The Talisman

THE TALISMAN

By Sir Walter Scott

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALISMAN.

The “Betrothed” did not greatly please one or two friends, who thought

that it did not well correspond to the general title of “The Crusaders.”

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 “Tale of the Crusaders” 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--in which, as far as regards Eastern manners, I

was as thickly wrapped as an Egyptian in his fog--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--Palestine, endeared

to the imagination by yet more sacred remembrances--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 “The Grand Tour,” 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 “Thalaba,” 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 “Lalla Rookh,” 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.

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.

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--a violation of the truth of history which gave offence to Mr.

Mills, the author of the “History of Chivalry and the Crusades,” 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.

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.

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--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.

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. “Do you think,” said they, “that King

Richard is on the track, that you stray so wildly from it?” 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.

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.

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.

The following adventure is said by tradition to have befallen him:--

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. “I will not

consent,” he said, “to grant your son's liberty, unless that amulet be

added to his ransom.” 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.

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.

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, “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.” 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.

Such is the tradition concerning the talisman, which the author has

taken the liberty to vary in applying it to his own purposes.

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, “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.”--HISTORY OF CHIVALRY.

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.

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.

ABBOTSFORD, 1st July, 1832

APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION.

While warring in the Holy Land, Richard was seized with an ague.

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

“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--

“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.”

An attack of the Saracens was repelled by Richard in person, the

consequence of which is told in the following lines:--

“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--

'Lo, here the head! my Lord, mercy!'”

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.

“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!”'

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:--

“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.

“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.

“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.

“'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.'

“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.

“Every man then poked other;

They said, 'This is the devil's brother,

That slays our men, and thus hem eats!'

“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

“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.'”

ELLIS'S SPECIMENS OF EARLY ENGLISH METRICEL ROMANCES.

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.

“With the army of the cross also was a multitude of men,” the same

author declares, “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.

“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.

“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.” [James's “History of Chivalry.”]

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.

ABBOTSFORD, 1st July, 1832.

TALES OF THE CRUSADERS. TALE II.--THE TALISMAN.

CHAPTER I.

They, too, retired

To the wilderness, but 'twas with arms.

PARADISE REGAINED.

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.

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.

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.

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 “brimstone and salt; it is not sown, nor beareth, nor any grass

groweth thereon.” 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.

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, “I sleep; wake me not.” 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.

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.

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.

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.

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--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.

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.

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. “In the desert,”

saith an Eastern proverb, “no man meets a friend.” 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--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.

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.

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.

“There is truce betwixt our nations,” he said, in the lingua franca

commonly used for the purpose of communication with the Crusaders;

“wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace

betwixt us.”

“I am well contented,” answered he of the Couchant Leopard; “but what

security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce?”

“The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken,” answered the

Emir. “It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should demand security,

did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage.”

The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him ashamed of

his own doubts.

“By the cross of my sword,” he said, laying his hand on the weapon as

he spoke, “I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, while our fortune

wills that we remain in company together.”

“By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet,” replied

his late foeman, “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.”

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.

CHAPTER II.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“You are right,” said the Saracen--and it was the first word that either

had spoken since their truce was concluded; “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?”

“Thou speakest rightly, Saracen,” said the Christian knight, not

delighted at the tone with which the infidel criticized his favourite

steed--“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.”

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.

“It is justly spoken,” he said, instantly composing himself to his usual

serene gravity; “List to a Frank, and hear a fable.”

“Thou art not courteous, misbeliever,” replied the Crusader, “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--ay, and

ridden for miles, upon water as solid as the crystal, and ten times less

brittle?”

“What wouldst thou tell me?” answered the Moslem. “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.”

“You speak truth after your knowledge, Saracen,” said the Christian

knight; “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.”

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.

“You are,” he said, “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.”

“I am not of their land, neither of their fashion,” said the Knight,

“which is, as thou well sayest, to GAB of that which they dare not

undertake--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.”

They had now arrived at the knot of palm-trees and the fountain which

welled out from beneath their shade in sparkling profusion.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:--

“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.”

“Valiant Saracen,” answered the Christian, looking up with some surprise

at the accusation thus unexpectedly brought, “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--Ave Maria!--be we thankful.” And, as if in defiance of

his companion's scruples, he concluded a short Latin grace with a long

draught from the leathern bottle.

“That, too, you call a part of your liberty,” said the Saracen; “and

as you feed like the brutes, so you degrade yourself to the bestial

condition by drinking a poisonous liquor which even they refuse!”

“Know, foolish Saracen,” replied the Christian, without hesitation,

“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.”

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.

“Thy words” he said, “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.”

“Now, by His name that I most reverence in heaven,” said the Christian,

“and by hers whom I most worship on earth, thou art but a blinded and

a bewildered infidel!--That diamond signet which thou wearest on thy

finger, thou holdest it, doubtless, as of inestimable value?”

“Balsora and Bagdad cannot show the like,” replied the Saracen; “but

what avails it to our purpose?”

“Much,” replied the Frank, “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?”

“That is a child's question,” answered the Saracen; “the fragments of

such a stone would not equal the entire jewel in the degree of hundreds

to one.”

“Saracen,” replied the Christian warrior, “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.”

“Now, by the Holy Caaba,” said the Emir, “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.'”

“Saracen,” replied the Crusader, “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.”

“I have heard of this frenzy among the warriors of the West,” said the

Emir, “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.”

“Brave Saracen,” said the Knight, “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.”

“Now, by the corner-stone of the Caaba!” said the Saracen, “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.”

“I have a pass,” answered the Knight, producing a parchment, “Under

Saladin's hand and signet.”

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, “Rash Frank, thou hast sinned

against thine own blood and mine, for not showing this to me when we

met.”

“You came with levelled spear,” said the Knight. “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.”

“And yet one man,” said the Saracen haughtily, “was enough to interrupt

your journey.”

“True, brave Moslem,” replied the Christian; “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.”

“Thou dost us but justice,” said the Saracen, evidently gratified by

the compliment, as he had been touched by the implied scorn of the

European's previous boast; “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.”

“I am glad to hear that its influence shall be availing to me,” said the

Knight; “for I have heard that the road is infested with robber-tribes,

who regard nothing in comparison of an opportunity of plunder.”

“The truth has been told to thee, brave Christian,” said the Saracen;

“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.”

“I had rather the trouble which you design for yourself were in revenge

of some other more important person than of me, noble Emir,” replied the

Knight; “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.”

“That,” said the Saracen, “must be under the black covering of my

father's tent.”

“This night,” answered the Christian, “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.”

“I will at least see you safe thither,” said the Saracen.

“That would be pleasant convoy for me,” said the Christian; “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.”

“Nazarene,” said the Moslem, “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.”

“The anchorite whom I would now visit,” said the warlike pilgrim, “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--”

“Let us not defy each other, brother,” interrupted the Saracen; “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--”

“Now, by Our Lady, Saracen,” exclaimed the Christian, “if thou darest

name in the same breath the camel-driver of Mecca with--”

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, “Slander not him whom thou

knowest not--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--upon battles, upon beautiful women, upon sharp swords, and

upon bright armour.”

CHAPTER III.

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.

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, “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.”

“It is called in the Arabic language,” answered the Saracen, “by a name

which signifies the Diamond of the Desert.”

“And well is it so named,” replied the Christian. “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.”

“You say truth,” said the Saracen; “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.”

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.

“You have asked the name,” he said, “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?”

“It is not yet worth publishing,” said the Christian. “Know, however,

that among the soldiers of the Cross I am called Kenneth--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?”

“Sir Kenneth,” said the Moslem, “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.”

“I have heard,” answered the Christian, “that your great Soldan claims

his blood from the same source?”

“Thanks to the Prophet that hath so far honoured our mountains as to

send from their bosom him whose word is victory,” answered the paynim.

“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?”

“By my faith,” said Sir Kenneth, “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--some have fallen in battle--several have died of

disease--and one trusty armour-bearer, for whose life I am now doing my

pilgrimage, lies on the bed of sickness.”

“Christian,” said Sheerkohf, “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--when I send another, an

equal force will arise--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!”

“Now, by the rood, Saracen,” retorted the Western warrior, “thou

shouldst know, ere thou vauntest thyself, that one steel glove can crush

a whole handful of hornets.”

“Ay, but it must first enclose them within its grasp,” said the Saracen,

with a smile which might have endangered their new alliance, had he not

changed the subject by adding, “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?”

“Know, Saracen,” said the Christian, “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.”

“Methinks I should like to look upon so strange a scene,” said the Emir,

“in which a leathern belt and a pair of spurs put the poorest on a level

with the most powerful.”

“You must add free blood and a fearless heart,” said the Christian;

“then, perhaps, you will not have spoken untruly of the dignity of

knighthood.”

“And mix you as boldly amongst the females of your chiefs and leaders?”

asked the Saracen.

“God forbid,” said the Knight of the Leopard, “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!”

“But a little while since,” said the Saracen, “and you described love as

the highest treasure of the heart--thine hath undoubtedly been high and

nobly bestowed?”

“Stranger,” answered the Christian, blushing deeply as he spoke, “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--most highly--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.”

The Eastern warrior, raising himself in his stirrups, and shaking aloft

his lance, replied, “Hardly, I fear, shall I find one with a crossed

shoulder who will exchange with me the cast of the jerrid.”

“I will not promise for that,” replied the Knight; “though there be in

the camp certain Spaniards, who have right good skill in your Eastern

game of hurling the javelin.”

“Dogs, and sons of dogs!” ejaculated the Saracen; “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.”

“Let not the knights of Leon or Asturias hear you speak thus of them,”

said the Knight of the Leopard. “But,” added he, smiling at the

recollection of the morning's combat, “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.”

“By the beard of my father, sir,” said the Saracen, with an approach to

laughter, “the game is too rough for mere sport. I will never shun them

in battle, but my head” (pressing his hand to his brow) “will not, for a

while, permit me to seek them in sport.”

“I would you saw the axe of King Richard,” answered the Western warrior,

“to which that which hangs at my saddle-bow weighs but as a feather.”

“We hear much of that island sovereign,” said the Saracen. “Art thou one

of his subjects?”

“One of his followers I am, for this expedition,” answered the Knight,

“and honoured in the service; but not born his subject, although a

native of the island in which he reigns.”

“How mean you? “ said the Eastern soldier; “have you then two kings in

one poor island?”

“As thou sayest,” said the Scot, for such was Sir Kenneth by birth. “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.”

“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?”

Hasty and fierce was Kenneth's answer. “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.”

Thus far he had proceeded, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he

muttered, “MEA CULPA! MEA CULPA! what have I, a soldier of the Cross, to

do with recollection of war betwixt Christian nations!”

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.

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.

Dark caverns and chasms amongst the rocks--those grottoes so often

alluded to in Scripture--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.

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.

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.

“Saracen,” said the Crusader sternly, “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--these rocks--these caverns with their gloomy arches, leading as

it were to the central abyss--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--although, alas for thee! thy best prayers are but as blasphemy and

sin.”

The Saracen listened with some surprise, and then replied, with

good-humour and gaiety, only so far repressed as courtesy required,

“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.'”

“Friend Saracen,” said the Christian, “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.”

“Speak not thus of the Genii, Christian,” answered the Saracen, “for

know thou speakest to one whose line and nation drew their origin from

the immortal race which your sect fear and blaspheme.”

