorted Iftikhar. Yet even now there was a struggle, for Rollo that loved his master well made his great hoofs fly as he plunged and reared, and Richard's left arm dealt no weak blow. "Cowards!" thundered the grand prior; "let me curb in the horse!" But while he pressed nearer, a terrible howl of dread went up from the "devoted" themselves. "Allah save us! All is lost! The Christians conquer!" And as Iftikhar and Richard looked about them they saw the "battles" of Tancred and Godfrey, that had not endured the Ismaelian's charge, bearing down in serried line to drive this last Moslem squadron from the field. "Turn, Iftikhar Eddauleh!" Louis de Valmont's voice was ringing, "turn, and fight!" But Iftikhar only gave a bitter curse, and spurred away among his men. Adhemar's division had been shattered, not dispersed. The Christians were pressing in on all sides. The cry was spreading that Kilidge Arslan was in flight. The Franks saw Iftikhar re-forming his "devoted"--much less than twelve thousand now, though none had fled away; they half heard the imprecation he called upon them if they rode in vain. They formed, they charged; each rider a demon upon a steed possessed. They cast away their lives with an awful gladness. But the Christian spear wall was as iron, though pressed by springing steel. There was no other charge. Where the Ismaelians struck, they fought; where they fought, they died; and where they died, no other Moslems leaped to take their place. The thunderbolt had fallen--the storm had passed! And now praised be God the Son, and Mary ever Blessed! The infidels were become as stubble to Prince Tancred's sword, and to Bohemond, Hugh, and Godfrey. Loud and victorious sounded now the chant, ever repeated:-- "Let God arise; let His enemies be scattered!" And scattered they were! "How is it, Lord?" said the chronicler; "how dare men say that it was not Thy doings that the great host of Kerbogha melted like the spring snows before us, when we were weak with famine, and one where they were three? How, save by Thy help, did our poor jaded steeds fly like eagles after their Arabs, and overtake those chargers swifter than the lightnings? How, save by Thy grace, did Prince Tancred ride alone against an hundred, and see them flee as leaves before the gale?" How? The whole army knew, for the age of doubting had not come. "Not unto us, Lord; not unto us! But unto Thy name be the glory!" was the prayer of Adhemar, as he stood with his priests about him, while far to the eastward and northward drifted the rout and pursuing. For there was no valor in the Moslems now. Their chiefs fled swiftest of all; one way Kerbogha, another Dekak of Damascus, another Kilidge Arslan. And their camp with a treasure worth half the wealth of France, and swarming with eunuchs and harem women, had become a spoil to the servants of God and His Christ. The thought however was not of spoil, but of pursuit and vengeance. Loudest of all among the priests sounded the voice of Sebastian, urging on the warriors. "The heathen are sunk down into the pit that they made; in the net which they made is their own foot taken! Pursue--follow after; tarry not; for this is the acceptable day of the Lord--the day when one of you shall chase a thousand; when you shall smite the infidels as Israel smote Amalek--man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass! Destroy, let not one escape!" Fierce and unflagging the pursuit. Tancred mounted his footmen as swiftly as they could capture horses, and hunted the fleeing Moslems over plain and mountain. Here and there the despairing Turks and Arabians turned like beasts at bay when the terrible Franks crashed on them. But there was no strength left in a Moslem's arm. Doom--doom against the servants of the Prophet had been decreed by the stars--not the might of all Islam could turn back the stroke of fate. Here and there the raging Christians came on foes who cast down the useless weapons, and stretching out their hands, cried in a tongue which all knew: "Quarter! Mercy!" But they had better pleaded with stones; for that day there was none of mercy. The battle had begun with the morning; the shadows were lengthening on the hills when Tancred turned back his pursuers near Harin, halfway to Aleppo, and rode back toward Antioch, still galloping, for fear his comrades had squandered all the spoil. Long before the last chase was ended, Richard Longsword had been borne to the city. Despite his crushed shoulder and lifeless arm, he had urged on Rollo to the pursuit, almost hoping that he would meet Iftikhar once more; though how, all maimed, he could have fought the Ismaelian, St. Michael only knew. He saw the last struggle around the encampment of Kerbogha, where the camp-followers tried to defend the palisade and were destroyed by firing the barrier; he saw the Christians dragging out the spoil,--rarest silk and webs of Ind, and unpriced gems; fifteen thousand sumpter camels; howling slave girls; shivering servants. He knew that the great battle, the battle against the infidel he and his fellows had dreamed of so long, had been fought, and won; and that the tale of the victory would fly from Britain to Tartary. And yet he half felt a sense of sadness: he had met Iftikhar Eddauleh face to face, and yet the Ismaelian lived. They told him that when the last charge failed Iftikhar had turned his steed's head and ridden away, joining Kerbogha and the fleeing emirs and _atabegs_. Then Richard breathed a deep curse; for he knew, though no clear reason came, that the grand prior, coward though his flight had proven him, would in some way work great ill either to himself or those he loved. He bade the St. Julieners search the camp to find if Mary Kurkuas and Musa had been present at the battle. No trace; he was at once saddened and relieved. Then, just as the first procession of triumph, laden with dainties and rich wines from the camp for the starving city-folk, was preparing to enter Antioch, the Norman felt of a sudden the firm earth whirling, and as his sight dimmed, the din in his ears drowned all the _Glorias_ and _Te Deums_ of the rejoicing multitude. Herbert saw him reel on Rollo's back, and caught him just as he dropped to the earth. Sebastian loosed his casque--found it full of blood; a dervish's blade had cleft to the bone. His shoulder was crushed; from ten more spots he was bleeding. The St. Julieners laid their baron on a litter of lances and bore him to the city. Nor did Richard know aught more for many days. CHAPTER XLII HOW MORGIANA WOUND HER LAST SPELL Wrong had been done Iftikhar, when the Franks boasted he had fled headlong with Kerbogha and his coward _atabegs_. Had all his peers in the Moslem host fought as he, there might have been fewer Christian _Glorias_. Where death was thickest he had sought it. Under his cimeter had sped many a Frankish life. At the end he had led the final charge of his "devoted," maddest rider in all that headlong band. But doom had been against him; the Ismaelians had died where they could not conquer. Iftikhar, escaping fifty deaths, had thrown himself into a band of flying Turkomans, beseeching, threatening, adjuring, to make them turn for a last stand. One howl met his prayer. "Fate is against us! Flee! Flee! Allah aids the Franks!" He struck the fugitives with his cimeter; they fled more swiftly. He thrust his beast across their path; the good Arabian was nigh swept down in the vortex of the panic. Panic everywhere, the Franks flying after, each Christian a raging jinn whose joy was slaying. Then at last Iftikhar knew he could do no more, and he turned the head of his wounded steed to ride on the Christian lances. But just as he was casting shield away, that death might light more quickly, the hand of a strange rider plucked his saddle rein, and before the grand prior could strike at the unknown, Zeyneb's voice sounded in his ears above the "_Montjoye!_" of the onrushing French: "What, Cid? You ride to death?" "Unhand!" thundered Iftikhar, "all is lost! I know how to die!" But Zeyneb with a wondrous strength had tugged at the bits and swung the charger's head; and close by, the Egyptian saw another rider, unarmored, in a flowing dress,--but the face was turned from him. "You are mad, lord!" cried Zeyneb. "Do not cast yourself away. Fate will change, Allah willing!" Then, as Iftikhar struggled to turn, a squadron of flying Persian light horse struck them, and swept the three riders away perforce in its flight. "Faster, faster!" the Persians were shrieking; "the Franks! Their horses are vultures! their strength as of monsters!" Iftikhar cursed while he strove vainly to escape them and ride against the pursuers. "Fools, sons of pigs and Jews!" roared he; "see, scarce ten men follow, and you an hundred. Turn; ride them down!" "They are ten sheytans," yelled the rest, spurring harder. "Speed, brothers, speed!" Iftikhar glanced back. Behind him flew De Valmont and Tancred, who knew him by his armor, and taunted:-- "Face to face, Cid Iftikhar; did you fly thus at Palermo?" But the Persians pricked their beasts to a headlong gallop; the Franks rode down some, and slew them; the rest made their escape. When the Christians left the chase in the evening, Iftikhar found himself with a wounded and weary steed upon the bare Syrian hill slope, with only Zeyneb for escort. The strangely dressed rider he had noticed, followed half an arrow flight behind; but the Egyptian gave little heed. Hardly had he drawn rein before another squadron of breathless riders joined him, their horses' flanks in blood and foam. Their chief was Kerbogha, master that morning of two hundred thousand sword-hands, master that night of scarce fifty. Iftikhar bowed his casque in gloomy salutation, but the lord of Mosul did not return it. "Cid Iftikhar," came his words, cold as ice, "we have played our chess-game with fortune. Mated! and we play no more! Forget that I have known you!" "I do not understand, my lord!" protested Iftikhar, his color rising. "Clearer, then," and Kerbogha peered backward, lest the Frankish banners tossed again in the gloaming. "We went to Antioch first to crush the Franks, but also to gather, unhindered and unsuspected, an army to grind Barkyarok and the Kalif. We gathered the army. Where it is now, demand of the winds and the blood-red plain! Our plot is ended. Barkyarok will suspect. Let Hassan Sabah gain his empire in his own way. I must save myself by forswearing the Ismaelians and be all loyalty to the arch-sultan. As for you, let Allah save or slay, you are neither friend nor foe to me. Go your way; forget me, as I forget you!" "But our oaths--our pledge of comradeship till death!" urged Iftikhar, in rising wrath. "Death? A hundred thousand dead Moslems have wiped out the bond. Cursed be the day I listened to your plots!" "Then answer sword to sword!" raged the Egyptian, in frenzy, and ready to join mortal grapple. But a shout from the emir's escort sent Kerbogha fleeing away, without so much as replying. "The Franks! They follow! Flight, flight!" A false alarm, but the lord of Mosul and his fifty had vanished in the thickening twilight; his speed such that the hoof-beats were soon faint in the distance. Iftikhar looked about him. The night was sowing the stars. The young moon was shining with its feathery crescent. Far and wide stretched the desolate hills, fast fading into one black waste. Lost! the battle lost! the hope of empire lost! the vengeance on Richard lost! the love of Mary Kurkuas lost! He had only a wounded horse, his cimeter, and his arms. That morning twelve thousand men would have died for him at his nod. Yes, and had died! It was the stroke of doom, the doom that had been written a million years, before Allah called the heavens out of smoke, the earth out of darkness; and there was no escaping. The Christians had turned back to Antioch, but Iftikhar knew where to find them. He could ride back on his tracks, enter their camp, slay seven men before dying himself, and give the lie to the taunts of De Valmont and Tancred. So doing he would save one last treasure--his honor. "Zeyneb!" he said sternly, "go your way. You are at the end of your service. I must ride to Antioch." "And why to Antioch, Cid?" "To win back the honor you stole from me." Iftikhar had leaped to the ground to tighten his girths, when the strange rider came beside him and dismounted. As he rose from his task, he saw a veiled woman facing him; and while he started and trembled, she swept the veil from her face. Morgiana standing in the moonlight! For an instant not a word passed. Then Iftikhar spoke: "Morgiana, surely Eblees will gain you at last, since he sends you here." His voice was shaking with towering passion. "I have come to save you, my Cid," answered she. "To save me?" burst from the Egyptian. "To save me? To drag down to Gehenna rather; to speed me to endless torture!" She turned her face away. "Not that," she pleaded, "not that. Have I not loved you, and been ever faithful?" He sprang at her, caught her by the throat. "You have indeed _loved me_! Hearken: through your love for me you strengthened the Greek to resist me; through your love for me you saved Richard and his comrades, and plucked the Greek from me; through your love the accursed Norman and Duke Godfrey were able to escape, to warn their army, when ready to drop unresisting into the net spread by Kerbogha. This siege, this battle, this loss of myriads, is your handiwork; is _yours_,--and for it you shall die. Would to Allah I had killed you long ago!" He had drawn his cimeter, and brandished above her. She raised her eyes and looked at him unflinching. "_Wallah!_" cried he, wavering, "there is magic in your eyes. The sheytans aid you! Yet you shall die!" Morgiana's face was not pale now; all the blood had returned; her eyes were brighter than red coals. She wrested her neck from his grasp, and caught his sword-hand, held it fast, with a strange, giant-like strength that frighted him. "Strike!" cried she; "but as Allah lives and judges, first hear. Where are your twelve thousand? I have seen them all dead. Your hopes of power? Sped to the upper air. And the Greek? Allah knoweth. All these lost, but not I. No, by the All-Great you shall not strike until you hear me; for I am strong--stronger than you. I have been cursed, but have not replied; been hated, but paid in love; been wronged, but remained faithful. Now hope goes to ruin; war, love, friends,--all is lost,--saving I. But me you shall not lose. Either on earth you shall keep me near, to joy in your joys, to sorrow in your sorrows; or dying, my spirit shall be yet closer, to follow your path in heaven, earth, or hell--bittering every sweet, trebling every woe, haunting, goading, torturing, until you curse tenfold the hour you forgot the love of Morgiana, maid of Yemen!" And when Morgiana had spoken, she cast Iftikhar's hand from her, and bowed her head, as if waiting the stroke. But the Ismaelian's arm had fallen. He stood as in a trance, for before his storm-driven soul passed the vision of that Morgiana of other days, before the babe died and he set eyes on the Greek,--those days when he boasted he asked no Paradise, for the kiss of the fairest houri was already his. His sword-arm trembled. The woman said not a word, but raised her eyes again, not burning, but mild and tender he saw them now, lit with soft radiance in the dim moonlight. He felt the mad fury chained as by some resistless spell. Presently he spoke, the words dragged as it were from the depths of his soul:-- "Some jinn is aiding you! Live then this once. I shall be cursed again for sparing." Morgiana's only answer was to kneel and kiss his feet. Then she rose and stood with bent head and folded arms waiting his wishes. But Zeyneb had flitted between. "Cid," he said abruptly, "there are horsemen approaching, very likely Christians; the gallop is that of heavy northern horses. Let us ride." "Ride?" asked the dazed Iftikhar, "whither?" And he looked at Morgiana. His iron will was broken; he was content to let her lead him. She had already remounted. "Toward Emesa, my Cid," she said directly. "And what is there?" asked he, still dazed. "The road to Egypt. You have still a name and a fame. All is not lost while Allah gives life. You are still young. The Egyptian kalif will rejoice to welcome such a warrior to his service." "_Mashallah!