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      The Talisman, by Sir Walter Scott
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<pre xml:space="preserve">

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Talisman, by Sir Walter Scott

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Talisman

Author: Sir Walter Scott

Release Date: November 8, 2009 [EBook #1377]
Last Updated: February 27, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALISMAN ***




Produced by An Anonomous Volunteer, and David Widger






</pre>

 <p>
      <br />
    </p>


<p>
      <br />
    </p>
<hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE TALISMAN
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Sir Walter Scott
    </h2>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0006m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0006m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0006.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION TO THE TALISMAN. </a><br /><br />
        <a href="#link2H_APPE"> APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. </a><br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0003"> TALES OF THE CRUSADERS. TALE II.&mdash;<b>THE
        TALISMAN.</b> </a><br /><br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      INTRODUCTION TO THE TALISMAN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The &ldquo;Betrothed&rdquo; did not greatly please one or two friends, who thought
      that it did not well correspond to the general title of &ldquo;The Crusaders.&rdquo;
       They urged, therefore, that, without direct allusion to the manners of the
      Eastern tribes, and to the romantic conflicts of the period, the title of
      a &ldquo;Tale of the Crusaders&rdquo; would resemble the playbill, which is said to
      have announced the tragedy of Hamlet, the character of the Prince of
      Denmark being left out. On the other hand, I felt the difficulty of giving
      a vivid picture of a part of the world with which I was almost totally
      unacquainted, unless by early recollections of the Arabian Nights'
      Entertainments; and not only did I labour under the incapacity of
      ignorance&mdash;in which, as far as regards Eastern manners, I was as
      thickly wrapped as an Egyptian in his fog&mdash;but my contemporaries
      were, many of them, as much enlightened upon the subject as if they had
      been inhabitants of the favoured land of Goshen. The love of travelling
      had pervaded all ranks, and carried the subjects of Britain into all
      quarters of the world. Greece, so attractive by its remains of art, by its
      struggles for freedom against a Mohammedan tyrant, by its very name, where
      every fountain had its classical legend&mdash;Palestine, endeared to the
      imagination by yet more sacred remembrances&mdash;had been of late
      surveyed by British eyes, and described by recent travellers. Had I,
      therefore, attempted the difficult task of substituting manners of my own
      invention, instead of the genuine costume of the East, almost every
      traveller I met who had extended his route beyond what was anciently
      called &ldquo;The Grand Tour,&rdquo; had acquired a right, by ocular inspection, to
      chastise me for my presumption. Every member of the Travellers' Club who
      could pretend to have thrown his shoe over Edom was, by having done so,
      constituted my lawful critic and corrector. It occurred, therefore, that
      where the author of Anastasius, as well as he of Hadji Baba, had described
      the manners and vices of the Eastern nations, not only with fidelity, but
      with the humour of Le Sage and the ludicrous power of Fielding himself,
      one who was a perfect stranger to the subject must necessarily produce an
      unfavourable contrast. The Poet Laureate also, in the charming tale of
      &ldquo;Thalaba,&rdquo; had shown how extensive might be the researches of a person of
      acquirements and talent, by dint of investigation alone, into the ancient
      doctrines, history, and manners of the Eastern countries, in which we are
      probably to look for the cradle of mankind; Moore, in his &ldquo;Lalla Rookh,&rdquo;
       had successfully trod the same path; in which, too, Byron, joining ocular
      experience to extensive reading, had written some of his most attractive
      poems. In a word, the Eastern themes had been already so successfully
      handled by those who were acknowledged to be masters of their craft, that
      I was diffident of making the attempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were powerful objections; nor did they lose force when they became
      the subject of anxious reflection, although they did not finally prevail.
      The arguments on the other side were, that though I had no hope of
      rivalling the contemporaries whom I have mentioned, yet it occurred to me
      as possible to acquit myself of the task I was engaged in without entering
      into competition with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The period relating more immediately to the Crusades which I at last fixed
      upon was that at which the warlike character of Richard I., wild and
      generous, a pattern of chivalry, with all its extravagant virtues, and its
      no less absurd errors, was opposed to that of Saladin, in which the
      Christian and English monarch showed all the cruelty and violence of an
      Eastern sultan, and Saladin, on the other hand, displayed the deep policy
      and prudence of a European sovereign, whilst each contended which should
      excel the other in the knightly qualities of bravery and generosity. This
      singular contrast afforded, as the author conceived, materials for a work
      of fiction possessing peculiar interest. One of the inferior characters
      introduced was a supposed relation of Richard Coeur de Lion&mdash;a
      violation of the truth of history which gave offence to Mr. Mills, the
      author of the &ldquo;History of Chivalry and the Crusades,&rdquo; who was not, it may
      be presumed, aware that romantic fiction naturally includes the power of
      such invention, which is indeed one of the requisites of the art.
    </p>
    <p>
      Prince David of Scotland, who was actually in the host, and was the hero
      of some very romantic adventures on his way home, was also pressed into my
      service, and constitutes one of my DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true I had already brought upon the field him of the lion heart. But
      it was in a more private capacity than he was here to be exhibited in the
      Talisman&mdash;then as a disguised knight, now in the avowed character of
      a conquering monarch; so that I doubted not a name so dear to Englishmen
      as that of King Richard I. might contribute to their amusement for more
      than once.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had access to all which antiquity believed, whether of reality or fable,
      on the subject of that magnificent warrior, who was the proudest boast of
      Europe and their chivalry, and with whose dreadful name the Saracens,
      according to a historian of their own country, were wont to rebuke their
      startled horses. &ldquo;Do you think,&rdquo; said they, &ldquo;that King Richard is on the
      track, that you stray so wildly from it?&rdquo; The most curious register of the
      history of King Richard is an ancient romance, translated originally from
      the Norman; and at first certainly having a pretence to be termed a work
      of chivalry, but latterly becoming stuffed with the most astonishing and
      monstrous fables. There is perhaps no metrical romance upon record where,
      along with curious and genuine history, are mingled more absurd and
      exaggerated incidents. We have placed in the Appendix to this Introduction
      the passage of the romance in which Richard figures as an ogre, or literal
      cannibal.
    </p>
    <p>
      A principal incident in the story is that from which the title is derived.
      Of all people who ever lived, the Persians were perhaps most remarkable
      for their unshaken credulity in amulets, spells, periapts, and similar
      charms, framed, it was said, under the influence of particular planets,
      and bestowing high medical powers, as well as the means of advancing men's
      fortunes in various manners. A story of this kind, relating to a Crusader
      of eminence, is often told in the west of Scotland, and the relic alluded
      to is still in existence, and even yet held in veneration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Simon Lockhart of Lee and Gartland made a considerable figure in the
      reigns of Robert the Bruce and of his son David. He was one of the chief
      of that band of Scottish chivalry who accompanied James, the Good Lord
      Douglas, on his expedition to the Holy Land with the heart of King Robert
      Bruce. Douglas, impatient to get at the Saracens, entered into war with
      those of Spain, and was killed there. Lockhart proceeded to the Holy Land
      with such Scottish knights as had escaped the fate of their leader and
      assisted for some time in the wars against the Saracens.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following adventure is said by tradition to have befallen him:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He made prisoner in battle an Emir of considerable wealth and consequence.
      The aged mother of the captive came to the Christian camp, to redeem her
      son from his state of captivity. Lockhart is said to have fixed the price
      at which his prisoner should ransom himself; and the lady, pulling out a
      large embroidered purse, proceeded to tell down the ransom, like a mother
      who pays little respect to gold in comparison of her son's liberty. In
      this operation, a pebble inserted in a coin, some say of the Lower Empire,
      fell out of the purse, and the Saracen matron testified so much haste to
      recover it as gave the Scottish knight a high idea of its value, when
      compared with gold or silver. &ldquo;I will not consent,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to grant
      your son's liberty, unless that amulet be added to his ransom.&rdquo; The lady
      not only consented to this, but explained to Sir Simon Lockhart the mode
      in which the talisman was to be used, and the uses to which it might be
      put. The water in which it was dipped operated as a styptic, as a
      febrifuge, and possessed other properties as a medical talisman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Simon Lockhart, after much experience of the wonders which it wrought,
      brought it to his own country, and left it to his heirs, by whom, and by
      Clydesdale in general, it was, and is still, distinguished by the name of
      the Lee-penny, from the name of his native seat of Lee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most remarkable part of its history, perhaps, was that it so
      especially escaped condemnation when the Church of Scotland chose to
      impeach many other cures which savoured of the miraculous, as occasioned
      by sorcery, and censured the appeal to them, &ldquo;excepting only that to the
      amulet, called the Lee-penny, to which it had pleased God to annex certain
      healing virtues which the Church did not presume to condemn.&rdquo; It still, as
      has been said, exists, and its powers are sometimes resorted to. Of late,
      they have been chiefly restricted to the cure of persons bitten by mad
      dogs; and as the illness in such cases frequently arises from imagination,
      there can be no reason for doubting that water which has been poured on
      the Lee-penny furnishes a congenial cure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such is the tradition concerning the talisman, which the author has taken
      the liberty to vary in applying it to his own purposes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Considerable liberties have also been taken with the truth of history,
      both with respect to Conrade of Montserrat's life, as well as his death.
      That Conrade, however, was reckoned the enemy of Richard is agreed both in
      history and romance. The general opinion of the terms upon which they
      stood may be guessed from the proposal of the Saracens that the Marquis of
      Montserrat should be invested with certain parts of Syria, which they were
      to yield to the Christians. Richard, according to the romance which bears
      his name, &ldquo;could no longer repress his fury. The Marquis he said, was a
      traitor, who had robbed the Knights Hospitallers of sixty thousand pounds,
      the present of his father Henry; that he was a renegade, whose treachery
      had occasioned the loss of Acre; and he concluded by a solemn oath, that
      he would cause him to be drawn to pieces by wild horses, if he should ever
      venture to pollute the Christian camp by his presence. Philip attempted to
      intercede in favour of the Marquis, and throwing down his glove, offered
      to become a pledge for his fidelity to the Christians; but his offer was
      rejected, and he was obliged to give way to Richard's impetuosity.&rdquo;&mdash;HISTORY
      OF CHIVALRY.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conrade of Montserrat makes a considerable figure in those wars, and was
      at length put to death by one of the followers of the Scheik, or Old Man
      of the Mountain; nor did Richard remain free of the suspicion of having
      instigated his death.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be said, in general, that most of the incidents introduced in the
      following tale are fictitious, and that reality, where it exists, is only
      retained in the characters of the piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      ABBOTSFORD, 1st July, 1832
    </p>
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    <h2>
      APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      While warring in the Holy Land, Richard was seized with an ague.
    </h3>
    <p>
      The best leeches of the camp were unable to effect the cure of the King's
      disease; but the prayers of the army were more successful. He became
      convalescent, and the first symptom of his recovery was a violent longing
      for pork. But pork was not likely to be plentiful in a country whose
      inhabitants had an abhorrence for swine's flesh; and
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Though his men should be hanged,
     They ne might, in that countrey,
     For gold, ne silver, ne no money,
     No pork find, take, ne get,
     That King Richard might aught of eat.
     An old knight with Richard biding,
     When he heard of that tiding,
     That the king's wants were swyche,
     To the steward he spake privyliche&mdash;
     &ldquo;Our lord the king sore is sick, I wis,
     After porck he alonged is;
     Ye may none find to selle;
     No man be hardy him so to telle!
     If he did he might die.
     Now behoves to done as I shall say,
     Tho' he wete nought of that.
     Take a Saracen, young and fat;
     In haste let the thief be slain,
     Opened, and his skin off flayn;
     And sodden full hastily,
     With powder and with spicery,
     And with saffron of good colour.
     When the king feels thereof savour,
     Out of ague if he be went,
     He shall have thereto good talent.
     When he has a good taste,
     And eaten well a good repast,
     And supped of the BREWIS [Broth] a sup,
     Slept after and swet a drop,
     Through Goddis help and my counsail,
     Soon he shall be fresh and hail.'
     The sooth to say, at wordes few,
     Slain and sodden was the heathen shrew.
     Before the king it was forth brought:
     Quod his men, 'Lord, we have pork sought;
     Eates and sups of the brewis SOOTE,[Sweet]
     Thorough grace of God it shall be your boot.'
     Before King Richard carff a knight,
     He ate faster than he carve might.
     The king ate the flesh and GNEW [Gnawed] the bones,
     And drank well after for the nonce.
     And when he had eaten enough,
     His folk hem turned away, and LOUGH.[Laughed]
     He lay still and drew in his arm;
     His chamberlain him wrapped warm.
     He lay and slept, and swet a stound,
     And became whole and sound.
     King Richard clad him and arose,
     And walked abouten in the close.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      An attack of the Saracens was repelled by Richard in person, the
      consequence of which is told in the following lines:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;When King Richard had rested a whyle,
     A knight his arms 'gan unlace,
     Him to comfort and solace.
     Him was brought a sop in wine.
     'The head of that ilke swine,
     That I of ate!' (the cook he bade,)
     'For feeble I am, and faint and mad.
     Of mine evil now I am fear;
     Serve me therewith at my soupere!'
     Quod the cook, 'That head I ne have.'
     Then said the king, 'So God me save,
     But I see the head of that swine,
     For sooth, thou shalt lesen thine!'
     The cook saw none other might be;
     He fet the head and let him see.
     He fell on knees, and made a cry&mdash;
     'Lo, here the head!  my Lord, mercy!'&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The cook had certainly some reason to fear that his master would be struck
      with horror at the recollection of the dreadful banquet to which he owed
      his recovery; but his fears were soon dissipated.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;The swarte vis [Black face] when the king seeth,
     His black beard and white teeth,
     How his lippes grinned wide,
     'What devil is this?' the king cried,
     And 'gan to laugh as he were wode.
     'What!  is Saracen's flesh thus good?
     That never erst I nought wist!
     By God's death and his uprist,
     Shall we never die for default,
     While we may in any assault,
     Slee Saracens, the flesh may take,
     And seethen and roasten and do hem bake,
     [And] Gnawen her flesh to the bones!
     Now I have it proved once,
     For hunger ere I be wo,
     I and my folk shall eat mo!&rdquo;'
</pre>
    <p>
      The besieged now offered to surrender, upon conditions of safety to the
      inhabitants; while all the public treasure, military machines, and arms
      were delivered to the victors, together with the further ransom of one
      hundred thousand bezants. After this capitulation, the following
      extraordinary scene took place. We shall give it in the words of the
      humorous and amiable George Ellis, the collector and the editor of these
      Romances:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though the garrison had faithfully performed the other articles of their
      contract, they were unable to restore the cross, which was not in their
      possession, and were therefore treated by the Christians with great
      cruelty. Daily reports of their sufferings were carried to Saladin; and as
      many of them were persons of the highest distinction, that monarch, at the
      solicitation of their friends, dispatched an embassy to King Richard with
      magnificent presents, which he offered for the ransom of the captives. The
      ambassadors were persons the most respectable from their age, their rank,
      and their eloquence. They delivered their message in terms of the utmost
      humility; and without arraigning the justice of the conqueror in his
      severe treatment of their countrymen, only solicited a period to that
      severity, laying at his feet the treasures with which they were entrusted,
      and pledging themselves and their master for the payment of any further
      sums which he might demand as the price of mercy.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;King Richard spake with wordes mild.
     'The gold to take, God me shield!
     Among you partes [Divide] every charge.
     I brought in shippes and in barge,
     More gold and silver with me,
     Than has your lord, and swilke three.
     To his treasure have I no need!
     But for my love I you bid,
     To meat with me that ye dwell;
     And afterward I shall you tell.
     Thorough counsel I shall you answer,
     What BODE [Message] ye shall to your lord bear.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The invitation was gratefully accepted. Richard, in the meantime, gave
      secret orders to his marshal that he should repair to the prison, select a
      certain number of the most distinguished captives, and, after carefully
      noting their names on a roll of parchment, cause their heads to be
      instantly struck off; that these heads should be delivered to the cook,
      with instructions to clear away the hair, and, after boiling them in a
      cauldron, to distribute them on several platters, one to each guest,
      observing to fasten on the forehead of each the piece of parchment
      expressing the name and family of the victim.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;'An hot head bring me beforn,
     As I were well apayed withall,
     Eat thereof fast I shall;
     As it were a tender chick,
     To see how the others will like.'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This horrible order was punctually executed. At noon the guests were
      summoned to wash by the music of the waits. The king took his seat
      attended by the principal officers of his court, at the high table, and
      the rest of the company were marshalled at a long table below him. On the
      cloth were placed portions of salt at the usual distances, but neither
      bread, wine, nor water. The ambassadors, rather surprised at this
      omission, but still free from apprehension, awaited in silence the arrival
      of the dinner, which was announced by the sound of pipes, trumpets, and
      tabours; and beheld, with horror and dismay, the unnatural banquet
      introduced by the steward and his officers. Yet their sentiments of
      disgust and abhorrence, and even their fears, were for a time suspended by
      their curiosity. Their eyes were fixed on the king, who, without the
      slightest change of countenance, swallowed the morsels as fast as they
      could be supplied by the knight who carved them.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Every man then poked other;
     They said, 'This is the devil's brother,
     That slays our men, and thus hem eats!'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their attention was then involuntarily fixed on the smoking heads before
      them. They traced in the swollen and distorted features the resemblance of
      a friend or near relation, and received from the fatal scroll which
      accompanied each dish the sad assurance that this resemblance was not
      imaginary. They sat in torpid silence, anticipating their own fate in that
      of their countrymen; while their ferocious entertainer, with fury in his
      eyes, but with courtesy on his lips, insulted them by frequent invitations
      to merriment. At length this first course was removed, and its place
      supplied by venison, cranes, and other dainties, accompanied by the
      richest wines. The king then apologized to them for what had passed, which
      he attributed to his ignorance of their taste; and assured them of his
      religious respect for their characters as ambassadors, and of his
      readiness to grant them a safe-conduct for their return. This boon was all
      that they now wished to claim; and
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;King Richard spake to an old man,
     'Wendes home to your Soudan!
     His melancholy that ye abate;
     And sayes that ye came too late.
     Too slowly was your time y-guessed;
     Ere ye came, the flesh was dressed,
     That men shoulden serve with me,
     Thus at noon, and my meynie.
     Say him, it shall him nought avail,
     Though he for-bar us our vitail,
     Bread, wine, fish, flesh, salmon, and conger;
     Of us none shall die with hunger,
     While we may wenden to fight,
     And slay the Saracens downright,
     Wash the flesh, and roast the head.
     With 0 [One] Saracen I may well feed
     Well a nine or a ten
     Of my good Christian men.
     King Richard shall warrant,
     There is no flesh so nourissant
     Unto an English man,
     Partridge, plover, heron, ne swan,
     Cow ne ox, sheep ne swine,
     As the head of a Sarazyn.
     There he is fat, and thereto tender,
     And my men be lean and slender.
     While any Saracen quick be,
     Livand now in this Syrie,
     For meat will we nothing care.
     Abouten fast we shall rare,
     And every day we shall eat
     All as many as we may get.
     To England will we nought gon,
     Till they be eaten every one.'&rdquo;
 </pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      ELLIS'S SPECIMENS OF EARLY ENGLISH METRICEL ROMANCES.
</pre>
    <p>
      The reader may be curious to know owing to what circumstances so
      extraordinary an invention as that which imputed cannibalism to the King
      of England should have found its way into his history. Mr. James, to whom
      we owe so much that is curious, seems to have traced the origin of this
      extraordinary rumour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With the army of the cross also was a multitude of men,&rdquo; the same author
      declares, &ldquo;who made it a profession to be without money. They walked
      barefoot, carried no arms, and even preceded the beasts of burden in their
      march, living upon roots and herbs, and presenting a spectacle both
      disgusting and pitiable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Norman, who, according to all accounts, was of noble birth, but who,
      having lost his horse, continued to follow as a foot soldier, took the
      strange resolution of putting himself at the head of this race of
      vagabonds, who willingly received him as their king. Amongst the Saracens
      these men became well known under the name of THAFURS (which Guibert
      translates TRUDENTES), and were beheld with great horror from the general
      persuasion that they fed on the dead bodies of their enemies; a report
      which was occasionally justified, and which the king of the Thafurs took
      care to encourage. This respectable monarch was frequently in the habit of
      stopping his followers, one by one, in a narrow defile, and of causing
      them to be searched carefully, lest the possession of the least sum of
      money should render them unworthy of the name of his subjects. If even two
      sous were found upon any one, he was instantly expelled the society of his
      tribe, the king bidding him contemptuously buy arms and fight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This troop, so far from being cumbersome to the army, was infinitely
      serviceable, carrying burdens, bringing in forage, provisions, and
      tribute; working the machines in the sieges; and, above all, spreading
      consternation among the Turks, who feared death from the lances of the
      knights less than that further consummation they heard of under the teeth
      of the Thafurs.&rdquo; [James's &ldquo;History of Chivalry.&rdquo;]
    </p>
    <p>
      It is easy to conceive that an ignorant minstrel, finding the taste and
      ferocity of the Thafurs commemorated in the historical accounts of the
      Holy Wars, has ascribed their practices and propensities to the Monarch of
      England, whose ferocity was considered as an object of exaggeration as
      legitimate as his valour.
    </p>
    <p>
      ABBOTSFORD, 1st July, 1832.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      TALES OF THE CRUSADERS. TALE II.&mdash;THE TALISMAN.
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     They, too, retired
     To the wilderness, but 'twas with arms.
         PARADISE REGAINED.
</pre>
    <p>
      The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its highest point in the
      horizon, when a knight of the Red Cross, who had left his distant northern
      home and joined the host of the Crusaders in Palestine, was pacing slowly
      along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the Dead Sea, or, as
      it is called, the Lake Asphaltites, where the waves of the Jordan pour
      themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of waters.
    </p>
    <p>
      The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and precipices during the
      earlier part of the morning. More lately, issuing from those rocky and
      dangerous defiles, he had entered upon that great plain, where the
      accursed cities provoked, in ancient days, the direct and dreadful
      vengeance of the Omnipotent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The toil, the thirst, the dangers of the way, were forgotten, as the
      traveller recalled the fearful catastrophe which had converted into an
      arid and dismal wilderness the fair and fertile valley of Siddim, once
      well watered, even as the Garden of the Lord, now a parched and blighted
      waste, condemned to eternal sterility.
    </p>
    <p>
      Crossing himself, as he viewed the dark mass of rolling waters, in colour
      as in duality unlike those of any other lake, the traveller shuddered as
      he remembered that beneath these sluggish waves lay the once proud cities
      of the plain, whose grave was dug by the thunder of the heavens, or the
      eruption of subterraneous fire, and whose remains were hid, even by that
      sea which holds no living fish in its bosom, bears no skiff on its
      surface, and, as if its own dreadful bed were the only fit receptacle for
      its sullen waters, sends not, like other lakes, a tribute to the ocean.
      The whole land around, as in the days of Moses, was &ldquo;brimstone and salt;
      it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass groweth thereon.&rdquo; The land as
      well as the lake might be termed dead, as producing nothing having
      resemblance to vegetation, and even the very air was entirely devoid of
      its ordinary winged inhabitants, deterred probably by the odour of bitumen
      and sulphur which the burning sun exhaled from the waters of the lake in
      steaming clouds, frequently assuming the appearance of waterspouts. Masses
      of the slimy and sulphureous substance called naphtha, which floated idly
      on the sluggish and sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with new
      vapours, and afforded awful testimony to the truth of the Mosaic history.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable
      splendour, and all living nature seemed to have hidden itself from the
      rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved through the flitting sand
      at a foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide
      surface of the plain. The dress of the rider and the accoutrements of his
      horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a country. A coat of
      linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel breastplate,
      had not been esteemed a sufficient weight of armour; there were also his
      triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet of
      steel, over which he had a hood and collar of mail, which was drawn around
      the warrior's shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy between the
      hauberk and the headpiece. His lower limbs were sheathed, like his body,
      in flexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, while the feet rested in
      plated shoes, which corresponded with the gauntlets. A long, broad,
      straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, with a handle formed like a cross,
      corresponded with a stout poniard on the other side. The knight also bore,
      secured to his saddle, with one end resting on his stirrup, the long
      steel-headed lance, his own proper weapon, which, as he rode, projected
      backwards, and displayed its little pennoncelle, to dally with the faint
      breeze, or drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be added
      a surcoat of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was thus far
      useful that it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armour, which
      they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the wearer. The surcoat
      bore, in several places, the arms of the owner, although much defaced.
      These seemed to be a couchant leopard, with the motto, &ldquo;I sleep; wake me
      not.&rdquo; An outline of the same device might be traced on his shield, though
      many a blow had almost effaced the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous
      cylindrical helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining their own
      unwieldy defensive armour, the Northern Crusaders seemed to set at
      defiance the nature of the climate and country to which they had come to
      war.
    </p>
    <p>
      The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less massive and unwieldy
      than those of the rider. The animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel,
      uniting in front with a species of breastplate, and behind with defensive
      armour made to cover the loins. Then there was a steel axe, or hammer,
      called a mace-of-arms, and which hung to the saddle-bow. The reins were
      secured by chain-work, and the front-stall of the bridle was a steel
      plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, having in the midst a
      short, sharp pike, projecting from the forehead of the horse like the horn
      of the fabulous unicorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      But habit had made the endurance of this load of panoply a second nature,
      both to the knight and his gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the
      Western warriors who hurried to Palestine died ere they became inured to
      the burning climate; but there were others to whom that climate became
      innocent and even friendly, and among this fortunate number was the
      solitary horseman who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon strength, fitted to
      wear his linked hauberk with as much ease as if the meshes had been formed
      of cobwebs, had endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs,
      and which bade defiance to almost all changes of climate, as well as to
      fatigue and privations of every kind. His disposition seemed, in some
      degree, to partake of the qualities of his bodily frame; and as the one
      possessed great strength and endurance, united with the power of violent
      exertion, the other, under a calm and undisturbed semblance, had much of
      the fiery and enthusiastic love of glory which constituted the principal
      attribute of the renowned Norman line, and had rendered them sovereigns in
      every corner of Europe where they had drawn their adventurous swords.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not, however, to all the race that fortune proposed such tempting
      rewards; and those obtained by the solitary knight during two years'
      campaign in Palestine had been only temporal fame, and, as he was taught
      to believe, spiritual privileges. Meantime, his slender stock of money had
      melted away, the rather that he did not pursue any of the ordinary modes
      by which the followers of the Crusade condescended to recruit their
      diminished resources at the expense of the people of Palestine&mdash;he
      exacted no gifts from the wretched natives for sparing their possessions
      when engaged in warfare with the Saracens, and he had not availed himself
      of any opportunity of enriching himself by the ransom of prisoners of
      consequence. The small train which had followed him from his native
      country had been gradually diminished, as the means of maintaining them
      disappeared, and his only remaining squire was at present on a sick-bed,
      and unable to attend his master, who travelled, as we have seen, singly
      and alone. This was of little consequence to the Crusader, who was
      accustomed to consider his good sword as his safest escort, and devout
      thoughts as his best companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment and repose even on the
      iron frame and patient disposition of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard;
      and at noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his right, he
      joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm-trees, which arose beside
      the well which was assigned for his mid-day station. His good horse, too,
      which had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his master, now
      lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened his pace, as if he
      snuffed afar off the living waters which marked the place of repose and
      refreshment. But labour and danger were doomed to intervene ere the horse
      or horseman reached the desired spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes
      attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm-trees, it seemed to him as
      if some object was moving among them. The distant form separated itself
      from the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced towards the
      knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horseman, whom his turban,
      long spear, and green caftan floating in the wind, on his nearer approach
      showed to be a Saracen cavalier. &ldquo;In the desert,&rdquo; saith an Eastern
      proverb, &ldquo;no man meets a friend.&rdquo; The Crusader was totally indifferent
      whether the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb as if borne on
      the wings of an eagle, came as friend or foe&mdash;perhaps, as a vowed
      champion of the Cross, he might rather have preferred the latter. He
      disengaged his lance from his saddle, seized it with the right hand,
      placed it in rest with its point half elevated, gathered up the reins in
      the left, waked his horse's mettle with the spur, and prepared to
      encounter the stranger with the calm self-confidence belonging to the
      victor in many contests.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, managing his
      steed more by his limbs and the inflection of his body than by any use of
      the reins, which hung loose in his left hand; so that he was enabled to
      wield the light, round buckler of the skin of the rhinoceros, ornamented
      with silver loops, which he wore on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to
      oppose its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the Western lance.
      His own long spear was not couched or levelled like that of his
      antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his right hand, and brandished
      at arm's-length above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy at
      full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight of the Leopard should put
      his horse to the gallop to encounter him. But the Christian knight, well
      acquainted with the customs of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust
      his good horse by any unnecessary exertion; and, on the contrary, made a
      dead halt, confident that if the enemy advanced to the actual shock, his
      own weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient
      advantage, without the additional momentum of rapid motion. Equally
      sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen cavalier,
      when he had approached towards the Christian within twice the length of
      his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable dexterity, and
      rode twice around his antagonist, who, turning without quitting his
      ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy, frustrated his
      attempts to attack him on an unguarded point; so that the Saracen,
      wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of a hundred
      yards. A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the heathen renewed
      the charge, and a second time was fain to retreat without coming to a
      close struggle. A third time he approached in the same manner, when the
      Christian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory warfare, in which he
      might at length have been worn out by the activity of his foeman, suddenly
      seized the mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand and
      unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the Emir, for such and not
      less his enemy appeared. The Saracen was just aware of the formidable
      missile in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace and his
      head; but the violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his turban,
      and though that defence also contributed to deaden its violence, the
      Saracen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail himself
      of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprung from the ground, and, calling on
      his steed, which instantly returned to his side, he leaped into his seat
      without touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which the
      Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him. But the latter had in the
      meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the
      strength and dexterity with which his antagonist had aimed it, seemed to
      keep cautiously out of reach of that weapon of which he had so lately felt
      the force, while he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with
      missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a
      distance from the scene of combat, he strung, with great address, a short
      bow, which he carried at his back; and putting his horse to the gallop,
      once more described two or three circles of a wider extent than formerly,
      in the course of which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such
      unerring skill that the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being
      wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a less
      perfect part of the armour, and the Christian dropped heavily from his
      horse. But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dismounting to
      examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly
      within the grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to
      bring his enemy within his reach! Even in this deadly grapple the Saracen
      was saved by his agility and presence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt,
      in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and, thus eluding
      his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his motions with
      the intelligence of a human being, and again rode off. But in the last
      encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, both of
      which were attached to the girdle which he was obliged to abandon. He had
      also lost his turban in the struggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      These disadvantages seemed to incline the Moslem to a truce. He approached
      the Christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing
      attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is truce betwixt our nations,&rdquo; he said, in the lingua franca
      commonly used for the purpose of communication with the Crusaders;
      &ldquo;wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace
      betwixt us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am well contented,&rdquo; answered he of the Couchant Leopard; &ldquo;but what
      security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken,&rdquo; answered the
      Emir. &ldquo;It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should demand security, did
      I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him ashamed of
      his own doubts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the cross of my sword,&rdquo; he said, laying his hand on the weapon as he
      spoke, &ldquo;I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills
      that we remain in company together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet,&rdquo; replied
      his late foeman, &ldquo;there is not treachery in my heart towards thee. And now
      wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and the
      stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called to battle by thy
      approach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and courteous assent;
      and the late foes, without an angry look or gesture of doubt, rode side by
      side to the little cluster of palm-trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Times of danger have always, and in a peculiar degree, their seasons of
      good-will and security; and this was particularly so in the ancient feudal
      ages, in which, as the manners of the period had assigned war to be the
      chief and most worthy occupation of mankind, the intervals of peace, or
      rather of truce, were highly relished by those warriors to whom they were
      seldom granted, and endeared by the very circumstances which rendered them
      transitory. It is not worth while preserving any permanent enmity against
      a foe whom a champion has fought with to-day, and may again stand in
      bloody opposition to on the next morning. The time and situation afforded
      so much room for the ebullition of violent passions, that men, unless when
      peculiarly opposed to each other, or provoked by the recollection of
      private and individual wrongs, cheerfully enjoyed in each other's society
      the brief intervals of pacific intercourse which a warlike life admitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The distinction of religions, nay, the fanatical zeal which animated the
      followers of the Cross and of the Crescent against each other, was much
      softened by a feeling so natural to generous combatants, and especially
      cherished by the spirit of chivalry. This last strong impulse had extended
      itself gradually from the Christians to their mortal enemies the Saracens,
      both of Spain and of Palestine. The latter were, indeed, no longer the
      fanatical savages who had burst from the centre of Arabian deserts, with
      the sabre in one hand and the Koran in the other, to inflict death or the
      faith of Mohammed, or, at the best, slavery and tribute, upon all who
      dared to oppose the belief of the prophet of Mecca. These alternatives
      indeed had been offered to the unwarlike Greeks and Syrians; but in
      contending with the Western Christians, animated by a zeal as fiery as
      their own, and possessed of as unconquerable courage, address, and success
      in arms, the Saracens gradually caught a part of their manners, and
      especially of those chivalrous observances which were so well calculated
      to charm the minds of a proud and conquering people. They had their
      tournaments and games of chivalry; they had even their knights, or some
      rank analogous; and above all, the Saracens observed their plighted faith
      with an accuracy which might sometimes put to shame those who owned a
      better religion. Their truces, whether national or betwixt individuals,
      were faithfully observed; and thus it was that war, in itself perhaps the
      greatest of evils, yet gave occasion for display of good faith,
      generosity, clemency, and even kindly affections, which less frequently
      occur in more tranquil periods, where the passions of men, experiencing
      wrongs or entertaining quarrels which cannot be brought to instant
      decision, are apt to smoulder for a length of time in the bosoms of those
      who are so unhappy as to be their prey.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was under the influence of these milder feelings which soften the
      horrors of warfare that the Christian and Saracen, who had so lately done
      their best for each other's mutual destruction, rode at a slow pace
      towards the fountain of palm-trees to which the Knight of the Couchant
      Leopard had been tending, when interrupted in mid-passage by his fleet and
      dangerous adversary. Each was wrapt for some time in his own reflections,
      and took breath after an encounter which had threatened to be fatal to one
      or both; and their good horses seemed no less to enjoy the interval of
      repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      That of the Saracen, however, though he had been forced into much the more
      violent and extended sphere of motion, appeared to have suffered less from
      fatigue than the charger of the European knight. The sweat hung still
      clammy on the limbs of the latter, when those of the noble Arab were
      completely dried by the interval of tranquil exercise, all saving the
      foam-flakes which were still visible on his bridle and housings. The loose
      soil on which he trod so much augmented the distress of the Christian's
      horse, heavily loaded by his own armour and the weight of his rider, that
      the latter jumped from his saddle, and led his charger along the deep dust
      of the loamy soil, which was burnt in the sun into a substance more
      impalpable than the finest sand, and thus gave the faithful horse
      refreshment at the expense of his own additional toil; for, iron-sheathed
      as he was, he sunk over the mailed shoes at every step which he placed on
      a surface so light and unresisting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said the Saracen&mdash;and it was the first word that
      either had spoken since their truce was concluded; &ldquo;your strong horse
      deserves your care. But what do you in the desert with an animal which
      sinks over the fetlock at every step as if he would plant each foot deep
      as the root of a date-tree?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou speakest rightly, Saracen,&rdquo; said the Christian knight, not delighted
      at the tone with which the infidel criticized his favourite steed&mdash;&ldquo;rightly,
      according to thy knowledge and observation. But my good horse hath ere now
      borne me, in mine own land, over as wide a lake as thou seest yonder
      spread out behind us, yet not wet one hair above his hoof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen looked at him with as much surprise as his manners permitted
      him to testify, which was only expressed by a slight approach to a
      disdainful smile, that hardly curled perceptibly the broad, thick
      moustache which enveloped his upper lip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is justly spoken,&rdquo; he said, instantly composing himself to his usual
      serene gravity; &ldquo;List to a Frank, and hear a fable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art not courteous, misbeliever,&rdquo; replied the Crusader, &ldquo;to doubt the
      word of a dubbed knight; and were it not that thou speakest in ignorance,
      and not in malice, our truce had its ending ere it is well begun. Thinkest
      thou I tell thee an untruth when I say that I, one of five hundred
      horsemen, armed in complete mail, have ridden&mdash;ay, and ridden for
      miles, upon water as solid as the crystal, and ten times less brittle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What wouldst thou tell me?&rdquo; answered the Moslem. &ldquo;Yonder inland sea thou
      dost point at is peculiar in this, that, by the especial curse of God, it
      suffereth nothing to sink in its waves, but wafts them away, and casts
      them on its margin; but neither the Dead Sea, nor any of the seven oceans
      which environ the earth, will endure on their surface the pressure of a
      horse's foot, more than the Red Sea endured to sustain the advance of
      Pharaoh and his host.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak truth after your knowledge, Saracen,&rdquo; said the Christian
      knight; &ldquo;and yet, trust me, I fable not, according to mine. Heat, in this
      climate, converts the soil into something almost as unstable as water; and
      in my land cold often converts the water itself into a substance as hard
      as rock. Let us speak of this no longer, for the thoughts of the calm,
      clear, blue refulgence of a winter's lake, glimmering to stars and
      moonbeam, aggravate the horrors of this fiery desert, where, methinks, the
      very air which we breathe is like the vapour of a fiery furnace seven
      times heated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen looked on him with some attention, as if to discover in what
      sense he was to understand words which, to him, must have appeared either
      to contain something of mystery or of imposition. At length he seemed
      determined in what manner to receive the language of his new companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;of a nation that loves to laugh, and you make sport
      with yourselves, and with others, by telling what is impossible, and
      reporting what never chanced. Thou art one of the knights of France, who
      hold it for glee and pastime to GAB, as they term it, of exploits that are
      beyond human power. [Gaber. This French word signified a sort of sport
      much used among the French chivalry, which consisted in vying with each
      other in making the most romantic gasconades. The verb and the meaning are
      retained in Scottish.] I were wrong to challenge, for the time, the
      privilege of thy speech, since boasting is more natural to thee than
      truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not of their land, neither of their fashion,&rdquo; said the Knight,
      &ldquo;which is, as thou well sayest, to GAB of that which they dare not
      undertake&mdash;or, undertaking, cannot perfect. But in this I have
      imitated their folly, brave Saracen, that in talking to thee of what thou
      canst not comprehend, I have, even in speaking most simple truth, fully
      incurred the character of a braggart in thy eyes; so, I pray you, let my
      words pass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had now arrived at the knot of palm-trees and the fountain which
      welled out from beneath their shade in sparkling profusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have spoken of a moment of truce in the midst of war; and this, a spot
      of beauty in the midst of a sterile desert, was scarce less dear to the
      imagination. It was a scene which, perhaps, would elsewhere have deserved
      little notice; but as the single speck, in a boundless horizon, which
      promised the refreshment of shade and living water, these blessings, held
      cheap where they are common, rendered the fountain and its neighbourhood a
      little paradise. Some generous or charitable hand, ere yet the evil days
      of Palestine began, had walled in and arched over the fountain, to
      preserve it from being absorbed in the earth, or choked by the flitting
      clouds of dust with which the least breath of wind covered the desert. The
      arch was now broken, and partly ruinous; but it still so far projected
      over and covered in the fountain that it excluded the sun in a great
      measure from its waters, which, hardly touched by a straggling beam, while
      all around was blazing, lay in a steady repose, alike delightful to the
      eye and the imagination. Stealing from under the arch, they were first
      received in a marble basin, much defaced indeed, but still cheering the
      eye, by showing that the place was anciently considered as a station, that
      the hand of man had been there and that man's accommodation had been in
      some measure attended to. The thirsty and weary traveller was reminded by
      these signs that others had suffered similar difficulties, reposed in the
      same spot, and, doubtless, found their way in safety to a more fertile
      country. Again, the scarce visible current which escaped from the basin
      served to nourish the few trees which surrounded the fountain, and where
      it sunk into the ground and disappeared, its refreshing presence was
      acknowledged by a carpet of velvet verdure.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this delightful spot the two warriors halted, and each, after his own
      fashion, proceeded to relieve his horse from saddle, bit, and rein, and
      permitted the animals to drink at the basin, ere they refreshed themselves
      from the fountain head, which arose under the vault. They then suffered
      the steeds to go loose, confident that their interest, as well as their
      domesticated habits, would prevent their straying from the pure water and
      fresh grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian and Saracen next sat down together on the turf, and produced
      each the small allowance of store which they carried for their own
      refreshment. Yet, ere they severally proceeded to their scanty meal, they
      eyed each other with that curiosity which the close and doubtful conflict
      in which they had been so lately engaged was calculated to inspire. Each
      was desirous to measure the strength, and form some estimate of the
      character, of an adversary so formidable; and each was compelled to
      acknowledge that, had he fallen in the conflict, it had been by a noble
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The champions formed a striking contrast to each other in person and
      features, and might have formed no inaccurate representatives of their
      different nations. The Frank seemed a powerful man, built after the
      ancient Gothic cast of form, with light brown hair, which, on the removal
      of his helmet, was seen to curl thick and profusely over his head. His
      features had acquired, from the hot climate, a hue much darker than those
      parts of his neck which were less frequently exposed to view, or than was
      warranted by his full and well-opened blue eye, the colour of his hair,
      and of the moustaches which thickly shaded his upper lip, while his chin
      was carefully divested of beard, after the Norman fashion. His nose was
      Grecian and well formed; his mouth rather large in proportion, but filled
      with well-set, strong, and beautifully white teeth; his head small, and
      set upon the neck with much grace. His age could not exceed thirty, but if
      the effects of toil and climate were allowed for, might be three or four
      years under that period. His form was tall, powerful, and athletic, like
      that of a man whose strength might, in later life, become unwieldy, but
      which was hitherto united with lightness and activity. His hands, when he
      withdrew the mailed gloves, were long, fair, and well-proportioned; the
      wrist-bones peculiarly large and strong; and the arms remarkably
      well-shaped and brawny. A military hardihood and careless frankness of
      expression characterized his language and his motions; and his voice had
      the tone of one more accustomed to command than to obey, and who was in
      the habit of expressing his sentiments aloud and boldly, whenever he was
      called upon to announce them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen Emir formed a marked and striking contrast with the Western
      Crusader. His stature was indeed above the middle size, but he was at
      least three inches shorter than the European, whose size approached the
      gigantic. His slender limbs and long, spare hands and arms, though well
      proportioned to his person, and suited to the style of his countenance,
      did not at first aspect promise the display of vigour and elasticity which
      the Emir had lately exhibited. But on looking more closely, his limbs,
      where exposed to view, seemed divested of all that was fleshy or
      cumbersome; so that nothing being left but bone, brawn, and sinew, it was
      a frame fitted for exertion and fatigue, far beyond that of a bulky
      champion, whose strength and size are counterbalanced by weight, and who
      is exhausted by his own exertions. The countenance of the Saracen
      naturally bore a general national resemblance to the Eastern tribe from
      whom he descended, and was as unlike as possible to the exaggerated terms
      in which the minstrels of the day were wont to represent the infidel
      champions, and the fabulous description which a sister art still presents
      as the Saracen's Head upon signposts. His features were small,
      well-formed, and delicate, though deeply embrowned by the Eastern sun, and
      terminated by a flowing and curled black beard, which seemed trimmed with
      peculiar care. The nose was straight and regular, the eyes keen, deep-set,
      black, and glowing, and his teeth equalled in beauty the ivory of his
      deserts. The person and proportions of the Saracen, in short, stretched on
      the turf near to his powerful antagonist, might have been compared to his
      sheeny and crescent-formed sabre, with its narrow and light but bright and
      keen Damascus blade, contrasted with the long and ponderous Gothic
      war-sword which was flung unbuckled on the same sod. The Emir was in the
      very flower of his age, and might perhaps have been termed eminently
      beautiful, but for the narrowness of his forehead and something of too
      much thinness and sharpness of feature, or at least what might have seemed
      such in a European estimate of beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The manners of the Eastern warrior were grave, graceful, and decorous;
      indicating, however, in some particulars, the habitual restraint which men
      of warm and choleric tempers often set as a guard upon their native
      impetuosity of disposition, and at the same time a sense of his own
      dignity, which seemed to impose a certain formality of behaviour in him
      who entertained it.
    </p>
    <p>
      This haughty feeling of superiority was perhaps equally entertained by his
      new European acquaintance, but the effect was different; and the same
      feeling, which dictated to the Christian knight a bold, blunt, and
      somewhat careless bearing, as one too conscious of his own importance to
      be anxious about the opinions of others, appeared to prescribe to the
      Saracen a style of courtesy more studiously and formally observant of
      ceremony. Both were courteous; but the courtesy of the Christian seemed to
      flow rather from a good humoured sense of what was due to others; that of
      the Moslem, from a high feeling of what was to be expected from himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The provision which each had made for his refreshment was simple, but the
      meal of the Saracen was abstemious. A handful of dates and a morsel of
      coarse barley-bread sufficed to relieve the hunger of the latter, whose
      education had habituated them to the fare of the desert, although, since
      their Syrian conquests, the Arabian simplicity of life frequently gave
      place to the most unbounded profusion of luxury. A few draughts from the
      lovely fountain by which they reposed completed his meal. That of the
      Christian, though coarse, was more genial. Dried hog's flesh, the
      abomination of the Moslemah, was the chief part of his repast; and his
      drink, derived from a leathern bottle, contained something better than
      pure element. He fed with more display of appetite, and drank with more
      appearance of satisfaction, than the Saracen judged it becoming to show in
      the performance of a mere bodily function; and, doubtless, the secret
      contempt which each entertained for the other, as the follower of a false
      religion, was considerably increased by the marked difference of their
      diet and manners. But each had found the weight of his opponent's arm, and
      the mutual respect which the bold struggle had created was sufficient to
      subdue other and inferior considerations. Yet the Saracen could not help
      remarking the circumstances which displeased him in the Christian's
      conduct and manners; and, after he had witnessed for some time in silence
      the keen appetite which protracted the knight's banquet long after his own
      was concluded, he thus addressed him:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Valiant Nazarene, is it fitting that one who can fight like a man should
      feed like a dog or a wolf? Even a misbelieving Jew would shudder at the
      food which you seem to eat with as much relish as if it were fruit from
      the trees of Paradise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Valiant Saracen,&rdquo; answered the Christian, looking up with some surprise
      at the accusation thus unexpectedly brought, &ldquo;know thou that I exercise my
      Christian freedom in using that which is forbidden to the Jews, being, as
      they esteem themselves, under the bondage of the old law of Moses. We,
      Saracen, be it known to thee, have a better warrant for what we do&mdash;Ave
      Maria!&mdash;be we thankful.&rdquo; And, as if in defiance of his companion's
      scruples, he concluded a short Latin grace with a long draught from the
      leathern bottle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That, too, you call a part of your liberty,&rdquo; said the Saracen; &ldquo;and as
      you feed like the brutes, so you degrade yourself to the bestial condition
      by drinking a poisonous liquor which even they refuse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know, foolish Saracen,&rdquo; replied the Christian, without hesitation, &ldquo;that
      thou blasphemest the gifts of God, even with the blasphemy of thy father
      Ishmael. The juice of the grape is given to him that will use it wisely,
      as that which cheers the heart of man after toil, refreshes him in
      sickness, and comforts him in sorrow. He who so enjoyeth it may thank God
      for his winecup as for his daily bread; and he who abuseth the gift of
      Heaven is not a greater fool in his intoxication than thou in thine
      abstinence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The keen eye of the Saracen kindled at this sarcasm, and his hand sought
      the hilt of his poniard. It was but a momentary thought, however, and died
      away in the recollection of the powerful champion with whom he had to
      deal, and the desperate grapple, the impression of which still throbbed in
      his limbs and veins; and he contented himself with pursuing the contest in
      colloquy, as more convenient for the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy words&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;O Nazarene, might create anger, did not thy
      ignorance raise compassion. Seest thou not, O thou more blind than any who
      asks alms at the door of the Mosque, that the liberty thou dost boast of
      is restrained even in that which is dearest to man's happiness and to his
      household; and that thy law, if thou dost practise it, binds thee in
      marriage to one single mate, be she sick or healthy, be she fruitful or
      barren, bring she comfort and joy, or clamour and strife, to thy table and
      to thy bed? This, Nazarene, I do indeed call slavery; whereas, to the
      faithful, hath the Prophet assigned upon earth the patriarchal privileges
      of Abraham our father, and of Solomon, the wisest of mankind, having given
      us here a succession of beauty at our pleasure, and beyond the grave the
      black-eyed houris of Paradise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by His name that I most reverence in heaven,&rdquo; said the Christian,
      &ldquo;and by hers whom I most worship on earth, thou art but a blinded and a
      bewildered infidel!&mdash;That diamond signet which thou wearest on thy
      finger, thou holdest it, doubtless, as of inestimable value?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Balsora and Bagdad cannot show the like,&rdquo; replied the Saracen; &ldquo;but what
      avails it to our purpose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much,&rdquo; replied the Frank, &ldquo;as thou shalt thyself confess. Take my war-axe
      and dash the stone into twenty shivers: would each fragment be as valuable
      as the original gem, or would they, all collected, bear the tenth part of
      its estimation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a child's question,&rdquo; answered the Saracen; &ldquo;the fragments of such
      a stone would not equal the entire jewel in the degree of hundreds to
      one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saracen,&rdquo; replied the Christian warrior, &ldquo;the love which a true knight
      binds on one only, fair and faithful, is the gem entire; the affection
      thou flingest among thy enslaved wives and half-wedded slaves is
      worthless, comparatively, as the sparkling shivers of the broken diamond.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by the Holy Caaba,&rdquo; said the Emir, &ldquo;thou art a madman who hugs his
      chain of iron as if it were of gold! Look more closely. This ring of mine
      would lose half its beauty were not the signet encircled and enchased with
      these lesser brilliants, which grace it and set it off. The central
      diamond is man, firm and entire, his value depending on himself alone; and
      this circle of lesser jewels are women, borrowing his lustre, which he
      deals out to them as best suits his pleasure or his convenience. Take the
      central stone from the signet, and the diamond itself remains as valuable
      as ever, while the lesser gems are comparatively of little value. And this
      is the true reading of thy parable; for what sayeth the poet Mansour: 'It
      is the favour of man which giveth beauty and comeliness to woman, as the
      stream glitters no longer when the sun ceaseth to shine.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saracen,&rdquo; replied the Crusader, &ldquo;thou speakest like one who never saw a
      woman worthy the affection of a soldier. Believe me, couldst thou look
      upon those of Europe, to whom, after Heaven, we of the order of knighthood
      vow fealty and devotion, thou wouldst loathe for ever the poor sensual
      slaves who form thy haram. The beauty of our fair ones gives point to our
      spears and edge to our swords; their words are our law; and as soon will a
      lamp shed lustre when unkindled, as a knight distinguish himself by feats
      of arms, having no mistress of his affection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard of this frenzy among the warriors of the West,&rdquo; said the
      Emir, &ldquo;and have ever accounted it one of the accompanying symptoms of that
      insanity which brings you hither to obtain possession of an empty
      sepulchre. But yet, methinks, so highly have the Franks whom I have met
      with extolled the beauty of their women, I could be well contented to
      behold with mine own eyes those charms which can transform such brave
      warriors into the tools of their pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brave Saracen,&rdquo; said the Knight, &ldquo;if I were not on a pilgrimage to the
      Holy Sepulchre, it should be my pride to conduct you, on assurance of
      safety, to the camp of Richard of England, than whom none knows better how
      to do honour to a noble foe; and though I be poor and unattended yet have
      I interest to secure for thee, or any such as thou seemest, not safety
      only, but respect and esteem. There shouldst thou see several of the
      fairest beauties of France and Britain form a small circle, the brilliancy
      of which exceeds ten-thousandfold the lustre of mines of diamonds such as
      thine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by the corner-stone of the Caaba!&rdquo; said the Saracen, &ldquo;I will accept
      thy invitation as freely as it is given, if thou wilt postpone thy present
      intent; and, credit me, brave Nazarene, it were better for thyself to turn
      back thy horse's head towards the camp of thy people, for to travel
      towards Jerusalem without a passport is but a wilful casting-away of thy
      life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a pass,&rdquo; answered the Knight, producing a parchment, &ldquo;Under
      Saladin's hand and signet.&rdquo;
     </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0040m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0040m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0040.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The Saracen bent his head to the dust as he recognized the seal and
      handwriting of the renowned Soldan of Egypt and Syria; and having kissed
      the paper with profound respect, he pressed it to his forehead, then
      returned it to the Christian, saying, &ldquo;Rash Frank, thou hast sinned
      against thine own blood and mine, for not showing this to me when we met.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You came with levelled spear,&rdquo; said the Knight. &ldquo;Had a troop of Saracens
      so assailed me, it might have stood with my honour to have shown the
      Soldan's pass, but never to one man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet one man,&rdquo; said the Saracen haughtily, &ldquo;was enough to interrupt
      your journey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, brave Moslem,&rdquo; replied the Christian; &ldquo;but there are few such as
      thou art. Such falcons fly not in flocks; or, if they do, they pounce not
      in numbers upon one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou dost us but justice,&rdquo; said the Saracen, evidently gratified by the
      compliment, as he had been touched by the implied scorn of the European's
      previous boast; &ldquo;from us thou shouldst have had no wrong. But well was it
      for me that I failed to slay thee, with the safeguard of the king of kings
      upon thy person. Certain it were, that the cord or the sabre had justly
      avenged such guilt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad to hear that its influence shall be availing to me,&rdquo; said the
      Knight; &ldquo;for I have heard that the road is infested with robber-tribes,
      who regard nothing in comparison of an opportunity of plunder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The truth has been told to thee, brave Christian,&rdquo; said the Saracen; &ldquo;but
      I swear to thee, by the turban of the Prophet, that shouldst thou miscarry
      in any haunt of such villains, I will myself undertake thy revenge with
      five thousand horse. I will slay every male of them, and send their women
      into such distant captivity that the name of their tribe shall never again
      be heard within five hundred miles of Damascus. I will sow with salt the
      foundations of their village, and there shall never live thing dwell
      there, even from that time forward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had rather the trouble which you design for yourself were in revenge of
      some other more important person than of me, noble Emir,&rdquo; replied the
      Knight; &ldquo;but my vow is recorded in heaven, for good or for evil, and I
      must be indebted to you for pointing me out the way to my resting-place
      for this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said the Saracen, &ldquo;must be under the black covering of my father's
      tent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This night,&rdquo; answered the Christian, &ldquo;I must pass in prayer and penitence
      with a holy man, Theodorick of Engaddi, who dwells amongst these wilds,
      and spends his life in the service of God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will at least see you safe thither,&rdquo; said the Saracen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be pleasant convoy for me,&rdquo; said the Christian; &ldquo;yet might
      endanger the future security of the good father; for the cruel hand of
      your people has been red with the blood of the servants of the Lord, and
      therefore do we come hither in plate and mail, with sword and lance, to
      open the road to the Holy Sepulchre, and protect the chosen saints and
      anchorites who yet dwell in this land of promise and of miracle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nazarene,&rdquo; said the Moslem, &ldquo;in this the Greeks and Syrians have much
      belied us, seeing we do but after the word of Abubeker Alwakel, the
      successor of the Prophet, and, after him, the first commander of true
      believers. 'Go forth,' he said, 'Yezed Ben Sophian,' when he sent that
      renowned general to take Syria from the infidels; 'quit yourselves like
      men in battle, but slay neither the aged, the infirm, the women, nor the
      children. Waste not the land, neither destroy corn and fruit-trees; they
      are the gifts of Allah. Keep faith when you have made any covenant, even
      if it be to your own harm. If ye find holy men labouring with their hands,
      and serving God in the desert, hurt them not, neither destroy their
      dwellings. But when you find them with shaven crowns, they are of the
      synagogue of Satan! Smite with the sabre, slay, cease not till they become
      believers or tributaries.' As the Caliph, companion of the Prophet, hath
      told us, so have we done, and those whom our justice has smitten are but
      the priests of Satan. But unto the good men who, without stirring up
      nation against nation, worship sincerely in the faith of Issa Ben Mariam,
      we are a shadow and a shield; and such being he whom you seek, even though
      the light of the Prophet hath not reached him, from me he will only have
      love, favour, and regard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The anchorite whom I would now visit,&rdquo; said the warlike pilgrim, &ldquo;is, I
      have heard, no priest; but were he of that anointed and sacred order, I
      would prove with my good lance, against paynim and infidel&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us not defy each other, brother,&rdquo; interrupted the Saracen; &ldquo;we shall
      find, either of us, enough of Franks or of Moslemah on whom to exercise
      both sword and lance. This Theodorick is protected both by Turk and Arab;
      and, though one of strange conditions at intervals, yet, on the whole, he
      bears himself so well as the follower of his own prophet, that he merits
      the protection of him who was sent&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by Our Lady, Saracen,&rdquo; exclaimed the Christian, &ldquo;if thou darest name
      in the same breath the camel-driver of Mecca with&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An electrical shock of passion thrilled through the form of the Emir; but
      it was only momentary, and the calmness of his reply had both dignity and
      reason in it, when he said, &ldquo;Slander not him whom thou knowest not&mdash;the
      rather that we venerate the founder of thy religion, while we condemn the
      doctrine which your priests have spun from it. I will myself guide thee to
      the cavern of the hermit, which, methinks, without my help, thou wouldst
      find it a hard matter to reach. And, on the way, let us leave to mollahs
      and to monks to dispute about the divinity of our faith, and speak on
      themes which belong to youthful warriors&mdash;upon battles, upon
      beautiful women, upon sharp swords, and upon bright armour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The warriors arose from their place of brief rest and simple refreshment,
      and courteously aided each other while they carefully replaced and
      adjusted the harness from which they had relieved for the time their
      trusty steeds. Each seemed familiar with an employment which at that time
      was a part of necessary and, indeed, of indispensable duty. Each also
      seemed to possess, as far as the difference betwixt the animal and
      rational species admitted, the confidence and affection of the horse which
      was the constant companion of his travels and his warfare. With the
      Saracen this familiar intimacy was a part of his early habits; for, in the
      tents of the Eastern military tribes, the horse of the soldier ranks next
      to, and almost equal in importance with, his wife and his family; and with
      the European warrior, circumstances, and indeed necessity, rendered his
      war-horse scarcely less than his brother in arms. The steeds, therefore,
      suffered themselves quietly to be taken from their food and liberty, and
      neighed and snuffled fondly around their masters, while they were
      adjusting their accoutrements for further travel and additional toil. And
      each warrior, as he prosecuted his own task, or assisted with courtesy his
      companion, looked with observant curiosity at the equipments of his
      fellow-traveller, and noted particularly what struck him as peculiar in
      the fashion in which he arranged his riding accoutrements.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ere they remounted to resume their journey, the Christian Knight again
      moistened his lips and dipped his hands in the living fountain, and said
      to his pagan associate of the journey, &ldquo;I would I knew the name of this
      delicious fountain, that I might hold it in my grateful remembrance; for
      never did water slake more deliciously a more oppressive thirst than I
      have this day experienced.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is called in the Arabic language,&rdquo; answered the Saracen, &ldquo;by a name
      which signifies the Diamond of the Desert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And well is it so named,&rdquo; replied the Christian. &ldquo;My native valley hath a
      thousand springs, but not to one of them shall I attach hereafter such
      precious recollection as to this solitary fount, which bestows its liquid
      treasures where they are not only delightful, but nearly indispensable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say truth,&rdquo; said the Saracen; &ldquo;for the curse is still on yonder sea
      of death, and neither man nor beast drinks of its waves, nor of the river
      which feeds without filling it, until this inhospitable desert be passed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They mounted, and pursued their journey across the sandy waste. The ardour
      of noon was now past, and a light breeze somewhat alleviated the terrors
      of the desert, though not without bearing on its wings an impalpable dust,
      which the Saracen little heeded, though his heavily-armed companion felt
      it as such an annoyance that he hung his iron casque at his saddle-bow,
      and substituted the light riding-cap, termed in the language of the time a
      MORTIER, from its resemblance in shape to an ordinary mortar. They rode
      together for some time in silence, the Saracen performing the part of
      director and guide of the journey, which he did by observing minute marks
      and bearings of the distant rocks, to a ridge of which they were gradually
      approaching. For a little time he seemed absorbed in the task, as a pilot
      when navigating a vessel through a difficult channel; but they had not
      proceeded half a league when he seemed secure of his route, and disposed,
      with more frankness than was usual to his nation, to enter into
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have asked the name,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;of a mute fountain, which hath the
      semblance, but not the reality, of a living thing. Let me be pardoned to
      ask the name of the companion with whom I have this day encountered, both
      in danger and in repose, and which I cannot fancy unknown even here among
      the deserts of Palestine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not yet worth publishing,&rdquo; said the Christian. &ldquo;Know, however, that
      among the soldiers of the Cross I am called Kenneth&mdash;Kenneth of the
      Couching Leopard; at home I have other titles, but they would sound harsh
      in an Eastern ear. Brave Saracen, let me ask which of the tribes of Arabia
      claims your descent, and by what name you are known?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Kenneth,&rdquo; said the Moslem, &ldquo;I joy that your name is such as my lips
      can easily utter. For me, I am no Arab, yet derive my descent from a line
      neither less wild nor less warlike. Know, Sir Knight of the Leopard, that
      I am Sheerkohf, the Lion of the Mountain, and that Kurdistan, from which I
      derive my descent, holds no family more noble than that of Seljook.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard,&rdquo; answered the Christian, &ldquo;that your great Soldan claims his
      blood from the same source?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to the Prophet that hath so far honoured our mountains as to send
      from their bosom him whose word is victory,&rdquo; answered the paynim. &ldquo;I am
      but as a worm before the King of Egypt and Syria, and yet in my own land
      something my name may avail. Stranger, with how many men didst thou come
      on this warfare?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my faith,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;with aid of friends and kinsmen, I was
      hardly pinched to furnish forth ten well-appointed lances, with maybe some
      fifty more men, archers and varlets included. Some have deserted my
      unlucky pennon&mdash;some have fallen in battle&mdash;several have died of
      disease&mdash;and one trusty armour-bearer, for whose life I am now doing
      my pilgrimage, lies on the bed of sickness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christian,&rdquo; said Sheerkohf, &ldquo;here I have five arrows in my quiver, each
      feathered from the wing of an eagle. When I send one of them to my tents,
      a thousand warriors mount on horseback&mdash;when I send another, an equal
      force will arise&mdash;for the five, I can command five thousand men; and
      if I send my bow, ten thousand mounted riders will shake the desert. And
      with thy fifty followers thou hast come to invade a land in which I am one
      of the meanest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by the rood, Saracen,&rdquo; retorted the Western warrior, &ldquo;thou shouldst
      know, ere thou vauntest thyself, that one steel glove can crush a whole
      handful of hornets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but it must first enclose them within its grasp,&rdquo; said the Saracen,
      with a smile which might have endangered their new alliance, had he not
      changed the subject by adding, &ldquo;And is bravery so much esteemed amongst
      the Christian princes that thou, thus void of means and of men, canst
      offer, as thou didst of late, to be my protector and security in the camp
      of thy brethren?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know, Saracen,&rdquo; said the Christian, &ldquo;since such is thy style, that the
      name of a knight, and the blood of a gentleman, entitle him to place
      himself on the same rank with sovereigns even of the first degree, in so
      far as regards all but regal authority and dominion. Were Richard of
      England himself to wound the honour of a knight as poor as I am, he could
      not, by the law of chivalry, deny him the combat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks I should like to look upon so strange a scene,&rdquo; said the Emir,
      &ldquo;in which a leathern belt and a pair of spurs put the poorest on a level
      with the most powerful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must add free blood and a fearless heart,&rdquo; said the Christian; &ldquo;then,
      perhaps, you will not have spoken untruly of the dignity of knighthood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And mix you as boldly amongst the females of your chiefs and leaders?&rdquo;
       asked the Saracen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid,&rdquo; said the Knight of the Leopard, &ldquo;that the poorest knight in
      Christendom should not be free, in all honourable service, to devote his
      hand and sword, the fame of his actions, and the fixed devotion of his
      heart, to the fairest princess who ever wore coronet on her brow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But a little while since,&rdquo; said the Saracen, &ldquo;and you described love as
      the highest treasure of the heart&mdash;thine hath undoubtedly been high
      and nobly bestowed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger,&rdquo; answered the Christian, blushing deeply as he spoke, &ldquo;we tell
      not rashly where it is we have bestowed our choicest treasures. It is
      enough for thee to know that, as thou sayest, my love is highly and nobly
      bestowed&mdash;most highly&mdash;most nobly; but if thou wouldst hear of
      love and broken lances, venture thyself, as thou sayest, to the camp of
      the Crusaders, and thou wilt find exercise for thine ears, and, if thou
      wilt, for thy hands too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Eastern warrior, raising himself in his stirrups, and shaking aloft
      his lance, replied, &ldquo;Hardly, I fear, shall I find one with a crossed
      shoulder who will exchange with me the cast of the jerrid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not promise for that,&rdquo; replied the Knight; &ldquo;though there be in the
      camp certain Spaniards, who have right good skill in your Eastern game of
      hurling the javelin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dogs, and sons of dogs!&rdquo; ejaculated the Saracen; &ldquo;what have these
      Spaniards to do to come hither to combat the true believers, who, in their
      own land, are their lords and taskmasters? with them I would mix in no
      warlike pastime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let not the knights of Leon or Asturias hear you speak thus of them,&rdquo;
       said the Knight of the Leopard. &ldquo;But,&rdquo; added he, smiling at the
      recollection of the morning's combat, &ldquo;if, instead of a reed, you were
      inclined to stand the cast of a battle-axe, there are enough of Western
      warriors who would gratify your longing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the beard of my father, sir,&rdquo; said the Saracen, with an approach to
      laughter, &ldquo;the game is too rough for mere sport. I will never shun them in
      battle, but my head&rdquo; (pressing his hand to his brow) &ldquo;will not, for a
      while, permit me to seek them in sport.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would you saw the axe of King Richard,&rdquo; answered the Western warrior,
      &ldquo;to which that which hangs at my saddle-bow weighs but as a feather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We hear much of that island sovereign,&rdquo; said the Saracen. &ldquo;Art thou one
      of his subjects?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of his followers I am, for this expedition,&rdquo; answered the Knight,
      &ldquo;and honoured in the service; but not born his subject, although a native
      of the island in which he reigns.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How mean you? &ldquo; said the Eastern soldier; &ldquo;have you then two kings in one
      poor island?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As thou sayest,&rdquo; said the Scot, for such was Sir Kenneth by birth. &ldquo;It is
      even so; and yet, although the inhabitants of the two extremities of that
      island are engaged in frequent war, the country can, as thou seest,
      furnish forth such a body of men-at-arms as may go far to shake the unholy
      hold which your master hath laid on the cities of Zion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the beard of Saladin, Nazarene, but that it is a thoughtless and
      boyish folly, I could laugh at the simplicity of your great Sultan, who
      comes hither to make conquests of deserts and rocks, and dispute the
      possession of them with those who have tenfold numbers at command, while
      he leaves a part of his narrow islet, in which he was born a sovereign, to
      the dominion of another sceptre than his. Surely, Sir Kenneth, you and the
      other good men of your country should have submitted yourselves to the
      dominion of this King Richard ere you left your native land, divided
      against itself, to set forth on this expedition?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hasty and fierce was Kenneth's answer. &ldquo;No, by the bright light of Heaven!
      If the King of England had not set forth to the Crusade till he was
      sovereign of Scotland, the Crescent might, for me, and all true-hearted
      Scots, glimmer for ever on the walls of Zion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus far he had proceeded, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he
      muttered, &ldquo;MEA CULPA! MEA CULPA! what have I, a soldier of the Cross, to
      do with recollection of war betwixt Christian nations!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rapid expression of feeling corrected by the dictates of duty did not
      escape the Moslem, who, if he did not entirely understand all which it
      conveyed, saw enough to convince him with the assurance that Christians,
      as well as Moslemah, had private feelings of personal pique, and national
      quarrels, which were not entirely reconcilable. But the Saracens were a
      race, polished, perhaps, to the utmost extent which their religion
      permitted, and particularly capable of entertaining high ideas of courtesy
      and politeness; and such sentiments prevented his taking any notice of the
      inconsistency of Sir Kenneth's feelings in the opposite characters of a
      Scot and a Crusader.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, as they advanced, the scene began to change around them. They
      were now turning to the eastward, and had reached the range of steep and
      barren hills which binds in that quarter the naked plain, and varies the
      surface of the country, without changing its sterile character. Sharp,
      rocky eminences began to rise around them, and, in a short time, deep
      declivities and ascents, both formidable in height and difficult from the
      narrowness of the path, offered to the travellers obstacles of a different
      kind from those with which they had recently contended.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dark caverns and chasms amongst the rocks&mdash;those grottoes so often
      alluded to in Scripture&mdash;yawned fearfully on either side as they
      proceeded, and the Scottish knight was informed by the Emir that these
      were often the refuge of beasts of prey, or of men still more ferocious,
      who, driven to desperation by the constant war, and the oppression
      exercised by the soldiery, as well of the Cross as of the Crescent, had
      become robbers, and spared neither rank nor religion, neither sex nor age,
      in their depredations.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish knight listened with indifference to the accounts of ravages
      committed by wild beasts or wicked men, secure as he felt himself in his
      own valour and personal strength; but he was struck with mysterious dread
      when he recollected that he was now in the awful wilderness of the forty
      days' fast, and the scene of the actual personal temptation, wherewith the
      Evil Principle was permitted to assail the Son of Man. He withdrew his
      attention gradually from the light and worldly conversation of the infidel
      warrior beside him, and, however acceptable his gay and gallant bravery
      would have rendered him as a companion elsewhere, Sir Kenneth felt as if,
      in those wildernesses the waste and dry places in which the foul spirits
      were wont to wander when expelled the mortals whose forms they possessed,
      a bare-footed friar would have been a better associate than the gay but
      unbelieving paynim.
    </p>
    <p>
      These feelings embarrassed him the rather that the Saracen's spirits
      appeared to rise with the journey, and because the farther he penetrated
      into the gloomy recesses of the mountains, the lighter became his
      conversation, and when he found that unanswered, the louder grew his song.
      Sir Kenneth knew enough of the Eastern languages to be assured that he
      chanted sonnets of love, containing all the glowing praises of beauty in
      which the Oriental poets are so fond of luxuriating, and which, therefore,
      were peculiarly unfitted for a serious or devotional strain of thought,
      the feeling best becoming the Wilderness of the Temptation. With
      inconsistency enough, the Saracen also sung lays in praise of wine, the
      liquid ruby of the Persian poets; and his gaiety at length became so
      unsuitable to the Christian knight's contrary train of sentiments, as, but
      for the promise of amity which they had exchanged, would most likely have
      made Sir Kenneth take measures to change his note. As it was, the Crusader
      felt as if he had by his side some gay, licentious fiend, who endeavoured
      to ensnare his soul, and endanger his immortal salvation, by inspiring
      loose thoughts of earthly pleasure, and thus polluting his devotion, at a
      time when his faith as a Christian and his vow as a pilgrim called on him
      for a serious and penitential state of mind. He was thus greatly
      perplexed, and undecided how to act; and it was in a tone of hasty
      displeasure that, at length breaking silence, he interrupted the lay of
      the celebrated Rudpiki, in which he prefers the mole on his mistress's
      bosom to all the wealth of Bokhara and Samarcand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saracen,&rdquo; said the Crusader sternly, &ldquo;blinded as thou art, and plunged
      amidst the errors of a false law, thou shouldst yet comprehend that there
      are some places more holy than others, and that there are some scenes also
      in which the Evil One hath more than ordinary power over sinful mortals. I
      will not tell thee for what awful reason this place&mdash;these rocks&mdash;these
      caverns with their gloomy arches, leading as it were to the central abyss&mdash;are
      held an especial haunt of Satan and his angels. It is enough that I have
      been long warned to beware of this place by wise and holy men, to whom the
      qualities of the unholy region are well known. Wherefore, Saracen, forbear
      thy foolish and ill-timed levity, and turn thy thoughts to things more
      suited to the spot&mdash;although, alas for thee! thy best prayers are but
      as blasphemy and sin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen listened with some surprise, and then replied, with
      good-humour and gaiety, only so far repressed as courtesy required, &ldquo;Good
      Sir Kenneth, methinks you deal unequally by your companion, or else
      ceremony is but indifferently taught amongst your Western tribes. I took
      no offence when I saw you gorge hog's flesh and drink wine, and permitted
      you to enjoy a treat which you called your Christian liberty, only pitying
      in my heart your foul pastimes. Wherefore, then, shouldst thou take
      scandal, because I cheer, to the best of my power, a gloomy road with a
      cheerful verse? What saith the poet, 'Song is like the dews of heaven on
      the bosom of the desert; it cools the path of the traveller.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Friend Saracen,&rdquo; said the Christian, &ldquo;I blame not the love of minstrelsy
      and of the GAI SCIENCE; albeit, we yield unto it even too much room in our
      thoughts when they should be bent on better things. But prayers and holy
      psalms are better fitting than LAIS of love, or of wine-cups, when men
      walk in this Valley of the Shadow of Death, full of fiends and demons,
      whom the prayers of holy men have driven forth from the haunts of humanity
      to wander amidst scenes as accursed as themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak not thus of the Genii, Christian,&rdquo; answered the Saracen, &ldquo;for know
      thou speakest to one whose line and nation drew their origin from the
      immortal race which your sect fear and blaspheme.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I well thought,&rdquo; answered the Crusader, &ldquo;that your blinded race had their
      descent from the foul fiend, without whose aid you would never have been
      able to maintain this blessed land of Palestine against so many valiant
      soldiers of God. I speak not thus of thee in particular, Saracen, but
      generally of thy people and religion. Strange is it to me, however, not
      that you should have the descent from the Evil One, but that you should
      boast of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From whom should the bravest boast of descending, saving from him that is
      bravest?&rdquo; said the Saracen; &ldquo;from whom should the proudest trace their
      line so well as from the Dark Spirit, which would rather fall headlong by
      force than bend the knee by his will? Eblis may be hated, stranger, but he
      must be feared; and such as Eblis are his descendants of Kurdistan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tales of magic and of necromancy were the learning of the period, and Sir
      Kenneth heard his companion's confession of diabolical descent without any
      disbelief, and without much wonder; yet not without a secret shudder at
      finding himself in this fearful place, in the company of one who avouched
      himself to belong to such a lineage. Naturally insusceptible, however, of
      fear, he crossed himself, and stoutly demanded of the Saracen an account
      of the pedigree which he had boasted. The latter readily complied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know, brave stranger,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that when the cruel Zohauk, one of the
      descendants of Giamschid, held the throne of Persia, he formed a league
      with the Powers of Darkness, amidst the secret vaults of Istakhar, vaults
      which the hands of the elementary spirits had hewn out of the living rock
      long before Adam himself had an existence. Here he fed, with daily
      oblations of human blood, two devouring serpents, which had become,
      according to the poets, a part of himself, and to sustain whom he levied a
      tax of daily human sacrifices, till the exhausted patience of his subjects
      caused some to raise up the scimitar of resistance, like the valiant
      Blacksmith and the victorious Feridoun, by whom the tyrant was at length
      dethroned, and imprisoned for ever in the dismal caverns of the mountain
      Damavend. But ere that deliverance had taken place, and whilst the power
      of the bloodthirsty tyrant was at its height, the band of ravening slaves
      whom he had sent forth to purvey victims for his daily sacrifice brought
      to the vaults of the palace of Istakhar seven sisters so beautiful that
      they seemed seven houris. These seven maidens were the daughters of a
      sage, who had no treasures save those beauties and his own wisdom. The
      last was not sufficient to foresee this misfortune, the former seemed
      ineffectual to prevent it. The eldest exceeded not her twentieth year, the
      youngest had scarce attained her thirteenth; and so like were they to each
      other that they could not have been distinguished but for the difference
      of height, in which they gradually rose in easy gradation above each
      other, like the ascent which leads to the gates of Paradise. So lovely
      were these seven sisters when they stood in the darksome vault, disrobed
      of all clothing saving a cymar of white silk, that their charms moved the
      hearts of those who were not mortal. Thunder muttered, the earth shook,
      the wall of the vault was rent, and at the chasm entered one dressed like
      a hunter, with bow and shafts, and followed by six others, his brethren.
      They were tall men, and, though dark, yet comely to behold; but their eyes
      had more the glare of those of the dead than the light which lives under
      the eyelids of the living. 'Zeineb,' said the leader of the band&mdash;and
      as he spoke he took the eldest sister by the hand, and his voice was soft,
      low, and melancholy&mdash;'I am Cothrob, king of the subterranean world,
      and supreme chief of Ginnistan. I and my brethren are of those who,
      created out of the pure elementary fire, disdained, even at the command of
      Omnipotence, to do homage to a clod of earth, because it was called Man.
      Thou mayest have heard of us as cruel, unrelenting, and persecuting. It is
      false. We are by nature kind and generous; only vengeful when insulted,
      only cruel when affronted. We are true to those who trust us; and we have
      heard the invocations of thy father, the sage Mithrasp, who wisely
      worships not alone the Origin of Good, but that which is called the Source
      of Evil. You and your sisters are on the eve of death; but let each give
      to us one hair from your fair tresses, in token of fealty, and we will
      carry you many miles from hence to a place of safety, where you may bid
      defiance to Zohauk and his ministers.' The fear of instant death, saith
      the poet, is like the rod of the prophet Haroun, which devoured all other
      rods when transformed into snakes before the King of Pharaoh; and the
      daughters of the Persian sage were less apt than others to be afraid of
      the addresses of a spirit. They gave the tribute which Cothrob demanded,
      and in an instant the sisters were transported to an enchanted castle on
      the mountains of Tugrut, in Kurdistan, and were never again seen by mortal
      eye. But in process of time seven youths, distinguished in the war and in
      the chase, appeared in the environs of the castle of the demons. They were
      darker, taller, fiercer, and more resolute than any of the scattered
      inhabitants of the valleys of Kurdistan; and they took to themselves
      wives, and became fathers of the seven tribes of the Kurdmans, whose
      valour is known throughout the universe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Christian knight heard with wonder the wild tale, of which Kurdistan
      still possesses the traces, and, after a moment's thought, replied,
      &ldquo;Verily, Sir Knight, you have spoken well&mdash;your genealogy may be
      dreaded and hated, but it cannot be contemned. Neither do I any longer
      wonder at your obstinacy in a false faith, since, doubtless, it is part of
      the fiendish disposition which hath descended from your ancestors, those
      infernal huntsmen, as you have described them, to love falsehood rather
      than truth; and I no longer marvel that your spirits become high and
      exalted, and vent themselves in verse and in tunes, when you approach to
      the places encumbered by the haunting of evil spirits, which must excite
      in you that joyous feeling which others experience when approaching the
      land of their human ancestry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my father's beard, I think thou hast the right,&rdquo; said the Saracen,
      rather amused than offended by the freedom with which the Christian had
      uttered his reflections; &ldquo;for, though the Prophet (blessed be his name!)
      hath sown amongst us the seed of a better faith than our ancestors learned
      in the ghostly halls of Tugrut, yet we are not willing, like other
      Moslemah, to pass hasty doom on the lofty and powerful elementary spirits
      from whom we claim our origin. These Genii, according to our belief and
      hope, are not altogether reprobate, but are still in the way of probation,
      and may hereafter be punished or rewarded. Leave we this to the mollahs
      and the imauns. Enough that with us the reverence for these spirits is not
      altogether effaced by what we have learned from the Koran, and that many
      of us still sing, in memorial of our fathers' more ancient faith, such
      verses as these.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he proceeded to chant verses, very ancient in the language and
      structure, which some have thought derive their source from the
      worshippers of Arimanes, the Evil Principle.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                AHRIMAN.

     Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still
     Holds origin of woe and ill!
     When, bending at thy shrine,
     We view the world with troubled eye,
     Where see we 'neath the extended sky,
     An empire matching thine!

     If the Benigner Power can yield
     A fountain in the desert field,
     Where weary pilgrims drink;
     Thine are the waves that lash the rock,
     Thine the tornado's deadly shock,
     Where countless navies sink!

     Or if he bid the soil dispense
     Balsams to cheer the sinking sense,
     How few can they deliver
     From lingering pains, or pang intense,
     Red Fever, spotted Pestilence,
     The arrows of thy quiver!

     Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway,
     And frequent, while in words we pray
     Before another throne,
     Whate'er of specious form be there,
     The secret meaning of the prayer
     Is, Ahriman, thine own.

     Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form,
     Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm,
     As Eastern Magi say;
     With sentient soul of hate and wrath,
     And wings to sweep thy deadly path,
     And fangs to tear thy prey?

     Or art thou mix'd in Nature's source,
     An ever-operating force,
     Converting good to ill;
     An evil principle innate,
     Contending with our better fate,
     And, oh!  victorious still?

     Howe'er it be, dispute is vain.
     On all without thou hold'st thy reign,
     Nor less on all within;
     Each mortal passion's fierce career,
     Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear,
     Thou goadest into sin.

     Whene'er a sunny gleam appears,
     To brighten up our vale of tears,
     Thou art not distant far;
     'Mid such brief solace of our lives,
     Thou whett'st our very banquet-knives
     To tools of death and war.