“I well thought,” answered the Crusader, “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.”

“From whom should the bravest boast of descending, saving from him that

is bravest?” said the Saracen; “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.”

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.

“Know, brave stranger,” he said, “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--and as he spoke

he took the eldest sister by the hand, and his voice was soft, low, and

melancholy--'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.”

The Christian knight heard with wonder the wild tale, of which Kurdistan

still possesses the traces, and, after a moment's thought, replied,

“Verily, Sir Knight, you have spoken well--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.”

“By my father's beard, I think thou hast the right,” said the Saracen,

rather amused than offended by the freedom with which the Christian had

uttered his reflections; “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.”

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.

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--who dare answer?--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.]

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.

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.

“But what recks it?” said stout Sir Kenneth to himself; “down with the

fiend and his worshippers!”

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.

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--“Hamako--fool--unloose me--this passes

thy privilege--unloose me, or I will use my dagger.”

“Thy dagger!--infidel dog!” said the figure in the goat-skins, “hold it

in thy gripe if thou canst!” and in an instant he wrenched the Saracen's

weapon out of its owner's hand, and brandished it over his head.

“Help, Nazarene!” cried Sheerkohf, now seriously alarmed; “help, or the

Hamako will slay me.”

“Slay thee!” replied the dweller of the desert; “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.”

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.

“Whosoe'er thou art,” he said, “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.”

“And a proper quarrel it were,” answered the Hamako, “for a Crusader to

do battle in--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!”

Yet, while he spoke thus, he arose himself, and, suffering the Saracen

to rise also, returned him his cangiar, or poniard.

“Thou seest to what a point of peril thy presumption hath brought thee,”

continued he of the goat-skins, now addressing Sheerkohf, “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.”

“Hamako,” said the Saracen, without any appearance of resenting the

violent language and yet more violent assault to which he had been

subjected, “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.--and to thee, friend

Kenneth,” he added, as he remounted his steed, “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.”

“By my faith,” said the Knight, “I did somewhat fail--was somewhat tardy

in rendering thee instant help; but the strangeness of the assailant,

the suddenness of the scene--it was as if thy wild and wicked lay had

raised the devil among us--and such was my confusion, that two or three

minutes elapsed ere I could take to my weapon.”

“Thou art but a cold and considerate friend,” said the Saracen; “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.”

“By my word, Saracen,” said the Christian, “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.”

“Thy gibe is no answer, brother Kenneth,” said the Saracen; “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--this Hamako

being, in truth, the anchorite whom thou art come hither to visit.”

“This!” said Sir Kenneth, looking at the athletic yet wasted figure

before him--“this! Thou mockest, Saracen--this cannot be the venerable

Theodorick!”

“Ask himself, if thou wilt not believe me,” answered Sheerkohf; and

ere the words had left his mouth, the hermit gave evidence in his own

behalf.

“I am Theodorick of Engaddi,” he said--“I am the walker of the desert--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!”--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.

“Thou seest thy saint,” 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.

“This is a madman,” said Sir Kenneth.

“Not the worse saint,” returned the Moslem, speaking according to

the well-known Eastern belief, that madmen are under the influence

of immediate inspiration. “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.”

Here the voice of the Saracen was drowned in that of the hermit, who

began to hollo aloud in a wild, chanting tone, “I am Theodorick of

Engaddi--I am the torch-brand of the desert--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--Kyrie Eleison!”

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.

The Saracen seemed to understand him better. “You see,” he said, “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.”

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.

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.

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.

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, “The Hamako is now in his better mind, but he will not speak

until we have eaten--such is his vow.”

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.

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.

“Drink,” he said, “my children”--they were the first words he had

spoken--“the gifts of God are to be enjoyed, when the Giver is

remembered.”

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.

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:--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. “He had,” continued the Saracen, “a rashid, or

observatory, of great height, contrived to view the heavenly bodies, and

particularly the planetary system--by whose movements and influences,

as both Christian and Moslem believed, the course of human events was

regulated, and might be predicted.”

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.

“Beware, Saracen,” he said; “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.”

“My name, when in the tent of my father,” replied the Kurdman, “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--it is to warn us

to rest. I know his custom; none must watch him at his vigils.”

The anchorite accordingly entered, and folding his arms on his bosom as

he stood before them, said with a solemn voice, “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!”

Both warriors replied “Amen!” 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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER IV.

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.

“Be silent,” said the hermit, as the prostrate knight looked up in

surprise; “I have that to say to you which yonder infidel must not

hear.”

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.

“Arise,” he continued, “put on thy mantle; speak not, but tread lightly,

and follow me.”

Sir Kenneth arose, and took his sword.

“It needs not,” answered the anchorite, in a whisper; “we are going

where spiritual arms avail much, and fleshly weapons are but as the reed

and the decayed gourd.”

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.

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--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.

“Look into yonder recess, my son,” he said, pointing to the farther

corner of the cell; “there thou wilt find a veil--bring it hither.”

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.

“Thou art now about to look upon the richest treasure that the earth

possesses,” he at length said; “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--even he whom I have denied has pursued me to my

fortresses.”

He paused again for a moment, and turning to the Scottish knight, said,

in a firmer tone of voice, “You bring me a greeting from Richard of

England?”

“I come from the Council of Christian Princes,” said the knight;

“but the King of England being indisposed, I am not honoured with his

Majesty's commands.”

“Your token?” demanded the recluse.

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? “My

password,” he said at length, “is this--Kings begged of a beggar.”

“It is right,” said the hermit, while he paused. “I know you well; but

the sentinel upon his post--and mine is an important one--challenges

friend as well as foe.”

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.

“He sleeps,” he said, “in darkness, and must not be awakened.”

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--the former

with an austere expression of ascetic gloom, the latter with anxious

curiosity deeply impressed on his manly features.

“He sleeps soundly,” 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--“he sleeps in darkness, but

there shall be for him a dayspring.--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.”

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.

“Take the veil which I hold,” said the hermit, in a melancholy tone,

“and blind mine eyes; For I may not look on the treasure which thou art

presently to behold, without sin and presumption.”

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.

“Put off thy shoes,” he said to his attendant; “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.”

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--at least Sir

Kenneth beheld no one--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.

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.

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.

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--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.

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,--“Abide, abide--happy thou that mayest--the

vision is not yet ended.” 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.

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.

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.

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.

After these followed, in due and majestic order, the females who

composed the choir--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.

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.

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.

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.

This second intimation could not be accidental---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--in the savage and sequestered desert--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--it must be a dream--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--it was

gone--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--he thought not of them--cared not for them--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--to press them to his lips,

to his bosom, now alternately, now together--to rivet his lips to the

cold stones on which, as near as he could judge, she had so lately

stepped--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--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--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.

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.

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--and the

prospect looked gloomy and dangerous--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.

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--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--the noted precedent of the “King's

daughter of Hungary,” who thus generously encouraged the “squire of low

degree;” and Edith, though of kingly blood, was no king's daughter, any

more than her lover was of low degree--fortune had put no such extreme

barrier in obstacle to their affections. Something, however, within

the maiden's bosom--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.

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--by what secret signs, looks, or gestures--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--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.

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.

CHAPTER V.

Their necromantic forms in vain

Haunt us on the tented plain;

We bid these spectre shapes avaunt,

Ashtaroth and Termagaunt. WARTON.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“I am the dwarf Nectabanus,” 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.

“And I am Guenevra, his lady and his love,” replied the female, in tones

which, being shriller, were yet wilder than those of her companion.

“Wherefore are you here?” again demanded the knight, scarcely yet

assured that they were human beings which he saw before him.

“I am,” replied the male dwarf, with much assumed gravity and dignity,

“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.”

“Thou liest!” answered the female, interrupting her companion, in tones

yet shriller than his own; “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.”

“But in truth, noble sir,” said the male, “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--Heaven's bolts consume

them!”

“Hush,” said a voice from the side upon which the knight had

entered--“hush, fools, and begone; your ministry is ended.”

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.

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.

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.

“All is over,” said the hermit, as he heard the knight approaching, “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.”

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.

“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.”

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;

“Begone, begone--to rest, to rest. You may sleep--you can sleep--I

neither can nor may.”

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.

CHAPTER VI.

Now change the scene--and let the trumpets sound,

For we must rouse the lion from his lair. OLD PLAY.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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--nay, almost sullen--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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“So thou hast no better news to bring me from without, Sir Thomas!”

said the King, after a long and perturbed silence, spent in the feverish

agitation which we have endeavoured to describe. “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--ha!”

“The truce, my lord,” said De Vaux, with the same patience with which

he had twenty times repeated the explanation--“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--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.”

“And is it thus,” said Richard, with the impatience of indisposition,

“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?”

“Nay, my lord,” said De Vaux, “they have Saladin's word for their

safety.”

“True, true!” replied Richard; “and I did the heathen Soldan

injustice--I owe him reparation for it. Would God I were but fit

to offer it him upon my body between the two hosts--Christendom and

heathenesse both looking on!”

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.

“Thou art a rough nurse, though a willing one, De Vaux,” said the King,

laughing with a bitter expression, while he submitted to the strength

which he was unable to resist; “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.”

“We have frightened men in our time, my liege,” said De Vaux; “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?”

“Fever-fit!” exclaimed Richard impetuously; “thou mayest think, and

justly, that it is a fever-fit with me; but what is it with all the

other Christian princes--with Philip of France, with that dull Austrian,

with him of Montserrat, with the Hospitallers, with the Templars--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--that has made them false to the noblest vow ever

knights were sworn to--has made them indifferent to their fame, and

forgetful of their God!”

“For the love of Heaven, my liege,” said De Vaux, “take it less

violently--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.”

“Thou flatterest me, De Vaux,” 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, “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?”

“Forsooth, and if it please your Majesty,” said De Vaux, “I hear

consultations have been held among the royal leaders for some such

purpose.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Richard, his jealousy awakened, giving his mental

irritation another direction, “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?”

“Rank and dignity,” said De Vaux, “point to the King of France.”

“Oh, ay,” answered the English monarch, “Philip of France and

Navarre--Denis Mountjoie--his most Christian Majesty! Mouth-filling

words these! There is but one risk--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.”

“They might choose the Archduke of Austria,” said De Vaux.

“What! because he is big and burly like thyself, Thomas--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.”

“There is the Grand Master of the Templars,” 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. “There is the Grand Master of the Templars,” he continued,

“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--what thinks your Majesty of the Master as a general

leader of the Christian host?”

“Ha, Beau-Seant?” answered the King. “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?”

“The Grand Master of the Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem is not

tainted by fame, either with heresy or magic,” said Thomas de Vaux.

“But is he not a sordid miser?” said Richard hastily; “has he not been

suspected--ay, more than suspected--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.”

“Well, then, I will venture but another guess,” said the Baron de Vaux.

“What say you to the gallant Marquis of Montserrat, so wise, so elegant,

such a good man-at-arms?”

“Wise?--cunning, you would say,” replied Richard; “elegant in a lady's

chamber, if you will. Oh, ay, Conrade of Montserrat--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--what say you to charge them briskly? There are

but twenty unbelieving miscreants to each true knight.”

“I recollect the Marquis replied,” said De Vaux, “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--we shall end where we began, without hope of praying at the

Sepulchre until Heaven shall restore King Richard to health.”