_" cried Iftikhar, raising his hands, "when did you devise all this for me?" "Many days since, lord. For in the hemp smoke it was written Kerbogha and the 'devoted' should fail." "And you have been hidden at El Halebah?" "No," she replied, "I have been closer than you dreamed, in your tents before Antioch, concealed by Zeyneb, to be near you when the need should be great. When the Christians stormed the camp I was taken by Duke Godfrey. In gratitude he set me free, and gave me a horse. I found Zeyneb and followed after you, that you might not cast your life away." He went up to her as she sat on the saddle, put his arms about her, kissed her many times. And upon that Syrian hillside, under the stars, Morgiana found her moment of Paradise. He said nothing; but the Arabian laughed as she looked up at the sky. "Praised be Allah, All-merciful," she cried. "The old is sped, the new is waiting. Mary the Greek is gone--will be forgotten. May I never hear word of her again!" "I have been blind to the love of this woman," muttered Iftikhar, bounding into the saddle; "I have been blind, and Heaven restores sight. Yet if Mary the Greek is to be forgotten, may she never again cross my path. But this is left to Allah." CHAPTER XLIII HOW THE ARMY SAW JERUSALEM Of the weary days passed by Richard Longsword while his wound was healing, of how Sebastian and Herbert bled him, poulticed him with poppy leaves, and physicked him with sage, there is no time to tell. Neither is there space to relate the lesser misfortunes that befell the Crusaders, after the greatest misfortune at the hands of Kerbogha had been escaped through Heaven's mercy. For in the days that the army waited in Antioch a great plague fell upon it, which swept away all the weak and aged the famine had spared. Chief amongst those taken was Bishop Adhemar, who was not permitted in this mortal body to see the triumph of the cause he loved so well. There were quarrels and desertions amongst the chiefs. Hugh of Vermandois went away to Constantinople and returned no more. Raymond of Toulouse, and Bohemond, who took Antioch for his own principality, were at strife unceasing,--once passing the lie before the very altar. Thus the season was wasted, and the host frittered away its time around Antioch. Richard recovered and grew mightily impatient. To Jerusalem he must go, or the blood of Gilbert de Valmont must rest upon his soul. Long since the desire of knightly adventure had been fully sated. But his northern determination was unshaken as ever. His heart was always running ahead of the loitering host. To sweeten his delay, a letter had come through a Jew merchant from Tyre. Musa's tale had been received in Kerbogha's camp; he had been kindly entreated, but he had at once obtained transport to Tyre, whence he expected a ship for Egypt. Mary was well. In Egypt she would await the end of the war. Then, however Allah might rule the issue, Richard would be free to return homeward, and could receive back Mary safe and spotless from his brother's care. So Richard took courage, and counted the days till once more he could see the pleasant hills of Auvergne, the teeming valley; and dreamed of the hours when he would sit in the castle halls, with Mary at his side, and how they would fleet the days under the ancient trees beside the green-banked fosse, forever, forever. But those blessed days could not come till the Holy City was ransomed; and no spirit was gladder than Longsword's when the host started southward in the long-awaited springtime. At last the army had begun its final march, not an emir drawing sword against it; for the fear of Frankish valor had spread over all Islam. None of the host had desire for besieging any city save Jerusalem, and when they sat down before Archas they met only discomfiture. But while before Archas, Peter Barthelmy, puffed with pride, vowed he would silence those who ventured--after safe lapse of time--to doubt the miracle of the holy lance. Waxing confident, and boasting new visions from St. Andrew, he offered himself for the ordeal. In the presence of the whole host he passed down a lane of blazing fagots. None denied that he left the flames alive; but a few days later he was dead. "Impostor," cried the Northern French, who said the fire smote him, as being a deceiver. But the Provençals called him a martyr, having passed through the flames unhurt, but trampled down by his enemies in the throng when he came forth from the fire. As for Sebastian, he would only cock one eye, when asked of the miracle of the lance, and keep silence. Once Theroulde said to his face:-- "Father, were you a sinful man, I should say you were itching to peddle forth a good story." But the story Sebastian never told. * * * * * Soon enough poor Barthelmy's fate was forgotten. For the host was now treading a soil made sacred by the steps of prophets and apostles and holy men of old. The Franks forgot weary feet, the long journey and all its pains, when the march wound under the rocky spurs of Lebanon, and by the green Sidonian country. From Tyre they saw the blue sea, behind whose distant sky-line they knew beloved France was lying. They traversed the plain of Acre, climbed Carmel's towering crest. And now the swiftest marching seemed feeble. Jerusalem was nigh--Jerusalem, the city of God, goal of every hope, for whose deliverance myriads had laid down their lives. The toilsome way through Illyria, the passage-at-arms at Dorylæum, the march of agony through "Burning Phrygia," the starving, the death grapple in battle, and the pestilence at Antioch--all forgotten now! "God wills it! To Jerusalem!" was the cry that made the eager steps press onward from sun to sun; and men found the summer nights too long that held them back. A strange ecstasy possessed the army. Without warning whole companies would break out into singing, clashing their arms and running forward with holy gladness. "God is with us! The saints are with us! Jerusalem is at hand!" was the shout that flew from lip to lip, as the host passed Sharon, and prepared to strike off from the coast road for the final burst of speed across the Judean plains to the Holy City. Richard rode on, as in an unearthly dream. Half he thought to see legions of angels and hoary prophets rise from behind each hilltop. When he set eyes on a great boulder, a thrill passed at the thought, "Jesus Christ doubtless has looked on this." Almost sacrilege it was for Rollo to pound the dusty road; blessed dust--had it not felt the mortal tread of fifty holy ones, now reigning in eternal light? So the march hastened. When the dusty columns tramped through Lydda, every man beat his breast, and said his _Pater noster_, in memory of St. George the warrior, who there had won his martyr's crown. At Ramla they halted to adore the very ground where Samuel the Prophet of God had been born. And now at the end of a day's march they were only sixteen short miles from Jerusalem, and the leaders held a council. For some who even to the last were faint-hearted wished to march past Jerusalem and strike Egypt, since it was said water and provisions were failing about the Holy City. But Godfrey, standing in the assembly, said after his pure, trustful manner:-- "We came to Palestine, not to smite the Egyptian kalif, but to free the tomb of Christ. Bitterly reduced as we are in numbers, let us only go straight on. Will God, who plucked us out of the clutch of Kilidge Arslan and Kerbogha, suffer us to fail at the last? Up tents! weariness, away! and forward this very night!" Then all the braver spirits cried with one voice: "We will not fail! God wills it!" So the order spread through the camp, though hardly yet pitched, to march forward at speed; and when the army heard it they blessed God, and each man strode his swiftest to be the first to set eyes on Jerusalem. It was the evening of the ninth of June in the year of grace one thousand and ninety-nine; three years and a half since the great cry had swelled around Urban at Clermont, that the Christian army set out for this last march to the Holy City. The Christian army--alas! not the army that had ridden forth from France,--that had arrayed itself so splendidly on the plains of Nicæa! For of the hundred thousands, there were scarce fifty thousand left; and of these, twelve thousand alone were in full state for battle. The bones of the martyrs lined the long road from the Bosphorus to Judea. Many had fallen behind, sick; many had turned back craven. But the head of an army dies hardest; of the twelve thousand warriors that pricked their weary steeds across the arid Syrian land, not one but was a man of iron with a soul of steel. Bohemond and Hugh and Stephen of Blois had deserted; but Robert the Norman was there, with Raymond of Toulouse, Tancred, and Godfrey, bravest of the brave. A little after nightfall they struck camp, with the bright eastern stars twinkling above them. As they marched, they saw before them all the plains and mountains ablaze, where the commandant of Jerusalem was burning the outlying villages, to desolate the country against their coming. Richard Longsword, who rode with Tancred and a picked corps sent ahead to seize Bethlehem, heard the tales of the despairing native Christians who came straggling in to greet their deliverers. They blessed the saints in their uncouth Syriac for the help they had awaited so long, and bade the Franks be speedy with vengeance; for the Egyptian governor was breathing out cruelty against the servants of Christ. "And who may this commandant be?" demanded the Norman of an old peasant who spoke a little Greek. "Iftikhar Eddauleh, once of the cursed Ismaelians, lord," answered the fugitive, whimpering when he glanced toward his blazing vineyard. "Oh! press on, for the love of Christ! The Egyptians have driven my son and my daughter like sheep inside of Jerusalem, to hold as hostages. They say that the emir even threatens to destroy the tomb of Our Lord in his mad ragings!" Richard thundered out a terrible oath. "Now, by the Trinity and Holy Cross, God do so to me if Iftikhar Eddauleh long escape the devil! He, emir of Jerusalem! Praised be every saint, we shall yet stand face to face!" And under the starlight Rollo, as if knowing that the last stretch of the weary road had come, ran onward with his long, unflagging gallop. It was very dark; but the red glare of the villages was sure beacon. Once Rollo stumbled and barely recovered. Longsword dropped his companions one by one. A single thought possessed him now,--over those dark, low-lying hills, barely traced under the stars, lay Jerusalem--City of God on earth! And in Jerusalem waited his mortal foe, and the vengeance he had wooed so long! Vengeance, sweet as the kiss of Mary Kurkuas; sweeter, if so might be. In his revery, as he galloped, he saw neither hills, nor stars, nor road; he dreamed only of Trenchefer carving its way through the Ismaelian. Vengeance, the clearing of his vow, return to France, to love--all these just on before! Richard was lost in the vision. Suddenly the click and thunder of a steed at headlong pace shook him from the revery. What rider this, that gained on Rollo? A voice through the darkness:-- "Ho! friend; why so fast? Your company!" It was the voice of Godfrey. Richard had reined instinctively. The Duke was beside him. "By St. George, fair lord," cried the Norman, "where is your own corps? Why ride you here alone?" Godfrey laughed under his helmet. "Could I leave Tancred the glory and the boast, 'I first set eyes on the Holy City'? Under cover of the dark I left Baldwin du Bourg to bring up my men, and spurred forward. I knew that with me would ride one whose right arm is none the weakest." "Forward, then!" returned Richard; "I have joy in your company, my lord." "Please God, we shall meet a few infidels and avenge the burned villages," muttered Godfrey, as they flew on. "Ten paynims to one Christian are fair odds with Jerusalem so nigh!" But the wish was unrealized. They rode for a while in silence; met no more fugitives, nor any of the garrison. Presently the horses fell to a walk. The light of the burning hamlets died away. Very dark--only in the farthest east there was a dim redness. No smouldering farmhouse, a light brightening slowly, slowly. A soft warm southern wind was creeping across the plain. To the left the twain just saw black cedars massed in a dark ravine. There was an awe and hush on all the earth. Behind came the clink of arms, the click of men and steeds; but from Tancred's company drifted no murmur. Who craved speech at such an hour? Slower the steps of the horses. A hill slope extended before--a blank form in the dark. The wind seemed to hush as they advanced. Richard knew that never in all life had awe possessed him more utterly. He heard the water trickling in a hidden brooklet. Out of a tamarisk whirred a wild partridge. How great the noise! Did Rollo know he trod down holy ground, his great feet fell so softly? The sky grew brighter--rocks, trees, hillocks springing to being; the blackness was gray, the gray was tinged with red, the stars were fading. Godfrey whispered softly to Richard:-- "From what the pilgrims say, we now climb the Mount of Olives. Before us lies the chapel of the Ascension, beyond--Jerusalem! Let us kneel and pray that God make us worthy to behold His Holy City." The two knights dismounted, fell on their knees, their hearts almost too full even for silent prayer. "So many agonies, so bitter loss, so many days! At last! At last!" This was all Richard Longsword knew. He tried to confess his sins; to say _mea culpa_, but his one thought was of thanksgiving. With Godfrey he rose and led Rollo by the bridle upward. They ascended slowly, reverently, counting each rock and nestling olive tree. And with their mounting, mounted the light. Now Richard looked back--a wide, dim landscape faded away into the rosy east, peaks and plain, more peaks all desolate, and farthest of all a little steel-gray shimmer, where he knew the Dead Sea lay. Still the light strengthened, making all the landscape red gold; the naked chalk rock to the west lit with living fire. Behind hasted the whole van--footmen running abreast of the horsemen, priests outstripping the warriors, and one priest speeding before all--Sebastian. He overtook the two knights, breathless with his speed; but the new light not brighter than the light in his eyes. He said nothing. The three pressed forward. Four and twenty hours, barely halting, all had advanced, but who was weary? Suddenly the host behind broke forth chanting as they toiled upward,--the psalm tenfold louder in the morning stillness:-- "Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised In the city of our God, in the mountain of His holiness. Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, Is Mount Zion, on the sides of the north, The city of the great King." The chant went up to heaven and seemed to call forth more light from the glowing east. Suddenly every voice hushed,--silence as never before. For all thoughts went deeper than word or cry. The last mist stole upward, a thin gray haze; the sun-ball hung behind the highest peak of Moab. His tip crept above it; Longsword glanced back. A cry from Sebastian recalled him. "Jerusalem!" It came as a great cry and sigh in one from the priest. He had cast himself on the bare summit and kissed the holy rock. Richard and Godfrey looked westward, and bathed in the dawn--_they saw the Holy City_. They saw gray walls and a dim brown country, naked almost of tree or shrub, and white houses peering above frowning battlements. Dominating over all they saw the dome of the mosque on the Sacred Rock,--token of the enemies of Christ. What mattered it now? "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" the cry was passing down the line, and made the climbing easy as though on eagle's wings. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" Richard saw strong men falling on their faces, as had he. And his and every other's cheek was wet, for tears would come,--no shame when they looked upon the city of their risen Lord! Gray stones and brown cliffs, thorns and thistles, dust and drought, naked plains, burned by blasting heat; so be it! This their goal, the object of an untold agony! Could human hearts be filled so full and not break? Godfrey flung his arms about Richard, and their iron lips exchanged the kiss of awful gladness. Words they had none, save that one word. They named the Holy City a thousand times: "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" And men prayed God then and there to die, for already their souls were wrapt to heaven. Tancred the haughty, who had just come up, saw at his side a simple man-at-arms, a plodding peasant's son; but the great Prince had forgotten all, save that for both one Saviour died. "My brother! My brother in Christ!" Tancred was pleading, as he gave the kiss of love, "Pray for me! pray for me! I am a very sinful man!" They remained thus upon the mountain, weeping and laughing and stretching forth their hands, till the sun had risen far above the mountains. Had the Egyptians sallied forth to smite, scarce a sword would have flashed, so dear seemed martyrdom. But at length the hour of transfiguration was past. Godfrey had risen for the last time from his knees. He mounted and pointed with his good sword to the minarets and the clusters of spears upon the lowering battlements. "Forward, Christians!" rang the command; "the infidels still hold the City of God! Forward! there is yet one fight to be won in Our Lord's dear name!" Then another cry thundered from the army, each blade leaping from scabbard:-- "God wills it! God wills it!" And the unbelievers must have seen the Mount of Olives a sea of flashing steel, while the bulwarks of Zion rang with the shouting. "Yes," Richard heard from Sebastian, bowing low his head, "this truly is the will of God! The hour of my deliverance from this evil world is nigh." The ranks closed, and as the host marched down the slopes of Olivet, the priests sang, advancing:-- "Blessed City, heavenly Salem, Vision dear of Peace and Love, Who of living stones art builded, Art the joy of Heaven above, And with angel cohorts circled, As a bride to earth doth move!" Then the whole army rolled out the mighty _Gloria_:-- "Laud and honor to the Father! Laud and honor to the Son! Laud and honor to the Spirit! Ever Three and ever One! Con-substantial, Co-eternal! While unending ages run!" So the cliffs echoed back the singing, the Christian host moved onward, driving the last squadrons of the Egyptians inside the walls, and sending divisions southward to raise Tancred's standard over Bethlehem. All that day the Crusaders streamed over the heights of Emmaus, raising the song of Isaiah:-- "Awake, awake, O Jerusalem: break forth into joy: put on thy beautiful garments: for the Lord hath comforted His people: He hath redeemed Zion." But Richard had driven Rollo close to the Gate of St. Stephen, mocking a cloud of infidel arrows, and on the walls directing the garrison, he had seen a figure in gilded armor he would have known among ten thousand. That night, if his vows against Iftikhar Eddauleh had been strong, they were threefold stronger now. CHAPTER XLIV HOW MORGIANA BROUGHT WARNING How, as related in his letter, Musa had entered the camp of Kerbogha, made his guileful tale believed, and escaped safely with Mary Kurkuas to Tyre, we have no need to tell. When the Spaniard was landed at that city, he dreamed unwisely that his troubles were at an end. An easy voyage to Damietta, an easy journey to Cairo, and at Cairo a spacious palace awaited him as emir in service to the Fatimite Mustaali. There the Greek could spend the time in quiet and luxury until the Crusade had run its course. But, again, Musa was to learn that the book of doom contains many things contrary to the wish of man. While at Tyre a letter came from the omnipotent grand vizier, Al Afdhal, ordering him to hasten at once to Jerusalem and assume the post of second in command. A high honor; and the vizier added that the Spaniard had been given this signal trust, both because all in Cairo had learned to put confidence in his valor and discretion, and because the Christians would be sure to reach the city soon, where the defenders should be familiar with their warfare. Musa spent half a day in vain maledictions over this letter. By refusing the kalif's daughter he had put his neck in peril once; to decline this second honor would be to invite the bowstring. Hardly could he bring himself to lay his dilemma before the Greek. She had been lodged with all honor in the harem of the Egyptian governor of the city, for Musa had passed her before the world as his own Christian slave. When the Spaniard came to her, he professed himself willing to throw over his position in Egypt and fly to Tunis, if she bade him. But Mary only smiled and shook her head. "Dear friend," said she, "you shall go to no more pains on my behalf. The Holy Mother knows I spend many an evening crying when I think of all the brave men, just and base, who have died or run perils for my sinful sake." "Then what am I to do?" protested the Spaniard, with one of his eloquent gestures. "Go to Jerusalem?" Mary was silent for a long time; then said directly:-- "Ah, Musa, I am Christian bred, but were all Moslems like you, I could hate none. Leave that to the priests, like Sebastian! If you go to Jerusalem and the Christians attack, as attack they will, you will defend the city, will fight to the last?" Musa nodded soberly. "Would to Allah I could do anything else! But Jerusalem is scarce less sacred to my people than to yours. To us it is '_El Kuds_,' the 'Sanctuary of Allah'; and even _I_"--and he smote his breast--"must die in the breach or on the walls before an armed Frank enter!" Mary looked at him, and saw by his face more than by the words that he would indeed die if put to the last gasp. "Musa," she said softly, throwing that grave light into her eyes which had made Richard cry he saw all heaven therein, "you speak truly. God keep you safe; but, Christian or Moslem, you must follow the path that duty opens. You must go to Jerusalem, for so your Allah clearly wills!" "And," protested the Spaniard, "I shall send you to Cairo? You will be lonely in the great harem of my palace, with only servants and eunuchs to wait on you. For I must conform to the customs of my country, and let no lady in my care wander forth." Mary shook her head in violent dissent. "Why should I not go with you to Jerusalem? If the city falls, will not my husband be at hand to receive me? If the defence is made good,"--she stared hard at the pavement,--"I know my Richard Longsword will not live to see defeat; and then--" She broke short; her eyes were bright with tears. "_Wallah!_ what may I say to comfort you?" cried the Andalusian, in distress. But Mary sprang from the divan and stood before him, eye meeting eye. "Musa," she said quietly, "I am a woman, and Heaven gives me a few wits. I know well what Richard said to you that moment he drew you aside before we were parted near Antioch." The Spaniard reddened and stirred uneasily. As if by sympathy, the Greek flushed also; but she continued:-- "Dear Musa, we can best speak plainly one to another. Whether you have ever borne love for woman as Richard has borne love for me, I greatly doubt. Strange man, once I was angry, even while I blessed you, that when so many professed love, your only word was friendship. But all that is past now. I am the wedded wife of your dearest comrade. If he die, save Baron Hardouin in Provence, I have no other friend in the wide earth but you. If Richard dies, and Heaven is kind, I shall not live long. But people cannot die when they wish. If my husband is taken away, it is right that you should possess me. I cannot give you the deepest love; nor expect it from you. But so long as you live, I shall be content--for, saving Richard Longsword, you are the purest, noblest--Christian or Moslem--who treads God's earth." Mary outstretched her hand to the Spaniard, who did not take it, but knelt and kissed the hem of her dress. "Star of the Greeks," he said, smiling after his soft, melancholy way, "how good that we can look into one another's eyes and see 'trust' written therein. May the All-Merciful put far the day that will make you other than my brother's wife! But you shall go to Jerusalem." Mary pressed her hands to her forehead. "Holy Mother," she cried, "is it mercy to send Richard and Musa both to Jerusalem, where one must surely die!" The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. "If the Most-High watch over my brother, waste no tears in fear for me. I shall live or die, as is fated, and the day of death is fixed, be a man on battle-field or on his bed." "Your destiny is cruel," declared the Greek. But Musa answered, "Destiny is the will of Allah, and even the hard things from Him are sent in mercy." * * * * * So Mary fared by easy journeys to Jerusalem, and not to Cairo. In the Holy City they said the lieutenant-commandant kept a lady in his harem, but that wakened no comment. Musa had means and rank to secure a comfortable house on the north of the city, by the Gate of Herod; to fit it with all needful luxury, to provide Nubian eunuchs and Syrian serving-maids. The Greek had learned at Aleppo to be content with the close harem life, and Musa went to all lengths to please her. When he could spare time, he read and sang to her all day long; played chess and backgammon; matched her in contests of verse; repeated his jugglery tricks. He provided books in plenty--the Arabian histories; Macoudi's "Prairies of Gold," the great geography; and Greek manuscripts--Homer, Sophocles, Plato, and more. The Spaniard loved to sit at Mary's feet, hearing her read in her own rich native accent the hexameters that throbbed with the wrath of Achilles, and all the other stories of the old pagan world so long departed. Mary took all his attention with a kind of mute wonder, having long since ceased to marvel at his devotion. "Am I not utterly in his power?" she would say to herself. "Could he not take me forever from Richard Longsword by his mere wish?" So she would be silent, admiring the friendship that could go to lengths like this. For though they constantly talked of the Norman, Musa never breathed a word that was not to Richard's praise--of his valor, purity, steadfastness, and lofty purpose, telling Mary often that she was wedded to the noblest cavalier in Frankland or Islam. So for Mary at Jerusalem, as for Richard at Antioch, the slow winter crept by. And in the spring came the news that the Christian host was coming southward by forced marches. Musa's face was sad when he brought Mary the tidings, though it was only what each had expected. But neither was prepared for the sudden thunderbolt that crashed upon them just as the Christians broke camp before Archas. A messenger came into the city from Cairo, bringing word that Iftikhar Eddauleh, the one-time Ismaelian chief, had landed at Alexandria, been received with high favor by the kalif and vizier, appointed to the chief command at Jerusalem, and was on his way thither with heavy reënforcements for the garrison. Musa--ran the vizier's orders--was to retain his post as second; and with two such officers, so well schooled in the Christians' mode of warfare, the kalif made no doubt of a successful defence. No opportunity for drawing back now. A new embassy was being sent to the Franks to try to halt their march by a peace at the last moment. But Musa feared to intrust it with a letter for Richard, as the members were all appointed by Iftikhar himself, who arrived in Jerusalem almost as soon as the first messenger. The Spaniard presented himself to his chief at the Castle of David, the mighty stronghold on the western wall of the city. When the two cavaliers met face to face, without a word to Musa, Iftikhar ordered every guard and slave out of his presence, and the twain stood staring hard at one another for a long time in silence. Presently Musa said simply:-- "Cid Iftikhar, we have been personal enemies, and owe each other many a grudge; but this is no time nor place for private broils. I am your lieutenant, ready to die in defence of _El Kuds_. Command me in anything touching my duty as a soldier, and I obey to the last." Iftikhar's face was very stern when he answered:-- "You say well, my Lord Musa. At a convenient time Allah grant that I may reckon with you. Only with Richard the Norman have I an account that is longer. But to-day let us toil as one man for the defence of Jerusalem; for, as the All-Just reigns, we have no light task before us!" "Then," asked the Spaniard, "until the city is saved we are at truce?" "At truce," assented Iftikhar, nodding. But he would not accept Musa's proffered hand. And when the Spaniard went back to Mary he cautioned her gravely to remain close in the harem. Likewise he sent many of his servants out of the city, retaining only those most trusty; admonishing all not to breathe on the streets or to their gossips that a Grecian lady was lodged in his palace. But now came a series of days, each more terrible for Mary than the one before. Musa would have told her little, but he found that keeping back the news made her grieve yet more; therefore he related all. As the Franks advanced, Iftikhar had sent out his squadrons and laid waste the country for leagues about, filling up the wells, scarce leaving one house standing, that the Christians might find no comfort or provision. On this work Musa had ridden, though he loved it little. At last the Christians were at hand; and Mary, looking from her harem balcony, saw the hills covered with the familiar Frankish armor and the white-stoled priests and the forest of tossing lances. But though the eunuchs and city folk cowered and whimpered, Mary knew the Egyptian garrison was made of stouter stuff,--not blind fanatics, like the Ismaelians, but men who would defend the walls to the last. On the next day Mary was fain to lie in her chamber, stopping her ears, and pleading with every saint; for the Christians were assaulting. Then at evening came silence. Musa returned, dust-covered, his cheek bleeding where an arrow grazed, but safe; and Mary knew the onslaught had failed. With her own hands she stripped off the weary Spaniard's armor. "The Christians rush on ruin," was his bitter tale. "With only one ladder they tried to scale. With a second they might have mastered. They endured our rain of bolts, stones, and Greek fire as if pelted by dry leaves. They have perished by hundreds. Well that Allah is all-wise; He alone knows the need of this war!" "And Richard?" asked Mary, scarce venturing the word. "I saw him all reckless, in his open steel cap! My heart turned to ice when he began to climb the ladder with Trenchefer in his teeth. He laughed at our arrows. A stone overturned the ladder; he fell, then rose unhurt from under a heap of slain, and was about to mount once more when a priest--Sebastian, doubtless--dragged him out of view." Mary blessed the saints for this mercy, and was constant in prayer; for women could only pray while strong men had the easier deeds of fighting and dying. While the Christians were building their siege engines, there were no more assaults. But this only postponed the days of evil. Mary could see that Musa was laboring under extreme excitement. In her presence he affected his old-time gayety and playful melancholy. But once she caught him in an unguarded moment, gazing upon her so fixedly, that had he been Iftikhar, she would have thrilled with danger; and once she overheard him in his chamber crying aloud to Allah as if beseeching deliverance from some great temptation, and from the evil jinns that were tearing his breast. "Dear Musa," said Mary, "what is it that makes you grow so sad?" But the only answer was the gentle laugh, and the remark, "_Wallah_,--and with your Christians pressing us night and day, and all preparing for the death grip, will you marvel I am not always merry?" "True," she replied; "but I know it is not the siege that darkens you." Musa said nothing. In fact she saw him seldom. The wretched Jerusalem Christians were kept at forced labor on the walls, and sight of their piteous state made Mary hate all Moslems save the Spaniard. Presently rumor had it the Franks had completed their engines. Mary saw the great procession around the city, after the fashion of the Israelites around Jericho,--the priests, the knights, the men-at-arms, a great company that marched from the valley of Rephaim, beside Calvary, to the Mount of Olives, where they halted for exhortings to brave deeds, by the chieftains and priests. The hymns and brave words Mary did not hear; but she did hear the blasphemies of the Moslems, as from the walls they held up crosses in the sight of all the Christians, heaping filth upon them, and shouting, "Look, Franks, look; behold the blessed cross!" But the Greek knew deep down in her heart that they blasphemed to their own destruction; and Musa half shared her thought, when that night he parted from her to go upon the walls. "Star of the Greeks," he said, salaaming, "the Christians' engines are ready, and their host in array to attack with the morning. Allah alone knows what we shall see by another sunset. Keep close within the harem. I cannot return until about this time to-morrow evening." And he was gone, leaving Mary to pass a sleepless night with awaking to a wretchedness she had never felt before. Not dread for herself this time. Richard would be face to face with death--and Musa! What if _both_ should be cut down! Then let Iftikhar Eddauleh or any other demon in mortal guise possess her; this world would be one blackness, and trifles would matter little. She tossed on her pillow till daybreak, then rose to greater misery. What mockery to pray; to cry to God and the saints! If they were all righteous, why had they created in her that stubborn will which would not bow to their decree? Under her lattice in the narrow dirty streets the corps of the garrison were rushing to and fro. She could see the ebon Ethiopians clashing their huge targets and sabres as they ran toward the walls, while the war-horns and kettledrums blared and boomed unceasingly. "This way, true believers!" came the shout. "The Franks are advancing. He who speeds one Christian to hell blots out ten thousand sins!" But over the din of arms sounded the cry of the muezzins from the Mosque el-Aksa, and all the other lesser fanes, calling the people to prayer. Looking up at a minaret close by, Mary could see the pigeons still nesting under the balcony; and when the waves of clangor hushed an instant, she could hear the coo, coo, of mate to mate, as if the brown earth were calm and peaceful as the azure dome. So the day commenced. As the sun climbed higher, the rock on which Jerusalem was founded trembled under the crash of bursting war. Mary, sitting upon the house roof, could hear all the tumult in the city streets, and see the garrison massing on the battlements by the Gate of Herod. How long a day! The eunuchs, timorous as their mistress, gave her little heed. But a few grapes and figs were all the food the Greek cared to touch. About the third hour of the morning she knew the conflict was joined. From that time till sunset the roar of assault and defence went up to heaven as one continuous thunder. The shouts of Christian and Moslem; the crash of mangonel and catapult; the hurtling of myriad arrows and stones,--all these made a raging babel that spoke but a single word--"Death!" For Mary, it was one long-drawn terror. Long since had she, with her woman's heart, ceased to care whether the blessed Christ or Allah reigned within the bulwarks of the Holy City. She only knew that her husband and a man who had become dearer to her than a brother were in the midst of that chaos. Again and again she heard a mighty crash from the battlements, sounding above the unending din, that told of a triumph won by besiegers or besieged. Twice her heart leaped to her throat, as shrieking men flew down the street, calling on Allah to "have mercy; the city was taken." And twice again others passed, bawling out their _Bismillahs_, telling how the Franks had been utterly crushed. It was noon, and still the thunders grew louder. The third hour after noon; were the heavens of adamant that they did not crack asunder at the roaring? The fourth hour, and under the balcony galloped an Egyptian officer. "_Allah akhbar!