     Thus, from the moment of our birth,
     Long as we linger on the earth,
     Thou rulest the fate of men;
     Thine are the pangs of life's last hour,
     And&mdash;who dare answer?&mdash;is thy power,
     Dark Spirit!  ended THEN?

     [The worthy and learned clergyman by whom this species of
     hymn has been translated desires, that, for fear of
     misconception, we should warn the reader to recollect that
     it is composed by a heathen, to whom the real causes of
     moral and physical evil are unknown, and who views their
     predominance in the system of the universe as all must view
     that appalling fact who have not the benefit of the
     Christian revelation.  On our own part, we beg to add, that
     we understand the style of the translator is more
     paraphrastic than can be approved by those who are
     acquainted with the singularly curious original.  The
     translator seems to have despaired of rendering into English
     verse the flights of Oriental poetry; and, possibly, like
     many learned and ingenious men, finding it impossible to
     discover the sense of the original, he may have tacitly
     substituted his own.]
</pre>
    <p>
      These verses may perhaps have been the not unnatural effusion of some
      half-enlightened philosopher, who, in the fabled deity, Arimanes, saw but
      the prevalence of moral and physical evil; but in the ears of Sir Kenneth
      of the Leopard they had a different effect, and, sung as they were by one
      who had just boasted himself a descendant of demons, sounded very like an
      address of worship to the arch-fiend himself. He weighed within himself
      whether, on hearing such blasphemy in the very desert where Satan had
      stood rebuked for demanding homage, taking an abrupt leave of the Saracen
      was sufficient to testify his abhorrence; or whether he was not rather
      constrained by his vow as a Crusader to defy the infidel to combat on the
      spot, and leave him food for the beasts of the wilderness, when his
      attention was suddenly caught by an unexpected apparition.
    </p>
    <p>
      The light was now verging low, yet served the knight still to discern that
      they two were no longer alone in the desert, but were closely watched by a
      figure of great height and very thin, which skipped over rocks and bushes
      with so much agility as, added to the wild and hirsute appearance of the
      individual, reminded him of the fauns and silvans, whose images he had
      seen in the ancient temples of Rome. As the single-hearted Scottishman had
      never for a moment doubted these gods of the ancient Gentiles to be
      actually devils, so he now hesitated not to believe that the blasphemous
      hymn of the Saracen had raised up an infernal spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what recks it?&rdquo; said stout Sir Kenneth to himself; &ldquo;down with the
      fiend and his worshippers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not, however, think it necessary to give the same warning of
      defiance to two enemies as he would unquestionably have afforded to one.
      His hand was upon his mace, and perhaps the unwary Saracen would have been
      paid for his Persian poetry by having his brains dashed out on the spot,
      without any reason assigned for it; but the Scottish Knight was spared
      from committing what would have been a sore blot in his shield of arms.
      The apparition, on which his eyes had been fixed for some time, had at
      first appeared to dog their path by concealing itself behind rocks and
      shrubs, using those advantages of the ground with great address, and
      surmounting its irregularities with surprising agility. At length, just as
      the Saracen paused in his song, the figure, which was that of a tall man
      clothed in goat-skins, sprung into the midst of the path, and seized a
      rein of the Saracen's bridle in either hand, confronting thus and bearing
      back the noble horse, which, unable to endure the manner in which this
      sudden assailant pressed the long-armed bit, and the severe curb, which,
      according to the Eastern fashion, was a solid ring of iron, reared
      upright, and finally fell backwards on his master, who, however, avoided
      the peril of the fall by lightly throwing himself to one side.
    </p>
    <p>
      The assailant then shifted his grasp from the bridle of the horse to the
      throat of the rider, flung himself above the struggling Saracen, and,
      despite of his youth and activity kept him undermost, wreathing his long
      arms above those of his prisoner, who called out angrily, and yet
      half-laughing at the same time&mdash;&ldquo;Hamako&mdash;fool&mdash;unloose me&mdash;this
      passes thy privilege&mdash;unloose me, or I will use my dagger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy dagger!&mdash;infidel dog!&rdquo; said the figure in the goat-skins, &ldquo;hold
      it in thy gripe if thou canst!&rdquo; and in an instant he wrenched the
      Saracen's weapon out of its owner's hand, and brandished it over his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Help, Nazarene!&rdquo; cried Sheerkohf, now seriously alarmed; &ldquo;help, or the
      Hamako will slay me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Slay thee!&rdquo; replied the dweller of the desert; &ldquo;and well hast thou
      merited death, for singing thy blasphemous hymns, not only to the praise
      of thy false prophet, who is the foul fiend's harbinger, but to that of
      the Author of Evil himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Christian Knight had hitherto looked on as one stupefied, so strangely
      had this rencontre contradicted, in its progress and event, all that he
      had previously conjectured. He felt, however, at length, that it touched
      his honour to interfere in behalf of his discomfited companion, and
      therefore addressed himself to the victorious figure in the goat-skins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whosoe'er thou art,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and whether of good or of evil, know that
      I am sworn for the time to be true companion to the Saracen whom thou
      holdest under thee; therefore, I pray thee to let him arise, else I will
      do battle with thee in his behalf.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a proper quarrel it were,&rdquo; answered the Hamako, &ldquo;for a Crusader to do
      battle in&mdash;for the sake of an unbaptized dog, to combat one of his
      own holy faith! Art thou come forth to the wilderness to fight for the
      Crescent against the Cross? A goodly soldier of God art thou to listen to
      those who sing the praises of Satan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet, while he spoke thus, he arose himself, and, suffering the Saracen to
      rise also, returned him his cangiar, or poniard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou seest to what a point of peril thy presumption hath brought thee,&rdquo;
       continued he of the goat-skins, now addressing Sheerkohf, &ldquo;and by what
      weak means thy practised skill and boasted agility can be foiled, when
      such is Heaven's pleasure. Wherefore, beware, O Ilderim! for know that,
      were there not a twinkle in the star of thy nativity which promises for
      thee something that is good and gracious in Heaven's good time, we two had
      not parted till I had torn asunder the throat which so lately trilled
      forth blasphemies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hamako,&rdquo; said the Saracen, without any appearance of resenting the
      violent language and yet more violent assault to which he had been
      subjected, &ldquo;I pray thee, good Hamako, to beware how thou dost again urge
      thy privilege over far; for though, as a good Moslem, I respect those whom
      Heaven hath deprived of ordinary reason, in order to endow them with the
      spirit of prophecy, yet I like not other men's hands on the bridle of my
      horse, neither upon my own person. Speak, therefore, what thou wilt,
      secure of any resentment from me; but gather so much sense as to apprehend
      that if thou shalt again proffer me any violence, I will strike thy
      shagged head from thy meagre shoulders.&mdash;and to thee, friend
      Kenneth,&rdquo; he added, as he remounted his steed, &ldquo;I must needs say, that in
      a companion through the desert, I love friendly deeds better than fair
      words. Of the last thou hast given me enough; but it had been better to
      have aided me more speedily in my struggle with this Hamako, who had
      well-nigh taken my life in his frenzy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my faith,&rdquo; said the Knight, &ldquo;I did somewhat fail&mdash;was somewhat
      tardy in rendering thee instant help; but the strangeness of the
      assailant, the suddenness of the scene&mdash;it was as if thy wild and
      wicked lay had raised the devil among us&mdash;and such was my confusion,
      that two or three minutes elapsed ere I could take to my weapon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art but a cold and considerate friend,&rdquo; said the Saracen; &ldquo;and, had
      the Hamako been one grain more frantic, thy companion had been slain by
      thy side, to thy eternal dishonour, without thy stirring a finger in his
      aid, although thou satest by, mounted, and in arms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my word, Saracen,&rdquo; said the Christian, &ldquo;if thou wilt have it in plain
      terms, I thought that strange figure was the devil; and being of thy
      lineage, I knew not what family secret you might be communicating to each
      other, as you lay lovingly rolling together on the sand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy gibe is no answer, brother Kenneth,&rdquo; said the Saracen; &ldquo;for know,
      that had my assailant been in very deed the Prince of Darkness, thou wert
      bound not the less to enter into combat with him in thy comrade's behalf.
      Know, also, that whatever there may be of foul or of fiendish about the
      Hamako belongs more to your lineage than to mine&mdash;this Hamako being,
      in truth, the anchorite whom thou art come hither to visit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This!&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, looking at the athletic yet wasted figure before
      him&mdash;&ldquo;this! Thou mockest, Saracen&mdash;this cannot be the venerable
      Theodorick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask himself, if thou wilt not believe me,&rdquo; answered Sheerkohf; and ere
      the words had left his mouth, the hermit gave evidence in his own behalf.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Theodorick of Engaddi,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;I am the walker of the desert&mdash;I
      am friend of the Cross, and flail of all infidels, heretics, and
      devil-worshippers. Avoid ye, avoid ye! Down with Mahound, Termagaunt, and
      all their adherents!&rdquo;&mdash;So saying, he pulled from under his shaggy
      garment a sort of flail or jointed club, bound with iron, which he
      brandished round his head with singular dexterity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou seest thy saint,&rdquo; said the Saracen, laughing, for the first time, at
      the unmitigated astonishment with which Sir Kenneth looked on the wild
      gestures and heard the wayward muttering of Theodorick, who, after
      swinging his flail in every direction, apparently quite reckless whether
      it encountered the head of either of his companions, finally showed his
      own strength, and the soundness of the weapon, by striking into fragments
      a large stone which lay near him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a madman,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the worse saint,&rdquo; returned the Moslem, speaking according to the
      well-known Eastern belief, that madmen are under the influence of
      immediate inspiration. &ldquo;Know, Christian, that when one eye is
      extinguished, the other becomes more keen; when one hand is cut off, the
      other becomes more powerful; so, when our reason in human things is
      disturbed or destroyed, our view heavenward becomes more acute and
      perfect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the voice of the Saracen was drowned in that of the hermit, who began
      to hollo aloud in a wild, chanting tone, &ldquo;I am Theodorick of Engaddi&mdash;I
      am the torch-brand of the desert&mdash;I am the flail of the infidels! The
      lion and the leopard shall be my comrades, and draw nigh to my cell for
      shelter; neither shall the goat be afraid of their fangs. I am the torch
      and the lantern&mdash;Kyrie Eleison!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He closed his song by a short race, and ended that again by three forward
      bounds, which would have done him great credit in a gymnastic academy, but
      became his character of hermit so indifferently that the Scottish Knight
      was altogether confounded and bewildered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen seemed to understand him better. &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that he
      expects us to follow him to his cell, which, indeed, is our only place of
      refuge for the night. You are the leopard, from the portrait on your
      shield; I am the lion, as my name imports; and by the goat, alluding to
      his garb of goat-skins, he means himself. We must keep him in sight,
      however, for he is as fleet as a dromedary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, the task was a difficult one, for though the reverend guide
      stopped from time to time, and waved his hand, as if to encourage them to
      come on, yet, well acquainted with all the winding dells and passes of the
      desert, and gifted with uncommon activity, which, perhaps, an unsettled
      state of mind kept in constant exercise, he led the knights through chasms
      and along footpaths where even the light-armed Saracen, with his
      well-trained barb, was in considerable risk, and where the iron-sheathed
      European and his over-burdened steed found themselves in such imminent
      peril as the rider would gladly have exchanged for the dangers of a
      general action. Glad he was when, at length, after this wild race, he
      beheld the holy man who had led it standing in front of a cavern, with a
      large torch in his hand, composed of a piece of wood dipped in bitumen,
      which cast a broad and flickering light, and emitted a strong sulphureous
      smell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Undeterred by the stifling vapour, the knight threw himself from his horse
      and entered the cavern, which afforded small appearance of accommodation.
      The cell was divided into two parts, in the outward of which were an altar
      of stone and a crucifix made of reeds: this served the anchorite for his
      chapel. On one side of this outward cave the Christian knight, though not
      without scruple, arising from religious reverence to the objects around,
      fastened up his horse, and arranged him for the night, in imitation of the
      Saracen, who gave him to understand that such was the custom of the place.
      The hermit, meanwhile, was busied putting his inner apartment in order to
      receive his guests, and there they soon joined him. At the bottom of the
      outer cave, a small aperture, closed with a door of rough plank, led into
      the sleeping apartment of the hermit, which was more commodious. The floor
      had been brought to a rough level by the labour of the inhabitant, and
      then strewed with white sand, which he daily sprinkled with water from a
      small fountain which bubbled out of the rock in one corner, affording in
      that stifling climate, refreshment alike to the ear and the taste.
      Mattresses, wrought of twisted flags, lay by the side of the cell; the
      sides, like the floor, had been roughly brought to shape, and several
      herbs and flowers were hung around them. Two waxen torches, which the
      hermit lighted, gave a cheerful air to the place, which was rendered
      agreeable by its fragrance and coolness.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were implements of labour in one corner of the apartment, in another
      was a niche for a rude statue of the Virgin. A table and two chairs showed
      that they must be the handiwork of the anchorite, being different in their
      form from Oriental accommodations. The former was covered, not only with
      reeds and pulse, but also with dried flesh, which Theodorick assiduously
      placed in such arrangement as should invite the appetite of his guests.
      This appearance of courtesy, though mute, and expressed by gestures only,
      seemed to Sir Kenneth something entirely irreconcilable with his former
      wild and violent demeanour. The movements of the hermit were now become
      composed, and apparently it was only a sense of religious humiliation
      which prevented his features, emaciated as they were by his austere mode
      of life, from being majestic and noble. He trod his cell as one who seemed
      born to rule over men, but who had abdicated his empire to become the
      servant of Heaven. Still, it must be allowed that his gigantic size, the
      length of his unshaven locks and beard, and the fire of a deep-set and
      wild eye were rather attributes of a soldier than of a recluse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even the Saracen seemed to regard the anchorite with some veneration,
      while he was thus employed, and he whispered in a low tone to Sir Kenneth,
      &ldquo;The Hamako is now in his better mind, but he will not speak until we have
      eaten&mdash;such is his vow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was in silence, accordingly, that Theodorick motioned to the Scot to
      take his place on one of the low chairs, while Sheerkohf placed himself,
      after the custom of his nation, upon a cushion of mats. The hermit then
      held up both hands, as if blessing the refreshment which he had placed
      before his guests, and they proceeded to eat in silence as profound as his
      own. To the Saracen this gravity was natural; and the Christian imitated
      his taciturnity, while he employed his thoughts on the singularity of his
      own situation, and the contrast betwixt the wild, furious gesticulations,
      loud cries, and fierce actions of Theodorick, when they first met him, and
      the demure, solemn, decorous assiduity with which he now performed the
      duties of hospitality.
    </p>
    <p>
      When their meal was ended, the hermit, who had not himself eaten a morsel,
      removed the fragments from the table, and placing before the Saracen a
      pitcher of sherbet, assigned to the Scot a flask of wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drink,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;my children&rdquo;&mdash;they were the first words he had
      spoken&mdash;&ldquo;the gifts of God are to be enjoyed, when the Giver is
      remembered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having said this, he retired to the outward cell, probably for performance
      of his devotions, and left his guests together in the inner apartment;
      when Sir Kenneth endeavoured, by various questions, to draw from Sheerkohf
      what that Emir knew concerning his host. He was interested by more than
      mere curiosity in these inquiries. Difficult as it was to reconcile the
      outrageous demeanour of the recluse at his first appearance with his
      present humble and placid behaviour, it seemed yet more impossible to
      think it consistent with the high consideration in which, according to
      what Sir Kenneth had learned, this hermit was held by the most enlightened
      divines of the Christian world. Theodorick, the hermit of Engaddi, had, in
      that character, been the correspondent of popes and councils; to whom his
      letters, full of eloquent fervour, had described the miseries imposed by
      the unbelievers upon the Latin Christians in the Holy Land, in colours
      scarce inferior to those employed at the Council of Clermont by the Hermit
      Peter, when he preached the first Crusade. To find, in a person so
      reverend and so much revered, the frantic gestures of a mad fakir, induced
      the Christian knight to pause ere he could resolve to communicate to him
      certain important matters, which he had in charge from some of the leaders
      of the Crusade.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been a main object of Sir Kenneth's pilgrimage, attempted by a
      route so unusual, to make such communications; but what he had that night
      seen induced him to pause and reflect ere he proceeded to the execution of
      his commission. From the Emir he could not extract much information, but
      the general tenor was as follows:&mdash;That, as he had heard, the hermit
      had been once a brave and valiant soldier, wise in council and fortunate
      in battle, which last he could easily believe from the great strength and
      agility which he had often seen him display; that he had appeared at
      Jerusalem in the character not of a pilgrim, but in that of one who had
      devoted himself to dwell for the remainder of his life in the Holy Land.
      Shortly afterwards, he fixed his residence amid the scenes of desolation
      where they now found him, respected by the Latins for his austere
      devotion, and by the Turks and Arabs on account of the symptoms of
      insanity which he displayed, and which they ascribed to inspiration. It
      was from them he had the name of Hamako, which expresses such a character
      in the Turkish language. Sheerkohf himself seemed at a loss how to rank
      their host. He had been, he said, a wise man, and could often for many
      hours together speak lessons of virtue or wisdom, without the slightest
      appearance of inaccuracy. At other times he was wild and violent, but
      never before had he seen him so mischievously disposed as he had that day
      appeared to be. His rage was chiefly provoked by any affront to his
      religion; and there was a story of some wandering Arabs, who had insulted
      his worship and defaced his altar, and whom he had on that account
      attacked and slain with the short flail which he carried with him in lieu
      of all other weapons. This incident had made a great noise, and it was as
      much the fear of the hermit's iron flail as regard for his character as a
      Hamako which caused the roving tribes to respect his dwelling and his
      chapel. His fame had spread so far that Saladin had issued particular
      orders that he should be spared and protected. He himself, and other
      Moslem lords of rank, had visited the cell more than once, partly from
      curiosity, partly that they expected from a man so learned as the
      Christian Hamako some insight into the secrets of futurity. &ldquo;He had,&rdquo;
       continued the Saracen, &ldquo;a rashid, or observatory, of great height,
      contrived to view the heavenly bodies, and particularly the planetary
      system&mdash;by whose movements and influences, as both Christian and
      Moslem believed, the course of human events was regulated, and might be
      predicted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the substance of the Emir Sheerkohf's information, and it left
      Sir Kenneth in doubt whether the character of insanity arose from the
      occasional excessive fervour of the hermit's zeal, or whether it was not
      altogether fictitious, and assumed for the sake of the immunities which it
      afforded. Yet it seemed that the infidels had carried their complaisance
      towards him to an uncommon length, considering the fanaticism of the
      followers of Mohammed, in the midst of whom he was living, though the
      professed enemy of their faith. He thought also there was more intimacy of
      acquaintance betwixt the hermit and the Saracen than the words of the
      latter had induced him to anticipate; and it had not escaped him that the
      former had called the latter by a name different from that which he
      himself had assumed. All these considerations authorized caution, if not
      suspicion. He determined to observe his host closely, and not to be
      over-hasty in communicating with him on the important charge entrusted to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beware, Saracen,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;methinks our host's imagination wanders as
      well on the subject of names as upon other matters. Thy name is Sheerkohf,
      and he called thee but now by another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name, when in the tent of my father,&rdquo; replied the Kurdman, &ldquo;was
      Ilderim, and by this I am still distinguished by many. In the field, and
      to soldiers, I am known as the Lion of the Mountain, being the name my
      good sword hath won for me. But hush, the Hamako comes&mdash;it is to warn
      us to rest. I know his custom; none must watch him at his vigils.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The anchorite accordingly entered, and folding his arms on his bosom as he
      stood before them, said with a solemn voice, &ldquo;Blessed be His name, who
      hath appointed the quiet night to follow the busy day, and the calm sleep
      to refresh the wearied limbs and to compose the troubled spirit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both warriors replied &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo; and, arising from the table, prepared to
      betake themselves to the couches, which their host indicated by waving his
      hand, as, making a reverence to each, he again withdrew from the
      apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Leopard then disarmed himself of his heavy panoply, his
      Saracen companion kindly assisting him to undo his buckler and clasps,
      until he remained in the close dress of chamois leather, which knights and
      men-at-arms used to wear under their harness. The Saracen, if he had
      admired the strength of his adversary when sheathed in steel, was now no
      less struck with the accuracy of proportion displayed in his nervous and
      well-compacted figure. The knight, on the other hand, as, in exchange of
      courtesy, he assisted the Saracen to disrobe himself of his upper
      garments, that he might sleep with more convenience, was, on his side, at
      a loss to conceive how such slender proportions and slimness of figure
      could be reconciled with the vigour he had displayed in personal contest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Each warrior prayed ere he addressed himself to his place of rest. The
      Moslem turned towards his KEBLAH, the point to which the prayer of each
      follower of the Prophet was to be addressed, and murmured his heathen
      orisons; while the Christian, withdrawing from the contamination of the
      infidel's neighbourhood, placed his huge cross-handled sword upright, and
      kneeling before it as the sign of salvation, told his rosary with a
      devotion which was enhanced by the recollection of the scenes through
      which he had passed, and the dangers from which he had been rescued, in
      the course of the day. Both warriors, worn by toil and travel, were soon
      fast asleep, each on his separate pallet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Kenneth the Scot was uncertain how long his senses had been lost in
      profound repose, when he was roused to recollection by a sense of
      oppression on his chest, which at first suggested a flirting dream of
      struggling with a powerful opponent, and at length recalled him fully to
      his senses. He was about to demand who was there, when, opening his eyes,
      he beheld the figure of the anchorite, wild and savage-looking as we have
      described him, standing by his bedside, and pressing his right hand upon
      his breast, while he held a small silver lamp in the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent,&rdquo; said the hermit, as the prostrate knight looked up in
      surprise; &ldquo;I have that to say to you which yonder infidel must not hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words he spoke in the French language, and not in the lingua franca,
      or compound of Eastern and European dialects, which had hitherto been used
      amongst them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arise,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;put on thy mantle; speak not, but tread lightly,
      and follow me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth arose, and took his sword.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It needs not,&rdquo; answered the anchorite, in a whisper; &ldquo;we are going where
      spiritual arms avail much, and fleshly weapons are but as the reed and the
      decayed gourd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knight deposited his sword by the bedside as before, and, armed only
      with his dagger, from which in this perilous country he never parted,
      prepared to attend his mysterious host.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hermit then moved slowly forwards, and was followed by the knight,
      still under some uncertainty whether the dark form which glided on before
      to show him the path was not, in fact, the creation of a disturbed dream.
      They passed, like shadows, into the outer apartment, without disturbing
      the paynim Emir, who lay still buried in repose. Before the cross and
      altar, in the outward room, a lamp was still burning, a missal was
      displayed, and on the floor lay a discipline, or penitential scourge of
      small cord and wire, the lashes of which were recently stained with blood&mdash;a
      token, no doubt, of the severe penance of the recluse. Here Theodorick
      kneeled down, and pointed to the knight to take his place beside him upon
      the sharp flints, which seemed placed for the purpose of rendering the
      posture of reverential devotion as uneasy as possible. He read many
      prayers of the Catholic Church, and chanted, in a low but earnest voice,
      three of the penitential psalms. These last he intermixed with sighs, and
      tears, and convulsive throbs, which bore witness how deeply he felt the
      divine poetry which he recited. The Scottish knight assisted with profound
      sincerity at these acts of devotion, his opinion of his host beginning, in
      the meantime, to be so much changed, that he doubted whether, from the
      severity of his penance and the ardour of his prayers, he ought not to
      regard him as a saint; and when they arose from the ground, he stood with
      reverence before him, as a pupil before an honoured master. The hermit
      was, on his side, silent and abstracted for the space of a few minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look into yonder recess, my son,&rdquo; he said, pointing to the farther corner
      of the cell; &ldquo;there thou wilt find a veil&mdash;bring it hither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knight obeyed, and in a small aperture cut out of the wall, and
      secured with a door of wicker, he found the veil inquired for. When he
      brought it to the light, he discovered that it was torn, and soiled in
      some places with some dark substance. The anchorite looked at it with a
      deep but smothered emotion, and ere he could speak to the Scottish knight,
      was compelled to vent his feelings in a convulsive groan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art now about to look upon the richest treasure that the earth
      possesses,&rdquo; he at length said; &ldquo;woe is me, that my eyes are unworthy to be
      lifted towards it! Alas! I am but the vile and despised sign, which points
      out to the wearied traveller a harbour of rest and security, but must
      itself remain for ever without doors. In vain have I fled to the very
      depths of the rocks, and the very bosom of the thirsty desert. Mine enemy
      hath found me&mdash;even he whom I have denied has pursued me to my
      fortresses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused again for a moment, and turning to the Scottish knight, said, in
      a firmer tone of voice, &ldquo;You bring me a greeting from Richard of England?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come from the Council of Christian Princes,&rdquo; said the knight; &ldquo;but the
      King of England being indisposed, I am not honoured with his Majesty's
      commands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your token?&rdquo; demanded the recluse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth hesitated. Former suspicions, and the marks of insanity which
      the hermit had formerly exhibited, rushed suddenly on his thoughts; but
      how suspect a man whose manners were so saintly? &ldquo;My password,&rdquo; he said at
      length, &ldquo;is this&mdash;Kings begged of a beggar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is right,&rdquo; said the hermit, while he paused. &ldquo;I know you well; but the
      sentinel upon his post&mdash;and mine is an important one&mdash;challenges
      friend as well as foe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then moved forward with the lamp, leading the way into the room which
      they had left. The Saracen lay on his couch, still fast asleep. The hermit
      paused by his side, and looked down on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He sleeps,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in darkness, and must not be awakened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The attitude of the Emir did indeed convey the idea of profound repose.
      One arm, flung across his body, as he lay with his face half turned to the
      wall, concealed, with its loose and long sleeve, the greater part of his
      face; but the high forehead was yet visible. Its nerves, which during his
      waking hours were so uncommonly active, were now motionless, as if the
      face had been composed of dark marble, and his long silken eyelashes
      closed over his piercing and hawklike eyes. The open and relaxed hand, and
      the deep, regular, and soft breathing, all gave tokens of the most
      profound repose. The slumberer formed a singular group along with the tall
      forms of the hermit in his shaggy dress of goat-skins, bearing the lamp,
      and the knight in his close leathern coat&mdash;the former with an austere
      expression of ascetic gloom, the latter with anxious curiosity deeply
      impressed on his manly features.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He sleeps soundly,&rdquo; said the hermit, in the same low tone as before; and
      repeating the words, though he had changed the meaning from that which is
      literal to a metaphorical sense&mdash;&ldquo;he sleeps in darkness, but there
      shall be for him a dayspring.&mdash;O Ilderim, thy waking thoughts are yet
      as vain and wild as those which are wheeling their giddy dance through thy
      sleeping brain; but the trumpet shall be heard, and the dream shall be
      dissolved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and making the knight a sign to follow him, the hermit went
      towards the altar, and passing behind it, pressed a spring, which, opening
      without noise, showed a small iron door wrought in the side of the cavern,
      so as to be almost imperceptible, unless upon the most severe scrutiny.
      The hermit, ere he ventured fully to open the door, dropped some oil on
      the hinges, which the lamp supplied. A small staircase, hewn in the rock,
      was discovered, when the iron door was at length completely opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the veil which I hold,&rdquo; said the hermit, in a melancholy tone, &ldquo;and
      blind mine eyes; For I may not look on the treasure which thou art
      presently to behold, without sin and presumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without reply, the knight hastily muffled the recluse's head in the veil,
      and the latter began to ascend the staircase as one too much accustomed to
      the way to require the use of light, while at the same time he held the
      lamp to the Scot, who followed him for many steps up the narrow ascent. At
      length they rested in a small vault of irregular form, in one nook of
      which the staircase terminated, while in another corner a corresponding
      stair was seen to continue the ascent. In a third angle was a Gothic door,
      very rudely ornamented with the usual attributes of clustered columns and
      carving, and defended by a wicket, strongly guarded with iron, and studded
      with large nails. To this last point the hermit directed his steps, which
      seemed to falter as he approached it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put off thy shoes,&rdquo; he said to his attendant; &ldquo;the ground on which thou
      standest is holy. Banish from thy innermost heart each profane and carnal
      thought, for to harbour such while in this place were a deadly impiety.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knight laid aside his shoes as he was commanded, and the hermit stood
      in the meanwhile as if communing with his soul in secret prayer, and when
      he again moved, commanded the knight to knock at the wicket three times.
      He did so. The door opened spontaneously&mdash;at least Sir Kenneth beheld
      no one&mdash;and his senses were at once assailed by a stream of the
      purest light, and by a strong and almost oppressive sense of the richest
      perfumes. He stepped two or three paces back, and it was the space of a
      minute ere he recovered the dazzling and overpowering effects of the
      sudden change from darkness to light.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he entered the apartment in which this brilliant lustre was
      displayed, he perceived that the light proceeded from a combination of
      silver lamps, fed with purest oil, and sending forth the richest odours,
      hanging by silver chains from the roof of a small Gothic chapel, hewn,
      like most part of the hermit's singular mansion, out of the sound and
      solid rock. But whereas, in every other place which Sir Kenneth had seen,
      the labour employed upon the rock had been of the simplest and coarsest
      description, it had in this chapel employed the invention and the chisels
      of the most able architects. The groined roofs rose from six columns on
      each side, carved with the rarest skill; and the manner in which the
      crossings of the concave arches were bound together, as it were, with
      appropriate ornaments, were all in the finest tone of the architecture of
      the age. Corresponding to the line of pillars, there were on each side six
      richly-wrought niches, each of which contained the image of one of the
      twelve apostles.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the upper and eastern end of the chapel stood the altar, behind which a
      very rich curtain of Persian silk, embroidered deeply with gold, covered a
      recess, containing, unquestionably, some image or relic of no ordinary
      sanctity, in honour of which this singular place of worship had been
      erected, Under the persuasion that this must be the case, the knight
      advanced to the shrine, and kneeling down before it, repeated his
      devotions with fervency, during which his attention was disturbed by the
      curtain being suddenly raised, or rather pulled aside, how or by whom he
      saw not; but in the niche which was thus disclosed he beheld a cabinet of
      silver and ebony, with a double folding-door, the whole formed into the
      miniature resemblance of a Gothic church.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he gazed with anxious curiosity on the shrine, the two folding-doors
      also flew open, discovering a large piece of wood, on which were blazoned
      the words, VERA CRUX; at the same time a choir of female voices sung
      GLORIA PATRI. The instant the strain had ceased, the shrine was closed,
      and the curtain again drawn, and the knight who knelt at the altar might
      now continue his devotions undisturbed, in honour of the holy relic which
      had been just disclosed to his view. He did this under the profound
      impression of one who had witnessed, with his own eyes, an awful evidence
      of the truth of his religion; and it was some time ere, concluding his
      orisons, he arose, and ventured to look around him for the hermit, who had
      guided him to this sacred and mysterious spot. He beheld him, his head
      still muffled in the veil which he had himself wrapped around it,
      crouching, like a rated hound, upon the threshold of the chapel; but,
      apparently, without venturing to cross it&mdash;the holiest reverence, the
      most penitential remorse, was expressed by his posture, which seemed that
      of a man borne down and crushed to the earth by the burden of his inward
      feelings. It seemed to the Scot that only the sense of the deepest
      penitence, remorse, and humiliation could have thus prostrated a frame so
      strong and a spirit so fiery.
    </p>
    <p>
      He approached him as if to speak; but the recluse anticipated his purpose,
      murmuring in stifled tones, from beneath the fold in which his head was
      muffled, and which sounded like a voice proceeding from the cerements of a
      corpse,&mdash;&ldquo;Abide, abide&mdash;happy thou that mayest&mdash;the vision
      is not yet ended.&rdquo; So saying, he reared himself from the ground, drew back
      from the threshold on which he had hitherto lain prostrate, and closed the
      door of the chapel, which, secured by a spring bolt within, the snap of
      which resounded through the place, appeared so much like a part of the
      living rock from which the cavern was hewn, that Kenneth could hardly
      discern where the aperture had been. He was now alone in the lighted
      chapel which contained the relic to which he had lately rendered his
      homage, without other arms than his dagger, or other companion than his
      pious thoughts and dauntless courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Uncertain what was next to happen, but resolved to abide the course of
      events, Sir Kenneth paced the solitary chapel till about the time of the
      earliest cock-crowing. At this dead season, when night and morning met
      together, he heard, but from what quarter he could not discover, the sound
      of such a small silver bell as is rung at the elevation of the host in the
      ceremony, or sacrifice, as it has been called, of the mass. The hour and
      the place rendered the sound fearfully solemn, and, bold as he was, the
      knight withdrew himself into the farther nook of the chapel, at the end
      opposite to the altar, in order to observe, without interruption, the
      consequences of this unexpected signal.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not wait long ere the silken curtain was again withdrawn, and the
      relic again presented to his view. As he sunk reverentially on his knee,
      he heard the sound of the lauds, or earliest office of the Catholic
      Church, sung by female voices, which united together in the performance as
      they had done in the former service. The knight was soon aware that the
      voices were no longer stationary in the distance, but approached the
      chapel and became louder, when a door, imperceptible when closed, like
      that by which he had himself entered, opened on the other side of the
      vault, and gave the tones of the choir more room to swell along the ribbed
      arches of the roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      The knight fixed his eyes on the opening with breathless anxiety, and,
      continuing to kneel in the attitude of devotion which the place and scene
      required, expected the consequence of these preparations. A procession
      appeared about to issue from the door. First, four beautiful boys, whose
      arms, necks, and legs were bare, showing the bronze complexion of the
      East, and contrasting with the snow-white tunics which they wore, entered
      the chapel by two and two. The first pair bore censers, which they swung
      from side to side, adding double fragrance to the odours with which the
      chapel already was impregnated. The second pair scattered flowers.
    </p>
    <p>
      After these followed, in due and majestic order, the females who composed
      the choir&mdash;six, who from their black scapularies, and black veils
      over their white garments, appeared to be professed nuns of the order of
      Mount Carmel; and as many whose veils, being white, argued them to be
      novices, or occasional inhabitants in the cloister, who were not as yet
      bound to it by vows. The former held in their hands large rosaries, while
      the younger and lighter figures who followed carried each a chaplet of red
      and white roses. They moved in procession around the chapel, without
      appearing to take the slightest notice of Kenneth, although passing so
      near him that their robes almost touched him, while they continued to
      sing. The knight doubted not that he was in one of those cloisters where
      the noble Christian maidens had formerly openly devoted themselves to the
      services of the church. Most of them had been suppressed since the
      Mohammedans had reconquered Palestine, but many, purchasing connivance by
      presents, or receiving it from the clemency or contempt of the victors,
      still continued to observe in private the ritual to which their vows had
      consecrated them. Yet, though Kenneth knew this to be the case, the
      solemnity of the place and hour, the surprise at the sudden appearance of
      these votaresses, and the visionary manner in which they moved past him,
      had such influence on his imagination that he could scarce conceive that
      the fair procession which he beheld was formed of creatures of this world,
      so much did they resemble a choir of supernatural beings, rendering homage
      to the universal object of adoration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the knight's first idea, as the procession passed him, scarce
      moving, save just sufficiently to continue their progress; so that, seen
      by the shadowy and religious light which the lamps shed through the clouds
      of incense which darkened the apartment, they appeared rather to glide
      than to walk.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as a second time, in surrounding the chapel, they passed the spot on
      which he kneeled, one of the white-stoled maidens, as she glided by him,
      detached from the chaplet which she carried a rosebud, which dropped from
      her fingers, perhaps unconsciously, on the foot of Sir Kenneth. The knight
      started as if a dart had suddenly struck his person; for, when the mind is
      wound up to a high pitch of feeling and expectation, the slightest
      incident, if unexpected, gives fire to the train which imagination has
      already laid. But he suppressed his emotion, recollecting how easily an
      incident so indifferent might have happened, and that it was only the
      uniform monotony of the movement of the choristers which made the incident
      in the slightest degree remarkable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, while the procession, for the third time, surrounded the chapel,
      the thoughts and the eyes of Kenneth followed exclusively the one among
      the novices who had dropped the rosebud. Her step, her face, her form were
      so completely assimilated to the rest of the choristers that it was
      impossible to perceive the least marks of individuality; and yet Kenneth's
      heart throbbed like a bird that would burst from its cage, as if to assure
      him, by its sympathetic suggestions, that the female who held the right
      file on the second rank of the novices was dearer to him, not only than
      all the rest that were present, but than the whole sex besides. The
      romantic passion of love, as it was cherished, and indeed enjoined, by the
      rules of chivalry, associated well with the no less romantic feelings of
      devotion; and they might be said much more to enhance than to counteract
      each other. It was, therefore, with a glow of expectation that had
      something even of a religious character that Sir Kenneth, his sensations
      thrilling from his heart to the ends of his fingers, expected some second
      sign of the presence of one who, he strongly fancied, had already bestowed
      on him the first. Short as the space was during which the procession again
      completed a third perambulation of the chapel, it seemed an eternity to
      Kenneth. At length the form which he had watched with such devoted
      attention drew nigh. There was no difference betwixt that shrouded figure
      and the others, with whom it moved in concert and in unison, until, just
      as she passed for the third time the kneeling Crusader, a part of a little
      and well-proportioned hand, so beautifully formed as to give the highest
      idea of the perfect proportions of the form to which it belonged, stole
      through the folds of the gauze, like a moonbeam through the fleecy cloud
      of a summer night, and again a rosebud lay at the feet of the Knight of
      the Leopard.
    </p>
    <p>
      This second intimation could not be accidental&mdash;-it could not be
      fortuitous, the resemblance of that half-seen but beautiful female hand
      with one which his lips had once touched, and, while they touched it, had
      internally sworn allegiance to the lovely owner. Had further proof been
      wanting, there was the glimmer of that matchless ruby ring on that
      snow-white finger, whose invaluable worth Kenneth would yet have prized
      less than the slightest sign which that finger could have made; and,
      veiled too, as she was, he might see, by chance or by favour, a stray curl
      of the dark tresses, each hair of which was dearer to him a hundred times
      than a chain of massive gold. It was the lady of his love! But that she
      should be here&mdash;in the savage and sequestered desert&mdash;among
      vestals, who rendered themselves habitants of wilds and of caverns, that
      they might perform in secret those Christian rites which they dared not
      assist in openly; that this should be so, in truth and in reality, seemed
      too incredible&mdash;it must be a dream&mdash;a delusive trance of the
      imagination. While these thoughts passed through the mind of Kenneth, the
      same passage, by which the procession had entered the chapel, received
      them on their return. The young sacristans, the sable nuns, vanished
      successively through the open door. At length she from whom he had
      received this double intimation passed also; yet, in passing, turned her
      head, slightly indeed, but perceptibly, towards the place where he
      remained fixed as an image. He marked the last wave of her veil&mdash;it
      was gone&mdash;and a darkness sunk upon his soul, scarce less palpable
      than that which almost immediately enveloped his external sense; for the
      last chorister had no sooner crossed the threshold of the door than it
      shut with a loud sound, and at the same instant the voices of the choir
      were silent, the lights of the chapel were at once extinguished, and Sir
      Kenneth remained solitary and in total darkness. But to Kenneth, solitude,
      and darkness, and the uncertainty of his mysterious situation were as
      nothing&mdash;he thought not of them&mdash;cared not for them&mdash;cared
      for nought in the world save the flitting vision which had just glided
      past him, and the tokens of her favour which she had bestowed. To grope on
      the floor for the buds which she had dropped&mdash;to press them to his
      lips, to his bosom, now alternately, now together&mdash;to rivet his lips
      to the cold stones on which, as near as he could judge, she had so lately
      stepped&mdash;to play all the extravagances which strong affection
      suggests and vindicates to those who yield themselves up to it, were but
      the tokens of passionate love common to all ages. But it was peculiar to
      the times of chivalry that, in his wildest rapture, the knight imagined of
      no attempt to follow or to trace the object of such romantic attachment;
      that he thought of her as of a deity, who, having deigned to show herself
      for an instant to her devoted worshipper, had again returned to the
      darkness of her sanctuary&mdash;or as an influential planet, which, having
      darted in some auspicious minute one favourable ray, wrapped itself again
      in its veil of mist. The motions of the lady of his love were to him those
      of a superior being, who was to move without watch or control, rejoice him
      by her appearance, or depress him by her absence, animate him by her
      kindness, or drive him to despair by her cruelty&mdash;all at her own free
      will, and without other importunity or remonstrance than that expressed by
      the most devoted services of the heart and sword of the champion, whose
      sole object in life was to fulfil her commands, and, by the splendour of
      his own achievements, to exalt her fame.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the rules of chivalry, and of the love which was its ruling
      principle. But Sir Kenneth's attachment was rendered romantic by other and
      still more peculiar circumstances. He had never even heard the sound of
      his lady's voice, though he had often beheld her beauty with rapture. She
      moved in a circle which his rank of knighthood permitted him indeed to
      approach, but not to mingle with; and highly as he stood distinguished for
      warlike skill and enterprise, still the poor Scottish soldier was
      compelled to worship his divinity at a distance almost as great as divides
      the Persian from the sun which he adores. But when was the pride of woman
      too lofty to overlook the passionate devotion of a lover, however inferior
      in degree? Her eye had been on him in the tournament, her ear had heard
      his praises in the report of the battles which were daily fought; and
      while count, duke, and lord contended for her grace, it flowed,
      unwillingly perhaps at first, or even unconsciously, towards the poor
      Knight of the Leopard, who, to support his rank, had little besides his
      sword. When she looked, and when she listened, the lady saw and heard
      enough to encourage her in a partiality which had at first crept on her
      unawares. If a knight's personal beauty was praised, even the most prudish
      dames of the military court of England would make an exception in favour
      of the Scottish Kenneth; and it oftentimes happened that, notwithstanding
      the very considerable largesses which princes and peers bestowed on the
      minstrels, an impartial spirit of independence would seize the poet, and
      the harp was swept to the heroism of one who had neither palfreys nor
      garments to bestow in guerdon of his applause.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moments when she listened to the praises of her lover became gradually
      more and more dear to the high-born Edith, relieving the flattery with
      which her ear was weary, and presenting to her a subject of secret
      contemplation, more worthy, as he seemed by general report, than those who
      surpassed him in rank and in the gifts of fortune. As her attention became
      constantly, though cautiously, fixed on Sir Kenneth, she grew more and
      more convinced of his personal devotion to herself and more and more
      certain in her mind that in Kenneth of Scotland she beheld the fated
      knight doomed to share with her through weal and woe&mdash;and the
      prospect looked gloomy and dangerous&mdash;the passionate attachment to
      which the poets of the age ascribed such universal dominion, and which its
      manners and morals placed nearly on the same rank with devotion itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Let us not disguise the truth from our readers. When Edith became aware of
      the state of her own sentiments, chivalrous as were her sentiments,
      becoming a maiden not distant from the throne of England&mdash;gratified
      as her pride must have been with the mute though unceasing homage rendered
      to her by the knight whom she had distinguished, there were moments when
      the feelings of the woman, loving and beloved, murmured against the
      restraints of state and form by which she was surrounded, and when she
      almost blamed the timidity of her lover, who seemed resolved not to
      infringe them. The etiquette, to use a modern phrase, of birth and rank,
      had drawn around her a magical circle, beyond which Sir Kenneth might
      indeed bow and gaze, but within which he could no more pass than an evoked
      spirit can transgress the boundaries prescribed by the rod of a powerful
      enchanter. The thought involuntarily pressed on her that she herself must
      venture, were it but the point of her fairy foot, beyond the prescribed
      boundary, if she ever hoped to give a lover so reserved and bashful an
      opportunity of so slight a favour as but to salute her shoe-tie. There was
      an example&mdash;the noted precedent of the &ldquo;King's daughter of Hungary,&rdquo;
       who thus generously encouraged the &ldquo;squire of low degree;&rdquo; and Edith,
      though of kingly blood, was no king's daughter, any more than her lover
      was of low degree&mdash;fortune had put no such extreme barrier in
      obstacle to their affections. Something, however, within the maiden's
      bosom&mdash;that modest pride which throws fetters even on love itself
      forbade her, notwithstanding the superiority of her condition, to make
      those advances, which, in every case, delicacy assigns to the other sex;
      above all, Sir Kenneth was a knight so gentle and honourable, so highly
      accomplished, as her imagination at least suggested, together with the
      strictest feelings of what was due to himself and to her, that however
      constrained her attitude might be while receiving his adorations, like the
      image of some deity, who is neither supposed to feel nor to reply to the
      homage of its votaries, still the idol feared that to step prematurely
      from her pedestal would be to degrade herself in the eyes of her devoted
      worshipper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the devout adorer of an actual idol can even discover signs of
      approbation in the rigid and immovable features of a marble image; and it
      is no wonder that something, which could be as favourably interpreted,
      glanced from the bright eye of the lovely Edith, whose beauty, indeed,
      consisted rather more in that very power of expression, than an absolute
      regularity of contour or brilliancy of complexion. Some slight marks of
      distinction had escaped from her, notwithstanding her own jealous
      vigilance, else how could Sir Kenneth have so readily and so undoubtingly
      recognized the lovely hand, of which scarce two fingers were visible from
      under the veil, or how could he have rested so thoroughly assured that two
      flowers, successively dropped on the spot, were intended as a recognition
      on the part of his lady-love? By what train of observation&mdash;by what
      secret signs, looks, or gestures&mdash;by what instinctive freemasonry of
      love, this degree of intelligence came to subsist between Edith and her
      lover, we cannot attempt to trace; for we are old, and such slight
      vestiges of affection, quickly discovered by younger eyes, defy the power
      of ours. Enough that such affection did subsist between parties who had
      never even spoken to one another&mdash;though, on the side of Edith, it
      was checked by a deep sense of the difficulties and dangers which must
      necessarily attend the further progress of their attachment; and upon that
      of the knight by a thousand doubts and fears lest he had overestimated the
      slight tokens of the lady's notice, varied, as they necessarily were, by
      long intervals of apparent coldness, during which either the fear of
      exciting the observation of others, and thus drawing danger upon her
      lover, or that of sinking in his esteem by seeming too willing to be won,
      made her behave with indifference, and as if unobservant of his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      This narrative, tedious perhaps, but which the story renders necessary,
      may serve to explain the state of intelligence, if it deserves so strong a
      name, betwixt the lovers, when Edith's unexpected appearance in the chapel
      produced so powerful an effect on the feelings of her knight.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Their necromantic forms in vain
     Haunt us on the tented plain;
     We bid these spectre shapes avaunt,
     Ashtaroth and Termagaunt.     WARTON.
</pre>
    <p>
      The most profound silence, the deepest darkness, continued to brood for
      more than an hour over the chapel in which we left the Knight of the
      Leopard still kneeling, alternately expressing thanks to Heaven and
      gratitude to his lady for the boon which had been vouchsafed to him. His
      own safety, his own destiny, for which he was at all times little anxious,
      had not now the weight of a grain of dust in his reflections. He was in
      the neighbourhood of Lady Edith; he had received tokens of her grace; he
      was in a place hallowed by relics of the most awful sanctity. A Christian
      soldier, a devoted lover, could fear nothing, think of nothing, but his
      duty to Heaven and his devoir to his lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the lapse of the space of time which we have noticed, a shrill whistle,
      like that with which a falconer calls his hawk, was heard to ring sharply
      through the vaulted chapel. It was a sound ill suited to the place, and
      reminded Sir Kenneth how necessary it was he should be upon his guard. He
      started from his knee, and laid his hand upon his poniard. A creaking
      sound, as of a screw or pulleys, succeeded, and a light streaming upwards,
      as from an opening in the floor, showed that a trap-door had been raised
      or depressed. In less than a minute a long, skinny arm, partly naked,
      partly clothed in a sleeve of red samite, arose out of the aperture,
      holding a lamp as high as it could stretch upwards, and the figure to
      which the arm belonged ascended step by step to the level of the chapel
      floor. The form and face of the being who thus presented himself were
      those of a frightful dwarf, with a large head, a cap fantastically adorned
      with three peacock feathers, a dress of red samite, the richness of which
      rendered his ugliness more conspicuous, distinguished by gold bracelets
      and armlets, and a white silk sash, in which he wore a gold-hilted dagger.
      This singular figure had in his left hand a kind of broom. So soon as he
      had stepped from the aperture through which he arose, he stood still, and,
      as if to show himself more distinctly, moved the lamp which he held slowly
      over his face and person, successively illuminating his wild and fantastic
      features, and his misshapen but nervous limbs. Though disproportioned in
      person, the dwarf was not so distorted as to argue any want of strength or
      activity. While Sir Kenneth gazed on this disagreeable object, the popular
      creed occurred to his remembrance concerning the gnomes or earthly spirits
      which make their abode in the caverns of the earth; and so much did this
      figure correspond with ideas he had formed of their appearance, that he
      looked on it with disgust, mingled not indeed with fear, but that sort of
      awe which the presence of a supernatural creature may infuse into the most
      steady bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf again whistled, and summoned from beneath a companion. This
      second figure ascended in the same manner as the first; but it was a
      female arm in this second instance which upheld the lamp from the
      subterranean vault out of which these presentments arose, and it was a
      female form, much resembling the first in shape and proportions, which
      slowly emerged from the floor. Her dress was also of red samite,
      fantastically cut and flounced, as if she had been dressed for some
      exhibition of mimes or jugglers; and with the same minuteness which her
      predecessor had exhibited, she passed the lamp over her face and person,
      which seemed to rival the male's in ugliness. But with all this most
      unfavourable exterior, there was one trait in the features of both which
      argued alertness and intelligence in the most uncommon degree. This arose
      from the brilliancy of their eyes, which, deep-set beneath black and
      shaggy brows, gleamed with a lustre which, like that in the eye of the
      toad, seemed to make some amends for the extreme ugliness of countenance
      and person.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth remained as if spellbound, while this unlovely pair, moving
      round the chapel close to each other, appeared to perform the duty of
      sweeping it, like menials; but as they used only one hand, the floor was
      not much benefited by the exercise, which they plied with such oddity of
      gestures and manner as befitted their bizarre and fantastic appearance.
      When they approached near to the knight in the course of their occupation,
      they ceased to use their brooms; and placing themselves side by side,
      directly opposite to Sir Kenneth, they again slowly shifted the lights
      which they held, so as to allow him distinctly to survey features which
      were not rendered more agreeable by being brought nearer, and to observe
      the extreme quickness and keenness with which their black and glittering
      eyes flashed back the light of the lamps. They then turned the gleam of
      both lights upon the knight, and having accurately surveyed him, turned
      their faces to each other, and set up a loud, yelling laugh, which
      resounded in his ears. The sound was so ghastly that Sir Kenneth started
      at hearing it, and hastily demanded, in the name of God, who they were who
      profaned that holy place with such antic gestures and elritch
      exclamations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the dwarf Nectabanus,&rdquo; said the abortion-seeming male, in a voice
      corresponding to his figure, and resembling the voice of the night-crow
      more than any sound which is heard by daylight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am Guenevra, his lady and his love,&rdquo; replied the female, in tones
      which, being shriller, were yet wilder than those of her companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wherefore are you here?&rdquo; again demanded the knight, scarcely yet assured
      that they were human beings which he saw before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am,&rdquo; replied the male dwarf, with much assumed gravity and dignity,
      &ldquo;the twelfth Imaum. I am Mohammed Mohadi, the guide and the conductor of
      the faithful. A hundred horses stand ready saddled for me and my train at
      the Holy City, and as many at the City of Refuge. I am he who shall bear
      witness, and this is one of my houris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou liest!&rdquo; answered the female, interrupting her companion, in tones
      yet shriller than his own; &ldquo;I am none of thy houris, and thou art no such
      infidel trash as the Mohammed of whom thou speakest. May my curse rest
      upon his coffin! I tell thee, thou ass of Issachar, thou art King Arthur
      of Britain, whom the fairies stole away from the field of Avalon; and I am
      Dame Guenevra, famed for her beauty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But in truth, noble sir,&rdquo; said the male, &ldquo;we are distressed princes,
      dwelling under the wing of King Guy of Jerusalem, until he was driven out
      from his own nest by the foul infidels&mdash;Heaven's bolts consume them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush,&rdquo; said a voice from the side upon which the knight had entered&mdash;&ldquo;hush,
      fools, and begone; your ministry is ended.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dwarfs had no sooner heard the command than, gibbering in discordant
      whispers to each other, they blew out their lights at once, and left the
      knight in utter darkness, which, when the pattering of their retiring feet
      had died away, was soon accompanied by its fittest companion, total
      silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The knight felt the departure of these unfortunate creatures a relief. He
      could not, from their language, manners, and appearance, doubt that they
      belonged to the degraded class of beings whom deformity of person and
      weakness of intellect recommended to the painful situation of appendages
      to great families, where their personal appearance and imbecility were
      food for merriment to the household. Superior in no respect to the ideas
      and manners of his time, the Scottish knight might, at another period,
      have been much amused by the mummery of these poor effigies of humanity;
      but now their appearance, gesticulations, and language broke the train of
      deep and solemn feeling with which he was impressed, and he rejoiced in
      the disappearance of the unhappy objects.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few minutes after they had retired, the door at which he had entered
      opened slowly, and remaining ajar, discovered a faint light arising from a
      lantern placed upon the threshold. Its doubtful and wavering gleam showed
      a dark form reclined beside the entrance, but without its precincts,
      which, on approaching it more nearly, he recognized to be the hermit,
      crouching in the same humble posture in which he had at first laid himself
      down, and which, doubtless, he had retained during the whole time of his
      guest's continuing in the chapel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All is over,&rdquo; said the hermit, as he heard the knight approaching, &ldquo;and
      the most wretched of earthly sinners, with him who should think himself
      most honoured and most happy among the race of humanity, must retire from
      this place. Take the light, and guide me down the descent, for I must not
      uncover my eyes until I am far from this hallowed spot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish knight obeyed in silence, for a solemn and yet ecstatic sense
      of what he had seen had silenced even the eager workings of curiosity. He
      led the way, with considerable accuracy, through the various secret
      passages and stairs by which they had ascended, until at length they found
      themselves in the outward cell of the hermit's cavern.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The condemned criminal is restored to his dungeon, reprieved from one
      miserable day to another, until his awful Judge shall at length appoint
      the well-deserved sentence to be carried into execution.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the hermit spoke these words, he laid aside the veil with which his
      eyes had been bound, and looked at it with a suppressed and hollow sigh.
      No sooner had he restored it to the crypt from which he had caused the
      Scot to bring it, than he said hastily and sternly to his companion;
      &ldquo;Begone, begone&mdash;to rest, to rest. You may sleep&mdash;you can sleep&mdash;I
      neither can nor may.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Respecting the profound agitation with which this was spoken, the knight
      retired into the inner cell; but casting back his eye as he left the
      exterior grotto, he beheld the anchorite stripping his shoulders with
      frantic haste of their shaggy mantle, and ere he could shut the frail door
      which separated the two compartments of the cavern, he heard the clang of
      the scourge and the groans of the penitent under his self-inflicted
      penance. A cold shudder came over the knight as he reflected what could be
      the foulness of the sin, what the depth of the remorse, which, apparently,
      such severe penance could neither cleanse nor assuage. He told his beads
      devoutly, and flung himself on his rude couch, after a glance at the still
      sleeping Moslem, and, wearied by the various scenes of the day and the
      night, soon slept as sound as infancy. Upon his awaking in the morning, he
      held certain conferences with the hermit upon matters of importance, and
      the result of their intercourse induced him to remain for two days longer
      in the grotto. He was regular, as became a pilgrim, in his devotional
      exercises, but was not again admitted to the chapel in which he had seen
      such wonders.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Now change the scene&mdash;and let the trumpets sound,
     For we must rouse the lion from his lair.  OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      The scene must change, as our programme has announced, from the mountain
      wilderness of Jordan to the camp of King Richard of England, then
      stationed betwixt Jean d'Acre and Ascalon, and containing that army with
      which he of the lion heart had promised himself a triumphant march to
      Jerusalem, and in which he would probably have succeeded, if not hindered
      by the jealousies of the Christian princes engaged in the same enterprise,
      and the offence taken by them at the uncurbed haughtiness of the English
      monarch, and Richard's unveiled contempt for his brother sovereigns, who,
      his equals in rank, were yet far his inferiors in courage, hardihood, and
      military talents. Such discords, and particularly those betwixt Richard
      and Philip of France, created disputes and obstacles which impeded every
      active measure proposed by the heroic though impetuous Richard, while the
      ranks of the Crusaders were daily thinned, not only by the desertion of
      individuals, but of entire bands, headed by their respective feudal
      leaders, who withdrew from a contest in which they had ceased to hope for
      success.
    </p>
    <p>
      The effects of the climate became, as usual, fatal to soldiers from the
      north, and the more so that the dissolute license of the Crusaders,
      forming a singular contrast to the principles and purpose of their taking
      up arms, rendered them more easy victims to the insalubrious influence of
      burning heat and chilling dews. To these discouraging causes of loss was
      to be added the sword of the enemy. Saladin, than whom no greater name is
      recorded in Eastern history, had learned, to his fatal experience, that
      his light-armed followers were little able to meet in close encounter with
      the iron-clad Franks, and had been taught, at the same time, to apprehend
      and dread the adventurous character of his antagonist Richard. But if his
      armies were more than once routed with great slaughter, his numbers gave
      the Saracen the advantage in those lighter skirmishes, of which many were
      inevitable.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the army of his assailants decreased, the enterprises of the Sultan
      became more numerous and more bold in this species of petty warfare. The
      camp of the Crusaders was surrounded, and almost besieged, by clouds of
      light cavalry, resembling swarms of wasps, easily crushed when they are
      once grasped, but furnished with wings to elude superior strength, and
      stings to inflict harm and mischief. There was perpetual warfare of posts
      and foragers, in which many valuable lives were lost, without any
      corresponding object being gained; convoys were intercepted, and
      communications were cut off. The Crusaders had to purchase the means of
      sustaining life, by life itself; and water, like that of the well of
      Bethlehem, longed for by King David, one of its ancient monarchs, was
      then, as before, only obtained by the expenditure of blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      These evils were in a great measure counterbalanced by the stern
      resolution and restless activity of King Richard, who, with some of his
      best knights, was ever on horseback, ready to repair to any point where
      danger occurred, and often not only bringing unexpected succour to the
      Christians, but discomfiting the infidels when they seemed most secure of
      victory. But even the iron frame of Coeur de Lion could not support
      without injury the alternations of the unwholesome climate, joined to
      ceaseless exertions of body and mind. He became afflicted with one of
      those slow and wasting fevers peculiar to Asia, and in despite of his
      great strength and still greater courage, grew first unfit to mount on
      horseback, and then unable to attend the councils of war which were from
      time to time held by the Crusaders. It was difficult to say whether this
      state of personal inactivity was rendered more galling or more endurable
      to the English monarch by the resolution of the council to engage in a
      truce of thirty days with the Sultan Saladin; for on the one hand, if he
      was incensed at the delay which this interposed to the progress of the
      great enterprise, he was, on the other, somewhat consoled by knowing that
      others were not acquiring laurels while he remained inactive upon a
      sick-bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That, however, which Coeur de Lion could least excuse was the general
      inactivity which prevailed in the camp of the Crusaders so soon as his
      illness assumed a serious aspect; and the reports which he extracted from
      his unwilling attendants gave him to understand that the hopes of the host
      had abated in proportion to his illness, and that the interval of truce
      was employed, not in recruiting their numbers, reanimating their courage,
      fostering their spirit of conquest, and preparing for a speedy and
      determined advance upon the Holy City, which was the object of their
      expedition, but in securing the camp occupied by their diminished
      followers with trenches, palisades, and other fortifications, as if
      preparing rather to repel an attack from a powerful enemy so soon as
      hostilities should recommence, than to assume the proud character of
      conquerors and assailants.
    </p>
    <p>
      The English king chafed under these reports, like the imprisoned lion
      viewing his prey from the iron barriers of his cage. Naturally rash and
      impetuous, the irritability of his temper preyed on itself. He was dreaded
      by his attendants and even the medical assistants feared to assume the
      necessary authority which a physician, to do justice to his patient, must
      needs exercise over him. One faithful baron, who, perhaps, from the
      congenial nature of his disposition, was devoutly attached to the King's
      person, dared alone to come between the dragon and his wrath, and quietly,
      but firmly, maintained a control which no other dared assume over the
      dangerous invalid, and which Thomas de Multon only exercised because he
      esteemed his sovereign's life and honour more than he did the degree of
      favour which he might lose, or even the risk which he might incur, in
      nursing a patient so intractable, and whose displeasure was so perilous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Thomas was the Lord of Gilsland, in Cumberland, and in an age when
      surnames and titles were not distinctly attached, as now, to the
      individuals who bore them, he was called by the Normans the Lord de Vaux;
      and in English by the Saxons, who clung to their native language, and were
      proud of the share of Saxon blood in this renowned warrior's veins, he was
      termed Thomas, or, more familiarly, Thom of the Gills, or Narrow Valleys,
      from which his extensive domains derived their well-known appellation.
    </p>
    <p>
      This chief had been exercised in almost all the wars, whether waged
      betwixt England and Scotland, or amongst the various domestic factions
      which then tore the former country asunder, and in all had been
      distinguished, as well from his military conduct as his personal prowess.
      He was, in other respects, a rude soldier, blunt and careless in his
      bearing, and taciturn&mdash;nay, almost sullen&mdash;in his habits of
      society, and seeming, at least, to disclaim all knowledge of policy and of
      courtly art. There were men, however, who pretended to look deeply into
      character, who asserted that the Lord de Vaux was not less shrewd and
      aspiring than he was blunt and bold, and who thought that, while he
      assimilated himself to the king's own character of blunt hardihood, it
      was, in some degree at least, with an eye to establish his favour, and to
      gratify his own hopes of deep-laid ambition. But no one cared to thwart
      his schemes, if such he had, by rivalling him in the dangerous occupation
      of daily attendance on the sick-bed of a patient whose disease was
      pronounced infectious, and more especially when it was remembered that the
      patient was Coeur de Lion, suffering under all the furious impatience of a
      soldier withheld from battle, and a sovereign sequestered from authority;
      and the common soldiers, at least in the English army, were generally of
      opinion that De Vaux attended on the King like comrade upon comrade, in
      the honest and disinterested frankness of military friendship contracted
      between the partakers of daily dangers.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on the decline of a Syrian day that Richard lay on his couch of
      sickness, loathing it as much in mind as his illness made it irksome to
      his body. His bright blue eye, which at all times shone with uncommon
      keenness and splendour, had its vivacity augmented by fever and mental
      impatience, and glanced from among his curled and unshorn locks of yellow
      hair as fitfully and as vividly as the last gleams of the sun shoot
      through the clouds of an approaching thunderstorm, which still, however,
      are gilded by its beams. His manly features showed the progress of wasting
      illness, and his beard, neglected and untrimmed, had overgrown both lips
      and chin. Casting himself from side to side, now clutching towards him the
      coverings, which at the next moment he flung as impatiently from him, his
      tossed couch and impatient gestures showed at once the energy and the
      reckless impatience of a disposition whose natural sphere was that of the
      most active exertion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beside his couch stood Thomas de Vaux, in face, attitude, and manner the
      strongest possible contrast to the suffering monarch. His stature
      approached the gigantic, and his hair in thickness might have resembled
      that of Samson, though only after the Israelitish champion's locks had
      passed under the shears of the Philistines, for those of De Vaux were cut
      short, that they might be enclosed under his helmet. The light of his
      broad, large hazel eye resembled that of the autumn morn; and it was only
      perturbed for a moment, when from time to time it was attracted by
      Richard's vehement marks of agitation and restlessness. His features,
      though massive like his person, might have been handsome before they were
      defaced with scars; his upper lip, after the fashion of the Normans, was
      covered with thick moustaches, which grew so long and luxuriantly as to
      mingle with his hair, and, like his hair, were dark brown, slightly
      brindled with grey. His frame seemed of that kind which most readily
      defies both toil and climate, for he was thin-flanked, broad-chested,
      long-armed, deep-breathed, and strong-limbed. He had not laid aside his
      buff-coat, which displayed the cross cut on the shoulder, for more than
      three nights, enjoying but such momentary repose as the warder of a sick
      monarch's couch might by snatches indulge. This Baron rarely changed his
      posture, except to administer to Richard the medicine or refreshments
      which none of his less favoured attendants could persuade the impatient
      monarch to take; and there was something affecting in the kindly yet
      awkward manner in which he discharged offices so strangely contrasted with
      his blunt and soldierly habits and manners.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pavilion in which these personages were, had, as became the time, as
      well as the personal character of Richard, more of a warlike than a
      sumptuous or royal character. Weapons offensive and defensive, several of
      them of strange and newly-invented construction, were scattered about the
      tented apartment, or disposed upon the pillars which supported it. Skins
      of animals slain in the chase were stretched on the ground, or extended
      along the sides of the pavilion; and upon a heap of these silvan spoils
      lay three ALANS, as they were then called (wolf-greyhounds, that is), of
      the largest size, and as white as snow. Their faces, marked with many a
      scar from clutch and fang, showed their share in collecting the trophies
      upon which they reposed; and their eyes, fixed from time to time with an
      expressive stretch and yawn upon the bed of Richard, evinced how much they
      marvelled at and regretted the unwonted inactivity which they were
      compelled to share. These were but the accompaniments of the soldier and
      huntsman; but on a small table close by the bed was placed a shield of
      wrought steel, of triangular form, bearing the three lions passant first
      assumed by the chivalrous monarch, and before it the golden circlet,
      resembling much a ducal coronet, only that it was higher in front than
      behind, which, with the purple velvet and embroidered tiara that lined it,
      formed then the emblem of England's sovereignty. Beside it, as if prompt
      for defending the regal symbol, lay a mighty curtal-axe, which would have
      wearied the arm of any other than Coeur de Lion.
    </p>
    <p>
      In an outer partition of the pavilion waited two or three officers of the
      royal household, depressed, anxious for their master's health, and not
      less so for their own safety, in case of his decease. Their gloomy
      apprehensions spread themselves to the warders without, who paced about in
      downcast and silent contemplation, or, resting on their halberds, stood
      motionless on their post, rather like armed trophies than living warriors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So thou hast no better news to bring me from without, Sir Thomas!&rdquo; said
      the King, after a long and perturbed silence, spent in the feverish
      agitation which we have endeavoured to describe. &ldquo;All our knights turned
      women, and our ladies become devotees, and neither a spark of valour nor
      of gallantry to enlighten a camp which contains the choicest of Europe's
      chivalry&mdash;ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The truce, my lord,&rdquo; said De Vaux, with the same patience with which he
      had twenty times repeated the explanation&mdash;&ldquo;the truce prevents us
      bearing ourselves as men of action; and for the ladies, I am no great
      reveller, as is well known to your Majesty, and seldom exchange steel and
      buff for velvet and gold&mdash;but thus far I know, that our choicest
      beauties are waiting upon the Queen's Majesty and the Princess, to a
      pilgrimage to the convent of Engaddi, to accomplish their vows for your
      Highness's deliverance from this trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it thus,&rdquo; said Richard, with the impatience of indisposition,
      &ldquo;that royal matrons and maidens should risk themselves, where the dogs who
      defile the land have as little truth to man as they have faith towards
      God?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my lord,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;they have Saladin's word for their safety.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, true!&rdquo; replied Richard; &ldquo;and I did the heathen Soldan injustice&mdash;I
      owe him reparation for it. Would God I were but fit to offer it him upon
      my body between the two hosts&mdash;Christendom and heathenesse both
      looking on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Richard spoke, he thrust his right arm out of bed naked to the
      shoulder, and painfully raising himself in his couch, shook his clenched
      hand, as if it grasped sword or battle-axe, and was then brandished over
      the jewelled turban of the Soldan. It was not without a gentle degree of
      violence, which the King would scarce have endured from another, that De
      Vaux, in his character of sick-nurse, compelled his royal master to
      replace himself in the couch, and covered his sinewy arm, neck, and
      shoulders with the care which a mother bestows upon an impatient child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art a rough nurse, though a willing one, De Vaux,&rdquo; said the King,
      laughing with a bitter expression, while he submitted to the strength
      which he was unable to resist; &ldquo;methinks a coif would become thy lowering
      features as well as a child's biggin would beseem mine. We should be a
      babe and nurse to frighten girls with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have frightened men in our time, my liege,&rdquo; said De Vaux; &ldquo;and, I
      trust, may live to frighten them again. What is a fever-fit, that we
      should not endure it patiently, in order to get rid of it easily?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fever-fit!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard impetuously; &ldquo;thou mayest think, and
      justly, that it is a fever-fit with me; but what is it with all the other
      Christian princes&mdash;with Philip of France, with that dull Austrian,
      with him of Montserrat, with the Hospitallers, with the Templars&mdash;what
      is it with all them? I will tell thee. It is a cold palsy, a dead
      lethargy, a disease that deprives them of speech and action, a canker that
      has eaten into the heart of all that is noble, and chivalrous, and
      virtuous among them&mdash;that has made them false to the noblest vow ever
      knights were sworn to&mdash;has made them indifferent to their fame, and
      forgetful of their God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the love of Heaven, my liege,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;take it less violently&mdash;you
      will be heard without doors, where such speeches are but too current
      already among the common soldiery, and engender discord and contention in
      the Christian host. Bethink you that your illness mars the mainspring of
      their enterprise; a mangonel will work without screw and lever better than
      the Christian host without King Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou flatterest me, De Vaux,&rdquo; said Richard, and not insensible to the
      power of praise, he reclined his head on the pillow with a more deliberate
      attempt to repose than he had yet exhibited. But Thomas de Vaux was no
      courtier; the phrase which had offered had risen spontaneously to his
      lips, and he knew not how to pursue the pleasing theme so as to soothe and
      prolong the vein which he had excited. He was silent, therefore, until,
      relapsing into his moody contemplations, the King demanded of him sharply,
      &ldquo;Despardieux! This is smoothly said to soothe a sick man; but does a
      league of monarchs, an assemblage or nobles, a convocation of all the
      chivalry of Europe, droop with the sickness of one man, though he chances
      to be King of England? Why should Richard's illness, or Richard's death,
      check the march of thirty thousand men as brave as himself? When the
      master stag is struck down, the herd do not disperse upon his fall; when
      the falcon strikes the leading crane, another takes the guidance of the
      phalanx. Why do not the powers assemble and choose some one to whom they
      may entrust the guidance of the host?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forsooth, and if it please your Majesty,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;I hear
      consultations have been held among the royal leaders for some such
      purpose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard, his jealousy awakened, giving his mental
      irritation another direction, &ldquo;am I forgot by my allies ere I have taken
      the last sacrament? Do they hold me dead already? But no, no, they are
      right. And whom do they select as leader of the Christian host?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rank and dignity,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;point to the King of France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, ay,&rdquo; answered the English monarch, &ldquo;Philip of France and Navarre&mdash;Denis
      Mountjoie&mdash;his most Christian Majesty! Mouth-filling words these!
      There is but one risk&mdash;that he might mistake the words EN ARRIERE for
      EN AVANT, and lead us back to Paris, instead of marching to Jerusalem. His
      politic head has learned by this time that there is more to be gotten by
      oppressing his feudatories, and pillaging his allies, than fighting with
      the Turks for the Holy Sepulchre.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They might choose the Archduke of Austria,&rdquo; said De Vaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! because he is big and burly like thyself, Thomas&mdash;nearly as
      thick-headed, but without thy indifference to danger and carelessness of
      offence? I tell thee that Austria has in all that mass of flesh no bolder
      animation than is afforded by the peevishness of a wasp and the courage of
      a wren. Out upon him! He a leader of chivalry to deeds of glory! Give him
      a flagon of Rhenish to drink with his besmirched baaren-hauters and
      lance-knechts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is the Grand Master of the Templars,&rdquo; continued the baron, not
      sorry to keep his master's attention engaged on other topics than his own
      illness, though at the expense of the characters of prince and potentate.
      &ldquo;There is the Grand Master of the Templars,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;undaunted,
      skilful, brave in battle, and sage in council, having no separate kingdoms
      of his own to divert his exertions from the recovery of the Holy Land&mdash;what
      thinks your Majesty of the Master as a general leader of the Christian
      host?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, Beau-Seant?&rdquo; answered the King. &ldquo;Oh, no exception can be taken to
      Brother Giles Amaury; he understands the ordering of a battle, and the
      fighting in front when it begins. But, Sir Thomas, were it fair to take
      the Holy Land from the heathen Saladin, so full of all the virtues which
      may distinguish unchristened man, and give it to Giles Amaury, a worse
      pagan than himself, an idolater, a devil-worshipper, a necromancer, who
      practises crimes the most dark and unnatural in the vaults and secret
      places of abomination and darkness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Grand Master of the Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem is not
      tainted by fame, either with heresy or magic,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is he not a sordid miser?&rdquo; said Richard hastily; &ldquo;has he not been
      suspected&mdash;ay, more than suspected&mdash;of selling to the infidels
      those advantages which they would never have won by fair force? Tush, man,
      better give the army to be made merchandise of by Venetian skippers and
      Lombardy pedlars, than trust it to the Grand Master of St. John.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I will venture but another guess,&rdquo; said the Baron de Vaux.
      &ldquo;What say you to the gallant Marquis of Montserrat, so wise, so elegant,
      such a good man-at-arms?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wise?&mdash;cunning, you would say,&rdquo; replied Richard; &ldquo;elegant in a
      lady's chamber, if you will. Oh, ay, Conrade of Montserrat&mdash;who knows
      not the popinjay? Politic and versatile, he will change you his purposes
      as often as the trimmings of his doublet, and you shall never be able to
      guess the hue of his inmost vestments from their outward colours. A
      man-at-arms? Ay, a fine figure on horseback, and can bear him well in the
      tilt-yard, and at the barriers, when swords are blunted at point and edge,
      and spears are tipped with trenchers of wood instead of steel pikes. Wert
      thou not with me when I said to that same gay Marquis, 'Here we be, three
      good Christians, and on yonder plain there pricks a band of some
      threescore Saracens&mdash;what say you to charge them briskly? There are
      but twenty unbelieving miscreants to each true knight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I recollect the Marquis replied,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;that his limbs were of
      flesh, not of iron, and that he would rather bear the heart of a man than
      of a beast, though that beast were the lion, But I see how it is&mdash;we
      shall end where we began, without hope of praying at the Sepulchre until
      Heaven shall restore King Richard to health.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this grave remark Richard burst out into a hearty fit of laughter, the
      first which he had for some time indulged in. &ldquo;Why what a thing is
      conscience,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that through its means even such a thick-witted
      northern lord as thou canst bring thy sovereign to confess his folly! It
      is true that, did they not propose themselves as fit to hold my
      leading-staff, little should I care for plucking the silken trappings off
      the puppets thou hast shown me in succession. What concerns it me what
      fine tinsel robes they swagger in, unless when they are named as rivals in
      the glorious enterprise to which I have vowed myself? Yes, De Vaux, I
      confess my weakness, and the wilfulness of my ambition. The Christian camp
      contains, doubtless, many a better knight than Richard of England, and it
      would be wise and worthy to assign to the best of them the leading of the
      host. But,&rdquo; continued the warlike monarch, raising himself in his bed, and
      shaking the cover from his head, while his eyes sparkled as they were wont
      to do on the eve of battle, &ldquo;were such a knight to plant the banner of the
      Cross on the Temple of Jerusalem while I was unable to bear my share in
      the noble task, he should, so soon as I was fit to lay lance in rest,
      undergo my challenge to mortal combat, for having diminished my fame, and
      pressed in before to the object of my enterprise. But hark, what trumpets
      are those at a distance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those of King Philip, as I guess, my liege,&rdquo; said the stout Englishman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art dull of ear, Thomas,&rdquo; said the King, endeavouring to start up;
      &ldquo;hearest thou not that clash and clang? By Heaven, the Turks are in the
      camp&mdash;I hear their LELIES.&rdquo; [The war-cries of the Moslemah.]
    </p>
    <p>
      He again endeavoured to get out of bed, and De Vaux was obliged to
      exercise his own great strength, and also to summon the assistance of the
      chamberlains from the inner tent, to restrain him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art a false traitor, De Vaux,&rdquo; said the incensed monarch, when,
      breathless and exhausted with struggling, he was compelled to submit to
      superior strength, and to repose in quiet on his couch. &ldquo;I would I were&mdash;I
      would I were but strong enough to dash thy brains out with my battle-axe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would you had the strength, my liege,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;and would even
      take the risk of its being so employed. The odds would be great in favour
      of Christendom were Thomas Multon dead and Coeur de Lion himself again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine honest faithful servant,&rdquo; said Richard, extending his hand, which
      the baron reverentially saluted, &ldquo;forgive thy master's impatience of mood.
      It is this burning fever which chides thee, and not thy kind master,
      Richard of England. But go, I prithee, and bring me word what strangers
      are in the camp, for these sounds are not of Christendom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux left the pavilion on the errand assigned, and in his absence,
      which he had resolved should be brief, he charged the chamberlains, pages,
      and attendants to redouble their attention on their sovereign, with
      threats of holding them to responsibility, which rather added to than
      diminished their timid anxiety in the discharge of their duty; for next,
      perhaps, to the ire of the monarch himself, they dreaded that of the stern
      and inexorable Lord of Gilsland. [Sir Thomas Multon of Gilsland.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     There never was a time on the march parts yet,
     When Scottish with English met,
     But it was marvel if the red blood ran not
     As the rain does in the street.
     &mdash;BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.
</pre>
    <p>
      A considerable band of Scottish warriors had joined the Crusaders, and had
      naturally placed themselves under the command of the English monarch,
      being, like his native troops, most of them of Saxon and Norman descent,
      speaking the same languages, possessed, some of them, of English as well
      as Scottish demesnes, and allied in some cases by blood and intermarriage.
      The period also preceded that when the grasping ambition of Edward I. gave
      a deadly and envenomed character to the wars betwixt the two nations&mdash;the
      English fighting for the subjugation of Scotland, and the Scottish, with
      all the stern determination and obstinacy which has ever characterized
      their nation, for the defence of their independence, by the most violent
      means, under the most disadvantageous circumstances, and at the most
      extreme hazard. As yet, wars betwixt the two nations, though fierce and
      frequent, had been conducted on principles of fair hostility, and admitted
      of those softening shades by which courtesy and the respect for open and
      generous foemen qualify and mitigate the horrors of war. In time of peace,
      therefore, and especially when both, as at present, were engaged in war,
      waged in behalf of a common cause, and rendered dear to them by their
      ideas of religion, the adventurers of both countries frequently fought
      side by side, their national emulation serving only to stimulate them to
      excel each other in their efforts against the common enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The frank and martial character of Richard, who made no distinction
      betwixt his own subjects and those of William of Scotland, excepting as
      they bore themselves in the field of battle, tended much to conciliate the
      troops of both nations. But upon his illness, and the disadvantageous
      circumstances in which the Crusaders were placed, the national disunion
      between the various bands united in the Crusade, began to display itself,
      just as old wounds break out afresh in the human body when under the
      influence of disease or debility.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish and English, equally jealous and high-spirited, and apt to
      take offence&mdash;the former the more so, because the poorer and the
      weaker nation&mdash;began to fill up by internal dissension the period
      when the truce forbade them to wreak their united vengeance on the
      Saracens. Like the contending Roman chiefs of old, the Scottish would
      admit no superiority, and their southern neighbours would brook no
      equality. There were charges and recriminations, and both the common
      soldiery and their leaders and commanders, who had been good comrades in
      time of victory, lowered on each other in the period of adversity, as if
      their union had not been then more essential than ever, not only to the
      success of their common cause, but to their joint safety. The same
      disunion had begun to show itself betwixt the French and English, the
      Italians and the Germans, and even between the Danes and Swedes; but it is
      only that which divided the two nations whom one island bred, and who
      seemed more animated against each other for the very reason, that our
      narrative is principally concerned with.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of all the English nobles who had followed their King to Palestine, De
      Vaux was most prejudiced against the Scottish. They were his near
      neighbours, with whom he had been engaged during his whole life in private
      or public warfare, and on whom he had inflicted many calamities, while he
      had sustained at their hands not a few. His love and devotion to the King
      was like the vivid affection of the old English mastiff to his master,
      leaving him churlish and inaccessible to all others even towards those to
      whom he was indifferent&mdash;and rough and dangerous to any against whom
      he entertained a prejudice. De Vaux had never observed without jealousy
      and displeasure his King exhibit any mark of courtesy or favour to the
      wicked, deceitful, and ferocious race born on the other side of a river,
      or an imaginary line drawn through waste and wilderness; and he even
      doubted the success of a Crusade in which they were suffered to bear arms,
      holding them in his secret soul little better than the Saracens whom he
      came to combat. It may be added that, as being himself a blunt and
      downright Englishman, unaccustomed to conceal the slightest movement
      either of love or of dislike, he accounted the fair-spoken courtesy which
      the Scots had learned, either from imitation of their frequent allies, the
      French, or which might have arisen from their own proud and reserved
      character, as a false and astucious mark of the most dangerous designs
      against their neighbours, over whom he believed, with genuine English
      confidence, they could, by fair manhood, never obtain any advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, though De Vaux entertained these sentiments concerning his Northern
      neighbours, and extended them, with little mitigation, even to such as had
      assumed the Cross, his respect for the King, and a sense of the duty
      imposed by his vow as a Crusader, prevented him from displaying them
      otherwise than by regularly shunning all intercourse with his Scottish
      brethren-at-arms as far as possible, by observing a sullen taciturnity
      when compelled to meet them occasionally, and by looking scornfully upon
      them when they encountered on the march and in camp. The Scottish barons
      and knights were not men to bear his scorn unobserved or unreplied to; and
      it came to that pass that he was regarded as the determined and active
      enemy of a nation, whom, after all, he only disliked, and in some sort
      despised. Nay, it was remarked by close observers that, if he had not
      towards them the charity of Scripture, which suffereth long, and judges
      kindly, he was by no means deficient in the subordinate and limited
      virtue, which alleviates and relieves the wants of others. The wealth of
      Thomas of Gilsland procured supplies of provisions and medicines, and some
      of these usually flowed by secret channels into the quarters of the
      Scottish&mdash;his surly benevolence proceeding on the principle that,
      next to a man's friend, his foe was of most importance to him, passing
      over all the intermediate relations as too indifferent to merit even a
      thought. This explanation is necessary, in order that the reader may fully
      understand what we are now to detail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thomas de Vaux had not made many steps beyond the entrance of the royal
      pavilion when he was aware of what the far more acute ear of the English
      monarch&mdash;no mean proficient in the art of minstrelsy&mdash;had
      instantly discovered, that the musical strains, namely, which had reached
      their ears, were produced by the pipes, shalms, and kettle-drums of the
      Saracens; and at the bottom of an avenue of tents, which formed a broad
      access to the pavilion of Richard, he could see a crowd of idle soldiers
      assembled around the spot from which the music was heard, almost in the
      centre of the camp; and he saw, with great surprise, mingled amid the
      helmets of various forms worn by the Crusaders of different nations, white
      turbans and long pikes, announcing the presence of armed Saracens, and the
      huge deformed heads of several camels or dromedaries, overlooking the
      multitude by aid of their long, disproportioned necks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wondering, and displeased at a sight so unexpected and singular&mdash;for
      it was customary to leave all flags of truce and other communications from
      the enemy at an appointed place without the barriers&mdash;the baron
      looked eagerly round for some one of whom he might inquire the cause of
      this alarming novelty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first person whom he met advancing to him he set down at once, by his
      grave and haughty step, as a Spaniard or a Scot; and presently after
      muttered to himself, &ldquo;And a Scot it is&mdash;he of the Leopard. I have
      seen him fight indifferently well, for one of his country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Loath to ask even a passing question, he was about to pass Sir Kenneth,
      with that sullen and lowering port which seems to say, &ldquo;I know thee, but I
      will hold no communication with thee.&rdquo; But his purpose was defeated by the
      Northern Knight, who moved forward directly to him, and accosting him with
      formal courtesy, said, &ldquo;My Lord de Vaux of Gilsland, I have in charge to
      speak with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; returned the English baron, &ldquo;with me? But say your pleasure, so it
      be shortly spoken&mdash;I am on the King's errand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine touches King Richard yet more nearly,&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth; &ldquo;I
      bring him, I trust, health.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Lord of Gilsland measured the Scot with incredulous eyes, and replied,
      &ldquo;Thou art no leech, I think, Sir Scot; I had as soon thought of your
      bringing the King of England wealth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth, though displeased with the manner of the baron's reply,
      answered calmly, &ldquo;Health to Richard is glory and wealth to Christendom.&mdash;But
      my time presses; I pray you, may I see the King?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely not, fair sir,&rdquo; said the baron, &ldquo;until your errand be told more
      distinctly. The sick chambers of princes open not to all who inquire, like
      a northern hostelry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said Kenneth, &ldquo;the cross which I wear in common with yourself,
      and the importance of what I have to tell, must, for the present, cause me
      to pass over a bearing which else I were unapt to endure. In plain
      language, then, I bring with me a Moorish physician, who undertakes to
      work a cure on King Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Moorish physician!&rdquo; said De Vaux; &ldquo;and who will warrant that he brings
      not poisons instead of remedies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His own life, my lord&mdash;his head, which he offers as a guarantee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have known many a resolute ruffian,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;who valued his own
      life as little as it deserved, and would troop to the gallows as merrily
      as if the hangman were his partner in a dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But thus it is, my lord,&rdquo; replied the Scot. &ldquo;Saladin, to whom none will
      deny the credit of a generous and valiant enemy, hath sent this leech
      hither with an honourable retinue and guard, befitting the high estimation
      in which El Hakim [The Physician] is held by the Soldan, and with fruits
      and refreshments for the King's private chamber, and such message as may
      pass betwixt honourable enemies, praying him to be recovered of his fever,
      that he may be the fitter to receive a visit from the Soldan, with his
      naked scimitar in his hand, and a hundred thousand cavaliers at his back.
      Will it please you, who are of the King's secret council, to cause these
      camels to be discharged of their burdens, and some order taken as to the
      reception of the learned physician?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo; said De Vaux, as speaking to himself.&mdash;&ldquo;And who will
      vouch for the honour of Saladin, in a case when bad faith would rid him at
      once of his most powerful adversary?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I myself,&rdquo; replied Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;will be his guarantee, with honour,
      life, and fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange!&rdquo; again ejaculated De Vaux; &ldquo;the North vouches for the South&mdash;the
      Scot for the Turk! May I crave of you, Sir Knight, how you became
      concerned in this affair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been absent on a pilgrimage, in the course of which,&rdquo; replied Sir
      Kenneth &ldquo;I had a message to discharge towards the holy hermit of Engaddi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I not be entrusted with it, Sir Kenneth, and with the answer of the
      holy man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may not be, my lord,&rdquo; answered the Scot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am of the secret council of England,&rdquo; said the Englishman haughtily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To which land I owe no allegiance,&rdquo; said Kenneth. &ldquo;Though I have
      voluntarily followed in this war the personal fortunes of England's
      sovereign, I was dispatched by the General Council of the kings, princes,
      and supreme leaders of the army of the Blessed Cross, and to them only I
      render my errand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! sayest thou?&rdquo; said the proud Baron de Vaux. &ldquo;But know, messenger of
      the kings and princes as thou mayest be, no leech shall approach the
      sick-bed of Richard of England without the consent of him of Gilsland; and
      they will come on evil errand who dare to intrude themselves against it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was turning loftily away, when the Scot, placing himself closer, and
      more opposite to him, asked, in a calm voice, yet not without expressing
      his share of pride, whether the Lord of Gilsland esteemed him a gentleman
      and a good knight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All Scots are ennobled by their birthright,&rdquo; answered Thomas de Vaux,
      something ironically; but sensible of his own injustice, and perceiving
      that Kenneth's colour rose, he added, &ldquo;For a good knight it were sin to
      doubt you, in one at least who has seen you well and bravely discharge
      your devoir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight, satisfied with the frankness of
      the last admission, &ldquo;and let me swear to you, Thomas of Gilsland, that, as
      I am true Scottish man, which I hold a privilege equal to my ancient
      gentry, and as sure as I am a belted knight, and come hither to acquire
      LOS [Los&mdash;laus, praise, or renown] and fame in this mortal life, and
      forgiveness of my sins in that which is to come&mdash;so truly, and by the
      blessed Cross which I wear, do I protest unto you that I desire but the
      safety of Richard Coeur de Lion, in recommending the ministry of this
      Moslem physician.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Englishman was struck with the solemnity of the obtestation, and
      answered with more cordiality than he had yet exhibited, &ldquo;Tell me, Sir
      Knight of the Leopard, granting (which I do not doubt) that thou art
      thyself satisfied in this matter, shall I do well, in a land where the art
      of poisoning is as general as that of cooking, to bring this unknown
      physician to practise with his drugs on a health so valuable to
      Christendom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; replied the Scot, &ldquo;thus only can I reply&mdash;that my squire,
      the only one of my retinue whom war and disease had left in attendance on
      me, has been of late suffering dangerously under this same fever, which,
      in valiant King Richard, has disabled the principal limb of our holy
      enterprise. This leech, this El Hakim, hath ministered remedies to him not
      two hours since, and already he hath fallen into a refreshing sleep. That
      he can cure the disorder, which has proved so fatal, I nothing doubt; that
      he hath the purpose to do it is, I think, warranted by his mission from
      the royal Soldan, who is true-hearted and loyal, so far as a blinded
      infidel may be called so; and for his eventual success, the certainty of
      reward in case of succeeding, and punishment in case of voluntary failure,
      may be a sufficient guarantee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Englishman listened with downcast looks, as one who doubted, yet was
      not unwilling to receive conviction. At length he looked up and said, &ldquo;May
      I see your sick squire, fair sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish knight hesitated and coloured, yet answered at last,
      &ldquo;Willingly, my Lord of Gilsland. But you must remember, when you see my
      poor quarter, that the nobles and knights of Scotland feed not so high,
      sleep not so soft, and care not for the magnificence of lodgment which is
      Proper to their southern neighbours. I am POORLY lodged, my Lord of
      Gilsland,&rdquo; he added, with a haughty emphasis on the word, while, with some
      unwillingness, he led the way to his temporary place of abode.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever were the prejudices of De Vaux against the nation of his new
      acquaintance, and though we undertake not to deny that some of these were
      excited by its proverbial poverty, he had too much nobleness of
      disposition to enjoy the mortification of a brave individual thus
      compelled to make known wants which his pride would gladly have concealed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shame to the soldier of the Cross,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;who thinks of worldly
      splendour, or of luxurious accommodation, when pressing forward to the
      conquest of the Holy City. Fare as hard as we may, we shall yet be better
      than the host of martyrs and of saints, who, having trod these scenes
      before us, now hold golden lamps and evergreen palms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the most metaphorical speech which Thomas of Gilsland was ever
      known to utter, the rather, perhaps (as will sometimes happen), that it
      did not entirely express his own sentiments, being somewhat a lover of
      good cheer and splendid accommodation. By this time they reached the place
      of the camp where the Knight of the Leopard had assumed his abode.
    </p>
    <p>
      Appearances here did indeed promise no breach of the laws of
      mortification, to which the Crusaders, according to the opinion expressed
      by him of Gilsland, ought to subject themselves. A space of ground, large
      enough to accommodate perhaps thirty tents, according to the Crusaders'
      rules of castrametation, was partly vacant&mdash;because, in ostentation,
      the knight had demanded ground to the extent of his original retinue&mdash;partly
      occupied by a few miserable huts, hastily constructed of boughs, and
      covered with palm-leaves. These habitations seemed entirely deserted, and
      several of them were ruinous. The central hut, which represented the
      pavilion of the leader, was distinguished by his swallow-tailed pennon,
      placed on the point of a spear, from which its long folds dropped
      motionless to the ground, as if sickening under the scorching rays of the
      Asiatic sun. But no pages or squires&mdash;not even a solitary warder&mdash;was
      placed by the emblem of feudal power and knightly degree. If its
      reputation defended it not from insult, it had no other guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth cast a melancholy look around him, but suppressing his
      feelings, entered the hut, making a sign to the Baron of Gilsland to
      follow. He also cast around a glance of examination, which implied pity
      not altogether unmingled with contempt, to which, perhaps, it is as nearly
      akin as it is said to be to love. He then stooped his lofty crest, and
      entered a lowly hut, which his bulky form seemed almost entirely to fill.
    </p>
    <p>
      The interior of the hut was chiefly occupied by two beds. One was empty,
      but composed of collected leaves, and spread with an antelope's hide. It
      seemed, from the articles of armour laid beside it, and from a crucifix of
      silver, carefully and reverentially disposed at the head, to be the couch
      of the knight himself. The other contained the invalid, of whom Sir
      Kenneth had spoken, a strong-built and harsh-featured man, past, as his
      looks betokened, the middle age of life. His couch was trimmed more softly
      than his master's, and it was plain that the more courtly garments of the
      latter, the loose robe in which the knights showed themselves on pacific
      occasions, and the other little spare articles of dress and adornment, had
      been applied by Sir Kenneth to the accommodation of his sick domestic. In
      an outward part of the hut, which yet was within the range of the English
      baron's eye, a boy, rudely attired with buskins of deer's hide, a blue cap
      or bonnet, and a doublet, whose original finery was much tarnished, sat on
      his knees by a chafing-dish filled with charcoal, cooking upon a plate of
      iron the cakes of barley-bread, which were then, and still are, a
      favourite food with the Scottish people. Part of an antelope was suspended
      against one of the main props of the hut. Nor was it difficult to know how
      it had been procured; for a large stag greyhound, nobler in size and
      appearance than those even which guarded King Richard's sick-bed, lay
      eyeing the process of baking the cake. The sagacious animal, on their
      first entrance, uttered a stifled growl, which sounded from his deep chest
      like distant thunder. But he saw his master, and acknowledged his presence
      by wagging his tail and couching his head, abstaining from more tumultuous
      or noisy greeting, as if his noble instinct had taught him the propriety
      of silence in a sick man's chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beside the couch sat on a cushion, also composed of skins, the Moorish
      physician of whom Sir Kenneth had spoken, cross-legged, after the Eastern
      fashion. The imperfect light showed little of him, save that the lower
      part of his face was covered with a long, black beard, which descended
      over his breast; that he wore a high TOLPACH, a Tartar cap of the lamb's
      wool manufactured at Astracan, bearing the same dusky colour; and that his
      ample caftan, or Turkish robe, was also of a dark hue. Two piercing eyes,
      which gleamed with unusual lustre, were the only lineaments of his visage
      that could be discerned amid the darkness in which he was enveloped.
    </p>
    <p>
      The English lord stood silent with a sort of reverential awe; for
      notwithstanding the roughness of his general bearing, a scene of distress
      and poverty, firmly endured without complaint or murmur, would at any time
      have claimed more reverence from Thomas de Vaux than would all the
      splendid formalities of a royal presence-chamber, unless that
      presence-chamber were King Richard's own. Nothing was for a time heard but
      the heavy and regular breathings of the invalid, who seemed in profound
      repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He hath not slept for six nights before,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;as I am
      assured by the youth, his attendant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble Scot,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux, grasping the Scottish knight's hand,
      with a pressure which had more of cordiality than he permitted his words
      to utter, &ldquo;this gear must be amended. Your esquire is but too evil fed and
      looked to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the latter part of this speech he naturally raised his voice to its
      usual decided tone, The sick man was disturbed in his slumbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My master,&rdquo; he said, murmuring as in a dream, &ldquo;noble Sir Kenneth, taste
      not, to you as to me, the waters of the Clyde cold and refreshing after
      the brackish springs of Palestine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He dreams of his native land, and is happy in his slumbers,&rdquo; whispered
      Sir Kenneth to De Vaux; but had scarce uttered the words, when the
      physician, arising from the place which he had taken near the couch of the
      sick, and laying the hand of the patient, whose pulse he had been
      carefully watching, quietly upon the couch, came to the two knights, and
      taking them each by the arm, while he intimated to them to remain silent,
      led them to the front of the hut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of Issa Ben Mariam,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;whom we honour as you, though
      not with the same blinded superstition, disturb not the effect of the
      blessed medicine of which he hath partaken. To awaken him now is death or
      deprivation of reason; but return at the hour when the muezzin calls from
      the minaret to evening prayer in the mosque, and if left undisturbed until
      then, I promise you this same Frankish soldier shall be able, without
      prejudice to his health, to hold some brief converse with you on any
      matters on which either, and especially his master, may have to question
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knights retreated before the authoritative commands of the leech, who
      seemed fully to comprehend the importance of the Eastern proverb that the