At this grave remark Richard burst out into a hearty fit of laughter,

the first which he had for some time indulged in. “Why what a thing is

conscience,” he said, “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,” 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, “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?”

“Those of King Philip, as I guess, my liege,” said the stout Englishman.

“Thou art dull of ear, Thomas,” said the King, endeavouring to start up;

“hearest thou not that clash and clang? By Heaven, the Turks are in the

camp--I hear their LELIES.” [The war-cries of the Moslemah.]

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.

“Thou art a false traitor, De Vaux,” 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. “I would I

were--I would I were but strong enough to dash thy brains out with my

battle-axe!”

“I would you had the strength, my liege,” said De Vaux, “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.”

“Mine honest faithful servant,” said Richard, extending his hand, which

the baron reverentially saluted, “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.”

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.]

CHAPTER VII.

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.

--BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE.

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--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.

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.

The Scottish and English, equally jealous and high-spirited, and apt to

take offence--the former the more so, because the poorer and the weaker

nation--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.

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--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.

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--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.

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--no mean proficient in the art of minstrelsy--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.

Wondering, and displeased at a sight so unexpected and singular--for it

was customary to leave all flags of truce and other communications from

the enemy at an appointed place without the barriers--the baron looked

eagerly round for some one of whom he might inquire the cause of this

alarming novelty.

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, “And a Scot it is--he of the Leopard. I have seen

him fight indifferently well, for one of his country.”

Loath to ask even a passing question, he was about to pass Sir Kenneth,

with that sullen and lowering port which seems to say, “I know thee, but

I will hold no communication with thee.” But his purpose was defeated

by the Northern Knight, who moved forward directly to him, and accosting

him with formal courtesy, said, “My Lord de Vaux of Gilsland, I have in

charge to speak with you.”

“Ha!” returned the English baron, “with me? But say your pleasure, so it

be shortly spoken--I am on the King's errand.”

“Mine touches King Richard yet more nearly,” answered Sir Kenneth; “I

bring him, I trust, health.”

The Lord of Gilsland measured the Scot with incredulous eyes, and

replied, “Thou art no leech, I think, Sir Scot; I had as soon thought of

your bringing the King of England wealth.”

Sir Kenneth, though displeased with the manner of the baron's

reply, answered calmly, “Health to Richard is glory and wealth to

Christendom.--But my time presses; I pray you, may I see the King?”

“Surely not, fair sir,” said the baron, “until your errand be told more

distinctly. The sick chambers of princes open not to all who inquire,

like a northern hostelry.”

“My lord,” said Kenneth, “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.”

“A Moorish physician!” said De Vaux; “and who will warrant that he

brings not poisons instead of remedies?”

“His own life, my lord--his head, which he offers as a guarantee.”

“I have known many a resolute ruffian,” said De Vaux, “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.”

“But thus it is, my lord,” replied the Scot. “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?”

“Wonderful!” said De Vaux, as speaking to himself.--“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?”

“I myself,” replied Sir Kenneth, “will be his guarantee, with honour,

life, and fortune.”

“Strange!” again ejaculated De Vaux; “the North vouches for the

South--the Scot for the Turk! May I crave of you, Sir Knight, how you

became concerned in this affair?”

“I have been absent on a pilgrimage, in the course of which,” replied

Sir Kenneth “I had a message to discharge towards the holy hermit of

Engaddi.”

“May I not be entrusted with it, Sir Kenneth, and with the answer of the

holy man?”

“It may not be, my lord,” answered the Scot.

“I am of the secret council of England,” said the Englishman haughtily.

“To which land I owe no allegiance,” said Kenneth. “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.”

“Ha! sayest thou?” said the proud Baron de Vaux. “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.”

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.

“All Scots are ennobled by their birthright,” answered Thomas de Vaux,

something ironically; but sensible of his own injustice, and perceiving

that Kenneth's colour rose, he added, “For a good knight it were sin to

doubt you, in one at least who has seen you well and bravely discharge

your devoir.”

“Well, then,” said the Scottish knight, satisfied with the frankness of

the last admission, “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--laus, praise, or renown] and fame in this mortal life, and

forgiveness of my sins in that which is to come--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.”

The Englishman was struck with the solemnity of the obtestation, and

answered with more cordiality than he had yet exhibited, “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?”

“My lord,” replied the Scot, “thus only can I reply--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.”

The Englishman listened with downcast looks, as one who doubted, yet was

not unwilling to receive conviction. At length he looked up and said,

“May I see your sick squire, fair sir?”

The Scottish knight hesitated and coloured, yet answered at last,

“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,” he added, with a haughty emphasis on the word, while, with

some unwillingness, he led the way to his temporary place of abode.

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.

“Shame to the soldier of the Cross,” he said, “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.”

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.

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--because,

in ostentation, the knight had demanded ground to the extent of his

original retinue--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--not even

a solitary warder--was placed by the emblem of feudal power and knightly

degree. If its reputation defended it not from insult, it had no other

guard.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“He hath not slept for six nights before,” said Sir Kenneth, “as I am

assured by the youth, his attendant.”

“Noble Scot,” 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, “this gear must be amended. Your esquire is but too evil fed

and looked to.”

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.

“My master,” he said, murmuring as in a dream, “noble Sir Kenneth, taste

not, to you as to me, the waters of the Clyde cold and refreshing after

the brackish springs of Palestine?”

“He dreams of his native land, and is happy in his slumbers,” 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.

“In the name of Issa Ben Mariam,” he said, “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.”

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.

They paused, and remained standing together at the door of the hut--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.

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.

“A right able dog,” he said. “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--speaking in all honour and kindness--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.”

“And I answer as a free Scottish knight,” said Kenneth sternly. “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--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.”

“Nevertheless,” said De Vaux, “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.”

“I thank you,” said the Scot coldly; “but he knows my allotted quarters,

and within these I can protect him myself.--And yet,” he said, suddenly

changing his manner, “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,” he added,

with a smile, “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.”

“By my faith, you do the King no more than justice; and yet,” said the

baron, “there is something in these words, vert and venison, that turns

the very brains of our Norman princes.”

“We have heard of late,” said the Scot, “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.”

“Wild work, Sir Kenneth,” replied De Vaux, shrugging his shoulders, as

one who would avoid a perilous or unpleasing topic--“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.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Sir Kenneth, “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.”

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.

CHAPTER VIII.

A wise physician, skilled our wounds to heal,

Is more than armies to the common weal.

POPE'S ILLIAD.

“This is a strange tale, Sir Thomas,” said the sick monarch, when he had

heard the report of the trusty Baron of Gilsland. “Art thou sure this

Scottish man is a tall man and true?”

“I cannot say, my lord,” replied the jealous Borderer. “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.”

“And for his carriage as a knight, how sayest thou, De Vaux?” demanded

the King.

“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.”

“And justly, Thomas,” said the King. “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.”

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.

“Yes,” continued Richard, “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.”

“My liege,” said the Baron of Gilsland, observing the King's countenance

change, “I fear I have transgressed your pleasure in lending some

countenance to his transgression.”

“How, De Multon, thou?” said the King, contracting his brows, and

speaking in a tone of angry surprise. “Thou countenance his insolence?

It cannot be.”

“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.”

“Has he, then, a dog so handsome?” said the King.

“A most perfect creature of Heaven,” said the baron, who was an

enthusiast in field-sports--“of the noblest Northern breed--deep in the

chest, strong in the stern--black colour, and brindled on the breast

and legs, not spotted with white, but just shaded into grey--strength to

pull down a bull, swiftness to cote an antelope.”

The King laughed at his enthusiasm. “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.--But to this piece of learned heathenesse--sayest thou the

Scot met him in the desert?”

“No, my liege; the Scot's tale runs thus. He was dispatched to the old

hermit of Engaddi, of whom men talk so much--”

“'Sdeath and hell!” said Richard, starting up. “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?”

“The Council of the Crusade sent him, my lord,” answered the Baron de

Vaux; “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.”

“Well, it shall be looked into,” said Richard. “So this Scottish

man, this envoy, met with a wandering physician at the grotto of

Engaddi--ha?”

“Not so my liege,” replied De Vaux? “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.”

Here De Vaux stopped, for he was not one of those who can tell a long

story in a sentence.

“And did they there meet the physician?” demanded the King impatiently.

“No, my liege,” replied De Vaux; “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.”

“Have they been examined by Giacomo Loredani?”

“I showed them to the interpreter ere bringing them hither, and behold

their contents in English.”

Richard took a scroll, in which were inscribed these words: The blessing

of Allah and his Prophet Mohammed [“Out upon the hound!” 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

[“Confusion on his head!” 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--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--”

“Hold, hold,” said Richard, “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--I will repay the noble Soldan

his generosity--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--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.--Haste, De Vaux,

why dost thou delay a conclusion so pleasing? Fetch the Hakim hither.”

“My lord,” said the baron, who perhaps saw some accession of fever in

this overflow of confidence, “bethink you, the Soldan is a pagan, and

that you are his most formidable enemy--”

“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--as noble adversaries ever love each other. By

my honour, it were sin to doubt his good faith!”

“Nevertheless, my lord, it were well to wait the issue of these

medicines upon the Scottish squire,” said the Lord of Gilsland. “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.”

“I never knew thee before hesitate for fear of life,” said Richard

upbraidingly.

“Nor would I now, my liege,” replied the stout-hearted baron, “save that

yours lies at pledge as well as my own.”

“Well, thou suspicious mortal,” answered Richard, “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.”

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.

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.

“Mediciners,” he said, “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,” he

continued, “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,” proceeded the prelate, “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?--'NISI HI IN NAVI MANSERINT, VOS

SALVI FIERI NON POTESTIS'--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--QUOD ERAT

DEMONSTRANDUM.”

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.

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.

“It is a dish choicely cooked,” he said, “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--take them speedily!”

Here he gave them at arm's-length, and with some appearance of haste,

to the baron. “But come, my Lord de Vaux,” he continued, “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.--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.”

“I thank your reverend lordship,” replied Thomas of Gilsland; “but had

I been accessible to the fever, I had caught it long since by the bed of

my master.”

The Bishop of Tyre blushed, for he had rather avoided the presence of

the sick monarch; and he bid the baron lead on.

As they paused before the wretched hut in which Kenneth of the Leopard

and his follower abode, the bishop said to De Vaux, “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?”

“That a master doth well enough for his servant when he lodgeth him in

no worse dwelling than his own,” said De Vaux, and entered the hut.

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.

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.

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, “SALAM ALICUM--Peace be with you.”

“Art thou a physician, infidel?” said the bishop, somewhat mortified at

this cold reception. “I would speak with thee on that art.”

“If thou knewest aught of medicine,” answered El Hakim, “thou wouldst be

aware that physicians hold no counsel or debate in the sick chamber of

their patient. Hear,” he added, as the low growling of the staghound was

heard from the inner hut, “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,” said he, rising and leading the way,

“if thou hast ought to say with me.”

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.

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?

“The years of ordinary men,” said the Saracen, “are counted by their

wrinkles; those of sages by their studies. I dare not call myself older

than a hundred revolutions of the Hegira.” [Meaning that his attainments

were those which might have been made in a hundred years.]

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.

“Ye have the word of the mighty Saladin,” said the sage, touching his

cap in sign of reverence--“a word which was never broken towards friend

or foe. What, Nazarene, wouldst thou demand more?”