_ Rejoice, O Moslems! The Christians have been repulsed on all hands!" he was proclaiming; "they will never assault again. The Lord Iftikhar has made a sally from the breach, and all their engines are burning!" "Victory for the true faith! _Allah akhbar!_" shouted the squadrons that raged after him. "To the gates! a sally! cut off the Franks ere they can flee to the hills!" Mary bowed her head. The Franks repulsed, defeated, scattered; the Crusade lost, and Richard Longsword,--never, the Greek knew well, would her husband turn back from a stricken field to breathe out his fiery spirit on his bed. But the clangor of arms and shouting did not die away. The sun was dropping lower now, but the battle seemed blazing hotter than when the day was young. In the street women and city-folk ran this way and that. From their cries Mary knew not what to think. To remain longer on the housetop she could not, though Musa commanded a thousand times. She must know the worst or die. The cowering maids and eunuchs gave her never a thought. She cast a veil about her face and rushed down into the street. The way was plain before her. In a great press of soldiers, citizens, and shrieking women, she was swept on toward the Gate of Herod, scarce knowing whither she went. As she moved on blindly, jostled and thrust about by rude hands, she knew that the din was lessening, the thunder from the walls intermitting. Now, as she looked toward the battlements, she could see the engineers making fast the machines, the archers running from the towers. Through the gate was pouring a cavalry corps, the horses bleeding and panting, the men battered and bleeding also. Many bore shivered lances; many brandished red blades; many toiled wearily on foot. It needed none to tell her that the sally had failed, else why did the great gate clash to in a twinkling the instant the last rider passed under? And in through the closing portal rang the good French war-cry, almost at the riders' heels, "_Montjoie St. Denis!_" So the Franks had been repulsed, but not scattered. The leaguer had not been raised. There must be other days of horror. "St. Theodore guide me!" prayed Mary to herself, "I must be back instantly. Musa would be justly angry if he found me in this throng." And she turned from the gate, thankful, yet fearful. What had befallen Richard and Musa that day of blood? The multitude surged backward, carrying her toward the inner city. In the rude press the veil was swept from her face. She knew that soldiers were pointing at her, and passing the word "Look--a houri!" But she heeded little, only forced her way up the narrow street to regain the house. The throng made space for her, for they knew she was an emir's lady, and many improper deeds were forgiven on a day like this. She reached the friendly portal; reëntered the harem. The cowering maids and eunuchs stared at her dishevelled hair and dress, but hardly knew that she had been gone. Mary returned to her post on the housetop, and from the shouting in the street below learned that the Christian attack on the walls had been entirely repulsed, but that Iftikhar had lost many men in the sally. Just after sunset came a cavalryman with a note scribbled on a bit of dirty vellum. "Musa to the ever adorable Star of the Greeks. Allah has kept Richard Longsword safe through battle. I also am well. I think the Christian machines so wrecked by our Greek fire, no assaults will take place for many days. I will come to you before midnight. Farewell." A brief letter, but it made the dying light on the western clouds very golden to Mary Kurkuas. So Richard lived, and Musa also. What thoughtfulness of the Spaniard to imagine her fears and send reassurance! The buzzing streets grew calmer. She heard the muezzins calling the evening "_maghreb_ prayer" over the city. The eunuchs had so far awakened from their terror as to be able to bring her a few sweet cakes and some spiced wine. The Greek felt little weariness, despite her sleepless night. She would await Musa, hear from him the story of the battle, and how he knew Richard was well. With a quieting heart she left the roof balcony, ordered a lamp in her harem chamber, opened the book-closet and began to unroll her Pindar. She was just losing herself in the rhythm and splendor of a "Nemean" when a eunuch interrupted with his salaam. "A woman to see the _Citt_ Mary,--who will not be denied." Before Mary could answer, the curtain had been thrust aside, and she saw in the dim glint of the lamp the face of Morgiana! CHAPTER XLV HOW RICHARD HAD SPEECH WITH MUSA In the days that the Christians lay about Jerusalem, after the first assault had failed, Richard learned to know every ring on that gilded coat of armor which shielded the commandant of Jerusalem. Iftikhar had borne a charmed life those four and twenty days of the siege; a thousand bolts had left him unscathed; his voice and example had been better than five hundred bowmen at a point of peril. Along with Iftikhar, Richard noted a second mailed figure upon the walls, more slender than the emir, nimble in his sombre black mail as a greyhound; and his presence also fired the Egyptians to fight like demons. Longsword bore about in his heart two resolves, to lay Iftikhar Eddauleh on his back (of this he was trebly resolved) and to discover who this black-armored warrior might be. Had he never seen that graceful figure make those valorous strokes before? So Longsword nursed his hate and his curiosity, and threw all his energy day and night into the siege works. In the days that came it pleased Heaven to put a last test upon the faith and steadfastness of the army. Not even in burning Phrygia had they parched more with thirst. Midsummer, a Syrian sun, a country always nearly arid, and all the pools stopped by Iftikhar, ere he retired within the city;--no wonder there was misery! "O for one cooling drop from some mountain stream of France!" Had the army joined in one prayer, it would have been this. For a skinful of fetid water, brought far, fetched three deniers, and when the multitude struggled around the one fountain Siloam, often as the scanty pool bubbled, what was it among so many? To secure water to keep the breath in Rollo, Richard went nigh to the bottom of a lightened purse; and still the heavens would cloud and darken and clear away, bringing no rain, but only the pitiless heat. In Phrygia, and even at Antioch, men had been able to endure with grace. But now, with victory all but in their grasp, with the Tomb of Christ under their very eyes, how could mortal strength brook such delay? Yet the work on the siege engines never slackened. A rumor that a relieving army was coming from Egypt made them all speed. Out of the bare country Northern determination and Northern wit found timbers and water and munitions. They built catapults to cast arrows, mangonels to fling rocks. Gaston of Béarn directed the erecting of three huge movable towers for mounting the ramparts. There were prayers and vows and exhortations; then on Thursday, the fourteenth of July, came the attack--the repulse. It must have been because Mary Kurkuas's prayers availed with God that Richard did not perish that day. If ever man sought destruction, it was he. When he saw the stoutest barons shrinking back, and all the siege towers shattered or fixed fast, he knew a sinking of heart, a blind rage of despair as never before. Then from the Gates of Herod and St. Stephen poured the Egyptians in their sally to burn the siege towers. Longsword was in the thickest of the human whirlpool. When he saw the garrison reeling back, and Iftikhar Eddauleh trying vainly to rally, he pressed in mad bravado under the very Gate of Herod, casting his war-cry in the infidels' teeth. But while a hundred javelins from the walls spun round him, of a sudden he heard a name--his own name, shouted from the battlements; and the blast of darts was checked as if by magic. The chieftain in the sombre armor had sprung upon the crest of the rampart, had doffed his casque, and was gesturing with his cimeter. "Musa!" cried the Norman, falling back a step, scarce knowing what to hope or dread. The Spaniard, while ten thousand stared at him, friend and foe, bowed and flourished in salutation, then, snatching up a light javelin, whirled it down into the earth at Longsword's feet. "Death to the infidel!" the Christian crossbowmen at Richard's heels were crying as they levelled. But the Norman checked them with the threat:-- "Die yourselves if a bolt flies!" Then he drew the dart from the ground, and removed a scrap of parchment wrapped round the butt. "Be before the Gate of Herod two hours after sunset. Bear the shield with the St. Julien stag, and the sentinels will not shoot. Your wife is in the city and is well." And while Richard read, the Spaniard had saluted the wondering Christians once more and vanished behind the rampart. The Norman walked away with a heart at once very light and very heavy. Musa in Jerusalem, Mary in Jerusalem, Iftikhar in Jerusalem! A great battle waged all day, and to all seeming lost,--the Crusade a failure! He heard men, who all those awful years had never blenched, whispering among themselves whether they could make their way to Joppa and escape to France, since God had turned His face away. As he passed through the camp, Tancred and Gaston both spoke to him, asking whether in duty to their men they ought to press the siege longer. Should they wait, the great Egyptian army would come, and not a Christian would escape. But Richard, with his vow and the blood of Gilbert de Valmont on his soul, replied:-- "Fair lords, answer each to your own conscience; as for me, I will see the Cross upon the walls of Jerusalem to-morrow, or die. There is no other way." And both of these chieftains, who had been hoping against hope, answered stoutly:-- "Our Lady bless you, De St. Julien! You say well; there is no other way for those who love Christ!" So Richard waited outside the Gate of Herod during the soft gloaming, while the night grew silent, and when, after the searchers for the dead and dying had gone their rounds, naught was heard save the whistling of the scorching wind as it beat against the walls and towers, laden with the dust and blight from the desert. No soldiers' laughter and chatter from the camp that night; no merriment upon the battlements. The Christians were numbed by their defeat; the Moslems knew the storm had not passed. Then, when it had grown very dark, he heard a bird-call from the gateway,--a second,--and when he answered, a figure unarmed and in a sombre caftan drew from the blackness. The Norman and the Spaniard embraced many times in profoundest joy. They sat together on the timber of a shattered catapult, and told each other the tale of the many things befallen since they parted on the hill before Antioch. "And Mary?" Richard would ask time and again. "She is more beautiful than the light, after the tempest passes and the rainbow comes. We talk of you daily, and of her joy and yours when the Crusade is ended." Richard groaned from the bottom of his soul. "Would God," he cried, "my own fate were woe or weal to me, and not to another. It must have been sinful to keep her love after I took the cross. For how can I have joy in heaven, if"--and he crossed himself--"I am ever worthy to pass thither, thinking that Mary is in tears?" Musa pressed his hand tighter. "You are sad to-night. Why not? I know the stake you set on the Crusade, yet bow to the will of Allah. What is destined is destined by Him; what is destined by Him is right. Cannot even a Christian say that? You have done all that mortal man can; the task is too hard. Your vow is cleared. Return to France. Mary shall go with you. Have joy in St. Julien, and think of Musa, your brother, kindly." But Richard had leaped to his feet. "No, as God lives and reigns!" he cried, "I will not bow. We have endured a great defeat. You know all; I betray no trust. Our towers are nigh wrecked, our throats are burned with drought, half our fighting-men are wounded, you have two warriors in the city to one in our camp. But know this, brother mine that you are: we Franks differ from you Moslems. For in the face of disaster you cry 'Doom,' and bend your necks; but we hold our heads proudly and cry 'On, once more!' And so we master very doom; for there is no doom to strong men who forget that black word 'fate'!" Musa put his hand affectionately around the Norman's ponderous shoulders. "Verily, O Richard, I think if the rebel jinns were to gather a squadron of Franks about them, they could shake even the throne of Allah!" "I am in no jest," replied Richard, and his tone told that he spoke true. But Musa said, doubting:-- "I cannot believe you can attack again before the Egyptian army comes. It is right to fight so long as there is hope. Allah never commands men to invite death." "Then answer this," demanded the Christian, hotly; "if you lay in my tent, would you turn back and hear all France say, 'This is one of the cavaliers who rode to Jerusalem, found the paynim arrows bitter, and rode away'? By the splendor of God, you would die ten thousand deaths before! You dare not deny; I know you well." "No, my brother," said Musa, very simply, "I do not deny. But for Mary's sake do not throw your life away." The Norman laughed bitterly. "By your 'doom' I perish as soon over my cups at St. Julien as on the siege tower at Jerusalem. God knows what comes to-morrow. Tell Iftikhar Eddauleh that I ask no greater favor from Heaven than to meet him once more face to face. Yet after his craven flight at Antioch I wonder he has courage to bear himself so valiantly on the walls." "I will tell him; and believe me, he was no coward, as I hear, at Antioch. From his own lips to-day I learned he wishes nothing better than to meet you." "And you will guard Mary from him?