      sick chamber of the patient is the kingdom of the physician.
    </p>
    <p>
      They paused, and remained standing together at the door of the hut&mdash;Sir
      Kenneth with the air of one who expected his visitor to say farewell, and
      De Vaux as if he had something on his mind which prevented him from doing
      so. The hound, however, had pressed out of the tent after them, and now
      thrust his long, rough countenance into the hand of his master, as if
      modestly soliciting some mark of his kindness. He had no sooner received
      the notice which he desired, in the shape of a kind word and slight
      caress, than, eager to acknowledge his gratitude and joy for his master's
      return, he flew off at full speed, galloping in full career, and with
      outstretched tail, here and there, about and around, cross-ways and
      endlong, through the decayed huts and the esplanade we have described, but
      never transgressing those precincts which his sagacity knew were protected
      by his master's pennon. After a few gambols of this kind, the dog, coming
      close up to his master, laid at once aside his frolicsome mood, relapsed
      into his usual gravity and slowness of gesture and deportment, and looked
      as if he were ashamed that anything should have moved him to depart so far
      out of his sober self-control.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both knights looked on with pleasure; for Sir Kenneth was justly proud of
      his noble hound, and the northern English baron was, of course, an admirer
      of the chase, and a judge of the animal's merits.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A right able dog,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I think, fair sir, King Richard hath not an
      ALAN which may match him, if he be as stanch as he is swift. But let me
      pray you&mdash;speaking in all honour and kindness&mdash;have you not
      heard the proclamation that no one under the rank of earl shall keep
      hunting dogs within King Richard's camp without the royal license, which,
      I think, Sir Kenneth, hath not been issued to you? I speak as Master of
      the Horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I answer as a free Scottish knight,&rdquo; said Kenneth sternly. &ldquo;For the
      present I follow the banner of England, but I cannot remember that I have
      ever subjected myself to the forest-laws of that kingdom, nor have I such
      respect for them as would incline me to do so. When the trumpet sounds to
      arms, my foot is in the stirrup as soon as any&mdash;when it clangs for
      the charge, my lance has not yet been the last laid in the rest. But for
      my hours of liberty or of idleness King Richard has no title to bar my
      recreation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;it is a folly to disobey the King's
      ordinance; so, with your good leave, I, as having authority in that
      matter, will send you a protection for my friend here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you,&rdquo; said the Scot coldly; &ldquo;but he knows my allotted quarters,
      and within these I can protect him myself.&mdash;And yet,&rdquo; he said,
      suddenly changing his manner, &ldquo;this is but a cold return for a well-meant
      kindness. I thank you, my lord, most heartily. The King's equerries or
      prickers might find Roswal at disadvantage, and do him some injury, which
      I should not, perhaps, be slow in returning, and so ill might come of it.
      You have seen so much of my house-keeping, my lord,&rdquo; he added, with a
      smile, &ldquo;that I need not shame to say that Roswal is our principal
      purveyor, and well I hope our Lion Richard will not be like the lion in
      the minstrel fable, that went a-hunting, and kept the whole booty to
      himself. I cannot think he would grudge a poor gentleman, who follows him
      faithfully, his hour of sport and his morsel of game, more especially when
      other food is hard enough to come by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my faith, you do the King no more than justice; and yet,&rdquo; said the
      baron, &ldquo;there is something in these words, vert and venison, that turns
      the very brains of our Norman princes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have heard of late,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;by minstrels and pilgrims, that
      your outlawed yeomen have formed great bands in the shires of York and
      Nottingham, having at their head a most stout archer, called Robin Hood,
      with his lieutenant, Little John. Methinks it were better that Richard
      relaxed his forest-code in England, than endeavour to enforce it in the
      Holy Land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wild work, Sir Kenneth,&rdquo; replied De Vaux, shrugging his shoulders, as one
      who would avoid a perilous or unpleasing topic&mdash;&ldquo;a mad world, sir. I
      must now bid you adieu, having presently to return to the King's pavilion.
      At vespers I will again, with your leave, visit your quarters, and speak
      with this same infidel physician. I would, in the meantime, were it no
      offence, willingly send you what would somewhat mend your cheer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you, sir,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;but it needs not. Roswal hath
      already stocked my larder for two weeks, since the sun of Palestine, if it
      brings diseases, serves also to dry venison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two warriors parted much better friends than they had met; but ere
      they separated, Thomas de Vaux informed himself at more length of the
      circumstances attending the mission of the Eastern physician, and received
      from the Scottish knight the credentials which he had brought to King
      Richard on the part of Saladin.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A wise physician, skilled our wounds to heal,
     Is more than armies to the common weal.
       POPE'S ILLIAD.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a strange tale, Sir Thomas,&rdquo; said the sick monarch, when he had
      heard the report of the trusty Baron of Gilsland. &ldquo;Art thou sure this
      Scottish man is a tall man and true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot say, my lord,&rdquo; replied the jealous Borderer. &ldquo;I live a little
      too near the Scots to gather much truth among them, having found them ever
      fair and false. But this man's bearing is that of a true man, were he a
      devil as well as a Scot; that I must needs say for him in conscience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for his carriage as a knight, how sayest thou, De Vaux?&rdquo; demanded the
      King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is your Majesty's business more than mine to note men's bearings; and
      I warrant you have noted the manner in which this man of the Leopard hath
      borne himself. He hath been full well spoken of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And justly, Thomas,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;We have ourselves witnessed him. It
      is indeed our purpose in placing ourselves ever in the front of battle, to
      see how our liegemen and followers acquit themselves, and not from a
      desire to accumulate vainglory to ourselves, as some have supposed. We
      know the vanity of the praise of man, which is but a vapour, and buckle on
      our armour for other purposes than to win it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux was alarmed when he heard the King make a declaration so
      inconsistent with his nature, and believed at first that nothing short of
      the approach of death could have brought him to speak in depreciating
      terms of military renown, which was the very breath of his nostrils. But
      recollecting he had met the royal confessor in the outer pavilion, he was
      shrewd enough to place this temporary self-abasement to the effect of the
      reverend man's lesson, and suffered the King to proceed without reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Richard, &ldquo;I have indeed marked the manner in which this
      knight does his devoir. My leading-staff were not worth a fool's bauble
      had he escaped my notice; and he had ere now tasted of our bounty, but
      that I have also marked his overweening and audacious presumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My liege,&rdquo; said the Baron of Gilsland, observing the King's countenance
      change, &ldquo;I fear I have transgressed your pleasure in lending some
      countenance to his transgression.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, De Multon, thou?&rdquo; said the King, contracting his brows, and speaking
      in a tone of angry surprise. &ldquo;Thou countenance his insolence? It cannot
      be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, your Majesty will pardon me to remind you that I have by mine office
      right to grant liberty to men of gentle blood to keep them a hound or two
      within camp, just to cherish the noble art of venerie; and besides, it
      were a sin to have maimed or harmed a thing so noble as this gentleman's
      dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he, then, a dog so handsome?&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A most perfect creature of Heaven,&rdquo; said the baron, who was an enthusiast
      in field-sports&mdash;&ldquo;of the noblest Northern breed&mdash;deep in the
      chest, strong in the stern&mdash;black colour, and brindled on the breast
      and legs, not spotted with white, but just shaded into grey&mdash;strength
      to pull down a bull, swiftness to cote an antelope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The King laughed at his enthusiasm. &ldquo;Well, thou hast given him leave to
      keep the hound, so there is an end of it. Be not, however, liberal of your
      licenses among those knights adventurers who have no prince or leader to
      depend upon; they are ungovernable, and leave no game in Palestine.&mdash;But
      to this piece of learned heathenesse&mdash;sayest thou the Scot met him in
      the desert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my liege; the Scot's tale runs thus. He was dispatched to the old
      hermit of Engaddi, of whom men talk so much&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Sdeath and hell!&rdquo; said Richard, starting up. &ldquo;By whom dispatched, and
      for what? Who dared send any one thither, when our Queen was in the
      Convent of Engaddi, upon her pilgrimage for our recovery?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Council of the Crusade sent him, my lord,&rdquo; answered the Baron de
      Vaux; &ldquo;for what purpose, he declined to account to me. I think it is
      scarce known in the camp that your royal consort is on a pilgrimage; and
      even the princes may not have been aware, as the Queen has been
      sequestered from company since your love prohibited her attendance in case
      of infection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it shall be looked into,&rdquo; said Richard. &ldquo;So this Scottish man, this
      envoy, met with a wandering physician at the grotto of Engaddi&mdash;ha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so my liege,&rdquo; replied De Vaux? &ldquo;but he met, I think, near that place,
      with a Saracen Emir with whom he had some MELEE in the way of proof of
      valour, and finding him worthy to bear brave men company, they went
      together, as errant knights are wont, to the grotto of Engaddi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here De Vaux stopped, for he was not one of those who can tell a long
      story in a sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did they there meet the physician?&rdquo; demanded the King impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my liege,&rdquo; replied De Vaux; &ldquo;but the Saracen, learning your Majesty's
      grievous illness, undertook that Saladin should send his own physician to
      you, and with many assurances of his eminent skill; and he came to the
      grotto accordingly, after the Scottish knight had tarried a day for him
      and more. He is attended as if he were a prince, with drums and atabals,
      and servants on horse and foot, and brings with him letters of credence
      from Saladin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they been examined by Giacomo Loredani?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I showed them to the interpreter ere bringing them hither, and behold
      their contents in English.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard took a scroll, in which were inscribed these words: The blessing
      of Allah and his Prophet Mohammed [&ldquo;Out upon the hound!&rdquo; said Richard,
      spitting in contempt, by way of interjection], Saladin, king of kings,
      Saldan of Egypt and of Syria, the light and refuge of the earth, to the
      great Melech Ric, Richard of England, greeting. Whereas, we have been
      informed that the hand of sickness hath been heavy upon thee, our royal
      brother, and that thou hast with thee only such Nazarene and Jewish
      mediciners as work without the blessing of Allah and our holy Prophet
      [&ldquo;Confusion on his head!&rdquo; again muttered the English monarch], we have
      therefore sent to tend and wait upon thee at this time the physician to
      our own person, Adonbec el Hakim, before whose face the angel Azrael [The
      Angel of Death.] spreads his wings and departs from the sick chamber; who
      knows the virtues of herbs and stones, the path of the sun, moon, and
      stars, and can save man from all that is not written on his forehead. And
      this we do, praying you heartily to honour and make use of his skill; not
      only that we may do service to thy worth and valour, which is the glory of
      all the nations of Frangistan, but that we may bring the controversy which
      is at present between us to an end, either by honourable agreement, or by
      open trial thereof with our weapons, in a fair field&mdash;seeing that it
      neither becomes thy place and courage to die the death of a slave who hath
      been overwrought by his taskmaster, nor befits it our fame that a brave
      adversary be snatched from our weapon by such a disease. And, therefore,
      may the holy&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold, hold,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I will have no more of his dog of a prophet!
      It makes me sick to think the valiant and worthy Soldan should believe in
      a dead dog. Yes, I will see his physician. I will put myself into the
      charge of this Hakim&mdash;I will repay the noble Soldan his generosity&mdash;I
      will meet Saladin in the field, as he so worthily proposes, and he shall
      have no cause to term Richard of England ungrateful. I will strike him to
      the earth with my battle-axe&mdash;I will convert him to Holy Church with
      such blows as he has rarely endured. He shall recant his errors before my
      good cross-handled sword, and I will have him baptized on the
      battle-field, from my own helmet, though the cleansing waters were mixed
      with the blood of us both.&mdash;Haste, De Vaux, why dost thou delay a
      conclusion so pleasing? Fetch the Hakim hither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the baron, who perhaps saw some accession of fever in this
      overflow of confidence, &ldquo;bethink you, the Soldan is a pagan, and that you
      are his most formidable enemy&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For which reason he is the more bound to do me service in this matter,
      lest a paltry fever end the quarrel betwixt two such kings. I tell thee he
      loves me as I love him&mdash;as noble adversaries ever love each other. By
      my honour, it were sin to doubt his good faith!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless, my lord, it were well to wait the issue of these medicines
      upon the Scottish squire,&rdquo; said the Lord of Gilsland. &ldquo;My own life depends
      upon it, for worthy were I to die like a dog did I proceed rashly in this
      matter, and make shipwreck of the weal of Christendom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never knew thee before hesitate for fear of life,&rdquo; said Richard
      upbraidingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor would I now, my liege,&rdquo; replied the stout-hearted baron, &ldquo;save that
      yours lies at pledge as well as my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, thou suspicious mortal,&rdquo; answered Richard, &ldquo;begone then, and watch
      the progress of this remedy. I could almost wish it might either cure or
      kill me, for I am weary of lying here like an ox dying of the murrain,
      when tambours are beating, horses stamping, and trumpets sounding
      without.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron hastily departed, resolved, however, to communicate his errand
      to some churchman, as he felt something burdened in conscience at the idea
      of his master being attended by an unbeliever.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Archbishop of Tyre was the first to whom he confided his doubts,
      knowing his interest with his master, Richard, who both loved and honoured
      that sagacious prelate. The bishop heard the doubts which De Vaux stated,
      with that acuteness of intelligence which distinguishes the Roman Catholic
      clergy. The religious scruples of De Vaux he treated with as much
      lightness as propriety permitted him to exhibit on such a subject to a
      layman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mediciners,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;like the medicines which they employed, were often
      useful, though the one were by birth or manners the vilest of humanity, as
      the others are, in many cases, extracted from the basest materials. Men
      may use the assistance of pagans and infidels,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;in their
      need, and there is reason to think that one cause of their being permitted
      to remain on earth is that they might minister to the convenience of true
      Christians. Thus we lawfully make slaves of heathen captives. Again,&rdquo;
       proceeded the prelate, &ldquo;there is no doubt that the primitive Christians
      used the services of the unconverted heathen. Thus in the ship of
      Alexandria, in which the blessed Apostle Paul sailed to Italy, the sailors
      were doubtless pagans; yet what said the holy saint when their ministry
      was needful?&mdash;'NISI HI IN NAVI MANSERINT, VOS SALVI FIERI NON
      POTESTIS'&mdash;Unless these men abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved.
      Again, Jews are infidels to Christianity, as well as Mohammedans. But
      there are few physicians in the camp excepting Jews, and such are employed
      without scandal or scruple. Therefore, Mohammedans may be used for their
      service in that capacity&mdash;QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This reasoning entirely removed the scruples of Thomas de Vaux, who was
      particularly moved by the Latin quotation, as he did not understand a word
      of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the bishop proceeded with far less fluency when he considered the
      possibility of the Saracen's acting with bad faith; and here he came not
      to a speedy decision. The baron showed him the letters of credence. He
      read and re-read them, and compared the original with the translation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a dish choicely cooked,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to the palate of King Richard,
      and I cannot but have my suspicions of the wily Saracen. They are curious
      in the art of poisons, and can so temper them that they shall be weeks in
      acting upon the party, during which time the perpetrator has leisure to
      escape. They can impregnate cloth and leather, nay, even paper and
      parchment, with the most subtle venom. Our Lady forgive me! And wherefore,
      knowing this, hold I these letters of credence so close to my face? Take
      them, Sir Thomas&mdash;take them speedily!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here he gave them at arm's-length, and with some appearance of haste, to
      the baron. &ldquo;But come, my Lord de Vaux,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;wend we to the tent
      of this sick squire, where we shall learn whether this Hakim hath really
      the art of curing which he professeth, ere we consider whether there be
      safety in permitting him to exercise his art upon King Richard.&mdash;Yet,
      hold! let me first take my pouncet-box, for these fevers spread like an
      infection. I would advise you to use dried rosemary steeped in vinegar, my
      lord. I, too, know something of the healing art.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank your reverend lordship,&rdquo; replied Thomas of Gilsland; &ldquo;but had I
      been accessible to the fever, I had caught it long since by the bed of my
      master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop of Tyre blushed, for he had rather avoided the presence of the
      sick monarch; and he bid the baron lead on.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they paused before the wretched hut in which Kenneth of the Leopard and
      his follower abode, the bishop said to De Vaux, &ldquo;Now, of a surety, my
      lord, these Scottish Knights have worse care of their followers than we of
      our dogs. Here is a knight, valiant, they say, in battle, and thought
      fitting to be graced with charges of weight in time of truce, whose
      esquire of the body is lodged worse than in the worst dog-kennel in
      England. What say you of your neighbours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That a master doth well enough for his servant when he lodgeth him in no
      worse dwelling than his own,&rdquo; said De Vaux, and entered the hut.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bishop followed, not without evident reluctance; for though he lacked
      not courage in some respects, yet it was tempered with a strong and lively
      regard for his own safety. He recollected, however, the necessity there
      was for judging personally of the skill of the Arabian physician, and
      entered the hut with a stateliness of manner calculated, as he thought, to
      impose respect on the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prelate was, indeed, a striking and commanding figure. In his youth he
      had been eminently handsome, and even in age was unwilling to appear less
      so. His episcopal dress was of the richest fashion, trimmed with costly
      fur, and surrounded by a cope of curious needlework. The rings on his
      fingers were worth a goodly barony, and the hood which he wore, though now
      unclasped and thrown back for heat, had studs of pure gold to fasten it
      around his throat and under his chin when he so inclined. His long beard,
      now silvered with age, descended over his breast. One of two youthful
      acolytes who attended him created an artificial shade, peculiar then to
      the East, by bearing over his head an umbrella of palmetto leaves, while
      the other refreshed his reverend master by agitating a fan of
      peacock-feathers.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Bishop of Tyre entered the hut of the Scottish knight, the master
      was absent, and the Moorish physician, whom he had come to see, sat in the
      very posture in which De Vaux had left him several hours before,
      cross-legged upon a mat made of twisted leaves, by the side of the
      patient, who appeared in deep slumber, and whose pulse he felt from time
      to time. The bishop remained standing before him in silence for two or
      three minutes, as if expecting some honourable salutation, or at least
      that the Saracen would seem struck with the dignity of his appearance. But
      Adonbec el Hakim took no notice of him beyond a passing glance, and when
      the prelate at length saluted him in the lingua franca current in the
      country, he only replied by the ordinary Oriental greeting, &ldquo;SALAM ALICUM&mdash;Peace
      be with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Art thou a physician, infidel?&rdquo; said the bishop, somewhat mortified at
      this cold reception. &ldquo;I would speak with thee on that art.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If thou knewest aught of medicine,&rdquo; answered El Hakim, &ldquo;thou wouldst be
      aware that physicians hold no counsel or debate in the sick chamber of
      their patient. Hear,&rdquo; he added, as the low growling of the staghound was
      heard from the inner hut, &ldquo;even the dog might teach thee reason, Ulemat.
      His instinct teaches him to suppress his barking in the sick man's
      hearing. Come without the tent,&rdquo; said he, rising and leading the way, &ldquo;if
      thou hast ought to say with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the plainness of the Saracen leech's dress, and his
      inferiority of size when contrasted with the tall prelate and gigantic
      English baron, there was something striking in his manner and countenance,
      which prevented the Bishop of Tyre from expressing strongly the
      displeasure he felt at this unceremonious rebuke. When without the hut, he
      gazed upon Adonbec in silence for several minutes before he could fix on
      the best manner to renew the conversation. No locks were seen under the
      high bonnet of the Arabian, which hid also part of a brow that seemed
      lofty and expanded, smooth, and free from wrinkles, as were his cheeks,
      where they were seen under the shade of his long beard. We have elsewhere
      noticed the piercing quality of his dark eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prelate, struck with his apparent youth, at length broke a pause,
      which the other seemed in no haste to interrupt, by demanding of the
      Arabian how old he was?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The years of ordinary men,&rdquo; said the Saracen, &ldquo;are counted by their
      wrinkles; those of sages by their studies. I dare not call myself older
      than a hundred revolutions of the Hegira.&rdquo; [Meaning that his attainments
      were those which might have been made in a hundred years.]
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron of Gilsland, who took this for a literal assertion that he was a
      century old, looked doubtfully upon the prelate, who, though he better
      understood the meaning of El Hakim, answered his glance by mysteriously
      shaking his head. He resumed an air of importance when he again
      authoritatively demanded what evidence Adonbec could produce of his
      medical proficiency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye have the word of the mighty Saladin,&rdquo; said the sage, touching his cap
      in sign of reverence&mdash;&ldquo;a word which was never broken towards friend
      or foe. What, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would have ocular proof of thy skill,&rdquo; said the baron, &ldquo;and without it
      thou approachest not to the couch of King Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The praise of the physician,&rdquo; said the Arabian, &ldquo;is in the recovery of
      his patient. Behold this sergeant, whose blood has been dried up by the
      fever which has whitened your camp with skeletons, and against which the
      art of your Nazarene leeches hath been like a silken doublet against a
      lance of steel. Look at his fingers and arms, wasted like the claws and
      shanks of the crane. Death had this morning his clutch on him; but had
      Azrael been on one side of the couch, I being on the other, his soul
      should not have been left from his body. Disturb me not with further
      questions, but await the critical minute, and behold in silent wonder the
      marvellous event.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The physician had then recourse to his astrolabe, the oracle of Eastern
      science, and watching with grave precision until the precise time of the
      evening prayer had arrived, he sunk on his knees, with his face turned to
      Mecca, and recited the petitions which close the Moslemah's day of toil.
      The bishop and the English baron looked on each other, meanwhile, with
      symptoms of contempt and indignation, but neither judged it fit to
      interrupt El Hakim in his devotions, unholy as they considered them to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Arab arose from the earth, on which he had prostrated himself, and
      walking into the hut where the patient lay extended, he drew a sponge from
      a small silver box, dipped perhaps in some aromatic distillation, for when
      he put it to the sleeper's nose, he sneezed, awoke, and looked wildly
      around. He was a ghastly spectacle as he sat up almost naked on his couch,
      the bones and cartilages as visible through the surface of his skin as if
      they had never been clothed with flesh. His face was long, and furrowed
      with wrinkles; but his eye, though it wandered at first, became gradually
      more settled. He seemed to be aware of the presence of his dignified
      visitors, for he attempted feebly to pull the covering from his head in
      token of reverence, as he inquired, in a subdued and submissive voice, for
      his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know us, vassal?&rdquo; said the Lord of Gilsland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not perfectly, my lord,&rdquo; replied the squire faintly. &ldquo;My sleep has been
      long and full of dreams. Yet I know that you are a great English lord, as
      seemeth by the red cross, and this a holy prelate, whose blessing I crave
      on me a poor sinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou hast it&mdash;BENEDICTIO DOMINI SIT VOBISCUM,&rdquo; said the prelate,
      making the sign of the cross, but without approaching nearer to the
      patient's bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your eyes witness,&rdquo; said the Arabian, &ldquo;the fever hath been subdued. He
      speaks with calmness and recollection&mdash;his pulse beats composedly as
      yours&mdash;try its pulsations yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prelate declined the experiment; but Thomas of Gilsland, more
      determined on making the trial, did so, and satisfied himself that the
      fever was indeed gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is most wonderful,&rdquo; said the knight, looking to the bishop; &ldquo;the man
      is assuredly cured. I must conduct this mediciner presently to King
      Richard's tent. What thinks your reverence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay, let me finish one cure ere I commence another,&rdquo; said the Arab; &ldquo;I
      will pass with you when I have given my patient the second cup of this
      most holy elixir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying he pulled out a silver cup, and filling it with water from a
      gourd which stood by the bedside, he next drew forth a small silken bag
      made of network, twisted with silver, the contents of which the bystanders
      could not discover, and immersing it in the cup, continued to watch it in
      silence during the space of five minutes. It seemed to the spectators as
      if some effervescence took place during the operation; but if so, it
      instantly subsided.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drink,&rdquo; said the physician to the sick man&mdash;&ldquo;sleep, and awaken free
      from malady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And with this simple-seeming draught thou wilt undertake to cure a
      monarch?&rdquo; said the Bishop of Tyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have cured a beggar, as you may behold,&rdquo; replied the sage. &ldquo;Are the
      Kings of Frangistan made of other clay than the meanest of their
      subjects?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us have him presently to the King,&rdquo; said the Baron of Gilsland. &ldquo;He
      hath shown that he possesses the secret which may restore his health. If
      he fails to exercise it, I will put himself past the power of medicine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As they were about to leave the hut, the sick man, raising his voice as
      much as his weakness permitted, exclaimed, &ldquo;Reverend father, noble knight,
      and you, kind leech, if you would have me sleep and recover, tell me in
      charity what is become of my dear master?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is upon a distant expedition, friend,&rdquo; replied the prelate&mdash;&ldquo;on
      an honourable embassy, which may detain him for some days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said the Baron of Gilsland, &ldquo;why deceive the poor fellow?&mdash;Friend,
      thy master has returned to the camp, and you will presently see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The invalid held up, as if in thankfulness, his wasted hands to Heaven,
      and resisting no longer the soporiferous operation of the elixir, sunk
      down in a gentle sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a better physician than I, Sir Thomas,&rdquo; said the prelate&mdash;&ldquo;a
      soothing falsehood is fitter for a sick-room than an unpleasing truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How mean you, my reverend lord?&rdquo; said De Vaux hastily. &ldquo;Think you I would
      tell a falsehood to save the lives of a dozen such as he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said,&rdquo; replied the bishop, with manifest symptoms of alarm&mdash;&ldquo;you
      said the esquire's master was returned&mdash;he, I mean, of the Couchant
      Leopard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he IS returned,&rdquo; said De Vaux. &ldquo;I spoke with him but a few hours
      since. This learned leech came in his company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin! why told you not of his return to me?&rdquo; said the bishop, in
      evident perturbation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I not say that this same Knight of the Leopard had returned in
      company with the physician? I thought I had,&rdquo; replied De Vaux carelessly.
      &ldquo;But what signified his return to the skill of the physician, or the cure
      of his Majesty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much, Sir Thomas&mdash;it signified much,&rdquo; said the bishop, clenching his
      hands, pressing his foot against the earth, and giving signs of
      impatience, as if in an involuntary manner. &ldquo;But where can he be gone now,
      this same knight? God be with us&mdash;here may be some fatal errors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yonder serf in the outer space,&rdquo; said De Vaux, not without wonder at the
      bishop's emotion, &ldquo;can probably tell us whither his master has gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lad was summoned, and in a language nearly incomprehensible to them,
      gave them at length to understand that an officer had summoned his master
      to the royal tent some time before their arrival at that of his master.
      The anxiety of the bishop appeared to rise to the highest, and became
      evident to De Vaux, though, neither an acute observer nor of a suspicious
      temper. But with his anxiety seemed to increase his wish to keep it
      subdued and unobserved. He took a hasty leave of De Vaux, who looked after
      him with astonishment, and after shrugging his shoulders in silent wonder,
      proceeded to conduct the Arabian physician to the tent of King Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     This is the prince of leeches; fever, plague,
     Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look on him,
     And quit their grasp upon the tortured sinews.
        ANONYMOUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Baron of Gilsland walked with slow step and an anxious countenance
      towards the royal pavilion. He had much diffidence of his own capacity,
      except in a field of battle, and conscious of no very acute intellect, was
      usually contented to wonder at circumstances which a man of livelier
      imagination would have endeavoured to investigate and understand, or at
      least would have made the subject of speculation. But it seemed very
      extraordinary, even to him, that the attention of the bishop should have
      been at once abstracted from all reflection on the marvellous cure which
      they had witnessed, and upon the probability it afforded of Richard being
      restored to health, by what seemed a very trivial piece of information
      announcing the motions of a beggardly Scottish knight, than whom Thomas of
      Gilsland knew nothing within the circle of gentle blood more unimportant
      or contemptible; and despite his usual habit of passively beholding
      passing events, the baron's spirit toiled with unwonted attempts to form
      conjectures on the cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the idea occurred at once to him that the whole might be a
      conspiracy against King Richard, formed within the camp of the allies, and
      to which the bishop, who was by some represented as a politic and
      unscrupulous person, was not unlikely to have been accessory. It was true
      that, in his own opinion, there existed no character so perfect as that of
      his master; for Richard being the flower of chivalry, and the chief of
      Christian leaders, and obeying in all points the commands of Holy Church,
      De Vaux's ideas of perfection went no further. Still, he knew that,
      however unworthily, it had been always his master's fate to draw as much
      reproach and dislike as honour and attachment from the display of his
      great qualities; and that in the very camp, and amongst those princes
      bound by oath to the Crusade, were many who would have sacrificed all hope
      of victory over the Saracens to the pleasure of ruining, or at least of
      humbling, Richard of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wherefore,&rdquo; said the baron to himself, &ldquo;it is in no sense impossible that
      this El Hakim, with this his cure, or seeming cure, wrought on the body of
      the Scottish squire, may mean nothing but a trick, to which he of the
      Leopard may be accessory, and wherein the Bishop of Tyre, prelate as he
      is, may have some share.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This hypothesis, indeed, could not be so easily reconciled with the alarm
      manifested by the bishop on learning that, contrary to his expectation,
      the Scottish knight had suddenly returned to the Crusaders' camp. But De
      Vaux was influenced only by his general prejudices, which dictated to him
      the assured belief that a wily Italian priest, a false-hearted Scot, and
      an infidel physician, formed a set of ingredients from which all evil, and
      no good, was likely to be extracted. He resolved, however, to lay his
      scruples bluntly before the King, of whose judgment he had nearly as high
      an opinion as of his valour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, events had taken place very contrary to the suppositions which
      Thomas de Vaux had entertained. Scarce had he left the royal pavilion,
      when, betwixt the impatience of the fever, and that which was natural to
      his disposition, Richard began to murmur at his delay, and express an
      earnest desire for his return. He had seen enough to try to reason himself
      out of this irritation, which greatly increased his bodily malady. He
      wearied his attendants by demanding from them amusements, and the breviary
      of the priest, the romance of the clerk, even the harp of his favourite
      minstrel, were had recourse to in vain. At length, some two hours before
      sundown, and long, therefore, ere he could expect a satisfactory account
      of the process of the cure which the Moor or Arabian had undertaken, he
      sent, as we have already heard, a messenger commanding the attendance of
      the Knight of the Leopard, determined to soothe his impatience by
      obtaining from Sir Kenneth a more particular account of the cause of his
      absence from the camp, and the circumstances of his meeting with this
      celebrated physician.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish knight, thus summoned, entered the royal presence as one who
      was no stranger to such scenes. He was scarcely known to the King of
      England, even by sight, although, tenacious of his rank, as devout in the
      adoration of the lady of his secret heart, he had never been absent on
      those occasions when the munificence and hospitality of England opened the
      Court of its monarch to all who held a certain rank in chivalry. The King
      gazed fixedly on Sir Kenneth approaching his bedside, while the knight
      bent his knee for a moment, then arose, and stood before him in a posture
      of deference, but not of subservience or humility, as became an officer in
      the presence of his sovereign.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy name,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;is Kenneth of the Leopard&mdash;from whom
      hadst thou degree of knighthood?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I took it from the sword of William the Lion, King of Scotland,&rdquo; replied
      the Scot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A weapon,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;well worthy to confer honour; nor has it been
      laid on an undeserving shoulder. We have seen thee bear thyself knightly
      and valiantly in press of battle, when most need there was; and thou hadst
      not been yet to learn that thy deserts were known to us, but that thy
      presumption in other points has been such that thy services can challenge
      no better reward than that of pardon for thy transgression. What sayest
      thou&mdash;ha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kenneth attempted to speak, but was unable to express himself distinctly;
      the consciousness of his too ambitious love, and the keen, falcon glance
      with which Coeur de Lion seemed to penetrate his inmost soul, combining to
      disconcert him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;although soldiers should obey command, and
      vassals be respectful towards their superiors, we might forgive a brave
      knight greater offence than the keeping a simple hound, though it were
      contrary to our express public ordinance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard kept his eye fixed on the Scot's face, beheld and beholding,
      smiling inwardly at the relief produced by the turn he had given to his
      general accusation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So please you, my lord,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;your majesty must be good to us
      poor gentlemen of Scotland in this matter. We are far from home, scant of
      revenues, and cannot support ourselves as your wealthy nobles, who have
      credit of the Lombards. The Saracens shall feel our blows the harder that
      we eat a piece of dried venison from time to time with our herbs and
      barley-cakes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It skills not asking my leave,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;since Thomas de Vaux, who
      doth, like all around me, that which is fittest in his own eyes, hath
      already given thee permission for hunting and hawking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For hunting only, and please you,&rdquo; said the Scot. &ldquo;But if it please your
      Majesty to indulge me with the privilege of hawking also, and you list to
      trust me with a falcon on fist, I trust I could supply your royal mess
      with some choice waterfowl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dread me, if thou hadst but the falcon,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;thou wouldst
      scarce wait for the permission. I wot well it is said abroad that we of
      the line of Anjou resent offence against our forest-laws as highly as we
      would do treason against our crown. To brave and worthy men, however, we
      could pardon either misdemeanour.&mdash;But enough of this. I desire to
      know of you, Sir Knight, wherefore, and by whose authority, you took this
      recent journey to the wilderness of the Dead Sea and Engaddi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By order,&rdquo; replied the knight, &ldquo;of the Council of Princes of the Holy
      Crusade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how dared any one to give such an order, when I&mdash;not the least,
      surely, in the league&mdash;was unacquainted with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not my part, please your highness,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;to inquire
      into such particulars. I am a soldier of the Cross&mdash;serving,
      doubtless, for the present, under your highness's banner, and proud of the
      permission to do so, but still one who hath taken on him the holy symbol
      for the rights of Christianity and the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, and
      bound, therefore, to obey without question the orders of the princes and
      chiefs by whom the blessed enterprise is directed. That indisposition
      should seclude, I trust for but a short time, your highness from their
      councils, in which you hold so potential a voice, I must lament with all
      Christendom; but, as a soldier, I must obey those on whom the lawful right
      of command devolves, or set but an evil example in the Christian camp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou sayest well,&rdquo; said King Richard; &ldquo;and the blame rests not with thee,
      but with those with whom, when it shall please Heaven to raise me from
      this accursed bed of pain and inactivity, I hope to reckon roundly. What
      was the purport of thy message?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks, and please your highness,&rdquo; replied Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;that were best
      asked of those who sent me, and who can render the reasons of mine errand;
      whereas I can only tell its outward form and purport.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Palter not with me, Sir Scot&mdash;it were ill for thy safety,&rdquo; said the
      irritable monarch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My safety, my lord,&rdquo; replied the knight firmly, &ldquo;I cast behind me as a
      regardless thing when I vowed myself to this enterprise, looking rather to
      my immortal welfare than to that which concerns my earthly body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the mass,&rdquo; said King Richard, &ldquo;thou art a brave fellow! Hark thee, Sir
      Knight, I love the Scottish people; they are hardy, though dogged and
      stubborn, and, I think, true men in the main, though the necessity of
      state has sometimes constrained them to be dissemblers. I deserve some
      love at their hand, for I have voluntarily done what they could not by
      arms have extorted from me any more than from my predecessors, I have
      re-established the fortresses of Roxburgh and Berwick, which lay in pledge
      to England; I have restored your ancient boundaries; and, finally, I have
      renounced a claim to homage upon the crown of England, which I thought
      unjustly forced on you. I have endeavoured to make honourable and
      independent friends, where former kings of England attempted only to
      compel unwilling and rebellious vassals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this you have done, my Lord King,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, bowing&mdash;&ldquo;all
      this you have done, by your royal treaty with our sovereign at Canterbury.
      Therefore have you me, and many better Scottish men, making war against
      the infidels, under your banners, who would else have been ravaging your
      frontiers in England. If their numbers are now few, it is because their
      lives have been freely waged and wasted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I grant it true,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;and for the good offices I have done
      your land I require you to remember that, as a principal member of the
      Christian league, I have a right to know the negotiations of my
      confederates. Do me, therefore, the justice to tell me what I have a title
      to be acquainted with, and which I am certain to know more truly from you
      than from others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;thus conjured, I will speak the truth; for I
      well believe that your purposes towards the principal object of our
      expedition are single-hearted and honest, and it is more than I dare
      warrant for others of the Holy League. Be pleased, therefore, to know my
      charge was to propose, through the medium of the hermit of Engaddi&mdash;a
      holy man, respected and protected by Saladin himself&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A continuation of the truce, I doubt not,&rdquo; said Richard, hastily
      interrupting him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, by Saint Andrew, my liege,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight; &ldquo;but the
      establishment of a lasting peace, and the withdrawing our armies from
      Palestine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saint George!&rdquo; said Richard, in astonishment. &ldquo;Ill as I have justly
      thought of them, I could not have dreamed they would have humbled
      themselves to such dishonour. Speak, Sir Kenneth, with what will did you
      carry such a message?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With right good will, my lord,&rdquo; said Kenneth; &ldquo;because, when we had lost
      our noble leader, under whose guidance alone I hoped for victory, I saw
      none who could succeed him likely to lead us to conquest, and I accounted
      it well in such circumstances to avoid defeat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And on what conditions was this hopeful peace to be contracted?&rdquo; said
      King Richard, painfully suppressing the passion with which his heart was
      almost bursting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These were not entrusted to me, my lord,&rdquo; answered the Knight of the
      Couchant Leopard. &ldquo;I delivered them sealed to the hermit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for what hold you this reverend hermit&mdash;for fool, madman,
      traitor, or saint?&rdquo; said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His folly, sire,&rdquo; replied the shrewd Scottish man, &ldquo;I hold to be assumed
      to win favour and reverence from the Paynimrie, who regard madmen as the
      inspired of Heaven&mdash;at least it seemed to me as exhibited only
      occasionally, and not as mixing, like natural folly, with the general
      tenor of his mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shrewdly replied,&rdquo; said the monarch, throwing himself back on his couch,
      from which he had half-raised himself. &ldquo;Now of his penitence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His penitence,&rdquo; continued Kenneth, &ldquo;appears to me sincere, and the fruits
      of remorse for some dreadful crime, for which he seems, in his own
      opinion, condemned to reprobation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for his policy?&rdquo; said King Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks, my lord,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight, &ldquo;he despairs of the
      security of Palestine, as of his own salvation, by any means short of a
      miracle&mdash;at least, since the arm of Richard of England hath ceased to
      strike for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, therefore, the coward policy of this hermit is like that of these
      miserable princes, who, forgetful of their knighthood and their faith, are
      only resolved and determined when the question is retreat, and rather than
      go forward against an armed Saracen, would trample in their flight over a
      dying ally!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Might I so far presume, my Lord King,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight, &ldquo;this
      discourse but heats your disease, the enemy from which Christendom dreads
      more evil than from armed hosts of infidels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The countenance of King Richard was, indeed, more flushed, and his action
      became more feverishly vehement, as, with clenched hand, extended arm, and
      flashing eyes, he seemed at once to suffer under bodily pain, and at the
      same time under vexation of mind, while his high spirit led him to speak
      on, as if in contempt of both.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can flatter, Sir Knight,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but you escape me not. I must
      know more from you than you have yet told me. Saw you my royal consort
      when at Engaddi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To my knowledge&mdash;no, my lord,&rdquo; replied Sir Kenneth, with
      considerable perturbation, for he remembered the midnight procession in
      the chapel of the rocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask you,&rdquo; said the King, in a sterner voice, &ldquo;whether you were not in
      the chapel of the Carmelite nuns at Engaddi, and there saw Berengaria,
      Queen of England, and the ladies of her Court, who went thither on
      pilgrimage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;I will speak the truth as in the
      confessional. In a subterranean chapel, to which the anchorite conducted
      me, I beheld a choir of ladies do homage to a relic of the highest
      sanctity; but as I saw not their faces, nor heard their voices, unless in
      the hymns which they chanted, I cannot tell whether the Queen of England
      was of the bevy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And was there no one of these ladies known to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth stood silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask you,&rdquo; said Richard, raising himself on his elbow, &ldquo;as a knight and
      a gentleman&mdash;and I shall know by your answer how you value either
      character&mdash;did you, or did you not, know any lady amongst that band
      of worshippers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said Kenneth, not without much hesitation, &ldquo;I might guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I also may guess,&rdquo; said the King, frowning sternly; &ldquo;but it is
      enough. Leopard as you are, Sir Knight, beware tempting the lion's paw.
      Hark ye&mdash;to become enamoured of the moon would be but an act of
      folly; but to leap from the battlements of a lofty tower, in the wild hope
      of coming within her sphere, were self-destructive madness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment some bustling was heard in the outer apartment, and the
      King, hastily changing to his more natural manner, said, &ldquo;Enough&mdash;begone&mdash;speed
      to De Vaux, and send him hither with the Arabian physician. My life for
      the faith of the Soldan! Would he but abjure his false law, I would aid
      him with my sword to drive this scum of French and Austrians from his
      dominions, and think Palestine as well ruled by him as when her kings were
      anointed by the decree of Heaven itself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Leopard retired, and presently afterwards the
      chamberlain announced a deputation from the Council, who had come to wait
      on the Majesty of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well they allow that I am living yet,&rdquo; was his reply. &ldquo;Who are the
      reverend ambassadors?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Grand Master of the Templars and the Marquis of Montserrat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our brother of France loves not sick-beds,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;yet, had
      Philip been ill, I had stood by his couch long since.&mdash;Jocelyn, lay
      me the couch more fairly&mdash;it is tumbled like a stormy sea. Reach me
      yonder steel mirror&mdash;pass a comb through my hair and beard. They
      look, indeed, liker a lion's mane than a Christian man's locks. Bring
      water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the trembling chamberlain, &ldquo;the leeches say that cold
      water may be fatal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the foul fiend with the leeches!&rdquo; replied the monarch; &ldquo;if they cannot
      cure me, think you I will allow them to torment me?&mdash;There, then,&rdquo; he
      said, after having made his ablutions, &ldquo;admit the worshipful envoys; they
      will now, I think, scarcely see that disease has made Richard negligent of
      his person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The celebrated Master of the Templars was a tall, thin, war-worn man, with
      a slow yet penetrating eye, and a brow on which a thousand dark intrigues
      had stamped a portion of their obscurity. At the head of that singular
      body, to whom their order was everything, and their individuality nothing&mdash;seeking
      the advancement of its power, even at the hazard of that very religion
      which the fraternity were originally associated to protect&mdash;accused
      of heresy and witchcraft, although by their character Christian priests&mdash;suspected
      of secret league with the Soldan, though by oath devoted to the protection
      of the Holy Temple, or its recovery&mdash;the whole order, and the whole
      personal character of its commander, or Grand Master, was a riddle, at the
      exposition of which most men shuddered. The Grand Master was dressed in
      his white robes of solemnity, and he bore the ABACUS, a mystic staff of
      office, the peculiar form of which has given rise to such singular
      conjectures and commentaries, leading to suspicions that this celebrated
      fraternity of Christian knights were embodied under the foulest symbols of
      paganism.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conrade of Montserrat had a much more pleasing exterior than the dark and
      mysterious priest-soldier by whom he was accompanied. He was a handsome
      man, of middle age, or something past that term, bold in the field,
      sagacious in council, gay and gallant in times of festivity; but, on the
      other hand, he was generally accused of versatility, of a narrow and
      selfish ambition, of a desire to extend his own principality, without
      regard to the weal of the Latin kingdom of Palestine, and of seeking his
      own interest, by private negotiations with Saladin, to the prejudice of
      the Christian leaguers.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the usual salutations had been made by these dignitaries, and
      courteously returned by King Richard, the Marquis of Montserrat commenced
      an explanation of the motives of their visit, sent, as he said they were,
      by the anxious kings and princes who composed the Council of the
      Crusaders, &ldquo;to inquire into the health of their magnanimous ally, the
      valiant King of England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We know the importance in which the princes of the Council hold our
      health,&rdquo; replied the English King; &ldquo;and are well aware how much they must
      have suffered by suppressing all curiosity concerning it for fourteen
      days, for fear, doubtless, of aggravating our disorder, by showing their
      anxiety regarding the event.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The flow of the Marquis's eloquence being checked, and he himself thrown
      into some confusion by this reply, his more austere companion took up the
      thread of the conversation, and with as much dry and brief gravity as was
      consistent with the presence which he addressed, informed the King that
      they came from the Council, to pray, in the name of Christendom, &ldquo;that he
      would not suffer his health to be tampered with by an infidel physician,
      said to be dispatched by Saladin, until the Council had taken measures to
      remove or confirm the suspicion which they at present conceived did attach
      itself to the mission of such a person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grand Master of the Holy and Valiant Order of Knights Templars, and you,
      most noble Marquis of Montserrat,&rdquo; replied Richard, &ldquo;if it please you to
      retire into the adjoining pavilion, you shall presently see what account
      we make of the tender remonstrances of our royal and princely colleagues
      in this religious warfare.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Marquis and Grand Master retired accordingly; nor had they been many
      minutes in the outward pavilion when the Eastern physician arrived,
      accompanied by the Baron of Gilsland and Kenneth of Scotland. The baron,
      however, was a little later of entering the tent than the other two,
      stopping, perchance, to issue some orders to the warders without.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the Arabian physician entered, he made his obeisance, after the
      Oriental fashion, to the Marquis and Grand Master, whose dignity was
      apparent, both from their appearance and their bearing. The Grand Master
      returned the salutation with an expression of disdainful coldness, the
      Marquis with the popular courtesy which he habitually practised to men of
      every rank and nation. There was a pause, for the Scottish knight, waiting
      for the arrival of De Vaux, presumed not, of his own authority, to enter
      the tent of the King of England; and during this interval the Grand Master
      sternly demanded of the Moslem, &ldquo;Infidel, hast thou the courage to
      practise thine art upon the person of an anointed sovereign of the
      Christian host?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sun of Allah,&rdquo; answered the sage, &ldquo;shines on the Nazarene as well as
      on the true believer, and His servant dare make no distinction betwixt
      them when called on to exercise the art of healing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Misbelieving Hakim,&rdquo; said the Grand Master, &ldquo;or whatsoever they call thee
      for an unbaptized slave of darkness, dost thou well know that thou shalt
      be torn asunder by wild horses should King Richard die under thy charge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That were hard justice,&rdquo; answered the physician, &ldquo;seeing that I can but
      use human means, and that the issue is written in the book of light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, reverend and valiant Grand Master,&rdquo; said the Marquis of Montserrat,
      &ldquo;consider that this learned man is not acquainted with our Christian
      order, adopted in the fear of God, and for the safety of His anointed.&mdash;Be
      it known to thee, grave physician, whose skill we doubt not, that your
      wisest course is to repair to the presence of the illustrious Council of
      our Holy League, and there to give account and reckoning to such wise and
      learned leeches as they shall nominate, concerning your means of process
      and cure of this illustrious patient; so shall you escape all the danger
      which, rashly taking such a high matter upon your sole answer, you may
      else most likely incur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lords,&rdquo; said El Hakim, &ldquo;I understand you well. But knowledge hath its
      champions as well as your military art&mdash;nay, hath sometimes had its
      martyrs as well as religion. I have the command of my sovereign, the
      Soldan Saladin, to heal this Nazarene King, and, with the blessing of the
      Prophet, I will obey his commands. If I fail, ye wear swords thirsting for
      the blood of the faithful, and I proffer my body to your weapons. But I
      will not reason with one uncircumcised upon the virtue of the medicines of
      which I have obtained knowledge through the grace of the Prophet, and I
      pray you interpose no delay between me and my office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who talks of delay?&rdquo; said the Baron de Vaux, hastily entering the tent;
      &ldquo;we have had but too much already. I salute you, my Lord of Montserrat,
      and you, valiant Grand Master. But I must presently pass with this learned
      physician to the bedside of my master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the Marquis, in Norman-French, or the language of Ouie, as
      it was then called, &ldquo;are you well advised that we came to expostulate, on
      the part of the Council of the Monarchs and Princes of the Crusade,
      against the risk of permitting an infidel and Eastern physician to tamper
      with a health so valuable as that of your master, King Richard?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble Lord Marquis,&rdquo; replied the Englishman bluntly, &ldquo;I can neither use
      many words, nor do I delight in listening to them; moreover, I am much
      more ready to believe what my eyes have seen than what my ears have heard.
      I am satisfied that this heathen can cure the sickness of King Richard,
      and I believe and trust he will labour to do so. Time is precious. If
      Mohammed&mdash;may God's curse be on him! stood at the door of the tent,
      with such fair purpose as this Adonbec el Hakim entertains, I would hold
      it sin to delay him for a minute. So, give ye God'en, my lords.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, but,&rdquo; said Conrade of Montserrat, &ldquo;the King himself said we should
      be present when this same physician dealt upon him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron whispered the chamberlain, probably to know whether the Marquis
      spoke truly, and then replied, &ldquo;My lords, if you will hold your patience,
      you are welcome to enter with us; but if you interrupt, by action or
      threat, this accomplished physician in his duty, be it known that, without
      respect to your high quality, I will enforce your absence from Richard's
      tent; for know, I am so well satisfied of the virtue of this man's
      medicines, that were Richard himself to refuse them, by our Lady of
      Lanercost, I think I could find in my heart to force him to take the means
      of his cure whether he would or no.&mdash;Move onward, El Hakim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The last word was spoken in the lingua franca, and instantly obeyed by the
      physician. The Grand Master looked grimly on the unceremonious old
      soldier, but, on exchanging a glance with the Marquis, smoothed his
      frowning brow as well as he could, and both followed De Vaux and the
      Arabian into the inner tent, where Richard lay expecting them, with that
      impatience with which the sick man watches the step of his physician. Sir
      Kenneth, whose attendance seemed neither asked nor prohibited, felt
      himself, by the circumstances in which he stood, entitled to follow these
      high dignitaries; but, conscious of his inferior power and rank, remained
      aloof during the scene which took place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard, when they entered his apartment, immediately exclaimed, &ldquo;So ho! a
      goodly fellowship come to see Richard take his leap in the dark. My noble
      allies, I greet you as the representatives of our assembled league;
      Richard will again be amongst you in his former fashion, or ye shall bear
      to the grave what is left of him.&mdash;De Vaux, lives he or dies he, thou
      hast the thanks of thy prince. There is yet another&mdash;but this fever
      hath wasted my eyesight. What, the bold Scot, who would climb heaven
      without a ladder! He is welcome too.&mdash;Come, Sir Hakim, to the work,
      to the work!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The physician, who had already informed himself of the various symptoms of
      the King's illness, now felt his pulse for a long time, and with deep
      attention, while all around stood silent, and in breathless expectation.
      The sage next filled a cup with spring water, and dipped into it the small
      red purse, which, as formerly, he took from his bosom. When he seemed to
      think it sufficiently medicated, he was about to offer it to the
      sovereign, who prevented him by saying, &ldquo;Hold an instant. Thou hast felt
      my pulse&mdash;let me lay my finger on thine. I too, as becomes a good
      knight, know something of thine art.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Arabian yielded his hand without hesitation, and his long, slender
      dark fingers were for an instant enclosed, and almost buried, in the large
      enfoldment of King Richard's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His blood beats calm as an infant's,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;so throbs not
      theirs who poison princes. De Vaux, whether we live or die, dismiss this
      Hakim with honour and safety.&mdash;Commend us, friend, to the noble
      Saladin. Should I die, it is without doubt of his faith; should I live, it
      will be to thank him as a warrior would desire to be thanked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then raised himself in bed, took the cup in his hand, and turning to
      the Marquis and the Grand Master&mdash;&ldquo;Mark what I say, and let my royal
      brethren pledge me in Cyprus wine, 'To the immortal honour of the first
      Crusader who shall strike lance or sword on the gate of Jerusalem; and to
      the shame and eternal infamy of whomsoever shall turn back from the plough
      on which he hath laid his hand!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drained the cup to the bottom, resigned it to the Arabian, and sunk
      back, as if exhausted, upon the cushions which were arranged to receive
      him. The physician then, with silent but expressive signs, directed that
      all should leave the tent excepting himself and De Vaux, whom no
      remonstrance could induce to withdraw. The apartment was cleared
      accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     And now I will unclasp a secret book,
     And, to your quick-conceiving discontent,
     I'll read you matter deep and dangerous.
       HENRY IV., PART I.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Marquis of Montserrat and the Grand Master of the Knights Templars
      stood together in the front of the royal pavilion, within which this
      singular scene had passed, and beheld a strong guard of bills and bows
      drawn out to form a circle around it, and keep at distance all which might
      disturb the sleeping monarch. The soldiers wore the downcast, silent, and
      sullen looks with which they trail their arms at a funeral, and stepped
      with such caution that you could not hear a buckler ring or a sword
      clatter, though so many men in armour were moving around the tent. They
      lowered their weapons in deep reverence as the dignitaries passed through
      their files, but with the same profound silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a change of cheer among these island dogs,&rdquo; said the Grand
      Master to Conrade, when they had passed Richard's guards. &ldquo;What hoarse
      tumult and revel used to be before this pavilion!&mdash;nought but
      pitching the bar, hurling the ball, wrestling, roaring of songs,
      clattering of wine pots, and quaffing of flagons among these burly yeomen,
      as if they were holding some country wake, with a Maypole in the midst of
      them instead of a royal standard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mastiffs are a faithful race,&rdquo; said Conrade; &ldquo;and the King their Master
      has won their love by being ready to wrestle, brawl, or revel amongst the
      foremost of them, whenever the humour seized him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is totally compounded of humours,&rdquo; said the Grand Master. &ldquo;Marked you
      the pledge he gave us! instead of a prayer, over his grace-cup yonder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would have felt it a grace-cup, and a well-spiced one too,&rdquo; said the
      Marquis, &ldquo;were Saladin like any other Turk that ever wore turban, or
      turned him to Mecca at call of the muezzin. But he affects faith, and
      honour, and generosity, as if it were for an unbaptized dog like him to
      practise the virtuous bearing of a Christian knight. It is said he hath
      applied to Richard to be admitted within the pale of chivalry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Saint Bernard!&rdquo; exclaimed the Grand Master, &ldquo;it were time then to
      throw off our belts and spurs, Sir Conrade, deface our armorial bearings,
      and renounce our burgonets, if the highest honour of Christianity were
      conferred on an unchristened Turk of tenpence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You rate the Soldan cheap,&rdquo; replied the Marquis; &ldquo;yet though he be a
      likely man, I have seen a better heathen sold for forty pence at the
      bagnio.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were now near their horses, which stood at some distance from the
      royal tent, prancing among the gallant train of esquires and pages by whom
      they were attended, when Conrade, after a moment's pause, proposed that
      they should enjoy the coolness of the evening breeze which had arisen,
      and, dismissing their steeds and attendants, walk homewards to their own
      quarters through the lines of the extended Christian camp. The Grand
      Master assented, and they proceeded to walk together accordingly,
      avoiding, as if by mutual consent, the more inhabited parts of the canvas
      city, and tracing the broad esplanade which lay between the tents and the
      external defences, where they could converse in private, and unmarked,
      save by the sentinels as they passed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      They spoke for a time upon the military points and preparations for
      defence; but this sort of discourse, in which neither seemed to take
      interest, at length died away, and there was a long pause, which
      terminated by the Marquis of Montserrat stopping short, like a man who has
      formed a sudden resolution, and gazing for some moments on the dark,
      inflexible countenance of the Grand Master, he at length addressed him
      thus: &ldquo;Might it consist with your valour and sanctity, reverend Sir Giles
      Amaury, I would pray you for once to lay aside the dark visor which you
      wear, and to converse with a friend barefaced.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Templar half smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are light-coloured masks,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;as well as dark visors, and
      the one conceals the natural features as completely as the other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so,&rdquo; said the Marquis, putting his hand to his chin, and
      withdrawing it with the action of one who unmasks himself; &ldquo;there lies my
      disguise. And now, what think you, as touching the interests of your own
      order, of the prospects of this Crusade?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is tearing the veil from my thoughts rather than exposing your own,&rdquo;
       said the Grand Master; &ldquo;yet I will reply with a parable told to me by a
      santon of the desert. 'A certain farmer prayed to Heaven for rain, and
      murmured when it fell not at his need. To punish his impatience, Allah,'
      said the santon, 'sent the Euphrates upon his farm, and he was destroyed,
      with all his possessions, even by the granting of his own wishes.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most truly spoken,&rdquo; said the Marquis Conrade. &ldquo;Would that the ocean had
      swallowed up nineteen parts of the armaments of these Western princes!
      What remained would better have served the purpose of the Christian nobles
      of Palestine, the wretched remnant of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem. Left
      to ourselves, we might have bent to the storm; or, moderately supported
      with money and troops, we might have compelled Saladin to respect our
      valour, and grant us peace and protection on easy terms. But from the
      extremity of danger with which this powerful Crusade threatens the Soldan,
      we cannot suppose, should it pass over, that the Saracen will suffer any
      one of us to hold possessions or principalities in Syria, far less permit
      the existence of the Christian military fraternities, from whom they have
      experienced so much mischief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;these adventurous Crusaders may succeed, and
      again plant the Cross on the bulwarks of Zion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will that advantage either the Order of the Templars, or Conrade
      of Montserrat?&rdquo; said the Marquis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You it may advantage,&rdquo; replied the Grand Master. &ldquo;Conrade of Montserrat
      might become Conrade King of Jerusalem.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That sounds like something,&rdquo; said the Marquis, &ldquo;and yet it rings but
      hollow. Godfrey of Bouillon might well choose the crown of thorns for his
      emblem. Grand Master, I will confess to you I have caught some attachment
      to the Eastern form of government&mdash;a pure and simple monarchy should
      consist but of king and subjects. Such is the simple and primitive
      structure&mdash;a shepherd and his flock. All this internal chain of
      feudal dependance is artificial and sophisticated; and I would rather hold
      the baton of my poor marquisate with a firm gripe, and wield it after my
      pleasure, than the sceptre of a monarch, to be in effect restrained and
      curbed by the will of as many proud feudal barons as hold land under the
      Assizes of Jerusalem. [The Assises de Jerusalem were the digest of feudal
      law, composed by Godfrey of Boulogne, for the government of the Latin
      kingdom of Palestine, when reconquered from the Saracens. &ldquo;It was composed
      with advice of the patriarch and barons, the clergy and laity, and is,&rdquo;
       says the historian Gibbon, &ldquo;a precious monument of feudatory
      jurisprudence, founded upon those principles of freedom which were
      essential to the system.&rdquo;] A king should tread freely, Grand Master, and
      should not be controlled by here a ditch, and there a fence-here a feudal
      privilege, and there a mail-clad baron with his sword in his hand to
      maintain it. To sum the whole, I am aware that Guy de Lusignan's claims to
      the throne would be preferred to mine, if Richard recovers, and has aught
      to say in the choice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough,&rdquo; said the Grand Master; &ldquo;thou hast indeed convinced me of thy
      sincerity. Others may hold the same opinions, but few, save Conrade of
      Montserrat, dared frankly avow that he desires not the restitution of the
      kingdom of Jerusalem, but rather prefers being master of a portion of its
      fragments&mdash;like the barbarous islanders, who labour not for the
      deliverance of a goodly vessel from the billows, expecting rather to
      enrich themselves at the expense of the wreck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wilt not betray my counsel?&rdquo; said Conrade, looking sharply and
      suspiciously. &ldquo;Know, for certain, that my tongue shall never wrong my
      head, nor my hand forsake the defence of either. Impeach me if thou wilt&mdash;I
      am prepared to defend myself in the lists against the best Templar who
      ever laid lance in rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet thou start'st somewhat suddenly for so bold a steed,&rdquo; said the Grand
      Master. &ldquo;However, I swear to thee by the Holy Temple, which our Order is
      sworn to defend, that I will keep counsel with thee as a true comrade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By which Temple?&rdquo; said the Marquis of Montserrat, whose love of sarcasm
      often outran his policy and discretion; &ldquo;swearest thou by that on the hill
      of Zion, which was built by King Solomon, or by that symbolical,
      emblematical edifice, which is said to be spoken of in the councils held
      in the vaults of your Preceptories, as something which infers the
      aggrandizement of thy valiant and venerable Order?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Templar scowled upon him with an eye of death, but answered calmly,
      &ldquo;By whatever Temple I swear, be assured, Lord Marquis, my oath is sacred.
      I would I knew how to bind THEE by one of equal obligation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will swear truth to thee,&rdquo; said the Marquis, laughing, &ldquo;by the earl's
      coronet, which I hope to convert, ere these wars are over, into something
      better. It feels cold on my brow, that same slight coronal; a duke's cap
      of maintenance were a better protection against such a night-breeze as now
      blows, and a king's crown more preferable still, being lined with
      comfortable ermine and velvet. In a word, our interests bind us together;
      for think not, Lord Grand Master, that, were these allied princes to
      regain Jerusalem, and place a king of their own choosing there, they would
      suffer your Order, any more than my poor marquisate, to retain the
      independence which we now hold. No, by Our Lady! In such case, the proud
      Knights of Saint John must again spread plasters and dress plague sores in
      the hospitals; and you, most puissant and venerable Knights of the Temple,
      must return to your condition of simple men-at-arms, sleep three on a
      pallet, and mount two upon one horse, as your present seal still expresses
      to have been your ancient most simple custom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The rank, privileges, and opulence of our Order prevent so much
      degradation as you threaten,&rdquo; said the Templar haughtily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are your bane,&rdquo; said Conrade of Montserrat; &ldquo;and you, as well as I,
      reverend Grand Master, know that, were the allied princes to be successful
      in Palestine, it would be their first point of policy to abate the
      independence of your Order, which, but for the protection of our holy
      father the Pope, and the necessity of employing your valour in the
      conquest of Palestine, you would long since have experienced. Give them
      complete success, and you will be flung aside, as the splinters of a
      broken lance are tossed out of the tilt-yard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There may be truth in what you say,&rdquo; said the Templar, darkly smiling.
      &ldquo;But what were our hopes should the allies withdraw their forces, and
      leave Palestine in the grasp of Saladin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great and assured,&rdquo; replied Conrade. &ldquo;The Soldan would give large
      provinces to maintain at his behest a body of well-appointed Frankish
      lances. In Egypt, in Persia, a hundred such auxiliaries, joined to his own
      light cavalry, would turn the battle against the most fearful odds. This
      dependence would be but for a time&mdash;perhaps during the life of this
      enterprising Soldan; but in the East empires arise like mushrooms. Suppose
      him dead, and us strengthened with a constant succession of fiery and
      adventurous spirits from Europe, what might we not hope to achieve,
      uncontrolled by these monarchs, whose dignity throws us at present into
      the shade&mdash;and, were they to remain here, and succeed in this
      expedition, would willingly consign us for ever to degradation and
      dependence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say well, my Lord Marquis,&rdquo; said the Grand Master, &ldquo;and your words
      find an echo in my bosom. Yet must we be cautious&mdash;Philip of France
      is wise as well as valiant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True, and will be therefore the more easily diverted from an expedition
      to which, in a moment of enthusiasm, or urged by his nobles, he rashly
      bound himself. He is jealous of King Richard, his natural enemy, and longs
      to return to prosecute plans of ambition nearer to Paris than Palestine.
      Any fair pretence will serve him for withdrawing from a scene in which he
      is aware he is wasting the force of his kingdom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the Duke of Austria?&rdquo; said the Templar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, touching the Duke,&rdquo; returned Conrade, &ldquo;his self-conceit and folly
      lead him to the same conclusions as do Philip's policy and wisdom. He
      conceives himself, God help the while, ungratefully treated, because men's
      mouths&mdash;even those of his own MINNE-SINGERS [The German minstrels
      were so termed.]&mdash;are filled with the praises of King Richard, whom
      he fears and hates, and in whose harm he would rejoice, like those unbred,
      dastardly curs, who, if the foremost of the pack is hurt by the gripe of
      the wolf, are much more likely to assail the sufferer from behind than to
      come to his assistance. But wherefore tell I this to thee, save to show
      that I am in sincerity in desiring that this league be broken up, and the
      country freed of these great monarchs with their hosts? And thou well
      knowest, and hast thyself seen, how all the princes of influence and
      power, one alone excepted, are eager to enter into treaty with the
      Soldan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I acknowledge it,&rdquo; said the Templar; &ldquo;he were blind that had not seen
      this in their last deliberations. But lift yet thy mask an inch higher,
      and tell me thy real reason for pressing upon the Council that Northern
      Englishman, or Scot, or whatever you call yonder Knight of the Leopard, to
      carry their proposals for a treaty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was a policy in it,&rdquo; replied the Italian. &ldquo;His character of native
      of Britain was sufficient to meet what Saladin required, who knew him to
      belong to the band of Richard; while his character of Scot, and certain
      other personal grudges which I wot of, rendered it most unlikely that our
      envoy should, on his return, hold any communication with the sick-bed of
      Richard, to whom his presence was ever unacceptable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, too finespun policy,&rdquo; said the Grand Master; &ldquo;trust me, that Italian
      spiders' webs will never bind this unshorn Samson of the Isle&mdash;well
      if you can do it with new cords, and those of the toughest. See you not
      that the envoy whom you have selected so carefully hath brought us, in
      this physician, the means of restoring the lion-hearted, bull-necked
      Englishman to prosecute his Crusading enterprise. And so soon as he is
      able once more to rush on, which of the princes dare hold back? They must
      follow him for very shame, although they would march under the banner of
      Satan as soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be content,&rdquo; said Conrade of Montserrat; &ldquo;ere this physician, if he work
      by anything short of miraculous agency, can accomplish Richard's cure, it
      may be possible to put some open rupture betwixt the Frenchman&mdash;at
      least the Austrian&mdash;and his allies of England, so that the breach
      shall be irreconcilable; and Richard may arise from his bed, perhaps to
      command his own native troops, but never again, by his sole energy, to
      wield the force of the whole Crusade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art a willing archer,&rdquo; said the Templar; &ldquo;but, Conrade of
      Montserrat, thy bow is over-slack to carry an arrow to the mark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then stopped short, cast a suspicious glance to see that no one
      overheard him, and taking Conrade by the hand, pressed it eagerly as he
      looked the Italian in the face, and repeated slowly, &ldquo;Richard arise from
      his bed, sayest thou? Conrade, he must never arise!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Marquis of Montserrat started. &ldquo;What! spoke you of Richard of England&mdash;of
      Coeur de Lion&mdash;the champion of Christendom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His cheek turned pale and his knees trembled as he spoke. The Templar
      looked at him, with his iron visage contorted into a smile of contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knowest thou what thou look'st like, Sir Conrade, at this moment? Not
      like the politic and valiant Marquis of Montserrat, not like him who would
      direct the Council of Princes and determine the fate of empires&mdash;but
      like a novice, who, stumbling upon a conjuration in his master's book of
      gramarye, has raised the devil when he least thought of it, and now stands
      terrified at the spirit which appears before him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I grant you,&rdquo; said Conrade, recovering himself, &ldquo;that&mdash;unless some
      other sure road could be discovered&mdash;thou hast hinted at that which
      leads most direct to our purpose. But, blessed Mary! we shall become the
      curse of all Europe, the malediction of every one, from the Pope on his
      throne to the very beggar at the church gate, who, ragged and leprous, in
      the last extremity of human wretchedness, shall bless himself that he is
      neither Giles Amaury nor Conrade of Montserrat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If thou takest it thus,&rdquo; said the Grand Master, with the same composure
      which characterized him all through this remarkable dialogue, &ldquo;let us hold
      there has nothing passed between us&mdash;that we have spoken in our sleep&mdash;have
      awakened, and the vision is gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It never can depart,&rdquo; answered Conrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Visions of ducal crowns and kingly diadems are, indeed, somewhat
      tenacious of their place in the imagination,&rdquo; replied the Grand Master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; answered Conrade, &ldquo;let me but first try to break peace between
      Austria and England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They parted. Conrade remained standing still upon the spot, and watching
      the flowing white cloak of the Templar as he stalked slowly away, and
      gradually disappeared amid the fast-sinking darkness of the Oriental
      night. Proud, ambitious, unscrupulous, and politic, the Marquis of
      Montserrat was yet not cruel by nature. He was a voluptuary and an
      epicurean, and, like many who profess this character, was averse, even
      upon selfish motives, from inflicting pain or witnessing acts of cruelty;
      and he retained also a general sense of respect for his own reputation,
      which sometimes supplies the want of the better principle by which
      reputation is to be maintained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have,&rdquo; he said, as his eyes still watched the point at which he had
      seen the last slight wave of the Templar's mantle&mdash;&ldquo;I have, in truth,
      raised the devil with a vengeance! Who would have thought this stern,
      ascetic Grand Master, whose whole fortune and misfortune is merged in that
      of his order, would be willing to do more for its advancement than I who
      labour for my own interest? To check this wild Crusade was my motive,
      indeed, but I durst not think on the ready mode which this determined
      priest has dared to suggest. Yet it is the surest&mdash;perhaps even the
      safest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such were the Marquis's meditations, when his muttered soliloquy was
      broken by a voice from a little distance, which proclaimed with the
      emphatic tone of a herald, &ldquo;Remember the Holy Sepulchre!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The exhortation was echoed from post to post, for it was the duty of the
      sentinels to raise this cry from time to time upon their periodical watch,
      that the host of the Crusaders might always have in their remembrance the
      purpose of their being in arms. But though Conrade was familiar with the
      custom, and had heard the warning voice on all former occasions as a
      matter of habit, yet it came at the present moment so strongly in contact
      with his own train of thought, that it seemed a voice from Heaven warning
      him against the iniquity which his heart meditated. He looked around
      anxiously, as if, like the patriarch of old, though from very different
      circumstances, he was expecting some ram caught in a thicket some
      substitution for the sacrifice which his comrade proposed to offer, not to
      the Supreme Being, but to the Moloch of their own ambition. As he looked,
      the broad folds of the ensign of England, heavily distending itself to the
      failing night-breeze, caught his eye. It was displayed upon an artificial
      mound, nearly in the midst of the camp, which perhaps of old some Hebrew
      chief or champion had chosen as a memorial of his place of rest. If so,
      the name was now forgotten, and the Crusaders had christened it Saint
      George's Mount, because from that commanding height the banner of England
      was supereminently displayed, as if an emblem of sovereignty over the many
      distinguished, noble, and even royal ensigns, which floated in lower
      situations.
    </p>
    <p>
      A quick intellect like that of Conrade catches ideas from the glance of a
      moment. A single look on the standard seemed to dispel the uncertainty of
      mind which had affected him. He walked to his pavilion with the hasty and
      determined step of one who has adopted a plan which he is resolved to
      achieve, dismissed the almost princely train who waited to attend him,
      and, as he committed himself to his couch, muttered his amended
      resolution, that the milder means are to be tried before the more
      desperate are resorted to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I sit at the board of the Archduke of Austria. We
      will see what can be done to advance our purpose before prosecuting the
      dark suggestions of this Templar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     One thing is certain in our Northern land&mdash;
     Allow that birth or valour, wealth or wit,
     Give each precedence to their possessor,
     Envy, that follows on such eminence,
     As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace,
     Shall pull them down each one.
              SIR DAVID LINDSAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      Leopold, Grand Duke of Austria, was the first possessor of that noble
      country to whom the princely rank belonged. He had been raised to the
      ducal sway in the German Empire on account of his near relationship to the
      Emperor, Henry the Stern, and held under his government the finest
      provinces which are watered by the Danube. His character has been stained
      in history on account of one action of violence and perfidy, which arose
      out of these very transactions in the Holy Land; and yet the shame of
      having made Richard a prisoner when he returned through his dominions;
      unattended and in disguise, was not one which flowed from Leopold's
      natural disposition. He was rather a weak and a vain than an ambitious or
      tyrannical prince. His mental powers resembled the qualities of his
      person. He was tall, strong, and handsome, with a complexion in which red
      and white were strongly contrasted, and had long flowing locks of fair
      hair. But there was an awkwardness in his gait which seemed as if his size
      was not animated by energy sufficient to put in motion such a mass; and in
      the same manner, wearing the richest dresses, it always seemed as if they
      became him not. As a prince, he appeared too little familiar with his own
      dignity; and being often at a loss how to assert his authority when the
      occasion demanded it, he frequently thought himself obliged to recover, by
      acts and expressions of ill-timed violence, the ground which might have
      been easily and gracefully maintained by a little more presence of mind in
      the beginning of the controversy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not only were these deficiencies visible to others, but the Archduke
      himself could not but sometimes entertain a painful consciousness that he
      was not altogether fit to maintain and assert the high rank which he had
      acquired; and to this was joined the strong, and sometimes the just,
      suspicion that others esteemed him lightly accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he first joined the Crusade, with a most princely attendance, Leopold
      had desired much to enjoy the friendship and intimacy of Richard, and had
      made such advances towards cultivating his regard as the King of England
      ought, in policy, to have received and answered. But the Archduke, though
      not deficient in bravery, was so infinitely inferior to Coeur de Lion in
      that ardour of mind which wooed danger as a bride, that the King very soon
      held him in a certain degree of contempt. Richard, also, as a Norman
      prince, a people with whom temperance was habitual, despised the
      inclination of the German for the pleasures of the table, and particularly
      his liberal indulgence in the use of wine. For these, and other personal
      reasons, the King of England very soon looked upon the Austrian Prince
      with feelings of contempt, which he was at no pains to conceal or modify,
      and which, therefore, were speedily remarked, and returned with deep
      hatred, by the suspicious Leopold. The discord between them was fanned by
      the secret and politic arts of Philip of France, one of the most sagacious
      monarchs of the time, who, dreading the fiery and overbearing character of
      Richard, considering him as his natural rival, and feeling offended,
      moreover, at the dictatorial manner in which he, a vassal of France for
      his Continental domains, conducted himself towards his liege lord,
      endeavoured to strengthen his own party, and weaken that of Richard, by
      uniting the Crusading princes of inferior degree in resistance to what he
      termed the usurping authority of the King of England. Such was the state
      of politics and opinions entertained by the Archduke of Austria, when
      Conrade of Montserrat resolved upon employing his jealousy of England as
      the means of dissolving, or loosening at least, the league of the
      Crusaders.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time which he chose for his visit was noon; and the pretence, to
      present the Archduke with some choice Cyprus wine which had lately fallen
      into his hands, and discuss its comparative merits with those of Hungary
      and of the Rhine. An intimation of his purpose was, of course, answered by
      a courteous invitation to partake of the Archducal meal, and every effort
      was used to render it fitting the splendour of a sovereign prince. Yet the
      refined taste of the Italian saw more cumbrous profusion than elegance or
      splendour in the display of provisions under which the board groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Germans, though still possessing the martial and frank character of
      their ancestors&mdash;who subdued the Roman Empire&mdash;had retained
      withal no slight tinge of their barbarism. The practices and principles of
      chivalry were not carried to such a nice pitch amongst them as amongst the
      French and English knights, nor were they strict observers of the
      prescribed rules of society, which among those nations were supposed to
      express the height of civilization. Sitting at the table of the Archduke,
      Conrade was at once stunned and amused with the clang of Teutonic sounds
      assaulting his ears on all sides, notwithstanding the solemnity of a
      princely banquet. Their dress seemed equally fantastic to him, many of the
      Austrian nobles retaining their long beards, and almost all of them
      wearing short jerkins of various colours, cut, and flourished, and fringed
      in a manner not common in Western Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Numbers of dependants, old and young, attended in the pavilion, mingled at
      times in the conversation, received from their masters the relics of the
      entertainment, and devoured them as they stood behind the backs of the
      company. Jesters, dwarfs, and minstrels were there in unusual numbers, and
      more noisy and intrusive than they were permitted to be in better
      regulated society. As they were allowed to share freely in the wine, which
      flowed round in large quantities, their licensed tumult was the more
      excessive.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this while, and in the midst of a clamour and confusion which would
      better have become a German tavern during a fair than the tent of a
      sovereign prince, the Archduke was waited upon with a minuteness of form
      and observance which showed how anxious he was to maintain rigidly the
      state and character to which his elevation had entitled him. He was served
      on the knee, and only by pages of noble blood, fed upon plate of silver,
      and drank his Tokay and Rhenish wines from a cup of gold. His ducal mantle
      was splendidly adorned with ermine, his coronet might have equalled in
      value a royal crown, and his feet, cased in velvet shoes (the length of
      which, peaks included, might be two feet), rested upon a footstool of
      solid silver. But it served partly to intimate the character of the man,
      that, although desirous to show attention to the Marquis of Montserrat,
      whom he had courteously placed at his right hand, he gave much more of his
      attention to his SPRUCH-SPRECHER&mdash;that is, his man of conversation,
      or SAYER-OF-SAYINGS&mdash;who stood behind the Duke's right shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      This personage was well attired in a cloak and doublet of black velvet,
      the last of which was decorated with various silver and gold coins
      stitched upon it, in memory of the munificent princes who had conferred
      them, and bearing a short staff to which also bunches of silver coins were
      attached by rings, which he jingled by way of attracting attention when he
      was about to say anything which he judged worthy of it. This person's
      capacity in the household of the Archduke was somewhat betwixt that of a
      minstrel and a counsellor. He was by turns a flatterer, a poet, and an
      orator; and those who desired to be well with the Duke generally studied
      to gain the good-will of the SPRUCH-SPRECHER.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lest too much of this officer's wisdom should become tiresome, the Duke's
      other shoulder was occupied by his HOFF-NARR, or court-jester, called
      Jonas Schwanker, who made almost as much noise with his fool's cap, bells,
      and bauble, as did the orator, or man of talk, with his jingling baton.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two personages threw out grave and comic nonsense alternately; while
      their master, laughing or applauding them himself, yet carefully watched
      the countenance of his noble guest, to discern what impressions so
      accomplished a cavalier received from this display of Austrian eloquence
      and wit. It is hard to say whether the man of wisdom or the man of folly
      contributed most to the amusement of the party, or stood highest in the
      estimation of their princely master; but the sallies of both seemed
      excellently well received. Sometimes they became rivals for the
      conversation, and clanged their flappers in emulation of each other with a
      most alarming contention; but, in general, they seemed on such good terms,
      and so accustomed to support each other's play, that the SPRUCH-SPRECHER
      often condescended to follow up the jester's witticisms with an
      explanation, to render them more obvious to the capacity of the audience,
      so that his wisdom became a sort of commentary on the buffoon's folly. And
      sometimes, in requital, the HOFF-NARR, with a pithy jest, wound up the
      conclusion of the orator's tedious harangue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever his real sentiments might be, Conrade took especial care that his
      countenance should express nothing but satisfaction with what he heard,
      and smiled or applauded as zealously, to all appearance, as the Archduke
      himself at the solemn folly of the SPRUCH-SPRECHER and the gibbering wit
      of the fool. In fact, he watched carefully until the one or other should
      introduce some topic favourable to the purpose which was uppermost in his
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not long ere the King of England was brought on the carpet by the
      jester, who had been accustomed to consider Dickon of the Broom (which
      irreverent epithet he substituted for Richard Plantagenet) as a subject of
      mirth, acceptable and inexhaustible. The orator, indeed, was silent, and
      it was only when applied to by Conrade that he observed, &ldquo;The GENISTA, or
      broom-plant, was an emblem of humility; and it would be well when those
      who wore it would remember the warning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The allusion to the illustrious badge of Plantagenet was thus rendered
      sufficiently manifest, and Jonas Schwanker observed that they who humbled
      themselves had been exalted with a vengeance. &ldquo;Honour unto whom honour is
      due,&rdquo; answered the Marquis of Montserrat. &ldquo;We have all had some part in
      these marches and battles, and methinks other princes might share a little
      in the renown which Richard of England engrosses amongst minstrels and
      MINNE-SINGERS. Has no one of the joyeuse science here present a song in
      praise of the royal Archduke of Austria, our princely entertainer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Three minstrels emulously stepped forward with voice and harp. Two were
      silenced with difficulty by the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, who seemed to act as
      master of the revels, and a hearing was at length procured for the poet
      preferred, who sung, in high German, stanzas which may be thus translated:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What brave chief shall head the forces, Where the red-cross legions
      gather? Best of horsemen, best of horses, Highest head and fairest
      feather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here the orator, jingling his staff, interrupted the bard to intimate to
      the party&mdash;what they might not have inferred from the description&mdash;that
      their royal host was the party indicated, and a full-crowned goblet went
      round to the acclamation, HOCH LEBE DER HERZOG LEOPOLD! Another stanza
      followed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask not Austria why, 'midst princes, Still her banner rises highest; Ask
      as well the strong-wing'd eagle, Why to heaven he soars the highest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The eagle,&rdquo; said the expounder of dark sayings, &ldquo;is the cognizance of our
      noble lord the Archduke&mdash;of his royal Grace, I would say&mdash;and
      the eagle flies the highest and nearest to the sun of all the feathered
      creation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lion hath taken a spring above the eagle,&rdquo; said Conrade carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Archduke reddened, and fixed his eyes on the speaker, while the
      SPRUCH-SPRECHER answered, after a minute's consideration, &ldquo;The Lord
      Marquis will pardon me&mdash;a lion cannot fly above an eagle, because no
      lion hath got wings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Except the lion of Saint Mark,&rdquo; responded the jester.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the Venetian's banner,&rdquo; said the Duke; &ldquo;but assuredly that
      amphibious race, half nobles, half merchants, will not dare to place their
      rank in comparison with ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, it was not of the Venetian lion that I spoke,&rdquo; said the Marquis of
      Montserrat, &ldquo;but of the three lions passant of England. Formerly, it is
      said, they were leopards; but now they are become lions at all points, and
      must take precedence of beast, fish, or fowl, or woe worth the
      gainstander.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mean you seriously, my lord?&rdquo; said the Austrian, now considerably flushed
      with wine. &ldquo;Think you that Richard of England asserts any pre-eminence
      over the free sovereigns who have been his voluntary allies in this
      Crusade?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know not but from circumstances,&rdquo; answered Conrade. &ldquo;Yonder hangs his
      banner alone in the midst of our camp, as if he were king and
      generalissimo of our whole Christian army.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you endure this so patiently, and speak of it so coldly?&rdquo; said the
      Archduke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my lord,&rdquo; answered Conrade, &ldquo;it cannot concern the poor Marquis of
      Montserrat to contend against an injury patiently submitted to by such
      potent princes as Philip of France and Leopold of Austria. What dishonour
      you are pleased to submit to cannot be a disgrace to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Leopold closed his fist, and struck on the table with violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have told Philip of this,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have often told him that it was
      our duty to protect the inferior princes against the usurpation of this
      islander; but he answers me ever with cold respects of their relations
      together as suzerain and vassal, and that it were impolitic in him to make
      an open breach at this time and period.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The world knows that Philip is wise,&rdquo; said Conrade, &ldquo;and will judge his
      submission to be policy. Yours, my lord, you can yourself alone account
      for; but I doubt not you have deep reasons for submitting to English
      domination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I submit!&rdquo; said Leopold indignantly&mdash;&ldquo;I, the Archduke of Austria, so
      important and vital a limb of the Holy Roman Empire&mdash;I submit myself
      to this king of half an island, this grandson of a Norman bastard! No, by
      Heaven! The camp and all Christendom shall see that I know how to right
      myself, and whether I yield ground one inch to the English bandog.&mdash;Up,
      my lieges and merry men; up and follow me! We will&mdash;and that without
      losing one instant&mdash;place the eagle of Austria where she shall float
      as high as ever floated the cognizance of king or kaiser.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that he started from his seat, and amidst the tumultuous cheering of
      his guests and followers, made for the door of the pavilion, and seized
      his own banner, which stood pitched before it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my lord,&rdquo; said Conrade, affecting to interfere, &ldquo;it will blemish
      your wisdom to make an affray in the camp at this hour; and perhaps it is
      better to submit to the usurpation of England a little longer than to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not an hour, not a moment longer,&rdquo; vociferated the Duke; and with the
      banner in his hand, and followed by his shouting guests and attendants,
      marched hastily to the central mount, from which the banner of England
      floated, and laid his hand on the standard-spear, as if to pluck it from
      the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My master, my dear master!&rdquo; said Jonas Schwanker, throwing his arms about
      the Duke, &ldquo;take heed&mdash;lions have teeth&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And eagles have claws,&rdquo; said the Duke, not relinquishing his hold on the
      banner-staff, yet hesitating to pull it from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The speaker of sentences, notwithstanding such was his occupation, had
      nevertheless some intervals of sound sense. He clashed his staff loudly,
      and Leopold, as if by habit, turned his head towards his man of counsel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The eagle is king among the fowls of the air,&rdquo; said the SPRUCH-SPRECHER,
      &ldquo;as is the lion among the beasts of the field&mdash;each has his dominion,
      separated as wide as England and Germany. Do thou, noble eagle, no
      dishonour to the princely lion, but let your banners remain floating in
      peace side by side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Leopold withdrew his hand from the banner-spear, and looked round for
      Conrade of Montserrat, but he saw him not; for the Marquis, so soon as he
      saw the mischief afoot, had withdrawn himself from the crowd, taking care,
      in the first place, to express before several neutral persons his regret
      that the Archduke should have chosen the hours after dinner to avenge any
      wrong of which he might think he had a right to complain. Not seeing his
      guest, to whom he wished more particularly to have addressed himself, the
      Archduke said aloud that, having no wish to breed dissension in the army
      of the Cross, he did but vindicate his own privileges and right to stand
      upon an equality with the King of England, without desiring, as he might
      have done, to advance his banner&mdash;which he derived from emperors, his
      progenitors&mdash;above that of a mere descendant of the Counts of Anjou;
      and in the meantime he commanded a cask of wine to be brought hither and
      pierced, for regaling the bystanders, who, with tuck of drum and sound of
      music, quaffed many a carouse round the Austrian standard.
    </p>
    <p>
      This disorderly scene was not acted without a degree of noise, which
      alarmed the whole camp.
    </p>
    <p>
      The critical hour had arrived at which the physician, according to the
      rules of his art, had predicted that his royal patient might be awakened
      with safety, and the sponge had been applied for that purpose; and the
      leech had not made many observations ere he assured the Baron of Gilsland
      that the fever had entirely left his sovereign, and that, such was the
      happy strength of his constitution, it would not be even necessary, as in
      most cases, to give a second dose of the powerful medicine. Richard
      himself seemed to be of the same opinion, for, sitting up and rubbing his
      eyes, he demanded of De Vaux what present sum of money was in the royal
      coffers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The baron could not exactly inform him of the amount.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It matters not,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;be it greater or smaller, bestow it all
      on this learned leech, who hath, I trust, given me back again to the
      service of the Crusade. If it be less than a thousand byzants, let him
      have jewels to make it up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sell not the wisdom with which Allah has endowed me,&rdquo; answered the
      Arabian physician; &ldquo;and be it known to you, great Prince, that the divine
      medicine of which you have partaken would lose its effects in my unworthy
      hands did I exchange its virtues either for gold or diamonds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Physician refuseth a gratuity!&rdquo; said De Vaux to himself. &ldquo;This is
      more extraordinary than his being a hundred years old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thomas de Vaux,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;thou knowest no courage but what belongs
      to the sword, no bounty and virtue but what are used in chivalry. I tell
      thee that this Moor, in his independence, might set an example to them who
      account themselves the flower of knighthood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is reward enough for me,&rdquo; said the Moor, folding his arms on his
      bosom, and maintaining an attitude at once respectful and dignified, &ldquo;that
      so great a king as the Melech Ric [Richard was thus called by the Eastern
      nations.] should thus speak of his servant.&mdash;But now let me pray you
      again to compose yourself on your couch; for though I think there needs no
      further repetition of the divine draught, yet injury might ensue from any
      too early exertion ere your strength be entirely restored.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must obey thee, Hakim,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;yet believe me, my bosom feels
      so free from the wasting fire which for so many days hath scorched it,
      that I care not how soon I expose it to a brave man's lance.&mdash;But
      hark! what mean these shouts, and that distant music, in the camp? Go,
      Thomas de Vaux, and make inquiry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the Archduke Leopold,&rdquo; said De Vaux, returning after a minute's
      absence, &ldquo;who makes with his pot-companions some procession through the
      camp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The drunken fool!&rdquo; exclaimed King Richard; &ldquo;can he not keep his brutal
      inebriety within the veil of his pavilion, that he must needs show his
      shame to all Christendom?&mdash;What say you, Sir Marquis?&rdquo; he added,
      addressing himself to Conrade of Montserrat, who at that moment entered
      the tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thus much, honoured Prince,&rdquo; answered the Marquis, &ldquo;that I delight to see
      your Majesty so well, and so far recovered; and that is a long speech for
      any one to make who has partaken of the Duke of Austria's hospitality.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you have been dining with the Teutonic wine-skin!&rdquo; said the
      monarch. &ldquo;And what frolic has he found out to cause all this disturbance?
      Truly, Sir Conrade, I have still held you so good a reveller that I wonder
      at your quitting the game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux, who had got a little behind the King, now exerted himself by look
      and sign to make the Marquis understand that he should say nothing to
      Richard of what was passing without. But Conrade understood not, or heeded
      not, the prohibition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the Archduke does,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is of little consequence to any one,
      least of all to himself, since he probably knows not what he is acting;
      yet, to say truth, it is a gambol I should not like to share in, since he
      is pulling down the banner of England from Saint George's Mount, in the
      centre of the camp yonder, and displaying his own in its stead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WHAT sayest thou?&rdquo; exclaimed the King, in a tone which might have waked
      the dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said the Marquis, &ldquo;let it not chafe your Highness that a fool
      should act according to his folly&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak not to me,&rdquo; said Richard, springing from his couch, and casting on
      his clothes with a dispatch which seemed marvellous&mdash;&ldquo;Speak not to
      me, Lord Marquis!&mdash;De Multon, I command thee speak not a word to me&mdash;he
      that breathes but a syllable is no friend to Richard Plantagenet.&mdash;Hakim,
      be silent, I charge thee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All this while the King was hastily clothing himself, and, with the last
      word, snatched his sword from the pillar of the tent, and without any
      other weapon, or calling any attendance, he rushed out of his pavilion.
      Conrade, holding up his hands as if in astonishment, seemed willing to
      enter into conversation with De Vaux; but Sir Thomas pushed rudely past
      him, and calling to one of the royal equerries, said hastily, &ldquo;Fly to Lord
      Salisbury's quarters, and let him get his men together and follow me
      instantly to Saint George's Mount. Tell him the King's fever has left his
      blood and settled in his brain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Imperfectly heard, and still more imperfectly comprehended, by the
      startled attendant whom De Vaux addressed thus hastily, the equerry and
      his fellow-servants of the royal chamber rushed hastily into the tents of
      the neighbouring nobility, and quickly spread an alarm, as general as the
      cause seemed vague, through the whole British forces. The English
      soldiers, waked in alarm from that noonday rest which the heat of the
      climate had taught them to enjoy as a luxury, hastily asked each other the
      cause of the tumult, and without waiting an answer, supplied by the force
      of their own fancy the want of information. Some said the Saracens were in
      the camp, some that the King's life was attempted, some that he had died
      of the fever the preceding night, many that he was assassinated by the
      Duke of Austria. The nobles and officers, at an equal loss with the common
      men to ascertain the real cause of the disorder, laboured only to get
      their followers under arms and under authority, lest their rashness should
      occasion some great misfortune to the Crusading army. The English trumpets
      sounded loud, shrill, and continuously. The alarm-cry of &ldquo;Bows and bills,
      bows and bills!&rdquo; was heard from quarter to quarter, again and again
      shouted, and again and again answered by the presence of the ready
      warriors, and their national invocation, &ldquo;Saint George for merry England!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The alarm went through the nearest quarter of the camp, and men of all the
      various nations assembled, where, perhaps, every people in Christendom had
      their representatives, flew to arms, and drew together under circumstances
      of general confusion, of which they knew neither the cause nor the object.
      It was, however, lucky, amid a scene so threatening, that the Earl of
      Salisbury, while he hurried after De Vaux's summons with a few only of the
      readiest English men-at-arms, directed the rest of the English host to be
      drawn up and kept under arms, to advance to Richard's succour if necessity
      should require, but in fit array and under due command, and not with the
      tumultuary haste which their own alarm and zeal for the King's safety
      might have dictated.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, without regarding for one instant the shouts, the cries,
      the tumult which began to thicken around him, Richard, with his dress in
      the last disorder, and his sheathed blade under his arm, pursued his way
      with the utmost speed, followed only by De Vaux and one or two household
      servants, to Saint George's Mount.
    </p>
    <p>
      He outsped even the alarm which his impetuosity only had excited, and
      passed the quarter of his own gallant troops of Normandy, Poitou, Gascony,
      and Anjou before the disturbance had reached them, although the noise
      accompanying the German revel had induced many of the soldiery to get on
      foot to listen. The handful of Scots were also quartered in the vicinity,
      nor had they been disturbed by the uproar. But the King's person and his
      haste were both remarked by the Knight of the Leopard, who, aware that
      danger must be afoot, and hastening to share in it, snatched his shield
      and sword, and united himself to De Vaux, who with some difficulty kept
      pace with his impatient and fiery master. De Vaux answered a look of
      curiosity, which the Scottish knight directed towards him, with a shrug of
      his broad shoulders, and they continued, side by side, to pursue Richard's
      steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King was soon at the foot of Saint George's Mount, the sides as well
      as platform of which were now surrounded and crowded, partly by those
      belonging to the Duke of Austria's retinue, who were celebrating, with
      shouts of jubilee, the act which they considered as an assertion of
      national honour; partly by bystanders of different nations, whom dislike
      to the English, or mere curiosity, had assembled together to witness the
      end of these extraordinary proceedings. Through this disorderly troop
      Richard burst his way, like a goodly ship under full sail, which cleaves
      her forcible passage through the rolling billows, and heeds not that they
      unite after her passage and roar upon her stern.
    </p>
    <p>
      The summit of the eminence was a small level space, on which were pitched
      the rival banners, surrounded still by the Archduke's friends and retinue.
      In the midst of the circle was Leopold himself, still contemplating with
      self-satisfaction the deed he had done, and still listening to the shouts
      of applause which his partisans bestowed with no sparing breath. While he
      was in this state of self-gratulation, Richard burst into the circle,
      attended, indeed, only by two men, but in his own headlong energies an
      irresistible host.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has dared,&rdquo; he said, laying his hands upon the Austrian standard, and
      speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an earthquake&mdash;&ldquo;Who
      has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Archduke wanted not personal courage, and it was impossible he could
      hear this question without reply. Yet so much was he troubled and
      surprised by the unexpected arrival of Richard, and affected by the
      general awe inspired by his ardent and unyielding character, that the
      demand was twice repeated, in a tone which seemed to challenge heaven and
      earth, ere the Archduke replied, with such firmness as he could command,
      &ldquo;It was I, Leopold of Austria.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then shall Leopold of Austria,&rdquo; replied Richard, &ldquo;presentry see the rate
      at which his banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, splintered it to pieces, threw
      the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thus,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I trample on the banner of Austria. Is there a knight