“I would have ocular proof of thy skill,” said the baron, “and without

it thou approachest not to the couch of King Richard.”

“The praise of the physician,” said the Arabian, “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.”

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.

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.

“Do you know us, vassal?” said the Lord of Gilsland.

“Not perfectly, my lord,” replied the squire faintly. “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.”

“Thou hast it--BENEDICTIO DOMINI SIT VOBISCUM,” said the prelate, making

the sign of the cross, but without approaching nearer to the patient's

bed.

“Your eyes witness,” said the Arabian, “the fever hath been subdued.

He speaks with calmness and recollection--his pulse beats composedly as

yours--try its pulsations yourself.”

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.

“This is most wonderful,” said the knight, looking to the bishop; “the

man is assuredly cured. I must conduct this mediciner presently to King

Richard's tent. What thinks your reverence?”

“Stay, let me finish one cure ere I commence another,” said the Arab; “I

will pass with you when I have given my patient the second cup of this

most holy elixir.”

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.

“Drink,” said the physician to the sick man--“sleep, and awaken free

from malady.”

“And with this simple-seeming draught thou wilt undertake to cure a

monarch?” said the Bishop of Tyre.

“I have cured a beggar, as you may behold,” replied the sage. “Are

the Kings of Frangistan made of other clay than the meanest of their

subjects?”

“Let us have him presently to the King,” said the Baron of Gilsland. “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.”

As they were about to leave the hut, the sick man, raising his voice

as much as his weakness permitted, exclaimed, “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?”

“He is upon a distant expedition, friend,” replied the prelate--“on an

honourable embassy, which may detain him for some days.”

“Nay,” said the Baron of Gilsland, “why deceive the poor

fellow?--Friend, thy master has returned to the camp, and you will

presently see him.”

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.

“You are a better physician than I, Sir Thomas,” said the prelate--“a

soothing falsehood is fitter for a sick-room than an unpleasing truth.”

“How mean you, my reverend lord?” said De Vaux hastily. “Think you I

would tell a falsehood to save the lives of a dozen such as he?”

“You said,” replied the bishop, with manifest symptoms of alarm--“you

said the esquire's master was returned--he, I mean, of the Couchant

Leopard.”

“And he IS returned,” said De Vaux. “I spoke with him but a few hours

since. This learned leech came in his company.”

“Holy Virgin! why told you not of his return to me?” said the bishop, in

evident perturbation.

“Did I not say that this same Knight of the Leopard had returned

in company with the physician? I thought I had,” replied De Vaux

carelessly. “But what signified his return to the skill of the

physician, or the cure of his Majesty?”

“Much, Sir Thomas--it signified much,” said the bishop, clenching

his hands, pressing his foot against the earth, and giving signs of

impatience, as if in an involuntary manner. “But where can he be gone

now, this same knight? God be with us--here may be some fatal errors!”

“Yonder serf in the outer space,” said De Vaux, not without wonder

at the bishop's emotion, “can probably tell us whither his master has

gone.”

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.

CHAPTER IX.

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.

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.

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.

“Wherefore,” said the baron to himself, “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.”

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.

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.

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.

“Thy name,” said the King, “is Kenneth of the Leopard--from whom hadst

thou degree of knighthood?”

“I took it from the sword of William the Lion, King of Scotland,”

replied the Scot.

“A weapon,” said the King, “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--ha?”

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.

“And yet,” said the King, “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.”

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.

“So please you, my lord,” said the Scot, “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.”

“It skills not asking my leave,” said Richard, “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.”

“For hunting only, and please you,” said the Scot. “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.”

“I dread me, if thou hadst but the falcon,” said the King, “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.--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?”

“By order,” replied the knight, “of the Council of Princes of the Holy

Crusade.”

“And how dared any one to give such an order, when I--not the least,

surely, in the league--was unacquainted with it?”

“It was not my part, please your highness,” said the Scot, “to inquire

into such particulars. I am a soldier of the Cross--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.”

“Thou sayest well,” said King Richard; “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?”

“Methinks, and please your highness,” replied Sir Kenneth, “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.”

“Palter not with me, Sir Scot--it were ill for thy safety,” said the

irritable monarch.

“My safety, my lord,” replied the knight firmly, “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.”

“By the mass,” said King Richard, “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.”

“All this you have done, my Lord King,” said Sir Kenneth, bowing--“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.”

“I grant it true,” said the King; “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.”

“My lord,” said the Scot, “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--a

holy man, respected and protected by Saladin himself--”

“A continuation of the truce, I doubt not,” said Richard, hastily

interrupting him.

“No, by Saint Andrew, my liege,” said the Scottish knight; “but the

establishment of a lasting peace, and the withdrawing our armies from

Palestine.”

“Saint George!” said Richard, in astonishment. “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?”

“With right good will, my lord,” said Kenneth; “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.”

“And on what conditions was this hopeful peace to be contracted?” said

King Richard, painfully suppressing the passion with which his heart was

almost bursting.

“These were not entrusted to me, my lord,” answered the Knight of the

Couchant Leopard. “I delivered them sealed to the hermit.”

“And for what hold you this reverend hermit--for fool, madman, traitor,

or saint?” said Richard.

“His folly, sire,” replied the shrewd Scottish man, “I hold to be

assumed to win favour and reverence from the Paynimrie, who regard

madmen as the inspired of Heaven--at least it seemed to me as exhibited

only occasionally, and not as mixing, like natural folly, with the

general tenor of his mind.”

“Shrewdly replied,” said the monarch, throwing himself back on his

couch, from which he had half-raised himself. “Now of his penitence?”

“His penitence,” continued Kenneth, “appears to me sincere, and the

fruits of remorse for some dreadful crime, for which he seems, in his

own opinion, condemned to reprobation.”

“And for his policy?” said King Richard.

“Methinks, my lord,” said the Scottish knight, “he despairs of the

security of Palestine, as of his own salvation, by any means short of

a miracle--at least, since the arm of Richard of England hath ceased to

strike for it.”

“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!”

“Might I so far presume, my Lord King,” said the Scottish knight, “this

discourse but heats your disease, the enemy from which Christendom

dreads more evil than from armed hosts of infidels.”

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.

“You can flatter, Sir Knight,” he said, “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?”

“To my knowledge--no, my lord,” replied Sir Kenneth, with considerable

perturbation, for he remembered the midnight procession in the chapel of

the rocks.

“I ask you,” said the King, in a sterner voice, “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?”

“My lord,” said Sir Kenneth, “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.”

“And was there no one of these ladies known to you?”

Sir Kenneth stood silent.

“I ask you,” said Richard, raising himself on his elbow, “as a knight

and a gentleman--and I shall know by your answer how you value either

character--did you, or did you not, know any lady amongst that band of

worshippers?”

“My lord,” said Kenneth, not without much hesitation, “I might guess.”

“And I also may guess,” said the King, frowning sternly; “but it is

enough. Leopard as you are, Sir Knight, beware tempting the lion's paw.

Hark ye--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.”

At this moment some bustling was heard in the outer apartment, and

the King, hastily changing to his more natural manner, said,

“Enough--begone--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.”

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.

“It is well they allow that I am living yet,” was his reply. “Who are

the reverend ambassadors?”

“The Grand Master of the Templars and the Marquis of Montserrat.”

“Our brother of France loves not sick-beds,” said Richard; “yet, had

Philip been ill, I had stood by his couch long since.--Jocelyn, lay me

the couch more fairly--it is tumbled like a stormy sea. Reach me yonder

steel mirror--pass a comb through my hair and beard. They look, indeed,

liker a lion's mane than a Christian man's locks. Bring water.”

“My lord,” said the trembling chamberlain, “the leeches say that cold

water may be fatal.”

“To the foul fiend with the leeches!” replied the monarch; “if they

cannot cure me, think you I will allow them to torment me?--There,

then,” he said, after having made his ablutions, “admit the worshipful

envoys; they will now, I think, scarcely see that disease has made

Richard negligent of his person.”

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--seeking the advancement of its power, even at

the hazard of that very religion which the fraternity were originally

associated to protect--accused of heresy and witchcraft, although by

their character Christian priests--suspected of secret league with the

Soldan, though by oath devoted to the protection of the Holy Temple, or

its recovery--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.

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.

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, “to inquire into the health of their magnanimous ally,

the valiant King of England.”

“We know the importance in which the princes of the Council hold our

health,” replied the English King; “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.”

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, “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.”

“Grand Master of the Holy and Valiant Order of Knights Templars, and

you, most noble Marquis of Montserrat,” replied Richard, “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.”

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.

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, “Infidel, hast thou the

courage to practise thine art upon the person of an anointed sovereign

of the Christian host?”

“The sun of Allah,” answered the sage, “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.”

“Misbelieving Hakim,” said the Grand Master, “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?”

“That were hard justice,” answered the physician, “seeing that I can but

use human means, and that the issue is written in the book of light.”

“Nay, reverend and valiant Grand Master,” said the Marquis of

Montserrat, “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.--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.”

“My lords,” said El Hakim, “I understand you well. But knowledge hath

its champions as well as your military art--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.”

“Who talks of delay?” said the Baron de Vaux, hastily entering the tent;

“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.”

“My lord,” said the Marquis, in Norman-French, or the language of

Ouie, as it was then called, “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?”

“Noble Lord Marquis,” replied the Englishman bluntly, “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--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.”

“Nay, but,” said Conrade of Montserrat, “the King himself said we should

be present when this same physician dealt upon him.”

The baron whispered the chamberlain, probably to know whether the

Marquis spoke truly, and then replied, “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.--Move onward, El Hakim.”

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.

Richard, when they entered his apartment, immediately exclaimed, “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.--De Vaux, lives he or dies

he, thou hast the thanks of thy prince. There is yet another--but this

fever hath wasted my eyesight. What, the bold Scot, who would climb

heaven without a ladder! He is welcome too.--Come, Sir Hakim, to the

work, to the work!”

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, “Hold an instant. Thou hast

felt my pulse--let me lay my finger on thine. I too, as becomes a good

knight, know something of thine art.”

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.

“His blood beats calm as an infant's,” said the King; “so throbs not

theirs who poison princes. De Vaux, whether we live or die, dismiss this

Hakim with honour and safety.--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.”

He then raised himself in bed, took the cup in his hand, and turning

to the Marquis and the Grand Master--“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!'”

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.

CHAPTER X.

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.

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.

“There is a change of cheer among these island dogs,” said the Grand

Master to Conrade, when they had passed Richard's guards. “What hoarse

tumult and revel used to be before this pavilion!--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.”

“Mastiffs are a faithful race,” said Conrade; “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.”

“He is totally compounded of humours,” said the Grand Master. “Marked

you the pledge he gave us! instead of a prayer, over his grace-cup

yonder.”

“He would have felt it a grace-cup, and a well-spiced one too,” said

the Marquis, “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.”

“By Saint Bernard!” exclaimed the Grand Master, “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.”

“You rate the Soldan cheap,” replied the Marquis; “yet though he be a

likely man, I have seen a better heathen sold for forty pence at the

bagnio.”

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.

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: “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.”

The Templar half smiled.

“There are light-coloured masks,” he said, “as well as dark visors, and

the one conceals the natural features as completely as the other.”

“Be it so,” said the Marquis, putting his hand to his chin, and

withdrawing it with the action of one who unmasks himself; “there lies

my disguise. And now, what think you, as touching the interests of your

own order, of the prospects of this Crusade?”