--ever?" "While Allah grants me breath." "You are a true brother, Musa, son of Abdallah!" cried the Norman, pressing the other's hand in a grasp that brought pain even to those fingers of steel. "Sometimes I think you are a better friend to me than I to myself." "And no message for Mary?" asked the Spaniard, softly. Richard drew his hand across his face. He did not speak for a long while. Then the words came very slowly:-- "Either to-morrow at this time we are masters of the city, or you can know that I am discharged forever of all vows and warfare. Does Mary know what we said together, at parting at Antioch?" "She knows. And she accepts." "That is well. Tell her I can leave only this message: 'I have from the hour I left her carried myself as became a Christian cavalier. I have prayed for grace to live and grace to die. I know that after the first pain is past she will wonder why she ever had love for the rude Frankish baron, when she has the favor of the most gallant emir, the most courtly prince, the purest-hearted man, Christian or Moslem.' For though you cannot yearn for her with the fire that burns in me, I can trust you never to let her grow hungry for love." "Yes: but--" Musa laughed a little nervously--"but if the city is taken? What of me? Will you lead me in fetters back to St. Julien?" Richard saw the implication. "No, by St. George," he protested, "you shall not die! I will go to every friend, and I have many, and beseech them if we conquer to spare you." Musa only laughed again. "And where you would scorn to live, I must hold back?" Both were silent; for they saw the inevitable issue. Then Musa spoke again: "Again I say it, what is doomed, is doomed. We are in the Most High's hands. So long as you bear your St. Julien shield I shall know you, and if we meet no blows shall pass. But wear a closed helmet. I quaked when I saw you mocking the arrows in your open casque." Both were standing. There was nothing more to say. Richard's heart was very sad, but Musa comforted. "No fears--is not Allah over us both? Will He not dispose all aright,--to-night,--to-morrow,--forever,--though we may not see the path?" The two men embraced; and, without another word, Richard saw the form of Musa vanish into the darkness. * * * * * Of all the councils of the chiefs, none at Antioch was so gloomy as the one held the night after that day of battle and defeat. Duke Robert the Norman spoke for all when he cried in his agony:-- "Miserable men are we! God judges us unworthy to enter His Holy City!" "Have we endured all this pain in vain?" answered Godfrey. "Unworthy we are, but do we not fight for the glory of Christ?" "We have fought stoutly as mortal men may!" groaned the son of William the Bastard. "Twice repulsed, half our men slain, our towers wrecked. Where are my brave cavaliers from Rouen and Harfleur? Dead--dead; all who were not happy and died on the march!" Then silence, while the red torches in Godfrey's tent flickered. Robert the Norman bowed his head and wept, sobbed even as a child. But Robert, Count of Flanders, broke out madly:-- "By St. Nicholas of Ghent, why sit we here as speechless oxen? Let us either curse God and the false monks who led us on this devil's dance, and every man speed back to his own seigneury, if so Satan aid him; or let us have an end of croaks and groans, bear our hurts with set teeth, and have Jerusalem, though we pluck down the wall with our naked hands." But not an answer or token followed his outburst; and after a pause he added bitterly: "Yes, fair lords; my cousin of Normandy speaks well; we are unworthy to deliver the Holy City. Let us go back to dear France, and think of our sins." Still silence; and then, with an ominous tread, Gaston of Béarn entered, in full armor and with drawn sword. "Good brothers," quoth he, gazing about a little blankly, and meeting only blank helplessness, "I, who hold the lines while you counsel, have only one word--speed. The rumor passes that the siege is to be raised, the Crusade abandoned. Half the army is ready to fly. Breathe it once, and the shout will be, 'For France!'--and the host scatters like sheep toward Joppa; while those more devoutly minded will cast their naked breasts on the Moslems' spears to earn martyrdom in place of victory." Godfrey roused himself by a great effort. "As God lives," he protested, "we cannot suffer the Crusade to fail. We cannot say to all the widows and orphans of France, 'Your husband, your father, died like headstrong fools.'" "We have wrought all that the paladins of Charlemagne wrought, and more," tossed back Robert the Norman, hopelessly. A voice lower down amongst the lesser chiefs interrupted: "You are wrong, my lord of Normandy." The Conqueror's son rose in his dignity. "Wrong? Who speaks? I will not have my honor questioned." The others saw Richard Longsword rising also. His face was very set and stern, he held his head proudly. "I say it, 'You are wrong.' No man has done all that the paladins of old have done until, like them, he stops prating of the anger of God, and dies with his face toward the paynim and twenty slain around. Take heed, my lords, lest we think too much of our unworthiness, too little of the captivity of the Tomb of Our Lord; and how in freeing it the price of all our sins is paid. I did not come to council to learn how to lead my men to Joppa, but how we were one and all to mount the breach, or perish in the moat." There was a ring in Richard's voice hard as the beaten anvil; and, before Robert could reply, more than one voice cried: "So say I! And I! Never can we slink back, and look in the eyes of the women of France!" "I cry pardon, fair lords," said Longsword. "I am a young knight to instruct my betters." But Godfrey answered him:-- "There is none of us too great to listen to brave words like these;" and Tancred, leaping up, added: "Yes, by God's help I will make it good on my body against any who cry 'backward,' till the city be won. Away with all these bats of darkness that are lighting on our heads! How does the night advance?" "By the stars, midnight," answered Gaston, just entered. "Good," ran on the Prince, sweeping all before him. "Pass the word through the host that we assault at dawn. Let every spare hand work to repair the towers. Let the rest sleep. We can make shift to move my Lord Godfrey's tower. If we have suffered without the walls, rest assured the infidels have splintered some bones within." The ebb tide had turned. The flood ran swiftly now. "God wills it! Attack with the morning!" the two Roberts were crying, as loud as the rest. And others shouted:-- "An end to divisions. Let us have one leader! Let us proclaim Godfrey king. To-morrow we will crown him in Jerusalem!" But the pure-hearted Duke beckoned for silence, and answered: "God forbid, dear brothers, that I should be styled 'sire,' and wear crown of gold, where my Saviour was spit upon and crowned with thorns. We have one work now--to storm the city." "The infidels are attacking the machines!" thundered Raimbaud of Orange, from the tent door. "To the rescue, fair lords!" "Rescue! Rescue!" cried all, flying forth with drawn swords. And while Raymond and Tancred went to beat back the sally, Richard found himself close to Godfrey. "Our Lady bless you, De St. Julien," said Bouillon, grasping Richard's hand. "It was only a word you said; but a word in season will raise or pluck down kingdoms. How shall I reward you? I was near despair when I saw the gloom settling ever blacker over the council." "Only this, fair Duke, that I may be in the front of the assault." "Rashest of the rash! Some day the saints will grow weary of protecting you, and you will be slain." "What matter, if all else is well?" So Richard hastened off into the night, found his own encampment in the maze of tents, and told his men there was to be no retreat--that with the morning the storm would be renewed. "And will you follow your seigneur, now as ever?" was his question to the fifty gaunt, mailed figures (all of his five hundred that were left) that grouped before the dying camp-fire. "Through all hell,--though each Moslem were a thousand devils!" answered De Carnac; and every St. Julien man roared forth "Amen!" "Good!" returned their lord. "And by St. Michael, you shall have chance to prove your vow!" Then, having heard that the sortie was repulsed, Richard went to his own tent. He found Sebastian sitting by the doorway. As the young Baron entered, the priest without a word arose and kissed him gently on either cheek. And even in the dim firelight Richard could see a wonderful glow of peace and joy upon the face of the ascetic. "Dear father," said he, wondering, "what happiness has come, that you seem so glad? And why is it thus you kiss me?" Whereupon Sebastian put his arm about Richard's neck, stroking his hair with the other hand, and at last said very softly, "I have had a vision." "A vision?" And Richard smiled amid the darkness, for Sebastian's visions came every other night. But the priest only continued, guessing his thought: "No, your lips need not twitch. For this vision was of a manner different from any that I have ever seen before. As I lay here, of a sudden I woke, and saw the dim camp-fire and stars glitter as I see now, and heard the chatter and groaning of the men. But of a sudden a youth, clothed in a whiteness passing snow, bright and with wings, stood by me, and said most gently, 'Sebastian.' And I answered: 'Yes, Lord. What may I do in Thy service?' And he replied: 'Be of good cheer. God hath seen thy good works, and how thou hast crucified the flesh and all carnal lusts, and knowest how thou hast wrestled in prayer. Now rejoice; the end of thy toil in this evil world draws nigh. But before thou shalt see with the eyes of the spirit the heavenly Jerusalem and the blessed host, with thy mortal eyes thou shalt see the Cross triumphant on the walls of the earthly Jerusalem. And this hour comes quickly.' Then while I lay in bliss unspeakable he had vanished." Richard was very grave. "Dear father, you do not long for heaven so much that you would leave me?" But Sebastian answered softly: "It shall be as God wills. You will be comforted. It is written, 'He giveth His beloved sleep'--sleep after the toil and the pain and the crushing of sinful self. And then to wake and see our dear Lord's blessed face! You would not grudge me that?" "No, dear father," said Richard, submissively; "but yet I pray God will ordain otherwise." Sebastian only kissed him again, lay down on the hard earth, and was soon in quiet sleep. Longsword went to his men, told them to sleep also, for they must rise with dawn. But as for himself his eyes were not heavy, despite the terrible day. As Herbert lay dozing, he heard from his master's tent the ominous click, click, of a whetstone. "The 'little lord' is sharpening Trenchefer," muttered the man-at-arms. "The devil help the Moslems who stand in his path to-morrow. The devil help Iftikhar Eddauleh if the two come face to face." Richard sat in the dark, the great sword across his lap, handling it lovingly, smoothing each rust-speck that touched his finger's nail, making the long blade razor-keen. And had a lamp flashed on his face, his features would have showed harder than his blade. His heart was at peace--at peace with an awful gladness. Father, mother, sister, brother, were all to be avenged on the morrow when he fronted Iftikhar Eddauleh. That some saint would aid him to meet the Egyptian he did not doubt. And then? But Richard never so much as wondered what would befall, after Trenchefer had smitten once and fairly on that gilded mail. CHAPTER XLVI HOW IFTIKHAR CEASED FROM TROUBLING When the Arabian's eyes lit upon Mary, Morgiana gave a little cry, ran to the Greek, and caught her in her arms. For a moment the two were so wrapt in the joy of meeting that all else was forgot. But quick as the first flood of gladness passed, Morgiana broke forth with the eager demand:-- "Musa? Musa? where is the Spanish emir?" "Upon the walls, where are all the chieftains," was the wondering Greek's answer. "_Wallah!_ and when will he return?" ran on Morgiana, beginning to tremble as Mary held her, as though in some mastering dread. "I do not know; at any time,--now,--or not till midnight. Dear God--what has befallen? what may I do? You are turning pale, and your hands are cold!" "Allah have mercy on us both, unless Musa comes! Iftikhar has discovered you!" cried Morgiana, calming herself with a mighty effort. And now it was the Greek's turn to tremble. "Iftikhar?"--the word came across her pallid lips faint as a dying groan. "How? When? Speak, as you love me--" Morgiana thrust back the dark hair that had fallen over her eyes, and drew herself up half scornfully. "Foolish woman! Is there not sorrow enough, that you need make more? Why did you wander into the streets at sundown? Why did you let the veil slip from your face? Zeyneb, my foster-brother, whom the sheytans love and the angels hate, looked on you,--followed you,--saw you enter the house, and sped straight to Iftikhar! Speak--speak--" and the Arabian plucked at Mary's arm fiercely, while in her eyes was again the mad gleam of old. "Why should I not curse you? you who have wronged me, utterly! When I was just winning back Iftikhar's love, and all the evil past was being forgot!--now--now I have lost him once more. And you--you are my ruin. As Allah lives I will curse you, and your lily-white beauty!" Mary was indeed white as the lily, or whiter, if that may be; but she caught both of Morgiana's wrists and held fast. Under the calm influence shed from her eyes the Arabian's wandering gaze grew steady. "Enough!"--she cut the other short--"you did not come hither only for maledictions. How have you learned? What will Iftikhar do?" "Learned?"--Morgiana threw back her head and laughed. "I heard Zeyneb repeating all to Iftikhar. Do? I only saw the Egyptian's face--the passion, the longing, the hate. He will come to seize you without delay. Not even Musa can save you. Is not Iftikhar lord of Jerusalem? I wonder he is not here already, finding I have fled his harem at the Castle of David." But Mary remained calm. "Tell me, my sister, what am I to do? You are all wits. Better death by fire than one touch from Iftikhar." "The Christian camp," pleaded the Arabian. "There are friends, your husband, safety. Oh, were but Musa here, you could be sent without the walls ere it is too late." "By the water-clock it lacks midnight an hour," said Mary, quietly. "The Spaniard may be here any moment. But I cannot dream that Iftikhar, at a time like this,--with the very city at stake,--will forget all, quit his duty on the walls, to tear a defenceless maid away to his harem." Morgiana laughed again, very bitterly. "Fool you are, in very truth! Iftikhar cares more for the lashes of your eyes than for a thousand Jerusalems,--for a thousand of his own lives. You will be at his mercy before daybreak, though the Christian cavaliers sack the city." There was the clatter of hoofs on the pavement, a shouting, a clang of armor and arms. Mary gave a great sigh of relief. "Musa; he has come from the walls with his guard." But Morgiana blasted the hope with one cry: "Hear! The Egyptian's voice!" And Mary reeled as she stood; for she heard a voice she knew right well thundering, "Guard the house about, and down with the door." Then came the resounding knock of a cimeter-hilt on the portal. The Greek sprang to the lattice over the street. In the narrow way below were fifty Soudanese negroes, with ruddy torches, tossing their spiked flails and spears; while beating at the door was a lordly figure in gilded armor--Iftikhar himself. Morgiana saw Mary trying to speak to her; at least the lips moved. The blows on the portal redoubled. "Open, open, or I kill you all!" rang Iftikhar's command, sounding above his own strokes. The eunuchs and maids of the household ran chattering and screaming from the lower rooms, as if they might find protection beside their mistress. "There is no hope," said Morgiana, sullenly, holding down her face; "we have both played our game, and we have lost." And the Arabian, all the fire and steel gone out of her, fell to her knees, cast her mantle over her head, shaking with sobs and groans. Mary trod proudly toward the head of the stairway leading to the lower court. Over her head hung a great bronze candelabra. She knew the light fell full upon her; she was sure she was never more beautiful than at that instant, when her face was bloodless as Parian marble. One resolve was in her heart--to let Iftikhar gather no sweets by her vain agony and tears. She was the great Greek princess, with the blood of Cæsars in her veins, never more conscious of her dignity and pride. The weak house door had shivered. There was a heavy step in the court below, a voice commanding: "I will enter alone. Let the rest stand guard." Mary saw Iftikhar at the foot of the stairs; his gilded mail twinkling, his naked cimeter in hand, his black-plumed casque thrust back so that the face was bare. How splendid, almost how beautiful, he was, striding on in the pride of his power! But when he saw the white face and burning eyes of the Greek looking down upon him, even his wild spirit was reined for an instant. And while he halted on the first stair, Mary spoke, in tones cold as the winter wind. "You come as ever, my Lord Iftikhar, unbidden, and with a naked sword. Are the cavaliers who saw your back at Antioch hidden in this house, that you must burst in to beard them?" The sting of her words was as salt on a wound. The answer was a curse upon jinns and angels who should stand between him and his prey. His feet flew up the stairway, but the Greek remained steadfast. "You see, Cid Iftikhar, I am weak, and with empty hands. But without the walls is Richard Longsword, who will speak to you in my behalf. This is your night, my lord; but in the morning--" "Leave the morning to the rebel jinns!" rang the Egyptian's cry. "To-night, to-night,--I possess you. To-night! To the castle with all speed!" He snatched her in his impure arms. He crushed her to his breast, and pressed on her cold cheeks burning kisses. Mary neither struggled nor moaned. What she said in her heart was heard only by God. In his delirium Iftikhar saw neither Morgiana nor any other. He leaped down the stairs three at a bound,--his captive in his arms. "_Allah akhbar!