      among your Teutonic chivalry dare impeach my deed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a momentary silence; but there are no braver men than the
      Germans.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; and &ldquo;I,&rdquo; and &ldquo;I,&rdquo; was heard from several knights of the Duke's
      followers; and he himself added his voice to those which accepted the King
      of England's defiance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do we dally thus?&rdquo; said the Earl Wallenrode, a gigantic warrior from
      the frontiers of Hungary. &ldquo;Brethren and noble gentlemen, this man's foot
      is on the honour of your country&mdash;let us rescue it from violation,
      and down with the pride of England!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he drew his sword, and struck at the King a blow which might
      have proved fatal, had not the Scot intercepted and caught it upon his
      shield.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have sworn,&rdquo; said King Richard&mdash;and his voice was heard above all
      the tumult, which now waxed wild and loud&mdash;&ldquo;never to strike one whose
      shoulder bears the cross; therefore live, Wallenrode&mdash;but live to
      remember Richard of England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he grasped the tall Hungarian round the waist, and, unmatched
      in wrestling, as in other military exercises, hurled him backwards with
      such violence that the mass flew as if discharged from a military engine,
      not only through the ring of spectators who witnessed the extraordinary
      scene, but over the edge of the mount itself, down the steep side of which
      Wallenrode rolled headlong, until, pitching at length upon his shoulder,
      he dislocated the bone, and lay like one dead. This almost supernatural
      display of strength did not encourage either the Duke or any of his
      followers to renew a personal contest so inauspiciously commenced. Those
      who stood farthest back did, indeed, clash their swords, and cry out, &ldquo;Cut
      the island mastiff to pieces!&rdquo; but those who were nearer veiled, perhaps,
      their personal fears under an affected regard for order, and cried, for
      the most part, &ldquo;Peace! Peace! the peace of the Cross&mdash;the peace of
      Holy Church and our Father the Pope!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These various cries of the assailants, contradicting each other, showed
      their irresolution; while Richard, his foot still on the archducal banner,
      glared round him with an eye that seemed to seek an enemy, and from which
      the angry nobles shrunk appalled, as from the threatened grasp of a lion.
      De Vaux and the Knight of the Leopard kept their places beside him; and
      though the swords which they held were still sheathed, it was plain that
      they were prompt to protect Richard's person to the very last, and their
      size and remarkable strength plainly showed the defence would be a
      desperate one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Salisbury and his attendants were also now drawing near, with bills and
      partisans brandished, and bows already bended.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment King Philip of France, attended by one or two of his
      nobles, came on the platform to inquire the cause of the disturbance, and
      made gestures of surprise at finding the King of England raised from his
      sick-bed, and confronting their common ally, the Duke of Austria, in such
      a menacing and insulting posture. Richard himself blushed at being
      discovered by Philip, whose sagacity he respected as much as he disliked
      his person, in an attitude neither becoming his character as a monarch,
      nor as a Crusader; and it was observed that he withdrew his foot, as if
      accidentally, from the dishonoured banner, and exchanged his look of
      violent emotion for one of affected composure and indifference. Leopold
      also struggled to attain some degree of calmness, mortified as he was by
      having been seen by Philip in the act of passively submitting to the
      insults of the fiery King of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      Possessed of many of those royal qualities for which he was termed by his
      subjects the August, Philip might be termed the Ulysses, as Richard was
      indisputably the Achilles, of the Crusade. The King of France was
      sagacious, wise, deliberate in council, steady and calm in action, seeing
      clearly, and steadily pursuing, the measures most for the interest of his
      kingdom&mdash;dignified and royal in his deportment, brave in person, but
      a politician rather than a warrior. The Crusade would have been no choice
      of his own; but the spirit was contagious, and the expedition was enforced
      upon him by the church, and by the unanimous wish of his nobility. In any
      other situation, or in a milder age, his character might have stood higher
      than that of the adventurous Coeur de Lion. But in the Crusade, itself an
      undertaking wholly irrational, sound reason was the quality of all others
      least estimated, and the chivalric valour which both the age and the
      enterprise demanded was considered as debased if mingled with the least
      touch of discretion. So that the merit of Philip, compared with that of
      his haughty rival, showed like the clear but minute flame of a lamp placed
      near the glare of a huge, blazing torch, which, not possessing half the
      utility, makes ten times more impression on the eye. Philip felt his
      inferiority in public opinion with the pain natural to a high-spirited
      prince; and it cannot be wondered at if he took such opportunities as
      offered for placing his own character in more advantageous contrast with
      that of his rival. The present seemed one of those occasions in which
      prudence and calmness might reasonably expect to triumph over obstinacy
      and impetuous violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What means this unseemly broil betwixt the sworn brethren of the Cross&mdash;the
      royal Majesty of England and the princely Duke Leopold? How is it possible
      that those who are the chiefs and pillars of this holy expedition&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A truce with thy remonstrance, France,&rdquo; said Richard, enraged inwardly at
      finding himself placed on a sort of equality with Leopold, yet not knowing
      how to resent it. &ldquo;This duke, or prince, or pillar, if you will, hath been
      insolent, and I have chastised him&mdash;that is all. Here is a coil,
      forsooth, because of spurning a hound!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Majesty of France,&rdquo; said the Duke, &ldquo;I appeal to you and every sovereign
      prince against the foul indignity which I have sustained. This King of
      England hath pulled down my banner-torn and trampled on it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because he had the audacity to plant it beside mine,&rdquo; said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My rank as thine equal entitled me,&rdquo; replied the Duke, emboldened by the
      presence of Philip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Assert such equality for thy person,&rdquo; said King Richard, &ldquo;and, by Saint
      George, I will treat thy person as I did thy broidered kerchief there, fit
      but for the meanest use to which kerchief may be put.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, but patience, brother of England,&rdquo; said Philip, &ldquo;and I will
      presently show Austria that he is wrong in this matter.&mdash;Do not
      think, noble Duke,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;that, in permitting the standard of
      England to occupy the highest point in our camp, we, the independent
      sovereigns of the Crusade, acknowledge any inferiority to the royal
      Richard. It were inconsistent to think so, since even the Oriflamme itself&mdash;the
      great banner of France, to which the royal Richard himself, in respect of
      his French possessions, is but a vassal&mdash;holds for the present an
      inferior place to the Lions of England. But as sworn brethren of the
      Cross, military pilgrims, who, laying aside the pomp and pride of this
      world, are hewing with our swords the way to the Holy Sepulchre, I myself,
      and the other princes, have renounced to King Richard, from respect to his
      high renown and great feats of arms, that precedence which elsewhere, and
      upon other motives, would not have been yielded. I am satisfied that, when
      your royal grace of Austria shall have considered this, you will express
      sorrow for having placed your banner on this spot, and that the royal
      Majesty of England will then give satisfaction for the insult he has
      offered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The SPRUCH-SPRECHER and the jester had both retired to a safe distance
      when matters seemed coming to blows; but returned when words, their own
      commodity, seemed again about to become the order of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man of proverbs was so delighted with Philip's politic speech that he
      clashed his baton at the conclusion, by way of emphasis, and forgot the
      presence in which he was, so far as to say aloud that he himself had never
      said a wiser thing in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be so,&rdquo; whispered Jonas Schwanker, &ldquo;but we shall be whipped if you
      speak so loud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Duke answered sullenly that he would refer his quarrel to the General
      Council of the Crusade&mdash;a motion which Philip highly applauded, as
      qualified to take away a scandal most harmful to Christendom.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard, retaining the same careless attitude, listened to Philip until
      his oratory seemed exhausted, and then said aloud, &ldquo;I am drowsy&mdash;this
      fever hangs about me still. Brother of France, thou art acquainted with my
      humour, and that I have at all times but few words to spare. Know,
      therefore, at once, I will submit a matter touching the honour of England
      neither to Prince, Pope, nor Council. Here stands my banner&mdash;whatsoever
      pennon shall be reared within three butts' length of it&mdash;ay, were it
      the Oriflamme, of which you were, I think, but now speaking&mdash;shall be
      treated as that dishonoured rag; nor will I yield other satisfaction than
      that which these poor limbs can render in the lists to any bold challenge&mdash;ay,
      were it against five champions instead of one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said the jester, whispering his companion, &ldquo;that is as complete a
      piece of folly as if I myself had said it; but yet, I think, there may be
      in this matter a greater fool than Richard yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who may that be?&rdquo; asked the man of wisdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Philip,&rdquo; said the jester, &ldquo;or our own Royal Duke, should either accept
      the challenge. But oh, most sage SPRUCH-SPECHER, what excellent kings
      wouldst thou and I have made, since those on whose heads these crowns have
      fallen can play the proverb-monger and the fool as completely as
      ourselves!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While these worthies plied their offices apart, Philip answered calmly to
      the almost injurious defiance of Richard, &ldquo;I came not hither to awaken
      fresh quarrels, contrary to the oath we have sworn, and the holy cause in
      which we have engaged. I part from my brother of England as brothers
      should part, and the only strife between the Lions of England and the
      Lilies of France shall be which shall be carried deepest into the ranks of
      the infidels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a bargain, my royal brother,&rdquo; said Richard, stretching out his hand
      with all the frankness which belonged to his rash but generous
      disposition; &ldquo;and soon may we have the opportunity to try this gallant and
      fraternal wager.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let this noble Duke also partake in the friendship of this happy moment,&rdquo;
       said Philip; and the Duke approached half-sullenly, half-willing to enter
      into some accommodation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not of fools, nor of their folly,&rdquo; said Richard carelessly; and
      the Archduke, turning his back on him, withdrew from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard looked after him as he retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a sort of glow-worm courage,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that shows only by
      night. I must not leave this banner unguarded in darkness; by daylight the
      look of the Lions will alone defend it. Here, Thomas of Gilsland, I give
      thee the charge of the standard&mdash;watch over the honour of England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her safety is yet more dear to me,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;and the life of
      Richard is the safety of England. I must have your Highness back to your
      tent, and that without further tarriance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art a rough and peremptory nurse, De Vaux,&rdquo; said the king, smiling;
      and then added, addressing Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;Valiant Scot, I owe thee a boon,
      and I will pay it richly. There stands the banner of England! Watch it as
      novice does his armour on the night before he is dubbed. Stir not from it
      three spears' length, and defend it with thy body against injury or
      insult. Sound thy bugle if thou art assailed by more than three at once.
      Dost thou undertake the charge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Willingly,&rdquo; said Kenneth; &ldquo;and will discharge it upon penalty of my head.
      I will but arm me, and return hither instantly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Kings of France and England then took formal leave of each other,
      hiding, under an appearance of courtesy, the grounds of complaint which
      either had against the other&mdash;Richard against Philip, for what he
      deemed an officious interference betwixt him and Austria, and Philip
      against Coeur de Lion, for the disrespectful manner in which his mediation
      had been received. Those whom this disturbance had assembled now drew off
      in different directions, leaving the contested mount in the same solitude
      which had subsisted till interrupted by the Austrian bravado. Men judged
      of the events of the day according to their partialities, and while the
      English charged the Austrian with having afforded the first ground of
      quarrel, those of other nations concurred in casting the greater blame
      upon the insular haughtiness and assuming character of Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou seest,&rdquo; said the Marquis of Montserrat to the Grand Master of the
      Templars, &ldquo;that subtle courses are more effective than violence. I have
      unloosed the bonds which held together this bunch of sceptres and lances&mdash;thou
      wilt see them shortly fall asunder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would have called thy plan a good one,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;had there
      been but one man of courage among yonder cold-blooded Austrians to sever
      the bonds of which you speak with his sword. A knot that is unloosed may
      again be fastened, but not so the cord which has been cut to pieces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     'Tis woman that seduces all mankind.
        GAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      In the days of chivalry, a dangerous post or a perilous adventure was a
      reward frequently assigned to military bravery as a compensation for its
      former trials; just as, in ascending a precipice, the surmounting one crag
      only lifts the climber to points yet more dangerous.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was midnight, and the moon rode clear and high in heaven, when Kenneth
      of Scotland stood upon his watch on Saint George's Mount, beside the
      banner of England, a solitary sentinel, to protect the emblem of that
      nation against the insults which might be meditated among the thousands
      whom Richard's pride had made his enemies. High thoughts rolled, one after
      each other, upon the mind of the warrior. It seemed to him as if he had
      gained some favour in the eyes of the chivalrous monarch, who till now had
      not seemed to distinguish him among the crowds of brave men whom his
      renown had assembled under his banner, and Sir Kenneth little recked that
      the display of royal regard consisted in placing him upon a post so
      perilous. The devotion of his ambitious and high-placed affection inflamed
      his military enthusiasm. Hopeless as that attachment was in almost any
      conceivable circumstances, those which had lately occurred had, in some
      degree, diminished the distance between Edith and himself. He upon whom
      Richard had conferred the distinction of guarding his banner was no longer
      an adventurer of slight note, but placed within the regard of a princess,
      although he was as far as ever from her level. An unknown and obscure fate
      could not now be his. If he was surprised and slain on the post which had
      been assigned him, his death&mdash;and he resolved it should be glorious&mdash;must
      deserve the praises as well as call down the vengeance of Coeur de Lion,
      and be followed by the regrets, and even the tears, of the high-born
      beauties of the English Court. He had now no longer reason to fear that he
      should die as a fool dieth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth had full leisure to enjoy these and similar high-souled
      thoughts, fostered by that wild spirit of chivalry, which, amid its most
      extravagant and fantastic flights, was still pure from all selfish alloy&mdash;generous,
      devoted, and perhaps only thus far censurable, that it proposed objects
      and courses of action inconsistent with the frailties and imperfections of
      man. All nature around him slept in calm moon-shine or in deep shadow. The
      long rows of tents and pavilions, glimmering or darkening as they lay in
      the moonlight or in the shade, were still and silent as the streets of a
      deserted city. Beside the banner-staff lay the large staghound already
      mentioned, the sole companion of Kenneth's watch, on whose vigilance he
      trusted for early warning of the approach of any hostile footstep. The
      noble animal seemed to understand the purpose of their watch; for he
      looked from time to time at the rich folds of the heavy pennon, and, when
      the cry of the sentinels came from the distant lines and defences of the
      camp, he answered them with one deep and reiterated bark, as if to affirm
      that he too was vigilant in his duty. From time to time, also, he lowered
      his lofty head, and wagged his tail, as his master passed and repassed him
      in the short turns which he took upon his post; or, when the knight stood
      silent and abstracted leaning on his lance, and looking up towards heaven,
      his faithful attendant ventured sometimes, in the phrase of romance, &ldquo;to
      disturb his thoughts,&rdquo; and awaken him from his reverie, by thrusting his
      large rough snout into the knight's gauntleted hand, to solicit a
      transitory caress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus passed two hours of the knight's watch without anything remarkable
      occurring. At length, and upon a sudden, the gallant staghound bayed
      furiously, and seemed about to dash forward where the shadow lay the
      darkest, yet waited, as if in the slips, till he should know the pleasure
      of his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who goes there?&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, aware that there was something
      creeping forward on the shadowy side of the mount.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of Merlin and Maugis,&rdquo; answered a hoarse, disagreeable voice,
      &ldquo;tie up your fourfooted demon there, or I come not at you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who art thou that would approach my post?&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, bending
      his eyes as keenly as he could on some object, which he could just observe
      at the bottom of the ascent, without being able to distinguish its form.
      &ldquo;Beware&mdash;I am here for death and life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take up thy long-fanged Sathanas,&rdquo; said the voice, &ldquo;or I will conjure him
      with a bolt from my arblast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the same time was heard the sound of a spring or check, as when a
      crossbow is bent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unbend thy arblast, and come into the moonlight,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;or, by
      Saint Andrew, I will pin thee to the earth, be what or whom thou wilt!&rdquo;
     </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0073m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0073m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0073.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      As he spoke he poised his long lance by the middle, and, fixing his eye
      upon the object, which seemed to move, he brandished the weapon, as if
      meditating to cast it from his hand&mdash;a use of the weapon sometimes,
      though rarely, resorted to when a missile was necessary. But Sir Kenneth
      was ashamed of his purpose, and grounded his weapon, when there stepped
      from the shadow into the moonlight, like an actor entering upon the stage,
      a stunted, decrepit creature, whom, by his fantastic dress and deformity,
      he recognized, even at some distance, for the male of the two dwarfs whom
      he had seen in the chapel at Engaddi. Recollecting, at the same moment,
      the other and far different visions of that extraordinary night, he gave
      his dog a signal, which he instantly understood, and, returning to the
      standard, laid himself down beside it with a stifled growl.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little, distorted miniature of humanity, assured of his safety from an
      enemy so formidable, came panting up the ascent, which the shortness of
      his legs rendered laborious, and, when he arrived on the platform at the
      top, shifted to his left hand the little crossbow, which was just such a
      toy as children at that period were permitted to shoot small birds with,
      and, assuming an attitude of great dignity, gracefully extended his right
      hand to Sir Kenneth, in an attitude as if he expected he would salute it.
      But such a result not following, he demanded, in a sharp and angry tone of
      voice, &ldquo;Soldier, wherefore renderest thou not to Nectabanus the homage due
      to his dignity? Or is it possible that thou canst have forgotten him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great Nectabanus,&rdquo; answered the knight, willing to soothe the creature's
      humour, &ldquo;that were difficult for any one who has ever looked upon thee.
      Pardon me, however, that, being a soldier upon my post, with my lance in
      my hand, I may not give to one of thy puissance the advantage of coming
      within my guard, or of mastering my weapon. Suffice it that I reverence
      thy dignity, and submit myself to thee as humbly as a man-at-arms in my
      place may.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall suffice,&rdquo; said Nectabanus, &ldquo;so that you presently attend me to
      the presence of those who have sent me hither to summon you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great sir,&rdquo; replied the knight, &ldquo;neither in this can I gratify thee, for
      my orders are to abide by this banner till daybreak&mdash;so I pray you to
      hold me excused in that matter also.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he resumed his walk upon the platform; but the dwarf did not
      suffer him so easily to escape from his importunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look you,&rdquo; he said, placing himself before Sir Kenneth, so as to
      interrupt his way, &ldquo;either obey me, Sir Knight, as in duty bound, or I
      will lay the command upon thee, in the name of one whose beauty could call
      down the genii from their sphere, and whose grandeur could command the
      immortal race when they had descended.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A wild and improbable conjecture arose in the knight's mind, but he
      repelled it. It was impossible, he thought, that the lady of his love
      should have sent him such a message by such a messenger; yet his voice
      trembled as he said, &ldquo;Go to, Nectabanus. Tell me at once, and as a true
      man, whether this sublime lady of whom thou speakest be other than the
      houri with whose assistance I beheld thee sweeping the chapel at Engaddi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! presumptuous Knight,&rdquo; replied the dwarf, &ldquo;think'st thou the mistress
      of our own royal affections, the sharer of our greatness, and the partner
      of our comeliness, would demean herself by laying charge on such a vassal
      as thou? No; highly as thou art honoured, thou hast not yet deserved the
      notice of Queen Guenevra, the lovely bride of Arthur, from whose high seat
      even princes seem but pigmies. But look thou here, and as thou knowest or
      disownest this token, so obey or refuse her commands who hath deigned to
      impose them on thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he placed in the knight's hand a ruby ring, which, even in the
      moonlight, he had no difficulty to recognize as that which usually graced
      the finger of the high-born lady to whose service he had devoted himself.
      Could he have doubted the truth of the token, he would have been convinced
      by the small knot of carnation-coloured ribbon which was fastened to the
      ring. This was his lady's favourite colour, and more than once had he
      himself, assuming it for that of his own liveries, caused the carnation to
      triumph over all other hues in the lists and in the battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth was struck nearly mute by seeing such a token in such hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of all that is sacred, from whom didst thou receive this
      witness?&rdquo; said the knight. &ldquo;Bring, if thou canst, thy wavering
      understanding to a right settlement for a minute or two, and tell me the
      person by whom thou art sent, and the real purpose of thy message, and
      take heed what thou sayest, for this is no subject for buffoonery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fond and foolish Knight,&rdquo; said the dwarf, &ldquo;wouldst thou know more of this
      matter than that thou art honoured with commands from a princess,
      delivered to thee by a king? We list not to parley with thee further than
      to command thee, in the name and by the power of that ring, to follow us
      to her who is the owner of the ring. Every minute that thou tarriest is a
      crime against thy allegiance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Nectabanus, bethink thyself,&rdquo; said the knight. &ldquo;Can my lady know
      where and upon what duty I am this night engaged? Is she aware that my
      life&mdash;pshaw, why should I speak of life&mdash;but that my honour
      depends on my guarding this banner till daybreak; and can it be her wish
      that I should leave it even to pay homage to her? It is impossible&mdash;the
      princess is pleased to be merry with her servant in sending him such a
      message; and I must think so the rather that she hath chosen such a
      messenger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, keep your belief,&rdquo; said Nectabanus, turning round as if to leave the
      platform; &ldquo;it is little to me whether you be traitor or true man to this
      royal lady&mdash;so fare thee well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay, stay&mdash;I entreat you stay,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth. &ldquo;Answer me but
      one question: is the lady who sent thee near to this place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What signifies it?&rdquo; said the dwarf. &ldquo;Ought fidelity to reckon furlongs,
      or miles, or leagues&mdash;like the poor courier, who is paid for his
      labour by the distance which he traverses? Nevertheless, thou soul of
      suspicion, I tell thee, the fair owner of the ring now sent to so unworthy
      a vassal, in whom there is neither truth nor courage, is not more distant
      from this place than this arblast can send a bolt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knight gazed again on that ring, as if to ascertain that there was no
      possible falsehood in the token. &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; he said to the dwarf, &ldquo;is my
      presence required for any length of time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Time!&rdquo; answered Nectabanus, in his flighty manner; &ldquo;what call you time? I
      see it not&mdash;I feel it not&mdash;it is but a shadowy name&mdash;a
      succession of breathings measured forth by night by the clank of a bell,
      by day by a shadow crossing along a dial-stone. Knowest thou not a true
      knight's time should only be reckoned by the deeds that he performs in
      behalf of God and his lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The words of truth, though in the mouth of folly,&rdquo; said the knight. &ldquo;And
      doth my lady really summon me to some deed of action, in her name and for
      her sake?&mdash;and may it not be postponed for even the few hours till
      daybreak?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She requires thy presence instantly,&rdquo; said the dwarf, &ldquo;and without the
      loss of so much time as would be told by ten grains of the sandglass.
      Hearken, thou cold-blooded and suspicious knight, these are her very words&mdash;Tell
      him that the hand which dropped roses can bestow laurels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This allusion to their meeting in the chapel of Engaddi sent a thousand
      recollections through Sir Kenneth's brain, and convinced him that the
      message delivered by the dwarf was genuine. The rosebuds, withered as they
      were, were still treasured under his cuirass, and nearest to his heart. He
      paused, and could not resolve to forego an opportunity, the only one which
      might ever offer, to gain grace in her eyes whom he had installed as
      sovereign of his affections. The dwarf, in the meantime, augmented his
      confusion by insisting either that he must return the ring or instantly
      attend him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold, hold, yet a moment hold,&rdquo; said the knight, and proceeded to mutter
      to himself, &ldquo;Am I either the subject or slave of King Richard, more than
      as a free knight sworn to the service of the Crusade? And whom have I come
      hither to honour with lance and sword? Our holy cause and my transcendent
      lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ring! the ring!&rdquo; exclaimed the dwarf impatiently; &ldquo;false and slothful
      knight, return the ring, which thou art unworthy to touch or to look
      upon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A moment, a moment, good Nectabanus,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth; &ldquo;disturb not my
      thoughts.&mdash;What if the Saracens were just now to attack our lines?
      Should I stay here like a sworn vassal of England, watching that her
      king's pride suffered no humiliation; or should I speed to the breach, and
      fight for the Cross? To the breach, assuredly; and next to the cause of
      God come the commands of my liege lady. And yet, Coeur de Lion's behest&mdash;my
      own promise! Nectabanus, I conjure thee once more to say, are you to
      conduct me far from hence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But to yonder pavilion; and, since you must needs know,&rdquo; replied
      Nectabanus, &ldquo;the moon is glimmering on the gilded ball which crowns its
      roof, and which is worth a king's ransom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can return in an instant,&rdquo; said the knight, shutting his eyes
      desperately to all further consequences, &ldquo;I can hear from thence the bay
      of my dog if any one approaches the standard. I will throw myself at my
      lady's feet, and pray her leave to return to conclude my watch.&mdash;Here,
      Roswal&rdquo; (calling his hound, and throwing down his mantle by the side of
      the standard-spear), &ldquo;watch thou here, and let no one approach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The majestic dog looked in his master's face, as if to be sure that he
      understood his charge, then sat down beside the mantle, with ears erect
      and head raised, like a sentinel, understanding perfectly the purpose for
      which he was stationed there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come now, good Nectabanus,&rdquo; said the knight, &ldquo;let us hasten to obey the
      commands thou hast brought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haste he that will,&rdquo; said the dwarf sullenly; &ldquo;thou hast not been in
      haste to obey my summons, nor can I walk fast enough to follow your long
      strides&mdash;you do not walk like a man, but bound like an ostrich in the
      desert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There were but two ways of conquering the obstinacy of Nectabanus, who, as
      he spoke, diminished his walk into a snail's pace. For bribes Sir Kenneth
      had no means&mdash;for soothing no time; so in his impatience he snatched
      the dwarf up from the ground, and bearing him along, notwithstanding his
      entreaties and his fear, reached nearly to the pavilion pointed out as
      that of the Queen. In approaching it, however, the Scot observed there was
      a small guard of soldiers sitting on the ground, who had been concealed
      from him by the intervening tents. Wondering that the clash of his own
      armour had not yet attracted their attention, and supposing that his
      motions might, on the present occasion, require to be conducted with
      secrecy, he placed the little panting guide upon the ground to recover his
      breath, and point out what was next to be done. Nectabanus was both
      frightened and angry; but he had felt himself as completely in the power
      of the robust knight as an owl in the claws of an eagle, and therefore
      cared not to provoke him to any further display of his strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made no complaints, therefore, of the usage he had received; but,
      turning amongst the labyrinth of tents, he led the knight in silence to
      the opposite side of the pavilion, which thus screened them from the
      observation of the warders, who seemed either too negligent or too sleepy
      to discharge their duty with much accuracy. Arrived there, the dwarf
      raised the under part of the canvas from the ground, and made signs to Sir
      Kenneth that he should introduce himself to the inside of the tent, by
      creeping under it. The knight hesitated. There seemed an indecorum in thus
      privately introducing himself into a pavilion pitched, doubtless, for the
      accommodation of noble ladies; but he recalled to remembrance the assured
      tokens which the dwarf had exhibited, and concluded that it was not for
      him to dispute his lady's pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stooped accordingly, crept beneath the canvas enclosure of the tent,
      and heard the dwarf whisper from without, &ldquo;Remain here until I call thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     You talk of Gaiety and Innocence!
     The moment when the fatal fruit was eaten,
     They parted ne'er to meet again; and Malice
     Has ever since been playmate to light Gaiety,
     From the first moment when the smiling infant
     Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys with,
     To the last chuckle of the dying miser,
     Who on his deathbed laughs his last to hear
     His wealthy neighbour has become a bankrupt.
         OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth was left for some minutes alone and in darkness. Here was
      another interruption which must prolong his absence from his post, and he
      began almost to repent the facility with which he had been induced to quit
      it. But to return without seeing the Lady Edith was now not to be thought
      of. He had committed a breach of military discipline, and was determined
      at least to prove the reality of the seductive expectations which had
      tempted him to do so. Meanwhile his situation was unpleasant. There was no
      light to show him into what sort of apartment he had been led&mdash;the
      Lady Edith was in immediate attendance on the Queen of England&mdash;and
      the discovery of his having introduced himself thus furtively into the
      royal pavilion might, were it discovered; lead to much and dangerous
      suspicion. While he gave way to these unpleasant reflections, and began
      almost to wish that he could achieve his retreat unobserved, he heard a
      noise of female voices, laughing, whispering, and speaking, in an
      adjoining apartment, from which, as the sounds gave him reason to judge,
      he could only be separated by a canvas partition. Lamps were burning, as
      he might perceive by the shadowy light which extended itself even to his
      side of the veil which divided the tent, and he could see shades of
      several figures sitting and moving in the adjoining apartment. It cannot
      be termed discourtesy in Sir Kenneth that, situated as he was, he
      overheard a conversation in which he found himself deeply interested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call her&mdash;call her, for Our Lady's sake,&rdquo; said the voice of one of
      these laughing invisibles. &ldquo;Nectabanus, thou shalt be made ambassador to
      Prester John's court, to show them how wisely thou canst discharge thee of
      a mission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shrill tone of the dwarf was heard, yet so much subdued that Sir
      Kenneth could not understand what he said, except that he spoke something
      of the means of merriment given to the guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how shall we rid us of the spirit which Nectabanus hath raised, my
      maidens?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear me, royal madam,&rdquo; said another voice. &ldquo;If the sage and princely
      Nectabanus be not over-jealous of his most transcendent bride and empress,
      let us send her to get us rid of this insolent knight-errant, who can be
      so easily persuaded that high-born dames may need the use of his insolent
      and overweening valour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It were but justice, methinks,&rdquo; replied another, &ldquo;that the Princess
      Guenever should dismiss, by her courtesy, him whom her husband's wisdom
      has been able to entice hither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Struck to the heart with shame and resentment at what he had heard, Sir
      Kenneth was about to attempt his escape from the tent at all hazards, when
      what followed arrested his purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, truly,&rdquo; said the first speaker, &ldquo;our cousin Edith must first learn
      how this vaunted wight hath conducted himself, and we must reserve the
      power of giving her ocular proof that he hath failed in his duty. It may
      be a lesson will do good upon her; for, credit me, Calista, I have
      sometimes thought she has let this Northern adventurer sit nearer her
      heart than prudence would sanction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of the other voices was then heard to mutter something of the Lady
      Edith's prudence and wisdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prudence, wench!&rdquo; was the reply. &ldquo;It is mere pride, and the desire to be
      thought more rigid than any of us. Nay, I will not quit my advantage. You
      know well that when she has us at fault no one can, in a civil way, lay
      your error before you more precisely than can my Lady Edith. But here she
      comes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A figure, as if entering the apartment, cast upon the partition a shade,
      which glided along slowly until it mixed with those which already clouded
      it. Despite of the bitter disappointment which he had experienced&mdash;despite
      the insult and injury with which it seemed he had been visited by the
      malice, or, at best, by the idle humour of Queen Berengaria (for he
      already concluded that she who spoke loudest, and in a commanding tone,
      was the wife of Richard), the knight felt something so soothing to his
      feelings in learning that Edith had been no partner to the fraud practised
      on him, and so interesting to his curiosity in the scene which was about
      to take place, that, instead of prosecuting his more prudent purpose of an
      instant retreat, he looked anxiously, on the contrary, for some rent or
      crevice by means of which he might be made eye as well as ear witness to
      what was to go forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; said he to himself, &ldquo;the Queen, who hath been pleased for an
      idle frolic to endanger my reputation, and perhaps my life, cannot
      complain if I avail myself of the chance which fortune seems willing to
      afford me to obtain knowledge of her further intentions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed, in the meanwhile, as if Edith were waiting for the commands of
      the Queen, and as if the other were reluctant to speak for fear of being
      unable to command her laughter and that of her companions; for Sir Kenneth
      could only distinguish a sound as of suppressed tittering and merriment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Majesty,&rdquo; said Edith at last, &ldquo;seems in a merry mood, though,
      methinks, the hour of night prompts a sleepy one. I was well disposed
      bedward when I had your Majesty's commands to attend you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not long delay you, cousin, from your repose,&rdquo; said the Queen,
      &ldquo;though I fear you will sleep less soundly when I tell you your wager is
      lost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, royal madam,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;this, surely, is dwelling on a jest which
      has rather been worn out, I laid no wager, however it was your Majesty's
      pleasure to suppose, or to insist, that I did so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, now, despite our pilgrimage, Satan is strong with you, my gentle
      cousin, and prompts thee to leasing. Can you deny that you gaged your ruby
      ring against my golden bracelet that yonder Knight of the Libbard, or how
      call you him, could not be seduced from his post?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Majesty is too great for me to gainsay you,&rdquo; replied Edith, &ldquo;but
      these ladies can, if they will, bear me witness that it was your Highness
      who proposed such a wager, and took the ring from my finger, even while I
      was declaring that I did not think it maidenly to gage anything on such a
      subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, but, my Lady Edith,&rdquo; said another voice, &ldquo;you must needs grant,
      under your favour, that you expressed yourself very confident of the
      valour of that same Knight of the Leopard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I did, minion,&rdquo; said Edith angrily, &ldquo;is that a good reason why
      thou shouldst put in thy word to flatter her Majesty's humour? I spoke of
      that knight but as all men speak who have seen him in the field, and had
      no more interest in defending than thou in detracting from him. In a camp,
      what can women speak of save soldiers and deeds of arms?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The noble Lady Edith,&rdquo; said a third voice, &ldquo;hath never forgiven Calista
      and me, since we told your Majesty that she dropped two rosebuds in the
      chapel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your Majesty,&rdquo; said Edith, in a tone which Sir Kenneth could judge to
      be that of respectful remonstrance, &ldquo;have no other commands for me than to
      hear the gibes of your waiting-women, I must crave your permission to
      withdraw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence, Florise,&rdquo; said the Queen, &ldquo;and let not our indulgence lead you
      to forget the difference betwixt yourself and the kinswoman of England.&mdash;But
      you, my dear cousin,&rdquo; she continued, resuming her tone of raillery, &ldquo;how
      can you, who are so good-natured, begrudge us poor wretches a few minutes'
      laughing, when we have had so many days devoted to weeping and gnashing of
      teeth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great be your mirth, royal lady,&rdquo; said Edith; &ldquo;yet would I be content not
      to smile for the rest of my life, rather than&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped, apparently out of respect; but Sir Kenneth could hear that
      she was in much agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; said Berengaria, a thoughtless but good-humoured princess of
      the House of Navarre; &ldquo;but what is the great offence, after all? A young
      knight has been wiled hither&mdash;has stolen, or has been stolen, from
      his post, which no one will disturb in his absence&mdash;for the sake of a
      fair lady; for, to do your champion justice, sweet one, the wisdom of
      Nectabanus could conjure him hither in no name but yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gracious Heaven! your Majesty does not say so?&rdquo; said Edith, in a voice of
      alarm quite different from the agitation she had previously evinced,&mdash;&ldquo;you
      cannot say so consistently with respect for your own honour and for mine,
      your husband's kinswoman! Say you were jesting with me, my royal mistress,
      and forgive me that I could, even for a moment, think it possible you
      could be in earnest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lady Edith,&rdquo; said the Queen, in a displeased tone of voice, &ldquo;regrets
      the ring we have won of her. We will restore the pledge to you, gentle
      cousin; only you must not grudge us in turn a little triumph over the
      wisdom which has been so often spread over us, as a banner over a host.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A triumph!&rdquo; exclaimed Edith indignantly&mdash;&ldquo;a triumph! The triumph
      will be with the infidel, when he hears that the Queen of England can make
      the reputation of her husband's kinswoman the subject of a light frolic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are angry, fair cousin, at losing your favourite ring,&rdquo; said the
      Queen. &ldquo;Come, since you grudge to pay your wager, we will renounce our
      right; it was your name and that pledge brought him hither, and we care
      not for the bait after the fish is caught.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; replied Edith impatiently, &ldquo;you know well that your Grace could
      not wish for anything of mine but it becomes instantly yours. But I would
      give a bushel of rubies ere ring or name of mine had been used to bring a
      brave man into a fault, and perhaps to disgrace and punishment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it is for the safety of our true knight that we fear!&rdquo; said the
      Queen. &ldquo;You rate our power too low, fair cousin, when you speak of a life
      being lost for a frolic of ours. O Lady Edith, others have influence on
      the iron breasts of warriors as well as you&mdash;the heart even of a lion
      is made of flesh, not of stone; and, believe me, I have interest enough
      with Richard to save this knight, in whose fate Lady Edith is so deeply
      concerned, from the penalty of disobeying his royal commands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the love of the blessed Cross, most royal lady,&rdquo; said Edith&mdash;and
      Sir Kenneth, with feelings which it were hard to unravel, heard her
      prostrate herself at the Queen's feet&mdash;&ldquo;for the love of our blessed
      Lady, and of every holy saint in the calendar, beware what you do! You
      know not King Richard&mdash;you have been but shortly wedded to him. Your
      breath might as well combat the west wind when it is wildest, as your
      words persuade my royal kinsman to pardon a military offence. Oh, for
      God's sake, dismiss this gentleman, if indeed you have lured him hither! I
      could almost be content to rest with the shame of having invited him, did
      I know that he was returned again where his duty calls him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arise, cousin, arise,&rdquo; said Queen Berengaria, &ldquo;and be assured all will be
      better than you think. Rise, dear Edith. I am sorry I have played my
      foolery with a knight in whom you take such deep interest. Nay, wring not
      thy hands; I will believe thou carest not for him&mdash;believe anything
      rather than see thee look so wretchedly miserable. I tell thee I will take
      the blame on myself with King Richard in behalf of thy fair Northern
      friend&mdash;thine acquaintance, I would say, since thou own'st him not as
      a friend. Nay, look not so reproachfully. We will send Nectabanus to
      dismiss this Knight of the Standard to his post; and we ourselves will
      grace him on some future day, to make amends for his wild-goose chase. He
      is, I warrant, but lying perdu in some neighbouring tent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my crown of lilies, and my sceptre of a specially good water-reed,&rdquo;
       said Nectabanus, &ldquo;your Majesty is mistaken, He is nearer at hand than you
      wot&mdash;he lieth ensconced there behind that canvas partition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And within hearing of each word we have said!&rdquo; exclaimed the Queen, in
      her turn violently surprised and agitated. &ldquo;Out, monster of folly and
      malignity!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she uttered these words, Nectabanus fled from the pavilion with a yell
      of such a nature as leaves it still doubtful whether Berengaria had
      confined her rebuke to words, or added some more emphatic expression of
      her displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can now be done?&rdquo; said the Queen to Edith, in a whisper of
      undisguised uneasiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That which must,&rdquo; said Edith firmly. &ldquo;We must see this gentleman and
      place ourselves in his mercy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, she began hastily to undo a curtain, which at one place covered
      an entrance or communication.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For Heaven's sake, forbear&mdash;consider,&rdquo; said the Queen&mdash;&ldquo;my
      apartment&mdash;our dress&mdash;the hour&mdash;my honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But ere she could detail her remonstrances, the curtain fell, and there
      was no division any longer betwixt the armed knight and the party of
      ladies. The warmth of an Eastern night occasioned the undress of Queen
      Berengaria and her household to be rather more simple and unstudied than
      their station, and the presence of a male spectator of rank, required.
      This the Queen remembered, and with a loud shriek fled from the apartment
      where Sir Kenneth was disclosed to view in a compartment of the ample
      pavilion, now no longer separated from that in which they stood. The grief
      and agitation of the Lady Edith, as well as the deep interest she felt in
      a hasty explanation with the Scottish knight, perhaps occasioned her
      forgetting that her locks were more dishevelled and her person less
      heedfully covered than was the wont of high-born damsels, in an age which
      was not, after all, the most prudish or scrupulous period of the ancient
      time. A thin, loose garment of pink-coloured silk made the principal part
      of her vestments, with Oriental slippers, into which she had hastily
      thrust her bare feet, and a scarf hurriedly and loosely thrown about her
      shoulders. Her head had no other covering than the veil of rich and
      dishevelled locks falling round it on every side, that half hid a
      countenance which a mingled sense of modesty and of resentment, and other
      deep and agitated feelings, had covered with crimson.
    </p>
    <p>
      But although Edith felt her situation with all that delicacy which is her
      sex's greatest charm, it did not seem that for a moment she placed her own
      bashfulness in comparison with the duty which, as she thought, she owed to
      him who had been led into error and danger on her account. She drew,
      indeed, her scarf more closely over her neck and bosom, and she hastily
      laid from her hand a lamp which shed too much lustre over her figure; but,
      while Sir Kenneth stood motionless on the same spot in which he was first
      discovered, she rather stepped towards than retired from him, as she
      exclaimed, &ldquo;Hasten to your post, valiant knight!&mdash;you are deceived in
      being trained hither&mdash;ask no questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I need ask none,&rdquo; said the knight, sinking upon one knee, with the
      reverential devotion of a saint at the altar, and bending his eyes on the
      ground, lest his looks should increase the lady's embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you heard all?&rdquo; said Edith impatiently. &ldquo;Gracious saints! then
      wherefore wait you here, when each minute that passes is loaded with
      dishonour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard that I am dishonoured, lady, and I have heard it from you,&rdquo;
       answered Kenneth. &ldquo;What reck I how soon punishment follows? I have but one
      petition to you; and then I seek, among the sabres of the infidels,
      whether dishonour may not be washed out with blood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not so, neither,&rdquo; said the lady. &ldquo;Be wise&mdash;dally not here; all
      may yet be well, if you will but use dispatch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wait but for your forgiveness,&rdquo; said the knight, still kneeling, &ldquo;for
      my presumption in believing that my poor services could have been required
      or valued by you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do forgive you&mdash;oh, I have nothing to forgive! have been the means
      of injuring you. But oh, begone! I will forgive&mdash;I will value you&mdash;that
      is, as I value every brave Crusader&mdash;if you will but begone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Receive, first, this precious yet fatal pledge,&rdquo; said the knight,
      tendering the ring to Edith, who now showed gestures of impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no &ldquo; she said, declining to receive it. &ldquo;Keep it&mdash;keep it as
      a mark of my regard&mdash;my regret, I would say. Oh, begone, if not for
      your own sake, for mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Almost recompensed for the loss even of honour, which her voice had
      denounced to him, by the interest which she seemed to testify in his
      safety, Sir Kenneth rose from his knee, and, casting a momentary glance on
      Edith, bowed low, and seemed about to withdraw. At the same instant, that
      maidenly bashfulness, which the energy of Edith's feelings had till then
      triumphed over, became conqueror in its turn, and she hastened from the
      apartment, extinguishing her lamp as she went, and leaving, in Sir
      Kenneth's thoughts, both mental and natural gloom behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She must be obeyed, was the first distinct idea which waked him from his
      reverie, and he hastened to the place by which he had entered the
      pavilion. To pass under the canvas in the manner he had entered required
      time and attention, and he made a readier aperture by slitting the canvas
      wall with his poniard. When in the free air, he felt rather stupefied and
      overpowered by a conflict of sensations, than able to ascertain what was
      the real import of the whole. He was obliged to spur himself to action by
      recollecting that the commands of the Lady Edith had required haste. Even
      then, engaged as he was amongst tent-ropes and tents, he was compelled to
      move with caution until he should regain the path or avenue, aside from
      which the dwarf had led him, in order to escape the observation of the
      guards before the Queen's pavilion; and he was obliged also to move
      slowly, and with precaution, to avoid giving an alarm, either by falling
      or by the clashing of his armour. A thin cloud had obscured the moon, too,
      at the very instant of his leaving the tent, and Sir Kenneth had to
      struggle with this inconvenience at a moment when the dizziness of his
      head and the fullness of his heart scarce left him powers of intelligence
      sufficient to direct his motions.
    </p>
    <p>
      But at once sounds came upon his ear which instantly recalled him to the
      full energy of his faculties. These proceeded from the Mount of Saint
      George. He heard first a single, fierce, angry, and savage bark, which was
      immediately followed by a yell of agony. No deer ever bounded with a
      wilder start at the voice of Roswal than did Sir Kenneth at what he feared
      was the death-cry of that noble hound, from whom no ordinary injury could
      have extracted even the slightest acknowledgment of pain. He surmounted
      the space which divided him from the avenue, and, having attained it,
      began to run towards the mount, although loaded with his mail, faster than
      most men could have accompanied him even if unarmed, relaxed not his pace
      for the steep sides of the artificial mound, and in a few minutes stood on
      the platform upon its summit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moon broke forth at this moment, and showed him that the Standard of
      England was vanished, that the spear on which it had floated lay broken on
      the ground, and beside it was his faithful hound, apparently in the
      agonies of death.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     All my long arrear of honour lost,
     Heap'd up in youth, and hoarded up for age.
     Hath Honour's fountain then suck'd up the stream?
     He hath&mdash;and hooting boys may barefoot pass,
     And gather pebbles from the naked ford!
          DON SEBASTIAN.
</pre>
    <p>
      After a torrent of afflicting sensations, by which he was at first almost
      stunned and confounded, Sir Kenneth's first thought was to look for the
      authors of this violation of the English banner; but in no direction could
      he see traces of them. His next, which to some persons, but scarce to any
      who have made intimate acquaintances among the canine race, may appear
      strange, was to examine the condition of his faithful Roswal, mortally
      wounded, as it seemed, in discharging the duty which his master had been
      seduced to abandon. He caressed the dying animal, who, faithful to the
      last, seemed to forget his own pain in the satisfaction he received from
      his master's presence, and continued wagging his tail and licking his
      hand, even while by low moanings he expressed that his agony was increased
      by the attempts which Sir Kenneth made to withdraw from the wound the
      fragment of the lance or javelin with which it had been inflicted; then
      redoubled his feeble endearments, as if fearing he had offended his master
      by showing a sense of the pain to which his interference had subjected
      him. There was something in the display of the dying creature's attachment
      which mixed as a bitter ingredient with the sense of disgrace and
      desolation by which Sir Kenneth was oppressed. His only friend seemed
      removed from him, just when he had incurred the contempt and hatred of all
      besides. The knight's strength of mind gave way to a burst of agonized
      distress, and he groaned and wept aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he thus indulged his grief, a clear and solemn voice, close beside
      him, pronounced these words in the sonorous tone of the readers of the
      mosque, and in the lingua franca mutually understood by Christians and
      Saracens:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adversity is like the period of the former and of the latter rain&mdash;cold,
      comfortless, unfriendly to man and to animal; yet from that season have
      their birth the flower and the fruit, the date, the rose, and the
      pomegranate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth of the Leopard turned towards the speaker, and beheld the
      Arabian physician, who, approaching unheard, had seated himself a little
      behind him cross-legged, and uttered with gravity, yet not without a tone
      of sympathy, the moral sentences of consolation with which the Koran and
      its commentators supplied him; for, in the East, wisdom is held to consist
      less in a display of the sage's own inventive talents, than in his ready
      memory and happy application of and reference to &ldquo;that which is written.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ashamed at being surprised in a womanlike expression of sorrow, Sir
      Kenneth dashed his tears indignantly aside, and again busied himself with
      his dying favourite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poet hath said,&rdquo; continued the Arab, without noticing the knight's
      averted looks and sullen deportment, &ldquo;the ox for the field, and the camel
      for the desert. Were not the hand of the leech fitter than that of the
      soldier to cure wounds, though less able to inflict them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This patient, Hakim, is beyond thy help,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth; &ldquo;and,
      besides, he is, by thy law, an unclean animal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where Allah hath deigned to bestow life, and a sense of pain and
      pleasure,&rdquo; said the physician, &ldquo;it were sinful pride should the sage, whom
      He has enlightened, refuse to prolong existence or assuage agony. To the
      sage, the cure of a miserable groom, of a poor dog and of a conquering
      monarch, are events of little distinction. Let me examine this wounded
      animal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth acceded in silence, and the physician inspected and handled
      Roswal's wound with as much care and attention as if he had been a human
      being. He then took forth a case of instruments, and, by the judicious and
      skilful application of pincers, withdrew from the wounded shoulder the
      fragment of the weapon, and stopped with styptics and bandages the
      effusion of blood which followed; the creature all the while suffering him
      patiently to perform these kind offices, as if he had been aware of his
      kind intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The animal may be cured,&rdquo; said El Hakim, addressing himself to Sir
      Kenneth, &ldquo;if you will permit me to carry him to my tent, and treat him
      with the care which the nobleness of his nature deserves. For know, that
      thy servant Adonbec is no less skilful in the race and pedigree and
      distinctions of good dogs and of noble steeds than in the diseases which
      afflict the human race.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take him with you,&rdquo; said the knight. &ldquo;I bestow him on you freely, if he
      recovers. I owe thee a reward for attendance on my squire, and have
      nothing else to pay it with. For myself, I will never again wind bugle or
      halloo to hound!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Arabian made no reply, but gave a signal with a clapping of his hands,
      which was instantly answered by the appearance of two black slaves. He
      gave them his orders in Arabic, received the answer that &ldquo;to hear was to
      obey,&rdquo; when, taking the animal in their arms, they removed him, without
      much resistance on his part; for though his eyes turned to his master, he
      was too weak to struggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fare thee well, Roswal, then,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth&mdash;&ldquo;fare thee well, my
      last and only friend&mdash;thou art too noble a possession to be retained
      by one such as I must in future call myself!&mdash;I would,&rdquo; he said, as
      the slaves retired, &ldquo;that, dying as he is, I could exchange conditions
      with that noble animal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is written,&rdquo; answered the Arabian, although the exclamation had not
      been addressed to him, &ldquo;that all creatures are fashioned for the service
      of man; and the master of the earth speaketh folly when he would exchange,
      in his impatience, his hopes here and to come for the servile condition of
      an inferior being.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A dog who dies in discharging his duty,&rdquo; said the knight sternly, &ldquo;is
      better than a man who survives the desertion of it. Leave me, Hakim; thou
      hast, on this side of miracle, the most wonderful science which man ever
      possessed, but the wounds of the spirit are beyond thy power.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not if the patient will explain his calamity, and be guided by the
      physician,&rdquo; said Adonbec el Hakim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know, then,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;since thou art so importunate, that last
      night the Banner of England was displayed from this mound&mdash;I was its
      appointed guardian&mdash;morning is now breaking&mdash;there lies the
      broken banner-spear, the standard itself is lost, and here sit I a living
      man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How!&rdquo; said El Hakim, examining him; &ldquo;thy armour is whole&mdash;there is
      no blood on thy weapons, and report speaks thee one unlikely to return
      thus from fight. Thou hast been trained from thy post&mdash;ay, trained by
      the rosy cheek and black eye of one of those houris, to whom you Nazarenes
      vow rather such service as is due to Allah, than such love as may lawfully
      be rendered to forms of clay like our own. It has been thus assuredly; for
      so hath man ever fallen, even since the days of Sultan Adam.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if it were so, physician,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth sullenly, &ldquo;what remedy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knowledge is the parent of power,&rdquo; said El Hakim, &ldquo;as valour supplies
      strength. Listen to me. Man is not as a tree, bound to one spot of earth;
      nor is he framed to cling to one bare rock, like the scarce animated
      shell-fish. Thine own Christian writings command thee, when persecuted in
      one city, to flee to another; and we Moslem also know that Mohammed, the
      Prophet of Allah, driven forth from the holy city of Mecca, found his
      refuge and his helpmates at Medina.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what does this concern me?&rdquo; said the Scot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much,&rdquo; answered the physician. &ldquo;Even the sage flies the tempest which he
      cannot control. Use thy speed, therefore, and fly from the vengeance of
      Richard to the shadow of Saladin's victorious banner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might indeed hide my dishonour,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth ironically, &ldquo;in a
      camp of infidel heathens, where the very phrase is unknown. But had I not
      better partake more fully in their reproach? Does not thy advice stretch
      so far as to recommend me to take the turban? Methinks I want but apostasy
      to consummate my infamy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blaspheme not, Nazarene,&rdquo; said the physician sternly. &ldquo;Saladin makes no
      converts to the law of the Prophet, save those on whom its precepts shall
      work conviction. Open thine eyes to the light, and the great Soldan, whose
      liberality is as boundless as his power, may bestow on thee a kingdom;
      remain blinded if thou will, and, being one whose second life is doomed to
      misery, Saladin will yet, for this span of present time, make thee rich
      and happy. But fear not that thy brows shall be bound with the turban,
      save at thine own free choice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My choice were rather,&rdquo; said the knight, &ldquo;that my writhen features should
      blacken, as they are like to do, in this evening's setting sun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet thou art not wise, Nazarene,&rdquo; said El Hakim, &ldquo;to reject this fair
      offer; for I have power with Saladin, and can raise thee high in his
      grace. Look you, my son&mdash;this Crusade, as you call your wild
      enterprise, is like a large dromond [The largest sort of vessels then
      known were termed dromond's, or dromedaries.] parting asunder in the
      waves. Thou thyself hast borne terms of truce from the kings and princes,
      whose force is here assembled, to the mighty Soldan, and knewest not,
      perchance, the full tenor of thine own errand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew not, and I care not,&rdquo; said the knight impatiently. &ldquo;What avails it
      to me that I have been of late the envoy of princes, when, ere night, I
      shall be a gibbeted and dishonoured corpse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, I speak that it may not be so with thee,&rdquo; said the physician.
      &ldquo;Saladin is courted on all sides. The combined princes of this league
      formed against him have made such proposals of composition and peace, as,
      in other circumstances, it might have become his honour to have granted to
      them. Others have made private offers, on their own separate account, to
      disjoin their forces from the camp of the Kings of Frangistan, and even to
      lend their arms to the defence of the standard of the Prophet. But Saladin
      will not be served by such treacherous and interested defection. The king
      of kings will treat only with the Lion King. Saladin will hold treaty with
      none but the Melech Ric, and with him he will treat like a prince, or
      fight like a champion. To Richard he will yield such conditions of his
      free liberality as the swords of all Europe could never compel from him by
      force or terror. He will permit a free pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and all
      the places where the Nazarenes list to worship; nay, he will so far share
      even his empire with his brother Richard, that he will allow Christian
      garrisons in the six strongest cities of Palestine, and one in Jerusalem
      itself, and suffer them to be under the immediate command of the officers
      of Richard, who, he consents, shall bear the name of King Guardian of
      Jerusalem. Yet further, strange and incredible as you may think it, know,
      Sir Knight&mdash;for to your honour I can commit even that almost
      incredible secret&mdash;know that Saladin will put a sacred seal on this
      happy union betwixt the bravest and noblest of Frangistan and Asia, by
      raising to the rank of his royal spouse a Christian damsel, allied in
      blood to King Richard, and known by the name of the Lady Edith of
      Plantagenet.&rdquo; [This may appear so extraordinary and improbable a
      proposition that it is necessary to say such a one was actually made. The
      historians, however, substitute the widowed Queen of Naples, sister of
      Richard, for the bride, and Saladin's brother for the bridegroom. They
      appear to have been ignorant of the existence of Edith of Plantagenet.&mdash;See
      MILL'S History of the Crusades, vol. ii., p. 61.]
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&mdash;sayest thou?&rdquo; exclaimed Sir Kenneth, who, listening with
      indifference and apathy to the preceding part of El Hakim's speech, was
      touched by this last communication, as the thrill of a nerve, unexpectedly
      jarred, will awaken the sensation of agony, even in the torpor of palsy.
      Then, moderating his tone, by dint of much effort he restrained his
      indignation, and, veiling it under the appearance of contemptuous doubt,
      he prosecuted the conversation, in order to get as much knowledge as
      possible of the plot, as he deemed it, against the honour and happiness of
      her whom he loved not the less that his passion had ruined, apparently,
      his fortunes, at once, and his honour.&mdash;&ldquo;And what Christian,&rdquo; he
      said, With tolerable calmness, &ldquo;would sanction a union so unnatural as
      that of a Christian maiden with an unbelieving Saracen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art but an ignorant, bigoted Nazarene,&rdquo; said the Hakim. &ldquo;Seest thou
      not how the Mohammedan princes daily intermarry with the noble Nazarene
      maidens in Spain, without scandal either to Moor or Christian? And the
      noble Soldan will, in his full confidence in the blood of Richard, permit
      the English maid the freedom which your Frankish manners have assigned to
      women. He will allow her the free exercise of her religion, seeing that,
      in very truth, it signifies but little to which faith females are
      addicted; and he will assign her such place and rank over all the women of
      his zenana, that she shall be in every respect his sole and absolute
      queen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;darest thou think, Moslem, that Richard would
      give his kinswoman&mdash;a high-born and virtuous princess&mdash;to be, at
      best, the foremost concubine in the haram of a misbeliever? Know, Hakim,
      the meanest free Christian noble would scorn, on his child's behalf, such
      splendid ignominy.&rdquo;
     </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0236m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0236m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0236.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou errest,&rdquo; said the Hakim. &ldquo;Philip of France, and Henry of Champagne,
      and others of Richard's principal allies, have heard the proposal without
      starting, and have promised, as far as they may, to forward an alliance
      that may end these wasteful wars; and the wise arch-priest of Tyre hath
      undertaken to break the proposal to Richard, not doubting that he shall be
      able to bring the plan to good issue. The Soldan's wisdom hath as yet kept
      his proposition secret from others, such as he of Montserrat, and the
      Master of the Templars, because he knows they seek to thrive by Richard's
      death or disgrace, not by his life or honour. Up, therefore, Sir Knight,
      and to horse. I will give thee a scroll which shall advance thee highly
      with the Soldan; and deem not that you are leaving your country, or her
      cause, or her religion, since the interest of the two monarchs will
      speedily be the same. To Saladin thy counsel will be most acceptable,
      since thou canst make him aware of much concerning the marriages of the
      Christians, the treatment of their wives, and other points of their laws
      and usages, which, in the course of such treaty, it much concerns him that
      he should know. The right hand of the Soldan grasps the treasures of the
      East, and it is the fountain or generosity. Or, if thou desirest it,
      Saladin, when allied with England, can have but little difficulty to
      obtain from Richard, not only thy pardon and restoration to favour, but an
      honourable command in the troops which may be left of the King of
      England's host, to maintain their joint government in Palestine. Up, then,
      and mount&mdash;there lies a plain path before thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hakim,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight, &ldquo;thou art a man of peace; also thou
      hast saved the life of Richard of England&mdash;and, moreover, of my own
      poor esquire, Strauchan. I have, therefore, heard to an end a matter
      which, being propounded by another Moslem than thyself, I would have cut
      short with a blow of my dagger! Hakim, in return for thy kindness, I
      advise thee to see that the Saracen who shall propose to Richard a union
      betwixt the blood of Plantagenet and that of his accursed race do put on a
      helmet which is capable to endure such a blow of a battle-axe as that
      which struck down the gate of Acre. Certes, he will be otherwise placed
      beyond the reach even of thy skill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art, then, wilfully determined not to fly to the Saracen host?&rdquo; said
      the physician. &ldquo;Yet, remember, thou stayest to certain destruction; and
      the writings of thy law, as well as ours, prohibit man from breaking into
      the tabernacle of his own life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid!&rdquo; replied the Scot, crossing himself; &ldquo;but we are also
      forbidden to avoid the punishment which our crimes have deserved. And
      since so poor are thy thoughts of fidelity, Hakim, it grudges me that I
      have bestowed my good hound on thee, for, should he live, he will have a
      master ignorant of his value.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gift that is begrudged is already recalled,&rdquo; said El Hakim; &ldquo;only we
      physicians are sworn not to send away a patient uncured. If the dog
      recover, he is once more yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to, Hakim,&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth; &ldquo;men speak not of hawk and hound
      when there is but an hour of day-breaking betwixt them and death. Leave me
      to recollect my sins, and reconcile myself to Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I leave thee in thine obstinacy,&rdquo; said the physician; &ldquo;the mist hides the
      precipice from those who are doomed to fall over it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He withdrew slowly, turning from time to time his head, as if to observe
      whether the devoted knight might not recall him either by word or signal.
      At last his turbaned figure was lost among the labyrinth of tents which
      lay extended beneath, whitening in the pale light of the dawning, before
      which the moonbeam had now faded away.
    </p>
    <p>
      But although the physician Adonbec's words had not made that impression
      upon Kenneth which the sage desired, they had inspired the Scot with a
      motive for desiring life, which, dishonoured as he conceived himself to
      be, he was before willing to part from as from a sullied vestment no
      longer becoming his wear. Much that had passed betwixt himself and the
      hermit, besides what he had observed between the anchorite and Sheerkohf
      (or Ilderim), he now recalled to recollection, and tended to confirm what
      the Hakim had told him of the secret article of the treaty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reverend impostor!&rdquo; he exclaimed to himself; &ldquo;the hoary hypocrite! He
      spoke of the unbelieving husband converted by the believing wife; and what
      do I know but that the traitor exhibited to the Saracen, accursed of God,
      the beauties of Edith Plantagenet, that the hound might judge if the
      princely Christian lady were fit to be admitted into the haram of a
      misbeliever? If I had yonder infidel Ilderim, or whatsoever he is called,
      again in the gripe with which I once held him fast as ever hound held
      hare, never again should HE at least come on errand disgraceful to the
      honour of Christian king or noble and virtuous maiden. But I&mdash;my
      hours are fast dwindling into minutes&mdash;yet, while I have life and
      breath, something must be done, and speedily.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused for a few minutes, threw from him his helmet, then strode down
      the hill, and took the road to King Richard's pavilion.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The feather'd songster, chanticleer,
     Had wound his bugle-horn,
     And told the early villager
     The coming of the morn.
     King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
     Of light eclipse the grey,
     And heard the raven's croaking throat
     Proclaim the fated day.
     &ldquo;Thou'rt right,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;for, by the God
     That sits enthron'd on high,
     Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain,
     This day shall surely die.&rdquo;
                    CHATTERTON.
</pre>
    <p>
      On the evening on which Sir Kenneth assumed his post, Richard, after the
      stormy event which disturbed its tranquillity, had retired to rest in the
      plenitude of confidence inspired by his unbounded courage and the
      superiority which he had displayed in carrying the point he aimed at in
      presence of the whole Christian host and its leaders, many of whom, he was
      aware, regarded in their secret souls the disgrace of the Austrian Duke as
      a triumph over themselves; so that his pride felt gratified, that in
      prostrating one enemy he had mortified a hundred.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another monarch would have doubled his guards on the evening after such a
      scene, and kept at least a part of his troops under arms. But Coeur de
      Lion dismissed, upon the occasion, even his ordinary watch, and assigned
      to his soldiers a donative of wine to celebrate his recovery, and to drink
      to the Banner of Saint George; and his quarter of the camp would have
      assumed a character totally devoid of vigilance and military preparation,
      but that Sir Thomas de Vaux, the Earl of Salisbury, and other nobles, took
      precautions to preserve order and discipline among the revellers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The physician attended the King from his retiring to bed till midnight was
      past, and twice administered medicine to him during that period, always
      previously observing the quarter of heaven occupied by the full moon,
      whose influences he declared to be most sovereign, or most baleful, to the
      effect of his drugs. It was three hours after midnight ere El Hakim
      withdrew from the royal tent, to one which had been pitched for himself
      and his retinue. In his way thither he visited the tent of Sir Kenneth of
      the Leopard, in order to see the condition of his first patient in the
      Christian camp, old Strauchan, as the knight's esquire was named.
      Inquiring there for Sir Kenneth himself, El Hakim learned on what duty he
      was employed, and probably this information led him to Saint George's
      Mount, where he found him whom he sought in the disastrous circumstances
      alluded to in the last chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about the hour of sunrise, when a slow, armed tread was heard
      approaching the King's pavilion; and ere De Vaux, who slumbered beside his
      master's bed as lightly as ever sleep sat upon the eyes of a watch-dog,
      had time to do more than arise and say, &ldquo;Who comes?&rdquo; the Knight of the
      Leopard entered the tent, with a deep and devoted gloom seated upon his
      manly features.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whence this bold intrusion, Sir Knight?&rdquo; said De Vaux sternly, yet in a
      tone which respected his master's slumbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold! De Vaux,&rdquo; said Richard, awaking on the instant; &ldquo;Sir Kenneth cometh
      like a good soldier to render an account of his guard. To such the
      general's tent is ever accessible.&rdquo; Then rising from his slumbering
      posture, and leaning on his elbow, he fixed his large bright eye upon the
      warrior&mdash;&ldquo;Speak, Sir Scot; thou comest to tell me of a vigilant,
      safe, and honourable watch, dost thou not? The rustling of the folds of
      the Banner of England were enough to guard it, even without the body of
      such a knight as men hold thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As men will hold me no more,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth. &ldquo;My watch hath neither
      been vigilant, safe, nor honourable. The Banner of England has been
      carried off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thou alive to tell it!&rdquo; said Richard, in a tone of derisive
      incredulity. &ldquo;Away, it cannot be. There is not even a scratch on thy face.
      Why dost thou stand thus mute? Speak the truth&mdash;it is ill jesting
      with a king; yet I will forgive thee if thou hast lied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lied, Sir King!&rdquo; returned the unfortunate knight, with fierce emphasis,
      and one glance of fire from his eye, bright and transient as the flash
      from the cold and stony flint. &ldquo;But this also must be endured. I have
      spoken the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By God and by Saint George!&rdquo; said the King, bursting into fury, which,
      however, he instantly checked. &ldquo;De Vaux, go view the spot. This fever has
      disturbed his brain. This cannot be. The man's courage is proof. It CANNOT
      be! Go speedily&mdash;or send, if thou wilt not go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came, breathless, to
      say that the banner was gone, and the knight who guarded it overpowered,
      and most probably murdered, as there was a pool of blood where the
      banner-spear lay shivered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But whom do I see here?&rdquo; said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon Sir
      Kenneth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A traitor,&rdquo; said the King, starting to his feet, and seizing the
      curtal-axe, which was ever near his bed&mdash;&ldquo;a traitor! whom thou shalt
      see die a traitor's death.&rdquo; And he drew back the weapon as in act to
      strike.
    </p>
    <p>
      Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before him, with
      his bare head uncovered by any protection, his eyes cast down to the
      earth, his lips scarcely moving, yet muttering probably in prayer.
      Opposite to him, and within the due reach for a blow, stood King Richard,
      his large person wrapt in the folds of his camiscia, or ample gown of
      linen, except where the violence of his action had flung the covering from
      his right arm, shoulder, and a part of his breast, leaving to view a
      specimen of a frame which might have merited his Saxon predecessor's
      epithet of Ironside. He stood for an instant, prompt to strike; then
      sinking the head of the weapon towards the ground, he exclaimed, &ldquo;But
      there was blood, Neville&mdash;there was blood upon the place. Hark thee,
      Sir Scot&mdash;brave thou wert once, for I have seen thee fight. Say thou
      hast slain two of the thieves in defence of the Standard&mdash;say but one&mdash;say
      thou hast struck but a good blow in our behalf, and get thee out of the
      camp with thy life and thy infamy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have called me liar, my Lord King,&rdquo; replied Kenneth firmly; &ldquo;and
      therein, at least, you have done me wrong. Know that there was no blood
      shed in defence of the Standard save that of a poor hound, which, more
      faithful than his master, defended the charge which he deserted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by Saint George!&rdquo; said Richard, again heaving up his arm. But De
      Vaux threw himself between the King and the object of his vengeance, and
      spoke with the blunt truth of his character, &ldquo;My liege, this must not be&mdash;here,
      nor by your hand. It is enough of folly for one night and day to have
      entrusted your banner to a Scot. Said I not they were ever fair and
      false?&rdquo; [Such were the terms in which the English used to speak of their
      poor northern neighbours, forgetting that their own encroachments upon the
      independence of Scotland obliged the weaker nation to defend themselves by
      policy as well as force. The disgrace must be divided between Edward I.
      and Edward III., who enforced their domination over a free country, and
      the Scots, who were compelled to take compulsory oaths, without any
      purpose of keeping them.]
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wast right, and I confess it,&rdquo; said Richard. &ldquo;I
      should have known him better&mdash;I should have remembered how the fox
      William deceived me touching this Crusade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;William of Scotland never deceived; but
      circumstances prevented his bringing his forces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, shameless!&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;thou sulliest the name of a prince,
      even by speaking it.&mdash;And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;to
      see the bearing of the man. Coward or traitor he must be, yet he abode the
      blow of Richard Plantagenet as our arm had been raised to lay knighthood
      on his shoulder. Had he shown the slightest sign of fear, had but a joint
      trembled or an eyelid quivered, I had shattered his head like a crystal
      goblet. But I cannot strike where there is neither fear nor resistance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said Kenneth&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; replied Richard, interrupting him, &ldquo;hast thou found thy speech? Ask
      grace from Heaven, but none from me; for England is dishonoured through
      thy fault, and wert thou mine own and only brother, there is no pardon for
      thy fault.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,&rdquo; said the Scot; &ldquo;it is in your
      Grace's pleasure to give or refuse me time for Christian shrift&mdash;if
      man denies it, may God grant me the absolution which I would otherwise ask
      of His church! But whether I die on the instant, or half an hour hence, I
      equally beseech your Grace for one moment's opportunity to speak that to
      your royal person which highly concerns your fame as a Christian king.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say on,&rdquo; said the King, making no doubt that he was about to hear some
      confession concerning the loss of the Banner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I have to speak,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;touches the royalty of England,
      and must be said to no ears but thine own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Begone with yourselves, sirs,&rdquo; said the King to Neville and De Vaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King's presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you said I was in the right,&rdquo; replied De Vaux to his sovereign, &ldquo;I
      will be treated as one should be who hath been found to be right&mdash;that
      is, I will have my own will. I leave you not with this false Scot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! De Vaux,&rdquo; said Richard angrily, and stamping slightly, &ldquo;darest thou
      not venture our person with one traitor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is in vain you frown and stamp, my lord,&rdquo; said De Vaux; &ldquo;I venture not
      a sick man with a sound one, a naked man with one armed in proof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It matters not,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight; &ldquo;I seek no excuse to put off
      time. I will speak in presence of the Lord of Gilsland. He is good lord
      and true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But half an hour since,&rdquo; said De Vaux, with a groan, implying a mixture
      of sorrow and vexation, &ldquo;and I had said as much for thee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is treason around you, King of England,&rdquo; continued Sir Kenneth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may well be as thou sayest,&rdquo; replied Richard; &ldquo;I have a pregnant
      example.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a hundred
      banners in a pitched field. The&mdash;the&mdash;&rdquo; Sir Kenneth hesitated,
      and at length continued, in a lower tone, &ldquo;The Lady Edith&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; said the King, drawing himself suddenly into a state of haughty
      attention, and fixing his eye firmly on the supposed criminal; &ldquo;what of
      her? what of her? What has she to do with this matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;there is a scheme on foot to disgrace your
      royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on the Saracen
      Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most dishonourable to Christendom,
      by an alliance most shameful to England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This communication had precisely the contrary effect from that which Sir
      Kenneth expected. Richard Plantagenet was one of those who, in Iago's
      words, would not serve God because it was the devil who bade him; advice
      or information often affected him less according to its real import, than
      through the tinge which it took from the supposed character and views of
      those by whom it was communicated. Unfortunately, the mention of his
      relative's name renewed his recollection of what he had considered as
      extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard, even when he stood high
      in the roll of chivalry, but which, in his present condition, appeared an
      insult sufficient to drive the fiery monarch into a frenzy of passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;infamous and audacious! By Heaven, I will have thy
      tongue torn out with hot pincers, for mentioning the very name of a noble
      Christian damsel! Know, degenerate traitor, that I was already aware to
      what height thou hadst dared to raise thine eyes, and endured it, though
      it were insolence, even when thou hadst cheated us&mdash;for thou art all
      a deceit&mdash;into holding thee as of some name and fame. But now, with
      lips blistered with the confession of thine own dishonour&mdash;that thou
      shouldst NOW dare to name our noble kinswoman as one in whose fate thou
      hast part or interest! What is it to thee if she marry Saracen or
      Christian? What is it to thee if, in a camp where princes turn cowards by
      day and robbers by night&mdash;where brave knights turn to paltry
      deserters and traitors&mdash;what is it, I say, to thee, or any one, if I
      should please to ally myself to truth and to valour, in the person of
      Saladin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Little to me, indeed, to whom all the world will soon be as nothing,&rdquo;
       answered Sir Kenneth boldly; &ldquo;but were I now stretched on the rack, I
      would tell thee that what I have said is much to thine own conscience and
      thine own fame. I tell thee, Sir King, that if thou dost but in thought
      entertain the purpose of wedding thy kinswoman, the Lady Edith&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Name her not&mdash;and for an instant think not of her,&rdquo; said the King,
      again straining the curtal-axe in his gripe, until the muscles started
      above his brawny arm, like cordage formed by the ivy around the limb of an
      oak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not name&mdash;not think of her!&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth, his spirits,
      stunned as they were by self-depression, beginning to recover their
      elasticity from this species of controversy. &ldquo;Now, by the Cross, on which
      I place my hope, her name shall be the last word in my mouth, her image
      the last thought in my mind. Try thy boasted strength on this bare brow,
      and see if thou canst prevent my purpose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will drive me mad!&rdquo; said Richard, who, in his despite, was once more
      staggered in his purpose by the dauntless determination of the criminal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ere Thomas of Gilsland could reply, some bustle was heard without, and the
      arrival of the Queen was announced from the outer part of the pavilion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Detain her&mdash;detain her, Neville,&rdquo; cried the King; &ldquo;this is no sight
      for women.&mdash;Fie, that I have suffered such a paltry traitor to chafe
      me thus!&mdash;Away with him, De Vaux,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;through the back
      entrance of our tent; coop him up close, and answer for his safe custody
      with your life. And hark ye&mdash;he is presently to die&mdash;let him
      have a ghostly father&mdash;we would not kill soul and body. And stay&mdash;hark
      thee&mdash;we will not have him dishonoured&mdash;he shall die knightlike,
      in his belt and spurs; for if his treachery be as black as hell, his
      boldness may match that of the devil himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux, right glad, if the truth may be guessed, that the scene ended
      without Richard's descending to the unkingly act of himself slaying an
      unresisting prisoner, made haste to remove Sir Kenneth by a private issue
      to a separate tent, where he was disarmed, and put in fetters for
      security. De Vaux looked on with a steady and melancholy attention, while
      the provost's officers, to whom Sir Kenneth was now committed, took these
      severe precautions.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they were ended, he said solemnly to the unhappy criminal, &ldquo;It is
      King Richard's pleasure that you die undegraded&mdash;without mutilation
      of your body, or shame to your arms&mdash;and that your head be severed
      from the trunk by the sword of the executioner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is kind,&rdquo; said the knight, in a low and rather submissive tone of
      voice, as one who received an unexpected favour; &ldquo;my family will not then
      hear the worst of the tale. Oh, my father&mdash;my father!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This muttered invocation did not escape the blunt but kindly-natured
      Englishman, and he brushed the back of his large hand over his rough
      features ere he could proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Richard of England's further pleasure,&rdquo; he said at length, &ldquo;that
      you have speech with a holy man; and I have met on the passage hither with
      a Carmelite friar, who may fit you for your passage. He waits without,
      until you are in a frame of mind to receive him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let it be instantly,&rdquo; said the knight. &ldquo;In this also Richard is kind. I
      cannot be more fit to see the good father at any time than now; for life
      and I have taken farewell, as two travellers who have arrived at the
      crossway, where their roads separate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; said De Vaux slowly and solemnly; &ldquo;for it irks me somewhat
      to say that which sums my message. It is King Richard's pleasure that you
      prepare for instant death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God's pleasure and the King's be done,&rdquo; replied the knight patiently. &ldquo;I
      neither contest the justice of the sentence, nor desire delay of the
      execution.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux began to leave the tent, but very slowly&mdash;paused at the door,
      and looked back at the Scot, from whose aspect thoughts of the world
      seemed banished, as if he was composing himself into deep devotion. The
      feelings of the stout English baron were in general none of the most
      acute, and yet, on the present occasion, his sympathy overpowered him in
      an unusual manner. He came hastily back to the bundle of reeds on which
      the captive lay, took one of his fettered hands, and said, with as much
      softness as his rough voice was capable of expressing, &ldquo;Sir Kenneth, thou
      art yet young&mdash;thou hast a father. My Ralph, whom I left training his
      little galloway nag on the banks of the Irthing, may one day attain thy
      years, and, but for last night, would to God I saw his youth bear such
      promise as thine! Can nothing be said or done in thy behalf?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; was the melancholy answer. &ldquo;I have deserted my charge&mdash;the
      banner entrusted to me is lost. When the headsman and block are prepared,
      the head and trunk are ready to part company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, then, God have mercy!&rdquo; said De Vaux. &ldquo;Yet would I rather than my
      best horse I had taken that watch myself. There is mystery in it, young
      man, as a plain man may descry, though he cannot see through it.
      Cowardice? Pshaw! No coward ever fought as I have seen thee do. Treachery?
      I cannot think traitors die in their treason so calmly. Thou hast been
      trained from thy post by some deep guile&mdash;some well-devised stratagem&mdash;the
      cry of some distressed maiden has caught thine ear, or the laughful look
      of some merry one has taken thine eye. Never blush for it; we have all
      been led aside by such gear. Come, I pray thee, make a clean conscience of
      it to me, instead of the priest. Richard is merciful when his mood is
      abated. Hast thou nothing to entrust to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The unfortunate knight turned his face from the kind warrior, and
      answered, &ldquo;NOTHING.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And De Vaux, who had exhausted his topics of persuasion, arose and left
      the tent, with folded arms, and in melancholy deeper than he thought the
      occasion merited&mdash;even angry with himself to find that so simple a
      matter as the death of a Scottish man could affect him so nearly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet,&rdquo; as he said to himself, &ldquo;though the rough-footed knaves be our
      enemies in Cumberland, in Palestine one almost considers them as
      brethren.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     'Tis not her sense, for sure in that
     There's nothing more than common;
     And all her wit is only chat,
     Like any other woman.
        SONG.
</pre>
    <p>
      The high-born Berengaria, daughter of Sanchez, King of Navarre, and the
      Queen-Consort of the heroic Richard, was accounted one of the most
      beautiful women of the period. Her form was slight, though exquisitely
      moulded. She was graced with a complexion not common in her country, a
      profusion of fair hair, and features so extremely juvenile as to make her
      look several years younger than she really was, though in reality she was
      not above one-and-twenty. Perhaps it was under the consciousness of this
      extremely juvenile appearance that she affected, or at least practised, a
      little childish petulance and wilfulness of manner, not unbefitting, she
      might suppose, a youthful bride, whose rank and age gave her a right to
      have her fantasies indulged and attended to. She was by nature perfectly
      good-humoured, and if her due share of admiration and homage (in her
      opinion a very large one) was duly resigned to her, no one could possess
      better temper or a more friendly disposition; but then, like all despots,
      the more power that was voluntarily yielded to her, the more she desired
      to extend her sway. Sometimes, even when all her ambition was gratified,
      she chose to be a little out of health, and a little out of spirits; and
      physicians had to toil their wits to invent names for imaginary maladies,
      while her ladies racked their imagination for new games, new head-gear,
      and new court-scandal, to pass away those unpleasant hours, during which
      their own situation was scarce to be greatly envied. Their most frequent
      resource for diverting this malady was some trick or piece of mischief
      practised upon each other; and the good Queen, in the buoyancy of her
      reviving spirits, was, to speak truth, rather too indifferent whether the
      frolics thus practised were entirely befitting her own dignity, or whether
      the pain which those suffered upon whom they were inflicted was not beyond
      the proportion of pleasure which she herself derived from them. She was
      confident in her husband's favour, in her high rank, and in her supposed
      power to make good whatever such pranks might cost others. In a word, she
      gambolled with the freedom of a young lioness, who is unconscious of the
      weight of her own paws when laid on those whom she sports with.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen Berengaria loved her husband passionately, but she feared the
      loftiness and roughness of his character; and as she felt herself not to
      be his match in intellect, was not much pleased to see that he would often
      talk with Edith Plantagenet in preference to herself, simply because he
      found more amusement in her conversation, a more comprehensive
      understanding, and a more noble cast of thoughts and sentiments, than his
      beautiful consort exhibited. Berengaria did not hate Edith on this
      account, far less meditate her any harm; for, allowing for some
      selfishness, her character was, on the whole, innocent and generous. But
      the ladies of her train, sharpsighted in such matters, had for some time
      discovered that a poignant jest at the expense of the Lady Edith was a
      specific for relieving her Grace of England's low spirits, and the
      discovery saved their imagination much toil.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something ungenerous in this, because the Lady Edith was
      understood to be an orphan; and though she was called Plantagenet, and the
      fair Maid of Anjou, and admitted by Richard to certain privileges only
      granted to the royal family, and held her place in the circle accordingly,
      yet few knew, and none acquainted with the Court of England ventured to
      ask, in what exact degree of relationship she stood to Coeur de Lion. She
      had come with Eleanor, the celebrated Queen Mother of England, and joined
      Richard at Messina, as one of the ladies destined to attend on Berengaria,
      whose nuptials then approached. Richard treated his kinswoman with much
      respectful observance, and the Queen made her her most constant attendant,
      and, even in despite of the petty jealousy which we have observed, treated
      her, generally, with suitable respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies of the household had, for a long time, no further advantage
      over Edith than might be afforded by an opportunity of censuring a less
      artfully disposed head attire or an unbecoming robe; for the lady was
      judged to be inferior in these mysteries. The silent devotion of the
      Scottish knight did not, indeed, pass unnoticed; his liveries, his
      cognizances, his feats of arms, his mottoes and devices, were nearly
      watched, and occasionally made the subject of a passing jest. But then
      came the pilgrimage of the Queen and her ladies to Engaddi, a journey
      which the Queen had undertaken under a vow for the recovery of her
      husband's health, and which she had been encouraged to carry into effect
      by the Archbishop of Tyre for a political purpose. It was then, and in the
      chapel at that holy place, connected from above with a Carmelite nunnery,
      from beneath with the cell of the anchorite, that one of the Queen's
      attendants remarked that secret sign of intelligence which Edith had made
      to her lover, and failed not instantly to communicate it to her Majesty.
      The Queen returned from her pilgrimage enriched with this admirable recipe
      against dullness or ennui; and her train was at the same time augmented by
      a present of two wretched dwarfs from the dethroned Queen of Jerusalem, as
      deformed and as crazy (the excellence of that unhappy species) as any
      Queen could have desired. One of Berengaria's idle amusements had been to
      try the effect of the sudden appearance of such ghastly and fantastic
      forms on the nerves of the Knight when left alone in the chapel; but the
      jest had been lost by the composure of the Scot and the interference of
      the anchorite. She had now tried another, of which the consequences
      promised to be more serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies again met after Sir Kenneth had retired from the tent, and the
      Queen, at first little moved by Edith's angry expostulations, only replied
      to her by upbraiding her prudery, and by indulging her wit at the expense
      of the garb, nation, and, above all the poverty of the Knight of the
      Leopard, in which she displayed a good deal of playful malice, mingled
      with some humour, until Edith was compelled to carry her anxiety to her
      separate apartment. But when, in the morning, a female whom Edith had
      entrusted to make inquiry brought word that the Standard was missing, and
      its champion vanished, she burst into the Queen's apartment, and implored
      her to rise and proceed to the King's tent without delay, and use her
      powerful mediation to prevent the evil consequences of her jest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen, frightened in her turn, cast, as is usual, the blame of her own
      folly on those around her, and endeavoured to comfort Edith's grief, and
      appease her displeasure, by a thousand inconsistent arguments. She was
      sure no harm had chanced&mdash;the knight was sleeping, she fancied, after
      his night-watch. What though, for fear of the King's displeasure, he had
      deserted with the Standard&mdash;it was but a piece of silk, and he but a
      needy adventurer; or if he was put under warding for a time, she would
      soon get the King to pardon him&mdash;it was but waiting to let Richard's
      mood pass away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus she continued talking thick and fast, and heaping together all sorts
      of inconsistencies, with the vain expectation of persuading both Edith and
      herself that no harm could come of a frolic which in her heart she now
      bitterly repented. But while Edith in vain strove to intercept this
      torrent of idle talk, she caught the eye of one of the ladies who entered
      the Queen's apartment. There was death in her look of affright and horror,
      and Edith, at the first glance of her countenance, had sunk at once on the
      earth, had not strong necessity and her own elevation of character enabled
      her to maintain at least external composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; she said to the Queen, &ldquo;lose not another word in speaking, but
      save life&mdash;if, indeed,&rdquo; she added, her voice choking as she said it,
      &ldquo;life may yet be saved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may, it may,&rdquo; answered the Lady Calista. &ldquo;I have just heard that he
      has been brought before the King. It is not yet over&mdash;but,&rdquo; she
      added, bursting into a vehement flood of weeping, in which personal
      apprehensions had some share, &ldquo;it will soon, unless some course be taken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will vow a golden candlestick to the Holy Sepulchre, a shrine of silver
      to our Lady of Engaddi, a pall, worth one hundred byzants, to Saint Thomas
      of Orthez,&rdquo; said the Queen in extremity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Up, up, madam!&rdquo; said Edith; &ldquo;call on the saints if you list, but be your
      own best saint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, madam,&rdquo; said the terrified attendant, &ldquo;the Lady Edith speaks
      truth. Up, madam, and let us to King Richard's tent and beg the poor
      gentleman's life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go&mdash;I will go instantly,&rdquo; said the Queen, rising and
      trembling excessively; while her women, in as great confusion as herself,
      were unable to render her those duties which were indispensable to her
      levee. Calm, composed, only pale as death, Edith ministered to the Queen
      with her own hand, and alone supplied the deficiencies of her numerous
      attendants.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you wait, wenches!&rdquo; said the Queen, not able even then to forget
      frivolous distinctions. &ldquo;Suffer ye the Lady Edith to do the duties of your
      attendance? Seest thou, Edith, they can do nothing; I shall never be
      attired in time. We will send for the Archbishop of Tyre, and employ him
      as a mediator.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no!&rdquo; exclaimed Edith. &ldquo;Go yourself madam; you have done the evil,
      do you confer the remedy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go&mdash;I will go,&rdquo; said the Queen; &ldquo;but if Richard be in his
      mood, I dare not speak to him&mdash;he will kill me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet go, gracious madam,&rdquo; said the Lady Calista, who best knew her
      mistress's temper; &ldquo;not a lion, in his fury, could look upon such a face
      and form, and retain so much as an angry thought, far less a love-true
      knight like the royal Richard, to whom your slightest word would be a
      command.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dost thou think so, Calista?&rdquo; said the Queen. &ldquo;Ah, thou little knowest
      yet I will go. But see you here, what means this? You have bedizened me in
      green, a colour he detests. Lo you! let me have a blue robe, and&mdash;search
      for the ruby carcanet, which was part of the King of Cyprus's ransom; it
      is either in the steel casket, or somewhere else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, and a man's life at stake!&rdquo; said Edith indignantly; &ldquo;it passes
      human patience. Remain at your ease, madam; I will go to King Richard. I
      am a party interested. I will know if the honour of a poor maiden of his
      blood is to be so far tampered with that her name shall be abused to train
      a brave gentleman from his duty, bring him within the compass of death and
      infamy, and make, at the same time, the glory of England a laughing-stock
      to the whole Christian army.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this unexpected burst of passion, Berengaria listened with an almost
      stupefied look of fear and wonder. But as Edith was about to leave the
      tent, she exclaimed, though faintly, &ldquo;Stop her, stop her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must indeed stop, noble Lady Edith,&rdquo; said Calista, taking her arm
      gently; &ldquo;and you, royal madam, I am sure, will go, and without further
      dallying. If the Lady Edith goes alone to the King, he will be dreadfully
      incensed, nor will it be one life that will stay his fury.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go&mdash;I will go,&rdquo; said the Queen, yielding to necessity; and
      Edith reluctantly halted to wait her movements.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were now as speedy as she could have desired. The Queen hastily
      wrapped herself in a large loose mantle, which covered all inaccuracies of
      the toilet. In this guise, attended by Edith and her women, and preceded
      and followed by a few officers and men-at-arms, she hastened to the tent
      of her lionlike husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Were every hair upon his head a life,
     And every life were to be supplicated
     By numbers equal to those hairs quadrupled,
     Life after life should out like waning stars
     Before the daybreak&mdash;or as festive lamps,
     Which have lent lustre to the midnight revel,
     Each after each are quench'd when guests depart!
          OLD PLAY
</pre>
    <p>
      The entrance of Queen Berengaria into the interior of Richard's pavilion
      was withstood&mdash;in the most respectful and reverential manner indeed,
      but still withstood&mdash;by the chamberlains who watched in the outer
      tent. She could hear the stern command of the King from within,
      prohibiting their entrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said the Queen, appealing to Edith, as if she had exhausted all
      means of intercession in her power; &ldquo;I knew it&mdash;the King will not
      receive us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the same time, they heard Richard speak to some one within:&mdash;&ldquo;Go,
      speed thine office quickly, sirrah, for in that consists thy mercy&mdash;ten
      byzants if thou dealest on him at one blow. And hark thee, villain,
      observe if his cheek loses colour, or his eye falters; mark me the
      smallest twitch of the features, or wink of the eyelid. I love to know how
      brave souls meet death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he sees my blade waved aloft without shrinking, he is the first ever
      did so,&rdquo; answered a harsh, deep voice, which a sense of unusual awe had
      softened into a sound much lower than its usual coarse tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edith could remain silent no longer. &ldquo;If your Grace,&rdquo; she said to the
      Queen, &ldquo;make not your own way, I make it for you; or if not for your
      Majesty, for myself at least.&mdash;Chamberlain, the Queen demands to see
      King Richard&mdash;the wife to speak with her husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble lady,&rdquo; said the officer, lowering his wand of office, &ldquo;it grieves
      me to gainsay you, but his Majesty is busied on matters of life and
      death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And we seek also to speak with him on matters of life and death,&rdquo; said
      Edith. &ldquo;I will make entrance for your Grace.&rdquo; And putting aside the
      chamberlain with one hand, she laid hold on the curtain with the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare not gainsay her Majesty's pleasure,&rdquo; said the chamberlain,
      yielding to the vehemence of the fair petitioner; and as he gave way, the
      Queen found herself obliged to enter the apartment of Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Monarch was lying on his couch, and at some distance, as awaiting his
      further commands, stood a man whose profession it was not difficult to
      conjecture. He was clothed in a jerkin of red cloth, which reached scantly
      below the shoulders, leaving the arms bare from about half way above the
      elbow; and as an upper garment, he wore, when about as at present to
      betake himself to his dreadful office, a coat or tabard without sleeves,
      something like that of a herald, made of dressed bull's hide, and stained
      in the front with many a broad spot and speckle of dull crimson. The
      jerkin, and the tabard over it, reached the knee; and the nether stocks,
      or covering of the legs, were of the same leather which composed the
      tabard. A cap of rough shag served to hide the upper part of a visage
      which, like that of a screech owl, seemed desirous to conceal itself from
      light, the lower part of the face being obscured by a huge red beard,
      mingling with shaggy locks of the same colour. What features were seen
      were stern and misanthropical. The man's figure was short, strongly made,
      with a neck like a bull, very broad shoulders, arms of great and
      disproportioned length, a huge square trunk, and thick bandy legs. This
      truculent official leant on a sword, the blade of which was nearly four
      feet and a half in length, while the handle of twenty inches, surrounded
      by a ring of lead plummets to counterpoise the weight of such a blade,
      rose considerably above the man's head as he rested his arm upon its hilt,
      waiting for King Richard's further directions.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the sudden entrance of the ladies, Richard, who was then lying on his
      couch with his face towards the entrance, and resting on his elbow as he
      spoke to his grisly attendant, flung himself hastily, as if displeased and
      surprised, to the other side, turning his back to the Queen and the
      females of her train, and drawing around him the covering of his couch,
      which, by his own choice, or more probably the flattering selection of his
      chamberlains, consisted of two large lions' skins, dressed in Venice with
      such admirable skill that they seemed softer than the hide of the deer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Berengaria, such as we have described her, knew well&mdash;what woman
      knows not?&mdash;her own road to victory. After a hurried glance of
      undisguised and unaffected terror at the ghastly companion of her
      husband's secret counsels, she rushed at once to the side of Richard's
      couch, dropped on her knees, flung her mantle from her shoulders, showing,
      as they hung down at their full length, her beautiful golden tresses, and
      while her countenance seemed like the sun bursting through a cloud, yet
      bearing on its pallid front traces that its splendours have been obscured,
      she seized upon the right hand of the King, which, as he assumed his
      wonted posture, had been employed in dragging the covering of his couch,
      and gradually pulling it to her with a force which was resisted, though
      but faintly, she possessed herself of that arm, the prop of Christendom
      and the dread of Heathenesse, and imprisoning its strength in both her
      little fairy hands, she bent upon it her brow, and united to it her lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What needs this, Berengaria?&rdquo; said Richard, his head still averted, but
      his hand remaining under her control.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send away that man, his look kills me!&rdquo; muttered Berengaria.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Begone, sirrah,&rdquo; said Richard, still without looking round, &ldquo;What wait'st
      thou for? art thou fit to look on these ladies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Highness's pleasure touching the head,&rdquo; said the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out with thee, dog!&rdquo; answered Richard&mdash;&ldquo;a Christian burial!&rdquo; The man
      disappeared, after casting a look upon the beautiful Queen, in her
      deranged dress and natural loveliness, with a smile of admiration more
      hideous in its expression than even his usual scowl of cynical hatred
      against humanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, foolish wench, what wishest thou?&rdquo; said Richard, turning slowly
      and half reluctantly round to his royal suppliant.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not in nature for any one, far less an admirer of beauty like
      Richard, to whom it stood only in the second rank to glory, to look
      without emotion on the countenance and the tremor of a creature so
      beautiful as Berengaria, or to feel, without sympathy, that her lips, her
      brow, were on his hand, and that it was wetted by her tears. By degrees,
      he turned on her his manly countenance, with the softest expression of
      which his large blue eye, which so often gleamed with insufferable light,
      was capable. Caressing her fair head, and mingling his large fingers in
      her beautiful and dishevelled locks, he raised and tenderly kissed the
      cherub countenance which seemed desirous to hide itself in his hand. The
      robust form, the broad, noble brow and majestic looks, the naked arm and
      shoulder, the lions' skins among which he lay, and the fair, fragile
      feminine creature that kneeled by his side, might have served for a model
      of Hercules reconciling himself, after a quarrel, to his wife Dejanira.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, once more, what seeks the lady of my heart in her knight's pavilion
      at this early and unwonted hour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon, my most gracious liege&mdash;pardon!&rdquo; said the Queen, whose fears
      began again to unfit her for the duty of intercessor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon&mdash;for what?&rdquo; asked the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First, for entering your royal presence too boldly and unadvisedly&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THOU too boldly!&mdash;the sun might as well ask pardon because his rays
      entered the windows of some wretch's dungeon. But I was busied with work
      unfit for thee to witness, my gentle one; and I was unwilling, besides,
      that thou shouldst risk thy precious health where sickness had been so
      lately rife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But thou art now well?&rdquo; said the Queen, still delaying the communication
      which she feared to make.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well enough to break a lance on the bold crest of that champion who shall
      refuse to acknowledge thee the fairest dame in Christendom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wilt not then refuse me one boon&mdash;only one&mdash;only a poor
      life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&mdash;proceed,&rdquo; said King Richard, bending his brows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This unhappy Scottish knight&mdash;&rdquo; murmured the Queen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak not of him, madam,&rdquo; exclaimed Richard sternly; &ldquo;he dies&mdash;his
      doom is fixed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my royal liege and love, 'tis but a silken banner neglected.
      Berengaria will give thee another broidered with her own hand, and rich as
      ever dallied with the wind. Every pearl I have shall go to bedeck it, and
      with every pearl I will drop a tear of thankfulness to my generous
      knight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou knowest not what thou sayest,&rdquo; said the King, interrupting her in
      anger. &ldquo;Pearls! can all the pearls of the East atone for a speck upon