“This is tearing the veil from my thoughts rather than exposing your

own,” said the Grand Master; “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.'”

“Most truly spoken,” said the Marquis Conrade. “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.”

“Ay, but,” said the Templar, “these adventurous Crusaders may succeed,

and again plant the Cross on the bulwarks of Zion.”

“And what will that advantage either the Order of the Templars, or

Conrade of Montserrat?” said the Marquis.

“You it may advantage,” replied the Grand Master. “Conrade of Montserrat

might become Conrade King of Jerusalem.”

“That sounds like something,” said the Marquis, “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--a pure and simple

monarchy should consist but of king and subjects. Such is the simple and

primitive structure--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. “It was composed with advice of the patriarch and barons,

the clergy and laity, and is,” says the historian Gibbon, “a precious

monument of feudatory jurisprudence, founded upon those principles

of freedom which were essential to the system.”] 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.”

“Enough,” said the Grand Master; “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--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.”

“Thou wilt not betray my counsel?” said Conrade, looking sharply and

suspiciously. “Know, for certain, that my tongue shall never wrong my

head, nor my hand forsake the defence of either. Impeach me if thou

wilt--I am prepared to defend myself in the lists against the best

Templar who ever laid lance in rest.”

“Yet thou start'st somewhat suddenly for so bold a steed,” said the

Grand Master. “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.”

“By which Temple?” said the Marquis of Montserrat, whose love of sarcasm

often outran his policy and discretion; “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?”

The Templar scowled upon him with an eye of death, but answered calmly,

“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.”

“I will swear truth to thee,” said the Marquis, laughing, “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.”

“The rank, privileges, and opulence of our Order prevent so much

degradation as you threaten,” said the Templar haughtily.

“These are your bane,” said Conrade of Montserrat; “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.”

“There may be truth in what you say,” said the Templar, darkly smiling.

“But what were our hopes should the allies withdraw their forces, and

leave Palestine in the grasp of Saladin?”

“Great and assured,” replied Conrade. “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--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--and, were they to remain here, and succeed in

this expedition, would willingly consign us for ever to degradation and

dependence?”

“You say well, my Lord Marquis,” said the Grand Master, “and your words

find an echo in my bosom. Yet must we be cautious--Philip of France is

wise as well as valiant.”

“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.”

“And the Duke of Austria?” said the Templar.

“Oh, touching the Duke,” returned Conrade, “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--even those of his own MINNE-SINGERS [The German minstrels

were so termed.]--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.”

“I acknowledge it,” said the Templar; “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?”

“There was a policy in it,” replied the Italian. “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.”

“Oh, too finespun policy,” said the Grand Master; “trust me, that

Italian spiders' webs will never bind this unshorn Samson of the

Isle--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.”

“Be content,” said Conrade of Montserrat; “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--at least the Austrian--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.”

“Thou art a willing archer,” said the Templar; “but, Conrade of

Montserrat, thy bow is over-slack to carry an arrow to the mark.”

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, “Richard arise from

his bed, sayest thou? Conrade, he must never arise!”

The Marquis of Montserrat started. “What! spoke you of Richard of

England--of Coeur de Lion--the champion of Christendom?”

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.

“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--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.”

“I grant you,” said Conrade, recovering himself, “that--unless some

other sure road could be discovered--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.”

“If thou takest it thus,” said the Grand Master, with the same composure

which characterized him all through this remarkable dialogue, “let us

hold there has nothing passed between us--that we have spoken in our

sleep--have awakened, and the vision is gone.”

“It never can depart,” answered Conrade.

“Visions of ducal crowns and kingly diadems are, indeed, somewhat

tenacious of their place in the imagination,” replied the Grand Master.

“Well,” answered Conrade, “let me but first try to break peace between

Austria and England.”

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.

“I have,” he said, as his eyes still watched the point at which he had

seen the last slight wave of the Templar's mantle--“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--perhaps

even the safest.”

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, “Remember the Holy Sepulchre!”

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.

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.

“To-morrow,” he said, “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.”

CHAPTER XI.

One thing is certain in our Northern land--

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Germans, though still possessing the martial and frank character of

their ancestors--who subdued the Roman Empire--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.

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.

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--that is, his

man of conversation, or SAYER-OF-SAYINGS--who stood behind the Duke's

right shoulder.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, “The

GENISTA, or broom-plant, was an emblem of humility; and it would be well

when those who wore it would remember the warning.”

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. “Honour unto whom

honour is due,” answered the Marquis of Montserrat. “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?”

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:--

“What brave chief shall head the forces, Where the red-cross legions

gather? Best of horsemen, best of horses, Highest head and fairest

feather.”

Here the orator, jingling his staff, interrupted the bard to intimate to

the party--what they might not have inferred from the description--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:--

“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.”

“The eagle,” said the expounder of dark sayings, “is the cognizance of

our noble lord the Archduke--of his royal Grace, I would say--and the

eagle flies the highest and nearest to the sun of all the feathered

creation.”

“The lion hath taken a spring above the eagle,” said Conrade carelessly.

The Archduke reddened, and fixed his eyes on the speaker, while the

SPRUCH-SPRECHER answered, after a minute's consideration, “The Lord

Marquis will pardon me--a lion cannot fly above an eagle, because no

lion hath got wings.”

“Except the lion of Saint Mark,” responded the jester.

“That is the Venetian's banner,” said the Duke; “but assuredly that

amphibious race, half nobles, half merchants, will not dare to place

their rank in comparison with ours.”

“Nay, it was not of the Venetian lion that I spoke,” said the Marquis of

Montserrat, “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.”

“Mean you seriously, my lord?” said the Austrian, now considerably

flushed with wine. “Think you that Richard of England asserts any

pre-eminence over the free sovereigns who have been his voluntary allies

in this Crusade?”

“I know not but from circumstances,” answered Conrade. “Yonder hangs

his banner alone in the midst of our camp, as if he were king and

generalissimo of our whole Christian army.”

“And do you endure this so patiently, and speak of it so coldly?” said

the Archduke.

“Nay, my lord,” answered Conrade, “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.”

Leopold closed his fist, and struck on the table with violence.

“I have told Philip of this,” he said. “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.”

“The world knows that Philip is wise,” said Conrade, “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.”

“I submit!” said Leopold indignantly--“I, the Archduke of Austria, so

important and vital a limb of the Holy Roman Empire--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.--Up,

my lieges and merry men; up and follow me! We will--and that without

losing one instant--place the eagle of Austria where she shall float as

high as ever floated the cognizance of king or kaiser.”

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.

“Nay, my lord,” said Conrade, affecting to interfere, “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--”

“Not an hour, not a moment longer,” 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.

“My master, my dear master!” said Jonas Schwanker, throwing his arms

about the Duke, “take heed--lions have teeth--”

“And eagles have claws,” said the Duke, not relinquishing his hold on

the banner-staff, yet hesitating to pull it from the ground.

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.

“The eagle is king among the fowls of the air,” said the

SPRUCH-SPRECHER, “as is the lion among the beasts of the field--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.”

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--which he

derived from emperors, his progenitors--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.

This disorderly scene was not acted without a degree of noise, which

alarmed the whole camp.

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.

The baron could not exactly inform him of the amount.

“It matters not,” said Richard; “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.”

“I sell not the wisdom with which Allah has endowed me,” answered the

Arabian physician; “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.”

“The Physician refuseth a gratuity!” said De Vaux to himself. “This is

more extraordinary than his being a hundred years old.”

“Thomas de Vaux,” said Richard, “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.”

“It is reward enough for me,” said the Moor, folding his arms on his

bosom, and maintaining an attitude at once respectful and dignified,

“that so great a king as the Melech Ric [Richard was thus called by the

Eastern nations.] should thus speak of his servant.--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.”

“I must obey thee, Hakim,” said the King; “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.--But

hark! what mean these shouts, and that distant music, in the camp? Go,

Thomas de Vaux, and make inquiry.”

“It is the Archduke Leopold,” said De Vaux, returning after a minute's

absence, “who makes with his pot-companions some procession through the

camp.”

“The drunken fool!” exclaimed King Richard; “can he not keep his brutal

inebriety within the veil of his pavilion, that he must needs show

his shame to all Christendom?--What say you, Sir Marquis?” he added,

addressing himself to Conrade of Montserrat, who at that moment entered

the tent.

“Thus much, honoured Prince,” answered the Marquis, “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.”

“What! you have been dining with the Teutonic wine-skin!” said

the monarch. “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.”

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.

“What the Archduke does,” he said, “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.”

“WHAT sayest thou?” exclaimed the King, in a tone which might have waked

the dead.

“Nay,” said the Marquis, “let it not chafe your Highness that a fool

should act according to his folly--”

“Speak not to me,” said Richard, springing from his couch, and casting

on his clothes with a dispatch which seemed marvellous--“Speak not to

me, Lord Marquis!--De Multon, I command thee speak not a word to

me--he that breathes but a syllable is no friend to Richard

Plantagenet.--Hakim, be silent, I charge thee!”

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, “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.”

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 “Bows and bills, bows and bills!” 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, “Saint

George for merry England!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Who has dared,” he said, laying his hands upon the Austrian

standard, and speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an

earthquake--“Who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of

England?”

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, “It was I, Leopold of Austria.”

“Then shall Leopold of Austria,” replied Richard, “presentry see the

rate at which his banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of

England.”

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.

“Thus,” said he, “I trample on the banner of Austria. Is there a knight

among your Teutonic chivalry dare impeach my deed?”

There was a momentary silence; but there are no braver men than the

Germans.

“I,” and “I,” and “I,” 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.

“Why do we dally thus?” said the Earl Wallenrode, a gigantic warrior

from the frontiers of Hungary. “Brethren and noble gentlemen, this man's

foot is on the honour of your country--let us rescue it from violation,

and down with the pride of England!”

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.

“I have sworn,” said King Richard--and his voice was heard above all

the tumult, which now waxed wild and loud--“never to strike one whose

shoulder bears the cross; therefore live, Wallenrode--but live to

remember Richard of England.”

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, “Cut the island mastiff to pieces!”

but those who were nearer veiled, perhaps, their personal fears under an

affected regard for order, and cried, for the most part, “Peace! Peace!

the peace of the Cross--the peace of Holy Church and our Father the

Pope!”

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.

Salisbury and his attendants were also now drawing near, with bills and

partisans brandished, and bows already bended.

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.

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--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.

“What means this unseemly broil betwixt the sworn brethren of the

Cross--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--”

“A truce with thy remonstrance, France,” said Richard, enraged inwardly

at finding himself placed on a sort of equality with Leopold, yet not

knowing how to resent it. “This duke, or prince, or pillar, if you will,

hath been insolent, and I have chastised him--that is all. Here is a

coil, forsooth, because of spurning a hound!”

“Majesty of France,” said the Duke, “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.”

“Because he had the audacity to plant it beside mine,” said Richard.

“My rank as thine equal entitled me,” replied the Duke, emboldened by

the presence of Philip.

“Assert such equality for thy person,” said King Richard, “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.”

“Nay, but patience, brother of England,” said Philip, “and I will

presently show Austria that he is wrong in this matter.--Do not think,

noble Duke,” he continued, “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--the

great banner of France, to which the royal Richard himself, in respect

of his French possessions, is but a vassal--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.”