_" went his shout through the lower court. "I have won; the stars fight for me. Mine, to do with as I will!" And he kissed her again on lips and neck. Then of a sudden he stopped motionless, as though a charmer had made him stone, for outside in the street was sounding an angry command to the Soudanese to make way--the voice of Musa. The grasp of the Egyptian on his prey never weakened, though his weapon was out once more. Yet Mary, in his grasp, for the first time began to struggle,--helpless as bird in the snare,--but her call sped out into the street shrilly: "Rescue! Rescue, for the love of God!" For reply she saw the Soudanese by the door dashed to one side like shapes of wood, and across the threshold strode Musa, in no armor, but his cimeter also in hand. A glance, and the Spaniard knew all. He took one step toward Iftikhar, as if to cross swords without passing a word. Then, with point outstretched, he spoke, but mildly, as if in grave irony. "Cid, is this the manner of Egyptian emirs in keeping truce?" Iftikhar's only response was to make his grip of Mary's arm so vise-like that she cried out with pain. Musa spoke again, still gently. "Cid, this is my own house, my own harem. For what cause is it surrounded by your negroes, and violated?" Iftikhar pointed toward the door with his cimeter. "I made truce with you," he retorted defiantly, "not with _her_." And he glared madly at the Greek. "Away, or the Soudanese strike off your head!" The Spaniard calmly let his weapon sink to the pavement, and smiled as he leaned upon it. "Good emir, we have our hands busy--as Allah knows--to defend _El Kuds_. Do we well to nurse private lusts and hates, while the jewel of Islam trembles in the balance?" "Off!" came the hot reply. "Off, or you die this instant!" Musa lifted his eyes from the floor, and gave the Egyptian glance for glance. "I do well to tremble!" was his answer, the voice higher now, with a ring of harshness. "I do well to tremble! Remember the tourney at Palermo, my lord emir! Was it Iftikhar Eddauleh who crowned his turban with the prize?" And he stood on guard across the door. "Remember a night like this at Monreale." The face of Iftikhar was black with his fury. For an instant there was a grating in his throat, thickening every word. "_Ya!_ Dogs from Nubia, smite this mutineer down! Hew him down, or I hang you all!" The Soudanese stared at him, rolling the whites of their great eyes, but not a spiked flail rose, not a foot crossed the threshold. "Are you, too, rebels?" howled the Egyptian, his breath coming fast. Musa had turned to the fifty. "Hear you, Moslems. In an hour like this, with the Sacred City at stake, shall your emir or another dip hands in a private quarrel? What do I, save defend my own house, and my own harem? Have I not wrought on the walls manfully as Iftikhar? Dare any deny it?" A shout came from the Soudanese:-- "You say well. You have been the sword and shield of Jerusalem, no less than the emir!" "Hounds of Eblees! Will you not hew him down?" raged Iftikhar. A gray-headed negro, captain of the fifty, fell on his knees before the Egyptian. "Cid, command, and we follow through the Christian camp; but we are the slaves of Kalif Mustaali, Commander of the Faithful, not yours for private feud. We cannot obey." "Traitors!" the veins in Iftikhar's forehead were swollen now. "Know that this is no slave of Musa, son of Abdallah, but the wife of Richard Longsword, a chief of the Franks. You aid the infidels in saving!" But the Soudanese did not stir. "And where reads Al Koran," retorted Musa, "'Thou shalt possess thyself of thine enemy's wedded wife'? For the sake of peace and El Islam leave the Greek till the siege be ended." "For the sake of El Islam suffer me to depart with her unhindered." Iftikhar cast the woman across his left arm as though a toy, and swinging his blade, sprang toward the portal. "Make way!" rang his last warning. "Then let Allah judge the wrong!" Musa was before the entrance, his cimeter waving. Iftikhar knew well he had no light combat in store. He cast Mary from him as he might a stone, and sprang to his work. "I am not balked, as at Monreale!" he hissed from his teeth. "No, _Bismillah_! I can kill you now!" flew the answer. The steels rang sharp, stroke on stroke. Musa was without armor; but he had torn his cloak from his shoulders and covered his left arm. The cimeters were of equal length, and every time they clashed there flashed fire. Musa sprang aside from the doorway at the first blow, and worked his way into the middle of the court, where the light was stronger and there was ample space. This was no duel with long swords, as between Richard and Louis, where sledge-hammer strength was victor. The Spaniard's blade was both sword and shield. Again and again the Egyptian gave a sweeping stroke, a lunge, and felt his "Damascus" parried by the turn of a wrist, or to pierce only the air. Well that he wore armor! Time and again Musa's weapon clashed on his hauberk, making the chain mail ring and its wearer reel. Click, click, sang the blades, and so the two fought on. "_Allah!_" the Soudanese would cry every time the Spaniard seemed ended by some downright stroke. Yet he never bled, but paid blow for blow. It was a marvel to see them. What Musa lost for lack of arms, was half returned in nimbleness. The Egyptian twice staggered in his armor, twice recovered. Musa had pricked him upon the neck, and the blood was running over the gilded shirt. But the fury of a thousand jinns was in his arm; still he fought. Mary stood against the pillar by the upper stair, watching the combat as if through a mist. Deeds and words had flown too fast for catching. She was nigh asking herself: "Why this stamping? Why this ring of steel? What is this to me?" She saw Iftikhar shoot his point squarely toward the Spaniard's breast. Before the horror could be felt, Musa had doubled like a snake. The blade flew over him. At his counter-stroke there was more blood on the Egyptian's cheek. For an instant he winced, then rushed to the attack with redoubled fury. Twice more around the court they fought. And then there was a strange thing: for Morgiana, with hair flying and eyes bright as meteors, sped down the stairs. One moment she stood, as if terror froze her; then with a fearful moan ran straight toward the fighters. "As Allah lives, you shall not slay Iftikhar!" she shrieked, and snatched Musa behind, holding fast by the girdle. Only for an instant, for the Spaniard dashed her from him with a fist. But she was back, snatched again, and clung, despite the blows, while all the time Iftikhar pressed harder. "Die you, die we, but not Iftikhar!" she screamed once more. Another twinkling, and the emir would have driven home. But in that twinkling the Greek found strength and wit. The Mother of God doubtless sped down the strength by which she tore loose Morgiana's hold. The Arabian writhed in her tight embrace; struggled with feet, nails, teeth, like a frenzied tigress at bay. "Allah! Allah!" came her moan; "you shall not, you must not, hold me! Let us all die, but not Iftikhar! Not he! None, none shall kill him!" Mary trembled at the horror graven on Morgiana's face; but her arms held strong as steel. "Release! Release!" pleaded Morgiana, piteously now; "he is my all, my all. Not Allah's self shall kill him!" But Mary shut her eyes and held tighter. The Arabian might smite, bite, tear; she could not shake that hold. Only the terrible monotony of the combat seemed unending. Click--click--went the blades; the two were still fighting. How much longer could she hold fast? A cry of terror from Morgiana made her fingers weaken. The Arabian slipped from them at a bound. "Allah! He reels!" Morgiana had flown to pluck the Spaniard's girdle. Too late! The Greek saw Iftikhar tottering as the tall pine totters at its fall. And just as Morgiana touched Musa, his long blade swept down the Egyptian's guard, and caught the neck just above the mail. There was a thundering shout from the Soudanese. Iftikhar slipped, made one faint effort to lift his point; slipped once more; fell with clash of armor; and with a fearful cry his wild spirit sped--whither? God is not judged. There was silence,--silence in which they heard the slow night wind creeping by in the street. Iftikhar had stretched his length. He lay without stir or groan. Morgiana had recoiled from Musa as if from the death angel. Mary saw her standing motionless as the stucco pillar, looking upon the face of the dead. The Spaniard, steaming and panting, pressed his red blade into the sheath, and caught at a pillar, saying never a word. Then when the stillness had grown long, Morgiana gave a little cry and sigh, more of surprise than of dread, and stepped softly until she stood close beside the dead. Iftikhar's casque had fallen from his head; his face was fixed in an awful smile; he looked straight upward with glassy eyes and opened teeth. When Morgiana gazed down upon him, she was still once more. Then came a scream of agony. She fell upon her knees; she lifted that motionless head. Though the blood flowed from the great wound all over her delicate hands, she tore loose the hauberk, and laid the head in her lap, staring hungrily for some sign. "Iftikhar! Iftikhar!" she cried, as if perforce to make the deaf ears hear. "Do you not see? Do you not know? It is I, Morgiana, your blue-eyed maid of Yemen, who have toiled for you, grieved for you, joyed for you,--yes, will die for you! Speak! Speak one word, and say you are still here!" She raised her head as if to listen for the voice that would never come. "O Iftikhar, soul of my soul, light of my eyes, joy of my joy! have you not one word for me,--for me who have clung fast to you these many years through all? Speak, though it be but to curse me! Speak, though it be of love for the Greek! You will not, cannot, go out now and leave me here alone,--alone, alone!" No answer. Mary heard her own heart-beats, the crooning of the wind in the streets, the deep breaths of Musa. Suddenly Morgiana let the limp head fall, and leaped to her feet, blood-stains on dress and hands and face. "Dead!" she cried; "dead!" casting toward Mary a look so terrible that the Greek drew back. "Dead! Gone forever! Forever, forever!" And Morgiana's voice died away as if far off into the coming ages. Then once more she fell upon the dead form, kissed the speechless lips, and cooed into the deaf ear, saying sweet and pleasant things as in the lovers' days of long ago. But all the soft words ended in a cry of agony. Again she rose and faced Musa and the Greek. "In Allah's name be you cursed! You for your strength, and you for your beauty! For the beauty that stole Iftikhar from me,--that led him to ruin, to death,--cursed, ten thousand times! May the jinns of evil crush you! May all Gehenna's fires wither you! May the Most High forget you from His mercy--" Mary was sobbing now:-- "Sweet sister, pity me," was her plea. "What have I done? Forget the Egyptian. How has he paid back your great love for him? He was unworthy of such love." But Morgiana only tossed her blood-stained arms on high. "Fool, fool; am I not a woman? Did I love him by my reason? Worthy or unworthy, I _have_ loved him. Enough!" She tore at her bosom; drew forth a tiny silver vial. It was at her lips before Musa could seize it. "Poison!" shouted he. The face of the Arabian turned livid; her eyes wandered. "He is mine; mine! Beyond the stars, where no Christian may come with her beauty! Beyond the stars, where is Paradise and rest!" She fell upon Iftikhar's dead form; one paroxysm, one groan; her hand was resting on the emir's face, her lips close to his. Musa laid his hand above her heart, drew it back and said nothing. Then again a long silence, while he examined the silver vial. "Strychnine," he said softly; "the Egyptians often use it. Swifter than a falling star." Mary buried her face in her hands, and swayed while she sobbed in her fathomless grief. "Holy St. Theodore, have mercy; Mother of God, have mercy; Jesus Christ, have mercy! It is my fault--mine! I cannot bear it!" "Yours? Never, Star of the Greeks," protested Musa. "How was it you that led Iftikhar to his madness, and put frenzy in this woman's heart?" But Mary wiped her eyes, and told all that had befallen. How she had gone into the streets; how Zeyneb had seen, had told Iftikhar, and sent him to his death. Before the Spaniard could reply, another strange step was on the threshold. It was that of a Nubian in scarlet surcoat, giant tall,--Ammar, third in command. "In Allah's name," was his demand as he entered, and recoiled in his horror at the sight, "what means this rumor on the streets? Where is the Cid Iftikhar Eddauleh?" "His body?--there!" answered the Andalusian, pointing downward. "Allah accounts with his soul." "_Mashallah!_" and Ammar nigh drew his cimeter, "you have slain the emir, commandant of the city!" "He rushed on ruin, good comrade. It was a private quarrel, and he is wrong. Ask of these guardsmen, is it so." "It is so! _Wallah_, the emir was mad. It is so!" came voices from the doorway. Ammar's face was lowering when he demanded:-- "Yet how will you answer to Al Afdhal, the vizier?" Musa drew himself to full height haughtily. "Victory covers all pasts. Let me fling back the Christians and Al Afdhal will forget to question. If defeated"--Musa swept his hand in a wide gesture--"I will not be here to make reply. And now you, O Ammar, are my lieutenant, and I commandant this night of Jerusalem. Leave Iftikhar Eddauleh to Allah, and get you to the ramparts, for there is work in store." The clatter of a horseman in the streets cut him short; a breathless messenger was entering. "_Allah akhbar!_" gasped the courier, "I am from the Gate of St. Stephen. We have sallied forth to burn the Franks' siege towers. All the unbelieving jinns aid them. The towers are repaired. We were driven back with loss. They attack at dawn." "Fellow, fellow," began Musa, while Ammar dropped his jaw in surprise, "no tales, as you love your head! With my own eyes I saw those towers in ruins--they can never be fought again." "In Allah's great name I do not lie," flew back the answer; "and the Christians have just flung the corpse of an Egyptian inside the city on a mangonel, with letters saying they send us the courier from Al Afdhal, who promises aid, but that they will be in Jerusalem ere he can set forth from Egypt." The Spaniard cast about a lightning glance of high command; never was Iftikhar more lordly. "Then for El Islam we shall win glory or martyrdom by another sun. Lead to the walls, Cid Ammar, I follow instantly. Call all the city-folk to repair the breach. Hurry the Greek fire and oil caldrons from the citadel. We must each have a thousand hands betwixt now and morning. But on your lives say nothing of Iftikhar." "Allah! Allah! Death to the Franks! Death!" roared the Soudanese, vanishing down the dark street as suddenly as they had come. But Ammar halted. "Cid," said he, gravely, "you are indeed commandant, but if the news flies out at this last grapple that Iftikhar lies dead, needless to tell how every sword-hand will weaken. The name of Iftikhar is worth a thousand in the death-grip. What is to be done?" Musa had bent over the corpses, and was unbuckling the Egyptian's gilded armor. "See," declared he, holding up the gem-set baldric, "I will put on the emir's mail. I have his height; none will miss his shoulders. With the casque drawn down, all but those in the secret will know nothing. I can again put on my own sombre armor, and appear elsewhere on the wall. The host will think they have both commanders. Ere the truth is known the city is saved." "Allah! You have the craft of Solomon! So be it!" "Breathe not a word of this to any. Bid the Soudanese keep silence. Deny the rumor. Haste five spare mangonels over to the west wall; nine to the northern. Illumine the Franks with Greek fire, shoot arrows and stones incessantly. I will be on the Stork Tower at the northwest bastion without delay; do you look to the western city." Ammar salaamed; was gone. Musa had finished stripping and putting on Iftikhar's armor. Save for the plumed helm that he held in his hand, who could say he was not the Egyptian? "Take these corpses away," was his command to the eunuchs; "anoint and embalm them carefully. They must have honorable burial." Then he turned to Mary. "Star of the Greeks, I must go upon the walls again. Hard indeed it is to leave you. But be comforted, Richard is well. I have talked with him. Our speech was all of you." Mary was ready to weep once more, but held back the tears. Sweet and strong was her face when she answered:-- "Dear Musa, I know all that lies at stake this night and coming day. I can bear much. I am ready for whatever God may send. Once I called you my own cavalier at Palermo. Be such still. May the God who loves us all--Christian, Moslem--be with you and Richard Longsword." She took the helmet from his arms. He knelt; with her own hands she fitted it after he had caught her hands, and kissed each one. Then he rose, clothed head to foot in the gilded mail. "God go with you, my cavalier," said the Greek. "I may not say, 'send victory.' Farewell." The stately plumes swept the pavement when the Spaniard salaamed. "Fear nothing, lady," was all he replied; "remember the arm of the Most High is under all. His will over all. What is to us most ill, is to Him most good. Farewell." He bowed again,--vanished from the doorway,--was swallowed up in the black night. Mary heard him mount; heard his horse's hoofs dim away in the distance. All the slow wind brought was a far-off murmur and rumble of many toilers on the walls. And Mary went up the staircase to seek her chamber and to pray. CHAPTER XLVII HOW TRENCHEFER WAS BROKEN Again high noon. The Syrian sun beat pitilessly, but Richard and his peers thought little of sun or star that Friday as they toiled on the levers and ropes of the great _beffroi_, the siege tower of Godfrey. From daybreak they had been urging the ponderous fabric across rock and ravine, though its three tall stories of rough-hewn timber quaked and tottered on the rollers, though its facing of undressed hides had turned a hundred blazing arrows. Half the day they had wrought, while their crossbowmen vainly strove to quench the showers of missiles the Nubians rained upon them. Now, with the tower five hundred feet from its goal, lo! all the sally-ports and the broad gates of Herod and of St. Stephen were flung wide, and forth sallied the garrison,--ebon devils whose only whiteness was their teeth. "At them, Christians! Forward, in Our Lady's name!" rang the cry of Duke Godfrey. Then all around the tower had surged the battle, the infidels calling "Fire!" and the Christians struggling to save it; but in the end the Moslems were flung back, thinned and saddened by Frankish bolts and blades. Richard, in one moment of the succeeding calm, breathed a prayer of praise to Heaven, "_Gloria!