      England's honour&mdash;all the tears that ever woman's eye wept wash away
      a stain on Richard's fame? Go to, madam, know your place, and your time,
      and your sphere. At present we have duties in which you cannot be our
      partner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou hearest, Edith,&rdquo; whispered the Queen; &ldquo;we shall but incense him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so,&rdquo; said Edith, stepping forward.&mdash;&ldquo;My lord, I, your poor
      kinswoman, crave you for justice rather than mercy; and to the cry of
      justice the ears of a monarch should be open at every time, place, and
      circumstance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! our cousin Edith?&rdquo; said Richard, rising and sitting upright on the
      side of his couch, covered with his long camiscia. &ldquo;She speaks ever
      kinglike, and kinglike will I answer her, so she bring no request unworthy
      herself or me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The beauty of Edith was of a more intellectual and less voluptuous cast
      than that of the Queen; but impatience and anxiety had given her
      countenance a glow which it sometimes wanted, and her mien had a character
      of energetic dignity that imposed silence for a moment even on Richard
      himself, who, to judge by his looks, would willingly have interrupted her.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0006m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0006m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0006.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;this good knight, whose blood you are about to
      spill, hath done, in his time, service to Christendom. He has fallen from
      his duty through a snare set for him in mere folly and idleness of spirit.
      A message sent to him in the name of one who&mdash;why should I not speak
      it?&mdash;it was in my own&mdash;induced him for an instant to leave his
      post. And what knight in the Christian camp might not have thus far
      transgressed at command of a maiden, who, poor howsoever in other
      qualities, hath yet the blood of Plantagenet in her veins?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you saw him, then, cousin?&rdquo; replied the King, biting his lips to keep
      down his passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did, my liege,&rdquo; said Edith. &ldquo;It is no time to explain wherefore. I am
      here neither to exculpate myself nor to blame others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And where did you do him such a grace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the tent of her Majesty the Queen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of our royal consort!&rdquo; said Richard. &ldquo;Now by Heaven, by Saint George of
      England, and every other saint that treads its crystal floor, this is too
      audacious! I have noticed and overlooked this warrior's insolent
      admiration of one so far above him, and I grudged him not that one of my
      blood should shed from her high-born sphere such influence as the sun
      bestows on the world beneath. But, heaven and earth! that you should have
      admitted him to an audience by night, in the very tent of our royal
      consort!&mdash;and dare to offer this as an excuse for his disobedience
      and desertion! By my father's soul, Edith, thou shalt rue this thy life
      long in a monastery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My liege,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;your greatness licenses tyranny. My honour, Lord
      King, is as little touched as yours, and my Lady the Queen can prove it if
      she think fit. But I have already said I am not here to excuse myself or
      inculpate others. I ask you but to extend to one, whose fault was
      committed under strong temptation, that mercy, which even you yourself,
      Lord King, must one day supplicate at a higher tribunal, and for faults,
      perhaps, less venial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can this be Edith Plantagenet?&rdquo; said the King bitterly&mdash;&ldquo;Edith
      Plantagenet, the wise and the noble? Or is it some lovesick woman who
      cares not for her own fame in comparison of the life of her paramour? Now,
      by King Henry's soul! little hinders but I order thy minion's skull to be
      brought from the gibbet, and fixed as a perpetual ornament by the crucifix
      in thy cell!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if thou dost send it from the gibbet to be placed for ever in my
      sight,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;I will say it is a relic of a good knight, cruelly
      and unworthily done to death by&rdquo; (she checked herself)&mdash;&ldquo;by one of
      whom I shall only say, he should have known better how to reward chivalry.
      Minion callest thou him?&rdquo; she continued, with increasing vehemence. &ldquo;He
      was indeed my lover, and a most true one; but never sought he grace from
      me by look or word&mdash;contented with such humble observance as men pay
      to the saints. And the good&mdash;the valiant&mdash;the faithful must die
      for this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, peace, peace, for pity's sake,&rdquo; whispered the Queen, &ldquo;you do but
      offend him more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I care not,&rdquo; said Edith; &ldquo;the spotless virgin fears not the raging lion.
      Let him work his will on this worthy knight. Edith, for whom he dies, will
      know how to weep his memory. To me no one shall speak more of politic
      alliances to be sanctioned with this poor hand. I could not&mdash;I would
      not&mdash;have been his bride living&mdash;our degrees were too distant.
      But death unites the high and the low&mdash;I am henceforward the spouse
      of the grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The King was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk
      entered the apartment hastily, his head and person muffled in the long
      mantle and hood of striped cloth of the coarsest texture which
      distinguished his order, and, flinging himself on his knees before the
      King, conjured him, by every holy word and sign, to stop the execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by both sword and sceptre,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;the world is leagued to
      drive me mad!&mdash;fools, women, and monks cross me at every step. How
      comes he to live still?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My gracious liege,&rdquo; said the monk, &ldquo;I entreated of the Lord of Gilsland
      to stay the execution until I had thrown myself at your royal&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he was wilful enough to grant thy request,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;but it is
      of a piece with his wonted obstinacy. And what is it thou hast to say?
      Speak, in the fiend's name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, there is a weighty secret, but it rests under the seal of
      confession. I dare not tell or even whisper it; but I swear to thee by my
      holy order, by the habit which I wear, by the blessed Elias, our founder,
      even him who was translated without suffering the ordinary pangs of
      mortality, that this youth hath divulged to me a secret, which, if I might
      confide it to thee, would utterly turn thee from thy bloody purpose in
      regard to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good father,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;that I reverence the church, let the arms
      which I now wear for her sake bear witness. Give me to know this secret,
      and I will do what shall seem fitting in the matter. But I am no blind
      Bayard, to take a leap in the dark under the stroke of a pair of priestly
      spurs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the holy man, throwing back his cowl and upper vesture,
      and discovering under the latter a garment of goatskin, and from beneath
      the former a visage so wildly wasted by climate, fast, and penance, as to
      resemble rather the apparition of an animated skeleton than a human face,
      &ldquo;for twenty years have I macerated this miserable body in the caverns of
      Engaddi, doing penance for a great crime. Think you I, who am dead to the
      world, would contrive a falsehood to endanger my own soul; or that one,
      bound by the most sacred oaths to the contrary&mdash;one such as I, who
      have but one longing wish connected with earth, to wit, the rebuilding of
      our Christian Zion&mdash;would betray the secrets of the confessional?
      Both are alike abhorrent to my very soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So,&rdquo; answered the King, &ldquo;thou art that hermit of whom men speak so much?
      Thou art, I confess, like enough to those spirits which walk in dry
      places; but Richard fears no hobgoblins. And thou art he, too, as I
      bethink me, to whom the Christian princes sent this very criminal to open
      a communication with the Soldan, even while I, who ought to have been
      first consulted, lay on my sick-bed? Thou and they may content themselves&mdash;I
      will not put my neck into the loop of a Carmelite's girdle. And, for your
      envoy, he shall die the rather and the sooner that thou dost entreat for
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now God be gracious to thee, Lord King!&rdquo; said the hermit, with much
      emotion; &ldquo;thou art setting that mischief on foot which thou wilt hereafter
      wish thou hadst stopped, though it had cost thee a limb. Rash, blinded
      man, yet forbear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Away, away,&rdquo; cried the King, stamping; &ldquo;the sun has risen on the
      dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged.&mdash;Ladies and priest,
      withdraw, if you would not hear orders which would displease you; for, by
      St. George, I swear&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Swear NOT!&rdquo; said the voice of one who had just then entered the pavilion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! my learned Hakim,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;come, I hope, to tax our
      generosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come to request instant speech with you&mdash;instant&mdash;and
      touching matters of deep interest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First look on my wife, Hakim, and let her know in you the preserver of
      her husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not for me,&rdquo; said the physician, folding his arms with an air of
      Oriental modesty and reverence, and bending his eyes on the ground&mdash;&ldquo;it
      is not for me to look upon beauty unveiled, and armed in its splendours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Retire, then, Berengaria,&rdquo; said the Monarch; &ldquo;and, Edith, do you retire
      also;&mdash;nay, renew not your importunities! This I give to them that
      the execution shall not be till high noon. Go and be pacified&mdash;dearest
      Berengaria, begone.&mdash;Edith,&rdquo; he added, with a glance which struck
      terror even into the courageous soul of his kinswoman, &ldquo;go, if you are
      wise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The females withdrew, or rather hurried from the tent, rank and ceremony
      forgotten, much like a flock of wild-fowl huddled together, against whom
      the falcon has made a recent stoop.
    </p>
    <p>
      They returned from thence to the Queen's pavilion to indulge in regrets
      and recriminations, equally unavailing. Edith was the only one who seemed
      to disdain these ordinary channels of sorrow. Without a sigh, without a
      tear, without a word of upbraiding, she attended upon the Queen, whose
      weak temperament showed her sorrow in violent hysterical ecstasies and
      passionate hypochondriacal effusions, in the course of which Edith
      sedulously and even affectionately attended her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible she can have loved this knight,&rdquo; said Florise to
      Calista, her senior in attendance upon the Queen's person. &ldquo;We have been
      mistaken; she is but sorry for his fate, as for a stranger who has come to
      trouble on her account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, hush,&rdquo; answered her more experienced and more observant comrade;
      &ldquo;she is of that proud house of Plantagenet who never own that a hurt
      grieves them. While they have themselves been bleeding to death, under a
      mortal wound, they have been known to bind up the scratches sustained by
      their more faint-hearted comrades. Florise, we have done frightfully
      wrong, and, for my own part, I would buy with every jewel I have that our
      fatal jest had remained unacted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     This work desires a planetary intelligence
     Of Jupiter and Sol; and those great spirits
     Are proud, fantastical. It asks great charges
     To entice them from the guiding of their spheres,
     To wait on mortals.
            ALBUMAZAR.
</pre>
    <p>
      The hermit followed the ladies from the pavilion of Richard, as shadow
      follows a beam of sunshine when the clouds are driving over the face of
      the sun. But he turned on the threshold, and held up his hand towards the
      King in a warning, or almost a menacing posture, as he said, &ldquo;Woe to him
      who rejects the counsel of the church, and betaketh himself to the foul
      divan of the infidel! King Richard, I do not yet shake the dust from my
      feet and depart from thy encampment; the sword falls not&mdash;but it
      hangs but by a hair. Haughty monarch, we shall meet again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so, haughty priest,&rdquo; returned Richard, &ldquo;prouder in thy goatskins
      than princes in purple and fine linen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hermit vanished from the tent, and the King continued, addressing the
      Arabian, &ldquo;Do the dervises of the East, wise Hakim, use such familiarity
      with their princes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The dervise,&rdquo; replied Adonbec, &ldquo;should be either a sage or a madman;
      there is no middle course for him who wears the khirkhah, [Literally, the
      torn robe. The habit of the dervises is so called.] who watches by night,
      and fasts by day. Hence hath he either wisdom enough to bear himself
      discreetly in the presence of princes; or else, having no reason bestowed
      on him, he is not responsible for his own actions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks our monks have adopted chiefly the latter character,&rdquo; said
      Richard. &ldquo;But to the matter. In what can I pleasure you, my learned
      physician?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great King,&rdquo; said El Hakim, making his profound Oriental obeisance, &ldquo;let
      thy servant speak one word, and yet live. I would remind thee that thou
      owest&mdash;not to me, their humble instrument&mdash;but to the
      Intelligences, whose benefits I dispense to mortals, a life&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I warrant me thou wouldst have another in requital, ha?&rdquo; interrupted
      the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is my humble prayer,&rdquo; said the Hakim, &ldquo;to the great Melech Ric&mdash;even
      the life of this good knight, who is doomed to die, and but for such fault
      as was committed by the Sultan Adam, surnamed Aboulbeschar, or the father
      of all men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thy wisdom might remind thee, Hakim, that Adam died for it,&rdquo; said the
      King, somewhat sternly, and then began to pace the narrow space of his
      tent with some emotion, and to talk to himself. &ldquo;Why, God-a-mercy, I knew
      what he desired as soon as ever he entered the pavilion! Here is one poor
      life justly condemned to extinction, and I, a king and a soldier, who have
      slain thousands by my command, and scores with my own hand, am to have no
      power over it, although the honour of my arms, of my house, of my very
      Queen, hath been attainted by the culprit. By Saint George, it makes me
      laugh! By Saint Louis, it reminds me of Blondel's tale of an enchanted
      castle, where the destined knight was withstood successively in his
      purpose of entrance by forms and figures the most dissimilar, but all
      hostile to his undertaking! No sooner one sunk than another appeared! Wife&mdash;kinswoman&mdash;hermit&mdash;Hakim-each
      appears in the lists as soon as the other is defeated! Why, this is a
      single knight fighting against the whole MELEE of the tournament&mdash;ha!
      ha! ha!&rdquo; And Richard laughed aloud; for he had, in fact, begun to change
      his mood, his resentment being usually too violent to be of long
      endurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The physician meanwhile looked on him with a countenance of surprise, not
      unmingled with contempt; for the Eastern people make no allowance for
      these mercurial changes in the temper, and consider open laughter, upon
      almost any account, as derogatory to the dignity of man, and becoming only
      to women and children. At length the sage addressed the King when he saw
      him more composed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A doom of death should not issue from laughing lips. Let thy servant hope
      that thou hast granted him this man's life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the freedom of a thousand captives instead,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;restore
      so many of thy countrymen to their tents and families, and I will give the
      warrant instantly. This man's life can avail thee nothing, and it is
      forfeited.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All our lives are forfeited,&rdquo; said the Hakim, putting his hand to his
      cap. &ldquo;But the great Creditor is merciful, and exacts not the pledge
      rigorously nor untimely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou canst show me,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;no special interest thou hast to
      become intercessor betwixt me and the execution of justice, to which I am
      sworn as a crowned king.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art sworn to the dealing forth mercy as well as justice,&rdquo; said El
      Hakim; &ldquo;but what thou seekest, great King, is the execution of thine own
      will. And for the concern I have in this request, know that many a man's
      life depends upon thy granting this boon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Explain thy words,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;but think not to impose upon me by
      false pretexts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it far from thy servant!&rdquo; said Adonbec. &ldquo;Know, then, that the medicine
      to which thou, Sir King, and many one besides, owe their recovery, is a
      talisman, composed under certain aspects of the heavens, when the Divine
      Intelligences are most propitious. I am but the poor administrator of its
      virtues. I dip it in a cup of water, observe the fitting hour to
      administer it to the patient, and the potency of the draught works the
      cure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A most rare medicine,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;and a commodious! and, as it may
      be carried in the leech's purse, would save the whole caravan of camels
      which they require to convey drugs and physic stuff; I marvel there is any
      other in use.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is written,&rdquo; answered the Hakim, with imperturbable gravity, &ldquo;'Abuse
      not the steed which hath borne thee from the battle.' Know that such
      talismans might indeed be framed, but rare has been the number of adepts
      who have dared to undertake the application of their virtue. Severe
      restrictions, painful observances, fasts, and penance, are necessary on
      the part of the sage who uses this mode of cure; and if, through neglect
      of these preparations, by his love of ease, or his indulgence of sensual
      appetite, he omits to cure at least twelve persons within the course of
      each moon, the virtue of the divine gift departs from the amulet, and both
      the last patient and the physician will be exposed to speedy misfortune,
      neither will they survive the year. I require yet one life to make up the
      appointed number.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go out into the camp, good Hakim, where thou wilt find a-many,&rdquo; said the
      King, &ldquo;and do not seek to rob my headsman of HIS patients; it is
      unbecoming a mediciner of thine eminence to interfere with the practice of
      another. Besides, I cannot see how delivering a criminal from the death he
      deserves should go to make up thy tale of miraculous cures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When thou canst show why a draught of cold water should have cured thee
      when the most precious drugs failed,&rdquo; said the Hakim, &ldquo;thou mayest reason
      on the other mysteries attendant on this matter. For myself, I am
      inefficient to the great work, having this morning touched an unclean
      animal. Ask, therefore, no further questions; it is enough that, by
      sparing this man's life at my request, you will deliver yourself, great
      King, and thy servant, from a great danger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark thee, Adonbec,&rdquo; replied the King, &ldquo;I have no objection that leeches
      should wrap their words in mist, and pretend to derive knowledge from the
      stars; but when you bid Richard Plantagenet fear that a danger will fall
      upon HIM from some idle omen, or omitted ceremonial, you speak to no
      ignorant Saxon, or doting old woman, who foregoes her purpose because a
      hare crosses the path, a raven croaks, or a cat sneezes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot hinder your doubt of my words,&rdquo; said Adonbec; &ldquo;but yet let my
      Lord the King grant that truth is on the tongue of his servant&mdash;will
      he think it just to deprive the world, and every wretch who may suffer by
      the pains which so lately reduced him to that couch, of the benefit of
      this most virtuous talisman, rather than extend his forgiveness to one
      poor criminal? Bethink you, Lord King, that, though thou canst slay
      thousands, thou canst not restore one man to health. Kings have the power
      of Satan to torment, sages that of Allah to heal&mdash;beware how thou
      hinderest the good to humanity which thou canst not thyself render. Thou
      canst cut off the head, but not cure the aching tooth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is over-insolent,&rdquo; said the King, hardening himself, as the Hakim
      assumed a more lofty and almost a commanding tone. &ldquo;We took thee for our
      leech, not for our counsellor or conscience-keeper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it thus the most renowned Prince of Frangistan repays benefit done
      to his royal person?&rdquo; said El Hakim, exchanging the humble and stooping
      posture in which he had hitherto solicited the King, for an attitude lofty
      and commanding. &ldquo;Know, then,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that: through every court of
      Europe and Asia&mdash;to Moslem and Nazarene&mdash;to knight and lady&mdash;wherever
      harp is heard and sword worn&mdash;wherever honour is loved and infamy
      detested&mdash;to every quarter of the world&mdash;will I denounce thee,
      Melech Ric, as thankless and ungenerous; and even the lands&mdash;if there
      be any such&mdash;that never heard of thy renown shall yet be acquainted
      with thy shame!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are these terms to me, vile infidel?&rdquo; said Richard, striding up to him in
      fury. &ldquo;Art weary of thy life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strike!&rdquo; said El Hakim; &ldquo;thine own deed shall then paint thee more
      worthless than could my words, though each had a hornet's sting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard turned fiercely from him, folded his arms, traversed the tent as
      before, and then exclaimed, &ldquo;Thankless and ungenerous!&mdash;as well be
      termed coward and infidel! Hakim, thou hast chosen thy boon; and though I
      had rather thou hadst asked my crown jewels, yet I may not, kinglike,
      refuse thee. Take this Scot, therefore, to thy keeping; the provost will
      deliver him to thee on this warrant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hastily traced one or two lines, and gave them to the physician. &ldquo;Use
      him as thy bond-slave, to be disposed of as thou wilt&mdash;only, let him
      beware how he comes before the eyes of Richard. Hark thee&mdash;thou art
      wise&mdash;he hath been over-bold among those in whose fair looks and weak
      judgments we trust our honour, as you of the East lodge your treasures in
      caskets of silver wire, as fine and as frail as the web of a gossamer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy servant understands the words of the King,&rdquo; said the sage, at once
      resuming the reverent style of address in which he had commenced. &ldquo;When
      the rich carpet is soiled, the fool pointeth to the stain&mdash;the wise
      man covers it with his mantle. I have heard my lord's pleasure, and to
      hear is to obey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;let him consult his own safety, and never
      appear in my presence more. Is there aught else in which I may do thee
      pleasure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bounty of the King hath filled my cup to the brim,&rdquo; said the sage&mdash;&ldquo;yea,
      it hath been abundant as the fountain which sprung up amid the camp of the
      descendants of Israel when the rock was stricken by the rod of Moussa Ben
      Amram.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but,&rdquo; said the King, smiling, &ldquo;it required, as in the desert, a hard
      blow on the rock ere it yielded its treasures. I would that I knew
      something to pleasure thee, which I might yield as freely as the natural
      fountain sends forth its waters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me touch that victorious hand,&rdquo; said the sage, &ldquo;in token that if
      Adonbec el Hakim should hereafter demand a boon of Richard of England, he
      may do so, yet plead his command.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou hast hand and glove upon it, man,&rdquo; replied Richard; &ldquo;only, if thou
      couldst consistently make up thy tale of patients without craving me to
      deliver from punishment those who have deserved it, I would more willingly
      discharge my debt in some other form.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May thy days be multiplied!&rdquo; answered the Hakim, and withdrew from the
      apartment after the usual deep obeisance.
    </p>
    <p>
      King Richard gazed after him as he departed, like one but half-satisfied
      with what had passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange pertinacity,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in this Hakim, and a wonderful chance to
      interfere between that audacious Scot and the chastisement he has merited
      so richly. Yet let him live! there is one brave man the more in the world.
      And now for the Austrian. Ho! is the Baron of Gilsland there without?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Thomas de Vaux thus summoned, his bulky form speedily darkened the
      opening of the pavilion, while behind him glided as a spectre,
      unannounced, yet unopposed, the savage form of the hermit of Engaddi,
      wrapped in his goatskin mantle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard, without noticing his presence, called in a loud tone to the
      baron, &ldquo;Sir Thomas de Vaux, of Lanercost and Gilsland, take trumpet and
      herald, and go instantly to the tent of him whom they call Archduke of
      Austria, and see that it be when the press of his knights and vassals is
      greatest around him, as is likely at this hour, for the German boar
      breakfasts ere he hears mass&mdash;enter his presence with as little
      reverence as thou mayest, and impeach him, on the part of Richard of
      England, that he hath this night, by his own hand, or that of others,
      stolen from its staff the Banner of England. Wherefore say to him our
      pleasure that within an hour from the time of my speaking he restore the
      said banner with all reverence&mdash;he himself and his principal barons
      waiting the whilst with heads uncovered, and without their robes of
      honour. And that, moreover, he pitch beside it, on the one hand, his own
      Banner of Austria reversed, as that which hath been dishonoured by theft
      and felony, and on the other, a lance, bearing the bloody head of him who
      was his nearest counsellor, or assistant, in this base injury. And say,
      that such our behests being punctually discharged we will, for the sake of
      our vow and the weal of the Holy Land, forgive his other forfeits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how if the Duke of Austria deny all accession to this act of wrong
      and of felony?&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him,&rdquo; replied the King, &ldquo;we will prove it upon his body&mdash;ay,
      were he backed with his two bravest champions. Knightlike will we prove
      it, on foot or on horse, in the desert or in the field, time, place, and
      arms all at his own choice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bethink you of the peace of God and the church, my liege lord,&rdquo; said the
      Baron of Gilsland, &ldquo;among those princes engaged in this holy Crusade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bethink you how to execute my commands, my liege vassal,&rdquo; answered
      Richard impatiently. &ldquo;Methinks men expect to turn our purpose by their
      breath, as boys blow feathers to and fro. Peace of the church! Who, I
      prithee, minds it? The peace of the church, among Crusaders, implies war
      with the Saracens, with whom the princes have made truce; and the one ends
      with the other. And besides, see you not how every prince of them is
      seeking his own several ends? I will seek mine also&mdash;and that is
      honour. For honour I came hither; and if I may not win it upon the
      Saracens, at least I will not lose a jot from any respect to this paltry
      Duke, though he were bulwarked and buttressed by every prince in the
      Crusade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux turned to obey the King's mandate, shrugging his shoulders at the
      same time, the bluntness of his nature being unable to conceal that its
      tenor went against his judgment. But the hermit of Engaddi stepped
      forward, and assumed the air of one charged with higher commands than
      those of a mere earthly potentate. Indeed, his dress of shaggy skins, his
      uncombed and untrimmed hair and beard, his lean, wild, and contorted
      features, and the almost insane fire which gleamed from under his bushy
      eyebrows, made him approach nearly to our idea of some seer of Scripture,
      who, charged with high mission to the sinful Kings of Judah or Israel,
      descended from the rocks and caverns in which he dwelt in abstracted
      solitude, to abash earthly tyrants in the midst of their pride, by
      discharging on them the blighting denunciations of Divine Majesty, even as
      the cloud discharges the lightnings with which it is fraught on the
      pinnacles and towers of castles and palaces. In the midst of his most
      wayward mood, Richard respected the church and its ministers; and though
      offended at the intrusion of the hermit into his tent, he greeted him with
      respect&mdash;at the same time, however, making a sign to Sir Thomas de
      Vaux to hasten on his message.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the hermit prohibited the baron, by gesture, look, and word, to stir a
      yard on such an errand; and holding up his bare arm, from which the
      goatskin mantle fell back in the violence of his action, he waved it
      aloft, meagre with famine, and wealed with the blows of the discipline.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of God, and of the most holy Father, the vicegerent of the
      Christian Church upon earth, I prohibit this most profane, bloodthirsty,
      and brutal defiance betwixt two Christian princes, whose shoulders are
      signed with the blessed mark under which they swore brotherhood. Woe to
      him by whom it is broken!&mdash;Richard of England, recall the most
      unhallowed message thou hast given to that baron. Danger and death are
      nigh thee!&mdash;the dagger is glancing at thy very throat!&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Danger and death are playmates to Richard,&rdquo; answered the Monarch proudly;
      &ldquo;and he hath braved too many swords to fear a dagger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Danger and death are near,&rdquo; replied the seer, and sinking his voice to a
      hollow, unearthly tone, he added, &ldquo;And after death the judgment!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good and holy father,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I reverence thy person and thy
      sanctity&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reverence not me!&rdquo; interrupted the hermit; &ldquo;reverence sooner the vilest
      insect that crawls by the shores of the Dead Sea, and feeds upon its
      accursed slime. But reverence Him whose commands I speak&mdash;reverence
      Him whose sepulchre you have vowed to rescue&mdash;revere the oath of
      concord which you have sworn, and break not the silver cord of union and
      fidelity with which you have bound yourself to your princely
      confederates.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good father,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;you of the church seem to me to presume
      somewhat, if a layman may say so much, upon the dignity of your holy
      character. Without challenging your right to take charge of our
      conscience, methinks you might leave us the charge of our own honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presume!&rdquo; repeated the hermit. &ldquo;Is it for me to presume, royal Richard,
      who am but the bell obeying the hand of the sexton&mdash;but the senseless
      and worthless trumpet carrying the command of him who sounds it? See, on
      my knees I throw myself before thee, imploring thee to have mercy on
      Christendom, on England, and on thyself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rise, rise,&rdquo; said Richard, compelling him to stand up; &ldquo;it beseems not
      that knees which are so frequently bended to the Deity should press the
      ground in honour of man. What danger awaits us, reverend father? and when
      stood the power of England so low that the noisy bluster of this new-made
      Duke's displeasure should alarm her or her monarch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have looked forth from my mountain turret upon the starry host of
      heaven, as each in his midnight circuit uttered wisdom to another, and
      knowledge to the few who can understand their voice. There sits an enemy
      in thy House of Life, Lord King, malign at once to thy fame and thy
      prosperity&mdash;an emanation of Saturn, menacing thee with instant and
      bloody peril, and which, but thou yield thy proud will to the rule of thy
      duty, will presently crush thee even in thy pride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Away, away&mdash;this is heathen science,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;Christians
      practise it not&mdash;wise men believe it not. Old man, thou dotest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dote not, Richard,&rdquo; answered the hermit&mdash;&ldquo;I am not so happy. I
      know my condition, and that some portion of reason is yet permitted me,
      not for my own use, but that of the Church and the advancement of the
      Cross. I am the blind man who holds a torch to others, though it yields no
      light to himself. Ask me touching what concerns the weal of Christendom,
      and of this Crusade, and I will speak with thee as the wisest counsellor
      on whose tongue persuasion ever sat. Speak to me of my own wretched being,
      and my words shall be those of the maniac outcast which I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not break the bands of unity asunder among the princes of the
      Crusade,&rdquo; said Richard, with a mitigated tone and manner; &ldquo;but what
      atonement can they render me for the injustice and insult which I have
      sustained?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even of that I am prepared and commissioned to speak by the Council,
      which, meeting hastily at the summons of Philip of France, have taken
      measures for that effect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange,&rdquo; replied Richard, &ldquo;that others should treat of what is due to
      the wounded majesty of England!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are willing to anticipate your demands, if it be possible,&rdquo; answered
      the hermit. &ldquo;In a body, they consent that the Banner of England be
      replaced on Saint George's Mount; and they lay under ban and condemnation
      the audacious criminal, or criminals, by whom it was outraged, and will
      announce a princely reward to any who shall denounce the delinquent's
      guilt, and give his flesh to the wolves and ravens.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Austria,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;upon whom rest such strong presumptions that
      he was the author of the deed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To prevent discord in the host,&rdquo; replied the hermit, &ldquo;Austria will clear
      himself of the suspicion by submitting to whatsoever ordeal the Patriarch
      of Jerusalem shall impose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will he clear himself by the trial by combat?&rdquo; said King Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His oath prohibits it,&rdquo; said the hermit; &ldquo;and, moreover, the Council of
      the Princes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will neither authorize battle against the Saracens,&rdquo; interrupted Richard,
      &ldquo;nor against any one else. But it is enough, father&mdash;thou hast shown
      me the folly of proceeding as I designed in this matter. You shall sooner
      light your torch in a puddle of rain than bring a spark out of a
      cold-blooded coward. There is no honour to be gained on Austria, and so
      let him pass. I will have him perjure himself, however; I will insist on
      the ordeal. How I shall laugh to hear his clumsy fingers hiss, as he
      grasps the red-hot globe of iron! Ay, or his huge mouth riven, and his
      gullet swelling to suffocation, as he endeavours to swallow the
      consecrated bread!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, Richard,&rdquo; said the hermit&mdash;&ldquo;oh, peace, for shame, if not for
      charity! Who shall praise or honour princes who insult and calumniate each
      other? Alas! that a creature so noble as thou art&mdash;so accomplished in
      princely thoughts and princely daring&mdash;so fitted to honour
      Christendom by thy actions, and, in thy calmer mood, to rule her by thy
      wisdom, should yet have the brute and wild fury of the lion mingled with
      the dignity and courage of that king of the forest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He remained an instant musing with his eyes fixed on the ground, and then
      proceeded&mdash;&ldquo;But Heaven, that knows our imperfect nature, accepts of
      our imperfect obedience, and hath delayed, though not averted, the bloody
      end of thy daring life. The destroying angel hath stood still, as of old
      by the threshing-floor of Araunah the Jebusite, and the blade is drawn in
      his hand, by which, at no distant date, Richard, the lion-hearted, shall
      be as low as the meanest peasant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must it, then, be so soon?&rdquo; said Richard. &ldquo;Yet, even so be it. May my
      course be bright, if it be but brief!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! noble King,&rdquo; said the solitary, and it seemed as if a tear
      (unwonted guest) were gathering in his dry and glazened eye, &ldquo;short and
      melancholy, marked with mortification, and calamity, and captivity, is the
      span that divides thee from the grave which yawns for thee&mdash;a grave
      in which thou shalt be laid without lineage to succeed thee&mdash;without
      the tears of a people, exhausted by thy ceaseless wars, to lament thee&mdash;without
      having extended the knowledge of thy subjects&mdash;without having done
      aught to enlarge their happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not without renown, monk&mdash;not without the tears of the lady of
      my love! These consolations, which thou canst neither know nor estimate,
      await upon Richard to his grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DO I not know, CAN I not estimate the value of minstrel's praise and of
      lady's love?&rdquo; retorted the hermit, in a tone which for a moment seemed to
      emulate the enthusiasm of Richard himself. &ldquo;King of England,&rdquo; he
      continued, extending his emaciated arm, &ldquo;the blood which boils in thy blue
      veins is not more noble than that which stagnates in mine. Few and cold as
      the drops are, they still are of the blood of the royal Lusignan&mdash;of
      the heroic and sainted Godfrey. I am&mdash;that is, I was when in the
      world&mdash;Alberick Mortemar&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whose deeds,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;have so often filled Fame's trumpet! Is it
      so?&mdash;can it be so? Could such a light as thine fall from the horizon
      of chivalry, and yet men be uncertain where its embers had alighted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seek a fallen star,&rdquo; said the hermit, &ldquo;and thou shalt only light on some
      foul jelly, which, in shooting through the horizon, has assumed for a
      moment an appearance of splendour. Richard, if I thought that rending the
      bloody veil from my horrible fate could make thy proud heart stoop to the
      discipline of the church, I could find in my heart to tell thee a tale,
      which I have hitherto kept gnawing at my vitals in concealment, like the
      self-devoted youth of heathenesse. Listen, then, Richard, and may the
      grief and despair which cannot avail this wretched remnant of what was
      once a man be powerful as an example to so noble, yet so wild, a being as
      thou art! Yes&mdash;I will&mdash;I WILL tear open the long-hidden wounds,
      although in thy very presence they should bleed to death!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      King Richard, upon whom the history of Alberick of Mortemar had made a
      deep impression in his early years, when minstrels were regaling his
      father's halls with legends of the Holy Land, listened with respect to the
      outlines of a tale, which, darkly and imperfectly sketched, indicated
      sufficiently the cause of the partial insanity of this singular and most
      unhappy being.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I need not,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;tell thee that I was noble in birth, high in
      fortune, strong in arms, wise in counsel. All these I was. But while the
      noblest ladies in Palestine strove which should wind garlands for my
      helmet, my love was fixed&mdash;unalterably and devotedly fixed&mdash;on a
      maiden of low degree. Her father, an ancient soldier of the Cross, saw our
      passion, and knowing the difference betwixt us, saw no other refuge for
      his daughter's honour than to place her within the shadow of the cloister.
      I returned from a distant expedition, loaded with spoils and honour, to
      find my happiness was destroyed for ever! I too sought the cloister; and
      Satan, who had marked me for his own, breathed into my heart a vapour of
      spiritual pride, which could only have had its source in his own infernal
      regions. I had risen as high in the church as before in the state. I was,
      forsooth, the wise, the self-sufficient, the impeccable!&mdash;I was the
      counsellor of councils&mdash;I was the director of prelates. How should I
      stumble?&mdash;wherefore should I fear temptation? Alas! I became
      confessor to a sisterhood, and amongst that sisterhood I found the
      long-loved&mdash;the long-lost. Spare me further confession!&mdash;A
      fallen nun, whose guilt was avenged by self-murder, sleeps soundly in the
      vaults of Engaddi; while, above her very grave, gibbers, moans, and roars
      a creature to whom but so much reason is left as may suffice to render him
      completely sensible to his fate!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unhappy man!&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I wonder no longer at thy misery. How didst
      thou escape the doom which the canons denounce against thy offence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask one who is yet in the gall of worldly bitterness,&rdquo; said the hermit,
      &ldquo;and he will speak of a life spared for personal respects, and from
      consideration to high birth. But, Richard, I tell thee that Providence
      hath preserved me to lift me on high as a light and beacon, whose ashes,
      when this earthly fuel is burnt out, must yet be flung into Tophet.
      Withered and shrunk as this poor form is, it is yet animated with two
      spirits&mdash;one active, shrewd, and piercing, to advocate the cause of
      the Church of Jerusalem; one mean, abject, and despairing, fluctuating
      between madness and misery, to mourn over my own wretchedness, and to
      guard holy relics on which it would be most sinful for me even to cast my
      eye. Pity me not!&mdash;it is but sin to pity the loss of such an abject;
      pity me not, but profit by my example. Thou standest on the highest, and,
      therefore, on the most dangerous pinnacle occupied by any Christian
      prince. Thou art proud of heart, loose of life, bloody of hand. Put from
      thee the sins which are to thee as daughters&mdash;though they be dear to
      the sinful Adam, expel these adopted furies from thy breast&mdash;thy
      pride, thy luxury, thy bloodthirstiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He raves,&rdquo; said Richard, turning from the solitary to De Vaux, as one who
      felt some pain from a sarcasm which yet he could not resent; then turned
      him calmly, and somewhat scornfully, to the anchoret, as he replied, &ldquo;Thou
      hast found a fair bevy of daughters, reverend father, to one who hath been
      but few months married; but since I must put them from my roof, it were
      but like a father to provide them with suitable matches. Therefore, I will
      part with my pride to the noble canons of the church&mdash;my luxury, as
      thou callest it, to the monks of the rule&mdash;and my bloodthirstiness to
      the Knights of the Temple.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O heart of steel, and hand of iron,&rdquo; said the anchoret, &ldquo;upon whom
      example, as well as advice, is alike thrown away! Yet shalt thou be spared
      for a season, in case it so be thou shouldst turn, and do that which is
      acceptable in the sight of Heaven. For me I must return to my place. Kyrie
      Eleison! I am he through whom the rays of heavenly grace dart like those
      of the sun through a burning-glass, concentrating them on other objects,
      until they kindle and blaze, while the glass itself remains cold and
      uninfluenced. Kyrie Eleison!&mdash;the poor must be called, for the rich
      have refused the banquet&mdash;Kyrie Eleison!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he burst from the tent, uttering loud cries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A mad priest!&rdquo; said Richard, from whose mind the frantic exclamations of
      the hermit had partly obliterated the impression produced by the detail of
      his personal history and misfortunes. &ldquo;After him, De Vaux, and see he
      comes to no harm; for, Crusaders as we are, a juggler hath more reverence
      amongst our varlets than a priest or a saint, and they may, perchance, put
      some scorn upon him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knight obeyed, and Richard presently gave way to the thoughts which
      the wild prophecy of the monk had inspired. &ldquo;To die early&mdash;without
      lineage&mdash;without lamentation! A heavy sentence, and well that it is
      not passed by a more competent judge. Yet the Saracens, who are
      accomplished in mystical knowledge, will often maintain that He, in whose
      eyes the wisdom of the sage is but as folly, inspires wisdom and prophecy
      into the seeming folly of the madman. Yonder hermit is said to read the
      stars, too, an art generally practised in these lands, where the heavenly
      host was of yore the object of idolatry. I would I had asked him touching
      the loss of my banner; for not the blessed Tishbite, the founder of his
      order, could seem more wildly rapt out of himself, or speak with a tongue
      more resembling that of a prophet.&mdash;How now, De Vaux, what news of
      the mad priest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mad priest, call you him, my lord?&rdquo; answered De Vaux. &ldquo;Methinks he
      resembles more the blessed Baptist himself, just issued from the
      wilderness. He has placed himself on one of the military engines, and from
      thence he preaches to the soldiers as never man preached since the time of
      Peter the Hermit. The camp, alarmed by his cries, crowd around him in
      thousands; and breaking off every now and then from the main thread of his
      discourse, he addresses the several nations, each in their own language,
      and presses upon each the arguments best qualified to urge them to
      perseverance in the delivery of Palestine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By this light, a noble hermit!&rdquo; said King Richard. &ldquo;But what else could
      come from the blood of Godfrey? HE despair of safety, because he hath in
      former days lived PAR AMOURS? I will have the Pope send him an ample
      remission, and I would not less willingly be intercessor had his BELLE
      AMIE been an abbess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, the Archbishop of Tyre craved audience, for the purpose of
      requesting Richard's attendance, should his health permit, on a secret
      conclave of the chiefs of the Crusade, and to explain to him the military
      and political incidents which had occurred during his illness.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Must we then sheathe our still victorious sword;
     Turn back our forward step, which ever trod
     O'er foemen's necks the onward path of glory;
     Unclasp the mail, which with a solemn vow,
     In God's own house, we hung upon our shoulders&mdash;
     That vow, as unaccomplish'd as the promise
     Which village nurses make to still their children,
     And after think no more of?
           THE CRUSADE, A TRAGEDY.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Archbishop of Tyre was an emissary well chosen to communicate to
      Richard tidings, which from another voice the lion-hearted King would not
      have brooked to hear without the most unbounded explosions of resentment.
      Even this sagacious and reverend prelate found difficulty in inducing him
      to listen to news which destroyed all his hopes of gaining back the Holy
      Sepulchre by force of arms, and acquiring the renown which the universal
      all-hail of Christendom was ready to confer upon him as the Champion of
      the Cross.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, by the Archbishop's report, it appeared that Saladin was assembling
      all the force of his hundred tribes, and that the monarchs of Europe,
      already disgusted from various motives with the expedition, which had
      proved so hazardous, and was daily growing more so, had resolved to
      abandon their purpose. In this they were countenanced by the example of
      Philip of France, who, with many protestations of regard, and assurances
      that he would first see his brother of England in safety, declared his
      intention to return to Europe. His great vassal, the Earl of Champagne,
      had adopted the same resolution; and it could not excite surprise that
      Leopold of Austria, affronted as he had been by Richard, was glad to
      embrace an opportunity of deserting a cause in which his haughty opponent
      was to be considered as chief. Others announced the same purpose; so that
      it was plain that the King of England was to be left, if he chose to
      remain, supported only by such volunteers as might, under such depressing
      circumstances, join themselves to the English army, and by the doubtful
      aid of Conrade of Montserrat and the military orders of the Temple and of
      Saint John, who, though they were sworn to wage battle against the
      Saracens, were at least equally jealous of any European monarch achieving
      the conquest of Palestine, where, with shortsighted and selfish policy,
      they proposed to establish independent dominions of their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      It needed not many arguments to show Richard the truth of his situation;
      and indeed, after his first burst of passion, he sat him calmly down, and
      with gloomy looks, head depressed, and arms folded on his bosom, listened
      to the Archbishop's reasoning on the impossibility of his carrying on the
      Crusade when deserted by his companions. Nay, he forbore interruption,
      even when the prelate ventured, in measured terms, to hint that Richard's
      own impetuosity had been one main cause of disgusting the princes with the
      expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;CONFITEOR,&rdquo; answered Richard, with a dejected look, and something of a
      melancholy smile&mdash;&ldquo;I confess, reverend father, that I ought on some
      accounts to sing CULPA MEA. But is it not hard that my frailties of temper
      should be visited with such a penance&mdash;that, for a burst or two of
      natural passion, I should be doomed to see fade before me ungathered such
      a rich harvest of glory to God and honour to chivalry? But it shall NOT
      fade. By the soul of the Conqueror, I will plant the Cross on the towers
      of Jerusalem, or it shall be planted over Richard's grave!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou mayest do it,&rdquo; said the prelate, &ldquo;yet not another drop of Christian
      blood be shed in the quarrel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you speak of compromise, Lord Prelate; but the blood of the infidel
      hounds must also cease to flow,&rdquo; said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There will be glory enough,&rdquo; replied the Archbishop, &ldquo;in having extorted
      from Saladin, by force of arms, and by the respect inspired by your fame,
      such conditions as at once restore the Holy Sepulchre, open the Holy Land
      to pilgrims, secure their safety by strong fortresses, and, stronger than
      all, assure the safety of the Holy City, by conferring on Richard the
      title of King Guardian of Jerusalem.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How!&rdquo; said Richard, his eyes sparkling with unusual light. &ldquo;I&mdash;I&mdash;I
      the King Guardian of the Holy City! Victory itself, but that it is
      victory, could not gain more&mdash;scarce so much, when won with unwilling
      and disunited forces. But Saladin still proposes to retain his interest in
      the Holy Land?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a joint sovereign, the sworn ally,&rdquo; replied the prelate, &ldquo;of the
      mighty Richard&mdash;his relative, if it may be permitted, by marriage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By marriage!&rdquo; said Richard, surprised, yet less so than the prelate had
      expected. &ldquo;Ha!&mdash;ay&mdash;Edith Plantagenet. Did I dream this? or did
      some one tell me? My head is still weak from this fever, and has been
      agitated. Was it the Scot, or the Hakim, or yonder holy hermit, that
      hinted such a wild bargain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The hermit of Engaddi, most likely,&rdquo; said the Archbishop, &ldquo;for he hath
      toiled much in this matter; and since the discontent of the princes has
      became apparent, and a separation of their forces unavoidable, he hath had
      many consultations, both with Christian and pagan, for arranging such a
      pacification as may give to Christendom, at least in part, the objects of
      this holy warfare.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My kinswoman to an infidel&mdash;ha!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard, as his eyes
      began to sparkle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prelate hastened to avert his wrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Pope's consent must doubtless be first attained, and the holy hermit,
      who is well known at Rome, will treat with the holy Father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&mdash;without our consent first given?&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely no,&rdquo; said the Bishop, in a quieting and insinuating tone of voice&mdash;&ldquo;only
      with and under your especial sanction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My sanction to marry my kinswoman to an infidel!&rdquo; said Richard; yet he
      spoke rather in a tone of doubt than as distinctly reprobating the measure
      proposed. &ldquo;Could I have dreamed of such a composition when I leaped upon
      the Syrian shore from the prow of my galley, even as a lion springs on his
      prey! And now&mdash;But proceed&mdash;I will hear with patience.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Equally delighted and surprised to find his task so much easier than he
      had apprehended, the Archbishop hastened to pour forth before Richard the
      instances of such alliances in Spain&mdash;not without countenance from
      the Holy See; the incalculable advantages which all Christendom would
      derive from the union of Richard and Saladin by a bond so sacred; and,
      above all, he spoke with great vehemence and unction on the probability
      that Saladin would, in case of the proposed alliance, exchange his false
      faith for the true one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hath the Soldan shown any disposition to become Christian?&rdquo; said Richard.
      &ldquo;If so, the king lives not on earth to whom I would grant the hand of a
      kinswoman, ay, or sister, sooner than to my noble Saladin&mdash;ay, though
      the one came to lay crown and sceptre at her feet, and the other had
      nothing to offer but his good sword and better heart!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saladin hath heard our Christian teachers,&rdquo; said the Bishop, somewhat
      evasively&mdash;&ldquo;my unworthy self, and others&mdash;and as he listens with
      patience, and replies with calmness, it can hardly be but that he be
      snatched as a brand from the burning. MAGNA EST VERITAS, ET PREVALEBIT!
      moreover, the hermit of Engaddi, few of whose words have fallen fruitless
      to the ground, is possessed fully with the belief that there is a calling
      of the Saracens and the other heathen approaching, to which this marriage
      shall be matter of induction. He readeth the course of the stars; and
      dwelling, with maceration of the flesh, in those divine places which the
      saints have trodden of old, the spirit of Elijah the Tishbite, the founder
      of his blessed order, hath been with him as it was with the prophet
      Elisha, the son of Shaphat, when he spread his mantle over him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      King Richard listened to the Prelate's reasoning with a downcast brow and
      a troubled look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;How, it is with me, but methinks these cold
      counsels of the Princes of Christendom have infected me too with a
      lethargy of spirit. The time hath been that, had a layman proposed such
      alliance to me, I had struck him to earth&mdash;if a churchman, I had spit
      at him as a renegade and priest of Baal; yet now this counsel sounds not
      so strange in mine ear. For why should I not seek for brotherhood and
      alliance with a Saracen, brave, just, generous&mdash;who loves and honours
      a worthy foe, as if he were a friend&mdash;whilst the Princes of
      Christendom shrink from the side of their allies, and forsake the cause of
      Heaven and good knighthood? But I will possess my patience, and will not
      think of them. Only one attempt will I make to keep this gallant
      brotherhood together, if it be possible; and if I fail, Lord Archbishop,
      we will speak together of thy counsel, which, as now, I neither accept nor
      altogether reject. Wend we to the Council, my lord&mdash;the hour calls
      us. Thou sayest Richard is hasty and proud&mdash;thou shalt see him humble
      himself like the lowly broom-plant from which he derives his surname.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the assistance of those of his privy chamber, the King then hastily
      robed himself in a doublet and mantle of a dark and uniform colour; and
      without any mark of regal dignity, excepting a ring of gold upon his head,
      he hastened with the Archbishop of Tyre to attend the Council, which
      waited but his presence to commence its sitting.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pavilion of the Council was an ample tent, having before it the large
      Banner of the Cross displayed, and another, on which was portrayed a
      female kneeling, with dishevelled hair and disordered dress, meant to
      represent the desolate and distressed Church of Jerusalem, and bearing the
      motto, AFFLICTAE SPONSAE NE OBLIVISCARIS. Warders, carefully selected,
      kept every one at a distance from the neighbourhood of this tent, lest the
      debates, which were sometimes of a loud and stormy character, should reach
      other ears than those they were designed for.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, therefore, the princes of the Crusade were assembled awaiting
      Richard's arrival. And even the brief delay which was thus interposed was
      turned to his disadvantage by his enemies, various instances being
      circulated of his pride and undue assumption of superiority, of which even
      the necessity of the present short pause was quoted as an instance. Men
      strove to fortify each other in their evil opinion of the King of England,
      and vindicated the offence which each had taken, by putting the most
      severe construction upon circumstances the most trifling; and all this,
      perhaps, because they were conscious of an instinctive reverence for the
      heroic monarch, which it would require more than ordinary efforts to
      overcome.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had settled, accordingly, that they should receive him on his
      entrance with slight notice, and no more respect than was exactly
      necessary to keep within the bounds of cold ceremonial. But when they
      beheld that noble form, that princely countenance, somewhat pale from his
      late illness&mdash;the eye which had been called by minstrels the bright
      star of battle and victory&mdash;when his feats, almost surpassing human
      strength and valour, rushed on their recollection, the Council of Princes
      simultaneously arose&mdash;even the jealous King of France and the sullen
      and offended Duke of Austria&mdash;arose with one consent, and the
      assembled princes burst forth with one voice in the acclamation, &ldquo;God save
      King Richard of England! Long life to the valiant Lion's-heart!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a countenance frank and open as the summer sun when it rises, Richard
      distributed his thanks around, and congratulated himself on being once
      more among his royal brethren of the Crusade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some brief words he desired to say,&rdquo; such was his address to the
      assembly, &ldquo;though on a subject so unworthy as himself, even at the risk of
      delaying for a few minutes their consultations for the weal of Christendom
      and the advancement of their holy enterprise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The assembled princes resumed their seats, and there was a profound
      silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This day,&rdquo; continued the King of England, &ldquo;is a high festival of the
      church, and it well becomes Christian men, at such a tide, to reconcile
      themselves with their brethren, and confess their faults to each other.
      Noble princes and fathers of this holy expedition, Richard is a soldier&mdash;his
      hand is ever readier than his tongue&mdash;and his tongue is but too much
      used to the rough language of his trade. But do not, for Plantagenet's
      hasty speeches and ill-considered actions, forsake the noble cause of the
      redemption of Palestine&mdash;do not throw away earthly renown and eternal
      salvation, to be won here if ever they can be won by man, because the act
      of a soldier may have been hasty, and his speech as hard as the iron which
      he has worn from childhood. Is Richard in default to any of you, Richard
      will make compensation both by word and action.&mdash;Noble brother of
      France, have I been so unlucky as to offend you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Majesty of France has no atonement to seek from that of England,&rdquo;
       answered Philip, with kingly dignity, accepting, at the same time, the
      offered hand of Richard; &ldquo;and whatever opinion I may adopt concerning the
      prosecution of this enterprise will depend on reasons arising out of the
      state of my own kingdom&mdash;certainly on no jealousy or disgust at my
      royal and most valorous brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Austria,&rdquo; said Richard, walking up to the Archduke, with a mixture of
      frankness and dignity, while Leopold arose from his seat, as if
      involuntarily, and with the action of an automaton, whose motions depended
      upon some external impulse&mdash;&ldquo;Austria thinks he hath reason to be
      offended with England; England, that he hath cause to complain of Austria.
      Let them exchange forgiveness, that the peace of Europe and the concord of
      this host may remain unbroken. We are now joint supporters of a more
      glorious banner than ever blazed before an earthly prince, even the Banner
      of Salvation. Let not, therefore, strife be betwixt us for the symbol of
      our more worldly dignities; but let Leopold restore the pennon of England,
      if he has it in his power, and Richard will say, though from no motive
      save his love for Holy Church, that he repents him of the hasty mood in
      which he did insult the standard of Austria.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Archduke stood still, sullen and discontented, with his eyes fixed on
      the floor, and his countenance lowering with smothered displeasure, which
      awe, mingled with awkwardness, prevented his giving vent to in words.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Patriarch of Jerusalem hastened to break the embarrassing silence, and
      to bear witness for the Archduke of Austria that he had exculpated
      himself, by a solemn oath, from all knowledge, direct or indirect, of the
      aggression done to the Banner of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then we have done the noble Archduke the greater wrong,&rdquo; said Richard;
      &ldquo;and craving his pardon for imputing to him an outrage so cowardly, we
      extend our hand to him in token of renewed peace and amity. But how is
      this? Austria refuses our uncovered hand, as he formerly refused our
      mailed glove? What! are we neither to be his mate in peace nor his
      antagonist in war? Well, let it be so. We will take the slight esteem in
      which he holds us as a penance for aught which we may have done against
      him in heat of blood, and will therefore hold the account between us
      cleared.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he turned from the Archduke with an air rather of dignity than
      scorn, leaving the Austrian apparently as much relieved by the removal of
      his eye as is a sullen and truant schoolboy when the glance of his severe
      pedagogue is withdrawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble Earl of Champagne&mdash;princely Marquis of Montserrat&mdash;valiant
      Grand Master of the Templars&mdash;I am here a penitent in the
      confessional. Do any of you bring a charge or claim amends from me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know not on what we could ground any,&rdquo; said the smooth-tongued Conrade,
      &ldquo;unless it were that the King of England carries off from his poor
      brothers of the war all the fame which they might have hoped to gain in
      the expedition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My charge, if I am called on to make one,&rdquo; said the Master of the
      Templars, &ldquo;is graver and deeper than that of the Marquis of Montserrat. It
      may be thought ill to beseem a military monk such as I to raise his voice
      where so many noble princes remain silent; but it concerns our whole host,
      and not least this noble King of England, that he should hear from some
      one to his face those charges which there are enow to bring against him in
      his absence. We laud and honour the courage and high achievements of the
      King of England; but we feel aggrieved that he should on all occasions
      seize and maintain a precedence and superiority over us, which it becomes
      not independent princes to submit to. Much we might yield of our free will
      to his bravery, his zeal, his wealth, and his power; but he who snatches
      all as matter of right, and leaves nothing to grant out of courtesy and
      favour, degrades us from allies into retainers and vassals, and sullies in
      the eyes of our soldiers and subjects the lustre of our authority, which
      is no longer independently exercised. Since the royal Richard has asked
      the truth from us, he must neither be surprised nor angry when he hears
      one, to whom worldly pomp is prohibited, and secular authority is nothing,
      saving so far as it advances the prosperity of God's Temple, and the
      prostration of the lion which goeth about seeking whom he may devour&mdash;when
      he hears, I say, such a one as I tell him the truth in reply to his
      question; which truth, even while I speak it, is, I know, confirmed by the
      heart of every one who hears me, however respect may stifle their voices.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard coloured very highly while the Grand Master was making this direct
      and unvarnished attack upon his conduct, and the murmur of assent which
      followed it showed plainly that almost all who were present acquiesced in
      the justice of the accusation. Incensed, and at the same time mortified,
      he yet foresaw that to give way to his headlong resentment would be to
      give the cold and wary accuser the advantage over him which it was the
      Templar's principal object to obtain. He therefore, with a strong effort,
      remained silent till he had repeated a pater noster, being the course
      which his confessor had enjoined him to pursue when anger was likely to
      obtain dominion over him. The King then spoke with composure, though not
      without an embittered tone, especially at the outset:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it even so? And are our brethren at such pains to note the
      infirmities of our natural temper, and the rough precipitance of our zeal,
      which may sometimes have urged us to issue commands when there was little
      time to hold council? I could not have thought that offences, casual and
      unpremeditated like mine, could find such deep root in the hearts of my
      allies in this most holy cause; that for my sake they should withdraw
      their hands from the plough when the furrow was near the end&mdash;for my
      sake turn aside from the direct path to Jerusalem, which their swords have
      opened. I vainly thought that my small services might have outweighed my
      rash errors&mdash;that if it were remembered that I pressed to the van in
      an assault, it would not be forgotten that I was ever the last in the
      retreat&mdash;that, if I elevated my banner upon conquered fields of
      battle, it was all the advantage that I sought, while others were dividing
      the spoil. I may have called the conquered city by my name, but it was to
      others that I yielded the dominion. If I have been headstrong in urging
      bold counsels, I have not, methinks, spared my own blood or my people's in
      carrying them into as bold execution; or if I have, in the hurry of march
      or battle, assumed a command over the soldiers of others, such have been
      ever treated as my own when my wealth purchased the provisions and
      medicines which their own sovereigns could not procure. But it shames me
      to remind you of what all but myself seem to have forgotten. Let us rather
      look forward to our future measures; and believe me, brethren,&rdquo; he
      continued, his face kindling with eagerness, &ldquo;you shall not find the
      pride, or the wrath, or the ambition of Richard a stumbling-block of
      offence in the path to which religion and glory summon you as with the
      trumpet of an archangel. Oh, no, no! never would I survive the thought
      that my frailties and infirmities had been the means to sever this goodly
      fellowship of assembled princes. I would cut off my left hand with my
      right, could my doing so attest my sincerity. I will yield up,
      voluntarily, all right to command in the host&mdash;even mine own liege
      subjects. They shall be led by such sovereigns as you may nominate; and
      their King, ever but too apt to exchange the leader's baton for the
      adventurer's lance, will serve under the banner of Beau-Seant among the
      Templars&mdash;ay, or under that of Austria, if Austria will name a brave
      man to lead his forces. Or if ye are yourselves a-weary of this war, and
      feel your armour chafe your tender bodies, leave but with Richard some ten
      or fifteen thousand of your soldiers to work out the accomplishment of
      your vow; and when Zion is won,&rdquo; he exclaimed, waving his hand aloft, as
      if displaying the standard of the Cross over Jerusalem&mdash;&ldquo;when Zion is
      won, we will write upon her gates, NOT the name of Richard Plantagenet,
      but of those generous princes who entrusted him with the means of
      conquest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The rough eloquence and determined expression of the military monarch at
      once roused the drooping spirits of the Crusaders, reanimated their
      devotion, and, fixing their attention on the principal object of the
      expedition, made most of them who were present blush for having been moved
      by such petty subjects of complaint as had before engrossed them. Eye
      caught fire from eye, voice lent courage to voice. They resumed, as with
      one accord, the war-cry with which the sermon of Peter the Hermit was
      echoed back, and shouted aloud, &ldquo;Lead us on, gallant Lion's-heart; none so
      worthy to lead where brave men follow. Lead us on&mdash;to Jerusalem&mdash;to
      Jerusalem! It is the will of God&mdash;it is the will of God! Blessed is
      he who shall lend an arm to its fulfilment!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shout, so suddenly and generally raised, was heard beyond the ring of
      sentinels who guarded the pavilion of Council, and spread among the
      soldiers of the host, who, inactive and dispirited by disease and climate,
      had begun, like their leaders, to droop in resolution; but the
      reappearance of Richard in renewed vigour, and the well-known shout which
      echoed from the assembly of the princes, at once rekindled their
      enthusiasm, and thousands and tens of thousands answered with the same
      shout of &ldquo;Zion, Zion! War, war! Instant battle with the infidels! It is
      the will of God&mdash;it is the will of God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The acclamations from without increased in their turn the enthusiasm which
      prevailed within the pavilion. Those who did not actually catch the flame
      were afraid&mdash;at least for the time&mdash;to seem colder than others.
      There was no more speech except of a proud advance towards Jerusalem upon
      the expiry of the truce, and the measures to be taken in the meantime for
      supplying and recruiting the army. The Council broke up, all apparently
      filled with the same enthusiastic purpose&mdash;which, however, soon faded
      in the bosom of most, and never had an existence in that of others.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the latter class were the Marquis Conrade and the Grand Master of the
      Templars, who retired together to their quarters ill at ease, and
      malcontent with the events of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ever told it to thee,&rdquo; said the latter, with the cold, sardonic
      expression peculiar to him, &ldquo;that Richard would burst through the flimsy
      wiles you spread for him, as would a lion through a spider's web. Thou
      seest he has but to speak, and his breath agitates these fickle fools as
      easily as the whirlwind catcheth scattered straws, and sweeps them
      together, or disperses them at its pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When the blast has passed away,&rdquo; said Conrade, &ldquo;the straws, which it made
      dance to its pipe, will settle to earth again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But knowest thou not besides,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;that it seems, if this
      new purpose of conquest shall be abandoned and pass away, and each mighty
      prince shall again be left to such guidance as his own scanty brain can
      supply, Richard may yet probably become King of Jerusalem by compact, and
      establish those terms of treaty with the Soldan which thou thyself
      thought'st him so likely to spurn at?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by Mahound and Termagaunt, for Christian oaths are out of fashion,&rdquo;
       said Conrade, &ldquo;sayest thou the proud King of England would unite his blood
      with a heathen Soldan? My policy threw in that ingredient to make the
      whole treaty an abomination to him. As bad for us that he become our
      master by an agreement, as by victory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy policy hath ill calculated Richard's digestion,&rdquo; answered the
      Templar; &ldquo;I know his mind by a whisper from the Archbishop. And then thy
      master-stroke respecting yonder banner&mdash;it has passed off with no
      more respect than two cubits of embroidered silk merited. Marquis Conrade,
      thy wit begins to halt; I will trust thy finespun measures no longer, but
      will try my own. Knowest thou not the people whom the Saracens call
      Charegites?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; answered the Marquis; &ldquo;they are desperate and besotted
      enthusiasts, who devote their lives to the advancement of religion&mdash;-somewhat
      like Templars, only they are never known to pause in the race of their
      calling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jest not,&rdquo; answered the scowling monk. &ldquo;Know that one of these men has
      set down in his bloody vow the name of the Island Emperor yonder, to be
      hewn down as the chief enemy of the Moslem faith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A most judicious paynim,&rdquo; said Conrade. &ldquo;May Mohammed send him his
      paradise for a reward!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was taken in the camp by one of our squires, and in private
      examination frankly avowed his fixed and determined purpose to me,&rdquo; said
      the Grand Master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now the heavens pardon them who prevented the purpose of this most
      judicious Charegite!&rdquo; answered Conrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is my prisoner,&rdquo; added the Templar, &ldquo;and secluded from speech with
      others, as thou mayest suppose; but prisons have been broken&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chains left unlocked, and captives have escaped,&rdquo; answered the Marquis.
      &ldquo;It is an ancient saying, no sure dungeon but the grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When loose, he resumes his quest,&rdquo; continued the military priest; &ldquo;for it
      is the nature of this sort of blood hound never to quit the suit of the
      prey he has once scented.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say no more of it,&rdquo; said the Marquis; &ldquo;I see thy policy&mdash;it is
      dreadful, but the emergency is imminent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only told thee of it,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;that thou mayest keep thyself
      on thy guard; for the uproar will be dreadful, and there is no knowing on
      whom the English may vent their rage. Ay, and there is another risk. My
      page knows the counsels of this Charegite,&rdquo; he continued; &ldquo;and, moreover,
      he is a peevish, self-willed fool, whom I would I were rid of, as he
      thwarts me by presuming to see with his own eyes, not mine. But our holy
      order gives me power to put a remedy to such inconvenience. Or stay&mdash;the
      Saracen may find a good dagger in his cell, and I warrant you he uses it
      as he breaks forth, which will be of a surety so soon as the page enters
      with his food.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will give the affair a colour,&rdquo; said Conrade; &ldquo;and yet&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;YET and BUT,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;are words for fools; wise men neither
      hesitate nor retract&mdash;they resolve and they execute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     When beauty leads the lion in her toils,
     Such are her charms, he dare not raise his mane,
     Far less expand the terror of his fangs.
     So great Alcides made his club a distaff,
     And spun to please fair Omphale.
               ANONYMOUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      Richard, the unsuspicious object of the dark treachery detailed in the
      closing part of the last chapter, having effected, for the present at
      least, the triumphant union of the Crusading princes in a resolution to
      prosecute the war with vigour, had it next at heart to establish
      tranquillity in his own family; and, now that he could judge more
      temperately, to inquire distinctly into the circumstances leading to the
      loss of his banner, and the nature and the extent of the connection
      betwixt his kinswoman Edith and the banished adventurer from Scotland.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, the Queen and her household were startled with a visit from
      Sir Thomas de Vaux, requesting the present attendance of the Lady Calista
      of Montfaucon, the Queen's principal bower-woman, upon King Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I to say, madam?&rdquo; said the trembling attendant to the Queen, &ldquo;He
      will slay us all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, fear not, madam,&rdquo; said De Vaux. &ldquo;His Majesty hath spared the life of
      the Scottish knight, who was the chief offender, and bestowed him upon the
      Moorish physician. He will not be severe upon a lady, though faulty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Devise some cunning tale, wench,&rdquo; said Berengaria. &ldquo;My husband hath too
      little time to make inquiry into the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell the tale as it really happened,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;lest I tell it for
      thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With humble permission of her Majesty,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;I would say Lady
      Edith adviseth well; for although King Richard is pleased to believe what
      it pleases your Grace to tell him, yet I doubt his having the same
      deference for the Lady Calista, and in this especial matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord of Gilsland is right,&rdquo; said the Lady Calista, much agitated at
      the thoughts of the investigation which was to take place; &ldquo;and besides,
      if I had presence of mind enough to forge a plausible story, beshrew me if
      I think I should have the courage to tell it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In this candid humour, the Lady Calista was conducted by De Vaux to the
      King, and made, as she had proposed, a full confession of the decoy by
      which the unfortunate Knight of the Leopard had been induced to desert his
      post; exculpating the Lady Edith, who, she was aware, would not fail to
      exculpate herself, and laying the full burden on the Queen, her mistress,
      whose share of the frolic, she well knew, would appear the most venial in
      the eyes of Coeur de Lion. In truth, Richard was a fond, almost a uxorious
      husband. The first burst of his wrath had long since passed away, and he
      was not disposed severely to censure what could not now be amended. The
      wily Lady Calista, accustomed from her earliest childhood to fathom the
      intrigues of a court, and watch the indications of a sovereign's will,
      hastened back to the Queen with the speed of a lapwing, charged with the
      King's commands that she should expect a speedy visit from him; to which
      the bower-lady added a commentary founded on her own observation, tending
      to show that Richard meant just to preserve so much severity as might
      bring his royal consort to repent of her frolic, and then to extend to her
      and all concerned his gracious pardon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sits the wind in that corner, wench?&rdquo; said the Queen, much relieved by
      this intelligence. &ldquo;Believe me that, great commander as he is, Richard
      will find it hard to circumvent us in this matter, and that, as the
      Pyrenean shepherds are wont to say in my native Navarre, Many a one comes
      for wool, and goes back shorn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having possessed herself of all the information which Calista could
      communicate, the royal Berengaria arrayed herself in her most becoming
      dress, and awaited with confidence the arrival of the heroic Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      He arrived, and found himself in the situation of a prince entering an
      offending province, in the confidence that his business will only be to
      inflict rebuke, and receive submission, when he unexpectedly finds it in a
      state of complete defiance and insurrection. Berengaria well knew the
      power of her charms and the extent of Richard's affection, and felt
      assured that she could make her own terms good, now that the first
      tremendous explosion of his anger had expended itself without mischief.
      Far from listening to the King's intended rebuke, as what the levity of
      her conduct had justly deserved, she extenuated, nay, defended as a
      harmless frolic, that which she was accused of. She denied, indeed, with
      many a pretty form of negation, that she had directed Nectabanus
      absolutely to entice the knight farther than the brink of the Mount on
      which he kept watch&mdash;and, indeed, this was so far true, that she had
      not designed Sir Kenneth to be introduced into her tent&mdash;and then,
      eloquent in urging her own defence, the Queen was far more so in pressing
      upon Richard the charge of unkindness, in refusing her so poor a boon as
      the life of an unfortunate knight, who, by her thoughtless prank, had been
      brought within the danger of martial law. She wept and sobbed while she
      enlarged on her husband's obduracy on this score, as a rigour which had
      threatened to make her unhappy for life, whenever she should reflect that
      she had given, unthinkingly, the remote cause for such a tragedy. The
      vision of the slaughtered victim would have haunted her dreams&mdash;nay,
      for aught she knew, since such things often happened, his actual spectre
      might have stood by her waking couch. To all this misery of the mind was
      she exposed by the severity of one who, while he pretended to dote upon
      her slightest glance, would not forego one act of poor revenge, though the
      issue was to render her miserable.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this flow of female eloquence was accompanied with the usual arguments
      of tears and sighs, and uttered with such tone and action as seemed to
      show that the Queen's resentment arose neither from pride nor sullenness,
      but from feelings hurt at finding her consequence with her husband less
      than she had expected to possess.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good King Richard was considerably embarrassed. He tried in vain to
      reason with one whose very jealousy of his affection rendered her
      incapable of listening to argument, nor could he bring himself to use the
      restraint of lawful authority to a creature so beautiful in the midst of
      her unreasonable displeasure. He was therefore reduced to the defensive,
      endeavoured gently to chide her suspicions and soothe her displeasure, and
      recalled to her mind that she need not look back upon the past with
      recollections either of remorse or supernatural fear, since Sir Kenneth
      was alive and well, and had been bestowed by him upon the great Arabian
      physician, who, doubtless, of all men, knew best how to keep him living.
      But this seemed the unkindest cut of all, and the Queen's sorrow was
      renewed at the idea of a Saracen&mdash;a mediciner&mdash;obtaining a boon
      for which, with bare head and on bended knee, she had petitioned her
      husband in vain. At this new charge Richard's patience began rather to
      give way, and he said, in a serious tone of voice, &ldquo;Berengaria, the
      physician saved my life. If it is of value in your eyes, you will not
      grudge him a higher recompense than the only one I could prevail on him to
      accept.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Queen was satisfied she had urged her coquettish displeasure to the
      verge of safety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Richard,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;why brought you not that sage to me, that
      England's Queen might show how she esteemed him who could save from
      extinction the lamp of chivalry, the glory of England, and the light of
      poor Berengaria's life and hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a word, the matrimonial dispute was ended; but, that some penalty might
      be paid to justice, both King and Queen accorded in laying the whole blame
      on the agent Nectabanus, who (the Queen being by this time well weary of
      the poor dwarf's humour) was, with his royal consort Guenevra, sentenced
      to be banished from the Court; and the unlucky dwarf only escaped a
      supplementary whipping, from the Queen's assurances that he had already
      sustained personal chastisement. It was decreed further that, as an envoy
      was shortly to be dispatched to Saladin, acquainting him with the
      resolution of the Council to resume hostilities so soon as the truce was
      ended, and as Richard proposed to send a valuable present to the Soldan,
      in acknowledgment of the high benefit he had derived from the services of
      El Hakim, the two unhappy creatures should be added to it as curiosities,
      which, from their extremely grotesque appearance, and the shattered state
      of their intellect, were gifts that might well pass between sovereign and
      sovereign.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard had that day yet another female encounter to sustain; but he
      advanced to it with comparative indifference, for Edith, though beautiful
      and highly esteemed by her royal relative&mdash;nay, although she had from
      his unjust suspicions actually sustained the injury of which Berengaria
      only affected to complain&mdash;still was neither Richard's wife nor
      mistress, and he feared her reproaches less, although founded in reason,
      than those of the Queen, though unjust and fantastical. Having requested
      to speak with her apart, he was ushered into her apartment, adjoining that
      of the Queen, whose two female Coptish slaves remained on their knees in
      the most remote corner during the interview. A thin black veil extended
      its ample folds over the tall and graceful form of the high-born maiden,
      and she wore not upon her person any female ornament of what kind soever.
      She arose and made a low reverence when Richard entered, resumed her seat
      at his command, and, when he sat down beside her, waited, without uttering
      a syllable, until he should communicate his pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard, whose custom it was to be familiar with Edith, as their
      relationship authorized, felt this reception chilling, and opened the
      conversation with some embarrassment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our fair cousin,&rdquo; he at length said, &ldquo;is angry with us; and we own that
      strong circumstances have induced us, without cause, to suspect her of
      conduct alien to what we have ever known in her course of life. But while
      we walk in this misty valley of humanity, men will mistake shadows for
      substances. Can my fair cousin not forgive her somewhat vehement kinsman
      Richard?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who can refuse forgiveness to RICHARD,&rdquo; answered Edith, &ldquo;provided Richard
      can obtain pardon of the KING?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, my kinswoman,&rdquo; replied Coeur de Lion, &ldquo;this is all too solemn. By
      Our Lady, such a melancholy countenance, and this ample sable veil, might
      make men think thou wert a new-made widow, or had lost a betrothed lover,
      at least. Cheer up! Thou hast heard, doubtless, that there is no real
      cause for woe; why, then, keep up the form of mourning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the departed honour of Plantagenet&mdash;for the glory which hath
      left my father's house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard frowned. &ldquo;Departed honour! glory which hath left our house!&rdquo; he
      repeated angrily. &ldquo;But my cousin Edith is privileged. I have judged her
      too hastily; she has therefore a right to deem of me too harshly. But tell
      me at least in what I have faulted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plantagenet,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;should have either pardoned an offence, or
      punished it. It misbecomes him to assign free men, Christians, and brave
      knights, to the fetters of the infidels. It becomes him not to compromise
      and barter, or to grunt life under the forfeiture of liberty. To have
      doomed the unfortunate to death might have been severity, but had a show
      of justice; to condemn him to slavery and exile was barefaced tyranny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see, my fair cousin,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;you are of those pretty ones who
      think an absent lover as bad as none, or as a dead one. Be patient; half a
      score of light horsemen may yet follow and redeem the error, if thy
      gallant have in keeping any secret which might render his death more
      convenient than his banishment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace with thy scurrile jests!&rdquo; answered Edith, colouring deeply. &ldquo;Think,
      rather, that for the indulgence of thy mood thou hast lopped from this
      great enterprise one goodly limb, deprived the Cross of one of its most
      brave supporters, and placed a servant of the true God in the hands of the
      heathen; hast given, too, to minds as suspicious as thou hast shown thine
      own in this matter, some right to say that Richard Coeur de Lion banished
      the bravest soldier in his camp lest his name in battle might match his
      own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard, now indeed greatly moved&mdash;&ldquo;am I one
      to be jealous of renown? I would he were here to profess such an equality!
      I would waive my rank and my crown, and meet him, manlike, in the lists,
      that it might appear whether Richard Plantagenet had room to fear or to
      envy the prowess of mortal man. Come, Edith, thou think'st not as thou
      sayest. Let not anger or grief for the absence of thy lover make thee
      unjust to thy kinsman, who, notwithstanding all thy techiness, values thy
      good report as high as that of any one living.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The absence of my lover?&rdquo; said the Lady Edith, &ldquo;But yes, he may be well
      termed my lover, who hath paid so dear for the title. Unworthy as I might
      be of such homage, I was to him like a light, leading him forward in the
      noble path of chivalry; but that I forgot my rank, or that he presumed
      beyond his, is false, were a king to speak it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My fair cousin,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;do not put words in my mouth which I have
      not spoken. I said not you had graced this man beyond the favour which a
      good knight may earn, even from a princess, whatever be his native
      condition. But, by Our Lady, I know something of this love-gear. It begins
      with mute respect and distant reverence; but when opportunities occur,
      familiarity increases, and so&mdash;But it skills not talking with one who
      thinks herself wiser than all the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My kinsman's counsels I willingly listen to, when they are such,&rdquo; said
      Edith, &ldquo;as convey no insult to my rank and character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kings, my fair cousin, do not counsel, but rather command,&rdquo; said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Soldans do indeed command,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;but it is because they have
      slaves to govern.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, you might learn to lay aside this scorn of Soldanrie, when you hold
      so high of a Scot,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;I hold Saladin to be truer to his word
      than this William of Scotland, who must needs be called a Lion, forsooth;
      he hath foully faulted towards me in failing to send the auxiliary aid he
      promised. Let me tell thee, Edith, thou mayest live to prefer a true Turk
      to a false Scot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;never!&rdquo; answered Edith&mdash;&ldquo;not should Richard himself embrace
      the false religion, which he crossed the seas to expel from Palestine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wilt have the last word,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;and thou shalt have it.
      Even think of me what thou wilt, pretty Edith. I shall not forget that we
      are near and dear cousins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he took his leave in fair fashion, but very little satisfied
      with the result of his visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the fourth day after Sir Kenneth had been dismissed from the camp,
      and King Richard sat in his pavilion, enjoying an evening breeze from the
      west, which, with unusual coolness on her wings, seemed breathed from
      merry England for the refreshment of her adventurous Monarch, as he was
      gradually recovering the full strength which was necessary to carry on his
      gigantic projects. There was no one with him, De Vaux having been sent to
      Ascalon to bring up reinforcements and supplies of military munition, and
      most of his other attendants being occupied in different departments, all
      preparing for the re-opening of hostilities, and for a grand preparatory
      review of the army of the Crusaders, which was to take place the next day.
      The King sat listening to the busy hum among the soldiery, the clatter
      from the forges, where horseshoes were preparing, and from the tents of
      the armourers, who were repairing harness. The voice of the soldiers, too,
      as they passed and repassed, was loud and cheerful, carrying with its very
      tone an assurance of high and excited courage, and an omen of approaching
      victory. While Richard's ear drank in these sounds with delight, and while
      he yielded himself to the visions of conquest and of glory which they
      suggested, an equerry told him that a messenger from Saladin waited
      without.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Admit him instantly,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;and with due honour, Josceline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The English knight accordingly introduced a person, apparently of no
      higher rank than a Nubian slave, whose appearance was nevertheless highly
      interesting. He was of superb stature and nobly formed, and his commanding
      features, although almost jet-black, showed nothing of negro descent. He
      wore over his coal-black locks a milk-white turban, and over his shoulders
      a short mantle of the same colour, open in front and at the sleeves, under
      which appeared a doublet of dressed leopard's skin reaching within a
      handbreadth of the knee. The rest of his muscular limbs, both legs and
      arms, were bare, excepting that he had sandals on his feet, and wore a
      collar and bracelets of silver. A straight broadsword, with a handle of
      box-wood and a sheath covered with snakeskin, was suspended from his
      waist. In his right hand he held a short javelin, with a broad, bright
      steel head, of a span in length, and in his left he led by a leash of
      twisted silk and gold a large and noble staghound.
    </p>
    <p>
      The messenger prostrated himself, at the same time partially uncovering
      his shoulders, in sign of humiliation, and having touched the earth with
      his forehead, arose so far as to rest on one knee, while he delivered to
      the King a silken napkin, enclosing another of cloth of gold, within which
      was a letter from Saladin in the original Arabic, with a translation into
      Norman-English, which may be modernized thus:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saladin, King of Kings, to Melech Ric, the Lion of England. Whereas, we
      are informed by thy last message that thou hast chosen war rather than
      peace, and our enmity rather than our friendship, we account thee as one
      blinded in this matter, and trust shortly to convince thee of thine error,
      by the help of our invincible forces of the thousand tribes, when
      Mohammed, the Prophet of God, and Allah, the God of the Prophet, shall
      judge the controversy betwixt us. In what remains, we make noble account
      of thee, and of the gifts which thou hast sent us, and of the two dwarfs,
      singular in their deformity as Ysop, and mirthful as the lute of Isaack.
      And in requital of these tokens from the treasure-house of thy bounty,
      behold we have sent thee a Nubian slave, named Zohauk, of whom judge not
      by his complexion, according to the foolish ones of the earth, in respect
      the dark-rinded fruit hath the most exquisite flavour. Know that he is
      strong to execute the will of his master, as Rustan of Zablestan; also he
      is wise to give counsel when thou shalt learn to hold communication with
      him, for the Lord of Speech hath been stricken with silence betwixt the
      ivory walls of his palace. We commend him to thy care, hoping the hour may
      not be distant when he may render thee good service. And herewith we bid
      thee farewell; trusting that our most holy Prophet may yet call thee to a
      sight of the truth, failing which illumination, our desire is for the
      speedy restoration of thy royal health, that Allah may judge between thee
      and us in a plain field of battle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the missive was sanctioned by the signature and seal of the Soldan.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard surveyed the Nubian in silence as he stood before him, his looks
      bent upon the ground, his arms folded on his bosom, with the appearance of
      a black marble statue of the most exquisite workmanship, waiting life from
      the touch of a Prometheus. The King of England, who, as it was
      emphatically said of his successor Henry the Eighth, loved to look upon A
      MAN, was well pleased with the thews, sinews, and symmetry of him whom he
      now surveyed, and questioned him in the lingua franca, &ldquo;Art thou a pagan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The slave shook his head, and raising his finger to his brow, crossed
      himself in token of his Christianity, then resumed his posture of
      motionless humility.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Nubian Christian, doubtless,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;and mutilated of the organ
      of speech by these heathen dogs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mute again slowly shook his head, in token of negative, pointed with
      his forefinger to Heaven, and then laid it upon his own lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand thee,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;thou dost suffer under the infliction
      of God, not by the cruelty of man. Canst thou clean an armour and belt,
      and buckle it in time of need?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mute nodded, and stepping towards the coat of mail, which hung with
      the shield and helmet of the chivalrous monarch upon the pillar of the
      tent, he handled it with such nicety of address as sufficiently to show
      that he fully understood the business of an armour-bearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art an apt, and wilt doubtless be a useful knave. Thou shalt wait in
      my chamber, and on my person,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;to show how much I value
      the gift of the royal Soldan. If thou hast no tongue, it follows thou
      canst carry no tales, neither provoke me to be sudden by any unfit reply.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Nubian again prostrated himself till his brow touched the earth, then
      stood erect, at some paces distant, as waiting for his new master's
      commands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, thou shalt commence thy office presently,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;for I see
      a speck of rust darkening on that shield; and when I shake it in the face
      of Saladin, it should be bright and unsullied as the Soldan's honour and
      mine own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A horn was winded without, and presently Sir Henry Neville entered with a
      packet of dispatches. &ldquo;From England, my lord,&rdquo; he said, as he delivered
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From England&mdash;our own England!&rdquo; repeated Richard, in a tone of
      melancholy enthusiasm. &ldquo;Alas! they little think how hard their Sovereign
      has been beset by sickness and sorrow&mdash;faint friends and forward
      enemies.&rdquo; Then opening the dispatches, he said hastily, &ldquo;Ha! this comes
      from no peaceful land&mdash;they too have their feuds. Neville, begone; I
      must peruse these tidings alone, and at leisure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Neville withdrew accordingly, and Richard was soon absorbed in the
      melancholy details which had been conveyed to him from England, concerning
      the factions that were tearing to pieces his native dominions&mdash;the
      disunion of his brothers John and Geoffrey, and the quarrels of both with
      the High Justiciary Longchamp, Bishop of Ely&mdash;the oppressions
      practised by the nobles upon the peasantry, and rebellion of the latter
      against their masters, which had produced everywhere scenes of discord,
      and in some instances the effusion of blood. Details of incidents
      mortifying to his pride, and derogatory from his authority, were
      intermingled with the earnest advice of his wisest and most attached
      counsellors that he should presently return to England, as his presence
      offered the only hope of saving the Kingdom from all the horrors of civil
      discord, of which France and Scotland were likely to avail themselves.
      Filled with the most painful anxiety, Richard read, and again read, the
      ill-omened letters; compared the intelligence which some of them contained
      with the same facts as differently stated in others; and soon became
      totally insensible to whatever was passing around him, although seated,
      for the sake of coolness, close to the entrance of his tent, and having
      the curtains withdrawn, so that he could see and be seen by the guards and
      others who were stationed without.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deeper in the shadow of the pavilion, and busied with the task his new
      master had imposed, sat the Nubian slave, with his back rather turned
      towards the King. He had finished adjusting and cleaning the hauberk and
      brigandine, and was now busily employed on a broad pavesse, or buckler, of
      unusual size, and covered with steel-plating, which Richard often used in
      reconnoitring, or actually storming fortified places, as a more effectual
      protection against missile weapons than the narrow triangular shield used
      on horseback. This pavesse bore neither the royal lions of England, nor
      any other device, to attract the observation of the defenders of the walls
      against which it was advanced; the care, therefore, of the armourer was
      addressed to causing its surface to shine as bright as crystal, in which
      he seemed to be peculiarly successful. Beyond the Nubian, and scarce
      visible from without, lay the large dog, which might be termed his brother
      slave, and which, as if he felt awed by being transferred to a royal
      owner, was couched close to the side of the mute, with head and ears on
      the ground, and his limbs and tail drawn close around and under him.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the Monarch and his new attendant were thus occupied, another actor
      crept upon the scene, and mingled among the group of English yeomen, about
      a score of whom, respecting the unusually pensive posture and close
      occupation of their Sovereign, were, contrary to their wont, keeping a
      silent guard in front of his tent. It was not, however, more vigilant than
      usual. Some were playing at games of hazard with small pebbles, others
      spoke together in whispers of the approaching day of battle, and several
      lay asleep, their bulky limbs folded in their green mantles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid these careless warders glided the puny form of a little old Turk,
      poorly dressed like a marabout or santon of the desert&mdash;a sort of
      enthusiasts, who sometimes ventured into the camp of the Crusaders, though
      treated always with contumely, and often with violence. Indeed, the luxury
      and profligate indulgence of the Christian leaders had occasioned a motley
      concourse in their tents of musicians, courtesans, Jewish merchants,
      Copts, Turks, and all the varied refuse of the Eastern nations; so that
      the caftan and turban, though to drive both from the Holy Land was the
      professed object of the expedition, were, nevertheless, neither an
      uncommon nor an alarming sight in the camp of the Crusaders. When,
      however, the little insignificant figure we have described approached so
      nigh as to receive some interruption from the warders, he dashed his dusky
      green turban from his head, showed that his beard and eyebrows were shaved
      like those of a professed buffoon, and that the expression of his
      fantastic and writhen features, as well as of his little black eyes, which
      glittered like jet, was that of a crazed imagination.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dance, marabout,&rdquo; cried the soldiers, acquainted with the manners of
      these wandering enthusiasts, &ldquo;dance, or we will scourge thee with our
      bow-strings till thou spin as never top did under schoolboy's lash.&rdquo; Thus
      shouted the reckless warders, as much delighted at having a subject to
      tease as a child when he catches a butterfly, or a schoolboy upon
      discovering a bird's nest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The marabout, as if happy to do their behests, bounded from the earth, and
      spun his giddy round before them with singular agility, which, when
      contrasted with his slight and wasted figure, and diminutive appearance,
      made him resemble a withered leaf twirled round and round at the pleasure
      of the winter's breeze. His single lock of hair streamed upwards from his
      bald and shaven head, as if some genie upheld him by it; and indeed it
      seemed as if supernatural art were necessary to the execution of the wild,
      whirling dance, in which scarce the tiptoe of the performer was seen to
      touch the ground. Amid the vagaries of his performance he flew here and
      there, from one spot to another, still approaching, however, though almost
      imperceptibly, to the entrance of the royal tent; so that, when at length
      he sunk exhausted on the earth, after two or three bounds still higher
      than those which he had yet executed, he was not above thirty yards from
      the King's person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give him water,&rdquo; said one yeoman; &ldquo;they always crave a drink after their
      merry-go-round.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha, water, sayest thou, Long Allen?&rdquo; exclaimed another archer, with a
      most scornful emphasis on the despised element; &ldquo;how wouldst like such
      beverage thyself, after such a morrice dancing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil a water-drop he gets here,&rdquo; said a third. &ldquo;We will teach the
      light-footed old infidel to be a good Christian, and drink wine of
      Cyprus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; said a fourth; &ldquo;and in case he be restive, fetch thou Dick
      Hunter's horn, that he drenches his mare withal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A circle was instantly formed around the prostrate and exhausted dervise,
      and while one tall yeoman raised his feeble form from the ground, another
      presented to him a huge flagon of wine. Incapable of speech, the old man
      shook his head, and waved away from him with his hand the liquor forbidden
      by the Prophet. But his tormentors were not thus to be appeased.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The horn, the horn!&rdquo; exclaimed one. &ldquo;Little difference between a Turk and
      a Turkish horse, and we will use him conforming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Saint George, you will choke him!&rdquo; said Long Allen; &ldquo;and besides, it
      is a sin to throw away upon a heathen dog as much wine as would serve a
      good Christian for a treble night-cap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou knowest not the nature of these Turks and pagans, Long Allen,&rdquo;
       replied Henry Woodstall. &ldquo;I tell thee, man, that this flagon of Cyprus
      will set his brains a-spinning, just in the opposite direction that they
      went whirling in the dancing, and so bring him, as it were, to himself
      again. Choke? He will no more choke on it than Ben's black bitch on the
      pound of butter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for grudging it,&rdquo; said Tomalin Blacklees, &ldquo;why shouldst thou grudge
      the poor paynim devil a drop of drink on earth, since thou knowest he is
      not to have a drop to cool the tip of his tongue through a long eternity?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That were hard laws, look ye,&rdquo; said Long Allen, &ldquo;only for being a Turk,
      as his father was before him. Had he been Christian turned heathen, I
      grant you the hottest corner had been good winter quarters for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold thy peace, Long Allen,&rdquo; said Henry Woodstall. &ldquo;I tell thee that
      tongue of thine is not the shortest limb about thee, and I prophesy that
      it will bring thee into disgrace with Father Francis, as once about the
      black-eyed Syrian wench. But here comes the horn. Be active a bit, man,
      wilt thou, and just force open his teeth with the haft of thy
      dudgeon-dagger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold, hold&mdash;he is conformable,&rdquo; said Tomalin; &ldquo;see, see, he signs
      for the goblet&mdash;give him room, boys! OOP SEY ES, quoth the Dutchman&mdash;down
      it goes like lamb's-wool! Nay, they are true topers when once they begin&mdash;your
      Turk never coughs in his cup, or stints in his liquoring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, the dervise, or whatever he was, drank&mdash;or at least seemed
      to drink&mdash;the large flagon to the very bottom at a single pull; and
      when he took it from his lips after the whole contents were exhausted,
      only uttered, with a deep sigh, the words, ALLAH KERIM, or God is
      merciful. There was a laugh among the yeomen who witnessed this
      pottle-deep potation, so obstreperous as to rouse and disturb the King,
      who, raising his finger, said angrily, &ldquo;How, knaves, no respect, no
      observance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All were at once hushed into silence, well acquainted with the temper of
      Richard, which at some times admitted of much military familiarity, and at
      others exacted the most precise respect, although the latter humour was of
      much more rare occurrence. Hastening to a more reverent distance from the
      royal person, they attempted to drag along with them the marabout, who,
      exhausted apparently by previous fatigue, or overpowered by the potent
      draught he had just swallowed, resisted being moved from the spot, both
      with struggles and groans.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave him still, ye fools,&rdquo; whispered Long Allen to his mates; &ldquo;by Saint
      Christopher, you will make our Dickon go beside himself, and we shall have
      his dagger presently fly at our costards. Leave him alone; in less than a
      minute he will sleep like a dormouse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the same moment the Monarch darted another impatient glance to the
      spot, and all retreated in haste, leaving the dervise on the ground,
      unable, as it seemed, to stir a single limb or joint of his body. In a
      moment afterward all was as still and quiet as it had been before the
      intrusion.
    </p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &mdash;and wither'd Murder,
     Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
     Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
     With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
     Moves like a ghost.
                MACBETH.
</pre>
    <p>
      For the space of a quarter of an hour, or longer, after the incident
      related, all remained perfectly quiet in the front of the royal
      habitation. The King read and mused in the entrance of his pavilion;
      behind, and with his back turned to the same entrance, the Nubian slave
      still burnished the ample pavesse; in front of all, at a hundred paces
      distant, the yeomen of the guard stood, sat, or lay extended on the grass,
      attentive to their own sports, but pursuing them in silence, while on the
      esplanade betwixt them and the front of the tent lay, scarcely to be
      distinguished from a bundle of rags, the senseless form of the marabout.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Nubian had the advantage of a mirror from the brilliant reflection
      which the surface of the highly-polished shield now afforded, by means of
      which he beheld, to his alarm and surprise, that the marabout raised his
      head gently from the ground, so as to survey all around him, moving with a
      well-adjusted precaution which seemed entirely inconsistent with a state
      of ebriety. He couched his head instantly, as if satisfied he was
      unobserved, and began, with the slightest possible appearance of voluntary
      effort, to drag himself, as if by chance, ever nearer and nearer to the
      King, but stopping and remaining fixed at intervals, like the spider,
      which, moving towards her object, collapses into apparent lifelessness
      when she thinks she is the subject of observation. This species of
      movement appeared suspicious to the Ethiopian, who, on his part, prepared
      himself, as quietly as possible, to interfere, the instant that
      interference should seem to be necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      The marabout, meanwhile, glided on gradually and imperceptibly,
      serpent-like, or rather snail-like, till he was about ten yards distant
      from Richard's person, when, starting on his feet, he sprung forward with
      the bound of a tiger, stood at the King's back in less than an instant,
      and brandished aloft the cangiar, or poniard, which he had hidden in his
      sleeve. Not the presence of his whole army could have saved their heroic
      Monarch; but the motions of the Nubian had been as well calculated as
      those of the enthusiast, and ere the latter could strike, the former
      caught his uplifted arm. Turning his fanatical wrath upon what thus
      unexpectedly interposed betwixt him and his object, the Charegite, for
      such was the seeming marabout, dealt the Nubian a blow with the dagger,
      which, however, only grazed his arm, while the far superior strength of
      the Ethiopian easily dashed him to the ground. Aware of what had passed,
      Richard had now arisen, and with little more of surprise, anger, or
      interest of any kind in his countenance than an ordinary man would show in
      brushing off and crushing an intrusive wasp, caught up the stool on which
      he had been sitting, and exclaiming only, &ldquo;Ha, dog!&rdquo; dashed almost to
      pieces the skull of the assassin, who uttered twice, once in a loud, and
      once in a broken tone, the words ALLAH ACKBAR!&mdash;God is victorious&mdash;and
      expired at the King's feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye are careful warders,&rdquo; said Richard to his archers, in a tone of
      scornful reproach, as, aroused by the bustle of what had passed, in terror
      and tumult they now rushed into his tent; &ldquo;watchful sentinels ye are, to
      leave me to do such hangman's work with my own hand. Be silent, all of
      you, and cease your senseless clamour!&mdash;saw ye never a dead Turk
      before? Here, cast that carrion out of the camp, strike the head from the
      trunk, and stick it on a lance, taking care to turn the face to Mecca,
      that he may the easier tell the foul impostor on whose inspiration he came
      hither how he has sped on his errand.&mdash;For thee, my swart and silent
      friend,&rdquo; he added, turning to the Ethiopian&mdash;&ldquo;but how's this? Thou
      art wounded&mdash;and with a poisoned weapon, I warrant me, for by force
      of stab so weak an animal as that could scarce hope to do more than raze
      the lion's hide.&mdash;Suck the poison from his wound one of you&mdash;the
      venom is harmless on the lips, though fatal when it mingles with the
      blood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The yeomen looked on each other confusedly and with hesitation, the
      apprehension of so strange a danger prevailing with those who feared no
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How now, sirrahs,&rdquo; continued the King, &ldquo;are you dainty-lipped, or do you
      fear death, that you daily thus?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not the death of a man,&rdquo; said Long Allen, to whom the King looked as he
      spoke; &ldquo;but methinks I would not die like a poisoned rat for the sake of a
      black chattel there, that is bought and sold in a market like a Martlemas
      ox.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His Grace speaks to men of sucking poison,&rdquo; muttered another yeoman, &ldquo;as
      if he said, 'Go to, swallow a gooseberry!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I never bade man do that which I would not do
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And without further ceremony, and in spite of the general expostulations
      of those around, and the respectful opposition of the Nubian himself, the
      King of England applied his lips to the wound of the black slave, treating
      with ridicule all remonstrances, and overpowering all resistance. He had
      no sooner intermitted his singular occupation, than the Nubian started
      from him, and casting a scarf over his arm, intimated by gestures, as firm
      in purpose as they were respectful in manner, his determination not to
      permit the Monarch to renew so degrading an employment. Long Allen also
      interposed, saying that, if it were necessary to prevent the King engaging
      again in a treatment of this kind, his own lips, tongue, and teeth were at
      the service of the negro (as he called the Ethiopian), and that he would
      eat him up bodily, rather than King Richard's mouth should again approach
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neville, who entered with other officers, added his remonstrances.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
&ldquo;Nay, nay, make not a needless halloo about a hart that the hounds have
lost, or a danger when it is over,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;The wound will be a
trifle, for the blood is scarce drawn&mdash;an angry cat had dealt a deeper
scratch. And for me, I have but to take a drachm of orvietan by way of
precaution, though it is needless.&rdquo;