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.

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.

“It may be so,” whispered Jonas Schwanker, “but we shall be whipped if

you speak so loud.”

The Duke answered sullenly that he would refer his quarrel to the

General Council of the Crusade--a motion which Philip highly applauded,

as qualified to take away a scandal most harmful to Christendom.

Richard, retaining the same careless attitude, listened to Philip until

his oratory seemed exhausted, and then said aloud, “I am drowsy--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--whatsoever pennon shall be reared within three butts' length

of it--ay, were it the Oriflamme, of which you were, I think, but now

speaking--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--ay, were it against five champions instead

of one.”

“Now,” said the jester, whispering his companion, “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.”

“And who may that be?” asked the man of wisdom.

“Philip,” said the jester, “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!”

While these worthies plied their offices apart, Philip answered calmly

to the almost injurious defiance of Richard, “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.”

“It is a bargain, my royal brother,” said Richard, stretching out his

hand with all the frankness which belonged to his rash but generous

disposition; “and soon may we have the opportunity to try this gallant

and fraternal wager.”

“Let this noble Duke also partake in the friendship of this happy

moment,” said Philip; and the Duke approached half-sullenly,

half-willing to enter into some accommodation.

“I think not of fools, nor of their folly,” said Richard carelessly; and

the Archduke, turning his back on him, withdrew from the ground.

Richard looked after him as he retired.

“There is a sort of glow-worm courage,” he said, “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--watch over the honour of England.”

“Her safety is yet more dear to me,” said De Vaux, “and the life of

Richard is the safety of England. I must have your Highness back to your

tent, and that without further tarriance.”

“Thou art a rough and peremptory nurse, De Vaux,” said the king,

smiling; and then added, addressing Sir Kenneth, “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?”

“Willingly,” said Kenneth; “and will discharge it upon penalty of my

head. I will but arm me, and return hither instantly.”

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--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.

“Thou seest,” said the Marquis of Montserrat to the Grand Master of the

Templars, “that subtle courses are more effective than violence. I

have unloosed the bonds which held together this bunch of sceptres and

lances--thou wilt see them shortly fall asunder.”

“I would have called thy plan a good one,” said the Templar, “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.”

CHAPTER XII.

'Tis woman that seduces all mankind.

GAY.

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.

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--and he resolved it should be glorious--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.

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--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, “to disturb his

thoughts,” and awaken him from his reverie, by thrusting his large rough

snout into the knight's gauntleted hand, to solicit a transitory caress.

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.

“Who goes there?” said Sir Kenneth, aware that there was something

creeping forward on the shadowy side of the mount.

“In the name of Merlin and Maugis,” answered a hoarse, disagreeable

voice, “tie up your fourfooted demon there, or I come not at you.”

“And who art thou that would approach my post?” 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. “Beware--I am here for death and life.”

“Take up thy long-fanged Sathanas,” said the voice, “or I will conjure

him with a bolt from my arblast.”

At the same time was heard the sound of a spring or check, as when a

crossbow is bent.

“Unbend thy arblast, and come into the moonlight,” said the Scot, “or,

by Saint Andrew, I will pin thee to the earth, be what or whom thou

wilt!”

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--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.

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, “Soldier, wherefore renderest thou not

to Nectabanus the homage due to his dignity? Or is it possible that thou

canst have forgotten him?”

“Great Nectabanus,” answered the knight, willing to soothe the

creature's humour, “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.”

“It shall suffice,” said Nectabanus, “so that you presently attend me to

the presence of those who have sent me hither to summon you.”

“Great sir,” replied the knight, “neither in this can I gratify thee,

for my orders are to abide by this banner till daybreak--so I pray you

to hold me excused in that matter also.”

So saying, he resumed his walk upon the platform; but the dwarf did not

suffer him so easily to escape from his importunity.

“Look you,” he said, placing himself before Sir Kenneth, so as to

interrupt his way, “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.”

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, “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?”

“How! presumptuous Knight,” replied the dwarf, “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.”

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.

Sir Kenneth was struck nearly mute by seeing such a token in such hands.

“In the name of all that is sacred, from whom didst thou receive

this witness?” said the knight. “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.”

“Fond and foolish Knight,” said the dwarf, “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.”

“Good Nectabanus, bethink thyself,” said the knight. “Can my lady know

where and upon what duty I am this night engaged? Is she aware that my

life--pshaw, why should I speak of life--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--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.”

“Oh, keep your belief,” said Nectabanus, turning round as if to leave

the platform; “it is little to me whether you be traitor or true man to

this royal lady--so fare thee well.”

“Stay, stay--I entreat you stay,” said Sir Kenneth. “Answer me but one

question: is the lady who sent thee near to this place?”

“What signifies it?” said the dwarf. “Ought fidelity to reckon furlongs,

or miles, or leagues--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.”

The knight gazed again on that ring, as if to ascertain that there was

no possible falsehood in the token. “Tell me,” he said to the dwarf, “is

my presence required for any length of time?”

“Time!” answered Nectabanus, in his flighty manner; “what call you time?

I see it not--I feel it not--it is but a shadowy name--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?”

“The words of truth, though in the mouth of folly,” said the knight.

“And doth my lady really summon me to some deed of action, in her name

and for her sake?--and may it not be postponed for even the few hours

till daybreak?”

“She requires thy presence instantly,” said the dwarf, “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--Tell him that the hand which dropped roses can bestow laurels.”

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.

“Hold, hold, yet a moment hold,” said the knight, and proceeded to

mutter to himself, “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!”

“The ring! the ring!” exclaimed the dwarf impatiently; “false and

slothful knight, return the ring, which thou art unworthy to touch or to

look upon.”

“A moment, a moment, good Nectabanus,” said Sir Kenneth; “disturb not

my thoughts.--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--my own promise! Nectabanus, I conjure thee once more to say, are

you to conduct me far from hence?”

“But to yonder pavilion; and, since you must needs know,” replied

Nectabanus, “the moon is glimmering on the gilded ball which crowns its

roof, and which is worth a king's ransom.”

“I can return in an instant,” said the knight, shutting his eyes

desperately to all further consequences, “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.--Here,

Roswal” (calling his hound, and throwing down his mantle by the side of

the standard-spear), “watch thou here, and let no one approach.”

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.

“Come now, good Nectabanus,” said the knight, “let us hasten to obey the

commands thou hast brought.”

“Haste he that will,” said the dwarf sullenly; “thou hast not been in

haste to obey my summons, nor can I walk fast enough to follow your long

strides--you do not walk like a man, but bound like an ostrich in the

desert.”

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--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.

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.

He stooped accordingly, crept beneath the canvas enclosure of the tent,

and heard the dwarf whisper from without, “Remain here until I call

thee.”

CHAPTER XIII.

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.

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--the Lady Edith was in immediate attendance on the Queen

of England--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.

“Call her--call her, for Our Lady's sake,” said the voice of one of

these laughing invisibles. “Nectabanus, thou shalt be made ambassador to

Prester John's court, to show them how wisely thou canst discharge thee

of a mission.”

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.

“But how shall we rid us of the spirit which Nectabanus hath raised, my

maidens?”

“Hear me, royal madam,” said another voice. “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.”

“It were but justice, methinks,” replied another, “that the Princess

Guenever should dismiss, by her courtesy, him whom her husband's wisdom

has been able to entice hither.”

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.

“Nay, truly,” said the first speaker, “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.”

One of the other voices was then heard to mutter something of the Lady

Edith's prudence and wisdom.

“Prudence, wench!” was the reply. “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.”

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--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.

“Surely,” said he to himself, “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.”

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.

“Your Majesty,” said Edith at last, “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.”

“I will not long delay you, cousin, from your repose,” said the Queen,

“though I fear you will sleep less soundly when I tell you your wager is

lost.”

“Nay, royal madam,” said Edith, “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.”

“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?”

“Your Majesty is too great for me to gainsay you,” replied Edith,

“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.”

“Nay, but, my Lady Edith,” said another voice, “you must needs grant,

under your favour, that you expressed yourself very confident of the

valour of that same Knight of the Leopard.”

“And if I did, minion,” said Edith angrily, “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?”

“The noble Lady Edith,” said a third voice, “hath never forgiven Calista

and me, since we told your Majesty that she dropped two rosebuds in the

chapel.”

“If your Majesty,” said Edith, in a tone which Sir Kenneth could judge

to be that of respectful remonstrance, “have no other commands for

me than to hear the gibes of your waiting-women, I must crave your

permission to withdraw.”

“Silence, Florise,” said the Queen, “and let not our indulgence lead

you to forget the difference betwixt yourself and the kinswoman of

England.--But you, my dear cousin,” she continued, resuming her tone

of raillery, “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?”

“Great be your mirth, royal lady,” said Edith; “yet would I be content

not to smile for the rest of my life, rather than--”

She stopped, apparently out of respect; but Sir Kenneth could hear that

she was in much agitation.

“Forgive me,” said Berengaria, a thoughtless but good-humoured princess

of the House of Navarre; “but what is the great offence, after all? A

young knight has been wiled hither--has stolen, or has been stolen, from

his post, which no one will disturb in his absence--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.”

“Gracious Heaven! your Majesty does not say so?” said Edith, in a

voice of alarm quite different from the agitation she had previously

evinced,--“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!”

“The Lady Edith,” said the Queen, in a displeased tone of voice,

“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.”

“A triumph!” exclaimed Edith indignantly--“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.”

“You are angry, fair cousin, at losing your favourite ring,” said the

Queen. “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.”

“Madam,” replied Edith impatiently, “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.”

“Oh, it is for the safety of our true knight that we fear!” said the

Queen. “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--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.”

“For the love of the blessed Cross, most royal lady,” said Edith--and

Sir Kenneth, with feelings which it were hard to unravel, heard her

prostrate herself at the Queen's feet--“for the love of our blessed

Lady, and of every holy saint in the calendar, beware what you do! You

know not King Richard--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!”

“Arise, cousin, arise,” said Queen Berengaria, “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--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--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.”

“By my crown of lilies, and my sceptre of a specially good water-reed,”

said Nectabanus, “your Majesty is mistaken, He is nearer at hand than

you wot--he lieth ensconced there behind that canvas partition.”

“And within hearing of each word we have said!” exclaimed the Queen, in

her turn violently surprised and agitated. “Out, monster of folly and

malignity!”

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.

“What can now be done?” said the Queen to Edith, in a whisper of

undisguised uneasiness.

“That which must,” said Edith firmly. “We must see this gentleman and

place ourselves in his mercy.”

So saying, she began hastily to undo a curtain, which at one place

covered an entrance or communication.

“For Heaven's sake, forbear--consider,” said the Queen--“my

apartment--our dress--the hour--my honour!”

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.

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, “Hasten to your post, valiant knight!--you

are deceived in being trained hither--ask no questions.”

“I need ask none,” 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.

“Have you heard all?” said Edith impatiently. “Gracious saints! then

wherefore wait you here, when each minute that passes is loaded with

dishonour!”

“I have heard that I am dishonoured, lady, and I have heard it from

you,” answered Kenneth. “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.”

“Do not so, neither,” said the lady. “Be wise--dally not here; all may

yet be well, if you will but use dispatch.”

“I wait but for your forgiveness,” said the knight, still kneeling,

“for my presumption in believing that my poor services could have been

required or valued by you.”