_ _Gloria!_ At last! At last!" for he knew that the final hour was drawing nigh. And in the lead of the Nubians, and last of them to turn back, had he not seen that figure in gilded mail he had singled for his vengeance? At the thought of that vengeance even the vision of Mary grew dim, and the weight of his own sins was forgotten. Therefore of all the mad spirits, that day of glory and of wrath, none was madder than he, and none strained the pulleys harder. Four hundred feet still to cover; four hundred leagues seemingly were traversed easier! For while the great tower lumbered on, groaning as a dragon at his death, the unbelievers set new engines on the walls and smote the Christians, even as God smote Sodom and Gomorrah. After the arrow hail came the catapult darts of two ells long, and stones of a man's own weight blew down as snow from the housetops. After the darts and the stones came things more terrible--glass vessels spitting fire; whereupon all the ground had turned to flame, and from the tower rose smoke and the crashing of timbers. "Greek fire! Hell loosened! Save who can!" went up the wail of the Christians. But the great Bouillon, treading amid the flames as through a gentle rain, called above the din: "Christ is still with us! Forward in His Name!" Then all courage returned. They brought vinegar and quenched the burning earth. The _beffroi_ shook off the fire and crept onward. Three hundred feet now! The tower was swayed each instant by the shock of the Moslem enginery--darts, stones, fire; it withstood them all. Around the gilded crucifix, fixed high above the summit, a thousand screeching arrows of the infidels had sped. It stood unscathed against the calm blue sky, as amid a realm of eternal peace; and the Christians, looking upon the image of their Lord, rejoiced and pressed forward. Then again the sally-ports were opened; a second sortie more furious than the last. This time the champion in gilded mail laid about him among the Christians as if Satan's self were raging against God's saints. Richard pressed hard toward him to cross swords; but the strife held them asunder. Gaston of Béarn measured strength with the arch-infidel, and all the Franks groaned when they saw the Viscount fall. But his vassals sprang over him, and locked their shields around him, making the Moslem champion give back. Godfrey, who was cast with Richard for a moment, asked, "And is this not Iftikhar Eddauleh?" The answer was a nod of the head, but he heard behind the closed helm which Longsword, contrary to wont, was wearing, the words muttered, "Father, mother, sister, brother," and knew the Egyptian would need all his might that day. So for a second time they fought, and for a second time, though two Moslems sallied forth to one of the Christians, the defence found Frankish steel too keen. Their chief strove to rally them, but in vain. Only his sweeping blows thrust back the hardy knights, who followed the unbelievers to the very drawbridge. The gates clanged in the face of the assault, and again from battlement and flanking tower pelted the storm of death. But the _beffroi_ still crept on. Two hundred feet. Tower and wall were so close that the Christian bowmen on the summit could begin to shed a counter rain of missiles upon the infidels to quench that dashing from their enginery. Richard, toiling at the lever, saw a man-at-arms, who was working a catapult, fall, stricken through by a heavy bolt. The Egyptians raised a yell of triumph from the walls; the machine stood useless. Instantly out of the press around the tower rushed a priest--Sebastian! no armor save the holy armor of his white stole. The paynim shafts buzzed over him; to flies he would have paid greater heed. Richard saw the man of fasting and prayer lay the great arrow, draw home the huge bow, press the lever. There was a howl of rage on the walls,--the tall Ammar had fallen under the shaft. Richard ran to the priest's side. "Back, father!" shouted he, "you rush on death!" The priest left his toil to kneel beside a stricken bowman. None save the dying heard his voice; but he pointed to the glittering Christ on the sky-raised crucifix. There was a smile on the face when Sebastian laid the head of the dead gently down. The priest looked Richard calmly in the eye, though an arrow flew between them while he spoke. "I must be about my Father's business," was all he said. Without more words he was back at the catapult, bending, levelling, shooting more than one infidel at every bolt. High above the clangor swelled his voice at each triumph. "Die, Canaanite! die, Amorite! Thou art my battle-axe and weapons of war! With thee will I break in pieces the nations! I will break in pieces captains and rulers!" Richard knew he was in God's hands and left him. The Christian enginery was at last beginning to tell. Under their missiles he saw the battlements crumbling; dared he hope he saw the firm curtain-wall totter? Richard knew it was long past noon. When last had he touched food or drink or tasted sleep? But when he thought of the deeds to be done ere sunset, and saw that figure in gilded mail upon the walls, he dwelt no more on thirst or slumber. One hundred feet; every finger's length bought with ten lives, but the price was not in vain. Men were beginning to count the moments before they could set foot on the rampart. Yet at this point a terrible rumor flew through the army. "The vinegar fails! We cannot master the fire!" And as if bad news was borne by the fleeting winds, the Moslems instantly rained down more flame-pots, then still more, when nothing quenched them. In a twinkling the rock below the walls seemed burning, the rawhide facing of the tower scorched, a great cry of agony rose heavenward from the Franks. "The devil fights against us!" howled many. But, as before, the word of Godfrey was better than ten thousand fresh sword-hands. "Stand by! Christ is greater than the devil!" he commanded. And Renard of Toul cried, "Forward, cavaliers; now is the time to die!" But Godfrey answered him, "Now is the time in Christ's strength to live." When the news came that Raymond's and Tancred's attacks had failed, his only shout was, "Praised then be St. Michael, for to us is left the victory!" Then it was the Franks bore witness to their faith; for even the Moslems trembled when they saw those terrible knights of the West standing amid the hail of darts, while the firm soil belched flame, the tower was wrapped in smoke,--beating the fires with their swords, casting on earth with their hands, wrestling at the levers, though the levers themselves were burning, and still forcing the _beffroi_ onward, onward! For men were past hoping, fearing, suffering, now. In the sweet delirium their lives went out without a pang, though their bodies were flaming. And the last sight of the dying was the great crucifix and the Christ thereon, emblem of sacrifice before which lesser sacrifice was counted nothing. Not a Christian engine was working; the most were fast turning to ashes. But the tower, while it blazed, toiled forward. The burning grass at Antioch had been nothing beside this valley of death; but the wall was becoming very near. For the thousandth time Richard was straining at his lever, when Godfrey came to him. "All is lost, De St. Julien!" came the hoarse whisper. "Lost? And why lost, my lord?" said Richard, with a dreadful calmness. "Hist! Look on the ground before; it slopes downward to the moat. The engineers have blundered. When the tower is tilted its crest will be below the battlement; we cannot mount upon the wall." Richard stared upward through the smoke. "We can beat down the battlement; it is yielding." "Are you St. George?" cried the Duke; "every mangonel burns." Longsword pointed to the left. "All burning save one!" his answer. There was one mangonel so close under the walls that when all its crew were shot dead no others had ventured to man it. "As Christ died," came from Godfrey, "put that at the foot of the walls; find a breach in ten _credos_ or the fire triumphs." The men of St. Julien followed their seigneur. At last they knew they should fulfil their vow. The garrison, when it saw them, turned on their company all manner of fire and death. But the Auvergners who lived never counted their dead. By main force they tugged the mangonel up beside the _beffroi_, trampled out the flame for an instant. A flying stone shivered Longsword's shield; Herbert thrust his own on Richard's arm, a plain shield with only the red cross of the Crusade. De Carnac fell while they set the rock of half a mule's weight in place; their seigneur pressed up the huge counterpoise; drew the rope. The long arm swept creaking into the air; every war-cry died while the huge missile sped. The rock smote the battlement where the first attacks had weakened it. The upper face of the curtain wall crumbled inward. Out of the wreck a murk of dust was rising. For fifty feet the battlement had been beaten down far lower than was the summit of the tower. "Forward again! For the love of Christ! Forward!" Godfrey's voice; and it swelled into the sound of ocean waves as ten thousand throats reëchoed it. The Moslems were uplifting a howl of wild despair. Did they fight men or sheytans, whose home was flame? But Richard saw the champion of the gilded mail still on the ramparts. The tower was now springing toward the wall as if a spirit of life had entered, so many were the eager hands. The infidel fires were spent. The Christian bowmen were shooting so pitilessly, not an Egyptian catapult was working. Up the dizzy ladder on the rear face of the tower Longsword clambered in spite of armor. The drawbridge at the crest the stones had long since dashed to flinders; what matter? For Heaven suffered two long beams from one of the defenders' engines to fall outward. The Crusaders caught them, laid them side by side,--a bridge with width of half an ell,--a dizzy height below, but beyond, Jerusalem! * * * * * Men tell that it was the end of the third hour of that Friday afternoon,--at the very moment Jesus Christ cried, on the Cross, "It is finished!"--that the tower of Godfrey was brought beside the walls; and the cavaliers, who had faced death so many times that day, gathered on its summit, to enter the Holy City. To right and left the walls had been swept bare of defenders by the bowmen. The cry passed that a warrior in arms of white stood on the Mount of Olives, waving his shield to urge on God's soldiers,--St. George, patron of holy victory. But though the other Moslems were fled away, there was one who remained steadfast. As Longsword gained the crest of the tower, he saw at the head of the narrow bridge that figure in gilded mail, with sword bared, helmet closed, twenty Christian bolts glancing off his panoply while he awaited the first to cross. And every Frankish voice cried, "Iftikhar, emir of Jerusalem!" Already upon the crest were standing the great Duke himself and Renard of Toul, Baldwin du Bourg, and many more. Yet for an instant none started--for it seemed tempting God to tread that bridge with fifty feet to the rock-hewn moat below, then meet the thrust of that cimeter. At Godfrey's call the bowmen threw over the Moslem a cloud of arrows; but the gilded mail was proof. Still he stood,--then with the courtliest flourish to his foes, drew back three steps from the head of the perilous bridge, leaving a foothold for his challenger. Again he stood guard, and all the Christians shouted, "A gallant knight, though infidel!" while the Duke bade the bowmen spare him; so notable a cavalier must die at a cavalier's own hands. There was an eager rush of those who would cross first, and smite the first blow,--Longsword eagerest of all. But a stranger knight leaped before him. The Frank sped over the dizzy path; stood upon the shattered wall. Once the swords met; but at the second blow the Christian dashed backward into the empty air--they heard the clang of his armor in the moat below. "My prey!" pleaded Richard. But to his bitter wrath again, De Valmont had leaped before him, crossed the bridge, and all men kept silent while the Auvergner put forth all might and skill. Then of a sudden they saw the Moslem's thin blade lash under Louis's heavy weapon, smite full upon the side, and De Valmont went backward also. As he tumbled, a projecting beam broke his fall. In the moat they saw his stirrings, and cried out, "Still alive!" Men sought him, exclaiming, "Miracle!" But a great awe had come on the Christians. Who was this that could smite Sir Louis at ten passes? Godfrey thrust himself forward. "Make way, fair knights! I, myself, will meet this paladin!" But Richard held him, as he touched the bridge. "This is my own foe, my lord; your promise!" Godfrey turned, and Richard shook the lightnings out of Trenchefer, as he ran across the narrow way. With him went a great prayer half uttered by the whole host,--"_Dominus tecum!_" as every man saw him standing with his feet on the brink of death, his face toward the infidel. Richard showed naught but calmness. He trod the perilous path quickly as though he sought his bride. Trenchefer felt light as a rush to his strong right arm. The wall, the moat, the death below, he never saw; his eyes were only for that gilded mail--the mail of Iftikhar. This was the moment for which he had wept, had prayed! Behind that hated armor he saw forms never again to be met on earth--mother, father, sister, brother. He thought of the pains of his wife, and his own long sorrow. He was proud of the splendor, the valor, of the Moslem,--the greater glory in the victory. God had indeed willed that he should hew the last of the way to Jerusalem. [Illustration: "THE INFIDEL GAVE WAY"] Scarce had he taken stand on the shattered parapet before the infidel was paying him blow for blow. At the third fence Longsword knew he had met his match, for no mean cavalier with a cimeter's light blade could turn a downright stroke of Trenchefer. At the fourth Richard took one step back--another would have sent him beyond love and hate. But his rage rose in him; at the fifth the infidel gave way. A great stillness was around; the sun was sinking in unclouded brightness; the Egyptians, cowering behind their battlements, bated their prayers to Allah as they gazed; the Christians forgot to invoke Our Lady. Richard, finding that a few smith's blows were profitless, fell to a slow and steady foil and fence; putting forth all his art, and every pass and feint that had never failed before. But he marvelled as he fought, seeing his subtlest strokes turned by that thin blade, which he deemed to have brushed away in a twinkling. Had he never before fenced with that cunning hand? The Moslem's shield now shattered; Longsword swept his blade low and parried; in a flash the other passed his cimeter from right hand to left, and the weapon dashed full upon the Norman's shoulder, ere he could raise Trenchefer. But the Valencia "ring-mail"--Musa's gift--was yet proof. Ere the Moslem could strike twice, Richard recovered, cast away his own shield, and pressed closer. At a sweeping stroke of Trenchefer he slipped, and all the Franks moaned. But the infidel--gallant as his foe--did not press home the chance. Richard stood again, and struck as never before. "Paladins both!" rang from the Christians. Now at last men knew Longsword fought for life, not for vengeance only. Again the Franks began to tremble. "The Egyptians rally; new companies mount the walls!" thundered Duke Godfrey; "beat them back or all is lost!" The crossbowmen stood to their task like good men and true. They swept away the Nubians clustering on the battlements, but others swarmed after. A moment more, and not one but a hundred blades would close the perilous bridge. "Across with a rush; sweep the champion down!" cried many Christians. But the great Duke answered, "Either in knightly fashion or not at all, let us take Jerusalem." His word was scarce spoken before one vast shout made the tower rock with the quaking earth, "_Gloria tibi, Domine!