 Thus spoke Richard, a little ashamed, perhaps, of his own
condescension, though sanctioned both by humanity and gratitude. But
when Neville continued to make remonstrances on the peril to his royal
person, the King imposed silence on him.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, I prithee&mdash;make no more of it. I did it but to show these
      ignorant, prejudiced knaves how they might help each other when these
      cowardly caitiffs come against us with sarbacanes and poisoned shafts.
      But,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;take thee this Nubian to thy quarters, Neville&mdash;I
      have changed my mind touching him&mdash;let him be well cared for. But
      hark in thine ear; see that he escapes thee not&mdash;there is more in him
      than seems. Let him have all liberty, so that he leave not the camp.&mdash;And
      you, ye beef-devouring, wine-swilling English mastiffs, get ye to your
      guard again, and be sure you keep it more warily. Think not you are now in
      your own land of fair play, where men speak before they strike, and shake
      hands ere they cut throats. Danger in our land walks openly, and with his
      blade drawn, and defies the foe whom he means to assault; but here he
      challenges you with a silk glove instead of a steel gauntlet, cuts your
      throat with the feather of a turtle-dove, stabs you with the tongue of a
      priest's brooch, or throttles you with the lace of my lady's boddice. Go
      to&mdash;keep your eyes open and your mouths shut&mdash;drink less, and
      look sharper about you; or I will place your huge stomachs on such short
      allowance as would pinch the stomach of a patient Scottish man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The yeomen, abashed and mortified, withdrew to their post, and Neville was
      beginning to remonstrate with his master upon the risk of passing over
      thus slightly their negligence upon their duty, and the propriety of an
      example in a case so peculiarly aggravated as the permitting one so
      suspicious as the marabout to approach within dagger's length of his
      person, when Richard interrupted him with, &ldquo;Speak not of it, Neville&mdash;wouldst
      thou have me avenge a petty risk to myself more severely than the loss of
      England's banner? It has been stolen&mdash;stolen by a thief, or delivered
      up by a traitor, and no blood has been shed for it.&mdash;My sable friend,
      thou art an expounder of mysteries, saith the illustrious Soldan&mdash;now
      would I give thee thine own weight in gold, if, by raising one still
      blacker than thyself or by what other means thou wilt, thou couldst show
      me the thief who did mine honour that wrong. What sayest thou, ha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mute seemed desirous to speak, but uttered only that imperfect sound
      proper to his melancholy condition; then folded his arms, looked on the
      King with an eye of intelligence, and nodded in answer to his question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How!&rdquo; said Richard, with joyful impatience. &ldquo;Wilt thou undertake to make
      discovery in this matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Nubian slave repeated the same motion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how shall we understand each other?&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;Canst thou
      write, good fellow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The slave again nodded in assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give him writing-tools,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;They were readier in my father's
      tent than mine; but they be somewhere about, if this scorching climate
      have not dried up the ink.&mdash;Why, this fellow is a jewel&mdash;a black
      diamond, Neville.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So please you, my liege,&rdquo; said Neville, &ldquo;if I might speak my poor mind,
      it were ill dealing in this ware. This man must be a wizard, and wizards
      deal with the Enemy, who hath most interest to sow tares among the wheat,
      and bring dissension into our councils, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, Neville,&rdquo; said Richard. &ldquo;Hello to your northern hound when he is
      close on the haunch of the deer, and hope to recall him, but seek not to
      stop Plantagenet when he hath hope to retrieve his honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The slave, who during this discussion had been writing, in which art he
      seemed skilful, now arose, and pressing what he had written to his brow,
      prostrated himself as usual, ere he delivered it into the King's hands.
      The scroll was in French, although their intercourse had hitherto been
      conducted by Richard in the lingua franca.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Richard, the conquering and invincible King of England, this from the
      humblest of his slaves. Mysteries are the sealed caskets of Heaven, but
      wisdom may devise means to open the lock. Were your slave stationed where
      the leaders of the Christian host were made to pass before him in order,
      doubt nothing that if he who did the injury whereof my King complains
      shall be among the number, he may be made manifest in his iniquity, though
      it be hidden under seven veils.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, by Saint George!&rdquo; said King Richard, &ldquo;thou hast spoken most
      opportunely.&mdash;Neville, thou knowest that when we muster our troops
      to-morrow the princes have agreed that, to expiate the affront offered to
      England in the theft of her banner, the leaders should pass our new
      standard as it floats on Saint George's Mount, and salute it with formal
      regard. Believe me, the secret traitor will not dare to absent himself
      from an expurgation so solemn, lest his very absence should be matter of
      suspicion. There will we place our sable man of counsel, and if his art
      can detect the villain, leave me to deal with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My liege,&rdquo; said Neville, with the frankness of an English baron, &ldquo;beware
      what work you begin. Here is the concord of our holy league unexpectedly
      renewed&mdash;will you, upon such suspicion as a negro slave can instil,
      tear open wounds so lately closed? Or will you use the solemn procession,
      adopted for the reparation of your honour and establishment of unanimity
      amongst the discording princes, as the means of again finding out new
      cause of offence, or reviving ancient quarrels? It were scarce too strong
      to say this were a breach of the declaration your Grace made to the
      assembled Council of the Crusade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neville,&rdquo; said the King, sternly interrupting him, &ldquo;thy zeal makes thee
      presumptuous and unmannerly. Never did I promise to abstain from taking
      whatever means were most promising to discover the infamous author of the
      attack on my honour. Ere I had done so, I would have renounced my kingdom,
      my life. All my declarations were under this necessary and absolute
      qualification;&mdash;only, if Austria had stepped forth and owned the
      injury like a man, I proffered, for the sake of Christendom, to have
      forgiven HIM.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; continued the baron anxiously, &ldquo;what hope that this juggling slave
      of Saladin will not palter with your Grace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, Neville,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;thou thinkest thyself mighty wise, and
      art but a fool. Mind thou my charge touching this fellow; there is more in
      him than thy Westmoreland wit can fathom.&mdash;And thou, smart and
      silent, prepare to perform the feat thou hast promised, and, by the word
      of a King, thou shalt choose thine own recompense.&mdash;Lo, he writes
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mute accordingly wrote and delivered to the King, with the same form
      as before, another slip of paper, containing these words, &ldquo;The will of the
      King is the law to his slave; nor doth it become him to ask guerdon for
      discharge of his devoir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;GUERDON and DEVOIR!&rdquo; said the King, interrupting himself as he read, and
      speaking to Neville in the English tongue with some emphasis on the words.
      &ldquo;These Eastern people will profit by the Crusaders&mdash;they are
      acquiring the language of chivalry! And see, Neville, how discomposed that
      fellow looks! were it not for his colour he would blush. I should not
      think it strange if he understood what I say&mdash;they are perilous
      linguists.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor slave cannot endure your Grace's eye,&rdquo; said Neville; &ldquo;it is
      nothing more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but,&rdquo; continued the King, striking the paper with his finger as he
      proceeded, &ldquo;this bold scroll proceeds to say that our trusty mute is
      charged with a message from Saladin to the Lady Edith Plantagenet, and
      craves means and opportunity to deliver it. What thinkest thou of a
      request so modest&mdash;ha, Neville?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot say,&rdquo; said Neville, &ldquo;how such freedom may relish with your
      Grace; but the lease of the messenger's neck would be a short one, who
      should carry such a request to the Soldan on the part of your Majesty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, I thank Heaven that I covet none of his sunburnt beauties,&rdquo; said
      Richard; &ldquo;and for punishing this fellow for discharging his master's
      errand, and that when he has just saved my life&mdash;methinks it were
      something too summary. I'll tell thee, Neville, a secret; for although our
      sable and mute minister be present, he cannot, thou knowest, tell it over
      again, even if he should chance to understand us. I tell thee that, for
      this fortnight past, I have been under a strange spell, and I would I were
      disenchanted. There has no sooner any one done me good service, but, lo
      you, he cancels his interest in me by some deep injury; and, on the other
      hand, he who hath deserved death at my hands for some treachery or some
      insult, is sure to be the very person of all others who confers upon me
      some obligation that overbalances his demerits, and renders respite of his
      sentence a debt due from my honour. Thus, thou seest, I am deprived of the
      best part of my royal function, since I can neither punish men nor reward
      them. Until the influence of this disqualifying planet be passed away, I
      will say nothing concerning the request of this our sable attendant, save
      that it is an unusually bold one, and that his best chance of finding
      grace in our eyes will be to endeavour to make the discovery which he
      proposes to achieve in our behalf. Meanwhile, Neville, do thou look well
      to him, and let him be honourably cared for. And hark thee once more,&rdquo; he
      said, in a low whisper, &ldquo;seek out yonder hermit of Engaddi, and bring him
      to me forthwith, be he saint or savage, madman or sane. Let me see him
      privately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Neville retired from the royal tent, signing to the Nubian to follow him,
      and much surprised at what he had seen and heard, and especially at the
      unusual demeanour of the King. In general, no task was so easy as to
      discover Richard's immediate course of sentiment and feeling, though it
      might, in some cases, be difficult to calculate its duration; for no
      weathercock obeyed the changing wind more readily than the King his gusts
      of passion. But on the present occasion his manner seemed unusually
      constrained and mysterious; nor was it easy to guess whether displeasure
      or kindness predominated in his conduct towards his new dependant, or in
      the looks with which, from time to time, he regarded him. The ready
      service which the King had rendered to counteract the bad effects of the
      Nubian's wound might seem to balance the obligation conferred on him by
      the slave when he intercepted the blow of the assassin; but it seemed, as
      a much longer account remained to be arranged between them, that the
      Monarch was doubtful whether the settlement might leave him, upon the
      whole, debtor or creditor, and that, therefore, he assumed in the meantime
      a neutral demeanour, which might suit with either character. As for the
      Nubian, by whatever means he had acquired the art of writing the European
      languages, the King remained convinced that the English tongue at least
      was unknown to him, since, having watched him closely during the last part
      of the interview, he conceived it impossible for any one understanding a
      conversation, of which he was himself the subject, to have so completely
      avoided the appearance of taking an interest in it.
    </p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Who's there!&mdash;Approach&mdash;'tis kindly done&mdash;
     My learned physician and a friend.
              SIR EUSTACE GREY.
</pre>
    <p>
      Our narrative retrogrades to a period shortly previous to the incidents
      last mentioned, when, as the reader must remember, the unfortunate Knight
      of the Leopard, bestowed upon the Arabian physician by King Richard,
      rather as a slave than in any other capacity, was exiled from the camp of
      the Crusaders, in whose ranks he had so often and so brilliantly
      distinguished himself. He followed his new master&mdash;for so he must now
      term the Hakim&mdash;to the Moorish tents which contained his retinue and
      his property, with the stupefied feelings of one who, fallen from the
      summit of a precipice, and escaping unexpectedly with life, is just able
      to drag himself from the fatal spot, but without the power of estimating
      the extent of the damage which he has sustained. Arrived at the tent, he
      threw himself, without speech of any kind, upon a couch of dressed
      buffalo's hide, which was pointed out to him by his conductor, and hiding
      his face betwixt his hands, groaned heavily, as if his heart were on the
      point of bursting. The physician heard him, as he was giving orders to his
      numerous domestics to prepare for their departure the next morning before
      daybreak, and, moved with compassion, interrupted his occupation to sit
      down, cross-legged, by the side of his couch, and administer comfort
      according to the Oriental manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;be of good comfort; for what saith the poet&mdash;it
      is better that a man should be the servant of a kind master than the slave
      of his own wild passions. Again, be of good courage; because, whereas
      Ysouf Ben Yagoube was sold to a king by his brethren, even to Pharaoh,
      King of Egypt, thy king hath, on the other hand, bestowed thee on one who
      will be to thee as a brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth made an effort to thank the Hakim, but his heart was too full,
      and the indistinct sounds which accompanied his abortive attempts to reply
      induced the kind physician to desist from his premature endeavours at
      consolation. He left his new domestic, or guest, in quiet, to indulge his
      sorrows, and having commanded all the necessary preparations for their
      departure on the morning, sat down upon the carpet of the tent, and
      indulged himself in a moderate repast. After he had thus refreshed
      himself, similar viands were offered to the Scottish knight; but though
      the slaves let him understand that the next day would be far advanced ere
      they would halt for the purpose of refreshment, Sir Kenneth could not
      overcome the disgust which he felt against swallowing any nourishment, and
      could be prevailed upon to taste nothing, saving a draught of cold water.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was awake long after his Arab host had performed his usual devotions
      and betaken himself to his repose; nor had sleep visited him at the hour
      of midnight, when a movement took place among the domestics, which, though
      attended with no speech, and very little noise, made him aware they were
      loading the camels and preparing for departure. In the course of these
      preparations, the last person who was disturbed, excepting the physician
      himself, was the knight of Scotland, whom, about three in the morning, a
      sort of major-domo, or master of the household, acquainted that he must
      arise. He did so, without further answer, and followed him into the
      moonlight, where stood the camels, most of which were already loaded, and
      one only remained kneeling until its burden should be completed.
    </p>
    <p>
      A little apart from the camels stood a number of horses ready bridled and
      saddled, and the Hakim himself, coming forth, mounted on one of them with
      as much agility as the grave decorum of his character permitted, and
      directed another, which he pointed out, to be led towards Sir Kenneth. An
      English officer was in attendance, to escort them through the camp of the
      Crusaders, and to ensure their leaving it in safety; and all was ready for
      their departure. The pavilion which they had left was, in the meanwhile,
      struck with singular dispatch, and the tent-poles and coverings composed
      the burden of the last camel&mdash;when the physician, pronouncing
      solemnly the verse of the Koran, &ldquo;God be our guide, and Mohammed our
      protector, in the desert as in the watered field,&rdquo; the whole cavalcade was
      instantly in motion.
    </p>
    <p>
      In traversing the camp, they were challenged by the various sentinels who
      maintained guard there, and suffered to proceed in silence, or with a
      muttered curse upon their prophet, as they passed the post of some more
      zealous Crusader. At length the last barriers were left behind them, and
      the party formed themselves for the march with military precaution. Two or
      three horsemen advanced in front as a vanguard; one or two remained a
      bow-shot in the rear; and, wherever the ground admitted, others were
      detached to keep an outlook on the flanks. In this manner they proceeded
      onward; while Sir Kenneth, looking back on the moonlit camp, might now
      indeed seem banished, deprived at once of honour and of liberty, from the
      glimmering banners under which he had hoped to gain additional renown, and
      the tented dwellings of chivalry, of Christianity, and&mdash;of Edith
      Plantagenet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Hakim, who rode by his side, observed, in his usual tone of
      sententious consolation, &ldquo;It is unwise to look back when the journey lieth
      forward;&rdquo; and as he spoke, the horse of the knight made such a perilous
      stumble as threatened to add a practical moral to the tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      The knight was compelled by this hint to give more attention to the
      management of his steed, which more than once required the assistance and
      support of the check-bridle, although, in other respects, nothing could be
      more easy at once, and active, than the ambling pace at which the animal
      (which was a mare) proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The conditions of that horse,&rdquo; observed the sententious physician, &ldquo;are
      like those of human fortune&mdash;seeing that, amidst his most swift and
      easy pace, the rider must guard himself against a fall, and that it is
      when prosperity is at the highest that our prudence should be awake and
      vigilant to prevent misfortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The overloaded appetite loathes even the honeycomb, and it is scarce a
      wonder that the knight, mortified and harassed with misfortunes and
      abasement, became something impatient of hearing his misery made, at every
      turn, the ground of proverbs and apothegms, however just and apposite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks,&rdquo; he said, rather peevishly, &ldquo;I wanted no additional
      illustration of the instability of fortune though I would thank thee, Sir
      Hakim, for the choice of a steed for me, would the jade but stumble so
      effectually as at once to break my neck and her own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; answered the Arab sage, with imperturbable gravity, &ldquo;thou
      speakest as one of the foolish. Thou sayest in thy heart that the sage
      should have given you, as his guest, the younger and better horse, and
      reserved the old one for himself. But know that the defects of the older
      steed may be compensated by the energies of the young rider, whereas the
      violence of the young horse requires to be moderated by the cold temper of
      the older.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So spoke the sage; but neither to this observation did Sir Kenneth return
      any answer which could lead to a continuance of their conversation, and
      the physician, wearied, perhaps, of administering comfort to one who would
      not be comforted, signed to one of his retinue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hassan,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;hast thou nothing wherewith to beguile the way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hassan, story-teller and poet by profession, spurred up, upon this
      summons, to exercise his calling. &ldquo;Lord of the palace of life,&rdquo; he said,
      addressing the physician, &ldquo;thou, before whom the angel Azrael spreadeth
      his wings for flight&mdash;thou, wiser than Solimaun Ben Daoud, upon whose
      signet was inscribed the REAL NAME which controls the spirits of the
      elements&mdash;forbid it, Heaven, that while thou travellest upon the
      track of benevolence, bearing healing and hope wherever thou comest, thine
      own course should be saddened for lack of the tale and of the song.
      Behold, while thy servant is at thy side, he will pour forth the treasures
      of his memory, as the fountain sendeth her stream beside the pathway, for
      the refreshment or him that walketh thereon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After this exordium, Hassan uplifted his voice, and began a tale of love
      and magic, intermixed with feats of warlike achievement, and ornamented
      with abundant quotations from the Persian poets, with whose compositions
      the orator seemed familiar. The retinue of the physician, such excepted as
      were necessarily detained in attendance on the camels, thronged up to the
      narrator, and pressed as close as deference for their master permitted, to
      enjoy the delight which the inhabitants of the East have ever derived from
      this species of exhibition.
    </p>
    <p>
      At another time, notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge of the language,
      Sir Kenneth might have been interested in the recitation, which, though
      dictated by a more extravagant imagination, and expressed in more inflated
      and metaphorical language, bore yet a strong resemblance to the romances
      of chivalry then so fashionable in Europe. But as matters stood with him,
      he was scarcely even sensible that a man in the centre of the cavalcade
      recited and sung, in a low tone, for nearly two hours, modulating his
      voice to the various moods of passion introduced into the tale, and
      receiving, in return, now low murmurs of applause, now muttered
      expressions of wonder, now sighs and tears, and sometimes, what it was far
      more difficult to extract from such an audience, a tribute of smiles, and
      even laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the recitation, the attention of the exile, however abstracted by
      his own deep sorrow, was occasionally awakened by the low wail of a dog,
      secured in a wicker enclosure suspended on one of the camels, which, as an
      experienced woodsman, he had no hesitation in recognizing to be that of
      his own faithful hound; and from the plaintive tone of the animal, he had
      no doubt that he was sensible of his master's vicinity, and, in his way,
      invoking his assistance for liberty and rescue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! poor Roswal,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;thou callest for aid and sympathy upon one
      in stricter bondage than thou thyself art. I will not seem to heed thee or
      return thy affection, since it would serve but to load our parting with
      yet more bitterness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus passed the hours of night and the space of dim hazy dawn which forms
      the twilight of a Syrian morning. But when the very first line of the
      sun's disk began to rise above the level horizon, and when the very first
      level ray shot glimmering in dew along the surface of the desert, which
      the travellers had now attained, the sonorous voice of El Hakim himself
      overpowered and cut short the narrative of the tale-teller, while he
      caused to resound along the sands the solemn summons, which the muezzins
      thunder at morning from the minaret of every mosque.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To prayer&mdash;to prayer! God is the one God.&mdash;To prayer&mdash;to
      prayer! Mohammed is the Prophet of God.&mdash;To prayer&mdash;to prayer!
      Time is flying from you.&mdash;To prayer&mdash;to prayer! Judgment is
      drawing nigh to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In an instant each Moslem cast himself from his horse, turned his face
      towards Mecca, and performed with sand an imitation of those ablutions,
      which were elsewhere required to be made with water, while each
      individual, in brief but fervent ejaculations, recommended himself to the
      care, and his sins to the forgiveness, of God and the Prophet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Sir Kenneth, whose reason at once and prejudices were offended by
      seeing his companions in that which he considered as an act of idolatry,
      could not help respecting the sincerity of their misguided zeal, and being
      stimulated by their fervour to apply supplications to Heaven in a purer
      form, wondering, meanwhile, what new-born feelings could teach him to
      accompany in prayer, though with varied invocation, those very Saracens,
      whose heathenish worship he had conceived a crime dishonourable to the
      land in which high miracles had been wrought, and where the day-star of
      redemption had arisen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The act of devotion, however, though rendered in such strange society,
      burst purely from his natural feelings of religious duty, and had its
      usual effect in composing the spirits which had been long harassed by so
      rapid a succession of calamities. The sincere and earnest approach of the
      Christian to the throne of the Almighty teaches the best lesson of
      patience under affliction; since wherefore should we mock the Deity with
      supplications, when we insult him by murmuring under His decrees? or how,
      while our prayers have in every word admitted the vanity and nothingness
      of the things of time in comparison to those of eternity, should we hope
      to deceive the Searcher of Hearts, by permitting the world and worldly
      passions to reassume the reins even immediately after a solemn address to
      Heaven! But Sir Kenneth was not of these. He felt himself comforted and
      strengthened, and better prepared to execute or submit to whatever his
      destiny might call upon him to do or to suffer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the party of Saracens regained their saddles, and continued
      their route, and the tale-teller, Hassan, resumed the thread of his
      narrative; but it was no longer to the same attentive audience. A
      horseman, who had ascended some high ground on the right hand of the
      little column, had returned on a speedy gallop to El Hakim, and
      communicated with him. Four or five more cavaliers had then been
      dispatched, and the little band, which might consist of about twenty or
      thirty persons, began to follow them with their eyes, as men from whose
      gestures, and advance or retreat, they were to augur good or evil. Hassan,
      finding his audience inattentive, or being himself attracted by the
      dubious appearances on the flank, stinted in his song; and the march
      became silent, save when a camel-driver called out to his patient charge,
      or some anxious follower of the Hakim communicated with his next neighbour
      in a hurried and low whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      This suspense continued until they had rounded a ridge, composed of
      hillocks of sand, which concealed from their main body the object that had
      created this alarm among their scouts. Sir Kenneth could now see, at the
      distance of a mile or more, a dark object moving rapidly on the bosom of
      the desert, which his experienced eye recognized for a party of cavalry,
      much superior to their own in numbers, and, from the thick and frequent
      flashes which flung back the level beams of the rising sun, it was plain
      that these were Europeans in their complete panoply.
    </p>
    <p>
      The anxious looks which the horsemen of El Hakim now cast upon their
      leader seemed to indicate deep apprehension; while he, with gravity as
      undisturbed as when he called his followers to prayer, detached two of his
      best-mounted cavaliers, with instructions to approach as closely as
      prudence permitted to these travellers of the desert, and observe more
      minutely their numbers, their character, and, if possible, their purpose.
      The approach of danger, or what was feared as such, was like a stimulating
      draught to one in apathy, and recalled Sir Kenneth to himself and his
      situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What fear you from these Christian horsemen, for such they seem?&rdquo; he said
      to the Hakim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fear!&rdquo; said El Hakim, repeating the word disdainfully. &ldquo;The sage fears
      nothing but Heaven, but ever expects from wicked men the worst which they
      can do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are Christians,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;and it is the time of truce&mdash;why
      should you fear a breach of faith?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are the priestly soldiers of the Temple,&rdquo; answered El Hakim, &ldquo;whose
      vow limits them to know neither truce nor faith with the worshippers of
      Islam. May the Prophet blight them, both root, branch, and twig! Their
      peace is war, and their faith is falsehood. Other invaders of Palestine
      have their times and moods of courtesy. The lion Richard will spare when
      he has conquered, the eagle Philip will close his wing when he has
      stricken a prey, even the Austrian bear will sleep when he is gorged; but
      this horde of ever-hungry wolves know neither pause nor satiety in their
      rapine. Seest thou not that they are detaching a party from their main
      body, and that they take an eastern direction? Yon are their pages and
      squires, whom they train up in their accursed mysteries, and whom, as
      lighter mounted, they send to cut us off from our watering-place. But they
      will be disappointed. I know the war of the desert yet better than they.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke a few words to his principal officer, and his whole demeanour and
      countenance was at once changed from the solemn repose of an Eastern sage
      accustomed more to contemplation than to action, into the prompt and proud
      expression of a gallant soldier whose energies are roused by the near
      approach of a danger which he at once foresees and despises.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Sir Kenneth's eyes the approaching crisis had a different aspect, and
      when Adonbec said to him, &ldquo;Thou must tarry close by my side,&rdquo; he answered
      solemnly in the negative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yonder,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;are my comrades in arms&mdash;the men in whose society
      I have vowed to fight or fall. On their banner gleams the sign of our most
      blessed redemption&mdash;I cannot fly from the Cross in company with the
      Crescent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fool!&rdquo; said the Hakim; &ldquo;their first action would be to do thee to death,
      were it only to conceal their breach of the truce.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of that I must take my chance,&rdquo; replied Sir Kenneth; &ldquo;but I wear not the
      bonds of the infidels an instant longer than I can cast them from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then will I compel thee to follow me,&rdquo; said El Hakim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Compel!&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth angrily. &ldquo;Wert thou not my benefactor, or
      one who has showed will to be such, and were it not that it is to thy
      confidence I owe the freedom of these hands, which thou mightst have
      loaded with fetters, I would show thee that, unarmed as I am, compulsion
      would be no easy task.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, enough,&rdquo; replied the Arabian physician, &ldquo;we lose time even when
      it is becoming precious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he threw his arm aloft, and uttered a loud and shrill cry, as a
      signal to his retinue, who instantly dispersed themselves on the face of
      the desert, in as many different directions as a chaplet of beads when the
      string is broken. Sir Kenneth had no time to note what ensued; for, at the
      same instant, the Hakim seized the rein of his steed, and putting his own
      to its mettle, both sprung forth at once with the suddenness of light, and
      at a pitch of velocity which almost deprived the Scottish knight of the
      power of respiration, and left him absolutely incapable, had he been
      desirous, to have checked the career of his guide. Practised as Sir
      Kenneth was in horsemanship from his earliest youth, the speediest horse
      he had ever mounted was a tortoise in comparison to those of the Arabian
      sage. They spurned the sand from behind them; they seemed to devour the
      desert before them; miles flew away with minutes&mdash;and yet their
      strength seemed unabated, and their respiration as free as when they first
      started upon the wonderful race. The motion, too, as easy as it was swift,
      seemed more like flying through the air than riding on the earth, and was
      attended with no unpleasant sensation, save the awe naturally felt by one
      who is moving at such astonishing speed, and the difficulty of breathing
      occasioned by their passing through the air so rapidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until after an hour of this portentous motion, and when all
      human pursuit was far, far behind, that the Hakim at length relaxed his
      speed, and, slackening the pace of the horses into a hand-gallop, began,
      in a voice as composed and even as if he had been walking for the last
      hour, a descant upon the excellence of his coursers to the Scot, who,
      breathless, half blind, half deaf, and altogether giddy; from the rapidity
      of this singular ride, hardly comprehended the words which flowed so
      freely from his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These horses,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;are of the breed called the Winged, equal in
      speed to aught excepting the Borak of the Prophet. They are fed on the
      golden barley of Yemen, mixed with spices and with a small portion of
      dried sheep's flesh. Kings have given provinces to possess them, and their
      age is active as their youth. Thou, Nazarene, art the first, save a true
      believer, that ever had beneath his loins one of this noble race, a gift
      of the Prophet himself to the blessed Ali, his kinsman and lieutenant,
      well called the Lion of God. Time lays his touch so lightly on these
      generous steeds, that the mare on which thou now sittest has seen five
      times five years pass over her, yet retains her pristine speed and vigour,
      only that in the career the support of a bridle, managed by a hand more
      experienced than thine, hath now become necessary. May the Prophet be
      blessed, who hath bestowed on the true believers the means of advance and
      retreat, which causeth their iron-clothed enemies to be worn out with
      their own ponderous weight! How the horses of yonder dog Templars must
      have snorted and blown, when they had toiled fetlock-deep in the desert
      for one-twentieth part of the space which these brave steeds have left
      behind them, without one thick pant, or a drop of moisture upon their
      sleek and velvet coats!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish knight, who had now begun to recover his breath and powers of
      attention, could not help acknowledging in his heart the advantage
      possessed by these Eastern warriors in a race of animals, alike proper for
      advance or retreat, and so admirably adapted to the level and sandy
      deserts of Arabia and Syria. But he did not choose to augment the pride of
      the Moslem by acquiescing in his proud claim of superiority, and therefore
      suffered the conversation to drop, and, looking around him, could now, at
      the more moderate pace at which they moved, distinguish that he was in a
      country not unknown to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blighted borders and sullen waters of the Dead Sea, the ragged and
      precipitous chain of mountains arising on the left, the two or three palms
      clustered together, forming the single green speck on the bosom of the
      waste wilderness&mdash;objects which, once seen, were scarcely to be
      forgotten&mdash;showed to Sir Kenneth that they were approaching the
      fountain called the Diamond of the Desert, which had been the scene of his
      interview on a former occasion with the Saracen Emir Sheerkohf, or
      Ilderim. In a few minutes they checked their horses beside the spring, and
      the Hakim invited Sir Kenneth to descend from horseback and repose himself
      as in a place of safety. They unbridled their steeds, El Hakim observing
      that further care of them was unnecessary, since they would be speedily
      joined by some of the best mounted among his slaves, who would do what
      further was needful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Meantime,&rdquo; he said, spreading some food on the grass, &ldquo;eat and drink, and
      be not discouraged. Fortune may raise up or abase the ordinary mortal, but
      the sage and the soldier should have minds beyond her control.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Scottish knight endeavoured to testify his thanks by showing himself
      docile; but though he strove to eat out of complaisance, the singular
      contrast between his present situation and that which he had occupied on
      the same spot when the envoy of princes and the victor in combat, came
      like a cloud over his mind, and fasting, lassitude, and fatigue oppressed
      his bodily powers. El Hakim examined his hurried pulse, his red and
      inflamed eye, his heated hand, and his shortened respiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mind,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;grows wise by watching, but her sister the body, of
      coarser materials, needs the support of repose. Thou must sleep; and that
      thou mayest do so to refreshment, thou must take a draught mingled with
      this elixir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drew from his bosom a small crystal vial, cased in silver
      filigree-work, and dropped into a little golden drinking-cup a small
      portion of a dark-coloured fluid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is one of those productions which Allah hath sent on
      earth for a blessing, though man's weakness and wickedness have sometimes
      converted it into a curse. It is powerful as the wine-cup of the Nazarene
      to drop the curtain on the sleepless eye, and to relieve the burden of the
      overloaded bosom; but when applied to the purposes of indulgence and
      debauchery, it rends the nerves, destroys the strength, weakens the
      intellect, and undermines life. But fear not thou to use its virtues in
      the time of need, for the wise man warms him by the same firebrand with
      which the madman burneth the tent.&rdquo; [Some preparation of opium seems to be
      intimated.]
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen too much of thy skill, sage Hakim,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;to
      debate thine hest;&rdquo; and swallowed the narcotic, mingled as it was with
      some water from the spring, then wrapped him in the haik, or Arab cloak,
      which had been fastened to his saddle-pommel, and, according to the
      directions of the physician, stretched himself at ease in the shade to
      await the promised repose. Sleep came not at first, but in her stead a
      train of pleasing yet not rousing or awakening sensations. A state ensued
      in which, still conscious of his own identity and his own condition, the
      knight felt enabled to consider them not only without alarm and sorrow,
      but as composedly as he might have viewed the story of his misfortunes
      acted upon a stage&mdash;or rather as a disembodied spirit might regard
      the transactions of its past existence. From this state of repose,
      amounting almost to apathy respecting the past, his thoughts were carried
      forward to the future, which, in spite of all that existed to overcloud
      the prospect, glittered with such hues as, under much happier auspices,
      his unstimulated imagination had not been able to produce, even in its
      most exalted state. Liberty, fame, successful love, appeared to be the
      certain and not very distant prospect of the enslaved exile, the
      dishonoured knight, even of the despairing lover who had placed his hopes
      of happiness so far beyond the prospect of chance, in her wildest
      possibilities, serving to countenance his wishes. Gradually as the
      intellectual sight became overclouded, these gay visions became obscure,
      like the dying hues of sunset, until they were at last lost in total
      oblivion; and Sir Kenneth lay extended at the feet of El Hakim, to all
      appearance, but for his deep respiration, as inanimate a corpse as if life
      had actually departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves her hand,
     To change the face of the mysterious land;
     Till the bewildering scenes around us seem
     The Vain productions of a feverish dream.
        ASTOLPHO, A ROMANCE.
</pre>
    <p>
      When the Knight of the Leopard awoke from his long and profound repose, he
      found himself in circumstances so different from those in which he had
      lain down to sleep, that he doubted whether he was not still dreaming, or
      whether the scene had not been changed by magic. Instead of the damp
      grass, he lay on a couch of more than Oriental luxury; and some kind hands
      had, during his repose, stripped him of the cassock of chamois which he
      wore under his armour, and substituted a night-dress of the finest linen
      and a loose gown of silk. He had been canopied only by the palm-trees of
      the desert, but now he lay beneath a silken pavilion, which blazed with
      the richest colours of the Chinese loom, while a slight curtain of gauze,
      displayed around his couch, was calculated to protect his repose from the
      insects, to which he had, ever since his arrival in these climates, been a
      constant and passive prey. He looked around, as if to convince himself
      that he was actually awake; and all that fell beneath his eye partook of
      the splendour of his dormitory. A portable bath of cedar, lined with
      silver, was ready for use, and steamed with the odours which had been used
      in preparing it. On a small stand of ebony beside the couch stood a silver
      vase, containing sherbet of the most exquisite quality, cold as snow, and
      which the thirst that followed the use of the strong narcotic rendered
      peculiarly delicious. Still further to dispel the dregs of intoxication
      which it had left behind, the knight resolved to use the bath, and
      experienced in doing so a delightful refreshment. Having dried himself
      with napkins of the Indian wool, he would willingly have resumed his own
      coarse garments, that he might go forth to see whether the world was as
      much changed without as within the place of his repose. These, however,
      were nowhere to be seen, but in their place he found a Saracen dress of
      rich materials, with sabre and poniard, and all befitting an emir of
      distinction. He was able to suggest no motive to himself for this
      exuberance of care, excepting a suspicion that these attentions were
      intended to shake him in his religious profession&mdash;as indeed it was
      well known that the high esteem of the European knowledge and courage made
      the Soldan unbounded in his gifts to those who, having become his
      prisoners, had been induced to take the turban. Sir Kenneth, therefore,
      crossing himself devoutly, resolved to set all such snares at defiance;
      and that he might do so the more firmly, conscientiously determined to
      avail himself as moderately as possible of the attentions and luxuries
      thus liberally heaped upon him. Still, however, he felt his head oppressed
      and sleepy; and aware, too, that his undress was not fit for appearing
      abroad, he reclined upon the couch, and was again locked in the arms of
      slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this time his rest was not unbroken, for he was awakened by the voice
      of the physician at the door of the tent, inquiring after his health, and
      whether he had rested sufficiently. &ldquo;May I enter your tent?&rdquo; he concluded,
      &ldquo;for the curtain is drawn before the entrance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The master,&rdquo; replied Sir Kenneth, determined to show that he was not
      surprised into forgetfulness of his own condition, &ldquo;need demand no
      permission to enter the tent of the slave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if I come not as a master?&rdquo; said El Hakim, still without entering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The physician,&rdquo; answered the knight, &ldquo;hath free access to the bedside of
      his patient.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither come I now as a physician,&rdquo; replied El Hakim; &ldquo;and therefore I
      still request permission, ere I come under the covering of thy tent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whoever comes as a friend,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;and such thou hast
      hitherto shown thyself to me, the habitation of the friend is ever open to
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet once again,&rdquo; said the Eastern sage, after the periphrastical manner
      of his countrymen, &ldquo;supposing that I come not as a friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come as thou wilt,&rdquo; said the Scottish knight, somewhat impatient of this
      circumlocution; &ldquo;be what thou wilt&mdash;thou knowest well it is neither
      in my power nor my inclination to refuse thee entrance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come, then,&rdquo; said El Hakim, &ldquo;as your ancient foe, but a fair and a
      generous one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He entered as he spoke; and when he stood before the bedside of Sir
      Kenneth, the voice continued to be that of Adonbec, the Arabian physician,
      but the form, dress, and features were those of Ilderim of Kurdistan,
      called Sheerkohf. Sir Kenneth gazed upon him as if he expected the vision
      to depart, like something created by his imagination.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doth it so surprise thee,&rdquo; said Ilderim, &ldquo;and thou an approved warrior,
      to see that a soldier knows somewhat of the art of healing? I say to thee,
      Nazarene, that an accomplished cavalier should know how to dress his
      steed, as well as how to ride him; how to forge his sword upon the stithy,
      as well as how to use it in battle; how to burnish his arms, as well as
      how to wear them; and, above all, how to cure wounds, as well as how to
      inflict them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, the Christian knight repeatedly shut his eyes, and while they
      remained closed, the idea of the Hakim, with his long, flowing dark robes,
      high Tartar cap, and grave gestures was present to his imagination; but so
      soon as he opened them, the graceful and richly-gemmed turban, the light
      hauberk of steel rings entwisted with silver, which glanced brilliantly as
      it obeyed every inflection of the body, the features freed from their
      formal expression, less swarthy, and no longer shadowed by the mass of
      hair (now limited to a well-trimmed beard), announced the soldier and not
      the sage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Art thou still so much surprised,&rdquo; said the Emir, &ldquo;and hast thou walked
      in the world with such little observance, as to wonder that men are not
      always what they seem? Thou thyself&mdash;art thou what thou seemest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, by Saint Andrew!&rdquo; exclaimed the knight; &ldquo;for to the whole Christian
      camp I seem a traitor, and I know myself to be a true though an erring
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even so I judged thee,&rdquo; said Ilderim; &ldquo;and as we had eaten salt together,
      I deemed myself bound to rescue thee from death and contumely. But
      wherefore lie you still on your couch, since the sun is high in the
      heavens? or are the vestments which my sumpter-camels have afforded
      unworthy of your wearing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not unworthy, surely, but unfitting for it,&rdquo; replied the Scot. &ldquo;Give me
      the dress of a slave, noble Ilderim, and I will don it with pleasure; but
      I cannot brook to wear the habit of the free Eastern warrior with the
      turban of the Moslem.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nazarene,&rdquo; answered the Emir, &ldquo;thy nation so easily entertain suspicion
      that it may well render themselves suspected. Have I not told thee that
      Saladin desires no converts saving those whom the holy Prophet shall
      dispose to submit themselves to his law? violence and bribery are alike
      alien to his plan for extending the true faith. Hearken to me, my brother.
      When the blind man was miraculously restored to sight, the scales dropped
      from his eyes at the Divine pleasure. Think'st thou that any earthly leech
      could have removed them? No. Such mediciner might have tormented the
      patient with his instruments, or perhaps soothed him with his balsams and
      cordials, but dark as he was must the darkened man have remained; and it
      is even so with the blindness of the understanding. If there be those
      among the Franks who, for the sake of worldly lucre, have assumed the
      turban of the Prophet, and followed the laws of Islam, with their own
      consciences be the blame. Themselves sought out the bait; it was not flung
      to them by the Soldan. And when they shall hereafter be sentenced, as
      hypocrites, to the lowest gulf of hell, below Christian and Jew, magician
      and idolater, and condemned to eat the fruit of the tree Yacoun, which is
      the heads of demons, to themselves, not to the Soldan, shall their guilt
      and their punishment be attributed. Wherefore wear, without doubt or
      scruple, the vesture prepared for you, since, if you proceed to the camp
      of Saladin, your own native dress will expose you to troublesome
      observation, and perhaps to insult.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;IF I go to the camp of Saladin?&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, repeating the words of
      the Emir; &ldquo;alas! am I a free agent, and rather must I NOT go wherever your
      pleasure carries me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thine own will may guide thine own motions,&rdquo; said the Emir, &ldquo;as freely as
      the wind which moveth the dust of the desert in what direction it
      chooseth. The noble enemy who met and well-nigh mastered my sword cannot
      become my slave like him who has crouched beneath it. If wealth and power
      would tempt thee to join our people, I could ensure thy possessing them;
      but the man who refused the favours of the Soldan when the axe was at his
      head, will not, I fear, now accept them, when I tell him he has his free
      choice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Complete your generosity, noble Emir,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;by forbearing
      to show me a mode of requital which conscience forbids me to comply with.
      Permit me rather to express, as bound in courtesy, my gratitude for this
      most chivalrous bounty, this undeserved generosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say not undeserved,&rdquo; replied the Emir Ilderim. &ldquo;Was it not through thy
      conversation, and thy account of the beauties which grace the court of the
      Melech Ric, that I ventured me thither in disguise, and thereby procured a
      sight the most blessed that I have ever enjoyed&mdash;that I ever shall
      enjoy, until the glories of Paradise beam on my eyes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand you not,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, colouring alternately, and
      turning pale, as one who felt that the conversation was taking a tone of
      the most painful delicacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not understand me!&rdquo; exclaimed the Emir. &ldquo;If the sight I saw in the tent
      of King Richard escaped thine observation, I will account it duller than
      the edge of a buffoon's wooden falchion. True, thou wert under sentence of
      death at the time; but, in my case, had my head been dropping from the
      trunk, the last strained glances of my eyeballs had distinguished with
      delight such a vision of loveliness, and the head would have rolled itself
      towards the incomparable houris, to kiss with its quivering lips the hem
      of their vestments. Yonder royalty of England, who for her superior
      loveliness deserves to be Queen of the universe&mdash;what tenderness in
      her blue eye, what lustre in her tresses of dishevelled gold! By the tomb
      of the Prophet, I scarce think that the houri who shall present to me the
      diamond cup of immortality will deserve so warm a caress!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saracen,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth sternly, &ldquo;thou speakest of the wife of Richard
      of England, of whom men think not and speak not as a woman to be won, but
      as a Queen to be revered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cry you mercy,&rdquo; said the Saracen. &ldquo;I had forgotten your superstitious
      veneration for the sex, which you consider rather fit to be wondered at
      and worshipped than wooed and possessed. I warrant, since thou exactest
      such profound respect to yonder tender piece of frailty, whose every
      motion, step, and look bespeaks her very woman, less than absolute
      adoration must not be yielded to her of the dark tresses and nobly
      speaking eye. SHE indeed, I will allow, hath in her noble port and
      majestic mien something at once pure and firm; yet even she, when pressed
      by opportunity and a forward lover, would, I warrant thee, thank him in
      her heart rather for treating her as a mortal than as a goddess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Respect the kinswoman of Coeur de Lion!&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, in a tone of
      unrepressed anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Respect her!&rdquo; answered the Emir in scorn; &ldquo;by the Caaba, and if I do, it
      shall be rather as the bride of Saladin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The infidel Soldan is unworthy to salute even a spot that has been
      pressed by the foot of Edith Plantagenet!&rdquo; exclaimed the Christian,
      springing from his couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! what said the Giaour?&rdquo; exclaimed the Emir, laying his hand on his
      poniard hilt, while his forehead glowed like glancing copper, and the
      muscles of his lips and cheeks wrought till each curl of his beard seemed
      to twist and screw itself, as if alive with instinctive wrath. But the
      Scottish knight, who had stood the lion-anger of Richard, was unappalled
      at the tigerlike mood of the chafed Saracen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I have said,&rdquo; continued Sir Kenneth, with folded arms and dauntless
      look, &ldquo;I would, were my hands loose, maintain on foot or horseback against
      all mortals; and would hold it not the most memorable deed of my life to
      support it with my good broadsword against a score of these sickles and
      bodkins,&rdquo; pointing at the curved sabre and small poniard of the Emir.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen recovered his composure as the Christian spoke, so far as to
      withdraw his hand from his weapon, as if the motion had been without
      meaning, but still continued in deep ire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the sword of the Prophet,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;which is the key both of heaven
      and hell, he little values his own life, brother, who uses the language
      thou dost! Believe me, that were thine hands loose, as thou term'st it,
      one single true believer would find them so much to do that thou wouldst
      soon wish them fettered again in manacles of iron.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sooner would I wish them hewn off by the shoulder-blades!&rdquo; replied Sir
      Kenneth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well. Thy hands are bound at present,&rdquo; said the Saracen, in a more
      amicable tone&mdash;&ldquo;bound by thine own gentle sense of courtesy; nor have
      I any present purpose of setting them at liberty. We have proved each
      other's strength and courage ere now, and we may again meet in a fair
      field&mdash;and shame befall him who shall be the first to part from his
      foeman! But now we are friends, and I look for aid from thee rather than
      hard terms or defiances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We ARE friends,&rdquo; repeated the knight; and there was a pause, during which
      the fiery Saracen paced the tent, like the lion, who, after violent
      irritation, is said to take that method of cooling the distemperature of
      his blood, ere he stretches himself to repose in his den. The colder
      European remained unaltered in posture and aspect; yet he, doubtless, was
      also engaged in subduing the angry feelings which had been so unexpectedly
      awakened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us reason of this calmly,&rdquo; said the Saracen. &ldquo;I am a physician, as
      thou knowest, and it is written that he who would have his wound cured
      must not shrink when the leech probes and tests it. Seest thou, I am about
      to lay my finger on the sore. Thou lovest this kinswoman of the Melech
      Ric. Unfold the veil that shrouds thy thoughts&mdash;or unfold it not if
      thou wilt, for mine eyes see through its coverings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I LOVED her,&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth, after a pause, &ldquo;as a man loves
      Heaven's grace, and sued for her favour like a sinner for Heaven's
      pardon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you love her no longer?&rdquo; said the Saracen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas,&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;I am no longer worthy to love her. I pray
      thee cease this discourse&mdash;thy words are poniards to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me but a moment,&rdquo; continued Ilderim. &ldquo;When thou, a poor and
      obscure soldier, didst so boldly and so highly fix thine affection, tell
      me, hadst thou good hope of its issue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Love exists not without hope,&rdquo; replied the knight; &ldquo;but mine was as
      nearly allied to despair as that of the sailor swimming for his life, who,
      as he surmounts billow after billow, catches by intervals some gleam of
      the distant beacon, which shows him there is land in sight, though his
      sinking heart and wearied limbs assure him that he shall never reach it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said Ilderim, &ldquo;these hopes are sunk&mdash;that solitary light
      is quenched for ever?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For ever,&rdquo; answered Sir Kenneth, in the tone of an echo from the bosom of
      a ruined sepulchre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks,&rdquo; said the Saracen, &ldquo;if all thou lackest were some such distant
      meteoric glimpse of happiness as thou hadst formerly, thy beacon-light
      might be rekindled, thy hope fished up from the ocean in which it has
      sunk, and thou thyself, good knight, restored to the exercise and
      amusement of nourishing thy fantastic fashion upon a diet as unsubstantial
      as moonlight; for, if thou stood'st tomorrow fair in reputation as ever
      thou wert, she whom thou lovest will not be less the daughter of princes
      and the elected bride of Saladin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would it so stood,&rdquo; said the Scot, &ldquo;and if I did not&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped short, like a man who is afraid of boasting under circumstances
      which did not permit his being put to the test. The Saracen smiled as he
      concluded the sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wouldst challenge the Soldan to single combat?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I did,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth haughtily, &ldquo;Saladin's would neither be
      the first nor the best turban that I have couched lance at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but methinks the Soldan might regard it as too unequal a mode of
      perilling the chance of a royal bride and the event of a great war,&rdquo; said
      the Emir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He may be met with in the front of battle,&rdquo; said the knight, his eyes
      gleaming with the ideas which such a thought inspired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has been ever found there,&rdquo; said Ilderim; &ldquo;nor is it his wont to turn
      his horse's head from any brave encounter. But it was not of the Soldan
      that I meant to speak. In a word, if it will content thee to be placed in
      such reputation as may be attained by detection of the thief who stole the
      Banner of England, I can put thee in a fair way of achieving this task&mdash;that
      is, if thou wilt be governed; for what says Lokman, 'If the child would
      walk, the nurse must lead him; if the ignorant would understand, the wise
      must instruct.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thou art wise, Ilderim,&rdquo; said the Scot&mdash;&ldquo;wise though a Saracen,
      and generous though an infidel. I have witnessed that thou art both. Take,
      then, the guidance of this matter; and so thou ask nothing of me contrary
      to my loyalty and my Christian faith, I, will obey thee punctually. Do
      what thou hast said, and take my life when it is accomplished.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen thou to me, then,&rdquo; said the Saracen. &ldquo;Thy noble hound is now
      recovered, by the blessing of that divine medicine which healeth man and
      beast; and by his sagacity shall those who assailed him be discovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; said the knight, &ldquo;methinks I comprehend thee. I was dull not to
      think of this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But tell me,&rdquo; added the Emir, &ldquo;hast thou any followers or retainers in
      the camp by whom the animal may be known?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dismissed,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth, &ldquo;my old attendant, thy patient, with a
      varlet that waited on him, at the time when I expected to suffer death,
      giving him letters for my friends in Scotland; there are none other to
      whom the dog is familiar. But then my own person is well known&mdash;my
      very speech will betray me, in a camp where I have played no mean part for
      many months.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Both he and thou shalt be disguised, so as to escape even close
      examination. I tell thee,&rdquo; said the Saracen, &ldquo;that not thy brother in arms&mdash;not
      thy brother in blood&mdash;shall discover thee, if thou be guided by my
      counsels. Thou hast seen me do matters more difficult&mdash;he that can
      call the dying from the darkness of the shadow of death can easily cast a
      mist before the eyes of the living. But mark me: there is still the
      condition annexed to this service&mdash;that thou deliver a letter of
      Saladin to the niece of the Melech Ric, whose name is as difficult to our
      Eastern tongue and lips, as her beauty is delightful to our eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Kenneth paused before he answered, and the Saracen observing his
      hesitation, demanded of him, &ldquo;if he feared to undertake this message?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not if there were death in the execution,&rdquo; said Sir Kenneth. &ldquo;I do but
      pause to consider whether it consists with my honour to bear the letter of
      the Soldan, or with that of the Lady Edith to receive it from a heathen
      prince.&rdquo;
     </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0368m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0368m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0368.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the head of Mohammed, and by the honour of a soldier&mdash;by the tomb
      at Mecca, and by the soul of my father,&rdquo; said the Emir, &ldquo;I swear to thee
      that the letter is written in all honour and respect. The song of the
      nightingale will sooner blight the rose-bower she loves than will the
      words of the Soldan offend the ears of the lovely kinswoman of England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said the knight, &ldquo;I will bear the Soldan's letter faithfully, as
      if I were his born vassal&mdash;understanding, that beyond this simple act
      of service, which I will render with fidelity, from me of all men he can
      least expect mediation or advice in this his strange love-suit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saladin is noble,&rdquo; answered the Emir, &ldquo;and will not spur a generous horse
      to a leap which he cannot achieve. Come with me to my tent,&rdquo; he added,
      &ldquo;and thou shalt be presently equipped with a disguise as unsearchable as
      midnight, so thou mayest walk the camp of the Nazarenes as if thou hadst
      on thy finger the signet of Giaougi.&rdquo; [Perhaps the same with Gyges.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A grain of dust
     Soiling our cup, will make our sense reject
     Fastidiously the draught which we did thirst for;
     A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass,
     Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy.
     Even this small cause of anger and disgust
     Will break the bonds of amity 'mongst princes,
     And wreck their noblest purposes.
                  THE CRUSADE.
</pre>
    <p>
      The reader can now have little doubt who the Ethiopian slave really was,
      with what purpose he had sought Richard's camp, and wherefore and with
      what hope he now stood close to the person of that Monarch, as, surrounded
      by his valiant peers of England and Normandy, Coeur de Lion stood on the
      summit of Saint George's Mount, with the Banner of England by his side,
      borne by the most goodly person in the army, being his own natural
      brother, William with the Long Sword, Earl of Salisbury, the offspring of
      Henry the Second's amour with the celebrated Rosamond of Woodstock.
    </p>
    <p>
      From several expressions in the King's conversation with Neville on the
      preceding day, the Nubian was left in anxious doubt whether his disguise
      had not been penetrated, especially as that the King seemed to be aware in
      what manner the agency of the dog was expected to discover the thief who
      stole the banner, although the circumstance of such an animal's having
      been wounded on the occasion had been scarce mentioned in Richard's
      presence. Nevertheless, as the King continued to treat him in no other
      manner than his exterior required, the Nubian remained uncertain whether
      he was or was not discovered, and determined not to throw his disguise
      aside voluntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the powers of the various Crusading princes, arrayed under
      their royal and princely leaders, swept in long order around the base of
      the little mound; and as those of each different country passed by, their
      commanders advanced a step or two up the hill, and made a signal of
      courtesy to Richard and to the Standard of England, &ldquo;in sign of regard and
      amity,&rdquo; as the protocol of the ceremony heedfully expressed it, &ldquo;not of
      subjection or vassalage.&rdquo; The spiritual dignitaries, who in those days
      veiled not their bonnets to created being, bestowed on the King and his
      symbol of command their blessing instead of rendering obeisance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the long files marched on, and, diminished as they were by so many
      causes, appeared still an iron host, to whom the conquest of Palestine
      might seem an easy task. The soldiers, inspired by the consciousness of
      united strength, sat erect in their steel saddles; while it seemed that
      the trumpets sounded more cheerfully shrill, and the steeds, refreshed by
      rest and provender, chafed on the bit, and trod the ground more proudly.
      On they passed, troop after troop, banners waving, spears glancing, plumes
      dancing, in long perspective&mdash;a host composed of different nations,
      complexions, languages, arms, and appearances, but all fired, for the
      time, with the holy yet romantic purpose of rescuing the distressed
      daughter of Zion from her thraldom, and redeeming the sacred earth, which
      more than mortal had trodden, from the yoke of the unbelieving pagan. And
      it must be owned that if, in other circumstances, the species of courtesy
      rendered to the King of England by so many warriors, from whom he claimed
      no natural allegiance, had in it something that might have been thought
      humiliating, yet the nature and cause of the war was so fitted to his
      pre-eminently chivalrous character and renowned feats in arms, that claims
      which might elsewhere have been urged were there forgotten, and the brave
      did willing homage to the bravest, in an expedition where the most
      undaunted and energetic courage was necessary to success.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good King was seated on horseback about half way up the mount, a
      morion on his head, surmounted by a crown, which left his manly features
      exposed to public view, as, with cool and considerate eye, he perused each
      rank as it passed him, and returned the salutation of the leaders. His
      tunic was of sky-coloured velvet, covered with plates of silver, and his
      hose of crimson silk, slashed with cloth of gold. By his side stood the
      seeming Ethiopian slave, holding the noble dog in a leash, such as was
      used in woodcraft. It was a circumstance which attracted no notice, for
      many of the princes of the Crusade had introduced black slaves into their
      household, in imitation of the barbarous splendour of the Saracens. Over
      the King's head streamed the large folds of the banner, and, as he looked
      to it from time to time, he seemed to regard a ceremony, indifferent to
      himself personally, as important, when considered as atoning an indignity
      offered to the kingdom which he ruled. In the background, and on the very
      summit of the Mount, a wooden turret, erected for the occasion, held the
      Queen Berengaria and the principal ladies of the Court. To this the King
      looked from time to time; and then ever and anon his eyes were turned on
      the Nubian and the dog, but only when such leaders approached, as, from
      circumstances of previous ill-will, he suspected of being accessory to the
      theft of the standard, or whom he judged capable of a crime so mean.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0269m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0269m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0269.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Thus, he did not look in that direction when Philip Augustus of France
      approached at the head of his splendid troops of Gallic chivalry&mdash;-nay,
      he anticipated the motions of the French King, by descending the Mount as
      the latter came up the ascent, so that they met in the middle space, and
      blended their greetings so gracefully that it appeared they met in
      fraternal equality. The sight of the two greatest princes in Europe, in
      rank at once and power, thus publicly avowing their concord, called forth
      bursts of thundering acclaim from the Crusading host at many miles
      distance, and made the roving Arab scouts of the desert alarm the camp of
      Saladin with intelligence that the army of the Christians was in motion.
      Yet who but the King of kings can read the hearts of monarchs? Under this
      smooth show of courtesy, Richard nourished displeasure and suspicion
      against Philip, and Philip meditated withdrawing himself and his host from
      the army of the Cross, and leaving Richard to accomplish or fail in the
      enterprise with his own unassisted forces.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard's demeanour was different when the dark-armed knights and squires
      of the Temple chivalry approached&mdash;men with countenances bronzed to
      Asiatic blackness by the suns of Palestine, and the admirable state of
      whose horses and appointments far surpassed even that of the choicest
      troops of France and England. The King cast a hasty glance aside; but the
      Nubian stood quiet, and his trusty dog sat at his feet, watching, with a
      sagacious yet pleased look, the ranks which now passed before them. The
      King's look turned again on the chivalrous Templars, as the Grand Master,
      availing himself of his mingled character, bestowed his benediction on
      Richard as a priest, instead of doing him reverence as a military leader.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The misproud and amphibious caitiff puts the monk upon me,&rdquo; said Richard
      to the Earl of Salisbury. &ldquo;But, Longsword, we will let it pass. A
      punctilio must not lose Christendom the services of these experienced
      lances, because their victories have rendered them overweening. Lo you,
      here comes our valiant adversary, the Duke of Austria. Mark his manner and
      bearing, Longsword&mdash;and thou, Nubian, let the hound have full view of
      him. By Heaven, he brings his buffoons along with him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, whether from habit, or, which is more likely, to intimate
      contempt of the ceremonial he was about to comply with, Leopold was
      attended by his SPRUCH-SPRECHER and his jester; and as he advanced towards
      Richard, he whistled in what he wished to be considered as an indifferent
      manner, though his heavy features evinced the sullenness, mixed with the
      fear, with which a truant schoolboy may be seen to approach his master. As
      the reluctant dignitary made, with discomposed and sulky look, the
      obeisance required, the SPRUCH-SPRECHER shook his baton, and proclaimed,
      like a herald, that, in what he was now doing, the Archduke of Austria was
      not to be held derogating from the rank and privileges of a sovereign
      prince; to which the jester answered with a sonorous AMEN, which provoked
      much laughter among the bystanders.
    </p>
    <p>
      King Richard looked more than once at the Nubian and his dog; but the
      former moved not, nor did the latter strain at the leash, so that Richard
      said to the slave with some scorn, &ldquo;Thy success in this enterprise, my
      sable friend, even though thou hast brought thy hound's sagacity to back
      thine own, will not, I fear, place thee high in the rank of wizards, or
      much augment thy merits towards our person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Nubian answered, as usual, only by a lowly obeisance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the troops of the Marquis of Montserrat next passed in order
      before the King of England. That powerful and wily baron, to make the
      greater display of his forces, had divided them into two bodies. At the
      head of the first, consisting of his vassals and followers, and levied
      from his Syrian possessions, came his brother Enguerrand; and he himself
      followed, leading on a gallant band of twelve hundred Stradiots, a kind of
      light cavalry raised by the Venetians in their Dalmatian possessions, and
      of which they had entrusted the command to the Marquis, with whom the
      republic had many bonds of connection. These Stradiots were clothed in a
      fashion partly European, but partaking chiefly of the Eastern fashion.
      They wore, indeed, short hauberks, but had over them party-coloured tunics
      of rich stuffs, with large wide pantaloons and half-boots. On their heads
      were straight upright caps, similar to those of the Greeks; and they
      carried small round targets, bows and arrows, scimitars, and poniards.
      They were mounted on horses carefully selected, and well maintained at the
      expense of the State of Venice; their saddles and appointments resembled
      those of the Turks, and they rode in the same manner, with short stirrups
      and upon a high seat. These troops were of great use in skirmishing with
      the Arabs, though unable to engage in close combat, like the iron-sheathed
      men-at-arms of Western and Northern Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before this goodly band came Conrade, in the same garb with the Stradiots,
      but of such rich stuff that he seemed to blaze with gold and silver, and
      the milk-white plume fastened in his cap by a clasp of diamonds seemed
      tall enough to sweep the clouds. The noble steed which he reined bounded
      and caracoled, and displayed his spirit and agility in a manner which
      might have troubled a less admirable horseman than the Marquis, who
      gracefully ruled him with the one hand, while the other displayed the
      baton, whose predominancy over the ranks which he led seemed equally
      absolute. Yet his authority over the Stradiots was more in show than in
      substance; for there paced beside him, on an ambling palfrey of soberest
      mood, a little old man, dressed entirely in black, without beard or
      moustaches, and having an appearance altogether mean and insignificant
      when compared with the blaze of splendour around him. But this
      mean-looking old man was one of those deputies whom the Venetian
      government sent into camps to overlook the conduct of the generals to whom
      the leading was consigned, and to maintain that jealous system of espial
      and control which had long distinguished the policy of the republic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conrade, who, by cultivating Richard's humour, had attained a certain
      degree of favour with him, no sooner was come within his ken than the King
      of England descended a step or two to meet him, exclaiming, at the same
      time, &ldquo;Ha, Lord Marquis, thou at the head of the fleet Stradiots, and thy
      black shadow attending thee as usual, whether the sun shines or not! May
      not one ask thee whether the rule of the troops remains with the shadow or
      the substance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Conrade was commencing his reply with a smile, when Roswal, the noble
      hound, uttering a furious and savage yell, sprung forward. The Nubian, at
      the same time, slipped the leash, and the hound, rushing on, leapt upon
      Conrade's noble charger, and, seizing the Marquis by the throat, pulled
      him down from the saddle. The plumed rider lay rolling on the sand, and
      the frightened horse fled in wild career through the camp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy hound hath pulled down the right quarry, I warrant him,&rdquo; said the
      King to the Nubian, &ldquo;and I vow to Saint George he is a stag of ten tynes!
      Pluck the dog off; lest he throttle him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Ethiopian, accordingly, though not without difficulty, disengaged the
      dog from Conrade, and fastened him up, still highly excited, and
      struggling in the leash. Meanwhile many crowded to the spot, especially
      followers of Conrade and officers of the Stradiots, who, as they saw their
      leader lie gazing wildly on the sky, raised him up amid a tumultuary cry
      of &ldquo;Cut the slave and his hound to pieces!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the voice of Richard, loud and sonorous, was heard clear above all
      other exclamations. &ldquo;He dies the death who injures the hound! He hath but
      done his duty, after the sagacity with which God and nature have endowed
      the brave animal.&mdash;Stand forward for a false traitor, thou Conrade,
      Marquis of Montserrat! I impeach thee of treason.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Several of the Syrian leaders had now come up, and Conrade&mdash;vexation,
      and shame, and confusion struggling with passion in his manner and voice&mdash;exclaimed,
      &ldquo;What means this? With what am I charged? Why this base usage and these
      reproachful terms? Is this the league of concord which England renewed but
      so lately?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are the Princes of the Crusade turned hares or deers in the eyes of King
      Richard that he should slip hounds on them?&rdquo; said the sepulchral voice of
      the Grand Master of the Templars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be some singular accident&mdash;some fatal mistake,&rdquo; said Philip
      of France, who rode up at the same moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some deceit of the Enemy,&rdquo; said the Archbishop of Tyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A stratagem of the Saracens,&rdquo; cried Henry of Champagne. &ldquo;It were well to
      hang up the dog, and put the slave to the torture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let no man lay hand upon them,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;as he loves his own life!
      Conrade, stand forth, if thou darest, and deny the accusation which this
      mute animal hath in his noble instinct brought against thee, of injury
      done to him, and foul scorn to England!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never touched the banner,&rdquo; said Conrade hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy words betray thee, Conrade!&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;for how didst thou know,
      save from conscious guilt, that the question is concerning the banner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hast thou then not kept the camp in turmoil on that and no other score?&rdquo;
       answered Conrade; &ldquo;and dost thou impute to a prince and an ally a crime
      which, after all, was probably committed by some paltry felon for the sake
      of the gold thread? Or wouldst thou now impeach a confederate on the
      credit of a dog?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By this time the alarm was becoming general, so that Philip of France
      interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Princes and nobles,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you speak in presence of those whose
      swords will soon be at the throats of each other if they hear their
      leaders at such terms together. In the name of Heaven, let us draw off
      each his own troops into their separate quarters, and ourselves meet an
      hour hence in the Pavilion of Council to take some order in this new state
      of confusion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Content,&rdquo; said King Richard, &ldquo;though I should have liked to have
      interrogated that caitiff while his gay doublet was yet besmirched with
      sand. But the pleasure of France shall be ours in this matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The leaders separated as was proposed, each prince placing himself at the
      head of his own forces; and then was heard on all sides the crying of
      war-cries and the sounding of gathering-notes upon bugles and trumpets, by
      which the different stragglers were summoned to their prince's banner, and
      the troops were shortly seen in motion, each taking different routes
      through the camp to their own quarters. But although any immediate act of
      violence was thus prevented, yet the accident which had taken place dwelt
      on every mind; and those foreigners who had that morning hailed Richard as
      the worthiest to lead their army, now resumed their prejudices against his
      pride and intolerance, while the English, conceiving the honour of their
      country connected with the quarrel, of which various reports had gone
      about, considered the natives of other countries jealous of the fame of
      England and her King, and disposed to undermine it by the meanest arts of
      intrigue. Many and various were the rumours spread upon the occasion, and
      there was one which averred that the Queen and her ladies had been much
      alarmed by the tumult, and that one of them had swooned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Council assembled at the appointed hour. Conrade had in the meanwhile
      laid aside his dishonoured dress, and with it the shame and confusion
      which, in spite of his talents and promptitude, had at first overwhelmed
      him, owing to the strangeness of the accident and suddenness of the
      accusation. He was now robed like a prince; and entered the
      council-chamber attended by the Archduke of Austria, the Grand Masters
      both of the Temple and of the Order of Saint John, and several other
      potentates, who made a show of supporting him and defending his cause,
      chiefly perhaps from political motives, or because they themselves
      nourished a personal enmity against Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      This appearance of union in favour of Conrade was far from influencing the
      King of England. He entered the Council with his usual indifference of
      manner, and in the same dress in which he had just alighted from
      horseback. He cast a careless and somewhat scornful glance on the leaders,
      who had with studied affectation arranged themselves around Conrade as if
      owning his cause, and in the most direct terms charged Conrade of
      Montserrat with having stolen the Banner of England, and wounded the
      faithful animal who stood in its defence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conrade arose boldly to answer, and in despite, as he expressed himself,
      of man and brute, king or dog, avouched his innocence of the crime
      charged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother of England,&rdquo; said Philip, who willingly assumed the character of
      moderator of the assembly, &ldquo;this is an unusual impeachment. We do not hear
      you avouch your own knowledge of this matter, further than your belief
      resting upon the demeanour of this hound towards the Marquis of
      Montserrat. Surely the word of a knight and a prince should bear him out
      against the barking of a cur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Royal brother,&rdquo; returned Richard, &ldquo;recollect that the Almighty, who gave
      the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him
      with a nature noble and incapable of deceit. He forgets neither friend nor
      foe&mdash;remembers, and with accuracy, both benefit and injury. He hath a
      share of man's intelligence, but no share of man's falsehood. You may
      bribe a soldier to slay a man with his sword, or a witness to take life by
      false accusation; but you cannot make a hound tear his benefactor. He is
      the friend of man, save when man justly incurs his enmity. Dress yonder
      marquis in what peacock-robes you will, disguise his appearance, alter his
      complexion with drugs and washes, hide him amidst a hundred men,&mdash;I
      will yet pawn my sceptre that the hound detects him, and expresses his
      resentment, as you have this day beheld. This is no new incident, although
      a strange one. Murderers and robbers have been ere now convicted, and
      suffered death under such evidence, and men have said that the finger of
      God was in it. In thine own land, royal brother, and upon such an
      occasion, the matter was tried by a solemn duel betwixt the man and the
      dog, as appellant and defendant in a challenge of murder. The dog was
      victorious, the man was punished, and the crime was confessed. Credit me,
      royal brother, that hidden crimes have often been brought to light by the
      testimony even of inanimate substances, not to mention animals far
      inferior in instinctive sagacity to the dog, who is the friend and
      companion of our race.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such a duel there hath indeed been, royal brother,&rdquo; answered Philip, &ldquo;and
      that in the reign of one of our predecessors, to whom God be gracious. But
      it was in the olden time, nor can we hold it a precedent fitting for this
      occasion. The defendant in that case was a private gentleman of small rank
      or respect; his offensive weapons were only a club, his defensive a
      leathern jerkin. But we cannot degrade a prince to the disgrace of using
      such rude arms, or to the ignominy of such a combat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never meant that you should,&rdquo; said King Richard; &ldquo;it were foul play to
      hazard the good hound's life against that of such a double-faced traitor
      as this Conrade hath proved himself. But there lies our own glove; we
      appeal him to the combat in respect of the evidence we brought forth
      against him. A king, at least, is more than the mate of a marquis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Conrade made no hasty effort to seize on the pledge which Richard cast
      into the middle of the assembly, and King Philip had time to reply ere the
      marquis made a motion to lift the glove.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A king,&rdquo; said he of France, &ldquo;is as much more than a match for the Marquis
      Conrade as a dog would be less. Royal Richard, this cannot be permitted.
      You are the leader of our expedition&mdash;the sword and buckler of
      Christendom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I protest against such a combat,&rdquo; said the Venetian proveditore, &ldquo;until
      the King of England shall have repaid the fifty thousand byzants which he
      is indebted to the republic. It is enough to be threatened with loss of
      our debt, should our debtor fall by the hands of the pagans, without the
      additional risk of his being slain in brawls amongst Christians concerning
      dogs and banners.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I,&rdquo; said William with the Long Sword, Earl of Salisbury, &ldquo;protest in
      my turn against my royal brother perilling his life, which is the property
      of the people of England, in such a cause. Here, noble brother, receive
      back your glove, and think only as if the wind had blown it from your
      hand. Mine shall lie in its stead. A king's son, though with the bar
      sinister on his shield, is at least a match for this marmoset of a
      marquis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Princes and nobles,&rdquo; said Conrade, &ldquo;I will not accept of King Richard's
      defiance. He hath been chosen our leader against the Saracens, and if his
      conscience can answer the accusation of provoking an ally to the field on
      a quarrel so frivolous, mine, at least, cannot endure the reproach of
      accepting it. But touching his bastard brother, William of Woodstock, or
      against any other who shall adopt or shall dare to stand godfather to this
      most false charge, I will defend my honour in the lists, and prove
      whosoever impeaches it a false liar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Marquis of Montserrat,&rdquo; said the Archbishop of Tyre, &ldquo;hath spoken
      like a wise and moderate gentleman; and methinks this controversy might,
      without dishonour to any party, end at this point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks it might so terminate,&rdquo; said the King of France, &ldquo;provided King
      Richard will recall his accusation as made upon over-slight grounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Philip of France,&rdquo; answered Coeur de Lion, &ldquo;my words shall never do my
      thoughts so much injury. I have charged yonder Conrade as a thief, who,
      under cloud of night, stole from its place the emblem of England's
      dignity. I still believe and charge him to be such; and when a day is
      appointed for the combat, doubt not that, since Conrade declines to meet
      us in person, I will find a champion to appear in support of my challenge&mdash;for
      thou, William, must not thrust thy long sword into this quarrel without
      our special license.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since my rank makes me arbiter in this most unhappy matter,&rdquo; said Philip
      of France, &ldquo;I appoint the fifth day from hence for the decision thereof,
      by way of combat, according to knightly usage&mdash;Richard, King of
      England, to appear by his champion as appellant, and Conrade, Marquis of
      Montserrat, in his own person, as defendant. Yet I own I know not where to
      find neutral ground where such a quarrel may be fought out; for it must
      not be in the neighbourhood of this camp, where the soldiers would make
      faction on the different sides.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It were well,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;to apply to the generosity of the royal
      Saladin, since, heathen as he is, I have never known knight more fulfilled
      of nobleness, or to whose good faith we may so peremptorily entrust
      ourselves. I speak thus for those who may be doubtful of mishap; for
      myself, wherever I see my foe, I make that spot my battle-ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so,&rdquo; said Philip; &ldquo;we will make this matter known to Saladin,
      although it be showing to an enemy the unhappy spirit of discord which we
      would willingly hide from even ourselves, were it possible. Meanwhile, I
      dismiss this assembly, and charge you all, as Christian men and noble
      knights, that ye let this unhappy feud breed no further brawling in the
      camp, but regard it as a thing solemnly referred to the judgment of God,
      to whom each of you should pray that He will dispose of victory in the
      combat according to the truth of the quarrel; and therewith may His will
      be done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen, amen!&rdquo; was answered on all sides; while the Templar whispered the
      Marquis, &ldquo;Conrade, wilt thou not add a petition to be delivered from the
      power of the dog, as the Psalmist hath it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, thou&mdash;!&rdquo; replied the Marquis; &ldquo;there is a revealing demon
      abroad which may report, amongst other tidings, how far thou dost carry
      the motto of thy order&mdash;'FERIATUR LEO'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wilt stand the brunt of challenge?&rdquo; said the Templar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doubt me not,&rdquo; said Conrade. &ldquo;I would not, indeed, have willingly met the
      iron arm of Richard himself, and I shame not to confess that I rejoice to
      be free of his encounter; but, from his bastard brother downward, the man
      breathes not in his ranks whom I fear to meet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well you are so confident,&rdquo; continued the Templar; &ldquo;and, in that
      case, the fangs of yonder hound have done more to dissolve this league of
      princes than either thy devices or the dagger of the Charegite. Seest thou
      how, under a brow studiously overclouded, Philip cannot conceal the
      satisfaction which he feels at the prospect of release from the alliance
      which sat so heavy on him? Mark how Henry of Champagne smiles to himself,
      like a sparkling goblet of his own wine; and see the chuckling delight of
      Austria, who thinks his quarrel is about to be avenged without risk or
      trouble of his own. Hush! he approaches.&mdash;A most grievous chance,
      most royal Austria, that these breaches in the walls of our Zion&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If thou meanest this Crusade,&rdquo; replied the Duke, &ldquo;I would it were
      crumbled to pieces, and each were safe at home! I speak this in
      confidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said the Marquis of Montserrat, &ldquo;to think this disunion should be
      made by the hands of King Richard, for whose pleasure we have been
      contented to endure so much, and to whom we have been as submissive as
      slaves to a master, in hopes that he would use his valour against our
      enemies, instead of exercising it upon our friends!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see not that he is so much more valorous than others,&rdquo; said the
      Archduke. &ldquo;I believe, had the noble Marquis met him in the lists, he would
      have had the better; for though the islander deals heavy blows with the
      pole-axe, he is not so very dexterous with the lance. I should have cared
      little to have met him myself on our old quarrel, had the weal of
      Christendom permitted to sovereign princes to breathe themselves in the
      lists; and if thou desirest it, noble Marquis, I will myself be your
      godfather in this combat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I also,&rdquo; said the Grand Master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, then, and take your nooning in our tent, noble sirs,&rdquo; said the
      Duke, &ldquo;and we'll speak of this business over some right NIERENSTEIN.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They entered together accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What said our patron and these great folks together?&rdquo; said Jonas
      Schwanker to his companion, the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, who had used the freedom
      to press nigh to his master when the Council was dismissed, while the
      jester waited at a more respectful distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Servant of Folly,&rdquo; said the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, &ldquo;moderate thy curiosity; it
      beseems not that I should tell to thee the counsels of our master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Man of wisdom, you mistake,&rdquo; answered Jonas. &ldquo;We are both the constant
      attendants on our patron, and it concerns us alike to know whether thou or
      I&mdash;Wisdom or Folly&mdash;have the deeper interest in him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told to the Marquis,&rdquo; answered the SPRUCH-SPRECHER, &ldquo;and to the Grand
      Master, that he was aweary of these wars, and would be glad he was safe at
      home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a drawn cast, and counts for nothing in the game,&rdquo; said the
      jester; &ldquo;it was most wise to think thus, but great folly to tell it to
      others&mdash;proceed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, hem!&rdquo; said the SPRUCH-SPRECHER; &ldquo;he next said to them that Richard
      was not more valorous than others, or over-dexterous in the tilt-yard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woodcock of my side,&rdquo; said Schwanker, &ldquo;this was egregious folly. What
      next?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, I am something oblivious,&rdquo; replied the man of wisdom&mdash;&ldquo;he
      invited them to a goblet of NIERENSTEIN.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That hath a show of wisdom in it,&rdquo; said Jonas. &ldquo;Thou mayest mark it to
      thy credit in the meantime; but an he drink too much, as is most likely, I
      will have it pass to mine. Anything more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing worth memory,&rdquo; answered the orator; &ldquo;only he wished he had taken
      the occasion to meet Richard in the lists.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out upon it&mdash;out upon it!&rdquo; said Jonas; &ldquo;this is such dotage of folly
      that I am well-nigh ashamed of winning the game by it. Ne'ertheless, fool
      as he is, we will follow him, most sage SPRUCH-SPRECHER, and have our
      share of the wine of NIERENSTEIN.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Yet this inconstancy is such,
     As thou, too, shalt adore;
     I could not love thee, love so much,
     Loved I not honour more.
            MONTROSE'S LINES.
</pre>
    <p>
      When King Richard returned to his tent, he commanded the Nubian to be
      brought before him. He entered with his usual ceremonial reverence, and
      having prostrated himself, remained standing before the King in the
      attitude of a slave awaiting the orders of his master. It was perhaps well
      for him that the preservation of his character required his eyes to be
      fixed on the ground, since the keen glance with which Richard for some
      time surveyed him in silence would, if fully encountered, have been
      difficult to sustain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou canst well of woodcraft,&rdquo; said the King, after a pause, &ldquo;and hast
      started thy game and brought him to bay as ably as if Tristrem himself had
      taught thee. [A universal tradition ascribed to Sir Tristrem, famous for
      his love of the fair Queen Yseult, the laws concerning the practice of
      woodcraft, or VENERIE, as it was called, being those that related to the
      rules of the chase, which were deemed of much consequence during the
      Middle Ages.] But this is not all&mdash;he must be brought down at force.
      I myself would have liked to have levelled my hunting-spear at him. There
      are, it seems, respects which prevent this. Thou art about to return to
      the camp of the Soldan, bearing a letter, requiring of his courtesy to
      appoint neutral ground for the deed of chivalry, and should it consist
      with his pleasure, to concur with us in witnessing it. Now, speaking
      conjecturally, we think thou mightst find in that camp some cavalier who,
      for the love of truth and his own augmentation of honour, will do battle
      with this same traitor of Montserrat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Nubian raised his eyes and fixed them on the King with a look of eager
      ardour; then raised them to Heaven with such solemn gratitude that the
      water soon glistened in them; then bent his head, as affirming what
      Richard desired, and resumed his usual posture of submissive attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;and I see thy desire to oblige me in this
      matter. And herein, I must needs say, lies the excellence of such a
      servant as thou, who hast not speech either to debate our purpose or to
      require explanation of what we have determined. An English serving man in
      thy place had given me his dogged advice to trust the combat with some
      good lance of my household, who, from my brother Longsword downwards, are
      all on fire to do battle in my cause; and a chattering Frenchman had made
      a thousand attempts to discover wherefore I look for a champion from the
      camp of the infidels. But thou, my silent agent, canst do mine errand
      without questioning or comprehending it; with thee to hear is to obey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A bend of the body and a genuflection were the appropriate answer of the
      Ethiopian to these observations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now to another point,&rdquo; said the King, and speaking suddenly and
      rapidly&mdash;&ldquo;have you yet seen Edith Plantagenet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mute looked up as in the act of being about to speak&mdash;nay, his
      lips had begun to utter a distinct negative&mdash;when the abortive
      attempt died away in the imperfect murmurs of the dumb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, lo you there!&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;the very sound of the name of a royal
      maiden of beauty so surpassing as that of our lovely cousin seems to have
      power enough well-nigh to make the dumb speak. What miracles then might
      her eye work upon such a subject! I will make the experiment, friend
      slave. Thou shalt see this choice beauty of our Court, and do the errand
      of the princely Soldan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again a joyful glance&mdash;again a genuflection&mdash;but, as he arose,
      the King laid his hand heavily on his shoulder, and proceeded with stern
      gravity thus: &ldquo;Let me in one thing warn you, my sable envoy. Even if thou
      shouldst feel that the kindly influence of her whom thou art soon to
      behold should loosen the bonds of thy tongue, presently imprisoned, as the
      good Soldan expresses it, within the ivory walls of its castle, beware how
      thou changest thy taciturn character, or speakest a word in her presence,
      even if thy powers of utterance were to be miraculously restored. Believe
      me that I should have thy tongue extracted by the roots, and its ivory
      palace&mdash;that is, I presume, its range of teeth&mdash;drawn out one by
      one. Wherefore, be wise and silent still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Nubian, so soon as the King had removed his heavy grasp from his
      shoulder, bent his head, and laid his hand on his lips, in token of silent
      obedience.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Richard again laid his hand on him more gently, and added, &ldquo;This
      behest we lay on thee as on a slave. Wert thou knight and gentleman, we
      would require thine honour in pledge of thy silence, which is one especial
      condition of our present trust.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Ethiopian raised his body proudly, looked full at the King, and laid
      his right hand on his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richard then summoned his chamberlain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, Neville,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;with this slave to the tent of our royal consort,
      and say it is our pleasure that he have an audience&mdash;a private
      audience&mdash;of our cousin Edith. He is charged with a commission to
      her. Thou canst show him the way also, in case he requires thy guidance,
      though thou mayst have observed it is wonderful how familiar he already
      seems to be with the purlieus of our camp.&mdash;And thou, too, friend
      Ethiop,&rdquo; the King continued, &ldquo;what thou dost do quickly, and return hither
      within the half-hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stand discovered,&rdquo; thought the seeming Nubian, as, with downcast looks
      and folded arms, he followed the hasty stride of Neville towards the tent
      of Queen Berengaria&mdash;&ldquo;I stand undoubtedly discovered and unfolded to
      King Richard; yet I cannot perceive that his resentment is hot against me.
      If I understand his words&mdash;and surely it is impossible to
      misinterpret them&mdash;he gives me a noble chance of redeeming my honour
      upon the crest of this false Marquis, whose guilt I read in his craven eye
      and quivering lip when the charge was made against him.&mdash;Roswal,
      faithfully hast thou served thy master, and most dearly shall thy wrong be
      avenged!&mdash;But what is the meaning of my present permission to look
      upon her whom I had despaired ever to see again? And why, or how, can the
      royal Plantagenet consent that I should see his divine kinswoman, either
      as the messenger of the heathen Saladin, or as the guilty exile whom he so
      lately expelled from his camp&mdash;his audacious avowal of the affection
      which is his pride being the greatest enhancement of his guilt? That
      Richard should consent to her receiving a letter from an infidel lover by
      the hands of one of such disproportioned rank are either of them
      circumstances equally incredible, and, at the same time, inconsistent with
      each other. But Richard, when unmoved by his heady passions, is liberal,
      generous, and truly noble; and as such I will deal with him, and act
      according to his instructions, direct or implied, seeking to know no more
      than may gradually unfold itself without my officious inquiry. To him who
      has given me so brave an opportunity to vindicate my tarnished honour, I
      owe acquiescence and obedience; and painful as it may be, the debt shall
      be paid. And yet&rdquo;&mdash;thus the proud swelling of his heart further
      suggested&mdash;&ldquo;Coeur de Lion, as he is called, might have measured the
      feelings of others by his own. I urge an address to his kinswoman! I, who
      never spoke word to her when I took a royal prize from her hand&mdash;when
      I was accounted not the lowest in feats of chivalry among the defenders of
      the Cross! I approach her when in a base disguise, and in a servile habit&mdash;and,
      alas! when my actual condition is that of a slave, with a spot of
      dishonour on that which was once my shield! I do this! He little knows me.
      Yet I thank him for the opportunity which may make us all better
      acquainted with each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he arrived at this conclusion, they paused before the entrance of the
      Queen's pavilion.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were of course admitted by the guards, and Neville, leaving the
      Nubian in a small apartment, or antechamber, which was but too well
      remembered by him, passed into that which was used as the Queen's
      presence-chamber. He communicated his royal master's pleasure in a low and
      respectful tone of voice, very different from the bluntness of Thomas de
      Vaux, to whom Richard was everything and the rest of the Court, including
      Berengaria herself, was nothing. A burst of laughter followed the
      communication of his errand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what like is the Nubian slave who comes ambassador on such an errand
      from the Soldan?&mdash;a negro, De Neville, is he not?&rdquo; said a female
      voice, easily recognized for that of Berengaria. &ldquo;A negro, is he not, De
      Neville, with black skin, a head curled like a ram's, a flat nose, and
      blubber lips&mdash;ha, worthy Sir Henry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let not your Grace forget the shin-bones,&rdquo; said another voice, &ldquo;bent
      outwards like the edge of a Saracen scimitar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rather like the bow of a Cupid, since he comes upon a lover's errand,&rdquo;
       said the Queen.&mdash;&ldquo;Gentle Neville, thou art ever prompt to pleasure us
      poor women, who have so little to pass away our idle moments. We must see
      this messenger of love. Turks and Moors have I seen many, but negro
      never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am created to obey your Grace's commands, so you will bear me out with
      my Sovereign for doing so,&rdquo; answered the debonair knight. &ldquo;Yet, let me
      assure your Grace you will see something different from what you expect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better&mdash;uglier yet than our imaginations can fancy, yet
      the chosen love-messenger of this gallant Soldan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gracious madam,&rdquo; said the Lady Calista, &ldquo;may I implore you would permit
      the good knight to carry this messenger straight to the Lady Edith, to
      whom his credentials are addressed? We have already escaped hardly for
      such a frolic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Escaped?&rdquo; repeated the Queen scornfully. &ldquo;Yet thou mayest be right,
      Calista, in thy caution. Let this Nubian, as thou callest him, first do
      his errand to our cousin&mdash;besides, he is mute too, is he not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is, gracious madam,&rdquo; answered the knight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Royal sport have these Eastern ladies,&rdquo; said Berengaria, &ldquo;attended by
      those before whom they may say anything, yet who can report nothing.
      Whereas in our camp, as the Prelate of Saint Jude's is wont to say, a bird
      of the air will carry the matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because,&rdquo; said De Neville, &ldquo;your Grace forgets that you speak within
      canvas walls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voices sunk on this observation, and after a little whispering, the
      English knight again returned to the Ethiopian, and made him a sign to
      follow. He did so, and Neville conducted him to a pavilion, pitched
      somewhat apart from that of the Queen, for the accommodation, it seemed,
      of the Lady Edith and her attendants. One of her Coptic maidens received
      the message communicated by Sir Henry Neville, and in the space of a very
      few minutes the Nubian was ushered into Edith's presence, while Neville
      was left on the outside of the tent. The slave who introduced him withdrew
      on a signal from her mistress, and it was with humiliation, not of the
      posture only but of the very inmost soul, that the unfortunate knight,
      thus strangely disguised, threw himself on one knee, with looks bent on
      the ground and arms folded on his bosom, like a criminal who expects his
      doom. Edith was clad in the same manner as when she received King Richard,
      her long, transparent dark veil hanging around her like the shade of a
      summer night on a beautiful landscape, disguising and rendering obscure
      the beauties which it could not hide. She held in her hand a silver lamp,
      fed with some aromatic spirit, which burned with unusual brightness.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Edith came within a step of the kneeling and motionless slave, she
      held the light towards his face, as if to peruse his features more
      attentively, then turned from him, and placed her lamp so as to throw the
      shadow of his face in profile upon the curtain which hung beside. She at
      length spoke in a voice composed, yet deeply sorrowful,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it you? It is indeed you, brave Knight of the Leopard&mdash;gallant
      Sir Kenneth of Scotland; is it indeed you?&mdash;thus servilely disguised&mdash;thus
      surrounded by a hundred dangers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At hearing the tones of his lady's voice thus unexpectedly addressed to
      him, and in a tone of compassion approaching to tenderness, a
      corresponding reply rushed to the knight's lips, and scarce could
      Richard's commands and his own promised silence prevent his answering that
      the sight he saw, the sounds he just heard, were sufficient to recompense
      the slavery of a life, and dangers which threatened that life every hour.
      He did recollect himself, however, and a deep and impassioned sigh was his
      only reply to the high-born Edith's question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see&mdash;I know I have guessed right,&rdquo; continued Edith. &ldquo;I marked you
      from your first appearance near the platform on which I stood with the
      Queen. I knew, too, your valiant hound. She is no true lady, and is
      unworthy of the service of such a knight as thou art, from whom disguises
      of dress or hue could conceal a faithful servant. Speak, then, without
      fear to Edith Plantagenet. She knows how to grace in adversity the good
      knight who served, honoured, and did deeds of arms in her name, when
      fortune befriended him.&mdash;Still silent! Is it fear or shame that keeps
      thee so! Fear should be unknown to thee; and for shame, let it remain with
      those who have wronged thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The knight, in despair at being obliged to play the mute in an interview
      so interesting, could only express his mortification by sighing deeply,
      and laying his finger upon his lips. Edith stepped back, as if somewhat
      displeased.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;the Asiatic mute in very deed, as well as in attire?
      This I looked not for. Or thou mayest scorn me, perhaps, for thus boldly
      acknowledging that I have heedfully observed the homage thou hast paid me?
      Hold no unworthy thoughts of Edith on that account. She knows well the
      bounds which reserve and modesty prescribe to high-born maidens, and she
      knows when and how far they should give place to gratitude&mdash;to a
      sincere desire that it were in her power to repay services and repair
      injuries arising from the devotion which a good knight bore towards her.
      Why fold thy hands together, and wring them with so much passion? Can it
      be,&rdquo; she added, shrinking back at the idea, &ldquo;that their cruelty has
      actually deprived thee of speech? Thou shakest thy head. Be it a spell&mdash;be
      it obstinacy, I question thee no further, but leave thee to do thine
      errand after thine own fashion. I also can be mute.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The disguised knight made an action as if at once lamenting his own
      condition and deprecating her displeasure, while at the same time he
      presented to her, wrapped, as usual, in fine silk and cloth of gold, the
      letter of the Soldan. She took it, surveyed it carelessly, then laid it
      aside, and bending her eyes once more on the knight, she said in a low
      tone, &ldquo;Not even a word to do thine errand to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pressed both his hands to his brow, as if to intimate the pain which he
      felt at being unable to obey her; but she turned from him in anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Begone!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I have spoken enough&mdash;too much&mdash;to one who
      will not waste on me a word in reply. Begone!&mdash;and say, if I have
      wronged thee, I have done penance; for if I have been the unhappy means of
      dragging thee down from a station of honour, I have, in this interview,
      forgotten my own worth, and lowered myself in thy eyes and in my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She covered her eyes with her hands, and seemed deeply agitated. Sir
      Kenneth would have approached, but she waved him back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand off! thou whose soul Heaven hath suited to its new station! Aught
      less dull and fearful than a slavish mute had spoken a word of gratitude,
      were it but to reconcile me to my own degradation. Why pause you?&mdash;begone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The disguised knight almost involuntarily looked towards the letter as an
      apology for protracting his stay. She snatched it up, saying in a tone of
      irony and contempt, &ldquo;I had forgotten&mdash;the dutiful slave waits an
      answer to his message. How's this&mdash;from the Soldan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hastily ran over the contents, which were expressed both in Arabic and
      French, and when she had done, she laughed in bitter anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now this passes imagination!&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;no jongleur can show so deft a
      transmutation! His legerdemain can transform zechins and byzants into
      doits and maravedis; but can his art convert a Christian knight, ever
      esteemed among the bravest of the Holy Crusade, into the dust-kissing
      slave of a heathen Soldan&mdash;the bearer of a paynim's insolent
      proposals to a Christian maiden&mdash;nay, forgetting the laws of
      honourable chivalry, as well as of religion? But it avails not talking to
      the willing slave of a heathen hound. Tell your master, when his scourge
      shall have found thee a tongue, that which thou hast seen me do&rdquo;&mdash;so
      saying, she threw the Soldan's letter on the ground, and placed her foot
      upon it&mdash;&ldquo;and say to him, that Edith Plantagenet scorns the homage of
      an unchristened pagan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With these words she was about to shoot from the knight, when, kneeling at
      her feet in bitter agony, he ventured to lay his hand upon her robe and
      oppose her departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heard'st thou not what I said, dull slave?&rdquo; she said, turning short round
      on him, and speaking with emphasis. &ldquo;Tell the heathen Soldan, thy master,
      that I scorn his suit as much as I despise the prostration of a worthless
      renegade to religion and chivalry&mdash;to God and to his lady!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, she burst from him, tore her garment from his grasp, and left
      the tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of Neville, at the same time, summoned him from without.
      Exhausted and stupefied by the distress he had undergone during this
      interview, from which he could only have extricated himself by breach of
      the engagement which he had formed with King Richard, the unfortunate
      knight staggered rather than walked after the English baron, till they
      reached the royal pavilion, before which a party of horsemen had just
      dismounted. There were light and motion within the tent, and when Neville
      entered with his disguised attendant, they found the King, with several of
      his nobility, engaged in welcoming those who were newly arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;The tears I shed must ever fall.
     I weep not for an absent swain;
     For time may happier hours recall,
     And parted lovers meet again.

     &ldquo;I weep not for the silent dead.
     Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er;
     And those that loved their steps must tread,
     When death shall join to part no more.&rdquo;

     But worse than absence, worse than death,
     She wept her lover's sullied fame,
     And, fired with all the pride of birth,
     She wept a soldier's injured name.
            BALLAD.
</pre>
    <p>
      The frank and bold voice of Richard was heard in joyous gratulation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thomas de Vaux! stout Tom of the Gills! by the head of King Henry, thou
      art welcome to me as ever was flask of wine to a jolly toper! I should
      scarce have known how to order my battle-array, unless I had thy bulky
      form in mine eye as a landmark to form my ranks upon. We shall have blows
      anon, Thomas, if the saints be gracious to us; and had we fought in thine
      absence, I would have looked to hear of thy being found hanging upon an
      elder-tree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have borne my disappointment with more Christian patience, I
      trust,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux, &ldquo;than to have died the death of an apostate.
      But I thank your Grace for my welcome, which is the more generous, as it
      respects a banquet of blows, of which, saving your pleasure, you are ever
      too apt to engross the larger share. But here have I brought one to whom
      your Grace will, I know, give a yet warmer welcome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The person who now stepped forward to make obeisance to Richard was a
      young man of low stature and slight form. His dress was as modest as his
      figure was unimpressive; but he bore on his bonnet a gold buckle, with a
      gem, the lustre of which could only be rivalled by the brilliancy of the
      eye which the bonnet shaded. It was the only striking feature in his
      countenance; but when once noticed, it ever made a strong impression on
      the spectator. About his neck there hung in a scarf of sky-blue silk a
      WREST as it was called&mdash;that is, the key with which a harp is tuned,
      and which was of solid gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      This personage would have kneeled reverently to Richard, but the Monarch
      raised him in joyful haste, pressed him to his bosom warmly, and kissed
      him on either side of the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blondel de Nesle!&rdquo; he exclaimed joyfully&mdash;&ldquo;welcome from Cyprus, my
      king of minstrels!&mdash;welcome to the King of England, who rates not his
      own dignity more highly than he does thine. I have been sick, man, and, by
      my soul, I believe it was for lack of thee; for, were I half way to the
      gate of heaven, methinks thy strains could call me back. And what news, my
      gentle master, from the land of the lyre? Anything fresh from the
      TROUVEURS of Provence? Anything from the minstrels of merry Normandy?
      Above all, hast thou thyself been busy? But I need not ask thee&mdash;thou
      canst not be idle if thou wouldst; thy noble qualities are like a fire
      burning within, and compel thee to pour thyself out in music and song.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something I have learned, and something I have done, noble King,&rdquo;
       answered the celebrated Blondel, with a retiring modesty which all
      Richard's enthusiastic admiration of his skill had been unable to banish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will hear thee, man&mdash;we will hear thee instantly,&rdquo; said the King.
      Then, touching Blondel's shoulder kindly, he added, &ldquo;That is, if thou art
      not fatigued with thy journey; for I would sooner ride my best horse to
      death than injure a note of thy voice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My voice is, as ever, at the service of my royal patron,&rdquo; said Blondel;
      &ldquo;but your Majesty,&rdquo; he added, looking at some papers on the table, &ldquo;seems
      more importantly engaged, and the hour waxes late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a whit, man, not a whit, my dearest Blondel. I did but sketch an
      array of battle against the Saracens, a thing of a moment, almost as soon
      done as the routing of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Methinks, however,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux, &ldquo;it were not unfit to inquire
      what soldiers your Grace hath to array. I bring reports on that subject
      from Ascalon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art a mule, Thomas,&rdquo; said the King&mdash;&ldquo;a very mule for dullness
      and obstinacy! Come, nobles&mdash;a hall&mdash;a hall&mdash;range ye
      around him! Give Blondel the tabouret. Where is his harp-bearer?&mdash;or,
      soft, lend him my harp, his own may be damaged by the journey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would your Grace would take my report,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux. &ldquo;I have
      ridden far, and have more list to my bed than to have my ears tickled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THY ears tickled!&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;that must be with a woodcock's
      feather, and not with sweet sounds. Hark thee, Thomas, do thine ears know
      the singing of Blondel from the braying of an ass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In faith, my liege,&rdquo; replied Thomas, &ldquo;I cannot well say; but setting
      Blondel out of the question, who is a born gentleman, and doubtless of
      high acquirements, I shall never, for the sake of your Grace's question,
      look on a minstrel but I shall think upon an ass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And might not your manners,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;have excepted me, who am a
      gentleman born as well as Blondel, and, like him, a guild-brother of the
      joyeuse science?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Grace should remember,&rdquo; said De Vaux, smiling, &ldquo;that 'tis useless
      asking for manners from a mule.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most truly spoken,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;and an ill-conditioned animal thou
      art. But come hither, master mule, and be unloaded, that thou mayest get
      thee to thy litter, without any music being wasted on thee. Meantime do
      thou, good brother of Salisbury, go to our consort's tent, and tell her
      that Blondel has arrived, with his budget fraught with the newest
      minstrelsy. Bid her come hither instantly, and do thou escort her, and see
      that our cousin, Edith Plantagenet, remain not behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His eye then rested for a moment on the Nubian, with that expression of
      doubtful meaning which his countenance usually displayed when he looked at
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, our silent and secret messenger returned?&mdash;Stand up, slave,
      behind the back of De Neville, and thou shalt hear presently sounds which
      will make thee bless God that He afflicted thee rather with dumbness than
      deafness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he turned from the rest of the company towards De Vaux, and
      plunged instantly into the military details which that baron laid before
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      About the time that the Lord of Gilsland had finished his audience, a
      messenger announced that the Queen and her attendants were approaching the
      royal tent.&mdash;&ldquo;A flask of wine, ho!&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;of old King
      Isaac's long-saved Cyprus, which we won when we stormed Famagosta. Fill to
      the stout Lord of Gilsland, gentles&mdash;a more careful and faithful
      servant never had any prince.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux, &ldquo;that your Grace finds the mule a useful
      slave, though his voice be less musical than horse-hair or wire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, thou canst not yet digest that quip of the mule?&rdquo; said Richard.
      &ldquo;Wash it down with a brimming flagon, man, or thou wilt choke upon it.
      Why, so&mdash;well pulled!&mdash;and now I will tell thee, thou art a
      soldier as well as I, and we must brook each other's jests in the hall as
      each other's blows in the tourney, and love each other the harder we hit.
      By my faith, if thou didst not hit me as hard as I did thee in our late
      encounter! thou gavest all thy wit to the thrust. But here lies the
      difference betwixt thee and Blondel. Thou art but my comrade&mdash;I might
      say my pupil&mdash;in the art of war; Blondel is my master in the science
      of minstrelsy and music. To thee I permit the freedom of intimacy; to him
      I must do reverence, as to my superior in his art. Come, man, be not
      peevish, but remain and hear our glee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see your Majesty in such cheerful mood,&rdquo; said the Lord of Gilsland,
      &ldquo;by my faith, I could remain till Blondel had achieved the great romance
      of King Arthur, which lasts for three days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will not tax your patience so deeply,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;But see, yonder
      glare of torches without shows that our consort approaches. Away to
      receive her, man, and win thyself grace in the brightest eyes of
      Christendom. Nay, never stop to adjust thy cloak. See, thou hast let
      Neville come between the wind and the sails of thy galley.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was never before me in the field of battle,&rdquo; said De Vaux, not greatly
      pleased to see himself anticipated by the more active service of the
      chamberlain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, neither he nor any one went before thee there, my good Tom of the
      Gills,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;unless it was ourself, now and then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, my liege,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;and let us do justice to the unfortunate.
      The unhappy Knight of the Leopard hath been before me too, at a season;
      for, look you, he weighs less on horseback, and so&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; said the King, interrupting him in a peremptory tone, &ldquo;not a word
      of him,&rdquo; and instantly stepped forward to greet his royal consort; and
      when he had done so, he presented to her Blondel, as king of minstrelsy
      and his master in the gay science. Berengaria, who well knew that her
      royal husband's passion for poetry and music almost equalled his appetite
      for warlike fame, and that Blondel was his especial favourite, took
      anxious care to receive him with all the flattering distinctions due to
      one whom the King delighted to honour. Yet it was evident that, though
      Blondel made suitable returns to the compliments showered on him something
      too abundantly by the royal beauty, he owned with deeper reverence and
      more humble gratitude the simple and graceful welcome of Edith, whose
      kindly greeting appeared to him, perhaps, sincere in proportion to its
      brevity and simplicity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both the Queen and her royal husband were aware of this distinction, and
      Richard, seeing his consort somewhat piqued at the preference assigned to
      his cousin, by which perhaps he himself did not feel much gratified, said
      in the hearing of both, &ldquo;We minstrels, Berengaria, as thou mayest see by
      the bearing of our master Blondel, pay more reverence to a severe judge
      like our kinswoman than to a kindly, partial friend like thyself, who is
      willing to take our worth upon trust.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edith was moved by this sarcasm of her royal kinsman, and hesitated not to
      reply that, &ldquo;To be a harsh and severe judge was not an attribute proper to
      her alone of all the Plantagenets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had perhaps said more, having some touch of the temper of that house,
      which, deriving their name and cognizance from the lowly broom (PLANTA
      GENISTA), assumed as an emblem of humility, were perhaps one of the
      proudest families that ever ruled in England; but her eye, when kindling
      in her reply, suddenly caught those of the Nubian, although he endeavoured
      to conceal himself behind the nobles who were present, and she sunk upon a
      seat, turning so pale that Queen Berengaria deemed herself obliged to call
      for water and essences, and to go through the other ceremonies appropriate
      to a lady's swoon. Richard, who better estimated Edith's strength of mind,
      called to Blondel to assume his seat and commence his lay, declaring that
      minstrelsy was worth every other recipe to recall a Plantagenet to life.
      &ldquo;Sing us,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that song of the Bloody Vest, of which thou didst
      formerly give me the argument ere I left Cyprus. Thou must be perfect in
      it by this time, or, as our yeomen say, thy bow is broken.&rdquo;
     </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0401m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0401m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0401.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      The anxious eye of the minstrel, however, dwelt on Edith, and it was not
      till he observed her returning colour that he obeyed the repeated commands
      of the King. Then, accompanying his voice with the harp, so as to grace,
      but yet not drown, the sense of what he sung, he chanted in a sort of
      recitative one of those ancient adventures of love and knighthood which
      were wont of yore to win the public attention. So soon as he began to
      prelude, the insignificance of his personal appearance seemed to
      disappear, and his countenance glowed with energy and inspiration. His
      full, manly, mellow voice, so absolutely under command of the purest
      taste, thrilled on every ear and to every heart. Richard, rejoiced as
      after victory, called out the appropriate summons for silence, &ldquo;Listen,
      lords, in bower and hall&rdquo;; while, with the zeal of a patron at once and a
      pupil, he arranged the circle around, and hushed them into silence; and he
      himself sat down with an air of expectation and interest, not altogether
      unmixed with the gravity of the professed critic. The courtiers turned
      their eyes on the King, that they might be ready to trace and imitate the
      emotions his features should express, and Thomas de Vaux yawned
      tremendously, as one who submitted unwillingly to a wearisome penance. The
      song of Blondel was of course in the Norman language, but the verses which
      follow express its meaning and its manner.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                THE BLOODY VEST.

     'Twas near the fair city of Benevent,
     When the sun was setting on bough and bent,
     And knights were preparing in bower and tent,
     On the eve of the Baptist's tournament;
     When in Lincoln green a stripling gent,
     Well seeming a page by a princess sent,
     Wander'd the camp, and, still as he went,
     Inquired for the Englishman, Thomas a Kent.

     Far hath he far'd, and farther must fare,
     Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor rare,&mdash;
     Little save iron and steel was there;
     And, as lacking the coin to pay armourer's care,
     With his sinewy arms to the shoulders bare,
     The good knight with hammer and file did repair
     The mail that to-morrow must see him wear,
     For the honour of Saint John and his lady fair.

     &ldquo;Thus speaks my lady,&rdquo; the page said he,
     And the knight bent lowly both head and knee,
     &ldquo;She is Benevent's Princess so high in degree,
     And thou art as lowly as knight may well be&mdash;
     He that would climb so lofty a tree,
     Or spring such a gulf as divides her from thee,
     Must dare some high deed, by which all men may see
     His ambition is back'd by his hie chivalrie.

     &ldquo;Therefore thus speaks my lady,&rdquo; the fair page he said,
     And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head,
     &ldquo;Fling aside the good armour in which thou art clad,
     And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead,
     For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread;
     And charge, thus attir'd, in the tournament dread,
     And fight as thy wont is where most blood is shed,
     And bring honour away, or remain with the dead.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast, The knight the weed
      hath taken, and reverently hath kiss'd. &ldquo;Now blessed be the moment, the
      messenger be blest! Much honour'd do I hold me in my lady's high behest;
      And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dress'd, To the best armed
      champion I will not veil my crest; But if I live and bear me well 'tis her
      turn to take the test.&rdquo; Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay
      of the Bloody Vest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou hast changed the measure upon us unawares in that last couplet, my
      Blondel,&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most true, my lord,&rdquo; said Blondel. &ldquo;I rendered the verses from the
      Italian of an old harper whom I met in Cyprus, and not having had time
      either to translate it accurately or commit it to memory, I am fain to
      supply gaps in the music and the verse as I can upon the spur of the
      moment, as you see boors mend a quickset fence with a fagot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, on my faith,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;I like these rattling, rolling
      Alexandrines. Methinks they come more twangingly off to the music than
      that briefer measure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Both are licensed, as is well known to your Grace,&rdquo; answered Blondel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are so, Blondel,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;yet methinks the scene where there
      is like to be fighting will go best on in these same thundering
      Alexandrines, which sound like the charge of cavalry, while the other
      measure is but like the sidelong amble of a lady's palfrey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be as your Grace pleases,&rdquo; replied Blondel, and began again to
      prelude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, first cherish thy fancy with a cup of fiery Chios wine,&rdquo; said the
      King. &ldquo;And hark thee, I would have thee fling away that new-fangled
      restriction of thine, of terminating in accurate and similar rhymes. They
      are a constraint on thy flow of fancy, and make thee resemble a man
      dancing in fetters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fetters are easily flung off, at least,&rdquo; said Blondel, again sweeping
      his fingers over the strings, as one who would rather have played than
      listened to criticism.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why put them on, man?&rdquo; continued the King. &ldquo;Wherefore thrust thy
      genius into iron bracelets? I marvel how you got forward at all. I am sure
      I should not have been able to compose a stanza in yonder hampered
      measure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Blondel looked down, and busied himself with the strings of his harp, to
      hide an involuntary smile which crept over his features; but it escaped
      not Richard's observation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my faith, thou laughest at me, Blondel,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;and, in good truth,
      every man deserves it who presumes to play the master when he should be
      the pupil. But we kings get bad habits of self-opinion. Come, on with thy
      lay, dearest Blondel&mdash;on after thine own fashion, better than aught
      that we can suggest, though we must needs be talking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Blondel resumed the lay; but as extemporaneous composition was familiar to
      him, he failed not to comply with the King's hints, and was perhaps not
      displeased to show with how much ease he could new-model a poem, even
      while in the act of recitation.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                   THE BLOODY VEST.

                    FYTTE SECOND.

     The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant feats&mdash;
     There was winning of honour and losing of seats;
     There was hewing with falchions and splintering of staves&mdash;
     The victors won glory, the vanquish'd won graves.
     Oh, many a knight there fought bravely and well,
     Yet one was accounted his peers to excel,
     And 'twas he whose sole armour on body and breast
     Seem'd the weed of a damsel when bouned for her rest.

     There were some dealt him wounds that were bloody and sore,
     But others respected his plight, and forbore.
     &ldquo;It is some oath of honour,&rdquo; they said, &ldquo;and I trow,
     'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving his vow.&rdquo;
      Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the tournament cease&mdash;
     He flung down his warder, the trumpets sung peace;
     And the judges declare, and competitors yield,
     That the Knight of the Night-gear was first in the field.

     The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was nigher,
     When before the fair Princess low looted a squire,
     And deliver'd a garment unseemly to view,
     With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hack'd and pierc'd through;
     All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with blood,
     With foam of the horses, with dust, and with mud;
     Not the point of that lady's small finger, I ween,
     Could have rested on spot was unsullied and clean.

     &ldquo;This token my master, Sir Thomas a Kent,
     Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent;
     He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit,
     He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his suit;
     Through life's utmost peril the prize I have won,
     And now must the faith of my mistress be shown:
     For she who prompts knights on such danger to run
     Must avouch his true service in front of the sun.

     &ldquo;'I restore,' says my master, 'the garment I've worn,
     And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn;
     For its stains and its rents she should prize it the more,
     Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crimson'd with gore.'&rdquo;
      Then deep blush'd the Princess&mdash;yet kiss'd she and press'd
     The blood-spotted robes to her lips and her breast.
     &ldquo;Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall show
     If I value the blood on this garment or no.&rdquo;

     And when it was time for the nobles to pass,
     In solemn procession to minster and mass,
     The first walk'd the Princess in purple and pall,
     But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she wore over all;
     And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at dine,
     When she knelt to her father and proffer'd the wine,
     Over all her rich robes and state jewels she wore
     That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.

     Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you may think,
     And ladies replied with nod, titter, and wink;
     And the Prince, who in anger and shame had look'd down,
     Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke with a frown:
     &ldquo;Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly and guilt,
     E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt;
     Yet sore for your boldness you both will repent,
     When you wander as exiles from fair Benevent.&rdquo;

     Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood,
     Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood:
     &ldquo;The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine,
     I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its wine;
     And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame,
     Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and shame;
     And light will she reck of thy princedom and rent,
     When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      A murmur of applause ran through the assembly, following the example of
      Richard himself, who loaded with praises his favourite minstrel, and ended
      by presenting him with a ring of considerable value. The Queen hastened to
      distinguish the favourite by a rich bracelet, and many of the nobles who
      were present followed the royal example.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is our cousin Edith,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;become insensible to the sound of
      the harp she once loved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She thanks Blondel for his lay,&rdquo; replied Edith, &ldquo;but doubly the kindness
      of the kinsman who suggested it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art angry, cousin,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;angry because thou hast heard of
      a woman more wayward than thyself. But you escape me not. I will walk a
      space homeward with you towards the Queen's pavilion. We must have
      conference together ere the night has waned into morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Queen and her attendants were now on foot, and the other guests
      withdrew from the royal tent. A train with blazing torches, and an escort
      of archers, awaited Berengaria without the pavilion, and she was soon on
      her way homeward. Richard, as he had proposed, walked beside his
      kinswoman, and compelled her to accept of his arm as her support, so that
      they could speak to each other without being overheard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What answer, then, am I to return to the noble Soldan?&rdquo; said Richard.
      &ldquo;The kings and princes are falling from me, Edith; this new quarrel hath
      alienated them once more. I would do something for the Holy Sepulchre by
      composition, if not by victory; and the chance of my doing this depends,
      alas, on the caprice of a woman. I would lay my single spear in the rest
      against ten of the best lances in Christendom, rather than argue with a
      wilful wench who knows not what is for her own good. What answer, coz, am
      I to return to the Soldan? It must be decisive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;that the poorest of the Plantagenets will rather
      wed with misery than with misbelief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I say with slavery, Edith?&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;Methinks that is nearer
      thy thoughts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no room,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;for the suspicion you so grossly
      insinuate. Slavery of the body might have been pitied, but that of the
      soul is only to be despised. Shame to thee, King of merry England. Thou
      hast enthralled both the limbs and the spirit of a knight, one scarce less
      famed than thyself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should I not prevent my kinswoman from drinking poison, by sullying the
      vessel which contained it, if I saw no other means of disgusting her with
      the fatal liquor?&rdquo; replied the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is thyself,&rdquo; answered Edith, &ldquo;that would press me to drink poison,
      because it is proffered in a golden chalice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Edith,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I cannot force thy resolution; but beware you shut
      not the door which Heaven opens. The hermit of Engaddi&mdash;he whom Popes
      and Councils have regarded as a prophet&mdash;hath read in the stars that
      thy marriage shall reconcile me with a powerful enemy, and that thy
      husband shall be Christian, leaving thus the fairest ground to hope that
      the conversion of the Soldan, and the bringing in of the sons of Ishmael
      to the pale of the church, will be the consequence of thy wedding with
      Saladin. Come, thou must make some sacrifice rather than mar such happy
      prospects.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Men may sacrifice rams and goats,&rdquo; said Edith, &ldquo;but not honour and
      conscience. I have heard that it was the dishonour of a Christian maiden
      which brought the Saracens into Spain; the shame of another is no likely
      mode of expelling them from Palestine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dost thou call it shame to become an empress?&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I call it shame and dishonour to profane a Christian sacrament by
      entering into it with an infidel whom it cannot bind; and I call it foul
      dishonour that I, the descendant of a Christian princess, should become of
      free will the head of a haram of heathen concubines.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, kinswoman,&rdquo; said the King, after a pause, &ldquo;I must not quarrel with
      thee, though I think thy dependent condition might have dictated more
      compliance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My liege,&rdquo; replied Edith, &ldquo;your Grace hath worthily succeeded to all the
      wealth, dignity, and dominion of the House of Plantagenet&mdash;do not,
      therefore, begrudge your poor kinswoman some small share of their pride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By my faith, wench,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;thou hast unhorsed me with that very
      word, so we will kiss and be friends. I will presently dispatch thy answer
      to Saladin. But after all, coz, were it not better to suspend your answer
      till you have seen him? Men say he is pre-eminently handsome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no chance of our meeting, my lord,&rdquo; said Edith.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Saint George, but there is next to a certainty of it,&rdquo; said the King;
      &ldquo;for Saladin will doubtless afford us a free field for the doing of this
      new battle of the Standard, and will witness it himself. Berengaria is
      wild to behold it also; and I dare be sworn not a feather of you, her
      companions and attendants, will remain behind&mdash;least of all thou
      thyself, fair coz. But come, we have reached the pavilion, and must part;
      not in unkindness thou, oh&mdash;nay, thou must seal it with thy lip as
      well as thy hand, sweet Edith&mdash;it is my right as a sovereign to kiss
      my pretty vassals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He embraced her respectfully and affectionately, and returned through the
      moonlit camp, humming to himself such snatches of Blondel's lay as he
      could recollect.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his arrival he lost no time in making up his dispatches for Saladin,
      and delivered them to the Nubian, with a charge to set out by peep of day
      on his return to the Soldan.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     We heard the Techir&mdash;so these Arabs call
     Their shout of onset, when, with loud acclaim,
     They challenge Heaven to give them victory.
        SIEGE OF DAMASCUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      On the subsequent morning Richard was invited to a conference by Philip of
      France, in which the latter, with many expressions of his high esteem for
      his brother of England, communicated to him in terms extremely courteous,
      but too explicit to be misunderstood, his positive intention to return to
      Europe, and to the cares of his kingdom, as entirely despairing of future
      success in their undertaking, with their diminished forces and civil
      discords. Richard remonstrated, but in vain; and when the conference ended
      he received without surprise a manifesto from the Duke of Austria, and
      several other princes, announcing a resolution similar to that of Philip,
      and in no modified terms, assigning, for their defection from the cause of
      the Cross, the inordinate ambition and arbitrary domination of Richard of
      England. All hopes of continuing the war with any prospect of ultimate
      success were now abandoned; and Richard, while he shed bitter tears over
      his disappointed hopes of glory, was little consoled by the recollection
      that the failure was in some degree to be imputed to the advantages which
      he had given his enemies by his own hasty and imprudent temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They had not dared to have deserted my father thus,&rdquo; he said to De Vaux,
      in the bitterness of his resentment. &ldquo;No slanders they could have uttered
      against so wise a king would have been believed in Christendom; whereas&mdash;fool
      that I am!&mdash;I have not only afforded them a pretext for deserting me,
      but even a colour for casting all the blame of the rupture upon my unhappy
      foibles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These thoughts were so deeply galling to the King, that De Vaux was
      rejoiced when the arrival of an ambassador from Saladin turned his
      reflections into a different channel.
    </p>
    <p>
      This new envoy was an Emir much respected by the Soldan, whose name was
      Abdallah el Hadgi. He derived his descent from the family of the Prophet,
      and the race or tribe of Hashem, in witness of which genealogy he wore a
      green turban of large dimensions. He had also three times performed the
      journey to Mecca, from which he derived his epithet of El Hadgi, or the
      Pilgrim. Notwithstanding these various pretensions to sanctity, Abdallah
      was (for an Arab) a boon companion, who enjoyed a merry tale, and laid
      aside his gravity so far as to quaff a blithe flagon when secrecy ensured
      him against scandal. He was likewise a statesman, whose abilities had been
      used by Saladin in various negotiations with the Christian princes, and
      particularly with Richard, to whom El Hadgi was personally known and
      acceptable. Animated by the cheerful acquiescence with which the envoy of
      Saladin afforded a fair field for the combat, a safe conduct for all who
      might choose to witness it, and offered his own person as a guarantee of
      his fidelity, Richard soon forgot his disappointed hopes, and the
      approaching dissolution of the Christian league, in the interesting
      discussions preceding a combat in the lists.
    </p>
    <p>
      The station called the Diamond of the Desert was assigned for the place of
      conflict, as being nearly at an equal distance betwixt the Christian and
      Saracen camps. It was agreed that Conrade of Montserrat, the defendant,
      with his godfathers, the Archduke of Austria and the Grand Master of the
      Templars, should appear there on the day fixed for the combat, with a
      hundred armed followers, and no more; that Richard of England and his
      brother Salisbury, who supported the accusation, should attend with the
      same number, to protect his champion; and that the Soldan should bring
      with him a guard of five hundred chosen followers, a band considered as
      not more than equal to the two hundred Christian lances. Such persons of
      consideration as either party chose to invite to witness the contest were
      to wear no other weapons than their swords, and to come without defensive
      armour. The Soldan undertook the preparation of the lists, and to provide
      accommodations and refreshments of every kind for all who were to assist
      at the solemnity; and his letters expressed with much courtesy the
      pleasure which he anticipated in the prospect of a personal and peaceful
      meeting with the Melech Ric, and his anxious desire to render his
      reception as agreeable as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      All preliminaries being arranged and communicated to the defendant and his
      godfathers, Abdullah the Hadgi was admitted to a more private interview,
      where he heard with delight the strains of Blondel. Having first carefully
      put his green turban out of sight, and assumed a Greek cap in its stead,
      he requited the Norman minstrel's music with a drinking song from the
      Persian, and quaffed a hearty flagon of Cyprus wine, to show that his
      practice matched his principles. On the next day, grave and sober as the
      water-drinker Mirglip, he bent his brow to the ground before Saladin's
      footstool, and rendered to the Soldan an account of his embassy.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the day before that appointed for the combat Conrade and his friends
      set off by daybreak to repair to the place assigned, and Richard left the
      camp at the same hour and for the same purpose; but, as had been agreed
      upon, he took his journey by a different route&mdash;a precaution which
      had been judged necessary, to prevent the possibility of a quarrel betwixt
      their armed attendants.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good King himself was in no humour for quarrelling with any one.
      Nothing could have added to his pleasurable anticipations of a desperate
      and bloody combat in the lists, except his being in his own royal person
      one of the combatants; and he was half in charity again even with Conrade
      of Montserrat. Lightly armed, richly dressed, and gay as a bridegroom on
      the eve of his nuptials, Richard caracoled along by the side of Queen
      Berengaria's litter, pointing out to her the various scenes through which
      they passed, and cheering with tale and song the bosom of the inhospitable
      wilderness. The former route of the Queen's pilgrimage to Engaddi had been
      on the other side of the chain of mountains, so that the ladies were
      strangers to the scenery of the desert; and though Berengaria knew her
      husband's disposition too well not to endeavour to seem interested in what
      he was pleased either to say or to sing, she could not help indulging some
      female fears when she found herself in the howling wilderness with so
      small an escort, which seemed almost like a moving speck on the bosom of
      the plain, and knew at the same time they were not so distant from the
      camp of Saladin, but what they might be in a moment surprised and swept
      off by an overpowering host of his fiery-footed cavalry, should the pagan
      be faithless enough to embrace an opportunity thus tempting. But when she
      hinted these suspicions to Richard he repelled them with displeasure and
      disdain. &ldquo;It were worse than ingratitude,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;to doubt the good
      faith of the generous Soldan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet the same doubts and fears recurred more than once, not to the timid
      mind of the Queen alone, but to the firmer and more candid soul of Edith
      Plantagenet, who had no such confidence in the faith of the Moslem as to
      render her perfectly at ease when so much in their power; and her surprise
      had been far less than her terror, if the desert around had suddenly
      resounded with the shout of ALLAH HU! and a band of Arab cavalry had
      pounced on them like vultures on their prey. Nor were these suspicions
      lessened when, as evening approached, they were aware of a single Arab
      horseman, distinguished by his turban and long lance, hovering on the edge
      of a small eminence like a hawk poised in the air, and who instantly, on
      the appearance of the royal retinue, darted off with the speed of the same
      bird when it shoots down the wind and disappears from the horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must be near the station,&rdquo; said King Richard; &ldquo;and yonder cavalier is
      one of Saladin's outposts&mdash;methinks I hear the noise of the Moorish
      horns and cymbals. Get you into order, my hearts, and form yourselves
      around the ladies soldierlike and firmly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, each knight, squire, and archer hastily closed in upon his
      appointed ground, and they proceeded in the most compact order, which made
      their numbers appear still smaller. And to say the truth, though there
      might be no fear, there was anxiety as well as curiosity in the attention
      with which they listened to the wild bursts of Moorish music, which came
      ever and anon more distinctly from the quarter in which the Arab horseman
      had been seen to disappear.
    </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux spoke in a whisper to the King. &ldquo;Were it not well, my liege, to
      send a page to the top of that sand-bank? Or would it stand with your
      pleasure that I prick forward? Methinks, by all yonder clash and clang, if
      there be no more than five hundred men beyond the sand-hills, half of the
      Soldan's retinue must be drummers and cymbal-tossers. Shall I spur on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baron had checked his horse with the bit, and was just about to strike
      him with the spurs when the King exclaimed, &ldquo;Not for the world. Such a
      caution would express suspicion, and could do little to prevent surprise,
      which, however, I apprehend not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They advanced accordingly in close and firm order till they surmounted the
      line of low sand-hills, and came in sight of the appointed station, when a
      splendid, but at the same time a startling, spectacle awaited them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Diamond of the Desert, so lately a solitary fountain, distinguished
      only amid the waste by solitary groups of palm-trees, was now the centre
      of an encampment, the embroidered flags and gilded ornaments of which
      glittered far and wide, and reflected a thousand rich tints against the
      setting sun. The coverings of the large pavilions were of the gayest
      colours&mdash;scarlet, bright yellow, pale blue, and other gaudy and
      gleaming hues&mdash;and the tops of their pillars, or tent-poles, were
      decorated with golden pomegranates and small silken flags. But besides
      these distinguished pavilions, there were what Thomas de Vaux considered
      as a portentous number of the ordinary black tents of the Arabs, being
      sufficient, as he conceived, to accommodate, according to the Eastern
      fashion, a host of five thousand men. A number of Arabs and Kurds, fully
      corresponding to the extent of the encampment, were hastily assembling,
      each leading his horse in his hand, and their muster was accompanied by an
      astonishing clamour of their noisy instruments of martial music, by which,
      in all ages, the warfare of the Arabs has been animated.
    </p>
    <p>
      They soon formed a deep and confused mass of dismounted cavalry in front
      of their encampment, when, at the signal of a shrill cry, which arose high
      over the clangour of the music, each cavalier sprung to his saddle. A
      cloud of dust arising at the moment of this manoeuvre hid from Richard and
      his attendants the camp, the palm-trees, and the distant ridge of
      mountains, as well as the troops whose sudden movement had raised the
      cloud, and, ascending high over their heads, formed itself into the
      fantastic forms of writhed pillars, domes, and minarets. Another shrill
      yell was heard from the bosom of this cloudy tabernacle. It was the signal
      for the cavalry to advance, which they did at full gallop, disposing
      themselves as they came forward so as to come in at once on the front,
      flanks, and rear of Richard's little bodyguard, who were thus surrounded,
      and almost choked by the dense clouds of dust enveloping them on each
      side, through which were seen alternately, and lost, the grim forms and
      wild faces of the Saracens, brandishing and tossing their lances in every
      possible direction with the wildest cries and halloos, and frequently only
      reining up their horses when within a spear's length of the Christians,
      while those in the rear discharged over the heads of both parties thick
      volleys of arrows. One of these struck the litter in which the Queen was
      seated, who loudly screamed, and the red spot was on Richard's brow in an
      instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! Saint George,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;we must take some order with this
      infidel scum!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Edith, whose litter was near, thrust her head out, and with her hand
      holding one of the shafts, exclaimed, &ldquo;Royal Richard, beware what you do!
      see, these arrows are headless!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble, sensible wench!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard; &ldquo;by Heaven, thou shamest us
      all by thy readiness of thought and eye.&mdash;Be not moved, my English
      hearts,&rdquo; he exclaimed to his followers; &ldquo;their arrows have no heads&mdash;and
      their spears, too, lack the steel points. It is but a wild welcome, after
      their savage fashion, though doubtless they would rejoice to see us
      daunted or disturbed. Move onward, slow and steady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little phalanx moved forward accordingly, accompanied on all sides by
      the Arabs, with the shrillest and most piercing cries, the bowmen,
      meanwhile, displaying their agility by shooting as near the crests of the
      Christians as was possible, without actually hitting them, while the
      lancers charged each other with such rude blows of their blunt weapons
      that more than one of them lost his saddle, and well-nigh his life, in
      this rough sport. All this, though designed to express welcome, had rather
      a doubtful appearance in the eyes of the Europeans.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they had advanced nearly half way towards the camp, King Richard and
      his suite forming, as it were, the nucleus round which this tumultuary
      body of horsemen howled, whooped, skirmished, and galloped, creating a
      scene of indescribable confusion, another shrill cry was heard, on which
      all these irregulars, who were on the front and upon the flanks of the
      little body of Europeans, wheeled off; and forming themselves into a long
      and deep column, followed with comparative order and silence in the rear
      of Richard's troops. The dust began now to dissipate in their front, when
      there advanced to meet them through that cloudy veil a body of cavalry of
      a different and more regular description, completely armed with offensive
      and defensive weapons, and who might well have served as a bodyguard to
      the proudest of Eastern monarchs. This splendid troop consisted of five
      hundred men and each horse which it contained was worth an earl's ransom.
      The riders were Georgian and Circassian slaves in the very prime of life.
      Their helmets and hauberks were formed of steel rings, so bright that they
      shone like silver; their vestures were of the gayest colours, and some of
      cloth of gold or silver; the sashes were twisted with silk and gold, their
      rich turbans were plumed and jewelled, and their sabres and poniards, of
      Damascene steel, were adorned with gold and gems on hilt and scabbard.
    </p>
    <p>
      This splendid array advanced to the sound of military music, and when they
      met the Christian body they opened their files to the right and left, and
      let them enter between their ranks. Richard now assumed the foremost place
      in his troop, aware that Saladin himself was approaching. Nor was it long
      when, in the centre of his bodyguard, surrounded by his domestic officers
      and those hideous negroes who guard the Eastern haram, and whose misshapen
      forms were rendered yet more frightful by the richness of their attire,
      came the Soldan, with the look and manners of one on whose brow Nature had
      written, This is a King! In his snow-white turban, vest, and wide Eastern
      trousers, wearing a sash of scarlet silk, without any other ornament,
      Saladin might have seemed the plainest-dressed man in his own guard. But
      closer inspection discerned in his turban that inestimable gem which was
      called by the poets the Sea of Light; the diamond on which his signet was
      engraved, and which he wore in a ring, was probably worth all the jewels
      of the English crown; and a sapphire which terminated the hilt of his
      cangiar was not of much inferior value. It should be added that, to
      protect himself from the dust, which in the vicinity of the Dead Sea
      resembles the finest ashes, or, perhaps, out of Oriental pride, the Soldan
      wore a sort of veil attached to his turban, which partly obscured the view
      of his noble features. He rode a milk-white Arabian, which bore him as if
      conscious and proud of his noble burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no need of further introduction. The two heroic monarchs&mdash;for
      such they both were&mdash;threw themselves at once from horseback, and the
      troops halting and the music suddenly ceasing, they advanced to meet each
      other in profound silence, and after a courteous inclination on either
      side they embraced as brethren and equals. The pomp and display upon both
      sides attracted no further notice&mdash;no one saw aught save Richard and
      Saladin, and they too beheld nothing but each other. The looks with which
      Richard surveyed Saladin were, however, more intently curious than those
      which the Soldan fixed upon him; and the Soldan also was the first to
      break silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Melech Ric is welcome to Saladin as water to this desert. I trust he
      hath no distrust of this numerous array. Excepting the armed slaves of my
      household, those who surround you with eyes of wonder and of welcome are&mdash;even
      the humblest of them&mdash;the privileged nobles of my thousand tribes;
      for who that could claim a title to be present would remain at home when
      such a Prince was to be seen as Richard, with the terrors of whose name,
      even on the sands of Yemen, the nurse stills her child, and the free Arab
      subdues his restive steed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And these are all nobles of Araby?&rdquo; said Richard, looking around on wild
      forms with their persons covered with haiks, their countenance swart with
      the sunbeams, their teeth as white as ivory, their black eyes glancing
      with fierce and preternatural lustre from under the shade of their
      turbans, and their dress being in general simple even to meanness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They claim such rank,&rdquo; said Saladin; &ldquo;but though numerous, they are
      within the conditions of the treaty, and bear no arms but the sabre&mdash;even
      the iron of their lances is left behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear,&rdquo; muttered De Vaux in English, &ldquo;they have left them where they can
      be soon found. A most flourishing House of Peers, I confess, and would
      find Westminster Hall something too narrow for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, De Vaux,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I command thee.&mdash;Noble Saladin,&rdquo; he
      said, &ldquo;suspicion and thou cannot exist on the same ground. Seest thou,&rdquo;
       pointing to the litters, &ldquo;I too have brought some champions with me,
      though armed, perhaps, in breach of agreement; for bright eyes and fair
      features are weapons which cannot be left behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Soldan, turning to the litters, made an obeisance as lowly as if
      looking towards Mecca, and kissed the sand in token of respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;they will not fear a closer encounter, brother; wilt
      thou not ride towards their litters, and the curtains will be presently
      withdrawn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That may Allah prohibit!&rdquo; said Saladin, &ldquo;since not an Arab looks on who
      would not think it shame to the noble ladies to be seen with their faces
      uncovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou shalt see them, then, in private, brother,&rdquo; answered Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To what purpose?&rdquo; answered Saladin mournfully. &ldquo;Thy last letter was, to
      the hopes which I had entertained, like water to fire; and wherefore
      should I again light a flame which may indeed consume, but cannot cheer
      me? But will not my brother pass to the tent which his servant hath
      prepared for him? My principal black slave hath taken order for the
      reception of the Princesses, the officers of my household will attend your
      followers, and ourself will be the chamberlain of the royal Richard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He led the way accordingly to a splendid pavilion, where was everything
      that royal luxury could devise. De Vaux, who was in attendance, then
      removed the chappe (CAPA), or long riding-cloak, which Richard wore, and
      he stood before Saladin in the close dress which showed to advantage the
      strength and symmetry of his person, while it bore a strong contrast to
      the flowing robes which disguised the thin frame. of the Eastern monarch.
      It was Richard's two-handed sword that chiefly attracted the attention of
      the Saracen&mdash;a broad, straight blade, the seemingly unwieldy length
      of which extended well-nigh from the shoulder to the heel of the wearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had I not,&rdquo; said Saladin, &ldquo;seen this brand flaming in the front of
      battle, like that of Azrael, I had scarce believed that human arm could
      wield it. Might I request to see the Melech Ric strike one blow with it in
      peace, and in pure trial of strength?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Willingly, noble Saladin,&rdquo; answered Richard; and looking around for
      something whereon to exercise his strength, he saw a steel mace held by
      one of the attendants, the handle being of the same metal, and about an
      inch and a half in diameter. This he placed on a block of wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      The anxiety of De Vaux for his master's honour led him to whisper in
      English, &ldquo;For the blessed Virgin's sake, beware what you attempt, my
      liege! Your full strength is not as yet returned&mdash;give no triumph to
      the infidel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, fool!&rdquo; said Richard, standing firm on his ground, and casting a
      fierce glance around; &ldquo;thinkest thou that I can fail in HIS presence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The glittering broadsword, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the
      King's left shoulder, circled round his head, descended with the sway of
      some terrific engine, and the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two
      pieces, as a woodsman would sever a sapling with a hedging-bill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the head of the Prophet, a most wonderful blow!&rdquo; said the Soldan,
      critically and accurately examining the iron bar which had been cut
      asunder; and the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit not
      the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He then
      took the King's hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength which
      it exhibited, laughed as he placed it beside his own, so lank and thin, so
      inferior in brawn and sinew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, look well,&rdquo; said De Vaux in English, &ldquo;it will be long ere your long
      jackanape's fingers do such a feat with your fine gilded reaping-hook
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence, De Vaux,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;by Our Lady, he understands or guesses
      thy meaning&mdash;be not so broad, I pray thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Soldan, indeed, presently said, &ldquo;Something I would fain attempt&mdash;though
      wherefore should the weak show their inferiority in presence of the
      strong? Yet each land hath its own exercises, and this may be new to the
      Melech Ric.&rdquo; So saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk and down,
      and placed it upright on one end. &ldquo;Can thy weapon, my brother, sever that
      cushion?&rdquo; he said to King Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, surely,&rdquo; replied the King; &ldquo;no sword on earth, were it the Excalibur
      of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady resistance to the
      blow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark, then,&rdquo; said Saladin; and tucking up the sleeve of his gown, showed
      his arm, thin indeed and spare, but which constant exercise had hardened
      into a mass consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He unsheathed
      his scimitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not like the
      swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue colour,
      marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how anxiously
      the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this weapon,
      apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the Soldan
      stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly advanced;
      he balanced himself a little, as if to steady his aim; then stepping at
      once forward, drew the scimitar across the cushion, applying the edge so
      dexterously, and with so little apparent effort, that the cushion seemed
      rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a juggler's trick,&rdquo; said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching up
      the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure himself
      of the reality of the feat; &ldquo;there is gramarye in this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which
      he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre, extended
      the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through the veil,
      although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that also into two
      parts, which floated to different sides of the tent, equally displaying
      the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon, and the exquisite
      dexterity of him who used it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, in good faith, my brother,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;thou art even matchless
      at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee! Still,
      however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what we cannot
      do by sleight we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth thou art as
      expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakim in curing them. I trust I
      shall see the learned leech. I have much to thank him for, and had brought
      some small present.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no
      sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his
      large, round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while
      the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: &ldquo;The sick man, saith the
      poet, while he is yet infirm, knoweth the physician by his step; but when
      he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A miracle!&mdash;a miracle!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of Mahound's working, doubtless,&rdquo; said Thomas de Vaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I should lose my learned Hakim,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;merely by absence of
      his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal brother
      Saladin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is oft the fashion of the world,&rdquo; answered the Soldan; &ldquo;the tattered
      robe makes not always the dervise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it was through thy intercession,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;that yonder Knight
      of the Leopard was saved from death, and by thy artifice that he revisited
      my camp in disguise?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even so,&rdquo; replied Saladin. &ldquo;I was physician enough to know that, unless
      the wounds of his bleeding honour were stanched, the days of his life must
      be few. His disguise was more easily penetrated than I had expected from
      the success of my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An accident,&rdquo; said King Richard (probably alluding to the circumstance of
      his applying his lips to the wound of the supposed Nubian), &ldquo;let me first
      know that his skin was artificially discoloured; and that hint once taken,
      detection became easy, for his form and person are not to be forgotten. I
      confidently expect that he will do battle on the morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is full in preparation, and high in hope,&rdquo; said the Soldan. &ldquo;I have
      furnished him with weapons and horse, thinking nobly of him from what I
      have seen under various disguises.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knows he now,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;to whom he lies under obligation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He doth,&rdquo; replied the Saracen. &ldquo;I was obliged to confess my person when I
      unfolded my purpose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And confessed he aught to you?&rdquo; said the King of England.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing explicit,&rdquo; replied the Soldan; &ldquo;but from much that passed between
      us, I conceive his love is too highly placed to be happy in its issue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thou knowest that his daring and insolent passion crossed thine own
      wishes?&rdquo; said Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might guess so much,&rdquo; said Saladin; &ldquo;but his passion had existed ere my
      wishes had been formed&mdash;and, I must now add, is likely to survive
      them. I cannot, in honour, revenge me for my disappointment on him who had
      no hand in it. Or, if this high-born dame loved him better than myself,
      who can say that she did not justice to a knight of her own religion, who
      is full of nobleness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet of too mean lineage to mix with the blood of Plantagenet,&rdquo; said
      Richard haughtily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such may be your maxims in Frangistan,&rdquo; replied the Soldan. &ldquo;Our poets of
      the Eastern countries say that a valiant camel-driver is worthy to kiss
      the lip of a fair Queen, when a cowardly prince is not worthy to salute
      the hem of her garment. But with your permission, noble brother, I must
      take leave of thee for the present, to receive the Duke of Austria and
      yonder Nazarene knight, much less worthy of hospitality, but who must yet
      be suitably entreated, not for their sakes, but for mine own honour&mdash;for
      what saith the sage Lokman? 'Say not that the food is lost unto thee which
      is given to the stranger; for if his body be strengthened and fattened
      therewithal, not less is thine own worship and good name cherished and
      augmented.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Saracen Monarch departed from King Richard's tent, and having
      indicated to him, rather with signs than with speech, where the pavilion
      of the Queen and her attendants was pitched, he went to receive the
      Marquis of Montserrat and his attendants, for whom, with less goodwill,
      but with equal splendour, the magnificent Soldan had provided
      accommodations. The most ample refreshments, both in the Oriental and
      after the European fashion, were spread before the royal and princely
      guests of Saladin, each in their own separate pavilion; and so attentive
      was the Soldan to the habits and taste of his visitors, that Grecian
      slaves were stationed to present them with the goblet, which is the
      abomination of the sect of Mohammed. Ere Richard had finished his meal,
      the ancient Omrah, who had brought the Soldan's letter to the Christian
      camp, entered with a plan of the ceremonial to be observed on the
      succeeding day of combat. Richard, who knew the taste of his old
      acquaintance, invited him to pledge him in a flagon of wine of Shiraz; but
      Abdallah gave him to understand, with a rueful aspect, that self-denial in
      the present circumstances was a matter in which his life was concerned,
      for that Saladin, tolerant in many respects, both observed and enforced by
      high penalties the laws of the Prophet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, then,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;if he loves not wine, that lightener of the
      human heart, his conversion is not to be hoped for, and the prediction of
      the mad priest of Engaddi goes like chaff down the wind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The King then addressed himself to settle the articles of combat, which
      cost a considerable time, as it was necessary on some points to consult
      with the opposite parties, as well as with the Soldan.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were at length finally agreed upon, and adjusted by a protocol in
      French and in Arabian, which was subscribed by Saladin as umpire of the
      field, and by Richard and Leopold as guarantees for the two combatants. As
      the Omrah took his final leave of King Richard for the evening, De Vaux
      entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The good knight,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;who is to do battle tomorrow requests to know
      whether he may not to-night pay duty to his royal godfather!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hast thou seen him, De Vaux?&rdquo; said the King, smiling; &ldquo;and didst thou
      know an ancient acquaintance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By our Lady of Lanercost,&rdquo; answered De Vaux, &ldquo;there are so many surprises
      and changes in this land that my poor brain turns. I scarce knew Sir
      Kenneth of Scotland, till his good hound, that had been for a short while
      under my care, came and fawned on me; and even then I only knew the tyke
      by the depth of his chest, the roundness of his foot, and his manner of
      baying, for the poor gazehound was painted like any Venetian courtesan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art better skilled in brutes than men, De Vaux,&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not deny,&rdquo; said De Vaux, &ldquo;I have found them ofttimes the honester
      animals. Also, your Grace is pleased to term me sometimes a brute myself;
      besides that, I serve the Lion, whom all men acknowledge the king of
      brutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Saint George, there thou brokest thy lance fairly on my brow,&rdquo; said
      the King. &ldquo;I have ever said thou hast a sort of wit, De Vaux; marry, one
      must strike thee with a sledge-hammer ere it can be made to sparkle. But
      to the present gear&mdash;is the good knight well armed and equipped?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fully, my liege, and nobly,&rdquo; answered De Vaux. &ldquo;I know the armour well;
      it is that which the Venetian commissary offered your highness, just ere
      you became ill, for five hundred byzants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he hath sold it to the infidel Soldan, I warrant me, for a few ducats
      more, and present payment. These Venetians would sell the Sepulchre
      itself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The armour will never be borne in a nobler cause,&rdquo; said De Vaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to the nobleness of the Saracen,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;not to the
      avarice of the Venetians.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would to God your Grace would be more cautious,&rdquo; said the anxious De
      Vaux. &ldquo;Here are we deserted by all our allies, for points of offence given
      to one or another; we cannot hope to prosper upon the land; and we have
      only to quarrel with the amphibious republic, to lose the means of retreat
      by sea!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will take care,&rdquo; said Richard impatiently; &ldquo;but school me no more. Tell
      me rather, for it is of interest, hath the knight a confessor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He hath,&rdquo; answered De Vaux; &ldquo;the hermit of Engaddi, who erst did him that
      office when preparing for death, attends him on the present occasion, the
      fame of the duel having brought him hither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis well,&rdquo; said Richard; &ldquo;and now for the knight's request. Say to him,
      Richard will receive him when the discharge of his devoir beside the
      Diamond of the Desert shall have atoned for his fault beside the Mount of
      Saint George; and as thou passest through the camp, let the Queen know I
      will visit her pavilion&mdash;and tell Blondel to meet me there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      De Vaux departed, and in about an hour afterwards, Richard, wrapping his
      mantle around him, and taking his ghittern in his hand, walked in the
      direction of the Queen's pavilion. Several Arabs passed him, but always
      with averted heads and looks fixed upon the earth, though he could observe
      that all gazed earnestly after him when he was past. This led him justly
      to conjecture that his person was known to them; but that either the
      Soldan's commands, or their own Oriental politeness, forbade them to seem
      to notice a sovereign who desired to remain incognito.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the King reached the pavilion of his Queen he found it guarded by
      those unhappy officials whom Eastern jealousy places around the zenana.
      Blondel was walking before the door, and touched his rote from time to
      time in a manner which made the Africans show their ivory teeth, and bear
      burden with their strange gestures and shrill, unnatural voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What art thou after with this herd of black cattle, Blondel?&rdquo; said the
      King; &ldquo;wherefore goest thou not into the tent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because my trade can neither spare the head nor the fingers,&rdquo; said
      Blondel, &ldquo;and these honest blackamoors threatened to cut me joint from
      joint if I pressed forward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, enter with me,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;and I will be thy safeguard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The blacks accordingly lowered pikes and swords to King Richard, and bent
      their eyes on the ground, as if unworthy to look upon him. In the interior
      of the pavilion they found Thomas de Vaux in attendance on the Queen.
      While Berengaria welcomed Blondel, King Richard spoke for some time
      secretly and apart with his fair kinswoman.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, &ldquo;Are we still foes, my fair Edith?&rdquo; he said, in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my liege,&rdquo; said Edith, in a voice just so low as not to interrupt the
      music; &ldquo;none can bear enmity against King Richard when he deigns to show
      himself, as he really is, generous and noble, as well as valiant and
      honourable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, she extended her hand to him. The King kissed it in token of
      reconciliation, and then proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think, my sweet cousin, that my anger in this matter was feigned; but
      you are deceived. The punishment I inflicted upon this knight was just;
      for he had betrayed&mdash;no matter for how tempting a bribe, fair cousin&mdash;the
      trust committed to him. But I rejoice, perchance as much as you, that
      to-morrow gives him a chance to win the field, and throw back the stain
      which for a time clung to him upon the actual thief and traitor. No!&mdash;future
      times may blame Richard for impetuous folly, but they shall say that in
      rendering judgment he was just when he should and merciful when he could.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Laud not thyself, cousin King,&rdquo; said Edith. &ldquo;They may call thy justice
      cruelty, thy mercy caprice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do not thou pride thyself,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;as if thy knight, who
      hath not yet buckled on his armour, were unbelting it in triumph&mdash;Conrade
      of Montserrat is held a good lance. What if the Scot should lose the day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is impossible!&rdquo; said Edith firmly. &ldquo;My own eyes saw yonder Conrade
      tremble and change colour like a base thief; he is guilty, and the trial
      by combat is an appeal to the justice of God. I myself, in such a cause,
      would encounter him without fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
&ldquo;By the mass, I think thou wouldst, wench,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;and beat him
to boot, for there never breathed a truer Plantagenet than thou.&rdquo;

 He paused, and added in a very serious tone, &ldquo;See that thou
continue to remember what is due to thy birth.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What means that advice, so seriously given at this moment?&rdquo; said Edith.
      &ldquo;Am I of such light nature as to forget my name&mdash;my condition?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will speak plainly, Edith,&rdquo; answered the King, &ldquo;and as to a friend.
      What will this knight be to you, should he come off victor from yonder
      lists?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To me?&rdquo; said Edith, blushing deep with shame and displeasure. &ldquo;What can
      he be to me more than an honoured knight, worthy of such grace as Queen
      Berengaria might confer on him, had he selected her for his lady, instead
      of a more unworthy choice? The meanest knight may devote himself to the
      service of an empress, but the glory of his choice,&rdquo; she said proudly,
      &ldquo;must be his reward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet he hath served and suffered much for you,&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have paid his services with honour and applause, and his sufferings
      with tears,&rdquo; answered Edith. &ldquo;Had he desired other reward, he would have
      done wisely to have bestowed his affections within his own degree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would not, then, wear the bloody night-gear for his sake?&rdquo; said King
      Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more,&rdquo; answered Edith, &ldquo;than I would have required him to expose his
      life by an action in which there was more madness than honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maidens talk ever thus,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;but when the favoured lover
      presses his suit, she says, with a sigh, her stars had decreed otherwise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Grace has now, for the second time, threatened me with the influence
      of my horoscope,&rdquo; Edith replied, with dignity. &ldquo;Trust me, my liege,
      whatever be the power of the stars, your poor kinswoman will never wed
      either infidel or obscure adventurer. Permit me that I listen to the music
      of Blondel, for the tone of your royal admonitions is scarce so grateful
      to the ear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The conclusion of the evening offered nothing worthy of notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Heard ye the din of battle bray,
     Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
          GRAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      It had been agreed, on account of the heat of the climate, that the
      judicial combat which was the cause of the present assemblage of various
      nations at the Diamond of the Desert should take place at one hour after
      sunrise. The wide lists, which had been constructed under the inspection
      of the Knight of the Leopard, enclosed a space of hard sand, which was one
      hundred and twenty yards long by forty in width. They extended in length
      from north to south, so as to give both parties the equal advantage of the
      rising sun. Saladin's royal seat was erected on the western side of the
      enclosure, just in the centre, where the combatants were expected to meet
      in mid encounter. Opposed to this was a gallery with closed casements, so
      contrived that the ladies, for whose accommodation it was erected, might
      see the fight without being themselves exposed to view. At either
      extremity of the lists was a barrier, which could be opened or shut at
      pleasure. Thrones had been also erected, but the Archduke, perceiving that
      his was lower than King Richard's, refused to occupy it; and Coeur de
      Lion, who would have submitted to much ere any formality should have
      interfered with the combat, readily agreed that the sponsors, as they were
      called, should remain on horseback during the fight. At one extremity of
      the lists were placed the followers of Richard, and opposed to them were
      those who accompanied the defender Conrade. Around the throne destined for
      the Soldan were ranged his splendid Georgian Guards, and the rest of the
      enclosure was occupied by Christian and Mohammedan spectators.
    </p>
    <p>
      Long before daybreak the lists were surrounded by even a larger number of
      Saracens than Richard had seen on the preceding evening. When the first
      ray of the sun's glorious orb arose above the desert, the sonorous call,
      &ldquo;To prayer&mdash;to prayer!&rdquo; was poured forth by the Soldan himself, and
      answered by others, whose rank and zeal entitled them to act as muezzins.
      It was a striking spectacle to see them all sink to earth, for the purpose
      of repeating their devotions, with their faces turned to Mecca. But when
      they arose from the ground, the sun's rays, now strengthening fast, seemed
      to confirm the Lord of Gilsland's conjecture of the night before. They
      were flashed back from many a spearhead, for the pointless lances of the
      preceding day were certainly no longer such. De Vaux pointed it out to his
      master, who answered with impatience that he had perfect confidence in the
      good faith of the Soldan; but if De Vaux was afraid of his bulky body, he
      might retire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon after this the noise of timbrels was heard, at the sound of which the
      whole Saracen cavaliers threw themselves from their horses, and prostrated
      themselves, as if for a second morning prayer. This was to give an
      opportunity to the Queen, with Edith and her attendants, to pass from the
      pavilion to the gallery intended for them. Fifty guards of Saladin's
      seraglio escorted them with naked sabres, whose orders were to cut to
      pieces whomsoever, were he prince or peasant, should venture to gaze on
      the ladies as they passed, or even presume to raise his head until the
      cessation of the music should make all men aware that they were lodged in
      their gallery, not to be gazed on by the curious eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      This superstitious observance of Oriental reverence to the fair sex called
      forth from Queen Berengaria some criticisms very unfavourable to Saladin
      and his country. But their den, as the royal fair called it, being
      securely closed and guarded by their sable attendants, she was under the
      necessity of contenting herself with seeing, and laying aside for the
      present the still more exquisite pleasure of being seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime the sponsors of both champions went, as was their duty, to see
      that they were duly armed and prepared for combat. The Archduke of Austria
      was in no hurry to perform this part of the ceremony, having had rather an
      unusually severe debauch upon wine of Shiraz the preceding evening. But
      the Grand Master of the Temple, more deeply concerned in the event of the
      combat, was early before the tent of Conrade of Montserrat. To his great
      surprise, the attendants refused him admittance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you not know me, ye knaves?&rdquo; said the Grand Master, in great anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We do, most valiant and reverend,&rdquo; answered Conrade's squire; &ldquo;but even
      you may not at present enter&mdash;the Marquis is about to confess
      himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confess himself!&rdquo; exclaimed the Templar, in a tone where alarm mingled
      with surprise and scorn&mdash;&ldquo;and to whom, I pray thee?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My master bid me be secret,&rdquo; said the squire; on which the Grand Master
      pushed past him, and entered the tent almost by force.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marquis of Montserrat was kneeling at the feet of the hermit of
      Engaddi, and in the act of beginning his confession.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What means this, Marquis?&rdquo; said the Grand Master; &ldquo;up, for shame&mdash;or,
      if you must needs confess, am not I here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have confessed to you too often already,&rdquo; replied Conrade, with a pale
      cheek and a faltering voice. &ldquo;For God's sake, Grand Master, begone, and
      let me unfold my conscience to this holy man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In what is he holier than I am?&rdquo; said the Grand Master.&mdash;&ldquo;Hermit,
      prophet, madman&mdash;say, if thou darest, in what thou excellest me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bold and bad man,&rdquo; replied the hermit, &ldquo;know that I am like the latticed
      window, and the divine light passes through to avail others, though, alas!
      it helpeth not me. Thou art like the iron stanchions, which neither
      receive light themselves, nor communicate it to any one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prate not to me, but depart from this tent,&rdquo; said the Grand Master; &ldquo;the
      Marquis shall not confess this morning, unless it be to me, for I part not
      from his side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this YOUR pleasure?&rdquo; said the hermit to Conrade; &ldquo;for think not I will
      obey that proud man, if you continue to desire my assistance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas,&rdquo; said Conrade irresolutely, &ldquo;what would you have me say? Farewell
      for a while&mdash;-we will speak anon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O procrastination!&rdquo; exclaimed the hermit, &ldquo;thou art a soul-murderer!&mdash;Unhappy
      man, farewell&mdash;not for a while, but until we shall both meet no
      matter where. And for thee,&rdquo; he added, turning to the Grand Master,
      &ldquo;TREMBLE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tremble!&rdquo; replied the Templar contemptuously, &ldquo;I cannot if I would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come! to this gear hastily,&rdquo; said the Grand Master, &ldquo;since thou wilt
      needs go through the foolery. Hark thee&mdash;I think I know most of thy
      frailties by heart, so we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat a
      long one, and begin with the absolution. What signifies counting the spots
      of dirt that we are about to wash from our hands?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knowing what thou art thyself,&rdquo; said Conrade, &ldquo;it is blasphemous to speak
      of pardoning another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not according to the canon, Lord Marquis,&rdquo; said the Templar;
      &ldquo;thou art more scrupulous than orthodox. The absolution of the wicked
      priest is as effectual as if he were himself a saint&mdash;otherwise, God
      help the poor penitent! What wounded man inquires whether the surgeon that
      tends his gashes has clean hands or no? Come, shall we to this toy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Conrade, &ldquo;I will rather die unconfessed than mock the
      sacrament.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, noble Marquis,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;rouse up your courage, and speak
      not thus. In an hour's time thou shalt stand victorious in the lists, or
      confess thee in thy helmet, like a valiant knight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, Grand Master,&rdquo; answered Conrade, &ldquo;all augurs ill for this affair,
      the strange discovery by the instinct of a dog&mdash;the revival of this
      Scottish knight, who comes into the lists like a spectre&mdash;all
      betokens evil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw,&rdquo; said the Templar, &ldquo;I have seen thee bend thy lance boldly against
      him in sport, and with equal chance of success. Think thou art but in a
      tournament, and who bears him better in the tilt-yard than thou?&mdash;Come,
      squires and armourers, your master must be accoutred for the field.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The attendants entered accordingly, and began to arm the Marquis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What morning is without?&rdquo; said Conrade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sun rises dimly,&rdquo; answered a squire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou seest, Grand Master,&rdquo; said Conrade, &ldquo;nought smiles on us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wilt fight the more coolly, my son,&rdquo; answered the Templar; &ldquo;thank
      Heaven, that hath tempered the sun of Palestine to suit thine occasion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus jested the Grand Master. But his jests had lost their influence on
      the harassed mind of the Marquis, and notwithstanding his attempts to seem
      gay, his gloom communicated itself to the Templar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This craven,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;will lose the day in pure faintness and
      cowardice of heart, which he calls tender conscience. I, whom visions and
      auguries shake not&mdash;-who am firm in my purpose as the living rock&mdash;I
      should have fought the combat myself. Would to God the Scot may strike him
      dead on the spot; it were next best to his winning the victory. But come
      what will, he must have no other confessor than myself&mdash;our sins are
      too much in common, and he might confess my share with his own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While these thoughts passed through his mind, he continued to assist the
      Marquis in arming, but it was in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hour at length arrived; the trumpets sounded; the knights rode into
      the lists armed at all points, and mounted like men who were to do battle
      for a kingdom's honour. They wore their visors up, and riding around the
      lists three times, showed themselves to the spectators. Both were goodly
      persons, and both had noble countenances. But there was an air of manly
      confidence on the brow of the Scot&mdash;a radiancy of hope, which
      amounted even to cheerfulness; while, although pride and effort had
      recalled much of Conrade's natural courage, there lowered still on his
      brow a cloud of ominous despondence. Even his steed seemed to tread less
      lightly and blithely to the trumpet-sound than the noble Arab which was
      bestrode by Sir Kenneth; and the SPRUCH-SPRECHER shook his head while he
      observed that, while the challenger rode around the lists in the course of
      the sun&mdash;that is, from right to left&mdash;the defender made the same
      circuit WIDDERSINS&mdash;that is, from left to right&mdash;which is in
      most countries held ominous.
    </p>
    <p>
      A temporary altar was erected just beneath the gallery occupied by the
      Queen, and beside it stood the hermit in the dress of his order as a
      Carmelite friar. Other churchmen were also present. To this altar the
      challenger and defender were successively brought forward, conducted by
      their respective sponsors. Dismounting before it, each knight avouched the
      justice of his cause by a solemn oath on the Evangelists, and prayed that
      his success might be according to the truth or falsehood of what he then
      swore. They also made oath that they came to do battle in knightly guise,
      and with the usual weapons, disclaiming the use of spells, charms, or
      magical devices to incline victory to their side. The challenger
      pronounced his vow with a firm and manly voice, and a bold and cheerful
      countenance. When the ceremony was finished, the Scottish Knight looked at
      the gallery, and bent his head to the earth, as if in honour of those
      invisible beauties which were enclosed within; then, loaded with armour as
      he was, sprung to the saddle without the use of the stirrup, and made his
      courser carry him in a succession of caracoles to his station at the
      eastern extremity of the lists. Conrade also presented himself before the
      altar with boldness enough; but his voice as he took the oath sounded
      hollow, as if drowned in his helmet. The lips with which he appealed to
      Heaven to adjudge victory to the just quarrel grew white as they uttered
      the impious mockery. As he turned to remount his horse, the Grand Master
      approached him closer, as if to rectify something about the sitting of his
      gorget, and whispered, &ldquo;Coward and fool! recall thy senses, and do me this
      battle bravely, else, by Heaven, shouldst thou escape him, thou escapest
      not ME!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The savage tone in which this was whispered perhaps completed the
      confusion of the Marquis's nerves, for he stumbled as he made to horse;
      and though he recovered his feet, sprung to the saddle with his usual
      agility, and displayed his address in horsemanship as he assumed his
      position opposite to the challenger's, yet the accident did not escape
      those who were on the watch for omens which might predict the fate of the
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      The priests, after a solemn prayer that God would show the rightful
      quarrel, departed from the lists. The trumpets of the challenger then rung
      a flourish, and a herald-at-arms proclaimed at the eastern end of the
      lists&mdash;&ldquo;Here stands a good knight, Sir Kenneth of Scotland, champion
      for the royal King Richard of England, who accuseth Conrade, Marquis of
      Montserrat, of foul treason and dishonour done to the said King.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the words Kenneth of Scotland announced the name and character of the
      champion, hitherto scarce generally known, a loud and cheerful acclaim
      burst from the followers of King Richard, and hardly, notwithstanding
      repeated commands of silence, suffered the reply of the defendant to be
      heard. He, of course, avouched his innocence, and offered his body for
      battle. The esquires of the combatants now approached, and delivered to
      each his shield and lance, assisting to hang the former around his neck,
      that his two hands might remain free, one for the management of the
      bridle, the other to direct the lance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shield of the Scot displayed his old bearing, the leopard, but with
      the addition of a collar and broken chain, in allusion to his late
      captivity. The shield of the Marquis bore, in reference to his title, a
      serrated and rocky mountain. Each shook his lance aloft, as if to
      ascertain the weight and toughness of the unwieldy weapon, and then laid
      it in the rest. The sponsors, heralds, and squires now retired to the
      barriers, and the combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face,
      with couched lance and closed visor, the human form so completely
      enclosed, that they looked more like statues of molten iron than beings of
      flesh and blood. The silence of suspense was now general. Men breathed
      thicker, and their very souls seemed seated in their eyes; while not a
      sound was to be heard save the snorting and pawing of the good steeds,
      who, sensible of what was about to happen, were impatient to dash into
      career. They stood thus for perhaps three minutes, when, at a signal given
      by the Soldan, a hundred instruments rent the air with their brazen
      clamours, and each champion striking his horse with the spurs, and
      slacking the rein, the horses started into full gallop, and the knights
      met in mid space with a shock like a thunderbolt. The victory was not in
      doubt&mdash;no, not one moment. Conrade, indeed, showed himself a
      practised warrior; for he struck his antagonist knightly in the midst of
      his shield, bearing his lance so straight and true that it shivered into
      splinters from the steel spear-head up to the very gauntlet. The horse of
      Sir Kenneth recoiled two or three yards and fell on his haunches; but the
      rider easily raised him with hand and rein. But for Conrade there was no
      recovery. Sir Kenneth's lance had pierced through the shield, through a
      plated corselet of Milan steel, through a SECRET, or coat of linked mail,
      worn beneath the corselet, had wounded him deep in the bosom, and borne
      him from his saddle, leaving the truncheon of the lance fixed in his
      wound. The sponsors, heralds, and Saladin himself, descending from his
      throne, crowded around the wounded man; while Sir Kenneth, who had drawn
      his sword ere yet he discovered his antagonist was totally helpless, now
      commanded him to avow his guilt. The helmet was hastily unclosed, and the
      wounded man, gazing wildly on the skies, replied, &ldquo;What would you more?
      God hath decided justly&mdash;I am guilty; but there are worse traitors in
      the camp than I. In pity to my soul, let me have a confessor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He revived as he uttered these words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The talisman&mdash;the powerful remedy, royal brother!&rdquo; said King Richard
      to Saladin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The traitor,&rdquo; answered the Soldan, &ldquo;is more fit to be dragged from the
      lists to the gallows by the heels, than to profit by its virtues. And some
      such fate is in his look,&rdquo; he added, after gazing fixedly upon the wounded
      man; &ldquo;for though his wound may be cured, yet Azrael's seal is on the
      wretch's brow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;I pray you do for him what you may, that he
      may at least have time for confession. Slay not soul and body! To him one
      half hour of time may be worth more, by ten thousandfold, than the life of
      the oldest patriarch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My royal brother's wish shall be obeyed,&rdquo; said Saladin.&mdash;&ldquo;Slaves,
      bear this wounded man to our tent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not so,&rdquo; said the Templar, who had hitherto stood gloomily looking on
      in silence. &ldquo;The royal Duke of Austria and myself will not permit this
      unhappy Christian prince to be delivered over to the Saracens, that they
      may try their spells upon him. We are his sponsors, and demand that he be
      assigned to our care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is, you refuse the certain means offered to recover him?&rdquo; said
      Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; said the Grand Master, recollecting himself. &ldquo;If the Soldan
      useth lawful medicines, he may attend the patient in my tent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do so, I pray thee, good brother,&rdquo; said Richard to Saladin, &ldquo;though the
      permission be ungraciously yielded.&mdash;But now to a more glorious work.
      Sound, trumpets&mdash;shout, England&mdash;in honour of England's
      champion!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Drum, clarion, trumpet, and cymbal rung forth at once, and the deep and
      regular shout, which for ages has been the English acclamation, sounded
      amidst the shrill and irregular yells of the Arabs, like the diapason of
      the organ amid the howling of a storm. There was silence at length.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brave Knight of the Leopard,&rdquo; resumed Coeur de Lion, &ldquo;thou hast shown
      that the Ethiopian may change his skin, and the leopard his spots, though
      clerks quote Scripture for the impossibility. Yet I have more to say to
      you when I have conducted you to the presence of the ladies, the best
      judges and best rewarders of deeds of chivalry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Leopard bowed assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thou, princely Saladin, wilt also attend them. I promise thee our
      Queen will not think herself welcome, if she lacks the opportunity to
      thank her royal host for her most princely reception.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Saladin bent his head gracefully, but declined the invitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must attend the wounded man,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The leech leaves not his
      patient more than the champion the lists, even if he be summoned to a
      bower like those of Paradise. And further, royal Richard, know that the
      blood of the East flows not so temperately in the presence of beauty as
      that of your land. What saith the Book itself?&mdash;Her eye is as the
      edge of the sword of the Prophet, who shall look upon it? He that would
      not be burnt avoideth to tread on hot embers&mdash;wise men spread not the
      flax before a flickering torch. He, saith the sage, who hath forfeited a
      treasure, doth not wisely to turn back his head to gaze at it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Richard, it may be believed, respected the motives of delicacy which
      flowed from manners so different from his own, and urged his request no
      further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At noon,&rdquo; said the Soldan, as he departed, &ldquo;I trust ye will all accept a
      collation under the black camel-skin tent of a chief of Kurdistan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The same invitation was circulated among the Christians, comprehending all
      those of sufficient importance to be admitted to sit at a feast made for
      princes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark!&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;the timbrels announce that our Queen and her
      attendants are leaving their gallery&mdash;and see, the turbans sink on
      the ground, as if struck down by a destroying angel. All lie prostrate, as
      if the glance of an Arab's eye could sully the lustre of a lady's cheek!
      Come, we will to the pavilion, and lead our conqueror thither in triumph.
      How I pity that noble Soldan, who knows but of love as it is known to
      those of inferior nature!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Blondel tuned his harp to his boldest measure, to welcome the introduction
      of the victor into the pavilion of Queen Berengaria. He entered, supported
      on either side by his sponsors, Richard and Thomas Longsword, and knelt
      gracefully down before the Queen, though more than half the homage was
      silently rendered to Edith, who sat on her right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unarm him, my mistresses,&rdquo; said the King, whose delight was in the
      execution of such chivalrous usages; &ldquo;let Beauty honour Chivalry! Undo his
      spurs, Berengaria; Queen though thou be, thou owest him what marks of
      favour thou canst give.&mdash;Unlace his helmet, Edith;&mdash;by this hand
      thou shalt, wert thou the proudest Plantagenet of the line, and he the
      poorest knight on earth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both ladies obeyed the royal commands&mdash;Berengaria with bustling
      assiduity, as anxious to gratify her husband's humour, and Edith blushing
      and growing pale alternately, as, slowly and awkwardly, she undid, with
      Longsword's assistance, the fastenings which secured the helmet to the
      gorget.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what expect you from beneath this iron shell?&rdquo; said Richard, as the
      removal of the casque gave to view the noble countenance of Sir Kenneth,
      his face glowing with recent exertion, and not less so with present
      emotion. &ldquo;What think ye of him, gallants and beauties?&rdquo; said Richard.
      &ldquo;Doth he resemble an Ethiopian slave, or doth he present the face of an
      obscure and nameless adventurer? No, by my good sword! Here terminate his
      various disguises. He hath knelt down before you unknown, save by his
      worth; he arises equally distinguished by birth and by fortune. The
      adventurous knight, Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntingdon, Prince
      Royal of Scotland!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Edith dropped from her
      hand the helmet which she had just received.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my masters,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;it is even so. Ye know how Scotland
      deceived us when she proposed to send this valiant Earl, with a bold
      company of her best and noblest, to aid our arms in this conquest of
      Palestine, but failed to comply with her engagements. This noble youth,
      under whom the Scottish Crusaders were to have been arrayed, thought foul
      scorn that his arm should be withheld from the holy warfare, and joined us
      at Sicily with a small train of devoted and faithful attendants, which was
      augmented by many of his countrymen to whom the rank of their leader was
      unknown. The confidants of the Royal Prince had all, save one old
      follower, fallen by death, when his secret, but too well kept, had nearly
      occasioned my cutting off, in a Scottish adventurer, one of the noblest
      hopes of Europe.&mdash;Why did you not mention your rank, noble
      Huntingdon, when endangered by my hasty and passionate sentence? Was it
      that you thought Richard capable of abusing the advantage I possessed over
      the heir of a King whom I have so often found hostile?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did you not that injustice, royal Richard,&rdquo; answered the Earl of
      Huntingdon; &ldquo;but my pride brooked not that I should avow myself Prince of
      Scotland in order to save my life, endangered for default of loyalty. And,
      moreover, I had made my vow to preserve my rank unknown till the Crusade
      should be accomplished; nor did I mention it save IN ARTICULO MORTIS, and
      under the seal of confession, to yonder reverend hermit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was the knowledge of that secret, then, which made the good man so
      urgent with me to recall my severe sentence?&rdquo; said Richard. &ldquo;Well did he
      say that, had this good knight fallen by my mandate, I should have wished
      the deed undone though it had cost me a limb. A limb! I should have wished
      it undone had it cost me my life&mdash;-since the world would have said
      that Richard had abused the condition in which the heir of Scotland had
      placed himself by his confidence in his generosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet, may we know of your Grace by what strange and happy chance this
      riddle was at length read?&rdquo; said the Queen Berengaria.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Letters were brought to us from England,&rdquo; said the King, &ldquo;in which we
      learned, among other unpleasant news, that the King of Scotland had seized
      upon three of our nobles, when on a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian, and
      alleged, as a cause, that his heir, being supposed to be fighting in the
      ranks of the Teutonic Knights against the heathen of Borussia, was, in
      fact, in our camp, and in our power; and, therefore, William proposed to
      hold these nobles as hostages for his safety. This gave me the first light
      on the real rank of the Knight of the Leopard; and my suspicions were
      confirmed by De Vaux, who, on his return from Ascalon, brought back with
      him the Earl of Huntingdon's sole attendant, a thick-skulled slave, who
      had gone thirty miles to unfold to De Vaux a secret he should have told to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old Strauchan must be excused,&rdquo; said the Lord of Gilsland. &ldquo;He knew from
      experience that my heart is somewhat softer than if I wrote myself
      Plantagenet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy heart soft? thou commodity of old iron and Cumberland flint, that
      thou art!&rdquo; exclaimed the King.&mdash;&ldquo;It is we Plantagenets who boast soft
      and feeling hearts. Edith,&rdquo; turning to his cousin with an expression which
      called the blood into her cheek, &ldquo;give me thy hand, my fair cousin, and,
      Prince of Scotland, thine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forbear, my lord,&rdquo; said Edith, hanging back, and endeavouring to hide her
      confusion under an attempt to rally her royal kinsman's credulity.
      &ldquo;Remember you not that my hand was to be the signal of converting to the
      Christian faith the Saracen and Arab, Saladin and all his turbaned host?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, but the wind of prophecy hath chopped about, and sits now in another
      corner,&rdquo; replied Richard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mock not, lest your bonds be made strong,&rdquo; said the hermit stepping
      forward. &ldquo;The heavenly host write nothing but truth in their brilliant
      records. It is man's eyes which are too weak to read their characters
      aright. Know, that when Saladin and Kenneth of Scotland slept in my
      grotto, I read in the stars that there rested under my roof a prince, the
      natural foe of Richard, with whom the fate of Edith Plantagenet was to be
      united. Could I doubt that this must be the Soldan, whose rank was well
      known to me, as he often visited my cell to converse on the revolutions of
      the heavenly bodies? Again, the lights of the firmament proclaimed that
      this prince, the husband of Edith Plantagenet, should be a Christian; and
      I&mdash;weak and wild interpreter!&mdash;argued thence the conversion of
      the noble Saladin, whose good qualities seemed often to incline him
      towards the better faith. The sense of my weakness hath humbled me to the
      dust; but in the dust I have found comfort! I have not read aright the
      fate of others&mdash;who can assure me but that I may have miscalculated
      mine own? God will not have us break into His council-house, or spy out
      His hidden mysteries. We must wait His time with watching and prayer&mdash;with
      fear and with hope. I came hither the stern seer&mdash;the proud prophet&mdash;skilled,
      as I thought, to instruct princes, and gifted even with supernatural
      powers, but burdened with a weight which I deemed no shoulders but mine
      could have borne. But my bands have been broken! I go hence humble in mine
      ignorance, penitent&mdash;and not hopeless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With these words he withdrew from the assembly; and it is recorded that
      from that period his frenzy fits seldom occurred, and his penances were of
      a milder character, and accompanied with better hopes of the future. So
      much is there of self-opinion, even in insanity, that the conviction of
      his having entertained and expressed an unfounded prediction with so much
      vehemence seemed to operate like loss of blood on the human frame, to
      modify and lower the fever of the brain.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is needless to follow into further particulars the conferences at the
      royal tent, or to inquire whether David, Earl of Huntingdon, was as mute
      in the presence of Edith Plantagenet as when he was bound to act under the
      character of an obscure and nameless adventurer. It may be well believed
      that he there expressed with suitable earnestness the passion to which he
      had so often before found it difficult to give words.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hour of noon now approached, and Saladin waited to receive the Princes
      of Christendom in a tent, which, but for its large size, differed little
      from that of the ordinary shelter of the common Kurdman, or Arab; yet
      beneath its ample and sable covering was prepared a banquet after the most
      gorgeous fashion of the East, extended upon carpets of the richest stuffs,
      with cushions laid for the guests. But we cannot stop to describe the
      cloth of gold and silver&mdash;the superb embroidery in arabesque&mdash;the
      shawls of Kashmere and the muslins of India, which were here unfolded in
      all their splendour; far less to tell the different sweetmeats, ragouts
      edged with rice coloured in various manners, with all the other niceties
      of Eastern cookery. Lambs roasted whole, and game and poultry dressed in
      pilaus, were piled in vessels of gold, and silver, and porcelain, and
      intermixed with large mazers of sherbet, cooled in snow and ice from the
      caverns of Mount Lebanon. A magnificent pile of cushions at the head of
      the banquet seemed prepared for the master of the feast, and such
      dignitaries as he might call to share that place of distinction; while
      from the roof of the tent in all quarters, but over this seat of eminence
      in particular, waved many a banner and pennon, the trophies of battles won
      and kingdoms overthrown. But amongst and above them all, a long lance
      displayed a shroud, the banner of Death, with this impressive inscription&mdash;&ldquo;SALADIN,
      KING OF KINGS&mdash;SALADIN, VICTOR OF VICTORS&mdash;SALADIN MUST DIE.&rdquo;
       Amid these preparations, the slaves who had arranged the refreshments
      stood with drooped heads and folded arms, mute and motionless as
      monumental statuary, or as automata, which waited the touch of the artist
      to put them in motion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Expecting the approach of his princely guests, the Soldan, imbued, as most
      were, with the superstitions of his time, paused over a horoscope and
      corresponding scroll, which had been sent to him by the hermit of Engaddi
      when he departed from the camp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange and mysterious science,&rdquo; he muttered to himself, &ldquo;which,
      pretending to draw the curtain of futurity, misleads those whom it seems
      to guide, and darkens the scene which it pretends to illuminate! Who would
      not have said that I was that enemy most dangerous to Richard, whose
      enmity was to be ended by marriage with his kinswoman? Yet it now appears
      that a union betwixt this gallant Earl and the lady will bring about
      friendship betwixt Richard and Scotland, an enemy more dangerous than I,
      as a wildcat in a chamber is more to be dreaded than a lion in a distant
      desert. But then,&rdquo; he continued to mutter to himself, &ldquo;the combination
      intimates that this husband was to be Christian.&mdash;Christian!&rdquo; he
      repeated, after a pause. &ldquo;That gave the insane fanatic star-gazer hopes
      that I might renounce my faith! But me, the faithful follower of our
      Prophet&mdash;me it should have undeceived. Lie there, mysterious scroll,&rdquo;
       he added, thrusting it under the pile of cushions; &ldquo;strange are thy
      bodements and fatal, since, even when true in themselves, they work upon
      those who attempt to decipher their meaning all the effects of falsehood.&mdash;How
      now! what means this intrusion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke to the dwarf Nectabanus, who rushed into the tent fearfully
      agitated, with each strange and disproportioned feature wrenched by horror
      into still more extravagant ugliness&mdash;his mouth open, his eyes
      staring, his hands, with their shrivelled and deformed fingers, wildly
      expanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What now?&rdquo; said the Soldan sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;ACCIPE HOC!&rdquo; groaned out the dwarf.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! sayest thou?&rdquo; answered Saladin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;ACCIPE HOC!&rdquo; replied the panic-struck creature, unconscious, perhaps,
      that he repeated the same words as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hence, I am in no vein for foolery,&rdquo; said the Emperor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor am I further fool,&rdquo; said the dwarf, &ldquo;than to make my folly help out
      my wits to earn my bread, poor, helpless wretch! Hear, hear me, great
      Soldan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, if thou hast actual wrong to complain of,&rdquo; said Saladin, &ldquo;fool or
      wise, thou art entitled to the ear of a King. Retire hither with me;&rdquo; and
      he led him into the inner tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever their conference related to, it was soon broken off by the
      fanfare of the trumpets announcing the arrival of the various Christian
      princes, whom Saladin welcomed to his tent with a royal courtesy well
      becoming their rank and his own; but chiefly he saluted the young Earl of
      Huntingdon, and generously congratulated him upon prospects which seemed
      to have interfered with and overclouded those which he had himself
      entertained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But think not,&rdquo; said the Soldan, &ldquo;thou noble youth, that the Prince of
      Scotland is more welcome to Saladin than was Kenneth to the solitary
      Ilderim when they met in the desert, or the distressed Ethiop to the Hakim
      Adonbec. A brave and generous disposition like thine hath a value
      independent of condition and birth, as the cool draught, which I here
      proffer thee, is as delicious from an earthen vessel as from a goblet of
      gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Earl of Huntingdon made a suitable reply, gratefully acknowledging the
      various important services he had received from the generous Soldan; but
      when he had pledged Saladin in the bowl of sherbet which the Soldan had
      proffered to him, he could not help remarking with a smile, &ldquo;The brave
      cavalier Ilderim knew not of the formation of ice, but the munificent
      Soldan cools his sherbet with snow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wouldst thou have an Arab or a Kurdman as wise as a Hakim?&rdquo; said the
      Soldan. &ldquo;He who does on a disguise must make the sentiments of his heart
      and the learning of his head accord with the dress which he assumes. I
      desired to see how a brave and single-hearted cavalier of Frangistan would
      conduct himself in debate with such a chief as I then seemed; and I
      questioned the truth of a well-known fact, to know by what arguments thou
      wouldst support thy assertion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While they were speaking, the Archduke of Austria, who stood a little
      apart, was struck with the mention of iced sherbet, and took with pleasure
      and some bluntness the deep goblet, as the Earl of Huntingdon was about to
      replace it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most delicious!&rdquo; he exclaimed, after a deep draught, which the heat of
      the weather, and the feverishness following the debauch of the preceding
      day, had rendered doubly acceptable. He sighed as he handed the cup to the
      Grand Master of the Templars. Saladin made a sign to the dwarf, who
      advanced and pronounced, with a harsh voice, the words, ACCIPE HOC! The
      Templar started, like a steed who sees a lion under a bush beside the
      pathway; yet instantly recovered, and to hide, perhaps, his confusion,
      raised the goblet to his lips. But those lips never touched that goblet's
      rim. The sabre of Saladin left its sheath as lightning leaves the cloud.
      It was waved in the air, and the head of the Grand Master rolled to the
      extremity of the tent, while the trunk remained for a second standing,
      with the goblet still clenched in its grasp, then fell, the liquor
      mingling with the blood that spurted from the veins.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a general exclamation of treason, and Austria, nearest to whom
      Saladin stood with the bloody sabre in his hand, started back as if
      apprehensive that his turn was to come next. Richard and others laid hand
      on their swords.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fear nothing, noble Austria,&rdquo; said Saladin, as composedly as if nothing
      had happened,&mdash;&ldquo;nor you, royal England, be wroth at what you have
      seen. Not for his manifold treasons&mdash;not for the attempt which, as
      may be vouched by his own squire, he instigated against King Richard's
      life&mdash;not that he pursued the Prince of Scotland and myself in the
      desert, reducing us to save our lives by the speed of our horses&mdash;not
      that he had stirred up the Maronites to attack us upon this very occasion,
      had I not brought up unexpectedly so many Arabs as rendered the scheme
      abortive&mdash;not for any or all of these crimes does he now lie there,
      although each were deserving such a doom&mdash;but because, scarce half an
      hour ere he polluted our presence, as the simoom empoisons the atmosphere,
      he poniarded his comrade and accomplice, Conrade of Montserrat, lest he
      should confess the infamous plots in which they had both been engaged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! Conrade murdered?&mdash;And by the Grand Master, his sponsor and
      most intimate friend!&rdquo; exclaimed Richard. &ldquo;Noble Soldan, I would not doubt
      thee; yet this must be proved, otherwise&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There stands the evidence,&rdquo; said Saladin, pointing to the terrified
      dwarf. &ldquo;Allah, who sends the fire-fly to illuminate the night season, can
      discover secret crimes by the most contemptible means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Soldan proceeded to tell the dwarf's story, which amounted to this. In
      his foolish curiosity, or, as he partly confessed, with some thoughts of
      pilfering, Nectabanus had strayed into the tent of Conrade, which had been
      deserted by his attendants, some of whom had left the encampment to carry
      the news of his defeat to his brother, and others were availing themselves
      of the means which Saladin had supplied for revelling. The wounded man
      slept under the influence of Saladin's wonderful talisman, so that the
      dwarf had opportunity to pry about at pleasure until he was frightened
      into concealment by the sound of a heavy step. He skulked behind a
      curtain, yet could see the motions, and hear the words, of the Grand
      Master, who entered, and carefully secured the covering of the pavilion
      behind him. His victim started from sleep, and it would appear that he
      instantly suspected the purpose of his old associate, for it was in a tone
      of alarm that he demanded wherefore he disturbed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come to confess and to absolve thee,&rdquo; answered the Grand Master.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of their further speech the terrified dwarf remembered little, save that
      Conrade implored the Grand Master not to break a wounded reed, and that
      the Templar struck him to the heart with a Turkish dagger, with the words
      ACCIPE HOC!&mdash;words which long afterwards haunted the terrified
      imagination of the concealed witness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I verified the tale,&rdquo; said Saladin, &ldquo;by causing the body to be examined;
      and I made this unhappy being, whom Allah hath made the discoverer of the
      crime, repeat in your own presence the words which the murderer spoke; and
      you yourselves saw the effect which they produced upon his conscience!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Soldan paused, and the King of England broke silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this be true, as I doubt not, we have witnessed a great act of
      justice, though it bore a different aspect. But wherefore in this
      presence? wherefore with thine own hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had designed otherwise,&rdquo; said Saladin. &ldquo;But had I not hastened his
      doom, it had been altogether averted, since, if I had permitted him to
      taste of my cup, as he was about to do, how could I, without incurring the
      brand of inhospitality, have done him to death as he deserved? Had he
      murdered my father, and afterwards partaken of my food and my bowl, not a
      hair of his head could have been injured by me. But enough of him&mdash;let
      his carcass and his memory be removed from amongst us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The body was carried away, and the marks of the slaughter obliterated or
      concealed with such ready dexterity, as showed that the case was not
      altogether so uncommon as to paralyze the assistants and officers of
      Saladin's household.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Christian princes felt that the scene which they had beheld
      weighed heavily on their spirits, and although, at the courteous
      invitation of the Soldan, they assumed their seats at the banquet, yet it
      was with the silence of doubt and amazement. The spirits of Richard alone
      surmounted all cause for suspicion or embarrassment. Yet he too seemed to
      ruminate on some proposition, as if he were desirous of making it in the
      most insinuating and acceptable manner which was possible. At length he
      drank off a large bowl of wine, and addressing the Soldan, desired to know
      whether it was not true that he had honoured the Earl of Huntingdon with a
      personal encounter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Saladin answered with a smile that he had proved his horse and his weapons
      with the heir of Scotland, as cavaliers are wont to do with each other
      when they meet in the desert; and modestly added that, though the combat
      was not entirely decisive, he had not on his part much reason to pride
      himself on the event. The Scot, on the other hand, disclaimed the
      attributed superiority, and wished to assign it to the Soldan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough of honour thou hast had in the encounter,&rdquo; said Richard, &ldquo;and I
      envy thee more for that than for the smiles of Edith Plantagenet, though
      one of them might reward a bloody day's work.&mdash;But what say you,
      noble princes? Is it fitting that such a royal ring of chivalry should
      break up without something being done for future times to speak of? What
      is the overthrow and death of a traitor to such a fair garland of honour
      as is here assembled, and which ought not to part without witnessing
      something more worthy of their regard?&mdash;How say you, princely Soldan?
      What if we two should now, and before this fair company, decide the
      long-contended question for this land of Palestine, and end at once these
      tedious wars? Yonder are the lists ready, nor can Paynimrie ever hope a
      better champion than thou. I, unless worthier offers, will lay down my
      gauntlet in behalf of Christendom, and in all love and honour we will do
      mortal battle for the possession of Jerusalem.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a deep pause for the Soldan's answer. His cheek and brow
      coloured highly, and it was the opinion of many present that he hesitated
      whether he should accept the challenge. At length he said, &ldquo;Fighting for
      the Holy City against those whom we regard as idolaters and worshippers of
      stocks and stones and graven images, I might confide that Allah would
      strengthen my arm; or if I fell beneath the sword of the Melech Ric, I
      could not pass to Paradise by a more glorious death. But Allah has already
      given Jerusalem to the true believers, and it were a tempting the God of
      the Prophet to peril, upon my own personal strength and skill, that which
      I hold securely by the superiority of my forces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If not for Jerusalem, then,&rdquo; said Richard, in the tone of one who would
      entreat a favour of an intimate friend, &ldquo;yet, for the love of honour, let
      us run at least three courses with grinded lances?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even this,&rdquo; said Saladin, half smiling at Coeur de Lion's affectionate
      earnestness for the combat&mdash;&ldquo;even this I may not lawfully do. The
      master places the shepherd over the flock not for the shepherd's own sake,
      but for the sake of the sheep. Had I a son to hold the sceptre when I
      fell, I might have had the liberty, as I have the will, to brave this bold
      encounter; but your own Scripture saith that when the herdsman is smitten,
      the sheep are scattered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou hast had all the fortune,&rdquo; said Richard, turning to the Earl of
      Huntingdon with a sigh. &ldquo;I would have given the best year in my life for
      that one half hour beside the Diamond of the Desert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The chivalrous extravagance of Richard awakened the spirits of the
      assembly, and when at length they arose to depart Saladin advanced and
      took Coeur de Lion by the hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble King of England,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;we now part, never to meet again. That
      your league is dissolved, no more to be reunited, and that your native
      forces are far too few to enable you to prosecute your enterprise, is as
      well known to me as to yourself. I may not yield you up that Jerusalem
      which you so much desire to hold&mdash;it is to us, as to you, a Holy
      City. But whatever other terms Richard demands of Saladin shall be as
      willingly yielded as yonder fountain yields its waters. Ay and the same
      should be as frankly afforded by Saladin if Richard stood in the desert
      with but two archers in his train!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next day saw Richard's return to his own camp, and in a short space
      afterwards the young Earl of Huntingdon was espoused by Edith Plantagenet.
      The Soldan sent, as a nuptial present on this occasion, the celebrated
      TALISMAN. But though many cures were wrought by means of it in Europe,
      none equalled in success and celebrity those which the Soldan achieved. It
      is still in existence, having been bequeathed by the Earl of Huntingdon to
      a brave knight of Scotland, Sir Simon of the Lee, in whose ancient and
      highly honoured family it is still preserved; and although charmed stones
      have been dismissed from the modern Pharmacopoeia, its virtues are still
      applied to for stopping blood, and in cases of canine madness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our Story closes here, as the terms on which Richard relinquished his
      conquests are to be found in every history of the period.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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