“I do forgive you--oh, I have nothing to forgive! have been the means of

injuring you. But oh, begone! I will forgive--I will value you--that is,

as I value every brave Crusader--if you will but begone!”

“Receive, first, this precious yet fatal pledge,” said the knight,

tendering the ring to Edith, who now showed gestures of impatience.

“Oh, no, no “ she said, declining to receive it. “Keep it--keep it as a

mark of my regard--my regret, I would say. Oh, begone, if not for your

own sake, for mine!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER XIV.

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--and hooting boys may barefoot pass,

And gather pebbles from the naked ford!

DON SEBASTIAN.

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.

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:--

“Adversity is like the period of the former and of the latter

rain--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.”

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 “that

which is written.”

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.

“The poet hath said,” continued the Arab, without noticing the knight's

averted looks and sullen deportment, “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?”

“This patient, Hakim, is beyond thy help,” said Sir Kenneth; “and,

besides, he is, by thy law, an unclean animal.”

“Where Allah hath deigned to bestow life, and a sense of pain and

pleasure,” said the physician, “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.”

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.

“The animal may be cured,” said El Hakim, addressing himself to Sir

Kenneth, “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.”

“Take him with you,” said the knight. “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!”

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 “to

hear was to obey,” 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.

“Fare thee well, Roswal, then,” said Sir Kenneth--“fare thee well, my

last and only friend--thou art too noble a possession to be retained

by one such as I must in future call myself!--I would,” he said, as the

slaves retired, “that, dying as he is, I could exchange conditions with

that noble animal!”

“It is written,” answered the Arabian, although the exclamation had not

been addressed to him, “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.”

“A dog who dies in discharging his duty,” said the knight sternly, “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.”

“Not if the patient will explain his calamity, and be guided by the

physician,” said Adonbec el Hakim.

“Know, then,” said Sir Kenneth, “since thou art so importunate, that

last night the Banner of England was displayed from this mound--I was

its appointed guardian--morning is now breaking--there lies the broken

banner-spear, the standard itself is lost, and here sit I a living man!”

“How!” said El Hakim, examining him; “thy armour is whole--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--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.”

“And if it were so, physician,” said Sir Kenneth sullenly, “what

remedy?”

“Knowledge is the parent of power,” said El Hakim, “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.”

“And what does this concern me?” said the Scot.

“Much,” answered the physician. “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.”

“I might indeed hide my dishonour,” said Sir Kenneth ironically, “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.”

“Blaspheme not, Nazarene,” said the physician sternly. “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.”

“My choice were rather,” said the knight, “that my writhen features

should blacken, as they are like to do, in this evening's setting sun.”

“Yet thou art not wise, Nazarene,” said El Hakim, “to reject this fair

offer; for I have power with Saladin, and can raise thee high in his

grace. Look you, my son--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.”

“I knew not, and I care not,” said the knight impatiently. “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?”

“Nay, I speak that it may not be so with thee,” said the physician.

“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--for to your honour I can commit even that almost incredible

secret--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.” [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.--See MILL'S

History of the Crusades, vol. ii., p. 61.]

“Ha!--sayest thou?” 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.--“And

what Christian,” he said, With tolerable calmness, “would sanction a

union so unnatural as that of a Christian maiden with an unbelieving

Saracen?”

“Thou art but an ignorant, bigoted Nazarene,” said the Hakim. “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.”

“What!” said Sir Kenneth, “darest thou think, Moslem, that Richard would

give his kinswoman--a high-born and virtuous princess--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.”

“Thou errest,” said the Hakim. “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--there lies a

plain path before thee.”

“Hakim,” said the Scottish knight, “thou art a man of peace; also thou

hast saved the life of Richard of England--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.”

“Thou art, then, wilfully determined not to fly to the Saracen host?”

said the physician. “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.”

“God forbid!” replied the Scot, crossing himself; “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.”

“A gift that is begrudged is already recalled,” said El Hakim; “only

we physicians are sworn not to send away a patient uncured. If the dog

recover, he is once more yours.”

“Go to, Hakim,” answered Sir Kenneth; “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.”

“I leave thee in thine obstinacy,” said the physician; “the mist hides

the precipice from those who are doomed to fall over it.”

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.

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.

“The reverend impostor!” he exclaimed to himself; “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--my hours are fast dwindling into minutes--yet, while I have life and

breath, something must be done, and speedily.”

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.

CHAPTER XV.

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.

“Thou'rt right,” he said, “for, by the God

That sits enthron'd on high,

Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain,

This day shall surely die.”

CHATTERTON.

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.

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.

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.

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, “Who comes?” the

Knight of the Leopard entered the tent, with a deep and devoted gloom

seated upon his manly features.

“Whence this bold intrusion, Sir Knight?” said De Vaux sternly, yet in a

tone which respected his master's slumbers.

“Hold! De Vaux,” said Richard, awaking on the instant; “Sir Kenneth

cometh like a good soldier to render an account of his guard. To such

the general's tent is ever accessible.” Then rising from his slumbering

posture, and leaning on his elbow, he fixed his large bright eye upon

the warrior--“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.”

“As men will hold me no more,” said Sir Kenneth. “My watch hath neither

been vigilant, safe, nor honourable. The Banner of England has been

carried off.”

“And thou alive to tell it!” said Richard, in a tone of derisive

incredulity. “Away, it cannot be. There is not even a scratch on thy

face. Why dost thou stand thus mute? Speak the truth--it is ill jesting

with a king; yet I will forgive thee if thou hast lied.”

“Lied, Sir King!” 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. “But this also must be endured. I have

spoken the truth.”

“By God and by Saint George!” said the King, bursting into fury, which,

however, he instantly checked. “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--or send, if thou wilt not go.”

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.

“But whom do I see here?” said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon

Sir Kenneth.

“A traitor,” said the King, starting to his feet, and seizing the

curtal-axe, which was ever near his bed--“a traitor! whom thou shalt see

die a traitor's death.” And he drew back the weapon as in act to strike.

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, “But there was blood, Neville--there was blood upon the

place. Hark thee, Sir Scot--brave thou wert once, for I have seen

thee fight. Say thou hast slain two of the thieves in defence of the

Standard--say but one--say thou hast struck but a good blow in our

behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy!”

“You have called me liar, my Lord King,” replied Kenneth firmly; “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.”

“Now, by Saint George!” 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, “My liege, this must not

be--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?” [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.]

“Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wast right, and I confess it,” said Richard.

“I should have known him better--I should have remembered how the fox

William deceived me touching this Crusade.”

“My lord,” said Sir Kenneth, “William of Scotland never deceived; but

circumstances prevented his bringing his forces.”

“Peace, shameless!” said the King; “thou sulliest the name of a prince,

even by speaking it.--And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,” he added, “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.”

There was a pause.

“My lord,” said Kenneth--

“Ha!” replied Richard, interrupting him, “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.”

“I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,” said the Scot; “it is in

your Grace's pleasure to give or refuse me time for Christian shrift--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.”

“Say on,” said the King, making no doubt that he was about to hear some

confession concerning the loss of the Banner.

“What I have to speak,” said Sir Kenneth, “touches the royalty of

England, and must be said to no ears but thine own.”

“Begone with yourselves, sirs,” said the King to Neville and De Vaux.

The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King's

presence.

“If you said I was in the right,” replied De Vaux to his sovereign, “I

will be treated as one should be who hath been found to be right--that

is, I will have my own will. I leave you not with this false Scot.”

“How! De Vaux,” said Richard angrily, and stamping slightly, “darest

thou not venture our person with one traitor?”

“It is in vain you frown and stamp, my lord,” said De Vaux; “I venture

not a sick man with a sound one, a naked man with one armed in proof.”

“It matters not,” said the Scottish knight; “I seek no excuse to put off

time. I will speak in presence of the Lord of Gilsland. He is good lord

and true.”

“But half an hour since,” said De Vaux, with a groan, implying a mixture

of sorrow and vexation, “and I had said as much for thee!”

“There is treason around you, King of England,” continued Sir Kenneth.

“It may well be as thou sayest,” replied Richard; “I have a pregnant

example.”

“Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a hundred

banners in a pitched field. The--the--” Sir Kenneth hesitated, and at

length continued, in a lower tone, “The Lady Edith--”

“Ha!” said the King, drawing himself suddenly into a state of haughty

attention, and fixing his eye firmly on the supposed criminal; “what of

her? what of her? What has she to do with this matter?”

“My lord,” said the Scot, “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.”

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.

“Silence,” he said, “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--for thou

art all a deceit--into holding thee as of some name and fame. But now,

with lips blistered with the confession of thine own dishonour--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--where brave knights turn to paltry

deserters and traitors--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?”

“Little to me, indeed, to whom all the world will soon be as nothing,”

answered Sir Kenneth boldly; “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--”

“Name her not--and for an instant think not of her,” 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.

“Not name--not think of her!” answered Sir Kenneth, his spirits, stunned

as they were by self-depression, beginning to recover their elasticity

from this species of controversy. “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.”

“He will drive me mad!” said Richard, who, in his despite, was once more

staggered in his purpose by the dauntless determination of the criminal.

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.

“Detain her--detain her, Neville,” cried the King; “this is no sight

for women.--Fie, that I have suffered such a paltry traitor to chafe me

thus!--Away with him, De Vaux,” he whispered, “through the back entrance

of our tent; coop him up close, and answer for his safe custody with

your life. And hark ye--he is presently to die--let him have a ghostly

father--we would not kill soul and body. And stay--hark thee--we will

not have him dishonoured--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.”

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.

When they were ended, he said solemnly to the unhappy criminal, “It is

King Richard's pleasure that you die undegraded--without mutilation of

your body, or shame to your arms--and that your head be severed from the

trunk by the sword of the executioner.”

“It is kind,” said the knight, in a low and rather submissive tone of

voice, as one who received an unexpected favour; “my family will not

then hear the worst of the tale. Oh, my father--my father!”

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.

“It is Richard of England's further pleasure,” he said at length, “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.”

“Let it be instantly,” said the knight. “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.”

“It is well,” said De Vaux slowly and solemnly; “for it irks me somewhat

to say that which sums my message. It is King Richard's pleasure that

you prepare for instant death.”

“God's pleasure and the King's be done,” replied the knight patiently.

“I neither contest the justice of the sentence, nor desire delay of the

execution.”

De Vaux began to leave the tent, but very slowly--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, “Sir Kenneth,

thou art yet young--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?”

“Nothing,” was the melancholy answer. “I have deserted my charge--the

banner entrusted to me is lost. When the headsman and block are

prepared, the head and trunk are ready to part company.”

“Nay, then, God have mercy!” said De Vaux. “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--some well-devised

stratagem--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?”

The unfortunate knight turned his face from the kind warrior, and

answered, “NOTHING.”

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--even angry with himself to find that so simple a

matter as the death of a Scottish man could affect him so nearly.

“Yet,” as he said to himself, “though the rough-footed knaves be

our enemies in Cumberland, in Palestine one almost considers them as

brethren.”

CHAPTER XVI.

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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--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--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--it was but waiting to let

Richard's mood pass away.

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.

“Madam,” she said to the Queen, “lose not another word in speaking, but

save life--if, indeed,” she added, her voice choking as she said it,

“life may yet be saved.”

“It may, it may,” answered the Lady Calista. “I have just heard that he

has been brought before the King. It is not yet over--but,” she

added, bursting into a vehement flood of weeping, in which personal

apprehensions had some share, “it will soon, unless some course be

taken.”

“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,” said the Queen in extremity.

“Up, up, madam!” said Edith; “call on the saints if you list, but be

your own best saint.”

“Indeed, madam,” said the terrified attendant, “the Lady Edith speaks

truth. Up, madam, and let us to King Richard's tent and beg the poor

gentleman's life.”

“I will go--I will go instantly,” 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.

“How you wait, wenches!” said the Queen, not able even then to forget

frivolous distinctions. “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.”

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Edith. “Go yourself madam; you have done the

evil, do you confer the remedy.”

“I will go--I will go,” said the Queen; “but if Richard be in his mood,

I dare not speak to him--he will kill me!”

“Yet go, gracious madam,” said the Lady Calista, who best knew her

mistress's temper; “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.”

“Dost thou think so, Calista?” said the Queen. “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--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.”

“This, and a man's life at stake!” said Edith indignantly; “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.”

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, “Stop her, stop her!”

“You must indeed stop, noble Lady Edith,” said Calista, taking her arm

gently; “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.”

“I will go--I will go,” said the Queen, yielding to necessity; and Edith

reluctantly halted to wait her movements.

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.

CHAPTER XVII.

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--or as festive lamps,

Which have lent lustre to the midnight revel,

Each after each are quench'd when guests depart!

OLD PLAY

The entrance of Queen Berengaria into the interior of Richard's pavilion

was withstood--in the most respectful and reverential manner indeed, but

still withstood--by the chamberlains who watched in the outer tent. She

could hear the stern command of the King from within, prohibiting their

entrance.

“You see,” said the Queen, appealing to Edith, as if she had exhausted

all means of intercession in her power; “I knew it--the King will not

receive us.”

At the same time, they heard Richard speak to some one within:--“Go,

speed thine office quickly, sirrah, for in that consists thy mercy--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.”

“If he sees my blade waved aloft without shrinking, he is the first ever

did so,” answered a harsh, deep voice, which a sense of unusual awe had

softened into a sound much lower than its usual coarse tones.

Edith could remain silent no longer. “If your Grace,” she said to the

Queen, “make not your own way, I make it for you; or if not for your

Majesty, for myself at least.--Chamberlain, the Queen demands to see

King Richard--the wife to speak with her husband.”

“Noble lady,” said the officer, lowering his wand of office, “it grieves

me to gainsay you, but his Majesty is busied on matters of life and

death.”

“And we seek also to speak with him on matters of life and death,” said

Edith. “I will make entrance for your Grace.” And putting aside the

chamberlain with one hand, she laid hold on the curtain with the other.

“I dare not gainsay her Majesty's pleasure,” 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.

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.

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.

Berengaria, such as we have described her, knew well--what woman knows

not?--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.

“What needs this, Berengaria?” said Richard, his head still averted, but

his hand remaining under her control.

“Send away that man, his look kills me!” muttered Berengaria.

“Begone, sirrah,” said Richard, still without looking round, “What

wait'st thou for? art thou fit to look on these ladies?”

“Your Highness's pleasure touching the head,” said the man.

“Out with thee, dog!” answered Richard--“a Christian burial!” 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.

“And now, foolish wench, what wishest thou?” said Richard, turning

slowly and half reluctantly round to his royal suppliant.

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.

“And, once more, what seeks the lady of my heart in her knight's

pavilion at this early and unwonted hour?”

“Pardon, my most gracious liege--pardon!” said the Queen, whose fears

began again to unfit her for the duty of intercessor.

“Pardon--for what?” asked the King.

“First, for entering your royal presence too boldly and unadvisedly--”

She stopped.

“THOU too boldly!--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.”

“But thou art now well?” said the Queen, still delaying the

communication which she feared to make.

“Well enough to break a lance on the bold crest of that champion who

shall refuse to acknowledge thee the fairest dame in Christendom.”

“Thou wilt not then refuse me one boon--only one--only a poor life?”

“Ha!--proceed,” said King Richard, bending his brows.

“This unhappy Scottish knight--” murmured the Queen.

“Speak not of him, madam,” exclaimed Richard sternly; “he dies--his doom

is fixed.”

“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.”

“Thou knowest not what thou sayest,” said the King, interrupting her in

anger. “Pearls! can all the pearls of the East atone for a speck upon

England's honour--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.”

“Thou hearest, Edith,” whispered the Queen; “we shall but incense him.”

“Be it so,” said Edith, stepping forward.--“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.”

“Ha! our cousin Edith?” said Richard, rising and sitting upright on

the side of his couch, covered with his long camiscia. “She speaks

ever kinglike, and kinglike will I answer her, so she bring no request

unworthy herself or me.”

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.

“My lord,” she said, “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--why should I not

speak it?--it was in my own--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?”

“And you saw him, then, cousin?” replied the King, biting his lips to

keep down his passion.

“I did, my liege,” said Edith. “It is no time to explain wherefore. I am

here neither to exculpate myself nor to blame others.”

“And where did you do him such a grace?”

“In the tent of her Majesty the Queen.”

“Of our royal consort!” said Richard. “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!--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!”

“My liege,” said Edith, “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.”

“Can this be Edith Plantagenet?” said the King bitterly--“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!”

“And if thou dost send it from the gibbet to be placed for ever in my

sight,” said Edith, “I will say it is a relic of a good knight, cruelly

and unworthily done to death by” (she checked herself)--“by one of whom

I shall only say, he should have known better how to reward chivalry.

Minion callest thou him?” she continued, with increasing vehemence. “He

was indeed my lover, and a most true one; but never sought he grace from

me by look or word--contented with such humble observance as men pay to

the saints. And the good--the valiant--the faithful must die for this!”

“Oh, peace, peace, for pity's sake,” whispered the Queen, “you do but

offend him more!”

“I care not,” said Edith; “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--I

would not--have been his bride living--our degrees were too distant. But

death unites the high and the low--I am henceforward the spouse of the

grave.”

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.

“Now, by both sword and sceptre,” said Richard, “the world is leagued to

drive me mad!--fools, women, and monks cross me at every step. How comes

he to live still?”

“My gracious liege,” said the monk, “I entreated of the Lord of Gilsland

to stay the execution until I had thrown myself at your royal--”

“And he was wilful enough to grant thy request,” said the King; “but

it is of a piece with his wonted obstinacy. And what is it thou hast to

say? Speak, in the fiend's name!”

“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.”

“Good father,” said Richard, “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.”

“My lord,” 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, “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--one such

as I, who have but one longing wish connected with earth, to wit,

the rebuilding of our Christian Zion--would betray the secrets of the

confessional? Both are alike abhorrent to my very soul.”

“So,” answered the King, “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--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.”

“Now God be gracious to thee, Lord King!” said the hermit, with much

emotion; “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!”

“Away, away,” cried the King, stamping; “the sun has risen on the

dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged.--Ladies and priest,

withdraw, if you would not hear orders which would displease you; for,

by St. George, I swear--”

“Swear NOT!” said the voice of one who had just then entered the

pavilion.

“Ha! my learned Hakim,” said the King, “come, I hope, to tax our

generosity.”

“I come to request instant speech with you--instant--and touching

matters of deep interest.”

“First look on my wife, Hakim, and let her know in you the preserver of

her husband.”

“It is not for me,” said the physician, folding his arms with an air of

Oriental modesty and reverence, and bending his eyes on the ground--“it

is not for me to look upon beauty unveiled, and armed in its

splendours.”

“Retire, then, Berengaria,” said the Monarch; “and, Edith, do you retire

also;--nay, renew not your importunities! This I give to them that

the execution shall not be till high noon. Go and be pacified--dearest

Berengaria, begone.--Edith,” he added, with a glance which struck terror

even into the courageous soul of his kinswoman, “go, if you are wise.”

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.

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.

“It is impossible she can have loved this knight,” said Florise to

Calista, her senior in attendance upon the Queen's person. “We have been

mistaken; she is but sorry for his fate, as for a stranger who has come

to trouble on her account.”

“Hush, hush,” answered her more experienced and more observant comrade;

“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.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

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.

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, “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--but it

hangs but by a hair. Haughty monarch, we shall meet again.”

“Be it so, haughty priest,” returned Richard, “prouder in thy goatskins

than princes in purple and fine linen.”

The hermit vanished from the tent, and the King continued, addressing

the Arabian, “Do the dervises of the East, wise Hakim, use such

familiarity with their princes?”

“The dervise,” replied Adonbec, “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.”

“Methinks our monks have adopted chiefly the latter character,” said

Richard. “But to the matter. In what can I pleasure you, my learned

physician?”

“Great King,” said El Hakim, making his profound Oriental obeisance,

“let thy servant speak one word, and yet live. I would remind thee

that thou owest--not to me, their humble instrument--but to the

Intelligences, whose benefits I dispense to mortals, a life--”

“And I warrant me thou wouldst have another in requital, ha?”

interrupted the King.

“Such is my humble prayer,” said the Hakim, “to the great Melech

Ric--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.”

“And thy wisdom might remind thee, Hakim, that Adam died for it,” said

the King, somewhat sternly, and then began to pace the narrow space of

his tent with some emotion, and to talk to himself. “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--kinswoman--hermit--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--ha! ha! ha!” 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.

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:--

“A doom of death should not issue from laughing lips. Let thy servant

hope that thou hast granted him this man's life.”

“Take the freedom of a thousand captives instead,” said Richard;

“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.”

“All our lives are forfeited,” said the Hakim, putting his hand to his

cap. “But the great Creditor is merciful, and exacts not the pledge

rigorously nor untimely.”

“Thou canst show me,” said Richard, “no special interest thou hast to

become intercessor betwixt me and the execution of justice, to which I

am sworn as a crowned king.”

“Thou art sworn to the dealing forth mercy as well as justice,” said El

Hakim; “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.”

“Explain thy words,” said Richard; “but think not to impose upon me by

false pretexts.”

“Be it far from thy servant!” said Adonbec. “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.”

“A most rare medicine,” said the King, “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.”

“It is written,” answered the Hakim, with imperturbable gravity, “'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.”

“Go out into the camp, good Hakim, where thou wilt find a-many,” said

the King, “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.”

“When thou canst show why a draught of cold water should have cured

thee when the most precious drugs failed,” said the Hakim, “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.”

“Hark thee, Adonbec,” replied the King, “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.”

“I cannot hinder your doubt of my words,” said Adonbec; “but yet let my

Lord the King grant that truth is on the tongue of his servant--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--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.”

“This is over-insolent,” said the King, hardening himself, as the Hakim

assumed a more lofty and almost a commanding tone. “We took thee for our

leech, not for our counsellor or conscience-keeper.”

“And is it thus the most renowned Prince of Frangistan repays benefit

done to his royal person?” said El Hakim, exchanging the humble and

stooping posture in which he had hitherto solicited the King, for an

attitude lofty and commanding. “Know, then,” he said, “that: through

every court of Europe and Asia--to Moslem and Nazarene--to knight and

lady--wherever harp is heard and sword worn--wherever honour is loved

and infamy detested--to every quarter of the world--will I denounce

thee, Melech Ric, as thankless and ungenerous; and even the lands--if

there be any such--that never heard of thy renown shall yet be

acquainted with thy shame!”