_" Trenchefer had sprung aloft; the cimeter flew to parry; the Norman's blade turned flatwise, but no mortal arm could have borne up against that stroke. The Christian drove home upon the shoulder, beating in the armor, though he might not pierce. The Moslem's weapon flew from his hand; he staggered, fell upon the walls, while past him and his victor leaped the exulting Franks. Richard stood erect, but panting, while the brothers Lethalde and Engelbert of Tournai leaped upon the upper battlement, and with them Baldwin du Bourg and Reimbault Creton, mighty cavaliers all. A cry went up that would drown every other din that day of strife, "_God wills it!_" flung to the bending heavens. The Egyptians upon the walls fought at bay--how vainly! Richard knew the great day had come; the Holy City was won, his arch foe smitten; the journey, the agony, the pouring of the wine of life, had not been vain. God had remembered the toils of His people. Then, as he looked, he saw Sebastian in his white robe, leaping across the bridge. But just as his foot touched the crumbled wall, a chance arrow from some despairing Nubian caught him fairly on the breast. He fell, the white stole fast turning red. Richard caught him in his arms. "Father," he pleaded, "dearest father, you will not die; see, the victory!" Sebastian's lips were moving. Richard bent low--a woman's name, "Philippa." "Philippa?" the name of the priest's boy love? Who might say? But at this instant Sebastian started from Richard's arms, and pointed upward. "Look!" and Longsword beheld Godfrey setting the great crucifix from the tower upright upon the battlement of the Holy City. Sebastian's face glowed with an awful smile. He had seen it, Gregory's vision--_the Cross triumphant on the walls of Jerusalem_. "Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," came the thin voice, "according to Thy word, for mine eyes have seen--" but the rest was heard by the angels about the Throne. Richard gently lowered the head, stood, and stared about. Already the slaughter was begun on the walls and in the streets. From the Gate of St. Stephen thundered the battle-axes of Tancred and his host, whose strength swelled with the victory. Two thoughts were foremost in Longsword's mind,--"Mary; the Spaniard." He had not seen Musa on the walls. What had befallen? They were crying, "No quarter, slay!" He must act quickly. Suddenly his eye passed from Sebastian to the form of his victim. Holy Mother! the infidel stirred,--he was not dead! The casque was slipping back from the Moslem's face. The wounded man half raised himself, put forth a hand, and pushed away the helmet. Not for ten kingdoms would Richard have looked upon that face; but he could not turn away. And when the casque fell, Longsword beheld the face of Musa, son of Abdallah. Those passing across the bridge heard a cry of pain that followed them to their dying bed. They saw Richard Longsword uplift Trenchefer with both his arms, and dash it upon the rock. Midway the great blade of the Vikings snapped asunder, and almost with a mortal groan. "Dear God," called Richard, "is it thus at last the price of Gilbert's blood is paid!" Then they beheld that man, who had wrestled with fire and death from dawn, cast his own helmet away, snatch the infidel in his arms, soothing and whispering like a woman, while his tears ran freely, as those of a little child. CHAPTER XLVIII HOW RICHARD SAW THE SUN RISE How the Holy City was sacked by the men of the West; how the infidels paid for unbelief and blasphemy with their own blood; how the blood in the porch of the mosque of Omar plashed up to the bridles of the horses,--these things this book will not tell. For its story is of the deeds of men--not of demons, as their foes cried--nor of avenging angels, as their own hearts boasted. Neither is there need to tell how Zeyneb's life went out under a Frankish sword, nor how Herbert and Theroulde found Mary at the house by the Gate of Herod. It was theirs to save her from death or worse, at the hands of the raging victors, who deemed all in the city Moslem, that night of rapine and sin. Through Saint Stephen's gate they brought her forth, while in Sion, the upper city, the last Egyptians yet stood at bay, and Tancred and Raymond were leading to the final slaughter. Mary said not a word, while the St. Julieners led her through the sack and ruin, and through a thousand scenes at which her pure heart sickened. But when they had passed the wrecked portal, and the hill of Olivet lay before them, clothed in the gold and purple of the evening light, she said softly to Herbert: "And is my dear Lord Richard well?" For though they had said as much at first, yet their looks were so grave she was ill at ease. Then Herbert answered, "Blessed be St. Michael, sweet lady, he is well, though death plucked at him a hundred times." Then Mary asked--half guessing the reply--"And know you anything of his friend, the Spaniard Musa?" But the veteran glanced at Theroulde, and the _jongleur_ answered: "Dearest mistress, he lies sorely wounded in our baron's tent--grief to tell, though he is Moslem!" Then the Greek bowed her head, and with no more speech they led her to the camp. At the tent door Richard came to meet her, treading softly, and neither spoke when he clasped her to his breast. He led her within where Musa was lying upon a pallet of mantles and saddle-cloths. Mary knelt beside him, touched him. He did not speak or move, though still alive. "He will die?" she whispered, raising her eyes. "He will die," answered her husband, very softly. "His armor is not pierced, but all his shoulder has been beaten down. Not all the physicians of his Cordova may heal." Then he took Mary by the hand, and they sat beside the bed. In whispers he told of all that had befallen that day, and learned from her how it befell that Musa wore the armor of Iftikhar. And Mary bowed her head once more, saying it was her own blind folly that sent Musa to his fate. But Richard stroked her tenderly, though his own heart was over full; then made her lie down, promising to waken her if the Spaniard came to himself. So a little past midnight Richard touched her, and she saw that the tent was lighted by lamps brought from the city, and there were silken cushions under Musa's head. The Andalusian was speaking. "The Star of the Greeks? Is she here?" "I am here, Musa, dear brother of my husband!" said the lady, at his side. "Speak, and say you will master death as you mastered Iftikhar Eddauleh; that you will forgive this rash disobedience of mine which brought you all this woe!" Musa's face wore one of its old, soft, melancholy smiles. "Ah! Rose of Byzantium," said he, half whimsically, "do you think I am so great I can hurl back doom? I grow too proud with the praise. Forgive you? Forgive what--that you loved Richard Longsword, and wished to know it was well with him? No more of that. I forgive, if aught needs forgiving. As for dying, as well to be sped by Trenchefer as by any blade. It was written by Allah upon the canopy of the stars, and Allah does all things well." "Ah, would God I could die in your stead, my brother, my brother," began Richard, while those terrible tears out of manliest grief would come. "And the Star of the Greeks, what says she?" began Musa, again smiling. But he checked, when he saw the gust of sorrow sweeping across Mary's face. Then in a darker tone, he added, "No more of this, as you love me; no more, as I love you--love you both." His gaze was not on Richard, but on his wife. And the woman's heart first caught the strange stress of his voice and the light in his dimming eyes. "Love _me_?" her words with a start. Musa half raised his head from the pillows. "Why shall I not say it now?" came the reply, almost proudly. "Loved you? I have ever loved you, truly as ever man loved, from the hour I saw your face, and heard your voice, when we plucked you from the Berbers." Then to Richard, "Dear brother, feel in my breast." And the Norman drew forth a soiled and folded bit of scarlet ribbon. "Do you remember, Star of the Greeks, the day you gave me this--when I held the lists against Iftikhar at Palermo? It has been at my lips each night since before I fell asleep. For I have loved you--have loved you--long." The words came very slowly now, for the flood of life was ebbing fast. But the Norman broke out:-- "Dear God, and all these years, my brother, you have not breathed this! I made mockery of your monkish state, and you smiled on, doing all to bring us two together and to give us joy!" "Assuredly, can the outlaw kite make a nest for the lark? Had I loved her as little as Iftikhar loved her, I would have served brute passion alone; have made my love only of her beauty and her kisses. But I knew while she knelt to your Christ and I to my Allah, we could never love soul with soul. Therefore my joy was this, to see her grow more beautiful as your bride, brother that you are, though not in blood." "And was it so easy to do all this that I never dreamed it? that I marvelled to myself, 'Why is Musa so devoted, yet so true to Richard, my husband?'" asked Mary, with quivering lips. The breath of the Spaniard was coming still more slowly, but he answered, smiling: "After I had you utterly in my power--after the parting at Antioch--I swore a great oath I would never, save when dying, confess I saw you as other than a sister while Richard lived. It was hard; I was tempted; often the power of Eblees and his jinns was strong. But I fought them away with Allah's might. I have mastered, I have kept my vow. She is yours again, my brother, your own pure wife." "Holy Mother," cried Mary, in her pain, "had I known this three days since, how would God have tortured me! God knows, while I never had an untrue thought touching Richard,"--and she looked fairly upon her husband,--"yet, Christian or Moslem, had Musa said the word, how would my breast have been torn!" "Yes, and no shame," the Norman was interrupting, "for what I marvel at is this,--how you and Musa could look upon each other's face one day, and yet keep love for me." But Musa whispered: "Leave the secret to Allah, Most High. I am near the ending now. You of the West have conquered. You have indeed wrung victory from very doom, your vow is cleared. The next Genoese ship bears you homeward to St. Julien, to the castle and the mountains of fair Auvergne. You will not forget, under that sweet French sky, the Spaniard, whose body lies beneath the dust of that Jerusalem he died to save, though all in vain?" "Till they chant my death mass--never!" whispered Richard; but Mary made no reply. "It is a long way from _El Kuds_," Musa's pallid lips ran on, "to the orange groves and shining vegas, by the Guadalquiver and the Darro. But the pathway to the throne of Allah can be trodden while an arrow flies. Do not believe the priests, my brother, nor the imams of Islam, who say, 'only Christian,' 'only Moslem,' can meet before the Most High's face. Whether your Christ were Son of the Eternal or earth-sprung prophet, I know not. If to be true Christian is to wear the pure heart of Mary de St. Julien, then in truth the son of Mary the Virgin was the son of the All-Merciful. But this is hid. We shall meet--you, and you, and I--in some blessed spot where the word is 'love,' not 'war.'" His breath failed him; Mary took his head upon her lap and stroked his temples with her soft, white hands. Richard did not speak. Presently the Spaniard spoke again, a whisper, as of the far retreating wind:-- "Yes, I have been faithful to my love,--my brother,--my promise." Mary glanced toward Richard, and he nodded gently. She bent over Musa and kissed him twice upon the lips. A smile broke upon the Spaniard's face. There came a faint sigh and a folding of the hands, as if to rest. Mary raised her head. "He is not here," she whispered; and Richard answered softly, "Sweet wife, that was the fairest deed of all your life." * * * * * Just as the dawn was glowing, Richard stood before his tent on Olivet, and at his side Mary de St. Julien, his wife. It was very still, peaceful as a summer Sabbath of La Haye in far Provence. They clasped hands as they listened to a distant chant and singing. The priests were raising the matin hymn from the rock of Sion, where infidel muezzins had called on the single Allah for so many sinful years. They saw the east change from crimson to red fire, the redness brighten to golden flame; then all the ridge of Moab glowed in light, as on that morning when the host first stood before Jerusalem. The last mists crept from the hills--thin blue clouds that faded away in the burning azure. And last of all the sun mounted upward slowly, his glory trailing far, as though reluctant for his daily race. They saw coming from the city a company of priests, white-stoled, and bearing in their midst a bier, Sebastian going to that rest which shall know waking only at God's last trumpet. "Let us pray," said Mary, gently, "for the souls of all the brave men and true who have died. Let us pray for the soul of Musa." So they knelt, while the chant of the priests drew ever nearer. When they rose, the disk of fire had leaped above the topmost peak, and was touching each dome, each battlement, of the Holy City with living light. They saw the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Rock of Calvary. The slow breeze crept through the scattered olive trees that crowned the Mount of the Agony. It was silent,--for a moment the priests had ceased chanting, and the sun went on his upward way, shedding over Mary's face an aureole as of gold. Richard put his arm about his wife, and looked deep into her eyes. And in those eyes he saw a strength, a love, a sweetness, not there that first hour they sped madness through his frame, when he curbed in Rollo with half-boyish might. "Mary," said he, softly, in his Norman French, "my own true lady wife, it is five years since we first looked on each other--long years. But there are many left, please God. Will you go back to France with me, that by your aid and prayers I may prove a just lord to the lands of St. Julien?" "I will go to the earth's ends with you, dear lord and husband," said she; and she also spoke in French. Then she pressed him closer. "Ah, sweet life, the night is sped; the sun fast rises. All the past is gone--Musa, Sebastian, Iftikhar, Morgiana,--and we--we only--are left to each other. I will forget I was born a Greek. I will speak your own sweet French, and be your loving wife; and we shall grow old together, ever loving one another, and the dear God more. And Musa--" but Richard had his word:-- "We will bear his name upon our hearts; and if so be I am suffered to stand before the throne of light, there will my brother be also. For on the earth there did not tread a soul more loved by God"--he hesitated--"and the Lord Christ, than he." Then he kissed Mary once more, holding her head back in his strong arms, that the brightness might transfigure all her beauty. The procession of priests was very near, its leader, Raymond of Agiles. The two knelt once more, that they might receive the good priests' blessing and proffer new prayers for the sainted dead. And while they knelt, the company burst forth into singing, until the rock of Olivet gave back the sound:-- "Laud and honor to the Father! Laud and honor to the Son! Laud and honor to the Spirit! Ever Three and ever One; Con-substantial, co-eternal, While unending ages run!" A FRIEND OF CAESAR A TALE OF THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC By WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS * * * * * 12mo. Cloth. $1.50 * * * * * "As a story ... there can be no question of its success ... while the beautiful love of Cornelia and Drusus lies at the sound sweet heart of the story, to say so is to give a most meagre idea of the large sustained interest of the whole.... There are many incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory."--NANCY HUSTON BANKS in _The Bookman_. "Full of beautiful pictures and noble characters." --_The Public Ledger_, Phila. "Mr. Davis has done his work with a seriousness and dignity that indicate remarkable maturity of mind and of purpose. The plot of his story is stirring, as a portrayal of the times when Julius Cæsar was rising into power could hardly fail to make it; but the characters have not been allowed to degenerate into mere puppets for carrying on the vigorous action. The author's conception of well-known historical characters is extremely interesting. It is no less delightful than surprising to be given a glimpse of the good side of the many-sided Cleopatra. The greatest praise that is due to Mr. Davis, however, is for his skilful management of the historical setting of his book. He is evidently at home in the times of which he writes. Every detail is characteristic, yet his story is not forced to yield place to dissertations upon Roman history and antiquities. He has succeeded in a remarkable degree in making that ancient world live, and in bringing it into close, vital relations with our own times."--Smith College Monthly. * * * * * THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK